This is the very first story in his collection. I assume this is his first journal entry since each story is dated, and this is the earliest narrative recorded.
07/13/03
CHAPTER 1
Adam & Naive
The high was kicking in…that intense rush of whatever. My tongue was numb from the shots of rum and my mind from the White Widow. Each arduous step was another accomplished endeavor. I could feel the itinerant weight traveling from my legs to my stomach, gallivanting past each vital organ with such joie de vivre. I was gelatin, a shapeless orb morphing up countless stairs with great difficulty. For someone so empty inside I felt ineluctably laden with this brand of misguided, opaque apprehension. But she exuded brilliance. Her physicality seemed to muscle aside any anxiety that may have materialized as her long, sleek legs battled each step with ease. She was graceful, elegant, depraved. I was clumsy, gauche, carnal.
My naivety swooped in like a gust of wind as I reached the top of the staircase. “I don’t think we’re supposed to be up here,” I said with such juvenile hesitance.
She just looked at me with those beautiful green eyes…blue eyes…possibly hazel. I can’t remember, but the recollection of someone's eye color is merely a trite nicety. Now her name was truly vital information, but it had fleeted my mind along with inhibition.
We floated into one of the rooms, a small but tasteful setting. It emitted a disastrous stench of senile cigars and senescent potpourri, yet there was something calm and reassuring about it. It reminded me of my father’s office, that overwhelming aroma of mahogany, that subtle, yet thick fragrance of lingering sex. A light haze seemed to swim across the dimly lit room until it billowed out around us, enveloping our bodies with its crude delicacy.
And I began to notice a change. My breathing was suddenly spiced with a dash of urgency. My eyeballs did back flips and my spine tickled. She reeked of cloves and red wine—my favorite combination.
Sprawled across the bed, she beckoned me using the same finger motion that one uses to tickle the necks of babies; the same finger motion I would use in a couple minutes to make her feel immortal.
Infinite.
I sat down next to her, my body movements wrought with scant hints of adolescence.
I might as well have been sitting in a fucking Indian position.
She took charge. She grabbed the front of my shirt and pulled me towards her. Our lips met with such force, such unwavering intent. It was a kiss that declared, ‘I am going to fuck your brains out!’
The way her taste buds felt against the roof of my mouth was divine. I was about two grams in and I could not help but discern this inexorable feeling of immortality. I felt as if I were a part of everything in the room. My arms were the bed, resting against her back. My torso was the covers, providing warmth to her body. Atoms clashed and ions shifted. I was aroused. She was vapor, seeping into my pores and permeating my veins. I was fucking high on affinity.
This drug called desire: it is a domineering force that drives you straight off a goddamn cliff. It takes away your control and leaves you naked and bleeding on the side of the fucking road. Yet it breathes life into your very essence. Inhale it; swallow it and then exhale. Feel it move to your fingertips. Feel its power overcome your inhibitions. It is life.
And for that brief moment you realize, ‘She is going to fuck my brains out!’
And you want it.
You need it.
You’re willing to do whatever it takes to get it—whatever it takes. If you have to give up your wife and family for it, you will. If you have to sacrifice your job for it, you will. You can lie to yourself all you want, but you will never be strong enough to evade its effects.
To deny our desires is to deny the very thing that makes us human.
At the very cornerstone of life it’s all about control. And I take what I want.
And as this desire plagued my dithering body, I placed her on her back and began to kiss her frame. I started with the neck: sucking and pecking and nibbling and biting. I licked my coarse lips and allowed them to grace her neck with a zoomorphic fervency that is reminiscent of the intimacy only seen on the Discovery Channel. I seeped my teeth into her nape and marked my territory. A light discoloration matured into a profound contusion that stretched across her scruff. Manifest Destiny. Once I was done raping her collar, I began to work my way down.
