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While on the subway, especially when crowded, I like to imagine everyone's soft genitalia (oh, vile word!) at once squished between their closely clamped thighs and pressed against the hard orange or yellow seats. My focus is more on those seated than on those standing, probably because there is more likelihood of multi-angled squishing in a sitting situation. I especially like to picture the dick all small and sleeping, curled in a little crotch pocket, the balls a neat cushion. Or the twat all neatly packaged, self-contained, like a firm yet fully ripe peach almost bursting from the thigh/seat pressure.
I want to write to him and say, simply, "I'm still waiting for the wine opener." But two things stop me: (1) I promised myself I wouldn't write to him for at least the rest of April; and (2) I don't want to learn, in a response email from him, that he's forgotten all about the time I told him of my squirmy attempt to open a wine bottle using a flimsy plastic wine opener, and he told me he would buy me a fabulous one.
I don't want to know he's blithely dismissed details that still resound in me.
Our kiss was harsh, desperate, and threatened to remove all of my teeth via a strange magnetic suction provided by the strange pursing/opening of your lips that revealed your recessed teeth, set way back from those lips, packed tightly in gums intent on leaving your teeth intact while sucking mine free from my gums like a supersonic turbo-a-gogo vacuum cleaner. You didn't kiss as much as latch on, the magnetic pull so fierce that the first contact with my left front tooth wrest it from its permanent resting place. And then I woke up and thought, "Still, I'd kiss him!"
Black Chinese tea fills the tiny, very thick-rimmed, white porcelain cup, a single maroon stripe running along its perimeter, to be kissed with your bottom lip when you lift the cup to drink, in one gulp, the tea you'd forgotten during dinner and now, stuffed to beyond capacity with wonton soup, spare ribs, and pepper steak, is not scalding as it was when it was poured, but barely tepid. A slippery, slick, wet clump of tea-stained sugar that settled on the bottom of the cup slides en masse down to the tipped-toward-your-lips rim. It's the best part of the meal.
How long will it take until I don't have to consciously tell myself I'm getting over him? How much longer do I have to focus on not focusing on him? When will I finally be able to say "He's out of my system" – and actually mean it?
If I keep telling myself he doesn't deserve me and never did, will that help? If I silently chant, "Ew ew ew" when I see his bare ankles (where are his socks?!) at the gym, will I eventually feel that way?
Time will tell, they say. But what the hell will it tell?
I don't think that the entire time I went out with Hairy-Backed Bastard he ever brought up the fact that he had more hair on his back than on the rest of his body all together. You'd think he'd at least make a self-deprecating joke about it, but no.
What made him think the hairy back was acceptable? What made him think he didn't have to get it waxed? What made him think he could just go around inflicting that horrifying back hair on the world in general and me in particular?
Oh yeah, that's right: He was a bastard!
I called him on Wednesday to see why he hadn't called me back on Monday. I figured I had nothing to lose since I wasn't genuinely interested in him anyway and didn't care about "pride". I just wanted to hear him whine.
And he did not disappoint! In answer to my question regarding his lack of courtesy, he responded, "I've been depreeeeeeeeeessssssed."
I think he thought I was supposed to care. I was supposed to run to him and baby him. I was supposed to feel sorry for him.
"Call me when you're not," I said, and hung up.
If there's one smell I cannot stand it's peanut breath. No, I didn't say "penis breath". I said "peanut". Although sometimes it's difficult to tell the difference between a peanut and a penis, in the case of smell I'd have to say that is not so.
Whenever I smell peanuts (or peanut butter) on someone's breath, I want to cram a drawerful of dirty ragg socks down the person's throat so I don't have to endure the odor. Of the peanuts, that is. Because I actually prefer the smell of dirty socks, and perhaps even a dirty penis, to peanuts.
I am new to this gynecologist. She is probably only a few years older than I am, and Jewish (at least her last name is, but it doesn't occur to me that maybe she married a Jew and isn't one herself), so I automatically assume a sisterly kinship and a sense of humor in tune with mine.
"When is the last time you had sex?" she asks.
"I can tell you the exact date," I say. "How pathetic is that?"
She laughs. "I don't need a date," she says.
"Oh how I wish I could say the same," I say.
I challenge anyone to listen to Albinoni's Adagio in G Minor and not want to turn out all the lights, crawl into bed, alone, and silently cry.
Something about this piece simultaneously warms me like no other and stirs me with such a chill that I don't know whether to kick aside the blanket or wrap myself even more snugly inside it. Every time I hear it, I want to cry for everyone I've ever loved and lost and anyone I love now who one day I know I will lose.
Play it at my funeral. Promise you'll cry aloud.
