media blogs
-
scanner-
screengrab-
the modern
materialist-
61 frames
per second-
photo blogs
slice-
paper
airplane crush-
autumn-
chase-
rose & olive
Rose & Olive
Houston neighbors pull back the curtains and expose each other’s lives.
Scanner
Your daily cup of WTF?
The Modern Materialist
Almost everything you want.
Autumn Sonnichsen
A fashionable L.A. photo editor exploring all manner of hyper-sexual girls down south.
ScreenGrab
The Hooksexup Film Blog
Chase
The creator of Supercult.com poses his pretty posse.
The Remote Island
Hooksexup's TV blog.
61 Frames Per Second
Smarter gaming.
ScreenGrab
The Hooksexup Film Blog
Slice
Each month a new artist; each image a new angle.
Paper Airplane Crush
A San Francisco photographer on the eternal search for the girls of summer.
|
 |
|
"You're so drawn," I said.
She shrugged, looking down at her garden sneakers. They used to be her jogging sneakers, and before that her "kicks" she wore with jeans on a Friday night out with her friends. I ran my hair through her hair, saying, "How many times do I have to tell you, I forgive you."
"I know, but you're . . . sad. Which is understandable" — she was talking in that relaxed, calm voice that magically masked any anger and usually seduced me into confessing something — "but how long can you go on hurting me with your indifference? I'm so tired of you ignoring me all the time, it's, like, been months. Is this you from now on?"
"No," I said, although her assessment was dead-on, so much so that I suddenly felt ashamed, not so much for the coldness I'd been exuding in my efforts to hurt her but the pathetic transparency with which I conducted them. Generally, when a man cheats, his woman is expected to grow enraged; but whether or not she leaves him is arbitrary. When a woman cheats, however, if her man does not leave, he is rendered so emasculated to his friends and neighbors and family members that he might as well donate his testicles to some desperate soul who could actually use them.
"It won't be the same without you there."
"All right," she said, wiping the sweat off her forehead with the back of the glove. "Just let me wash up a little."
Holding the robe together, I hurried back to the living room, half expecting to see an empty chair. It was empty, but this time Heidi was standing up, looking at our pictures on the mantle. A yellow thong had been painted rather expertly down the middle of her buttocks.
"It's all good," I said, "but I think it'd just be more appropriate if she watched. Is that cool?"
She crossed her arms, squinted at me for a moment before saying, "Sure . . . it's cool."
"Wait," my wife said before Heidi lay on the bed, "let me get a towel."
"Oh, right," I said, laughing awkwardly. "The paint might stain the sheets."
"It shouldn't," Heidi said, and for the first time she seemed annoyed. I tried touching her shoulder, as if to say, "Sorry about my wife's anal retentiveness," but my gesture backfired. I came off like one of those straight guys who touches people in a way that always seems gay. After my wife covered the bed with two yellow bath towels, we all stood in silence. I supposed they were waiting for me, so I undid my robe. And my erection stuck out like a gigantic pencil. Heidi and my wife smiled. Then my wife ran her fingernails slowly across my stomach, as if she'd been seeing me through Heidi's eyes. Meanwhile, Heidi had lain on the towels my wife had set up, her slender arms crossed above her head, her underarms so bereft of hair follicles I began to wonder if she'd had electrolysis.
It was time for me to enter Heidi, I guessed. But I felt so self-conscious in front of my wife I thought about asking her to look away. Who was I to
|
"I climbed on top of Heidi, wanting to lick her pussy as a means of respect, but it'd been covered in potentially toxic paint so I just assumed she'd understand."
|
penetrate a supermodel, one who was undoubtedly accustomed to men with private jets, exquisite tastes, bank accounts in foreign markets, and cocks that made my dick look like a cellphone antenna. And then I was staring at my wife. She was pretty. But in comparison to Heidi, she looked subhuman, and I felt sorry for her.
"Are you shaking?" Heidi asked, touching my arm.
"He's just nervous," my wife said protectively.
I climbed on top of Heidi, wanting to lick her pussy as a means of respect, but it'd been covered in potentially toxic paint so I just assumed she'd understand. I rubbed her clit until her whole body curled like a flower pedal, and then I slipped it in.
"Wow," I said.
"What?" my wife said.
"Nothing, it's just . . . warm."
"Oh," said my wife, sounding jealous.
"Yours is the same way," I said.
"Sweetie," my wife said, obviously embarrassed, "focus."
"Hmm," Heidi said. She rested her feet on my back, reclining like a woman at the beach. I found myself at her neck, tasting the salt of her sweat, losing myself inside of her. At one point, I looked up and saw my wife with a hand shoved down her jeans. I came explosively.
"Did you leave . . . inside her?" my wife said, alarmed.
"Oh my God," I said, "I totally forgot."
"It's not a problem," Heidi laughed in that way Europeans are always telling Americans to chill the fuck out. I wanted to ask her if she'd enjoyed it.
"We're safe, you know," my wife said, "I mean, we've all been tested and all that."
"I'm not worried," Heidi said politely. She got up and my wife immediately showed her the bathroom. We hadn't turned any lights on and the living room was dark. Heidi emerged from the bathroom and stood mysteriously before us, as if she wanted to offer some sound, spiritual advice. But instead, with a compassionate smile, she waved a little and left.
"Did she tell you why she stopped by?" my wife whispered, locking the door. "No," I whispered, "you think she stops by other apartments too?" "You think?" "I love you." We clutched one another in a violent hug that practically melted my molecules — until my wife sniffed my neck and said, "You smell like her."
We peeled away and retreated to respective seats in the living room. She moved to turn on the lamp beside her. "Don't," I said. Staring at her silhouette, I wanted to tell her that while I was mounting Heidi, it was her I'd really wanted, that I'd realized my love for her trumped the pleasure of being inside a supermodel. But it wasn't the case. Nor was it the opposite.
"You know," I said, "it just was."
"I know," she said. And she did. If there was anything we understood, it was what was. Staring at this purple ghost of her, I decided that was enough. For a lifetime. n°
| ABOUT THE AUTHOR: |
 |
Tom Lombardi's fiction is forthcoming in McSweeney's Quarterly, and has appeared in Fence, McSweeneys.net, and Opium. His website is www.tomlombardi.org. |
©2006 Tom Lombardi and hooksexup.com.
|
|
|
| partner links |
|
|
| sponsored links |
|
|
Fark.com
Buzzfeed