by Sean H. Doyle
There are no answers.
A lot of people will tell you that there are all sorts of answers out there, floating in the ether -- just waiting to be snatched up -- but they’re making that shit up. There are no answers. I know this because I have spent the majority of my adult life waiting for answers to fall into my lap, as opposed to just going out there and finding them for myself.
Yeah, I’d call me “lazy,” too.
When you’re in your twenties, you don’t really care about answers as much as you care about fine-tuning those feral parts of you. The fuckery. The imbibery. Those parts are very important. When you’re in your twenties the most important thing you can do is slide your tongue over as many different body parts on as many different people as you possibly can. Race and creed don’t matter much, nor does sexual/gender identity, really -- just go out and get your fuck on. You’re never really going to know yourself until you find yourself in as many awkward sexual situations as you can fathom. Nothing tells a person who they really are like waking up in a trailer in the woods with four or five hunters and their wives, mountains of empty Steel Reserve tallboys all around and the smell of burning latex hanging in the air.
Not that you’ll find any answers there, either.
You might think that you’d be able to find answers in speaking with your fellow humans, but that would also be a fallacy. Talking to other humans about anything usually results in them unlatching the top on their secret box where they keep their wounded ego, and then they release that Kraken on you. Kind of like this, but different. Most other humans are just shells holding broken pieces of light. Worker bees. Drones in veal fattening pens, answering phones and stuck in traffic. When they get the opportunity to wax on about the answers, you’ll get hit in the face with their dreams, their fears, and the sudden realization of “I feel afraid that I will die while spending time with someone I do not like.”
Not an answer.
I once thought that maybe the answers were found in our blood. I was wrong about that. I cannot talk to you about what I found in my blood, because I promised I wouldn’t.
Sean H. Doyle lives in Brooklyn, New York -- where he now pays $11.50 for a pack of cigarettes. His favorite pair of sneakers ever were the pair of first edition Air Jordans he received on Christmas morning, 1985. Sean believes in working hard to get better, and most of his writing can be found on his site. Sean would also dig it if you followed him on Twitter, because The Angry Owl God knows he could use more friends in far-away lands.
Showing posts with label Sean H. Doyle. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Sean H. Doyle. Show all posts
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Thursday, July 8, 2010
A Conversations About Marijuana, Ladders, & Misdeeds
by Sean H. Doyle
[open transmission]
“Hey, can I ask you for a favor?”
“Ummm. I’m really fucking high right now. What’s up?”
“Don’t you fucking laugh at me, okay? This is serious. You know how I like to go out onto my window ledge when I am talking on the phone, right?”
“Yeah. You do that a lot.”
“Don’t fucking laugh. I closed the window behind me because I didn’t want my kitten to try and climb out here with me, and now I am stuck on this fucking ledge.”
“You’re fucking kidding me, right?”
“No. I am not fucking kidding you.”
“Where is your brother?”
“He's asleep on the couch with his headphones on. I keep on reaching over and pounding on the window, but he's out cold.”
“You live on the fifth floor. The fuck am I gonna do? This is ridiculous - I don’t have a fucking six-story ladder just hangin’ around.”
“I told you not to laugh at me! Can’t you just come over here and bang on the front door until he wakes up? You can even just kick the door in - I don't fucking care.”
“Are you kidding me? Why don’t you just call the fucking Fire Department? I told you, I am really fucking high right now - there is no way I can drive all the way over there.”
“How high are you? I’ve been in a car with you when you’re high - you drive just fine. Please?”
“If I’m telling you that I’m really fucking high, that means that I am too fucking high to drive.”
“I can’t call the Fire Department. They’ll fucking laugh at me for being so stupid.”
“I’m laughing at you because this kind of shit could only happen to you. And think about it like this - maybe one of the firemen will feel bad for you and fuck you?”
“You are an asshole, you know that? Seriously - how high are you? If you come help me I‘ll suck your dick like I used to. Please?”
“As tempting as that is, I'm not kidding about being really fucking high. This might be the best weed I have ever smoked in my entire fucking life. My entire apartment is wobbly and fuzzy, and I’m standing here drooling all over the phone while laughing at you.”
“You’re a fucking asshole. I really need you to help me out here, and you're laughing at me.”
“Remember that time when we were dating, and you stole my truck when I was asleep? You didn’t come back with it for two fucking days, and you somehow managed to blow out third gear.”
“I told you I was sorry about that.”
“Yeah, I know. Remember how you were behind on your rent and borrowed five hundred bucks from me, and promised me you’d pay me back as soon as you got paid?”
“Jesus. Is this why you’re not helping me? I know I’m a fuck-up, but really - is this the time to lay into me about all the stupid shit I pulled when we dated? How many fucking times do I have to say I'm sorry? I‘m stuck on a ledge five stories up at two in the morning.”
“Oh, c'mon - really? I swear I’m not trying to be a dick. I’m really fucking high, and you called me because you are stuck out on a goddamn window ledge? I'm just laughing. You’re a fucking weird girl, Monica.”
“Fuck you, Sean.”
Sean H. Doyle lives in Brooklyn, New York. He is hard at work on a memoir that you probably won't want to read without consulting your therapist first.
