Eunuchs and Nymphomaniacs

by AnonYMous

  “How are you doing?”

  I had recovered and was enjoying myself far too much. I was giddy in fact.

  “How am I doing?” I was so happy, I thought I might start crying again. “How are we doing?”

  She looked disappointed, I had ruined not just the moment but the entire trip. I got out and found the trunk already popped. She was now in a hurry to get away. A car honked behind me. Retrieving my laundry bag, I hugged it without meaning to. It would absorb the force of the recoil as she accelerated away from me.

  I began to compose an email.

  Thank you for the clarity today … as I think you could see it’s just too difficult for me to be around you when there’s no chance of us getting back together … maybe we should take a break from seeing each other and see how that goes?

  * * *

  Isabel was a spherical Haitian woman who wore the most amount of color I’d ever seen on one person. The effect was that she seemed already audible before she spoke. Her table was the next one down from Stone Cold Joe and Mrs. Lee. Not that you could see it buried under the proliferation of scarves, sunglasses, bracelets, and beads. Sitting on a fold-up chair, she looked like her wares had spilled off the table into a human-shaped heap at one end.

  I marveled as she repeatedly employed her fail-safe sales technique on the countless customers who tried to bargain her down.

  “That’s racist,” she announced in a voice loud enough for everyone to hear.

  They immediately bought hats, scarves, and sometimes sunglasses, the better to hide their shame. It was an interesting strategy. Draw on the bottomless well of Caucasian guilt and slake your thirst for revenge and recompense. Inspired, I harnessed a less intense but equally entrenched source of prejudice.

  NO, I DON’T HAVE FUCKING TOURETTE’S, I’M IRISH

  #TheOxygenThiefDiaries

  A tall angular young man stopped abruptly. I waited for him to congratulate me on my new sign but it was the book that caught his eye. He sent worried looks up and down the street and I got the impression he would have liked to check under my table but he was exercising restraint. His eyes continued to dart left and right before returning to me, obviously disappointed.

  “I read this book …” he said at last and then stopped himself, as if regretting having told me. As if he was being forced to reveal information he’d rather hold on to.

  “A friend recommended it.”

  “Really?” I said. “Who was that?”

  “This really hot chick said I should read it if I wanted to meet her.”

  I was careful not to overreact.

  “And … you read it.”

  “Yah.”

  “Did you like it?

  “It was all right.”

  “Did you meet her?”

  His eyes searched mine. I thought for a second he was going to lunge at me but instead he looked around again hoping the object of his desire would return from her coffee break. Maybe I could provide a clue to her whereabouts. He was reluctant to leave. I tried to imagine some further use I could make of him but as far as I was concerned he was a spent force. A wandering soul. He’d obviously bought the book on Françoise’s recommendation, but selling him the sequel, in which he was listed among the gullible fools stiffed by my marketing prowess, would expose me as the Oxygen Thief and put my precious spot at risk when he returned with his friends looking for satisfaction.

  “No. She just disappeared.”

  He stood there hoping I’d contradict him.

  Ping

  Tilden Beach? Saturday?

  It was the owner of the very ass that bewitched this poor guy. Far from addressing my email suggesting we take a break, she was just going to ignore it. I obviously hadn’t meant it so she was saving me the embarrassment of having to acknowledge I’d ever sent it. Where did she get the confidence to know I was so besotted with her? That Saturday I answered my own question.

  “You look like a fifties film star.”

  I didn’t care how she took the information, I just wanted her to know it. Why keep it from her? That was what I’d always done, withheld compliments so she wouldn’t have power over me. I didn’t dare look at her directly in case she thought I was waiting for a reward but I imagined her resisting a natural urge to smile. Why would she resist smiling? Because she knew its dizzying effect was like drugs to me and she would want to deny me that. It was gut-wrenching not being able to touch her or be in any way romantic and yet I was grateful to be beside her in the passenger seat. It was as if we were learning about each other for the first time. Or maybe I was now willing to open myself up to her since I had concealed so much the first time around. The first time around? My emotions were like the children of divorced parents desperately trying to dress up a platonic trip to the beach as a romantic reunion.

