Spending time with the firecracker Anonymous Female Chicago Blogger #2 yesterday opened up some recollection of a gal I dated many years ago. They didn't look like each other, but her attitude was a natural match for bringing up the old memory.
I pulled up my journal going all the way back (it took me about 2 hours to find it, I need to better tag and sort my old journals!) and copied and pasted it (with spelling errors intact).
~~~~~
Maria was a Spaniard from head to toe, inside and out. Born in Germany (a Navy brat) to parents of Spanish descent, she had a little bit of every accent. Her voice drove me nuts.
I met Maria through a chance phone call to my best friend at the time, Mark. Mark and I haven't talked in years, sadly, but he still replies to my hand written letters every summer. I called Mark trying to see if he wanted to go out, but Maria answered. I later learned Maria was staying with Mark and his parents because her parents were coming to Chicago (north suburbs) for their next assignment, but she finished up at college before they moved in. Mark's uncle is in the Navy, so he got her the fold-away bed at Mark's house to sleep on for a few weeks.
We chatted that day, and I was intrigued with her accent. Her voice was melodious without being screechy or too high pitched. Taught in proper English, her cadences and clicks to certain consonants really had me motivated to find out more. She said that Mark was out of town with his girlfriend, but would pass on the message. A few days later, I called back to see if he'd returned (he hadn't), and she kept me on the phone for over 2 hours.
I'm not a big phone person. I hate the phone because it ruins the conversations you should have in person. You also can't read body language, see if someone is bored, etc. Our talk was mostly fun banter, me trying to impress her with my less-than-appropriate knowledge of Spanish, German, Portuguese and French. She was fluent in all, and I only knew how to take a woman to bed and order coffee for us in the morning.
On Saturday, Maria called me (thank you, Caller*ID) and asked if I wanted to get together for some coffee. I told her I would love to get coffee with her (which I said in Portguese and it came out as "I would love to spill coffee on you.") Eu amaria derramar o café em você.
She laughed, and said I can only spill coffee if I was willing to replace the dress she was wearing. A dress! How perfect. I made plans to pick her up from Mark's parents' house later in the afternoon. The weather was perfect at 75 degrees, I was dressed in my Saturday best (white pants and shirt, light brown slip-ons), my car was clean, my hair was freshly razor-cut, and I was feeling pretty good about life.
I arrived, on-time, at 2pm. I walked up to the door and rang the bell. The woman who answered the door was a lot more mature looking than the 21 year old I had expected. Maria was gorgeous. Her face wasn't perfect, her teeth far from straight, but her smile and her eyes lit me up inside. I mumbled my hello, not being as confident then as I am today. She giggled at my stammer and said I should just say it in English. Sadly, I DID say it in English.
We drove to my favorite cafe, one that looks terrible on the outside (and on the inside). They had the best espresso machine in the country and were an outfit front for an organized crime syndicate. Let's say that the number of locals who ventured in was ZERO, other than Maria and I. Maria said the place looked like shit (her words), and I told her it WAS shit, but the coffee was fantastic.
To explain this cafe is to wander into fantasy-land: the inside was old white tile that hadn't been white in decades. The back wall was covered top to bottom with Italian porn VHS tapes to rent. The counter, if you'd call it that, had not a single uncracked piece of glass on it, showcasing antique electronics that no one would ever buy.
The man behind the counter was 6'3", probably 350#, with hands bigger than my head. I ordered an espresso and a cappuccino, he nodded, and went to make them. Maria looked for a clean chair, but none were to be found. I ran to my car, got my summer linen suit top, and placed it on her chair for her to sit. She didn't want to touch the table, even.
"This is how you impress a young woman?" No, this is where I come for the best coffee in the world. The beans were grinding behind me and she looked past my head. "That man is a coffee guy?" No, but he makes a mean cup. Trust me. "I'm not sure anyone can trust you." You will.
Big Italian came around with our coffees. Maria looked at her cup (chipped, on a chipped plate) and waited for me to sip my espresso. I opened my chocolate piece next to the espresso, dipped it in the coffee and took a bite. "See? Even you won't drink it," she said. I smiled and took a sip. My eyes obviously displayed an orgasmic roll inside my head. She nervously grabbed the cup (with her sleeve over her hand) and took a sip.
"Oh my god. This is amazing!" I told you. "No, really, this is the best coffee I've ever had." Smell it more. "It smells of flowers almost!" That's fresh roasted coffee, roasted in the back of the place. She looked to the door leading to the back room, practically falling off its hinges. "I wouldn't go back there. How does HE get through that little opening?" she said, thumbing back to point at Big Italian. I have no clue, I've never seen anyone actually go through it.
Big Italian was reading some gambling receipts and totalling them up. There was probably $20,000 in cash sitting on the counter top by the time we were leaving. "Don't you have to pay?" I don't think so. Never have. "Do you know these people?" No. I just like their coffee. "Isn't it dangerous to come here?" As far as I know, they probably think I'm either in their organization, or related to someone. No one's ever asked me before. I've never really seen anyone in here other than a few guys in $10,000 suits. "This is crazy." Welcome to my world.
We drove around for a few hours as she had never been in Chicago before. I took her to The Alley (she wanted a City of Chicago patch like I had on a jacket hanging in my car). I took her to Boystown and Andersonville. We stopped off at a restaurant, now gone, and had a glass of wine each. She told me about her life so far. Nothing too exciting, but nothing detrimental.
We walked a bunch, laughed a bunch. She hooked her arm into my arm and we sloppily stopped at a few bars, drank a locally crafted beer, told each other stupid stories and just had fun. She was a fun girl. She asked me if I had a girlfriend, to which I replied no. It was truthful. I was sort of sleeping with a girl who I went to high school with, but it wasn't serious and she was moving in a few months anyway.
We went on a few dates like this over the next few weeks. I kept phone calls to a minimum, faking busyness. On our 4th date, Maria was the first woman in my life to call me handsome. I blushed, as I still do, when she said it. "You don't think so?" Not really. Cute, maybe. Handsome? Ridiculous. "I think you are." She stepped up to me and put her arms around my waist and kissed me. The first kiss was electric, both of us being of the right height to just linger on it. Her lips and mine were both done with the kiss, but she lingered so long on my mouth. Bad day to be wearing linen pants.
"That's not very gentlemanly" she said, looking down at my predicament. I smiled, letting her know that a lingering kiss is too passionate for this city boy. She smiled back and said "I guess I haven't been very lady-like myself for the past hour." It took me a moment to understand what she meant. I blushed again, and she smiled at me. "You're not shy, stop that." It's true, but I do get shy once in awhile.
She grabbed my hand and we walked back to the car, talking about nothing exciting. She was hoping to get into grad school in a year and a quarter, working in Chicago to save enough money to live on for the few years it would take to get her degree. She was going to move to Boston for it, another town she had never visited.
Our affair lasted most of the summer, when she found a job in Boston. Sex was always passionate, kisses moreso. With her, I learned the art of resisting a woman. She would move to kiss me and I would pull back just enough to say no. It made her hungry for my lips. I learned how to tease a woman's body by not attacking the parts that porno actors do. It made her hungrier for my touch. After the condom was on, I would resist penetration, which made her hungrier for me inside of her.
I resisted with her, and she gave in to me, letting me take the reins only after she proved what she wanted. She wasn't submissive, she wasn't dominant. We swapped those roles playfully, teasingly, and constantly. She would get on top of me and try to tease me, but I used my hands and arms to pull her back down. She was a firecracker in bed, in life. We rode horses competitively, we played soccer that would turn into wrestling matches, scoring our outfits with grass stains and dirt.
Sexually, she hadn't much experience. She'd been with one boy in high school, two in college. Sex wasn't her thing because her drive for education was so high. Our summer together showed her the sexual creature that she was. There was nothing she wouldn't try with me, and nothing she didn't like. We completed each other at a time when we needed exactly what we had been given: passion, some romance, tons of teasing, and her breaking through every resistance I walled between us.
