8FOLD/ACRA: Kinky Romance # 4: Horny

[Tom Russell]

(Here's hoping that this formats correctly...
  ... oh, and Happy Valentine's Day!)

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               HORNY

   I think about sex all the time.  From just before I hit puberty right up until this minute, I've been thinking about sex more-or-less non-stop.  I imagine having sex with every person I meet in every place I've been.  During school I would stare off into space and daydream about getting gang-banged right in the middle of class.  More than once I'd be snapped out of it by a teacher who had been calling on me half a dozen times.  The entire class would stare at me, and I'd wonder if they knew, if the blush of my cheeks gave it away.
   Gym class was worse.  Climbing into the shower with the other girls, I couldn't help but look at them, stare at them, fantasize about them.  A couple of times I wondered if they had caught me staring; no one said anything.  I tried to look away, to turn my back to them, but my eyes almost always found their way back to the visual feast.  When I had finished the three semesters of gym required to graduate, I stopped taking it; I loved gym and sports, but I just couldn't risk being caught.  For the same reason I never tried out for track, though I would have kicked some butt.
   It's not fun, being me, being horny all the time, being completely unable to shut it off, to regulate it, to stop thinking about it.  I can't talk to a person without wanting to fuck them, without using them to grease my box, without using them.  And I don't want to use people.  I want to talk to them, and relate to them, as fellow human beings.  But I can't.  It doesn't matter who they are: teachers, friends, family, coworkers, customers, enemies, strangers, men or women, old or young.  Everyone turns me on, and pretty much everything turns me on-- the kinkier, the better.
   Now, all that being said, I am not a promiscuous person.  A pervert, yes, but a nympho, no.  Despite my perpetual dampness, I didn't lose my virginity until I was nearly twenty years old.  And, as you can no doubt imagine, I had a lot pinned on that moment: countless self-induced orgasms would be a mere prelude to its awesomeness, et cetera, et cetera.  And (as is often the case) in actuality it was pretty lame.
   I mean, I felt *something* in there, poking around, and (post-hymen) it wasn't painful but it wasn't particularly pleasant either.  It just was.  It was boring, he took way too long, and I just lay there like a dead fish waiting for some fireworks.  But my fuse remained unignited.
   That didn't change the fact that I was constantly horny, but neither did the fact that I was constantly horny change the fact that actual sex with an actual person was always a let-down.
   Maybe (I thought) maybe I'm too kinky.  Maybe I've been thinking about getting it on for so long that vanilla just won't do it for me.
   Well, to make a interminably long story short, if my first boyfriend had been any more vanilla, he could have been served with a slice of apple pie.  Slater, by contrast, was all for trying out some weird shit.  We tried bondage, spanking, role-playing, rape fantasies, pegging, even an ill-advised and best-forgotten threesome.  And all that gets me excited thinking about it now (yes, even the threesome), and all that got me excited thinking about it before we did it, but when we were actually doing it, it did nothing for me.
   Bless his heart, he tried.  He tried to get me off and he tried to figure me out, but Slater always failed on both counts.  "I don't get it," he said more than once.  "You talk about all this freaky stuff and then when we try to do it, you just lay there and then you say you don't enjoy it."
   "I don't."
   "Well, then, why do you talk about it?" said Slater.  "Do you say it just because you think I'll like it?"
   "No."
   "Because I'm happy just doing it normally."
   And that's a word that stuck in my craw: normal.  Why on earth couldn't I be normal?

