411 lines
22 KiB
Plaintext
411 lines
22 KiB
Plaintext
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_____________ _/_/ | | \ \ _/_/ _____________
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| ___________ _/_/ | | \ \ _/_/ ___________ |
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| | _/_/_____ | | > > _/_/_____ | |
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| | /________/ | | / / /________/ | |
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| | c o m m u n i c a t i o n s | |
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| |________________________________________________________________| |
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|____________________________________________________________________|
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...presents... Butch
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by Jane Delynn
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>>> a cDc publication.......1991 <<<
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-cDc- CULT OF THE DEAD COW -cDc-
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______________________________________________________________________________
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SHE WAS SO UGLY I found her attractive, though of course I didn't want
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anybody to see me with her. When I left the bar I made her walk several feet
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behind me, like Chinese women used to do. I told her it was because I didn't
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want anybody to see me with a woman, but really it was just her-with her
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crewcut what would people think? This was long before punk had made the
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androgynous look respectable. Even inside my building I made her walk a flight
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behind me up the stairs. I was poor then, and lived in a walk-up on the
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Bowery. And yet I was not unhappy, for I lived entirely for love. Much of the
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city did then, though it never will again.
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I put on a record, took out two beers, turned down the lights, and sat
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next to her on the couch. I felt relaxed, as I always do with someone less
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attractive than me, since then it's up to them to initiate sex. I would never
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have walked over to anybody who looked like her at the bar. And yet as I
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stared at her pale, soft skin, her short, spiky hair, my pants got wet:
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amazing. A wave of total peace washed over me and I shut my eyes. The ball
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game was not in my park. Whatever happened, happened. I didn't choose it and
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it was not my fault.
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She began to tell me about her life. She had grown up in some small
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upstate town, the kind of dreary town one might look back at with pleasure but
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would yearn to escape from at the time. But even in retrospect there was no
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pleasure for her, because her father had caught her humping her girlfriend on a
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sleepover date when she was sixteen, and beat her up. A year later he caught
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them again and threw her out of the house. The girlfriend left her to marry
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some guy, so she moved to New York, where there were other people like her. It
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was during one of the lulls in the East Village, and she quickly found a share
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in a four-room walk-up between First and A. The normal thing for someone like
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her would have been to become a waitress, but she wasn't attractive enough
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(though in a few years her short-cropped hair and male suit jackets would be
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all the rage), so she took this job her roommate found her in a T-shirt
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factory. They were lovers, though Diane was fat, unattractive, a real cunt.
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All day long they hammered stuff on T-shirts-shiny little round things that
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made patterns. It was lower-class, blue-collar, real boring, back in those
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days before the Sony Walkman. That is, it was boring to Laura to live it, but
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not for me to listen to it. Everyone I knew was a struggling writer, painter,
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or some other arty type, so hearing her was refreshing, the way it would have
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been to spend a day in an African village-or Passaic, New Jersey.
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She was supposed to be at work by eight in the morning, but she was a
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night person and often was late. She'd pick up a coffee and bagel and bring it
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into the factory. Nobody cared, everybody was in their own world. She had
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gotten to be friends with some of them, but Diane was jealous of anything that
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moved. Lately they hadn't been getting on so well; that was why she was with
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me now, though if Diane found out she would kill her. If Diane had walked into
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Bonnie and Clyde's and seen us talking, she would have beaten Laura up-and
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maybe me too. But luckily she hung out at Gianni's, where the serious
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bulldykes went-the ones who were into cross-dressing. At least that's what
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they used to call it, before the style seeped into the upper classes and got
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renamed the "androgynous" look. Most of the time Diane was on the wagon, but
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when she got drunk she went absolutely crazy. She would push Laura up against
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the wall, and throw words like "slut," "bitch," "cocksucking cunt" at her.
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Then she would slap her. Laura was thin, pale, soft with tiny birdlike bones,
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and I could see the pleasure one could get in terrorizing her. Once Diane
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punched Laura in the face and Laura had a black eye and didn't go to work for
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almost a week. She made up some story but everyone knew all about it anyway;
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they always did. Laura would tell Diane that Diane didn't love her, that Diane
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just wanted to control somebody. But when Laura threatened to move out, Diane
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would threaten to commit suicide, and Laura would end up staying.
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"Why did you sleep with her in the first place if she's so horrible?"
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I asked lazily. But I knew the answer: it was similar to the reason why I was
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with her tonight, though somebody tall and blonde and beautiful was probably
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lying sleepless now because of me.
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"Oh, she's not so bad," said Laura.
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The record was over, I thought about getting up and turning it over,
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but I didn't, then the silence became interesting. I was spacey from the
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marijuana, and I realized how tired I was of being even a little bit in charge.