At summer's end, the company she was interning for offered her a paying position in Boston, a year ahead of when she was to leave. There was no breakup. We saw each other at least once a year for a few years, until she landed a serious boyfriend. I still write her letters a few times a year, and she writes back. We are penpals, but both of us also have fine and fond memories: I learned to resist, she learned to break through.
I still use the art of resisting when I woo a woman who has shown interest in me. It's not a game I play, it isn't a tactic. It is an art that women almost need to be presented with. When they yearn for your hands on their body, your lips on their lips, or even you inside of them or on them, their desire for you magnifies. Their bodies, their minds and their hearts respond, bringing the union to a more expressive climax in any situation, sexually or otherwise.
Summer days on a horse, or kicking a soccer ball with the neighbor's kids, or having a stain cleaned from my linen suits always reminds me of Maria. She was a woman at her young age, and I feel I completed myself into manhood through my relatioship with her. She was my firecracker, and I was her flame. May the explosive bang never stop echoing in my mind.
Showing posts with label love. Show all posts
Showing posts with label love. Show all posts
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Monday, May 18, 2009
A True Story from a Real Reader
I love the emails I'm getting, the random chats (see sidebar) when you're bored and I'm around. It's good to hear that some people, single, married, dating, are working to reignite their sex lives and finding out is isn't that much work.
Here's a (true) story from someone who found this site and used it as their muse to reignite the passion in their marriage. Please leave comments (anonymously, if necessary) and let her know that she's doing a good thing.
~~~~~
Dear CS
Seriously, I have no idea why I am emailing you but I know that I have been reading your blog (ever see a million hits from the outskirts of Portland? That’s me) and I guess what I want to say is that I can’t thank you enough for the impact you have had on my sex life with my husband. You mentioned you have a lot of moms visiting your site. I have a feeling I am not the only one who needed your help, and if I am, maybe they will google phrases like “passion in marriage” or “married sex” and come up with this post right here and st art reading, which in turn will help them too. Which is funny since you aren’t married and from the sound of it, us marrieds are having sex a lot more frequently than you are.
The thing I wanted to tell you about was my night last night. When I was dating and screwing around, this story might not have been as worthy of telling, but what you might not understand is that 8 years of marriage and 2 kids and 3 dogs and all the other humdrum shit that comes along with this suburban existence takes its toll on the passion levels.
Now, I have to like pre-defend my husband here, who is a really great guy and a really great husband, helpful around the house, love love love love loves me, great dad, the whole 9. We are still very much in love -- well, moreso – than we ever were. We have this family and this apartment and we screw from time to time and make love from time to time and catch a quickie whenever we can. Every once in a while, we fuck like we used to. Mostly, we get each other off which is most definitely not the same thing.
Prior to starting our family, we used to have pretty kinky sex. Once we had kids, our sex became lovemaking. We were gentler with each other. We were careful. Mostly, we became efficient (gotta get the orgasms in before the baby starts to cry or the toddler comes toddling). And while it’s been nice, it’s been predictable and a little boring. I missed the intensity.
Reading your blog has reminded me of the one thing, sexually, that my husband has been really clueless about, which is that my hugest turn-on is to be completely submissive. We have been having these talks lately, mostly in order to avoid the next inevitable step of going to counseling, to work through some issues. Each of us puts an issue in the jar. During the first few weeks of this, we worked through some of the big issues in our marriage, family, discipline, that kind of stuff.
Last week, my piece of paper got pulled from the jar: SEX. I finally had to find the language – and this is where you come in opening the lines of communication – to tell him about this part of myself – the thing he had never really registered. He admitted that he always saw me as such a strong, independent and fiery woman – it never occurred to him that I enjoyed being submissive – he thought it was something I would sort of pretend to enjoy on occasion for his benefit but that unless I was calling the shots I probably wasn’t all that interested. This is hard to believe – that he could have missed all the signs that confirmed how much I love being told what to do, spanked, dominated, cum on, pushed to my knees and told to suck him. I just honestly was floored that he had missed how much I was enjoying these things too. I guess what I am getting at is that we never actually talked about what turns us on -- we just got consumed by the other things we had to deal with. And we expected each other to read minds. Which never works, right?
So the past few weeks have been hot around here. And the man finally got the message that I wanted to be romanced and he arranged for a sitter and took me out to dinner. Of course, by the time we got to the restaurant I was practically in heat and couldn’t keep my foot off his crotch. At one point, our conversation took a very un-hot turn and we laughed about how we got off track. I looked him deep in the eyes and told him to tell me what he likes. He surprised me with his immediate answer.
“I like it when you come,” he said, tilting his head slightly without breaking the gaze. “On my face.”
Now, I know he likes this (and trust me, I feel like I hit the lottery) but to hear him say it out loud sent shockwaves through my body. I told we needed to leave the restaurant N.O.W. (he couldn’t exactly stand up at that exact moment, but a few minutes later…)
He paid, we left and on the way out I discreetly grabbed hi s cock (which by the way, apparently felt the way I did) and told him we needed to go park somewhere immediately. It was like I was on some drug, tunnel vision, I need to be sucking on him or I thought I might actually die. My breath had quickened, my face was flushed and all the passion was right back where it belonged.
I got my wish, seconds later, when we pulled into an empty lot and I quickly released him from his clothing and sucked him off hungrily. We haven’t been to church in ages but I am pretty sure I heard him calling out to God. It was unbearably sexy and I think I pierced the upholstery of his car with my heels. It was still light out and we definitely are not turned on by being arrested, so we decided my orgasm (s?) could wait.
We went home, paid the sitter, pretended to be interested in what the kids had to say about their night. Our son is still little but we bribed him into going to bed like a big boy and we managed to get the kids to bed within 30 minutes of getting home.
I wasted no time. I came downstairs to the living room completely naked except for a sheer black string thong, shooting my husband sheepish looks, like he could tell me to do anything and I would do it. He ordered me onto the couch and started kissing me everywhere, kneeling over me. I begged him to feed me his cock, and he obliged. I slipped a finger into his ass just to keep him where I wanted him, which was right there, shoving his cock into my mouth. I could have stayed there forever. He made me finish myself off, he told me to. He said he was going to watch me make myself come while I sucked on him.
I could go on and on about the fucking that followed, but I won’t bore you with the details. Mostly he did exactly what I love the most – took me from behind and pulled my long hair and I think you are getting the picture and this is actually much harder to write than you make it look on your blog, that’s for sure. In the end, I let him have exactly what he wanted, which was for me to come – on his face. The lucky bastard. And I got what I wanted, which w as for him to jerk himself off and come all over me.
Not sure why I feel compelled to write this. Mostly because I don’t share these aspects of my life with people I know, I don’t have a blog, and I don’t keep a journal. I guess I just thought you might be interested to know you’ve had a very positive influence on life around here. Keep up the good work, and thanks.
Anonymous
Here's a (true) story from someone who found this site and used it as their muse to reignite the passion in their marriage. Please leave comments (anonymously, if necessary) and let her know that she's doing a good thing.
~~~~~
Dear CS
Seriously, I have no idea why I am emailing you but I know that I have been reading your blog (ever see a million hits from the outskirts of Portland? That’s me) and I guess what I want to say is that I can’t thank you enough for the impact you have had on my sex life with my husband. You mentioned you have a lot of moms visiting your site. I have a feeling I am not the only one who needed your help, and if I am, maybe they will google phrases like “passion in marriage” or “married sex” and come up with this post right here and st art reading, which in turn will help them too. Which is funny since you aren’t married and from the sound of it, us marrieds are having sex a lot more frequently than you are.
The thing I wanted to tell you about was my night last night. When I was dating and screwing around, this story might not have been as worthy of telling, but what you might not understand is that 8 years of marriage and 2 kids and 3 dogs and all the other humdrum shit that comes along with this suburban existence takes its toll on the passion levels.
Now, I have to like pre-defend my husband here, who is a really great guy and a really great husband, helpful around the house, love love love love loves me, great dad, the whole 9. We are still very much in love -- well, moreso – than we ever were. We have this family and this apartment and we screw from time to time and make love from time to time and catch a quickie whenever we can. Every once in a while, we fuck like we used to. Mostly, we get each other off which is most definitely not the same thing.
