Post-Modern Love: 01byTonyZee©
Subject: Literotica Feedback
I'm sure you thought there was only a slight chance that you would hear from me again someday. "Slight" is sometimes enough. I have to believe, however, that you never expected to hear from me via this venue, an erotic story Web site, nor that I would somehow stumble across this little trio of stories about us: "Meta-Head," "Talk to Me," and "Listen." I do hope, however, that on the wildly remote chance I DID stumble across them, that you did not think that I'd fail to recognize myself, our sexual affair, or the sentiments and psychologies at lusty play therein.
Of course, I never thought that there would be a time when we didn't hear from one another. Life takes us in strange directions, no?
You were always so meticulous at drawing from life, you sweet selfish motherfucker. No, not just drawing from life: the broad strokes in these stories are scrupulously altered. No one else in our circle of acquaintances from that time, familiar with the general framework of our lives, would spot "you" or "me." You've elided those clues nicely. No, it's the seemingly throwaway details that tip your hand and reveal your muse: the naked, striding woman briefly reflected in the mirror; her idle speculation, after she's enjoyed yet another intimate mouthful of his cum, about the quantity she's swallowed over the years of their affair. You recalled that I just didn't think that thought, but rather mentioned it to you in bed one afternoon. You claimed to find it an odd thing to wonder about. But you seemed suitably turned on when I gave you a rough estimate of my calculations to date.
(Just for your information, regarding the final tally: counting the times I either sucked you off, or jacked you off into my mouth, or just asked you to shoot your cum there after a good, meaty fuck, I swallowed the ejaculations of 471 of your orgasms, luv. I kept a coded journal, you see, tabulating All Things Us. I could never get enough of All Things Us. Your loads were impressive, darling, especially in those first years when we were all so much younger, but as I'm sure you vividly recall, I sometimes took in two or even three money shots a lovemaking session, each of subsequently diminished volume. Still, it's safe to say—and my pussy is throbbing just from saying it—that I drank down about one and a quarter gallons of your hot, salty cream.)
Oh, there are plenty of other little revealing trills and grace notes to your steamy tales. And I must admit, it does give them the shimmer of naturalism, the throb of authenticity. You son of a bitch. And I couldn't help but be amused by "your" character. I take some pleasure in knowing that you thought those things about me, about us... I only wished you had expressed them as willingly and lovingly as your fictional stand-in managed to. Did you really find me beautiful? Did you really lust after me in that way, and so constantly?
Well, I'm sure there are plenty of things and ways I felt about you that I never managed to communicate properly, though after reading your stories, I have the reassuring sense that perhaps you intuited much of it anyway. Or perhaps that's just you wielding art in an attempt to perfect life. With the exception of the first tale in the triptych ("Meta-Head"? Darling, really. I know your quaint taste for post-modernism, but surely you could have come up with a less gruesome title), the titles "Talk to Me" and "Listen" indeed seem to be a fervent, two-pronged request? A plea? A melancholy wish? Had we done those things, or done them a bit more—talked and listened to one another—I'd most likely be mouthing that lovely, generous cock of yours right this minute, rather than penning a pale e-mail. But maybe that was the point of airing this laundry.
A Muse Amused
Subject: Re: Literotica Feedback
Thank you for the kind feedback. Your letter was wonderfully articulate and beautifully written—so much so that I almost wish I was indeed whoever it is you think I am. That I managed to capture or characterize something in such a way that leads you to believe that I'm drawing on your (or someone's) actual experience is a compliment of sorts, and I appreciate it. But I assure you, all of my stories on this Web site, including this little triptych, are the products of my imagination. Fiction. Make-believe. Fantasy. The work of idle hands, someone trying to spell the tedium of the workday. Sorry, but thanks for your note anyway.
P.S. I agree with you about the title of the first story, but at the time I had no idea I was going to write any more stories about anything, let alone those two characters.
