CJ (Part Two) (or Even More Reasons Why I'm Still a Virgin)

CONTINUED FROM YESTERDAY’S POST

Time passed, and eventually I open up my post office box to find a letter from her. I see her handwriting on the envelope and my heart goes all a-flutter (because I’m apparently a late 19th century romantic dandy or something). Then I open it up and start reading the letter and my heart actually falls down into my right boot. Cancer? She has cancer?

After taking my boot off and putting my heart back into it’s proper place I finish reading her letter, and discover that they found a grapefruit-sized tumor in her womb. Did chemo, did surgery, removed her entire uterus, left her a pretty little scar running from vagina to belly button, and were getting ready to do the final round of chemo. Yikes.

I sent her a letter. It was probably equal parts ‘Holy-Fuck-that’s-horrible’, ‘is-there-anything-I-can-do’, and ‘me-and-mine-will-be-praying-for-you’. All bound together in my usual brand of weird-ass pseudo-humor. At least, I assume that’s what my initial response was. (I’d go and check, but this was probably half a dozen hard-drive crashes ago, so . . . my end of our snail mail conversations are all long gone.)

Not long after mailing off my response I got another letter from her, and suddenly we were actively corresponding again. One of her early conversation points was the topic of why she had been physically involved with me. She had theories, and she was eager to share them.

Basically, she told me that the cancer had thrown all of her hormones completely out of whack, making her incredibly oversexed. And once they reached the breaking point, she latched onto what seemed like the first available person outside of her regular social circle she could fine. Me.

So, basically, similar to the concept of, “I didn’t mean it, baby, it was the liquor talking,” I discover that she wasn’t sexually interested in me. It was her cancer that was all horny for me. Oh, and ‘nothing personal’.

(You can’t dent my self-esteem, Superman! Not bolstered as it is by letters like this one, and the one from Dot years earlier!)

Strangely, it’s not long after that point that her letters turn sexual again. Which is a little confusing, but . . . what do I care. It’s an interesting ride at this point. She talks about possibly getting together. She tells me that she wants to show me her scar. The only problem is that the top of her head is now chemotherapy bald. (Which I now realize kind of sounds like a new Crayola color.)

This doesn’t bother me in the least, but it keeps her locked away in some dark cellar somewhere until she can regrow something up top. I try to talk her out of her self-imposed isolation, but nothing works. I explain that I kind of like bald girls. I tell her I’ve got porn with bald girls. (Truthfully, it’s nothing I would have sought out on my own, but obtained when making copies of various tapes from Johnny Dirtnap’s porno collection. But I had no problems getting aroused by and masturbating to videos of bald women getting fucked. And the thought of a completely hairless CJ was kind of a turn-on, actually . . .)

But no meant no. She couldn’t feel sexual while bald. She feared that she’d end up feeling like a freak if she tried. So, I had to wait until she had hair again. In the meantime, I got more dirty letters. (And there ain’t nothin’ wrong with dirty letters!)

Eventually she was non-bald enough that she agreed to come over. In the back of my mind, I didn’t really believe it. Not until she actually stepped in through the door. Not because of anything to do with her, but because of my history with girls.

Sue, Rabbit and Penny. I fell for them. They all basically said, “Gee, thanks, but no. Go away now.” I fell for Dot. Dot said, “Here play with my body parts for while. Oops, time’s up now. Get out of my life and stay out.”

Then I fell for CJ. CJ said, “Here play with my body parts for while. Oops, time’s up now. Get out of my life and stay out.”

There was no precedent for CJ coming back again. I wanted it. But it wasn’t the kind of thing that had ever happened to me. Until it did. Until she knocked on my door, came inside, and made good on her promise to show me her surgical scar.

I traced my finger up and down that scar for a little while, moving from the tip of her pussy to her belly button and back. Then my finger accidentally slipped and fell into her pussy. (Oh no!) Things progressed naturally from there.

