Richard Sharon - Diary of a Lover

Drop a quarter in the slot and insert, girls. I got so detached and mechanical that I began to feel like the machinery in the old song:

There once was a maiden with twat so wide that she could never be satisfied so they fashioned a shaft made out of steel and on it they put a great, big wheel

Around and around went the great, big wheel in and out went the shaft made of steel Until at last, the poor maiden cried I do believe I've been satisfied

But the fucking machine wouldn't tarry a bit in fact, there was no way of stopping it It tore the poor maiden from asshole-to tit and the whole damn thing blew up, blew up

And the whole damn thing blew up, in shit.

Like the machine, I felt that I was about ready to blow. I did what Mora had trained me for, I serviced. The body under me might be humping and bucking, impassioned fingernails raking my back and arms, erotic screams of release piercing my ears, it made no difference; I felt nothing. It was like fucking life-sized plastic balloons in the shape of women.

I wandered aimlessly into the Tenderloin, picked up a •John, led him to a remote men's room, and beat the shit out of him. Then I spent an hour in the shower trying to wash off my guilt for making the poor jerk suffer for my frustration. I saw Susan once at the symphony and once at the club, each time with a different man, and each tune I burned with impotent rage and jealousy. She didn't even miss me, I thought.

Our separation had dragged out to seven weeks and I was at the breaking point, starring glumly out the window at four in the morning when the door buzzer sounded. I didn't think much about it. It had happened before that some chick, bombed out of her mind and horny for a screw, would decide to crash my place for the night. But that night, and from then on, I wanted none of it.

I pushed the talk button. "Who is it?"

There was a short silence. "It's Susan," said the voice.

When I heard her voice, her name, I felt the adrenaline surge through me.

At this hour of the morning? Maybe she was in trouble. Maybe she 'had locked herself out of her apartment. Maybe,

I pushed the button to open the downstairs door. I was naked, and the only thing handy to put on were my judo pants, draped over the back of a chair, I opened the front door, my heart beating wildly as I heard her mount the cement steps, closer and closer.

And then she stood in front of me, wearing a robe and street loafers. Her smile was twisted, almost apologetic. Her eyes at last reflected mine, showing the hurt, the anguish, the longing that had been in mine for weeks. Her cheeks were shiny with fresh-wiped tears.

"I can't," she said, her voice breaking. "I can't do it anymore. I'm so tired."

I opened my arms and she came to me slowly, sliding her arms under mine and around my back. Her face was next to mine, soft hair against my cheek. Harder we tightened our hold on each other, and harder, and harder, until we shook from the strain of it, and she was pressed so tightly into me that my organ, swollen against her leg, hurt because it had no place to rise.

We stood there and rocked.

And then I took Susan's hand and led her inside, through the living room and into the bedroom. And we got into bed, she hi her robe and -I in my judo pants. And she lay light in my arms, all soft and warm.

And I stroked her back and her hair and kissed the side of her face, nuzzled into my neck.

And my thigh was between her legs.

And she began to move against me.

And she said. "I'm sorry, I have to, I have to."

And I said, "Please, I want you to."

And she moved faster and harder, holding tightly and breathing hot and sweet in my ear,

Breathing hot and sweet and holding tightly.

And I could feel wet on my leg through the thin cotton of my judo pants, where her robe had parted down the front.

And wanting so much to give, so much to help, I slid my hand down,

Down over velvet belly and thick, silken hair to where my fingers became wet and slippery.

And my other hand moved down gracefully curved back and buttocks to push her robe up over her legs, smooth and taut, to feel her there, to find the opening, to slide down into the opening, deeper and deeper.

And her back arched.

And her head pulled up away from me.

And her mouth fell open.

And Susan screamed.

Screamed for us both.

Screamed because it had been so awful, and because now, at last, it was over.

Screamed in the joy of release and the relief of accepting love with no conditions.

Screamed in final surrender.

Screamed and sobbed and moaned for seconds that seemed like minutes, and minutes that seemed like hours as my hands in front and in back moved rapidly to give her more, and more.

And I wanted to give her everything.

And have her do it for the both of us.

And again her head collapsed onto my shoulder.

And her body relaxed, dead weight upon me.

And her breath came again, hot and sweet in my ear, slower and slower until it was regular.

And she said to me, "I'm so tired."

And I stroked her hair.

And I patted the soft firmness of her behind, like a baby.

And she cried and held tightly to me.

And I could feel such love in her touch.

And I heard a strange noise.

And it was somebody else crying.

It was me.

Light always filled my bedroom differently on a Sunday morning. Pity that so few people use Venetian blinds any-more. They do such beautiful tricks with light and shadow, black and white lines on the ceiling, marching across the room, unperturbed by fixtures and pictures, covering all with the same striped benevolence. The room was always cheerier, brighter on Sundays, warmer, as heat from the rising sun filtered between cooling metal slats.

Susan lay between my legs, her head on my naked belly like a light, velvet ball on a fuzzy floor, arms around my waist, hair falling in ebony streams down my side and tickling slightly when I breathed. I stroked her hair, barely touching. The covers lay rumpled at the foot of the bed, where her orgasms had thrown them.

I looked down upon her with feelings coursing through me that I had never known. I felt like her husband, her father, her lover, and her friend, all at once. I wanted to do everything with her and be everything to her. Like a child in a toy store, I wanted to take them home and play with them, all at the same time.

I watched her breathing deeply in relaxed sleep for an hour. She sighed and drew her knees up between my spread legs into a semifetal position. Soon she stirred, turning onto her side and opening her eyes. Then she jerked up, startled, not realizing in her awakening where she was. I caught her head and touched her cheek lightly. "Shh, it's okay, baby. You're home."

She looked at me sleepily, love coming like light from a beacon, and moved up to put her head on my chest. I could feel my cock, hard and ready against her belly, and I tried to think it down because I didn't want it hard, not just then. But it was useless; the feel of her upon me was too good.

"How long have you been up?" she asked.

"About an hour. I love to watch you sleep."

Her arms tightened about me. "When I first woke up I thought I had dreamed it all, that I was still home alone and sterile in my own bed."

"It's real this time, Susan, and it's going to stay real. I can't let you go again. If you hadn't come over last night, I don't know if I would have made it."

"I know," she-whispered, kissing my chest and nuzzling her cheek back and forth over the hair. "I tried so hard. I'd stand in front of a mirror and give myself lectures on how you'd ruin my life, and why should I take a chance on giving up everything for some kid who's six years younger than I, but it didn't work. I spent most of my time crying and missing you. I dared not even look at you in class, and then after, I'd go to the teachers' John and cry until it was time for the next class.