toxicating.com

Tonight I blew up Deane’s excitement to go to the Adult Convention together. She asked earlier if I was interested, that she wanted to go with me and only with me. She would buy the tickets and I could pay for sushi or something. She asked through a text message.

I didn’t respond.

She called later and said she would buy the tickets tonight; I said hold off, let’s talk tomorrow, then she asked why, I said I don’t know. We went back and forth on this; I also said why don’t you and your friend July go together, or better, July’s friend, the stalker guy. Deane went on about me not wanting to go. Part of that is true, but also part of me wants to check the convention out. I finally said please let me work out and relieve the accumulated stress, good bye.

Then after working out, text messages went back and forth, snippy and also apologetic comments on my part. She said please don’t hurt me and here is where I began to think about myself. Do I have a sickness or mental disposition to always perceive my actions in a way that make me the victimizer and never the victim? When I look back in my adult life, I have always been the bad guy, the one that does bad to others, the selfish and spoiled.

I wonder how this could be true. If I allow for randomness in this victimizer-victim game, then I should expect to have been the victim at least once, however, I don’t recall being anything but the victimizer. It follows then that I have a problem of perception. Of course randomness could be argued away and it can be postulated that victimizers tend to surround themselves with victim-prone types, thus perpetuating the grief and torture.

It has been difficult. I guess now I have time to write, what an irony, time to write about the woman I no longer have, the one I accused of not giving me room to write or read or breathe.

Today is the first Friday since the beginning of our journey that we are not together. The week was not easy but was tolerable because I sought shelter at work; however, a silent driver of weekdays is the promise of weekends, of relaxation, of love making, of company; and when that promise vanishes and one has been fooled by the weekday routine, Friday evening finds us lost and abandoned. One stares at the clock on the wall at 5pm and sighs with relief “finally, I’m going… but where?”, and an evasive and tiny despair is felt somewhere inside one’s body, but I cannot put my finger on it.

“Friday, finally”, she said while she curled her hair in front of the flat large mirror. I was standing next to her.

She had just taken a bubble bath, her skin so fragrant, wearing nothing but dark boy shorts. Metallic red lips. Black eyelining the blue irises.

“You’ve been a bad boy and now I get to beat you”, she said.

I saw the riding crops hanging on the door knob. The handcuffs. The memories of past weekends stung.

“No, please, not again, kitty”, I pled.
“But you deserve it, my boy”, her childish tone.
“Why?”

She finished doing her hair and stared at me in the mirror.

“Ok, no beating tonight, my boy”, she indulged.
“Ok, just a little… please?”, it was a reflex.

It may not be a good idea to bring up another woman’s name when one’s girlfriend is wearing lingerie and about to enjoy in.toxicating sex. It is a chance that no man should take, even when he only wants to be amusing.

After an already grueling day of back-to-back-to-back errands, she finally came home where her boy awaited. “The only thing I am looking forward to today is making love to my boy” she had said. She turned the faucet on, poured wine in a glass, undressed, and submerged in the hot, redemptive bubble bath.

Temperature was raising fast, I crushed some pills to jolt us up, lit candles, put a porno movie in the DVD player, replaced the batteries of the toys, laid them on the bed, I was sitting on the floor, my back on the bed. Deane rolling up black lace stockings, long shiny hair, vampish lips coming closer and closer…

“Sushi is spelled s-u-s-h-i, you usually write su-i-shi”, I said.

The glossy lips paused.

“Whatever, my boy”, she said. I felt her warm breath, her desire. The lips resumed their approach.

“You bashed Steph for her spelling when I showed you her email”, funny how these things come out of my mouth.

Sometime in January we drove to the valley to buy a new vibrator; our favorite one had lost its intensity. We can never tell whether these toys eventually lose their mechanical buzz or our desire for a new high sets in and a new device needs to pop up.

I was in a pissy mood, weary from a marathon sex night, hungry, irritated at Deane and her spending habits (we had just been talking about saving, she had just bought a house), indifferent I strolled in the store; Deane would try to lighten me up showing outfits and the like, and I would do my best to turn her off. Then she decided to ignore me. That’s when she saw them inside the glass display: tiny bottles wrapped in yellow labels. Rush Poppers.