  Three years earlier, if I noticed something distasteful about her I’d ignore it because well, what was the point? She’d soon be dumped and there was no sense in wasting time nurturing something that would soon be discarded. But now that I wanted her back this could never be said out loud: Marian, for the three years we were together I didn’t care what you said or did because I knew I was going to dump you, but now that I might want to keep you around I’m willing to at least entertain the idea of understanding you … can we have sex now?

  I had no way of knowing she had put on a bikini under her clothes so when she began to undress right there in front of me any hopes I had of seeing her naked plummeted like shot-down doves. Stepping out of her shorts, she spun round and basically slapped me in the face with the sight of a bush so unkempt it had outgrown the confines of her navy bikini bottom. So unchecked was its proliferation it had begun to encroach on the beautiful pale skin of her inner thighs and the world in general.

  I was instinctively insulted.

  Its progress said more about her feelings for me than anything she could ever have articulated. And she was so proud of it, brandishing it around in front of my meticulously shaved head and face. I felt hot. Panicky even. The ocean began to look inviting not just because I could soothe my fevered thoughts but because it would conceal the tears I felt welling up inside me.

  The term bushwhacked presented itself.

  I sensed her disgust at my subjugation. I needed to get away from this. I needed to take what I’d learned, if anything, away with me. We couldn’t ever get back to where we once were. This girl didn’t even like me now, let alone love me. None of this was acknowledged of course, and I tried to behave as if I was squinting philosophically out to sea.

  I tried not to ogle a very shapely girl who got up from a blue towel beside us and sauntered toward the ocean. She looked like a model in a commercial. She was probably in her late thirties but she had a quiet contented smile that made her seem much younger. I would have loved to spend the day with her instead but I felt I owed Marian more opportunities to torture me. To avenge herself. I had no say in how she took this revenge; all I could do was turn up and stand still while she obtained satisfaction. It seemed fair. Hopefully she’d get it out of her system and we could move on.

  “Nice butt,” she remarked as the girl sashayed past.

  Now we were buddies checking out chicks?

  “I prefer yours,” I said, and she immediately made a face.

  It was time to jump in the ocean.

  At one point a huge wave knocked her over and when it subsided she sat in the surf dazed with her bikini top knocked sideways and her gorgeous tits in plain view. Smiling in the way people do when they’re not sure what has just happened, she looked around trying to catch her breath. Still blinking the water away she looked over at me. I said nothing. I was far enough away that she couldn’t make out how longingly I looked at those perfect breasts or how satisfied I was to see her knocked on her ass. I had been knocked a couple of times too and I wondered if she had enjoyed that sight as much as I was enjoying this one. She had certainly laughed hard enough. A mean, impractical laugh. She must have wondered why I w
as still standing there up to my waist in water looking at her because suddenly her head dipped and she realized she’d been virtually topless for the preceding forty seconds. Without looking at me she quickly adjusted herself and those lovely tits disappeared forever.

  * * *

  Drinnggggg

  I’d try to plug the Marian-shaped hole with Courtney.

  In her email she referred to herself as an aspiring psychologist. She marveled at how well I had managed to so realistically convey the behavior of a sociopath in my writing. But she was careful not to infer I was one. In fact, the accusation was conspicuous by its absence.

  But I made it very clear to her that the Oxygen Thief and I were very much the same person and to prove it I slid up beside her on my couch and kissed her on the neck. Halfheartedly pushing me away she embarked on an unconvincing visit to the restroom that seemed to me to be just an excuse to break off so she didn’t explode with lust all over me.

