Sunday, June 13, 2004
Ah, Part II. Where to begin... conveniently skipping the graphic sex parts (sorry fellas), we resume our journey during the post-coital exhaustion. Yes, the appropriate word would be exhaustion. [snapping fingers] That's right, I said it. Jealous? Sleep. Deep, exhausted, relieved and welcome sleep. And with sleep like that always comes an interesting dream:
I am living in a community of boat-dwellers. [Shut up, it's just a freakin' dream, people!] Homes and businesses are based on large ships and barges, and people travel via small boats of varying styles. [Oh My GOD! Did I just have a Waterworld dream???] My boat had huge, delicate wings that curled up high and touched the water with the very tip, and somehow allowed my boat to hover inches over the water. I was very proud of this boat, and thought it was the height of design and innovation. Most of the other folks thought it was pretty stupid. But Rusty had a boat just like it. I believe that in this dream, Rusty and I were in the process of moving; everything we owned was stashed in little organized cubicles around the edges of a larger boat that was taking us to our intended destination. As I prepared to leave, my boss [Totally fictional person, I have no idea who this man was.] stopped me and gave me a folder full of Very Important Papers. Each paper had been signed by a different person. Some sort of legal paperwork that had a big impact on all of my co-workers. He underscored the importance of delivering these papers to their destination, saying everyone was counting on me. It was difficult to get onto this boat, because I had to take a wide step over bins of our things, and there were no handles or rails. The boat rocked as Rusty stood up and took my hand to steady me. We got settled in while a 3rd person navigated the boat away from the dock and out to the open water. It's at this point that I realize that we are not outdoors, but inside some massive cave, and the light is very ominous, a soft green glow that shimmers and dances on the cave ceiling. The boat slows to make a turn, and I suddenly realize that the boat is sinking. I do not feel panic, though the thought crosses my mind that everything that is important to me is on this boat and I am quite concerned about what will happen to it all. I don't feel the water, but I feel a steady downward movement, and I see the boat rising up above me, upside down. I am floating. All around me items are falling from the bins around me, like rain, in a ring surrounding me, but not touching me. A stapler, a coffee cup, a spoon, a candle... The water glows as if there is a bright light somewhere nearby, though it doesn't seem to come from a specific place. My movements are slow, and I know I am underwater, but I am not panicking. I am breathing. But I am trapped, and after a few seconds of staring at the beauty and general weirdness of the situation, I realize I have to find a way out. I sense movement behind me, turn and see Rusty, also very calm. He reaches his hand out to me, I take it, and he pulls me to safety.
So of course this dream left me awash with amorous glowing hero-worship type feelings, which lingered for several hours after I woke. We spent the morning and afternoon driving here and there, running a couple errands, stopping at a restaurant, strolling through the mall. Just very casual couple-time. No plan, no pressure. It was nice. After we left the mall, he received a call from his Ex, who seems to not understand the concept of divorce. If I were a less trusting person, and if I weren't privvy to enough trivial related details, I might even suspect that she is not aware of any divorce plans whatsoever. It is highly irritating and as long as it continues, it will serve as a dividing wedge between Rusty and I and I absolutely do not see this relationship working out positively until her influence is... well, to use a melodramatic word, vanquished. As is her natural tendency, she complained that she had come over to let him spend time with their daughter but he wasn't there. He argued briefly with her about who-said-what-when, hung up and drove me back to my car. Geez, guess the date's over, eh? I wish I could wield that sort of power over other people... [Picturing myself in a white labcoat, thick rubber gloves, horn-rimmed glasses, leaning over a glowing, bubbling vat of Something, "I'm MAD! Maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaad with POW-AH!!! Muaaaaahahahaha hahahahahahahaha!!!"] He pulled into the parking lot, and I pointed out where my car was waiting. "I know." he said and gave me a sly look as he drove in the opposite direction. He found a secluded spot behind the building and turned off the car. Sure, I could go for a little mash-session, why not?
