CJ (Part One)

In 1993 I started a new zine project. It wasn’t a classic fanzine, it wasn’t a zine dedicated to any one specific topic, it was pretty much just an outlet for me to ramble on and on about whatever topic had struck my fancy just before presstime. I sent the first couple of issues to Dot, hoping to reengage her in conversation. Hoping for some kind of communication. Nothing.

But Dot wasn’t why I was doing the zine. (Had she replied, and things gone well between us, that would only have been a nice little bonus). I was doing the zine because I wasn’t doing anything else, and everybody I knew was pushing me to do something creative. I started the zine partly because I agreed with these people . . . and partly just to shut them the fuck up.

I did two issues, which got handed/mailed out to friends and associates. Then my laptop computer died. The autopsy revealed the cause of death to be a hard drive crash. (The first of many that would plague me throughout the course of my life.)

Once I got a new computer (a Mac, this time, courtesy of a massive loan from a friend that – come to think of it – I still haven’t fully paid back), I returned to work on the zine. I started sending issues to Factsheet 5 (whose review magazine was THE place to go if you were looking for zines to consider sending off a couple of bucks here and there for, and therefore the primary showplace that all zinesters wanted their wares displayed in).

CJ was a Factsheet 5 reader, and one of the reviews of my zine caught her eye, so she sent off for a copy. I sent it to her, and she either didn’t like it, or simply wasn’t impressed by it. She didn’t send off for another issue, and we never heard from each other again. The End. (Wow, that was a shorter post than I expected.)

Okay, so, that wasn’t actually the end of the story. Why? Because of the Christmas issue. In late November of the year in which she’d earlier ordered a copy of my zine, I decided that I was going to do a full Christmas issue. The issue contained my letter to Santa (much like last week’s “Dear Santa” post, only instead of asking for whips and chains and porn and books on how to fuck I was asking for books on other topics and videos and action figures and whatnot), several completely normal Christmas stories (including the ‘true origin’ of Santa Claus – how he was actually constructed out of dead bodies by Dr. Frankenstein at some point after the original Frankenstein monster went horribly awry), and other similar Christmas-y fare.

At some point during the process of putting this holiday spectacular together, I hit upon the idea of sending a copy of the special Christmas issue to everyone who had ever ordered an copy of the zine. So, I addressed a stack of envelopes, decorated them using Christmas rubber stamps (loaded with red and green ink), filled each one with a copy of the Christmas issue, blew a bundle on postage, and sent them off into the world. To everyone who’d ever received an issue before. Including CJ.

And whereas the first issue that she got did absolutely nothing for her, the Christmas issue was apparently more to her liking. I got a small package in the mail from her containing a variety of little things that had been (or were similar to things that had been) on the “Dear Santa” Christmas list. Mainly just stuff that she already happened to have laying around. Also included in the package was a mix tape she’d built for me, a compilation of songs whose inclusion were mostly all inspired by the Christmas list as well. Along with some money for the next few issues of the zine.

I wrote her to thank her for the unexpected gift. She wrote me back. And we were now corresponding. I kept sending her the zine, which she seemed to continue to read and enjoy. Letters went back and forth in the mail. Plain old boring computer print-outs from me to her. Artistic missives decorated with rubber stamp art on interestingly textured paper from her to me.

One of our early topics of conversation was – for some reason or another – writer/singer/songwriter Jim Carroll (author of “the Basketball Diaries”, which became a Leonardo DiCaprio movie around the time we were discussing the whole thing). Anyway, CJ discovered that Jim Carroll was going to be performing at a little place in Portland, so she sent me a letter asking me if I wanted to go, her treat. I did, and said so, so she got a pair of tickets, and we made arrangements for her to pick me up.

We were both assuming that it was going to be a musical performance, but we arrived to discover he was doing spoken word, reading excerpts of his stuff. Which was still cool, just not what we had expected. We had a good time at the event, and afterwards hit a little café to continue the evening.

As I’ve mentioned in previous posts, CJ was plump. I wouldn’t call her full-on fat. But she definitely had some nice soft curviness about her. I’d place her somewhere toward the lighter end of the sexy BBW category. Her hair was dark (somewhere in the brown or black range – never easy to tell through the ever-present sunglasses), and somewhere between long and short. What else? Uh – she had a couple of eyes . . . um . . . a nose . . . (Here’s an interesting piece of information about me: I suck at describing people. Isn’t description one of those skills that it’s good for a writer to have? Hmm. Damn it!)

CJ was also 12 years older than me. 37 to my 25 at the time. (Older now . . . I’m currently the age she was then. Huh. I won’t do the math and mention what her current age is. I’ve been told that girls like it when you avoid pointing things like that out. They also are supposed to like it when you compliment their shoes.)

