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So, last night Lo and I had a little tiff. A little spat. A little lovers’ quarrel. She had gone into the bedroom to straighten up a bit since this weekend we’ll be doing some entertaining and in there she had found a box full of various erotic writings of mine from years past. I’m not sure what the big deal of this discovery was since I had told her all about this when we were first getting involved with each other. I had even shown her some of that material way back when and she found it exciting, even thrilling. Back in the day she was titillated by the fact that she and I had so much in common — we both loved the play of language and erotica.

But I suppose it brought up difficult memories for her. Well, they weren’t exactly memories, they were thoughts of the past — a past she was not a part of and, consequently, they couldn’t be memories for her, but they could be painful thoughts. Irrationally, but according to love’s own logic, she felt irritated, insecure, irascible. This box represented for her an erotic and literary life apart from my life with her and that just bothered her on some level.

So we sat down to talk it out. We were on the neat, newly made bed and she was trying to identify her emotions and put them into words I could comprehend. I was growing increasingly agitated because in my now defunct marriage I had to deal with all sorts of insinuations, accusations, suspicions. Not that I was not guilty of sneaking around and dabbling in various illicit relationships, but I thought that when I had broken from that relationship and begun with Lo, I had actually broken with those illicit tactics and the constant fear of being discovered. In Lo I had found a partner with whom not only could everything be out there in the open, but for whom such honesty and intellectual, libidinal, and literary forays were admired and appreciated. In short, I had nothing to hide. Or so I thought. I wasn’t hiding anything, but the way Lo characterized her “discovery” made it seem like I was hiding something — right there in plain sight. And this annoyed me.

We discussed it and in the course of the discussion her search for what bothered her turned to this very writing project of mine. Often times in disputes, what one thinks is the cause and heart of the problem isn’t; it’s just an entryway into the real problem. And in this situation it seemed that the real problem was how much time, effort, and attention I have devoted to this very writing. That really upset me on a level deeper than I was able to fathom at the time. On one level it had upset me because just prior to her confronting me about the discovered box, I had finished writing and posting a new entry — an entry I had been excited for her to read. Now it just felt like one more bit of evidence against me.

But on a deeper level it upset me because I knew she was right. Yes, it’s true, at 112,970 words (right now) and counting, I have poured a lot of time, effort, and attention into this. Yes, I’ll admit it, I’m obsessed. Yes, I’ll admit it, it has affected my work, social life, and sleep patterns. Yes, I’ll admit it, I may have a problem. Do I? Hmmm, it seems strange to read those words. “A problem.” Is it a problem? Did Joyce have “a problem”? Did Melville have “a problem”? Did Vladimir have “a problem”? Did Vera discover his manuscript of Lolita and say, “You know Vlad, we have to talk. . .”?

I mean, forget the hyperbolic comparisons to the greats, but this is an artistic creation that is a natural extension of the artistic creation I call “my life.” I don’t care about money. I don’t care about fame. I don’t care about being “normal” — whatever that means. I care about art; making art and living artistically. And that’s what I’m doing here on the page. To hell with the rest of it. The rest of it isn’t worth a farthing. Money problems? It’s just fodder for my writing. Relationship problems? Again, give me a blank page and I’ll turn those problems into a page-turner. The whole of my life — every mind-numbing moment of boredom and each mind-blowing thrill of exhilaration — is fodder for the fire.

Look at that box there — page after page — hundreds, maybe thousands of them — of an earlier work. Unfinished, yes, but there is potential there. And after that, a many yearlong “emotional affair” played out mostly in correspondences that I am willing to wager also runs into the hundreds if not thousands of pages. And then came Lo and the poetry — poetry of a force and power and illumination that I thought myself not capable of — and the prose and the desire to share all of that with others. And before all that, there are the reams and reams of diary entries going as far back as my late teens. Looking back on it, there was never an extended period of my adulthood that I didn’t spend writing prolifically. Most of it is crap — I grant you that. But the fact is, I had to write. I wrote for the same reason I breathed — it was almost unconscious and without it I would die.

Speaking of breathing, take a deep breath H.H. Calm it down. You’re getting yourself all riled up again.

Back to last night. So, at some point I said to Lo, angrily, “If you don’t like it, I can take it down. I can get rid of it. All of it.” She tried to tell me that that was not what she was saying. That I’m overreacting, and so forth. But I just rolled over and said, “I’m tired. I’m going to sleep.”

She could see that I was quite agitated by this point and nothing upsets her more than my shutting down at night mid-fight. She attempted to curl up next to me, to wriggle her way under my right arm into her little notch. I didn’t stop her. When she was snuggled quite close under my arm, I said into the darkness, “You know, the worst part of this is that just before coming in here I had posted a new entry.”

“Does that upset you because this is not the way you wanted to tell me?” she asked.

I shrugged my shoulders.

“Will it upset you if I read it?” she inquired.

I shrugged my shoulders again and, after a moment, said apathetically, “Do whatever you want to do. I don’t really care.”

For a small eternity we lay there in silence and then I felt her reach for her phone. She turned on the cold blue light of the screen and within a few moments I could hear her breathing grow deeper with some long, heavy sighs. I could feel the slight rhythmic jiggling of the bed as the fingers of her right hand found their way to her pussy. I felt the movement in the darkness as she pulled off her pajama bottoms and spread her legs wide and I could hear her begin to moan. She then whispered, “I’m so wet. I’m so wet.” I could feel the motion of the bed as her right hand plunged deeply into her pussy, pounding it with three, four, maybe even five fingers. She groaned and sighed in the telltale way that indicates she’s climaxing. She grabbed my right hand from around her and pulled it down to her crotch and forced it between her legs to feel how wet she was, how her pussy was dripping down the sides of her groin.

“Slap me, Daddy,” she begged, “Teach me a lesson. Punish me.”

I slapped the top of her pussy once, right on her clit. Her whole body convulsed and, a second later, she let out a little moan of delight. “Again,” she said. I slapped her again. “More,” she said. I slapped her four or five times, very hard.

Her right hand moved to her pussy, pushing mine away, and she was at it all over again. Again she climaxed. Again she asked me to slap her. Again I did. And all over again she was diddling her pussy, clit, cunt. As she did so she said, “I can’t stop.” Her left hand reached to feel my groin and see if my cock was hard. It was. “Do you want me, Daddy?” she asked.

“No,” I said.

“Then why is your cock hard?”

“It just is.”

That damn cock. It has a fucking mind of its own. I didn’t want her. But it. . . it can’t help itself. When it hears her voice moaning in the darkness, when it feels her wrist moving in such a fashion as to move the whole bed from its gyrations on her clit, when it knows what she is up to there under the covers, it wants her. It betrays me. Mutiny! Damn it! I should name that prick Benedict Arnold.

She brought herself to an orgasm over and over again. And then she asked me to spank her pussy to teach it a lesson. I moved my right hand to her clit and I slapped her twat silly with about fifteen good, hard, firm smacks of my open hand. I kept going until she covered her pussy with both hands and said, “I’ll be sore tomorrow, Daddy.”

“Good,” I said, “You little nympho.”

[From the blog:]

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Just your average nymphomaniac next door. I love fan mail:

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