Those of you who are prone to fainting spells and fits of offended anger over sexually graphic discussions please log off now, as I have no intention of censoring myself for this part.
Turns out a "mash session" wasn't exactly what he had in mind. No, he wanted a blow job. Now I'll reiterate that he has tinted windows, so this really isn't completely out of the question, logistically speaking, and previous discussions and events as well as my own actions could reasonably lead any normal man to the conclusion that this request would be met with an enthusiastically positive response. So for a moment, I didn't really understand why this request so quickly pierced my thin skin and burrowed in for a long-winter's nap.
A brief aside... having been married to a person who found all notions of oral sex to be repugnant, I have been more than willing to participate in such acts. I actually enjoy it. [I know, men across the planet are desperately trying to figure out how to get my phone number now.] I seem to have mastered the proper technique to avoid the unfortunate gag reflex most of the time, and well, there's an element of control there that is empowering and intoxicating. What I don't enjoy about giving head is the resulting blister on my lip. "WHAT??!?!?!?" you say, so innocently and naively. The blister is from curling my upper lip over my front teeth--slightly unintentional, slightly intentional, as a means of preventing digging a perfect tooth-shaped gash down the length of his unit. So yes, instead of digging into his manhood, it's digging into the inside of my lip. Ow. I don't recall this happening B.S. (Before Shitfoot). It's a good thing I don't do this every day, or I'd have to go on strike occasionally to allow it to heal. Perhaps someday it'll develop into a callous, puffing my already-full and round lips out to unnatural proportions. I may be accused of succumbing to Madison Avenue and getting collagen injections. Hmmm, maybe Angelina Jolie hasn't had collagen after all. She's just a little Oral Freak. A BJ Diva. A Buxom, Bobbleheaded, Knee-Pad-Wearing Clinton Fan.
I digress. The act was nearing completion. And for the record, yes. I swallow. It's official, my friends now know far more about me than they ever wanted to. His phone rang. His Ex wanted to know if he was on his way yet. I am beginning to have far less-than-kind thoughts about that woman. More arguing about I-said-you-said. The phone is then turned off, which, in my esteemed opinion, it should have been after the first call, but then, who would have guessed she'd be calling again less than 20 minutes later? The act is completed. And Wham-Bam-Thank-You-Ma'am, I'm being dropped off at my car.
I am now thoroughly pissed off. And hurt. And feeling a bit psycho about it. How did my Romeo in Black Jeans, my Rescue Hero, my Knight in Leather on his chrome-covered steed... how did he turn into a callous, typical-man-style jackass? Please note, I didn't intend to call Rusty a jackass just then... I don't believe he's a jackass. He's not. Let's review: Rusty: NOT A JACKASS. So the Sassy Sisters begin to lecture me. You know, all those Sassy voices in my head... they aren't psychotic if they're not telling you to kill someone, right?
Bitch Sassy: Fucking JACKASS!! 'I got mine, now gitthefuckout, BITCH!' Well FUCK YOU RIGHT BACK, you JACKASS!! I'm not your stupid fucking WHORE to be used and tossed aside. I am not your fucking CUM RECEPTACLE!!
Wench Sassy: Fine. I'm stopping at Priscilla's and buying a dildo the size of a fucking HORSE and give myself the orgasm of the century. And after that, no man will be able to satisfy me, so THERE, you silly adolescent!
Adolescent Sassy: But IIIIIIIIIIII want MINE TOO!! I NEVER get to do what I want! Why do I have to go home now? I don't want to and you CAN'T MAKE ME!
Black Mood Sassy: That's it--that's the sign: he doesn't like me. He's just using me. If something were to happen and I couldn't fuck him, he'd dump me in a New York minute. Or less.
Self-Loathing Sassy: That's it--that's the sign: I AM a filthy whore. I'm lucky I'm not riddled with herpes or syphilis or something. Stupid ho. Stupid, stupid slut. You deserve it. You're getting played, you stupid ho.