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Of anything. It began to seem more disruptive of the mood to put on music than
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let the silence be-though bits of songs played in my head like a movie track.
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I realized how rarely it was I was with another person without some kind of
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music in the background. I wondered if Laura was playing something in her head
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too. I cleared my throat to speak, but I stopped. The silence grew more and
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more awkward, but then this very awkwardness should compel her to do something.
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As I waited I began imagining Laura and Diane together in a bed: a fat
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bulldyke and a water-pale wisp. The relationship was mysterious,
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incomprehensible, but what relationship wasn't? The tall blond woman who
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waited for me-my official-who was she and what did it mean when she said she
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loved me? What could it possibly mean when i told her I loved her? What
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relationship did the person I thought I was have with the one sitting here on
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the couch, my pants wet at the idea of having sex with someone I kept telling
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myself disgusted me. Was it that I secretly liked her, and was embarrassed by
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my attraction, or was it the disgust itself I liked? Did Laura put up with the
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fear and beatings because she liked Diane, or was it the fear and beatings that
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she liked?
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"What are you thinking?" she asked.
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"Oh, nothing." I waited awhile "Actually, I was thinking about Diane.
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Whether she'll punch you out when you go home."
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"Does it turn you on to think about that?"
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"Maybe."
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Her hand slipped inside my blouse and touched my nipples. They were
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erect. Her hands were cold. I heard myself breathing fast, and the utter
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shamelessness of this-the person I was breathing fast for-only made me breathe
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even faster. Had I ever been more turned on? And yet, she was scarcely doing
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anything-barely circling the tips of my nipple with her finger. Why couldn't
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she put her mouth there? My body strained toward her as in a bad porno movie.
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She shoved her hand inside my closed jeans, though because of the tightness of
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my jeans she couldn't get very far, maybe a little south of my belly button. I
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twisted to meet her fingers, to move my pubic hairs a little more toward her.
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I yearned for her to undo my belt, unsnap the snap, push down the zipper, slide
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her pale white fingers inside my underpants, spread my legs, drive me crazy
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with her icy touch. But no, she continued this lazy circling of her finger.
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Gradually the yearning turned to anger, that she was dawdling, torturing me by
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this slow tease. And yet, oddly, the angrier I got, the more my respect for
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her grew.
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Finally she put her mouth on my nipple, undid my belt, unzipped my
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jeans, and shoved her hand inside my pants. Even then, she didn't slide her
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fingers straight in, but kept tweaking my pubic hairs, somehow managing to
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avoid both my clitoris and vagina. The bottom of my body bucked in a way that
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was at least partly nonvolitional. Her arm pressed down on my pubic bone and I
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felt like I couldn't move (though of course I could).
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"God, you're wet," she said.
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At last she pushed her fingers inside my vagina and crawled on top of
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me, so that the weight of her body was on the arm that was inside me. Whereas
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before she had been gentle, now she became incredibly rough, jerking her arm
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back and forth very quickly. I was so wet it didn't hurt. "I bet I could get
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my whole hand inside," she said, as if in a question.
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"Okay," I whispered. At that moment there was nothing I wouldn't have
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let her do (though of course there was).
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She cupped her fingers, trying to get her hand inside. It was as if I
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hadn't felt her before, as if my skin had been numb to individual sensations,
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that I'd been this wet tunnel down which something smooth had been shoved. But
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now I could differentiate her various fingers. "Three," then "four," she
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counted out loud. She had to struggle to get the last one in, and so did I.
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"Am I hurting you?" she asked.
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"That's okay."
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"If I'm hurting you I'll stop." She started to withdraw her hand. My
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body sucked out after it.
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"It feels good," I had to whisper.
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"Oh." Was I imagining the triumph in her voice? In any case, she
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spread me wide, as if she were about to give me a D&C, then I felt her
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knuckles. She was trying to bend her hand into a fist.
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This really hurt, in a way that was hard to tell whether it was
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pleasurable or not. The tips of my nipples were no longer erect, and the
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wetness seemed, not a response to some unfulfilled yearning, but a reflex no
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more interesting than the turning on of a faucet. And yet I was pushing my
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legs apart as far as possible so she could get her fist inside my vagina.
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Peaceful, I guess you'd best describe it, almost as if I could fall asleep. I
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moaned when she put her teeth around my nipple. "You're very sweet," she told
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me.
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I have always felt this to be true, though very few people have
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recognized it as such. With my nipple still in her mouth she pushed my jeans
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down so they encircled my ankles. I as sweating and messy. She was much
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cooler than I, almost clinical as she proceeded, which not only aroused me but
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made me like her better. Somehow things were more in balance than earlier in
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the evening. I wished she had brought a camera with her so we could have taken
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pictures of me masturbating to the sight of her naked body-and ever after I
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could torture myself as to what she had done with them.
