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.)

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)

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.