This new one is dark and raw, but with some beauty and Life Lessons--just the way I like it.
Here, then, today's entry from Severene:
I just had the most fucked up sexual experience and I don't know what to do with it.
I'm just gonna write it down because I need to purge it or codify it or maybe just see if written down it makes better sense. Here goes:
I had a fight with my husband and I left. From the car, I called my old lover. The one who three months before had decided he would just never call me again. It would have been nice if he would have informed me of this, but he is not nice. That was part of his appeal.
Since he'd disappeared on me, I had been completely lost, weeping inconsolably every night. Yes. Every. Fucking. Night. For three months. I walked hollow-eyed through my life like a specter, tears welling up at any reminder of him. This happened a lot since my reminders included: doctors, the city of Houston, pretty much any song on the radio, references to following your instincts/heart, hospitals, any mentions of fucking in general, the entire Jewish people... you get the idea.
Perhaps fleeing was just an excuse to see my lover again. I wanted him to hold me in his arms and tell me everything was gonna be all right--even though it wasn't gonna be all right. He has a big hairy bear-like body and I just so needed to be near him. Physically, close to that big body, like it would heal me.
I called him hysterically crying and asked if I could stay for two nights at his house in Houston. He told me things were going well for him but he could "always fit me in" or something like that that made me feel like shit. He sounded pleased though. He told me it "wasn't going to be free" and I was going to end up licking cum off my tits. It seemed like a good deal to me.
I drove like crazy, speeding for hours, weeping and/or feeling elated that I was going to be well-fucked by this man again. I was a mess. You don't have to tell me that.
I arrived at his house before him and waited out front for a few minutes. He pulled up and, for a moment, smiled and looked happy. I met him in his garage, hugged him and burst into tears.
We walked inside and he sat down at his table and started going through his mail. He looked up at me, as though surprised I was still there. "You look ragged out," he said, disapprovingly. I had been crying intermittently for several hours--a few months, technically--but he wasn't giving me any slack. I instantly felt a million years old, haggard and foolish in my suddenly too-short skirt. He gave me a sort of dismissive gesture so I left to wander his house.
His house was a smallish McMansion, which is not an oxymoron. It's the kind of place that has a grand showy staircase entry that makes odd-shaped, uncomfortable spaces below to accommodate this bourgeois idea of grandeur. He still lived like he did in college, even though he is a grown man, with milk crates as storage and half-read papers scattered haphazardly on the floor. He was using a loose garbage bag leaning against his kitchen cabinets instead of making the commitment to a real trash can. He was just crashing there, not making a life there, as he probably had in every space he'd inhabited in his 48 years on the planet.
He was incredibly uncomfortable that I was in his space and clearly wanted me to be...not there. This was horrible and obvious and I should have just left immediately, but I desperately wanted to fuck him and win him over and just have him stop wanting me gone. How was this so awful to him? We'd gotten along famously the last time I'd seen him--albeit in the neutral territory of a hotel--how was having me there suddenly so fucking unbearable to him?
I don't know if it was my "ragged out" appearance, the invasion of his space, my general hysteria or that his heart was now elsewhere (jeez, writing it down now and seeing all those things together, the answer is clearly "e. all of the above"), but he was now clearly Not That Into Me. I was wretched and humiliated but somehow still there like an asshole. I just couldn't accept what was happening and that he didn't love me or want me anymore.
He came over to me, bent me over the couch and hit me on the ass, hard, a few times--something he'd never done before. Then he walked into his kitchen and started looking around in the fridge. He's kind of like that. He will stick his dick in your mouth for a few minutes, pull his hard-on back out, then go sit down and have a bowl of grains or something.
Despite my humiliation or perhaps due to it, I was super turned on and still trying to act like everything was normal. He put a Lou Reed record on the turntable and pulled his dick out of his scrubs, making the universal signal for 'suck this.' I did, willingly and greedily.
His dick is tremendous. My eyes well up just thinking about it, it's really that good. So thick and fat and fucking huge. His dick is like if you took another man's dick, and inflated it with 2--maybe 3--big good puffs of air. I can feel it in my mouth still. I fucking love that thing.
"OK, I will fuck you then," he said after a bit, like I just earned something. He grabbed me and took me up his staircase to his bedroom, shoving my panties into my mouth along the way.
As he took off his clothes, I looked at his wide calves dispassionately. His legs are short, very stocky and nearly hairless. I don't really like them at all. I marveled for the billionth time why I was so fucking attracted to this man who, objectively, was not attractive to me. Unlike him, however, I did not say out loud the leg equivalent to "you look ragged out."