Shortly before her (physical) reemergence into my life, my parents had gotten internet access, so I would occasionally wander over to their house to use their computer. I got CJ’s email address from her, and we abandoned letters for this newfangled electronic mail thingamabob. Which was great. Replies came much quicker this way than having to wait for the mailman. My access to email would eventually come and go as my parents would decide to get rid of internet and then reacquire it every now and again. (Sporadic internet access. Pretty much the story of my life.)

Correspondence continued. The occasional get-together continued to happen. Another housesitting gig saw me invited back for another couple of days of romping around a house naked with her.

Then she called everything off again. “Sorry. Can’t do this any more. Doesn’t feel right. Bye.”

The correspondence continued, just lacking the sexual aspect. Well, for awhile, anyway, It slowly started creeping back in, and before too long she was arranging another get together involving very little clothing.

At first, I thought that maybe that was the new pattern. The on-again/off-again thing. And it was for a little while, but then it soon devolved into something even stranger. She once told me that we couldn’t get together anymore because it felt wrong to her, and so on, breaking up with me yet again. Then the correspondence went back to non-sex friendly. It slowly started to amp up toward sexually flirtatious. And then she broke up with me again – without having actually gotten together in between. When talking to friends of mine, I would refer to my relationship with CJ as now being off-again/off-again after that. I thought it was just a cute little joke. But I quickly realized that it wasn’t a joke, it was the new pattern.

CJ would get freaked out over how sexual we were getting just over email and in instant message conversations, and call a halt to it. “We can be friends but nothing more,” type of rulings got handed down to me from on high. Then the conversations would eventually get back to where they had been, she’d freak out a little, and we’d start the process all over again.

There would still be the very rare occasion where she’d come over. Usually a spontaneous visit as a result of me getting her really horny during an online conversation. But these were very few and far between. The last such event occurring on the last day of the year 2000. She came by to fool around early on New Year’s Eve, then fled back home before the crazy drunken traffic got too ridiculous.

That’s how long it’s been since I’ve actually seen her now. December 31st, 2000. Since then it’s been like I’ve got a loaded camera and she’s a flying saucer containing both Bigfoot and Elvis. Just not something that I ever see.

The off-again/off-again pattern continued, but with now with no physical contact at all. No tryst, no rendezvous. There would be talk. Never plans, but often plans of making plans. Nothing that ever came to fruition. The correspondence continued, and was usually at least a little bit sexually flirtatious throughout.

Then partway into 2006 we spent what I had thought was a fun and enjoyable evening shooting dirty emails back and forth. I sent her another dirty email the next day, and it was apparently a straw of camelback breaking caliber. She freaked out on me. Told me that if we were to continue to email each other at all, there had to be a new set of conversational guidelines in place. Most notably that while we were still allowed to talk about sex, we were under no circumstances allowed to discuss even the mere concept of the two of us having any sort of sexual interaction, be it in fantasy or reality. If I sent her an email that talked about the two of us, sexually, she would delete it unread.

I had been having problems with a recurring toothache recently, which meant that I had a mostly full bottle of vodka nearby. (I find it works much better than stuff like Orajel, and is a lot cheaper per ounce.) So, I got very drunk. And wrote her an email. Zorch happened to stop by, and asked the obvious question, “Why are you drinking?” (Finding me drunk is such a rarity that it always stuns people when they see it.) I explained why I was drunk, and what I was doing.

He gave me some excellent advice. “Don’t send any email when you’re drunk.” I recognized this as excellent advice, ignored it, and sent her an email anyway.

CJ and I sent a couple of angry, snarly emails back and forth before we finally calmed down. I quit talking about us in a sexual context, just like she’d asked. The correspondence continued on once again . . . but very, very carefully on my part. Then it slowed way down. Then it pretty much stopped.

Time passed.

Then I had some weird realizations that I’ll talk about a little later on.

Then more time passed.

And like always, sooner or later I got an email signaling the return of CJ into my life. (At least my email life, if nothing else.) Only this time – bringing us up to present day – it was the return not just of CJ, but of the “I’ve got cancer” letter as well.

