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June 1, 2001, 11:30 PM

I think I slept with the ultimate Frisbee girl just to get away from
her. Because up until that point, there really wasn't anything for me to
say or do that made it imperative I break up with the girl. She was smart,
pretty - and in love with someone else. That had been confirmed. She
never knew how much I read in her diaries. Nor how much I got tired of
reading about the man who made his living plucking strings on a guitar.
No, all of that was pretty much verboten, like the theft I made of the nude
pictures we took on our camping trip. I am, by all accounts, the wrong type
of boy. Always have been. I so clearly remember the high school prom,
where my date, little Erica, hair fluffed up perfectly, her sunburned arms
contrasting wildly with the milky creaminess of her cleavage, dancing close
to me, her pelvis rocked tight against me, her virginal eyes quietly
looking into mine, blue taffeta pinching the cheap rented tuxedo against my
body. An hour later, emerging from an unused closet, the scent of her
pussy tight around my fingers and mouth, we stumbled, giggling at where we
chose to dispose of the used condom. Later, I would explore her body with
trembling fingers in the caustic silence of her bedroom while her parents slept, unaware. I plundered those soft brown curls, parting them to ease
my young body upon her, deep within her recesses, commenting only that she
was so simply beautiful, murmuring the easy, sweet compliments that parted
her legs; allowed me access to her body, and to watch her nipples stiffen.
In the morning, I murmured, "I think I love," and her eyes filled with
tears. She put her hands on my waist, drew me into her mouth, and gave me
her last gesture of love. The willing virgin, as it were. Then I met
Alyssa at a nude beach and spent a weekend glorying in the wonders of the
pure Aryan race. Blondes have always stirred me, and sweet, soft Erica
fell by the wayside. Friends later told me I broke her heart. And yet.
And yet. I told Alyssa I loved her too. Loved the way her pussy slid
around my cock. Loved the way her breasts bounced, the way she fucked me
in the kayak while we shot the rapids of the river. Loved the way she swam
for our clothes. Loved her. And when she told me she was married, I still
loved her, for instead of bringing us apart, she took me into her mouth,
toying the diamond wedding ring over my scrotum. Her nipples sagged, her
belly wrinkled - her children never woke throughout our frantic, furious
lovemaking. And then, just as I was out of Erica's life, Alyssa was out of
mine, and dating a young black man from my college classes. Women have
never mystified me. Like the underwater diver whose job is to drill for
oil in the coral reefs, I spent most of my time moving towards the moment.
The join of flesh. The taste of her body. The smell of a woman in heat.
These things I understood, felt, heard, on the primal levels. I became
Teutonic, savage, utterly masculine. My hands brought their pelvises down
upon my own, writhing and savagely moving fingers, tongues, hands, small
ice cubes and toys. Popsicles. Savagery can only be described in so many
ways. There was Cienna, Hispanic, lithe, dancer. Her body lay on mine in
afternoon sunlight, clenching around me with little sighs. My Kosher Women
- Sarah, Rebecca, Sara, and Suzanne - all of whom loved the fact they were
dating a self-avowed pagan, and whom all tried with great, loving intent to
convert to Judaism through the vaginal net they wove. Only Sara adhered to
kosher guidelines, though - the rest swallowed, sucked, fucked and sang as
we made love throughout house after house, on the pool tables of the bar
where Rebecca worked, inhaling in Sarah's sweet, smoky hair curled up on
Saturday morning before she got up to light a candle and meditate. I
confounded her, performing sacrilegious acts underneath the bedcovers with
my right hand as she mouthed silent phrases, nude in the morning light,
before returning to bed and straddling me with an expectant smile. Some
weren't always conquests, though. My ex-roommate's ex-girlfriend, Mara was
one of these. After Enrique drove north in a huff to consult with his
parents about his abhorrent living situation, we decided to go out to the
bar and get completely schnockered in remembrances. She to celebrate his
breaking up with her; me to celebrate the insufferable ass' final goodbye.
She wore my leather jacket home from the bar and stayed up until dawn with
me smoking the forbidden cigarettes within the apartment, laughing and
singing our private hatreds of Enrique. Eventually, my hand moved to her
breast and she let it stay there. The glory of that weekend still haunts
me. The perfume of the skin between her breasts, the stolen kisses on the
join of her thigh and her labia, the glorious wetness of her twat. The
bleached-blonde hair, the slimness, the absence of breast. Her anal
passage, tight and muscular, clenching around me as she fingered herself.
