Friday, June 29, 2012

suicide by gunshot

Today I was at a TGIF after work, and I ran into a guy who worked for a company up in the East, who knew a guy who was a really good friend of mine from college.  I asked him about my friend, C, as I haven't heard from him for more than 2 years.

"He killed himself."

I felt my skull exploding in a millisecond, and my expression froze in an awkward silence.  The guy standing next to me stared at me, trying to save me with a distracting, innocuous remark.

"How did this happen?"

"Well, he shot himself.  I guess he's been depressed for a long time."

The topic skidded away, as they started trading gossip about their respective bosses, while I stood there, frozen in agony and stunned, with racing thoughts bubbling, penetrating my body in a visceral, nauseating way, so paralytic that I could barely talk to anyone else at this pleasant, welcoming little event.

I raced home and researched ceaselessly over the Internet concerning his death, and there was very little.  No obituary.  No newspaper prints.  I couldn't find his E-mail even.  Maybe it was just a rumor.  I had some glimmer of hope that maybe it's all just heresy.  I decided to find his boss's E-mail and sent him a little message to express my condolence.  Perhaps I'd be able to get his wife's phone number and talk to her--I went to their house once in college for thanksgiving, and remember fondly of that wonderful lunch-dinner that was so diametrically different from my own family's eggshell scattered annual ritual.

The boss was on vacation.  Then 5 minutes later he sent me an E-mail saying what a terrible loss it was, and the memorial service was already over with lots of tears and good humor.  He attached a nice little company-wide message neatly summarizing his "devotion" to his wife and his "love" to his 3 year old son.

I felt unspeakably angry.  I wanted to yell, you don't know what the fuck you are talking about.  Last time I talked to C was in 2010, and over the phone he told me "the only thing that annoyed me more than my wife is my son."  He spent ten, twelve hours with you and you don't really know him.  Nobody knows him.  And now he's dead.  He shot himself IN THE BLOODY HEAD and I didn't even know you can get a gun up there that easily.  Why did nobody have a fucking clue?

I am so angry.  I am angry at him.  I am angry at his boss.  I am angry at his wife and "friends", if he had any to speak of.  I am most angry at myself.  Why did I only try his gmail a year ago?  Maybe he would've checked his old school E-mail.  Maybe he would've forwarded it to his new company E-mail.  Maybe he would've called me before he died had I been able to stay in touch with him.  Maybe I could've done something more.

He was a few years older.  We smoked my first joint together.  We complained about the inanity of our respective love affairs together.  We were supposed to laugh in our intoxication into our old age together.

He once told me, I don't meditate, I masturbate, and that was wisest thing I've heard in my life.  Does he have a gravestone somewhere?  C, If you can see this, know that we have unfinished conversations, and I'm looking forward to having them with you in hell.

Thursday, June 28, 2012

Anal desire

D was on break this week, and was taking care of the kids at home, so I wasn't able to get away from her and write some more after work.  She is gone now at her parents house--alone with the kids, upon my request in the form of protest.  It really is symptomatic of our deteriorating relationship.

She's coming back on Saturday, so I have a few moments of reprieve.  I did something last night that I've only done a couple of times in my life.  D has a big black dildo that she swears that she never used since we got married.  In fact, she has been trying to hide it in the closet, in a big paper box with all her other trinkets that she supposedly no longer "uses", like her little bowl for marijuana and her oversized vibrators.  Anyway, I decided to fish it out of there and get a little bit of anal pleasure out of it.  There were a couple of lubed condoms in the bed-stand drawer, and I teared open one of them and rolled it effortlessly onto the dildo.  I wanted an easy disposal.  I aimed the dildo at the opening, and softly massaged it, and the nice warm electrifying feeling expanded upward to the rest of my pelvis.  I always wanted D to lick me down there, but she refused categorically even though I offered to reciprocate.  I used some extra lubrication and slowly pushed it into myself.  It was a strange feeling that I remembered when I did this a few years ago, a feeling of fullness and a sensation that I was about do defecate, as my sphincter contracted involuntarily, gripping the dildo with a messy, subtle force.  I feel myself expanding and becoming aroused, engorged both in the front and in the back.  I greased up my right hand and got a good grip while my left hand moved the dildo in and out.  This combination of motions lasted a good 10 minutes and the sensation of fullness and loss of control intensified, as I  started grunting with every motion.