Subject: Your charade
Dear lowercase zee,
I suppose I should at least find some solace, if not take some pleasure, in your compliments regarding my prose style. But after reading your stories and then so recently seeing your reply hit my inbox, I guess was hoping for recollections and fondnesses more carnal in utterance if not scope. The appearance of the e-mail aroused that familiar rush of heat to my cheeks and sudden lush, tropical feeling in my loins; I was looking at least for more clues or interpretable euphemisms on my laptop screen to read and read again as I worked fingers over clitoris and cunt. Do I need to ask you to forgive my frank talk? No, that was our language, as we used to say; that was our principle form of communication. Sex, and its hard, consonantal cries: fuck, suck, cum, cunt, cock, jack, spurt.
We learned to talk like that together. I never knew I liked it until I heard it, and then never knew I needed to hear it until I heard it from my own mouth. Some might find that just coarse or (and here's a word I simply hate) raunchy. And in any other setting, I would wholeheartedly agree. After Us, they were never again natural utterances for any other situation or partner (now don't be shocked by that; I couldn't go chastely cold turkey after being fucked stupid by you for seven years. I had to at least try to find another cock to whisper those words to. But it was never the same, neither the words nor the cock).
But you and I, darling, had stripped away all the layers of identities in the bedroom when we hit our stride. You said it yourself: we'd achieved the most intimate, unvarnished, fundamental level of mutual desire. Maybe a professional headshrinker would say that we'd simply fetishized each other. Maybe a professional headshrinker should go fuck himself.
Trust me, zee, you are precisely whoever it is I think you are. I appreciate the politeness and dignity of your authorial disclaimer. But I know you, or the you I think is you, and only the literate, married gentleman who fucked my greedy, cum-famished mouth in the Evergreen Borough Library late one sunny winter morning would make sure he noted, almost as an aside, where we were in the stacks: the gloriously profane detail of that public cocksucking taking place in "the 200s," as you wrote—"Religion," according to the Dewey decimal system.
And only that same gentleman could not resist all the other little coded bits: the name of the woman's husband, "Ray," for my Sonny; the use of phrase "marital bed"—I remember noting to you how quaint I thought it when you used it during the actual afternoon of fucking when we reminisced about that torrid evening of fucking, so carefully described in "Listen." There is the odd, solitary detail in your profile of your "location." Your nom de plume, and the very clever little inversion and play on your real name. And of course, the whole story-within-a-story aspect of your trilogy connects the dots. You could never resist the storytelling, or storytold, nature of our lives.
I know your response to my first e-mail was merely caution on your part. But I hope that the details I've provided demonstrate that not only are you who you say you're not, but that I am also who you say I can't be. The virtual tide has brought your message in a bottle to my ragged little shore. (And it is like a shore; I inhabit something like an island these days, T. Right now I'm cross-legged on the very same big "marital" bed where you fucked me so often, so thoroughly, so nastily. Shot your cum on me. Soaked the sheets with our sweat and the copious fluids from my ready cunt. Whispered drowsy obscenities to me while you pounded my pussy. The kids are nearly grown and mostly gone, immersed in their own first, moist fantasies. Sonny travels constantly on business and has more or less given up on our congress. I sit here, the candlelight warm, the vodka cold, my books and magazines like breakers around me, and this laptop now like my lookout tower onto the wide world.)
I wish you would do me the courtesy of finishing this story for me. I know how it ended, I still don't know exactly why.
Subject: My Charade
I felt that the best way to convince about who I am, or who I am NOT, would be simply to not respond at all to your last message. But that seemed to me unkind.
Here is the truth of the matter. I am not the male protagonist of the stories. I am not even a male. I'm afraid I bear more similarities to you, if what you've been writing about yourself is genuine, than I do to your former paramour. I'm a 47-year-old woman. I've been married for 25 years to the same man. By next October I should be a grandmother. I've never had sex outside of my marriage, however much over these last ten years I would have liked to. I'm not even "located" in "Western PA" as my profile states, but rather Bath, Maine. And it's beautiful here, by the way. After my third child was born, 20 years ago, I thought that I'd lost all need for, not to mention interest in, in sex. After ten years, however, I realized that I hadn't lost all interest in sex, just all interest in sex with my husband. I've never done anything about it. I mean, I've never done anything that would qualify as infidelity. I've been pretty effective sublimating my need for sex by writing about it. As for love, well... I feel an abundance of love for my children, for books, for writing, for sailing, for Maine's rocky shore, for playing tennis, for cooking...