   After a while, we stopped trying the kinky stuff.  I'd just lay on my back and he'd go to town and we'd cuddle after he was done.  That didn't stop my urges, though; it didn't put an end to my never-ending interior monologue of exquisite debauchery.
   I'd still want to talk aloud about all manner of weird things, but that got on his nerves.  "Do you really want to do that?" he'd say.
   "No."
   "Then don't talk about it."
   All this tension came to a head one night when we were fooling around.  He had gotten pretty worked up and I assumed my normal position so he could harpoon me.
   "Just a minute," he said.  "I gotta go piss first."
   This sparked my imagination and I suddenly flung myself on the floor, hugging his knees.  "Then piss on me!"
   "Seriously...?"
   I churned as I thought of his hot piss spraying all over my face and my tits.  "Yes!  Do it!  Use me as your fucking toilet!"
   And so he did.
   The taste wasn't awful, but the smell, God, the smell!  The smell was terrible, it filled up my nostrils and it wouldn't go away.  It stunk and it made my skin sticky and slimy-feeling.  My insides dried up instantly.
   As soon as he was done urinating, he pulled me up and bent me over the bed.  He entered me but I was overcome by a feeling of intense nausea.  "Stop," I said.  "I'm sorry.  I can't do this right now.  I have to take a shower.  I just feel so dirty."
   "You asked me to do it," he said as he pulled out.
   "I know, I know."
   "Jesus Christ!  I'm getting so tired of this shit!"
   The argument lasted for several minutes.  I just wanted to get to the bathroom to wash his stink off of me, and he just kept shouting at me.  The smell kept getting worse and worse, intensifying, filling up my brain.  My head pounded and wave after wave of revulsion rippled up from my belly.  I was afraid that I was going to throw up.  It finally got to be too much and I fainted.
   When I awoke, the argument resumed, though at a calmer tempo.  But our differences had become irreconcilable.  I used his shower for the last time, got dressed, and never returned to his apartment.
   And while I won't be mentioning him again, I should note that this was not the last time I saw him.  That's because this story isn't about me and Slater.
   It's about me and his sister.

   Vivian was only fourteen when a car accident put her in a wheelchair for the rest of her life.  Her spine was damaged.  Her legs were useless.  She has no feeling at all from her waist down.
   Now, that's not all there is to her.  She's so much more than that, so much more remarkable than that.
   But I didn't know that when I met her.  When I met her, she was the fat twenty-something in the wheelchair with all the acne.  I made pleasant but inconsequential conversation with the wheelchair over dinner and felt sorry for it afterwards.  Mostly, I just ignored her, the way every member of her family did.  When I did think about her, it was (surprise, surprise) sexual.
   There were two fantasies about Vivian that kept cropping up.  The more innocent of the two began with a series of contrivances, of people-running-late and missed phone calls, that resulted in Vivian and I being alone in her parents' house together.  She'd have to use the bathroom, and there being no one else to assist her, it would be up to me to wheel her in, lift her up, pull down her pants and settle her on the toilet.  Sometimes, just before I sat her down, my hand would lightly brush her crotch just as she began to prematurely urinate, the piss running through my fingers.  Even after the disgusting reality of actually being pissed on, the thought of it still churns my butter, as the Amish say.
   It's strange that I can ignore reality in times like those, that I can still be turned on by the thought of something even after I've discovered that the actual something doesn't really turn me on.  But for even the thought of something to turn me on, it has to be possible, it has to be something that I can do in reality.  I can't understand giantess fetishes or people putting on costumes to pretend that they're cartoon characters.  I've never been able to successfully fantasize about a celebrity, living or otherwise; in order for it to work, it has to be someone that I actually know and something that can actually happen.
   And that's why I was disappointed one evening over dinner when Vivian excused herself to go to the bathroom.  She pushed her chair away from the table, wheeled into the bathroom, and shut the door.  Two or three minutes later, she came back to the table.  She was perfectly capable of using the bathroom without assistance, and I was never able to masturbate to that imaginary event again.  I remember at the time actually being fairly cross with her about this.
   I ended up falling back more and more on my other big fantasy about Vivian, the one that made me feel scuzzy all over.  In this one, I'd sneak into her bedroom while she was sleeping and pull the covers off her.  Then I'd start fingering her insensate snatch.  She'd awaken, but she'd have no idea what I was doing.  Sometimes, I thought about bringing a man along to quietly rape her while she lay there, awake in the dark, completely unaware.
   I hated thinking about that.  I loved it and I hated it and I hated myself for thinking it.
   I've always hated myself.