The smell on her body of my sperm. The sight of her fingers clasped gently
around by cock, behind her head, stretching her leg, the soft flesh parting
underneath my middle finger. It was something to do. She left that
afternoon and drove home to Santa Barbara. Enrique stole the rent deposit
and an old Front 242 CD I'd had since the eighth grade. I considered it a
fair trade. Then there was Heidi. The ex-girlfriend of my old boss, who
worked with me on several writing projects. Advertising. Copy layout.
Casually, one night she walked into the room wearing a g-string and a
demi-cup bra. And with the candor we had come to expect from one another,
she asked, "So how much does it actually take to get your attention,
anyway?" All of these women, and so many more, I enjoyed. I am addicted.
Addicted to the flesh. Ticking off in turn, more passed through the primal
turnpike. Te, Arial, Nicole, Nikki, Jennette, Jeanie, Hannah and Lisa lost
clothing at my place, which was recycled as rags for cleaning. Mara, Sara
and Rebecca returned for encore performance. I stole a quick fuck in the
backseat of a car with a woman whose boyfriend had just told her, "Do what
the fuck you like, bitch. I'm going out to the strip clubs," slammed into
the pleasantly plump bodies of two English girls who lived in the floors
above me, fingered my graduate teaching assistant in her office hours, and
performed excellent oral sex on several more women. Throughout these sordid
escapades, I plundered, I teased, and I drew blood every month and sent it
into the testing center. I ravaged the health center for condoms. I came
in the mouths of two freshmen at the same time. I slid every phalange
possible into welcoming orifices, and gloried in the wondrousness of my
glad-hearted fuck. I did not love them. My family called me the serial
monogamist - I would bring a girl on an excursion, make wild, passionate
love to her, and then call her two weeks later and say, "It's just not
right between us." One of these, the aforementioned Hannah, attempted to
lure me back with sex - even going as far as to spread her legs on her dorm
floor, saying, "Just fuck me, please." The sad, pleading look on her face,
the teased blonde hair and the photo behind her of the red-haired roommate
whom I'd already made love to on the exact same spot struck me with full
force in the moralist center of my being. I knew I was a horrible man; the
revenge that would come upon me would be exacting, swift, and altogether
humiliating. Her name is not Kara. But it might as well be, since the
real, little Kara simply slept with me out of boredom and straight-line
need after drinking Corona and watching Mexican porno at a party with me.
Both Kara and little kara affected me in ways I am still reeling from -
kara, by the effect the smoothness of her skin and the sensitivity of her
vagina helped me obsess and awoke the neighbors (who in turn called the
cops, who nearly broke down my door trying to prevent a murder); and Kara,
the women whom I seduced in the manner I had had so many others - dancing,
wine, dinner, movie and a gentle, soft backrub on my couch. Little Kara
came - and when she came, she threw punches, scratched my face, grabbed my
hips tightly enough to rupture organs, and howled like a cougar in the rut.
Her body was a thriving mass of brown skin, her eyes giant, stupid pools of
blue, her thighs Reubenesquely warm, the smell of her intoxicating. I speak
of her now only to say that it was six months into the relationship with
Kara that I succumbed to Little Kara and her loudness. Kara never knew
what LK and I did, only that one night the police were called, and I was
nearly arrested for making too much noise. Scratches she attributed to my
work (abnormal child psychologists require sturdy assistants at times) and
the smell of sex permeating the small hovel I lived in to her frequent
visits. Kara and I made love on the kitchen counter. We sat, comfortable,
quiet in our serenity. I read stories to her. I felt like I was someone
romantic, who had connected, finally, with someone on a level I could
understand. She watched me undress, and the smallest things, like her
addiction to black licorice, or chewing the ends of her glasses. Her
farting in bed in the middle of the night, punching me in the back when she
had a bad dream, or even the purring noises she made when we were lying
together, naked, in bed, watching the light from the morning steal into my
bedroom window. She was the woman I had been looking for. She was the girl who possessed what I had been seeking from the moment my fingers crept into
little sunburned Erica's crotch and sought the warmth within. She had
light, laughter, and brilliance that made me feel light and happy. We never
fought. When we did, one of us would acquiesce and demand that next time,
s/he be the one to pick the movie/song/video/play/concert/site to make
love. I picked flowers for her - rubbed her back, held her hair back from
her face. I shaved her legs, armpits, and pussy with a special razor and
foam. She stood proudly by me as I helped walk three friends up the aisle
to women I admired for their marriage. She was a stoat in bed. I often
teased her about meeting her father for the first time and saying, "Sir,
you have raised a brilliant, beautiful young woman with a heart of gold,
the love of a thousand men, and the ability to fuck like a minx in bed." I
loved her father - and we spent hours discussing the things in life older men and younger men should discuss when the women they adore are shopping.
