Communication of Bodies, the Words Spoken by Eyes

She was in my office, she wanted to talk about St. Thomas. She is only 18 or 19. She told me that she's decided to minor. She has a beautiful face, with long brown hair, wavy, a lovely jaw line, perfect teeth. And green eyes. Like mine. She looks directly at me, not turning away. I talk and ask her questions. I pull my chair closer to hers. In those rare moments when she looks at her book, my eyes move to her cleavage, barely visible between the open wings of that coat, like a curtain parted just enough to present the drama which will soon unfold.



 

When I want to kiss someone, I look at their mouth, in a way that is evident to the other person. In those moments my face betrays, in some secret language, that I understand others recognize, but which I cannot simply duplicate, the desire to kiss, to fuck.  The body becomes an object in my eyes.  

I can talk through medieval philosophy without thinking. But she falters, loses her concentration because she recognizes that look. She giggles and is embarrassed, but ostensibly about not being clear about what she's saying.  I know that it is because there is a warmth between her legs.  I lean back in my chair.  My arms are not crossed, but still on the arms of the chair, beckoning, imploring.  

And then she leaves.  And I remain someone who has left one, professionally vital line, uncrossed. My sex begs for attention when I come home.  Come home, it says.  Come home.  

Remembrance of Things Past

"As I walked out on Bristol Street ..." the sun stared me down, reducing all to shadows.  A world of ghosts.  A couple walked in front of me.  College students.  And she walked with this tiny, nearly imperceptible saunter that magnetically attracted my vision.  I could see nothing else.
And I thought of the excitement anticipating sex.  When I was in college, I did not see women's butts.  Maybe it was the fashion.  Or maybe I just hadn't learned to look that way.  I fetishize faces, I suppose, first.  In this respect it does not strike me as strange that I cannot remember the body of Jodi, high school girlfriend.  The virgin who gave me her virginity.  But loved to suck cock.  Among the things she taught me was the sweetness of the woman's sex.  How it could become, far from something objectionable, as I may have anticipated it, a younger, unexperienced man, the most sublime taste.  
Thinking of her I am reminded of the excitement around sex.  She had a sexual appetite and she was not afraid of expressing it.  She went to the local girl's parochial institution and wore skirts and knee socks everyday.  Lovely.  
But I cannot invoke the image of her body.  In my mind's eye, all I see are skirts and knee socks, atop a fictional set of legs.  For example, I want to know what kinds of breasts she had.  I imagine that they were B cups.  She was a small girl, maybe 5'4, 5'5.  I wonder what I thought of those breasts.  Those sensations are gone to me.
I know that I thought, despite the slight naiveté in her eyes, that she was beautiful.  Her skin was fair, like mine, but she had strawberry blond hair, blue eyes.  These things I can still see quite clearly, albeit through the mnemosyne of a black and white photograph that I captured on the beach in Massachusetts.  Jodi had a voice that was not high, but could get high when she was excited.  Luckily, that did not happen very often.  
I recall three or four sexual experiences with her, in some detail.  Our first was in her mother's house, the night of our second date when she asked if she could do something and then took out my handsomely large penis, which impressed her quite a bit, and gave me "oral pleasure." Also, a rainy night in the summer when I traded virginities. How strange it is for two bodies to come together like that for the first time. We didn't know about how our bodies needed to approach the other. The operation was merely sticking this into that. She was in pain and I was a total gentleman, concerned about her pain, although I think I filled that little condom with my cum. Also, a surprise visit to her dorm room in the year following, when her roommates were gone and we could be alone and naked. Also, just after our breakup, a furtive night spent convincing her to have sex with me, in the back of my car behind the junior high school. I recall that time in particular savoring the taste of her wet pussy.

These are remembrance of things past becuase, I have not savored sex in that way.  I do not any longer feel the pleasure anticipating sex. Anticipating sex would last for hours, perhaps days, during which I maintained a hardon and rubbed the fabric of my pants across it, subtly, no matter where I was, to pleasure myself. Now the anticipation had been reduced to a few minutes preceding the act, or the text messages that I send to a lover with whom I never have love.  

Moments in which Nothing Happened

Returning from Florida, here in my old home for a few days before return to the city. And I have stories of denial and rejection from the past seven days.

