Friday, November 27, 2009

The 613 Mitzvot

Here's a new blog I began.

I'm slowly going through all 613 Commandments as codified by Maimonides in the 12th Century.

Check it out.

http://the613mitzvot.blogspot.com/

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Sunday, November 22, 2009

This is a parking lot

This is not a story.

This is a parking lot. Filled with a dozen bales of hay. Soon the asphalt will be covered with evergreens who’ve died for our sins or our pleasure or our comfort or our deep desire to pretend we’re in the Berkshires and never even came to this Godforsaken town.

I’d dated Christian women in the past, but I’d never had Christmas in my home. We just weren’t those kind of Jews.

She had her winter break and I’d convinced her to come out to be with me. So I had to make sure this was a great Christmas. A memorable one. She didn’t tell me it would be memorable for her regardless. It was the first she’d spent away from her family in all her 35 years.

Now I knew Christmas was a big thing for her, but I didn’t realize she’d NEVER been away from her family during the holiday.

You can’t win that game.

But I tried. I got the biggest tree I could physically drag along the ground by myself. She needed to know what I was willing to do for her. I didn’t care how much it cost or whether protruded from my convertible enough to violate half a dozen laws. It was so big that when I got it home…

The tree didn’t fit.

I could not get it into my apartment. My studio was tiny anyway. It would have taken up so much space we’d scarcely have had room to maneuver our way to the kitchen.

So I set it up in its little stand just outside the bungalo. And I went to Target and got some ornaments and lights. The ornaments were simple red and blue and purple metallic balls. I got some strings of gold and silver.

And the lights were white. I’d heard her say once she though the colored lights were gaudy. And I remembered. I got straight lights, and icicles too by accident, but she was arriving the next day and I didn’t have time to return them, so they would have to do. My camera had been stolen a year earlier and I’d never replaced it, so I have a picture of the naked tree my neighbor took for me, but we never got a picture of us with the tree all lit up. Still, I remember that towering tree every time I see those lots clear out all their pumpkins and make way for the firs.

And I’ve taken those lights with my from house to house ever since, stringing them up for summer parties, house warmings and BBQs. And every time I see them and all my friends celebrating in the foreground, I think about her. And how my Christmas just wasn’t enough.

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Friday, November 6, 2009

Lost in the Fog (Part 1) "The Idea of North"

Lost in the Fog
Part 1 (of 3)
"The Idea of North"

(with thanks to Raymond Chandler)

The broad dared me to come north, so here I was buzzing past my beloved Morro Bay just to prove to her I was a man of my word. Hell, for all I knew she was a man. She had a pretty angular jaw in one photo. But damn it to hell, I had to go through with it. I was already cutting up the 101 like a bat out of hell trying to beat rush hour along the Central Coast and get to Monterey before I lost the light.

Driving with the top down for 5 hours without a pit stop is enough to make a man’s head shake. The vibrations of the wind provide a scalp massage that the best Thai ‘girlfriend’ wouldn’t have a chance of replicating. You don’t feel it while driving, but when you get out, it’s like you’ve been sitting all that time with a lady from the Turkish baths dancing the hoochie coochie on your head. And while it’s far from soothing, it reminds you of being alive. “And that’s what it’s all about, right?” says Voice #2. Voice #3 curses when you talk to yourself like that, so you make a note to yourself never to do that again – at least not just before you’re about to meet someone for the first time. At least when it’s a woman with a vague plan in a strange town. It’s hard to think straight with all that blood rushing to the head. That’s not what I told her though when I sidled up to the bar.

I simply lied and said she looked just like her picture.

She replied in kind, but she meant it.

It’s not that she wasn’t attractive. She was, in spades. I’d lucked out. But the proportions in her photo were some kind of forced perspective art shot that made her breasts look like each was the size of her head. Don’t get me wrong, they were a fine size and that’s not what I was looking for anyway. Done that and it’s usually nothing but trouble. The girl from the massage class with the triple D implants that made her website such a success, my ex who went crazy after meeting me, left her job as an accountant, traveled to Africa and took more lovers than she could track in a database, and of course, the girl from HarperCollins who dragged me back to her pad, ripped her top off, boasted about how she was going to have reduction surgery and then proclaimed, as she slid off her pants, that we weren’t having sex.