His writing can be found through a simple Google search of his name, or you can always go check out his [www.seanhdoyle.com] site. Sean does his own laundry.
Monday, June 21, 2010
Dear Julie Christmas
By Sean H. Doyle
Dear Julie Christmas,
I’m not sure if you get a lot of letters from fans or not, so I hope this doesn’t come off as awkward as it feels like it might. If you just give me a shot here to explain myself, I think this might be okay.
I honestly had no idea that you existed until a couple of years ago. I was on a date with a woman from one of those Internet Dating Sites. We were having dinner in Koreatown, and she asked me what was inside of the gyoza I had ordered [it was pumpkin]. Me being the smartass that I am, I replied with “they’re made out of babies -- that’s why they taste so fucking good.” Her face lit up and she started to bounce up and down in her seat like an amphetamine-fueled cymbal monkey. “Made out of babies! MADE OUT OF BABIES! I used to work with a guy who was in a band called Made Out of Babies -- he was really cool.”
I was very drunk in that moment, but I did ask my date to send me a text message from right there at the table, reminding me to look up Made Out of Babies. Any band that would give themselves such an awesome moniker would probably fall right into my wheelhouse.
I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me for not knowing about your band at the time. My use of the name was not malicious at all. If anything -- it very well could have been some sort of prescient homage.
When I got home the next afternoon, I was able to download your first album, Trophy. It only took fifteen seconds for me to hear your voice on the opening cut, “Herculoid.” By the time the song was over -- I hate admitting this so readily, but I cannot lie to you -- I was madly in love with you. I tried to suppress it by smoking a bowl of Brooklyn’s finest cannabinoid offerings, but that only made my love for you grow warmer and squishier with each listen. Your band packed the massive and caustic boom-bap of The Jesus Lizard, coupled with the melodic intentions of bands like Amebix, or even at certain moments -- the counter-melodies of Sonic Youth at their noisiest. Made Out of Babies weren’t just in my wheelhouse, you kooky kids pretty much encompassed the SUM OF ALL THINGS SEAN LOVES ABOUT AGGRESSIVE MUSIC, with the added bonus of having a very intense/beautiful/intimidating woman as the lead vocalist.
So, that’s how it started for me. I don’t know, I figured that maybe if I told you this, everything else will make a little more sense.
Whenever Made Out of Babies were playing locally in Williamsburg, I would debate whether or not it was a good idea for me to come see you guys play. After years of playing in clubs all over the country, and after getting my head kicked in multiple times by thuggish bouncers and overzealous revelers -- the idea of me being in a small room with that many people witnessing a band as aggressive as y’all felt like teasing The Universe to fuck with me some more. I know I missed out on the few times your other band -- the massively under-appreciated Battle of Mice -- played out locally, but that was probably for the best as well. I mean, what with your fucked-up relationship with the guitar player being the inspiration for all of the intense and scary music that band put out. From the internet research I’ve done, it seems like the two of you could have done with some serious couples counseling. I know how that movie ends -- been there, got the restraining order.
Plus, I was pretty sure that if I actually saw you in person, my heart was going to burst inside of my chest.
Julie -- this is serious, now -- you and I have some mutual friends. Well, according to Facebook we do, but that’s not the point -- Brooklyn, at least the part you and I live in, is very small. I’m not telling you this because I am stalking you or anything -- I’m just always on the lookout for you when I am out and about. I thought I saw you coming out of the Penny Licks ice cream place on Bedford one day last summer, but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t you, as you do not strike me as the type of woman who is into anything vanilla, you know what I mean? I kind of have you figured for the type of woman who digs Rocky Road as much as I do.
We should go get ice cream some time. I think that would be nice.
Late at night, when I am sitting here at this desk writing things that nobody else will ever really read, I think about you from time to time. I think about that blood-curdling 911 call spliced into the end of the song “At The Base Of The Giant’s Throat,” and I wonder if I can ever hold you tight enough to make that pain go limp inside of you. The way you shriek into the phone makes me want to bring you breakfast in bed every day. I know that kind of pain, Julie -- I really do. Not everyone does, but they think they do. It’s not like just anyone can appreciate a woman who titles songs “Cave of Spleen,” or even “Mr. Prison Shanks.” Not to mention the fact that I feel like the lyrics you wrote for “Sleep and Dream” were written about me --
In a tiny little cave
A dog is sleeping on his back
Iron chains around his leg
But he's purring loud enough to snap
I see blood around his snout
A smile that's bigger than his mouth
They come to hurt him every day
To stomp him back into a crouch
Some people just aren’t damaged enough for that to make sense to them, Julie.
I can assure you that I am.
Anyway -- I hope this letter finds you well, and that things are how you would like for them to be. If you ever feel like hanging out in the dog run together, or smoking some cigarettes and drinking some coffee, just shoot me an e-mail. Take care of yourself.
Love,
Sean
PS -- I’m serious about getting ice cream together.
Sean H. Doyle lives in Brooklyn, New York. He is hard at work on a memoir that you probably won't want to read without consulting your therapist first. His writing can be found through a simple Google search of his name, or you can always go check out his site. Sean does his own laundry.
Dear Julie Christmas,
I’m not sure if you get a lot of letters from fans or not, so I hope this doesn’t come off as awkward as it feels like it might. If you just give me a shot here to explain myself, I think this might be okay.