Easter candy is not worth it. And by "it", of course, I mean the calories and anxiety that quickly follow the rapid-fire, non-stop chewing (jeeyawjeeyawjeeyaw!) of jellybeans and whatever it is you do with your mouth that allows you to actually eat a poor-quality foil-wrapped hollow chocolate Easter bunny (starting with the ears, of course).
I can't believe I ate so much of that crap. I would have been better served with Kosher for Passover matzoh with a thin spread of chunky crunchy peanut butter and a cannister of chocolate macaroons.
Oy! Who do I think I am? A goy?
I love these coy girl "bloggers" who post photos of themselves on their blogs but who insist on writing things like, "Oh god, this one makes me look fat!" or "In this one, I'm making a silly face!" or "My best friend tells me I look just like Kate Winslet in this one, but I don't see the resemblance at all!"
Of course, the commenters-as-fans dash to the coquette's rescue and tell her there's no way she looks fat, and her silly face is just adorable, and oh god, girl, "Kate Winslet should be happy to look just like YOU!"
After you have fucked me the way you have and fucked me over the way you have, you have no fucking right to try to communicate with me via the smallest of small talk. Don't you know that once you've been inside of me as deeply as I allowed you, you are not permitted to be so shallow? Don't you realize that once you penetrate that which is so dear to me, there's no way you can merely skim the surface anymore?
All my best,
P.S. How am I? I'm fine. And yes, it looks like rain.
I must avoid standing on steps or knolls or stacks of books that place my eyes and mouth on the same level as yours. I must take even more special care never to be on the same level as you when only an arm's length separates us. If you're on a low sofa and I'm next to you on a tall stool, the difference in our heights evened out, that, too, will be trouble. And most troublesome is any situation where height means nothing because we are lying on the same sofa with no space between us at all. Yep.
On the cab ride home, the length of my right leg grazes the length of his left. We're sitting so close to each other that this is an inevitability, even if the cab doesn't jostle or jolt. But it does. This is Manhattan, after all, a drizzly-rainy night in the East Village.
Still, the cab and the streets and the precipitation are not the only factors. Our joint tipsiness (OK, drunkenness) is responsible too for jostles and jolts. All of this collaborates and conspires to make our respective denim touch.
I wish the ride and the rain would never end.
Mid-page, I realize with quite a start that the book I've been relishing with marvelous abandon for almost 100 pages is the one a recent ex-beau recommended many months ago. Although I specifically bought this book because of him, the magnitude of this reality didn't strike me until just moments ago.
As I read this book – enjoying it even more than I'd anticipated – I can't help but miss him all over again, with an intensity I thought I'd abandoned. I hate knowing that the man I am supposed to "hate" is responsible for introducing me to something I love. Bastard.
He's cute, this fellow by the Armani Exchange counter. He's with an older woman I think is his mother. I'm with an older man I think he thinks is my father.
He's accompanied by two well-behaved dogs. I coo. Pet. Admire. He tells me his wife rescued one of them from the streets a few years ago. He says "my wife" several times. He doesn't inflectionally emphasize it, but his mere multi-mention is emphasis enough.
Why, then, do I sense that when he says he hopes to see me around sometime, he doesn't mean a future run-in at Armani Exchange?
He called to report that everything's just splendid now. He and She are getting married in October, as planned, and thank you (me) for all your (my) support during his time of crisis and depression! He was oh so careful not to mention that we'd fucked while he and She were "broken up", which led me to believe he was completely aware that he'd called my home phone rather than my cell. Acting as if he'd "accidentally" called my home number, when I called him to chastise him! Acting like he didn't want to get ME "in trouble"! Fucking psycho.
So the temperature is "unseasonably" warm today, just like it was yesterday. It is July in April, and by god, everyone in the city's up ‘n' out ‘n' about, shuffling up, down, and across Broadway, showing off what should be kept covered, baring what should be hidden until it has time to see more sun or more activity than lying on the sofa watching reality TV. Bulbous hips and gelatinous guts pressed to overflowing atop the waistbands of too-tight jeans. Thighs shuddering cellulite. Triceps flapping like flags in the breeze. All of it overexposed already. I wish it would snow.
I know I had a great time with "M" in October, 1997. I know he took me to his place after our first date. I know I was surprised that his apartment was such a mess, given his neat appearance. I know the sex was fantastic and his body was beautiful. I know I stayed over. What I don't know is why he said, while fucking, something like, "Do you like feeling me inside your VAGINA?"
I could overlook and forgive the strewn clothing and stacks of magazines. But the use of the word "vagina" during sex? No fucking way.
