Letter to My Ex-Wife, in Need of an Explanation
I am guessing you have been wondering where I went to lately, given the fact that I haven’t been home for a while. So – I am staying with a friend for now, somewhere in the neighborhood, actually, but don’t try to find me or anything. I will be looking for my own apartment soon, so don’t worry about my accommodations. Hey! I just realized this is really the first time I’ve written you a letter! I mean, there were of course the little love notes in the beginning, but that was so long ago. Just so you know, I will never be coming home again, and I thought that maybe I would tell you why. I’ve evolved! Oh my God, finally – I’ve become someone more complete, almost entirely fulfilled now, so changed that our friends who knew me before might not even recognize me anymore. But I’m proud, really – so no freak-outs, please. Plus, because the things that have currently taken hold of my attention are relatively new for me, I thought that this letter might give me a chance to put down in ink some ideas about why I have taken such a fancy to my new hobbies. Since you haven’t seen or heard from me in about a month, you have to be wondering what the heck happened. Furthermore, because we didn’t have sex for the last sixty-four days of our relationship (and I know how you feel about such lapses in what you currently refer to as “momma’s little ham glazing sessions”), I am guessing that matters have been greatly complicated in your mind. I know the tendencies of your imagination quite well, what with all those evil gnomes of self-destruction pushing their nubby little fingers around in your cerebral cortex, conjuring up the most unholy of thoughts. After all, I would want and expect the same from you, where explanations are concerned. We did love each other, in my estimation. Maybe you actually even still do! We cut each other’s nails, for chrissake. How much closer to someone can you be?
Now then. The point of this letter. Ok, here goes… a curious event took place some weeks ago, which, I believe, has changed me forever. I’m still grappling with the specifics of this event myself. To launch into things straight away, I think, could only upset and perhaps even terrify you, but I am going to do it like that anyway. You always said, “Rip the band-aid off quickly, don’t snail it off!” I thought that was so cute, with the thing about the snail and how they’re practically the same color as the band-aids, and then they move so slowly along, the snails that is, taking like a year just to make it from the driveway to the edge of the flower pots with the sweet-smelling gardenias on our front porch. I’ll really miss that sense of humor you’ve got, won’t I! And remember the time when you accidentally stepped on that snail, crunching it beneath your bare foot as you hopped high trying to avoid it with slippers in your hand? The one in the front of the long line of them, heading towards the porch? So clumsy you always were! Endearing, to say the least. I even stepped on one that night too – just to be supportive! But now I think I may be digressing.
So there was this apparently long-standing joke going on between certain unnamed co-workers of mine down at the dental office. (Those straight white coats we all wear don’t necessarily signify anything about mental hygiene). So the joke goes like this: a dentist leaves the office around lunchtime (this time it was Dr. Greenberg), much in the same manner he would any other day of the week. About two hours later, he calls up the office answering service, and in a feverish manner, leaves an out-of-breath message for a specific dentist (this time, me). The terms of the joke are brief: pick a specific dentist who is not in on the joke yet, and be as quick as possible in order to heighten the effect. Can you see where this is going, Honey? You always said I was so gullible! You had no idea the extent to which you were right about that! All that was left on the message: a telephone number, the feeling of an extraordinary amount of concern and danger, and the plain fact that the dentist leaving the message was apparently in a great deal of trouble. Several minutes later, I was called out of a routine scraping and cleaning session with Mrs. Beecker, that cute old German lady with the mauve-colored hair who we always see at the video store spying on the patrons behind the saloon doors that close off the porno section of the store. You know Mrs. Beecker? Sure you do. Anyway, so I got the message, scribbled down the telephone number and immediately called up, frantic, wondering if a bail bondsman or an emergency room nurse would pick up the other end
of the line.
Instead, this was the message that I heard. I wrote it down word for word, even though I had to call the number ten or fifteen times that day to do it. You know how bad you always said my memory was, especially for important things like our anniversary! Here was what the voice said on the machine:
“Hello and welcome to the information line for the L.A. Jacks, where you, too, may see the thing itself. The L.A. Jacks is a group of men who like to jack off with like-minded men. Neither a business nor a religion, we are a public service organization now in our nineteenth year. We meet twice a month on the 2nd and 4th Monday; doors open at 7:30pm and close promptly at 8:30. Don’t be late. This month, we meet on the 12th and the 26th. Our location is 1601 Hope, downtown at the Friction Booth. Our rules are simple. Mandatory clothes check. J-O play only. No cock sucking, no butthole play. No obnoxious behavior. No poppers, for example. Don’t be shy, smile and have fun. We ask a contribution of seven dollars. You may bring beverages in cans. We provide the lube and paper towels. Fetish wear is welcome. Creative pecker play and group scenes are highly encouraged. So come on down! Join L.A. Jacks for an evening of poetry in motion, where you too may see the thing itself.”