Myra: I went to visit her, knowing her beau was out of the country. It was the evening and I stopped by on my bike. She looked out through the screen window when I rang the doorbell and couldn't see who it was, although it seemed like our eyes connected for a second or two before she asked who it was. Then she let me in and we sat on that couch together, separated by a foot, perhaps, their dog, and a newly-found resistance on her part.

Myra's skin is fair and her hair is blond, she has blue eyes. We spoke, exchanging basic small talk for a while. She was making stuffed animals for some novelty shop owner, I can only assume, in the city. Bears with their heads cut off. I left shortly because the atmosphere was so anodyne. And I couldn't tell if she wanted me to leave. Although she told me to stop by again sometime. I went to the bar and then received a message from her saying, that was a bad idea, that I'd freaked her out, that I shouldn't stop by. So after the bar I rode back over to the bar. We sat for a few moments on the stoop. My back to her. Nothing could come of this. We wouldn't be forgiven this time.

Blythe: my mind works methodically. Since Myra would not sleep with me, I knew not what to do. At least at first. Then yesterday when I was masturbating, the thought of lovely Jewish ex-girlfriend, so well endowed in all of the best ways, Blythe. We texted, planned to get together tonight.

We have a ritual. We spend hours talking about sex with each other. A little about the sex we've had with each other. But more about her sex life. Who she has been sleeping with. I have found vicarious accounts of her sexlife arousing since I first met her and she told me about being fucked one night by her boyfriend and his friend. Last night it was about the new guy she's been hanging out with. They won't have sex, apparently, meaning intercourse, but other things are game. This means that she gets down on all fours, while he is seated and sucks his cock arching her back as much as possible to present that beautiful lilt of flesh from the small of the back to her bottom. Or so I imagine.

I spent the night with my eyes trained on her cleavage. Occasionally imploring her to show me more. Finally, we started talking about my indecent proposition. Primarily indecent because it was such a paltry sum. I wanted to kiss her, to have her disrobe before me, for her to get down on hands and knees before me, turning towards me at first engorging my cock in her mouth, and then turning away from me as I fucked her from behind.

She let me give her a backrub. The rub is, that I mean too much to her. If we were to do it again, it would immediately lead to some emotional complications, because, as I have said in an earlier post, sex is our language. Now you can see to what degree.

As I walked down her stairs, to the door, she leaned over the ledge above, watching me leave. Her wonderful and full, so full breasts hanging just slightly over that ledge. During sex she would, after I showed her that I liked this, pull my face into her breasts while she was riding me. Then I would come inside of her. All of my future into her.

the anthropologist

Being in Florida I have had the odd occasion to think of the anthropologist: lcb. Her family was from this state. I cannot remember where. This was years ago. Now she teaches up north. She was quite beautiful, albeit frazzled. But I suppose I have no room to speak on such matters. She had this birthmark that stretched across her shoulder.

I met her through my closest friend in the world. She was his exe and he thought, given our interests, we might have things in common. We started exchanging emails. She was then at the Harvard of the South, I was in Independence Land. I remember she sent me lifted lines from Emily Dickinson and this, in particular, seduced me. Our emails were fanciful rather than direct. Oblique. I wrote about pressing thumbs, about Jean Genet. She wrote about the fork and the spoon. I am not even sure that we were really writing about ideas at the time. It was more about the intuitions of ideas. This was early in my training and coming out of a literary background, I could still speak in that register. It would be dreadful to think how we might talk now. Now I am afraid that my authority would drown those possibilities. This is the effect of training.

We first met at the Met. It was December 1999, I think. This was after several months of exchanged emails. She was going to NY to visit relatives. I had just broken up with MC and had no idea that the latter was carrying my child. Which I would only find out a month later, after she had aborted the pregnancy, and despite my political convictions, I would tarry with the guilt. We walked through the ancient exhibits, aimlessly. I think still petrified by the fact that we had just met this other person who had produced so much desire. When we left, about an hour later, we kissed, standing by a park bench. That night we went to a bar and drank a lot, had dinner. And then I drove her to Queens, where I left her.

