It must be the cheeseburgers. Or the cheese specifically? Maybe it’s the mustard. When I eat a cheeseburger at night I tend to feel like mud the next day. I didn’t put those two together until now. It might be anecdotal. Last night I went with a pound of pork. The clean meat. For now I feel decent but I know how quickly that can change. I have not properly composted what remains of the pound of pork yet, as is the new mandate. Penalties will be levied if property owners or renters are found discarding food scraps with their regular trash. This creates a beautiful new task for landlords and sanitation workers. Who wouldn’t want to pick through trash cans looking for rancid pork chop husks or half-eaten cheeseburgers? Who will be tasked with the forensic research of determining who, precisely, deposited that illegal chicken bone into a regular trash can? It’s not like the analogous task of finding recyclables in the trash. Property owners are effectively relieved of that task, taken on by the canners, or as some call them, the scavengers. You see them with shopping carts or enormous bags filled with cans and bottles, each one worth a nickel, plucked from residential and commercial trash containers and cashed in at a supermarket redemption machine that smells like 40 beers and a hundred butts.
Thinking again about the woman whose attentions occupied me much of last year. I remember how skeptical and even annoyed I waas when her name first appeared not on my caller ID, but in the call logs of Payphone Radio. As I later learned, she happend to tune in as I was talking about a day years earlier when I was in her neighborhood, at one point standing right outside her door. Of the 65+ hours she could have tuned in to how did she happen upon that? Only she didn’t really know I was talking about that, as I was being cryptic, or coded. Still, I find such bits of kismet to be miniature miracles.
That would basically be it for the miracles, though. We tried, sometimes earnestly, to make things work. As much as I loved her apartment I found it very strange. She had basically no furniture. I had to sit on a tiny beach-type chair I suspect is intended for small animals. There was no working television, no radio, only WiFi for Internet. The main amenity was the air conditioner, which blasted beautifully onto the other amenity: her bed. That is where we spent a majority of our time together when I came over.
When she contacted me again I may have been skeptical of her motives but I happened to be in a mood for sex, and it quickly became evident that she was, too. Almost from the moment we connected on the telephone all I could think about was how long it would be before we were naked in bed again. I remembered her room from long ago, with its mirrors and Christmas-tree lights. Those furnishings, if they can be called such, were present in her current place. As with almost everything else about her, about us, nothing had changed in that realm from 30+ years ago. It could be sweet and intense but also awkward and filled with excuse-making or clumsiness.
In so many ways she reminded me of other women I’ve been with. The spartan furnishings, her rail-thin body, the fact that she pursued me despite my misgivings and lack of warmth. It had, from the get-go, as it did 33 years prior, all the makings of an abusive relationship, the likes of which I fall into almost exclusively.
She had been engaged three times over the decades. Each time, she said, the moment the ring went on her finger she knew she would not go through with it. She would never be married, nor would I, though I never even came close.
We talked a lot about the past. She pointedly and somewhat expectantly asked what memories I had of the sex from 30+ years ago. I recalled how tight she felt, and how often I went down on her, an act she no longer prefers but allowed me to do again anyway. She is a childhood sex abuse survivor and, to the grave it seems she will carry the traumas.
She forgot about the sex at my apartment, on West 75th Street. It was hurried and bland. My apartment was tiny. Hers was not palatial but it was a much improved experience over mine.
The truth is I seldom remember much about sexual encounters. I think I go into a kind of whiteout mode, where performance anxiety and the possibility of making a vile, unforgivable mistake loom large. I’ve always prioritized women’s happiness and satisfaction over mine, at least in the longer-term engagements. At first I can be shy, awkward, and unwilling to cross boundaries too quickly. With this woman there was no need for that. We already did the early work, albeit decades previous. Back in those days we never got too far past the awkwardity.
This time around was different, but still characterized by fits and starts. I am far more confident now than I was back then, and from signals I caught it seemed I was far more experienced. She had 3 long-term lovers over those years but drugs and addictions seemed to account for these men lacking in intimacy.
We fucked really well. She would send funny texts the days after “complaining” about pings and pangs of pain inside her. She called it a “good pain” or a “nice pain.” “Sore where you want to be” is how I phrased it, adding that there must be a thrash metal song out there which expresses that sentiment.
We talked about sex easily. Plans for public places where she could give me a blow job included places where I told her I’d masturbatedas well as places she suggested in her neighborhood. She was all the way on board with sucking me off in the pews of a particular church, a goal which is on my very short bucket list.