By the end of the night we knew more about one another, had done the whole face-to-face meeting thing, and I was filled with omelet and hash browns. (God bless you, “Breakfast Served All Day”!)

I didn’t appear to have repulsed her. She seemed to like me, having liked me for my zine writing first, as a correspondent next, and then for having met me in person. And I liked her. I enjoyed writing to her. I had fun with her at the Jim Carroll thing and the café after. .

I wanted her.

Let’s look at the list of girls again. My feelings seemed to run as follows: I wish that Sue loved me. I wish that Rabbit really loved me. (And would move back to Oregon.) I wish that Penny loved me.

Then came Dot. For the majority of the time I spent in love with Dot, I was thinking two completely different things (usually simultaneously). One was the predictable: I wish that Dot loved me. The other was: I wish I wasn’t in love with Dot. I knew that being in love with Dot was bad!-wrong!-ow! I couldn’t help it, but for the first time, I actively wished that I could. Was that a contributing factor in me falling for the person who really was (three years later) the very next woman I met? I don’t know. Maybe. I wasn’t thinking all of this through like that then. All I really knew about CJ at this point was that . . .

I wanted her.

I was horny. Love didn’t actually enter into it at this point. I wanted to have sex. I wanted to squeeze naked boobies, to finger a slippery (heck, even gooey) pussy. I wanted to ejaculate a load of semen – and along with it, my virginity – deep inside somebody. I wanted to fuck. And CJ seemed like she might be a suitable candidate.

But how to approach her? I didn’t want to send her love poetry (love poetry would have been a lie that early in our relationship, and I didn’t want to send her lust poetry out of the blue, either). I didn’t want to write a quick drop-in for the next letter I sent her asking, “Oh, by the way, how do you feel about casual sex? More to the point, how would you feel about having some with me?” Truth be told, I didn’t want to approach her about this at all. That was the point at which everything always started to go wrong with all the other girls. So I didn’t.

Instead of talking to her about it in the next letter, I wrote a piece for the next zine about how I really needed a girlfriend. I talked about all of the various reasons that I needed a girlfriend, including the fact that – quite frankly – I want to have sex.

Then I sent the zine out, and instead of talking to her about it, I just waited for her next letter, to see if she’d take the bait and be the one to start the conversation. Which she did. Her next letter commented on the article in question. She told me not to give up hope, that someone was out there, and all the usual bullshit. She also commented on my need for sex, implying that there were times that she wished she had some opposite sex companionship for the exact same reasons.

Her next couple of letters to me felt a little flirty. Then in December came the letter that really kicked things off. Most of the envelopes that she sent me were decorated with rubber stamps, or stickers, or artwork of some kind. The front of this envelope had a full color rubberstamp image of one of the classic Greek statues (naked woman), along with rubberstamp sayings like “Eroticize Intelligence” and “Lick Me Tender”. It was also stamed “XXX” several times. And the postage? The postage stamps showed a Cupid-like cherub figure beneath the word LOVE. Hmm . . .

The back of the envelope bore a handwritten caveat: “I’ve been carrying this around in my purse for days – thus the dog-eared look – took me a long time to decide to send this . . .” Now that she mentioned it, the letter did look a little rumpled. Opening the envelope revealed a second envelope inside. This one was made from a brown paper bag (plain brown wrapper?) and covered with images and blocks of text cut out of porn magazines. Hmm . . .

The brown paper envelope contained all kinds of little things. Her letter was written on the back of a naked woman from some porn magazine, the page glued to white cardstock, and the outline of the woman carefully cut out so it was JUST the woman with no background. (I would get quite a few handwritten letters on the backs of naked women cut-outs in the future.) There were several things in the envelope that hinted at some of her kinks without coming right out and saying ‘this is what I’m into’ . . . an ad for a series of bondage videos, more cut-and-paste artwork from adult magazines, including a piece depicting a collection of sex toys, a three-inch column of newspaper text reporting on an event that included bare-bottom spanking up on stage, and so on. In and amongst this was the questions: “When is your SEX issue coming out?” (There was also a note in the envelope telling me that she hoped I wouldn’t be offended by the letter, but that what she was sending me appealed to her ‘sense of humor’.)

Her letter arrived at the beginning of my back problems. I had just thrown my back out for the first time. I was supposed to just lie there, but I couldn’t let something like this go unresponded to. So, I hauled myself up off of the couch, and (painfully) sat at the computer bang out a reply.