I honestly had no idea that you existed until a couple of years ago. I was on a date with a woman from one of those Internet Dating Sites. We were having dinner in Koreatown, and she asked me what was inside of the gyoza I had ordered [it was pumpkin]. Me being the smartass that I am, I replied with “they’re made out of babies -- that’s why they taste so fucking good.” Her face lit up and she started to bounce up and down in her seat like an amphetamine-fueled cymbal monkey. “Made out of babies! MADE OUT OF BABIES! I used to work with a guy who was in a band called Made Out of Babies -- he was really cool.”
I was very drunk in that moment, but I did ask my date to send me a text message from right there at the table, reminding me to look up Made Out of Babies. Any band that would give themselves such an awesome moniker would probably fall right into my wheelhouse.
I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me for not knowing about your band at the time. My use of the name was not malicious at all. If anything -- it very well could have been some sort of prescient homage.
When I got home the next afternoon, I was able to download your first album, Trophy. It only took fifteen seconds for me to hear your voice on the opening cut, “Herculoid.” By the time the song was over -- I hate admitting this so readily, but I cannot lie to you -- I was madly in love with you. I tried to suppress it by smoking a bowl of Brooklyn’s finest cannabinoid offerings, but that only made my love for you grow warmer and squishier with each listen. Your band packed the massive and caustic boom-bap of The Jesus Lizard, coupled with the melodic intentions of bands like Amebix, or even at certain moments -- the counter-melodies of Sonic Youth at their noisiest. Made Out of Babies weren’t just in my wheelhouse, you kooky kids pretty much encompassed the SUM OF ALL THINGS SEAN LOVES ABOUT AGGRESSIVE MUSIC, with the added bonus of having a very intense/beautiful/intimidating woman as the lead vocalist.
So, that’s how it started for me. I don’t know, I figured that maybe if I told you this, everything else will make a little more sense.
Whenever Made Out of Babies were playing locally in Williamsburg, I would debate whether or not it was a good idea for me to come see you guys play. After years of playing in clubs all over the country, and after getting my head kicked in multiple times by thuggish bouncers and overzealous revelers -- the idea of me being in a small room with that many people witnessing a band as aggressive as y’all felt like teasing The Universe to fuck with me some more. I know I missed out on the few times your other band -- the massively under-appreciated Battle of Mice -- played out locally, but that was probably for the best as well. I mean, what with your fucked-up relationship with the guitar player being the inspiration for all of the intense and scary music that band put out. From the internet research I’ve done, it seems like the two of you could have done with some serious couples counseling. I know how that movie ends -- been there, got the restraining order.
Plus, I was pretty sure that if I actually saw you in person, my heart was going to burst inside of my chest.
Julie -- this is serious, now -- you and I have some mutual friends. Well, according to Facebook we do, but that’s not the point -- Brooklyn, at least the part you and I live in, is very small. I’m not telling you this because I am stalking you or anything -- I’m just always on the lookout for you when I am out and about. I thought I saw you coming out of the Penny Licks ice cream place on Bedford one day last summer, but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t you, as you do not strike me as the type of woman who is into anything vanilla, you know what I mean? I kind of have you figured for the type of woman who digs Rocky Road as much as I do.
We should go get ice cream some time. I think that would be nice.
Late at night, when I am sitting here at this desk writing things that nobody else will ever really read, I think about you from time to time. I think about that blood-curdling 911 call spliced into the end of the song “At The Base Of The Giant’s Throat,” and I wonder if I can ever hold you tight enough to make that pain go limp inside of you. The way you shriek into the phone makes me want to bring you breakfast in bed every day. I know that kind of pain, Julie -- I really do. Not everyone does, but they think they do. It’s not like just anyone can appreciate a woman who titles songs “Cave of Spleen,” or even “Mr. Prison Shanks.” Not to mention the fact that I feel like the lyrics you wrote for “Sleep and Dream” were written about me --
In a tiny little cave
A dog is sleeping on his back
Iron chains around his leg
But he's purring loud enough to snap
I see blood around his snout
A smile that's bigger than his mouth
They come to hurt him every day
To stomp him back into a crouch
Some people just aren’t damaged enough for that to make sense to them, Julie.
I can assure you that I am.
Anyway -- I hope this letter finds you well, and that things are how you would like for them to be. If you ever feel like hanging out in the dog run together, or smoking some cigarettes and drinking some coffee, just shoot me an e-mail. Take care of yourself.
Love,
Sean
PS -- I’m serious about getting ice cream together.
Sean H. Doyle lives in Brooklyn, New York. He is hard at work on a memoir that you probably won't want to read without consulting your therapist first. His writing can be found through a simple Google search of his name, or you can always go check out his site. Sean does his own laundry.
Monday, June 7, 2010
SSF Interrogation
Sean H. Doyle of Brooklyn, Ny
SSF: Insert your own survey question and answer here
Sean: What do you wish you had more of?________________________
Sean: Discipline.
SSF: If you could have coffee with any author, who would it be?
Sean: James Frey. I’d like to not only apologize for judging him when the [M]Oprah shitstorm went down, but also ask him how he learned to emotionally withstand such awful criticism from people. All y’all motherfuckers are still way too hard on a guy who just wanted to write books. Isn’t that what we’re all trying to do? Have you read “Bright Shiny Morning” yet? Read it, then get back to me.
