In Response To A Friend To The Age-Old Question--
“What Old Girlfriends Do You Still Fantasize About?”
by Joseph Reich©


             *

These are very good questions...
I think the woman I fantasize about
the most was that crazy girl I used to know
who was Borderline and asked me to marry her
like three times. She had a limitless amount of passion
and drama and our relationship was so confrontational
and wild and even think there was one day out at her place
in Sleepy Hollow where we did it like seven times in a row or in
the library at Yeshiva or on the highway but it was always a challenge
and it was those wild girls who sincerely were the worst for you that
you would never take home to mom which you dream about the most.



              *

There is also that girl I had a nice summer romance with out in
The Berkshires who was real fine and precious and we connected
and she was sensitive and much older and was real kind and used
to groom dogs and whenever she got home at dusk we’d smoke
up her marijuana or share some of my wine and make love most
of the night in our sweltering apartments with the fan in the window
and fireflies and crickets and candle-lit mountains. She had tremendous
bosoms like triple D’s and I couldn’t help but to not stop staring at them
while she was teetering on top of me with her eyes shut tightly. It was
really quite arousing and even thinking about this makes my belly
start leaping. How all things begin in the belly Exit from the belly
Ecstasy of the belly but again I think she mistook the relationship
for love and told me from the beginning like all girls seem to do
weird things like–“Don’t ever make me have to make a decision
between you and my dogs” and when I told her I had to go she
broke down and barked–“I knew they were gonna make you go!”



             *

How splendid and fine it felt then
to take off each others clothes
and enter the others soul
A strong solid vessel
sliding into some
vast warm ocean
and then a sudden
shriek of wild recognition



             *

Or Lisa Avellino from Brooklyn who was this tight uptight girl who worked at Calvin Kleand
was a real prude and I kinda liked opening her up and she used me and I used her. She
lived right on the river in Brooklyn Heights overlooking the Manhattan skyline and used to
make me quite a nice angel hair with simply a touch of olive oil & lemon & basil and would
act like this frigid defensive know-it-all but behind closed doors was really a whore and
wanted to explore all her fantasies or to try things out on me she had never done before
and loved to be fingered after taking a shower (She used to like to be fingered in the
shower sticking it down deep into the warm marrow of her vagina as she would literally go
weak in the knees and you’d have to hold her up while squeezing the flesh of her buttock
fondling feeling and continuing to go down deep. She had never had an orgasm and you
were there to simply arouse this area to gently guide and gratify and sometimes thrust
inside as you used to love to watch her expression change from pain to pleasure to pain
back to a blushing ecstatic uncontrollable cry and she was like some sad tormented bride
who had been married and told me on her wedding night she knew she did not love him
and used to sigh after one of our rendez-vous–“I’m gonna keep you” and continued to
cum back for more and more wet in her bathrobe and have orgasm after orgasm after
orgasm like releasing all tensions and burdens and pressures of being some competitive
wheeler and dealer in Manhattan turning back into a girl and then a woman until she
would simply put her hand on top of yours and with face blushing dripping panting.


                *

Would plead aloud–“Please no more!” There were even times she felt so uninhibited that
she would suddenly just explore her womanhood right in front of you and giggle and
wiggle off her pants then pull  panties down right below her knees and simply stick her
middle finger deep into her pussy thrusting it in and out blushing arching her back gently
and gradually getting more turned on knowing I was watching and I'd get so turned on
knowing that she was getting turned on I'd naturally start pleasuring myself and suddenly
spontaneously shoot my load all the way over my shoulder across the room onto her
roommate's stain-proof furniture then I’d retreat back through the midnight Cherry
Blossom to my hovel in Carroll Gardens in summery Marlon Brando t-shirt and fall fast
asleep in my sleazy linoleum Sicilian apartment with the scent of the old abusive alcoholic
merchant-marine landlord’s fresh pesto and tomatoes streaming from the garden and
dripping clothesline of the cute girl’s bras and panties drying out right below me where I
truly really feel I screwed that one up I liked her and she liked me with the silhouette of
derricks from the shipyard of a faraway river and fading streetlamps gleaming that would
sputter through the Maples of antiquity but sincerely believe it was those times and
interludes when there were no implications or obligations or expectations like in graduate
school or some anonymous cottage of summer where things were at their most
spontaneous and passionate, and they were all so self-conscious when you first met like
giving reasons why you should not go out with them (or not be able to handle them) and
the real men would welcome this adventure and view it as a challenge as the cowards
would simply just get scared take off and abandon



                   *

So getting back to this concept of the self-conscious woman it was like when they fucked
they were trying to fuck away, and find a way to forget all family enmeshment, previous
boyfriends of control and subjugation, mean manipulations, and nonsense from previous
existences, then transfer all this new-found energy onto an idealized representation of
someone who they thought might be able to save them, or for lack of a better expression,
it was as though they had all been emotionally and spiritually left at the alter, neglected,
disrespected, and how many of them, how many of us truly recover? Does Dorothy, Mrs.
Haversham, Blanche Dubois ever really find their way back home to the loam and bones
of the innocent, romantic soul, or do they simply become fragments of their former
selves, ghosts, broken, alone,  trying to recapture something they imagined and hoped
for from so long ago?



