8FOLD/ACRA: Kinky Romance # 4: Horny [Reposting]

[Tom Russell]

Lalo pointed out that my lines weren't wrapping correctly in my
"Notes" essay, and a cursory examination of recent posts shows me that
it wasn't the only one.  Since this story was also stricken, I'm
posting another copy that (hopefully) will wrap correctly.  Thanks to
Lalo for pointing that out and thanks to Andrew Perron for the very
kind words.

And here we go.

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| |  You're reading  | | | |       READ!       | |
| | something called | | | | "DOOMED ROMANCE"  | |
| |  KINKY ROMANCE.  | | | |         &         | |
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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:

|||
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.
|||

   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.

|||
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.