pity god

from april

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jerry (not his real name) and i sit watching the river and the sun setting below the hill beyond it. i talk about being in love with my fourth grade teacher, mr. marone. about how even at a young age, i knew what it felt like to be spiritually bonded. jerry tells me about how he hasn’t had sex in six years despite having been in the same relationship for the last ten.

god damn, i think to myself. this is a lonely one.

it’s six years to the day since my mom died and jerry, who is barely forty and pretty fuckable, hasn’t had sex the entire time. certainly i’ve been sad, but at least i’ve been sad and laid.

it wasn’t because he didn’t want to, he says. i guess it just wasn’t in the cards. a sex-less deck.

i bet he wants to smash. i bet he wants his dick sucked so fucking bad. a pair of tits in his mouth. a hand job… anything! i think about how we met at a reading where i read a piece about squirting on the floor of my ex-boyfriend’s airbnb and wonder if this is a factor in jerry’s mild infatuation with me. i bet he wants me to squirt for him. i bet he wants me to write about it.

dreams do come true, jerry, and i’ve got the power to make this one a reality for you. i’m like a god in that way. a squirt god. pray to me, jerry.

he tells me not to pity him and, really, i don’t. he’s a big boy, he made decisions. but i think it wouldn’t hurt if i pitied him just a little bit. i’m not above pity fucking jerry. i’d also consider just normal fucking him. jerry grew up mormon. this is hot to me. i love men who grew up with the fear of god in them. i ask him if he likes having fun. from what i can tell, everything in his life more or less points away from it. he laughs and shrugs. my impression is such that it’s been a long while since jerry had a genuinely good time. for that, i do pity him. after all, i decide who what when where why and how i pity. i’m like a god in that way too. a pity god.

jerry says he’s having fun here, with me, on the green spring grass. it’s sweet, but i don’t totally feel the same. he’s easy to talk to and we’re a good intellectual match, but i’ve avoided looking at him this entire time for fear it’ll hurt him. i can’t fully explain this but it’s instinctual. my gut says not to let jerry see me noticing him too much. he seems so vulnerable, like a child. it could kill him if i look and he see’s. he might even come right then and there. so i glance sidelong to assess his face. is this a face i want touching my face, i ask myself.

it’s time to go and we stand by my car in the early blue of the night. i take a passive stance, putting my hands behind my back. i watch him there, maybe three feet away, calculating. i know this part always throws my dates off. i switch at the end, becoming very tame and submissive. this final act is the test. do they get it? can they sense that deep down, i’m baby girl? i spend the entire date securing some level of dominance and then slap! i’m your little angel.

my relationship with mr. marone was only ever appropriate for a student and a teacher, but i feel like he understood this last part about me. he knew i secretly wanted to relinquish my power, give it up for just a moment of pleasure. he knew my disposition was dangerous.

do what you want with me, jerry, i say with my body. i let our eyes meet for a moment, let him see mine asking him to take the reigns, bring me for a ride.

jerry looks at my lips. it’s a sneaky, quick glance. but he’s not so brave. he goes for the low-hanging fruit and hugs me. try again next time, jerry. i might allow it.