Prior to starting our family, we used to have pretty kinky sex. Once we had kids, our sex became lovemaking. We were gentler with each other. We were careful. Mostly, we became efficient (gotta get the orgasms in before the baby starts to cry or the toddler comes toddling). And while it’s been nice, it’s been predictable and a little boring. I missed the intensity.
Reading your blog has reminded me of the one thing, sexually, that my husband has been really clueless about, which is that my hugest turn-on is to be completely submissive. We have been having these talks lately, mostly in order to avoid the next inevitable step of going to counseling, to work through some issues. Each of us puts an issue in the jar. During the first few weeks of this, we worked through some of the big issues in our marriage, family, discipline, that kind of stuff.
Last week, my piece of paper got pulled from the jar: SEX. I finally had to find the language – and this is where you come in opening the lines of communication – to tell him about this part of myself – the thing he had never really registered. He admitted that he always saw me as such a strong, independent and fiery woman – it never occurred to him that I enjoyed being submissive – he thought it was something I would sort of pretend to enjoy on occasion for his benefit but that unless I was calling the shots I probably wasn’t all that interested. This is hard to believe – that he could have missed all the signs that confirmed how much I love being told what to do, spanked, dominated, cum on, pushed to my knees and told to suck him. I just honestly was floored that he had missed how much I was enjoying these things too. I guess what I am getting at is that we never actually talked about what turns us on -- we just got consumed by the other things we had to deal with. And we expected each other to read minds. Which never works, right?
So the past few weeks have been hot around here. And the man finally got the message that I wanted to be romanced and he arranged for a sitter and took me out to dinner. Of course, by the time we got to the restaurant I was practically in heat and couldn’t keep my foot off his crotch. At one point, our conversation took a very un-hot turn and we laughed about how we got off track. I looked him deep in the eyes and told him to tell me what he likes. He surprised me with his immediate answer.
“I like it when you come,” he said, tilting his head slightly without breaking the gaze. “On my face.”
Now, I know he likes this (and trust me, I feel like I hit the lottery) but to hear him say it out loud sent shockwaves through my body. I told we needed to leave the restaurant N.O.W. (he couldn’t exactly stand up at that exact moment, but a few minutes later…)
He paid, we left and on the way out I discreetly grabbed hi s cock (which by the way, apparently felt the way I did) and told him we needed to go park somewhere immediately. It was like I was on some drug, tunnel vision, I need to be sucking on him or I thought I might actually die. My breath had quickened, my face was flushed and all the passion was right back where it belonged.
I got my wish, seconds later, when we pulled into an empty lot and I quickly released him from his clothing and sucked him off hungrily. We haven’t been to church in ages but I am pretty sure I heard him calling out to God. It was unbearably sexy and I think I pierced the upholstery of his car with my heels. It was still light out and we definitely are not turned on by being arrested, so we decided my orgasm (s?) could wait.
We went home, paid the sitter, pretended to be interested in what the kids had to say about their night. Our son is still little but we bribed him into going to bed like a big boy and we managed to get the kids to bed within 30 minutes of getting home.
I wasted no time. I came downstairs to the living room completely naked except for a sheer black string thong, shooting my husband sheepish looks, like he could tell me to do anything and I would do it. He ordered me onto the couch and started kissing me everywhere, kneeling over me. I begged him to feed me his cock, and he obliged. I slipped a finger into his ass just to keep him where I wanted him, which was right there, shoving his cock into my mouth. I could have stayed there forever. He made me finish myself off, he told me to. He said he was going to watch me make myself come while I sucked on him.
I could go on and on about the fucking that followed, but I won’t bore you with the details. Mostly he did exactly what I love the most – took me from behind and pulled my long hair and I think you are getting the picture and this is actually much harder to write than you make it look on your blog, that’s for sure. In the end, I let him have exactly what he wanted, which was for me to come – on his face. The lucky bastard. And I got what I wanted, which w as for him to jerk himself off and come all over me.
Not sure why I feel compelled to write this. Mostly because I don’t share these aspects of my life with people I know, I don’t have a blog, and I don’t keep a journal. I guess I just thought you might be interested to know you’ve had a very positive influence on life around here. Keep up the good work, and thanks.
Anonymous
Read the rest...
Friday, May 15, 2009
A Codependent Fistfest
I was fairly young-in-body but old-at-heart when I was 23. I met a lovely lady who seemed very into me, so I asked her out. Denied.
I'd see Nise from time to time around town. Neither of us lived in the area we'd run into each other in. I won't lie, I liked running into her, but at one point it became a little too coincidental. So I called her on it, was she stalking me? "I thought you were stalking me." I laughed and said no. So she said since we go to the same places all the time, we may as well go out.
I guess that was an in. Our first date was decent, fun, but she didn't give me the physical reinforcement that she was into me. Not one casual touch or glance. She didn't watch me when I went to wash my hands or use the head. At the end of the date, I kissed her and she accepted, but there wasn't a lot of warmth in her. I wasn't going to ask for a second date, but she shared her email address and I shared mine.
A few weeks later, with no contact from me, she emails me out of the blue. "I'm sorry if I seemed cold, I am just getting out of something. You're a great guy, want to try it again?" I waited a few days then accepted. No one special was in my life, no one local at least. I was sort of seeing an older woman in Portland, but it was very on-and-off. Mostly sex, little communication. My project in Portland was ending, so I figured that would die with it. She wasn't one to go visit for a $600 flight booty call.
We went out again and had a better time. She was slightly better this time; a few glances of my elbow, a little more laughter. She was quite beautiful but there was a darkness over her eyes. I caught her in microscopic lies that didn't amount to much. But I liked her physical presence and I liked listening to her talk.
We slept together on date #3. It wasn't that good. In fact, I think it was awful, for both of us. My caresses tickled her. I didn't fit too well in this 5'4" woman, the angles were wrong, and the friction was minimal. She was wet, but I don't think she was orgasmic. She faked hers, I faked mine, and a few hours later I left. Our sex was really inconsistent.
The dating was OK, but nothing special. I was going through a little phase of feeling ugly on the outside, so I guess I swung at the first pitch thrown at me. Eventually, she started staying over at my place. We didn't fight, we didn't get particularly romantic, sex was consistent but humdrum. What was I doing?
One night, I went out with some buddies to a bar and told Nise, where and when and with whom. She was tired, she stayed in. At the bar, I was taking to my friend's sister (I was invited to be in her wedding party). Out of the blue, Nise walked in, asked me who she was. I told her a friend, and she punched me dead in the face. I have very fast reflexes and will usually respond to an attack without thinking, putting the enemy down so I can clarify the situation. I can very close to knocking her 110# frame on the ground as my guy friends held me back.
Ever heard the phrase don't hit a woman? It's untrue. Never strike a woman. If an animal attacks, I will attack back with more force to keep the situation in my control. Is it a negative aspect? No. I've beaten down guys twice my size defending a friend or a woman from an attack. I've wrestled a woman much stronger than me down when she went into a psychotic episode and needed to be restrained. A human is a human, and an animal is an animal. Those who strike out of anger need to be kept at bay.
She left, I was bruised. She called me the next morning crying, saying she was drunk and got jealous. I forgave her, being the ultra-forgiving man that I am. Two weeks later, she went to a show that I didn't want to go to. She didn't come over after. I was a bit worried (she didn't have a cell) so I dropped her a phone call at home. No call back in the morning.
Not being much of a stalker, I didn't push. Maybe she was done with me. She showed up later that night with some bruises on her arm. I inquired, she didn't make an excuse. A few nights later my friends told me she was hanging out with a guy from the band she saw and left with him. I confronted her gently, asking her if we were seeing other people. She said no. Later I would find she saw many other people.
A few times, I would wake up and she would be pulling my hair, hard. Not drunk, but in a stupor. Sometimes I'd come back to my home and she's tear her nails into my arms and rip skin straight out. One time she also bit my hand, taking a chunk of skin with in.
