A CROWN OF THORNS

I remember the Apostle who seduced you in the parkinglot. "We were seeing each other three and four times a week," you told me. "Then it dropped off to once a week. I was in a club in Matamoros and my friend says, 'Isn't that Osiel?' And I told her I wasn't seeing him anymore." But during those passionate times I imagine how he must have fucked you and how you must have received him, especially in those first weeks and months. You kept no physical secrets from him. I want to stomp into the bedroom and demand all the details. Then I want to scream that I want a divorce because I want to die in peace, but as long as you're a part of my life, that goal is impossible. "I can't live with your promiscuous past," I hear myself voicelessly yelling. "How many guys did you fuck? You won't say because you're embarrassed by the number. I married a goddamn puta who won't fuck her husband. I gave up the love of my boys for a goddamn puta. I told you a long time ago that our relationship was hopeless. You want to know the meaning of hopelessness? I've been cheating on you since the first year of our marriage. The night our son was born I fucked a prostitute. That's your punishment for being a puta and not fucking me! Iliana had a thousand failures, but she wasn't a puta. I despise you! I detest you! You make me sick to my stomach. I want a divorce and I want it now. And don't pull any shit with me or your daughter will learn that her mother for dinner and drinks and a dessert of drugs was ready to spread her legs for any asshole's dick. And if you cross the line, I'll start a blog and everyone will know every intimate detail of the reasons I can no longer find peace living with a puta who had no qualms about distributing her piece to every beggar who came knocking at her door. I want you out of my life before I do something stupid like beating the shit out of you or raping your daughter or taking our son by the ankles and slamming his head against the wall or turning gay because I'm so goddamn horny and infecting you with AIDS as the ultimate act of mutual destruction. Do you want to hear more about my hate for you." You'll either leave me or break down. If you break down, I'll demand every detail about your past or our relationship ends that very moment.When Marisa told me about her affair, I slapped her across the face and early the next morning we departed non-stop to Brownsville where I left her with her parents and never lived with her again. I felt absolutely no jealousy as we went our separate ways. Why can't I deliver this final blow to you? When I was with Iliana, I would ask the fates to allow me to love one more time. You were their response. I want to love again. I want to live a Spartan existence in a sparsely furnished apartment near a pool and a tennis court. I want to have several relationships until the next woman sweeps me off my feet and I push the rock back up the mountain again. Or maybe we should have an open relationship? We'll meet other swingers and fuck other partners while observing each other. There will be no reason to have sexual secrets. I can invite a male dancer to the house and he can fuck you in front of me. With that gesture I will have transcended my jealousies. There are times when I want to hurt you, to see you suffer, to inflict emotional damage on you that will afflict you the rest of your life. It's pure madness to live this way. Day after day the assault continues. Last weekend a truckdriver pulled his vehicle to the side of the road along an abandoned stretch of highway near the outskirts of Matamoros. He walked 50 yards into the brush, fastened a yellow cord around a sturdy mesquite and hung himself. According to El Bravo he had had enough. I entertain the temptation of ending it all, but then I think of you rejoicing and thanking God for answering your prayers. You fill me with a rage and I want to wreak my vengeance on you by continuing with my miserable existence. I may be ill mentally, but as long as I am well physically, I owe it to myself to reject surrendering. Besides, we don't have to worry about death. That inconvenience has been resolved for us. How many were there really? Were there only two in high school? Was there only one in Mexico City calculating the many vacations you spent there with your older and precocious cousin? How big were these guys' dicks? "He was a mistake," you lamented to me about your parkinglot affair. Why was he a mistake? How many weeks or months did the relationship last? Did he fuck you 50 or 500 times? Would he come over after the kids had gone to sleep and fuck you in the same bed we're sharing now? One of these days when you're refusing to fuck me or you're belittling me like my mother would scold my father in front of the children for an insignificant matter, I am going to unleash the mother-of-all tirades: "You fucking cunt! You promiscuous bitch! Why did you have to fuck so many guys? Were you so desperate for food and entertainment as a single mother and divorcee that like a circus clown you were willing to