Listening at Get Lucky Erotica Group. Lucky. New York, New York. October 26, 2017.
Monday, October 30, 2017
Monday, October 23, 2017
She opened the door, nude, my drink in hand—bourbon, three fingers, neat. As instructed. Good. She was a knock out, but that was beside the point. I wasn’t there to judge a beauty contest.
Turning forty had led her to consider the crossroads of approaching middle age, between the vicissitudes of the past and the potentials and limitations of the future. It had been a while since her previous long-term relationship; she had preferred a measured solitude in ordering her life from the relative chaos of her youth. She marked this transition in life’s passage with an elaborate tattoo empathizing an elemental grounding. Now, with her body artfully manifesting years of cerebral reflection, her mind moved to sex, and specifically, to kink. That’s where she found me.
I took the cup from her hand, closing the door behind me. Sipping bourbon, I kept my eyes on her face as my right hand caressed her body, cupping a breast, touching a nipple, tracing her waist to her hip and thigh. My fingers found her wet. I slipped a finger into her, then a second, then a third. Three fingers, neat. I lifted her to her toes. She swallowed a gasp as I walked her, backward, into her home.
We had worked out the details of this first meeting via email. She had access to this blog and to photographs of me. I knew only what she told me. I asked that she send me no photographs and keep her name to herself. One so rarely has an opportunity for anonymity, I said; let’s enjoy it while we can. In fact, I suggested, let’s conduct the date without words. I reserved the option to give direction, but she was prohibited from speaking—although, obviously, she could disregard that prohibition if needed. She liked the imposition of silence.
I hadn’t anticipated that her silence might accompany the absence of quiet. She had installed a noise machine near her front door, to prevent our sounds from reaching the neighbors. More privacy was afforded by a wall of sound: Tom Petty, cranked loud. She was an American girl, currently perched on the hook of my hand.
I took another sip of bourbon as I scanned the room. Removing my coat would require removing my fingers from her body. Instead, I stepped from my shoes and guided us into her living room. I sat in a cushioned chair. I placed the cup on the floor, and, with my free left hand, loosened my belt and unzipped. She got the idea and reached for my cock. I retrieved my fingers as she slid my pants from my body, one leg at a time. “Let’s not neglect the socks,” I suggested. My socks were folded and placed on my pants, also neatly folded.
I offered her my coat. She took it, looking around for a moment before vanishing back toward the entry. I could hear a door open and the rattling of clothes hangers. Resourceful, I thought, adding my shirt to her neat laundry pile.
She returned to find me nude and waiting, nodding to the beat. I suggested she crawl to suck my cock. She lowered herself to her knees and slinked toward me, her eyes on her prey. She took my cock curiously, and then, hungrily.
My eyes lighted on a clock. We can spend an hour at this, I decided, reaching for my bourbon. Tom Petty has a deep catalogue.
She no doubt wondered how long she would be sucking cock. I offered no time frame for the first half hour, and then observed, “You should plan on cocksucking that duration of time again.” Her brow furrowed as she calculated her endurance. Her hips swayed to the music. I propped a leg on her wagging back, giving myself to her attentions. Her body fell still. Only her head moved as she took me.
The hour passed. I raised my empty cup. She sat back on her haunches, confused before understanding my unspoken order. She raised herself on uncertain legs before disappearing back to the entry.
When she returned, I took the cup from her hand and filled my mouth. I put down the cup.
A moment later, she was on the floor in hand cuffs. I bent her hips firmly back as we fucked.
When we were spent, I swallowed my drink, dressed and left. I sent her an email commending our first date and offering to meet for more. She readily accepted.
On my next visit, she opened the door, nude, my drink in hand—bourbon, three fingers, neat. I moistened my fingers and slid them inside her, leading her backwards to the designated blowjob chair. Prince had replaced Tom Petty. Otherwise, our itinerary remained unchanged.
And so it went, as winter passed into spring. Same rules, same time frame, same wordlessness. Sometimes I brought a cane, sometimes a flogger. She always had bourbon and she always chose a single artist’s playlist.
One day, my offer of a date received this reply:
I’m really unsure about seeing you again . . .
I’m clear about what I will not be and that is only an objectified sexual plaything. More unclear about what I am willing to be, but have a sense of wanting someone who can take in the whole of me and who is open to a deeper level of connection and sharing.
A reflection on our time together; I was longing for someone to show up . . . getting glimpses, but mostly felt in the presence of a detached artist, who is absolutely fantastic at his craft but completely unaware of his medium.
My hope is that you’re open to a conversation/negotiation around what I’ve mentioned here, where your willingness lays and the possibility of meeting again.
I look forward to your response . . .
I replied in the moment:
Very good response! Thank you for saying what you think. This is like the moment Charlie returned Wonka’s everlasting gobstopper.