I informed her that I was not offended, and hoped that she’d send more of the same in the future. And, even though my boring-to-look-at plain computer printouts were nothing compared to her mail-art extravaganzas, I tried to keep up with her by sending her chunks of text that were a little lustier, and a little dirtier than my typical correspondence had been. Not necessarily about the two of us getting together or anything, just about sex in general.

Not long after her first erotic missive, came an actual package in the mail. It contained more erotic mail art, along with a birthday gift – a bottle of “Happy Penis Massage Cream”. Attached to the bottle was a little round cardstock circle with a message on one side, and a print of her nipple on the other. Between her having pressed that circle up against her nipple just for me, and the story she told me in her letter about – years earlier – having hiked up her dress and masturbated herself to orgasm in a window seat of the art department where she went to college, I made quick use of some of that massage cream.

Shortly after New Year’s she informed me that one of her New Year’s Resolutions was to do a little bit of erotic experimentation outside the boundaries of mere mail art. She wanted to do some actual physical stuff. And she wanted to know if I was interested in being her partner for this endeavor.

“JACKPOT!”

I told her that I was very interested in being her partner for that endeavor, and with that, our correspondence got very interesting. Knowing that she was well-versed in the arts of masturbation, I asked her what kind of things she’d all inserted into herself for the purposes of achieving orgasm. She sent back a lengthy list of objects – everything from sex toys to vegetables to household items . . . but she concluded her list by saying that the one thing she’d never had inside her was a cock. She, too, was a virgin.

I learned other things about her in our increasingly explicit correspondence. She had an interest in BDSM (yay!), including the desire to be bound, an tendency toward being submissive, and an interest in being spanked. All of which is information that just filled my heart with joy. (And as the joy was pumped in, the blood – which had to go somewhere – ended up down in my penis, making it harder than I’d ever imagined it could be.) When you consider that some of my interests included binding, dominating, and spanking, it seemed like we might be a good match.

Eventually we arranged a little get together at my place for some sexual tension and awkward fumbling. It was planned out in advance as opposed to a spur of the moment thing, and as such, was scheduled – by her – to take place after her period was finished for the current cycle. Her period was uncooperative, however, and was still going on the day of this initial erotic rendezvous.

[This was because the tumor secretly growing to massive size in her uterus was starting to fuck with her system. Unbeknownst to her at the time. To either of us, really.]

We said our hellos and sat next to each other on the couch. I started touching her. Massaging her through clothing. About the time that I was wondering whether or not it would be a good idea to edge closer to her breasts, she took my hand and placed it on one of them. (Which, you know, answered that question for me.) Somehow we both ended up stripped to the waist with our hands freely roaming across one another’s torsos. Rubbing. Squeezing. Licking. (Licking? I said ‘hands’. Hands don’t have tongues! I guess it maybe was ‘hands and mouths freely roaming across one another’s torsos.’)

She wanted to see my cock. I wanted to see her pussy. She was fine with me showing her mine, but was hesitant to reciprocate. Probably because her period was still hanging around. And a tampon string was hanging out of her. But I didn’t care about that. Honestly, I wouldn’t have cared if she had a little television set showing a medical documentary on menstruation dangling out of her – I wanted to see her pussy.

So I asked to see it. Only I didn’t really phrase it as a request. She later informed me that the reason she went ahead and hiked up her skirt and dropped her panties that first night was because of the tingle she got up her spine when I told her to show me her pussy. She wasn’t prepared to reveal her genitalia to me, but got off on the fantasy of submitting to my command. (So. Fucking. Cool.)

We spent a week or so sending each other, “My God, that was great, when can we get together again?” letters. Then we got together again. Tits were, once again, played with. (Hers, as well as my sizable man-boobs. She found my nipples, and surprised me with the fact that having them played with turned me on a little.) My cock saw the inside of her mouth for the first time. She didn’t make me cum (in fact, over the entire course of our relationship, she was never able to make me cum with her mouth), but she did get some interesting sounds out of me. (And not just when her teeth scraped across places I’m not used to having teeth scrape across, either – although those sounds were interesting, too, I’m sure.)

And since she had no period this time, the LOOK BUT DON”T TOUCH signs weren’t there when her panties came off. I got to finger her. I finger fucked her using one hand, and played with her clit with the other. And in the course of playing with all the neat little toys in her vulva, I did something amazing. I made her cum. Let me say that again, in case you missed it: I. Made. Her. Cum.

It was spectacular. This was the first time in the history of humanity that anybody had made a female achieve orgasm, and I did it using only my fingers. And while I would go on to make her cum on subsequent occasions, it’s unclear to me whether anyone else on the planet has yet to develop this skill. I AM A GOD!