You document your "journey" on your blog. How you prepared for the big event. Time spent, hours of fretting and studying and biting nails you didn't even have in the first place. All of your energy for months ... focused toward this one goal, to the exclusion of everything else, including the diet you'd started a few weeks before you started this project. "Good luck!" your commenters chorus.
Several weeks later, you post your success. "Congratulations!" they chime. And you thank them.
Don't you know they're all secretly pissed you passed, and thrilled that you gained all the weight you'd lost?
Onstage that first night, he pranced and preened like a young David Bowie, vain and cocky. High-waisted pants, narrow collar shirt, and pointy-toed boots, all black. He tossed his head so the flip of blond hair danced in beat with the rest of his gloriously slender body.
He crooked a finger:
, it said. So of course I did.
The next time I saw him, it was daylight and I was picking him up on South Street in Philadelphia.
"You can't miss me," he'd said. "I'll be the one with the red hair."
Damn the dim club lighting!
The only reason I talked to him at all was because in the dim light of the club, from a certain angle, he looked like a young Christopher Walken. He had the same sort of broad face. And teeth that looked like they would take my bottom lip between them as an overture to devouring the rest of my body.
Christopher Walkenness notwithstanding, I went out with him to take my mind off someone else. Still, his kisses and caresses, although exquisite, weren't enough. Neither was imagining him wearing a red bandana across his forehead, like Nicky in
So he's on top of me. We're doing "stuff". Unclothed. He's still new to me, so I have to feel my way around. Yes, everything's where it should be, and his ass is particularly pleasing. My fingers are bold as they traverse its smoothness. They meet an obstacle. They come to rest on something near his ... oh god, don't make me say it ... ANUS. And it feels exactly like ... what the fuck? ... a pencil eraser! I imagine it pink and firm. A smudge of lead on its tip. And wonder if there's a pencil lurking somewhere I don't dare find!
The scratchy fibers of the standard-issue carpeting in Gary's office irritate my skin, even though there's a clothing barrier between the floor and my back. The weight of his body pressing down on me squishes me closer to the fibers, and I wonder about all the chemicals used to treat the carpeting.
He's in his mid-40s and I'm 19. I've come to his office, between classes, for counseling. I want to tell him to get off me and that I hate his mustache, but I don't want him to hate me or think I'm the kid I still am.
I know where he lives. He's stupid enough to have told me.
I drive past his house and imagine slowing down and parking at the curb. Or going up to his front door, ringing the bell, and saying good morning to his wife.
"I suppose Gary is at work," I will say.
She will be wearing a track-suit that is actually flattering. She will be perky and trim. She will invite me in for coffee.
In her kitchen, I will break the news that her husband's office carpet itches my back.
(Melissa Gilbert will play me in the Lifetime movie.)
The morning after the night I lost my favorite paddle brush, I woke up to see the bathroom's wastepaper basket waiting by my bedside and my then-boyfriend still in my apartment. I was thankful for both.
Apparently he was successful in transporting me not only home from the club where two gay Japanese men were trying to make out with me, but also from the cold bathroom floor to my warm bed. But he had no idea that I'd lost my favorite paddle brush.
"How could this have happened!" I wailed, still quite drunk. "That was my all-time favorite brush!"
Impossible to believe, isn't it, that none of the many mirrors in this apartment is full-length. Outrageous, isn't it, when you consider the magnitude of my vanity. Amazing that the girl who checks herself in every reflective surface she encounters – from knife handle to spoon back to store window to puddle to car door to mirrored sunglasses to zombie's eyes – doesn't have at the very least one mirror that allows her to see herself from tip to toe. And, further, shouldn't she indulge in a three-way mirror or a 360-degree version like that used on "What Not To Wear"?
Part of me really wants to let her know that I fucked her ex-boyfriend after I thought they'd broken up for good. Part of me wants to tell all of her that a certain part of him didn't live up to the hype.
"I can barely even get all of it inside me!" she once said.
I wondered if she mistook her urethra for the other, uh, hole, so of course it was an impossible fit.
And that would not an impossible explanation. After all, it had taken her until age 27 to finally get a gander at her own parts.
I think I found him via a Yahoo! personal ad.
We agreed to meet after work at a coffee house in Center City Philadelphia. We'd exchanged several emails prior to finally meeting, and although he seemed somewhat odd, I decided I'd go ahead with it anyway. "Who knows," I thought. "He might be one of these people who's better in person."
I thought wrong. He was a bulging-eyed, mop-topped cretin in a greenish tweedish jacket. He thought he'd impress me by being rude to our waitress. I stayed anyway, though. A free brownie is a free brownie!
What a yahoo.
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