SSF: If you were trapped in a basement for ten days and could only bring one CD and one person, what and who would you bring?
Sean: CD: The Stooges - Funhouse -- arguably the greatest rock and motherfucking roll album of all time. I will bare-knuckle fight you in the middle of the street over this one.
Person: 17 year old me. I’d love to be able to explain some things to him, and I think it would probably take around ten days’ worth of time for it to sink in. Plus -- I’d really love to kick his ass.
SSF: What are you currently reading?
Sean: How about I just give you a list of books that I have read in the last month?
“American Junkie,” Tom Hansen
“Buffalo Lockjaw,” Greg Ames
“Dear Everybody,” Michael Kimball
Also -- I try to read Denis Johnson’s “Jesus’ Son” at least once every couple of months. Perfect stories.
SSF: What is your least favorite ethnic group?
Sean:This question does nothing but belittle the evolution of my spiritual being. You are now my least favorite ethnic group for asking me such a thing.
[It was a trick question, dude.]
SSF: What is your most noticeable nervous habit?
Sean: I am very shy. Because of this, I sometimes use boisterousness [and at times, physical intimidation -- I have mastered The Care Bear Stare] as a means to cover up my insecurities. If I start riffing on something that makes people uncomfortable, I will always cross the line -- it is much easier on me than them possibly knowing that I sometimes have to sleep with the lights on.
SSF: What have you written that you are most proud of?
Sean: I'm still working on that, actually.
SSF: What should we all be doing more of in our lives to be happier?
Sean: Happiness is an alien concept for a lot of people who are creative, you know? I think everybody has different things that cause them to crack a smile. Me? I get my kicks hanging out with my dog -- nothing feels better than unconditional love.
As far as things we can all do to be happier -- and this is sappy as fuck now, but I think it is important -- tell the people that matter to you how you feel about them. Do it without provocation. Do it earnestly. The dopamine rush of seeing someone you love feeling good about themselves is infectious.
SSF: Have you ever hung out with Hare Krishnas?
Sean: Not in Real Life, no. But I did go through an odd couple of days where I listened to a lot of Shelter and 108.
SSF: Would you consider yourself a vampire or a werewolf, and why?
Sean: I don't like sweets.
SSF: What is the strangest thing that has ever happened to you on the subway?
The strangest? Just one? I once got punched in the balls on a crowded L Train during rush hour by a Chinese man with Down's Syndrome. He and his "handler" got off at 1st Avenue. A very beautiful young woman then walked over to me, handed me her business card, and told me she'd like to buy me a cup of coffee. Not bad for a Monday, right? I could write a series of short stories about my experiences on the subway.
SSF: What is your preferred bagel and cream cheese combination:
Sean: Pumpernickel with regular cream cheese. Toasted.
SSF: Thoughts on soul mates:
Sean: I'm a Believer.
SSF: On a scale of 1-10, how comfortable are you with being alone?
Sean: 6.89
SSF: Any last thoughts?
Sean: Hard work will set you free.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Press 2 To Send A Private Message
by Sean H. Doyle
I met "Karen" through a telephone Chat Line. You know, like from those commercials late at night where a sexy girl is laying around on her couch, wearing a tight tank top and some short-shorts, tilting her head back in conversational ecstasy?
I made my pre-recorded message sound like I was someone who gave a fuck. I trolled through a bunch of the other male messages to gather as much information as I could to make myself more appealing.
Her initial message to me was quite mumbled, it sounded like she had a cold, or was in the midst of trying not to cry when she spoke. She said in her message - "you sound so sincere, not like the rest of them" - which meant I did my homework properly.
We messaged back and forth for a while, filling each other in on small snippets of ourselves. I told her that I was an insomniac, and she said that she was as well. I told her that I was pretty much a loner, and she laughed and said the same. Typical Chat Line information changing hands, one little ding at a time.
I think it was in her fourth or fifth message that she mentioned she was a female bodybuilder.
Immediately, I became far more interested.
I'm not a small man, to say the least. I'm a big fella - not fat, but large and robust in stature. Probably what people are referring to when they say "he's built like a brick shit-house."
The prospect of me being able to fuck around with a woman who had physical strength was enthralling to me. I always found myself burying myself into women that I was afraid I would break in half - drug-addled waifs and withering drunkards. None of those women could possibly hurt me.
"Karen" sent me her telephone number in her last message, saying "I think you should call me soon, because I think we should meet up. Tonight."
I think I waited five minutes before calling her, maybe even less.
When she answered her phone, she sounded much more feminine. Somewhat innocent, even. She didn't say much - I did most of the talking. She stopped me mid-sentence, and asked me if I had a pen and paper near me. When I said that I did, she gave me her address, and then told me she’d leave the door unlocked for me.
I took a really fast shower, and hopped in my truck to head over to her place. While I was driving over there, all sorts of scenarios were playing over and over in my mind - what if "Karen" was a set-up? Like, what if she wasn't really waiting for me, and some dudes were going to pop out as soon as I walked through the door and they fucked me up and robbed my punk ass? What if she wasn't alone, and there was some dude there that wanted to watch me fuck his old lady? What if she had a cock?