By all means, let’s talk.
I went on to write that I was glad that she enjoyed touring my chocolate factory, and yes, it is the showcase that most people expect. If she was offering to get to know me in a real sense—to pay attention to the man behind the curtain, to mix childhood stories—then she was asking a golden ticket I was prepared to surrender. After all the sex, texts and silence, perhaps we could get to know one another.
And yet, we did not.
I continued to arrive to find her nude, my drink in hand—bourbon, three fingers, neat. The Stones, The Police, The Pixies. Sex, spankings, silence. Abrupt departures, no words.
Perhaps we were in a rut. But this worked and anything else would be a change.
Finally, she wrote to call it quits This had been fun, she said, and no hard feelings, but it wasn’t what she wanted now. Besides, her work schedule was going to blow up soon, and she thought solitude might be better for her. I replied with my good wishes and suggested we stay in touch.
Despite my intentions to comply with her request, to reveal more of myself and to get to know her, I was, in that moment, feeling my self slip away. The edifice of the chocolate factory no longer held. Reality, in all its brutality, was crashing everything to the ground.
She followed me on social media. She saw that I was melting, melting. She contacted me to ask if I was okay. I replied that I was the opposite of okay. She said that if I wanted to talk about it, she would be glad to listen. I said I’d be at her place shortly.
She opened the door, fully clothed. There was no music. I had to ask for a drink.
We sat on her couch and she sat back, listening. I relayed the narrative of my girlfriend’s decision to dump me for another guy, a friend of mine. It’s a long story, and I didn’t yet know how to tell it concisely. Too much was happening. It was all happening too fast. It was still happening.
She nodded as I spoke. When I had exhausted my supply of words, she said, “You’ve told me what’s happening but not how you feel about it. How do you feel now?”
“I have no idea how to feel anything,” I said, finishing my drink. I laughed. “So, that’s what’s new with me. What’s your story?”
“This is the first time you’ve asked about me,” she replied, a bit surprised. She either didn’t notice or chose to ignore my empty cup as she began. She was raised upstate, on the edge of the Adirondacks. When she was nineteen, she was diagnosed with cancer. While she was sick, her five-year-old brother died of cancer. She survived. Her early twenties were a blur, “just really fucked up,” she said. She found her way out of that and arrived in New York, where she is now a psychotherapist and a practicing Buddhist seeking ordination. She recently turned forty. After that, who knows?
She folded her hands in her lap. That was her story.
I sat silently. “You are so much more interesting than me,” I said.
“You’re pretty interesting,” she smiled. “But yeah, that’s me.”
“You survived cancer. Your baby brother died of cancer.” I nodded. “But I’ve had my heart broken! You don’t know what real pain is!”
“That’s one competition you’re welcome to win,” she laughed, pushing imaginary chips my way.
She had expressed such profound loss and tragedy so matter-of-factly, offering a considered assessment of her life to date. Of course I turned it into a joke.
I could not listen beyond my surface noise. I struggled to regurgitate barely digested hurt.
“I was surprised by your posts about heartbreak,” she went on. “I didn’t even realize you had a girlfriend.”
“Oh, I’m sorry!” I exclaimed. “I guess we never talked about it because we never talked, but I thought you knew. It’s in my blog and so on. I didn’t mean to mislead you.”
“It’s not that. I mean, I figured you must be seeing someone. It’s just . . .” she paused. “I had no idea that you have the capacity for human emotion.”
That’s when Charlie returned the everlasting gobstopper.
Friday, October 06, 2017
Here’s a dream from last night.
My Saab is stuck in a line of cars. I’m in a black suit, stressed and running late. Finally, my car is waved into a parking space at Tavern on the Green. I’m told that because of an event, I’ll need to wait until morning to leave, when the valet parking is cleared. I’m ushered to an outdoor patio where others are gathered. Everyone is resigned to the situation and making pleasantries. Caterers come through with leftover food. I enjoy the crab cakes. Justin Vivian Bond joins us from the main party and as we talk, I realize my suit is torn and disheveled; no one seems to notice.
My wife arrives. I introduce her to my new friends. She asks, “What’s wrong with your suit?” She ignores everyone, rudely pressuring me to go with her. I make excuses and follow. We stop by a male friend’s apartment near Columbia, where I adjust my suit. We leave to meet family for our wedding. We arrive at a grand hall. I realize I’ve left some essentials—shoes, ring—in the car.
I’m dressing my eldest daughter. She is a toddler. She’s happy, then, when I’m alone with her, sick. I tell Dad to call the hospital. He rushes off. I holler to Mom to get my wife; she nearly tramples her mother to get her. I rush to bathroom to revive my baby. I have to wait as a young girl has just gone into the restroom. Finally, I burst in and go to the tub. I undress my daughter, by now shrunken to a small rubber doll. I turn the facet and begin to wash her. My daughter returns to her old self, if a bit disoriented. I dry and dress her. We go upstairs to the wedding.