I was 26 when I met her. She came to visit me several weeks later. To stay with me. Which was fine with me. I was smitten. But I was curiously wholly impotent around her. I remember her naked on my bed, on all fours with her back arching and I was completely unable to plunder to fuck that incredible ass. Instead, I touched her all the other ways I knew how. I am sure that my lips spent a lot of time between her legs.

Several months later, despite the disappointment (and surprise, for me) of that incident, she invited me to visit her, deep in the South. It was strange being there, if not particularly because my grandfather had just died, only months before, in that Southern city. She picked me up at the airport in her cheap car whose climate control was stuck to unbearably hot.

When we arrived back at her apartment, that eve, we went into her dark apartment. I put down my stuff and sat on her bed. She started kissing me and within minutes she was mounted atop me. I had no trouble this time. And no plastic sheath separated her holiest of holies from my cock. For the next seven days we fucked continually.

We took apart her bedframe and put the mattress on the floor because it created such a racket. Since I could not come in her, I would pull out and she would then put my cock into her mouth and swallow all of it. Once while she was working at her computer, I crawled beneath her legs and kissed her. My tongue struggling to press inside of her. She made me stand in front of her, still seated. She unzipped my pants and licked my cock up and down like a popsicle. It became so hard in her mouth, with the head turning darker purple. We went into the bedroom and I sat down on her chair. I was still so hard and she did not mount me but turned around, casually, as if she was going to sit in the chair as if I was not even there. She slowly lowered herself onto my cock.

How sublime was this crude turgidity and the sharpness of sensation it enables, as my cock pushed into her. My hands were on her hips and pulling her down upon me. The curve of her back, how it narrowed and then swelled on her hips. The line of her spine pointing down to the tip of my sex.

"You're fucking me so hard."

"I want you to fill my pussy with your cum. I don't care. I want all of you in me."

"I want to feel the pulses of your cock and the warmth of your cum in me."

I was in love with her. I wanted the abomination that mirrors and copulation share.

An Indecent Proposal

Tonight I was watching this movie. Or rather, paying attention to it, every now and again. While doing other things. Since I didn't watch all of it, much of what I will say may be pointless. But I feel confident in the purchase of my opinions. And as I have said in other venues, I don't need to see all of something to make a judgment.

There is nothing remarkable about this movie, in total. I suppose it pretends to raise these questions about money and sexuality and love and the thin lines that separate these things. The premise is that this ultimately honorable fellow, played by R. Redford, suggests that a starving architect sell his wife's body for one night for the price of $1M. Of course, the money offers opportunities that seem to outweigh the moral or emotional consequences ... or at least block them from view. The architect, of course, loses his wife to that night of calculated passion. Money for flesh. But in the end, she returns to him, although partially through the surfeit of the ultimately honorable millionaire.

I have never paid for sex. That is, paid cash for sex. I have probably paid for it in other ways. As it is, sex is always regulated by exchange, especially when we ostentatiously reserve it for those who love us. But we are sickened (when we follow the upturned nose of our moral sense) by the odor of exchange when it approaches the sexual act. Or so we say.

In the film, the wife never (at least as far as I could tell) claims that she is not merely a piece of property. Either to her husband or to her would-be paramour. In fact, she even offers herself as exchange as a sign of her love for her husband: this would be good for him and as a gesture of love she would be willing to sacrifice herself. I suppose there is a bit of provocative "social realism" in this, insofar as she is admitting that the laws governing property include her body. Yet, if this realism is not made tacit, then it merely subsists beneath a hypocritical and lying morality, of the manifest "indecency" of this proposal. The inscrutable bonds of marriage and their obligations.

An email exchange with Marianne has made me wonder about my options. I want desperately, while Myra's suitor, my colleague, is in Italy, to get in touch with her. And I too am several hundreds of miles away from my beloved. Perhaps just to say hi. Perhaps for more. Of course, more is presently impossible. I'm hundreds of miles from Myra. Until now, I must say that I have, with the exception of several drunken evenings, not suffered such a desire. At least since the event with Myra went sour. And it was a good thing that it did.

