2:40 p.m. - Wednesday, Mar. 03, 2010
Bridges
Fair Warning: Rated R
As water dripped down the hair plastered to the sides of my face, I sat staring at the moisture on the shower walls. My heart was pounding from adrenaline, my whole body pulsating. I was thinking of them. Intense satisfaction and pleasure is always followed by flashbacks and guilt.
I thought of the first one . . .driving around in his truck until he had finally convinced me to go through with it. Awkward. Me sitting on top of him on the front seat. I couldn't wait to get out of the car. I sat panicking in a gas station bathroom for twenty minutes before finally finding an emergency room. You'd think that would have made me stop right then and there . . .but that was only the beginning. I was twenty.
I thought of the Asian who was breaking up with his girlfriend. I could read the guilt all over his face. I was bored. Do it or don't do it. He did it. He tried to kiss me. He cried. Weak. I don't like weak.
I thought of the strangler. Dirty apartment. His cum tasted like cigarettes and alcohol. The only time I ever spit. But I loved feeling his hands on my throat.
I thought of the old man with the mustache. "I'll let you get to work," he said as he unbuckled his belt. I'll never forget that. He couldn't believe what a twenty-year-old was willing to do to him. I felt powerful.
And I thought of the guy who was way out of my league. Really cute. Bartender. Huge penis. I could never be seen with him in broad daylight. But in the moonlit parking lot I was the best cock-sucker he'd ever met. He mumbled in ecstasy. He gripped the back of my head . . .not wanting me to stop. I wouldn't have.
There were more . . .but it had to end. Because one of them never let go. I have a disorder. I must have a disorder. It's all tangled up. I can't have sex, now. With the love of my life. Because of the love. It's too dirty for love.
It's been seven years. Now I wash dishes and make sandwiches for his lunchbox. Tofurkey. Real mayo for him, carefully proportioned veganaise for me. I scrub the bathroom walls to get the dirt off. My filth. I study Bach and Mozart in the hopes that one day I may be released from this corporate prison.
If only I could feel this pleasure without the pain. But the memory of the bridge will always haunt me. I used to feel alive when I crossed that bridge on warm summer nights. Funny, I can't remember a single journey home.
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