   I see in all my self-loathing and waxing erotic that I've neglected to tell you much else about myself, including one salient fact: I repair computers for a living.  It seems awfully technical and nerdy, I know, but it's actually the perfect fit for someone with my sort of problem.  You can find out a lot about a person by looking at their porn.
   Nine times out of ten, that's what puts the kibosh on someone's hard drive; they go to the wrong site, download the wrong link, and voila!: Trojan (and I'm not talking about condoms).
   And so, you can imagine my excitement when, just a couple of days before I broke up with her brother, I learned that Vivian's laptop was in need of my expertise.  I salivated at the thought of learning what turned her on, so that I might build a new and significantly less-scuzzy fantasy about her that incorporated some of her own kinks and twirls.
   The following night, I powered up her laptop and checked over her hard drive and her history.  There was not a spec of porn on the thing, not even a nipple, not even a meaningful glance.  The virus that had fucked up her laptop was the result of a bad torrent download; she thought she was getting a copy of "That's Entertainment".
   God, I was pissed off.  She got a virus from wanting to see some G-rated singing and dancing?  "I'll work on this later," I said aloud to no one in particular.  "You don't deserve to have me work on you tonight.  'That's Entertainment'.  Seriously."
   And then, of course, the next day was the aforementioned urine-related argument that ended my relationship with her brother, and so I was in no hurry to get it done and back to her.  Over the next two or three weeks, I could always count on a voice mail message from either Vivian or her brother asking me to please fix the computer.  After a while, they stopped asking even for that.
   "I just need it back," her voice scratched over the cell phone.  "I can find someone else to fix it, I'd just like to have it back."
   And I'd feel guilty and say to myself, "This weekend, I'll get her computer done."  Or "I'll do it tonight after I'm done watching this movie."  But the time would come and it would pass and her stupid all-singing all-dancing laptop would sit there.

   That's when I got a phone call from her lawyer.  I think it was actually one of her brother's friends (I recognized his voice; I always thought it was very sexy), but the threat of a lawsuit will do wonders for your motivation, let me tell you.  A few minutes later, I powered up her computer and got to work on fixing it up.  It didn't take long at all.
   I called Vivian and let her know that it was done.  I made some kind of lame excuse at the time, but we both knew how weak it was.
   "When can I get it back?" she said.
   I really didn't feel like going over to her parents' house again, but I also didn't feel like prolonging the inevitable.  "I'll be right over."
   I clicked off the phone and was about to shut down the laptop when I was seized by the urge to give it one more good ol' college try: surely there had to be some porn on there somewhere.
   No video files.  (Well, none that were porn, anyway.)  No suspect sites in her history or cache.  No incriminating google searches.  Nothing naughty in her e-mail (seriously, people need to come up with stronger passwords).  Nothing.
   Frustrated, I had one last resort; I selected "search" from the start menu and began searching for naughty words.  I started with anatomy and worked my way up to verbs.  All of them came up negative until I tried "fuck".  The little animated dog yipped happily at having uncovered it in a word document called "Diary".
   Well (I thought) this might be promising.  I opened it up, hoping for something suitably juicy.  I used the "find" function and arrived at the first usage or variant of the word:

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I am so fucking worthless.  No matter what my parents or my friends tell me.  This is a fact.  An actual fact of life: I am fucking worthless.  It's not because I'm in the chair.  Plenty of people in chairs build lives for themselves.  But I don't have a life.  It's not that I wish I was dead.  I feel like I'm dead.  I don't feel alive.

