Wrong
I remember the soft feel
of his facial hair
brushing past my cheek
& his low voice whispering
naughty things
against my ear
I remember his eager
hands pulling at
my clothes
& his clumsy
tongue in
my mouth
I remember his legs
quivering as I held on
to his big dick
& the day he said
this was wrong,
for both of us
I had surprisingly good sex last night - and aside from the fact that I did most of the work - it was the, uncontrollable moaning- black-out good, kind . Now having good sex isn’t that surprising, it’s just that I am having a relationship with my, oh so smooth talking, sleek black, but physically challenged and non reciprocating - plastic phone. Ok, now we all know it’s the voice attached to the man on the other end of that line that poses the challenge; as well as the great physical distance between us. Most frustrating, it’s said voice’s non reciprocating desire to lament that distance between our hearts and genitalia.
His name is John. We originally met online. His profile was different, intelligent, compassionate, and witty. He pursued me, and I liked it. He is tall, I was flattered. He is interesting and goofy, cocky and egotistical, with an incredibly sexy deep voice - just the way I, unfortunately, like um. When we first started talking on the phone, I was house sitting and bored. He worked from home which allowed us the freedom to talk whenever and however long.... and did we. We found that we had some of the the big stuff in common, social views, ethicality, relentless need for a family and granite counter tops. We also shared an affection for the little things, photography, old movies, crooners.... he sang to me. We talked and talked and talked. I appreciated from the beginning that there were no rules in this budding relationship; he called me often, no apologies. That was three years ago, we haven’t stopped talking since. We have watched entire movies together barely speaking and we have shared dinners together talking breathlessly through breakfast. I have spent years exhausted at work and yet I still sometimes feel like my day isn’t through until I have cradled that stupid piece of plastic to my ear until the wee hours of the morning, eventually hearing his deep soft, “...Good - night babe.”
Sometimes it feels like we have been having one long continuation of a conversation that started three years ago. Sometimes we repeat things, and sometimes we transcend. He actually used to say things like, “would you shut up for a minute!” or “Are we done!” and hang up. As you can imagine, I found that infuriating! He also used to answer the phone with, “YO!” Now that was just dated and ridiculous. I can’t count how many times we have heard each-other brush our teeth or how many times he has heard me pee - even though surprisingly he still puts me on mute when he goes. Usually I sing, “You are my Sunshine” into the silent phone, to annoy him until he comes back. I can’t count how many burst of laughter, or fights (about things as non relevant to us as breast feeding), or how many times I have rolled my eyes and been grateful he couldn’t see me. I know he has listened to me cry at least three times and he has said “I love you” in as many. It sounds like love, doen't it? Sometimes it even feels like it too.
He first visited me about three months after we stared talking. My living arrangement was weird. I had rented out my house and was living in a tiny room for the summer, the shower and toilet were right in the room. There was no kitchen and it was cold. He didn’t mind any of it. It was romantic and steamy sharing a twin bed for the week. At first I was anxous about being intimate with him. We had talked about all his past athletic girlfriends and how fitness and health are a really big turn on for him (who isn't it?) I didn't know if I would be attracted to him, he is bald and showing his age - turns out his fit tripod stature and youthful enthusiasm made up for it. Minutes after we got home from the airport, he pulled me onto the bed, and he was inside me in what seemed like one smooth urgent movement that was both surprising and literally breath taking. This mutral attraction was physically liberating - he saw all that I was and wasn't and he liked. The sex was sometimes mechanical, but it all felt great, and even if I exaggerated a bit - I came every- time .
We met two other times . Once at his sisters house in DC. That time I had been dieting and working out like mad and had lost over 10 lbs. It was just enough to make me more confident and for him to take notice. Sex was outstanding, he fell asleep inside me and I though maybe I just fell.... He surprised me by being incredibly romantic; holding my hand through the park, swinging me around by the waist on the top steps of the Fine arts museum. Then dipping me and planting an enormous kiss on my lips right in front a bus load of swooning old ladies. Then at the apartment he surprised me with his annal retentiveness. He freaked and literally pushed me away from a counter, because I kept resting my hands where the cat had walked. He yelled at me because I drank out of a large bottle of water, “...without thinking that someone else might like some”. He yelled at me because I slid a dish to him and it,“could have fallen”. He was neurotic and stressed about being on time for dinner, packing the car, picking up groceries. Then when I expected him to completely burst an artery when we discovered his car had been towed, he surprised me by being completely calm and composed.
I wonder if I’m spending too much time and energy on him - building a slippery armor of John, so when that burdock ball of something real blows by it can’t latch on. Then again, what is this hypothetical burr I’m missing? A career, a “husband”. A man who adores me and wants to spend every moment together. Sooooo every time this starts, me feeling depressed, needy, horny, and demanding, we “break up”. I stop calling or answering the phone, wanting to be rid of him so I can move on - I mean, that’s what we are supposed to do right - smart healthy women walk away from men that don’t meet our needs. Confident, normal women, find men that give them a commitment - right. Only, I never know exactly what or how much more I need, and I wonder if I will always want just a little more than what it is I have. I'm afraid we might miss each other in that search.