perform tricks if someone threw peanuts your way? Take your whore pussy away and resume your whoring ways elsewhere!" "I have only existed for you," Iliana insisted as she described her fictional encounters with other men in order to excite me. These fictional seductions she created for my delectation. There is nothing fictional about your exploits. The more you withdraw from me, the more the Apostles fill the void, kissing your lips, groping your breasts, fingering you, eating you and fucking you. Your infamous stories reverberate through my mind, finishing with the blunt reality: "And then he fucked me." Get out of my life. Go back to your multiple lovers. Enjoy sex again, but be discreet because you don't want to be enamoured with the idea that your 15-year-old daughter may be chalking up multiple lovers within a few years. You will forget me after the inconvenience of another divorce. A decent-looking guy with a hard cock will drive another nail into my coffin and a succession of these cocksuckers will bury me in the forgettable past. I loved you once. I loved you so much that I gave up my boys for you. I see my oldest son with his trembling lantern jaw sobbing, "I need my father." I have to live with that image for the rest of my life while you treat me with scorn. You are a fucking whore and it's time you went back to fucking everyone who walks. I could kill you. I wouldn't want to shoot you. I would want to stab you repeatedly: 'This is for the drummer! This is for the one-night stand in Reynosa! This is for the night of ecstasy with Danny! This is for that wintry weekend in Denver! This is because you're a bitch! This is because I hate you! This is because you dashed all my dreams! This is because you're a cold, cold cunt! This is because everything is so fuckin' hopeless and you gave me hope. This is because you're death! I never loved more and now it's gone. How many guys did you really fuck? Twenty! Thirty! Forty! And how many more will you fuck after I have died, every thought of me further reduced by each succeeding orgasm. We used to fuck twice a day. I never thought we would be down to fucking twice a week, nothing more than pussy masturbation. With Iliana I couldn't touch her in the beginning, but I had everything in the end. With you I had free reign in the beginning and nothing in the end. Youl touch me, you ask me if I love you, you talk about buying a car next year and you speak about a future that includes both of us. I look at the framed pictures in my office of us together. We were happy. I couldn't keep my hands off you. I couldn't stop kissing you. You touch me gently, but gesture elicits thoughts of you touching the twelve...the twenty? The thirty? The fifty? How many guys did you let into your apartment after you put the children to bed? How many guys did you fuck on the bed that we share? I can smell the stink of their sweat and sperm stained forever into the mattress. How many were there? These bastards flow into my consciousness like tributaries until they rush through my brain like a raging river. I have to close my eyes and hold my breath as the refuse washes over me. You are just getting fucked, fucked, fucked and the animal that is me is screaming with wild, uncontrollable pain. I'm drowning, but I survive only to nearly drown again. I find a tranquil pool before I'm inundated in these sordid images again. I can no longer sleep in the same bed with you. Hell! It's not even my bed. I'm the latest visitor. My promiscuous wife has no passion for her own husband in her own bed, which she has most likely shared with a dozen guys. But you were so refreshing. You were that first norther after a long, hot summer when you wake up at three in the morning and walk outside because you can't sleep and feel the first wisps of cool air enveloping your body. Winds of change are blowing. I wish there were a different ending to this story, but between your refusal to fuck me and my refusal to escape the past, I can't take it anymore. I want peace. I want to make love to someone without imagining that I am someone else, one of the Treacherous Twelve seducing and fucking you. I want to be free of those motherfuckers. When I fucked you, I told you how I imagined your Denver gringo seducing you after he picked you up at the airport. You took a shower at his place. You knew that you were going to fuck him after he served you a drink and kissed you. You knew that when he paid for that airline ticket that you were going to fuck him. You put on his robe after you dried. He was waiting for you outside the bathroom and took you into his arms. The robe slipped off and you stood before him naked. After engulfing your body with his eyes, he kissed your breasts as he touched you. He backed you against the wall while he smothered your breasts in kisses as his fingers found their way into your pussy. He directed you to his bed and for the next three days he couldn't get enough of you or you of him. On the way to the airport he parked, pulled you into the backseat and fucked you a last time. Over the next