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 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.

"I'll fuck anything that moves!"

Tonight, a strange one. And you, my friend, are invited on a voyage. That started with a dissertation defense. A long conversation into the city on the rules of engagement. At dinner, I was restraining myself. Imagine a table with three chairs on opposite sides. She was at seat 1. I was at seat 6, the farthest from her, except for her boyfriend, who sat at my side, at seat 7, between the two rows. She, a pretty girl from Minnesota. There they birth them blond. Her boyfriend, my friend, from the same. And I could smell her pussy from my seat.

So I followed her to the bathroom, where all good things happen. I stood outside that innocuous door, my soul aquiver such as that of the bow string of a famous violinist. When she opened the door, the fantasies melted. I took her back inside of that small room. We kissed and my hands pulled the small of her back closer to me. She smelled like something fecund. But that was all fantasies. She walked past me, pretending not to notice. How long can these games continue?

Her boyfriend, I know, has been unfaithful. For he has fucked AT (#19) also. She told me about it. But AT's boyfriend, a much closer friend than I, does not know. I wonder if fucking AT was like it was for me. The noises she made. It was glorious, coming in that little latex sack. And I think, why should Minnesota girl suffer not having my kisses, because she thinks that her boyfriend is faithful? I'm not that kind of guy. God, I'm like that fucker that takes Craig Kilbourne for real, when he says that guys don't tell on one another ("Old School"). That's not it.

I'm drunk.

But RBU called me tonight, I found, in the minutes passing as I dropped off my laptop before going to a party where my intense boredom would fester like a wound. I'd talk with AT and almost disclose my pathetic state. Instead, I changed the subject. Her breasts and that t-shirt: "wine me, dine me and etwas the river rhine me." And I had.

RBU, in the bedroom of some other guy, who only hours before I had, had returned her call and secured a night in which her pussy would be his. She was busy. We spoke for only a few seconds.

From 42nd street, my feet fell in paths not complementary. All of those blocks, abetted by the bus to 13th street, where I stopped to see the roommate of AT's boyfriend. I'd accosted her only weeks ago on the roof of a house near the art museum. She was not there. And I walked those lonely blocks by myself. I stopped and pulled it out to relieve myself. On the street. The pleasure of one's own touch.

I have not ridden in the back of a muscle car with a canister of oxygen, singing the praises of Pabst Blue Ribbon. I think not so highly of Dennis Hopper, despite the fact that he starred in "Rebel Without A Cause." Other, better Nicholas Ray films, I can think of.

But you are closer.

on the desire to expose oneself in words

I have a predecessor! (I appeal to the inflection in those translated words of Nietzsche's in commentary on Spinoza)

"The sordid details of his orgies stank under his very nostrils: the sootcoated packet of pictures which he had hidden in the flue of the fireplace and in the presence of whose shameless or bashful wantonness he lay for hours sinning in thought and deed: his monstrous dreams, peopled by apelike creatures and by harlots with gleaming jewel eyes: the foul long letters he had written in the joy of guilt confession and carried secretly for days and days only to throw them under cover of night among the grass in the corner of a field or beneath some hingeless door or in some niche in the hedges where a girl might come upon them as she walked by and read them secretly."

James Joyce, Portrait of an Artist as a Young Man (III:488-499)