Post Love

I left my wife three years ago.
I write about the women that fill up the void.

It has been suggested that fellatio may, through “immune modulation”, have a beneficial role in preventing dangerous complications during pregnancy, reducing specifically the risk of miscarriage and pre-eclampsia. Specifically, several research groups have reported that pre-eclampsia, a life threatening complication that sometimes arises in pregnancy, is much less frequent in couples who have practiced oral sex, and even more rare in couples where fellatio regularly ended with a woman’s swallowing of her partner’s semen.

The results were statistically significant and are consistent with the fact that semen contains several agents that have important roles in the prevention of pre-eclampsia, which may arise out of an immunological condition. According to that view, preeclampsia is caused by a failure of the mother to accept the fetus and placenta, which both contain “foreign” proteins from the father’s genes.

Regular exposure to the father’s semen helps cause immunological tolerance to their proteins. Other studies also found that, while any exposure to the partner’s sperm during sex appears to decrease the chances of various disorders, women in couples who have practiced “sex acts other than intercourse” are less than half as likely to suffer preeclampsia.

—wikipedia

One fine day you decide to talk less and less about the things you care most about, and when you have to say something, it costs you an effort. You’re good and sick of hearing yourself talk. You abridge. You give up. For thirty years you’ve been talking. You don’t care about being right anymore. You even lose your desire to keep hold of the small place you’d reserved yourself among the pleasures of life. You’re fed up. From that time on you’re content to eat a little something, cadge a little warmth, and sleep as much as possible on the road to nowhere.

—Louis-Ferdinand Celine

Whether or not the things you write about have actually happened, they’re more honest than anything else on tumblr and I respect you a great deal for that.

—fan mail

Post Love Fifty One

It was really pouring that morning. She ran into the bus stop where I was hiding from the downpour, stood there for a moment hiding her panting, and in need of relaxation pulled out a cigarette from her bag. She glanced at me, hesitated, and stepped back into the rain to smoke under a small black umbrella. She was all in black. Black tights, black jacket, black curly hair. She wasn’t my type of girl, but she was attractive regardless. I’d caught her glancing at me, I’d caught her cleavage as she bent down, and now I looked at her ass as she faced away from the stop. A moment later she turned inside again and started to mouth do you mind if I just… as she motioned towards the bag she’d left on the bench. I cut her off. You don’t have to smoke in the rain. I don’t mind. 

The connection was made. The ice was broken. For someone as terrified of strangers as I, the kind of person that never speaks the first word, and when he does, fails miserably at getting across the thoughts in his head, I was already further along than I’d been in months. Feeling suddenly confident, I struck up conversation. I think I asked her if she was going to work. She wasn’t. She worked downtown. Waitress at a diner. I knew of it, but I’d never been inside. She was a simple girl, an easy-going girl, and that put me at ease. She talked about smoking, then about smoking weed, and I thought to myself, I could spend some time with this girl.

The pauses in between the conversation, the ones where I thought of new things to say, those were the ones I should have used to get her number. I didn’t because I was stalling. I was stalling because I was afraid. I was not prepared this early in the morning, still groggy and heavy headed, to be talking to a girl of interest. I was building up the courage, or hoping to, and checking the time to make sure I would ask her only shortly before my departure, because deep inside my mind underneath conscious thought, she had already said no, I was already figuring out ways to deal with the denial. I was planning ahead to side-step the pain that was on its way.

My bus showed up early. My plan failed. Life happened. Well, there’s my bus I said as I started to turn towards the street. I could see dissappointment in her expression. The bus doors opened. Hey, what’s your name? I asked. Laura. The busdriver yelled out at me. There was no time for phone numbers. I said bye as I got on, elevated by the moment, by my courage to ask for her name, by not having cared about making the bus wait a second to do so… even if I hadn’t gotten anywhere at all.

I thought about Laura the entire day. Her eyes and her smile, the comfort I felt around her almost immediately, the way she had initiated everything, there was no doubt about it. I wanted Laura. My blood full of hope, fueled by the thought that a pretty girl had liked me so much she’d done all the work, all in the spur of a moment, I knew that for once I had to make an effort, I had to chase the things I wanted, I had to go get her. And so, old notions of romance blurred in with a new desperation. How to get her. What could I do? I knew her name, I knew where she worked, I knew that she looked let down when I left her without exchanging numbers. My mind raced until it remembered that her work was close to my friend’s place, and a visit wasn’t out of place. Maybe I could stop by the diner and say hello. It was risky, but the girl had put in all the work. Maybe her eyes would have the same glance of future if I showed up and asked her out, if I showed her that I was putting in work too, that I remembered where she worked, remembered the things she had told me, liked her enough to go find her. 

