As much as I adore making love with Chantal, and I do, I still love the feel of a man inside me. I just do. I haven’t told you this about myself, but maybe it’s a big part of why I stay with Sid. Why I don’t mind the interludes in the walk-in with chef. Why I couldn’t resist seducing that young priest up in Washington. And all the other things I’ve done with men, even men I don’t know and don’t find particularly attractive. It’s not rational, so don’t expect some big fancy explanation. The simple truth is that hard male flesh just makes me feel complete.
I guess I’ve always had a weakness for that male flesh ever since those first times with my dad. Yeah, my real dad. I told you there were things I hadn’t told you about me. Well, that’s one of them. Are you ready to hear about it? You might understand me better if you do. Don’t be shocked. I’m not.
We’d always been comfortable being naked together, my dad and me, like when he’d give me baths when I was a little girl. But it was when I was 9 and came home one day from a sleep-away party with questions about masturbation – I didn’t even know the word, just what I saw one of my friends doing under the covers when she thought no one was watching – and I asked my dad about it, that’s when it really began.
Back then I could ask my dad anything, we were so close, how different from later on, and something I could never do with my mom, ever. But with my dad I could and, my mom out of the house that day, I did. Instead of changing the subject, as some parents would, or just explaining it, like others would – well, he started to, anyway, until I told him I wasn’t sure I understood – he thought about it and decided to show me. Nothing like a little show and tell, I guess, and that first show and tell gave me my first orgasm. One I’d never forget, and man, how I came to love them, can’t you tell?
That’s a day I’ll never forget, either, sitting there on the arm of the couch with my pants off, not feeling a bit of shame, as my dad introduced me to the pleasure that lay inside my own body. I had no idea. I can still smell the magnolia – we lived in Texas then – and our own mildly sweaty scents, and hear all the sounds that drifted in from outside on that warm June day. I guess it’s true, we never do forget our first times.
After my dad helped me feel so good he asked me if I wanted to help him feel good, too. It was just part of the lesson. After how he made me feel, how could I say no? That’s when he took it out and I saw it for the first time, the hard male appendage, not soft and docile as I’d seen it before, but big and stiff and even angry looking. Wow. How, I wondered, did it get like that? I’d sure never seen it that way before.
My dad had me touch him, and I did, a bit unsurely. I remember how it was pulsing, like a heartbeat, and my dad looked like he was in pain – it wasn’t pain, exactly, he was feeling, I know that now – and I bent down and gave it a little kiss. I loved my daddy, so why wouldn’t I want to do that? Maybe it would make him feel better. That’s what I thought.
Beginning from that first day we’d play together sometimes, my dad and me, but we never went beyond the touching games. Those, and some playful bare-bottom spankings he’d give me when my mom was out. Those were lots of fun, too, and I loved how they made me feel. My masochist side already coming out, I guess. I can’t say I knew what it felt like to have a man inside me, my dad didn’t teach me that, even if maybe he thought about it, but I knew from how he looked and felt I wanted to find out what that was like. Maybe too much. So much, it became an obsession with me.
After all that, and after I pushed and pushed and pushed him, it was Sid, high as a kite and practically out of his mind on coke the first full night I spent with him, who finally gave me my wish by beating me and then raping me. That’s what he did. And, since that wasn’t enough for Sid, sodomizing me. That was when I was 12. Almost 13. Speaking of memorable first times. It wasn’t what I expected, that’s for sure. But I got my wish.
Before that happened, though, I think my mom somehow figured out about my dad and me, and not just me, but some other young girls my dad gave explanations to, and I think that’s why we moved to Southern California after she figured it out, to get away from the whole thing. They had some story about a job offer for her in Orange County, but I doubt that was the real reason. All I know is she browbeat my dad so much he denied anything ever happened between us, even to me, that’s what hurt the most, and it was the end not just of our touching games but also of our closeness together. He was as aloof and cold as my mom after that, which was pretty aloof and cold, I’ll tell you, she was that way most of my life, though what really got me is how that’s her nature, but he was just being a big phony and a liar and hypocrite, and none of that was necessary. Not with me, since I knew. Who was he trying to fool? But there it was, it was how he decided to be, and that’s how I wound up losing both my mom and my dad. And why I decided to run away from home.
