The Twenty-Seventh Post

I'll tell you about the woman I love, then.

We've known each other half our lives. I turned 34, two months ago. We met in high school. Actually, no, I saw her on a bus on the way to my high school orientation, she and her best friend, sharing a seat. Later, they turned out to be my classmates. I had a huge crush on her best friend for about a year. But Cheryl I formed a subversive, special bond that happened not in the classroom, but over the phone, at night. And after high school was over.

One night Cheryl made me jerk off on the phone for her. We were sharing sexual fantasies. I think I told her something about wanting to eat a cherry out of a woman's pussy. She told me she thought it was romantic. I told her my cock was hard. She asked me to touch it. So I did. Made me tell her how I jerked off. So I did. Made me tell her how it felt. And how it felt when I started to cum. So I did. And then I went away to the Army. She went away to another country. Then so did I. And we wrote. And we lost touch for eleven or twelve years. And a year ago we found each other on Facebook.

Two or three weeks ago we were on the phone. My cock was in my hand. I was close.

"You remember how you told me it felt?" She asked. She sounds so very beautiful, so lovely her intonations are. "You said it started from the base, worked its way up your shaft, till it exploded out your tip."

She'd remembered word for word.

"I love hearing you cum," she said as I shook, and shook, and shook. "You'll have to send me a video, or something."

She and I are biracial. In the same rare combination of ancestry. I don't know anyone else who's like us. She doesn't either, except for her sister. She's gorgeous. Petite, delicate of bone structure, but strong, athletic, olive-skinned. She makes me ache when I look at her pictures. Looking just like she did, half our lives ago.

We have the same birth month, so we're the same star sign. And while our birthdays are different, numerology says the 3rd and 21st (2+1) are the same.

We've lived similar life paths--her moving out of country to one continent, me to another. Loveless, failed long-term relationships. Emotionally disconnected partners. Experiencing them similarly. We dropped Catholicism for the same reasons. Had the same mother types. Were confused by the same racial epithets.

We have the same sexual desires. Share the same attitudes. Non-jealous, non-monogamy, hard and rough fucking; long, slow, deep fucking. I want to watch her fuck another man, she wants to watch me fuck another woman. I ask her if, say we were in a tangible relationship, would she want me to not fuck anybody else. And she says, no, you're a sexual person, you mustn't be caged, you should be allowed to fuck whoever you like, if your heart stays with me.

We make each other feel so, so good. So easily. A message. A text. A word. A song. I know when she's down, I know why, and I know what makes her feel good. It's the same thing that would make me feel good. I know how she's felt, why she's made her choices, and how, because I've done the same.

But, she's married. And for some reason, though I'd kill a thousand men to be beside her, it stops me to make her leave her man, even if she's unhappy, or disconnected, or dissatisfied. She has to want to do it herself. And, frankly, there are days I feel broken enough I'm not certain I'm a better alternative.

But I love her, deeply and truly. And she more than arouses me, I can feel my biology when I think of her. And, our rare sameness makes me want to reproduce with her. Propagate our species. The only person I know in the world with whom fucking wouldn't be interracial. Our children would be the same as us. For some bizarre reason, that somehow seems significant to me. It never, ever has before. Or with anyone else.

*

So I'll tell you more about the woman I've been fucking, Lana. I saw her again last night, late. Arriving at her home 10 minutes after she got in from a party. We stood in her kitchen, talking, two glasses of wine between us, till I asked her if we could sit on her couch.

She's a really good-looking woman. She's not pretty, or dainty, but she's sexy, and attractive. Really gorgeous eyes, this long, dark, Sicilian hair. Big, round ass, which is quite different from the girls I've slept with, so it's an interesting and nice departure. Her stomach is smooth, ridged in the middle with that scar. Her breasts aren't large, but are full and soft. I like her dress sense, and last night she looked hot in a moto jacket, jeans and boots. Later, I got to see her teddy. She's got good taste in underwear, too.

She's quite uncomplicated, being that she's been through what she's been through. Quite my opposite. She laughs at this, saying the difference is obvious, and owes it to my being an introvert, and her, not. She asks my MBTI score. I give it to her, an introvert type. She gives me hers, an extrovert type. Tells me they both make a good pair. At first, I wince inside, when I think of the things Cheryl and I have in common, but I also chide myself for being reprehensible, out of the moment, and frankly I was starting to get sick of myself, my broken heart, and everything else. Lana was cool, and was being cool. And so I allowed myself to appreciate her.

She's got a good heart. And does charity work. She's a type A personality, which I in turn give her shit for, and she laughs. An overachiever. I laugh. She takes a laugh well. That's something else we have in common. She has 200 people working under her. I don't. She's out of bed by 6 in the morning. I'm crawling into it. She's got her shit together. Me, um...

She asks about my ex. I tell her. She tells me she gets it. She asks about my mother. I tell her. She gets it. I believe her, too. She asks me why the fuck my body's so sore, and I tell her what I did at the gym prior to our meeting and she laughs and rolls her eyes. "But you're fit!" she says. Yes, but, results and all that, I explain. She shakes her head. "That's you being very _______", she says, ________ being what my late father was, kind of nailing it, though I'd never thought of it that way. I realize she's probably right.

We fuck easy, like a sharp knife moving slowly in a hot stomach, till she shudders and cums. "Cum all over my ass," she gasps. I fuck her till I can't move, then collapse beside her. "Did you cum?" she asks, putting a hand between her legs, feeling for my semen, finding none.

"No, I do this thing, it's a retrograde ejaculation," I lie. "It's very _______," I say, bringing it back. "We're all born knowing that trick."

"Really?"

"No. Hello."

"I knew you were fucking lying, okay, I just acted like I didn't."

We talk. She puts her head in the crook of my arm. I start to tell her about the scene in "True Romance", Dennis Hopper explaining to Christopher Walken why and how Sicilians came to be the way they are, but she's snoring before I'm halfway there. I ease myself out from under her. Tuck her in. Leave quietly after groping for my clothes.

In the morning I get a text: "Sorry for falling asleep on you last night!"

"You missed a good story."

"I heard it. Like listening to you."

I smile. What a charming liar. Forgiven of course, for the sweetness of intent alone. But still she deserved a little shit.

"What was it about?"

"Um."

"Busted."

"I had an almost 24 hour day! I'm serious, I was so tired."

"I know. But, busted."

"What was it about?"

"Doesn't work over text. Save it for when we meet next."

"Date, time."

"Relax. I'll have my peeps call your peeps. We'll work something out.

"Fine."

"Fine!"

"FINE!"

She's great fun.

Tonight, I got a message: "Goodnight, Writer."

"Goodnight, Sicilian."

She's growing on me. I could dig being her Friday night (or Monday night, as last night's case may be) guy for a while.