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May 30, Journal
“Spunky pussy,” the Mormon said tenderly, as he tapped the aforementioned region with two firm fingers. I was pleasantly full of our juices, and I basked in their heat like a parched lakebed soaking up a long summer rain.
My homecoming was celebrated with much sex. The Mormon has pumped away at me tirelessly many times over the past 36 hours, and joyously, he finally flipped me over. It’s hard to believe that we’d always had sex face-to-face up until now, but I derived so much pleasure from his full frontal contact that I never bothered to suggest doggy-style.
I love being entered from that angle because, like a virtuoso violinist, his dick drew he most extraordinary sensations out of me when it hit those depths. Another delightful side-effect was that my nose was significantly further away from his armpits. However, he was uncomfortable on his knees, and it was too cold to stand on the floor, so we ended up just flopping forward on the bed inelegantly, his belly to my butt. It was an animalistic pleasure: two wildcats fucking desperately in the face of extinction.
When I got back to his caravan 36 hours ago, it was a little messy. The bed was just a pile of soft things; clothes jostling for space with blankets and pillows. The steel countertop that was the kitchen was invisible under the remnants of meals: past, present, and future. I breezed in after our ‘welcome home’ kisses and immediately started tidying.
As I was clearing off the bed, I found a little bottle of lube tucked between the wall and the mattress – something I hadn’t seen in the previous 2 weeks of cohabitation. That naughty Mormon! I had to say something.
“So, looks like you had some fun while I was away,” I chuckled and winked at him.
He was abashed, and wouldn’t look me in the eyes as he organized his clothes under the bed.
“Yeah, I missed you, doll.”
“I missed you, too,” I replied with a loving hug. It was so nice to be with a young man, a simple man; a man who wasn’t afraid of animalistic passion, and whose pleasure didn’t rely on conquest.
Since my return, I’d decided to invest a little bit of my heart into my new home. I made plans to clean and organize the kitchen. This could work, and I had the tools to help make it so. The Mormon might not be a perfect fit for me intellectually, but we both had the same sex drive and the same level of hope for our future. If I had to quantify that level, I’d say that we both scored a 6 out of 10. Yes, life was an impossible game to win, but if we could fill our present moment with enough sex and weed and kindness, life could be downright tolerable.
Yesterday, the Mormon and I were talking about how we could improve the storage situation in his caravan, and he sketched out a plan for new shelves above the sink. I went to the grocery store, and by the time that I came back, he’d built the shelves!
What?! Who was this proactive, highly skilled carpenter? He’d used old scraps of wood, but they were sturdy, and he’s cut them precisely to fit the odd angle of the kitchen corner. Now, there was more space for us; for a life together.
I’m glad that I was alone in the caravan when I first saw the shelves, because my heart swelled and I smiled girlishly. This is why I love him.
Ok. So, I’m not completely unreasonable.
That afternoon, I was cleaning the dishes the best way I could: outside, next to the tap on the shed. A round glass table that belonged on the farm owner’s patio was the perfect spot for a drying rack, and I’d bought myself rubber gloves, which kept the bitterly cold water at a comfortable distance from my stiff fingers. I was almost done when the Mormon returned from a chat with the farm owner.
There was an unease about him that clouded his brow and set his shoulders inward.
“What’s up, sweetie?” I asked.
“Nothing.” The Mormon set to drying the dishes with more thoughtfulness than I’d ever seen from him.
“You seem a little… heavy. What did the owner say? Is everything ok?”
“Well, not really.” He finally looked at me. The cloud over him darkened his eyes, and his lower lip softened to reveal the truth. “You can’t stay here like before. You’re only allowed to be here one day a week.”
I’d always thought that his lower lip was an exact replica of Brad Pitt’s, and all I wanted was to kiss it into silence, but the story kept spilling out.
“It’s getting towards winter, and there’s no work, and he’s lost money because of Covid. He’s kicking everyone out except me and Colin,” the Mormon continued, mournfully. “You have a few days, but then, you’ve got to go somewhere else.”
The vague fantasy I’d had of marital bliss with the Mormon slid to the ground, washing into the pores of the rocky earth with the dishwater. A whisper of joy shamed me. It would be so much easier to maintain my Self if I wasn’t constantly being irritated by the Mormon’s inanity.
I let the Mormon’s sadness take over this interaction, and we held each other close. We promised ourselves that we’d make it work somehow. Neither of us wanted to let go of the sweet comfort of union.
I had a dream last night about my ex-husband. I don’t dream, and I never think about him. Those ties have been long broken. But there he was, and for no good reason, I wanted him. Badly.
