More and Less

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.  

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.

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.

Enough of Guilt?

Christian rituals die hard. If they die at all. And guilt is by no means a Christian ritual. It makes me wonder if the akrasiacs also felt guilt. Or were they just perplexed? I like that description the best: "something did not occur as planned."

Yet these instances are guilt of the I-got-caught variety. Not my sort.

So let me explore the I-got-caught variety, for some contrast and consideration. I call this the "cleaning out the apartment story" (of MC (#6) and KHG (#11)).

My heart was rekindled with love for humanity after a summer of intrigue (2001). More exactly, a summer of "potency." I had been in Italy for a boot camp of sorts, involving Danes, other Americans, "body," "earth" and ... Robert Smithson ("art"). A philosophy event. I'd never heard of Robert Smithson before or earth art, for that matter. But the concept of this work thrills me. Particularly, the temporality of the earth. There I met Rasmus. And would that I were in love with Rasmus. About a week or so in we started asking each other "are you feeling potent today?" and the other would answer, "oh, I am feeling incredibly potent today." We needed a secret universe where we could escape the intuition of the winter ahead. And for that magical lapse in time, we'd found it.

After the boot camp was over, he asked me if I'd care to come to Tübingen with him, and then afterwards back to Copenhagen. Naturally. In Tübingen, we did a lot of couleur-besuchen and there I met Tina, who only kissed me for a few minutes in a room apart from the one where her Chilean soccer player boyfriend was. Then in Copenhagen he introduced me to Carolina (#10), who was his friend who he'd also slept with. She was a lovely loaded girl who was coasting through life in a beautiful apartment. When I got to Paris for the few days before my flight back to the states, I sat in that dreadful room in the southern part of Paris writing her letters.

KHG was one of the new members of my program. A beautiful girl from butterchurning country. Her skin is a glowing fairness. She had blondish hair. She had scars on the back of her upper arms from the farm. We fell in love the way people are supposed to fall in love. She had a boyfriend when she arrived. Quickly dispatched that sorry fellow. We kissed on a skateboard ramp, admiring its graffiti. That was around the beginning of October.

But I was leaving in January to spend several months in Paris. I remember just a few nights before I left, we were having sex and in the middle she burst into tears. It was the most romantic thing I think I've ever experienced.

I was cleaning out that apartment where I'd lived for nearly two and a half years. There, I'd been with LCB and LR and MC and X(J)M and ... the funny business with OA and whoever else. MC stops by. On her way back to central New York, where'd she'd been teaching at the time. These were infamous visits. Essentially booty calls. But nothing since October, because I'd been with KHG and my heart and cock were so incredibly single-minded. With KHG, the world has been eclipsed.

That day I was cleaning up from a party I'd had the night before. We all got so drunk and even Dylan, who'd be dead only five years later, was there (I wonder if he ever knew his end was so near?). I restrained myself to mainly words with MC. But somehow in the bedroom, which was even barren of a bed, she had laid down on the floor and taken off her clothes and was touching herself. And I was standing above her, had pulled it out and was stroking it gazing at her body.

This was a repetition of a thousand other times.

I think not too infrequently about the time that I had gotten her pregnant. Not that I had known when it was. But there was once that I recall very vividly. It is late at night and I'd probably spent most of the evening drinking at the bar with her and a couple of friends (our nickname for her was "set theory," as in, are you going to learn some set theory this weekend, when I was going to visit her). She had mounted me and my cock was so hard and fully penetrating her and it seemed like that tiny most sensitive point at the head of my cock was pressed almost into, as if it were possible, her cervix. And I think that I saw fireworks as I came inside of her. That was a year before that afternoon when MC laid down on the floor and rubbed herself.

I stood above her, and would not even let her lick the cum off my cock after I came. And it was an act inspired by post-drunkenness and my own inability to process my confused feelings. That I was leaving KHG, after I'd just met her and we'd fallen so desperately in love. And I needed some diversion from the sharp pain of that confusion.

Months later, MC had shared a room at the Pacific conference with AT. And MC told AT, KHG's friend, about having sex with me and how it had repeatedly happend and about how I had always come back to MC after all of the little interludes, including LCB, XJM, LR, etc. MC and I would meet at motels between here and central New York, just for a night of sex. We would have phone sex, sometimes multiple times during one week. In fact, even years later, after KHG and I'd broken up, I slept with MC yet again.

And AT told KHG. I was in Tübingen, ironically, that weekend in the spring of 2002, when AT told KHG and she was ... distressed. Upset.

