Clean and Elegant

Clean and Elegant

Friday, 4 April 2014

Soul Fucking

So I went to Halifax to meet the Boatman for the second time, and have sex with him for the first time. My timing was impeccable and my vagina started to bleed the second day I arrived. We still had a lovely time and gave in to fucking on soft white towels.  I got his penis and the towels all bloody. Even so, the day before I left, as we lay post-coital on the bloody towels, the Boatman kissed me and invited me to stay with him in Halifax for as long as I wanted.

The day I left Halifax was rainy and sad and I was still bleeding. I knew that I had to go back. In Montreal, there was only lifeguarding and yoga and a few friends. Not as good as the Boatman.  The timing was right. I was leaving.


On my last day as a lifeguard, my last Saturday in Montreal, I gave my celebrity friend Ronald a yoga class in his hotel room.  Ronald was playing one of the dwarves in a remake of Snow White. He happens to be of a small stature, a little person they call it, and he's extremely athletic. In his room, he had wooden benches to climb onto his queen-sized bed and into the shower.  We did yoga on the carpet.  His arms were just long enough to get his hands over his head.  It was hard for him to bend forward because his torso was so much longer than his legs.  Everywhere, his muscles bulged.
The class lasted 20 minutes.  Ronald said that it was fun and he gave me forty dollars.

That night, I invited Ronald to Parc Lafontaine, where I was meeting two friends to drink. With Ronald’s forty dollars, I bought Raspberry vodka and perrier, pita carrots and hummus.  I got drunk with the only guy I ever kept in touch with from my online dating career.  I call him my Magic Mushrooms Friend.  He does psychedelic drugs and is obsessed with female orgasms.  He thinks that both of these things are the cure for neuroses.  Someday I’ll try psychedelic drugs and the world will become one with all of my organs. So far my orgasms are not that powerful
When the world becomes one with my orgasms, I will see things as they really are.  The Buddhists are always talking about this.  Seeing things as they really are.  This frustrates me.  How are things really?  Whatever I see, it isn't how things really are.  I fuck and I see this.  I get drunk and I see that.  I never get the right answer. I need more orgasms.  I need more drugs.
My Magic Mushrooms Friend says that orgasms are the beginning and end of the world and that the secret to orgasm is knowing you can shit in your partner’s face while they’re licking your snatch.  You can shit and know that everything will be okay.  In the park, I drank 5 or 6 or 7 shots of vodka.
“I think I’m drinking too much,” I said.

“It’s okay,” said my Magic Mushrooms Friend.  “You can push a little tonight.”

What did we talk about?  Probably only about magic mushrooms and orgasms.  And about how I wanted to fuck the Boatman’s soul.  My friend Emily joined us and we ate more hummus and pita bread and carrots.  We waited for Ronald but it was too far for him to come so we offered to meet him at a bar that was closer. Benelux.  There was not much to drink there except for beer.  I was too drunk to care.  The strap of my sundress broke so I put on my bathing suit with my lifeguarding t.shirt and short shorts over top.

“Would you like to see my boob?” I asked my Magic Mushrooms Friend. My Magic Mushrooms Friend said yes and I showed it to him.  The left boob or the right boob, or both. Months later, on Facebook, he told me how much he appreciated this gesture.  I told him that he was welcome.
Ronald arrived and bought us all beer.  Now my boob was hidden and we got to talking about something that I wasn’t paying attention to.  I decided to put both of my legs behind my head.  Ronald took a picture.  Now I was wearing a black and white bathing suit with no lifeguarding clothes over top.  In the bathing suit, I wondered if I was still capable of standing up from a backbend.  I was concerned so I lay down on the bar’s dirty floor and made my body into a semi-circle.  Half a wheel or half a bridge or whatever the yogis call it.  My arms and legs were almost straight.

A yoga teacher I know says that doing yoga when you’re drunk is dirty. Why is it dirty?  You look almost exactly the same as when you’re sober.  After twenty-five tries of bending my arms and straightening them again I transferred all of my weight onto my legs and stood up.  
I didn’t want to forget how to do this ever again so I dropped back into a backbend and stood up a bunch more times.  Ronald came behind me and said, “You could do handstand drop overs.”   Ronald used to be a personal trainer.   He pushed my legs backwards over my arms and crashed my legs down.  We repeated this movement a couple of times.  To this day, I can barely pull this off by myself.

At the very same moment in Halifax, the Boatman was having drinks with his friends.  They were toasting my arrival.  They were toasting my existence.  The Boatman texted me to tell me, and I texted him back, “I WANT TO FUCK YOUR SOUL.”
Soon it was four in the morning and time to go home.  I hugged everyone, bending myself in half to hug Ronald.  My Magic Mushrooms Friend held me in his arms mumbling and murmuring and whimpering for what seemed like hours.  I have no idea what he said.  Afterwards, he texted me and thanked me for my majesticness. “We could have worked, you know,” he’d written.

I drove Ronald home on the back of my bike.  He sat on the rack, held onto my waist and rode me all the way to his hotel.  Maybe I could have gone upstairs to his hotel room where I’d given him a yoga class.  I might have discovered the answers to all the different questions of the universe.  I could have seen things as they really are.  At the very least, I would have seen his penis.  But I’d promised the Boatman that I wanted to fuck his soul.  The Boatman’s soul and not Ronald's.  Everyone I tell this story to thinks I missed an opportunity.  Even the Boatman. The Boatman and I have lived together for two years and seven months. We are in the habit of fucking each other’s souls on Saturday and Sunday afternoons.  The Boatman says that the next time Ronald or another cute celebrity who happens to be a little person comes along, I’m allowed to fuck him. He has permitted it, but I know it’s too late. 

The End.



3 comments:

  1. Erica,
    I love your writing. It just oozes with rawness and honesty. You're doing a great thing, and you're damn good at it. I don't follow any blogs completely but whenever I see a posting from yours on Facebook, I read it immediately. It's phenomenal, keep it up!

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  2. ...and I hope you bought the watermelon shirt.

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  3. Thank you so much, Zoë!!! Alas, I did not buy the watermelon shirt and am beginning to regret this more than not sleeping with the small statured and athletic celebrity actor Ronald.

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