Maggie MaeFebruary 24, 2006 at 10:28 AM | Posted in Journal | 2 Comments
“The morning sun when it’s in your face really shows your age”
I am willing to admit that I am a sexual addict, or at least obsessive. Very obsessive. All I know is, I’m not getting enough. How much is enough? Well, enough to make me not bitch, I guess. I do have a robust libido. I could live with every other day, I think. But I am over 40 now. I would still prefer once a day, even now. But I remember a time. . .
Lord, do I remember a time.
I was living with Joy. The person, not the emotion. The emotion was more a collection, from pleasure to confusion to despair, desperation, fear, anxiety, briefly back to pleasure, then back to despair again. I had just broken up with my previous girlfriend. Out of the fire- –
I was 20. Joy was 39. Recently divorced. Psychotic alcoholic. But attracted to me, and willing, which is all it takes. I am a complete raging hard on now, but at 20, you risked penetration if you stood to close to me. I could do pushups with no hands, if you know what I mean. My dick, he is the commander. And he steered us right into that disaster.
I knew she drank, I just didn’t know how much. I got high. A lot. So I was in a difficult position to be judgmental. But for the most part, I had a pretty sweet setup. I would get off of work at Dominos late at night, and go over to her house, fuck her. Sleep over. Get up when she got up for work in the morning, and leave when she left. When she had car trouble, I was taking her to and from work. She worked for a doctor who had two offices. So she spent half her time in the office alone, just doing paperwork and whatnot while he was at the other office.
My dick saw opportunity. After I went home where my parents were gone to work, I showered and changed, and went to school (although I was soon to quit school about this time) then I would stop by her office and—well, I just wish I had this kind of magical power now—convince her to give me a blow job.
And then I would go to work, and repeat. I was getting it at least once, usually twice, and on occasion three times a day. Good times. . . good, good times.
But yeah, there is balance to everything.
She was crazier than a shithouse rat. I mean, even nuttier than a woman usually is. Mostly when a woman is nutty, it is just because men and women, they think differently. But she was nuts. On any given night, when I would leave work and drive to her house, that’s when the dread would start. What would I find when I got there? What would the conditions be? What would her condition be?
Because I never knew what to expect when I got there. It could be one of several different scenarios.
Would she just be sitting, watching TV or maybe ironing, and drinking a beer, as in one?
Would she be almost done with her first 12-pack, and heading out the door with her keys and checkbook, hellbent on destruction and the desire for more beer?
Would there be a small party of 6 to 12 people there, ranging from underage to mid-fifties, none of whom I would know? Drinking her beer and smoking my pot?
Would her ex-husband be there, picking up or dropping off the teenage daughter, checking up on her, and arguing or fighting about some ridiculous thing?
Would there be a large party, over 100 people, all from the girl’s high school, spilling into the streets, and cops everywhere? Cause that has happened a few times as well.
When she got drunk, she would reach a point, a certain instant, like a switch would flip, and so would she. In a moment, her personality would change, and she would become a different person. She even looked slightly different. Angry, angry drunk. Pissed and paranoid. She had always accused her ex-husband of cheating on her, but after a while I began to wonder. She started to accuse me after a fashion as well. And she had what became a self-fulfilling prophesy: “You’re going to leave me. I know you will.” At first, I swore that I wouldn’t. But after a while, I just didn’t answer anymore.
Because I knew, or I felt I knew, that eventually, this would end. I didn’t want to think about it, because for the most part, I was enjoying myself. I was young and I had no immediate plans. I was on this ride till I ran out of quarters.
As I write this, and as I think about it, I have a better perspective. I was stupid, selfish, and ignorant. But mostly I was young.
I was stupid for not seeing that I was using her.
I was selfish for using her.
I was ignorant for not thinking of the consequences of my actions.
And mostly I was young, and inexperienced with relationships and with people, and that’s why I was all of those other things.
We had some great times. And not just the sex. We went out and did things. Fun things, silly things. We just enjoyed ourselves. To me, it was never-ending, and timeless. To her, older, and able to see beyond the next five minutes, it was foreboding. The clouds were always gathered on the horizon, and all I could see was the pretty sunset. She could see the storm. She made the storm. In the end, when it was over, I felt that she drove me away. I think she subconsciously did it for my own good—or am I just giving her the benefit of the doubt? We would never get married, we would never have children together (and I mean never—her tubes were tied, and physically she couldn’t do it). We would never grow old together—we were on different calendars. If time were currency, hers was mostly spent, and my bills were crisp and clean. We would never. . .