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.

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).

My Jewish Ex-Girlfriend

Her name is R, and the first time I saw her she was wearing a low cut dress, which foregrounded her cleavage. And the look she gave me made me think, I want to be with this woman. And within several months, I was.

She troubles me because of the way I want her so. In fact, right now as I write this I realize how distant she is from me and yet how persistent is my desire.

Let me explain this situation, just a little. Our first encounter was during the loneliest of all summers. 2003. I was sleeping with another ex-girlfriend after having been dumped by the woman I loved, at the height of the most serious depression I'd ever experienced. She was a diminutive Puerto Rican/Korean girl who loved to fuck. Had a kid in fact. That's an episode. And so naturally after being dumped by, let's say her name is K, I to to L for attention. My ego had been destroyed. I had lost all confidence in myself, such that, I knew no real purpose to life. I took to reading Murakami and watching "Mishima" that summer--those were formative experiences. At any rate, one night with L, I met R.

Our pathes didn't really cross again until sometime just before or after I got out of the hospital. It was only a week trip. And mind not the nonchalance--the occasion for recognition just hasn't struck. In another mood, I can say more with a tone befitting. But now, I am all of wasted desire, misdirected. We started spending time together. She was very hesitant at first, and then things seemed to happen. We started spending all of our time together. And, despite my condition, melancholia with a dose of mania, I fell in love with her.

I say despite and not because of. Perhaps it is because of this moment of wounded love--her not agreeing to come and bed me tonight--or lust, but I say otherwise. I cannot say about now and the motivations behind this desire, but I can say about then. And it was so clear to me how much I needed her. I recall in particular, as we drove to visit my parents, how we stopped and she gave me a christmas present: a book on Anselm Kiefer. I was so happy. Delighted in fact. It was such a wonderful gift. And I keep it on top of my dictionaries, unread.

But I did love her. And so. Otherwise, why would I have put up with the terror that we shared together. Twice the police were called. Once by me. This was more than a year later. Definitions of love notwithstanding. Despite all this, I am tempted to sing her praises here. And perhaps partially because I almost gave her the address of this site--something I've passed on to no one. But she knows everything. There is nothing I have to hide with her. She knows all of the truth.

last week, when i started this post, she sent me an email, trying to remind me of her sexual dominance over me. telling me how she'd gone down on a man she just met. so i spend hours on the phone trying to get her to come join me for the night, promising the same. these negotiations were fruitless, and then exasperated, i sent her this:

I'm still sitting here wondering why this happens. I've wasted most of a night thinking about you. Which is not to say in any way that you are a waste of my time. Clearly I don't think so (although I did have other things to do tonight). And I don't know why I feel so rotten. I was just in the bathroom and I look in the mirror and I think about the way you might see me and I feel attractive, even sexy, and I haven't felt that way in a long time. And I want that again.

Because it's not that way with ----. I mean, there are moments of sexual desire, clearly, but it has nothing to do with those emotions I feel when I think about sleeping with you. And so it's not merely lust. Some desire to have you sucking on my cock rather than some anonymous stranger. Rather, it's about how I felt about msyelf when I was in bed with you, or with you in general. Even at the cafe, I think, that one afternoon this summer. I felt all fo the sudden like I was someone, because I was with you and because I knew you were drawn to me.

Perhaps this is too what you like from me, although you're strong enough not to give into these feelings? It's just that, when I'm with ----, I never need to feel sexy. Ever. I mean, there are times when I feel like I look better than others, but in general, all of that internal confidence which comes over me when I'm with you, when there's a chance soemthing could happen, all of that is absent. Perhaps these are feelings we are better without. But I don't know . I can't convince myself of that. I want to feel that way again. I mean, when I was with you, I forgot about everything. Everything seemed put into a place where it was manageable.

This will sound weird, but you really made me feel like I was a man. Like I was with a woman that I could be proud of. Come talk to this hot sexy bitch that is all mine. That is in love with me ... and that's what it comes down to. That with ----, I don't feel like I have a trophy. I mean, she's really great, really. But a lot of the things that make her great, are not visible.

With you, everything that your body is, your vicious smile and your scent, all of that is in turn backed up by this complex person who is fascinating, enlightening. I suppose that was part of the mystery. Why would you have ever wanted someone like me?

I felt like I had cheated the world. Fooled them. Does any of this make sense?
moi