GIRL 48
Literary Agent Girl
I'd decided that there was a massive conspiracy at the internet dating site. They sent me the same faces over and over. Yet, if I were to use the keyword search function, and input something innocuous, like "tennis" or "financial," the database would spit out new people who lived right under my nose, yet despite exhaustive searches for locals, these women hadn't come up. I wondered if the system were programmed to avoid problems between people, and only put out probable matches based on some secret math program. It stood to reason that the internet dating site was a moneymaking machine. I noticed that if I went to town and winked at over 50 women in one night, the server didn't deliver most of my winks. It would assume (properly) that I had a bad date and was three scotches into the night, winking away at anything female, too bombed to write an email and too angry wondering why, yet again, I was sleeping alone. I also noticed that if I decided to hide my profile to avoid a stalker or to rewrite the awful thing, that the internet dating site turned up the heat and featured my profile on their mailings to females ("Your Latest Matches!"). It's like they knew when I was getting annoyed with it, so just like a girlfriend who senses a man's displeasure with her, suddenly ups the number of blowjobs to keep the boy in the relationship. Just as I would be about to chuck it all and leave the website, women would start hitting on me in droves. Please, the system said, don't leave me!
I decided on a new tack. Instead of searching for women by slutty profile words or hair color, I would search for them by vocation. Doctors. Lawyers. Financial services girls. The two trades banned forever from my search? Realtors and secretaries. Nothing good comes from under the thong of a real estate agent. They are the perpetually smiling bitches of the world, hating you while smiling sweetly. And don't get me started on secretaries. I'd had my fill of bad luck with them inreal life, I didn't need to repeat the experience in my dating life. I was also wary of computer technician chicks and female engineers. The IT computer girls were usually behind the screen of a computer because the software did the same thing every day, it was foolishly consistent, but that gave them comfort. Here was where the sexually abused ended up, or the daughters of raging alcoholics, or the adopted females who found out how horrid their biological parents were, or the daughters of women who had committed suicide, or the other trauma cases. There they were, dancing with zeros and ones because dealing with people was so scary. Inevitably, the information technology girls would recoil in horror from both me and my traitorous penis, Tyrannosaurus Rex. Both of us were far too unpredictable and dangerous for them.
A word about lawyers. Unless they are unleashed nymphomaniacs, avoid them at all costs. They argue too damned well. A man is at a distinct disadvantage when it comes to debate with any female, but then add on that the girl's an attorney? And trained to succeed at weak, stupid, logic-free arguments? Forget about it. The lone exception is girl attorneys who are into bondage. Then you can tie her up, gag her and do whatever you want without that horrible sound of her voice saying, "wait a minute, what are you doing to my ass? Stop that!"
Which reminds me. All females are into bondage whether they admit it or not. But that's another essay.
So, one evening, a few scotches in, I decided to hit on literary agents. It occurred to me that I might get good career advice as pillow talk. A particular face came up on the screen. I swore I knew her. I'd seen her at my agent's Christmas party two weeks before. She had been the one with the long skirt and tall boots, lips aching to be kissed, her face angelic, her bra filled to bursting with D-cups that had to be fake.
She remembered me but didn't want to date "in business." I understood, but I couldn't keep away. I used all my charms. Eventually I had her laughing so hard she couldn't help but give me her phone number.
It's like this. Get a woman to laugh so hard that her drink comes out her nose, she'll fuck you. I'm not sure why women put so high a premium on a sense of humor. My female platonic friends can make me laugh so hard my abdomen hurts, but it doesn't make me horny. But get a girl yukking, she'll suck your cock. The laughter lobe of the female brain simply has to be next door neighbors with the sexual lobe. Go figure.
I didn't stop with the humor on email. Our first phone call happened the afternoon of my vasectomy. Now let's be clear aboutsomething. You've got to hate this whole procedure. First, they didn't even give me the good part, which is a sexy nurse shaving your pubic area. They insisted that I come in hair free. I asked the urologist if I could use Nair instead of a razor. He shook his head, saying the skin in that area is too sensitive, and to just pull the skin tight and shave it.