Needless to say, I was a bit confused. I mean, Honey – come on! What would you have thought? You know I’m not always the quickest on the uptake when faced with long, drawn-out explanations of things I know nothing about, like that time you tried to explain to me what soap operas were, and why they were so important. I was so lost! My brain felt like it turned into mashed potatoes – and I think you even said as much, judging by the look on my face. Well – this time the same sort of thing happened, I guess. I wasn’t really confused about what had gone wrong with Dr. Greenberg (if there was even anything at all), but more along the lines of exactly what would be considered “obnoxious behavior” in such an environment as was described over the telephone and, further, what the exact nature of “creative pecker play” might be. Dr. Greenberg and the others in the office had a tremendous laugh at my expense, and I played the part of the jackass they needed to get the most out of their gag. You would have cried if you had seen how sad I pretended to be! It was terrible, in a way, I suppose. In reality, I had already decided that I was going to go and check out the Jacks. I mean, why not? Wasn’t it you, Dear, who always encouraged me to be a little bit more experimental? I mean, of restaurants we’d have dinner in, given my propensity for always ordering the same dishes. But this was real! You’d have been so proud of your brave little boy!
For several weeks afterward, I came home on my lunch breaks, and while you were at work at the Baklava Warehouse over in Glendale, I practiced new and (what I thought would be) complicated methods of “creative pecker play” there in front of our bedroom mirror, by myself.
I developed a technique of performing a “Three Stooges”-like scenario around my penis, in much the same manner as they chased each other around a couch, with the penis acting as Curly, my balls playing Larry and my right hand as Moe – obviously. We both used to laugh at how mean he could be to his brothers! Wait – were they his brothers? Now I can’t remember. You were always the one who could clear up such mysteries. Oh well. I was impressed with my own apparent brilliance, to say the least, having devised such play-acting rituals. Truly “creative,” wouldn’t you agree? I did the “wubwubwubwub” that so often came out in the frenetic falsetto from the high-strung
Curly directly before receiving a beating from Moe. I lifted my balls up either inside my inguinal canal or up and under my legs where I would tuck them in between my butt cheeks. Larry was always the scared but calm one who seemed to be able to get away from Moe, so it made perfect sense to me to hide my balls. When I did the reverse tuck (which I opted for most of the time), I would turn around and bend over to see what it looked like in the mirror, and decided to call this Part 2 section of my pecker play “Oops I sat in hairy gum!” Back to the Stooges. I’m so bad at staying focused! Aarrgh! You were right about that, Sweetheart. And I’m sorry. But what really worked about my act, if you want to know the truth, was the labored “Why You” that I started just like Moe from the side of my mouth right as I began flogging my penis with all the confidence of a toilet plunger in a plumbing factory. I mean, real confidently. For the grand finale, I would hum the ending notes of the Stooges theme song, emitting a steadily timed stream of semen onto the mirror, ending with the “da da da duh – da duh.” You know the song I mean, Honey – it was always your cue to get up and use the bathroom on those late Saturday mornings when we’d stay in bed watching tv.