I don't care about being in the chair.  The chair I can deal with.  God dealt me that hand and I'm cool with it.  But why do I have to be so fat?  I'm fat because I let myself be fat.  Why do I have to be so ugly?  My fucking face.  It's like a tomato took a shit all over it.
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   I was shocked.  I mean, she was never the happy-go-lucky positive-thinking sort, so I kind of expected some sad-sack shit.  But the depths of her hatred for herself, the sheer brutality of it: her diary had some teeth.  It hurt me just reading it.  And, like all things, that turned me on.
   But it wasn't a strictly sexual thing.  I mean, yeah, reading it got me wet, but I didn't really feel a need or desire to touch myself and, as I continued to read her diary, this time from the beginning, I wasn't looking for anything sexy to file away in my memory for later use.  I was reading it because it was in and of itself interesting.  Not to use it, not to use her, but to read it: to read her.
   The passage I reconstructed above was the tamest.  As I read on, page-after-page, rambling paragraph-after-paragraph, it got worse.  Far worse.  I'll spare you the gory details (mostly out of a concern for her privacy) but I'll share another bit that caught my eye.

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Bro. came over with his gf. for dinner.  [My name] sat next to me.  I could smell his cum on her breath.  God, I fucking hate her.  I want to break her fucking legs so she'll keep them shut.  Maybe after he'll dump her.  Then he'll start fucking the next pretty useless bimbo he can find.  Stupid pretty vacant slut, always smiling at me.  Go ahead and smile, bitch.  Why wouldn't you smile?  You have nothing to worry about.  You don't know anything about pain.  About suffering.  You're beautiful and skinny and I want to break your fucking spine.  You couldn't handle that, you weak little shit.  You'd kill yourself.  I'd like that.
|||