None of these scenarios dissuaded me from continuing to drive to her house. If anything, these scenarios excited me even more - danger flooding my bloodstream like a perfect shot of warm-out-of-the-spoon cocaine.
I pulled up to the address she had given me and parked my truck in the street out front. I sat there for a moment, gathering myself. I pulled out my stash of blow and dipped my house key into it, making sure to do a decent-sized blast to amp up my already building adrenaline.
All the lights were off, but I could tell there were candles lit inside of the house. The light outside the front door was on, but seemed to be on a dimmer switch. I could hear the faint sounds of music from inside of the house, but it was nondescript, almost ambient noise, really. I softly rapped on the door. Nothing stirred.
When I reached for the knob, the door silently slid open for me. It took my eyes a moment to adjust, but I could see that the candlelight was coming from a bedroom down the hall, as was the music and the smell of incense.
I was totally right about the music, too - Dead Can Dance.
I was starting to think "Karen" was a fucking hippie bodybuilder or something, until I started to slowly walk toward the bedroom. I could see her outline just recessed from the doorway - she was wearing some kind of lingerie/sheer robe thing, and had a half of a glass of wine in her hand.
"Hello, Sean."
I didn't say anything. I just walked into that candlelit room and looked at her. She was something to behold. She wasn't even flexing, and her legs were like Sequoia - beautiful and massive, they looked like they could shatter my skull with one quick jerk. Her waist wasn't necessarily thin, but it fit her frame wonderfully. Working my way up with my gaze I saw that her shoulders were as wide as mine; her neck thick and wide. Looking at her arms, they were cut and sleek at the same time - it was easy to tell that she worked her ass off to be the vision I saw in front of me.
"Would you like some wine?"
"Whiskey. With ice, no water - if you have it."
She walked over to me, and softly pulled my face toward her own. She had beautiful skin, the kind of skin that always looks like a painting in that kind of lighting, so much so that you never want to touch it for fear of tainting it in some way. As she kissed me, I could feel the heat coming off of her - she was starving for sex, for affection.
"I think I only have Vodka, is that okay?"
At this point - it was already too late. I was running my hand from her wrist to her shoulder, slowly and methodically. I didn't need a drink anymore. I didn't need anything other than the consummation.
We were interlocked on her bed, limbs and clothing all over the place, when she slipped her hand inside my pants to pull out my cock. I felt her hand jump when she tried to wrap her fingers around me, and I heard her breathing change. As she pulled me out of my pants and lowered her mouth onto me, she made this quiet little humming sound.
She was working me over with her mouth and her tongue as I was pulling aside her panties to play with her. She had soaked through them already, and my fingers were sticky and gluey before they even entered into her. She was so warm it felt like putting your hand into paraffin. She moaned, thrusting herself onto my hand as she sucked more of me into and out of her mouth.
I think she came within a couple of minutes or so. Shuddering and stuttering with my cock in her mouth.
She then pulled out a condom and put it on me with her mouth, slowly and gingerly. She asked me quietly if I was ready, and then mounted me as I lay back on her bed.
I could feel her heaviness on my hips immediately - such an immensely powerful and sexy woman. As she ground herself down on me, I could feel her muscular legs wrapping around my own.
This, was exactly what I was hoping for.
"Karen" was pounding me, relentless in her grind. In my head, I envisioned those old oil pumps in West Texas, the ones that as a kid looked like giant mechanical grasshoppers - grinding away at the ground for that magic elixir to keep everything moving. My cock was heating up inside the latex of the condom and even though she was shaved, I could feel the little stubble around her pussy etching its signature into my flesh.
I didn't care.
I wanted her to destroy me.
After that first round was over, with her jumping off of me as I was about to get off, ripping the condom off so she could let me cum into her mouth, we just lay there silently in our post-coital heat-wash. Sweat glistening off of the both of us in the candlelight, "Karen" spoke softly, but clearly - telling me little details about herself, revealing more and more of who she was. She was in the middle of a divorce. Her husband a cheater and a steroid user. She grew up a devout Mormon, repressing all of these sexual urges that we were that very night letting out of the cage. She took up bodybuilding to prove to her husband that she wasn't weak - that she had the same strength within her that he claimed she'd never know.
The cocaine in my bloodstream caused me to let little things about myself slip out as well, which was not normally on my agenda when fucking random strangers. I would catch myself in the middle of revealing something, but it would be too late to stop.
Throughout the night, I would excuse myself briefly to go to the bathroom every now and again, to do some more coke and get geared up for the next round of whatever she had in her mind. My body, even in the tiniest light of her bathroom, was wrecked - scratches, some with little bloodlets. The skin around my cock was rubbed raw and red, like I had been dragging myself along some carpet.
We were laying in her bed, with her rubbing me between her fingers, as the sun started to rise.
I had to be at work at 6AM.
This was not good.
I told her I had to go - and she totally understood. She watched me get dressed, and even offered to make me some coffee before I left, which I declined - I would hit the 7-11 on my way to my job.
As I was leaving, she stood in her doorway for a good long minute before she kissed me on the mouth something fierce.
"Thank you. I never knew that I had all of this in me."