Sometime soon after that, I decided I was ready. I tucked a couple of cans of Old Milwaukee into my leather coat and went down to the Friction Booth. I didn’t recognize anyone there at first, but soon enough I noticed that the cook from the House of Pancakes (the one we ate in last June every weekend when we had the kitchen re-done) was there. What was his name? I forget. He must have come directly from IHOP because he still had that floppy white hat on with the “Rooty Tooty Fresh and Fruity” button flair pinned to it. And Mr. Hilton from those bird painting classes you took down at the park was there. He took a while to register in my head, but then I remembered the Baltimore Orioles baseball cap he always wore, and when he took it off later on during the session to launch his entire load right into it, I realized it was indeed him. He didn’t spill a drop or anything! You would have been so impressed because, if I recall correctly, you always used to come home from that class and tell me stories about how the old guy would consistently spill his paint jars on the floor. So strange, how sometimes you can be so wrong, and other times, you can’t help but get it right. Right as he put the cap back on, I saw some white jizz dribble down his left temple as the wet stain began to seep through the black space behind the bird. I thought for a second that it looked like the bird had taken a shit on his head! But that’s going too far, I suppose. He didn’t care either way, though – he just brushed the goo back into his sideburns and behind his ear, readjusting his cap pretty much the same way Cal Ripken did in every game he ever played. And I know you know what I mean! Aren’t you glad now that I made you sit through so many baseball games? Otherwise, you’d have no idea what I was just referring to.
So, yes – it was a little weird being in the same room with a bunch of guys, standing around in a lazy circle (about two or three players deep), stroking off in roughly concentric circles like so many rows of shark teeth. Not gay, or anything, though. Weird, right? ‘Cause you’d kinda have to imagine it would be, but it wasn’t. At all. I don’t know about creative, but as far as I could tell, the Three Stooges thing went over pretty big-time. Right when I did the Curly laugh and tucked Larry in between my butt cheeks, I got a few pats on the back from a couple of the guys standing nearby. I could swear the hollering that sounded like wild Amazonian birds emanating from the shadows on the other side of the room – those were for me, too, I think. Seriously! Then I guess I went too far, or else I just misunderstood the part about no butthole play, ‘cause I had originally thought that they meant just don’t play with anyone else’s butthole. I didn’t realize they actually meant don’t play with any butthole in the entire room, including your own butthole. When I turned around, Honey, and bent over with my ass facing the middle of the circle, thinking I was gearing up to a grander finale after I had my first release, I must have gotten a little carried away. I don’t know what kind of weird confidence swept over me, but it was like getting hit in the face by a chilly Chicago wind or something, because it was powerful. For no reason at all, I stuck my thumb up my butt to further highlight the “Oops I just sat in hairy gum” visual. I hadn’t even practiced that part at the house, so I probably should have been more nervous about it anyway. But there I was, Sweetheart – bein’ all spontaneous, just like you always wished for me to be! I really did it, too! The next thing I know, I am being rather hastily (and somewhat awkwardly) rushed out through the two rows of guys behind me and toward the dressing rooms. I remembered the gentleman escorting me out was the self-proclaimed Master of Ceremonies who had announced, “Let the jack-offery begin!” around half past eight, just after they shut and locked the front doors. He had really hairy hands and his thumbs were cranked into my torso as he pulled me out of the group. He was so rough! I had bruises like from a seatbelt when you get in a car wreck. Back in the entry room of the club, I was rudely handed my clothes when the Master, addressing me in short, angry lines, asked me please go ahead and take at least a few weeks off before I made another appearance at the Jacks. He said he was intrigued, even impressed with my routine, but in the end, he had to make sure to look out for the more shy members of the club. Apparently, in his wisdom and experience with the Jacks, he figured that my high level of showmanship might actually be off-putting to some of the membership, and figured they’d be able to forgive and forget after a little while, just give them a chance by taking some time off. That was embarrassing, but also kinda nice to finally be singled out for something. Weird, right? I’m sure you can see through all that, and find some way to be proud of me for putting myself out there so much.
More to the point, I had overheard some guys talking about something called “back ache” or “bake-off” or something like that, and I asked them about it during the pre-festivities in the locker room, and they said they would give me a number a little bit later. When I got home that night, I realized that when I bent over to do the trick with Larry from the Three Stooges, one of those guys must have been standing next to me (it was kind of dark, like I told you before). He had surreptitiously tucked a business card into the boots I was wearing with the phone number that he had mentioned earlier. Most of the guys at Jacks left their shoes on too, or at the very least their socks, so no – I didn’t feel weird about that at the time at all. And thank God, anyway, because I don’t know where he would have put the business card had I taken my shoes and socks off in the first place! I guess sometimes it really pays off to be such a practical thinker. Right, Honey?
