,            ____,         (                     17/11/01  anada475  ,
   / \  ,_____  (--|_\_,,_, _  _| _    __________ ,-.______ _,---._ __ _/ \
  /   \+------    _|  ) | |(_|(_|(_|_  .net------/  )----.-'       `./-/   \
 /    /          (        |__,                  (  (   ,'            `/    /|
 \   /                                           \  `-"             \'\   / |
  \ /  "There Really IS Such A Thing As Bad Sex"  `.              ,  \ \ /  |
   Y--------                             ----------/`.          ,'-`----Y   |
  /                 by Fabius Bile                (            ; mEoW!@/|   '
 i________________________________________________|  ,-.    ,-'_______/ |  /
   |                                              |  | (   *            | /
   |____________________ Anada is cat-friendly! __)  |__\  `.___________|/
                                                  `--'   `--'

        I keep trying to explain to myself WHY I did it.  Maybe it was the
 ancient whore excuse, skimming emotions off the coagulated carnality in
 order to fill a void and for a brief while feel an emotion that you can
 almost close your eyes to and pretend is love.  Maybe it was pity, knowing
 no one else would so much as hint that there was anything worthwhile behind
 the unappealing lump of flesh that was all hers.  Maybe it was because she
 wanted me so damn bad and I was already having a bad day, and it was just
 too damn easy.  Or maybe it's because deep down I really am just a man, and
 at a primal level we'll fuck just about anything if we don't let pride get
 in the way.

        The truth probably lies in the middle of all that, the ugly bastard
 child of my introspection which I consciously do not face.  Or just as
 likely, it lies outside of all that, beyond my grasp.

        Regardless, I sought her out.  It was supposed to be a friendly
 visit.  But then again, we're not friends, regardless of what she kept
 trying to tell herself.  Finding her insipid, talking to her was an
 insufferable chore.  Last time I tried being friendly, I gave up and just
 fucked her in the staircase of the University.  I don't recall much about
 it, except for the underlying excitement of doing it in such a dangerous new
 location.

        She was visibly nervous and hyperactive in my presence.  I kept my
 affable shit-eating grin and sat back, letting her finish her work.  With an
 air of forced casualness, she informed me that no one was in her house, and
 I digested the information.  I forced myself to look at her, but there was
 absolutely no attraction.  Then I pictured her bedroom, conceptualized
 fucking a girl in her own bed under the roof she grew up in.  That got my
 attention.

        In all fairness to her... no.  There really isn't much fairness to be
 had.  Finding girls is relatively easy.  But I didn't approach her because I
 wanted to find a girl so much as a masturbatory tool.  Her desperation and
 multitude shortcomings barely registered in comparison to the ease of it
 all.

        She closed up early and walked me out, awaiting the moment I would
 catch her off guard and push her aside to have my way with her.  She was
 eager, but at the same time playing innocent, hoping that by not initiating
 it, it would not be her fault.  Lust mixed with guilt shone from her eyes,
 as a tiny part of her half-hoped I wouldn't do anything, if only to make her
 conscience feel better.

        So I refused to go to the staircase, which took her offbalance.  Then
 she gave me a ride to my car, where I once again did not make a single move.
 Once we arrived to the location, she slowly and deliberately began to turn
 down the engine, confused and even a little disappointed.

        I had to study for a test the next day.  But at that moment, her
 loneliness and desire was almost palpable.  With a sigh, I slipped my hand
 down to her crotch and locked my eyes with hers.

        "Here's what is going to happen.  I am going to drive home.  You will
 follow.  I will pick up my books so that I can do some studying at some
 point, you will wait downstairs.  Then I will come down, and you will take
 me to your place."  I wasn't really bothering to smile at this point.

        "Oh... ok..." she gasped breathlessly.  "Does that mean I have to
 take you home later?"

        "Of course," I said, and left the vehicle.

        Needless to say, she followed me home.  The ride to her place must
 have been the most abysmally dull twenty or so minutes of my life.  To say
 that we had almost nothing in common would be an understatement, down to her
 music taste.  That she had almost no personality to compliment her lack of
 aesthetic value became apparently clear in that drive.  But I refused to
 feel pity for her.  After all, what does it take?  Some willpower and
 concern over yourself, reading a little, communicating with more people in a
 deeper fashion than meaningless chitchat.  We are who we let ourselves
 become, after all, and we have no one to blame but ourselves.

        So we arrived at her place, and I took care of what lust I had
 managed to harness thanks to a carefully woven thread of imagination.  To
 say that I did not close my eyes during it and employ said imagination would
 be a lie.  That the room was very much pink didn't help either.

        One go around later, I wanted to eat, and ravished her fridge.
 Theoretically I should have begun doing some of the much promised studying
 at this point, but instead decided to get it all out of the way in the hopes
 that I could just go home afterwards.