three months you met a half-dozen times in San Antonio where he would rip off your clothes and fuck you. You are testing my Zen. You told me in the middle of a noon tryst how the doctor operated on you. You both spent the evening going from bar to bar drinking. You were drunk and I know how quickly you lose your inhibitions in that condition. He pulled you close to him as he drove and reached under your dress, sliding his hand inside your panties and sticking his finger up your pussy. You unzipped him and sucked his dick. At his house he dropped you to his couch where you both rolled off onto the floor, he fucking you on the carpet. He pulled your hair, slapped your ass and humped you like he was going to slam you through a brick wall. You passed out from the drinking and when you regained consciousness you were in a bathtub filled with hot water and he was submerged eating you. He wanted to fuck you again, but in order to relish the experience he had to revive you. You would get together whenever he returned from his practice in Monterrey, and though you liked it rough, he became too violent and you couldn't take it any longer. My Zen exercises aren't working. You have admitted to twelve, but how many were there? You're a fuckin' worthless liar with that whore's cunt of yours. "I've never been touched by anyone else," Iliana sobbed as I left her, but I didn't care because I wanted you. "I need my father," trembled my oldest son, but I needed you more and I turned by back on him and his brother. The dikes are overflowing and their collapse is imminent. When the break happens, all of my repressed hatred and rancor will come spilling out of me. You used to brag about friends with privileges. Doesn't your husband have any privileges? I could withstand the pounding as long as I could respond with some pounding of my own, but nothing. "Hurry up! Get it over!" Did you have that many lovers who fucked you so good or did you become addicted to the variety of new cocks penetrating your cunt? You say that I'm guilty because I insisted of your telling me the details. That is true, but you should have known better. You've kicked this dog too many times and I'm no longer begging for scraps. I am rabid frothing with revenge to bite the hand that once fed me. And I loved you so much. I was loco about you. You'll rebound. There is a picture of you in your senior class picture. You are standing on the balls of your feet with a magnificent smile on your face and a curly mane falling to your shoulders. Though five pregnancies have taken a toll on your body, your face radiates beauty that not even the most sated Don Juan could resist. There will be a better man than me. And you'll be ready for him because you're tired of me. And I'm sure you won't entertain him with a litany of stories and I'm sure he won't demand any details. "Our pasts ended the moment we met," you told me. Perhaps the percentages will be with you next time and you won't find yourself between the sheets with a guy who likes talking shit. What would it be like to unload my burden in one terrible fit and no longer feel the psychological weight dragging me through the dirt? How long would it take me to get over you or would I spend the next year wondering who you were fucking at that particular moment or would an active sex life mitigate the pain? Two nights ago I dreamed that a substance as thick as tofu and streaked with blood poured from my penis as I pissed. After your divorce--you remained faithful to your husband even when he was no longer living with you--you didn't want to have anything to do with men, but inevitably the forces of nature supplanted the pain of the past. You wanted to fuck again. You told a college classmate you wanted to fuck him and he told you that he wanted to fuck you. His answer doesn't surprise me. You went to his apartment and fucked him. You ordered Chinese food and then you fucked again. I came just as he was mounting the second time. I fall on my back and don't pursue more details of one of the lesser Apostle figures. Who was he? How did you meet him? What did he do? How long did this relationship of convenience last? How did it end? Where is he today? Instead, you related the story about surprising your lawyer at his office, locking the door, sweeping the desk clear and fucking him like you were appearing in a Hollywood movie. I came for the third time. If all he sperm deposited in your pussy were conserved in a dam, you could irrigate the Sahara Desert. Why all the drama? There are only four endings to this play: I leave; you leave. I die; you die. You embraced each other with the fierceness of the surf beating against the rocks. I recall another of your reminisces: "He rubs his hands softly across my nipples. Then he squeezes my ass. He drops to his knees and runs his tongue along my legs toward my pussy. He pulls down my panties and eats me. I want him to put his dick in me, but instead he turns me on my stomach and licks my back while he fingers me from behind. I say to myself, 'Fuck me! Fuck me!' Instead, he bites my neck and sticks his two fingers deeper in me. I'm squeezing the sheets in my hands. I can't take it any longer. He is running the head of his cock up and down my back and ass. In my mind all I can envision is this huge, hard cock. I can't stand his teasing any longer and he must sense my desperation because at that moment he turns me on my back, spreads my legs with his knees and rubs the head of his dick against my clit. 