He wasn’t obese in my dream, so he wasn’t the boy that I’d married. He appeared as the muscular man that he’d transformed into shortly before our marriage dissolved, but he was still an asshole. That aspect of him had never transformed: past or present, dream or reality; that’s how I recognized him.
In the dream, my ex-husband rejected me firmly and with some kindness. He told me that he was interested and awaiting my next blog post. Well, there you go: at least I have one fan, if only in my dreams. The dream took me to a dessert buffet, and I filled my plate with sugary treats. By the time I got to the table, they’d all melted down into a brown, syrupy mess.
I’d eaten nothing, and I still had no cakes. Had I taken too much? Would the cakes have melted down into nothing regardless of my actions? Or did the act of removing the cakes from the table ensure their immediate demise? Why am I not allowed to enjoy the sweetness before me?
There is a separation that happens when you write about something. It’s usually a beneficial widening of perspective. But, the moment you step back from your life and see it as a story, you are removed from ‘I’. Of course, that is the truth.1
‘I’ is an illusion. It is a dream that we all dream. And if we’re all dreaming, why shouldn’t we fill our imaginary plates to overflowing with imaginary cakes? That’s where some other part of the dream that we call ‘reality’ kicks in. We start to stagnate in the sweetness, but our spirits want motion.
Fulfillment calls to limitation, and challenges creep in; just as lions hunting a herd of wildebeest, narrowing their path and giving them impetus. The wildebeest can now use the entirety of his physical being to express his nature. He runs as far as his legs can stretch; he feels the strength of his muscles and the strength of his entire herd protecting him. His lungs expand fully, and he may now find reason to call out, where as before, he remained silent in his satiation.
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May 24, Journal
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April 29 – Day 35, Journal
Rogue, my dear kind-hearted Rottweiler, Rogue, came to me this morning in the moments between sleep and wakefulness.
I saw her at the back door of our old house, and I followed her outside and through our spectacularly blooming spring garden. Spring was thick, and loud tulips jostled with carefree daffodils for attention. A green haze frosted the limbs of the tall Tulip Poplars above, and weeds needed pulling.
Rogue floated up the driveway, in huge leaps, her soft feet pressing on swooping currents of air rather than on the ground below. I saw her lovely black furry wings, unfurling and spreading like smoke across the sky.
Somehow, i followed her over familiar rolling countryside, to Granddaddy E’s house where she lay buried. There, she danced across the sky, her wings and spirit swirling through wispy clouds in the huge blue sky. Rich green grass grew thick under budding trees, and the river rushed by with brightness and purpose. Granddaddy E was well.
I cuddled into her soft fur, and she told me: “Love and be loved.”
The simplest and richest thing for a dog to say. What does she mean?
“Love…” She danced free, ghostly tendrils of black following her sweeping wings. Moshe came to mind, then the Mormon.
I could feel the sweetness of Rogue’s love, and a sensation of being pulled away from paradise.
“Love and be loved!”
I wish it had ended there, poignant and mysterious – a perfect visit from a beloved spirit guide. But then, a last whisper of words:
“And remember… Remember the numbers. Keep count. Remember.”
Dammit. Why? Why am i plagued by numbers? Why did they intrude on this lovely moment? Why is the universe fucking with my head? It serves no purpose. The numbers mean nothing.
I think i woke Jessica with my dramatic sigh. I hope this day will give me some satisfaction.
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April 24 – Day 30, Journal
Every once in a while, I catch Christine hard-core staring at me. Am I a threat, an inspiration, or a conundrum to her? Why do I stub my toe or burn myself in the kitchen, and then I always look up and see those enormous blue eyes drilling into me as though her thick round eyeglasses could magnify their penetrating power?
Christine stopped trying to convert me a couple of weeks ago. This situation is more stressful on the Christians than they’d like to admit. There are only four of them: Alma’s bedridden with her concussion, Jessica is absorbed in her own fears, Peter is frustrated with his obsolete role of patriarch, and Christine is overwhelmed. She’s spending more time alone, playing hymns on the lodge guitar. She’s good. It sounds like a prayer.
The last time I spoke to her, I was trying to convince Christine to dance with us one night when the wine was flowing freely and DJ Joseph wanted to give us a good time. That might have been Itai’s birthday. I wasn’t drinking, but I was tipsy with the freedom of moving my body to the music. It felt tribal. The Israeli kids were all on the dance floor. I saw Jessica moving her shoulders to the beat, but she and Christine remained glued to their chairs, as heavy as pillars of salt.
I wanted them to experience the hedonism in their hips, so I sat next to them to dispense some wisdom or encouragement. Jessica fended off my invitation to the dance floor with a wave of depression disguised as superiority. I turned to Christine, and asked her if she danced.
