In Fidelity Ch. 00: Prologue

We went on and off for awhile, but every minute I thought I was going to be found out, it's like I just felt too good alongside and with her. I never got comfortable, and despite bringing her to orgasm several times for my one, I was never convinced of my performance as a sexual partner. I couldn't understand why a girl this amazing that made me feel this amazing, was with a guy like me. I was worried I would never really be anything other than a sexual guy for her, that I didn't meet enough of her emotional needs. I was intimidated by the smart and witty guys she hung around with, constantly afraid she'd leave me for one of them.

She left me for one of them.

I lost the plot for awhile then. And I lost the subplot, the script, the soundtrack, the sex scenes, the intermission, the photos, my beer and popcorn, the credits, the exit sign and the advertising.

I hung around the places Crystal used to go that I had no interest in, till everyone else there got sick of me and told me to piss off. I decided to kill the guy she went off with, and spent long hours through the day and into the night fantasising on his demise and her seeing me in a whole new light. Whenever I saw him though. I just gave him the cold shoulder and got out of there as quick as I could.

So I took a lethal overdose of drugs.

Stuck my finger down my throat a few seconds later and threw it all up. But I drank endlessly and lost all care or regard for long term goals or dreams. When I came round a few months later, I found I had traded in everything I owned, flunked out of my previously held employment and started up a legal brothel in a part of town I decided needed some excitement.

It all happened so fast. I'd hoped my adulthood would be full of memorable experiences amidst a group of friends with numerous romantic relationships or a few high quality ones. Some people never got over the sixties, or the war, or the night they had sex in public, and spent their days walking backwards; I never really got over Crystal.

That was when important stuff, stuff that cemented my position, went on.

Some of my favourite porn videos I have watched on around once a week, on average (hundreds of times in the first week, then every now and then thereafter), since I was eighteen or twenty or twenty-one. How can that not turn you into the sort of person liable to break into little bits when your hopes of love go wrong? What came first, the fucking or the fury? Did I fuck because inside I was a furious wreck? Or was I this broken fury because I kept fucking? Does all that pussy turn you into a misanthropic person?

People worry about kids playing with themselves, and teenagers watching pornographic videos; we are scared that some sort of culture of sexuality will take them over. Nobody worries about thousands, literally thousands, of kids in each neighbourhood looking at women as unattainable, perfect and as disliking the common man. The unhappiest people I know, romantically speaking, are the people who respect women the most; and I don't know whether women have caused this unhappiness, but I do know that they've been going out of their way for women for longer than they've been living unhappy lives.

Anyway. Here's how not to plan a career: (a) split up with anything you have resembling a girlfriend, (b) don't study, (c) go to work as a brothel manager, (d) stay in brothers for the rest of your life. You see pictures of people in Pompeii and you think, how weird: one quick game of dice after tea and you're frozen, and that's how people remember you for the next few thousand years! Suppose it was the first game of dice you've ever played? Suppose you were only doing it to keep your friend Augustus company? Suppose you'd just at that moment finished a brilliant novel or something? Wouldn't it be annoying to be commemorated as a dice player? Sometimes I look at my job, and at my regular weekly punters, and I know exactly how those inhabitants of Pompeii must feel, if they could feel anything (although the fact they can't is kind of the point of them). I'm stuck in this pose, this brothel managing pose forever, because of a few short weeks years and years ago when I went a bit potty for awhile. It could be worse, I guess; I could have walked into an army recruiting office or the nearest abattoir. But even so, I felt as though I made a face and the wind changed, and now I have to go through life grimacing in this horrible way. I still fantasise about killing guys who stole my girls, although their deaths become swifter(I allow him a brief moment to register, and then BLAM!) - I didn't go in quite so much for the sicko slow stuff. I started sleeping around again, although every one of these ladies I regard as a one-off or a fluke, nothing likely to alter my dismal self-perception. I stopped drinking so much. I stopped watching porn with quite the same morbid fascination (for awhile I regarded every sex story where someone had lost someone as spookily relevant, and given I worked in a brothel, ment I felt pretty spooked more or less most of the time.)

I made sure I was never in work or relationships too deep; I convinced myself that I might meet the girl who'd be worth picking up and leaving my world behind to follow. I was even unsure about continuing to operate my business in case I couldn't just up and leave, putting everything in the hands of someone else should the perfect woman arrive. I was realistic too. The girl might be a divorcee, she has kids, she's got a destructive husband who's still out to get her and I'd need to protect her.

Needless to say, none of these eventualities substanciated, and I am unattached again.

5. Sexie Kallgirl - 2016

The lesson I learned from Crystal is that you've got to punch your weight. Crystal was out of my class, weight and division. Crystal was too pretty, too smart, too sexy, too much. What am I? Average looking. A middle-weight. Not the brightest bloke in the world, but certainly not the dimmest: I have read books like 'I know why the caged bird sings,' and, 'Persepolis,' and understood them, I think (they're about girls, right?), but I don't like them very much; my all time favourite books are Sabbath's Theatre, by Philip Roth, Bad Behaviour, by Mary Gaitskill, Written on the Body, by Jeanette Winterson, and Endless Love, by Scott Spencer, and, I don't know, something by Lucian Bane. I read the articles in porn magazines too; I'm not averse to watching non-pornographic films (Top five non-pornographic films: To Kill A Mockingbird, The Godfather 2, The Shawshank Redemption, Toy Story andToy Story 2), although, on the whole I prefer films full of sex and nudity (Top five pornographic films: Flashpoint, Pirates, Island Fever 3, Babysitters and The Fashionistas.)