I stood there two days before V-day, razor in one hand, ball sack in the other. No way, I thought. I smeared my balls and pubic area with Nair, waited four minutes and wiped it off. With it came all the hair. No chemical burn at all, either. I stared at myself in the mirror. Wow. Hairless made it look huge. My traitorous penis, Tyrannosaurus Rex, big even on a bad day, looked absolutely gigantic. Yet he wasn't happy with it. He pouted, "I have that plucked chicken look!" Oh shut up, I said to him, you look like a stud. Sort of a Mr. Clean bald-tough-guy look. That he liked. "I do?" Yeah, Rex, you do. Chicks will love it.
I didn't find out till later the extent to which that was true. If I'd known, I'd have done it decades before.
Anyway, I entered the urologist's office hair-free. They laid me out with nothing on below the waist, and started with the anesthetic. They made a mistake. I'd never felt anything more cruelly painful than the procedure that was supposed to avoid my feeling pain. The needle was fatter than your pinky. They stuck it way in, all the way to one side, to get the vas deferens on the left, then rotated it all the way to the right to inject that tube. I was howling in pain, and at one point I started to pass out from it.
I know what you're thinking. That the author's a pussy. I know. I am. But I never claimed to be able to take the torture. In the Cold War, had our submarine been captured doing something naughty, which was all the time, I knew I'd never let the Soviets take me alive. I'd take myself out before I'd suffer torture. Yet here I was, strapped to a table while someone had a huge needle slammed into my balls.
As I started to lose consciousness, the doctor ordered that smelling salts be put under my nose. I woke up enough to say, "Are you fucking kidding me? Just let me fade away, for God's sake, you fucking sadists!"
The smell of burning flesh brought me from wherever I'd been. What is that? We're cauterizing the vas deferens where we cut it apart, the doctor said. Oh, that's nice. Jesus, when will this horrible thing beover?
So I'm walking gently to my car after the miserable torture was finally over, my balls throbbing like a feminazi had just kicked me there, and I got to my house and stared at my computer screen. They'd finished the operation at 9 am. At 3 pm I couldn't take it any more. I wasn't supposed to have any kind of sex for three days. But I was frantic. What if it didn't work? What if I couldn't get a hardon anymore?
I took out Rex, put on his leash and slapped him awake. Come on, we're going for a walk.
"What? They just operated on me."
Get up, I said. Practice run.
It was a long debate, but finally I just started up the media player and put on a movie of a girl taking on three guys at once. Her hair was drenched in cum as she rocked back and forth and the guy beneath her, while guy two thrusted joyfully into her ass and guy three buried himself in her throat. Not even post-procedure Rex could look at that and stay asleep.
"I'm gonna regret this," he said, "But dammit, let's go."
Rex's walk turned into a jog, then a run, then a sprint, finishing with a fine waterfall of sticky cum all over my desk. I checked carefully. No blood, no trauma, and it was only six hours after the operation.
So my first call to Literary Agent Girl came just after I came. I told her all about it.
"Are you insane?" she squealed in delight.
It's true, I did it. Want me to demonstrate it for you?
"Oh my God," she breathed. "I can't believe I was about to say yes to that question!"
I met her at an Irish pub. She was as lovely as she was at the Christmas party. We laughed with abandon through the whole date. At one point her eyes got comically wide.
"Did you just call me a cunt?" she asked in disbelief.
I smiled. I think I just did.
She laughed so hard she staggered off her bar stool. "I can't believe I'm dating a guy who just called me a cunt."
Dating? I said. Hey, who said I would ask you out a second time?
"Oh, you're going out with me, mister. I'm not letting you go!"
So does that mean I get sex on the first date?
"Honey, I'm Irish," she laughed. "We get drunk on the first date. We get drunk and sexed up on the second date."
I drove her home. She'd had too much. At her lovely townhouse, right on the water, I asked her if I could fuck her. Okay, remember, never ask a woman, just go for it. If you ask permission to fuck a woman, she'll say no. She doesn't want to participate in the decision making process, it makes her feel like a bad girl, she just wants to be included in the fun part, the fucking itself. I "asked" by feeling up those adorable breasts of hers while kissing her deeply. But she answered me by running to the powder room and puking into the commode.
You can always tell when you like a woman. You support her forehead gently as she throws up, and the awful smell doesn't stop you from wanting to hold her.
I highly recommend being tender to a woman when she's vomiting drunkenly into the toilet. Or even if she's doing that on your shoes. She'll never forget it, and when a woman owes a man a favor, it can be a lovely thing.