'Dammit!' I moan. 'Now!' He slides into me like he was meant for me, pumping slowly at first, then pounding, finally pouring all his power into me. "I had been seeing him at bars for a few weeks. We were drinking and he took me out to his car. I was wearing a dress and sitting on him when he moved his hand inside my legs. I could feel him hard. He moved my panties to one side and stuck his finger in me. When we arrived at his house, he picked me up, I wrapped my legs around him and he carried me inside. In the hallway he pressed me against the wall and pulled my blouse and bra off as he grabbed my tits and sucked them. He carried me to his bedroom and lay me down on the bed. He took off my shoes and kissed my feet. He moved from my ankles to my pussy and took off my panties and ate me. He took off my dress and licked all my body. He started fucking me, but before he would come, he would change positions. He would push my legs behind my head, turn me around, have me climb on top. He finally fucked me from behind. He didn't have a condom so he came on my back. I wasn't satisfied. He fingered me when he saw that I was hot and he fucked me. This time I came." You asked me why I was smacking my lips. I said that I was thinking of your past lovers and how they must have enjoyed the same sensation I was experiencing at this moment. I wanted more details about Osiel. I felt like I was shaking the last coins out of a piggybank. I explained to you for the umpteenth time that lewd commentary during coitus had been the pornography--like the twisting of my nipples--that was part of the process that made me come. Your anecdotes, oftentimes when I was losing force, were the saving antidote. You and Osiel, you commenced, were at a club when you dropped a drink that splashed on your thigh. He used his hand to help dry you and that hand moved precariously close to your pussy. That made you hot. He could tell that you were excited too. You left and went to his truck. He leaned you against the vehicle and you could feel his hard cock pressing against you. Then he dropped to his knees and licked your legs along the inside of your thighs until he reached your panties, which he pulled down. Then he ate your pussy. He rose, opened the door to his truck, pulled down the back seat and slipped his dick into you. "Then we fucked," you said as I exploded inside you. I woke up at two in the morning and came in you again. We woke up together at seven and I came again as you retold the story. I exploded five seconds after you said "and we fucked." I had become Osiel and I had you stretched out in the back of the truck and I wasn't going to stop humping until I had excised and exorcised that motherfucker from your cunt. "We're just horny persons," I told you over lunch. "We're just horny persons," you repeated. There was something ominous in those admissions. I have to only imagine you in the arms of another man, panting shallowly, your nipples erect and your pussy wet as you lay with your legs spread and waiting for a hard cock to enter and I'm ready to fuck anything that walks. The thought of you fucking in the past gives me a carte blanche to fuck on you in the future. I can only consummate my revenge against a woman by fucking on her. The girl of my dreams has plunge me into a nightmare in which maggots are swarming over a piece of meat. When I told Iliana that I was going public with you, she scoffed, "She'll put a pair of horns on you that will break your neck." I had accepted that a few weeks with you would be worth a lifetime of pain, but I wasn't prepared for the torture. I had lived by the philosophy that everyone should fuck everyone else with the sole requisite that all the action include at least a regular cameo appearance by all the participants with me. But all these guys pumping and humping and eating and fingering you has been too much for me. I, the most liberal of liberals, the one with the pornographic mind who delighted in nothing more than raw, unfettered sex, had been served a heaping dish of his own vomit and couldn't swallow it. I told myself that this reaction was beneath my dignity, but until the animal speaks, the man must keep his mouth shut. Are a dozen individuals in a decade a normal number for your generation? If you met a man your age, would he find nothing remarkable in that figure? I don't know if there is a number in your case that I would accept. I can hear Iliana snickering between the sobs. "I like hard dick," you often told me in the beginning. I see you wrapping your legs around them and begging them to thrust harder as you grab the cheeks of their asses and pull them inward. I