We asked the fat black attendant what they were and how they had to be used. She said she couldn’t tell us, the bitch. But Deane was smiley and said “ok, we’ll take two, and also that vibrator.” I did a number at the counter, requesting new batteries to test the toy and saying that it wasn’t potent enough and blah blah. No one listened.Back at home, after eating I began feeling excited again, and went online to find out what these little bottles were. Liquid incense, the label said. Read the rest of this entry »

Santa Monica, The Huntley Hotel in Valentine’s weekend. Two moments narrated from Lucas’s point of view.

1 - Friday
As every weekend for the last seven months, we had another of our marathon sex events, but this time instead of lasting the usual three to four hours, it lasted FIVE. I am the one who takes the beating during the first hour and do the moves for the remaining three or four while she lays having multiple orgasms. Granted, her butt has to endure a lot of pleasure too, but I can barely move when we finish, and the poppers make it worse. Let me be clear: this is not a complaint.

But this time, after the fifth hour of surreal lust, I exclaimed with my last drop of life: “this is killing me!”

As I was passing out, I heard her say “maybe you don’t want me anymore.”

I think that’s what I heard last. Read the rest of this entry »

“Go crush some more”, Deane said; her slim figure glowing by the candlelight: white long legs in black stockings and clear high heels. I could barely hear a playful beat in the background: Houses of the Holy.

But I didn’t want to obey this time, my heart was pounding hard and I had cotton mouth.

“No. We don’t need any more”, I said.
“I don’t care, I want more”, she said.
“I won’t crush any more.”
“Then I’ll do it myself.”

I didn’t say anything and went to the table and started crushing. “If she cannot come again, fine, it’s her problem, she’s come so many times anyway”, I said to myself.

“How many pills are you crushing?”, she asked, standing behind me.
“One”, I responded.
“Crush another one.”
“But I am so high Deane… and so are you!”, I protested.
“I told you I had a drug problem”, she said in her oh so childish voice.

I knew I shouldn’t do more, but she would snort the whole thing if I didn’t, and then she would try for hours to have one of those orgasms. Did she think I was an energizer bunny? I knew I shouldn’t do more, my heart was beating so fast.

I made four lines, spilled some out of the table on purpose. She didn’t notice.

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to”, she said.
“I am doing two lines”, I conceded.
“Here is the straw, it’s pink”, she handed it to me.

I took half an Ambien last night, and I had taken a whole one the previous night, on Saturday. The pills knock me out, they make me say incoherent things before they knock me out too.

This morning I thought I had had a good night of sleep, I felt revived; however, as the day went on I began to feel drained. I never say anything when I am tired, but today I kept telling the man who sits next to me how weary I was. He shook his head.

I am drowsy all the time because of the marathon sex we constantly have, we all know this, and because of the emotional whirl I can’t escape. I meant to say most of the time.

As the day progressed I just wanted to hide and nap, but I had work to do; I would fantasize I was sleeping, and then I would see the damned spreadsheet waiting.

I also began to think about eating, replenishing, nourishing. There was chicken soup in the fridge. I would have a warm bowl after working out. We worked out for one hour. She said she was tired, she had had nightmares again. I thought perhaps nightmares + workout = no sex, but as soon as we were back home she was pawing at me.

I can never resist her, she is too sexual. We can never have normal sex either, but for the first time in seven months I pled “please let’s only have one orgasm”. The usual ratio is seven to one. She listened; she put on knee high black stockings with pink bows. She kept playing with her vibrators until she was on the edge, and then she would stop. I was sweating more and more.

It lasted a good half hour. She had one of those orgasms. Then she said she was still hungry! I said “look at the clock, they will be here soon, we can’t.” She said “you’re right, and there is not even time to eat, sorry sweetie.” I barely had time for a shower.

I am in Barnes & Noble now, 9:32pm, after hamburger and fries, fantasizing about sleeping… and some chicken soup too.