Asexual Holly/Sexual Holly
by Elizabeth Elmenreich
Friday, August 18, 2017
Chapter 1: The Motorcycle
Chapter
1
The
Motorcycle
I'm
okay now, but in 2008, I was a real mess. On New Year's Eve of the
previous year, I was riding on the back of my Deaf wife's motorcycle.
As a Christmas present, I'd helped Naomi complete the motorcycle
training and safety course. The drunk driver did honk, but she
didn't hear it. I lost her and my left foot. I'm a teacher at a
school for the Deaf, but I took the rest of the school year off.
Along with the summer, that gave me eight months to recuperate both
physically and emotionally.
Whether
or not to give psychiatric medication to someone who is grieving has
always been a touchy subject. My doctor encouraged me to take
medication, but I refused it out of pride and stubbornness. I didn't
refuse the Percocet for my phantom pain, and that's where the trouble
started. Percocet is a mixture of OxyCotin and Tylenol, supposedly
harder to abuse than pure OxyCotin as the Tylenol, while making the
OxyCotin stronger, makes the combination impossible to inject safely.
My physician tried to wean me off them, but I soon found an online
pharmacy that kept me in good supply for the following months. I
generally took two a day, one in the morning and one in the
afternoon. I chewed them.
Did I
mention I have a son? Naomi gave birth to him in 2005, when I was 29
years old, and she was 34. His name is Trout. His birth name is
Mike, like me, but we've never called him anything other than Trout.
I lost my father to cancer, my mother to early-onset Alzheimer's, so
I was pretty much on my own. With State Disability and a little life
insurance money from Naomi's work, I got by. The drunk driver was
insured, but we'd be tied up in court proceedings for some time.
San
Diego has a lot of things to do if you're a parent. The Zoo, the
Wild Animal Park, Sea World,, Legoland, a few others. I'd take Trout
somewhere every morning. Call it overcompensating, call it guilt.
We got Disneyland passes and went there, too. Every day, somewhere.
Every morning. I tried to be a good dad, but I was still taking
Percocet and going on the computer too much. I occasionally drank.
On the plus side, I read a lot. I still read book-books back then,
putting my English Literature degree to good use. Trout was starting
to pick up on my habits and become a reader, himself. I was very
proud of that.
Music
exited my life during that time. I teach music and English to Deaf
students. I did before the accident, and I do now, but my digital
piano gathered dust during that time. I know, you're probably
wondering how you teach music to Deaf students, but it's actually
harder to teach them English. American Sign Language has its own
grammar, and some Deaf people never really learn English as well as
they should. As an English teacher, I would sign English sentences
in sign language and teach the students basic composition and the
like. Believe me, it's a lot easier to hand out drums and play a
simple ostinato on a bass drum, letting the students make up the
rest. Maybe it's the higher expectations of an American learning
English versus those of a Deaf person playing a recorder.
I lost
a lot on that day, but I gained a lot in that year. This is the
story of 2008.
Chapter 2: SingleParent.com
Chapter
2
SingleParent.com
I
spent a lot of time on the internet back then. Message boards were
my main thing, but I also bought books off Amazon.com and wrote a
blog. I don't do message boards anymore, but back then, they were in
their heyday. A lot of authors had them, and I talked with strangers
about everything from the perfect martini to Shakespeare. A banner
ad brought me to SingleParent.com. SingleParent.com became my
obsession. Within a week, I was chatting with women across America,
texting them, talking on the phone with them. We were all pretty
lonely, and it never took much to start a conversation.
I was
lying in bed one day, texting with a black woman from Georgia, when
she typed, “I could never meet you.”
“Why,”
I asked.
“Because
I'd fall in love with you, and you live in California.”
“Yeah.”
“If
we ever did meet, I'd fuck you crazy and suck you dry.”
We
continued on like this, sending pics and messages for several weeks.
She told me she'd never date a black man again, that the father of
her daughter gave up custodial rights. She used the N-word a lot,
especially when talking about him. She said her family voted for
George H.W. Bush and that they were conservative but that she hated
George W. Bush.
Those
long-distance relationships were what I needed at the time, but by
March, I decided it was time to get laid for real.
Chapter 3: Naomi
Chapter
3
Naomi
I met
Naomi in 1985, at her brother's birthday party. I was almost nine,
and she was fourteen. There's a picture of us together that was much
beloved by both our families. I had learned how to sign “Silent
Night” in the Boy Scouts, and I performed it for her. The look on
her face was enchanting, and we became friends right away. At first,
we'd write in a notebook, but eventually, I learned A.S.L. We
started dating in 1989 because she wanted a boyfriend before she
graduated high school and so she could say she kissed someone in the
decade of the 1980s. I was 13, and she was a head taller than me.
She
took a year off before going to college, living off Social Security
Disability Insurance. She always had money, so we'd go to
restaurants and eventually hotels. I lost my virginity to her and
she to me. We got married as soon as I finished college. She
supported me as I got my Teaching Credential, and I got a job right
away. She never got a four-year degree, but she graduated with an
Associate's Degree and worked at a daycare. Even though now I'm
older than she was when she died, she'll always seem older than me,
the way Kurt Cobain does.