At this point I was sitting on the floor, and edging toward that final point of no-return.  I increased the frequency of my left hand, feeling the tip gently but firmly massaging my prostate, and with every squeeze my sense of control peeled away, layer by layer, until I stopped the motion of my right hand.  I felt that fantastic wave rising, quite unusually slowly, first from the inside of my pelvis, then tightening with the rest of my body, as my eyes rolled back and the volume of my animalistic grunts reached its inevitable apogee.  The strange, powerful contractions possessed my entire existence as thick white liquid erupted from my orifice.  It was a strange feeling, orgasming that way--but certainly a good feeling that I would like to try a few times a year.

A few minutes later when I came to, I saw the puddle in front of me.  I wiped it up with some paper towel and dumped the rest of whatever else that needed to be dumped in the trash.  I felt lonely.

Friday, June 22, 2012

Philosophy of a sexless marriage

Sometimes I ask myself, am I living in a sexless marriage?  One common definition somewhere states that a sexless marriage is a marriage in which people have sex less than 12 times a year.  I think I might've barely beaten that last year.  In the hands and hearts of demographers, I do not qualify.  So what is my marriage?  How am I to justify my pathetic, self-pitying existence?

If you know me in real life, you wouldn't know how unhappy I am.  I go to the gym.  I buy expensive clothing at fancy department stores.  I drive a pretty nice car.  I direct a team of 5-10 people and report directly to the divisional VP.  My job is flexible.  My company is more than accommodating with my rather undemanding patrimony.  I live in a nice part of the southern suburb of this nice, newly constructed, All American city.  I have a beautiful car with gorgeous leather seats.  I smile a lot to every one around me.  This is who I am to everyone--even to my therapist, whom I see from time to time.  There is nothing wrong with my life.  

I can put up a front as a man.  It takes no effort.  I have no depth psychology.  Women and men assume that if you appear happily married, if you sound like a doting father, and if you fulfill the obligations of a bread winner, your existence is easily described and your purpose totally capitulated by the sequence of stereotypes that everyone on earth knows about and worship, directly or indirectly.  Do I love my wife?  What does that mean anyway?  Doesn't love mean that you commit yourself to take care of her no matter what happens?  Doesn't love mean that you not avail to the opportunities that present themselves to indulge upon the sensuality, the indecency, the criminality of extramarital affairs?  Doesn't love mean that the utility of sex as a vehicle for self-expression, that uniquely human characteristic would be denied from time to time?  Does love mean responsibility?  Love stipulates a dry, stark demarcation between fantasy and reality, between what is possible and what is likely, between what I wished my life was like and what my life will actually be like.

Is it possible that the assumptions that all of us make are wrong?  Is it possible that men want sex for love as much as women want love for sex?  The fundamental conflict of desire and action is the ridiculous core of this strangely wistful scenario that many of us know about and all of us dread.  Sex is not animalistic.  If it were, we would be happily mating once a year during estrous, while pursuing our lonely, fanatic careers, like the proud Siberian tigers.  Is sexlessness the disease, or is it the symptom of a bigger disease--our daily drivel, the weblike anomie that surrounds us, the lack of all capacity in this post-industrial, post-modern matrix for me, with all of its vainglorious irony, to be human?  

Wednesday, June 20, 2012

Another scotching summer day

In my part of the country, the summer heat goes up pretty consistently around early June, and becomes unbearable this time of the year, and this is why everyone has a pool in the backyard.  My backyard is mostly full of pebbles--we wanted a dry garden feel, but a few square feet was opened up for some greens.  The pool has its lining changed recently, and it's a sleepy bowl of blue.  I'm writing on my laptop in the sun, wearing nothing but a pair of oversized swimming trunks.  I am having cravings for a cigarette.  The children need to be picked up soon.

Is there time for a quickie?

