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[Do I seem to be the older sister or younger sister?]
The Brother and his little witch of a girlfriend stopped by
for the weekend to visit my new abode and ensure my safety and wellbeing.
Over coffee while the Girlfriend was shopping, he took a
gulp and finally managed the courage to ask, ell, how do you like her
now??span style=""> He longed for my approval. Theye been dating quite seriously for over
a year and I am starting to get the sense that in his old[er] age, he
starting to get antsy about joining the hordes of marrieds known as his
friends. He was hoping Franny (name
changed to reflect the equally unbearable Salinger creation) would impress me
more on this visit.
our girlfriend?she?I mean, you love her so I suppose I
must learn to tolerate it,?I finally said.
ut she is lovely, D!
I do wish you would agree wholeheartedly?
The girl, she is lovelyhysically. My first introduction to her some months ago
left me with mouth gaping. She is not
at all a conventional beauty by any means, but rather she is quite refined and
elegant and wholly, undeniably beautiful with an ethereal glow. She has the bone structure of a strong
patrician and the attire to match with gorgeous, dark locks and lips slightly
pouted. Unfortunately, her mental
attractiveness is far from acceptable.
I find her terribly self-righteous, loud, and quite simply she is
unappreciative of everything. Apparently,
Mother believes Franny reminds her of me (I am aghast at such a notion).
"You know how stubborn I am, and this time I think
she's gotten more unbearable. I secretly hope you will dump her sorry
ass because You can do so much better!"
How is it that men can go on being so blind?
Pretty, she is. But her Dartmouth pseudo-education (Dartmouth,
pleaseeee) and her years working with Deutsche Bank has left her head
inflated beyond recognition, and yet this has my Brother hopelessly
enamoured with her.
I want to vomit.
I'm not quite sure how to sensitively continue
voicing my distaste of Franny. This has been on my mind lately,
for God forbid he ask her for marriage! They would undoubtedly
end up in divorce another year later with half his assets rudely
claimed by some hot shot lawyer she would undoubtedly manage to find.
| | |
| I have hesitantly returned. The temperature is warming up--thank
goodness. I ended up spending most of my vacation in Manhattan,
not the Mount Tremblant location as originally planned. I was missing
Manhattan terribly, and Veniero's Pasticceria especially. That
said, it was a $17 cab ride (or long-ish train ride) there each time
from my temporary spot in the Upper West Side.
While in New York, I was up to my old tricks again. I found
myself calling on men whom I've not spoken to in ages. Of course,
older gentlemen are invariably better at feasting on a woman's
delicates; best of all, they're perfectly fine without reciprocation.
"Hello, Gregory?" I asked over the telephone.
"Yes, speaking," he replied.
"Eggy, darling, it's me."
"Oh shit, it is you. Where/what have you been up to?"
He knew it was me because no one ever called him Eggy save me. I
continued the conversation with Greg, a late-30s art director slash
ex-patriate now repatriotized and living in the Upper East Side in some
swanky one bedroom that costs an arm and both legs. I know
because in New York, the first five minutes of conversation with any
stranger always ends up being a quick show and tell of one's assets
(eg. "I'm an investment banker, living in the Upper East Side, income
of over 200k, can I buy you a drink?"). Though Greg was no
stranger anymore, we'd been sufficiently estranged to merit such a
brief outline. I had nothing much to say in return, but he did
invite me to meet him for a few drinks later that evening.
A few drinks turned into some slices of pizza turned into an invitation
to his home turned into us pondering the ways of the world turned
into....
"Hello, it's Greg--xth st. and x. ave. Can I get an eighth
delivered stat?" he said over the mobile. He was, of course,
calling his delivery service. He had pulled out some chicken to
thaw on the kitchen counter after we jointly decided a homemade feast
would be best enjoyed after some intoxication from illegal
substances. Fifteen minutes later, the buzzer sounded and he was
out the door. Five minutes after that, a bowl was packed and I,
being the retiree I am, was coughing up a storm.
We sat on the couch watching his 40-some inch plasma tv while I
commented on the poor quality of plasma. He laughed and began inching
towards me. I welcomed him of course. The weed was a good
excuse for what my original intentions were regardless. Soon we
were kissing and forgetting the chicken simmering in the oven. A
quick ding from the timer forewarned of blazing fires, but he ignored
it for another five minutes before I finally pushed him off me,
laughing, "the chickkkkken," in some dreadful accent induced by such
substances.