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Abruptly she pulled out her hand, then I heard her stand up. I kept my
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eyes shut, wondering what she was doing, if she were going to search up some
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strange toy in her pocketbook. I heard her walk away, then behind my lids I
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saw, or perhaps felt, the warmer glow which I pretended was sun, but which was
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really a distant light in my apartment. I heard the toilet flush, but not the
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sound of the sink.
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She came back. Her hands made me shiver. I opened my eyes. "Did you
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wash your hands?" I asked.
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"What do you think?"
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They were cold, so I decided to assume she had. I lay there, the jeans
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still around my legs, in the same position I had been in before, as if I were
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tied up and couldn't move. This passivity both embarrassed me and turned me
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on. She took my right hand with her left and gently brought it up over my
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head. She held it down with her arm as she lowered her head onto my breasts
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and bit my right nipple.
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"Ow," I moaned. But I didn't push her away. In fact, the lower part
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of my body gyrated toward her. She took my other hand and placed it above my
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head. She held both my arms down with one of hers as she crawled on top of me
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until her knees held down my arms. She pulled my belt through the loops on my
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jeans, and wrapped it around my hands. Then she took the end and wrapped it
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around my hands. Then she took the end and wrapped it around the leg of my
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couch.
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Both the leather and buckle cut into my wrists. The belt wasn't very
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long and I had to lean partway off the couch. "That hurt," I said.
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"But you don't mind," She said. Silence. "Do you?"
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"Not exactly."
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"I didn't think so," She stared at me rather impersonally, then slapped
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me lightly on the face.
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"Ow," I said. But it didn't really hurt.
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"Come on," she said. She ran her fingers very lightly down my stomach,
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then all of a sudden slapped me again.
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This time it did hurt, but I didn't say anything. "How does that
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feel?" she asked.
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"Okay," I said
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"'Okay?' Is that all? We'll have to do something about that." She
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slapped me again, even harder.
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"Ow." this time I wasn't so sure I liked it. It was no longer part of
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my fantasy. I wasn't sure what was coming next. For the first time I really
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pulled at my hands to see if I could get free.
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"Roll over." she said.
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"What?"
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"Roll over." With the belt around my hands it was hard to do this. I
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had to move even nearer the couch leg and kind of slip my head around under my
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arms. Gently she ran the tips of her fingers over my ass. It rose slightly in
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the air, waiting for her. Whether the goosebumps were from her touch or the
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cold, I didn't know. I kept worrying I would fart. She stroked down the crack
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to my vagina, where she soaked up some goop with her finger. She used this to
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lubricate my asshole.
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"One sec," she said. She got up, went over to her jacket to get
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something, came back. With my eyes shut I waited for her finger, or maybe even
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a tongue (this being long before the Plague), but I felt something hard and
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unfleshy-feeling press against me. "You ever use this?" she asked.
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By turning my head as much as I could, I could see the black leather
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around her groin and the pink latex in the shape of a penis sticking out from
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it.
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"Not this way," I said. "Won't it hurt?"
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"That's up to you." She spread apart my cheeks and moved forward over
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my ass, then began to press the dildo into me.
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"That hurts," I said.
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"Just relax." She ran her fingers over my ass, and I felt the
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goosebumps again. I realized I was holding muscles tensed, and told myself to
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let go. As I exhaled she pushed it in further.
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"Ow!"
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"I told you. Relax." She moved a hand back inside my vagina, and in
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spite of the pain the wet began to flow, as if there were two separate bodies
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inside my one head. The other hand continued to help ease the tip of the dildo
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far enough into my body so that it wouldn't fall out. When I had relaxed
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enough to open myself to the pain, she put the hand that had been holding the
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dildo inside my mouth. The hand smelled like wet rubber, and I liked it. She
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moved her fingers in and out of my mouth in a kind of lulling rhythm; I drooled
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on them as if it were a cock I was sucking. Then she began to move her fingers
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along my gums and the muscles under my tongue, even in my nose, then back into
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my mouth. It was strangely erotic, though I did begin to worry about germs.
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With all this distraction I did not have much mental space to concentrate on
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the area of diffuse pain around my asshole where she was still pushing in the
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dildo. When on occasion I thought of it I moaned, but the pain, although
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intense, was made bearable by the thought of my strange submission.