This was not a woman, this was a crazy, useless animal. She had problems, but no adult of 23 should be getting into relationships, spending thousands a year on alcohol and drugs, and pretend they don't have time or money for psychiatric help. This is not my responsibility, but I felt like it was. I stuck around.
Things changed the day after she ripped the skin from my arms and bit me. I went to a business meeting, about 25 guys and 5 women. A few people asked what happened, and I said it point of fact: My girlfriend beat me up. There was a hush from the 10 people who were near me. A woman asked if I was ok. A man said he didn't know women did that. I looked around and I saw 2 guys ashen. I noticed their own hands had scars, their wrists had scrapes. These men get beaten, too.
The meeting went as planned, but afterwards I received a few emails from men there. They were abused spouses or boyfriends. It was a secret. A woman from the meeting also emailed me telling me she used to be that way, that she was hurt as a teenager and it took years to repair. She still wigs out on her loving husband, a man who put up with her insanities for years.
I got the courage to leave this woman later in the week. It was hard, she cried, I believed her. I thought I wanted her back. When I didn't, she went on a rampage, sleeping with half the guys I knew in 4 weeks. It didn't hurt me. I didn't have pity or sympathy.
When I started dating someone else, she wouldn't leave the new girl alone. She would tell her stories about how I beat her, how I tried to rape her, how I had a history of it. That girl decided not to see me. It was her loss, not mine.
It didn't make me feel better about myself, so I went to talk to a professional about it. 3 weeks of 50 minute sessions and I realized that I had slipped into codependency: thinking that you need another person to survive, to feel handsome or pretty, to engage in life. That was my first codependent relationship. It was my last.
Now, no woman puts her hands on me in aggression. If a man does it, I will lay him flat with no warning. If I woman does it, I will warn her to back down. If she continues, I will respond by reducing her to a weakened position and call the police. I've helped train women to defend themselves against aggressive boyfriends. Even small women can do this. I've helped train men to defend themselves against any aggressors.
I'm a peaceful man. I don't like fighting. I detest war. I don't like to use force against others. The more I've talked to people: abused and the abusers, I've noticed that it is the abused person's responsibility to defend themselves and move away from the situation. Any other option means you are accepting the punishment and pain. I was, for a few months. I stopped.
I still see her, from time to time. She's gotten worse. She's aged at double the speed, and still wastes her life on hard drugs, hard men and hard living. It's sad, but it's not something I sympathize with. She's had so many opportunities to fix herself, but she refuses. She's an adult, and her moods are her own responsibility to deal with. Not mine, not her man's, not her friends.
Never again will I deal with a psychopath abuser. The human in the has been pushed underground so the animal will respond. This is not a person for a relationship. This is not a person to love, until they love themselves. It took me a long time after to love myself, nearly half a year. Imagine if I would have stuck around?
I'd see Nise from time to time around town. Neither of us lived in the area we'd run into each other in. I won't lie, I liked running into her, but at one point it became a little too coincidental. So I called her on it, was she stalking me? "I thought you were stalking me." I laughed and said no. So she said since we go to the same places all the time, we may as well go out.
I guess that was an in. Our first date was decent, fun, but she didn't give me the physical reinforcement that she was into me. Not one casual touch or glance. She didn't watch me when I went to wash my hands or use the head. At the end of the date, I kissed her and she accepted, but there wasn't a lot of warmth in her. I wasn't going to ask for a second date, but she shared her email address and I shared mine.
A few weeks later, with no contact from me, she emails me out of the blue. "I'm sorry if I seemed cold, I am just getting out of something. You're a great guy, want to try it again?" I waited a few days then accepted. No one special was in my life, no one local at least. I was sort of seeing an older woman in Portland, but it was very on-and-off. Mostly sex, little communication. My project in Portland was ending, so I figured that would die with it. She wasn't one to go visit for a $600 flight booty call.
We went out again and had a better time. She was slightly better this time; a few glances of my elbow, a little more laughter. She was quite beautiful but there was a darkness over her eyes. I caught her in microscopic lies that didn't amount to much. But I liked her physical presence and I liked listening to her talk.
We slept together on date #3. It wasn't that good. In fact, I think it was awful, for both of us. My caresses tickled her. I didn't fit too well in this 5'4" woman, the angles were wrong, and the friction was minimal. She was wet, but I don't think she was orgasmic. She faked hers, I faked mine, and a few hours later I left. Our sex was really inconsistent.
The dating was OK, but nothing special. I was going through a little phase of feeling ugly on the outside, so I guess I swung at the first pitch thrown at me. Eventually, she started staying over at my place. We didn't fight, we didn't get particularly romantic, sex was consistent but humdrum. What was I doing?
One night, I went out with some buddies to a bar and told Nise, where and when and with whom. She was tired, she stayed in. At the bar, I was taking to my friend's sister (I was invited to be in her wedding party). Out of the blue, Nise walked in, asked me who she was. I told her a friend, and she punched me dead in the face. I have very fast reflexes and will usually respond to an attack without thinking, putting the enemy down so I can clarify the situation. I can very close to knocking her 110# frame on the ground as my guy friends held me back.
Ever heard the phrase don't hit a woman? It's untrue. Never strike a woman. If an animal attacks, I will attack back with more force to keep the situation in my control. Is it a negative aspect? No. I've beaten down guys twice my size defending a friend or a woman from an attack. I've wrestled a woman much stronger than me down when she went into a psychotic episode and needed to be restrained. A human is a human, and an animal is an animal. Those who strike out of anger need to be kept at bay.
She left, I was bruised. She called me the next morning crying, saying she was drunk and got jealous. I forgave her, being the ultra-forgiving man that I am. Two weeks later, she went to a show that I didn't want to go to. She didn't come over after. I was a bit worried (she didn't have a cell) so I dropped her a phone call at home. No call back in the morning.
Not being much of a stalker, I didn't push. Maybe she was done with me. She showed up later that night with some bruises on her arm. I inquired, she didn't make an excuse. A few nights later my friends told me she was hanging out with a guy from the band she saw and left with him. I confronted her gently, asking her if we were seeing other people. She said no. Later I would find she saw many other people.
A few times, I would wake up and she would be pulling my hair, hard. Not drunk, but in a stupor. Sometimes I'd come back to my home and she's tear her nails into my arms and rip skin straight out. One time she also bit my hand, taking a chunk of skin with in.
This was not a woman, this was a crazy, useless animal. She had problems, but no adult of 23 should be getting into relationships, spending thousands a year on alcohol and drugs, and pretend they don't have time or money for psychiatric help. This is not my responsibility, but I felt like it was. I stuck around.
Things changed the day after she ripped the skin from my arms and bit me. I went to a business meeting, about 25 guys and 5 women. A few people asked what happened, and I said it point of fact: My girlfriend beat me up. There was a hush from the 10 people who were near me. A woman asked if I was ok. A man said he didn't know women did that. I looked around and I saw 2 guys ashen. I noticed their own hands had scars, their wrists had scrapes. These men get beaten, too.
The meeting went as planned, but afterwards I received a few emails from men there. They were abused spouses or boyfriends. It was a secret. A woman from the meeting also emailed me telling me she used to be that way, that she was hurt as a teenager and it took years to repair. She still wigs out on her loving husband, a man who put up with her insanities for years.
I got the courage to leave this woman later in the week. It was hard, she cried, I believed her. I thought I wanted her back. When I didn't, she went on a rampage, sleeping with half the guys I knew in 4 weeks. It didn't hurt me. I didn't have pity or sympathy.
When I started dating someone else, she wouldn't leave the new girl alone. She would tell her stories about how I beat her, how I tried to rape her, how I had a history of it. That girl decided not to see me. It was her loss, not mine.
It didn't make me feel better about myself, so I went to talk to a professional about it. 3 weeks of 50 minute sessions and I realized that I had slipped into codependency: thinking that you need another person to survive, to feel handsome or pretty, to engage in life. That was my first codependent relationship. It was my last.
Now, no woman puts her hands on me in aggression. If a man does it, I will lay him flat with no warning. If I woman does it, I will warn her to back down. If she continues, I will respond by reducing her to a weakened position and call the police. I've helped train women to defend themselves against aggressive boyfriends. Even small women can do this. I've helped train men to defend themselves against any aggressors.
