I was talking to Duck “in the box,” meaning the Instant Message box on the bottom right corner of my computer’s monitor. I put up with her tedious talk about her mother’s battle with Alzheimer’s and her dreams about enrolling in language immersion programs in different countries and her thoughts on the meaning of life. Finally I saw my chance to delve into something of real worth.
“So what exactly is it about anal sex that you have a fear of?” Higher consciousness, the coming shift in 2012, Tiger Woods latest shananigans—all these lesser topics could wait. It seemed a fair enough question and what she returned to me wasn’t a fair enough answer. In fact, it wasn’t an answer at all.
“I don’t want to talk about that!” Being the ever-sensitive companion, I ignored her.
“I mean, is it because you think it would be painful? Or do you think it is somehow degrading? Or did you watch too many seasons of the HBO prison drama series “Oz” about an experimental prison where more freedom was granted to the inmates and yet after every week of someone else being murdered or sodomized they still couldn’t ever come to the conclusion that the ‘experiment’ wasn’t working?”
“I told you already!” she said.
“Well apparently I don’t remember. Can you tell me again?”
She never told me and after a half-hour of grilling, I felt like the “bad cop” who had grown exhausted from his interrogating and was ready to call in the “good cop,” who would probably use a softer approach like, “Do you want a cigarette? Now let me just stick a finger in there.” While Duck charged me with being an anally obsessed jackass, I assured her that I was not anally obsessed, although I would concede to being a jackass.
To her the issue was about me sticking my schlong in her ass. To me the issue was about communication. I hadn’t had anal sex for probably about 8 years and before that another 8 years had passed before I got “Oz” on any chick. I had survived this long on a few breadcrumbs of anal and wasn’t really jonesing for an ass cheek sandwich. And besides, even if Duck was like, “Yeah, I’m in!” I probably wouldn’t be seeing her in person for at least another year, as it would probably take me that long to pay off my debts and earn enough money to fly in the luggage department to Peru, and by that time I’m not even sure if I will still be able to get an erection, let alone put some boogie in the butt.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4le6Zr86ojs
If she just said something like, “You know, I am a little scared it might hurt, your cock being the size of an elephant’s and all,” I would have probably grabbed a peanut with my dick and stuffed it in my ass and dropped the whole issue. But saying, “I don’t want to talk about it!” is like plugging up your ears and saying, “I AM NOT LISTENING TO YOU! I AM NOT LISTENING TO YOU!” like a child having a temper tantrum, not an adult. I may dress like a child, play like a child, cry like a child and buy cereal just for the prize at the bottom of the box like a child, but when it comes to communicating with people, I do so like an adult. Some might disagree but these are only idiots who define adults as older, living dead people who don’t discuss anal sex.
We’ve all heard some cheesy broad doing the circuit, pushing her latest “relationship” book which contains the same tired old information that she seems to think is somehow innovative about how “Communication is the foundation of any good relationship,” while there isn’t a man alive besides some Japanese tourist whose slit eyes are hiding behind his Fuji camera who would bother to even talk to a pig like her, let alone fuck her. It’s not innovative, but it’s true.
If you are in a relationship with anyone—be it a lover or a parent or a child or a co-worker—and you can’t ask or receive a question without one of you plugging up your ears and ass, then that relationship will only survive if one of you is Helen Keller and the other one has Down’s Syndrome with eyes that are so far apart that he looks like a flounder. Add 3,700 miles to the equation and not even Einstein would say it’s solvable. I knew this was the beginning of the end for Duck and me, or perhaps that, like life, it starts to die the minute you take your first breath, and that I would have to seek anal—I mean, a significant other—elsewhere.
It’s hard to see the end of something you value. Sorry to hear it.
Thank you for your caring. I am a warrior. I don’t mean that as a “tough guy” thing but that I have consciously chosen a path that has peril and risks annihilation with each step. If I lose a limb and gain an insight, I have come up ahead. While I accept my fate, I only pray that I leave the minimum amount of pain and suffering to those with whom I have crossed swords, in this case Duck.