*****
I was at work three days later when she came in. She had already left me a few voicemails, which I didn't return. I was totally under the impression that she understood that this was just one of those "things" people do, lonely, fucked-up people. I never thought she'd show up at my job. Hell, I'd even forgotten that I mentioned where I worked, but as soon as I saw her I knew I'd fucked up.
"Why haven't you returned any of my calls? What did I do? I thought this was something we could maybe build off of, you know?"
I just stood there, blank stare on my face, trying to hide my shame through my apathetic body language.
"I never intended for it to be more than it was - I thought you understood that? This isn't my bag, you know? I'm not boyfriend material, trust me. Think about how you met me to begin with?"
I hate seeing tears. Tears are the fucking worst thing I can ever see on a woman. Even to this day - tears will fuck me up. You want to torture a cat like me? Just cry in front of me. Even better - cry in front of me because of something I did to you. That's like fucking stabbing me over and over with a rusty fucking letter opener.
At least with "Karen," the last thing I saw was her hand, slapping me right in the fucking mouth.
I never told any of these women where I worked, ever again.
Sean H. Doyle lives in Brooklyn, NY. He is currently at work on a memoir. His writing can be found at The Tao Of Sean. He contributes to the collaborative site Blanketf0rt, and he also curates a music site called What Gets Heard?
SSFuck: What's one thing you did this week that you are proud of?
Sean: I am proud to say that I did not take the bait and answer the masturbation question. A man has to have some secrets, you know?
I met "Karen" through a telephone Chat Line. You know, like from those commercials late at night where a sexy girl is laying around on her couch, wearing a tight tank top and some short-shorts, tilting her head back in conversational ecstasy?
I made my pre-recorded message sound like I was someone who gave a fuck. I trolled through a bunch of the other male messages to gather as much information as I could to make myself more appealing.
Her initial message to me was quite mumbled, it sounded like she had a cold, or was in the midst of trying not to cry when she spoke. She said in her message - "you sound so sincere, not like the rest of them" - which meant I did my homework properly.
We messaged back and forth for a while, filling each other in on small snippets of ourselves. I told her that I was an insomniac, and she said that she was as well. I told her that I was pretty much a loner, and she laughed and said the same. Typical Chat Line information changing hands, one little ding at a time.
I think it was in her fourth or fifth message that she mentioned she was a female bodybuilder.
Immediately, I became far more interested.
I'm not a small man, to say the least. I'm a big fella - not fat, but large and robust in stature. Probably what people are referring to when they say "he's built like a brick shit-house."
The prospect of me being able to fuck around with a woman who had physical strength was enthralling to me. I always found myself burying myself into women that I was afraid I would break in half - drug-addled waifs and withering drunkards. None of those women could possibly hurt me.
"Karen" sent me her telephone number in her last message, saying "I think you should call me soon, because I think we should meet up. Tonight."
I think I waited five minutes before calling her, maybe even less.
When she answered her phone, she sounded much more feminine. Somewhat innocent, even. She didn't say much - I did most of the talking. She stopped me mid-sentence, and asked me if I had a pen and paper near me. When I said that I did, she gave me her address, and then told me she’d leave the door unlocked for me.
I took a really fast shower, and hopped in my truck to head over to her place. While I was driving over there, all sorts of scenarios were playing over and over in my mind - what if "Karen" was a set-up? Like, what if she wasn't really waiting for me, and some dudes were going to pop out as soon as I walked through the door and they fucked me up and robbed my punk ass? What if she wasn't alone, and there was some dude there that wanted to watch me fuck his old lady? What if she had a cock?
None of these scenarios dissuaded me from continuing to drive to her house. If anything, these scenarios excited me even more - danger flooding my bloodstream like a perfect shot of warm-out-of-the-spoon cocaine.
I pulled up to the address she had given me and parked my truck in the street out front. I sat there for a moment, gathering myself. I pulled out my stash of blow and dipped my house key into it, making sure to do a decent-sized blast to amp up my already building adrenaline.
All the lights were off, but I could tell there were candles lit inside of the house. The light outside the front door was on, but seemed to be on a dimmer switch. I could hear the faint sounds of music from inside of the house, but it was nondescript, almost ambient noise, really. I softly rapped on the door. Nothing stirred.
When I reached for the knob, the door silently slid open for me. It took my eyes a moment to adjust, but I could see that the candlelight was coming from a bedroom down the hall, as was the music and the smell of incense.
I was totally right about the music, too - Dead Can Dance.
I was starting to think "Karen" was a fucking hippie bodybuilder or something, until I started to slowly walk toward the bedroom. I could see her outline just recessed from the doorway - she was wearing some kind of lingerie/sheer robe thing, and had a half of a glass of wine in her hand.
"Hello, Sean."
I didn't say anything. I just walked into that candlelit room and looked at her. She was something to behold. She wasn't even flexing, and her legs were like Sequoia - beautiful and massive, they looked like they could shatter my skull with one quick jerk. Her waist wasn't necessarily thin, but it fit her frame wonderfully. Working my way up with my gaze I saw that her shoulders were as wide as mine; her neck thick and wide. Looking at her arms, they were cut and sleek at the same time - it was easy to tell that she worked her ass off to be the vision I saw in front of me.
"Would you like some wine?"
