The Herps, Part 1: The Playlist

I’m going to drop you into part 6 of a 6-part “Body Horror” series. A little acclimation comes at the beginning, but mostly you will have to wait for parts 1-5. I’m inclined to say that, in general, it would serve us well to dispense with introductions.

 

Before We Met (May 13th, 2014):

Genie: It would be funny if we ended up dating. We’ve broken like hundreds of rules.

Andrew: I’ve been going through my college journals and outlining my new book. And this is what my book is about. so I’ll say it.

Andrew: This has been really fun and I really liked it. No matter what happens, I just went through a rough couple of weeks and I liked texting you about it all day and all night.

Genie: I think I’m supposed to be counting the number of texts I send relative to the ones you send. I’m pretty sure shower masturbation and rectal insertion fall under the category “true love waits.”

Andrew: My Dougie Howser ending is as follows.

Andrew: Sometimes we spend so much time looking forward, trying to get to the next step and we don’t realize that the part right on the cusp is the good spot. Whatever happens next is never as good as waiting for it.

Genie: I agree with your sentiment.

Andrew: Haaaa! “True love waits.”

Genie: I sort of wanna get ironic sex tattoos that say that and “for fuck’s sake.” But I know I shouldn’t. Sigggh, it’s hard approaching 30.

Andrew: I’m scared to meet you.

After we met, fucked, powered through varying degrees of soreness, fucked some more, and he started ignoring me, I resigned and read his book. In his most beautiful passage there was this:

…wherever you go for the rest of your life you will go there with this moment tucked into your back pocket, reminding you that things happen. And being there while they happen matters more than whatever happens.

Which made me LOL, because in my blog I use “pocket” in the most objectifying sense:

Hipster Dave was a pretty, pretty hipster. From the minute I laid eyes upon him, I wanted to wrap him up in tissue paper and carry him home in my purse. In fact, I wanted to carry him home in my pocket, but I did not have a pocket. So I settled.

—Me, The Rise and Fall of Hipster Dave, Part 1

July 21st, 2014

You know I don’t fall madly in lust with every guy I see. But this one, man—to steal his language—I don’t know how I let him get away. Normally things with guys are a little awkward, feeble, inept, and they are tossed gently into the inorganic waste bin. The others are straight up trash, human ruins. But this guy, he awakened in me needs I didn’t even know I had. Holding my arms behind my back and whispering in my ear how much he loved to shove his cock inside me, his hot breath filling me with holy spirit before I became Protestant by injection. In the same nefarious, in-charge growl Booth Jonathan uses on Marnie (HBO Girls: All Adventurous Women Do): “I want you to know, the first time I fuck you, I might scare you a little, because I’m a man, and I know how to do things.” And I was scared. And didn’t know what hit me. It was more than just knocking me off my toes and making me want to wank in the bathroom at a gallery party, disorienting me and dislodging my sense of propriety. I was on my stomach, helpless, and it was a deeper sense of disarray. I wanted to swallow his penis whole and devour every last drop of his semen. Our last morning together, he told me he was dehydrated—I had all of his fluids. And it was the most devastatingly romantic thing anyone has ever said to me. I wanted it to be absorbed into my epithelial lining, mix with my interstitial fluids, circulate in my system, and dribble out into my panties on the smug subway ride home—dangerously close to the bench seating beneath me and silently bragging to the presumably emptier passages. Drawing the line in DNA from his neighborhood in BK to my habitat in Manhattan.

Always, I will have those memories tucked into nature’s pocket for safekeeping. And at my daydreamiest I get delightfully drippy envisioning him, dip my fingers in, and grin nostalgically remembering when I was the luckiest girl in the world filled with his slippery semen. The moments on the cusp when I peered back at him seeking the next cue, he threatened to cum inside me, plowed deeper in and let go as I tensed around him, dumbly encouraging, “yeaah.” I savored every inch he pulled out of me, felt my pussy quake as he popped the plug, giving way to a sticky stream. I would have sopped it up with my spit if he ordered me to. The longer he ignored me, the most I wanted to be abused a little—accept a guzzle, swallow, grovel at his feet. For me, sweet is semen—an offering, a treat. Mostly I want to have sweet sex with men I adore. I could have felt that way about him—imminently. He made me feel safe, not stagnant; such that I wanted to explore.

That was more than two months ago. More than two month later, the path is still paved in fluids. Just writing, I get dripping wet and open wide to accommodate him. Pavlovian salivation instead of learned helplessness. Maladaptive. Fuckk—me. If only sexual memories were like ordinary memories and had a shelf-life of more than two weeks. Er, I mean two months (blushes). If only they could be tucked into one’s cocaine-trafficking pocket to love and cherish for richer or for poorer in sickness and in health. Ultimately, I’m a greedy human with hungry loins and need to access tangible things.

He left me the perfect combination of satisfied and pining for more. Then he left me. Vanished.

 Come on, abuse me more I like it.

—Silverchair

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