I know there won't be any action for me later tonight.  So maybe I'll get going now.  I'm imagine myself being squeezed tightly by a smooth warm slippery thing, and I start to perspire profusely.  I am going to take off my swimming trunks.  Now that I am naked I'm going to put one finger in between my scrotum and my sacrum and press on it, feeling my prostate contracting in response.  I see myself becoming larger and larger, and the veins expanding with fresh blood bringing felicitous oxygen.  My eyes are closed and I'm feeling the warmth of the mid afternoon sun shining on me.  I am sweating.  My blood is boiling.  That budding tickle of a feeling, growing monstrously from the depth of my pelvis, expanding like a weed sweeping across the field, throughout my body, as I moan, slowly and deeply, in pleasure.  As the pressure builds up, my entire body contorts uncontrollably with each wave of indescribable orgiastic sensation.  Suddenly a creamy, white jet erupts from the small opening at the tip of my erection, and I yell out, carelessly as I may be, as the neighbors might hear me and see me in a state of wonton decadence.  Maybe a few drops of my fresh semen will fall into the pool, expanding into a psychedelic floral pattern, dreamily rushing down the filter accompanied by the incandescent bubbling of the filtering motor.

"Ah! Ah...Ah!"

Ok I am going to do that now and then pick up my children.  See ya later.

Tuesday, June 19, 2012

Other people's business

Chris (Christopher) and I had lunch today and there wasn't much to do at work, so I headed home early.  He told me his in-laws are coming over this weekend, and he was trying to figure out what would be something to do that would not make him want to blow up his brain.  I suggested amusement park.

"I like the water parks, " I said, "especially since it's 100 degrees out."

"I think people piss in the pool."

"Don't be ridiculous.  Who's gonna piss in the pool?"


"Why would anyone want to swim in their own piss?"

"Why do kids sit in front of the TV and watch PBS for 30 hours straight?  I don't know!"

We both laughed.

Christopher is around my size, maybe a bit bigger, and I can see that he hasn't been going to the gym lately.  When he climbs that two pathetic stories at the flat box of a work place that we inhabit, I can always catch a glimpse of those beads of sweat leaking out of his veiny forehead.

"I actually don't mind her parents much," he said, "she used to tell me that they thought I was too quiet. After we married she once told me that they thought I was too loud.  I kept thinking, make up your fucking mind!  I used to try pretty hard to make my father-in-law happy, but I should've known that there's not a lot you can do.  He is quiet around me all the time.  And this one time when we were over at her house, and it was late, we just started doing it, and afterward I came out buck naked to go to the bathroom, and he was standing right there.  I thought he was sleepwalking.  That was pretty awkward."

I had a grotesque image of Chris on top of his wife, who's not unattractive, thrusting.  It was a bit much for me, so I stopped thinking about that, but the more I tried to suppress it, the more disturbing the images come up, as his enormous, ball-like body rolling back and forth over her voluptuous breasts.  All of a sudden, he was me--I was the one on top of her, his wife underneath me, smooth, warm, moist, overeager to please her cuckold.

"What's up?" He noticed my silence.

"Let's go back," I said, swallowing the last morsel of Arby's roastbeef.

Monday, June 18, 2012

Post-coital with D

D and I fucked again on Friday.  If you recall, the last time was almost a month ago.  The circumstances were not as ideal as last time.  After dinner on Friday the kids went to bed and I wasn't expecting any action.  In fact, I helped myself two days in a roll on Wednesday and Thursday.  I was bemoaning yet another week of sexlessness, even though obviously she promised it to me a day before.  Fridays have become unbearable lately, as all my friends live a couple of suburbs over and if I want to see them I'd have to drive at least 20 minutes, and they are each burdened by their respective anomic home life.  I have gotten pretty friendly with a couple of co-workers: Aaron, who used to be on my team, is a meticulous Jewish man who went to NYU and moved down here two years ago.  He is the ambitious type, working long hours and bought a house close to a reformed synagogue that his wife made him attend every Friday.  Wife is a special-ed teacher.  I wonder how much sex he's having.  I obviously can't hang out with him on Shabbat.  Christopher, is an amicable local guy, born and raised, and speaks with a drawl occasionally, even though he managed to get an MBA from...was it Berkeley?  He loves to go on and on about football and baseball, and cultivates a persona of a laid-back aging frat boy, but deep down I know he's the sensitive type.  He loaned me a book by Henry Miller once, and told me to not tell his wife.  I'm not sure why, because she is cheerful, dull, slightly overweight but still attractive in her mid 30s after two kids, and flawless in her ways of managing the household. Every time I go to his house to do something it was always immaculate, despite his own very messy twin boys.  They apparently needed help conceiving.  We have play-dates pretty frequently, sometimes on Sundays, because to his parents chagrin he doesn't go to church very often.

