Tag: spilled ink

“Write me something dirty. Something sexy.”

I’m sitting in traffic. The light blinks yellow. I tell her she can wait until the next time I see her.

“I guess I can,” she says. “But I want you to do this for me. Isn’t that how you like it? What I want when I want it.”

“And what is it that you want?”

“Well, I want you to fuck me. It’s been weeks.”

“Tell me what you miss.”

“I miss you inside me. Your cock in my mouth.”

“Say that again. Differently.” I stop and look across the way. A woman rolls by on a yellow bicycle. Her blonde ponytail trails along behind her head.

I say, “Pretend you’re writing a story.”

She pauses. I put the phone down on the dashboard at the next turn. The road is empty, mostly. Some old woman. Another bicyclist. Their images are faint, like flat silhouettes. I hear her voice and pick up the phone again. She’s midway into something.

“… of you. I don’t know why, but I hope it’s for more than the way you make me feel after sex. The way you use me like we’re the only animals in a cage. Your eyes are so intense. I feel like you’d yell at me if I didn’t look up when you fucked my mouth. Or, like, bark at me.” She hesitates. She’s always the first to give. I’m right behind her.

“Please. I miss your voice. It gets so deep and… broody.” She laughs nervously. “Is that a word?”

“It is if you want it to be. I like what you’ve said, but we need a story.”

“That’s your thing.” She pauses again. I think to tell her I’m almost there but leave her to finish her thought. “I think that’s all you want from me,” she says. “And I want you to give me the same. I want a story from you.”

“A dirty, sexy story.”

“Yes.”

I feel her accelerated heart beat. Body curled up either in bed or her computer chair. Not smoking now, but the stink of weed in the air. Limp, unwashed hair spread out across her pillow or her tits. Already rubbing her cunt with her free hand.

My teeth gnash.

“Unlock your door,” I tell her. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

“And?”

“And I’ll write you your story.”

“Write me something dirty. Something sexy.”

I’m sitting in traffic. The light blinks yellow. I tell her she can wait until the next time I see her.

“I guess I can,” she says. “But I want you to do this for me. Isn’t that how you like it? What I want when I want it.”

“And what is it that you want?”

“Well, I want you to fuck me. It’s been weeks.”

“Tell me what you miss.”

“I miss you inside me. Your cock in my mouth.”

“Say that again. Differently.” I stop and look across the way. A woman rolls by on a yellow bicycle. Her blonde ponytail trails along behind her head.

I say, “Pretend you’re writing a story.”

She pauses. I put the phone down on the dashboard at the next turn. The road is empty, mostly. Some old woman. Another bicyclist. Their images are faint, like flat silhouettes. I hear her voice and pick up the phone again. She’s midway into something.

“… of you. I don’t know why, but I hope it’s for more than the way you make me feel after sex. The way you use me like we’re the only animals in a cage. Your eyes are so intense. I feel like you’d yell at me if I didn’t look up when you fucked my mouth. Or, like, bark at me.” She hesitates. She’s always the first to give. I’m right behind her.

“Please. I miss your voice. It gets so deep and… broody.” She laughs nervously. “Is that a word?”

“It is if you want it to be. I like what you’ve said, but we need a story.”

“That’s your thing.” She pauses again. I think to tell her I’m almost there but leave her to finish her thought. “I think that’s all you want from me,” she says. “And I want you to give me the same. I want a story from you.”

“A dirty, sexy story.”

“Yes.”

I feel her accelerated heart beat. Body curled up either in bed or her computer chair. Not smoking now, but the stink of weed in the air. Limp, unwashed hair spread out across her pillow or her tits. Already rubbing her cunt with her free hand.

My teeth gnash.

“Unlock your door,” I tell her. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

“And?”

“And I’ll write you your story.”

I got light-headed in the shower this morning. It felt like when I spent too much time in a sauna. My head ached from overwork and a continued bout of some common illness. I could still see the scrapings of her claws on my left bicep. They intersected the faded stretch marks. I could count to twelve by them. I felt nauseous for a moment and got out to press my forehead to the wall. I dripped for a while.

