Last night I saw Maya

Maya was my third girlfriend, right after I met D.  This new development happened rather unexpectedly earlier this week, when I was "bored" and started googling random people I used to know, especially since I thought she moved to Hong Kong after we both left Chicago.  It turned out that she started working at A Corp., a large, multinational conglomerate based in that little city of ours, and appeared to be quite high up.  Her photo was so brightly adorned with all her shiny resume items collated in the "biographical" paragraph on their website, under "leadership and management", that my eyes didn't hesitate to moisten when I saw it.

I wrote her an E-mail immediately.  I used her company E-mail, and said stoically, Dear Ms. Maya, This is so-and-so from this and that company.  Please give me a call at such-and-such number.

She called that afternoon, on my cell phone.  I saw her name flashing, and realized that her contact must have been carried over when I purged my old flip phone directory to the online synchronization repository.  My heart tightened.

"Hey you."  Her voice was deeply familiar.

"Hey.  How have you been?"

The conversation was easy, like riding a bicycle.  She's moved here not long ago.  She had to run and asked if I would be interested in having dinner on Friday with her.

I said, "sure."

I told D I needed to stay late for a client dinner.  We went to an artisanal pizza place.  I had a pizza with artichoke heart and prawns.  She had a pizza with lobster, lyme and Gouda.  We bought a bottle of wine, though I only had half a glass.  She seemed a bit reckless after downing at least 3 full glasses.

She definitely noticed my ring.  I definitely noticed how she didn't have one.

She's still single, though I suppose in our age bracket these days it's not so rare anymore.  She told me about her "disaster" romances after me, "one guy had a the world's tiniest penis."  I feigned shock, but I knew she was flirting with me.

"So where is your wife?"

I knew it would come up, and I gravitated toward pretending to be a mature, comfortable, content, responsible yet deeply reserved adult--the image of Gregory Peck in "to Kill a Mocking Bird."  I felt slightly wrong, slightly guilty, slightly devious, looking directly at her face while fantasizing about her round, perfectly dimpled breasts underneath her brightly red velvet dress.  Was it velvet or silk, I couldn't tell.  A simple, comfortable dinner dress so hopelessly inviting to my large, fleshy fingers with their brutally unkempt hairy knuckles.  Does Atticus Finch have the same thoughts?  Does he masturbate?  He has no wife.  I can feel my member slowly, campily engorging in my wool trousers, and sweat slowly oozing out of my forehead follicles.  I nervously wiped my face with the napkin.

I drove home rather blankly.  D was in bed, and I wanted to rape her.  Suddenly I felt fat and unattractive, and a thought occurred to me that perhaps this was what half of the world felt like constantly.  That night D obliged to fuck me, and in the instant of my ecstasy, Maya's pink, round, soft nipples flashed in front of my eyes as I sighed, emitting my desperation deeply into someone else.  I stared emptily into the mirror in front of the foamy mattress that bore witness to my hundreds of pathetic orgasms, and D was sleeping next to me, purring quietly like a kitten.

It's been a while

Life has gotten in the way for updates.  For one reason or another, D has been around me constantly lately, and I didn't want her to see this blog.  I couldn't do it at work either, as not that long ago someone from work got hired for browsing some adult site or other.  Suffice it is to say, my only alone time is Friday afternoons when I get off work early and get a nice cup of coffee at the Starbucks at the strip mall.

D and I have some infrequent sex.  Sometimes she asks for it, sometimes I ask for it.  It doesn't matter.  It's always boorish and sometimes a bit lonely.  I even asked her about going to see a couples therapist together, as rare and uncouth as it is in this conservative, irksome city of ours.  The kids are alright, not too demanding, and well taken care of by their elderly nanny.  I find myself often having wandering thoughts, and often getting a massage down the block, at some Asian parlor, and paying for total indulgence, as her finger runs through my body, the warmth of the massage oil and the parlor music envelopes me as the flame in my loin burns a little stronger.  I did that two weeks ago again.  She was a good masseuse, and did her best to take out the knots in my shoulders.  I turned around and like my usual, she offered "the full service".  As she removed my towel I was almost in tears.  Her slender fingers gently grazed the back end of the tip of my erection, yielding a remarkable, electrifying sensation.  It didn't take very long before I felt the full, involuntary flickering inside my pelvis, fluid filled, ready for discharge, and I moaned.  As one of her hand slickly stroked, her other hand cupping my scrotum, I violently ejaculated.  The ruthless jets landed squarely on my heart, uncompromisingly dithering in my poorly groomed chest hair.  The waves of pleasure subsided and I started feeling the pangs of pain in my pelvis--this occasionally happens to me either after I urinate or before, when after orgasm I feel the pain in my prostate, almost as if I was kicked in the nuts, for a few minutes.  I swallowed some air to recover and climbed haltingly off the massage table and put on my shirt and pants, looking respectable again.

Sometimes I think about having an affair, maybe get on a website and looking for a lady in the same disposition as me, and yearn for that violence, that total oblivious, effervescent feeling.  I want someone to tie me up and torture me until I cannot go on and emit the last dying cry of an animal in heat.