see your half-opened mouth, your half-closed eyes and your furrowing forehead as your climax approaches. I have never enjoyed fucking anyone as much as I've loved fucking you and I'm sure they shared the same sentiments. How many guys have slipped their hands into your panties, parted your moist lips, pushed your legs apart and plunge their penises into the sweetest pussy I've eaten? Every day I torture myself with your high-school sweetheart ripping off your clothes in the backseat of his car, your Mexican macho sitting you on a ladder, eating your pussy and then doing you dog-style while another highrise tenant watched from afar, your husband burrowing you in the ass, your rebound lover freeing you to follow your instincts, your Monterrey drummer inspiring you to forego your panties so he could drill you whenever and wherever, your first night with Osiel as he pinned you against the pickup and "we fucked", your lawyer pouring wine over your pussy as he consumed you with a connisseur's elan, your doctor who cut you into little pieces with the precision of a surgeon, your lover's best friend who wrestled you to the bed without a struggle and "we came together" and your last admitted lover who kept flipping you over and over and inserting himself in and out and calling on his reserves after he had shot his wad because "he could tell that I was still horny", the Denver gringo who paid for your airline ticket and reaped ten-fold on his investment and your ecstasy lover with whom you found yourself alone with at the end of the evening and you decided to keep the party going, your curiosity of fucking two guys at once and your fantasy of the Man in Black who meets you for the first time in a bar and a half-hour later he has taken you to a hotel room where tumbling over furniture, slamming against walls and falling over chairs he fucks you black-and-blue. "You like to fuck don't you," I repeated into your ear those first days little knowing that I was ambushing myself. As you reeled off your stories, I was coming like a broken dam, one day bursting the dike seven times. I pressed for more and more details about the characters. "This isn't normal," you told me. "I've told you too much. I should have told you that there had only been my husband. I've made a mistake. You're not going to want me because I've had too many guys." Where did you and your high school sweetheart go to make love? What did your Mexican macho teach you about love-making? How many times a week would you and your husband have sex? Who exactly was the rebounder? What was it that made you insane about your Monterrey drummer that he could convince you to accompany him to a restaurant without panties and then fuck the shit out of you in a restroom stall? Did he convince you to shave your pussy too? How drunk and horny were you when Osiel ate your pussy in the parkinglot and then fucked you in his truck? Where did you meet your doctor? How many times did he perform a sexual autopsy on you? How drunk did your lawyer's prick become after he poured wine on your pussy? And ruminating on that one-night stand with your drummer's best friend, how many other times drunk or drugged did you allow your Man in Black to take you to the backseat of a car or a hotel room because the spontaneity of the moment reigned supreme? And what kept the relationship together for another five months after that first night with your last lover? I have no desire to know the answers to the great questions in life. I have no idea why we walk the earth or if there is life after death. I only want to know about you. You are my Russian epic. Everything else could fit into a thin comic book. I want to know why you fucked these guys and the many others you have hidden from me. When I lie on the table I request the girls to masturbate me until they have squeezed out all the poison. This is a snake with a mind of its own and it can strike at any moment. If someone were relating to me my woes, I would laugh. "She's a mother, a 35-year-old professional," I would say. "What did you expect? Does she talk about her past lovers. Does she compare you to them? Does she treat you right? And how many conquests have you had? Then what are you talking about? You should be grateful that a young, beautiful woman would allow an old fart like yourself to touch her." My Zen mind recognizes the absurdity of my attachments to physiological pleasures, but the more I drink, the thirstier I become. According to popular culture, the Muslims have it right religiously. They enter heaven and four virgins are waiting to entertain them. Sex is shallowness multiplied to the umpteenth power, so let me drown in bath water one-inch deep. Much like a basketball player who specializes in garbage, I position myself for the rebounds and score on the easy shots. I would cheat on Iliana three and four times a week and she would forgive me. If we were Hindu, Iliana would have thrown herself atop the pyre. I must know everything. I need to know whether they came inside you or on your stomach? Did your hips grow wider after