True Julie Stories (part 4 of 5)

My arms tingling, I read on. Julie wrote “I just came out of the shower after getting home after fucking. It is five thirty in the morning here so that you, yes you, are the first to hear that I fucked.” She didn’t write “had sex” or “slept with someone”, she chose to write “fucked”, over and over. She went on to write “I think I might have potential in the field. Yeah, I think I might be known one day as Julie the slut. And when I accept the academy award for best fucking slut bitch of the year, I will thank you over the podium. It’s strange, but that line you wrote to me about hunting and not being afraid of being hunted was what made today’s fuck happen. So thank you, sir, for bringing me this far. Thank you, thank you.”

I had no clue what I’d written to her about hunting or being hunted. I was always delirious as I typed to Israel in that dusty old Los Angeles public library. I was lost, alone, confused. Oren and I rarely ever sat beside each other; we waited our turns and took whatever computer became available. I probably preferred to sit alone. She’d asked if I wanted to hear the details, and I carefully wove in a thirsty request for more between the lines of my reply with the utmost precision.

She delivered all that I could have asked for and more. Her tale was full of teasing. She began by describing her day, a productive day of writing, followed by a meal at a restaurant with her cousins, all of whom were attractive men and the youngest of whom had, according to Julie, grown up to be something beyond attractive, he was “hot as hell”, and he'd looked at her in an exceedingly inappropriate way throughout dinner. “I wish I could say the story ended then and there in the restaurant’s restroom, but no, it wasn’t with him. There’s more.” She wrote. “I got back home after barely eating anything and hungry for sex. I sat at my computer and went online.”

She logged on to an Israeli networking site that was known for being the place to go to for a one-night-stand . She started chatting with a man and immediately came clean: “I’m a virgin and I’m determined to lose my virginity by the end of the night.” She added “But I’m afraid of taking this dangerous step tonight, and meeting someone I don’t know.” The stranger replied “I understand. The decision is yours.”

The man picked her up outside her house at two AM. “He looked good.” She wrote. “Average height, muscular and compact. He didn’t look thirty; he looked twenty three at the most, except for the fact that his hair was all silver. There was something that turned me on about that, and it was the detail I concentrated on the most.” She decided to take her own car and followed his car out to the ocean. He’d asked if they could talk on their cellphones as they drove, and she found that request to be sweet. They parked above the sea and she bent into his car.

They talked for a while, but she wanted him to shut up. His personality, she wrote, “lacked all complexity or awareness. He said I have to give him at least some direction, because he didn’t know what to do with a woman who’d never been touched, ‘a twenty two year old who’s like a sixteen year old’. I thought about it and said ‘if I throw out my gum will you know what to do?’”.

“And then it all started.”

“He said he’d been gentle with me and maybe he really was, but we did it all, everything but anal. There was some shyness on my part but we did it all, and I enjoyed every moment of it. He took the lead, naturally, but whenever I happened to touch him he asked me again and again if I was sure I’d never done this before.”

“He tried to make it as interesting an experience for me as he could, and we did it all, yes, even oral sex on my part, which was actually nice but I had to cut it short because I was gagging. First time and all. I’ll do better next time. I guess my mythological objection to oral sex is out the window then.”

“He kept wanting me to look at him, at his face, but I couldn’t. Even when I was able to look at his cock I still couldn’t look him in the face without closing my eyes and kissing him to change the subject. After an hour and fifteen minutes he came on my breasts. It filled me with a sensation of power. He asked for permission, of course, he asked for permission before he did anything. He was really nice. I never came, and it disappointed me. I surprised myself by telling him that I really wanted to have an orgasm my first time, but I couldn’t concentrate and he kept distracting me with things he thought would help.”

I read this all with my grandmother beside me, complaining about the fact that my computer was tying up her precious phone line. What if there was an emergency and someone was trying to call her up right at that moment? I ignored her.

Julie ended her letter with a proposition rendered painfully yet thankfully meaningless due to the oceans between us: “After I did what I did I thought to myself how easy it was, and how much more pleasant it could have been had it been with someone nicer and not this silver haired simpleton. Someone whose face I could have looked at without feeling ashamed. Then I recalled that I’d had the opportunity. Yes, your mythological proposition came up in my mind again.” I stopped to smile at how easily Julie labeled everything ‘mythological’. And I stopped because I was afraid of what she'd written next. “And I regretted saying no back then, even though I’d wanted to say yes. And not only had I wanted to say yes, it had been something I’d thought of many times when we were in highschool. It had been pure fear and nothing more that had caused me to turn you down.”

“The other night I asked one of my girlfriends, who knows the rough outline of my story with you, if she thinks I’ll have a chance to make up for my mistake. She rolled her eyes at me because making up for my mistake in this case meant fucking again, and she doesn’t believe in fucking for fun, she doesn’t even enjoy it that much herself, she admitted as much to me. She didn’t really answer my question; instead she asked if I used the word ‘fuck’ so much because I enjoyed saying it.”

“So that’s all I have to say about that subject. It’s not that I prefer the hunters, I would have turned them down at the time as well. I made a mistake and I’d like to correct it. Maybe sometime ‘tomorrow’?”

I can’t recall what I wrote in my reply. I can’t even imagine what it might have been. The only thing I know for a fact is that she answered my reply with a letter composed of a few words in two fragmented sentences. She wrote “I don’t understand anything. Never mind.”

And that was the end of our correspondence. We never wrote each other again.