The Louvre Alone

Jack was tired of getting Janie off. They met in the beer garden of a bar called the Sluicy Goosy. Tuesday nights the Sluicy sold cheap beer and the crowds overflowed into the beer garden. Jack attended these beer nights, as he had grown tired of jerking off to pictures of naked, big-breasted women. Now he still wanked but in the same bed as the sleeping, cranky, frigid girl who he was dating.
Janie didn’t really like sex. She endured cock. She had a condition that made it impossible for her to suffer through more than five weekly passes of the dick. Of course, this condition only surfaced after they had been dating and fucking for about a week. Janie now blamed him for rubbing her back, for “starting it,” she said.
Janie had been sitting in the beer garden next to her then current boyfriend, Darren. Darren was a broad-shouldered, alcohol-steeped moron from a rich family in Houston who Janie had endured in the hope that he would marry her and then die in a car crash. Instead, he fucked away all the skin in her vagina and made her useless to men ever after. She currently despised Darren, and Jack knew her grousing about Darren was a preview of her future grousing about him. He knew the same things she said about Darren today she would in the future be saying about him. With these considerations in mind, he was growing tired of going down on her and expertly licking her clitoris. Jack ate pussy well. He concentrated. He used his tongue like a fine paintbrush, not like a sanding block. She loved it, and he knew their relationship hung by his paintbrush.
The first night he got her off, after they had discussed her condition, after Jack had magnanimously offered to lick her without her reciprocating, was the first hint of the anger to come. She came and rolled the blankets off of herself. From his position of supplication, his knees barked from standing on the bare floor at the foot of the bed, he wiped the cunt juice on the pillowcase her hips had rested on, and then he rolled over as she—naked—crossed the room.
“Don’t look at me,” she barked at him, the man who had just had her most private regions inches from his eyes. “Look away.” Jack was accustomed to acceding to her commands, which she often issued. Jack lowered his gaze, as his tongue tracked down a stray pubic hair in his mouth. His tamed and flaccid penis slowly fell down at bay like a bull that had chosen not to attack the matador’s red cape.
“How is it, Janie,” Jack said, emboldened, “that I can lick your pussy for twenty minutes, yet when you’re naked I can’t look at you?”
“Listen, Jack,” she said, setting one leg locked on her hip, with the nasal edge in her voice that told him he should expect a lecture, “if you want to keep seeing me, to keep fucking me, there are some things your going to need to accept.”
“Fucking you? You don’t fuck me. You lay there with your ass on a pillow, letting me get a crick in my neck, letting me do all the work.” He watched a whole new set of creases form as her jaw tightened, as the anger drew her brows together, as she geared up for a fight.
“Women do all the heavy lifting in this world, Jack, and this relationship is no different. I’m the one who decides what we do, where we go, which parties we attend.”
“Because you need to do those things. You’re a control freak!”
Her eyes squinted and her upper lip flattened and curled out in a surly arrogance that meant she was digging in.
“What you mean is you’re a wimp,” she said and played her trump. “You’re a dweeb who needs a woman to tell him what to do.” Then she smiled that angering, superior pose that meant she considered that word un-toppable.
Jack knew that under the bounds of honor, she had delivered the deathblow. Jack was fortunate, though, in being a dishonorable man, a man prone to rabbit punches, able to kick someone who had fallen. He was not averse to fighting entirely dirty.
“I may be, Janie, but I consider that better than being a frigid bitch.” It had been a moderating choice when he consciously permitted himself to perhaps continue seeing her by substituting ‘bitch’ for his intended word ’cunt’—a word he knew few men could survive using. Still it had not been moderated enough. Her rage caught fire.
“Listen, buster”—ohh, this word meant he had miscalculated. “You take so long to come I can’t imagine any woman staying awake long enough for you to get off your sorry rocks." She paused for effect. “Besides, you can’t even eat pussy right.”
At this, Jack flung off the remaining tail of the blanket and leapt up to confront her with his naked human body standing next to her.
“Your dry, crusty hole is impossible to eat. I’m sick of it, my cock is sore and I’m glad I don’t have to fuck you anymore. You know what Janie? It bores me to fuck you. I think you’re a shitty lay.”
This trump card delivered its intended blow. Civility was gone. She was silenced. He had gone too far. She stared at him. He watched her lips gradually peel apart with sticky saliva gluing them together. Her leg started a rhythmic shaking that told him he had scored a direct hit. She was unable to respond for twenty seconds. He already regretted actually hitting her weak point, and wished he could reach into her ears to extract his hurtful words and the sad associations they triggered. The vast, wordless gorge of tears came forth, as she released the long brewing emotion that had actually been generated by his use of the word "frigid”—which touched on her deep-seated fears of being exactly that.