Quickly, he returned, stating the chicken was perfect. Who
cared? I pulled him back down to meet me and our heavy petting
continued. Soon our clothes would be shed and he began his work
on me, sitting me straight up on the couch while he knelt before me. I
moaned into the back of the suede sofa as he made me come, over and
over. He had such a refined technique, and enjoyed me as much as
I enjoyed him. No reciprocation on my part was needed. He was
eager to please, as I find older men often are.
It was ironic that the television was playing some History or A&E
channel special on historical views of Hell and its sinners. I passed
out too quickly after that to really recall the details. Hell,
welcome me please.
| | |
| Good news: I'm not pregnant.
Bad news: Though she delayed her arrival, she's here causing the usual sorts of havoc.
This is very inopportune seeing how I'm set for vacationing next
week. Where am I going? Nowhere special--family cottage
near Montreal for the slopes. I've been hibernating all winter
long; some outdoor snow-related activity will be good for the soul.
Non, je ne parles pas Francais.
| | |
| Earlier in my youth, I had come to meet this one boy who was so
unabashed in his displays and charismatic to a fault, if such a thing is even
possible. He was my first love and quiet destroyer--
I was in middle school--just starting eighth grade. Those were
the years when kids were particularly cruel; cool and uncool were so
rigourously defined it was nearly impossible to control where Destiny
had placed you. By some luck (or un-luck depending on your
perspective) of the draw, Destiny deemed me "cool" with whatever silly,
trite criteria we all used then.
We were a very incestuous bunch. At one point or another I had
made out with every-single-one of the boys in my crowd, though I always
made them promise to never tell a single soul; and they never
did. I believe this was because I wasn't particularly loud or
energetic or perky; no, I was an innocent introvert whom no one dared
or wanted to corrupt, and thus my kisses were a fantastic prize best
kept to the privacy of one's perverse middle school fantasies. I
tired of them all because they were all like this and all so simple.
I later found myself straying from the pack during lunch hours,
wandering off with a couple of close friends to the reservoir near the
school. There was a fountain there and we would all sit around it
with our naked feet cooling in the water while we gossiped and rarely
ate. I hated it still.
Then one day, as if an angel had sensed my loneliness and deemed me
worthy of a gift from heaven, he was there, with two of his friends
alongside. He was wearing pressed pants and a starched shirt and
tie, holding a matching jacket in his hand. Immediately I
realized they were skipping class from the very exclusive all boys
private school nearby. Prior to this encounter, I had never seen
one of these boys just loitering around; they always seemed to have a
destination in mind and were always moving--walking somewhere in those
perfectly tailored suits.
"Hello," he said introducing himself and his friends to me and
mine. His hair was dark and you could see grey hairs starting to
sneak in even at such a young age; his physique was perfection with
buttocks sitting comfortably high in his pants; but most amazing were
his menacingly bright, carribean blue eyes--like the oceans you see in
the picturesque travel brochures.
He had me then and there; I could hardly breathe, let alone
speak. It seemed my sense of sight had somehow been so aroused
that all my other capacities were limited.
That first meeting was inconsequential save providing me with some
delicious fodder for my own fantasies that evening. I feared I
would never see him again, but to my surprise and delight, we kept
meeting at the fountain in the reservoir. Later on he would reveal that
he found me so endearing he had to return to see if he would catch me
again, but I digress...
Eventually I would feel at ease around this Adonis and when we spoke,
we spoke as frankly and as seriously as eighth graders could. He
was brilliant and his interests were vast. Even at our young age,
we would pass time sitting and reading Tolstoy in sunlight pouring
through the windows of my room. "Fucking Anna," he shouted once
in an impassioned fury. Other times we did what others did and
smoked weed in some deserted baseball field trying to identify the
clouds above. "That one is a naked opera singer," he mused and I
would cough from laughing so hard--in part from his visions and in part
from the weed.
For the rest of the year, we were nearly inseparable in our free time; though never once
did he attempt to kiss me, or ask me out as a boy asks a girl
out. And never once did I attempt to kiss him, or ask him out as
a girl asks a boy out. He went to his school dances with other people
and I swallowed my pride and pain by doing the same.
High school continued in much the same way with the exception of our
intellectual discourse intensifying alongside our utter disregard for
the law and self-preservation. Drinking long before we were
legally able, we wrecked his new S4 as soon as he got it. His second
car was a new Volvo started by keys that were handed to him with great
disdain from his father. I was there too, watching nervously in
the background. Amazingly, his parents never disapproved of me;
they saw me as a pillar of strength in his life trying to reform
him--if only they knew.