I'm a peaceful man. I don't like fighting. I detest war. I don't like to use force against others. The more I've talked to people: abused and the abusers, I've noticed that it is the abused person's responsibility to defend themselves and move away from the situation. Any other option means you are accepting the punishment and pain. I was, for a few months. I stopped.
I still see her, from time to time. She's gotten worse. She's aged at double the speed, and still wastes her life on hard drugs, hard men and hard living. It's sad, but it's not something I sympathize with. She's had so many opportunities to fix herself, but she refuses. She's an adult, and her moods are her own responsibility to deal with. Not mine, not her man's, not her friends.
Never again will I deal with a psychopath abuser. The human in the has been pushed underground so the animal will respond. This is not a person for a relationship. This is not a person to love, until they love themselves. It took me a long time after to love myself, nearly half a year. Imagine if I would have stuck around?
Read the rest...
Thursday, May 14, 2009
My little lover in Madrid
Written on an airplane en route to Chicago today.
When I was 20 years old, I flew to Madrid for a wedding of a Portuguese friend. We had a blast, and I met a nice young bridesmaid at the wedding, Delphina. She was originally from France, but her Andalusian blood meant she had an incredibly textured face full of character. We hit it off immediately.
We spent the rest of the week together in the countryside: riding horses, wrestling in the thorngrass, patching each other's wounds and massaging out the other's back after a tough day of trotting and galloping and falling into one another. Every day was a scene out of a bad romance novel. The day before her and I both left for home, we spent having our first bedroom experience together. It is still memorable today as if it was yesterday.
At 20, I was barely traveling internationally for work. I still didn't have my name in the market, so jobs were tight domestically and internationally. I was lucky to have found a good new customer at that huge wedding, and they invited me to Paris and Toledo twice in the next 6 months. Each time I went, I contacted Delphina, who took the train many hours to see me for just a few. She was lovely, happy, and content with any time we spent together. Sometimes we reached a bedroom, other times we just talked over biscotti and tea. It was hard to leave her, but neither of us were ready for any form of relationship or commitment.
When I passed the age of 21 and she 24, I ended up doing a short summer stint in a town not far from her. The company I worked for provided me a car, so we saw each other at least once a week. Sex with her was passionate and fun. She slowly became my girlfriend in Europe, the one I would call to check in on. How is school? How is work? How is the family farm? We'd talk on the phone (at probably 25 cents per minute) for hours when I was in the States. I'm not a phone talker, usually.
As we aged, we'd see each other less and less but our time together was magnificent. She could call me if she was truly down, and I would hop the next flight to Madrid and the train to her town within a few days. Sometimes I'd travel just to see her for 3 days. Once she came to visit me when I was working in San Francisco.
It was a long distance love affair, and neither of us had any jealousy or frustration over the fact that the other would likely find themselves in the arms of someone closer. I had lovers and girlfriends, she had lovers and boyfriends. She was even engaged once, days after I made love to her on her family farm, itching and scratching from days from the haystack makeshift bed.
As we both fell into serious relationships, we still talked and eventually emailed regularly. If I was in the area, we'd find a way to train to a central town to meet up, eat heavy fatty foods, run around the town like lovebirds on their honeymoon, and share in the passions that were bred from our mutual frustrations in life. I loved her dearly, and she me.
When I was 27, she told me she was engaged and set to be married. I flew out a week later and we spent 3 days straight in bed. The maid was never allowed into the bed and breakfast room we rented. She asked for me fully and I obliged. I don't think we were Sane and Delphina those three days. We were lovers who lost touch after a war, with only a few weeks before the next bigger war comes around. Her orgasms were foreign and remarkable. Mine were long and quiet, with my eyes locked into hers.
We taught each other our bodies over years, and we learned each other's souls as well. I was present at her wedding, bringing a girlfriend from back home who fell in love with her face and body and contagious laughter. Her husband was a top notch man, and when she took me aside a few days after the wedding and gave me my last kiss, I felt like I was letting a good one go.
"You're my first true love," she told me. I respected that by admitting the same. "I will never forget you and I hope in time I can call you brother and friend." She could. Today she is like an adopted sister to me. We still speak, and she sends me photos of her children (they look like her) and her happy home and life.
I was lucky to spend those years with her in my arms, in my bed, as my friend and my lover. Our time together is memorable because of the distance separating us. The cost to me was great in terms of money and time expended traveling, but the relationship was solid in every way. If I asked her to marry me, she would have said yes (she told me this years after her marriage). When she said she loved me, it was rare and cherished and real. When I returned those words, they were perfectly timed and never overdone or dramatic.
If you have the chance meeting with someone in a distance city or even country, don't let the spark disappear. Take advantage of the time now. Don't hope for something serious, but hope for something soulful. Cut back a little bit at home so you can see them, or they can come see you. Don't fall in love in a daily sense, but fall in love in the romantic sense. Even if you both have to share the other with their own local lover, you can still have something amazing and special and memorable.
I don't miss Delphina, but my love for her has only grown. She's my pal, my big sister, my ex-lover and one who comforted me with her body and her touch as I went through many changes. With luck, she will read this and smile, knowing I didn't leave anything out.
When I was 20 years old, I flew to Madrid for a wedding of a Portuguese friend. We had a blast, and I met a nice young bridesmaid at the wedding, Delphina. She was originally from France, but her Andalusian blood meant she had an incredibly textured face full of character. We hit it off immediately.
We spent the rest of the week together in the countryside: riding horses, wrestling in the thorngrass, patching each other's wounds and massaging out the other's back after a tough day of trotting and galloping and falling into one another. Every day was a scene out of a bad romance novel. The day before her and I both left for home, we spent having our first bedroom experience together. It is still memorable today as if it was yesterday.
At 20, I was barely traveling internationally for work. I still didn't have my name in the market, so jobs were tight domestically and internationally. I was lucky to have found a good new customer at that huge wedding, and they invited me to Paris and Toledo twice in the next 6 months. Each time I went, I contacted Delphina, who took the train many hours to see me for just a few. She was lovely, happy, and content with any time we spent together. Sometimes we reached a bedroom, other times we just talked over biscotti and tea. It was hard to leave her, but neither of us were ready for any form of relationship or commitment.
When I passed the age of 21 and she 24, I ended up doing a short summer stint in a town not far from her. The company I worked for provided me a car, so we saw each other at least once a week. Sex with her was passionate and fun. She slowly became my girlfriend in Europe, the one I would call to check in on. How is school? How is work? How is the family farm? We'd talk on the phone (at probably 25 cents per minute) for hours when I was in the States. I'm not a phone talker, usually.
As we aged, we'd see each other less and less but our time together was magnificent. She could call me if she was truly down, and I would hop the next flight to Madrid and the train to her town within a few days. Sometimes I'd travel just to see her for 3 days. Once she came to visit me when I was working in San Francisco.
It was a long distance love affair, and neither of us had any jealousy or frustration over the fact that the other would likely find themselves in the arms of someone closer. I had lovers and girlfriends, she had lovers and boyfriends. She was even engaged once, days after I made love to her on her family farm, itching and scratching from days from the haystack makeshift bed.
As we both fell into serious relationships, we still talked and eventually emailed regularly. If I was in the area, we'd find a way to train to a central town to meet up, eat heavy fatty foods, run around the town like lovebirds on their honeymoon, and share in the passions that were bred from our mutual frustrations in life. I loved her dearly, and she me.
When I was 27, she told me she was engaged and set to be married. I flew out a week later and we spent 3 days straight in bed. The maid was never allowed into the bed and breakfast room we rented. She asked for me fully and I obliged. I don't think we were Sane and Delphina those three days. We were lovers who lost touch after a war, with only a few weeks before the next bigger war comes around. Her orgasms were foreign and remarkable. Mine were long and quiet, with my eyes locked into hers.
We taught each other our bodies over years, and we learned each other's souls as well. I was present at her wedding, bringing a girlfriend from back home who fell in love with her face and body and contagious laughter. Her husband was a top notch man, and when she took me aside a few days after the wedding and gave me my last kiss, I felt like I was letting a good one go.