Vengeful Sassy: Oh, he'll pay. He'll pay for this. Never again. Ne-VER again. He's lucky I don't Lorena Bobbitt his precious partner... just bite it the hell off. Fucker.
Rationalizing Sassy: This is OK, it's really no big deal. He's got to get back home, it's not his fault. What kind of bitch doesn't want the man to spend time with his daughter?? You wouldn't want to take your clothes off right here anyway, so why sweat it? You did him a favor. I'm sure he'll pay you back in kind eventually. Right?
Jealous Sassy: Everyone else is more important to him than me. Why is he divorcing her anyway? She just bats a freaking eye and he's jumping for her. And it's always gonna be that way because she uses their daughter to get to him. She does this shit on purpose. But no matter what she does, he's always going to acquiesce because he won't stand up to her and call her on it. Why risk looking like a bad father? Certainly not for ME, that's for sure.
Baby Sassy: He doesn't LOOOOOOOOVE MEEEEEEE!! Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah! He doesn't even LIIIIIIIIKE me! NOBODY LIKES MEEEEE!!!
So with all that going on in my head, I was not really in a position to be mature. That's reasonable, isn't it? So when I leaned in for a goodbye kiss, I wasn't expecting him to recoil in horror at the notion. "Sorry..." he cringed, "I just... can't." It took a moment to figure out what the FUCK he was talking about. The semen. The semen on my breath was grossing him out. HIS semen. Oy, here come the voices again. Let me boil it down to one easily understandable synopsis: "It's fine to put it in MY mouth, but cross-contamination is out of the question. I mean, sure, MY mouth is already a filth pit of repulsion, right?"
Cue tears.
Cue crazy.
Cue emotion repression reflex.
Cue flight response.
Not really the ideal way to end what would have otherwise been a blissfully fantastic date. I'm still kicking myself for letting it happen that way. And mentally kicking him, too, true. Shame on the both of us. This mess must be sorted through and dealt with. Definitely need to work on the Ex Issue. Ha, that ought to be simple, right?
I am living in a community of boat-dwellers. [Shut up, it's just a freakin' dream, people!] Homes and businesses are based on large ships and barges, and people travel via small boats of varying styles. [Oh My GOD! Did I just have a Waterworld dream???] My boat had huge, delicate wings that curled up high and touched the water with the very tip, and somehow allowed my boat to hover inches over the water. I was very proud of this boat, and thought it was the height of design and innovation. Most of the other folks thought it was pretty stupid. But Rusty had a boat just like it. I believe that in this dream, Rusty and I were in the process of moving; everything we owned was stashed in little organized cubicles around the edges of a larger boat that was taking us to our intended destination. As I prepared to leave, my boss [Totally fictional person, I have no idea who this man was.] stopped me and gave me a folder full of Very Important Papers. Each paper had been signed by a different person. Some sort of legal paperwork that had a big impact on all of my co-workers. He underscored the importance of delivering these papers to their destination, saying everyone was counting on me. It was difficult to get onto this boat, because I had to take a wide step over bins of our things, and there were no handles or rails. The boat rocked as Rusty stood up and took my hand to steady me. We got settled in while a 3rd person navigated the boat away from the dock and out to the open water. It's at this point that I realize that we are not outdoors, but inside some massive cave, and the light is very ominous, a soft green glow that shimmers and dances on the cave ceiling. The boat slows to make a turn, and I suddenly realize that the boat is sinking. I do not feel panic, though the thought crosses my mind that everything that is important to me is on this boat and I am quite concerned about what will happen to it all. I don't feel the water, but I feel a steady downward movement, and I see the boat rising up above me, upside down. I am floating. All around me items are falling from the bins around me, like rain, in a ring surrounding me, but not touching me. A stapler, a coffee cup, a spoon, a candle... The water glows as if there is a bright light somewhere nearby, though it doesn't seem to come from a specific place. My movements are slow, and I know I am underwater, but I am not panicking. I am breathing. But I am trapped, and after a few seconds of staring at the beauty and general weirdness of the situation, I realize I have to find a way out. I sense movement behind me, turn and see Rusty, also very calm. He reaches his hand out to me, I take it, and he pulls me to safety.