John says he wants me to find true happiness and what it is we lack together. Maybe what I really need is just for John to want more of me. I want all those clichés, for him to say, I love you. I want him to compliment me, tell me I’m brilliant, talented, sexy, beautiful. I pretend he is inept at this kind of intimacy - but is it possible he just doesn’t feel these things for me? So I come to, or as my friends think - farther away from, my senses and I compromise. I don’t want to give up my best friend - the man who witnesses everyday of my life, because he is not perfect and dotingly dishonest. For pride I won't eat, sleep, drive, shop, or spend my life alone (it feels lonely enough with him).
So we mend - I apologize for being moody and needy. I recognize that he is probably right in not letting it go emotionally further - I acknowledge that we are not completely compatible. And I’m almost positive of it. So we continue to talk. We talk about our workouts at the gym his collage days. He tells me about his online purchase that day; mmm-another Bicycle jersey. I talk about my day at work and the gossip amongst co- workers, and recent lay-offs, and the emotional visit I had to an impoverished family. He listens (sometimes I hear his keyboard going in the background) mostly he listens, and he comments, and I feel like a compassionate person. Every now and then he asks me what I think about a social issue and I relay a story from my experience to which he sincerely, “Hmmm’s.” I feel smug and smart because this intelligent man is listening to what I have to say and taking it all in. Then there are times when I feel enraged because he doesn't listen and he knows everything. I often wonder, what is it that I offer him ...I don't like having to wonder about my worth.
Mostly he is generous, I like that I can remind him when he’s not. It’s surprising that as much as we talk, he won’t talk about his childhood or his father who died too early. He talks about his past girlfriends in detail and his body and his daily activities but if I try to talk about politics or current events he gets irritated and we inevitably argue. I explain that this makes me feel inept and I don’t understand why we can’t talk about anything meaningful. With this he usually softens and says something like, “Babe, we are on the same page here and I just don’t feel like discussing it”. So we go on talking about what we ate that day, and if we went to the gym, or grocery store, or bumped into a neighbor. I am bored, but eventually something different happens; he gets into a fight with his sister, or goes to a relatives for dinner. On rare occasion he works. This is what it’s about right, sharing the little moments that make up our lives. He knows all my friends by name and personality. He knows my struggles at work and with my mother, and with my body. I would miss him.
He emails me articles that pertain to relationships, or children, or my line of work. He sends me articles about art and he is always very interested to hear that I am painting. I am always eager to tell him when I’ve been painting. I use to look forward to his emails too, but now I find myself annoyed and wishing he would spend less time sending me articles (more so surfing the web) and get some work done. He talks about the hot girl at the gym and I tell my self we are not together why should I be jealous (I still am). I want to be cool, I tell him he is foxy - and that he should go back online and date - I tell him he is intelligent and deserving. I mean it. He says he needs to make some money and get his life together first. This appeases me and I'm not sure why.
Last night, I relayed his whole day for him before he could: I told him what he was wearing, how he cooked his oatmeal for breakfast, when and what else he ate all day, and when he watched the news. I described how he he ended the day by login out of his his “chat rooms”, stripped down to his navy blue Calvin Klien boxer briefs, and was now laying in bed with the phone to his ear wishing he could tell me that he loved me. He acted astonished and asked if I had a hidden camera in his house and I smiled at my accuracy and kinda cringed at the same time.
My friends don’t like John. The phantom man I bring up in casual conversation enough that it even annoys me. They don’t like that he is a little too absorbed with his "six pack abs", that he seems like a jobless loser that has moved back in with his mom. They don’t like that he used to give me advise about what I should eat. I can’t even tell them about the thing that bothers me.... It just seems like he sometimes trys too hard to be the “good-guy”. He has countless stories of helping out the crack-head neighbor, or giving a few bucks or a ride to someone he barely knows. He tells several stories of being screwed outta big money from friends or jobs. Only, I don’t feel sorry for him, I feel like a smart man wouldn’t put themselves in those situations. I hate that he plays a bit of a victim. I hate that I ignore my intuition because I want him on the other side of my phone. I hate that that makes me feel so desperate and shallow at the same time. I know that if he dated one of my friends I wouldn’t like him either. Problem is I do like him, a lot.
Last summer, I drove out to Philly with a friend to spend a week in his home town. The whole trip was great (aside from my friend whom I’ll here after call the feminazi). He handled her with amazing maturity and he was the most generous host. He brought us a decadent picnic dinner for the steps of the Philly art museum and didn’t blink and eye when my friend insisted we go out to dinner instead. He showed us the town and took us for Cheese steaks, and to all the museums. Then he and I spent every night alone together like two hormone soaked teenagers, driving around the city looking for places to hump. By the second night I tried to straddle him in the passenger seat of his sports car - but it was so hot and tight - and I’m not talking about me. I couldn't’ feel my legs - and his greedy attempt to throw me over the concol, whilst contorting his 6’2” frame around and into me, provided no orgasm; but instead provided pure humiliation when in the unlikely event that the person parked next to us would leave the hotel at 3 in the morning, actually did (to his great entertainment I'm sure!) Finally, in pure desperation we went to his friends apartment building and bribed the door man, with piping hot donuts, to let us in. In an empty apartment we humped like sweaty rabbits until I couldn't’ bear the synthetic fibers on my ass making me feel like a she wolf, or he the terrible rug burn that scabbed up and made him limp the rest of the trip.