I lied to her and told her nothing had happened and that MC was making up the entire episode. And I stuck to my story. Luckily, no Starr inquiry was following the evidence. There was no cumstained dress. And KHG, either believed me or decided that she would pretend that she believed me. I prefer the latter explanation, so as not to insult her intelligence.

I felt guilty, but perhaps more than that upset that I would lose this relationship which had meant so much to me, to this silly thirst for pussy that'd overtaken me as I struggled, like a child, with feelings that adults (whoever they are) are supposed to be able to process.

KHG and I lasted about a year after this.

Matchpoint

Tonight I was watching this film, but only part. In fact, it troubles me too much to watch the entire thing. I'd seen it before and knew where all was going. A sense I did not possess upon first viewing.

The film bears too many resonances for comfort. Confusion between love and lust--the dimensions of love. Infidelity. Inability to take responsibility for one's actions. The most loathsome inclination towards material comforts. And the blackest, most abysmal guilt.

The only feeling familiar to me presently, is the force of material comforts. But I have been driven away from the doubts that plagued me so, for nearly a month or longer. And even I cannot admit to the material comforts that Chris, played by Jonathan Rhys-Meyers, enjoys. But my life is very plain, and so even modest comforts mean something to me. I'm happy simply to enjoy wealth or to be with those who do,
rather than to have it to myself. I live from paycheck to paycheck, and I suspect I always will.

Chris' guilt afflicts him prior to the murder he commits (and afterwards, for a while). And that's the only guilt I know. I've dreamt of murder--in fact quite frequently--but its purpose is to saddle me with something I can never overcome. Hence how I recoil from the climax of the film. And Chris takes on a double murder. Not merely the murder of a woman that he loves, on some level, but also of a child that is his.

It would be well to dismiss the confusion he has in love as an ethical lapse. Akrasia. Knowing and desiring the good but without pursuing it. Yet the good is
too complicated by all of the forces which compose it. Of course, explanations are made in this way to legitimate failure (as much as they are made to justify judgment).

Chris is frustrated by the double life he chooses and the decision it ultimately forces him to make. Voltaire is said to write somewhere that indecision inevitable decides itself. This blog presents a similar anxiety for me. I'd taken pleasure, in its conception, in the notion of regaling my readers with the more sinister exploits. But in writing a first post on adultery, or rather infidelity, I found myself struck by how evil the enterprise was and the effects this form of catharsis might produce. And thus silenced, for several days (not to mention all of the occupations interceding). With reflection on this film I find a potential middle way, where I restrain the glory I feel in recounting the stories, and focus on the emotional affects most concerning me.

You see, in fact, I am not Sade. I suppose that is laughable. Transgression by
itself provides me with no pleasure. Or at least, not principally. Yet I am a sadist in the desire to flaunt power. Glory in infidelity has no greater function than to pacify the insecurities of the ego, of the man who never thought himself enough to draw a woman to him--such that he would never be convinced those he did draw were good enough. I know that's not true, but I am having a hard time convincing the desiring part. As we know, everything depends upon the maintenance of desire. Notions of will are for self-haters. My quondam Christianity makes me a self-hater, but only as a result of this tradition that we all share.

A is for Adultery

I'm not married and so technically it is impossible for me to commit this sin. But I have pushed the analogical envelope so many times, it must count for at least one real transgression. Not merely a betrayal of someone that I supposedly love (and sometimes do), but someone with whom I have signed a civil contract. Yet, unsurprisingly, at my age, I have never yet entered into that civil contract.

Ha.

The first time: I was then involved in what would come to be one of my longer term relationships. It lasted two and a half years. I cannot recall how long we'd been together at that point. I was 18. Gone to a wedding, where after drinks later that night I started kissing a girl that I'd known for some time, who was not my girlfriend. Was not even truly adultery, nor even a more significant form of infidelity. But I suppose the latter is just going to get us into moot distinctions.

The story gets funny: the next day I sat in front of the place where my girlfriend worked (a Baskin Robbins), unable to approach the business, but advertising my guilt for her.

The last time: one month ago. Been in a relationship since New Year's. Cheated on her half a dozen times. Last time, with a girl who'd been the closest friend of two of my exes (neither of them know about it) and who'd dated two of my closer male friends (neither of which knows about it). So we have, in all, about five potentially disgruntled parties. I started sleeping with this woman about two years ago. Nothing would ever come of it, both of us knew, because our mutual friends, none of which would have been happy about us seeing each other.

For weeks I worried she would become pregnant. And I tortured myself over what I'd done to my girlfriend.

I am convinced that on some level, I have done this act for the guilt. That I needed this guilt. It had nothing to do with the immediate pleasure this woman's body offered. Rather, it was about the pain I could inflict upon myself afterwards.