Anal Revenge on Republicans
Introduction:
Part of No Match Dot Com on coolgari.com
Revenge on Republicans
The NRA chick decided that we should meet at the Gorilla Grill, by the lake. First a drink and, if chemistry was there, we could then go to a club, to dance and get wasted. I gave my standard blind date speech, telling her that I would be sitting out on the patio, wearing a cowboy hat and smoking a Black and Mild. If she liked what she saw then she should approach me, if not she should just get back to her car and leave. There is no way one can force attraction and it usually takes less than a minute for someone to figure out if such a feeling is there. I know, some people think that love is defined by kindness, communication, and security, but they are actually talking about relationships. Love is all about emotions and attraction, notions that cannot be easily described nor understood. It starts as a flame coming from the gut and the chest, burning its way toward your brain, as a pressure pushing unbearably against the pelvis. Its urgency makes you want to grab the woman you like by the hair and crush her red lips with a kiss while sliding your tongue inside her sweet mouth in a sordid attempt of capturing her essence. Such a feeling is beyond understanding and it is felt immediately by both sides. It is a soaring mutual attraction, thickening the air with anticipation.
After sitting outside on the patio and chewing gum for about thirty minutes, I usually do not smoke, not even “Black and Mild”, a still attractive woman in her mid thirties approached my table. She was the NRA chick, definitely looking older and wearier than her pictures, but I am sure the same was also true of me. Since she did approach me I concluded that my looks were to her taste, at least from a distance, and she wanted to have a first date. I stood up, took my cowboy hat off, and quietly greeted her. I then pulled a chair closer to me and wave her to sit. The initial minutes of a first date are always a bit awkward, but by then I was a dating professional and I knew that it did not really matter what I say, as long as I did say something. The other person’s brain, just like mine, was too busy analyzing the looks and the level of potential chemistry, so the words did not mean anything and it was just the tone of voice that mattered. This initial process so much resembles talking to a pet which only senses the intonation and not the meaning of the words, hence we are still animals at heart, so close to primitives when making love.
After five minutes of telling this republican, ultra-conservative chick, how uninspired I was by Rush Limbaugh, while she obviously was not listening but rather starring at my hair and lips, she suddenly quivered and looked me straight in the eye. At that point I knew she was attracted to me and that, if I wanted to, I had a very good chance to score. Of course, the problem was me, usually getting drunk under the weight of all the mental baggage I carried around and, at the end of the night falling asleep instead of falling for her.
“Carlos,” she said “è la riunione piacevole lei.”
I looked at her a little bewildered.
“Am I supposed to understand that?” I asked.
“Yes,” she answered, “I memorized this sentence for you and it means it is nice to meet you.”
“I think what you said was in Italian, and I am from Spain.”
“Well, don’t you Latin people understand each other?”
She smiled then and added “Joke” but I already felt that my need to have sex with her switched from reasons of pure attraction to a need for domination and possession.
“Actually I want to ask you something,” she said.
“What is it?”
“Since you are European but from Spain, what ethnicity do you claim?”
“Yes”
“Well, I consider myself Cockasian”
“I am sorry, what? Do you mean Caucasian?”
“Yes, I do. My accent got the best of me.”
A minute later she excused herself to go to the restroom and I watched her walking away. Now, men might be from Mars and women from Venus, but they sometimes meet on Uranus, and at that moment it realized what I wanted from her. She had a great behind and I was very willing to explore it. For one night I wanted her back rise to be my castaway island, a place where I could rest my bald head on the hot ground, taste the nicely trimmed grass with hungry lips and plant my baby palm tree.
While she was gone I checked my phone and answered a couple of texts, being with her was somehow promising and I did not want to do it when she was around. Women do not like not getting your full attention and if they text or answer their phone during one of the first dates immediately understand that they are not interested in you. But that night I only desired to enjoy the abrupt curve and the warmth of my castaway island.
The messages received were from a couple of chicks I met on the Internet who became my friends and were out on dates, just like me. I texted them back quickly, according to their personality. In one text I wrote “I am out on a date, she’s got a great butt!!!” and the other one just went “Out tonight, she seems to be nice.”