"Whiskey. With ice, no water - if you have it."
She walked over to me, and softly pulled my face toward her own. She had beautiful skin, the kind of skin that always looks like a painting in that kind of lighting, so much so that you never want to touch it for fear of tainting it in some way. As she kissed me, I could feel the heat coming off of her - she was starving for sex, for affection.
"I think I only have Vodka, is that okay?"
At this point - it was already too late. I was running my hand from her wrist to her shoulder, slowly and methodically. I didn't need a drink anymore. I didn't need anything other than the consummation.
We were interlocked on her bed, limbs and clothing all over the place, when she slipped her hand inside my pants to pull out my cock. I felt her hand jump when she tried to wrap her fingers around me, and I heard her breathing change. As she pulled me out of my pants and lowered her mouth onto me, she made this quiet little humming sound.
She was working me over with her mouth and her tongue as I was pulling aside her panties to play with her. She had soaked through them already, and my fingers were sticky and gluey before they even entered into her. She was so warm it felt like putting your hand into paraffin. She moaned, thrusting herself onto my hand as she sucked more of me into and out of her mouth.
I think she came within a couple of minutes or so. Shuddering and stuttering with my cock in her mouth.
She then pulled out a condom and put it on me with her mouth, slowly and gingerly. She asked me quietly if I was ready, and then mounted me as I lay back on her bed.
I could feel her heaviness on my hips immediately - such an immensely powerful and sexy woman. As she ground herself down on me, I could feel her muscular legs wrapping around my own.
This, was exactly what I was hoping for.
"Karen" was pounding me, relentless in her grind. In my head, I envisioned those old oil pumps in West Texas, the ones that as a kid looked like giant mechanical grasshoppers - grinding away at the ground for that magic elixir to keep everything moving. My cock was heating up inside the latex of the condom and even though she was shaved, I could feel the little stubble around her pussy etching its signature into my flesh.
I didn't care.
I wanted her to destroy me.
After that first round was over, with her jumping off of me as I was about to get off, ripping the condom off so she could let me cum into her mouth, we just lay there silently in our post-coital heat-wash. Sweat glistening off of the both of us in the candlelight, "Karen" spoke softly, but clearly - telling me little details about herself, revealing more and more of who she was. She was in the middle of a divorce. Her husband a cheater and a steroid user. She grew up a devout Mormon, repressing all of these sexual urges that we were that very night letting out of the cage. She took up bodybuilding to prove to her husband that she wasn't weak - that she had the same strength within her that he claimed she'd never know.
The cocaine in my bloodstream caused me to let little things about myself slip out as well, which was not normally on my agenda when fucking random strangers. I would catch myself in the middle of revealing something, but it would be too late to stop.
Throughout the night, I would excuse myself briefly to go to the bathroom every now and again, to do some more coke and get geared up for the next round of whatever she had in her mind. My body, even in the tiniest light of her bathroom, was wrecked - scratches, some with little bloodlets. The skin around my cock was rubbed raw and red, like I had been dragging myself along some carpet.
We were laying in her bed, with her rubbing me between her fingers, as the sun started to rise.
I had to be at work at 6AM.
This was not good.
I told her I had to go - and she totally understood. She watched me get dressed, and even offered to make me some coffee before I left, which I declined - I would hit the 7-11 on my way to my job.
As I was leaving, she stood in her doorway for a good long minute before she kissed me on the mouth something fierce.
"Thank you. I never knew that I had all of this in me."
*****
I was at work three days later when she came in. She had already left me a few voicemails, which I didn't return. I was totally under the impression that she understood that this was just one of those "things" people do, lonely, fucked-up people. I never thought she'd show up at my job. Hell, I'd even forgotten that I mentioned where I worked, but as soon as I saw her I knew I'd fucked up.
"Why haven't you returned any of my calls? What did I do? I thought this was something we could maybe build off of, you know?"
I just stood there, blank stare on my face, trying to hide my shame through my apathetic body language.
"I never intended for it to be more than it was - I thought you understood that? This isn't my bag, you know? I'm not boyfriend material, trust me. Think about how you met me to begin with?"
I hate seeing tears. Tears are the fucking worst thing I can ever see on a woman. Even to this day - tears will fuck me up. You want to torture a cat like me? Just cry in front of me. Even better - cry in front of me because of something I did to you. That's like fucking stabbing me over and over with a rusty fucking letter opener.
At least with "Karen," the last thing I saw was her hand, slapping me right in the fucking mouth.
I never told any of these women where I worked, ever again.
Sean H. Doyle lives in Brooklyn, NY. He is currently at work on a memoir. His writing can be found at The Tao Of Sean. He contributes to the collaborative site Blanketf0rt, and he also curates a music site called What Gets Heard?
SSFuck: What's one thing you did this week that you are proud of?
Sean: I am proud to say that I did not take the bait and answer the masturbation question. A man has to have some secrets, you know?
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
xoCupcakeox
by Sean H. Doyle
The girl on the screen goes by the name of xoCupcakeox.
I know this because her name is displayed beneath the feed for her webcam.
She is sitting there in a bikini top and drinking a Mountain Dew, smoking.