   And that's when she called.  "You said you were coming over two hours ago."
   I powered down her computer.  "Yes, I'm sorry.  I got caught up on something.  I'll be right there.  I'm actually really seriously on my way out the door."  As if to provide evidence of this fact, I jingled my keys loudly next to my cell phone.
   I got in the car and started driving over.  About half-way there, I started to regret my haste.  I should have saved a copy of her diary onto my flash drive, I realized.  Once I gave her the laptop back, I would never see it again.  Never get to read it again.  I considered calling her and telling her I forgot to do one more little thing on it but I chickenshitted out before I even finished dialing.  One interstate and three turns later, I was at her door.  There were no cars in the driveway.  Everyone else must have gone somewhere, leaving her there to stew.
   I knocked.  She answered.  I handed the computer over with an apology.  She thanked me and she shut the door.
   I stood there a moment, wishing I could have done it over, that she had invited me in or that I had manufactured some excuse to enter.  When you spend a lot of your time in your own head, you do a lot of mental do-overs, of what-ifs.  Sometimes I forget that you can't actually do that in real life.
   I went back to my car and just sat there.  What was I waiting for?  What was I doing?  I didn't know.  I just didn't want to leave yet.  I wanted to talk to her.  Connect to her.
   But what would I say?  The way she slammed the door, the angry way she answered, and especially those words from her diary: she hated me, she wanted to cripple me, wanted me to die.  Why on earth would I want to make a connection with her?
   But I wanted it just the same.  Her words had done something to me.  Even if she hated me, that was fine; I hated me too.  I hated me more than she did.  Probably about as much as she hated herself.
   But from what I had read, there was no reason for her to hate herself.  She wasn't a pervert.  She didn't use people like I did.  She didn't think about doing the things to them that I did.  She wasn't a bad person.  A bitter person, sure.  She was bitter and she had things to be bitter about.  But no reason to hate herself.
   I got out of my car and went back to her door.  She answered.  "How much is it?"
  "What?  No, you don't need to pay me.  Not after I made you wait like that."
   "What do you want?"
   "Can I talk to you?  Can I come inside?"
   She shrugged and let me in.  "Do you want some tea?"
   "Sure.  Do you need any help?"
   "No," she said with a snort.  "I can do it myself."  She wheeled herself into the kitchen and got started.
   I followed her, hesitantly.  "I..."
   "Hmm?"
   "Nothing.  I just... I..."
   "What is it that you want?"
   "I want you to know that you're beautiful."
   Her upper body shook with a quick jerk of a silent laugh.  "Thanks."
   "I mean it.  You're beautiful.  You're a good person."
   "Inner beauty," she said dismissively.  "Well, I hate to burst your bubble, honey, but not all retards are angels and not all cripples are optimistic."
   "I didn't mean it like that," I said.  "You're a person.  People are complex.  You're not perfect but you're not bad either.  You're beautiful inside and out."
   "Yes," said Vivian, "as you know, I'm quite the debutante."
   "I mean it, though," I said.  "I really mean it."
   "Look, where is this coming from?" she snapped.  "You're trying to make me feel good about myself?  Well, fuck you.  You don't know me, lady.  You don't know what it's like to be me.  So I don't need your pity."
   "I'm not giving you pity."
   "I know what I look like," said Vivian.  "No matter what you say, you can't change that."
   "So what do you look like?" I said.  "What's so bad about the way you look?"
   "I'm a fucking whale, for starters."
   "You're beautiful," I said.  "Your body's just different, that's all.  I actually think you're pretty sexy."
   "I've yet to find anyone else who thinks so.  And even if I was skinny, it wouldn't change my face."
   "What's wrong with your face?"
   "Look at it!" she shrieked.  "Look at my fucking face!"
   "Your face is beautiful," I said.
   She screamed and grabbed the teapot by the handle.  She swung her arm towards me and the boiling water splashed on the bare skin of my arms.
   "Oh God," she said immediately afterwards.  "Oh God, I'm sorry.  I'm so sorry."
   "It's okay."
   I went to the sink and ran them under the water.  It burned like crazy at first, and then gradually the cold water made my arms numb.
   "I'm so sorry," she said again.  "You see, I am a shitty person."
   "It's okay, really," I said.  "You're not a shitty person.  You were just angry."
   She seemed to get defensive.  "You kept pushing me."
   "I wasn't," I said.
   "Yes, you were.  Please don't start again."
   "Vivian."  What I had to say was important and I felt like I should say it looking into her eyes.  I tried to turn my head towards her but it put too much strain on my neck.  And so what I said, I said while staring at the blisters on my arms:
   "Let me tell you what I think.  I think every person is sexy.  I do.  I think every man is handsome and every woman is beautiful.  They're all just different, that's all.  There's nothing ugly.  Just different.  Just intriguing.  Just sexy."
   "Pimples aren't sexy," she said.
   "Oh, but they are.  Look, look at your face.  You cover it up with make-up to try and hide your pimples and your acne scars.  First thing I'd do-- uh, hypothetically, you know, if I was, if I was-- first thing I'd do is I'd wash off your make-up.  Scrub it off your face.  And then I'd kiss it.  I'd kiss every one of your pimples.  Suck them.  Lick them.  Taste them.  Worship them.  Do you have acne anywhere else on your body?"
   "I have some down my chest."
   "On your breasts?"
   "Yes..."
   "Then I'd, I'd take off your shirt.  Leave your bra on first.  And I'd put my face in your boobs.  I'd kiss all the pimples I could find, I'd try and stick my tongue underneath the bra so that we'd both get a little frustrated, a little hot.  Then and only then I'd take off your bra and begin sucking on your breasts, sucking on your pimples, sucking on them long and hard and wet."
   "And... and then...?"  She cleared her throat.
   That's when I realized what I had said, what I had been saying, that I was saying it out loud.  I turned towards her, taking my arms out from the water.  They began to sting again almost immediately.
   "What would you do next?" she said, breathlessly.
   "I'm sorry," I said.
   "What?"
   "I wanted to come here and talk to you.  To tell you how beautiful you are.  To do something for you.  And now I'm... well, I'm using you.  I wanted to do something, I wanted to treat you like a person, and instead I'm just using you to make myself wet."
   "This is making you wet?"
   "Very."
   "I think it's making me wet, too," said Vivian.  "But I'm not sure."  She grabbed one of my wrists, just below the burn.  With her other hand she pulled back the waistband of her sweatpants.  She slid my hand inside.
   I cupped her vagina with my hand, ran a finger along its soaking folds.  "Yes, you're wet," I said.  "But you can't feel it?"
   She shook her head as I pulled my hand back.  "No, nothing down there.  Even if I had a boyfriend, it wouldn't do anything for me.  Doesn't mean I still don't..." She grimaced, searched for words.  "I have all the usual urges.  I just don't have anywhere to put them."
   "Me too," I said.
   "Yeah, right."
   "No, I mean it.  I hate sex.  I do.  I hate being touched, I hate it when they put their things in me.  Maybe I don't hate it.  But it doesn't do anything for me.  And the thing that drives me crazy, you know, is that I... I think about it all the time."  I looked down at the floor.
   "Apparently you have a thing for pimples," she said.
   "I have a thing for everything.  And everyone."  And there it was: my secret, so fervently kept for so many years, blurted out in earnest.  Likely because I realized there was no use holding back, I looked up and locked eyes with her.  "I think about it all the time about everyone.  I can't see people as people.  And nothing's off-limits.  I've thought about doing the most horrible things to you.  I've masturbated to the thought of raping you in the middle of the night."
   "I've dreamed of crippling you."
   "I know," I said.  "I read your diary."
   "You what?"
   "I read your diary, on your laptop," I said breathlessly.  "I read your diary and I think maybe I fell in love with you, you're the only person I know who hates herself as much as I do, but you're not like me, you shouldn't hate yourself like that, you're beautiful and you should know that, you need someone to tell you that you're beautiful and maybe, maybe you need someone to love you and maybe I can do that, I don't know, this is so fucked up, I'm so weird and I'm sorry."
   "You can love me," she said suddenly.
   "I think I do love you, I don't know.  I hated you two hours ago."
   "I hated you ten minutes ago," said Vivian.
   "I didn't think I loved you until I said it.  But I think I do.  Is that weird?"
   "I am like you," said Vivian.  "You said I'm not, but I am.  I'm not exactly like you, but I am and you can love me, just tell me what happens next."
   "What happens next...?"
   "You've kissed my face," said Vivian.  "You took off my shirt and my bra and you've sucked my pimples like crazy, you've sucked them until they hurt.  So what do you do to me next?"
   And so I told her.  Though I didn't touch her, though I didn't do any of the things that I said I was doing to her, that day in the kitchen she had her first orgasm.