This is boring. Not the kind of thing I'd expect someone writing to someone else on an erotic literature Web site would care to hear. I'm sorry to disappoint you, and I'm sure now that when you read any subsequent stories I manage to publish, you just won't find them stimulating at all, knowing the truth about me. But I couldn't let you labor any longer under the wrong impression, let alone a patently wrong belief. I'm also sorry that you still seem desirous of this particular person that you mistook me for, but who apparently left you without some proper conclusion or explanation.
There is such a thing as erotic pain, and it sounds to me that, in each our own unique ways, we have both suffered.
From: Zack Stiles
Subject: Literotica Feedback
I don't usually write to Literotica authors, and I have never written to a male author. Mostly because I think that if I were a heterosexual male author (I am a male, but not an author, just a reader), I wouldn't be much interested in hearing from another male. These stories are meant to be aphrodisiacs of sorts, right? Ways to start an exchange, perhaps a titillating one, with a woman? Well, anyway, maybe I'm way off base about that, but I can't claim to knowing much of anything where the whole "cyber" thing is concerned. I'm not of the right generation. In fact, when I see people write in their profile that they don't "cyber," I have no idea what they're talking about. But seeing as how it's something that some people feel they must warn that they DON'T do, I have to believe it probably has something to do with sex.
But I'll get right to the point. Since I've already stated that I don't write to male authors, and yet here I am. Don't get the wrong idea. I'm not after any kind of... anything.
I've been reading your stories, first with great interest and admiration (you plainly have some skill and experience with writing—one can just tell), but that very quickly developed into confusion, disorientation, and anxiety. You see, I don't mean to sound like a lunatic, but I feel as if you've stolen my past. Or that you've somehow networked into my psyche. Because these stories that you've written... they're about me. I'm the man in them. Even in that first long tale, "Initial Public Offering," about the writing teacher. It was exactly that way, sans a few minor features and details, and as you would expect, it's gotten me mighty agitated.
Like I said, maybe you've somehow channeled—is that what it's called?—my memory and my experiences. I don't believe much in that kind of thing, I have to say. Puzzling over it all, however, it seems more plausible to me that you know these stories of a particular love affair of mine because you know my lover. That she has told you about us. About what we did, and how we did it. About what I've done.
This is not a jealous-spurned-lover-threatening-letter type of thing, because I wasn't spurned, I was the spurner. I didn't really spurn her; I just had to end it and move on. That's a whole other story. And I'm not jealous. Well, maybe a little. More, I feel a little bit exposed that Aimee (do I have your attention now?) told you about our activities in such detail. I don't suppose that's unusual between lovers, really. But that you chose to use them as fodder for your fuck stories... sir, that just strikes me as ungallant. And I'll wager that she doesn't even know about your appropriation of her personal life. Though I have to believe that, like me, you're no longer with her. I can't imagine how any man involved in a full-scale cuntal assault on Aimee would have the need, let alone the inclination, to write stroke stories.
Of course, and I don't mean this as a jab, maybe your relationship with her wasn't quite like mine. I know that I have tried to rekindle that special brand of thunder and blazes with other women. Older ones, younger ones, ones I've met through personal ads who claimed they talked dirty and fucked even dirtier, and it's never been the same. I think I've come to understand that sometimes it's just a particular person, and maybe even the particular time and place, the circumstances of your life at a given moment, and that trying to recreate it is just folly.
Whatever your name is, friend, I can't stop you from writing these stories stolen from my and Aimee's history. I'm not a confrontational or threatening type, at least not where something like this is concerned. And I also know that no one else in the world knows about all this, so it's not like I'm being compromised or exposed. But it's just hurtful to me in a way. It's a stinging reminder of my foolishness and selfishness, as well.
