The wide-eyed gaze of hateful obedience

There’s a personality-clashing prelude and epilogue to my last meeting with ArmyDude. Earlier that day, we were bickering because he had disappeared from the earth which initiated an awkward ‘is everything okay with us?’ message from me. I can’t stand being in the position of feeling the need to do that.

I’m not likely to die without regular attention, but the deviation from our usual daily contact spooked me in the old investigative way of looking for the usual among the unusual and the unusual among the usual. This was not usual and I wanted to stop my mind spinning and understand what was going on. He replied saying he was under pressure at work and home and quite frankly didn’t understand my issue. I became cranky at his laissez faire lack of empathy and said that was fine (FINE!) but I wouldn’t have caused a stir if I didn’t genuinely have a concern.

He said he had a wife at home and didn’t need another one. I replied that simple communication would reduce the need for others to act like his wife.

He disappeared to cool off. A few hours later, little messages popped up on my e-mail and mobile phone enquiring about my day, the past weekend, movies I’ve seen, books I’ve read and generally driving me nuts with overcompensation. I asked him to stop contacting me out of obligation and his mood darkened again because he couldn’t do a thing right (fair point but I was too angry to concede).

We settled our differences before meeting and not a word was mentioned again until *after* we’d had sex. We were chatting convivially during recovery time and he started retrieving some of my earlier messages and reading them aloud. Cunning, smart, pre-meditating sewer rat of a man had a confrontation planned all along but didn’t want to risk me walking out before getting him off. I asked him to stop trying to embarrass me because the issue was dealt with.

He lifted himself from the chair, towered over me and instructed that I was never to assume anything was wrong if he disappeared for more than a few days. He will tell me if something is wrong and until then I am not to assume otherwise.

So, this is the former soldier under pressure, hey?

I don’t fall for military shit where soldiers are taught not to talk back when junior and never to be questioned when in the more senior ranks. The uniformed people I know are generally terrible debaters and even worse in an argument because they don’t know how to exchange differences of opinion without becoming defensive or aggressive.

I regained composure, returned his eye contact and replied, “Understood.” I don’t have The Waiter’s thousand-yard stare but I have a useful Wide-eyed Gaze of Hateful Obedience that absorbs everything and doesn’t let a skerrick of emotion or reaction out. While he was scrambling for a sentence to address at my vacant face, my mind was spinning silently with, “Fine, buddy, next time you message me looking for validation through attention, I’m AWOL for a few days. And all with your permission.” I also hoped that I had stretched his arsehole wide enough for him to be shitting liquid for a week. The petulant child in me is almost looking forward to the next time he disappears and I take my time responding.

He said

What do you say when a man spills the contents of his heart, and a steaming froth of confusion and mini-deaths of the soul pour out of his mouth, and tightening emasculation is choking the very breath out of his lungs?

He said, “My wife and I have had sex less than five times this year.”

He said, “I don’t even bother her any more. I told her that she knows where I am if she wants me.”

He said, “I even grabbed her and asked if I was that repulsive, if she found me that awful to have sex with.”

He said, “I get so tired of wanking when she’s asleep, but I am sick in the stomach for days if I go elsewhere; if she finds out, I’ll lose my kids because she won’t understand.”

He said, “Maybe I’m asking for too much out of life. I have a wife, a house and kids and perhaps I can’t have everything and this is the one thing I can’t have.”

I didn’t know what to say.

So I said, “I know how she feels because I used to be her, and until not that long ago.”

I said, “But I had the courage to face the part I played in a downfall and pay someone to ask me questions that made me cry in self pity. I learned that I wasn’t allowed to be the victim and control another with sex, and that’s too confronting for most people.”

I said, “I know how you feel because I caused your pain in someone else, and I know nothing I say can help because nothing can help her until she comes out of denial. And that day might never come. Can you live without your sexuality or pay the price of its freedom?”

We ran out of words and hugged the wilted embrace of the broken and the sympathetic.


I have switched off a little too well. After my last naked shimmy and fist-fest with Jekyll, I have slithered gently into a week of sexual hibernation; a surprisingly peaceful lull bereft of co-ordinating schedules and removing hair.

The other day a young man of the cloth stopped me and asked for directions. I swear he even flirted with agnostic today/atheist tomorrow me in his swirling Swiss accent and eye-creasing smile, to the point I had forgotten where I was sending him. Gladly, I wasn’t hit by lightning after lazy daydreams of how I might corrupt him if given half a chance and some motivation.

ArmyDude said he had a treat for me and flashed up mobile phone footage of himself masturbating in a toilet. I smiled and knew it was made at work because his ID tag tapped his navel as he bent for close-ups. He is a sweet bower bird and I’ll get around to reciprocating when the mood strikes.

There was simple and enjoyable partner sex at some stage but The Drummer became stuck in a pre-orgasm limbo. We halted and agreed to try another day when fun-sapping medication has a lighter grip on his nervous system. He might be meeting a woman with whom he’s been corresponding this week. In a move that reminds me of the lunatics taking over the asylum, I am helping with his e-mail responses. Dear, oh, dear.

I haven’t masturbated all week and almost-but-not-quite-enough sleep has kept me in a haze of fatigued docility like the house cat currently warming herself in the front window. Let’s see how long the calm lasts. I am going to read a book and have an early night.