(And if you have a differing opinion about this – or worse yet, proof – please, keep it to yourself. Let me keep my little moment of glory for what it felt like it was to me.)

The sexy letters continued. I started writing lust poetry. She showed up at some point around (or possibly directly on – curse you, faulty memory!) Valentine’s Day. She brought a gift for me – a red plastic heart-shaped box filled with condoms. A subtle message that she was ready to fuck. Quickly backed up by a verbal message that she was ready to fuck. (Said CJ to me: “I’m ready to fuck.”)

Unfortunately, I didn’t have a bed at this point in time. Slept on a broken down couch every night. I really didn’t have a place where we really could comfortably have sex. Plus, there was a privacy issue – the fear that my grandmother would come wandering in at some point. And CJ’s living situation didn’t afford her the opportunity to have a gentleman caller over to take her into her bedroom and make her scream his name. So: We were both ready to fuck, we just needed a place.

Enter that All-American classic: The cheap motel room! She decided to rent us a room for our next tryst, someplace with a nice big bed that we could cavort naked upon. A nice soft surface we could use for having wild monkey sex. She brought toys (dildos and vibrators), I brought toys (police-style handcuffs and duct tape), and we played. Of course, some of the condoms from the heart-shaped box came along.

I’d been inside her before. My cock in her mouth. My fingers in her pussy. But this was the first time that we’d attempted to put the main pieces where they were meant to go. Tab ‘A’ into Slot ‘B’, according to the directions. (As near as I could tell, anyway – damn directions always seem to be written in Japanese these days.)

This was the occasion where I first realized that big fat man might have problems getting his Tab ‘A’ close enough to plump girl’s Slot ‘B’ to actually accomplish a successful insertion. We attempted several positions before finally discovering an arrangement of body parts that would (sort of) work for our purposes. Then I made another discovery. “What discovery was that?” you ask. Huh. Well, uh . . . let’s just say that I discovered exactly how embarrassing a story from my personal life has to be for me to not actually want to share it with the entirety of the internet in blog form, and leave it at that.

Sex (PIV intercourse) wasn’t going to happen that night. So, we did other stuff. The roll of duct tape was put to good use for some bondage fun. (She was amused by my taping her big toes together once I had her otherwise immobilized.)

I couldn’t fuck her with my cock, but like I said . . . she had brought toys along. So she spread her legs for me, and I fucked her with other things, playing with her clit until she came. As for my needs, I took matters in hand (literally) and straddled her while she talked dirty to me, eventually providing her with the single serving size of bukkake.

We continued the naughty correspondence for awhile, our next potential fuck-a-thon coming in the form of my spending a weekend with her while she was housesitting for a friend. More hot naked playtime. More attempts at sneaking my little archaeologist into her hidden temple. Still no go. (Too many natives with poison-tipped blowgun darts in the area, I guess.)

More correspondence followed . . . but not as much. Or as often. She slowed down the letters from her to me. I slowed down to compensate (after getting complaints when I’d sent her multiple letters in a row without her having a chance to respond to the first one). Eventually I got a short letter from her telling me that she had stuff going on, and that she really wasn’t into ‘all this’ anymore, and she didn’t want to get together again. And she wouldn’t really have time to write anytime soon.

I got that letter, read it a couple of times, then made something to eat. Needed something to wash the food down, so I started throwing back screwdrivers. That was the night I discovered that the combination of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese doesn’t really set well with a vodka beverage. The vodka made the mac and cheese taste extra greasy for some reason, and the mac and cheese made the vodka keep threatening to come back up again. (Vodka is just one of the many things I’ve discovered doesn’t go well with macaroni and cheese. You want something really disgusting that I discovered on a completely sober occasion? After stirring in the packet of cheese powder, stir in a handful of M&Ms. I swear, it seemed like a good idea at the time. But it really, really wasn’t.)

I sent her a reply which was basically, “Okay, I understand. It sucks, but I understand.”

I’d spent so much time focused on the lust, I hadn’t really bothered to think about things like ‘love’. I knew I was focused on CJ (and no longer focused on Dot at all), so I knew it was there, but I hadn’t been thinking about it. I’d been having too good a time squeezing naked boobies, pinching exposed nipples, fingering a bare pussy (and occasionally other holes I’d find down in the in-between-the-legs region of her anatomy) and so on. Lust, not love. Basically, I’d been focused on my cock, not my heart.

Once I got the “Sorry, you can’t have me anymore” letter, her body was gone. No body, no immediate focus on lust. Guess what comes next?

So, I sat there pining for yet another unrequited love.

TO BE CONCLUDED Tomorrow