the goat-gatherer

I had this boyfriend who would, from time to time, wear my panties under his suit to his office.  I won’t give you the details of this relationship, the where the when the how or the who, but I will tell you this: this man is a very manly man.

The term that comes to mind is Cock D. A body dense as a canned ham, this man’s physique didn’t possess any jiggle factor. His topography rolled out in perfect pairs of sharply delineated hills and valleys, the twin planes of his hard pecs, the double peak/dip/peak/dip/peak/dip of his abdomen, the dual swell and cleft of his ass. His body was denuded, too, shaved top to tip, except for his legs because that would be just too much.

He was a hard motherfucker, this boyfriend. He called himself The Goat-Gatherer, the Man with the Dermis of Steel. He wore this armor of his life on his naked hard body in a permanent akimbo straddling defense and offense. He liked to think of himself as a bad, bad man.

Perhaps he was. He wasn’t particularly wonderful to me. We had good times. We fucked alfresco on his roof, the glittering lights of the West Village below and beside us, my high heels digging into the black day-warm tarmac, my skirt raised around my hips, his pants lowered around his hard knees, my hands bracing my weight against the rough siding of the roof’s entrance, his short cock slamming mercilessly into me from behind.

Our sex was fun. Our conversation was fun. We enjoyed each other like two people at a buffet and a shared appetite for destruction.

The Goat-Gatherer sweat profusely when he fucked me, even when the air conditioner was cranked up to ten, and the room hung with arctic air like a meat locker. Even then, sweat would pour off his body, from the top of his head to the soles of his feet. We would have to change the sheets—or I would just make him sleep in his wet spots. It was like being fucked by a raincloud.

I loved it. I would look up at him, his mouth slackopen in his pleasure, his tongue tip barely visible delicately touching the cupid’s bow of his upper lip. I could see his muscles as he fucked me, the ripple and pull of his belly, the taut and slack of his hips, the swell and fall of his pecs. It was mesmerizing. He fucked me hard, harder than I’d ever been fucked, and I loved it.

He was a crude man. He called licking pussy “strapping on the beave hat.” Once, supine on my bed, he suddenly clasped his knees in his elbow clefts, aimed his asshole at me, and farted. I could actually see his sphincter pouch and puff, trumpeting out a truly respectable fart. I was agog with disgust.

He told great stories about his intemperate past. Ribald and wild, these stories were bound together not only by their excess but also by their paucity of affection. In one a girl was butt-fucked by her boyfriend, a friend of the Man with the Dermis of Steel, in the front seat of his dad’s car; when the boyfriend exited his girlfriend, she dumped on the seat, and he made her walk home. In another, the Man’s girlfriend begged him to pee in her mouth. He did, until she lay there choking and gagging in his urine. He looked at her, left and never saw her again.

And yet, somehow, despite or because of the grossness, despite or because of the hardness, despite or because of his slender regard for me, I was captivated by him. He wore my panties to work. Under his Armani suits, this manly man had on my tiny bits of lace, my pastel shreds of gossamer, and my worn and femininely encrusted unmentionables.

We weren’t boyfriend and girlfriend for long. We connected deftly and then broke up quickly. He dated another and another. We maintained a friendship of sorts. He moved, and before he did we shared a meal when he announced to me that he had been “opened up emotionally” by his previous girlfriend, a model with a nationwide billboard campaign. For underwear.

It hurt. I was not that girl who pierced his armor. And as I listened to his story, I realized I had not been she because I was incapable of treating someone the way that the model had treated him. He and I fucked one more time, just before he moved away, and as I left him in the cold and the dark, I whispered something in his ear.

“I love you,” I told him. And I did. I still do.

We do not choose those whom we love. The love chooses us. When we speak of finding love, we do not speak of stepping mindfully into it. We do not amble, pace, or saunter into love. We fall. We fall in love as we fall asleep, as we fall from grace. We have no control, and we do best when we cease pretending we do.