Heard it.

She was right. They always are. I’m used to this rap: invite me to your bedroom, rip off your own clothes and…"Just so you know…” If they’re lucky they’ll get a laugh out of me, otherwise it’ll just be a yawn. I never push it, but if I’d ever read any of a certain private dick, I would know enough to just walk out right then. Unfortunately, I was trained on the overly sensitive side of the tracks. I’ll be damned if I know how I was brainwashed, but a little more hard-boiled edge might well make everyone happier. I’ve been working on that.

* * * * *

We pounded back the first martini without a blink and the second one was magically already on its way. We were going to see a band she liked. That was her lure.

We’d met on Facebook days before. This was in the early days of Facebook and I didn’t really know how people did that. But I signed up for one of those free apps and went through a hurricane of images of lonely ladies with two choices. Yea or Nay. No other information. Just the picture. Most of them I couldn’t hit the “Skip” button fast enough for. And I went through hundreds before I found her. There’s almost a strange meditative quality to simply saying “no. no. no. no. no. no. mmmmm…..no.”

This is what it’s come down to in our fragmented little town.


A picture and a click.


YES or IGNORE (or the third choice I didn’t mention – the truly pussified “YES - anonymous”, so they don’t know you dig their pic unless they click on you too).

I suppose no app can’t give me the scent of a woman as I bury my nose between their hair and their neck and no app can’t transcribe the last bitch ass crazy conversation the dame had with their last boyfriend before breaking up, so I might as well take a gander at the pic, stop complaining and hit SKIP.

Well, against all odds, we’d both clicked YES. But I was new at the game, so I hadn’t even put down the correct settings, and was searching all over Cali as it turns out. We started talking and when she said “I bet you don’t come up here much”, I realized my mistake and her location, but to cover I said “I’ve got a car, where do you want to meet?”

So here I was, five and half hours north, looking for an exit after busting a gut at 80 the whole way praying the CHP was taking an early Friday.

I’m a sucker for trouble. And she smelled like all kinds of the good stuff. A single mom with two kids and a free weekend. We’re talking about a coaster with serious loop-d-loops.

When we spoke 24 hours earlier for the first time, she let me know there was a Motel 6 right around the corner from her house, so I would have an easy time finding a bed that night. I was determined to find a less expensive option. Call me cheap. That’s one thing I did learn from my dad.

I also learned that if you don’t pay for a lady’s drink, you’re going home and fast. So I ponied up for the second round of martinis and said, “Do we need to hit the road if we’re gonna get to this gig on time?”

She’d never been to the spot. It was on the campus, she assured me. Some community college I guess. We couldn’t quite find the building though. And Monterey is a bitch in the fog. This was no ordinary fog let me tell you. This last a late October, right out of a freakin’ Halloween B-Movie fog. One of God’s PAs had clearly put too much lighter fluid on the coals and we couldn’t see more than a few feet ahead of us. She waved around her little iPhone with GPS, but it gave us nothin’. We looked for someone to ask, but this joint was a virtual ghost town.

Then we saw the army barracks. Abandoned barracks. The fog thinned just enough for me spot the barbed wire peeling paint off the shacks dating back to the Great War. I slowed down at a stop sign and she begged me to keep going. She was getting as creeped out as I was. I would not have been surprised for a moment if a real life zombie appeared out of nowhere and slid his pointy hands right through the canvass top of my car.

So I pushed on through ‘til we got to a vacant parking lot.

I stopped in the middle of it so we could see intruders coming from any direction and I turned the car off.

She leaned into me, her face lit up from the glow of her iPhone which she tried to show me that, the place should be right where we were. As we both tried to see the screen our heads almost touched. I could feel her getting anxious and I knew there was only one thing to do.

(TO BE CONTINUED)

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Lost in the Fog (Part 2) ‘A Brief History of Car Sex’

(TO MY FAMILY. DON’T READ THIS. You asked for warning. Here it is.)