                   *

Sometimes, I like to sincerely and sentimentally reflect back to all the women I have
known, their acts of sex, and how it often felt like a certain kind of excruciating, existential
extension to their acquired, decaying emptiness (everything they have repressed and
suppressed) all their neglect and regrets, and if I was somehow able to get them
comfortable enough with their own distorted and self-conscious hang-
ups with their bodies, with their body parts, with their anatomy and flesh, it became like
some cathartic,  erotic explosion, instinctively able to naturally abandon (all that
resistance, all that seduction, all that sadness, and get them back to the original essence
of their desired and deserted visions, whether newly-discovered or unearthed once
again) a shedding of the skin, or even phenomenologically, a positive and productive
denial of sorts, of all the stagnated and societal roles which had been
culturally and socially formed and unfairly forced on them like a disassociative episode
for so long



                   *         

And sincerely do believe all those things a woman confesses to you when you first meet
them holds so much meaning and is even a subtle and insightful message and
premonition of what’s to come without a doubt or hesitation as the dream can so quickly
turn to a nightmare if you don’t take these things into consideration, and loved how those
women had these grocery lists of things they were willing to do and not willing to do
Things you were allowed to do and not allowed to do Places you could travel to and
places you could not travel to and would experiment on you like finally trading in their
secretly-stashed coupons which they had been holding onto for so long as if in that exact
time and moment decided everything must go



             *

I think that dream you had of Nicole was real interesting yet I’m not so sure I agree with
your final analysis and I believe if you even dug deeper you might find something more
revealing about your personality but who am I to say You know yourself far better than
me Ok so I’ll try to end it here but there was that lady who always picked me up in the rain
and originally picked me up outside a movie theater and brought me back to her home in
a perfect Portland suburb and was like a blow-job machine who used to love to go down
on me then would bathe me and feed me Chinese and whiskey while I got everything off
my chest and confessed to her how I was forced to see a psychiatrist because of my
father’s narcissistic and emotional and spiritual neglect and always felt (you never felt)
like some puppet in a dysfunctional dollhouse where you saw yourself moving all the
figures around but couldn’t even recognize yourself as perhaps a protagonist as well as
some pawn and victim and martyr in someone else’s drama How so many survivors of
narcissistic fathers lose so much of their core identity that they become suicidal She blew
me in the dunes and you knew right there and then you had nowhere to go no one to
turn to no past no future only that raw empty feeling where your gut used to weep at
feeling eternally blue nihilistically removed compassionate and romantically and
righteously true yet that you would always make it through



             *

Lying there in the dunes off the coast of Oregon a stoic and sensitive son long gone and
all you could really do was continue on and so like I told you she picked me up outside
one of those thunderstorm two-dollar movie theaters on the outskirts of Portland and she
was in her forties and I was twenty and I think she looked at me like some kind of rebel or
lost son who she could have adventures with and save and score drugs and I think her
husband was always away on business or some place or another and she had this very
delicate collection of glass animals and would only give blow jobs in her silk pajamas and
had a fish tank full of piranhas then would drop me off after the weekend was over at the
Jack London or to my blue collar job as a laborer loading up furniture on the back of
trucks heading out to California with ex-convicts always threatening to kill each other and
I think I was probably a little repulsed by her because after one of these sleazy rendez-
vous I would puke on the train tracks probably out of some kind of guilt or conflict or
deep-seated feeling of feeling deserted I think it was the Burlington Northern and of
course there was Connie the beautiful red head



             *

With the black eyes and the really small titties who always played hard to get with me and
it was hard to get with her (I was hard to get with her) and she ended up settling for some
artsy-fartsy creep who went to college with her who abused her and used to tie her down
to chairs nude and take pictures of her and make her drive him and his rich white friends
around while they dropped acid and before she went there she was so full of life wanting
to be this actress dancer writer and when I saw her after she was simply a former shroud
of herself A dazed phantom numb and disassociated with the windows to the back seat of
her car shattered and she never swept up the shards which I thought felt a little bizarre
like the perfect metaphor for what had become of her and used to take her car out from
The Berkshires in the dead of night and drive it right up The Mass Pike with the wind and
stars shooting through and pick up young runaways and hitchhikers who were just as lost
and aimless as us and engage them in wild and kind small talk which really unbeknownst
was quite cathartic and drop them off in one of those seaside towns slipping into the
rhythmic sounds of the anonymous run-down ocean and wish them the best of luck and
they wished us the same then drive off



             *

In silence all the way to moonlit motels of Maine and make love by the light of late-night
technicolor B-Movie Western TV both of us like ghosts wailing from past traumatic
histories and of course there was that black girl who I forgot her name yet all I recall was
her pain and shame who’s father was blind and owned a string of bodegas in Yonkers
and would only fuck on the floor and was translating the bible to calligraphy in a diary
and told me if she ever got famous not to tell anybody always wearing the same nurse’s
dress while drinking 40's and she would just suddenly show up to my door out of nowhere
in The Lower East Side and I would gladly take her inside because I probably was just as
troubled and traumatized and able to identify with so many of these girls who drifted in
and out of my life transition and consciousness and I suppose they all like I probably did
for them during these passionate interludes and soul searching phases served some kind
of mutual purpose to heal a cruel wrong and hurt and pain and damage which had been
done to them and when I look back at those times and lifetimes they most likely surely did.
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Joseph Reich: is a children's therapist who works in the state of Massachusetts;
A displaced New Yorker who sincerely does miss dis-place, most of all the Thai
Food, the Bagels, and the Smoothies on Houston Street.

Joseph has had works which have appeared in such literary journals as, "Poesy,"
"Dispatch,"
"Falling Star," "Color Wheel," "And Then," "Graffiti Rag," "Main Street Rag,"
"Bouillabaisse," "Decanto," "Rogue's Scholar," "Poetry Motel," "The Beat," "The
Potomac" "Poetry Super
Highway" "Istanbul Literature Review," "Stirring" and "Ascent Aspirations."