You Should Write Your Memoirs

November 7, 2011 § Leave a comment

I once hooked up with a stranger at a bar, brought him home, lead him through my 6 bedroom Victorian house, past toys on the floor, past wedding pictures still on the wall, past the room where my burboun stinking husband snored, and up into what had become my bedroom.
My bedroom was the attic, beautiful sloped purple walls, 100 years old, a bathroom with a claw foot tub; this is the sort of place lesbian poet painters drink constant comment tea and laugh because they don’t have to do anything about the incoming wiry bits of hair on their chins.

You almost fucked an inflatable pig this weekend. It was in my closet, and nobody has fucked it yet. And the only reason you didn’t fuck it is you didn’t know it was already blown up. I couldn’t have had the time I had with you this weekend with anyone else. Not ever. There’s nobody else in the world I could lay on top of in a pair of huge, ugly pajamas and use a vibrator to get off while watching porn, then roll off of and fall asleep next to while they had a jack-fest in the bed next to me. And yet, it never occurred to us to fuck each other.

The guy I’d brought home was some Hesser from the dive bar two blocks from my house. It was my birthday, and there I was singing karaoke alone at a dive bar in Wisconsin. I sang “Alone” by Heart and I nailed it in a way that made all the truckers and bikers and local factory workers nod in recognition as I walked away from the mic. If I’d nodded back it would have been a matter of hours before I was one of them, so instead I walked to the bar. This skinny motherfucker was checking me out, and even though I had one more song queued up, I asked him if he liked to fuck, and then I took him home.

The trouble with a lot of the sex we’ve had in our lives is that most of it is too boring to even talk about. All the stuff leading up to the sex can be halfway interesting, and sometimes a really good story. But the sex itself, the part people wait for when they’re reading sexy stories, well it’s like gray lumps of nothing. Lame pokes and fingers and pussies as dry as cinnamon sticks, or half limp dicks, or everything is fine and we roll around and he slaps my ass, and it’s just as boring as anything.

I’ll keep in mind all the stuff we talked about this weekend, like I said. But you talked about how I should be writing my memoirs, or writing more, and I just have to say, I’m worried. I’m worried that my writing will be as boring as most of the sex I’ve had. And I can’t bear two areas of disappointment.


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