Chapter 4: Holly
Chapter
4
Holly
When I
finally got around to contacting someone in my area, I picked the two
most stunning women, and they were both named Holly. The first Holly
was 29 years old with blonde hair, large breasts, a flat stomach, and
saucer-shaped eyes. Three kids, divorced. The second Holly was 38
years old (actually 43, as I would later find out), with brown hair,
a trim body, and eyes that smiled all on their own. One adult child,
never married. I was 32, a half inch shorter than the first Holly,
and 160 pounds. One kid, widower, missing a foot (I didn't put this
in my profile).
The
first Holly's second language was A.S.L., so I had an in. I wrote
her a long message, talking about my work with Deaf children and
saying that I loved her photos, that they made me want to become a
photographer and take pictures of her. The second Holly was an
Oxford-trained psychologist whose profile said, “Enough with the
messages and 'flirts.' Tell me what you have in your kitchen.” I
wrote a long message to her, explaining about the knives I bought,
the various utensils, the way I cooked, and what I had in the
refrigerator.
The
first Holly got back to me almost immediately, much to my surprise.
Due to dyslexia, she had atrocious grammar and spelling, which I will
not attempt to replicate here. We messaged for a week and went out
for dinner. To save on babysitting fees, I brought Trout to her
house, where one of her roommates watched him, along with Holly's
three children. She lived in a five-bedroom house with five
roommates, including a hairy Deaf man who lived behind a stack of
boxes in the living room. He came home and read a magazine while we
were kissing and cuddling on the couch after dinner. Holly's other
male roommates were talking about mixed martial arts.
It was
all perfect except for a brief moment when I brought up politics at
dinner: “I really like Barack Obama, but I wish he'd make his
platform more clear.”
She
said the worst thing anyone could say at that moment, “who's that?”
“The
black guy running for President.”
“Oh,
is that his name? I don't really follow current events.”
On the
sofa, in between kisses, she opened up about her life. “You're the
first person I've kissed since my wedding day.”
“You
had three kids without kissing,” I asked.
“No,
my second wedding. My first husband was a real asshole, but my
second husband was a loser. We got in a fight after the wedding, and
I never saw him again. I never filed the paperwork for our marriage,
so I guess it doesn't count. Do you think I'm still married?”
“Not
if you didn't file the paperwork,” I lied.
We
whispered. She talked about the breasts of her two female roommates:
“they totally sag. I mean, I have large breasts, but they're
perky.”
“You
have to show them to me now,”
I said.
She
smiled and took my hand, leading me to her bedroom, “okay, but you
can't touch.” Trout and her two youngest were asleep on the bed.
“Come into my bathroom. Sit on the toilet.”
In
her shower, there were almost a dozen pairs of shampoo and
conditioner. “How many people use this shower?”
“Just
me, but I like different scents.” She was wearing jeans and a
white tank top. She pulled the tank top off and undid her bra,
exposing her breasts. “See?”
They
were beautiful. I wanted to ask if they were real, but as my mouth
hung open, all I could do was stare at her, her breasts, her face,
her stomach, the outline of her legs under her jeans.
“Oh,
shit,” she said, grabbing my erect penis. “I can't let you out
of here with that.” I went to caress her breast, but she said,
“ah, ah, ah, remember? No touching.” She pulled my pants and
underwear down and put hair gel in her hand. She began rubbing my
cock and telling me her story.
“I
was raised in the Urantia Church. It was really strict. When I was
seventeen, I was married off to the Deaf son of one of the leaders.
I had to study A.S.L. every day so I could communicate with him. His
name was Mitch, but I always had to call him 'Mister.' If I didn't
do what he wanted the right way, he'd give me one of these,” she
said, making a fist with her left hand. “He'd always accuse me of
having impure thoughts, of secretly masturbating when he wasn't
around. We never had sex. I'd just take care of him with my hand or
my mouth.
“He
killed my dogs,” she said as a sad expression came across her face,
“all eight of them. I thought I was just doing a bad job of
raising them, and they kept dying, but he was poisoning them.
Finally he told me, and he raped me, only he wouldn't think of it as
rape. He thought that was just how you made babies, and pretty soon,
I had a baby of my own. I gave birth on the compound. I don't know
what we would've done if there'd been complications. After Josiah
was born, it was back to taking care of Mister, with my hand and my
mouth.
“I
really haven't done this to a whole bunch of guys,” she said,
pleadingly, “and I don't want to do this again. See, I am married,
I think. To that second guy, the loser, and anyway, it's a sin to do
this before marriage. I just...”
She
concentrated, squeezing harder, pumping faster, and I had an orgasm,
a big one, a messy one all over her breasts.
She
laughed, saying, “jeez, you're not taking care of yourself. Look
at this mess. When was the last time you... you know?”
“About
a week ago.”