In bed, he asked if I wanted him to hit me again. I said no, and he said, "Beg me." "Please don't hit me," I whispered, not entirely sure that that was actually what I wanted. "Beg me to fuck you," he demanded. That wasn't going to be a problem for me. I really was hysterical, in both the modern and early 20th century interpretations of the word. I completely lost it, crying even more, begging and begging him, over and over. I completely lost my shit. In truth, it was strangely liberating. All that needy open-wound stuff that you try to hide from the world is what I was presenting to him. I was a fucking endless chasm of need and lust and desperate wanting and I let him see all of it. After bearing
witness to that... whatever the fuck it was, he seemed satisfied that I'd begged sufficiently.
He went into the restroom and came out, rolling a condom on. I burst into tears again.. "Why are you so sad?" he asked. "Because you have to wear a condom," I wept. The condom meant he'd been with other women and everything was different now.
He slid inside me and we barely moved. I came quickly and softly, twice. I looked into his huge brown eyes and said, "Can you feel how much my pussy loves your cock?" He nodded. The look on his face nearly killed me. It was so, I don't know, just open and dear. Or maybe I imagined it. It felt like we were making love, but maybe only I was.
Once done with the fuckery, things deteriorated further, if you can believe it. I--like an ass--or you know, like a fucking human being, grabbed on to his big hairy back and hugged him, wanting him close. And he couldn't fucking take it. "Hmmm, I'm oppressing you," I said, letting go and moving to the other side of the bed. But even that wasn't far enough and he got up and went downstairs. After awhile he came back and got into bed, willing me silently not to be there anymore. "You need to sleep, I'll go to the couch," I said. I did and we were both relieved.
He is the head of a serious hospital unit and got calls throughout the night. I could hear him up and down, all night, restless, taking calls, advising the night staff, working on the computer. I saw that his life, brain and probably his soul were filled with agitation and chaos, and it scared me. He wouldn't, or maybe couldn't, allow himself peace or comfort. It was like he was on coke, but without the happy or euphoric part. Two of the patients died that night.
I woke to the sound of him again moving around the house. He finally walked over the couch, pulled his cock out of his scrubs and stuck his huge hard-on into my mouth. "You are so hard," I murmured, taking him in as deep as I could. He pulled back out and said, "Got to go to work." Me, lustful, rejected, miserable, hopeful, and a million other things I still can't figure out, suggested that I could take him out dinner that night after work. He looked pained.
"I am out of sorts. I think you will be happier at a hotel," he said. Oh... We weren't, then, playing some sort of high-level psycho-sexual game, like the ones we played back in college that had turned on us so much. This was real--he really did hate me that much. I went red-faced with the realization and shame. Perhaps reacting to the look on my face--though that would be unlike him--he added. "I'll come tonight after work and stay with you."
Then he took a handful of twenty dollar bills from somewhere and dropped them onto me, one by one. They floated down, landing on me silently.
And I was completely broken.
It's so beyond humiliating that I hate admitting how it all really happened. But I am telling you, both because it's true and because it has a happy(ish) ending.
After he left and I was alone in his terrible, tortured space, I finally got it that I could and needed to leave.
As I walked out and saw his yard, covered with gravel instead of grass or anything else living or beautiful or life-giving, I felt elated, like in the final scene of "It's a Wonderful Life." I didn't have to be in that barely lived-in house or try any more with this man I now realized was far too broken for me to fix. I drove home, crying yet again, but this time with gratitude. I had built a rich life and had a real home with gardens and fruit trees and pictures on the wall. I could even sleep through the fucking night. I was incredibly lucky.
In Shamanism, there is this idea of soul loss. That is, that you can lose a piece of your soul or vital essence after a trauma of some sort. Only through a soul retrieval, often done by the shaman, can that part be returned to its owner. I am not necessarily a subscriber to this point of view, but I do feel like for those three months I had lost a part of myself, of my heart, to this man. And without it, I was so so lost.
But somewhere in our extremely fucked up sexual transaction that night, I got that part back and was whole again.
Maybe I went so low that it somehow circled back and became good. Or maybe my self-esteem got so fucking battered and kicked in the ass that it actually gave me self-esteem. I know it doesn't make much sense but that's what happened. It's like my re-set button was pushed and I was suddenly ok.
I still sometimes dream about his cock and wonder whether the sex, at least, was as hot for him as it was for me. The sex felt huge and dark and sexy and scary and horrible. We'd generated this terrible big awful energy and brought out each other's darkest sides and probably scared the shit out of each other. I don't see how it couldn't have affected him somehow.
And now that it's really over, he will never tell me how it all was for him and why it was so hard for him. That makes me sad. I guess it doesn't make much difference though. I know have to go forward and not look back. That's what you do.
But I now know I have this huge scary amazing passion inside of me and that I may have a penchant for some fucked up shit. Still not sure what I'm gonna do about all that.
Have one of your own? You know what to do.
image: Andre de Dienes, "Nude", c. 1960