So of course this dream left me awash with amorous glowing hero-worship type feelings, which lingered for several hours after I woke. We spent the morning and afternoon driving here and there, running a couple errands, stopping at a restaurant, strolling through the mall. Just very casual couple-time. No plan, no pressure. It was nice. After we left the mall, he received a call from his Ex, who seems to not understand the concept of divorce. If I were a less trusting person, and if I weren't privvy to enough trivial related details, I might even suspect that she is not aware of any divorce plans whatsoever. It is highly irritating and as long as it continues, it will serve as a dividing wedge between Rusty and I and I absolutely do not see this relationship working out positively until her influence is... well, to use a melodramatic word, vanquished. As is her natural tendency, she complained that she had come over to let him spend time with their daughter but he wasn't there. He argued briefly with her about who-said-what-when, hung up and drove me back to my car. Geez, guess the date's over, eh? I wish I could wield that sort of power over other people... [Picturing myself in a white labcoat, thick rubber gloves, horn-rimmed glasses, leaning over a glowing, bubbling vat of Something, "I'm MAD! Maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaad with POW-AH!!! Muaaaaahahahaha hahahahahahahaha!!!"] He pulled into the parking lot, and I pointed out where my car was waiting. "I know." he said and gave me a sly look as he drove in the opposite direction. He found a secluded spot behind the building and turned off the car. Sure, I could go for a little mash-session, why not?
Those of you who are prone to fainting spells and fits of offended anger over sexually graphic discussions please log off now, as I have no intention of censoring myself for this part.
Turns out a "mash session" wasn't exactly what he had in mind. No, he wanted a blow job. Now I'll reiterate that he has tinted windows, so this really isn't completely out of the question, logistically speaking, and previous discussions and events as well as my own actions could reasonably lead any normal man to the conclusion that this request would be met with an enthusiastically positive response. So for a moment, I didn't really understand why this request so quickly pierced my thin skin and burrowed in for a long-winter's nap.
A brief aside... having been married to a person who found all notions of oral sex to be repugnant, I have been more than willing to participate in such acts. I actually enjoy it. [I know, men across the planet are desperately trying to figure out how to get my phone number now.] I seem to have mastered the proper technique to avoid the unfortunate gag reflex most of the time, and well, there's an element of control there that is empowering and intoxicating. What I don't enjoy about giving head is the resulting blister on my lip. "WHAT??!?!?!?" you say, so innocently and naively. The blister is from curling my upper lip over my front teeth--slightly unintentional, slightly intentional, as a means of preventing digging a perfect tooth-shaped gash down the length of his unit. So yes, instead of digging into his manhood, it's digging into the inside of my lip. Ow. I don't recall this happening B.S. (Before Shitfoot). It's a good thing I don't do this every day, or I'd have to go on strike occasionally to allow it to heal. Perhaps someday it'll develop into a callous, puffing my already-full and round lips out to unnatural proportions. I may be accused of succumbing to Madison Avenue and getting collagen injections. Hmmm, maybe Angelina Jolie hasn't had collagen after all. She's just a little Oral Freak. A BJ Diva. A Buxom, Bobbleheaded, Knee-Pad-Wearing Clinton Fan.
I digress. The act was nearing completion. And for the record, yes. I swallow. It's official, my friends now know far more about me than they ever wanted to. His phone rang. His Ex wanted to know if he was on his way yet. I am beginning to have far less-than-kind thoughts about that woman. More arguing about I-said-you-said. The phone is then turned off, which, in my esteemed opinion, it should have been after the first call, but then, who would have guessed she'd be calling again less than 20 minutes later? The act is completed. And Wham-Bam-Thank-You-Ma'am, I'm being dropped off at my car.