“A
week? No wonder.” She kissed the side of my penis, and it grew
hard. “Again?” She sighed, and put it in her mouth. There was
no more story to tell. Her face... her face. I could look at that
face forever. I heard the pump of the hair gel bottle, and soon I
felt a finger enter my anus. She did it without asking, as if that's
what a blow job was like. I'd heard about stimulating the prostate
this way, and she had it down to a tee. I didn't last five minutes.
After
the second orgasm, I relaxed on the toilet seat, pulling my pants up.
She washed her mouth and hands in the sink before putting her bra
and top back on.
“We
can't do this again,” she pleaded. “It's not right under God and
the Book of Urantia. I'm sorry I did that, getting your hopes all
up. It just seemed second nature with you, comfortable, taking care
of you. Maybe we can get married some day, but I have to go back to
Trent, my second husband. It's right and all.”
“Can
I get one last kiss,” I asked, and she kissed me passionately,
pressing her breasts up against me. Trout and I drove home, and
Holly and I have been friends ever since.
Chapter 5: The Other Holly
Chapter 5
The
Other Holly
With
Trout in bed, I helped myself to a glass of pinot grigio and went
online. I had a third Percocet for the day, which I usually tried to
avoid. I'd taken so many of them over the previous three months that
they didn't make me sleepy anymore, quite the opposite. Another
problem with Percocet at night is that it mixes poorly with alcohol.
While usually I go to bed after a glass or two of wine, with a
Percocet, I could have a full bottle and still be awake, sometimes
craving more.
I
went to SingleParent.com to look at pictures of the first Holly when
I found a message from the second Holly. It read:
“I'm
sorry it has taken so long to respond to your message, as I have been
in Spain for the past two weeks. Your message was lovely, and I want
to get to know you better. I hope you don't mind, but I did a Google
search on your username and found your blog. I've been reading it
all day; your choice of literature is outstanding; your insights are
profound, particularly your refutation of Harold Bloom's comparison
of Freud to Dickens. I'm badly jet-lagged, so I'll be in and out of
bed all weekend. Message me on this site, and I'll get back to you.”
I
hadn't thought of my dead wife for longer than any time all year, but
then it crept up on me. It just happened. I was picturing the
mischievous smile on the first Holly's face as she was about to go
after me a second time, the way she cocked her head to the side, and
I saw Naomi's helmeted head, bent at an unnatural angle. Dead. I
washed down an Ambien with my glass of wine and went to sleep.
The
other Holly and I began corresponding via the website. She was
charming and wonderful. I couldn't wait to meet her, and I finally
did, at a Brazilian restaurant in the Gaslamp District of San Diego.
The portions were huge, and we drank too much wine.
“And
then she said the worst thing you could possibly imagine,” I said
recounting my date with the first Holly.
“No,”
the other Holly replied, “she said the...”
“'Who's
that?'” We laughed, perhaps too loudly.
“I'm
asexual,” the other Holly said, suddenly deathly serious. I can't
imagine what facial expression I gave her, but at least I didn't
laugh. “I've had no interest in sex since I got a hysterectomy in
1990. I tried it with men and women, but nothing. I've been
completely celibate for sixteen years.”
“Do
you masturbate,” I asked.
“Maybe
once a year,” she replied, “to relieve tension. It isn't
satisfying to me.”
“Can
you have an orgasm?”
“Not
anymore.” She looked away. “My doctor says that I'm physically
capable and that it's all psychological, but I've tried everything.”
“I'm
sorry.”
She
gave me another million-dollar smile. “So, do you know why I'm
here? It's not for free food. I'm paying, by the way.”
I
tried to imagine what it would be like, unable to connect to anyone
on a sexual level. “Yeah, I guess I do,” I said.
“It's
more than that,” she continued, “I do need male company, but I
want more than that,” she said, repeating herself. “I want a
relationship. I want a partner. I don't care where he fulfills his
needs.” She looked at her napkin. “I also need someone who will
go to certain social functions with me. It's unfortunate, but even
in my profession, there are people who see asexuality as a disorder
instead of an orientation, more so in my case because I wasn't born
asexual.”
I
took her hand.
Chapter 6: Ground Rules
Chapter
6
Ground
Rules
Dear
Mike,
I
thought this would be a good starting off point. Tell me what you
think.
- No extended kissing except for prearranged displays in social settings.
- No prostitutes in my house.
- No sexual contact of any sort between us, of course.
- When we sleep in the same bed together, the only touching allowed is an interlocking of the feet.
- If we're in bed together, and you get horny, please excuse yourself and masturbate in the bathroom.
- We will each make a detailed list of our sexual histories, predilections, and preferences. Mine will be from the time before 1990, for the most part.
- Non-sexual contact such as hand holding, locking arms, and light cuddling is encouraged, especially in public. Tell me if it becomes a sexual issue, and I'll adjust.
- You are encouraged to find polyamorous and casual relationships of a sexual nature. You can discuss these with me as little or as much as you like. I hope they are satisfying.
- Also, try porn.
- Beyond everything else, COMMUNICATE! Communication is the basis of any strong relationship.
Love,
Holly
“Um,”
I emailed back to her, “have you ever had a relationship like this
before?”
“No,”
she replied, “but I've given it a lot of thought. I want to make
this work.”
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