D was in bed blowdrying her hair and in a pink nightgown.  I took off my t-shirt but left my underwear on.  She leisurely shaped her hair into a glowing, wavy contour and nonchalantly started petting my boxer-briefs with her fingers.  I was startled, but a few seconds later let myself go to feel the smooth movement of her fingers.  She smirked and squeezed my nipples a bit.  I started massaging her smooth inner thigh with my palm, and I had the thought of noticing the inexplicable misfit between the hairy, coarse skin on the back of my hand and the spotless, almost silvery skin of hers.  My pudgy fingers seemed utterly out of place--I felt like a brute.  I am a brute, heavy, clumsy, physically awkward and deficient in whatever sensuality that is required to attract my own wife.  Sometimes I felt like Shrek.

I felt her warm wetness in between her legs and I knew I was ready to enter her.  I pulled off my underwear and exposed myself to her, and she looked at it happily and swallowed it for a few seconds. I felt the warmth around the tip and behind the frenulum building up inside of her mouth.  I quickly pulled out of her mouth and entered her, grabbing her buttocks as waves of pleasure enveloped my pelvis.  Barely a minute or two later I was about to let go.  I closed my eyes and I let go.  I'm not sure why, because I knew I could wait and last a bit longer, but I didn't feel like it, and whatever there is left inside of my seminal repository erupted quietly with a few weak contractions.  

She pulled herself away and said dourly, "that was pretty fast."  She sat up and fished out a tiny white vibrator and started working on herself.  I tried to massage her and lightly bite her nipples like she always liked me to do, but she interrupted me curtly, "just stop."  A few minutes later she arrived, and she turned off the only lamp that was lit, on her side, and the curtains of nightfall closed again around me.

Yes I did!

One of the readers is wondering if I'm trading sex for not writing on this site.  Well, not exactly.  She doesn't know, but she gave in.  And weekends are busy times.

Wednesday, June 13, 2012

sex tonight?

D said something uncharacteristic last night.  She came home late again, around 8PM.  The kids already went to bed, though Henry was struggling to fall asleep.  She heated up some leftovers and told me, "I really want to have sex but I'm too tired tonight.  Let's do it tomorrow."

We had a brief conversation about mundane things for a few minutes, but I couldn't resist my excited palpitations.  After she went to bed, I sat quietly in the study, in front of the computer, and browsed for a few minutes videos of couples having sensual intercourse, and it turned me on so much that I almost wanted an immediate release right then and there.  But I knew it would be best to hold off, because it would be all the sweeter when I finally get to indulge my marital bliss.

Sometimes I find it helpful to do the Kegel a few times when this happens, and let that firm, injected hardness retreat in a few clenching, voluntary sacral contractions.  I felt the smooth white contour of my boxer briefs expanding uncomfortably a few times with the contractions, and it reminded me of Minnie, and that night at the lake.  The patch in front of the tip got slightly wet with a few drops of seminal fluid.  I pulled them off, wiped the opening of my urethra with my index finger, and put it into my mouth.  I don't know why I did that, and the slightly nautical, bleachy taste lingered momentarily on my palette.  I turned off the computer and went to bed.

Tuesday, June 12, 2012

Minnie, part deux

I think about Minnie very often, especially during the long sexless nights with D, when the fire in my groin grows stronger with every moment of joyous fantasy.  I aspire to that, not only because it was what I loved, but also because it made me feel young and full of strength: she had the experience and she wanted me.  I wasn't an awkward, slightly pudgy teenager.  I was an adult.