The card said “Bukkake Focus Group” in a very straightforward all caps font, and only had a phone number with an area code for somewhere in the middle of Los Angeles. I took the card home, and the next day at work started doing a little research on the Internet in between fillings and cleanings. It was easy to see why I had thought they were talking about a “back ache,” or whatever it was I thought I heard them saying. When I tried typing “bukkake” into the search engine, “back ache” was what it thought I was asking for, and all the search turned up was a bunch of local chiropractors and back pain specialists. Eventually I refined my search enough to figure out what was going on with the Focus Group whose card announced them so professionally. The recent cultural phenomenon that I discovered through this research needs a bit of explaining. Hey – if I didn’t know what it was, then there’s no way in heck that you would! And what good would this letter do for either of us if I didn’t make my new situation clear to both of us?
Bukkake, just so you know, is from Japan. You’ve always been pretty good with the cultural origins of words, so maybe you could have guessed this. Though the term bukkake is not a sexual term at all, it has been used to dub what stands as the premier, hot fetish racing through the world at the moment. Grammatically, bukkake in Japanese is the base form of a verb, yet as it stands alone, it is a noun that means “splash,” or “heavy squirt.” All sexual connotations aside, it stands as a pretty normal word in the Japanese language, from what I can tell. Japan even has a soup called “bukkake udon,” it’s so normal over there. I guess the soup has nothing to do with sex at all; it’s just called bukkake because they think it makes the soup sound more appetizing. They put a lot of vegetables and liquid in the soup, and by calling it bukkake, they believe it gives the feeling that the soup was made quickly and with more freshness, like someone just “splashed” the soup together. I thought that was so interesting when I read it the first
time! Don’t you think so?
Here’s how the history of the sexual term “bukkake” goes. Around the late eighties and early nineties, a couple of Japanese video companies were trying to make videos that catered to facial and sperm lovers in Japan. (In case you didn’t know, a “facial” is a term in pornography that means “to launch a jack-off spray onto the face of the other party or parties participating in the sexual act.” You know how much I have always been very sensitive, and very into public displays of affection like holding hands, kissing or walking arm in arm? This seemed so sweet to me when I read about it. You know – it was like a kind of affectionate display, taken to a brand new extreme!) So anyway, companies like “Soft on Demand,” “Shuttle Cocks & Badminton Girls,” “Madame Woo’s Enormous Genitals Video Group,” “Deeps” and a few other smaller ones decided to make videos that would consist of a single girl getting facial after facial, over and over again – like a fire that just couldn’t be put out. It’s really kind of loving, in a way, if you let yourself think about it in a poetic light. Like a perverse, acted-out Hallmark card of pornography. It’s just like the time right after two people get married, and everyone at the wedding throws handfuls of rice onto them as they attempt to make their getaway in a limousine out in front of the church. Just hurling love at the couple, all the love you have to give at that very moment. Remember when they did that to us? We thought we had it made, forever. Didn’t we?
Anyway, you can do research on the Internet if you want to. I’ll give you a little tip on a site called “NativityBukkake.com,” where a Japanese video company has mapped out plans for a new release next fall. In this themed bukkake series, it seems that American guest director Flynn Flin has decided that, right in time for the holidays next year, he would retell the greatest story ever told by man: the story of the birth of the savior. His idea is to recreate historic Bethlehem, complete with straw and donkeys and chickens and everything, and have the bukkake sequence all take place around a stable with live cattle. I’m probably going to hell for just writing down the sacrilegious plot in this letter to you, so I can’t imagine where Flynn Flin is headed after he dies! There would be at least 150 guys dressed up in costumes like the three kings, Mary and Joseph, the Inn Keeper and the shepherd, and the recipient would be resting in the small manger in the center of the stable, dressed in swaddling white robes with just her sweet little Japanese face showing. Amazing. You should really take a look if you get a second.
So bottom line, Honey, I called the number on the card. The Bukkake Focus Group meets next Tuesday, and since I’ve been temporarily banned from the Jacks, I figure I might as well go and check it out. I hope you are well and not missing me too much. You always did really great things around the house those times when dental conferences would call me out of town for the weekend, and you’d be by yourself for a couple of days, reading or knitting or rearranging the furniture in the living room. Maybe we can meet up for tea or coffee or even a glass of wine when this whole thing blows over a little bit. I am sure you need your space right now too, and both of us need a little time to let all this stuff sink in. Who knows what I’ve uncovered for myself with all this public love business, but just trust that maybe I’m as well as I’ve really ever been.