We discussed the new-to-her types of orgasms she was having with me, and Godalmighty she came like a force of nature, at first sounding like a gunshot and proceding to rumble and orgasm for up to an hour. That was my favorite times holding her, waiting for the post-orgasms to rumble and roar through her.
The bed, basically her only full piece of furniture, was a little small, but it was fine. Throughout any given day she would interrupt a conversation to ask “Do you want to lie down?” I always acceded, always naked. I could not be in bed with her with even one article of clothing on my person. She could be a little harder to get naked but I regularly walked about her place nude. I made artistic photos, which she kept on her phone, of myself in some of her numerous mirrors.
One trait of hers that was emphatically not present decades earlier was her ability to give a compliment. She never said it outright but there were pauses in her responses to comments I made to indicate I was as good as she’d ever had. She talked of my cock being “beautiful” and “handsome” as she stroked it to full erection. When she came I would say, in all honesty, “You are so fucking hot.” She responded that I was what got her there. In the past she would never have made such comments.
One photo I got that we both particularly liked was my cock as reflected in one of her smaller, gold-color-framed mirrors. It really did look like a gallery-worthy piece.
I frequently commented that her breasts were perfect. One of her rules was no hour-long titsucking but she said she loved what I was doing, slathering them with my lively tongue.She used the word “passion,” I said I was “hungry.” This led to our repeat of the line “Hungry for you.” That line comes from a story told by a woman friend in college, about how in high school she and a boy from the neighborhood decided to spend a day cooking in the kitchen. Both awkward youths in their teens, she innocently said “I’m hungry.” In a full but stilted voice he replied: “I’M HUNGRY. HUNGRY FOR YOU.” There was silence, and the planned day of cooking proceded without incident.
The fact that she said anything nice about me at all differed markedly from years ago. Even when she seemed dutifully impressed by my knowledge of classical music she never actually said she was impressed. In those days she never said anything nice about my body or our sex, but the sex, to iterate, never got to a point of comfort or control for either of us.
As with virtually every woman I’ve ever been with I remember virtually nothing about the cunnilingus. I remember going down, and with her I had to get multiple levels of approval. I remember getting there, and how the wetness made my mouth water and gave made my cock feel a unique kind of hardness. I would put her legs over my shoulders and I remember digging my tongue in but from there it’s gone. No memory at all of how long I stay down. I guess I remember the orgasms and the writhing, which snapped me out of the blackout stage. But mostly I’m so hungry for it and so amazed to be there that my brain overflows with noise.
Not only did she swallow but she wanted it badly. She also liked to wear one of her shirts that had visible cum-stains all over it. But I am a hard cum. I’ve always been that way. My primal instincts have always told me that a man’s stamina and the ability to hold their load are a signature of a good lover. Maybe I am wrong about this. I mean it’s not lost on me that women generally do not want to be pounded for two hours straight. That’s a porn myth. But I have always believed it important to take the time to get things right, and that it is more important for her to come then for me.
My early sexual experiences ended with premature ejaculation. That was in college. God, I came like a fucking geyser a couple of times, there was jizz everywhere. Perhaps these embarrassing experiences, which I now know to be pretty normal, helped form my belief that stamina is desirable.
Why do I say women “come” but men “cum”? I guess it’s because “cum” refers both to the orgasm and the ejaculata? I’ve never been with a squirter but even that would not be called “cum.” I don’t know. Irrelevant aside.
I dwell on certain qualities of her that were different from years ago because I believe that people fundamentally do not change. Her saying anything complimentary to me at all never occurred back then, and when it occured last year she commented herself that it was something she rarely if ever did. I made many comments about her body and how smoking hot it was to me. One time she stood in the kitchne with me, totally naked, a state she rarely achieved with me. She watched my cock harden while my eyes drank her in.
She knows she is beautiful. She always knew that. I certainly knew. In our earlier times she used that beauty like a weapon. As she brittley informed me we could not be together anymore she watched my eyes drift down to her legs and feet as we sat at a diner counter. She knew I wanted her again and savored the fact that my desires would go unrequited from then on.
She shows her age in certain ways today but to me that same smoky, slender, fuckable beauty remained.
It ended over pettiness, in my estimation. But it had to end. The arrangement was logistically impossible and showed no signs of improving any time soon. She basically told me to fuck off. I took that as an opportunity to get out of a borderline neurotic relationship that had good qualities but the bad outweighed them. I’m not stupid. When a woman tells me to fuck off, that is what I do.