While watching this movie, particular the scenes directly following the proposal where the married couple consider it, I thought, why don't they, instead of merely considering the financial possibilities this proposal would enable, also think about the emotional and moral consequences? Frequently I have other level-headed thoughts while watching movies about men that cannot express themselves to the women that they love. I say to myself, just tell her that you love her! In fact, I think these thoughts are no less preposterous (yet again from some remove) than the wish for the characters of a horror film to turn on the lights ... or leave the room. Reflection will not save us from all of the bad judgments to which we will surrender. Reflection has its own conditions. These conditions are frequently inaccessible.

Oh Myra. Would that you read this journal. Or perhaps not. I do not know. I know that if I talk to her again, I am not sure what would happen. Things have come together with Anya in such a way, as of late, that it would be unfortunate to disturb them. And in fact, I have seen the "vicissitudes" of Myra's emotions. I know just how imperfect she is. I don't care about the fact that she is flat-chested. She has, nonetheless, an incredible body. And the face of an angel. Like Meryl Streep. Those eyes and that hue of skin. It is the way that she looks at you (me) that is killing. And her confusion around me. And the fact that this woman I'd pined for, silently, for years, wanted me. Was addicted to me.

Of course, the kiss was always strained. Never right, because of the moment. And I would never get past the waistband of those underwear. Which maybe is okay. Maybe I like the communication and the complicity more than the collision of bodies. Maybe.

A Dream of A Thousand Loves

Last night I dreamt of a thousand loves. This morning the words hung on my lips, as I carried myself out of bed. I never dream of my fiancée ... what this means, I dare not ask. Instead, I dreamt of a girl with whom I made out. A girl. Perhaps a student. Typically I dream of conscience infidelity.

I wonder if I speak of this theme continually, if my readers will observe that I am not asking for comfort or compassion or understanding. My reader, it might be better to say. Marianne. I know nothing of you, except for your midriff. One of those areas of the body that make men losen their ties and breathe more deeply, hoping to draw the odor of another part of the body.

My body, on the other hand. 'Tis long. I have green eyes. I have brown hair. I have fair skin. I have small hands, small feet (need I question the "I" and the strangeness of attributing possession to it, when rather, these possessions are I!). I have scars. Or they have me. I have a scar on my crown. Several, in fact. I have a scarred bone, the bottom of the left tibia. Two fractures. I like material things that have memories, but some of my first and most powerful emotional responses were of material things that would never be the same. "The same." Philosophy has nothing to do with it.

And of course, there is your own deep attraction towards lovers, despite your marital bliss. Whom your husband does not know, no?

I don't want to speak again of Anya. I need this badness. This evil. It makes me feel strong again. A different kind of strong than the kind I have with her. The kind of strength that I have with her is of extreme quietude. With her, I am a Buddhist cow.

I have been thinking of Myra. Oh Myra. Her boyfriend/wannabe-husband has gone to Italy. I know she is now alone for the next month. And I want to contact her. He has cheated on her. With a woman (AT) with whom I have cheated on Anya. The symmetry is frightening and hilarious. Last night I dreamt of him, which was really a dream of her. He was getting into an old VW van. Backing out of the driveway of a house in Syracuse NY. Why did my dream get situated there? In his back, as he was leaving the house, literally as he was going out the door, I saw the small of her back.

This, as I may or may not have informed you, was that vital area of the body that inspired the step not beyond (le pas/pas déla). At this point, a homosexual dream would be delightful. Even merely homoerotic. But I am blind to all but women. Yesterday I walked through the supermarket. My sister has been diagnosed with MS. I am taking care of her while her fiancé travels to visit his parents in the old, old country. This just happened a few days ago. I might as well tell you that I am thinking of changing this to my regular journal. A far cry from my threat to abandon it altogether, no?

Would this mean that I would identify myself, as "Bryce," has (a moniker with which I am starting to tire) with the vile actions with which I engage, that otherwise populate only my subconscious ... j'ne sais pas.

In the shower I thought this morning, philosophy should be defined as the act of following. Whereas the poetic inspiration is what leads. Now don't be confused. I am not saying that poetic inspiration leads philosophy. It does sometimes. But while poetic inspiration may provide the initial direction, philosophy, when it is good, follows a continuous trail. There is soemthing truly creative about that. Philosophy (Kant being the example par excellence everyone says) doesn't know where it will end. Neither does poetry, but poetry dances. It leaps.