Lost in the Fog
(Part 2)
‘A Brief History of Car Sex’

We didn’t have sex. Not yet.

As we leaned in towards the iPhone to map our whereabouts in the thick of the autumnal mist, our heads met. How odd the first time we touch should be with the front corner of our foreheads. Perhaps there had been an unconscious hug hello preceding it, but that didn’t count. This was the real thing. And it was sweet. Momentarily innocent. I wanted to stay here like two kids sharing an Etch-a-sketch. For once, I was appreciating the restricted space the car provided. I wanted to not be moving forward. Let me wallow in expectation, desire building like the steam from a witch’s cauldron.

I was not going to have sex. Not yet.

In fact, I’ve rarely ever had sex in cars. Never once in high school. (Probably because I never had sex in high school.) Thinking about it, I’ve only had sex three times in a car, which I expect is a far lower number than your average red-blooded American, and an insanely small number for a guy still single and 39.

The first time was “breaking up-sex” with a girlfriend of many years. It was just after New Years and freezing out. We clumsily climbed into the back seat of her parents’ Buick. We weren’t allowed to stay in the same room in her folk’s house, so we were starved for physical connection after a week of family Christmas activities. And we knew this would be the last time. It was almost solemn. But we did it anyway. We stopped in a lot en route to the train station which would serve as the departure point from her in my life. She found some way to get on top of me, but it was awkward, and cold and frankly a miserable way to end what had been a dear and loving, intimate and formative relationship. I wanted to gaze into her green eyes and survey the beautiful landscape I was giving up sole authorship of, but I wasn’t afforded that opportunity.

The second time, I nailed a no-name hippie chick who was passing through Blue Lake, California where I was spending the summer learning to be a clown – taught by a past master of the Russian Circus. My weird life. My roommate was a stoner who had as great an appreciation for ‘Humbolt County’s Finest’ as I had fear of the stuff. You’d never guess I’d be inhaling from a stem even once a few years later. Luckily, curiosity hasn’t killed this cat yet. I didn’t want to indulge in the purple haze back then because of a general paranoia I’d developed around drugs (though I’ve never been paranoid while on drugs ironically). I wasn’t specifically thinking about the ‘This is what your brain looks like on drugs' girl in the wife-beater smashing up the kitchen, but I think you combine one part crazy ass Rachael Leigh Cook with a two parts disapproving Nancy Reagan and strange things bake in this boy’s skull. And though I’ve since lost my fear of the sticky green stuff, my roommate’s general comatose stance (if you can call it that) for the entire summer further scared me off from so much as a puff, even though I was planted smack dab in smokers nirvana all summer.

Knowing he rarely left his room in that state, and fearing his stoned eavesdropping through the paper thin, 70s, fake wood panel walls, I drove out with this girl to a thick of redwoods and pulled off to the side of the road. I put the top down on my newly acquired, used convertible so we would be less confined. The chilly summer stars danced above us through the crisp air. It could have been romantic with the right person, but I consciously decided never to ask her so much as her first name. Hell, I don’t even know how I indicated I wanted to sneak off with her from the dinner we’d met at. And as this was the closest I’d ever come to anonymous sex, I felt an extraordinary freedom. I could ask her for anything I wanted without shame or fear of repercussions. I could be the beast I fantasized about. I thought of a way to take advantage of the air rights I’d obtained by lowering the roof (how often can you stand in a car and have sex?) So I dialed up my database of hackneyed lines from the half a dozen VHS porn tapes in my repertoire and made my ask.

Request denied.

She was probably afraid I’d hit her rainbow wool knit skullcap and ruin the thing. And in truth anticipating velocity and trajectory in these matters can puzzle even a trig whiz. So we had a fumbled straight ahead brief bit of humping. She sat facing nearly straight ahead and I greeted her in some contortion. Sadly, we were still quite cramped as convertibles aren’t known for their capacious back seats – even if we did have some headroom.

I never even got to see the stars.