People have begun to arrive and are lining by association with the bride or groom. Everyone is in their twenties, look good, mingling as friends. I find Mom chatting with people and think, What happened to the emergency? At least my daughter is okay. I had carried her up the stairs and put her down. She smiles up at me. She’s Korean. “Where’s Mom?” she asks. I hold her hand to take her to her mother.
I’m searching the crowd for my wife in her wedding gown. Hannah runs ahead to another woman, her mom. I join them and meet the mom and her husband. “She really likes you!” the mom says. I shake the husband’s hand as the mom picks up my daughter, whom she calls by another name. They are an attractive young family. They decide that I should marry the mom.
We’re on a plane. I’m holding the little girl, at the back; her parents are seated further up. The child becomes sick, fading and shrinking. I know I need to get her to a shower. I rush her to a stall nearby. I turn on the water and undress her. She’s like a doll. I have to hold her up in the water. She begins to shit. Long turds fall and wash into the drain. Relieved, she asks for a cigarette. I reach back to our seats and get her pack. She lights one and smokes, standing in the shower. A stewardess watches, glad the child is okay.
We’re at the mom’s family house. Wedding preparations are underway. It’s like a big family dinner. I don’t know anyone. I stay in the urban rustic kitchen, crammed with empty or dirty dishes. I’m with the child, who is smoking. She and I are very bonded.
The mom joins us and we need to ready for the party. I begin washing dishes, seeing this as a hopeless task. I have no help, there’s no plan and people are arriving. I take up the baby and go to the roof. Family is milling comfortably on a homey rooftop with strung lights. The girl and I join her parents. “I’m very glad to marry you,” I say, handing back the child. We all wave goodbye.
I’m watching Sesame Street. I see the parents on the same roof, though now as a set. They are singing about reaching and as they do, they rise from a crouch to up, up, up and streeeetch out their arms! The girl is watching (away from them, on a tv, other roof or in my space) and imitating them. I’m happy. The mom’s mother joins the couple on the roof. She berates her daughter for letting go of an American husband to stay with “this one.” I laugh. It’s funny.
The girl and I are relaxing in a preschool. The kids are playing on the floor or with cardboard boxes. Two teachers are also sitting on the floor. The teachers are being catty and fun with the kids. “Look at her, she’s being a little dick today, isn’t she?” “You look like you’d rather be asleep, that’s so boring!” It feels like a really warm group. Everyone is happy.
The door opens and Michael Showalter asks me to join him. I kiss the girl’s head and follow. A group of young people is talking, making verbal jabs. It’s an improv group. I’m not a member but I’m welcome. Michael wants to talk about my script. He’s very taken with the idea of the little girl who smokes and my marriage to her mom. It’s a good story, he says, very funny. He encourages me to keep working on it.
Tuesday, October 03, 2017
Here’s a dream from last night.
I’m on set for a small movie project. The film benefits a charity so major celebrities are donating their talents; still, it is a very amateurish production.
I’m in scene that as an extra, a close up of small group jostled just at some kind of impact. I’m positioned at lower left of two lines standing in on risers. The group is supposed to fall on cue toward me as a gunman enters at right. The shot isn’t working because we fall at uncoordinated rates. As the director breaks to work this out, I suggest that Luna cue us by starting the fall from upper right. As everyone falls toward me, she can scream at noticing the gun. We try this and it works on the first take. The director is pleased with me.
I watch the next shot Denzel Washington stands at an old porcelain sink in his underwear, shaving. Two young girls, acting as his daughters, wear nightgowns and lean on the sink watching their dad’s face. The shot is focused on their faces and his lower torso. Their faces suggest routine morning rituals. Denzel pulls out his penis and pisses in the sink. He runs water and washes his hands. The girls’ expressions remain blasé. He turns to leave the sink. The girls follow. I’m struck by the intimacy of parent/child relationships.
I’m dancing at an after-party following the wrap. The party seems much better organized that the shoot. I notice Mick Jagger is on the dance floor. I try to remain calm thinking: how cool is that I’m dancing near Mick Jagger? As the party ends, Jagger passes me with two women. “See you in Chelsea, then?” he asks me. I don’t know the next destination, so I ask if he has the address. “No, mate, sorry,” he smiles, like Jagger never has things like addresses. He goes where he’s taken and that’s where the party is. They pass and I think, that was a missed opportunity but how cool that Mick Jagger invited me to join. I’m readying to leave when one of the women in his entourage returns to give me an address, smiling.
The last part of the dream was lucid. I’m woken and moan, “Let me dream, I’m dancing with Mick Jagger.”