Jack now wished he could retract those words but it was not possible. Her tears flowed, landing in shiny oblong blotches on the wood-parquet floor.
Jack found himself drawn to the tiny circles of reflected light in the blotches, a testament to the small light she liked to have on while they made love. It was the same lamp that triggered the argument. All of Jack’s manly impulses drove him to go to her, to hug her, to rub her back and rest his cheek against her throbbing temple, as the wetness trickled down his neck and cooled the skin over his carotid artery. He grimaced and stood apart from her. He was the reason for her tears.
Another half-dozen drops fell from her now-lowered head and she turned on her heel quietly—with the most refined anger that is silent. She moved efficiently to the bathroom like someone who needed to vomit up the overflowing torrent of emotion.
Jack remained in the room and sat on a corner of the bed. He gazed around the room at the blond-wooded wardrobe with the doors that wandered open when anyone crossed the floor.
She returned in her dark burgundy bathrobe with an agenda.
“You can’t stay here tonight, Jack.” she said in a nasal tone. “I need to be alone. I don’t think you should call me tomorrow.”
That was it. Jack knew he was again alone. It was finished. He would retrace this night for months to come, as he thought of alternate rejoinders, other ways he could have responded that would not have ended it. She stood with one elbow cradled in her fist. He drew on his trousers, found his shirt, tightened the laces in his Addidas and prepared to exit her life forever.
As he did so, all the magic experiences they had shared flashed in his memory: the concerts, the first early embraces, the first kiss, the time in the hotel room they had shared with two other couples when she had pulled him into the tiny bathroom to silently make love to her with her hand over his mouth. He remembered the feeling he had had on all those lonely, desperate, suicide-flirted nights of agony. These feelings came back and made him swoon in the stupidity of what he had said just now to this lovely girl he had dreamed about, this charming dove he had lain awake panting with on their first night together. All these thoughts blended together with memories of a rainy night, when he walked alone in a downpour without any sense of peace, knowing the true agony of seeing the Louvre alone and having no human being to share the feeling with, or to say, “this is what I loved.”
Unable to dally any longer, Jack tightened his shoelaces into bigger bows and looked up into her eyes—now cold towards him, now treating him like any other man she despised. He knew from her set jaw and the patient way she crossed her arms and pursed her lips flat at him, that she was organizing the reasons she would give to her friends for the breakup. She would not give the real reasons—that he had called her frigid, that he had misled her about his desire to offer oral sex. Instead, she would re-evaluate previous sins she had forgiven him for and use these as the reasons for having dumped him. His actual sins were less relevant and would only embarrass her. He knew the important things were the reasons she would give to her girlfriends. But none of these really mattered, as girlfriends were only too willing to believe in the sins of former boyfriends. Boyfriends were the two-faced enemy, the men who made love to them and then later had “gotten off their rocks.” When Jack had heard Darren described as despicable, he knew this was a re-interpretation of the man who had invariably been described as having so much potential, as having prospects, which was code for the feminine equivalent of, “he’s rich.” Darren’s father had been a drinker, had horrible health, had been one step away from delivering his inheritance to Darren and, in effect, the hands of Janie. If only she been capable of tolerating the fuck pig, drunken fool, gin swilling, dry-twat scrogging, emotion-ignoring swine.
Jack knew he had always been compared positively to Darren. In truth, Jack had been pleased to hear the stories as they gave him a benchmark idea of how to behave. But he couldn’t imagine Darren having called her a “frigid bitch,” and Janie would have never admitted to such an exchange. Losing such control would have been too revealing, and if it had happened, she would not have told him.
There were no more viable excuses so Jack found his coat and donned the role of a spurned man exiting her life. Apparently, the tears on the bathroom floor had been the only witness to the bargaining she had endured as to the viability of their now autopsied relationship.
Jack went through a whole scenario of apologies in the seconds he buttoned his coat and with each button he discarded each tack as unviable. Quite politely, she endured his delayed parting as she had endured his cock. Jack knew that she would not consent to see him again.
“Janie, you know it doesn’t have to be like this….”
“Listen, Jack, this isn’t going to work. I’ve known it for a long time. Finally, I’ve realized there’s no more point to going on.” Jack stepped outside.
A light rain began to fall.

The Louvre Alone

Tom Hunter

Brooklyn, United States

  • Artist
    Notes

Artist's Description

The end of a love affair.

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