The third time, I was first-dating an experienced JDater, sophisticated and slinky. I was fitting in a glass of wine before a birthday party, so I had few expectations. I’d recently had a drug-addled run-in with a Craigslist girl who requested I pick her up at a gas station as the first stop to a night that got weirder and more dangerous with each passing minute. I was still trying to digest the whole scene by writing the heck out of it, and when this new dame asked me what I was working on, I got coy. I said perhaps I’d tell her on our second date. This was not a story for mixed company – especially one I wanted to make a good impression upon. So, of course, she was intrigued. Still, I really didn’t think it appropriate to discuss the details of the night with the waif who turned out to be a hooker whom I didn’t have sex with just a few weeks earlier. The crack smoking aspect of that wild ride might turn her off as well. But she seemed to be getting annoyed with my elusiveness. I figured the date would crash and burn if I told the story, but it was spiraling down because of my not sharing anyway, so I figured what the hell. I would try being completely honest even if this sealed the fate of the date. I fully expected she'd never want to see me again long before I got to “The End”.

As I dug into the story, her lawerly legs began to rub against mine and I began to realize that this tale was somehow an aphrodisiac. I didn’t realize just how potent it was until I walked her to her car. I took advantage of the newfound chemistry and kissed her good night. Not just a peck, but a full court press against her car door. What did I have to lose? Ready to leave after a good smacker like that, I was completely surprised when she opened the door. The rear door. We slipped into the back with an unspoken excitement and maneuvered around the back seat into a near prone position in her black Saab SUV (finally a vehicle with a little bit of room to maneuver!) And, parked right at a meter on Hillhurst, with hipsters strutting by, we had a hot and panting shag as she braced herself against the tinted passenger side window behind her. Not a soul paused to stare, even though the vehicle was well lit by the amber arc lights above. Somehow, emerging through the mutual laughter of delighted surprise, I excused myself to the birthday party I’d already told her I had to attend. Strangely, my speedy departure seemed most appropriate. I don’t know how you follow an act like that. Even more bizarre, we ended up dating for a while and we’re still friends today.

So with a mere 33% success rate, I wanted to ride the anticipation as long as I could. And frankly, I still didn’t even have a greenlight for a kiss. For Godssakes, we’d met less than an hour ago. No number of martinis could account for that.

But maybe the fog had gone to her head and I could...

Wait. In all those scary movies, it’s the kids who have sex who’re the first to lose their heads. So we were taking out lives in our own hands if I let things go forward.

(TO BE CONTINUED)

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Thursday, November 5, 2009

Lost in The Fog (Part 3) ‘Skullf***ing and Rumi’

TO MY FAMILY. DON'T READ THIS. You asked for a warning on this kind of material. Here it is.

In fact, if you think I'm a sweet guy with no dark qualities, skip this. Of course, if you think that, you probably think your boyfriend/husband never looks at porn. You're wrong. (sorry)

Actually, considering the matter further, I should probably include warnings to skip this story to anyone who might consider going on a date with me, or who has dated me and has still managed to retain positive feelings in my general direction.

Though in truth, I really hope even those aforementioned will read this and think positive thoughts like 'That was the funniest thing I've read all year.' or better yet ‘What an delightfully devilish guy you are.’ or how perhaps even ‘I’m such a ninny, why did I dump his ass?’ But my fear of the slightest negative reaction far outweighs that hope so…

As an act of contrition for Part 3, after this entry I’ll begin blogging about my ongoing attempt to understand and follow the 613 mitzvot (more commandments than good deeds as it turns out) as compiled by Maimonides in the 12th century. (Seriously. Should take me about a year to do the first half - the positive commandments)

Gosh! I seem to have started this 3-part story inspired by Raymond Chandler with old-fashioned serious fun and I’m ending it like Jonathan Ames – stewing in conflicted modern perversions. Not too surprising I suppose. Go watch “Bored to Death” on HBO and you’ll see what I mean. Better yet, read ‘Wake Up, Sir!’ followed by ‘The Big Sleep’.)

[ed. note - It seems most people who've read this feel the preamble was unneccessary and that I've raised your expectations for something really hot and steamy which I don't deliver on. So I'm resetting your expectations. I don't get super dooper graphic. Hope that's not a letdown]

And now finally, the conclusion of our story…

Lost in The Fog
(Part 3)
‘Skullf***ing and Rumi’


Skullfucking.