I'm OK-looking; in fact, if you put, say George Clooney on one end of the looks spectrum, and, say Bratty Everbitch I grew up across the street from, whose grotesque ugliness was so bad you wouldn't even be able to do her from behind, on the other, then I reckon I'd be on George Clooney's side, just. A woman I slept with once told me I look like a young Richard Gere, and he's not too bad, is he? I'm average height, not slim, not fat, no unsightly pubic hair on my shaft, balls or ass, and my dick is eleven inches long (well, eleven-point-two inches, to be precise.) I keep myself clean, wear jeans and polo shirts and a jacket, more or less all of the time. I have a pile of highly regarded literature at home, most of which I've read. I can see what feminists are on about, most of the time, but I don't get why they go anti-sex and nudity rather than make their statement using their sex and nudity. If your body's a work of art, why can't you use that to show how important you are?

My genius, if I can call it that, is to combine a whole load of ever so slightly above averageness into one compact frame, then have my dick size and length as an added surprise. I'd say there were millions of others like me, but there aren't, really: lots of blokes have impeccable bodies, but don't read or care about the world. A lot of blokes are sympathetic to feminism, but have hairy dicks and balls and the only feminist thing they do is leave women alone. A lot of blokes must have a decent sized dick, but act like a dick to everyone they meet. Lots of blokes sleep around way too much, behave stupidly when they're finally with a woman, get abusive to ladies, or never bring women to orgasm, or get STI's. I don't do any of these things, really; if I have a pretty active sex life, it's not because of the virtues I do have, but the shadows I don't have.

Even so, you've got to know when you're out of your depth. I was out of my depth with Crystal; after her, I was determined to never get caught up with a girl so amazing again, as even if the sex is mind blowing every time, when the relationship comes to an end which it will, it leaves you buried in too deep a ditch to climb out of. I was only able to meet Sexie when I'd finally undug myself from my Crystal grave. Crystal and I never matched; Sexie and I matched. Sexie was average attractive (small, slim, big brown eyes, modest but decent sized boobs, really tight pussy) and she wore clothes that were the same as mine, more or less. All-time top five favourite sex activities: getting her pussy eaten, getting her hair pulled while getting fucked from behind, watching me cum, sex after a long making out session of foreplay, and being made to felt she was being take advantage of by getting tied up or thrown around.

And she was horny in the original sense of the word. She had been dumped by a really special guy a few years earlier, and she wasn't looking for anything in particular, but knew she had to keep an active sex life to stay healthy. Sexie had in fact sworn off relationships with men in a similar way to how I'd sworn off of relationships with women. It made sense to swear off together, to pool our loathing of meaningful relationships and keep fucking each other because we'd understand. Our friends were all pooled off and going out on their days off to art galleries or museums, we were frightened of being left alone for the rest of our lives. Only people of a certain disposition are frightened of being alone for the rest of their lives in their early twenties; we were of that disposition. Everything seemed much later in life than it was, and after a few weeks, she moved in with me.

We couldn't fill our time. And I don't mean that we didn't find things to do, but we never spoke about shared interests or thought that a trip to the beach would enhance how we felt together better than a bed or sofa or shower (or all three) could.

The technique we tried therefore to fill our time, was to stay at our place and keep having sex. This was really great at first, and fun as we tried to break records for how many times, or length of time I could last for, but it all started to get crazy and everything got ramped up way too high as we started to compensate for the people in the world outside having such an amazing time together and us being stuck in our apartment.

Our sex based relationship was one of convenience and as mutually advantageous as any, and I really thought we might spend our lives having wilder and wilder and more fetish based sex non-stop for the rest of our lives. I wouldn't have minded that really. She was OK.

I saw something that made me laugh a few years ago in some bachelorette party reality porn. This stripper with a big long dick is dancing around and really putting good moves on. He goes up to this really fat girl with specs and puts his dick in front of her face but she won't even touch it, let alone suck it. He looks at her in shock, "But... but you must want to," the stripper says. It made me laugh, and I think he had a point, but I didn't really think about it again until Sexie told me she'd met someone else and was moving in with him. "But... you can't have," I wanted to splutter. I don't mean Sexie wasn't the type of girl any guy would go for, I just mean that meeting and getting into relationships with other people was contrary to the whole spirit of our arrangement. All that we really had in common, apart from our love of sex, was that we'd both been left by people who changed us, and that on the whole we were against leaving people - we were fervent anti-leavers. So how come I got left?

I was being unrealistic of course. You run the risk of losing anyone who is worth spending time with. If you're going to go for this sort of stuff at all, you have to live with the possibility that it won't work out, that someone new will come along for her. But I didn't see it like that at the time. All I saw was that I got rid of the emotional part you can't trust and focused on just the excellent sex, and it still hadn't worked out, and this seemed a cause for a great deal of misery and self-pity, which was not helped by the fact I had just gone from having sex many times a day, to nothing.

And then I met you, Lust, and we had lots of sex and lived together, and now you've moved out. But you didn't offer me anything new sexually, and you're not giving me anything new in how you're leaving me either, if you want to force your way into this list then you'd need to be way more promiscuous and open minded. I wasn't as inexperienced with you as I was with Amy or Jennifer, and you haven't changed the whole focus of my life like Crystal did, you haven't offered me endless anal or oral like Penelope did, or endless sex like Sexie.

I know, despite all the doom and gloom that bubbles up from the deep when you get ditched, that you did not represent my last and best chance of a sexually fulfilling lifestyle. So, you know. Nice try. Close, but no orgasm. See you around.