The Bobs and The Blowjob Machine
The following is true in every way that matters.
I once passed up a chance to stick my dick in a blowjob machine. Imagine that. I love blowjobs. I love machines. Why did I pass it up? Well, kids, because it was another man's used blowjob machine. Gross, right? So, of course, I passed it up. Common sense. What strikes me odd is that I passed up on another man's sex toy because his cock and jizz had been in it but at the time, I was fucking his wife, who I can only assume also had his cock and jizz in her many times over.
We met in high school. She was a transfer student from who-the-fuck-knows where to my little Catholic school. She had befriended a girl I have had a crush on since third grade. The Crush introduced us and it was one of a handful of incidents wherein I felt an immediate kindship and bond with a person. The axons in our neural matter were vibrating on the same frequency and the world lit up. It wasn't sexual or romantic. But, just the same, our minds fucked and our souls swooned. One of us called the other Bob and the other replied in kind. We have been The Bobs ever since. We began to hook-up in a haze of pot smoke in the back of The Crush's car. She drove us around for an hour or so and we smoked, pawed at each other and occasionally came on each other. It wasn't love. It was barely even sexual. She was cute, and I know she thought the same of me. But, it was our souls touching, not our junk. It just seemed inevitable that we would do these things, the way a duel must follow when two famous gunslingers hit the same town or two samurai cross paths.
She married her high school sweetheart, a tall, large, brooding quiet man. She became a stripper. They bought a house down the street from me. In college, I had no class on Fridays and he worked out of town. I spent them with her. Every Friday. In time, she seduced me and thus began my first affair with a married woman.
It didn't happen every time. Mostly, we just smoked pot, talked about porn and science and the crush we both had on The Crush. The mutual crush on The Crush discussion is actually what led to the first sex after her marriage. It was like we were fucking each other so we could pretend we were fucking The Crush. Sometimes, she would just read porn to me. Sometimes, she would just strip for me. Sometimes, we would just have sandwiches and argue about whether Eminem was any good (he isn't.) It wasn't romantic, but it wasn't cheap and tawdry. It was sort of how if you have a buddy who is good at video games, you are probably going to play video games at his house. You play basketball at your basketball buddy's house. With The Bobs, you got naked and bumped uglies. It was just how we hung out.
She was raped one night behind a bowling alley. I attended the rape trial to support her. Her family didn't show. They felt she was up to something shady and therefore had gotten what she deserved. This was the crux of the defense attorney's argument. I sat behind her, next to her husband and The Crush. The rapist was convicted as he was in a few other rape cases he had committed around the same time.
After the rape trial, her behavior, which was always a bit erratic, became even more so. Her father, whom I'm pretty sure had molested her, died and she withdrew. In time, we grew apart. Not in a violent, tearing manner. The distance between my house and hers just became further and further until I hadn't seen her in years. She got divorced, went to college, majored in geology and cut all ties with damn near everybody. Even The Crush.
This was before facespace and the digital age. So, for all intents and purposes, she was gone to me. Even when facespace took the universe over, she was nowhere to be found. A tiny little bit of me just wanted to know she was okay.
A couple of years ago, I was in a pizza joint, drinking beer and being incredibly charming. I heard someone call out, "Bob", with obnoxious enthusiasm. It was her. She hugged me tight and pressed her flesh into me. I breathed in her smell.
She told me she was remarried now and on medication to treat her bipolar disorder. She told me several times she had no reason to cheat on her husband now that she was medicated.
"I don't have to cheat anymore!" she said, a few times. At the time, I gleaned the following information from this behavior-
1)The medication was working and she had a problems perhaps beyond what I was privy to.
2)Second, she was content and fulfilled with her new life and husband.
3)I wasn't going to be getting laid.
4)She regretted that part of our friendship. The same part I'd been jacking off to for a decade. Fucking me wasn't just some cool thing that happened for shits and giggles to her. It was part of her troubled past. It was a symptom of a mental disorder. It was a weakness she was glad to have rid herself of.
5)This was why we grew apart.
6) She wasn't mad at me. In fact, her tone was relieved and apologetic. As if she felt it was her fault. That in her mind, she had wronged me and our friendship.
She then introduced me to her spouse and I found mine and did the same. It was fleeting and uneventful. She then left. It was a happy, if brief, reunion. The sort not afforded in the age of social networking very often- spontaneous, finite and self-contained.
I think about Bob often. I get warm in my gut when I do so. I smile knowing she's studied moon rocks and Mars dust and has a house full of dogs, music and weed.
It is said that someone with no regrets hasn't lived. I've lived. I have regrets. Being a Bob and the time I spent with Bob just isn't one of them.
