erupture no.7
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the coxswain says stroke. stroke.

my life in the bush by melpomene whitehead

Now that I'm untethered, I find myself thinking alot about all the boys I want to get with and kick it. However, it appears that every member of the opposite sex that I'm attracted to is totally and completely unattainable in one way or another. In fact, only one lives in the area, and natch, he's attached. Follows is a list, along with the stroke fantasies, of the guys I've never loved. For obvious reasons I wonÕt use their real names. But, lemme tell ya, if any of these guys read this, they're gonna know who they are. I hope they're flattered and don't think I'm insane.

Morrissey Adorer: God, this was a big one. A guy who surfed into my page and emailed me. We started corresponding and it turned out that he was a really good writer. You're going to see that this is a common thread--all these guys that I have crushes on are really talented, in my opinion. Anyway, he was always really sweet in emails and then we started talking on the phone, etc etc. At one point I thought we might hook up, even though he lived quite far away. I'm not going to get too far into the emotional aspects of the relationship here, because basically I got played and I feel really stupid about it. This guy hates me now and I still don't know why. I didn't do anything! But... I had months to build the fantasy version of him in my head and I now know everything about this guy: what his skin tastes like, how his hair feels under my fingers, everything. Makes me feel a bit like Mary Shelley, or Dr. Frank N. Furter (I'm building a man/ with dark hair and 230 pages of his novel written...). There were tons of masturbatory revelries, the most common being that I went out to visit him, he picked me up at the airport, we stopped on a quiet stretch of highway and got down and nasty on the roof of his car. The engine made the hood too hot.

Bukowski Jr.: I just met this guy, so nothing has gotten too fleshed out yet. The picture on his website is sort of hazy but he's definitely my type mentally. Twisted and dark and geez, a really good writer. For a brief time I though the morrissey boy might have been a better writer than me, but I got over that. But this guy might really be a better writer than me. He tells very funny stories in his emails. Humor gets me feverish. I'm being a bit more cautious this time, and I'll try not to get overly enthusiastic like I did with the last one. But again, this guy lives all the way on the other side of town. Seems very unlikely anything will happen. But, and this is quite a difference from morrissey boy, Bukowski Jr. lives in a place I'd actually like to go to, a place I'd consider for like a couple days r&r. I'm sure he could point me in the direction of a cheap hotel. Since I still don't know him very well the stroke fantasies at this point are just normal sex. I imagine we'd be drunk; we both talk alot about drinking, It seems to be something we have in common. We'd drink vodka 7s and maybe then we could write cryptic messages on pieces of paper, fold them up into airplanes and sail them out to unsuspecting children. We could have a tender moment over a really fierce game of air hockey.

The merry punster: Also a really good writer, also really far away, but closer than the last two. I don't know if we'd be emotionally compatible (he seems more stable than me), but c'mon, who needs love in fantasies? He's sent me some of his more sexually-oriented stuff, and god, it's so damned good. It gets me juicy. It's very cerebral and evocative, as opposed to my sex stuff which is just stupid and insipid and laughable. Oh, and for the compare and contrast bit, he is a better writer than me. There's no question there. And he's got more than several IQ points on me, which I find weirdly intimidating. But that's good. Someone needs to put me in my place. We flirt around the sex issue alot in emails and I wonder if one of us did visit the other would we really git it on. Sometimes when I think about him and me, I feel like a chocolate lab mix. He's more like some advanced alien species.

Little drummer boy: The only one of the group who's not a writer, and the only one who's local. Amazing drummer. Genuinely nice guy. Very funny. Oh god, do I wanna jump his bones. Sadly for me he has a lover and she's not me (Oh! Now I get to tell y'all about my weirdly screwed-up moral constructs. I will not ever ever knowingly go after a guy who has a girlfriend. I think it may be a bit of selfishness on my part; I just don't want to get all involved in that mess down the line... Also, on the off-chance that the lover reads this, I hope she's flattered. I mean, she should be, right? If I think he's all that then she must be pretty fabulous too.). The scenario is this: party, me drunk, he, I dunno, maybe just drunk, maybe high on something. Accidental meeting near the bathroom. We enter together. I lock the door and begin to maul him. He's got incredibly nice hair, so I want to kiss him and run my hands through his hair for a while. I get down on my knees and undo his shorts and take him in my mouth. I stay there for a while because I'd like to hear him moan and sigh. I tell him come wade in me the water's fine and he leans me face down over the bathroom sink and pulls up my skirt. I like this way because I want those incredibly talented fingers playing with me while he slides in and out.

DFW: No point in bothering with a funny moniker. One of the few people on the lust list I've actually had some in-life minor interaction with, and yet that doesn't stop me from creating a new version of him for some mental hijinx. The most recent daydream is this: I decide to go off to graduate school (yet again) and for some reason he's visiting my school. You know, this is like a porn film, these plots are always rather thin, the devices for getting people rutting on the floor are generally somewhat sketchy. Creative writing departments are always small and incestuous anyway... so, a get-together at someone's house, we step outside into the cold November air at the same time to smoke. Chivalrously, I light his cigarette. I tell him Piranha 2: The Spawning sucked, he laughs and suddenly gets suspicious. "Oh no, you're the stalker..." I laugh. "Well, I use the term stalking like I use the term defrosting my refrigerator to mean chipping out enough ice to close the door..." He laughs but he's still a little ill at ease. He says, "I'm seeing a visual of you at your freezer with an ice-pick and I'm not feeling any better about this..." but he's laughing. I tell him if he drank more I'd seem a lot more innocuous. He says he may need to see my freezer. I say right now there's ice and vodka in there and 7-up in the fridge. You could probably fill in the rest. Chances are we wouldn't get to play scrabble until the morning.

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