I normally wouldn’t use the phrase in public, but a few weeks ago Jon Stewart blurted it out (with a bleep) on “The Daily Show”. It was in a bit about how Iowa R-Sen. Chuck Grassly cited a Health Care reform poll that if you describe the “Public Option” as the “Government Option,” then support for it goes “below a majority.” Stewart then noted that if you describe it as a “Government Option that skull-fucks kittens,” then support for it would go WAY down…

(See the clip here, just start 3:10 into the show)

And if Jon Stewart can say ‘skullf***ing’ as a million stoned coeds tune in, I can certainly blog about it here. I’ll admit it would seem skullfucking might not be desirable in the particular context Mr. Stewart spoke of, but I think that’s primarily because of the kittens angle. In truth, that the term even got on to basic cable is remarkable as it does conjure up some rather graphic images (kittens aside). And I don’t know the exact origin of the term, but as I looked into it for this story, I found others have tackled the subject.

“The Onion” took the term quite literally with their 2007 C-SPAN coverage of the introduction in Congress of The Ocular Penetration Restriction Act (click for video)

The Onion’s description apparently has roots that go back to Aztec times when warriors were said to actually defile the remains of their opponents in this way, though frankly I don’t expect such claims can be verifiable in any capacity. Actually, I’m finding it so suspicious that I won’t even list the website I got that info from. And anyway, these days it’s generally a sexual move intended for two *living* human beings and no eye sockets.

It made it into the Urban Dictionary in 2006 in this form here.

And I personally have noticed a trend going in that direction in pornography starting shortly before that. But I’ve never had a wide or deep collection of porn (I’m primarily satisfied with a few standards I gain affection for over time. God, I even have emotional attachment to my porn.) So this style may have been going on for decades for all I know. But I didn’t become aware of it ‘til Steven Soderberg stole my actress for a film I’m developing. I was curious if she had any talent so I sought her out online. (link not provided, you can find it yourself, thank you!) It seems she does have talent, but not as an actor. Her performance in Soderberg’s “The Girlfriend Experience” actually reveals that her ability to perform sans dick is negligible and that her unbridled enthusiasm for skullfucking (her specialty) may in fact be genuine. So there’s a reason Sasha Grey is a noteworthy star and it’s not just because of her self-empowered stance on choosing to participate in a business notoriously abusive to women as she declared on the Tyra show a few years back. (link here) She’s a star because she confirms a fantasy that women might actually enjoy such an activity.

I myself am quite on the fence about the idea of skullfucking, not only because of the ugliness of the term, but because of the rather prominent aspect of violence against the women who are participating in the act. Violence against women is something I am generally against like any good, coastal-living, city-dwelling, Star Trek-loving liberal. (I will wager there are no Trekkie rapists. Not if they really got it. And if they didn’t, they’re not Trekkies. And no, I’m not a Trekker, I started as a Trekkie and am too old to change.)

Certainly there’s no direct physical pleasure I can see a woman gaining from the act (unlike some other sexual activities which can be violent and pleasurable for all parties involved). And while it’s possible some women might take psychological pleasure from this act of submission, I think I’m actually most disturbed by my own excitement over the dominance. (Thought bubble: I wonder if this goes on in gay porn. Or if it started there.)

Now, people often refer to rape as being about power not sex. And while that may be true, some good and consensual sex can also deal with the excitement of playing with power. So where’s the line? What’s halachically legal? What’s OK to enjoy in this arena without becoming a bad, bad person? (at least as judged by your family or people who have dated you or might date who, who really shouldn’t be reading this whole section BTW!)

As you can see, my ambivalence over my excitement of the act is the basis of my interest in the subject. In the end, it’s all a matter of knowing myself and human being better. (Or perhaps it’s just about having as many orgasms as possible before you die. Hard to say. Or good ones at least. Let’s say Quality of Orgasm (QO)* Quantity (QN) = Total Score such that The Winner can be computed.) Jesus, I’ve channeled Dave Eggars this whole damn section Enough already. Really this is all about the confusion of living and trying to figure it all out.

