Over the past month, my underwear have continually bore the odor of dried cum. THe moments alone, in the bedroom, watching porn at Maxporn. Lately, a fascination with the pornstar named Eve Lawrence. Why, I do not know. I imagine a meeting between us would be tempting, because of the curves of her wild body and the desire this might momentarily inspire. The effectiveness of porn lies in the imagination. But when people speak, everything changes. The dimension of character emerges that can be very un-sexy. Of course, I'm sure Miss Lawrence is a lovely woman, but I suspect that she could not hold my attention to her.
I have at least two students now that interest me as sexual objects. The one is a fair-skinned blonde beauty. Her hair is actually a light brown, I suppose. She is generally quiet, but she stares at my during my lectures with such open, observant eyes that are generally not afraid to meet mine. Yet I must admit that Iam afraid to meet hers. I worry that my attention to her beauty might be noticeable to other students. Perhaps I overcompensate. The truth is that she is beautiful, and I have caught a few glances at her body--a sliver of her midriff exposed when she stood up and was putting on her coat--but I doubt that there could be more than that. And I would never pursue it. This is an ethical boundary I must maintain.
The other student is delicious in appearance. My mind exclaims: du siehst mir sehr lecker aus! She seems very nice. But again the reflection here is the moment. Otherwise, she is still just a student and ...
Beyond these respects, I am without sex. Over the past six months, I have had so little sex! All sex has been the eyes and the left hand and the right hand and this is it. Since Anya and I have moved in together, sex has dropped off the agenda. She is tired when she comes home and I am tired. I do not feel bad about this. I still love her as I have before, quite sincerely. Perhaps it is our domestic partners.
We are getting married in a few months and I am content with this. Yet I feel I need to tell her that I will cheat on her. But that this will not mean that I do not love her.
New Year's Eve we spent at our friend's house. The Pet, as I like to think of her. Pet and I have slept together numerous times over the past few years. Since I have been with Anya, perhaps twice, three times. When I lived in my other east-coast city, she lived only a few blocks away and our friendship involved going out to eat and drinking together, on the not infrequent occasion, and then making out in front of her apartment. Now Pet lives here.
That Eve, apart from the other guests for a minute, Pet and I made out. When Anya was in the bathroom and everyone else had left, we kissed. And days afterward, I wanted to do more. Pet, having now met and spent time with Anya, has decided that her lust cannot withstand the sense of violation, now that Anya is not to her merely a name, but a person. I suspect this will only last until we get drunk together, alone. When that will be, I do not know.
In the meantime, I will stroke my long, plump hard cock while watching Eve Lawrence, or reading Marianne's blog, or thinking about students I will never fuck.
Showing posts with label desire. Show all posts
Showing posts with label desire. Show all posts
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Canadian Hole
Which I mean as a plural singular. Visiting one of their metropoli. Last night, at this bar called Ronnies Local 069 and had my eye continually on a woman sitting with friends. And Canadian women do not divert their glance when it connects with yours. It is the most peculiar thing. They will look back at your innocuously. Unlike when women look back at you in the United States, which is rare and without even the slightest hint of doubt what is meant (when it does occur). In Canada there is no dialectic of glance-connect-look away-glance again or ignore.
As she and her friends began to leave, she stood there, a few feet away from me, waiting for them to pass by and looked at me plaintively, finally saying, bye, which I reciprocated. These being the only words spoken.
Oh the desire of the eyes. She was tall and lithe and had long black hair, lovely eyes and a smile that responded to mine once or perhaps more. And I do not know what would have come of it, had I invited her to join my friend and I for a drink. He's married and his wife is back visiting her mother country, so he invited me here for a few days of boy time, I guess you would call it.
I tell him all about this year. AT and then the women in the bathroom at the bar and then LP and then SS. I tell him about this blog and how I've been waiting for some kind of moral redress and not receiving it. And so he says, following my request that someone tell me I'm a fucking asshole, that I'm a fucking asshole. Which stigmatizes me for a while until later I ask him if he really so thinks. But he doesn't. THe morality of infidelity for him is a purely practical concern. A health concern. And rightly so.
He tells me that if he passed something to his wife he would really consider suicide. And I sympathize with this, although suicide for me has many more meanings. But that threat of not-knowing has worked its magic on me at times. And I've been lucky.
Would I have been able to take this dark-haired beauty into the bathroom (where all great things happen)? And what would this meaningless kiss have meant. Would I have enjoyed it for the pleasure of the kiss, knowing that I was bound to leave this country in just a few days? You see here friends, I'm nothing like you. Women are for me a continual potentiality of love, in addition to the pure pleasure of bodies.
Hole. The term a Greek restaurant owner used, who my friend worked for, back when we went to graduate school together. A woman would come in and he'd say, J___, look at that hole. I thought that was so funny when he reminded me.
As she and her friends began to leave, she stood there, a few feet away from me, waiting for them to pass by and looked at me plaintively, finally saying, bye, which I reciprocated. These being the only words spoken.
