tanja

I posted this in the writers' group, so what the hell? You determine what's fact or fiction...

One of the earlier ones was the kiwi with the ham whom you had to drive so he could deliver it someplace. He brought along a rather large camera bag, and took out his camera to photograph the grisly accident on the 101, near the coast. He tried to get you to feel his penis, which you did, and it was tiny. He kept telling you to pump it and how he would love to see your big red lips wrapped around [his] cock. You drove him home, and he called ten times a day for a month. You were 18.

Before that was the one who told you he used to wrap his tiny dachshund in a blanket and throw it against the wall. He told you he was in love with you after an hour. The next hour he told you he was over you, and the next day he just wanted to be friends.

Then there was the one you really loved. You really loved him, but he was huge, and you didnt know what to do. You loved him so much, you didnt know how to end it when you needed to, so you were wasting away, eating next to nothing. He, in turn, grew larger and larger, till the day came after nine months and 16 different medications that you broke down. You cried and cried, until your mother said you were not crying from sadness, but from relief. Then you moved on.

There were a few here and there in between, ones who loved you but you couldnt be bothered. Or ones, at least, who wanted to love you.

Then there was the porno addict who lived in utter filth with a mountain-high stack of pizza boxes. He sold eight Harley Davidsons for speed, then covered himself in tattoos he was too ashamed to show his mother.

Out of order, you met the one who threw incredible parties in an airplane hanger and made dildos out of acrylic. He made a double-edged one you used to fuck him up the ass, and to this day, you were proud of it. After all, how many women would be able to have that experience? But he was obsessed, too. Making you all sorts of artwork, jewelry boxes and incredibly intricate watercolor letters that you laughed about with your friends until one day you ripped them up and threw them away. He also took you to that speakeasy where you met the man who wrote about women in the Weimar Republic, and you had the chance to watch a woman demonstrate the 1930s masturbation machine, complete with pedals and a gyrating penis-shaped thing that would go in and out as the pedals turned. It was funny to watch this woman pretend she was enjoying it.

You had that friend, too, who had done porn, and asked you to come along and watch a filming. They tried to get you to do it, too, but you declined. Instead, you wondered whether maybe you should be a porno videographer.

You ran away several times, with three different guys to Vegas, five different guys to San Francisco, two to San Diego, and one to Chicago. Actually, you just met the one in Chicago. There was, of course, some overlap, and you didnt necessarily fuck all of them. Most, but not all. Oh, and there was the one time you went to the Adult Movieland motel in the Valley, which was complete with fur-lined walls, mirrors on the ceiling, and the fist through the wall. There were a couple of other motels involved, but you chose to forget about those. Not because they were such horrible experiences. Rather, because they were completely unmemorable.

And lets not forget about the cancer patient, may he rest in peace. The one with one eye, one lung, and a cock ring, who essentially had his way with you while doped up on painkillers. It was really the only time you didnt want to do it, and you remember you felt raped, but how could you, in good conscience, say you were raped with your history, let alone with a poor little cancer patient? He passed away a few years later.

And through all of it you tried to appear virtuous to the world, like sex was something you were shy about.

It didnt matter, anyway, because these were experiences that made you who you were. And there certainly was no way for you to change that now, was there? You might have done some things differently, but probably not.

There was a whole bevy of jackasses that you may or may not have fucked, who tried to borrow money, paint portraits of you choking (that was always a themeyou choking), and essentially treated you like the piece of trash you eventually felt you were. It became a struggle for you to turn around, wear these experiences with a twisted sense of pride and empowerment. You still werent completely convinced, but at least now your role in life was becoming a little clearer.