All that I remember of that summer was fucking.  That moment in time is something that was and unlikely will be ever repeated, that erstwhile sense of "I'm gonna give up," and becoming submerged by orgasm, over and over, breathless.  I remember ejaculating once, failing with exhaustion onto my side of the bed.  I couldn't help but to run my fingers up and down her smooth, powerful skin, and soon enough I would get aroused again, even though the tip is still a bit sore and tender.  I wanted to be inside of her again and hear her make that faint, surprising, tidal sound when I entered her.  I wanted to hear it over and over and possess her as I went in and out of her.  And I would come the second time, but longer and with a much more lingering sensation instead of that blasting explosive feeling from the first time.  Sometimes this would go on for hours.  

As I write this I feel blood boiling inside of me, yet I'm impotent, prisoner of my own making.  I took her out to dinner and drinks that summer, when the campus was covered with broad leafed birch and the grass was greener, and I played guitar to her.  I really thought I was going to marry her.  We shared the same uncanny draw to Bob Dylan and I was able to convince her to go camping with me in August.  I remember a starry midsummer night, my feet hanging out of the tent, and my head in between her silky thighs.  I curled my tongue softly and reveled in that sound she made and that smell that was distinctly hers, and that night I decided to keep at it even though she motioned my head to come up.  She gave in to me and trembled all over and yelled out as she arrived.  Bob Dylan was playing in the background.

It almost seemed as if everyday things were just much duller with the morning after.  We went back to work, each to a different floor where our respective cubicles were, and occasionally we would pass by each other, in the hallway, in the elevator.  It was a time before the cell phones and text messages, and sharing a daily moment of secret intimacy without the perpetual presence lent yet another mysterious layer to that summer.   

Monday, June 11, 2012

in laws

Spent the whole weekend at the in-laws.

As expected, another sexless weekend.  My in-laws live a couple of hours away in a new development full of old people.  The neighborhood is uncharacteristically sandy, with some pebble-stone streets and newly installed faux European street lights, amplifying its already obsequious kitsch.  They took the time and spent the money to renovate their pool and bought a hot tub three years ago, and that's pretty much the only thing that would convince me to go visit these days.

This trip was planned a few weeks in advance.  Since D and I are still not talking all that much at this point, she made doubly sure that she demonstrated what she wanted to do over the weekend by loading up all her essentials into the car 24 hours in advance.  We have two cars, and mine is a 5 year old Subaru Outback.  It's really an ugly car, with a dusty dull green color and a hatchback that barely works.  She picked up the kids on Friday, and I begrudgingly moved both child seats into my car.  Those of you who have kids would know the awkwardness every time, as these torture devices are designed to barely squeeze through the car door in a conspiratorial way, and securing them can also be frustrating, especially with Henry fanatically complaining in repetitive verbal noises that vaguely resembled "out, get me out!"

D's parents are old school residents, and they've lived here for a long time.  D's father, Ron, was a vet who barely avoided Vietnam by being a communications director working for the army.  Even though he had a slight build and talked in a soft, barely audible voice, he boosted an extensive, ridiculous obsession with military things.  He would often want to draft me into listening to his long diatribe against the current administration, mostly because of his belief that defense strategy had been unacceptably pathetic.  Occasionally, especially when he had a few, he would talk about his sexual conquests when he was out of the country and stationed near Fiji, on an island whose name I can never remember.  Most of the time, however, he along with her mother, are very much preoccupied with their grandchildren, and certainly do not pay enough attention to me for me to complain about it.

In the evening, the older and younger folks go to bed early, and I skinny dipped first in the hot tub then in the pool.  The water in the pool was freezing, and it made me feel vulnerable and gave me a headache.  The jets in the hot tub always had an erotic implication for me, though I truly did not have any energy to pursue such a massage on Saturday.  I used to use that hot tub for that reason all the time, and it worked pretty well even over my swimming trunks, as the warm jets slowly massaged my swollen glans.  It was always slightly too intense at the point of no return, and I would grab onto to the wall of the tub as the inevitable arrival of squeezing motion descended on me, and everything would tighten, then relax, then tighten again.  A few seconds later, a few speckles of viscous threads would escape through the openings around my thighs and rapidly flicker out to the gutter with a moment of dance of the whirlpool.  This Saturday night wasn't one of those nights.  When I walked back to the bedroom, I was naked, D had her back to my side and the light was off.  