Not all people can take my brutal sexual sincerity so I had to be cautious. The answer to the tame text came back:
“Forget her nicety. Do you want to sleep with her?”
Apparently, up until then I had misjudged my friend’s tolerance for profanity, so I replied:
“I think so. She is a white woman with a black butt.”
Then I put the phone back in my pocket, and let my eyes wander around. The advantage to being out on an Internet date versus just going to a bar was obvious. I did not have to bother to go through the whole hook-up phase, trying to impress a woman with the first few uttered words. That initial step was already behind me and there was no need for any type of misguided pickup lines. If everything was ok, one was just ready to move forward and hopefully do IT. Of course, the caveat is that if you do not like the person from the dating website, you cannot easily discard her or him and move on to your next target, since a date is a little bit like a promise that I somehow feel compelled to keep. There had been one exception to that, one time when I decided to abandon my date right before she was ready to put her head on my shoulder, crying over her ex. But I guess that’s what she gets for dating an Italian.
A few more minutes passed by and the NRA chick was back, waving her way through the crowd, with moves full of promises. I stood up once again and pulled out her chair to sit.
“A gentleman,” she said.
“Not really,” I answered.
The conversation continued a bit monotonous, with subjects varying from the nice summer weather to astrological signs. Despite my somehow cynical and scientific upbringing I do believe in astrological signs, since I am a Leo and never had a Leo girlfriend with whom I got along. After a while the wine took over and, while the conversation still dwindled, the need to reach over the table and touch her skin was suddenly there. I did just that and she answered with a soft stroke of her fingers, followed by a stronger and more determined squeeze of my hand.
“The cat is in the bag,” I said to myself.
Then I repeated the sentence using the more profane word pussy instead of cat. The vulgar twist raised heat inside me.
“One more round,” I said to the bartender.
Naturally he acted like he did not hear; male bartenders do not give a damn about dudes, so I had to ask the NRA chick to call him. He answered her call immediately and soon after we had two more glasses of wine in front of us.
“To Barrack!” I said raising my glass.
She paid attention this time so her eyes gazed angrily at me.
“You are kidding, aren’t you?” she asked.
“Of course,” I answered. Since I wanted to have her, there was no reason to get her upset just yet.
“Don’t get me started,” her reply came back.
“Believe me, I hope I will.”
I then leaned over and gave her a kiss on cheek.
“Do you want to go someplace else, where we can dance?”
“Sure.”
Holding hands we stumbled to the parking lot, both of us by now slightly inebriated. Once near her car we stopped and kissed abruptly. Her breath had a slight smell of cigarettes, another closet smoker maybe, and her mouth tasted like a thousand old kisses. As soon as I felt that tang I just pulled back and decided to limit myself to hugging, biting and possessing her.
“Follow me”, I said.
I jumped in my car and took off, driving fast and somehow hoping she would lose me but she did not, tenacious little thing, so we made it to the dance club together.
We found the downstairs dancing floor way too crowded so we headed upstairs, to the karaoke area, where we could hear and see people acting foolishly. We kept on drinking and, after a few clumsy attempts at dancing, we sat on a small balcony. While nibbling on her ear I slid my hand up her skirt and, once it reached high enough I realized that she was not wearing any underwear. I slightly touched her sweaty bottom lips with my fingers, still a little incredulous that, so close to other people, we were having such an intimate moment.
I looked up towards her and asked:
“No panties?”
“No,” she answered, “too hot.”
“Too hot indeed,” I responded back, wanting to sound like a younger Sean Connery. Was he ever young, BTW?
At that point, despite her radical views, bad mouth and perceived bellicose personality, I was starting to like her more and more. I kept rubbing my fingers against her vulvae, feeling like I was doing something forbidden through this attempt at public sex. We continued drinking, watching the boats go by and the women showing off their breasts. The night felt good and the wine was starting to give me a deep relaxing mood I needed so much.
“Your place or mine?” I asked.
“Are you ready to go? It is getting laid,” she answered.
“Someone is.”
“What?”
“Sorry, I guess I not only talk but also understand words differently.”
We had a couple more glasses and then left for her place.