I knew that though once upon a time those kinds of things would’ve been considered romantic, a culture of terrified minds connected only through the awkward moments created by their disconnectedness would be put off by such actions, would be afraid of so much direct human contact, so much attention, so much forward interest. These are the thoughts that started to rise up from the pit of my self-doubt with each step towards the diner, shaking loose another bubble of selfconscious thought, analyzing what I was doing as I walked to my friend’s place for no real reason but to peek through diner windows to see if Laura was there, a complete stranger, and I thought of myself working up the courage to go inside, I tried to picture what would happen if I did, I tried to gauge how it would go over, I kept turning around inside my mind and with that uneasiness in my soul I walked right past the diner and onwards to defeat, to never trying, and then past that as well, then towards a sense of saving yourself from embarassment, to a sense of knowing better, a strange pride in containing your urges.

My mind and its thought patterns seem to detach themselves from reality when I’ve been alone for too long. When I’ve spent hours in the office or in bed, sinking in the netherworld of my own consciousness, I think up things I could do when I surface in the real world again. I fantasize of a life where I’m not a coward, where I do the things I want to. Where I succeed. And without fail, each time I do venture back into the world, my fears set in again, my coward heart pumps them back into my veins, beating in my chest they remind me to abandon the decisions made in isolated dreamlands, they tell me it will never be real. But sometimes, when these hopes and dreams are not sprung from a lonely desperation inside myself, when instead they are firmly rooted in the real waking world, there is a narrow pathway linking my dreamlands to my reality, allowing some of my confidence to escape into my life, boosting me into situations I would usually steer away from. Though there is never enough fuel to push me through, never enough untainted blood to let me live the whole story as it played out in my head. Instead I am pushed blindly into the abyss and then left alone and empty, terrified and sweating, I was holding the receiver to my ear, my face burning up, why had I done this? I had to do something. I couldn’t let it go. I had looked up the number to the diner, asked for Laura, and she had just mouthed a timid and confused hello. 

Hi… sorry to be calling you at work… 

What was I doing? I started the whole thing off with an awkward pause followed by an apology. This was going nowhere.

I met you at the bus stop the other day.

She didn’t remember. She sounded horrified. I had to paint the picture for her. Raining, smoking, talking. Then she remembered.

I never got a chance to ask for your number.

Oh…

I thought we could go for drinks.

Well, why don’t you give me your number?

I should have hung up on her. I should have hung up and hung myself up too, and save myself from what the rest of my life is sure to play out as, a pathetic display of failure, the miserable proof of the fact that people don’t change, nothing changes, you spend half of your life learning nothing, understanding nothing, bettering yourself not one bit, not an ounce, for fifteen years you remain the same stupid crying teenager rejected by some other stupid teenager before summer break, you never get over it, you never heal… But I didn’t hang up. Knowing damn well there was no reason in doing it, I gave her the number. I read her the whole fucking thing. I don’t remember what was said after that. I didn’t matter. My mind was gone, sinking fast into disgust, into blackout hatred, I hung up the phone and tried not to think about it. I was at work and I went back to work, and I worked until it was time to go home, I got back on the bus and hoped that I wouldn’t see her, that she would never show her face again, I could have come to prayer if I needed to, I could have prayed to a God I know doesn’t exist… instead I numbed myself all the way home and then I got high, I got high like Laura might have been getting high, and I thought that it could have been a good time between us, had I not been who I am.

Love comes close
But chooses to spare me
Death comes close
But ceases to take me
I want to twist, the knife a bit deeper
To siphon the love from the hearts I believed in
Look outside, world is exploding,
Stay inside, still never knowing.
Taking cover, with each other,
Sleeping off the century of hope.

—Wes Eisold

Post Love Fifty

I first met Patricia in the days I still liked Allison. They were best friends, those two and Carmen, three tall tattooed women you couldn’t miss, an inseparable drunken trio I spent a few nights with when I was chasing after Allison. Once it had been established that Allison and I weren’t happening, Patricia and Carmen moved in on me like vultures. The first time that came to light was the night Carmen told me she had to go walk her dog, and told me to come along. Allison had just stepped away from us, saying she’d be right back, and as I started to mouth something about it, Carmen cut me off with just one word. Come. As we walked away from the crowd I thought maybe I was the dog being talken for a walk. Unsure of what was happening, I was amazed with Carmen’s soft faced authority, her confidence, her no bullshit approach to taking a shot at me. Carmen was the ugly one out of the three, and maybe she knew she had to make up for it with forwardness. She was pretty in her own way, she had a nice smile and a sweetness in her eyes, but one could tell she felt left out with her friends. Her soft features were constantly overshadowed by her friends big tits and luscious lips, and maybe through time she had learned to outsmart them. 

