Francis Levy - Erotomania - A Romance

It was 5:30 of a bitter-cold February morning. The phone rang. As I rubbed my eyes, trying to get my bearings, I looked out the window to see three dogs picking through garbage as the wind rattled the pane. I knew it was her. And in spite of my fatigue, I said to myself remember, before she gets down on her knees and starts sucking your cock, before she spreads her legs playing with her pussy and licking her own juice off her fingers, remember, don't lose control, remember what you've got to do. Look at her. Stop Your life is on the line. Don't let it be one more fuck Jest which leaves you exhausted, disoriented, and forgetful of what you've done or where you've been.

She had never called me before, and it was only in retrospect that I wondered whether she just had better luck than I did when it came to picking random names out of a telephone book-or whether, as was probably the case, she had come by the knowledge of my number through other means, like looking at the driver's license in my wallet while I was in the bathroom of her apartment. I had second thoughts. My mother had been trapped in her body for years. Our sex was reassuring. It gave me the illusion I had found a way of transcending my corporeal essence. Yet now there was no choice. If she was going to locate me, she was going to have to find out who and where I was. And I was going to have to be someone and somewhere definite (a condition I'd always equated with paralysis) in order to be found.

"Tell me you wanna fuck me."

We hadn't talked dirty on the phone, but we'd sure done our share of dirty talking. It was practically the only kind of talking we did.

"I want you to fuck me like a savage."

Savage sounded curiously like sandwich. When I was a kid, I thought vaginas looked like sandwiches. You ate vaginas like you did sandwiches, but when you took this particular sandwich apart, it was just skin and hair with emissions and sweat, as opposed to mustard, ketchup, or mayonnaise. Bill turned leftover meatloaf into the most delicious sandwiches using fresh-baked challah bread, romaine lettuce, and radishes. What was all the excitement about? Okay; I was obviously immunizing myself against my fear of loss, but wasn't a cunt just another sandwich, and a fairly rotten one at that? A cunt is only prized by men because it's forbidden. The more difficult it is to gain entry, the more you want it. That's why you're not bothered by the air quality or noxious odor. It's no better than an asshole and, for that matter, how many times had each of us hungrily dived into each other's smelly anuses-blinded as we were by excitement? When you looked at the sex organ for what is was, you realized it was just skin, veins, and fatty tissue, maybe soft to the touch like a teddy bear, but no more special than say the fat hanging off the thigh or the arm. Alas, poor Yorice!A pussy, as it aged and lost its hair, was, in its makeup, no different from the hanging stubble-filled chin of an old woman. Why not dream of an old crone's hanging chin?

"We need to talk." I forced the words out like a judge handing down the death sentence of an innocent man.

"Yeah… fuck me in the ass and put yours right in my face and I'll lick it out."

"1 feel 1 have a responsibility to you and to me to deal with our relationship."

"Sure we can, but I'm playing with my hot pussy." My dick was screaming. The tip was pushing up against my tight jockey underpants so hard it hurt. I thought my shaft was going to explode. 1 felt like I had varicose veins. I didn't pull my dick out of my pants, but 1 was afraid those veins were going to pop right out of the skin if she said one more word.

"Let me just suck on it for an hour or two. Then we'll talk. I'll lick the shaft and the sides of your balls. I've been exercising my tongue. I'll give you a hum job and a rimming you'll never forget."

"I don't even know your name, and yet all I think about is you. All relationships take work. We have something special…."

1 don't remember what happened after this. 1 had tried, but the next thing 1 knew,1 was back at her place sitting on her face with my cock between her tits. Her tongue was as firmly embedded in my asshole as my face was in her cunt. We both knew one thing: Ending the foreplay would bring about one of the hottest fucks we'd ever had. The anticipation was almost as delicious as fucking itself. But we wanted to extend it because we knew it would all be downhill after the fucking was over, unless we were both so knocked out by ecstasy that we wandered away in a fog, as we always had. We were, after all, adults, not teenagers who needed to sneak into closets or behind hedges to get forbidden thrills behind the back of the local authority figure.

After fucking her-and our fuck was every bit as hot as anything I could have imagined-I climbed off her sweaty body saying, "Now we need to deal with our relationship." It was a triumph of mind over matter. In the heat of our fucking, our bodies felt totally melded together. We were one. While the fuck continued, there was no me, no her. We were one self. Siamese twins who are physically joined suffer from the battle of their separate consciousnesses. Our physical union was brought about by a mental state that amongst other things, subdued the rising tide of self. There were no border police guarding the boundaries of personality. She was me, and 1 was her-even though we had yet to learn each others' names. Then it was over. We sat apart, still naked, staring. And for the first time 1 felt selfconscious. We were both looking over the goods.

"You're overweight."

"And you look more like a boy than a girl."

We threw our arms around each other.

"I'm Monica Cole."

"James Moran." Having been well brought up, I held my hand out to her after the introduction; she giggled as she shook it. I was too spent to say anything more than, "We should talk, soon."

Even though we had fucked our brains out, 1 felt as if it was going too far to ask for her number. I had her name-that was a start at least. Anyway, she looked like the kind of person who'd be listed. 1 certainly was. If I couldn't get her, she'd have no trouble getting me. 1 didn't know if she was going to want to continue seeing a guy whose roll of fat was supported by a perpetual hard-on, and I had to decide if I wanted to spend my life with Peter Pan. However juicy her pussy, Monica Cole was a woman who didn't have a curve in her body. She could have been the poster girl for a ruler company. I'd gained a lot of weight, but she was wafer thin with a chest that was decidedly lacking in drama. Nevertheless, before I could answer Bill when I rushed through the front door and he said, "Guess what we're having… meatloaf," I was on the phone calling information.

"I'd like the telephone number of a Monica Cole. It's a residence." There was the longest wait. Please be patient while we look foryour number. The automated voice kept repeating the same message. While I was waiting for Monica's number, another call was trying to come through. What if 1 was on the phone talking with someone 1 couldn't get rid of when 1 finally got an operator? 1 pushed the "flash" button on my phone.

"Jim?" It was her. Bill was pointing towards the door. 1 could see him mouthing the words "I have to shop," but 1 didn't dare interrupt the conversation and he left in a huff.

".Actually it's James, nobody calls me Jim." 1 knew 1'd said the wrong thing the minute the words came out of my mouth. We were no longer simply a cock and cunt. We were people. Human personality is like religion. It can be a source of great wisdom and solace, but it also creates divisions, conflicts, and sometimes even wars. Personalities, like religions, had often done more harm than good, and now that more than sex was involved, now that our personalities had entered into the relationship, we were already experiencing conflict. It was oh so much easier when few words were exchanged and all we did was fuck.