True Love Ways by Jerry Erwin
Janey Janowitz—petite, redheaded, and Jewish—was
on her knees, sucking the cock of her balding gentile lover, who
lay appreciatively on the couch of her immaculate Studio City
condo.
As quaintly traditional as the moment should have been, transcending
all boundaries of race, religion, and class, Janey’s mind
was distracted. While inhaling Elmer’s flesh, she found
herself thinking—despite the good time she usually had with
him—that he was not her ideal man—the straight arrow
type she’d prefer. When, upon meeting him, he told her that
his passion in life was to write poetry and fiction, she thought,
oh god, another deadbeat dreamer, due to an unpleasant experience
with a previous emotionally unstable lover.
But as she continued to give him oral pleasure, she reminded
herself that she really did like him; how he could make her laugh,
be sympathetic to her daily dramas, soothe her anxiety in a most
unique yet genuine fashion, and—a quality not be be undervalued—knew
how to operate his sizable penis and flexible tongue to truly
exceptional degrees for her fulfillment.
If only he wasn’t so, well, the way he was. So irreverent
and irregular (which also bothered her parents, as he wasn’t
very good in social situations, with Janey always having to make
excuses for him at family events.) And as good—no, as spectacular
as they were in bed—she had trouble seeing herself with
him for the rest of her life, or, for that matter, even the next
five years, causing her to lose her concentration, and . . .
It popped out. She quickly put it back in, reminding herself
that despite his creative obsession he had yet to display any
abnormal mental behavior; that he was basically gentle and respectful
to her, and God knows that no one in the world (and particularly
Los Angeles) was perfect, and wasn’t a successful relationship
a matter of weighing out the good and bad to get as much consistently
pleasurable behavior out of it as possible without driving each
other into a deep, dark, destructive depression?
She nearly gagged as he slid deeper into her throat. Upon readjusting,
she realized that over the years, and particularly so since turning
forty-five, she had compromised her “wish list” greatly
in what she expected from a man. After two bad marriages and several
equally as bad relationships, she had no choice but to downgrade
her acceptable criteria. And in all honesty, she knew that when
it came to what she could give back to a man, she was doing some
downgrading of her own, because . . .
As Elmer moaned in response to her feisty lips, she knew that
she had no genuine concern or sympathy for his deeper, creative
needs, seeing them as juvenile and unrealistic in nature, surely
leading to nothing but disappointment and despair that would be
passed on to whatever unfortunate woman happened to be with him
at the time, and . . .
After pulling him from her mouth and moving into the bedroom
for their usual rousing session of intercourse, surprised herself
to be adding a questionable twist to their heated carnality—an
amendment as it were, to their already compromised love?
Janey, while sitting on top of him, with her great little boobs
of swollen nipples and enthusiasm bouncing in that Janey Janowitz
way that made him slam into her feisty little body even harder
and faster, creating a thoroughly out of this world pleasure most
mortals only experience when watching a really good porno film
with excellent lighting, found herself . . .
Strangling him. With an apparent vengeance. And he didn’t
seem to mind, continuing to pump deeply inside her, his face turning
red as he gagged, causing him to roughly pull her white hot nipples,
which caused her to scream out and strangle him harder with her
small but thick hands, and . . .
She loved it, starting to come as she had never come before.
A deep, full from the gut, from the deepest part of her pussy,
from the ultimate depths of her very Jewish soul, orgasm, that
was immediately followed by another one, then another, and another,
and suddenly . . .
He raised his hands to her throat, gripping her thin, smooth
neck with his long, nimble fingers, strangling her back with equal
vigor, causing her to bounce faster and harder, her face turning
just as red, her gagging amplified as he squeezed tighter, her
eyes opening wide until they both exploded into a screaming, beyond
satisfying, mindless frenzy of perfectly united flesh, desire,
pain, fear, and . . .
Afterwards, as they lay there exhausted, she asked, equally amazed
and confused: “Why did we enjoy strangling each other like
that?”
“Because,” he replied in a particularly lucid and
unguarded moment, “we don’t really like each other,
and it’s a way of satisfying our primordial and vindictive
sexual needs.”
Janey, not altogether pleased with that explanation (particularly
so when she suspected it was true) didn’t respond. Was it
a cry out for help? From both of them, in an age and city of compromised,
mutated relationships?
After their usual post-sex round of Ben and Jerry’s ice
cream, they took turns wrapping their fingers around each others
throats again, experimenting with various choking techniques—
Elmer coming a couple of times, Janey nine to eleven, her face
beet red, her eyeballs on the verge of popping out of her screaming,
creaming skull, until . . .
She fell asleep. Dreaming impossible little dreams of a man who
apparently didn’t or ever would exist; her ideal man; the
straight arrow type she’d prefer, with a sizable penis and
flexible tongue, who wouldn’t have to be strangled and strangling
her in order to feel something; a down to earth kind of man who
her parents would find delightful; a man who would fit in so well
to what Janey had always thought would be a good, fulfilling,
and healthy life.
She woke up the next morning with a headache. Upon stumbling
into the bathroom and looking in the mirror, she was distressed
to find unsightly red fingernail marks around her neck.
No dreams manifested.
But she did experience a delightful cringe in her lower extremities,
which brought a smile to her compromised, mutated existence.
Jerry Erwin
Born and raised in rural Kentucky, I was an active, creative child,
suppressed by public education and repressed by Southern Baptist
values, resulting in borderline alienation and the desire—the
passionate need—to write. I loved baseball, rock n’ roll,
and wet the bed until I was twelve. An ex-girlfriend/psychologist
told me I was probably a better person for it—the baseball, that
is. I attended some colleges and visited several countries for
various and all but forgotten reasons (amazing how 95% of our
lives are vaporous images of someone who may have been us). Despite
that particular horror, and being the eternal (verging on exhausted)
optimist that I am, I’ve managed to complete six novels,
a virtual trove of short fiction, and earned some money writing
film scripts that never got made for people I’d only feel
creatively involved with if I had strangled them to death in their
sleep. But, enough about me.