As we turned the corner to her place, we heard Allison’s voice. Wait up! Wait! I looked over at Carmen, and the expression on her face permanently erased any possible doubts about what was going on. Carmen had taken me to her place for things that had nothing to do with the dog, and she was not pleased with Allison showing up. Furthermore, Allison was not pleased with what she saw. There was a drunken anger in her eyes. Where did you guys go? I knew then that Allison still liked me. She had rejected me, yet she wasn’t ready to see her friends moving in on me. But they were friends afterall, so they both pretended, the three of us pretended that this was the truth. We were just going to walk the dog. And so we did. We all walked the dog, and we were all pissed, and we all drank beers and laughed.

The reason things went different with Patricia was simple. I ran into her when the others weren’t there. It happened a few months after the Carmen situation, when Carmen was seeing someone and Allison was out of town. I was walking to the downstairs bathroom of a bar, drunk and full of piss, when I saw her. She looked great. We hugged and said hi and stood close to eachother in the narrow corridor with drunken bodies squeezing past us. We were both at the same levels of drunkdom, where our mutual excitement flooded into eachothers eyes, and we didn’t care about blocking the way to the bathroom, and we both knew we wanted to fuck eachother, and we both talked confidently with no idea what we were really saying, but a good grasp of what was underneath all of those words, and my mind was dead, numbed enough not to think about the things that would usually worry me in that situation, and before I knew it my hand was on her arm, just above the elbow as I leaned in to make some kind of statement into her ear. It was the kind of subtle gesture that escalated the moment from what previously could have been a mere conversation between friends, into absolute and mutually understood flirting. And when we ran out of stupid things to say, just around the right time, I told her I’d find her later. I had been talking to another girl in the bar who sounded like she might take me home with her. I gave Patricia the extended look in the eyes, smiled, and walked back up the stairs.

The other girl did take me home. She took me home to deny all of my efforts, to tell she wasn’t that kind of girl. I swear to you, these things happen to no one but me. Sitting in her tiny room, staring at her fantastic rack, I boiled with that particularly gnawing sense of failure, of fucking up, of losing, of leaving alone into the night now so sober and dead, back into the street when everyone else has left it for their homes where they are fucking eachother while you slowly and against your will come back to your senses, forced by the morning dawning on your night, you linger around for a while in the stillness of what is now sure to be one lonely morning.

Allison had a boyfriend now, so when she told me she heard Patricia and I were all over eachother at some party, as it had been described to her, I was surprised to hear a tone of jealousy in her voice. She wasn’t over me. Allison, you have a boyfriend. You can’t do this. You rejected me. You have no right no be mad at either of us. She said she hated Patricia, she hated that she always got everyone. She was really saying that she thought Patricia was a slut, and that she wanted me, not in reality, but in her twisted sense of entitlement, she felt that she could have me in her pocket for safekeeping, someone of interest that could maybe one day be hers, if the boyfriend didn’t work out, and for that reason she didn’t want me to get ruined by her slut friends. 

Regardless of Allison and her feelings, I hadn’t fucked any of them. And that didn’t change for a while. Allison, maybe herself as surprised as everyone that knew her except the long distance boyfriend, which is the only kind of guy that gets serious about a girl like Allison, the irrational drunk girl that has fucked more of your friends than you will ever really know - and I say this with love, as to this day I still add more names to that list and smirk - she stayed with her boyfriend for over a year and even threw an engagement ring on her finger for a while, a desperate act to get away from the crazy life she’d been leading. Carmen stayed with her guy for a while as well, proper and faithful, though always sure to give me an extended smile every time I saw her. And Patricia, she still wanted to fuck me. I knew this with certainty because she had told Allison, and Allison, after having convinced herself she was in love with the man she called her fiance, had finally let go of her jealousy towards Patricia and passed along the message to me. 

Imagine watching a beautiful girl that you’ve liked for almost two years. Imagine watching her as she tells you the greatest and the most horrible things she could have said, simultaneously, unified into one simple anecdote that seems almost meaningless to her now in her shallow delivery, and you wonder if she really does only see the good in it, if maybe she doesn’t understand that this is her final rejection of you, her bringing down the weight that’s been hanging over your head, casting a shadow of doubt on your head as it blocks the light of hope. She is no longer jealous of Patricia, because she no longer has feelings for you. She loves her fiance. She has fully convinced herself that this is it.