And discussing things. Like the men his daughter should not be dating. Her
mother hated me. As did her friends. (I had fucked one of them and
completely forgotten about it. Later, we laughed uneasily about it, but
the blood had been spilled - Heather and I knew things were not pretty.
And Kara did not know.) Eventually, the sourness of her mother spilled to
me. Things I did, the romantic, loving gestures were soured. I gave up. I
loved Kara much more than she ever knew. And what was so sad, so daunting
about the whole thing was, when she began to become her mother's mouthpiece
for criticism, I wilted under her gaze. There was no proud, strutting
young cougar on the prowl for another delicious vixen, there was simply an
old Lothario, beyond his prime, staring a woman who did not love him in the
face. Kara slept with another man. Truthfully, I did sleep with Little
Kara. But the act of Little Kara's carnality and mine own was done with
purpose - to see if the love and affection I had for Kara diminished with
the savaging of another's tender flesh. It did not. And so I experienced a
new sensation - shame. Anger. Disappointment in myself. Fury at the
ravages of the briefest, shining moments that had brought me to two packs
of cigarettes a day, a bottle of red wine, and utter stagnation. I asked
her to move in with me. The more fool I. Three months passed of nothing
but argument and quiet anger, the sweetness brought back only with frenzied
moments of passion. The pictures of her naked, leaning on the balcony over
the hill; my penis lodged firmly within her body, her face above peaked
breasts, a throe of ecstasy on her face - these I still have. And all
through this, she was sleeping with him. I met Him. He was a nice guy, He
was. But he didn't treat her at all the way I knew she needed to be
treated. Respectfully. With care. Love. Devotion. No, he simply fucked
her and went about his business, calling her up whenever the sack became a
little too full. One night I set about completing what I had tried to do
with Little Kara. I went to a party and wound up sleeping on the couch
with an ultimate Frisbee goddess from our rival school. The tautness of
her backside amazed me. The softness of her full curly bush did too. The
smallness of her mouth - all of these things fascinated me. And as I bent
down to kiss the small join of her thigh, I thought back to my digression
with Kara. Almost two years of love, kindness, and brilliance. I could
smell the goddess' heat pulsing from within her blue panties. My fingers
slid the material aside, and caressed the wet velveteen within. My tongue
touched the faux silk, and I heard her whisper, "Yes, go down on me,
please...please just suck on me." Her hand, callused from the casual flick
of the 'bee across a field, pressed down on my head. I cupped both hands
under her buttocks and delved into the mysteries of the unknown woman once
again. This made sense - this was real. The warm, salty flux-slime of her
body, the taste of hair against clit, the majesty of her body writhing
against my face. The workings of my tongue as it played across the
delicate button. I wore nothing but a pair of jersey boxers - my leather
jacket strewn on the floor behind us, my lighter and cigarettes smoldering
on the fire. Her taut skin pulsed with her blood, delicate and swift. I
could smell the sweat and grass through her clothes, the taste of the dirt
and the almost astringency of her perfume through it all. And I thought
for a moment about what He was doing to Kara, my Kara. When the goddess
lifted her hips, urging me inside, pulling me up to the nibbling mouth of
her cervix, taking me without a condom, urging me to come inside her, I
obeyed. She rode me, bucking her hips against me, holding herself upright
with a single hand around my neck, mine clasping her hips in a pounding
rhythm to the soft beats of the Fugees. And as I broke through the barrier
of crass sex, into the realm of fiery realization, where every tendon
strings high on the pulse of the heart, the arteries in the organ thrusting
and pulsing against her soft interior walls, the bitten neck and the taste
of her hair in my mouth, in my mind's eye I dreamt of Her, dancing naked in
a rainstorm on the rooftop of our apartment building, and the heartbroken
look Hannah gave me when I stood and walked out her front door. When the
goddess finished coming, she wiped the sweat from her forehead, and with
the other hand, she pulled my face from her shoulder. She mistook the
expression on my face for something else, and sucked at my tears, pouring
off of my face. Then she took me upstairs to her room, where she cradled
me in her arms. Then she slid down, and began working on me with her hands
and mouth, stiffening me, tightening all the sexuality of my body, tuning
me into an instrument she could play. And yet, for the rest of the night,
all I could say was, "So good. So fucking good. God, You were so fucking

Dionysus. June 1, 2001


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