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 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.