That Thing You Do With Your Mouth: The Sexual Autobiography of Samantha Matthews as Told to David Shields Read Online Free PDF Page A

didn’t. That went on for six months.
    Kelly broke a supposed coke habit by joining the military. She went to boot camp, where she pretended to be straight, came back tougher and drug-free, and many days was really nasty to me. Six months in, she’d randomly show up after not talking to me for maybe a week, drunk (but still sharp) and sweet, and seduce me. Then we wouldn’t talk for a few days. One day she told me she just wanted to be friends. She still loved Melanie. I cried (after Kelly left). She broke my heart, but I told her that was better for me, too. We managed to stay friends-with-benefits over the next eight months or so, sleeping together whenever we weren’t dating other people. The rescue fuck.
    One day she picked me up in her car and drove around, ripping into me—saying the cruelest things. There were several sessions like this where she would shout me down or laugh at me, tell me to go fuck myself, and leave me crying on the corner. I hadn’t done anything but be there when she needed me for a laugh or a hug or a screw. She wanted only to hurt me, the one person who was a constant for her.
    I remember kissing her and looking at her the way I looked at my boyfriends and thinking that was so weird and cool and natural and exciting. I loved her and she was a woman. That was the first time I’d ever looked ata woman that way. I began to see boys walking down the street as little lesbians everywhere. I cut off all my practically waist-length hair for a production of The Taming of the Shrew . I think she was a little less in love with me after that.
    She liked me to almost fist her but would never let herself orgasm with me. She couldn’t go there. She had to dominate me or I had to be rough with her. That was so hot, these unspoken sex rules of hers. She was serious about it. I prefer serious. By just looking at me—her mouth slightly open, gauging me, leading me, pushing me, telling me how it was going to be through her stare—she could practically make me come. She decided she loved me and imagined us getting married. Too late. I was in love with someone else.
    I’m definitely sexually attracted to a darkness. I want to win over the other. I do that even with William today.
    Sitting downstairs in a café below our house, I’m feeling angry for no particular reason. Don’t you love my constant mood swings? Sometimes I think I must be mildly manic-depressive…
    I used to hate/love when this guy I was with would say, “You can’t get enough of that, can you?”
    Okay, you guys, I know it’s your first day, but I can’t hear you. You’ve got to make some noise, or these scenes are really boring to watch. And use some variation. Break it up with some “Oh yeah baby,” “Fuck me harder,” “Suck my dick,” “Lick my pussy.” You know. And she can come more than once. You can’t just all the time be doing “Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh!” You’ve got to break it up with “Oh, I’m gonna come! OH!”
    Good question: Do I think of myself as hyper-sexualized?
    Do other people?
    Do you?
    When I have a sexual desire for someone and it’s not returned, I think I must be disgusting. My hidden grossness must somehow have escaped. I’ve been discovered.
    I have only a few concrete memories of the abuse, which happened from when I was two to when I was five. Therewas no penetration, to my memory, and according to the doctor, there hadn’t been, but everything else that could be done was done. I have images/feelings, marking the ages, from two different houses we lived in, in West Bloomfield (Detroit suburb). The boys were from Dad’s previous marriage. Carl and Jesse were twelve and thirteen years older than me.
    Carl was always around the corner or about to come home or pop out from who knows where, but always waiting to freak the shit out of me, lock me in a closet, hang me by my feet