Thursday, November 29, 2007

I Speak Roughly, Part 2: RBU

RBU and I dated for 9 months or so. Enough time for a kid. But she was on birth control. Although we fantasized about the bliss of a shotgun wedding, so to speak, the Volvo, and me getting to fuck her the rest of my days. Really, this was a fantasy we held in common. That is, a domestic fantasy. We were both in our thirties and suffered from those sorts of anxieties and cleaved desperately to popular social images that soothed those anxieties.

RBU is not much taller than LR. Perhaps 5'3". She had long black hair then. Her visage is not pale, but fair, turning to slightly olive in the summer. Her breasts were incredible. I'd fantasized about them since I was a small child, sneaking looks at the lingerie section of the Sears catalog. Not only because they were large, but because she wore bras that accentuated her cleavage, and as you know we men have wholly fetishized this. And she played off it. But the rest of her frame is nicely proportioned. No man with sense wouldn't want to fuck her. Or woman. A lovely ass. In fact, body-wise, she was almost the twin of the luscious Tara Tainton. But she had this smile that said she was going to suck your cock until you turned her around and fucked her the rest of the night.

With her, to quote a bedroom poet of my alma mater, my dick was true. Really, I never had even the slightest hesitation about sex with her. And she felt similarly. She used to lay on the love seat (ha) with me, her pussy exposed, until I would take the bait and fuck her. Or lick it until she wanted more. One time I tried to teach her how to play chess. I said I was going to lick her pussy between moves, so as get her to move more quickly. But I did this while she was choosing her moves, thus giving her no inclination to move. It didn't make any sense, but I suppose I was trying to rationalize wanting to eat her out while we were playing a game. And her pussy ... was delicious. I suppose that is a trite thing to say. And what does it mean really, except that I wanted to lick it like a lollypop. Which is not to say that it tasted sweet, but also not that it tasted spicy--something kind of in between. I put my hands on her hips and pulled her pussy against my face, my tongue licking up and down across her clit, occasionally dipping between those lips. What was I trying to find? Her breasts heaving and eyes closed.

We never used condoms. It started off, because my fault for not having brought any, after a first date when we'd kissed and gotten heavy, on the second date (if going to her apartment can be called that) where things progressed. But she had my cock in hand and wanted it to be inside of her. And so we fucked and I came in her, not pulling out even though this had been my strategy on other occasions. The risk was minimal, granted, but I had gotten another woman pregnant although she had been on birth control (the infamous MC, #6). In a sense, we were both saying, we can affirm these consequences. We want chance to intervene.

At least that's the way it was at first. After several months, after the intense arguments had begun and the over-the-phone-and-immediately-annulled break-ups became consistent, I started encouraging her, selfishly I suppose, to go to the bathroom afterwards and empty her vessel. Because I still wanted the pleasure and thrill of bareback, but I was no longer capable of affirming the consequences.

Sex was our language. Which is not to draw an analogy with my experiences with LR, who had no language and used sex (with me) as a poor substitute. I mean, RBU and I had wonderful conversations about interesting things. And emotionally she understood everything--the sexual abuse I'd experienced as a child, the mental collapse, the unbearable stress of my occupation, the family tension. In college she had dropped out one semester ... things had just fallen apart for her. And it took her several years thereafter to finally finish her degree. One of her brothers had sexually abused another (my abuser was a babysitter). And her mother, who she loved and loves, perhaps more than life itself, died of cancer. She had gone through hell and essentially, I'm not sure she is coming back. Which is to say, she lives in the "sweet hereafter" now. The limbo of not-knowing.

Sex was the place both of us felt certain of ourselves, where everything else was discarded just like our clothes. We were probably always most comfortable naked with each other, because it was there--in that space--we had no fear or stress and everything else disappeared. Both of us seek the same from sex. For us both, it has always been a very powerful palliative--and the one we desire most.

She provokes a serious confusion in my soul, erecting my cock and lowering my conscience (and yes, my cock is part of my soul).


Blog Archive said...

Of course your cock is part of your soul ... it's all connected through your unconscious and your libido.

You are a fabulous writer, and I always get excited when I discover another one of those. I'm really excited to read more as your narrative progresses!

Bryce said...

merci marcelle

Anonymous said...

Sex is that wonderful place for me where the phone doesn't ring, email doesn't exist, the kids are asleep, and the house is perpetually clean. No wonder I want to have sex all the time!