Tuesday, April 13, 2010

a day off

I've forgotten what it's like to have intimate physical contact with someone; so mired in my own financial and personal issues am I that I've neglected to indulge in the most inexpensive distraction possible: sex. Don't get me wrong - I've been masturbating up a proverbial storm, so much that I fear that my gorgeous blue dildo is now my best friend. Ladies, if you ever felt any sense of inadequacy while watching pornography at the impossibly tight, pert-bosomed female bodies festooning the screen, perhaps you should comfort yourself with this: most cocks will never measure up (pun intended) to the perfect silicone replica on which you've spent oodles of hard (ahem) earned cash. Yes, sour grapes.

Last night I went on a date with a married man and I felt somewhat guilty despite his attempts at assuaging me that she is most likely having her own affair. When I was 19, I went on tour with my friends' band across the US and became involved with a member of one of the headlining acts. I can still remember flashes of him: the way he ruffled my pixie cut when we first met, decreeing that I was "cute," the limp seawater green of his colored hair, his sonorous rumble of a voice, so deep I took to calling him "the white Barry White," the circle of gold wrapped around the ring finger of his left hand as I bandaged up his cuts when he accidentally broke a light bulb in the vanity back stage. After weeks of flirting, we finally consummated in a hotel room in South Carolina, where he'd purposely left the blinds half-drawn so that other tour members could watch. I found that out later when one of my friends confessed to having spied on us; my only question was, "Well, did I look good?" I had kept on my striped tube socks but nothing else. When the tour ended, and address books were exchanged so that we could all provide each other with our personal information (this was before the advent of cellular technology), he wrote his name, his wife's name and then their address.

I never wrote him.

This entry was supposed to be about last night but somehow I veered off path, straying to follow a pebble tossed into the thicket of my memories. And yes, I still remember dropping to my knees in the wooded area behind a venue to suck his glorious cock, as his thick fingers tangled through my short hair, his deep grunts indicating that what I was doing pleased him.

He's married to another woman now; I found this out after inputting his name in a Google search a few years ago after his band mate found me on a social networking site. The past is never more than a few keystrokes away.

Thank you, Kurt. I'll never forget you.