"For the first time in ages, she was there for him, completely present
for him; her legs were wide and she was there for him; and she was
working her hips in rhythm with his and she was there for him as he
struggled to keep sucking her nipples, and together their breathing
soared and became ragged and filled with animal sounds and she was
there for him, and the gasping turned to cries and she continued to be
there for him, even as he felt her legs go rigid, and her pussy
pressing down and she shivered in bliss and she was there for him
falling against him as her knees went weak and she was there and she
was still there for him as he surrendered to the raw carnal energy of
her lost amnesiac pagan Hindu fertility goddess power and let it wash
over him. He felt his seed exploding in her, driving him hard into
Wonder Woman Aimee, and she was there for him, and this was her lover's
gift to him alone for his loyalty, for his nights of faithful celibacy,
and the nights cleaning up after her little accidents, and to thank him
for being there with her through her terror and hallucination, and
occasional deadly violence, when he had to hold her down hard and
whisper to her, and weep with her, and console her, and lie to her and
tell her everything was going to be just fine—sure it would—when they
knew he was all bullshit lies and God had abandoned them on this
fucking runaway train of humiliation and fucking oblivion and the world
was cruel and all they had was each other and everybody could go to
hell including him, he could go fuck himself too goddamn you phony
smiling sonovabitch bastard I'll kill your ass, but no Aimee, I won't
leave you, not never no sir no. For all of that and more, she held him
tight to her, hugging her powerful thighs around him so that he would
never ever leave her even when she had finally left herself."
Ron and Aimee from "An Early Winter Train" c 2007 C. Sanchez-Garcia
Great lovers are not left at peace. There is an undercurrent of tragedy running through this world that seems to seek out the great lovers and come between them and happiness. It's as if there is something in this world that loves sadness. We as people seem to sense this on some level and this why we are also attracted to stories of doomed lovers clinging to each other to survive, like the ship wrecked to floating coffins. The stories of great loves are being acted out all around us unseen. There are giants out there, the people you meet in the grocery store, quiet people you know at work who fight without complaint to preserve those they love and hobble along beside them as far as they can. Mothers, wives and husbands. Women with hearts of iron. Goddesses.
There is this couple I know. Between them they have about four kids. I think theirs is a great love, something exceptional between exceptional people. The wife is a truly erotic woman and the man is an erotic man. They are the realized Anthony and Cleopatra. There is this story that I want to write but I don’t know how because I'm not that good yet. Someday I will be if I stick with it or if the right person lends me a hand. That is my commitment.
This wife told me a while back that the husband has prostate cancer. He is slated for surgery and they will try to preserve what they can,but most likely when he comes through the other side he will be in Viagra country. This thought grieves me. The unfairness of it grieves me. When we were talking she said "I'm going to make a dildo out of him before the surgery." I said "Yes, do that. Work him hard in bed, use him well, and celebrate each other while you can." "No," she said. "You don’t understand. I'm going to make dildo out of him. A real dildo."
Back in the early 70s there was a team of groupies famous for making plaster casts of the phalluses of famous rock stars.
The casts were made from plaster, not silicon, because they were just for looking at, like some kind of weird hunting trophies. This was different. There are things out there you don’t realize exist until someone points them out and suddenly it seems so obvious. If there was a way to know, I'll bet this practice has been going on between men and women for a thousand years, like making a death mask of a great erotic love when it is about to be shattered.
A little googling and it turns out there are dildo kits out there, where devoted women can make a cast of their lovers erect phallus and mold a life like sex toy before the phallus is taken away from them by whatever dour god rules this world. There are kits for making simulacrum of women's vaginas as well, though it must be more complicated. This isn't something new, only something hidden, like the nature of common tragedy itself, one of those things you don’t hear about unless it finds you. What my friend was saying was so painful and poignant and absolutely wonderful it took my breath away. There are women out there who won’t let go of their man without a fight. Hell, they won’t even let go of his penis.
How do you get to be loved like that?
She told me this has become a popular trend because of war.
Young American men keep shipping out to Iraq and Afghanistan, sometimes on their third or fourth tour until they're starting to get crazy and their own kids are growing up without them. The lonely wives want to be faithful, but it’s not easy. That's their personal fucker shipping out and no other will do, so they buy a kit and make themselves a sex toy of their husband so that on those lonely nights under the covers that will be their husband pleasuring them and no other.
I told her, someday I'm going to write a story about that. She didn't say anything. The problem I have is that some stories are too good so that you don’t dare mess them up with your clumsy fondling. They're a privilege to write, as if the Story Fairy were entrusting you with something fragile and wonderful. They are sacred in their way and the apprentice writer is not on the level of some of the ideas that drift by. Some stories are better than the writer. You honor them more truly by waiting until you've grown up a little more.
I want those stories. I desire them. I want to be their demon lover. As a writer I am attracted to the ordinary. It is the story of the ordinary man, the most common and clumsy love making that fires my imagination. My vampire stories are about the most ordinary people walking along a precipice. Even my dear vampire Nixie is not glamorous like the vampires in best sellers. Nixie is a short pale girl with a German accent in second hand clothes with a face that is "old world plain". A lonely street girl who "looks like she would trade a hamburger for a blow job". You could run into her standing under a street light and never realize you are in danger. I am a voyeur of the plain and mundane. The problem with writing that kind of story is that it is not popular, and it is the hardest to write. Because when you write about the ordinary man the reader will always know when you are lying.
Sometimes something will drift my way and I'll have to say to myself "The Story Fairy is being generous to me, but I can’t tell that story yet." I have a folder on my hard drive tucked away with little sketches of story ideas that tear me up and I can’t do them yet. The ideas are better than me. That is my faithfulness, my commitment. My faith is that I can honor the story better if I can wait until I can tell it properly, that my day will come. And if it never comes, somebody else will tell it. Some stories are waiting to be found, searching for their authors like great lovers discovering each other.