“Well, yes, kind of,” she said in her tight German accent. She’d prefer it if I said that her accent was Swiss, because of the Israelis, you know. “I dance, but not like that! That is so not me!” Her laugh sounds like wooden window shutters left unlatched in a storm to bang sharply against a corrugated tin house.
“You know,” I suggested, “It’s OK to experiment. You’re in a safe place. We love you here. Try something that’s not ‘you’. That’s how you get to know yourself better. You don’t have to be yourself all the time.”
Well, that was the wrong thing to say.
“I like who I am,” Christine snapped. She immediately pretended to soften the chastity belt that slammed up around her virgin mind by smiling sweetly. The wooden shutters of her laugh clanged again. Since then, she’s been staring at me with her wary bovine eyes.
I’m used to being watched, so it’s OK. Well, it’s not, it makes me radically uncomfortable, but if I yell at someone for staring at me, they’ll just stare harder. I’ve made it OK in my mind by telling myself that people look at the things that they find attractive. Unfortunately, I don’t want people to find me attractive. I just want to be left alone; to move without judgement.
It’s massively unfair. The observed is forced into a contract with the observer. They find me attractive, they feel desire or jealousy or some stupid fiery emotion, and now I’m obligated to validate their emotions by being either more or less than who I am? Why? What do I get out of it? Well, there’s only one thing to do: take back the power. Observe the observer.
I’ve caught Avi staring at me intensely several times, too. He is definitely one of my favorites, but he always does the right thing, and he has a wonderful girlfriend. So, he’s not supposed to stare at me, which makes it that much more delightful. I love the way men look when they’re trying to pretend that you didn’t catch them staring. Such discomfort in preserving the ego!
But I’ve played that game of unrequited lust far too much in my life, and it’s boring. It’s just not fair to see the naked blackness of desire in someone’s eyes and to not be able throw a match into that powderkeg. Mindfucking someone is fun if that’s all you’re allowed to do, but (to quote the Six-Fingered Man), I’m a girl of action now. I can’t waste my time. I want my interactions to be more than just the mind or the heart. Maybe I’ll take the soul… that’s interesting enough to replace the physical. Maybe I’ll ask Avi for his advice on which of the four single guys I should go after. That’ll send his logical brain spinning into dark places.
I think I know the answer. Itai has a girlfriend at home, Moshe broke his back, and Ariel is too distracted with his own machinations. Judah is left. I bet that round ass makes a nice handful. But Judah is often in the company of Shira, who is Joseph’s girlfriend. Those three eat together, walk together, and sing together. I dearly hope that they sleep together, too, but I’d guess that the chances are low, considering Judah’s carefulness around Shira. More unrequited love? What’s that about? I need to get one alone.
Peter, the head Christian, called them a flock. Last Friday, over our communal Shishi dinner, we agreed that we were both lone wolf types, and that to be a sheep would be intolerable. His precise South African accent clipped the roundness of his vowels tightly. His fiercely honest eyes were almost always set on God. That night, his wife, Alma, was missing from the long banquet table, pouting in bed with a broken face.
With Alma gone, Peter indulged in twice as much wine as usual that night. Somehow, I always end up sitting near the Christians at the head of the table (probably because we speak in English while the others speak in Hebrew), so I had the pleasure of sitting next to Peter. After the meal, we enjoyed an excellent conversation about walking our own paths, and his kind face began to loosen with gentle intoxication.
He’s quite an attractive man; he has a tall, hearty physique and a shining smile. I caught him in the Kiwi uniform of well-fitted little shorts and big black galoshes the other day, and I can only hope that my lascivious stare conveyed my appreciation of what I observed. What a shame that’s wasted on Iron Alma.
Sometime during our conversation, our knees touched under the table. I slid my warmth and attention into that leg without moving a muscle, concentrating on the inviting orange quality of the space between us. It only took a minute for Peter to relax his entire thigh against mine, and we remained pressed together under the table for a solid half hour.
I enjoyed every second of feeling his hard thigh pouring warmth into me, but I don’t dare jeopardize my home here. I’ll take anything I can get from Peter’s frustrated masculinity, as long as he comes to me. And he won’t, poor fellow; he’s far too good. I’d offer him a blowjob if he didn’t scare so easily.
It is extraordinarily wonderful to me that I feel love towards everyone all the time now. It is entirely inappropriate that I would happily have sex with any adult in our little lodge, just to hold their dear little hearts close and kiss them all over. Even Alma. They’re all fucking adorable.
Is this agape love? Or nymphomania? Did the Mormon open the floodgates of my heart so that it flows indiscriminately outwards forever? Some might choose a middle road… I am either living an enlightened life of love or I’m a menace to society.
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April 21 – Day 27, Journal
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