And letting everyone watch as I blog about it.


Back to the…research. So while I couldn’t verify how far back it goes in our modern vernacular, I know that I, personally, was introduced to the term over a year ago by my friend “Bozeman”. For him it means to receive oral pleasure, while giving the giver a rest. The neck muscles of a woman can get quite tired amidst a good round of fellatio, so if the receiver picks up his end of the stick and puts in a little elbow grease, whilst the receiver just relaxes for a bit, that’s skullfucking in his book.

(N.B. According to Wiki, this is technically “Irrumatio” see here for full description. Who knew? The Romans. They did everything before us.)

OK, that previous description isn’t really an accurate description of the act. It’s not really done for the ease of lady you’re with. I was just trying to write about it humorously. In fact, I just now spoke to Bozeman to make sure it was cool I was writing about this and he got all rhapsodic on me about how a woman he’s been with recently enjoys the violence and domination of the act. “I hold her head like it’s in a fucking vice and shove it all the way to the back of her throat and she’s choking and gagging and she loves it. Loves it!”

Bozeman’s one of my only friends who’ll talk with me in the most graphic details about sex. I’ve never talked that way with old friend Morty, mostly because I didn’t fully understand female anatomy when we first met in high school. I usually just focused on hair and breasts back then. Sometimes eyebrows and freckles. Stuff anyone could see. Eyebrows really get me to this day, though I’ve recently become more interested in the ass. Perhaps I always was, but never realized it. Or perhaps I was embarrassed to have an interest in a fine ass when I have no ass whatsoever - just a square of gluteus muscles developed in adolescence from an overindulgence in long distance cycling. Anyway, I’ve figured most things out concerning the female anatomy at this point, but you set the standard for graphicness of conversations early on in a relationship and trying to shift that can be a delicate thing. But when it comes to Bozeman, I can tell he gets a rush from having me as an outlet to throw his unexpurgated rants at. Here, find an approximation of one of his soliloquies:

“So there was this fat chick I met at Burning Man, and I’m just saying, I love the fat chicks ‘cause they’ll let you do anything you want to them. And it's not some low self-esteem thing. It’s a point of pride. They may not have the looks of some fox who’ll never let you get a piece of their tail, but they will out-fuck them every single time. Give me a fat chick over some girl who thinks she’s a hottie any day of the week. So anyway, I’m skullfucking this whale of a whore during a sand storm and the wind is absolutely howling…”
That’s how he monologues at me. It’s great. I feel guilty indulging in this manly talk, playing at being his misogynistic buddy, not only not offended, but laughing and cheering all along “Tell it like it is man! Yup. Love them fat chicks.”

* * * * *
But I digress. Back to the actual story.

There was a local band I was supposed to be listening to with my Facebook date at the moment we left off the story at the end of Part 2.

Luckily, instead of tapping my foot to some lame ass band, I was suspending my prelude to a kiss as long as I could manage. But I also know if you miss a window, it kills a moment, a night, a whole relationship.

So I kissed her. And a good kiss it was.

I generally over think things and was concerned she might feel vulnerable being with a stranger, lost, tipsy, in a vacant parking lot, with no means of escape on a creepy, foggy night far from her beloved children. But then I remembered that I was a harmless guy. Downright sweet, generally. Not aggressive enough most of the time, and always ready to stop at a moment’s notice.

I was the exact kinda guy she’d *want* to be with in a situation like this. I knew it, but she didn’t. And suddenly I felt more comfortable about moving in, so with little notice, I grabbed her right breast.

Hard as a rock. Her, not me. Well, me too, but I’m used to that. It’s still a shock when I come across an implant. I’ve really met face to face with very few. So few in fact, that one time I was with a woman, back at the turn of the century, and I commented on how great a job she had, only to be horribly embarrassed to discover she was just naturally firm. At thirty years of age, I’d never touched a fake one before and was fooled by the buoyancy of youth – having recently been dating someone a number of years older than myself and having gotten accustomed to a certain level of elastic fluid dynamics.

