Francis Levy - Erotomania - A Romance

"I really don't appreciate your attempt to sexualize me when we are having a difference."

My prick shriveled up so far inside of me that I thought it would become part of my intestines.

"All men care about is power. That's why we live in such a strife-ridden world. You take sex, which is a nice thing, and use it as a means of violence against women."

"Oy yoy yoy." 1 was feeling faint, and then I could feel a hot surge in my stomach and the galloping that foretells gastrointestinal crisis. I ran to the bathroom and began shitting my guts out. If I didn't kill myself, I would be ten pounds lighter when the whole thing ended, if it ever did. The phone was still off the hook. I could hear Monica's voice screaming through the sound of the cascading diarrhea. If you've ever seen those movies where a family is trapped in a maelstrom when lightning strikes, the wind howls and the heavens open up, wreaking their vengeance on man and reminding him of his lowly place in the great chain of being, you will understand the level of turbulence that filled the apartment. Fumes from my stomach suffused the atmosphere. Anyone who walked into my apartment would have been sickened. Then all at once, as in those classic old movies, the storm passed. I stopped. I felt cleansed and refreshed. 1 felt as if 1'd gotten my old self back. Not only had the toxic substances been eliminated from my stomach, I had been purged of the violent emotions brought on by the conversation. 1 was relaxed. 1 felt in control. 1 was ready to deal with the problems in our relationship.

Now that 1 had stopped the groaning that had accompanied my ordeal, I could plainly hear Monica screaming into the receiver, "What's wrong, James? James, please pick up. Jim, come to the phone. James or Jim-which do you prefer?"

Calmly, I picked up the receiver.

"It's hard to talk over the phone. Would you like to get together for dinner?"

"I'd like you to fuck me in my ass and mouth." The old Monica had returned, but as much as my cock was screaming for satisfaction, I knew that I had to take advantage of the widening of the fault, to extend the natural disaster analogy. Our tumultuous conversation had opened something up. Getting back to our old relationship was simpler, safer, more immediately satisfying. She was scared, and so was I, but it was too easy.

"1 really feel we need to talk."

"1 wanna fuck." 1 could tell we were headed for another battle of the wills.

"I tell you what. Let's talk, and then 1 promise I'll give you a really hard fuck. I'll tit fuck you, I'll fuck you in your ass and cunt, and I'll come all over your face." Plainly she took my willingness to talk dirty as a sign of compromise because she meekly said, "Okay."

"It's just very difficult to talk over the phone," I repeated. I told her I would look in my Zagat's and get back to her. I wanted 11 to find some place nice for our first dinner together.

"What do like?"

"Game," she replied, "but I have to go. My boyfriend just walked in." 1 could tell something had changed. 1 had gotten what 1 wanted. Now 1 was talking to a real person over the phone. If the instinctual pre-verbal side to our relationship had been waning, now it was just about gone. There might be exceptions, but in general, you forswear the animal connection that finds you mindlessly in bed with someone once you cross the magic line where you use the phone to make dates.

We met in a place called The Golden Cock. The Golden Cock turned out to be a gay all-you-can-eat barbecue place that became a disco after midnight. Some of these gay places don't like to encourage heterosexual couples, but The Golden Cock was extreme, displaying roughly the level of tolerance for heterosexuals that the whites did for blacks in Alabama when George Wallace was governor. It was understood that the bathrooms were for gays only; the line of guys waiting to get fucked in the ass wasn't too happy when Monica and I joined them. Monica had insisted on getting her mouth on my dick after we both finished our appetizers, and considering that her repartee was a mixture of feminist admonishments and phonesex-advertising-level eroticism, I was happy to oblige. For all her sexual abandon, Monica turned out to be a control freak. If she was going to leave the security of her current relationship, she needed something in writing, whether it be a marriage certificate or a prenuptial agreement.

"I'm not going to fuck my brains out for ten years and end up with a dried-up pussy and nothing to show for it." How could someone fuck so beautifully yet utter such streams of ugly invective? Sometimes people show the worst side of themselves so that the good side is like the raspberry filling in a stale jelly donut. What had made Monica so cynical and distrusting of life? She'd been born with a pussy that was one of the seven wonders of the world. People sell their souls to get sexual equipment like that. When it came to sex she displayed the startling ability to be the caboose and the engine all at the same time. She could take it as well as she could give it, an admirable talent for a person of either sex.

But like a lot of talented people, she had her destructive side. She obviously couldn't handle her gifts and lessened the effect of her sexual brilliance with some of the stupidest invective that had ever filled a man's ears. 1 wasn't ready to sign my furnishings over to her. Yet I wasn't willing to give up hope that the saliva-filled mouth meeting my cock was also a sign of a warmth and tenderness she was too defensive to show in our verbal encounters. Underneath she might be as vulnerable and forthcoming emotionally as she was sexually. I'm well hung enough, but now what was required was that I hang in; I was looking for a pay-off that could be as explosive emotionally as any of the scenes in Noel Coward's filmic masterpiece of romantic longing, Brief Encounter (1948)minus, of course, the film's glamorization of unconsummated love. All I wanted out of Monica was the intensity of an unrealizable romantic passion that was at the same time realizable in an everyday relationship that offered financial and emotional security as well as health benefits. In the meantime 1 settled for a memorable fuck in the farthest stall of The Golden Cock. Not even the long line of gays waiting impatiently to suck each others cocks seemed to mind, especially when Monica explained, "It's okay, he's only fucking me in the ass."

Soon after pulling out and leaving the bathroom, I asked for a check. We agreed it had been a lovely night, but both of us also agreed that it was important not to act impulsively in terms of deciding what kind of relationship we'd have.

"I love to fuck you, but I don't like you," she said. "Just kidding."

I didn't like her at all, but as long as my dick was shoved into her ass, pussy, or mouth, I was in a state that can only be described as rapturous.

The weather had already begun to change, and by the time I got home from dinner, spring had arrived. When I awakened the next morning, I breathed in the sweet fragrance that betokens the first flowering of the season. The bare branches of the old oak outside my apartment were now covered with buds, and without going on with a stereotypic cataloguing of seasonal changes, suffice it to say the once frozen streets-previously devoid of life-now bore witness to chirping as the first migrations of birds descended from the skies. My life lay before me. The first hint of mild weather filled the streets with young women in abbreviated attire. Thick woolen sweaters and turtlenecks were replaced by revealing halter tops. Newly pierced belly buttons were paraded and rear views, with their prominently displayed thong waist bands, provided a tantalizing peek into the freedom of our current youth culture. I was no longer young, but I wondered if perhaps I had limited my horizons. Monica had stirred something up in me, but to believe she was the only woman who could provide me with a life of sexual satisfaction was actually placing too great a burden on her. Did I need to experiment more before I put all my eggs in one basket? I didn't want to experiment more. But if I was going to settle down with Monica, I had to accept her, warts and all (unlike the character in Hawthorne's short story, "The Birthmark," who ends up killing the woman he loves when he tries to remove the one thing that mars her perfection). My need to edit every word that came out of her mouth was no fairer to her than it was to me.