She was angry that I skipped out on last weekend. She became more irate when I told her I wouldn’t make it this weekend. None of it obvious, of course. Not over the phone. I’ll bet her eyes were enraged.

She wanted me to say I could stay over, but was unwilling to ask me directly. I became irritated as well.

“I’m busy as all hell,” I told her. “Now’s not a good time. We need to be in all weekend to get this done.” I wanted to mention I am also sick, but our time together is based on being me the stronger one. It felt unwise to show weakness at these early stages.

“Okay. When will this be done?”

“We hit our milestone Sunday night.”

“Okay.” She paused, probably fidgeted with something next to her. “I miss you.”

“I miss you too. I thought of you this morning.”

“What did you think?”

I’m sick, you know.

I got light-headed in the shower this morning. It felt like when I spent too much time in a sauna. My head ached from overwork and a continued bout of some common illness. I could still see the scrapings of her claws on my left bicep. They intersected the faded stretch marks. I could count to twelve by them. I felt nauseous for a moment and got out to press my forehead to the wall. I dripped for a while.

She was angry that I skipped out on last weekend. She became more irate when I told her I wouldn’t make it this weekend. None of it obvious, of course. Not over the phone. I’ll bet her eyes were enraged.

She wanted me to say I could stay over, but was unwilling to ask me directly. I became irritated as well.

“I’m busy as all hell,” I told her. “Now’s not a good time. We need to be in all weekend to get this done.” I wanted to mention I am also sick, but our time together is based on being me the stronger one. It felt unwise to show weakness at these early stages.

“Okay. When will this be done?”

“We hit our milestone Sunday night.”

“Okay.” She paused, probably fidgeted with something next to her. “I miss you.”

“I miss you too. I thought of you this morning.”

“What did you think?”

I’m sick, you know.

I wish I could say something sentimental, like I loved her, or miss her laugh, or wish I’d treated her more respectfully, but the truth is that since Bri and I stopped talking/messaging/being silent I’ve been with other women—all nice and attractive women who gave and could talk about themselves—and none of them has remained with me like this. It wasn’t the convenient lies of omission or the fact that someone else was better. Not anymore, anyway. I could say that the other women simply weren’t her, which is true, but also a misdirection. The core of the issue is so tired a notion that I still don’t want to accept it:

I didn’t fuck her.

To my mind it’s pathetic, having discussed it and had opportunities to be together that were never ceized. I wrote and said things that were no different from overly verbose sexting. Months of build-up and talk. Discussion of residing together in spite of my reticence. All said for each other’s benefit.

There was no final and expected release.

I let go of that initial frustration when I started seeing Kelly, but it wasn’t the satisfaction I demanded. I wanted Bri. There could be no substitute. And so it carries on with me into the winter, and spring, and onward. I can see myself continuing to seek out women like her who aren’t her. A spark of satisfaction and happiness, then a fade to disinterest and amicable partings. One after another. The dysfunction of trying to create an ending to our story through other women seems irrelevant. I am only a man with a high libido and a willingness to sacrifice emotional intimacy for sex that will never live up to my expectations.

I wish I could say something sentimental, like I loved her, or miss her laugh, or wish I’d treated her more respectfully, but the truth is that since Bri and I stopped talking/messaging/being silent I’ve been with other women—all nice and attractive women who gave and could talk about themselves—and none of them has remained with me like this. It wasn’t the convenient lies of omission or the fact that someone else was better. Not anymore, anyway. I could say that the other women simply weren’t her, which is true, but also a misdirection. The core of the issue is so tired a notion that I still don’t want to accept it:

I didn’t fuck her.

To my mind it’s pathetic, having discussed it and had opportunities to be together that were never ceized. I wrote and said things that were no different from overly verbose sexting. Months of build-up and talk. Discussion of residing together in spite of my reticence. All said for each other’s benefit.