So her shirt flies open and I reach over and pull the seat back in one fell ‘thwump’. Then summoning all the Neanderthal I have in me I think, “This time I’ll do it. I won’t even ask, like I did with the hippie chick years before or with the singing incident. I know what I’ll do. I’ll just dive in and skullfuck the wench. And if she doesn’t like it, I’ll stop, and apologize and be most embarrassed and take her home and continue to apologize, explain I don’t usually do things like that, but the fog, and her breasts and the car got me riled up and made me think that maybe this time I could be completely unbridled and…”

The acrobatics you have to pull to make this shit happen are extraordinary. I unzip myself and lunge in the direction of her head with my core so she doesn’t have too much time to think things over. But I didn’t fully calculate the geometry and there are no handles to grasp on to above the windows of a convertible, so bracing myself on the back seat with my hands, my head’s nearly hitting the rear window (actually, it’s right in that transom where the canvass folds into). Meanwhile, she’s lying back, her mouth in a yawn as I do all the heavy lifting…and thrusting.

She hasn’t said “Please, stop.” And I’m pretty sure the muffled moans are ones of pleasure, though part of me isn’t 100% sure, so after an intense primary burst of activity I stop and kiss her again to reassure her I’m a human being and I know she is as well and I respect her and think she’s attractive and a good mother and that this is all really pretty great. Much better than going to hear some stupid local band.

I do all this with one gentle kiss and a look in the eyes.

And then I realize, she’s already taken off her own pants.

If my head weren’t jammed in the back of the car staring at the thistles that fall from trees into that small space where the top folds up I might have noticed that not only was she turned on by my brutish behavior, she was preparing for the next step.

I find a condom like a magician finds the Ace of Spades and manage to leap the stick shift and slide my legs between hers (quite a feat when both of you have your jeans down by your ankles). And now the traditional (non-skull) fucking begins.

She later told me it was the quickest she’s ever come with someone. This isn’t boasting. I still think it was the fog. And the army barracks. And me being a stranger. And the fear of zombies. I generally feel around the issue of women’s climaxing that the specific man barely matters. It’s far more in their hands as to whether or not an orgasm occurs. I’m just playing a part that’s been played many times before.

Her first peak was so quick, in fact, I thought it was just the initial pain of first receiving someone. I had no idea. Hardly something I can boast about or claim credit for. Since some women experience great and vocal pleasure without reaching fruition and the glory for other women can come anywhere in the beginning, middle or end (or all of the above) I’m often left wondering and blindly hope we both make it there eventually. My strategy therefore is to simply hold out for as long as possible.

In this scenario, that wasn’t very long. The excitement of the initial encounter with a total stranger in a place of potential danger, fake breasts and my first time skullfucking (not to mention my first time having sex with a mother of two) was too great a combination for me to make this an extended dance mix.

(Sidenote: why is it that I so rarely have sex to music? Maybe 3% of the time. I always think people do it to music more frequently than me and fear my mate feels like we’re dancing without music. Am I just some kind of freaky ascetic? Comments please.)

The point of all this is, that I didn’t end up staying in that Motel 6 after all. We actually had a terribly romantic weekend. We walked the beach and read poetry to each other. Rumi for Godssakes! And I don't read poetry. I never have. Now I will. I do. She taught me something new about romance. So fascinating how a tawdry beginning turned playful, sweet and deep. And though we haven’t seen each other since, I’ll always have extremely fond - even tender memories of the first girl I skullfucked.

And lest you think I’m a serial Facebook skullfucker, let me tell you that I’ve only met one other stranger through Facebook. She’s a nice Jewish lass, with a fine ass and four kids I’ve never met. She’s sweet and wickedly funny and she reads this blog to boot. We were going to a dance for a first date, but never made it through the front door. We necked in the car for a long while, but no skullfucking there. Somehow her having kids inspired a return to high school style activities. I suppose they act as reverse chaparones. So we further delayed our return home and took a walk around the block where we stopped to make out in a Caterpillar D-6 Tractor that was left unlocked. But that was it. Really. No skullfucking at all.

Yup. In the end, I think it must have been the fog.

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