Breasts

At a distance, I regain the composure that allows me this secret expression. With her, I lose this voice. I do not begrudge her.

I just travelled back here from NYC last night. A whole day unpacking my belongings. Well, mainly just all of my books. Getting locked out of the apartment. Then in the car, to sit in traffic outside the Holland Tunnel for at least an hour. Oh, I was so clever leaving at rush hour!

Here, protected by distance, voluptuous bodies reappear in their full sensual splendor. Last night, I see the girl from the coffeeshop. I used to gaze at her body as she stood on top of a chair to change the station on the radio. She is 21 or 22. A college dropout. She is Chinese. Very beautiful.

But what floors me in particular are all of the breasts. Women passing by me here, sitting over there, etc. All of them with these breasts concealed by a bra and some suggestive outer garment.

The ethical order

i am stuck between having nothing left to say here and extending the purpose of this journal. it seems as though continuing to engage it is transgression, even without the "real life" events that match its intentions. in short, i've been a good boy. except for the drive on saturday with blythe. trying to talk her into sleeping with me. no success. thankfully.

at one point in that drive, anya calls. i talk with her for a few minutes in front of blythe. and make a point of telling anya that i love her. because that is true. then i get off the phone and talk to blythe about how i am not really conflicted, since i can have those sincere expressions, but still have a sexual need that transcends that love.

today was the last day with my psychiatrist in this fair city, before i move. not much love lost. she was nice, helpful. but in an impersonal and meaningless way. only in our penultimate session did she express an interest in teh sexual phenomena i described. -how could it be sexual without contact? -two people masturbating in front of one another.

in fact, melissa took all of her clothese off. i hadn't even kissed her. she laid on her back on the floor and i stood over her. she never had a problem coming quickly through self-stimulation to orgasm. i unzipped my pants and pulled it out and stroked myself before her. also coming quickly to orgasm. i think i wanted her to lick the cum off my cock. but the quick appearance of guilt intervened before i could utter this intention and i made my way to the bathroom of that empty apartment.

otherwise, the doctor seemed unwilling to enter into my fantasy life. to allow me to narrate and pause over the salacious details.

i told her that i was going to start a journal in which i daily meditated on my life of infidelity. that it would be a project towards saving myself and those i love from the heartache that my tendencies fumble towards. i am considering the idea that this past is not an inevitable future. this does not mean i am looking for "conversion," as adrienne and i spoke about today.

one of those posts was to speculate on the event of anya's discovery. what would happen. perahps if i flesh out the details of this terrible proposition, it will reinforce the potential consequences of my actions.

Unethical ponderings

The trajectory of this blog has been aimed confidently towards the perverse: namely, what stood outside the conventions of typical behavior. For a long time, I think, my own story has made me reject those mores merely because of the complications and the failures that I have seen. I have rejected morality out of hand. But morality has a ghosting effect: it always returns.

What I have wanted to voice here, but which has no longer any truck with the musings of the past, are the vicissitudes that do not linger over sexual titillations. The pathos of immorality (named conscience, perhaps poorly). I need condemnation more than adulation. And yet, I provide that for myself. In short, crisis seems imminent. My own consciousness of it is merely an intuition of its concrete expression. Which is not to suggest that there is anything unconcrete about the consciousness. Especially when this sadness seems to color each and every single part of experience.

But the sadness, really, just started today. There were other incidents, like an encounter with Adrienne and her refusal afterwards, which prompted this. Then I realized how manipulative my behavior has been. How much I had pursued my own desires without any regard for those of others, especially those with whom I am so close. My friends. My fiancée.

Why this self-destructive behavior? After my session with the doctor today I walked home but also looked up "sexual addiction" on the phone-computer. The Wikipedia entry is surprisingly thorough. There is no DSM entry for this pathology. And so there are questions about its legitimacy. Considering the unique status of sexuality in our culture, pace Foucault's comments in the History of Sexuality, Vol. 1, it is difficult to make judgment on this issue.