Our last night in Philly he brilliantly orchestrated. It started with me trying on several dresses, he picked a gorgeous vintage heart shaped number and paired it with strappy wedge heals (My feminazi friend thought it was controlling). I loved that he took an interest - the whole night I felt sexy! Then we strolled though an old part of town and he showed me the row-of boat houses that looked like lit gingerbread creations reflecting on the river. He showed me the bridge he fell from in college which still bared the scars of a fearless yet loyal vandal. He brought me to his house and I saw pictures of him in his prime - yumina and we made out on his childhood bed. We stopped by a restaurant where his sister was hosting a local Radio show and he introduced me to his mother, grandmother, sister and friends! Then he took me to a fine italian bistro and ordered two apps and two meals for each of us! The food was delish and the waiters sang opera through the whole dinner! At midnight we walked around down town Philly, by the love sculpture and fountains. He gave me his jacket and he lead me gently and unconsciously around pot-holes and away from a car full of thugs that called me a “fucking bitch” because I didn’t have a lighter for them. I asked him why he didn’t defend my honor and he smiled and squeezed me. At some point we changed into jeans and ran around chasing each other in a park before going into the market district for 4 AM cheese steaks - he made me order the beef instead of the pork and try the hot peppers- I’m glad he did. Then I got to save him as he squealed at the cock roaches in the sleeping dirty abandoned market street - which he would dance with me on later in the bustling morning crowd.
We ended the night snuggling in the back seat of his car in the hotel parking lot. He slept head back, but I watched him for hours not able to sleep. I was over stimulated, over exhausted, driven giddy wet by the site of his strong chin and masculine neck with its dark skin like toasted butter. I wanted to lick it and kiss him, I needed him one last time. In the early morning, I did what I said I wouldn’t; we snuck back into the hotel room and into my bed where he silently and urgently tore off my shorts and entered me from behind. I let out the tiniest gasp to which he silenced with his hand. I let him hold my mouth and the rest of my body firmly against his, it felt so different, so raw. I liked it. I listed to make sure the nazi was still snoring, and I closed my eyes sucking on his fingers still in my mouth. I matched his breath, so needy behind me, and had all I could do to silence mine as he slid his wet fingers out of my mouth, over my nipple, and down to reach between my tightly closed thighs. His other hand simultaneously pulled my hips deep into his and quickly back out as he came. Just as quickly, I finally fell asleep.
It's been over a year and a half since that trip. Now we pretend not to need each other (or maybe it’s just me pretending). We don’t talk about politics, or getting together or the pack we made to have children in five years. We don’t talk about our childhoods or our futures. I don’t cry - he never says “I love you”.
Then when I feel like it's time to move on again...bored with the ambivalence of our conversations, he softens, and gets reminiscent and sentimental. Then we both get giddy, and horny, and we start acting like we are together and we flirt. Then he sends a few pics of his new cycling bod. I respond with meager accolades, and his tone turns sweet and deep, and he starts answering the phone with eager gentle “hello’s”. He says my name more. Then to my immense delight, this all culminates, as it did last night, into reminiscing about our sex-sions - and talk of my tight pussy and his hard cock , and how he would spread me, and take me, and own me; and how I would like it....And I would - very much. Then, at the end of some very steamy naughty verbal visuals given by him - which provoke some altogether unexaggerated panting and cooing from me, my little plastic bofriend says the dirtiest thing of all. “Babe I really wish you were here right now.”
I have to disclose that even though I instigated this blog - I am not the writer of this group। I am the queen of the comma and a breathlessly long sentence, not to mention I spell at about the level of a 7th grader. Thank god for spell check heh... (SOooo like a women to start out with a sort of apology-) Anyhoo - that outta the way I will embrace my Elliot and go balls to the walls here on out.... I do intend to add some journal sketches or art and I encourage all you talented bitches to do the same - That is, put um out there ladies - BALLS to the WAlls - YEEEE haaawwww ....
I pick Eliot as my nom de plume. Simply because it was the name of the first boy who made my heart pound. At eight, I could have never predicted that this heart would enlarge, shrink, skip, stop, implode, explode, and mend it self within the next twenty-five years. This loyal organ of mine has beat consistently while being carried and dragged through what seem like so many different lives. It started in a small wild flax haired girl, and grew within an emotionally retarded and sometimes reckless ski-bum. Some how I became a business women and mother... who in another life lost everything. To which my heart responded in stutters inside a confused recluse, pumping an embarrassing resivor of tears, before I found my self many years and lovers later as a strong independent hopeful social service slave and lazy artist. I wonder what the life and woman this heart will find itself in next...