  I was grateful she did because it gave me a decent look at her ass, which, though it was depressing compared to Marian’s, wasn’t half as bad as I’d feared. Having read about my penchant for thigh-high stockings, she hinted that she might be wearing a pair if I visited her in her office all the way up in Washington Heights. She needed clients to practice on and hosting as I did a veritable smorgasbord of neuroses and mental tics, I was the perfect test dummy. I received all sorts of offers from therapists. I think they saw me as a challenge. And having me as a client might even be good for business.

  But a therapist in thigh-highs?

  Suddenly the trip to Upstate Manhattan didn’t seem so bad. Her “office” turned out to be her apartment and her therapeutic technique turned out to be … well … confrontational.

  “Didn’t you say only sluts swallow?”

  I had to concede that I did at one point express that view in one of my books, yes. “So you’ve changed your mind since?”

  I replied that I hadn’t yet gathered enough evidence to make a decision. “I think we need to explore this idea.”

  While we talked she pecked politely at a glass of whiskey, so I couldn’t help thinking she’d probably had more than that before I arrived. She referred to me as a therapist’s starter kit, a beautifully disturbed, human simulator on whom to rehearse.

  “The proof being that you’re flattered by the description.” She adjusted her thigh-highs, obviously enjoying herself. Prngggggg

  I had no intention of answering my phone but I couldn’t resist a peek.

  MARIAN

  A little red blister indicated she’d left a voice message, and I immediately began to agonize over its contents. I tried to look unconvinced as Courtney continued to expand on how useful we’d be to each other. The depth of her psychological insight was astonishing.

  “I’m going to give you two blowjobs in a row.” The idea was that I would indicate a preference. Swallow vs. Facial.

  The Sophie’s Choice of blowjobs.

  On the way home with my balls basically glowing in the dark, I heard Marian’s voice say she missed me and that she was driving to Maryland and … the next few words were frustratingly muffled as the receiver moved away from her mouth but then clarity returned and one isolated phrase broke through the murk: “… some surgery might be required.”

  There she was, the girl I was supposedly in love with, en route to having some worrying condition dealt with, and I was too busy having my dick sucked and my cum swallowed to answer. How could I ever be a decent boyfriend if I couldn’t be there for her in situations like this? But had she made other calls before me? And were there other calls made after? She had just wanted to kill time while she drove. Guilt gave way to resentment as I began to wonder if she had only been looking for sympathy.

  I decided to show I wasn’t ignoring her but at the same time clarify that I wasn’t available for counseling. Courtney had strongly suggested I cut off all contact with her since it was too confusing for me. But hearing her voice was like sunshine in my veins.

  I needed to wean myself off her.

  “You can’t cross an ocean if you don’t have the courage to lose sight of the shore.” So said my trainee therapist, between mouthfuls of molten me.

  I sent her a text.

  I honestly appreciate that you’re concerned over a health issue but on a social level I’m just not ready to hang out or chat. I hope everything goes perfectly though.

  Pressing send was like detonating my life.

  A hurricane was forecast that weekend and it seemed apt that I should batten down the hatches and steel myself for an onslaught of Marian while gales raged symbolically without.

  But in the end all it did was rain a little.

  HURRICANE CANCELED DUE TO RAIN

  #TheOxygenThiefDiaries

  Minutes into our second session Courtney got straight to the core of the problem.

  “How would you like to come?”

  While I tried to think of a witty riposte she set about effortlessly inhaling the contents of my balls. And then making a point of licking her lips she walked her newly medicated patient to the bedroom. I felt myself being helped out of my clothes and placed between the cool, clean, crisp, sheets of her bed.

  We talked.

  Or rather I talked while she listened like a proper little psychologist-in-waiting.

  It was such an effective form of therapy.

  A mouthful followed by an earful.

  A voice inside me cautioned: This is how they get you.

  But I loved talking to her. After all I was allowed to talk about my favorite subject (I might not think much of myself but I did it all day). And in the few rare moments where she was allowed to get a word in edgewise she actually managed to make some very astute observations.

