Jenny Catlin

by Horror Sleaze Trash on July 23, 2011

Jenny Catlin lives in Los Angeles CA.

We don’t fuck anymore. Did we ever really fuck, so often? Maybe in those first days, the risqué days when it was sexy and sleazy to frequently fuck a drunk and crazy girl, who belonged to another man.

It bothered me more in the beginning, now I tell myself it is okay, normal even. We are aging at a rapid pace. We watch fake news and roll to our respective bed corners to sleep off the day and I cannot pretend his hard-on against my back in my sleep doesn’t bother me. Ignore my own questions about what he does with it while I’m at work all day.

Don’t dare to wonder why all the phone sex chat lines still call and text him at all hours of the great twenty four. I don’t fixate on my weight, my age, my shrunken tits as much as I first did. Explaining to myself, over cold cheep morning coffee that I am not all that repulsive. My own nature sliding away to recesses in my memory that hold other things like how to make an origami swan or the combination to a high school friends locker. The memory of sex sliding into the useless hard drive of un-necessary information.

I don’t think about fucking anymore, really. Don’t risk challenging my insecurity and rage, my disgust at what I have become, what we together have become. I don’t hear the stories of his youth, stories of naked girls in boots and wanting to fuck everyone all the time. I walked through the apartment once, getting ready for an interview naked in go-go boots. The shadow of too many stories silenced when he told me the boots weren’t his favorite. I am a character from a Bukowski poem. Old, and dry and useless. A body held onto for comfort and memory and something else too deep and Freudian to lash out at.

So I chain smoke in the morning, reading other peoples stories. Prude and angry at the sexy bits, and tell myself it is perfectly fine to have a sexless relationship. If you’re eighty.

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