Many evenings we would lay in his bed or mine, and with the ready
supply of drugs at that time, we indulged in everything and
anything. Only once did our mania lead to a singular kiss--so
gentle and yet so passionate that I quickly turned away with tears in
my eyes; we never made mention of this again. We spoke to one another
about our sexual conquests, but also vowed to remain chaste until
18 though I never revealed that I was never chaste to begin with.
He must have know because sure enough, he would break his vow a month
later and my heart along with
it.
At the end of my junior year, my family was moving away. When I
told him the news, it seemed the world had fallen apart before
him. He cried, and yelled, and was so angry that he swatted two
antique vases off a display cabinet. I had never seen him so
emotional towards me, and it dawned on me that this was love; and it
wasn't sex; and it wasn't the kisses; and it wasn't a torrid
romance--this was it so plainly and so brutally. We laid in bed
together that night, his strong arms around me. "I love you," he
said. He told me then that he had loved me since the first time we met
but never thought he was good enough for me. "I sacrificed my desires
so that I could be with you in some way," he said. I was amazed
that someone so young could have been so wise yet so blind. I
fell asleep to the sound and touch of breath against my neck.
The day I left, he drove me to the airport while my parents took a
cab. We were silent for the entire trip. At the airport, he
didn't bother parking. He drove straight to the departure
drop-off lane where we pulled to a stop. "You're not going to
come in with me?" I can't was all he replied. He unloaded my
luggage for me as I stood solemnly on the sidewalk. Neither of us
said another word as he lightly hugged me. I watched him drive
away without us having said proper goodbyes.
It was difficult to stay in contact with him. Things were so
different in senior year without him being a constant in my life, and I
wouldn't have been able to adjust (and neither would he) had we kept in
daily contact. Our emails were terse and phone calls were
terser. I didn't want to hear about his passing girlfriends, and
I certainly didn't want to talk about all the boys I could do
without. He made mention to visit me once, but nothing ever came
of it. We were on opposite sides of the world as far as we were
concerned.
Eventually our conversations stopped but neither of us made any
protest. It felt right. It was destined to remain pure and
unadulterated and I suppose we both came to accept this.
Perhaps when I am forty I will hunt him down again, but for now
this is the way it will stay. A little sad, but so perfect all the same.
| | |
| What is it--people are fascinated with the rich. Yes, there are the luxurious furs and bucketfuls of caviar topped off with orders of aged reds, lavish thousand dollar purses, personal tai-chi instructors, and gold.
Yes gold--a thin slice of real gold atop my dessert. It was utterly meaningless and tasteless save for the satisfaction it gave in knowing you are wealthy enough to eat rare metals with dessert. This is the age of abundance for the lucky few, and all Americans are included in that few. Though you may not all have the opportunity to eat gold, you do have more radios than there are ears; more televisions than there are people (1.3/capita to be precise); more food than there is need; and so on.
This is the age of abundance, waste, and also unhappiness--but we all love it so.
***
Poured me another godiva chocolate liquer and ketel one with a cherry in a martini glass and I was content. Asked if I was fine, I smiled yes. Lead me to his place where he held me against the wall, and I, in mock protest, turned away. His hand was warm resting tenderly on my breast, and memories immediately harkened back to an older time when I remembered spying on Anthony in the hallway--his silohuette in the light with an arm outstretched and a heaving chest, a woman's, her back against the wall. I was aghast and intrigued and I watched as he leaned forward to kiss her in hushed tones. She giggled quietly, and now so did I.
We did not bother messing around--it was quick after that. We directed ourselves to the bedroom where he proceeded in a very utilitarian fashion to unbutton each and every singular button on my blouse--bottom up. I stood very still as his precise hands did their work, his eyes intent on revealing what lay behind the sheer cloth. The clothes would be shed in due time, and our naked bodies would be writhing in the sheets.
His penis is perfect in length and girth with the head not quite as bulbous as the prototypical mushroom. And inside it acted with determination, with motive, with intent. Rapidly pulsing at one moment to slow and steady the next; it was all controlled and deliberate with the intention of causing my toes to curl and back to arch and nails to dig.
"Yes darling, Fuck me."
He replied with a grunt I took for enjoyment.
Soon it would be over with a guttural spill and no clean-up, just dripping. I laid myself across his chest horizontally, face down and hanging over the edge of the bed. "Tell me, are you happy?"
"Of course."
"I mean really--really, really happy."
"Is anyone?" he replied after some thought.
I forgot--he traded currencies by day and inhaled cocaine by night. His happiness was my happiness in that we were both... not... or only artificially so.
"Our first time and we weren't even high," I laughed.
***
I have so. much. to. tell. | | |
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