After driving behind her car for about half an hour we ended up at a house in an unfamiliar neighborhood by the lake, with a long arching driveway. The place was old but remodeled, with a great yard, such a fitting home for a conservative, the relative unfriendliness begetting some measure of isolation coupling the old with the new. Once inside we fed the dog, felt each other’s body and fell on the bed kissing. It was a damn good night. With all the drinking done I had forgotten my promise to not touch my lips to hers so I slid my tongue in her mouth, while at the same time taking her skirt off.
She went down on me right away, such an innocent and American thing to do, and then got on top, moving her hips rhythmically up and down my legs. I could feel myself going deep inside and rubbing the most sensitive of my ends against her cervix. I kept chafing and chafing for a few more minutes until my penis felt raw, while she took my hands and cupped them against her breasts which my fingers grabbed hard, pulled and twisted on the nipples. A moan sounding close to a cry of pain came through her lips, the hips moved faster, while at the same time her inside got wetter. The sensation from down under became moister then moistest and I let her orgasm, feeling the sap of her vagina pouring around my penis like a tropical rain which made me cry out too, aroused by her pleasure.
Once her rhythm slowed I moved her to the side, turned her face down, got on my knees, pulled her strong legs between mine and penetrated her from the back. Her behind shined round and muscular in the dark so I put the palms of my hands on it and kept going in and out of her. After a few minutes I moved back a little, spread her legs, touched her vagina with my fingers and then pressed against her anus. She turned her head and asked:
“What do you want, Carlos?”
“You know,” I answered.
“Ok, do it quickly. Rush,” she told me.
I did not say a word since I was afraid that she would change her mind, but rather I dipped a finger in my mouth, then pressed it gently against her anus once again, penetrated her with it and hence lubricated the pink entrance to that tight and bottomless pleasure. Once I felt it wet enough, I moved forward and sunk my penis fully in her behind. She screamed now, a muffled scream, somewhere between agony and ecstasy. The backdoor seemed initially narrow but once inside it was fluid, powerful and endless, like one of Hawking’s black holes. It was a baby black hole for a baby spaceship.
“Oh, Giorgio,” she said “oh, Giorgio. I missed you so much.”
“Giorgio,” I answered. “My name is …. nevermind.”
“Rush,” she told me, not even realizing her previous faux pas.
“Limbaugh,” I answered.
“Ruush!”
“Limbauugh!”
“Ruuush!”
“Limbauuugh!”
I was moving a lot faster by then, excited by her screams of possible pain. A delightful pressure was building more and more intense in my groin, and then, with a slight yell of relief, I finished, I was done, my essence inside her body.
“Ruuuuuuuuush!” she let out a cry for a last time.
“Limbauuuuuuuuugh!” I whispered.
It all felt like one small victory for me, one giant leap for the Democratic Party.
It is the purely savage aspect of anal sex, the hurtful possession, coupled with the feeling of defloration that interests a man. The simple act of being where no other has been before, or at least where we hope that not too many men have been before, is highly exciting in these times of relative depravation and, despite its brutal aspects, it actually feels more like a taste of innocence, a return to the years of virginity. The hygienic aspect of such an act is the only thing that actually keeps me from proposing it too often and there are just a few women with whom I am willing to try it. In this case I had done it more out of resentment despite the fact that the poor NRA chick did not really do anything bad to me. Maybe Scott’s Slott left such a deep mark that I cannot help but feel some hatred toward people in general even if I wish so often for the ability to answer my detractors with kindness.
I stood up and went to the bathroom to take a shower. There I forced myself to pee in the stall then with soap I scrubbed and scrubbed my genitals, trying to just enjoy the memory of the finished sexual act and not think about how close I was to actual human waste. It is interesting, in just a few isolated cases such a thought would not bother me, and with Scott’s Slott I would touch and taste anything, every part of her, everything originating from her body. Once I was done showering I went back to bed and collapsed. The fun was over, I needed to rest.
Sometimes I wish so much that exceptional sexual acts of my life would last forever and I would go into darkness enjoying a good ride. But it will not happen since I will mostly likely die alone, in an overpriced hospital bed if I am lucky, killed by bad habits and good doctors.