"You're my first true love," she told me. I respected that by admitting the same. "I will never forget you and I hope in time I can call you brother and friend." She could. Today she is like an adopted sister to me. We still speak, and she sends me photos of her children (they look like her) and her happy home and life.
I was lucky to spend those years with her in my arms, in my bed, as my friend and my lover. Our time together is memorable because of the distance separating us. The cost to me was great in terms of money and time expended traveling, but the relationship was solid in every way. If I asked her to marry me, she would have said yes (she told me this years after her marriage). When she said she loved me, it was rare and cherished and real. When I returned those words, they were perfectly timed and never overdone or dramatic.
If you have the chance meeting with someone in a distance city or even country, don't let the spark disappear. Take advantage of the time now. Don't hope for something serious, but hope for something soulful. Cut back a little bit at home so you can see them, or they can come see you. Don't fall in love in a daily sense, but fall in love in the romantic sense. Even if you both have to share the other with their own local lover, you can still have something amazing and special and memorable.
I don't miss Delphina, but my love for her has only grown. She's my pal, my big sister, my ex-lover and one who comforted me with her body and her touch as I went through many changes. With luck, she will read this and smile, knowing I didn't leave anything out.
Read the rest...
Friday, May 8, 2009
A man with hands, a woman with a scar, Part IV
This is the final part of a 4-part mini-series of posts. You should start with Part I here. Please don't link to any post in this mini-series. Don't email your friends a link to it either.
"I'm nervous that you're going to be amazing and that this will be all we'll share." You're not looking for a boyfriend. "Right." You're not looking for a friend with benefits. "Exactly." So what's the problem? "I don't want to lose someone this amazing." We can skip the sex. "I need it. I thought you were playing a game. You're not. I need you inside of me."
But that's the curse: imagine if someone was coming into your home every day and doing the most vile and violent act on you possible, and you forgot. Imagine if you won the lottery every day, but tomorrow you had no idea and the ticket was destroyed in the wash. That's the curse.
Instead I am going to smoke another pack of cigarettes and read my own writings.
I smile at her little game. "I'm not kidding." I stand up and walk to her bookshelf where her DVDs are organized in seemingly complete random order. "They're not organized randomly." I know. You sorted them by times in your life when you watched them a lot. "Holy shit." The kettle overflows with water. She pours some out as I select the movie The Bourne Supremacy.
I walk to one of three drawer stands in the room, the one further from the couch and the TV. I open the drawer and grab the remote. I turn to see her watching me. "How the hell did you know the remote is there?" You keep it far from the couch and the TV so you don't watch too much too easily. "You know THAT?" You have a scar that runs deep into your psyche. "That's, that's just..." It's not incredible. It's what I do. "Do you scare people?" Every day. "I'm not scared." You know me. "I don't know a thing about you!" Yes you do. She looks at me and smiles.
She turns the kettle on and starts to grab a few boxes of tea. I ask for the mint green, not being able to see her selection since the cabinet door is facing me. "How did you know I had mint green?" I smelled it from earlier. "Now that's scary." Not really. "What else do you know from smell? Can you scare me more?" Ralph was here within the past 48 hours. "How did you know that?" He smokes menthol. "He tried to but I told him to put it out. I told him to leave." It's OK. "He surprised me, too. He left though, and I doubt he'll come back again.
She grabs the tea and she grabs herself chamomile, which is especially pungeant. She sits next to me and we turn the movie on. "Do you like this movie?" I don't remember. Maybe. "You forgot seeing it?" Yes. "That's terrible." It lets me focus on today and tomorrow rather than yesterday.
"You are always smiling. Are you always happy?" I am. "Ever sad?" No. "How is that possible?" I explain to her my my mental disability. She doesn't believe me, so I tell her to get her notebook and look it up on wikipedia. She does. She's shocker. Her mouth is open, but no words come out. She looks at me, she looks at the notebook, then nods her head. I watch Matt Damon looking much heavier than any manmade spy machine would be. I remember this part.
"That explains it all." Yes. "The whole thing. It's not a game." No. "What do you want from me?" I want to watch the movie and drink tea. "That's all?" No. "What else?" I'd like to fuck. She looks at me while I watch the movie, getting up to get the tea ready. She puts the kettle down after opening one teabag. The movie is interesting so I almost miss not smelling the scent of green mint or chamomile or both combined. She puts the teabag down into a cup and puts the cups away, as well as her tea boxes.
"Let's go." Where? "To bed." Just like that? "Yes. But to talk more." I follow her into her bedroom.
11:45PM
Her bed is messy. There's no sign or scent of sex in the air. I always know if a woman has had other lovers between cleaning the sheets. She hasn't. There's enough body hair of hers on the pillow and enough wrinkles in the sheets that she hasn't had anyone in that bed in a long time. It makes me sad. She's lovely, but she hurts still over the tragedy of her non-visible scar. I sit on the bed and take my shoes off. "Forward, aren't we?" she jokes as she removes her shoes, too. I laugh back. She sits next to me on the bed but falls onto her back, plays with my hair. I turn to look at her.
We talk for half an hour about things that make us laugh, that might make me sad, people we loved, people we hated. Her laugh is addictive. I smile, thinking about kissing her. She reads my mind again. "Not yet." She unbuttons her dress from behind while sitting, then stands up and pulls it off. "You've seen me naked through my words. Can you see me naked while we talk somemore?" Absolutely. "Is there a difference between the two?" None at all. "Do you want to see me this way?" I shake my head yes, one of the most significant gestures I can make. She sees it right away and smiles in understanding.
12:15PM
Her bra comes off as do her panties. She trimmed today. Her legs are shaven smooth. She was thinking of sleeping with me already. The entire time I realized this, I was only looking at her face. I tell her she's beautiful. "Just my face?" I look at her body. Her boobs are nice, fairly small. She's in great shape, but there's an obvious side effect of when she was overweight. I like it. I look at her pubic hair, which is glistening from the street lamp coming into the window. "I shaved today." I know. "I know you know, I wanted to see if I could read you." Anyone can. "I'm wet, too." She runs her hand down her flat belly, down her pubic hair, and then sits down next to me.
We talk, me focusing on her eyes. Licking my lips to talk as I always do but restraining myself. We shares funny bed stories, noticing when I gesture a reply of familiarity. She keeps talking about how few women I've slept with and says she understands why that is. "You really do keep things where people need them to be." I do. "It's not because you're shy." I'm not. "You're confident you can do anything, anyone." Yes. "Will you be my fourth?" Fourth? "Lover? Fuck? One night stand or whatever you think I need?" I'm silent. I look at her face, at her eyes. She sits back up to kiss me. I can smell her pussy very strongly.
"Will you take your clothes off for me?" I stand up, remove my shirt and my pants, slowly but at a decent speed. I take off my Emporio Armani black undershirt and shorts. My cock is hard, and it's soaking in precum. She grabs my hand, spreads her legs, and pulls me closer. We both shuffle up to the bed, kissing deeply. Only 10 minutes pass. "I don't have protection. Have you been tested lately?" This year. Every 6 months. "But you don't fuck around?" I've been with people who have problems. You never know. "Do you always use protection?" Yes. "Even tonight?" If it's available, otherwise we can do other things. "Do you have condoms?" In the car. "Go get one." I pull my jeans on only, and run outside barefoot. I return from the car in moments. She has her vibrator out and she's already using it.
12:30PM
I lay down next to her and take it away. "I need that to finish." I tell her she's beautiful, and that an orgasm isn't why I'm here. Not for me, not for her. She grabs my hard cock and asks if I want a blowjob. I don't. "Why not?" It's not necessary. I don't tell her this, but I know she doesn't like giving them. Fat girls give a lot of blowjobs in high schoool. If they get skinny, it becomes a negative idea. "You know." I do.