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Not just bearable-pleasurable-at the thought that all my holes were
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filled, my body possessed, not by just anyone, but by this being who disgusted
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me. Had it been someone I cared about it might have been different, but since
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I did not know her, and there was nothing I could do about it, I might as well
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relax and enjoy it. No doubt I would have been happy enough with her on a
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desert island, where I could let her make love to me all day and no one would
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ever know. And yet, with world enough and time, perhaps I would not have
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wanted to let her do it, or she herself might not have wanted to do it. For is
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it not often true that when you want someone to make love to you all day, they
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don't want to, so you have to make love to them in order to get them to want to
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make love ot you-so the person who wants sex the least generally gets more of
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it?
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Then, beyond the pain and mental pleasures, came a powerful sensation
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of peace. I realized all my life I'd wanted something in there. The hand that
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had pushed in the dildo now cupped my right breast, as if a boat had capsized
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and she was hanging onto me. I was tired and wanted to go to sleep. The sweat
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on my body was drying up. I hadn't had an orgasm, and I knew I wouldn't get
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one. "I'm cold," I said.
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She kissed the back of my neck, which made me shiver further. Then she
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took her hands off my breast and out of my vagina and began to push herself up
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off my back. The dildo pulled out a little, which hurt, though not as much as
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when she had put it in. "Ow," I said. But what I really felt was sadness. I
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had gotten used to it being there.
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"Shh." She fiddled with something, then abruptly stood up. The
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peaceful sensation was still inside my body, but less so. When I turned my
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head I saw that the dildo no longer was attached to the black leather belt.
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She untied the end of my belt of the couch leg and carried me perhaps fifteen
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feet over to my bed. "Be careful," I said. She was so small and I was scared
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she'd drop me.
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She placed me down on the bed, my ass still in the air with the dildo
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sticking out of it. The pants belt was still looped around my hands. She took
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a blanket and placed it over me. It pressed down on the dildo a little, which
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felt good.
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Then she crawled on top of me, turned my head to the side and kissed
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me. Her lips were incredibly soft, and in spite of my fatigue I felt sexual
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stirrings again. "What can I do for you?" I asked. In spite of my disgust, I
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wanted to bury my head in her, in order to fall asleep.
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"Nothing."
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"You sure?"
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She kissed me again, then stood up and began to walk away. Again I
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shut my eyes. I wondered what other trick she was going to come back with:
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blindfold, handcuffs, tit clamps.
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"Goodbye," she said.
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"What?" I opened my eyes. Whether it was because I didn't want her to
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go, or because I didn't want that peaceful sensation that had spread from my
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asshole to the rest of my body to leave, I couldn't be sure. I began to
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imagine my loneliness after she'd gone. "I give the best head in the world," I
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said. "Haven't you heard?"
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"So that's who they were talking about at the bar." She was so deadpan
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that for a moment I got paranoid. I never expected anyone I was with to have
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the slightest sense of humor.
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"I really do," I said.
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"Some other time."
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She moved toward me, and I waited for her to remove the dildo.
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Instead, she pushed it in further.
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"Ow."
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"That's in there pretty good now, isn't it?" She patted it.
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"Yes."
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"I'm going to leave you like this."
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"No. It hurts." But the more it hurt, the more I liked it. And her,
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standing calmly by in her jacket, indifferently pushing the pink latex into me.
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"You don't really mind, do you?" Silence. "Do you?"
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"I guess not," I admitted.
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"I knew you wouldn't." She gave it a last shove, then bent down to
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kiss me briefly on the mouth. Then she moved to the door. I knew it could be
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dangerous to be left like this, my arms still tied by my belt, but I loved the
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idea of being able to tell my friends about it in retrospect.
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"Will you come back and get it?" I asked.
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"Maybe. You never know." She opened the door, then left. The words
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"I love you" played through my mind, but I knew it wasn't true. But I felt as
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sad as if they were true. For a while I lay there, then I maneuvered the belt
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off my hands, pulled out the dildo, and went into the bathroom to brush my
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teeth and wash my face. Even when I was back in bed, listening to the country
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music station play songs from a region I wished I had been able to escape from,
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rather than move toward, as I was doing now, the sadness stayed with me. It
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was the same sadness that was always there, and it occurred to me I must like
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it. Why else did I keep going to bars, if not to find it?
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_ _ ____________________________________________________________________
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/((___))\|Demon Roach Undrgrnd.806/794-4362|Kingdom of Shit.......806/794-1842|
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[ x x ] |NIHILISM.............517/546-0585|Paisley Pasture.......916/673-8412|
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\ / |Polka AE {PW:KILL}...806/794-4362|Ripco.................312/528-5020|
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(' ') |Tequila Willy's GSC..209/526-3194|The Works.............617/861-8976|
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.ooM |1991 cDc communications by Jane Delynn 08/31/91-#193|
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\_______/|All Rights Pissed Away. FIVE YEARS of cDc|
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