I fell asleep in her bed and the morning came too soon. It was time to slip out of there, so I took another shower, dressed quickly and on my way out gave the NRA woman a slight kiss on her naked bottom. It still looked nice, firm and attractive, but she did not, her face tired and somehow angry, so I started to understand that her “Oh Giorgio” screams from the night before might not had been expressions of pleasure only. Well, there was nothing I could do by then since sexual defeat and surrender are always painful and she had to get over them on her own.
I left her house and eagerly found the path to the freeway. On my way out I stopped for a few minutes on the side of the road and stared at the water. The lake seemed endless there; to the naked eye it looked as large as the ocean. We humans definitely perceive so much less than we can envision with our minds. I felt a pain in my heart and did not really understand why. Was I experiencing a hangover so deep that it affected my soul, I wondered. Maybe the mother of all hangovers just hit me and Fat Jesus was nowhere in sight to save the day. But then I realized, it was yet again the sign of unfulfilled affection. I missed my true love so much, even after a night of drinking and debauchery that I just wanted to dissipate into thin air. Damn love, I hated it.
Good sex does not come from the technique of partners, from the actual physical things we do to each other. It is a feeling embedded in our brains to an unreachable depth, to unconscious levels and expressed instinctively in our bodily behavior. When I made love to my married girlfriend I did not think about what I would do next, it just came naturally and as a result of what was almost a fluid of emotions flowing between us. That was chemistry. The best sex of one’s life always comes from mind and heart, not the body.
I was trying to let the regrets go away, but it did not seem to work. Maybe I just needed more alcohol, maybe I just needed more time, maybe I just needed to perish a little more and then grow my spirit back. My spirit that does not belong to an inexistent god but it was rather formed around an intangible feeling, my soul that only exists when I love someone and dies when the love disappears.
I drove home, with a quick stop for coffee at Starbucks. The night had been nice and it helped me forget. The day ahead was looking ugly with one hundred percent chances of a hangover, so I sent a text to the NRA chick, thanking for the evening we spent together. She never answered, so I realized that anal sex with anyone else but Giorgio must not have been her thing. I guess I just missed my chance to have some conservative ideas rubbing off on me, I will continue being the only democrat in the South. Before that night I had never known the true meaning of backdoor politics.
The NRA chick decided that we should meet at the Gorilla Grill, by the lake. First a drink and, if chemistry was there, we could then go to a club, to dance and get wasted. I gave my standard blind date speech, telling her that I would be sitting out on the patio, wearing a cowboy hat and smoking a Black and Mild. If she liked what she saw then she should approach me, if not she should just get back to her car and leave. There is no way one can force attraction and it usually takes less than a minute for someone to figure out if such a feeling is there. I know, some people think that love is defined by kindness, communication, and security, but they are actually talking about relationships. Love is all about emotions and attraction, notions that cannot be easily described nor understood. It starts as a flame coming from the gut and the chest, burning its way toward your brain, as a pressure pushing unbearably against the pelvis. Its urgency makes you want to grab the woman you like by the hair and crush her red lips with a kiss while sliding your tongue inside her sweet mouth in a sordid attempt of capturing her essence. Such a feeling is beyond understanding and it is felt immediately by both sides. It is a soaring mutual attraction, thickening the air with anticipation.
After sitting outside on the patio and chewing gum for about thirty minutes, I usually do not smoke, not even “Black and Mild”, a still attractive woman in her mid thirties approached my table. She was the NRA chick, definitely looking older and wearier than her pictures, but I am sure the same was also true of me. Since she did approach me I concluded that my looks were to her taste, at least from a distance, and she wanted to have a first date. I stood up, took my cowboy hat off, and quietly greeted her. I then pulled a chair closer to me and wave her to sit. The initial minutes of a first date are always a bit awkward, but by then I was a dating professional and I knew that it did not really matter what I say, as long as I did say something. The other person’s brain, just like mine, was too busy analyzing the looks and the level of potential chemistry, so the words did not mean anything and it was just the tone of voice that mattered. This initial process so much resembles talking to a pet which only senses the intonation and not the meaning of the words, hence we are still animals at heart, so close to primitives when making love.
