Thursday, April 18, 2013


What would declining Vanessa's sweet invitation have accomplished or proven?  That my flesh was strong, my devotion pure, heart true?  Nonsense.  Morality is entirely subjective.  If you do not consider an act sinful, then it isn't, the conscience therefore clear.  If the act is deemed evil, going through with it will cast you into a hell of your own making.  It's that simple, as are most issues once the political correctness of others is removed from the equation.

I felt for Dawn like I had felt for no other.  But this I saw as separate from my adoration of womankind in general.  Though I ceased to actively pursue other women, if the right situation arose, I had no intention of running from it.  Running with an erected situation in your pants is never advisable.            

Vanessa was a being created for adolescent wet dreams, the type of woman who inspired in men the most drastic of measures - squandered fortunes, wrecked homes, waged wars.  Such behavior was unnecessary in my case, for I had the luck of geography.  She moved into the apartment next door, so my neighborly hospitable offer to hook up her stereo and VCR was all that it took.

From the very beginning I knew how it would end up.  Vanessa oozed sex the way used car salesmen do greed.  It seeped from every pore and called out to me.  The concept of resisting did not enter my thoughts any more than a dog would contemplate passing over a juicy bone.  I simply devoured.

Should I rewind to go over the details?  If you insist, though there isn't much to tell.  After completing my handiwork, Vanessa and I partook of some very good wine and half of an equally impressive joint.  As mellowness overtook us, she confided that she was a kept woman, the mistress of some middle aged hot shot who paid the rent and provided her with shiny baubles.  She was an aspiring star whose days were spent in acting and singing classes. I was treated to a sample of her mediocre vocal talents. Then Vanessa lifted her tee shirt and needlessly confessed that the remarkably upright mounds of flesh before me were also funded by her benefactor.  I proceeded to remove the remainder of her wardrobe, a skimpy pair of shorts Saran wrapped over the roundest ass I had ever seen.  The following hour was spent giving Vanessa what her sugar daddy's money did not enable him to provide, as her ear shattering howls of delight attested.

When we had concluded the christening of her apartment, Vanessa smoked the remainder of her pot while babbling about the actors she admired.  She was giving Mr. Big Spender six months to make good on his promise to open the right doors for her.  If nothing materialized by then she would head out to La La land, presumably to suck better connected west coast dick.  Everything she said seemed something I'd already heard, the experience old halfway through it.  She was a fantasy come true, but the truth didn't seem so fantastic anymore.  Her voice grew fainter with each word.  I was not absorbing the experience, filtering what was most pure.  It neither added nor subtracted a thing from me.  I had merely gotten laid.

Vanessa didn't poke my underarms to drive me crazy.  She didn't tell me about the latest painting she had completed or gallery that expressed interest in her sculptures.  Nor did she call her dog to hop on the bed when I went to take a piss, or hit the play button on her boom box so whichever Miles Davis CD was within it could lull us to sleep.  If she wanted to know a single thing about me, she certainly hid her interest well.  Not a single question passed her lips about my latest destined to be aborted novel, or how my Mom was doing, or anything.  I was just there to occupy her time between halves of a joint, a new set of ears to talk about herself into.

I didn't feel guilty, but neither was I replenished, rejuvenated, satisfied in any but the most basic way.  Regret does not adequately sum up my emotions, for I made no promise to myself to never do such a thing again.  As was so often the case, I had gotten what I wanted.  The experience had been everything it promised to be.  It simply had not promised enough.

I looked at Vanessa's naked body, gleaming from sex, as exquisite a form as God and plastic surgery ever combined to create.  She caught my stare and mistook the expression for lust, rather than realization of where I would rather be.  I made a feeble excuse for leaving.  Back in my apartment I immediately made a phone call, knowing the party I dialed would be out, just to hear her voice on the answering machine.  After that, I sat down at my computer and re-read what I had written earlier in the day.  It was neither the best nor worst thing I'd ever written.  I had been more original in the past, and less.  I had a vague idea where I wanted to go with it, and about where I'd run into trouble.  Scribbled on a piece of paper were two other ideas I had come up with, figuring to get started on them shortly.  I folded the paper and placed it in a drawer.  Then I typed a couple of words to see how they felt, and decided they were the best ones I'd ever conceived.  Chapter Two.


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