But this was no macho manipulation. I really did like her. After I cleaned her up, I undressed her. I put her pajamas on, notwithstanding that pajamas are the most unsexy thing invented since Birkenstocks and Capri pants. Any truly sexual woman sleeps naked. Bar none. I tucked her into bed, kissed her forehead and went home.
The next day I called her.
"Oh my God," she said in her nasal voice, except her voice was huskier than usual, and it lacked the light joking tone we had before. For once, Literary Agent Girl was serious. "I can't believe I threw up in front of you. I wasn't even going to pick up the phone, I was so mortified. I was going to just disappear. Then, damn you, you called. Why do you men always call when we don't want you to, and you disappear when we're dying to rip our clothes off for you?"
I snickered. Hey, I said, if I can irritate you, I can get into that thong of yours.
"So, did you?" she asked. "I was out cold. Did you fuck me?"
What, date rape, me? If I want sex from you, sweetheart, I'd just as soon get it when you're conscious, looking up at me, with your cootchie quivering and warm and wet, not slack and sandpaper dry and fast asleep.
She laughed for the first time. Finally. "Oh my God," she said, an expression she seemed to begin every sentence with, "you DID fuck medry! How else would you use terms like 'sandpaper dry'?"
Oh please, Literary Agent Girl, I said. Remember, I was married twice. To women who didn't like me. It was sandpaper dry all the time. Plus, I am a writer, in case you haven't noticed.
"No, you're no writer," she said, a smile in her voice. "Writers are faggy and effeminate. Nothing female about you."
Don't get me started, I said, telling her my ballerina theory of masculinity (see the other blog site for more on that). But hey, I am a writer, a good one. Okay, not a great one, but certainly a passable novelist.
"Too bad I only rep chick writers," she said. "Any chance you'd want to write under a pen name?"
No way, I said. I want bragging rights. Writing isn't about the money. Okay, I lied, it is about the money, but it's about more than that as well. I don't want to write to women about romance with them thinking I'm a chick. I want to write to women about romance and have them know I'm a guy. Like Nicholas Sparks.
"Oh my God, he is soooo sexy."
Exactly like that, I said. That's the reaction I want from a female.
She laughed. "Oh my God, you're so sexy!"
You have no idea, I said. Just take a look at my penis pictures.
I sent her the photos of Rex. She gathered the entire staff of her office to look at them. "Oh my God," she said later, "your cock is simply magnificent!" She said she had to have that inside her.
We tried to have sex. I say "tried" because when I pulled it out of my pants, it was raging and ready, but the second we started, Rex tripped, fell and went into a coma. It happened three times. Three times this gorgeous, funny, spiritual, sexy female got Rex ready for action, and then he suddenly disappeared. I could understand if I began a session completely impotent. But how do you explain walking into the ring with a prize fighter who falls asleep at the bell?
She was adorable through the trouble. I was the one who said, "something's wrong." I'd never been in a situation like this. What the hell was going on?
I decided to get to the bottom of it. I was self-revealing about my kinky side and my background of being on the wrong end of sexual abuse. I never call myself a victim - dammit, I liked it, after all - but it still wasn't something I initiated or created. But Literary Agent Girl wasn't into giving oral or receiving anal, much less using a toy on a guy. But, I told her, I need all that, particularly getting sucked by the woman of my dreams, and particularly looking down and seeing my cock jammed so far up her willing and aroused asshole that only my balls are visible. It's my sex life, and you can't just carve that up and throw half of it away.
Stay with me, she'd said, I'll make you forget those things.
I probed deeper, no pun intended, and found out that Literary Agent Girl had herself suffered from real child abuse, not the stupid stuff of my childhood, but true parental rape. As a result, although she was very sexual, it always involved only vaginal intercourse, which was the only thing her father hadn't done to her. Here I was, extolling the supposed virtues of oral and anal, and she'd had plenty of both by the time she was twelve. Yet while she loved vaginal intercourse, and was fully orgasmic from it, she always separated romantic love and sex. The men she loved with her heart caused her vagina to go dry. The men she lusted for, she chose because she could never love them.
The story of the life of Literary Agent Girl was that she always led two lives and had two men. One she would love with throbbing romantic passion, but an odd sexless passion, a bright light that would emit no heat. The other guy would be the one she'd lavish pussy on, she'd fuck him for days, she'd exchange dirty jokes with him, she'd send him emails about how hard she wanted him to fuck her.