you started fucking your high-school sweetheart? And how old were you exactly when he fucked you for the first time? Did you bleed? Am I only interested in your sexually? I submit that a woman gives a part of her soul away when she shares her sexuality with another. Fuck the Indians and their phobias about photographs robbing a part of their spirituality. How did the Apostles convinced you that you were their Christ as they nailed you to the cross? How were they able to convinced you that making love to them would be something special? These twelve hound me just like they hounded Christ, or more importantly, you. They want to experience another miracle. Everytime I make love to you, one of them intervenes and I'm part of a menage de trois. Your lawyer has been a frequent partner of late. "My pussy is hot," you told him. You must have been on fire that night. He slurped your pussy and you sucked his dick. Ah, mamacita, I love it when you're steaming, your pussy stuffed like a quiver full of arrows. Did you spend the night with him? Did he fuck you again in the morning? Did you shower with him afterwards? Did you, did you, did you... You are more beautiful than any painting that I've seen of the Virgin Mother. Why couldn't you have conceived your children immaculately? You've made a mockery of my philosophy that everyone should be fucking everyone else. I had gone on a tear after I separated from Iliana. I felt like an aging athlete who was enjoying a prodigious season in the autumn of his career. I gave myself over to a bacchanalian existence. The border is a cornucopia of females. There was a stretch when I had ten options without counting the spontaenous moments or the strip clubs in Matamoros and the massage parlors in Brownsville. On a regular basis, as regularly as one can summon the strength to meet the moment, I entertained a nurse, a TV personality, the mother of one of Octavio's friends, the ex-wife of a school administrator, a teacher, a secretary, a wealthy Mexican widow and, of course, Iliana. I would fuck a different woman for breakfast, lunch and dinner two and three times a week. They all had their demands. The masseuses wanted their money. The Matamoros strippers had crazy illusions that a lover might set them up with an apartment and an allowance. The nurse, whose husband was a doctor, was enduring a mid-life crisis. The TV personality had accumulated an impressive list of conquests, blacks a predilection, and looked at me as both an adornment and a kindred spirit. She talked about us spending time in Paris, but I lost interest in her sexually when she kept asking me to fuck her dog-style under a bright light and I saw several plump figs hanging from her anus. Octavio's friend's mother thought she could kill two birds with one stone if I serviced her and served as a surrogate father. And the school administrator's wife recruited me as her backdoor man. But instead of recollecting those halcyon days, I awake each day and the dogs are tearing at my innards. Who was that gringo with whom you spent the long weekend in Denver? How many times were you with him after that first weekend? Besides sleeping with him, what else did you do with him that weekend? These scavengers attack me in packs. The doctor and Osiel, the two mongrels forever lurking in the shadows, dig into me after the gringo has had his fill. You called Osiel a mistake. What drove you into his arms? Where did you go on dates? Where did he take you when he fucked you? Why did it end with him? How many hours or days did it take you to move to your next lover? You must know that answering these questions leads to more questions, which leads to the only question worth answering, "Why did you have to fuck him?" And if Osiel isn't enough, there's the doctor. How did you meet him? Did you fuck him the first time you went out for dinner? You called him crazy. Did you do ecstasy together? You said he left town to do consulting work in Monterrey, but he would call you upon his return. You said that you exulted in nothing more than having your clothes ripped off. Is that what happened when you fucked your drummer's best friend? Was this another ecstasy moment? You were groping each other when he unhooked your bra. He was drooling with appreciation as you sat on his supine body and settled on his twitching penis, your heavy breasts like two ripe mangoes engulfed in his greedy hands. I wake up in the middle of the night and these guys are pushing your legs skyward as their furious pistons move in and out of you. There's your fresh and fabulous face and there's the misery and the mess. My mind, like my penis, has a will of its own. To the extent I have control over either, I can keep myself from committing suicide just like I can keep myself from committing rape. I am two people, both locked in a vicious battle to control me. The conscious me is the standing army under attack by guerillas operating under the cover of darkness. In this endless civil war I'm trying to attain a compromise between the two. "I can't believe I'm telling my husband