I had to give it to her. I had never received a gift along with my rejections before. Or, in another light, I could now fuck Patricia and as an added bonus, keep Allison as a friend. Maybe that was the gift. Ofcourse, with Allison off in loveland, which was located in Texas, home of her navy boyfriend, I didn’t see the girls anymore. They didn’t see much of eachother anymore, either. With Carmen and Allison dating, Patricia was on her own. Soon enough she realized that nobody loved her, and in a desperate act not uncommon to girls unloved, she left the country. She got it in her head that going above anything, moving to Japan would solve everything. Maybe we would miss her if she was gone. And maybe she was right. I wanted to fuck her more now that she was gone.

A year had passed. I had went a long way without ever seeing almost nothing of the trio, nothing but more of the extended smiles when I’d run into Carmen and her boyfriend. One time it was a new one, and I cursed the timing of our meeting, because I would have gladly fucked ugly Carmen in between boyfriends, ugly Carmen who I found attractive regardless, with her blonde pony tail and blistering eyes and the way she knew how to make a man feel attractive and wanted, but never in an overbearing way, just that perfect amount of flirtation, a gesture I always made sure to return, and there’s something nice about having that simple bond with someone. A smile and a hug between friends, always with that subtle hint that yes, we would fuck if we could, and we will if we ever can. But besides those pleasantries, I didn’t hear much from the girls. Months passed, friendships and crushes faded, and when Allison told me she cheated on her fiance and wanted to come see me, it barely phased me. I knew her mind was off somewhere, old irrational Allison back in full swing, and I shouldn’t get my hopes up. Even when she said we should probably fool around this time, I knew she was hitting on every other guy she’d wanted to fuck while she was engaged. I was just another number on her list, and she never did come to see me. I knew from her rushed engagement that she’d started to crave stability now that her hangovers had gotten so bad she couldn’t enjoy drinking anymore, and one day it must have hit her that she could only get that stability from herself. Allison stopped drinking, Allison stopped going out, Allison hit the gym, Allison was off the planet, Allison came back into your life and exactly like the last time, delivered a magnificent blow of great, terrible news. She said Patricia was coming back to town. I hadn’t spoken to Allison in months. How’ve you been? When she started to reply, there was a strange new tone in her voice, one I couldn’t place. Well, actually… she started. I shouldn’t have asked. I should have known she wouldn’t have delivered the news if she was still single. It was another long distance guy. I laughed at her. Maybe it was because I could tell there was something different about the way she said it. She really was in love this time. She was calmer, and the happiness in her eyes came from a deeper place. Regardless, Patricia was coming back to town. She’d be back in a month, and she wanted to see me. I started to plan a roadtrip with some of my friends. We were going to see a show shortly after her return, and I would see her there.

The benefit of taking years to fuck someone is that once you get to it, there is really no doubt left, not even for an insecure bastard like myself. It was the easiest encounter of my life. It was pleasant, smooth, simple. I got to the show, said hello to some friends, and there they were. All three of them, reunited. Allison with her new boyfriend, Carmen with the same boyfriend, and Patricia with an inviting smile. I’d had enough beers to stay on point. I made her laugh, I stood close to her, she said she needed a smoke, she asked me if I wanted to come outside with her. She’s not wasting any time, I thought. We were only a few doors down when someone called her name. Two guys smoking in a corner. Big guys with tattoos. Firm-handed introductions followed by firm stares, all pointed at me. This was not what I had in mind when I walked outside with her. Small talk started up, and with alcohol and a boosted confidence under my belt, I had the boys laughing in no time. If the time is right, I can pull out the good guy act like a champ. Ten minutes later, under the guise of going back to the show, I left them with even firmer handshakes, the respectful kind this time around, followed by pats on the shoulder. Patricia pulled me closer as we walked away and leaned into my ear. That was my ex. Christ. 

Back at the show, my friends started making plans for later. They all wanted to eat, they all wanted to party somewhere, the night was young. This is Patricia, I yelled over loud guitars to faces colored with a variety of responses, disinterest from band fans and smirks from guys that wanted to get laid, and it all came naturally to me that night. My usual secretive tendencies were nowhere to be found. Maybe it was because Patricia was hot. A tall brunette with a celebrity face, a celebrity smile, eyes burning with desire. We went to the bar and drank until the boys were ready to go eat. She put her hand on my lap under the table and I knew I was going to get laid. I kept on my straightest face the entire time. I wasn’t nervous to be with a hot girl, I wasn’t worried about being obvious, I wasn’t excited about getting laid. It was just another night. I was confident and drunk. After dinner, we went outside and stood a step away from my friends who were debating where to drink. I did this because I didn’t want to broach the subject. I waited until one of them did. What are you guys thinking? My reply left no room for doubt. I think we’re gonna go to her place. With that, I set the escape in motion. Later, guys. We turned and walked away. A few blocks later, her hand around my arm, we turned a corner and slowed down, and we both knew, and I leaned in and kissed her. I had never been that easy. For the first time in a long time, I had that good old feeling that I was in a movie. We made out like the horny creatures we were, my hand on her ass, it all felt so natural for something that had been on hold for so long.