I wondered which guy I would be. She told me she wanted me to be the unification boy, the one she'd love who would bring into her romantic love the passionate sex it lacked.
I tried, but I could see it in her face. The more she loved me, the more the sexual fire in her eyes dulled. When she'd met me, she had a love interest, and the sex with him was awful. She had auditioned me to be the sex boy. But then she'd fallen for me. All that humor, the holding of her forehead, the tenderness as I'd tucked her in, all of that had gotten me her heart and lost me her pussy.
I truly loved Literary Agent Girl, but I had to let her go.
I was lucky. I had the privilege of staying her friend. I watched from the sidelines as she went on with her dual lives. She got engaged in Tahiti to StockBroker Boy, a financial wizard who may have come from the wrong side of the tracks, but knew how to squeeze a million out the place in a month. Meanwhile, on the side, she regularly fucked the shit out ofStockroom Boy, aforty year old adolescent who had a Harley, tattoos and a high school kid's job, lived with his mother, but borrowed his drinking buddy's camper for sexual trysts with Literary Agent Girl.
I asked her, don't you want to try to bring this together under one roof? Wouldn't it be better to just be honest with these guys? And with yourself?
Her voice was sad. "Oh my God, if Stock Broker Boy knew about Stockroom Boy, he'd be heartbroken, and he'd leave me in a second. And Stockroom Boy would run for the hills if he knew I were truly available. He only fucks me because he knows it's not serious. And I need that. I can't get it from Stock Broker Boy."
I nodded. You can't unring a bell. A raw egg dropped to the hardwood floor will never be the same. A little girl, raped brutally for years by her own father, can't really be expected to function as a normal and whole person.
You don't think, I asked, that you can get Stock Broker Boy to turn you on in the bedroom?
She shook her head and drained her beer. "Like with you, at first I wanted him to be the sexual one." She gave me a significant look. "When I was flat with you, he was the one I was cheating with, he was my sex energy."
Ah, I said. Of course. And Rex had sensed it almost immediately. That dinosaur was a lot smarter than even I wanted to admit.
And when I walked away from it, I said, he became your love interest.
She nodded. "He became my serious boyfriend. And then I found Stockroom Boy with his Harley and his medium-sized cock and his tattoos, and he's the one who can make me scream."
But not Stock Broker Boy.
"Nope. I stopped screaming with him the day you decided to opt out of the relationship with me. From then on, it was 'can you hurry up and finish so I can watch my TV show?'"
A new enlightenment came over me. I'd always assumed the females who insisted on being married to me but couldn't stomach the idea of fucking me were closet lesbians. Now there was an alternate explanation. Particularly since both had fucked me passionately before the engagement ring phase.
Could it be that we abused children all find each other?
I hope to God that's not the answer, I thought.
I sat in my leather club chair one cold night in January, thinking about it, swirling the last of the Johnny Walker Black in my rocks glass. It was the scotch that my beloved Girl 6 used to drink, and this was thelast of it. I'd only begun to drink scotch after Girl 6 and I ended. It had always been bourbon or sourmash whiskey before. And now it was almost dry. Maybe that was a sign that she was almost out of my head.
When the scotch was gone, I looked over at the command chair behind my yacht-sized oak library table I used for a desk. It was Rex in the chair with his feet up. He had that stupid Indiana Jones hat low over his eyes again. Last time I saw it, the supreme being was wearing it. Rex and the supreme being had secret conversations about me. I knew it. But I tried to act like it didn't bother me.
You okay? I asked.
"I'm cool," he said.
You still hurting from the vasectomy?
"The what?"
Never mind. You upset about Literary Agent Girl?
"She did kinda wobble my cool," he said.
How's that?
He lifted the brim of the hat and looked at me. Rex looked so much like me it was odd, I thought, but his eyes were this odd, cold gray color. They made him look ruthless. But I suppose that fit.
"Here I thought women were different. Turns out that some of them are like us." He glared at me and corrected himself. "I mean, like me. Love one person, fuck another one."
Oh come on. Are you honestly telling me you've never loved the same girl that you're fucking?
"Never," he said, his voice cold and hard.
What about Girl 6, Alayna? You fucked the shit - quite literally - out of her. And you loved her, too, as I recall.
Those cold gray eyes began to mist over with tears.
"Fuck you," he said, and then he faded away. I was alone again.
Alone again, in so many ways.
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