on my 2,500 mile booty call

A distance of 2456.6 miles is quite a lot to travel for a booty call, though I might add that the booty of the man in question traveled still further yet. The sheer distance—all those fat atlas inches that add up to two mountain ranges, three time zones, eleven states, lots of major rivers and the aforementioned almost 2,500 miles—intimates that this call wasn’t just for any booty. This call was, when I first conceived of it, the clash of sexual titans.

I’d often imagined this man in any number of prurient ways with multiples of configurations. Though human bodies have a relatively finite number of ways in which they can reasonably interlock, or do so without taunting gravity and without undue physical strain, I had thumbed through a heavy battalion of possibilities after meeting this specific man for the first time a couple of years ago. That first time we met, we were chaste as anchorites. It did little more than provide mulch for the fecund fields of my polymorphously perverse imagination.

Individually this man and I have quite the galactic bodies of sexual experience. We have, as consenting adults, consented a lot, consented early, consented often and consented to things your mother might have warned you about had she sufficient imagination to envision the sweaty-naughty thoughts that have made you glow tumescent. Individually, this man and I have quite the reputations in our relative and Doppler-widening circles. Thinking about our eventual tryst, which I did a lot in the months between his proposal of it and the time it came to fruition, I imagined our bodies clanging together with seismic force and ringing out like the battling swords of Norse Gods.

Imagining our trysting, I saw visions of dark plums frugging in my head. Unspeakable acts, or nearly so, things that left marks, things that made me walk like John Wayne for a week, things that embarrassed even me, things I’d never done before, things I’d never do again, things with ropes, buzzers, hats. I imagined the kind of erotic play that legends wish they had. Casanova, Rochester, Anaïs Nin, Mata Hari, Wilt Chamberlain: they would all quail in the face of our mutual enjoyment, either that or they would give us a roseate high five for a job very well done.

And yet, when we met, this man and I, in that beige, studiously inoffensive hotel room, the clash of the sexual titans it was not. What is still stranger is this: it was a good thing that it wasn’t.

There were several points in the planning and execution of this trip when I nearly backed out. The final point came when upon arriving at JFK at 6:13 for my 6:30 flight, I was too late to board and had to wait three hours for the next flight. Exhausted and nervous, I almost took it as a sign from…something that I should change my mind, turn my tail and head home. I didn’t. I stayed. I waited it out. I sat my ass in a hard plastic seat and I paid too much for wireless and I mourned Jet Blue and I made the 9:30 a.m. flight.

That first day there in California in this weird, plastic city full of weird, plastic restaurants and weird, plastic imposed fun, I felt a new strange shade of weird, plastic displacement. Still, it felt nice to see this man whom I barely knew but liked. We hugged. We ate baba ganoush. We slept in separate beds. We did not kiss. We were, once again, anchorites, and I was giddy with exhaustion.

The next morning, a day that rose with an unseemly earliness and a thick egg-yolk light, we showered, individually. We lay on a bed, and we kissed. My towel was, as I’ve mentioned, plucked off my body like a leaf off an artichoke. We, well, what’s the best way to put it? Words fail me a bit because what it most felt like was making love, though without actual love—and what I feel may or may not be love, but it’s a love like I love a friend with a devoted abstraction devoid of anything I could exactly call passion—it’s hard to know what to call it. But it was smooth, it was soft, it was near silent, it was gentle, and it was without clash at all, much less anything else titanic.

It was human, and it was nice. It was nicer than nice; it was quite lovely, actually. It felt good, and it was fairly tame. Rose petals on the bed would not have felt out of character. It was the vanilla custard of sex, and it made me recall how vanilla custard can be quite tasty. Vanilla custard can, in fact, hit the spot. Which this did, thank you very much.

And when the custard hit that spot, and my hips up-arched like a Roman bridge, he on his knees towering like a telemon, and I started to feel my banshee wail burble up from my gullet like a geyser of unstoppable sound, the man clapped his hand over my mouth and I was silenced. We fucked, quieter than mice, silent as slumbering lambs, so hushed were we that had we been fornicating in the reading room of the New York Public Library, we would not have been shushed. We fucked, nearly noiseless, a few times in a couple days.

The thing is, it was nice. It was nice in bed and it was nice out. We made for good company—compatible enough that I genuinely enjoyed this man’s intimate presence, but not so compatible that now that I’m home I pine. I feel no pine. I am pineless. It’s quite swell, actually. I quite recommend it to anyone who has been suffering a slow and painful break-up as I have since last September when my erstwhile fiancé picked a vicious fight with me, signaling the beginning of what would turn out to be a long and drawn-out breaking of my heart. Yes, Virginia, there is such a thing as sexual healing, though to be true to both the experience and this man, the healing came from much more than just the sex.

It’s hard to find the right combination of booty upon which one can reliably call. I am, right now, very happy being very much alone; I am experiencing a touch of agromania. I am swathed in quite the circle of invisible bubble wrap. I am feeling exceptionally self-protective and often keenly hungry for solitude. Still, I needed to be touched inside and out. I needed the press of lips, the silk-steel feel of cock, the caress of a caring human, the ineffable release of orgasm. I needed the kinds words this man said to me. I needed his tongue, both literal and figurative. I needed the whole kit and caboodle, the complete 2,500 mile booty call. I needed it to be just perfect enough and no more than that.

And as the California clock tick-tick-ticked close, closer, closest to done, I needed for it to be over. I needed to get on that plane and I needed to come home. Blissful, thankful to another and blissfully and thankfully alone.

Comments

[bittersweet]

I had a vision of being swaddled in the comfort of banana custard. Absolutely delicious.

[Dogbreath]

Dear CG
When you are feeling skinned and raw from the inescapable grating of a broken heart, what you need is not the vibrating thunder of clashing titans. Although in yesteryears, your frenzied fucking brought you triumphant satisfaction, you are not now that armored Valkyrie.

I am so glad that this man, who I think you can truly call a friend, gave you the sweet, vanilla comfort that you needed. I can so relate to the uncertainty of the first fuck after a broken heart. It’s not really like being a virgin again. For me, the excitement is less, but the tender vulnerability is much more. I am not who I was, the calluses have softened and thinned and suddenly my once invincible heart is protected by skin no thicker than the membrane of an egg.

This train wreck with Donnie has been hard to watch. I could especially identify with the giving of last chances. The wanting to make sure it was really, truly over and that you were not leaving prematurely. It leaves you so exposed.

You seem to be in exactly the place you need to be – healing, licking your wounds. Now – ready to try, not try again, but try something else. I think this particular else was a very good first try.

With vanilla custard and mac & cheese, Dog

[S.P.]

Mahvelous... simply....

[Southern]

I hadn't thought of being pineless, but it is a good description. I recall from times past of wanting for someone I'd lost and thinking of them everyday and not being able to communicate with them, I pined for them. It would have been nice to be pineless at the time.

[marianne]

Sometimes I pine for that pinelessness... sometimes I just want some peace. It sounds like a beautiful and calming experience for you.

[Cyrano Q]

I don't know why, but there appears to be some law of nature that says the longer the distance travelled for this sort of thing, the more successful it will be. I'm regularly on the receiving end of a 1,200 mile journey, and it's always much more satisfactory than anything involving a mere, say, fifty miles.

And sometimes, she brings cake.

[S.P.]

Naked Birthday Cake is the BEST kind....