There was no final and expected release.

I let go of that initial frustration when I started seeing Kelly, but it wasn’t the satisfaction I demanded. I wanted Bri. There could be no substitute. And so it carries on with me into the winter, and spring, and onward. I can see myself continuing to seek out women like her who aren’t her. A spark of satisfaction and happiness, then a fade to disinterest and amicable partings. One after another. The dysfunction of trying to create an ending to our story through other women seems irrelevant. I am only a man with a high libido and a willingness to sacrifice emotional intimacy for sex that will never live up to my expectations.

Of all the realizations, there’s a big one: my ma is frightened and withdrawn. She cared for us plenty but gave less than two shits about others. Once, as she backed the family van out of the driveway, we saw someone lying on the sidewalk. She told us to ignore it and get in the van. We saw another neighbor coming to investigate as we drove away. It turned out to be a woman who visited from time to time and annoyed my mother. She was too polite to ask her not to visit.

Another time—still during childhood—we were driving in the Impala to visit an uncle. We were on Crenshaw and an old woman approached the car to ask for a ride. She claimed to be lost and appeared quite feeble. My pop agreed to help her and my ma visibly sulked as she squeezed into the bench seat. We drove from street to street searching for the woman’s home. She continually said the next block, the next block. We eventually stumbled across a convalescent hospital and an orderly who explained that the woman suffered from memory loss and had wandered away. We dropped her off and continued to the freeway. My pop encouraged this sort of altruism, but my ma did not want to be involved. She wanted us to keep to ourselves.

“Your mother is an ill-tempered woman,” explained my pop, in Spanish. “It’s difficult to talk to her. She shuts me out. Do you know what I think? Forget it. I go to my room and watch television.” He also spends time in the garage, but he does not see work as an attempt to escape.

I sometimes think that they’re bound for a divorce. It’s inevitable, it has to happen. But I dig deeper into their story and see that despite their stubbornness and bitterness, they compliment one another. My ma requires stability and security so that she isn’t overwhelmed by the outside world, and receives this from my father, who is always working and receives his own comfort from providing for those whom he cares about. In short, they’ve attained a working balance.

Hell, man. Isn’t that something? Just finding a way to fit into someone’s else’s life is difficult enough.

Of all the realizations, there’s a big one: my ma is frightened and withdrawn. She cared for us plenty but gave less than two shits about others. Once, as she backed the family van out of the driveway, we saw someone lying on the sidewalk. She told us to ignore it and get in the van. We saw another neighbor coming to investigate as we drove away. It turned out to be a woman who visited from time to time and annoyed my mother. She was too polite to ask her not to visit.

Another time—still during childhood—we were driving in the Impala to visit an uncle. We were on Crenshaw and an old woman approached the car to ask for a ride. She claimed to be lost and appeared quite feeble. My pop agreed to help her and my ma visibly sulked as she squeezed into the bench seat. We drove from street to street searching for the woman’s home. She continually said the next block, the next block. We eventually stumbled across a convalescent hospital and an orderly who explained that the woman suffered from memory loss and had wandered away. We dropped her off and continued to the freeway. My pop encouraged this sort of altruism, but my ma did not want to be involved. She wanted us to keep to ourselves.

“Your mother is an ill-tempered woman,” explained my pop, in Spanish. “It’s difficult to talk to her. She shuts me out. Do you know what I think? Forget it. I go to my room and watch television.” He also spends time in the garage, but he does not see work as an attempt to escape.

I sometimes think that they’re bound for a divorce. It’s inevitable, it has to happen. But I dig deeper into their story and see that despite their stubbornness and bitterness, they compliment one another. My ma requires stability and security so that she isn’t overwhelmed by the outside world, and receives this from my father, who is always working and receives his own comfort from providing for those whom he cares about. In short, they’ve attained a working balance.

Hell, man. Isn’t that something? Just finding a way to fit into someone’s else’s life is difficult enough.