Thursday, June 7, 2012

wife's work

D is extraordinarily busy lately.  She leaves the house at 6:30AM and doesn't get back until 7:30PM at the earliest.  I am in charge of picking up the kids from day care and making dinner, and though I am a pretty good cook in general I have been skimping lately, mostly ordering in pathetically bad-for-you options.  Her conspicuous absence also makes it easier for me to write.  Henry is at the age where he could sit in front of the TV for hours.  His sister likes the big play area we have in the living room, with lots of plastic blocks and other noisy toys--her favorite is this green dinosaur that makes a squeaky sound every time someone hits it.  I saw her biting it the other day.  I saw a lot of aggression in her eyes, and I wonder if she got that from her mother or from me.

For a while I thought D being busy makes it easier for me to watch porn and take care of my business, but I was wrong.  Children are demanding creatures, and once you have them you give up pleasurable things in your life, as part of that perpetual parental duty.  Ironically I find myself doing it more at the bathroom at work and at gym, especially since cell phone signals are getting better and better.  I don't particularly like it.  Bathrooms are dingy and malodorous places, even the fancy ones at work, but I find that having that outlet of release makes me more content and satisfied with my life, which I don't really want to change in any way.

But there is always that sense of guilt every time afterwards.  Like today, dick in hand, I was in the bathroom for all of 5 minutes when I heard a big thump and crying.  Henry managed to fall off a dining room chair.  The desire had all but retreated after I helped him up and used all my psychological wherewithal to stop his bawling.  I wonder if this is the predicament of most married men here, this pathetic, anomic yet at times hilarious existence that defines us.

Wednesday, June 6, 2012


That was a good night.  I remember slowly unzipping her dress, feeling the silk strap of her push-up bra, with a subtle smooth texture that makes me throb.  All erotic things ultimately become erotic because they remind you of that profound moment of entry, that smooth, unified feeling of reaching the bottom of all human ecstasy.  Anything that resembles it provokes a repetitive relay of that sensation.  Her nipples were a little more erect, poking through the thin layer of bra that I was about to shed for her.  I kissed her neck, licked it, making some small dent of red marks.

The foreplay wasn't very long.  I massaged her beasts with both of my hands as she put her hands in between my legs--that uncomfortable feeling of my khaki pants holding my expanding trunks in place, constricting its imminent aggression, how can I forget?  I undid my belt buckles.  That belt I still have, a thick brown one, a bit dressy and exposing my anxiety about the date in plain sight.  I pulled down my pants and my underwear to my ankles, and my penis made that subtle skipping motion, at least that's how I'd like to recall it.

I remember that patch of water, the wetness, a dirty puddle, because I laid her on it.  It was somewhere between a grab and a push, and she was so little and fragile, powerless to me, and I felt guilty about it.  I rolled up her dress and pulled down her little panties, the color of which I've forgotten.  I remember slowly going down on her, and inspected her for any signs of STDs.  As I said, I have always been cautious.  To my surprise, it was beautiful and had only a vague scent of woman-ness, which is a scent that always turns me on, though perhaps not appetizing to everyone, a mixture of smell of sweat, vaginal fluids and urine.  She kept it clean and pink, and she was getting swollen and wet, absolving my worry that we would need to get additional lubrication.

As I slowly licked her clitoris, she moaned deliberately, started twisting her own nipples with her thumbs and index fingers, and closed her eyes.  That rare and powerful sound came directly out of the depth of her throat and poured some gas on the flame in my groin.  I took my time and let her do her thing and quietly enjoyed feeling my expanding and pulsating self exposed in open air in the cool summer breeze.  When I lifted my head I remember seeing some fireflies flickering in the nearby bushes.

"Ah...fuck."  I remember yelling out softly as I entered her.

As I moved slowly in and out of her, the tip of my penis started to emanate that strong sensual feeling of pleasure.  I felt like I was losing it quickly, my sanity, my reservations, my reason, and I pushed my tongue forcefully down her throat, looking for some solace.  Instead I found a certain almost spiritual moment of peace and emergence, as the unstoppable contractions began, and the raspy grunts came out of my throat.  I felt my eyeballs rolling back and my ordinary being dying in a sensual bliss.