this," you said as we made love. Your Denver gringo collected you at the airport. After depositing your suitcase at the hotel--this wasn't a sure thing within his calculations--he took you to his apartment. Freed from those hometown eyes you felt horny and giddy. You had never been with a gringo before--would you ever admit to being with a black--and your curiosity was in high gear. He took you into his arms and in less than two hours after arriving at the airport he was dropping his gears and landing on you. Did you return to your hotel room except to collect your clothes during that long weekend? How many times did you fuck during that 72 hours? He knew that you weren't a sure thing, but once you delivered yourself to him, he couldn't believe his luck and there was no sating him as he went at you again and again. The affair didn't end in Denver but for the following several weeks you would meet him in San Antonio. I can visualize you arriving at the hotel and his whisking you away to a room, pulling off your clothes and coming in you at least twice before returing to the surface for air. Did you feign any resistence that first night? "He knew I was a big girl," you told me. Did he figure that as a divorcee that you would be an easy fuck? There is nothing circumspect about you. If you decide the moment is propitious, you proceed with deliberate speed. You never beat around the bush with me. I knocked on your door on a Sunday night and you were fucking me on a Tuesday. I can never forgive you. How they must have fucked the shit out of you! Your high-school sweetheart must have been beside himself as his masturbating dreams became reality. "Nobody will be at my sister's apartment after school," he would tell you and you would put your homework on hold for a few hours. And your fifteen-year-old body would make his penis stiffer than a diving rod as he sought the source of your juices. How he must have fucked you! Your Mexico City lover, ten years your senior, awaited your periodical visits with an anticipation that eclipsed his Christmas expectations. He did you dog-style on the roof of his apartment as his howls encircled the moon. How he must have fucked you! Your husband, night after night, reveling in the body of a teenager with heavy breasts and hot pussy, could pump you blindly without even kissing you until he dumped his sperm in you, twice hitting the bull's eye. How the young fellow when you were on the rebound must have fucked you! Forget the initial weekend in Denver! Those subsequent escapades in San Antonio must have been scenes of carnage as he couldn't drag you fast enough into his room, couldn't strip you fast enough, couldn't find himself in you fast enough, couldn't come in you fast enough in order to reclaim his territory no different than a dog peeing on a fire hydrant. How he must have fucked you! And for the next 48 hours he would fuck and fuck and fuck you because he knew that this banquet would have to fill him for the next few weeks before he returned starving and devoured you again. Then your Mexican drummer who swept you off your feet, pounded you incessantly, sweetening your trysts with ecstasy, screwing you in public bathrooms, backseats of cars, your own bedroom while your children slept in other rooms. How he must have fucked you! When that relationship bottomed out, newcomers arrived to lift your spirits. The doctor, who never informed you that he was married until you encountered him at the mall with his wife, ripped you apart as only a married man can rip a woman apart. How he must have fucked you! And after he ate your pussy in the parkinglot and fucked you in the backseat of his truck, how Osiel must have ravaged you for weeks! And how your lawyer, who for six months declared his love to you, must have fucked you with an energy that only sentiment can deliver! And how your one-night stand must have fucked you knowing that this rendezvous would be the sole opportunity of his lifetime! And the night at Danny's when you found yourselves alone at the end of the party but high on ecstasy and you couldn't help but keep the party going! And then there was your lover the five months previous to our relationship. How many mornings after uncompromising sex did he turn you back over in the morning and fuck you with your pussy already brimming with his sperm? How can I go on with this kaleidoscope of sex swirling inside my brain? The liberal has overdosed on his own liberalness. Hour after hour the smut runs endlessly through my head? How many times did you bring each of the Apostles to a head? Based on time and circumstances: high-school sweetheart (300); Mexico City lover (75); husband (1500); rebounder (30); Monterrey drummer (750); the gringo (100); doctor (50); Osiel (200); lawyer (100); one-night stand (2) (I'm sure he went for seconds knowing that his time was short); the ecstasy partner (10); the last fling (150). Before I fucked you for the first time, you had been fucking for 15 years, plugged conservatively 3,000 times, probably closer to 5,000 times. I'm counting sheep.