There is a chat window to the right on my screen, and someone named Guest132127 has just typed “do u fist bb?” into the box. The girl looks at her screen, wrinkles up her face, and shakes her head “no.”
There are 11 people watching xoCupcakeox right now. Six of them are guests, and five of them have random nicknames like “jammer2012,” “hard-n-heavy36,” or “ucallmedaddy.” You get to create a nickname for yourself when you buy tokens and become what they call a “Premium Member.”
My nickname will remain secret. Let’s just say that it is far more inventive than the ones I just rattled off.
The girl on the screen, xoCupcakeox, is listening to some weird Arabian-sounding pop music. I click on her profile, and the information is a little bit jarring at first.
She lists her age as twenty-one, but looking at her, I would guess her age to be around twenty-seven or thirty. Much like an old-school Playboy Centerfold Bio, there are fields of information about xoCupcakeox. She lists her favorite animal as a lemur. She says she likes all music other than country. She lists her hometown as Orlando. She says she has never experimented with drugs, even though in watching her on her camera feed, there is a large black light poster of a marijuana leaf in her room. She has a cat named Osiris.
Everything seems manufactured to not upset the men-folk who come cruising around to look at naked women.
Back on her camera feed, xoCupcakeox is glaring at the screen. Guest132569 has started flooding the chat box with random queries like - “show pussy bb,” “smile we r hear to c ur tits,” and “dun b such a bitch bb show us ur pussy.”
The rub, is that “guests” have no tokens, which means xoCupcakeox cannot receive any money for doing any of the lurid things that Guest132569 is begging her to do. His pleas are meaningless, yet relentless. xoCupcakeox shifts uneasily in her chair, twirls a finger into her hair, pulls one breast out of the bikini top for ten seconds, and then blows an awkward kiss at the screen.
In the header of the chatbox, she has typed the following:
“TITS - 50 TOKENS. 200 TOKENS - I GET NAKED. 500 TOKENS - I MAIL YOU MY DIRTY PANTIES.”
She moves slightly in front of the camera now, and behind her is a small bookshelf. I expand the screen to make the image larger, to see what she has on her shelves.
As soon as I see Jonathan Safron Foer’s name appear on a binding, I quickly close my browser.
Sean H. Doyle lives in Brooklyn, NY. He writes all day but never submits anything. He likes to walk his dog at odd hours, and he smokes too much. His least favorite sexual position is one that involves eye contact. His cliche sexual fantasy consists of the following: two dwarves, a giantess, a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken, lubricant, a Polaroid camera, and a case of silly string. What? How is that not cliched?
The girl on the screen goes by the name of xoCupcakeox.
I know this because her name is displayed beneath the feed for her webcam.
She is sitting there in a bikini top and drinking a Mountain Dew, smoking.
There is a chat window to the right on my screen, and someone named Guest132127 has just typed “do u fist bb?” into the box. The girl looks at her screen, wrinkles up her face, and shakes her head “no.”
There are 11 people watching xoCupcakeox right now. Six of them are guests, and five of them have random nicknames like “jammer2012,” “hard-n-heavy36,” or “ucallmedaddy.” You get to create a nickname for yourself when you buy tokens and become what they call a “Premium Member.”
My nickname will remain secret. Let’s just say that it is far more inventive than the ones I just rattled off.
The girl on the screen, xoCupcakeox, is listening to some weird Arabian-sounding pop music. I click on her profile, and the information is a little bit jarring at first.
She lists her age as twenty-one, but looking at her, I would guess her age to be around twenty-seven or thirty. Much like an old-school Playboy Centerfold Bio, there are fields of information about xoCupcakeox. She lists her favorite animal as a lemur. She says she likes all music other than country. She lists her hometown as Orlando. She says she has never experimented with drugs, even though in watching her on her camera feed, there is a large black light poster of a marijuana leaf in her room. She has a cat named Osiris.
Everything seems manufactured to not upset the men-folk who come cruising around to look at naked women.
Back on her camera feed, xoCupcakeox is glaring at the screen. Guest132569 has started flooding the chat box with random queries like - “show pussy bb,” “smile we r hear to c ur tits,” and “dun b such a bitch bb show us ur pussy.”
The rub, is that “guests” have no tokens, which means xoCupcakeox cannot receive any money for doing any of the lurid things that Guest132569 is begging her to do. His pleas are meaningless, yet relentless. xoCupcakeox shifts uneasily in her chair, twirls a finger into her hair, pulls one breast out of the bikini top for ten seconds, and then blows an awkward kiss at the screen.
In the header of the chatbox, she has typed the following:
“TITS - 50 TOKENS. 200 TOKENS - I GET NAKED. 500 TOKENS - I MAIL YOU MY DIRTY PANTIES.”
She moves slightly in front of the camera now, and behind her is a small bookshelf. I expand the screen to make the image larger, to see what she has on her shelves.
As soon as I see Jonathan Safron Foer’s name appear on a binding, I quickly close my browser.
Sean H. Doyle lives in Brooklyn, NY. He writes all day but never submits anything. He likes to walk his dog at odd hours, and he smokes too much. His least favorite sexual position is one that involves eye contact. His cliche sexual fantasy consists of the following: two dwarves, a giantess, a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken, lubricant, a Polaroid camera, and a case of silly string. What? How is that not cliched?
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