Wednesday, March 4, 2015

Real Sex Story: Abigail, "I'm the girl he fucks."

"I love your site, love your writing, love the theme, love it," writes Abigail, in a single sentence guaranteeing that I'd be running her Real Sex Story. "My friends, (and strangers probably too) are tired I'm sure of hearing me prattle endlessly on about how absurd it is that we live in a culture of people that bow down and worship at the alter of romantic love because often, the other kinds, fuck buddies and mistresses and even friendships that aren't remotely erotic are just as solid, and maybe even more relevant. But you don't see anyone making movies about that. And then I found you."

The thing I like about these is that they give you a chance for hop inside someone else's head and just sort of roam around (careful, don't touch any important brain parts). For that reason, I'm running this completely unedited. Well, that and general laziness.

Also, other housekeeping blog news:  some fuckhead hijacked the "If you liked this story, try this" link thing at the bottom of the posts, linking them to his own stuff (so jerky!) so that's gone for a bit as I figure out how to fix it. Also, a couple people said they had some problems leaving comments, others said they did not. If you are having trouble, let me know in the other comment form in right column or write to me at jillhamilton001@gmail.com.

And finally, my story on Smart, Arty Porn Sites is on Salon and was the #1 most read on AlterNet. Probably 'cause people thought it was porn, but fuck, they clicked, they count.

Here, then, if you have remained awake, Abigail:

I'm the girl that he fucks. Her delivery was deadpan and I imagine her to be in that moment to be beautiful, sitting cross legged and naked. One of those long limb-ed, blank eyed girls displaying equal parts shyly and proudly hipbones sharpened on some eerie combination of youth and food avoidance. Hair tangled, sticking to the sweat and the cum that glistens lightly on a collarbone that was bitten and not kissed. She seeks something more of the earth than of the sky from my sometimes lover, my heart friend. This I know with a certainly that has no foundation for logic but is true nonetheless. A misnomer that word, that 'my' for he isn't mine, but I haven't found, and not for lack of effort a phrase existing within this language to indicate knowledge of another without linguistic ownership. Irritating. He isn't mine, this soul match to mine. I sometimes suspect that he belongs not even to himself but to some lilting Irish tune piped out by an Appalachian mountain dwelling hermit grieving for the womb like embrace of union wages and his long dead wife. He retreats often from this world, and from me, my sometimes not mine loverfriend. Though he lately seems less puppeted by the marionette strings of whatever it is that he belongs to that isn't himself or another. I've never minded the absences, though I'm glad that his mountain piper plays less. He is and was always wildest in the late night early morning, that faded blur between night and day: drunk and sober. A state that he seeks, drawn by that Irish mountain song that no one can remember the words to, that song that only belongs in the grey green blue of a never sober mountain morning. I sometimes but not tonight tell him that I love him. He sometimes but not tonight says the same. Always clumsily, both of us, exchanging that meaningless meaningful word that weighs entirely too much and not enough and it passes between us awkwardly and at random. I'm the girl that he fucks. She tells me this deadpan.
Suddenly guilty for calling, sobbing, drunk, I've interrupted my own narcissistic misery to inquire. What are you doing? I am less interested in his activities than I am in an assurance that I have not splashed my acid sadness onto his canvas. He knows this, of course. The gentle lies you learn to tell to those that you've known long enough to know when they need a lie. Is is still a lie, in that context? If the other party know that it isn't true, is it still a lie? I should have asked who he was doing. A far more relevant question for a 4am Saturday night. Another sameness shared, he and I. General sluttiness. On a more normal Saturday night I too would be tangled and gone, drunk on that specific flavor of a fuck with someone I like enough to fall asleep intertwined but not enough wake up that way. Giggling now at the minutiae of my sadness, his voice and the words that he knows I'm ignoring are Chapstick on a carpet burned soul. A vague realization of the existence of a girlfriend escapes the drunken swamp of booze and bitterness that is my thoughts and I ask. What are you doing? He laughs. He has now listened to me sob for more minutes than are socially acceptable for a man with female company and I am surprised to realize that he is with a woman. Laughing and loving him because I should have known and because he spent his time for me and he is a man that loves women in the truest sense of the expression, loves them in multiples and in variety, loves them enough to never stay long enough to become something solid enough to be ached for. We rarely exist for one another outside of one another, the few instances that have occurred were strange and lovely. I wonder, as I have wondered before, lazily and briefly, why we have structured things this way for so long. I've hidden him like a secret that is deep and dark and hideous yet he has been the firefly love light of my life. I settle on the same conclusion I reached years prior. The noise of my life is hot and blinding and I am often unhappy in it myself. I never question a moth's urge to bash itself against a light. I observe their frenetic suicides, and I think that they like knowing that there is a being bearing witness to their death dances. The burst of flame at the finale is brief and bright and it satiates something within me because it feels like logic and not futility. But I've become intrusive by not acknowledging this lady friend of my friend and that notion is distracting enough that I am sharply awakened from this drunken melancholy, hastening to correct the mistake. Are you with your girlfriend? I would like to say hello. Both of us, drunk enough, startled enough, break the long written in stone rules to exist only for another. We're different in this way, my loverfriend and I. He accepted years ago what will take me years yet to swallow: acceptance is imaginary, belonging is a myth. Loneliness is the human condition, the only thing true commonality. He is miles ahead of me in this way. He learned long ago to weave the threads of otherness into a rain coat designed to protect himself from the shit splashes of humanity. He tells me tonight without the slightest impatience though he's told me before and he will say it again. Everyone's fucked up. Everyone is so fucked up. Everyone, every single person in this fucking world goes home, alone, wondering what is is that's wrong with them, wondering what about them is so fucked up. These are the things that he learned. The things that he shares with me. He's a listener, my friend. A watcher, a watcher of others, a collector of observations, a mostly unbiased curator of these gathered facts. He has dedicated to drowning this museum of knowledge in booze, and though admirably unbiased he is a poor protector. I like to think that he is grateful to me, a curator of his memories, the guardian of his museum. We are different in this way because I am an excellent collector. A greedy hoarder of words and there exists no mouth that delivers words that I prize more than his. To my knowledge, I'm the only character in his story that remains untainted by drugs or drink and I recall his epiphanies in technicolor detail that alternately horrifies and amuses him. Still. I think he is thankful, in a way, that there exists a human that has borne long distance keyhole witness to his life. I wonder if I overestimate my importance to him. Usually, it seems the most natural thing in the world to me, to adore and be adored by him, my friend, my oldest friend. But tonight, tonight I am small, and needy, lip chapped and mascara stained. Embarrassed. Embarrassed that I have disrupted this stranger girls evening. She should have this night, as I have had, this exact night that I have had with my loverfriend and with others. She should have it and it should be simple and pure and I have disrupted it and for that I am ashamed. I create the very ring of desperation to please by attempting to prevent it. Of course, I'm lying and I don't care, not really. I haven't heard much about her, because she isn't important, this girlfriend I've only heard casually referenced. It occurs to me suddenly that she may in fact be more important, by virtue of the non mentions. I know my friend, and he guards with silence that which matters most. And in that vein, the feigned enthusiasm rings through, painful to my ears. I wish violently I had taken home instead one of the hideous suited strangers at the bar who smelled my brokenness and circled shark like, leaving me disgusted and for the very first time, with the sensation of how women are treated usually men. When did I begin to ooze weakness? This must stop, I do not know what material it is that I will need to find to fill the chinks in my soul but this must stop because it is a disgusting nauseating feeling, weakness. I won't tolerate it. You must be his girlfriend! I've heard so many nice things about you! Italics and explanation points. Formerly one of my more charming traits, delivered with irony or authenticity. But tonight, it crunches like artificial sweeter. I am tonight a mutilated version of myself. The space between my statement and her response is too many moments long. She must loathe me, which seems logical and I would like to tell her but I won't that she is in good company because I have loathed myself energetically and increasingly since awakening 21 hours ago. I am suddenly disgusted, viscerally disgusted, with every choice I have ever made that led me to this moment in my life, this moment in which I am closing out this sad sad day by sneaking my poison into the coffee of this lovely stranger girl who did nothing to deserve this blot on her night. I'm the girl that he fucks. She says this with confidence. Assurance. No more no less no further explanations offered needed granted. Of course. She doesn't know me and she doesn't know him and she doesn't care and I love her for this, this strange girl, this strange and beautiful young girl who desired my friend. Did she notice him as I did, clarity in a room swarming with people hazy with smoke and hedonism? I hope that she seduced him, this girl. I hope that she found him beautiful and that he made her come. I hope she felt important in his arms and I want to thank her. Kiss her. I might even like to fuck her myself, such is my admiration and gratitude. I'm the girl that he fucks.
xoxo
jill

What do you all think? Are we done with these for awhile? Let's be done and cheer the fuck up around here!

(photo:  Studio Lorelle, vers 1930)

3 comments:

Anonymous said...

Although it might have been a well-written story, it was rendered an unreadable mess by the lack of formatting. Holy shit, my eyes hurt from trying to follow that. Sorry, I'm sure I missed out on a good story but I just could not make it all the way through.

Anonymous said...

I'm so confused.

in bed with married women said...

Anonymi--Gotcha. I thinking that there is someone out there that it will hit exactly the right way. in the meantime, please have a complimentary lemonade and have a look at this old post:
http://www.inbedwithmarriedwomen.com/2013/02/seo-and-can-of-beans.html

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