Stella:
Are you ready? I thought it might go something like this:
�When I was a child, I spent several weekends on a farm in southern Virginia. My memories are tangled together in a tapestry woven with sweet milk, crisp fall sensibility, and the feel of worn Osh Kosh Begosh overalls caressing my chubby, childlike knees.
I remember wanting to touch, feel, be everything. As a child, you know little else� the world being vastly unexplored thus far. However, on that farm, the need was almost overwhelming. I couldn�t be content with grasping an egg in my little digits when sitting down to breakfast; I had to be in the pen with the hen, watching her push out something she had gotten used to losing, apparently. The eggs would be hot and slippery� and that was a moment never realized if you only encountered the egg at the breakfast table. I thought I was special, blessed with a few seconds no one would have ever caught if I hadn�t stumbled into them. I went out looking for more things to fall into.
Anyway. It�s the same way with you. But I am not uninhibited or innocent, and you aren�t a cool breeze or a brown egg or the warm flank of a calf trembling beneath my palm.
You will be my movie I watch from the back row.�
What do you think? If I ever had the balls to say anything at all� I would want it to be like that. I will make it just like that.
It�s not always about the sex, you know. Sometimes it�s just about imagining it.
Rick:
�They call me �The Republican�, ma�am�� Okay, so it�s a little funny, in a twisted, John Wayne sort of way. Yeah, you know� Stella and all her damn drama. The fucking Republican. Well, at least she put me in her online �opus� somewhere, though I think she mentions Jerry by his actual name. I would say that in a strange way, I get off on the vicariousness of being a dark mysterious figure in Stel�s little online psuedo-fantasy land (especially with a pseudonym as spiffy as �The Republican�), but I won�t. It�s not worth saying if you wouldn�t normally tell another living soul, now is it?
I don�t get all that online bullshit. E-mail is necessary, not that I usually have the time or inclination for it. But chat rooms? Online journals and communities? What a waste of fucking time. Not to mention� you never really know the person or people on the other end of the ether. Stel�s really got a hard on for the shit� she�s a junkie in need of a T1 fix, I think.
I miss her. Her voice on the end of my cell, calling from Florida, California, Mexico, Louisiana� I forget about her till she finds me again. I�ll be doing my laundry on a Thursday evening; coastal winds rattling my window screens, one cig too many burning away in the ashtray� one more vapid night defined by the lineup on channel five, and my cell rings. And suddenly, there are things so much more important in this world than fucking Jennifer Aniston�s newest haircut.
I won�t e-mail her, even though I said I would. I just don�t have time. By tomorrow I won�t really think about it one way or another. Got the day-to-day to attend to, you understand.
And I would say that on nights like this one, when I click off my cell and catch the end of the tide report on the evening news, I think back to when we made out like high school kids the night before she moved to Florida in my car, or how she is the one woman that I will probably never say no to in bed, should she ever really make the effort. And how I am glad I won�t think about this anymore after tonight, so that when she calls again, this whole train of thought can repeat itself without feeling rehashed or old.
That�s what I would say, if I were to say anything. But I am a Republican of few words, after all� practicality being a must.
Lemme ask you a question, since I have cleaned my closet in your presence, okay?
Do I just want to fuck the broad, or what? I have been trying to figure that out for a long, long time.
Beth (drunk):
Sit on the bed; have some more Jack. I�ll tell you all about why.
I have to fuck. It�s been decided, genetically speaking, I mean. I think, and I truly believe this, that I inherited the excessive fucking gene from my father. Fucking to the detriment of all else. It doesn�t seem to matter how long I stay in school; I have had my Doctorate in fucking since I exited the womb. Society and psychology won�t infiltrate good ol� DNA.
Find me the challenge, the game, and I will gladly play. I don�t do it to fill the world with wounded men, mind you, or to get X number of digits in one night. I basically can�t seem to stop. Call it a quirk. Or a genetic defect.
Jimmy, my ex, was perfectly fine in bed. Big cock, too. He was possessive and moody, and a mechanic. Three things, Stella says to me, which spell trouble for the likes of a high maintenance chick like myself. She was right. For not telling me anything I didn�t already know, that is. But oh, the drama! It�s such a rush, the inevitable end of all things symbolized in this tiny one: the finale of myself and some unlucky guy. I am the silent witness to a time span that means nothing to me, and everything to them. In that moment, you know? If you want to know the true meaning of pivotal, ask my exes. And a childish part of me likes to watch that, to watch a scar tissue memory in the making. And know that I won�t be forgotten any time soon. It�s better than fucking, I think. Both in quality and quantity... I could roll those memories around on my tongue for hours. But maybe I am digressing, huh?
All I know is I was born to fuck. Fuck up, fuck over, and fuck off: it�s all the same. And usually occurring in that exact sequence.
Maybe you think I am a bitch, and you are disgusted. Or maybe, even though you wouldn�t admit it, you just want to fuck me. To see if you could, isn�t that it? We are always drawn to the thing we fear. I know why you want me. It�s cause you are afraid of being broken. You know I would do that to you, if you let me get close enough. That�s a promise, sweetness� Signed, sealed, and delivered.
Cause, honestly, I�ve known you for a while, man� And I am almost positive that�s the solution to all this. Fuck me. Now. Or hitch a ride back to Ocean City.
Jerry:
What is it with the sexual obsession of my peers? Everyone is all about getting laid, these days.
I am all about asexuality. The act of thrusting into some random chick to achieve orgasm is an absolute frivolity, really. Think about it, man� What is the fucking point? No pun intended.
I am more into the intimacy of the whole experience, which apparently morphs me into your generic �nice guy�, nullifying any possibility of me getting some, anyway. So, in essence, I am glad it has all worked out this way.
I remember when I first made my asexual decision; a phenomenon was occurring in my life named Erica. Beauty, grace, and total self-absorption: she had everything I secretly and openly desired in a woman.
To this day, she strings me along in her poetry written on bits of restaurant napkin, in an unexpected phone call where her voice is full of static and smoke from some coffeehouse phone booth in Seattle, in my half remembered late night jerking sessions. It�s all her. If I am going to come, it�s going to be to her face.
Which is impossibility, even forgetting for a second that we live on opposite coasts. So, I went the asexual route. Not because I have some false romantic notions about her being the only fair maiden to ever capture my heart (or my loins), but because� my god, the chick really is a bitch. A cunt. And that is a word to be used sparingly, in my book, at best. Stella slept with her; she was Beth�s best friend� but both of them disowned her a long time ago. And I should, but I can�t. Obviously, I am a man that can�t trust his own mental faculties whenever his dick gets in the way. There�s the problem�
The solution was deceptively simple. I just removed the �dick� aspect from the equation� Metaphorically speaking, of course.
2:01 p.m. - 2001-05-08
Recent entries:
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