In The First Place

March 31, 2011 § 2 Comments


I suppose I thought it was going to be like a movie. I hadn’t seen you in a few years, and the last time I’d been crashing at your place, a teen mother with a little baby, the weather had turned cold and we couldn’t chance sleeping in cars or on the streets. You’d had a girlfriend then, but you owned a house and you let us stay with you.

You were kind of old and gross, and I hated that you had a waterbed. But you were a sex therapist, and I always got off when we did it. I think you wanted to move us in to your house, too, but something about my relationships with every man in my life has always meant that the closer I get to a guy, the more I hate his guts. Or maybe that’s just the way it is for everyone, not just those of us who got boned by our dads, uncles, and babysitters. Maybe it’s just the human condition to despise the people who try to help us.

Anyway, I moved on to other couches and waterbeds, eventually moving to another state, and a few years later I was back at your doorstep, pregnant with the second child and about to get married. I hadn’t been planning to stop at your place, either, but I was driving past and I recognized your door, and I thought, “Fuck, man. This is going to be just like a movie.”

I got the movie part right, I suppose, but it wasn’t like the sort of movie I thought it was going to be- the one with the woman who has it all, but just needs passion, some bored housewife with a deep yearning for more from her life. And who was I kidding to think I was that sort of character, anyway? I wasn’t even legally able to drink booze yet and I was already getting ready to have my second child. I lived in an apartment above a bowling alley and had just kicked out my one-armed Mexican roommate because he kept cooking squirrels and his no-good son kept dealing pot out on our sidewalk. I wasn’t exactly a middle class book club member.

“I’m getting married tomorrow,” I said as soon as you opened the door. You looked the same as the last time I’d seen you, a bald head veined like the tip of a pulsing cock, sandy hair combed over it never quite enough. “and I just need to get fucked one last time.”

Note that in my older age, this sentence’s utterance ranks up there on the list of shit I’ve said that sounds ridiculous to me now. Also on the list is “They’re even better looking in the air.” But at the moment I say shit, it always seems like a good idea, and you smiled at me and brought me in your living room.

The resulting sex was possibly even more fucked up because I was sober and pregnant, but there was nothing cinematic in the way I waited, dress pulled up around my massive belly, on all four staring at your shag carpeting. Believe it or not, that was the first time and one of the last that I’d ever been fisted.

And the whole time you were doing it, shoving your hand up inside of me, laughing maniacally, really getting your arm into it, I should probably have been thinking about the guy I was about to marry, or thinking about whether or not it was good for the baby to have you pounding away like that.

Instead I was thinking about all the other shit I’d never done, other than the fisting. Some of it was sexual, some of it wasn’t. I was thinking about all sorts of stuff, though, big and small, places: disneyland, Mexico, California. foods that sounded exotic: crocodile, sushi, curry activities: tango, skydiving, swimming in the ocean. I was thinking about all of these things in categories, thinking to myself that if everything I’d never done was going to be like this, I should probably just stick with what I know.

And I was also thinking of a joke. This guy was making out with his girlfriend. “Put a finger in me” she begged, so he did. “Put two fingers in me!” she begged, so he did. “Put your whole hand in me!” she begged, so he did. “Now put your other hand in me!” she begged, so he did. “Now clap!” so he tried, but he couldn’t. She smiled and said, “tight, huh?”

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