How did I get on this? Oh, right. How I love feeling a man inside me. That’s what I’m thinking this Sunday morning as Sid pounds into me. He might do awful things to me, put me in completely terrible situations, treat me like a troublesome child, and generally give me lots of reasons to leave him. But then he balls me like he’s doing now, and I’m ready to forget all that other stuff.
I’m sure you think I’m an idiot, an idiot girl ruled by her cunt. That’s what Chantal thinks, I know she does, and of course you’re both right. But what’s so weird about that? Guys are ruled by their pricks, and that’s considered, well, not admirable, but the reality. So why should it be any different for me? Because I’m a girl? I hate to break the news to you, but for some of us, it’s no different. Think about that, why don’t you, and maybe you’ll understand why some women and girls do what they do, even when it doesn’t make any sense on the surface. Maybe that’s even why I do a lot of what I do, including staying with Sid.
It’s no small thing, feeling complete. It’s about as close to perfect as I can come, as close to a spiritual experience, like being in Heaven, that I know. And remembering how empty I can feel, how totally abysmally disgustingly empty I sometimes am, hey, I’ll take it. Call me shallow if you want – after all, it is just a physical experience, I know that – but until I find something better, I’m not giving it up, and for now Sid is my ready route to that complete feeling.
Sid finishes, and by then I’ve come about three times, and it’s time to take a break. We’re both sweating like a couple of prize swine, red all over, lover’s blush run amok, and panting like there’s no tomorrow. But oh, oh, how I hate it when he pulls out of me. There goes that complete feeling, in a second.
Tomorrow I’ll be back in school and learning up a storm and being the professional Rosie, with or without a detour through the walk-in. At this moment, I don’t even feel like I’ll need one, much less want it, but that could change by noon. And then I’ll go to my other life as the naked piano player at Chantal’s and play happy little tunes while her other girls entertain the men in their own ways. And now I stare at the cracked plaster ceiling and muse on what a crazy disjointed fucked-up life I lead. Is it any wonder?
I hope Chantal doesn’t start in on me asking what I’ve decided about Sid. I don’t think she will, she knows I’ll need time to think things over, but I’m afraid she might. I don’t want her to think less of me, and I don’t want to hurt her, but this is going to take some time. And honestly, I don’t know what my answer will be. If she asked me at this moment, lying here naked in bed with Sid after a very good screwing, I’d have to say, no, I’m not leaving him. But other times, yeah, I’m sure it would be a different answer.
It’s not easy, none of this. Didn’t I tell you? If not, I’m telling you now. It’s not easy. It’s damned hard, is what it is. Sure, sometimes I actually think it would be a helluva lot easier just to throw in the towel, go back home and be a normal 16-year-old – whatever that is – attend high school, and be a good girl. Heh. And at this moment that makes me think of Louise Patterson, the nice, normal Louise I thought I bid farewell to, and then I just want to puke. So, no, that’s not happening.
We get up and take a shower together – there are some things you can only do in the shower – and go out for what passes for breakfast and a walk. It’s the first day of August and it seems there are more tourists than Parisians on the street, and it’s funny to feel like a couple of them. But Sid and I are different, we’re no ordinary visitors, no tourists from Ashtabula or Ankara, from Toronto or Tokyo, from Birmingham or Beijing. We’re Sid and Rosie, drug trafficker extraordinaire and star pastry chef in formation, and we live here, we live in this crazy, sensual, special frigging town. We’re Parisian transplants. Some of us drink absinthe and snort coke. One of us even knows about the urban underground and has spent an evening with La Mexicaine de la Perforation. We’re not some plain old tourists, we’re not. Forget that.
It’s funny the things we tell ourselves, just to feel special, isn’t it?