We kiss some more, and her vibrator falls to the floor. "I'll need that later." I'll get it if you do. Her moans are amazing. I don't turn her on her front because I know she is conscious of her back. I skip it, even though it is generally my favorite part. I focus on her shoulders, her muscular arms, her hips and flat belly with obvious abs under a very thin layer of skin, not fat. She's magnificent, just as women are. "I'm nervous." I'm not. I won't push beyond your limit.
"I'm nervous that you're going to be amazing and that this will be all we'll share." You're not looking for a boyfriend. "Right." You're not looking for a friend with benefits. "Exactly." So what's the problem? "I don't want to lose someone this amazing." We can skip the sex. "I need it. I thought you were playing a game. You're not. I need you inside of me."
I roll over to the nightstand to get my box of condoms. I put one on while she watches. "No foreplay?" All night was foreplay. "Yes, it was." I roll her onto her side, away from me as in a spooning position. I kiss her cheek and run my hand down her side. She shudders. "I need my vibrator." Don't worry, I'll last awhile. We'll get it later. "I trust you" she tells me as I enter her.
12:40PM
She moans. "Oh, god you're thick." She's tight, but not too tight. I slowly drive into her. "Oh, yes, right there." I'm barely doing anything, but I figured her position out right. I'm pumping into her, slowly. "Oh, that's so good." Only 15 minutes pass. I put her in 3 different positions, not wanting to wear her out. Finally I put her on top of me, reverse cowgirl.
Her legs are powerful and she balances just fine. "Oh, god that's so good." She's bouncing on my cock, pulling up slowly but forcing herself down hard. "Oh, fuck, I need it deep in me." She's getting it as deep as I can give her. After a minute or so of her pounding on me, I start to slightly lift my hips to meet her at her lowest point. "Oh, Chicago, damn it, fuck me." I do. She gets a little wobbly, so I hold her hips. She's thrusting faster now, up and down, so I meet her with as much force as I can on her down swing. "Oh, fuck fuck." Do it, Stace. "Fuck yes, fuck me, yes." You can come if you're ready. "Yes, god, fuck fuck, I'm there don't stop, Chicago, don't stop." She's pounding so hard into me that she's hurting my hips. One hand reaches around and claws my arm with her nails. Fuck me, Stace, Fuck me. "Oh I'm, I'm coming. Oh god I'm coming. Don't stop." I keep pounding her as she loses control. She starts to topple over to her side, so I grasp her hips and roll her onto her belly, still inside of her.
As soon as her stomach is on the bed, I ram into her some more. "Oh, I'm still coming, oh god please don't stop." I don't. She's still shuddering as I pound into her. This is the hardest I've fucked a woman in probably 4 years. I'm fearful I'll fall out as this position isn't good for my cock length. I'm hard as a rock, pushing her shoulders down hard so her ass comes up enough for me to slide in.
"Oh, more more moremoremore." I oblige. "Uhhh, oh god." I come, but I'm so hot for her to come again that I stay hard. "Uhhh, yes more harder fuck me fuck me." She's loud, so loud. I keep pounding and her ass comes up to meet me finally. "ohh I'm coming. what the fuck, uhhhhh." She does.
12:55PM
I stop after her 2 minute long orgasm #2. It takes her nearly 5 minutes to say anyting. I've long since popped out of her, still hard but my condom is too full to go further. She turns over. "Oh my god. Oh my god." She holds my small hand in both of hers. "Oh my god. That was, oh god." I'm Chicago. ChicagoSane. She laughs. "That's your last name?" Another thing people made fun of in high school. "It suits you." She laughs, and then her face shows torment when she sees my hard cock. "Oh my god, you didn't finish!" I did. She looks at the condom, filled with my come.
I stop after her 2 minute long orgasm #2. It takes her nearly 5 minutes to say anyting. I've long since popped out of her, still hard but my condom is too full to go further. She turns over. "Oh my god. Oh my god." She holds my small hand in both of hers. "Oh my god. That was, oh god." I'm Chicago. ChicagoSane. She laughs. "That's your last name?" Another thing people made fun of in high school. "It suits you." She laughs, and then her face shows torment when she sees my hard cock. "Oh my god, you didn't finish!" I did. She looks at the condom, filled with my come.
"You're still hard." I'm finished. Don't worry. "I can't believe it." She reaches down and pulls off the condom. Come falls all over her hands and my cock. "When did you come?" Before you did the second time. "And you kept fucking me?" You needed it.
She ties off the condom, just as I would, and licks the come from her fingers. "Mmm." That's not necessary. "No, but I like it." She finishes. Then she kisses me. "You're not grossed out?" Nothing grosses me out. We lay down and talk some more. "Threesomes?" No problem. "Two guys and a girl?" Sure. "Touch a guy's dick?" No, but not because it's gross. It's just not my thing. "Fucked a girl in the ass?" A few. "Like it?" They did, so I did. "Anything you like to do in bed?" Continue our story.
1:00AM
"Nothing that you like for yourself?" Two things. "What are they?" It's not important, it doesn't make the sex better or worse. "Will you tell me?" Think about tonight and then guess. She lays down with her head in my arms. It's almost exactly 1am. We fucked for less than an hour or so. This women is going to break me.
1:05AM
"You like to take photos." Yes. "Of every woman?" No. "How do you choose?" I don't. "Women actually ask you to take their photos?" Yes. "Do you always?" Yes. "Where are the photos?" Printed and stuck in a locked journal and deleted. "That's how you remember them. Us." Yes. And the written word. "That's amazing. I've never done it before. Guys have asked." It's ok. I'm not asking. She pauses.
1:10AM
"You can." Not if you're uncomfortable. "Would you show me some?" No. "No one, ever?" Never. "Then I want you to." Ok. "What's the other thing?" Think some more. "Does it have to do with remembering?" Yes. She thinks about it. She's at a loss. "I have no idea." Then it isn't important. "Would it make tonight better?" No. "More memorable?" Yes. "So why won't you tell me?" It something the woman has to ask for.
"Butt sex?" No. "Something I should do to you?" No. "Something you would do to me?" Yes. I notice her toes are still curled up. "My feet? Do you want to come on my feet?" No. I just noticed your toes were curled still. It's cute. We kiss. We kiss for another few minutes, her stroking my cock which is getting hard again after going limp from the talking. She's moaning, but I can tell she's done for the night.
1:13AM
She pulls my face away from hers. "Do you want to come on my face?" Yes. "Is that it?" Yes. "And take a picture?" Yes. "And no one will see it?" Not until I'm dead. "Will you be careful?" Yes. "Not in the eye or anything, right?" Yes. "Guys have asked before, I always said no." I don't care about what you've done before. "Just what I do now?" Yes.
She takes my cock into her mouth. I try to pull it out. "No. I want this. Really, really bad." I let her continue. She's good, which makes me sad. "Don't be sad." She sees my expression. She's reading my mind now. She's not deep throating me, but she's focusing on the right areas. She tries to put her hand by my ass. Definitely a pro at this. I push her hand away. She pops off of me. "Do you want to do it hard or have me do it?" Either way. "What do you prefer?" I want you comfortable. She holds my cock in her hand and gets off the bed, onto her carpeted floor.
I step off the bed and put my cock back in her mouth, letting her use her spit and her head movements. It doesn't take long and she can tell. She pulls off and spits on my head and her hand and slides her hand almost perfectly. "You can finish if you want." Where? "On my face. use your hand if you want." Where do you want it? "Please come on my face." I'm close. "Come on my face and take a photo."
1:16AM
I let loose, bare minutes after she started. She closes her eyes and barely moves as each shot lands on her. The first one went over her head, into her hair and dribbles down her forehead. Each shot lands lower, until the final shot just barely hits her chin. I miss her eyes entirely, but some dribbles down her right eyebrown and slides down the side of her face. She opens her eyes slowly. My cock is still hard in her hands.
1:17AM
"Can you do it again?" Yes. "What's your limit?" I don't know. "Does it go empty?" Yes. She's stroking my cock. "Do you want to fuck me again?" I do. "What if we don't?" It's ok. "What if I go online and tell everyone who you are?" It's fine. She puts her mouth on my cock again, my come all over her face. Her mouth is getting dry, though. She stops, tells me to sit and goes to the kitchen. She drinks about 16oz of water in 5 seconds flat. "Lay down."