  For instance, my technique of gaining people’s trust by appearing to be overly honest allowed me to secretly hate them for their gullibility. This in turn cemented my reluctance to show them my real self. Her analysis was unnervingly accurate but she preempted any potentially prickly pronouncements with a gentle cupping of my still-tingling balls. Her hand was already in place so it was just a matter of a slight recup at the appropriate moment. She was definitely onto something here. How easy it was to divulge oneself psychologically having already been unpacked sexually.

  But there was something sad about her.

  Surely all the attention I received was an attempt to hide from her own feelings. Was this why she wanted to be a therapist? Much more fun probing around in other people’s heads than her own. When I mentioned this I felt my balls being fondled.

  “It’s probably because I’m about to turn forty.”

  She broke the silence by making some reference to what we’d have for breakfast.

  In other words she invited me to stay the night. But I preferred the idea of finite sessions and I told her so as I began to get dressed. She sent an email on ahead to greet me when I got home.

  Is it too maternal to ask if you made it home okay?

  It was, but I said nothing because I wanted more of that mouth.

  And yet the sensation of having my sludge siphoned for the second time already seemed less heavenly than the first. I couldn’t help thinking that her sexual subservience was just a ploy to trap me into being her live-in pet in her pristine apartment. Ideally before she turned forty. She could never compare with the depth of feeling I had for Marian. The very thought of whom made me want to cry. But that would have to stop. Wouldn’t it? I felt desperately that I should be with her and yet I could clearly remember hating her when we were together. Hating her. Was it really all just a trick? If so, why? For whose benefit? Did we fall for this sleight of hand over and over again just to keep the planet populated?

  Courtney said I shouldn’t be afraid to approach the cage where I said I’d locked up The Thug. I should hear what he had to say. If I did, I’d realize he was gone. That what I was feeling was only the memory of the fear of him. She was just about good-looking enough to inspire a hard-on but
not so beautiful that I was in danger of falling in love. At one point as we lay in her bed, she told me to take my arm out from under her because I was obviously trapping myself. I was impressed with this until I realized that it was just more strategy.

  Lock him to you by setting him free.

  “Imagine I’m you and you’re The Thug. What would you want to say to me?”

  She was enjoying her faux session but this was starting to unsettle me. I imagined all the horrible things he would want to say to me. She’d never be able to understand how much I wanted to eviscerate that stupid, short, fat, bald, ugly, small-dicked fool she now represented. I didn’t want to risk exposing her to such vitriol in case it interfered with my supply of blowjobs, but I knew I had to give her something.

  “I will cause you to underlive,” I said at last. “I won’t let you live to your fullest capacity. I will limit you. I will ensure you are with a girl who does not make you happy. Not in an atmosphere where you’ll thrive. Not make enough money to live comfortably.”

  I stopped myself.

  I had given her too much. A girl who doesn’t make me happy? What? She nodded to herself. Thinking. Cogitating.

  Her conclusion was that I saw myself as some awful force that people needed to be protected from, but that in her opinion I was wonderful and smart and unbelievably kind. She said I could figure things out in an instant and though this was an admirable trait it also told her how often I’d had to do it in my life and that this was sad. She also said she thought Marian was systematically punishing me for what I’d done to her. She then took my soft, frightened penis in her mouth and made it hard again without using her hands.

  * * *

  I climbed the three flights of stairs to the sex addicts meeting. The sign hanging on the door said SLAA. What did the L stand for? Love. Their full name was Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous. This was stunning to me.

  Yes I was prone to sex: the endorphins released before, during, and after the act, but addicted to love? To the machinations and sleight of hand, to the seduction and manipulation, to the power of having someone on a string. This had never occurred to me before. It explained a lot. In fact it explained everything. There were SLAA guidelines for dating; no French kissing for the first three dates, no long lingering phone calls, no rain-checking (postponing dates in order to continue the illusion of a relationship), no pressure dates (fancy dinners or opera tickets).