The only bump in the road was that Patricia didn’t have her own place yet. She was living out of her japanese suitcase with her friend. Guess who? We had no choice but to walk to Carmen’s where we were welcomed with open drunken arms, a drunken boyfriend, a playful dog, and many pints of good cider. Hey, why would it have to be a bad thing to be so ovbious? Alcohol saved the day, and we sat around listening to records, talking and drinking and playing with the dog, getting physical, Patricia’s hands holding mine, her fingernails running over my arms, fucking hell, how drunk is she? I wondered as I stonefaced my way through it again, I did not care about anything, embarrassment I had never heard of, I was going to fuck tonight, I was going to fuck Patricia, and Patricia was hot. If only Carmens boyfriend would get tired and shut the fuck up. He was one of those drunks that can go all night, guys with so much energy they need to knock themselves out with booze and spend the last hours of their night going on and on spilling thick disgusting saliva from their gaping wet mouths in the face of a perfect stranger, trusting them with their deepest thoughts on things the stranger has absolutely no interest in. The stranger is there because he is horny and drunk, and he will sit through just about anything to get laid. It has been hours, and he will sit through hours more if he knows for a fact he will get laid once it’s over.

Even after the couple finally went to bed, the real challenge was yet to come. After all of this, there was a  catch to the situation. Patricia was crashing on the couch. In the living room. With no door. But it didn’t matter to me now. I was unstoppable. I waited as she looked for a song on youtube. We sat down on the couch and talked about the song, briefly, until we stared to make out. I felt up her tits. She rubbed my dick through my pants. You’re so hard she said as she gazed into my eyes with her lips parted, the best segway into a blowjob ever bestowed upon me. She unzipped me, pulled it out and started licking it. There was something decidedly dirty about the way she did it, there was a sort of embrace of total abandonment of dignity and decency, an acceptance of who she was, what she wanted, and how she was getting it. She started sucking me off and undid my pants. She blew me for a few minutes, got up to change the song and laid down on the couch. We made out as my hands made their way down to her pussy, and as I touched her body I started to realize she was bigger than I thought she was, her thighs were bigger with no pants on, legs shorter with no heels on, and under my hand her belly felt bigger than it used to be. I had only seen her with drunken eyes in dark places, well dressed and mostly face to face, and now with my face by her pussy, her pale belly exposed, I started to finger her because I didn’t want to go down on her anymore. I felt up her tits, started to pull her bra down, and didn’t expect to feel her hand stopping me. She was insecure about her tits. They looked like shapeless mounds of white flesh. 

After all this time I finally had her, and the whole time I waited for this moment to happen, I had neglected the fact that time changes everything. I had drank my way past the realization that though once I was the newly divorced and innocent boy and she was the hot vixen of the group, the world had spun us until I was a handsome single man and she was an old loser, losing friends and gaining weight, because her friends had grown up into relationships, and she was just a lonely old ghost from a slut past forgotten by no one. I thought of the confidence I had boasted all night and felt embarassed. That same confidence ebbed from my veins along with the last drops of alchohol in my system, and there I was sober in the night with the fear of a nightmares twist. Maybe I was a loser just like her, a lonely old pile of decay like her. She was orgasming as these thought patterns took over my mind. I was fingering her, and girls always cum when I finger them, especially the kind that’s addicted to orgasm like her. And you can’t be addicted to something you’ve never experienced. There’s girls that fuck so much because they want to experience orgasm, but it’s frustration that drives them, not addiction. 

