Sometimes even I find it hard to tell the truth. Sometimes the truth is hard to tell. I wrote this story for a collection, one edited by a person I know. I wrote it painfully, haltingly, stutteringly. It took an inordinately long time to write this piece of just over a thousand words; it might have taken weeks. Anyway, it was hard to write, but I wrote it, submitted it, and revisited it periodically in my head because even the telling of the tale didn't quite bear it away.
The editor of the collection dithered with it, promising me edits and then not giving them to me. Last night I heard that the piece would need substantial revision, and rather than revisit and rewrite, I killed the piece. Like my other rejected piece, it's about sodomy. There seems to be a trend.
Anyway, this collection's piquant loss is your salty gain. You'll find my rejected tailpiece of erotica #2 below the fold.
fumbling deaf, dumb and blind
“Laughing and crying, you know it’s the same release,” or so I heard Joni Mitchell sing that one time or twenty. I have laughed and cried, and I have cried and laughed. I have, as well, come and cried, a subject more germane to this collection. I come and cry easily. I have freaked out more than a handful of men as my yowling banshee come-scream dissolved into solar-plexus shuddering sobs. I don’t hold back well. If I were a school of art, I’d be Expressionism. It’s not pretty, but it is clear.
This story is not about those many times when I’ve felt my orgasm wail morph to sobbing lamentation. I have come and cried early, and I have come and cried often. (I have only had one dude come and cry with me, and I felt awkward; I retreated immediately into that helpless mode of shoulder-patting and platitudinous phonemes, which is tough to pull off even when you’re not naked and glistening with jism.) This story is not one of those, for me, quotidian moments of everyday pleasure and commonplace loss. This story is special because he came, I cried, and not until now have I had the balls to tell it honestly.
For about three years I had a man who was neither here nor there. In my relationship with him, I felt like Dr. Jane Goodall: slowly, painstakingly and patiently building bonds with a skittish, potentially dangerous, and ineffably attractive creature. Our relationship blinked off and on faster than a strobe light, and yet I was committed to him. I still don’t know why. His people are not my people; his language is not mine. I anthropomorphized him.
Donny, the name I’ve given to this man, and I broke up and got back together with the fluidity of mercury. This time of his coming and my crying came at a moment directly after a particularly vicious break, one precipitated, somehow, by some wrong I had perpetrated. I think I took the twilight of our relationship a bit too much to heart and fucked someone else. Donny took umbrage and his leave. A handful of angsty months later, we flowed back together, and after a Yankee game, I let this man more or less rape my ass.
He came, I cried.
I wish there were a word in English that embodied that grey area for a sex act that one neither explicitly consents to nor does one expressly forbid. There isn’t, and it’s a big lacuna in the language. There are acts that we do—that I have done—that fall into a greyer area than the strict linguistic break between consent and protest allow. There are times that I have been fucked, there are acts that have been perpetrated upon my body, and there are things that have happened, and these times, these acts and these things resonate with rapine. I have felt plundered, but I didn’t voice an objection, and thus I was complicit.
This was one of those times.
It all began with more than consent enough. There was kissing and there was stroking. There was me on my knees or on my back taking Donny’s hard cock into my throat. There was probably facefucking; I don’t remember the particulars, but it was an act he and I enjoyed, so it no doubt happened. Our sex often turned to the rough, at least it did until he fell abjectly in love with me and began donning the velvet gloves too often for my delight. Our sex was good. I didn’t need to anthropomorphize that.
We kissed; we threw our bodies together with the clash of titans; we made succulent noises. We probably fucked, coupled and sweating, and then we most likely unhitched our bodies and reconfigured the sliding of Tab A into Slot B. We liked to fuck like fucking was an Escher puzzle: a geometric form comprised of infinite variations, but then Donny was an engineer.
At some point, Donny covered my eyes. This too was nothing new. This also was nothing rare. We liked props. Donny positioned me at the end of my bed, facing a mirror positioned there because I knew he liked to watch. At some point, he gutter-whispered something in me ear, some directive. At some point, he pushed my head down and pulled my ass up. I saw myself in my imagination, and I looked like a simian in heat. My pussy perked expectant and drippy.
Donny kneeled behind me. He bent over me, his stomach to my back, and I could feel his body heat shimmer like heat devils in the summer. He put his lips near my ear, clasped a globe of my ass in his hand, and he told me that he was going to show me whose ass this was. He could be cliché. And then without warning, without lube, and without permission, he shoved his cock in my ass.
It hurt. Quite a bit actually. It hurt, and it felt rude and degrading, and my breath turn ragged, and I willed myself to endure. I willed myself to take it. I rocked backwards and forwards on my knees with the force of each of Donny’s thrusts. My hands gripped the white metal railing of my bedstead, and I felt the metal grow warm under them. I willed myself to endure, and a small voice started speaking in my head. Just this tiny voice that said the same thing over and over.
“I’m just a little girl, I’m just a little girl,” my head voice chanted. “I’m just a little girl, I’m just a little girl,” said the mantra in my head. “I’m just a little girl, and this is too much for me to bear.”
Donny piston-fucked me, gathering momentum and power and the voice chanted and tears welled up under the blindfold and soon my abdomen started shaking and the sobs began. I’m just a little girl, I’m just a little girl, and I was sobbing, these deep, inarticulate keening cries, I’m just a little girl, and he was fucking my ass, I’m just a little girl, and there were tears and there was breath and he shuddered spasmodic and I sobbed shaking and I’m just a little girl and he was done.
It wasn’t rape because I never, not once, said no. But it was a kissing cousin to rape, in that I didn’t say yes, and in that I didn’t want it to happen. I didn’t want to be buttfucked like that, not like that, not without anticipation and preparation. I didn’t want that, but I felt I deserved it, this punishment, for some reason. I felt I deserved to suffer the pain that Donny wanted to make me feel. I rested on all fours, and I took it, sobbing.
He came, I cried, and we kissed. We went fumbling deaf, dumb and blind. We went on coupling for a couple more years, and then we parted. Later I told this story of coming and crying. You know it’s the same release.