After five minutes of telling this republican, ultra-conservative chick, how uninspired I was by Rush Limbaugh, while she obviously was not listening but rather starring at my hair and lips, she suddenly quivered and looked me straight in the eye. At that point I knew she was attracted to me and that, if I wanted to, I had a very good chance to score. Of course, the problem was me, usually getting drunk under the weight of all the mental baggage I carried around and, at the end of the night falling asleep instead of falling for her.
“Carlos,” she said “è la riunione piacevole lei.”
I looked at her a little bewildered.
“Am I supposed to understand that?” I asked.
“Yes,” she answered, “I memorized this sentence for you and it means it is nice to meet you.”
“I think what you said was in Italian, and I am from Spain.”
“Well, don’t you Latin people understand each other?”
She smiled then and added “Joke” but I already felt that my need to have sex with her switched from reasons of pure attraction to a need for domination and possession.
“Actually I want to ask you something,” she said.
“What is it?”
“Since you are European but from Spain, what ethnicity do you claim?”
“Yes”
“Well, I consider myself Cockasian”
“I am sorry, what? Do you mean Caucasian?”
“Yes, I do. My accent got the best of me.”
A minute later she excused herself to go to the restroom and I watched her walking away. Now, men might be from Mars and women from Venus, but they sometimes meet on Uranus, and at that moment it realized what I wanted from her. She had a great behind and I was very willing to explore it. For one night I wanted her back rise to be my castaway island, a place where I could rest my bald head on the hot ground, taste the nicely trimmed grass with hungry lips and plant my baby palm tree.
While she was gone I checked my phone and answered a couple of texts, being with her was somehow promising and I did not want to do it when she was around. Women do not like not getting your full attention and if they text or answer their phone during one of the first dates immediately understand that they are not interested in you. But that night I only desired to enjoy the abrupt curve and the warmth of my castaway island.
The messages received were from a couple of chicks I met on the Internet who became my friends and were out on dates, just like me. I texted them back quickly, according to their personality. In one text I wrote “I am out on a date, she’s got a great butt!!!” and the other one just went “Out tonight, she seems to be nice.”
Not all people can take my brutal sexual sincerity so I had to be cautious. The answer to the tame text came back:
“Forget her nicety. Do you want to sleep with her?”
Apparently, up until then I had misjudged my friend’s tolerance for profanity, so I replied:
“I think so. She is a white woman with a black butt.”
Then I put the phone back in my pocket, and let my eyes wander around. The advantage to being out on an Internet date versus just going to a bar was obvious. I did not have to bother to go through the whole hook-up phase, trying to impress a woman with the first few uttered words. That initial step was already behind me and there was no need for any type of misguided pickup lines. If everything was ok, one was just ready to move forward and hopefully do IT. Of course, the caveat is that if you do not like the person from the dating website, you cannot easily discard her or him and move on to your next target, since a date is a little bit like a promise that I somehow feel compelled to keep. There had been one exception to that, one time when I decided to abandon my date right before she was ready to put her head on my shoulder, crying over her ex. But I guess that’s what she gets for dating an Italian.
A few more minutes passed by and the NRA chick was back, waving her way through the crowd, with moves full of promises. I stood up once again and pulled out her chair to sit.
“A gentleman,” she said.
“Not really,” I answered.
The conversation continued a bit monotonous, with subjects varying from the nice summer weather to astrological signs. Despite my somehow cynical and scientific upbringing I do believe in astrological signs, since I am a Leo and never had a Leo girlfriend with whom I got along. After a while the wine took over and, while the conversation still dwindled, the need to reach over the table and touch her skin was suddenly there. I did just that and she answered with a soft stroke of her fingers, followed by a stronger and more determined squeeze of my hand.
“The cat is in the bag,” I said to myself.
Then I repeated the sentence using the more profane word pussy instead of cat. The vulgar twist raised heat inside me.
“One more round,” I said to the bartender.
Naturally he acted like he did not hear; male bartenders do not give a damn about dudes, so I had to ask the NRA chick to call him. He answered her call immediately and soon after we had two more glasses of wine in front of us.
“To Barrack!” I said raising my glass.
She paid attention this time so her eyes gazed angrily at me.
“You are kidding, aren’t you?” she asked.
“Of course,” I answered. Since I wanted to have her, there was no reason to get her upset just yet.