Once I finished her off, she got up to play more songs. She came back with a condom and laid down on her back. I put my dick in her and started to fuck her.There was nothing left for me now but orgasm. There was no glory to be found tonight. She laid on the couch with her legs up and I leaned in close to her face because the face was the only thing still attractive about her now. The rest of her wasn’t ugly, not as ugly as me, but it wasn’t what it had been. She had kept that same face, that model face of hers, and I started to fuck her harder thinking that the sooner I came, the sooner I could get to tonight’s only hope, a few good streams of my cum spewing onto her model face. I fucked her hard, straight through her orgasm, straight through the second one, I kept fucking until I realized it wasn’t going to happen, not like that. She slipped off the couch to put on another song, then she wanted to switch to doggy style, which took my only motivation out of the equation, now plodding into her wet pussy as I stared at her white back and her big ass, watching myself vanish into it, going through the motions until I felt like another position change wasn’t out of place. She was on her side this time, with one leg up, so I could see her face and would have an easier time standing up and pulling the condom off in time to get a decent shot in. I banged her some more, she came again, I was nowhere close. The room had gone silent again, leaving only the squeaking couch and her high pitched moans, and I wondered if Carmen was listening to us. She must have been. We started fucking ten or fifteen minutes after they went to bed. I fucked her harder again, thinking of Carmen, picturing her listening to what she could have had, could have been her getting fucked like that, and it still could be someday, that was the real message I was sending out through my thrusts into her moaning friend, the fast paced squeaking, the fact that she was not done orgasming her mind right out of her head, moaning louder and louder still, we had all given up on decency now. Patricia and I were fucking, and Carmen was listening, and all that needed to happen now was my orgasm. I knew it wouldn’t happen from fucking her, so I pulled out and told her to finish me off. I sat up with my sweaty back against the cold leather couch, slowly sinking away as she propped herself up on her knees on the couch, putting a nice arch in her body, her pretty face bobbing into my middle section, cock going up and down her throat, we had been fucking for what felt like an hour yet she blew me with the same vigor as before while I did my best to think of all the times I wanted to fuck her, all of the times I wished this very moment was happening, her looking at me with my dick in her mouth, wanting my cum, it took all of the power left in my exhausted body to focus on the memories of her, blending them with the current moment, and the future as I pictured my sperm oozing out of my tip, I closed my eyes and laid there in near meditation as she blew me as hard as she could, determined gal she was, my dick raw and hard, I wasn’t sure if I could do it. In the end, I admit, it was all her. She kept blowing me, unrelentless head machine, she kept the pace and sucked my dick until it had no choice but to oblige her with a warm load that, since I’d long given up on any kind of glorious big facial, I just wanted to cum and get it over with and I did just that, I finally let go into her mouth, into her throat, she deepthroated me as I came and kept it there until she had it all inside of her, slowly sliding down to the core of herself. She rose up, swallowed the rest of it in front of me, and smiled. Perfect. What a perfectly slutty thing to do. I was glad I fucked the slut of the bunch. Sluts have a way of making you feel good, making everything feel good and natural and okay. There’s no awkwardness or doubts or forced maneuvers. Sluts are experienced, they guide you through it all, making everything as simple as possible because they want to get to the sex just as much as you do, and for anxious cowards like me, and many others like us, that’s a beautiful thing. That’s why we fuck sluts. That’s why I’ll never say a bad word about them. That’s why I was glad I made Patricia cum so many times. She made it worth it. Another girl would have given up trying to make me cum. Another girl wouldn’t have had the skill to make me cum. Another girl wouldn’t have fucked me on her friends couch, wouldn’t have swallowed my load like the well-earned prize it was. 

She stretched out on the couch and pulled me close. She wanted me to sleep by her side, on that tiny couch, sweaty and naked, I was too tired to argue and laid down next to her for some minutes until I settled down on the floor where I passed out til the sun broke through the windows a few short hours later. Sticky with sex, sweat, clammy morning skin, a head pounding with last night vices, I took a look at Patricia sleeping as got dressed, as quietly as I could, tip toed past the dog still sleeping and made my way down into the street already busy with morning life. My crusty eyes slowly adjusted to the city as I walked away from the last time I ever saw any of the girls again.

Intermission Twenty One

I was spending some time with some New Yorkers a while ago, a group of friends who’d taken me in for the weekend and took me around the city like one of their own. On our first night, still getting to know some of the group, I took note of an inside joke revolving around two people I was drinking with. Warren, a boyish looking fellow, had shown up an hour late for a date with Megan, a tall brunette with fantastic legs, and never acknowledged his doing so.

To save face from being the victim in the scenario, Megan said that it had been a pity date. She had had no intentions of making out with him. She followed the low blow up with a line, that stale old line women like to use when they’re on the offensive. Women can tell if they’re going to make out with a guy within fifteen seconds. Then she made a face at Warren. The group laughed. Warren wasn’t one of the guys she wanted to make out with. 

I take a while to warm up to new crowds, and I was only a few beers in. That’s why I didn’t say what I wanted to say. I’ve had a rebuttal to that line for a while now. Always wanted to have a go at a woman after she’s said it, but I figured I’d let it go in the name of our budding and fragile young friendships. That and plain old cowardice, ofcourse. Megan was intimidating in her bold statements, her full lips, long slender neck. Half a bottle of bourbon and five minutes alone and I would have said it.

