Float On


She wasn’t really pretty. Her face was girlish if you surrounded it with decent bangs and longer locks, but she didn’t get it cut like that. She cut it like a boy. She was a boy, with big tits, and a notch count four times mine.

I had known her for a while. Known meaning talked over the electronic social space of the internet. Years of interactions floating out there like radiation. Nothing truly remembered because it was never impactful enough by keyboard and text. That was my way of being with the world, from the comfort of my parent’s house, away from the bonds humans make. It worked for me. It worked filling the hole that had no idea how to fill itself.

I had known her by a screen name for months. FreeUsAll. Revolutionary words from a middle class Virginian. No real loyalty to the cause, just a tingle for bad boys and bad politics. One day, we finally talked one on one. Just me and her. She showed me her tits on webcam. She showed me her snatch. She let me watch her get off. I became enamored.

Months passed, talk of moving to Los Angeles. I was going there for an internship and hopeful employment with the Dr. Phil Show. She wanted to start a writing career. I had read her writing. It was awful. It induced headaches. So much plot, so little character development, descriptions of nothing lasting but a few words. It would leave pustules on blind men’s fingertips if translated to Braille.

Things went up and down. A third roommate joined, and later left. A pretty Swede. Tall, long black hair, catching smile. In her thirties, she saw the drama down the road with a two twentysomethings. I, the romantic who’s dick didn’t discriminate, and the emotionally damaged whore totally unable to detach from her mother’s mistakes. The Swede was smart. We remained friends. I stuck around with the girl. After all, she had Ds.

I went to meet the girl who would be my future wife in April. Things didn’t go so well. She asked me to go home when planned by the ticket, not the much later date as we planned. An irony not lost 4 years later when she stayed in the same city she told me to vacate, leaving me behind at our home confused and angry. Heartbroken then in 2007, I walked like the dead. She was there, the roommate with the boyish cut. When we hit the road, at that first hotel in Ohio only a few hours after she had picked me up expecting me to drive all night, I was making moves only reserved for the desperate. I was able to get myself in her bed, even though the room had two. I cuddled up against her, and as she slept I remained awake, taking in the feel of a woman’s body against mine. Clothed, yet warm. This continued. I pushed lamely to get her to relent. I gave up easily. I wanted the contact. Anything, even if I wouldn’t admit the heartbreak was pushing my every move.

She broke days later in a tiny Wyoming motel. She turned and kissed. Victory for the lame. We played with each other’s places, but no sex came of it. A game began though, one of teasing the other. As I drove, she rubbed me. As she drove, I’d rub her. If my balls were bigger, better things would of happened, but it wasn’t the time for that. That would come later with someone else.

Eventually, we made it to Los Angeles. The eight hour trip from Vegas to our new apartment was cold. Cold, shaking. Cold, anxiety… things we’re going to shit fast. I tried to sleep. I had yawned all day. Yawning, along with the cold, the shaking and the dark thoughts involving the windows in front of me. I had to tell her. I needed someone. She held me as I cried. As I talked to my folks. As they all calmed me down. For once, she seemed like a grown up, not just some chick who liked rock and roll, Che and thought the FBI was after her.

By L.A. day three, I fucked her. I got her naked. I saw those massive breasts for more than a few seconds. I saw them for a few hours. We touched and kissed and did things. And, for the very smallest of moments, I lost all cares and worries and hurt. The move from one side of the land to the other. The homesickness. The heartbreak. The new problems. It all went away as I went inside her and thrust. I came and laid beside her. But it only lasted as long as she was silent. I spoke, saying that this is what I needed. Then she spoke, and I heard it. The opinions and the ideas. I could hear the lies of knowing this wasn’t serious. She was always serious. Every sober lay is a new boyfriend. Every drunk one a potential backup.

I liked fucking her for that week and a half. I still get off to it. I had sex with her so many times that week I bought a second box of condoms. I remember it as sex without worry, though that’s just erasing the storm on the horizon at the time. Things came crashing down over and over. The girl who told me to leave arrived. I was still in love and accepted her. The freedom sex ended. Friendships started, then strained, then turned to war. An attempt at making us all one ending with jealously, confusion and anger. Dreams thwarted. Expectations ruined. But, everyone trudged on. Sometimes together, but mostly against. Even when I was with the woman I had fought, lied and cried for thoughts came over me that it was a mistake. More so after her confession. But, I kept going, unable to stop because that meant admitting I was wrong about her, wrong about them all. And I couldn’t do that. You can’t feel bad about a mistake you never made. I carried the mistake until she, that redheaded storm, forced me to let it go.

But I remember that moment of total loss with the boycut. Not painful, not dark, but that pure sex-induced explosion that cast off all the weights of the world for those few moments. A moment I never experienced with my ex-wife. A moment the much hated roommate never knew she held over her nemesis. She was crazy, she still owes me money, I wanted to kill her, but that moment of nothingness and those many days of fucking were something the ex could never recreate. I look forward to all of it again.

There isn’t any reason that a man cannot turn to a woman he wants, take a deep breathe, and fucking forget his problems. There isn’t any reason a woman cannot realize that’s he wants and shut up, being his comfort and his light for that little moment they crossed paths in a bed, or on the floor, or in the backseat of a car.


One response to “Float On

  1. Pingback: Linkage is Good for You: Nope Edition

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