“Don’t get me started,” her reply came back.
“Believe me, I hope I will.”
I then leaned over and gave her a kiss on cheek.
“Do you want to go someplace else, where we can dance?”
“Sure.”
Holding hands we stumbled to the parking lot, both of us by now slightly inebriated. Once near her car we stopped and kissed abruptly. Her breath had a slight smell of cigarettes, another closet smoker maybe, and her mouth tasted like a thousand old kisses. As soon as I felt that tang I just pulled back and decided to limit myself to hugging, biting and possessing her.
“Follow me”, I said.
I jumped in my car and took off, driving fast and somehow hoping she would lose me but she did not, tenacious little thing, so we made it to the dance club together.
We found the downstairs dancing floor way too crowded so we headed upstairs, to the karaoke area, where we could hear and see people acting foolishly. We kept on drinking and, after a few clumsy attempts at dancing, we sat on a small balcony. While nibbling on her ear I slid my hand up her skirt and, once it reached high enough I realized that she was not wearing any underwear. I slightly touched her sweaty bottom lips with my fingers, still a little incredulous that, so close to other people, we were having such an intimate moment.
I looked up towards her and asked:
“No panties?”
“No,” she answered, “too hot.”
“Too hot indeed,” I responded back, wanting to sound like a younger Sean Connery. Was he ever young, BTW?
At that point, despite her radical views, bad mouth and perceived bellicose personality, I was starting to like her more and more. I kept rubbing my fingers against her vulvae, feeling like I was doing something forbidden through this attempt at public sex. We continued drinking, watching the boats go by and the women showing off their breasts. The night felt good and the wine was starting to give me a deep relaxing mood I needed so much.
“Your place or mine?” I asked.
“Are you ready to go? It is getting laid,” she answered.
“Someone is.”
“What?”
“Sorry, I guess I not only talk but also understand words differently.”
We had a couple more glasses and then left for her place.
After driving behind her car for about half an hour we ended up at a house in an unfamiliar neighborhood by the lake, with a long arching driveway. The place was old but remodeled, with a great yard, such a fitting home for a conservative, the relative unfriendliness begetting some measure of isolation coupling the old with the new. Once inside we fed the dog, felt each other’s body and fell on the bed kissing. It was a damn good night. With all the drinking done I had forgotten my promise to not touch my lips to hers so I slid my tongue in her mouth, while at the same time taking her skirt off.
She went down on me right away, such an innocent and American thing to do, and then got on top, moving her hips rhythmically up and down my legs. I could feel myself going deep inside and rubbing the most sensitive of my ends against her cervix. I kept chafing and chafing for a few more minutes until my penis felt raw, while she took my hands and cupped them against her breasts which my fingers grabbed hard, pulled and twisted on the nipples. A moan sounding close to a cry of pain came through her lips, the hips moved faster, while at the same time her inside got wetter. The sensation from down under became moister then moistest and I let her orgasm, feeling the sap of her vagina pouring around my penis like a tropical rain which made me cry out too, aroused by her pleasure.
Once her rhythm slowed I moved her to the side, turned her face down, got on my knees, pulled her strong legs between mine and penetrated her from the back. Her behind shined round and muscular in the dark so I put the palms of my hands on it and kept going in and out of her. After a few minutes I moved back a little, spread her legs, touched her vagina with my fingers and then pressed against her anus. She turned her head and asked:
“What do you want, Carlos?”
“You know,” I answered.
“Ok, do it quickly. Rush,” she told me.
I did not say a word since I was afraid that she would change her mind, but rather I dipped a finger in my mouth, then pressed it gently against her anus once again, penetrated her with it and hence lubricated the pink entrance to that tight and bottomless pleasure. Once I felt it wet enough, I moved forward and sunk my penis fully in her behind. She screamed now, a muffled scream, somewhere between agony and ecstasy. The backdoor seemed initially narrow but once inside it was fluid, powerful and endless, like one of Hawking’s black holes. It was a baby black hole for a baby spaceship.
“Oh, Giorgio,” she said “oh, Giorgio. I missed you so much.”
“Giorgio,” I answered. “My name is …. nevermind.”