I love this man to this day, though I haven’t seen him in many years. We talk on the phone some times, and I enjoy it, as much as I am aware of the gulf of time and distance and other, less measurable, things that separate us, that have always separated us, that will always separate us. And while I am not in love with him, nor am I sure I ever was, I love him still.

(Happy birthday, you dirty delicates-wearing hard man. You know who you are.)

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Don't forget! Monday 20 March is my blogday, and we here at pretty dumb things are going to party (the verb) all day. You're invited to send me some pictures or text to help celebrate my one-year anniversary. The naughtier, the better!

Comments

[The Ice Maiden]

Wow.... CG I hope you don't mind me commenting.... This really touched me, that feeling of not being "the one" but loving them anyway is something I knew all too well at the moment! Your blog is truly wonderful. Thank you for sharing your words x

[alwaysarousedgirl]

Beautifully written, as always.

I find it extremely sexy that he was wearing your undies.

[scribe called steff]

Congrats on the anniversary.

I'm remembering my own man I used to fuck on a rooftop in the summer. Only he was the kind of man who never wore undies. Naked, always, under those jeans of his. Made the public teases so much more entertaining for me.

He too was the kind of man I'd rather not have fallen in love with, but I did, and hard, and long. It is what it is.

Now, I'm at the start of a new relationship and we're taking it somewhat slow-ish, I suspect, but I wonder what's ahead. Will he be the fall? Who knows. It's exciting to wonder. It's odd, when you're at the start of these things, to wonder where it's leading.

Nice post. Happy Blog Day, girlie.

[O]

I read this first...late last night? Early this morning? --It was the perfect thing for me to read, at that moment, and it also overwhelmed me a bit, a feeling I so often have when reading you, so that I didn't trust myself to comment.

We do not choose those whom we love. The love chooses us. When we speak of finding love, we do not speak of stepping mindfully into it. We do not amble, pace, or saunter into love. We fall. We fall in love as we fall asleep, as we fall from grace.

Just about the truest thing I've ever read; as true as something like "2 +2 =4" (and I don't at all mean by that that it is obvious, only that its truth is indisputable).
You've written before about the meaning of that word 'fall' when it comes to love, and you only get better and better.
love,
O

[sista.s.]

Thanks for your post, many of your well put words trigger phantasies or memories in me. "Oh, my God, I am falling and I am helpless" remembers me of this: It happened with a Lebanese man who was living in a shack without electricity at a white sand beach running a basic guesthouse. Sounds like a fairy tale? Well, read on. I stayed there half a year. And I was madly, madly in love. He was the most beautiful Arab I have ever laid eyes on, he knew exactely how to make me fall. I was prepared to spend the rest of my life there at this deserted beach, preparing food for the occasional traveller, boiling Arabic coffee, swimming in the Mediterranean, dancing and fucking the king of the beach. I left paradise after I had caught him with a Greek female guest in bed shortly after a Dutch woman had appeared to show him his 2 month old son and treating him like her husband. I had no chance but to realize that I will fundamentally ruin my life by not leaving. I booked a flight home. I had to leave clandestinely, after he had made very clear that no woman ever leaves HIM.
However, my theory is that the process of falling in love takes some time, like 2,3 weeks and a couple of intercourses. I think we fall slowly. In the very first days, one has a chance to decide. I knew the risks and I still decided voluntarily to love this bastard. I am thankful for the experience. Be blessed all those who love. Whomever, whereever, however.

[chelsea girl]

Love is the proverbial bitch. But we loves us our bitches, don't we?

Thanks you all.

kissykiss,
cg

[VJ]

Amazing description here CG, and doubly so if substantially true too! We've not a clue in our waking lives... Cheers & Good Luck! 'VJ'

[Autumn]

We do not choose. How true.

Funny how sometimes we manage to find a compromise of some kind, with it and ourselves and those we love.

I'm finding some days it hurts more then I like, but it seems to worth it. To have all that love.

[M.]

I know this feeling sort of. Good post.