Francis Levy - Erotomania - A Romance

Monica is an ethical person at heart. So whenever we got a call from one of those companies that does surveys, marketing research, and especially opinion polls, she felt it was her civic duty to respond. In the past, the only problem was that she was usually too horny to make it through a telephone conversation. About halfway into the interview, she'd motion to me. I'd walk over and she'd unzip my fly. Then she would take my cock in her mouth, sucking on it with a self-satisfied grin, and only taking it out when she had to clarify a point. Because her mouth was stuffed, she'd often have to repeat her answers, but she was inevitably gracious and cooperative. Monica was always willing to lend a hand if she had a prick in the other. Now, however, it was getting to the point where she was having no trouble answering the questions, since she had nothing in her mouth.

We sat in an embarrassed silence, not knowing what to do with each other now that the magic of our sexual electricity was gone. Extending the electrical metaphor, I'd say the plug was still working all right, but the socket was dead. I had no problems sticking it in whenever she wanted, but she was as dry as the most dried-out patch of the Sahara Dessert on a 120-degree day.

C99

"I'm no expert on art, but it's my impression the abstract expressionists were very contentious. They liked to talk and converse at this place called the Cedar Tavern. There were tremendous fights that sometimes got physical. Drinking wasn't the only thing they did." Usually General Shapiro would wait for one of us to say something. Then he would interrupt before we finished a sentence. That was the essence of his method. Everyone has their story. The story is what makes people feel special, and it's this uniqueness that General Shapiro chopped down the minute you walked into his office. But today was different; he didn't even wait for us to bother to report what was going on in the relationship since the last time he'd seen us. He was past that. He no longer needed our input at all. He knew 1 have to admit he was right, but there still seemed to be something unscientific about reaching conclusions without the benefit of data or observations.

"What if James just fights with you about art instead of being an abusive drunk? Now, James, whatever you do, don't agree with her. You have to swagger to be a good abstract expressionist, and you have to be a sexist. Constantly attack the validity of a woman having opinions. Come on to her when she is trying to talk. Treat her as dismissively as possible and she'll want you just as much as she did when you drunkenly stumbled in the front door of your bunker."

Because Monica and I had never conversed in a normal way, full-fledged arguments about the nature of art were quite a mountain to climb. During the cab ride home, we decided we had to give it a try, but neither of us knew what to do.

"Do we just start talking?" I asked when we walked into the bunker.

Monica shrugged. She knew how to be contentious, but not being a true intellectual, she didn't have an arsenal of provocative remarks to start us off.

"1 guess you should say something that gets my goat about art or painting or abstract expressionism," I offered.

The problem was, Monica never had any opinions about abstract expressionism; paint being slapped all over the canvas in the exuberant way it was in the work of Pollock, DeKooning, Motherwell, and Rothko just turned her on. Monica had to feel something about art other than it did or didn't make her horny. She had to come up with an idea about it, and I had to find the idea puerile and annoying. Then I had to berate her and somehow relate her simplistic ideas about art to her family background and upbringing. Once the criticizing began, I would try to fuck her.

"Okay listen, here's an idea: just say `Franz Kline was influenced by Velasquez."'

"Franz Kline was influenced by Velasquez."

"That's really dumb. What does a dumb bitch like you know about anything? What'd you read that in Time magazine? Are you going to throw that reductive bullshit out at the next lawn party. It's bourgeois. Now get down on all fours, bitch, and I'll put it up your ass."

Monica looked like she was going to swoon. Her face grew red, and she immediately pulled her jeans down to her ankles and got on the floor.

"Oh yeah, put it up my ass. I'm so hot, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me up the ass."

"Say `Pollock is synchronistic."'

"Pollock is synchronistic."

"That's what everyone who doesn't understand the narrative element in Pollock says. Synchronistic! What do you know about painting? Now just shut up and suck my cock."

Even though my cock had been in her asshole, she turned around and greedily took it in her mouth. She wanted me. She wanted me as much as she ever had before. It reminded me of the lights going on after a blackout. The increased verbal communication had created a powerful physical attraction. I only hoped that Monica would finally show her gratitude by acknowledging to General Shapiro that he'd been of help.

"I have a question." General Shapiro and I looked at each other wide-eyed with amazement. We had just walked into the office the morning after a night in which Monica had expressed one harebrained idea about art after the other. I had responded with a series of sexual assaults that she welcomed. During one incident, after she told me that some abstract expressionism reminded her of the markings on the famous Lascaux caves, I rode her like a horse, slapping her behind and yelling, "Heah, heah giddy up!"

"Maybe you can be of help. Does this new thing we're doing mean that every time 1 express myself, I'm going to get a cock stuck in my mouth, cunt, or ass?"

"What's striking to me is that you have a very high standard. You can never be satisfied or happy. Before, the only thing that turned you on was museums. Now, you're having typically onesided conversations with a bullying artist intellectual who treats you like a prostitute every time you open your mouth, demeans you, and obliterates any vestige of self-confidence you might be trying to develop about your ability to have opinions. This is progress. There are limits. Your perfectionism, your inability to appreciate your own limits, was making it impossible for you to be happy. The question is, can you be satisfied with this compromise, however imperfect it might be?"

I was distracted. 1 remembered an item on the E! channel about a new bit that some S&M couples had purchased for each other on Valentine's Day. When you wanted to ride your wife, you just stuck it in her mouth and grabbed the reins. It would be a convenient way to deal with Monica's growing interests in art and politics.

1 didn't mind screaming at Monica and berating her; it was better than getting drunk, but 1 was feeling a resentment, which I expressed in AA, about the fact that I had to keep supplying her with stupid things to say. I was constantly running out to the magazine stores, searching out opinions in the kind of trendy magazines with the facile overviews that were such an effective lubricant for us. Fashion publications are notorious for presenting a superficial view of the art world. So if there was a De Kooning retrospective at MOMA, I'd run to get the Pogue review, which I'd leave next to Monica's side of the waterbed. By the next day, I'd be pulling her hair, screaming at her for being a "decadent bourgeois" while Greek-fucking her in the middle of the kitchen. Naturally, Ting would be waiting outside the window with our order, frantically pulling at himself as he watched me thrusting into her and moving her across the floor.

Robert Hughes, the Australian art critic who specializes in modernism, eventually became a great help to our sex life. In fact, he was not only a help, but a virtual sex aid, a walking Masters and Johnson, a human form of Viagra. I purchased a volume of Hughes' essays after Shapiro had whispered, "Robert Hughes," into my ear as we were leaving one session. Having left the volume on Monica's pillow, I came in one afternoon to find her lying in bed spread eagled with two fingers in her cunt and an essay on the legacy of abstract expressionism in her free hand. She was moaning loudly. I took my clothes off thinking she would want a good fuck. She quickly covered herself up.