Every so often

I’m reminded of one of the women with whom I had a relationship back in my CPOS days. I was then as I am now in many ways: the women who sucked my cock were women I got to know, to like, to respect. The three big differences between then and now: secrecy/deception (I hid my behavior – from everyone), compulsivity (acting out sexually was a way I avoided feeling my emotions), and money (I paid my partners – I used money to conjure them, to dismiss them, and to avoid a reality in which my view of myself as radically undesirable was challenged).

But anyway… from time to time, I’ll be reminded of one or another of these women. The other day, I did a double-take when looking at an attractive blonde woman with a slightly mottled complexion. “Is that Jennifer?” I asked myself.
It wasn’t. Not even close. But suddenly, I was thinking about her.

Jennifer was in her early twenties. She lived in New York’s West Village, in a small one-bedroom apartment in the ground floor of a pre-war tenement. The apartment, though small, was bigger and more desirably located than she should have been able to afford given the story she told me.

She was a year or two out of a New England college, had grown up in a rural New England town, and had come to New York to… well, I suppose, to live a little.

She was working for a hedge fund executive, I think, as his assistant. It was clear this was an incomplete description of her job, of her responsibilities, but I didn’t explore further.

He would call sometimes when we were together. She wouldn’t answer if my cock was in her mouth, but she would call him back while we were getting dressed.

She was always a little distracted, a little frenetic. Her mouth was… funny. Her tongue was rough, her teeth, not what they should have been. In retrospect, I wonder if she didn’t have a little crystal meth habit, though at the time, I think I tried hard not to imagine that. I knew she smoked weed, didn’t know how much. She didn’t often smell of it. Neither did her apartment. Though I think I recall seeing a bong on her counter once or twice.

She never hid her name from me. The name on her gmail account was the same as the one on the electric bill. Her family pictures were all over the apartment, and it would have been hard for me not to learn a fair amount about her life just by glancing around. I understood her openness as a sort of carelessness, a risk-seeking behavior. Maybe it was. Or maybe she was just open, honest, integrated. I don’t know.

I google her occasionally, out of curiosity. I never find anything. (Back then, I think a google search revealed a couple of college pictures, a Facebook profile. No more. She seems to have drifted down the internet river.)

I hope she’s well.


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