Write about some of your other affairs. I'm sure you've had them, we all have. You seemed to be skilled enough in this department to make them as evocative as you would like them to be for this outlet. It's not the details of the sex between us that I mind so much as the attempt to capture and convey the psychological aspects of the two of us, or at least of me as told by her and filtered through you. It's a violation. I feel as if there is something of a social contract being breached. A trust betrayed. Can you appreciate that?
Subject: Erotic Pain
I'm having a difficult time grasping all of this. Can it really be true? You're really, truly not HIM? How can this be? How can you have written these stories and not be him? I think I find it harder to comprehend that you have such a filthy, evocative imagination (and writing style), than that you're not my Zack, with whose filth and powers of evocation I am intimately acquainted. So you just made all this up, you dirty bitch? You've never, EVER, been fucked like this?
Well, let me tell you, as off as you may have gotten yourself, the tale is still in the tale. The telling pales next to a good, wet, carnivorous fuck. Not that the telling in and of itself was pale. I'll give credit where credit is due. You write a mean fuck story. They have depth. They have the kind of context and nuance that make the eventual climaxes vibrate and quaver like a harp in my cunt. But all that you imagine, luv, is twelvefold less potent than the great unbridled rut.
Here, let me help you. Feel free to put this in your own words. I got pregnant shortly after we'd begun our affair, but not by him. We'd already had the "Night of the Triple," as you artfully labeled it in your story and that we had coincidentally (how can this be?!) and equally artfully had called it ourselves. I was a ripe eight months gone, and just returning from visiting my sister Daisy in West Egg. Sonny was to fetch me from the airport, but as typical for that time in our lives, was tied up drafting a legal brief and called instructing me to take a cab. From the Pittsburgh airport to our little town was easily a $30 cab ride, and while at any other juncture in our married life I would have told him to get his ass out to the airport to pick up his pregnant wife, or the only activity his prick would enjoy was a long, slow shriveling from extended disuse, I realized that this was an opportunity for me to see my Zack, however briefly.
We were neighbors, you see, and his wife and I were "friends" of a sort in the local circle, youngish educated couples all starting families, still on our first spouses, surrounded by that slightly fetid John Updike-ish suburbanite air of marriages growing inexorably tepid. As far as I knew then, however, only Zack and I had crossed over to the dark-red bliss realm of extramarital intrigue within that crowd. (Zack, of course, only beknownst to me after he'd laid me good and made me come out of my bloody fucking mind enough times that the knowledge of his other infidelities lost their overall import, had a rap sheet of forbidden cunt.)
I called Zack and Lynn's house. Oh, I feel terrible, I hate to ask. Sonny can't come, I guess I could get a cab but... No, no, don't you worry. Sweetie, you're eight months pregnant! For heaven's sake. Just sit tight.
Twenty minutes, enough time for me to claim my bag and waddle out to the curb, and my Zack pulls up in his Acura. Five o'clock shadow. Hair tousled. Gray t-shirt and jeans packing that available cock. I couldn't have planned it, only wished for it, and even that would have been a vain and wild wish.
He seemed sheepish. Maybe it was nerves. He kissed me like a spouse, had been tentative around me since I'd entered the latter stages of my condition—Zack and Lynn had no children just yet and both treated me as if I was brittle, as if I was turning to crystal rather than bulking with flesh and blood—swung my bag and carryon into the trunk, helped me to the passenger side, and ferried me home. My hormones had been raging throughout my trip. I needed sex, I needed cock. At times then, it almost felt like any cock would do. I did ponder the what-ifs of sucking of the middle-ager next to me in business class on my flight home, especially if it would have gotten him to stop snoring.
When we exited the freeway, left, right, left, and embarked on the long, dark two-lane that squinnied us down to our little hamlet, I turned to him and said, "Can I touch you?"
"Of course," he said.
I first put my fingers to his cheek, leaned across the console and kissed it, and then smoothed my hand down over his chest, down down to the thick cynosure between his legs.
"Can I touch you," I said again, coquettishly, softly. I think he gulped. He thought I'd meant only his cheek, the naïf.