From time to time, however, I do regret not sticking my dick in the blowjob machine.
I once passed up a chance to stick my dick in a blowjob machine. Imagine that. I love blowjobs. I love machines. Why did I pass it up? Well, kids, because it was another man's used blowjob machine. Gross, right? So, of course, I passed it up. Common sense. What strikes me odd is that I passed up on another man's sex toy because his cock and jizz had been in it but at the time, I was fucking his wife, who I can only assume also had his cock and jizz in her many times over.
We met in high school. She was a transfer student from who-the-fuck-knows where to my little Catholic school. She had befriended a girl I have had a crush on since third grade. The Crush introduced us and it was one of a handful of incidents wherein I felt an immediate kindship and bond with a person. The axons in our neural matter were vibrating on the same frequency and the world lit up. It wasn't sexual or romantic. But, just the same, our minds fucked and our souls swooned. One of us called the other Bob and the other replied in kind. We have been The Bobs ever since. We began to hook-up in a haze of pot smoke in the back of The Crush's car. She drove us around for an hour or so and we smoked, pawed at each other and occasionally came on each other. It wasn't love. It was barely even sexual. She was cute, and I know she thought the same of me. But, it was our souls touching, not our junk. It just seemed inevitable that we would do these things, the way a duel must follow when two famous gunslingers hit the same town or two samurai cross paths.
She married her high school sweetheart, a tall, large, brooding quiet man. She became a stripper. They bought a house down the street from me. In college, I had no class on Fridays and he worked out of town. I spent them with her. Every Friday. In time, she seduced me and thus began my first affair with a married woman.
It didn't happen every time. Mostly, we just smoked pot, talked about porn and science and the crush we both had on The Crush. The mutual crush on The Crush discussion is actually what led to the first sex after her marriage. It was like we were fucking each other so we could pretend we were fucking The Crush. Sometimes, she would just read porn to me. Sometimes, she would just strip for me. Sometimes, we would just have sandwiches and argue about whether Eminem was any good (he isn't.) It wasn't romantic, but it wasn't cheap and tawdry. It was sort of how if you have a buddy who is good at video games, you are probably going to play video games at his house. You play basketball at your basketball buddy's house. With The Bobs, you got naked and bumped uglies. It was just how we hung out.
She was raped one night behind a bowling alley. I attended the rape trial to support her. Her family didn't show. They felt she was up to something shady and therefore had gotten what she deserved. This was the crux of the defense attorney's argument. I sat behind her, next to her husband and The Crush. The rapist was convicted as he was in a few other rape cases he had committed around the same time.
After the rape trial, her behavior, which was always a bit erratic, became even more so. Her father, whom I'm pretty sure had molested her, died and she withdrew. In time, we grew apart. Not in a violent, tearing manner. The distance between my house and hers just became further and further until I hadn't seen her in years. She got divorced, went to college, majored in geology and cut all ties with damn near everybody. Even The Crush.
This was before facespace and the digital age. So, for all intents and purposes, she was gone to me. Even when facespace took the universe over, she was nowhere to be found. A tiny little bit of me just wanted to know she was okay.
A couple of years ago, I was in a pizza joint, drinking beer and being incredibly charming. I heard someone call out, "Bob", with obnoxious enthusiasm. It was her. She hugged me tight and pressed her flesh into me. I breathed in her smell.
She told me she was remarried now and on medication to treat her bipolar disorder. She told me several times she had no reason to cheat on her husband now that she was medicated.
"I don't have to cheat anymore!" she said, a few times. At the time, I gleaned the following information from this behavior-
1)The medication was working and she had a problems perhaps beyond what I was privy to.
2)Second, she was content and fulfilled with her new life and husband.
3)I wasn't going to be getting laid.
4)She regretted that part of our friendship. The same part I'd been jacking off to for a decade. Fucking me wasn't just some cool thing that happened for shits and giggles to her. It was part of her troubled past. It was a symptom of a mental disorder. It was a weakness she was glad to have rid herself of.
5)This was why we grew apart.
6) She wasn't mad at me. In fact, her tone was relieved and apologetic. As if she felt it was her fault. That in her mind, she had wronged me and our friendship.
She then introduced me to her spouse and I found mine and did the same. It was fleeting and uneventful. She then left. It was a happy, if brief, reunion. The sort not afforded in the age of social networking very often- spontaneous, finite and self-contained.
I think about Bob often. I get warm in my gut when I do so. I smile knowing she's studied moon rocks and Mars dust and has a house full of dogs, music and weed.
It is said that someone with no regrets hasn't lived. I've lived. I have regrets. Being a Bob and the time I spent with Bob just isn't one of them.
From time to time, however, I do regret not sticking my dick in the blowjob machine.