   We are an unconventional couple.  Though we sleep in the same bed, we're rarely naked and we almost never touch each other in a sexual way.  Our sex life is completely verbal.  We'll share fantasies with one another.  We almost never talk about ourselves, but always about other people, people we feel safe using and "doing" perverted things to.  (I don't want to use her.  Not my Viv.)  It will sometimes take hours, but the two of us can bring one another to climax without any physical sensation at all.  In fact, I can't even remember the last time I masturbated.

   Her family doesn't like me, obviously.  Their animosity towards me only increased when Vivian moved in with me.  We endure them for holidays but we're always the last to arrive and the first to leave.
   I don't think they hate me because I was first with Slater and then with his sister, or even because I "turned Vivian gay".  I think they hate me because I chose Viv over Slater.  That I chose the broken one over the good one, that I chose the family embarrassment over the family pride.
   Viv doesn't miss them.

   Viv seems to be better.  Seems to hate herself less.  Or, if it hasn't changed, she's gotten better at hiding it.  That worries me sometimes.
   But I think she's happy.  I think I make her happy.
   I still think about sex all the time.  I still feel guilty about some of the things I think about.  It's still hard to look someone in the eye the day after I've used them.  I still hate myself.  And I still wish I was normal.
   But sometimes, when I look at her, I feel something quiet and soft inside of me, something just beyond my ability to name it.  Sometimes, I don't hate myself quite as much as I used to.  Sometimes, I'm content to be who I am, without apologies, without explanations.
   That's what she does for me.  That's what I try to do for her.
   I think that's love.

(C) COPYRIGHT 2009 TOM RUSSELL.