Little boxes

Compartmentalisation is not my thing. Putting a busy and in absentia lover in a mental box, tying it with string and setting it aside on the shelf for later isn’t in my sanity-protection tool kit (I wish it was, oh, how I wish it was; perhaps I’ll get one for Christmas).

If I can’t be indulged in my preference for the luxury of regular communiqués, I’ll survive better in a harsh landscape of no contact because little dispatches from elsewhere crack the protective layer I’ve constructed to save myself from, I don’t know … stabs of self pity and loneliness, or myself, I suppose.

That’s the main reason flings and casual fucks aren’t chronicled here: I don’t have them. Apart from being too lazy to find a quick fix with a variable likelihood of success when easy masturbation and sleeping in my own comfortable bed beckons louder, I like the little somethings with a lover between meetings. Of course, it has nothing to do with feeding a delicate ego that I’m special enough to be indulged with attention inside and outside the bedroom.

Jekyll is a master box stacker and cannot fathom that others aren’t. He packs his daytime stress in the work box when he finishes for the day and it’s forgotten until tomorrow. Just as easily, he can have a heated discussion about a family issue and the problem is bound, boxed and shelved as soon as he gets off the phone. To my puzzled amusement, he has broken off with past long-term lovers and wondered why his exes haven’t wanted or been able to revert to platonic friendships immediately.

I am thinking about this because he is going through a life change that will disrupt his (and our) routine and opportunities for the next couple of months. I saw the break in the horizon and forced myself to switch off as a protective measure to survive the drought.

He doesn’t understand why I haven’t responded to his unexpected ‘Hi, I’m back for a while, miss you, how are you, where are you?’ e-mails within a couple of hours of receiving them – because he’s got a few moments to play, why aren’t I at my desk? I ignored him for a few more hours as a form of payback for being so damn well adjusted and making me realise how vulnerable and needy I can be. No one will ever describe me as clingy because I do a good line in carefree independence but sometimes I dislike myself for suffering the consequences of my needless emotional vanity.

There’s no joy for either of us with our differing ways of managing interruptions unless he develops greater empathy and I tell him how I think I want to get through it. This period will be harder for him: he is so busy he will need to fight for scraps of unallocated time while I can complain extravagantly that I have had more ‘me’ time forced on me.

Patience is not a goddamn virtue

Just when the anti-depressant residues are leaching out of my system and I want to road-test my new ‘old’ self that orgasms, it feels like I couldn’t score a fuck in a brothel with a fistful of fifties. “I’m here!” I feel like shouting to the world, “You, person with a dick, come and get me.”

The Drummer apologised recently for his current lack of interest in sex. I’m more amazed than annoyed as he’s the man who can get himself off up to five times a day and I used to worry about not keeping up with him. I helped masturbate him to orgasm yesterday and everything still works, but self-tinkering with prescription medication seems to be messing with his sex drive. I fixed myself up later in the day with some lube and the buzzing gift from heaven I bought on my last shopping trip.

Mother Nature threw a spanner in the sexual works a couple of days ago. I don’t like penetration when I’m bleeding, smelly (my sense of smell amplifies at that stage of my cycle and I dislike the merest whiff of my purging), cramping and double checking that tampons are out and towels are down if sex is on the menu. Too much fucking about but that doesn’t stop my mind spinning like a kinky porn DVD of everything I’d like to be doing.

With a bout of warmer weather shining on the southern hemisphere, Jekyll and I explored a park yesterday to determine its suitability to play out some outdoor fantasies. On first glance it was everything we hoped for: isolated car parks, bushland, sturdy outdoor furniture and undercover picnic benches. I want him to sit at a bench as I kneel on the ground and suck his cock while he controls and manoeuvres me with the lead attached to my collar. I also want to be on all-fours atop a picnic bench as he stands on the seat and takes me from behind. If that doesn’t wear us out, I also envision him bracing himself against a tree as I remove his jeans and tongue his arse until he’s so lust-crazed we collect scratches attacking each other on the ground. I wonder if Hyde is into the great outdoors. He’ll get an invitation, too.

On a more detailed recce the park’s features became everything the fun police have stuck their noses into: every stick of furniture is in open spaces under a light aircraft flight path and the scrub is too sparce (I trotted off to pee in the densest bush I could find and Jekyll wolf-whistled when my pants came off – an unconventional but effective way of testing visibility).

We traipsed around until sunset and returned to his car. I sucked him off as he reclined in the driver’s seat before we went our separate ways. He set me a challenge of masturbating but not climaxing for two days and I may have already broken his rules once or twice. I hope for a darn good spanking as punishment next time we meet.

Tensions are rising with ArmyDude. He has returned to his former workplace and we have been flirting incorrigibly with text messages and guardedly in code using e-mail. I keep thinking about his arms in short-sleeved shirts: forearms muscular and sinewy from years of weight training but tapering to refined wrists in contrast, as if he could snap me like a twig or seduce me with a velvet touch at will. Right now I’d like a lot of both. We were thinking about meeting this weekend but his plans changed at the last minute; I’m somewhat relieved as I might eat the poor man alive and scare him off. And I want to feel him inside me discovering, feeling, pushing, pulling, pleasuring, until we’re both sweaty and hurting. And not worry about tampons and towels.

Frustration doesn’t become me.