Every inch of her seemed to beg for attention. Her breasts were firm and gregarious. Her skin was soft and inviting. She was foreign, but none of that mattered. She was slightly older than me, but, again, I did not care. We both flew past these nets without looking back at those souls whose bodies clung to these seines in the sky like flies on spiderwebs. Nationality, language, religion—none of that ever mattered to me.
As long as she isn’t packing, I’ll be snacking.
I continued my descent; my fingertips steadily glazed the small of her back. The faint moisture from my breath percolated her smooth skin. My hands hovered over her quivering body, yet I did not touch her. I merely grazed her thin hairs, guiding my fingertips along her hills and valleys. Her hips beckoned me. Her back arched as her body, ravenous and insatiable, palpitated.
My finger motions and taste buds got her in the mood, but I was unaware of the cataclysm that awaited me.
“Do you have a condom?” she said.
My hands were no longer steady. I no longer felt—
Infinite.
The peculiar thing was I did not fear the theft of my virginity; I just wanted an Oscar-worthy performance. I wasn’t looking for a moment of bittersweet love, but rather a flash of pure ecstasy. I wanted to know that I could feel something with someone without the imposition or involvement of any emotions.
I was always taught not to talk to strangers, but what about fuck them?
Despite the compulsion to be a man and attack the hole, there was a slice of hesitation in my moans. This just wasn’t how I had imagined it would be. I didn’t write poetry about sharing fluids with some Delphic interloper. In my dreams there had been an exchange of love, temporary or not, that wrapped the gift of intercourse. I didn’t even know what name to scream if I experienced pleasure. I was utterly confused and drunk with apprehension.
My dilemma: Do I whisper no and continue my tongue twister? Or do I say yes and prepare my jimmy for battle?
I didn’t say anything. And before I could grasp the delicacy of the situation, I was in. I was at this sexual point of no return, my penis just casually basking in her flower’s spores. I felt the warmth slowly inch its way into my flexed abdomen. I felt the soft, velvety walls begin to strangle my masculinity.
Yet, I remained still.
I was too afraid to move. I didn’t know whether to push or pull, thrust or ram. I was the meat as my anxiety slowly consumed me. It carefully sliced me into several pieces, taking into consideration my most tender appendage. It chewed with such rhythmic mastication. It sucked at my bones and hawked them without compunction. My miniature-eyed beauty saw that I had been devoured by Apprehension and decided to take charge.
With her on top, I finally felt that rush—that intense rush of whatever. My pelvis was pulsating; it seemed to be in rhythm with my breathing. I couldn’t even focus on her; I was too overwhelmed with pleasure. I could feel the blood pumping feverishly through my veins. My body tensed and I quickly realized that this exchange of fluids only elevated my high. We were celestial beings. My brain was at its zenith, while I was at the nadir of her canal.
A few screams and contractions later, I was flat on my back, naked, and smoking a cigarette as if I were James fucking Bond. The anxiety that had nearly consumed me quickly dissipated and I was left with a feeling of pretentious satisfaction, my smug conceit pervading the sultry air.
The stranger, satisfied, quickly put on her clothes and vacated the room, and I was left to share this puissant moment with myself.
You always remember the first time you felt empty.
Eventually, I got dressed and returned to the party, leaving only my virginity and a sullied piece of evidence in the room.
I left the party that night feeling brand new, as if my previous coating had shed from my body leaving me with an intricate design that I can only describe as being on the bleeding edge of composition. I never saw that horny, brown/blue/hazel eyed girl again. Perhaps I see pieces of her in other partners. Perhaps my perception of her is skewed. To tell you the truth, I don’t remember much about that night. But I have learned to espouse this sexual lie because it is all that is left. It succeeds deception and despair, murder and loss. It precedes every other tragedy in my life. I like to think that it all went downhill from that point. I like to think that my first sexual experience came straight from the pages of one of Shakespeare's enigmatic comedies. For all I know, it could have been no different then the lay I had two days ago.
After years of fucking my way through life I have come to realize that Sex changes everything.
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