During the last stretch of silence, they found and removed another tumor, sent her through more chemo, and she’s now out with a reasonably clean bill of health. (I don’t know if she has hair or not. I haven’t asked.) I’d go into more details about the whole cancer thing here, but I already did my ranting about that a few weeks ago [“This Should Be Many Smaller Posts”].

I had tentative plans to spend a few days in Portland in late November. Before those plans fell through, CJ was wondering if there was a chance we could get together while I was in her town. Meet somewhere for coffee, or a drink or something. Catch up. (Like I said, it’s been almost eight years now since the last time we were in the same room together.) I would have gladly met up with her if I’d’ve gone. But I didn’t. We’ve talked, and we’ll probably meet up at some point in late March if I end up spending a few days in Portland then, as is my current plan.

So that was what my relationship with CJ looked like. To me. At the time, anyway.

If you were to consider us officially ‘over’ with our angry explosive email barrage that led to a moratorium on even mentioning her, I, and sex in the same concept, then our relationship ran for about eleven years. Which is the longest amount of time that I’ve had anybody sitting on the sacred “Girl I Love” pedestal.

Longest time I’ve been in love with a woman ever. Furthest I’ve gotten physically with a woman. Most emotional I’ve gotten with a woman who didn’t simply ignore me.

Was it love? Was I in love with CJ. I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe not. Probably not, actually. What I most definitely was, was obsessed.

Not stalking, making obscene phone calls, snapping pictures from the bushes with a telephoto lens, building a shrine to her over my bed, weirdo Lifetime movie-of-the-week class obsession or anything. But definitely obsessed.

Okay, I suppose that it could be said that I was obsessed with Sue, Rabbit, Penny, and Dot, too. (How long – for example – was I still ‘in love’ with Rabbit after she moved to California?) But nothing like I was with CJ. The first four girls were girls. CJ was a woman. The first four girls were young love. CJ and I were the adult relationship.

For the simple purpose of easing the conversation along, I’m going to refer to the activities that CJ and I were engaging in as ‘sex’. (They were all some kind of sex acts, most of them legitimate foreplay tactics. I don’t want to try and get into trying to define what ‘Sex’ means – certainly not in the midst of this already somewhat convoluted series of posts.)

I could make a similar case that Dot and I were having sex, but I won’t. I played with her boobs. (And with her feet, but while that was thrilling for me, it’s not really mainstream enough to get a checkmark on the big board.) Plus, Dot said after the fact that she was just sitting there and taking it, not really wanting any of it to happen, so . . . not really sex. At best masturbation by proxy. Not even that, really.

No, CJ was my first sex partner. But that’s not how my obsessive compulsive brain had her listed. My stupid brain always left out the word ‘first’. CJ was my sex partner. Period. I was a chronically ill shut-in, and she came into my life through what seemed like a one in a million chance. I mean, our initial contact was because she ordered a copy of my zine, and didn’t even like the damn thing. And we went from there to periodically laying naked next to each other in bed. That’s just not the kind of thing that happens. Certainly not ever to me. Then she left.

And then – and this is probably where the obsession initially grabbed hold of me with both hands and swung me around until my brain was dizzy insane – she came back. No amount of her leaving after that would have any affect on the situation. She was mine. I was hers. We were sex partners. Lovers. That was simply how it was.

I mentioned having had some weird realizations earlier. A little over a year ago, I was having a conversation with someone in which I was getting asked questions about the nature of obsessive compulsive disorder. Specifically, how it affected me in my particular case. A few days later, I got bored and started thinking about my various obsessions and compulsions again.

It had never occurred to me that my feelings for CJ were anything other than the everyday, ordinary love/lust that everyone else has for the people that they fall for. But all of a sudden something clicked into place in my head, and I just sat there, open-mouthed, thinking, “Good Lord and Butter! Is this what I’ve been doing all this time?”

So, I thought back and reexamined our entire relationship. And it looked to me like what I was now starting to label my ‘obsessive desire’ of her – even though I did indeed truly want her –probably had more ‘obsession’ to it than ‘desire’.

And strangely enough, that’s all it took.

Sometimes, I realize that some behavior of mine is an OCD thing, and it doesn’t change it in the least. Other times the realization that something I’m doing is an obsessive or compulsive behavior is enough to allow me to stop. The pedestal crumbles.