“Rush,” she told me, not even realizing her previous faux pas.
“Limbaugh,” I answered.
“Ruush!”
“Limbauugh!”
“Ruuush!”
“Limbauuugh!”
I was moving a lot faster by then, excited by her screams of possible pain. A delightful pressure was building more and more intense in my groin, and then, with a slight yell of relief, I finished, I was done, my essence inside her body.
“Ruuuuuuuuush!” she let out a cry for a last time.
“Limbauuuuuuuuugh!” I whispered.
It all felt like one small victory for me, one giant leap for the Democratic Party.
It is the purely savage aspect of anal sex, the hurtful possession, coupled with the feeling of defloration that interests a man. The simple act of being where no other has been before, or at least where we hope that not too many men have been before, is highly exciting in these times of relative depravation and, despite its brutal aspects, it actually feels more like a taste of innocence, a return to the years of virginity. The hygienic aspect of such an act is the only thing that actually keeps me from proposing it too often and there are just a few women with whom I am willing to try it. In this case I had done it more out of resentment despite the fact that the poor NRA chick did not really do anything bad to me. Maybe Scott’s Slott left such a deep mark that I cannot help but feel some hatred toward people in general even if I wish so often for the ability to answer my detractors with kindness.
I stood up and went to the bathroom to take a shower. There I forced myself to pee in the stall then with soap I scrubbed and scrubbed my genitals, trying to just enjoy the memory of the finished sexual act and not think about how close I was to actual human waste. It is interesting, in just a few isolated cases such a thought would not bother me, and with Scott’s Slott I would touch and taste anything, every part of her, everything originating from her body. Once I was done showering I went back to bed and collapsed. The fun was over, I needed to rest.
Sometimes I wish so much that exceptional sexual acts of my life would last forever and I would go into darkness enjoying a good ride. But it will not happen since I will mostly likely die alone, in an overpriced hospital bed if I am lucky, killed by bad habits and good doctors.
I fell asleep in her bed and the morning came too soon. It was time to slip out of there, so I took another shower, dressed quickly and on my way out gave the NRA woman a slight kiss on her naked bottom. It still looked nice, firm and attractive, but she did not, her face tired and somehow angry, so I started to understand that her “Oh Giorgio” screams from the night before might not had been expressions of pleasure only. Well, there was nothing I could do by then since sexual defeat and surrender are always painful and she had to get over them on her own.
I left her house and eagerly found the path to the freeway. On my way out I stopped for a few minutes on the side of the road and stared at the water. The lake seemed endless there; to the naked eye it looked as large as the ocean. We humans definitely perceive so much less than we can envision with our minds. I felt a pain in my heart and did not really understand why. Was I experiencing a hangover so deep that it affected my soul, I wondered. Maybe the mother of all hangovers just hit me and Fat Jesus was nowhere in sight to save the day. But then I realized, it was yet again the sign of unfulfilled affection. I missed my true love so much, even after a night of drinking and debauchery that I just wanted to dissipate into thin air. Damn love, I hated it.
Good sex does not come from the technique of partners, from the actual physical things we do to each other. It is a feeling embedded in our brains to an unreachable depth, to unconscious levels and expressed instinctively in our bodily behavior. When I made love to my married girlfriend I did not think about what I would do next, it just came naturally and as a result of what was almost a fluid of emotions flowing between us. That was chemistry. The best sex of one’s life always comes from mind and heart, not the body.
I was trying to let the regrets go away, but it did not seem to work. Maybe I just needed more alcohol, maybe I just needed more time, maybe I just needed to perish a little more and then grow my spirit back. My spirit that does not belong to an inexistent god but it was rather formed around an intangible feeling, my soul that only exists when I love someone and dies when the love disappears.
I drove home, with a quick stop for coffee at Starbucks. The night had been nice and it helped me forget. The day ahead was looking ugly with one hundred percent chances of a hangover, so I sent a text to the NRA chick, thanking for the evening we spent together. She never answered, so I realized that anal sex with anyone else but Giorgio must not have been her thing. I guess I just missed my chance to have some conservative ideas rubbing off on me, I will continue being the only democrat in the South. Before that night I had never known the true meaning of backdoor politics.