I guess I have been thinking about my friends and their responses to the incident with the heartland girl. The most troubling, is from my friend James, who on hearing it writes me off, claiming that it is too exhausting and too consistently pathetic. The upshot is that a person that cannot control these urges is simply to be forgotten about. What do we do by alcoholics and drug addicts. I have known in my life. The drug addicts have killed close friends, ended marriages, lost property. The alcoholics ... well, not as many. But they have not faired well, as far as I can tell. My friends say, we are sorry that you have done this, but we still love you. But the truth is, I think, that they are saying that we will love you until your problem affects our relationship with you. At that point, this love will reach its limits.

We intervene with addicts. Why don't they tell me that I must get help?

God, I am experiencing the most profound vertigo right now. Actually, it is always the same. I am falling over backwards. Like I did years ago, down cement steps, to the bottom of the steps.

Furtive gatherings

In the taxi on the way to the house of a colleague, we sat next to one another. I'd already told her in the bar my intentions. Comments on the day's occurences: congratulating each other on our achievements. We were celebrating! And then I grabbed her with my left hand softly on her jaw (she was on my left) and my right hand pulling her head, her lips, toward mine. She too grabbed, pulling desperately, her tongue in my mouth. This desperate sense of pleasure struggling to be experienced. But there was a strange complexity to it. When we paused, our lips grazed the face of the other, softly planting kisses. My right hand traced the interior of her thigh. And then we arrived and the fun was over.

The night after, I helped Adrienne celebrate her birthday. The first day's celebration was not enough. I came late, after teaching, to meet her and a friend at a posh, well-to-do restaurant on the west side. Eventually the friend left. Adrienne expressed misgivings at me coming home with her. I meant to help her break a 3-month streak of abstinence. It has been literally years since I have gone that long, or even two months, without sex. But I talked her out of her misgivings. She said, do you want to come with me. And I said, is that an invitation.

In the taxi she leaned against me. I had my arms around her. Out of the taxi, into her door. I take off my jacket and we walk back to the bedroom. We talk listlessly as she prepares for bed about books. Or rather, I'm asking her about the books on her shelf. We are academics and thus, there is nothing else. Except what happens after the lights go out.

Some people's smells. Her's has always had an immediate effect on me. We kiss, not merely desperately, like the night before, but still deeply. We can kiss softly, her lips just touching mine. And then harder, with the surfaces crossing, trying to find a groove where they can fit and stop. Tongues breaking the barriers between the space that is mine and that is hers. Surreptitiously, she'd gotten in bed with a t-shirt and boxers. I did the same. But I stripped off her shirt quickly and then took off all of my clothes. There was nothing I could do to take off her lowers. My teeth bit her nipples. I close down on one and then move my head back and forth so that it travels from side to side between my teeth.

Adrienne makes so much noise. And I haven't even touched her holiest of holies. I cannot help, as I pulled her body against mine, trying futilely to unveil her lower parts, but thrust myself against her. I am hard and I want penetration. Eventually, I digitally penetrate the lower boundaries, reaching inside to feel her IUD. They are peculiar devices, aren't they? Like divining rods, really. She was pleasured, to some degree. She fumbles with me, violent as though I'm a teenage boy, when all I really want is for her to take me into her mouth.

I dream that night of the other Michigan girl. That I cum and she will not lick it off. Among other things.

I have to help myself, sadly, the next day, by myself, on my bed. Fireworks of solitude.

Pathomeme, Episode 418

I've only read a little about Richard Dawkins' theory of memes. A materialist theory of ideas, yes. Or at least this is the way that my imagination fashions it, at this distance in time and space. I haven't read Dawkins in years and not even that book.

When I was in my tweens, I think, I broke my leg for the first time. Skateboarding injury. Launch ramp, poorly constructed, meets young virile body, well constructed, equals broken leg, deconstructed. This was the beginning, I suppose, of a life of the mind. Is the life of the mind about secrecy and suspicion? The mystery is generally a tawdry genre.

My investigations first took me into the closet of my father's bedroom, where on the shelf I found old books, he'd purchased when. My parents were divorced then. Photographic erotica, adorned with the drawing of a woman's public hair between tightly shut legs. Funny books, I think in retrospect. My Secret Garden. Ribbons of my cum needing to be cleaned off of my clothes, other surfaces.