1:19AM
I do, and she works it again, this time with more spit. My come on her face is slowly drying, but the view is amazing. She's beautiful and she wants this. I can tell. She's smiling. I'm getting close again. She pulls off and uses her hand and her tongue on me. "Do you like it when I talk dirty?" Yes. "Do you want to come on my face again?" I do. "Do you want to fuck me?" Yes. "In the ass?" If you want it. "Will you rape me?" If you want me to. "Please come on my face again."
1:21AM
I do. This time my load isn't as strong, but 2 out of 4 shots hit her face. She opens her mouth to catch some and then lets it dribble down her chin. Beautiful.
She licks up what is on my belly and on my cock. "Do you have a camera?" On my cell phone. She turns all the lights on in her room and grabs my phone from my jacket pocket. "Take my picture." She lays on her bed. I snap one shot. "How did it turn out?" I don't know. "Take more." One is enough.
1:23AM
"Do you want anything more tonight?" No. "Can you go again?" If you want me to. She laughs. "You've been happy since the moment you picked me up." I say nothing. "Except for ten seconds in the car." She noticed. "I thought you were going to cry." I did, but I don't tell her. She starts to wipe my come off her face. "Should I keep it here?" If you want, it's not necessary. I can get you a towel. "I'll take care of it." She gets up and comes back in moments. She's still beautiful.
"Why do you like that?" It's nothing specific. Just a fun way to really remind me that we were together like this. "If they ask for a photo, do you take a picture of just their face?" Yes. "Nothing else?" Not unless they ask me to. "How many ask?" Maybe half. "Do you ever tell anyone about liking it?" Only when they ask. And online now, I guess. "Are you sleeping with anyone from your website?" No. "Will you?" No idea. Maybe. "Do you want me to read it?" If you want. "Will I get sad or jealous?" Some people do. "I don't know. I'm not good at retaining words, but others can make me mad or sad. I don't want to know. "That's OK."
1:26AM
She snuggles up against me, reverse spooning. "Will we do this again?" I'm not sure. "Do you want to?" Of course. "Do you always want to with everyone you sleep with?" Yes. "I don't want a boyfriend. Or a friend with benefits." I know. "Would you be sad if it didn't happen again?" I don't get sad. "What if it doesn't happen for awhile?" Same thing. "Are you glad we did it all?" Yes. More than you realize.
"I can get emotional really quickly. If you spend the night, fall asleep with me, it'll complicate things." I know. "So you understand?" Yes. I can leave whenever you want to. She grabs my cock and strokes it. It starts to get hard. "My god, I love that thing." I'm glad. "Did you plan on sleeping with me tonight?" Just the opposite. "Why?" I knew you had a scar.
1:28AM
Then I dressed. She kissed me, very passionately. "I don't want to want you." I know. "You're no good for me." How can I be?" "You can't. At least you understand." Of course. "You won't be alone." I don't get lonely. "I know. I just can't believe you're not taken, but I also can't see who could handle you. You really forget things?" Too many things to list. "It bothers women." Yes it does. "Has anyone been unbothered by it?" None. "Do you fall in love?" Every time. "Only with sex?" No. "Does it hurt you when it's over?" No. "Is that mean?" No.
"You're still smiling. It's sexy. You're happy." I am. "Ok. Get out here before you change your mind. Feel free to write about it all. I trust you not to tell anything that would tell people who I am." I won't. She kisses me. "I love you, too" I know. "But not like a boyfriend or a lover or a friend." I know. "That's how you feel, right?" Yes. "About everyone?" Yes.
1:30AM
I leave her place, Jason Bourne kicking someone's ass on the television. I'm driving home much earlier than I had expected once we had started. My face was soaked with my own tears one I turned the corner form her block. Not sad tears. Not happy tears. Just tears that needed to flow.
I deleted her photo from my cell phone. Yes, Stace, I love you. I love everyone. It's not a good thing. It's a horrible thing to love and to forget against your will. It's my cross to bear. It's why I listen. It's why I fuck. It's why I live the life that I do. Not alone. Not solitary. Not sad. Not bored. I don't need conquests. I don't like making friends and then losing them over a forgotten birthday. I don't want to forget anniversaries or special things that happened on this very day 1 year ago or 10 years ago. I don't get sad about it, but I wish it could change.
It's a fucking curse, not being able to be sad. I try to. I see sad movies. I go to funerals of people I have loved. I lose pets. I lose friends over pettiness. The tears I shed in the car on my way home are real tears, but they're not sad tears. What are they?
2:30AM
No one knows. Not even me. This girl broke me, but I am not sad. It was unexpected. No one understands the curse that keeps you happy, satisfied, amazed, interested, desiring, forgetting, ignoring, losing touch. She doesn't get it either, but she got enough.
I am amazed.
Spoiler alert below (highlight to read)
The man with hands is me. Not physical hands, but just an ability to grasp things. Like all hands, you eventually have to let go of what you grasp. I do it automatically. If you put something down, you sometimes forget where. I forget every day.
The woman with a scar was Stace, not her real name. Her scar wasn't just that she was fat, but that she clinged to the idea that it had an effect on her. I tricked Stace tonight. I never do this. I don't play games, but I played one with her: I helped her navigate through the pain of feeling useless. I gave her sledgehammer, prompted her with just enough information about me, and I let her break me down. Why her? She's harmless. But a few things she did or said were completely spot on.
She figured me out. No one does. I was left amazed. Her focus on herself let me leave my own body. She knew I was there, I didn't. Her stories didn't sadden me, but I understood the hole that existed in her. It is an easy hole to fill.
Stace will not call me. I won't call her. I think we both know what we offered each other: a breakdown by another that was needed. It wasn't about sex. It wasn't about having a woman figure out my deepest desires. Most don't and I still love sex. I needed sex today. It could have been anyone, but she was obviously more attached to figuring me out through her own inquiries that I didn't answer directly.
I'm not a mystery. I'm not some scary guy. I don't read mind. I don't pretend to know the answers to everything. I inquire so I can learn, and so those who answer can learn, too. I don't penetrate the soul or rob any essence. I've never pushed anyone to do anything with me, but I show them the most comfortable place they can be, and use my own verbal tactics to produce a conversation that brings out what they need.
Sometimes it's a friend. Sometimes it's a lover. For Stace, it was neither. She needed to feel skinny. There's no way to do that. Instead, she tore me up, and when she did, she knew she wasn't fat anymore.
End of spoilers.
I seriously thought I would kill ChicagoSane, a sort of blogger suicide. But I won't. I'm glad to have shed those tears that someone came so close to seeing that what pains me is nothing that eats at me or destroys me or brings me down. I will soon forget it happened, except for this blog entry.
But that's the curse: imagine if someone was coming into your home every day and doing the most vile and violent act on you possible, and you forgot. Imagine if you won the lottery every day, but tomorrow you had no idea and the ticket was destroyed in the wash. That's the curse.
This isn't due to some childhood trauma or abuse. It isn't due to an imbalance in me. It's a problem that some people are subjected to due to their own genetic structure, their chemical structure, their mental structure. I am very fast as seeing details, but I lose them quickly. Like a blind person with great hearing, I am fast at "reading minds," but faster at losing what I read. There's a term for my mental condition. Email me privately for more information.
It's only 2:30am and already I'm happy again. Already I'm horny again. If I had the opportunity, I would jump on a plane now and ravage the first woman who propositioned me.
Instead I am going to smoke another pack of cigarettes and read my own writings.
The smile is real. It never goes away. When you're down on yourself, when you hate life, when you hate reality, give me 5 seconds of that sadness, so I can live it too. You can remember being sad. If for one moment I could have it, I would give up all I have and all I can have.
Feel free to leave a comment, or send me an email (see my sidebar). Add me as a follower (you can do it anonymously and no one will know, not even me). If you think I should stop writing after this night and event, let me know. I'm not going to, but I wonder if anyone would have agreed with the idea.
More to come. Smokes, and reading, until I need sleep.
Read the rest...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