I am now thoroughly pissed off. And hurt. And feeling a bit psycho about it. How did my Romeo in Black Jeans, my Rescue Hero, my Knight in Leather on his chrome-covered steed... how did he turn into a callous, typical-man-style jackass? Please note, I didn't intend to call Rusty a jackass just then... I don't believe he's a jackass. He's not. Let's review: Rusty: NOT A JACKASS. So the Sassy Sisters begin to lecture me. You know, all those Sassy voices in my head... they aren't psychotic if they're not telling you to kill someone, right?
Bitch Sassy: Fucking JACKASS!! 'I got mine, now gitthefuckout, BITCH!' Well FUCK YOU RIGHT BACK, you JACKASS!! I'm not your stupid fucking WHORE to be used and tossed aside. I am not your fucking CUM RECEPTACLE!!
Wench Sassy: Fine. I'm stopping at Priscilla's and buying a dildo the size of a fucking HORSE and give myself the orgasm of the century. And after that, no man will be able to satisfy me, so THERE, you silly adolescent!
Adolescent Sassy: But IIIIIIIIIIII want MINE TOO!! I NEVER get to do what I want! Why do I have to go home now? I don't want to and you CAN'T MAKE ME!
Black Mood Sassy: That's it--that's the sign: he doesn't like me. He's just using me. If something were to happen and I couldn't fuck him, he'd dump me in a New York minute. Or less.
Self-Loathing Sassy: That's it--that's the sign: I AM a filthy whore. I'm lucky I'm not riddled with herpes or syphilis or something. Stupid ho. Stupid, stupid slut. You deserve it. You're getting played, you stupid ho.
Vengeful Sassy: Oh, he'll pay. He'll pay for this. Never again. Ne-VER again. He's lucky I don't Lorena Bobbitt his precious partner... just bite it the hell off. Fucker.
Rationalizing Sassy: This is OK, it's really no big deal. He's got to get back home, it's not his fault. What kind of bitch doesn't want the man to spend time with his daughter?? You wouldn't want to take your clothes off right here anyway, so why sweat it? You did him a favor. I'm sure he'll pay you back in kind eventually. Right?
Jealous Sassy: Everyone else is more important to him than me. Why is he divorcing her anyway? She just bats a freaking eye and he's jumping for her. And it's always gonna be that way because she uses their daughter to get to him. She does this shit on purpose. But no matter what she does, he's always going to acquiesce because he won't stand up to her and call her on it. Why risk looking like a bad father? Certainly not for ME, that's for sure.
Baby Sassy: He doesn't LOOOOOOOOVE MEEEEEEE!! Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah! He doesn't even LIIIIIIIIKE me! NOBODY LIKES MEEEEE!!!
So with all that going on in my head, I was not really in a position to be mature. That's reasonable, isn't it? So when I leaned in for a goodbye kiss, I wasn't expecting him to recoil in horror at the notion. "Sorry..." he cringed, "I just... can't." It took a moment to figure out what the FUCK he was talking about. The semen. The semen on my breath was grossing him out. HIS semen. Oy, here come the voices again. Let me boil it down to one easily understandable synopsis: "It's fine to put it in MY mouth, but cross-contamination is out of the question. I mean, sure, MY mouth is already a filth pit of repulsion, right?"
Cue tears.
Cue crazy.
Cue emotion repression reflex.
Cue flight response.
Not really the ideal way to end what would have otherwise been a blissfully fantastic date. I'm still kicking myself for letting it happen that way. And mentally kicking him, too, true. Shame on the both of us. This mess must be sorted through and dealt with. Definitely need to work on the Ex Issue. Ha, that ought to be simple, right?
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