Of course, when it was over, I felt guilty again, as usual, mostly because as it dripped out of her I saw the evidences of my own lack of discretion.  I felt some sadness inside of me welling up, followed quickly by that sense of equanimity.  I remember somehow feeling less lonely.  I remember thinking, hey if this is what being married is all about, sign me up!

Tuesday, June 5, 2012

the lake

There was a cool body of water near my college, not quite large enough to be a real lake, but that was what everyone called it.  A couple of my friends from the area liked to fish there.  The surrounding neighborhood started developing around the time I started college, and one development was an unremarkable little restaurant called "Ricky's."  I still remember the name because Ricky Gervais reminded me of the owner of that place, when I fell in love with that show years later, and made a "that's kind of interesting" moment of synaptic linkage.  Ricky's served mostly traditional American food, burgers, club sandwiches, etc.  They had a period where they tried to revamp the menu to include more local food, and I liked the way they cooked their fish, but I doubt much of the yield came from the lake.

That was where I had my first date with Minnie, if I could call her that.  I remembered it so well mostly because what happened afterward was one of the most intense sexual experiences I've had in my life.  She picked me up from that small townhouse apartment.  She drove a red American made car, Chevy or Pontiac, as everyone did around here, and my roommate laughed about the clear sexual role reversal when he saw her.  Her car was a bit small and I felt a little suffocated in the passenger seat.  We bantered a bit, and all I remembered was being strangely aroused the minute I stepped into that car.  I really wasn't paying too much attention to what she was saying--a few details I don't even know if it was given to me then or sometime before.  She was from a few states over in California.  Her father was a dentist and her mother stayed at home.  She had two brothers, and I eventually met one of them.  She spoke with a certain slow, bewildering tone that was quietly sexual, and I remember distinctly that all I ever wanted to do was to grab her above and below at the same time.

Don't really remember what we had for dinner.  After dinner we took a slow stroll down the lake.  I remember it being very awkward until we reached a patch of mud, where I made my move.  It wasn't very late and the sun was barely set.  She took a good look at me and I kept quiet, and said "what?"  As dull as I was, it was easy to grab her and kiss her.  I kissed maybe a half dozen girls before her, and always marveled at the soft, fluid-filled texture of a woman's lips.  But what struck me was how hard her tongue was, as it invaded me in an obvious passionate tension.  I remember thinking, nobody kissed me like that before--what does she want from me?

That thought did last very long, and as I slowly touched her breasts with the tip of my fingers through her thin dress, I grew hard pretty quickly, a pattern that continues to this, when seeing a naked body doesn't necessarily turn me on but kissing it  and touching it would make me feel that electric link from up here to down there, and that part of me become embarrassingly engorged and indefatigably yearning.  The sense of touching is much more erotic to me than the sense of seeing.  When that happens I often like to move closer, as I am taller than most women I have kissed, and I like to them to know that pushing right next to their pubis was my pulsating desire.

That night we did something pretty stupid.  We had unprotected sex.  I suppose she should've taken more responsibilities because of her age, and I always thought that I wouldn't be the type who would do things like that either, but it happened anyway.  It was also the first time when I felt, after the sex, that I was falling deeply tangled into something emotionally viscus, like falling into a spider web, or stirring a syrup with a wooden rod.  For a few days thereafter I was convinced that this feeling was Love.

Monday, June 4, 2012

college sex

It occurred to me that I should write more about my sex life in college, which was not all that much, but nevertheless.  After my first tryst that I told you about, I had a long period of involuntary abstinence.  I lived in a dorm for the first two years, and the rooms were pretty small, and I remember long nights of myself jerking off to the flickering screen of my clumsy desktop.  I learned a lot of techniques from online sources, and while I never considered my self a geek, I was an engineering major who was not part of a fraternity.  It was a big school with lots of attractive girls congregating, and I had no game.  I was still underage so I couldn't go to any of the bars on campus, and I had no car.  The campus was in the middle of a small college town that emptied up during the summer.  I went home for the first summer, but for the second summer I stayed behind to work for a local company as a quantitative analyst for their corporate development division.  The internship paid pretty well, enough for me to get a moderately attractive used car.  It was also where I met my first girlfriend.