Oh the desire of the eyes. She was tall and lithe and had long black hair, lovely eyes and a smile that responded to mine once or perhaps more. And I do not know what would have come of it, had I invited her to join my friend and I for a drink. He's married and his wife is back visiting her mother country, so he invited me here for a few days of boy time, I guess you would call it.
I tell him all about this year. AT and then the women in the bathroom at the bar and then LP and then SS. I tell him about this blog and how I've been waiting for some kind of moral redress and not receiving it. And so he says, following my request that someone tell me I'm a fucking asshole, that I'm a fucking asshole. Which stigmatizes me for a while until later I ask him if he really so thinks. But he doesn't. THe morality of infidelity for him is a purely practical concern. A health concern. And rightly so.
He tells me that if he passed something to his wife he would really consider suicide. And I sympathize with this, although suicide for me has many more meanings. But that threat of not-knowing has worked its magic on me at times. And I've been lucky.
Would I have been able to take this dark-haired beauty into the bathroom (where all great things happen)? And what would this meaningless kiss have meant. Would I have enjoyed it for the pleasure of the kiss, knowing that I was bound to leave this country in just a few days? You see here friends, I'm nothing like you. Women are for me a continual potentiality of love, in addition to the pure pleasure of bodies.
Hole. The term a Greek restaurant owner used, who my friend worked for, back when we went to graduate school together. A woman would come in and he'd say, J___, look at that hole. I thought that was so funny when he reminded me.
Monday, November 5, 2007
The Conflicted Desires Motivating Me
There is a distinct sense in which I recognize the ugliness of all this. For example, the last entry, on the Jewish ex-girlfriend, I wrote some extremely loathsome stuff. There is indeed a sense of conscience that accompanies all of these meditations.
Sometimes, when in the throes of desire, this conscience is silenced. Then I can allow language free reign to speak of R's body and how it reflects me and my desires. Even as these words pass onto the screen, a certain rush betrays me. I want to talk about the sex I had with her, how I videotaped it (with her consent) and the images, after the relationship was over, that bedeviled me. And still do.
Yet, when emotional exhaustion strikes, the conscience reassumes dominance, and just as Freud and Nietzsche said it would, it terrorizes me. This morning I could barely get out of bed. I huffed over and over with anxiety and self-loathing, wondering how I could present myself confidently before my students, when the only image of myself was torture to look upon.
I credit myself with not being attracted, for the most part, to my students--young college girls. That seems like some kind of moral achievement. And in fact, I am striving to be moral. Why friends, I've even told R that I cannot speak with her for sometime for the sake of my sanity. At least, until this stressful period is over and my heart is less liable to its whims towards the desire that seduces it.
Yet, a lack of desire is not really any moral triumph. So long as morality remains the struggle of judgment with desire. But perhaps I'm not willing to admit that altogether. My philosophical formation struggles against it at every turn. But I was born and remain a Christian, if only in the shape of my soul and its forms of neurosis.
But let me say something about the desires which lead me here. Let me try to give an account of their first feast: the discovery of erotic images in a book in the closet of my father's bedroom. This book hidden away. I found it, took it to a place where I could be alone, and pleasured myself before these images. The pleasure of this moment had almost less to do with the scopophilic desire being sated, than with the happiness in my transgression. Because I hated my father then. That I could take this object and vandalize it, without it being known--that I could abuse its contents (not literally of course, because I had to replace it where I'd found it) and then return to my hohum existence. This excited me: I had my first transgression.
Sometimes, when in the throes of desire, this conscience is silenced. Then I can allow language free reign to speak of R's body and how it reflects me and my desires. Even as these words pass onto the screen, a certain rush betrays me. I want to talk about the sex I had with her, how I videotaped it (with her consent) and the images, after the relationship was over, that bedeviled me. And still do.
Yet, when emotional exhaustion strikes, the conscience reassumes dominance, and just as Freud and Nietzsche said it would, it terrorizes me. This morning I could barely get out of bed. I huffed over and over with anxiety and self-loathing, wondering how I could present myself confidently before my students, when the only image of myself was torture to look upon.
I credit myself with not being attracted, for the most part, to my students--young college girls. That seems like some kind of moral achievement. And in fact, I am striving to be moral. Why friends, I've even told R that I cannot speak with her for sometime for the sake of my sanity. At least, until this stressful period is over and my heart is less liable to its whims towards the desire that seduces it.
Yet, a lack of desire is not really any moral triumph. So long as morality remains the struggle of judgment with desire. But perhaps I'm not willing to admit that altogether. My philosophical formation struggles against it at every turn. But I was born and remain a Christian, if only in the shape of my soul and its forms of neurosis.
But let me say something about the desires which lead me here. Let me try to give an account of their first feast: the discovery of erotic images in a book in the closet of my father's bedroom. This book hidden away. I found it, took it to a place where I could be alone, and pleasured myself before these images. The pleasure of this moment had almost less to do with the scopophilic desire being sated, than with the happiness in my transgression. Because I hated my father then. That I could take this object and vandalize it, without it being known--that I could abuse its contents (not literally of course, because I had to replace it where I'd found it) and then return to my hohum existence. This excited me: I had my first transgression.
Saturday, November 3, 2007
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
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
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