Curiousity eventually discovered a journal. I knew no boundaries and the private self meant merely that it had not yet been uncovered. My father's journal (my father, a minister) told me that he had met women at these summer retreats he'd gone to, when my mother, sister and I went to a family camp, without him. He slept with these women. Names that now sound funny. But they are merely the names of women from a generation older than mine. My father never gave many details. Which is probably best. But he was an adulterer, clearly.

Now I retell his story. My story is much better. I have exhausted the anxiety of influence. I am not a minister, so my story lacks the sense of public scandal. But my brashness makes up for his stupidity, his failure with words, his poor handwriting.

He left the journal underneath the coffeetable in the living room of the house that he lived in alone, now that we had left him. But my sister and I still visited him. How could he have overlooked that potential for disaster? I at least use pseudonyms and immediately delete the history of my browser. I've told none of my conquests the address of this journal (although I've told many of them about it) and I will not.

Love, until my Friday appointment with Dr.C, concealed this glaring stupidity. I felt like the one who had betrayed his trust.

I know now, having doubled my years, that, in the words of Detective Doyle: "That's a secret, private world you're looking into out there." With only few exceptions, I respect other's privacy. But perhaps I respect it most because I've felt the bite of its violence.

Pathogenesis, Part 1

This week, speaking to my psychiatrist, we happen upon the past. Fancy that. She is new. Until this past May I had been seeing this incredibly beautiful Korean woman. That was four years. But she was moving to another state and so I had to find someone knew. Dr.C had this incredible body. Our first session I told her I was not sure if I would be able to do this because I found her so attractive and ... but in fact, those dynamics were perfect. Of course, she had to put up with the occasional come on. Me telling her about how I imagined having sex with her.

The new psychiatrist is also Dr. C. But she is not an incredibly beautiful Korean woman. Instead, she is perhaps my age, finishing her residency. She just had what I think was her first child. She is very nice and has remarkable recall. But I've been troubled by the New Yorker column I read a week ago where the doctor confesses to the patient that there were times when he was paying no attention whatsoever.

New Dr. C is getting used to my sexual theatrics. She still doesn't know everything and I think that she is a little uncomfortable with it. Which is not to say that I am propositioning her or anything of the like. She is not really my type. But sex remains this locus for my personality and I have to speak about it at length. I am the confessing subject our friend M. Foucault is so fascinated by. Except that I know it's all production ... ?

When I was still four or five, my parents would employ one of the teenage girls from the church to babysit us. But now that I think about it, that is not when it first happened. No, it was during a square dance. The kids were bored and so we went to the tired old Christian Education Building. How did it come about that I shared a blanket with this teenage girl and that the lights were turned out? And then she touched me, beneath the cover of darkness and wool. Fondled my small and probably inactive penis. And she let me touch her breasts, which were very large because she was due to become a big girl and was only then growing into her body. Big-boned, as they call them in the country. And then there were at least several times this teenage girl would babysit my sister and I.

This poor girl. She was not, would never be beautiful. She is friendly and I suppose outgoing. And she was apparently sexually starved, such that the small hands of a child like mine somehow made her feel desire. She probably just desperately wanted to be touched. Maybe she too had once been touched. But after that first time, I wanted her to touch me again. I would scheme with my sister to have this teenage girl come and take care of us.

I don't know how long this went on. I suspect not very long. And then my parents, who were concerned with liberating my sister and I from the poverty of not-knowing and repression by talking sexuality to death, had one of these talks at the dinner table. Maybe my sister or I had questions. And so I then, innocuously, told them about the things that this teenage girl would do with me. As one might suspect, that was the end of her services.

Now I feel guilty about it, but not because I had been somehow shamed by this event. Been tainted before my time. Rather, because of the way that I have instrumentalized this narrative. I have told several girlfriends about it. Doing so, as a gesture to produce intimacy where there was none. Because I was empty. This was my story. Which is not to say that I abused it as I did myself. In fact, there were probably only about four or five girls. But I knew, the first time I told it, which was in college, underneath a rain shelter, on a snow covered golf course, with the most magical Jen, that my story was not false, but meaningless, and that I was telling to indebt her. That I was telling to obligate her.

