Note:Started as LiveJournal post about sex. Eventually turned into recap of a "John" I met and performed for him.


His mouth makes me shudder, the circle O all pink and wet like a vacuum, an empty space, waiting to inhale me. When it touched my skin I drew back and gasped, which he took for infinite pleasure on his half, and further let me enter him. A naked woman was tattooed on his arm, faded blue now with age. Between her legs sprouts gross gray hairs, brittle in their fabulous parody. It was with this arm that he massaged the skin through my jeans, the fingers dancing circles.

The forest quieted around us. The man, who was walking his Doberman, and the group of children who were playing by the riverbank, had left in a wake of chattering and barking. In the beginning I walked in the lead, daring anyone to think twice about a child and an older man walking into the forest, no matter what the local gossip told of this part of the woods. But soon he led me, further into the darkened banks, amidst the reeds and puss willows. They brushed against my face as my boots held tight to the wet riverside.

I thought of Ophelia, and the theory of her death; suicidal or murderous. 'It wouldn't matter if I were to die here,' I thought. Either I would jump or he would drown me, in one-way or another, sooner or later. 'It didn't matter,' I thought.

His hands were soft and worn, and they started at my shoulders and felt down my sides, along my chest and stomach until they rested on my hips. He looked up with a plead in his eyes and I stared, so puzzled, though I had been through these motions hundreds of times before, until I regained my senses and nodded. It was here that I noticed his mouth, and the faded tattoo on his arm. 'He would be better dead,' I said to myself. 'And if not him, then I.'

I think I almost lost myself in the voices of the forest, as the wind struck chords on the water and played the drums on the tall grasses. Then he spoke with that North Eastern Massachusetts accent, "Ah, beautiful eighteen year old cock." And I regained myself and looked down at him, at that pink O, and shuddered, and closed my eyes all at once. I tried to not feel his body around me, or the hairs on his chin against my skin, or the soft noises coming from his mouth.

I didn't want to be by this river, with this strange man, for a lousy fifty dollars. I wanted to scream and pull myself out of him, and pack it all away and run down the path, and over that log I had to climb over, and across the wooden bridge, through the playground and out into the main road. I wanted to run until I found a car and it found me.

Eyes are fickle, they fake their silence until the worst possible moment when they decide to fall down your face. I could feel this now. Biting my lip didn't help so I began to repeat to myself, 'hecan'tseemeifican'tseehimsoiwon'tcryhecan'tseemeifican'tseehimsoiwon'tcryhecan'tseemeifican'tseehimsoiwon'tcry.'

Then he stood and he came toward me, with that tattooed arm still on me, with that big O opening wide, and that rough looking tongue getting closer. I closed my eyes again and tasted the sick aftermath of bad grapes and a lifetime of alcoholism. His blue shorts made crushing noises as he moved against my jeans, and he led my hand to the middle of his legs.

My eyes remained closed when I dropped into the mud, and dutifully performed the job that we had agreed upon. It was over soon, the small thing puttering out some vile liquid that tasted like old glue. It brought memories of elementary school and long walks in the woods behind my parent's house. I stood and told him that I had came several times, and that because of all the drugs I don't come all the time, and he seemed to agree with me. He told me I shouldn't smoke so much then, and I seemed to agree with him.

On the ride back to my "car", he talked about moving down south. And how they, oh did he say they? So Mr. North Eastern Accent wasn't alone, it wasn't just he, it was they, and they had moved down south, out of the cold drying winters and into the hot drying summers. I sighed and stared out the window, noticing for the first time of the color of the truck.

In the end I walked home with an extra fifty dollars in my pocket, and a Lucky Strike in my mouth, attempting to wash the taste of old childhood memories from my mouth.