She was 3 years older than me.  She was a couple of years ahead of me at the company, just graduated college and working in the marketing division.  I ran into her at a company function.  It was very awkward that someone who was a full-time worker would approach me, who was clearly younger and insecure about his role in the hierarchy.  The company was a regional powerhouse, and had a very conservative culture, and I remember wearing a pretty ugly department store suit at this particular party, while she was wearing a stylish red dress that was made out of a shiny material that I couldn't name.  She looked substantially older than most of the college girls that I knew, yet her skin was impeccable.  She walked over with a glass of white wine in her hand, and said, "I've never seen you around."

It was gutsy for her to approach me like that.  I was at least 5 inches taller than her and a lot heavier--I put on some weight eating unhealthy cafeteria food.  She asked me where I was from and so on, and told me that we should hang out and work on this particular project.  This didn't make any sense to me because the project itself was unrelated to what I was doing.   While I remember some bits and pieces of the conversation, what I really remember was the moment I realized that she was interested in me, and while I was still making conversation I started paying closer attention to her body.  I could see her beautiful curves plainly in that dress, and when I looked into her eyes I was thinking about running my hands down her smooth back, over her buttocks, grabbing them and simultaneously feeling that tight grasp when I was inside of her.  That is often my thought when I meet an attractive woman, that feeling of smooth, moist tightness around me.  Because she was so small, I also had these images of grabbing her and moving her up and down, on top of me.  I distinctly remember my own fantastical images, feeling that uncomfortable expansion in my groins, a sense of slight embarrassment tinged with longing, and that almost involuntary clench that tightened my groin muscles and produced some pre-cum on my underwear.  I hope she didn't notice the change that happened inside of me.  It's interesting how these details come back to you when you write about them.  It was a very uncomfortable pair of pants.

It was the middle of the summer and the A/C was full blast, but I was sweating pretty heavily.  I made an appointment to see her--an idea came to me while I was fantasizing: the lake.  I told her about it but apologized about not having a car.  "I'll pick you up," she happily obliged.

Friday, June 1, 2012


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here we go again

I couldn't deal with it anymore last night.  D still would't do it, so I had to take things into my own hands. It was around 11PM.  I scrubbed myself clean and walked buck naked downstairs into the living room.  I looked around for anything interesting to play with, and saw some magnetic clips on the fridge.  I took a couple off and clamped my nipples.  Immediate turn-on.  It's a hard to understand this connection--as I slowly stroke the very tip, it becomes a little erect, and a warm sensation flowed down up deeply into my pelvis.

I suppose I could get caught, but who cares?  Everyone has blocks of time everyday when he is by himself, and this I am sure is the kind of perverted thoughts and acts he does: if he is not playing video games, he is playing with himself.  

I always like looking at myself becoming bigger and bigger.  When I first discovered, around 8 years old, that it could change in size inordinately delighted my curiosity.  I cleaned it over and over, as every time I cleaned it, it got bigger, and after a moment it shrank again.  I thought maybe it just wanted to be really really clean.  I took a bucket from the bathroom and filled it with warm water, and dunked my little penis into it, and felt my body relaxing and time slowing down.

The living room was dark.  I sank into the black leather couch with resignation.  It had a mind of its own, and even though I felt a little guilty and a little pathetic, it resolutely, like a king, wanted to be pleasured with impunity.  I felt like using my middle finger of my left hand to softly brush behind my sac, a slight tender motion, and a nasal moan.  I closed my eyes and images of tits and other pink things scattered, like neon billboards flashing by on a busy highway.  I could almost hear the loud, lascivious moans, sounds that were produced for no reason other than to titillate.  Pleasure arrived pretty quickly in waves and I didn't hold out, except I squeezed a few times, feeling it moving up and down with each squeeze, and the seminal fluid flowing up my sacrum, trying hard to jump out.  I let it go, and feeling the enormous contractions taking over my whole body, and clenched my teeth.  A low pitched noise came out of my throat.  I felt like an animal that bled all over the floor.