Or to excuse myself. I think these things because I think, how could someone be so sexually deranged, so constantly and unfaithfully desirous, without some cause exonerating him. But I do not believe it. I am simply a bastard.

the perversity of monogamy

I met Anya on the back porch of my apartment. Where I have brought so many women. First, there was Damana, who is this gorgeous tall 22-year-old blond Jewish girl with wonderful, glorious large breasts. She is also a Suicide Girl. We fucked there, in the slight alcove behind the alley door and before the stairs leading up to the backdoor. At a party. Another party, there was Bedlina (who only wished there was a line to her bed), who showed me those breasts she'd boasted about for so long, which were all that would keep her company at night all those nights when I would not follow her home. I showed her my, long, boasted about cock, satisfactory in girth and length. But when I followed her home that night I could not fuck her. And then, several months later, there was Anya.

We talked about kissing people and what kind of kissers we were and what it was like to kiss a new person and the unfamiliarity of new lips. Anya is the director of a gallery in SoHo and her professionalism excites me. Perhaps because of my own lack of professionalism (but that will remain a topic for another day). She is so tightly wound that when you lick her pussy she purrs. Her eyes close and she cannot believe the pleasure between her legs. The smell of her pussy is pungent, although pleasantly so, so that it stays with you until you bathe. Her smell is the memory of fucking her. How she begs you not to stop.

When Anya and I were in Paris together, we spent the nights and the days in our room by the Odéon. Finally, our bodies had the time to decompress and devote all to each other. I prefer to treat the body of the other, for the most part, and so I would allow my tongue to trace lines from her lovely large red nipples down to the down between her legs. The smell of her pussy already strong. My tongue prefers to rub across her clit, feeling its surface against her surface. And then slipping down beneath that clit and penetrating inside of her. Pulling her hips against my face. How many times can I repeat this description?

In that quiet room I discovered how to bring her to orgasm quickly. She likes it hard, and I imagine both because of the way that my cock presses against her cervix as well as because of the way my pelvis presses against her clitoris. And I like to pound into her, with her legs up in the air. This woman who is so inflexible becomes a yogi in my hands. I put her legs against my chest, her knees bent over my shoulder and begin to pick her up that way, with my hands on her thighs and hips alternately. But at that angle, my cock no longer first strikes her cervix, but that famed interior zone behind her lower abdomen, whether legend or scientific verity, I cannot tell. All of the vaginas I have enjoyed have never betrayed any universality. But it is when you are holding Anya up like this, thrusting hard into her, that she approaches quickly ...

I am going to marry her. There. You've heard it before many of my friends. In the meantime, I shall ponder the fate of this misplaced journal and the pleasures from it that I derive. And relate more. Because sexual history is a pleasure all its own. I only wish I could share this with Anya. But the slightest whiff of sexual impropriety raises her hackles. I am a good liar because I believe my lies. And it doesn't change the way I love her. Not that this consolation means anything at all, since it is the damage it would do her that is of concern.

(As for interchangeability, MM, until this moment it hadn't occurred to me it might be a plea for your singularity.)

The Sanctity of Infidelity

Moments when my cock is true. Over the past few days, this girth between my legs. Its shape so solid and impersonal. I'm a gentile and I do not know about the advantages/disadvantages of this to judge, since I've never been a jew, but there is more skin to work with. The pleasure of pulling that skin down, with emphasis on that spot beneath the exit point for my genetic material. This one nerve that makes the head of my cock turn purple.

When I am laying in bed, stroking myself, I think of Midwestern girl. Her body is lithe and wonderful, although my encounters with it have been fairly indirect. She has profoundly blond hair. But more I think of RBU. This morning, a twosome with RBU and LP, licking LP's shaved pussy while my cock thrusts into RBU.

When I come, my eyes are clenched shut and it gets all over my hands. My head wildly flits back and forth. Sometimes I'll lift my head and bang it down onto the pillow. And the moans from my mouth. The pulses of cum emitted from my cock, spreading across my fingers. Afterwards I worry that my roommate's girlfriend heard me from the other room.

Even now as I write this, the verbal images of orgasm cause me to draw a finger across the surface of my jeans. I want to unzip my pants and pull it out. Have one of my readers beneath my desk, taking it into her mouth.