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.
“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.
| Copyright © 2005-2007 Bare Back Magazine, all rights reserved. Please contact the authors if you'd like to reprint articles on this site. All copyrights are retained by original authors |
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."
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."