Fifteen? It takes you fifteen fucking seconds to figure that out? And you’re proud of this? This is your Statement of Powerful Womanhood? It takes me one second. One. And I have no idea what you’re doing with the other fourteen of em. Judging? Contemplating? Picturing a future together? A bank account? Are you testing his confidence within the confines of your inexperienced intuition? Sometimes I’ll take a bus that passes by a busy intersection, where a crowd of people gets on at any time of the day. I’ll sit there and watch them pile in, one by one, I’ll look at them and give them one second each, would, would, no, guy, would, guy, guy, sorry, would, and so on until the bus starts moving and my eyes roll on over to the ones I would. There’s a lot of people in this world, my dear, and I want to make out with every single one I find attractive. I want to fuck them. I don’t care about the rest. I don’t care about the things you waste your time with for fourteen seconds every time you meet a man. And don’t think that there is something despicable about how I relate to you. Don’t think there is something barbaric or juvenile about it, don’t think to call me a pig or a shallow bastard. I look at you and I want to kiss you. You’re beautiful. And it’s been well over fifteen seconds now that I’ve been putting you in your place. Don’t just stand there, you fool. Kiss me.

A Fiction Project Worth Supporting

drunken-soberness:

I wish I had more time to read. There are so many good writers out there who string words together like Christmas lights – tangled and messy sometimes but always beautiful and edifying.  There are a lot of shitty writers out there, too. It’s actually easier to find the pretentious, untalented wanna-be’s than it is to find the ones that have promise. But when you find the promising ones, they either have great narratives that pull you in or provocative pieces that make you laugh, cry, yell or just squirm in your seat.

Phil Roland is a promising writer who does both. When he writes stories like City of Angels or The Firefly Collector, you get sucked in to the story. And, if you follow Phil on Tumblr or his Submetropolitan blog, I don’t have to tell you how he incites people. His Submet articles have tugged at my heart strings (yes, I have a few), raised my eyebrows, and tested my gag reflex. Hell, he’s even pissed me off at one time. I don’t always agree with what he says (and you don’t have to either) but it doesn’t change the fact that this motherfucker writes eloquently and passionately.

When I heard the premise for his LA-based novel, South of Heaven, I was immediately hooked. I want to read this book. I want Phil to finish this so I can read it. I need you to get the word out about his Kickstarter project so he can write the novel. Heck, give the man some money so we can all make him regret he got us involved. Even a $1 donation will earn you the privilege to irritate him.

Supporting this Kickstarter helps me out a lot, too. I need to get Phil off my lawn and in to his own hovel where he can write naked while cussing at his own shadow. He’s scaring my suburbanite neighbors and the cigarette butts and empty beer bottles littering my front yard will soon get me a health citation. All kidding aside though, kids; you know how powerful this community can be. The supportive people and creative environment is what keeps me here. Let’s see how influential we can be as a collective and help one of our own show the publishing industry this medium is a viable source for great new talent.

Are you in? Then reblog this shit. Tell your friends about it. Steal money from your parents. And for extra incentive, buddyblanc has pledged to do a video if we hit $2500 by the end of June. I’ll even ask him to do the video naked if we get this project fully funded.

Note: Phil’s not actually living on my front lawn. He’s been recently spotted loitering the Glendale Metrolink station where he’s hijacking some unsuspecting Armenian old lady’s Wifi connection and terrorizing the genteel hobo populace of Burbank/Glendale. I take the train to Glendale sometimes. I am afraid for my life. Please help.

Post Love Forty Nine

Jill had drunk texted it to me once before. I want to fuck. I had gotten out of it then. But this time around, she played it smart. She sent it to me late on a friday night, knowing the increased chances of me being drunk would help her cause. She practically begged me. I had smoked joints all night long, taken shot after shot, text after text, knowing she didn’t live too far from the bar. I didn’t want to do it. I didn’t want to fuck her. But I wanted to cum. And I wanted to fuck her tits. I had to do it. I’d been trying to find someone else to fuck and I’d failed miserably. I couldn’t hold it off any longer. I had to fuck Jill. 