        So we went for another go around.  Except this time, there had been
 no preparation.  My imagination tried its damnest against the sweaty, pliant
 shape of reality smothering me.  What half-hearted lust I could dig up from
 the recesses of memory was not sufficient, and I had to approach the problem
 at a mechanical angle.  It's really all very much NOT like playing the
 piano.  And in retrospect, I should not have diverted my concentration at
 the time towards comparing and contrasting the shell method of integration
 versus the disk method, what with its correspondingly mirrored limits when
 rotating around the same axis.

        It was a moment of horrible epiphany.  There really IS such a thing
 as bad sex, and I was in the middle of it.  For a guy, there really aren't
 moments quite as horrible as that.  My eyes kept darting towards the clock,
 hoping that if I could not satisfy her promptly enough, that I could at
 least satisfy MYSELF so we could call it a day.  But my body wasn't in it,
 and my hands were getting tired.

        Eventually, I managed to trick myself into getting off, which in
 retrospect is a particularly strange concept.  Once I was dressed, I sat on
 her couch and patiently waited.  She asked why I wasn't doing homework, and
 I honestly replied that I could not do so in a strange house.  And no house
 is stranger than one you've never been to before and never want to be in
 again.

        The discussion went down the road of barely hidden self-pity as she
 regaled me with how she truly believed she'd never get married.  She then
 sat next to me and attempted to be cute, probably seeking some sort of
 validation that even if we are not a couple, we could at least pretend to be
 one for brief moments of time.  And I suppose that it really would not have
 hurt me to show some sort of feigned affection at this time.

        But strangely enough, I'm not fond of emotional dishonesty, or much
 dishonesty of any kind really.  So I moved further down the couch.  Somehow,
 forcing myself to display emotions I didn't feel seemed more like whoring
 myself than actually fucking a girl I had no interest in.  I can remember
 when sex used to be this mythical thing, the expression of love, or at least
 intense mutual attraction/affection, for two individuals.  This was replaced
 by the realization that sex is really nothing more than a base physical
 process that leads to immediate pleasure.  A few months prior I had come to
 a massive epiphany with regards to love.  Sitting there, in that couch, that
 epiphany resurfaced and embraced the concept of sex.

        To me, sex is not a mystical thing nor a meaningless extension to
 masturbation.  Sex now has a level of meaning, and I don't think I could
 ever again have it with someone I felt neither attracted to nor even
 affectionate towards.  I want to think this means I grew up, but somehow, I
 doubt it.

        And in the end, it didn't help her any, and she drove me home.
 During the ride back I briefly realized that I had no interest in ever
 seeing her again in my life.  But somehow bringing that up felt horrendously
 rude so I kept such thoughts to myself.  Instead I started to think about my
 life, the people who mean something, the people I love, and the people who
 love me.  For a brief moment I actually felt pity for the girl.  Not because
 she was fat, unattractive, uninteresting, or anything of the sort.  With any
 luck, time will fix that.  And not because she felt unloved, because after
 all, some of that loneliness may have had a hand in leading me to her to
 begin with.  I think I felt some sympathy at the realization that she would
 never look past the sex or the self-pity, and never understand what she
 really does have in life.  People are awfully self-centered that way.

        When we reached my house she turned off the engine and said simply
 "I don't think we should do this again."

        In my mind, I heard myself say "No duh, that sucked," but in reality
 I merely smiled and replied "I knew it was coming, it's the Catholic guilt
 isn't it?  I was wondering when it was going to hit."

        She nodded weakly and pasted a self-deprecating smile on her lips.
 "Actually, it hit me as I was following your car.  I think that's why I
 couldn't really enjoy myself during it..." She began, wrestling with self-
 imposed moral dilemmas and already castigating herself mentally for
 decisions she made of her own free will, no doubt blaming them on temptation
 and me.

        "Oh, get over yourself," I said suddenly, dropping and and all
 smiles.  "So once in a while you want to fuck, there's no shame in that.
 Everyone feels the same way, there's no use beating yourself over it."

        As I said this her smile froze in her face yet her eyes managed to
 crack.  Gone was the genteel veneer of unspoken sin and redemption.  My
 words were making the entire situation far too real, piercing the cheap
 romance novel interpretation that she had been nurturing in the deepest
 corner of her mind while she made conscious preparations for a month or so
 of continuous self-rightgeous self-loathing and penitence.

        "Goodbye," I said calmly and walked out of the car.  I didn't turn
 around to see her go, and somehow I knew I would never see her again.

        I'm still not sure whether I did a good thing or a bad thing, whether
 I am a good person or a bad person.  But I do know I have to be true to
 myself, and I will always strive to be as kind and fair to others as I can.
 Even while I shatter them to little pieces.

 /\___/\ ____________________________________________________________ /\___/\
 \ -.- /                                                              \ -.- /
 `-.^.-' (c) 2001 Anada e'zine                         by Fabius Bile `-.^.-'
   /"\ ________________________________________________________________ /"\