I don’t actually know if the pedestal crumbled or not. All I know for sure is that there’s nobody sitting on it right now. Maybe I’ll fall in love with someone new, it won’t work, and she’ll continue to sit there, like the old familiar pattern. But maybe she won’t. Maybe she’ll climb down off the pedestal and leave, like she’s supposed to. Maybe the mythical, magical “Girl I Love” pedestal really did crumble. It’ll be interesting to find out.

I’ve already explained a shitload of reasons why I’m still a virgin in the blog. But there’s another reason that I haven’t mentioned. Because I was obsessed with CJ – who had quite obviously moved on from the concept of me as a sex partner long ago – I haven’t been looking for anyone else to have sex with until recently.

From 1995 to 2007, I wanted to have sex, but I wanted to have it with CJ. It wasn’t that CJ was my first choice – CJ was the only choice my brain would let me see. I was either going to have sex with CJ or die a virgin. I wanted CJ to suck my cock. I wanted to fuck CJ’s pussy. I wanted to fuck CJ’s asshole. I wanted to play with CJ’s tits, ass, and pussy. I wanted to suck on CJ’s toes. Sex and CJ were one thing. Inseparable as concepts.

Now I want to have sex with somebody. (“Anybody”, he says desperately.) I want to get sucked, I want to go down, I want to fuck a variety of female body parts, I want to suck on bare toes, and engage in all manner of kinky sex activities. With a woman. With women. Someone I know. A stranger. A new friend. An old friend. A large group of naked redheads wearing full clown make-up. Whatever. Whoever. Whomever.

I still want to have sex with CJ. Yes, I’d still very much like to rip off all of her clothes, push her back onto a bed, and fuck her brains out. But if I don’t ever get to . . . oh, well. There are other women out there. Somebody’s got to be right for me, yes?

Right now, I suppose that you could say I’m seeking casual sex. As a 37 (quickly nearing 38) year old virgin, the current emphasis is just on getting laid. I want a relationship. (I need a relationship, I think that everybody does.) But for the moment, I just have to get myself to the table before I die of sexual starvation. (Get there, and bend some willing woman over that table with her skirt up and her panties down.)

There’s been one other development in the past five years or so that I’m starting to realize might have a lot to do with my (former) obsession with CJ. You see, in my head, she was the only woman in the whole wide world that I would ever have sex with. That’s how I saw her for a very long time. The only woman.

The ONLY woman. Somewhere deep down inside, I knew that I wouldn’t be having sex with her. From 2001 forward, it was pretty obvious that we were done with the physical encounters. No sex for me. Not from her, anyway. But if not from her, then from who? I mean, she’s the only woman, right? The only WOMAN.

I’ve also mentioned being bi-curious before in the blog. That’s a label that has only really applied to me for about the last five years or so. Prior to that, I had the occasional thoughts about man-on-man sex, but nothing that really made me want to experiment with it. That’s not how it is anymore. My main sexual goal is to have sex with a woman, yes, but I also have strong fantasies regarding someone’s erect, condom-convered, and well-lubricated penis and my tight little puckered anus. Fantasies that I DO want to act upon. Fantasies that have grown stronger and stronger in the final years of the CJ obsession.

Is this because my brain used the “CJ is the only WOMAN for me” thing as a potential loophole and then used it as an escape valve? I don’t know. Have I convinced myself that it’s at least a good possibility? Oh, yes. (Dammit, CJ – you turned my half-gay!)

Okay. Quittin’ time. Spent a whole week talking about unrequited love. Sue, Rabbit, Penny, Dot, and CJ. Very tired now. It’s Thursday night as I finish writing this. Hopefully, I’ll get the second part of the Kinky Advent series written by Sunday so I can get it posted on time. And then next week: No more posting every day. I might post a piece on Monday, which will make it a solid nine days in a row. Yikes. But then NOTHING on Tuesday. You hear me? You guys are gonna get spoiled if I keep up this every day shit. (Yeah, that’s right – both of you.)