I started to carry myself to her place in a crooked line deep in the night with a head full of subdued worry buried under piles of lust. The marihuana pushed me into a paranoid frenzy, made me feel like I was doing something inherently wrong, something so disgusting and terrible I would never recover from the guilt. I felt frozen in a dream, unable to turn from the well-known path to her bed. My nerves began to manifest themselves physically, my insides whirling with fear, disgust, and violent lust. I continued to make my way to her place because I’d done it so many times before. I followed familiar routine to a hazy sense of safety, and there I was taking off my shoes in the hallway again, walking down to the room behind her, the both of us drunk and lonely, high and horny, filling eachothers gaps the best we could. It was all the usual things, yet somewhere in the back of my head I remembered that things would be different tonight.

We put on music, kissed, did all of the things she needed to do to feel comfortable, and all of the things she knew I wanted. All of the usual teasing with the tits, the blowjob at the end of the bed, the tits around my cock, it lasted until it could last no longer. Jill reached over into a drawer, handed me a condom, and took off her clothes. That was the first time I saw her naked. I was surprised to see she didn’t look so bad. She was a pudgy, pale jew, but she made it work. She looked more thin now in the drunken freedom of her careless nudity, and even in the full picture, her tits hung so big on her body it drove me crazy staring at her. She sat down on the bed. I stood close and pinned her down on her back. I put her legs up on my shoulders, going for my favorite position right away, and she slipped right into it. I put my dick in her and started pumping. I leaned into the position and all I could see beneath me was her big plump tits, spreading out even wider with gravity, knocking up and down and to the sides with each violent trust, a sight completely ridiculous, a vision beyond reality. I swung her on her side and rammed into her, making her moan, taking it all in like the deeply horny girl she was. She got up on her knees and I stuck it in her again, banging her from behind, holding on to her tits. Jill was moaning louder and louder, finally getting what she wanted from me. She was getting fucked. And in my deranged drunken mind, I felt a sense of losing. I had always won with her, and it had always been unfair victories. But I was giving it to her now, giving myself to her, and I knew she was enjoying it more than I was. Just like my ex. It was always better for her than it was for me, and I didn’t want to do that anymore. It ruined us. But here I was, doing it again. I needed to gain control. I needed to balance things out. I looked up at Jill’s clammy pale back, her unappealing ass, her thick jewish curls, and somewhere in my mind, some drunken spark brought forth a simple gesture that would level things, would bring her down, would bring me my rotten pleasures. I let go of her tits and pounded her from behind with my right arm raised, right hand stretched out firm, I saluted Hitler as I fucked her wet jewish pussy. Now she wasn’t winning anymore. I was the bastard again, secretly, and I liked it that way. Jill was down here with me again, a horny joke like me, and now that she’d been getting a good pounding, now that I felt powerful again, I stood up onto my feet with my knees bent and really gave it to her. I wanted her to lose control, and that’s the one that gets them all. I slammed into her at just the right angle, her moans now extended and almost desperate, I pounded her into orgasm, kept going as she kept moaning into her pillow. She wanted to get fucked and I was letting her have it. I thrusted into her one last time and kept myself deep inside of her, slowly pushing in further and further until I finally pulled out.

I laid her down on her back again, knees up again, this time she held on to her legs, her arms pushing her tits together, the sheer mass of them bulging up into the air, a sight so obscene I couldn’t believe it was real. In total bliss I pounded into her watching them move and felt fantastic, as there was nothing beautiful, nothing pretty about it. There was hard sex with someone I didn’t care about, there was giving in to vices and loving every second of it, there was getting lost in hedonism, pounding into pussy, staring at tits until it all came together in the center, feeling so good in the moment I didn’t bother pulling out, I abandoned everything I knew and let go inside of her. My orgasm, my desperation, my worries, my cum, all shot out into a hole in the world, into a dark corner where I could let go of it all, fucked in every way, the rush of release leaving me lightheaded and satisfied, my muscles relaxing, slinking down face first into her tits, comforting and warm, I knew now that Jill could make me cum, I could make myself cum with Jill. I felt good. I rolled off and rested by her side for a while, holding on to those few moments of post orgasm bliss until they’d worn off, slipping away quietly until it was just me laying there again, loveless and tired, melting away in a feeling of content that’s more like a smirk than a smile. 

She said I could stay over if I wanted. I told her I didn’t like sleeping in other people’s beds. It was a lie. I didn’t want to sleep by her side and let a closeness form. There was no place for confusion of that nature. I liked what we had, secret sex, and that’s all I wanted it to be. I rose from the bed, slow and groggy, started to collect my clothes from the floor while she waited silently. Soft music hummed in the background as it started to sink in that I fucked Jill. And that I liked it. I didn’t know what was going through her head. I got dressed before she could form any feelings for me, any new hints at a bond that girls tend to imagine after sex. She got up to hug me goodbye. I gave her a long hug, no kiss, no look in the eye, and headed for the door.