Born To Ch. 04

Author's note and disclaimer:

Dear readers, I am no writer. But you will want to read the journal notes below from One who is a writer. I am now what you could describe as a fabulously wealthy drifter of sorts with only one mission: Find Her. She made me a writer when she handed me her journals and essays.

I previously published three random journal notes at the request of this very special person.

I have now come to a watershed point in my commitment to her to share her thoughts, the journal notes of this remarkable woman who, from our first session, when I was a bonafide young sex therapist, referred to herself only as "Born To."

I sit now in my makeshift office in a remote cottage with the western wall all glass, and half of the eastern wall all glass, somewhere in the vast, open Southwest plains, and I stare through bleary, weary eyes at the huge stacks of papers on my oaken desk identified with a yellow sticky note only as "Born To."

I haven't heard from her in over two years now. I have no further input from her as to the order of these voluminous notes, let alone what some of the illusions refer to. I must now try to piece her words together into some sort of order.

What you will read now must, of necessity, be her story as pieced together by me, the best I can, using all I know. I make no pretence of chronological accuracy, nor of the accuracy of the journals of others - her words are now scrambled with mine, and with other notes from other sources who were blessed to encounter her on their paths.

For all my disclaimer about factual validity, don't kid yourself. Question me as a writer (which I am not) all you want. But I have no doubt that when you feast your eyes on her actual words written or spoken to me and subsequently transcribed from her tapes, you will have no doubt about her reality. You will quickly feel the difference between her other-worldly words and mine: No Truer Words Have Ever Been Written.

My failing eyesight, drifting attention span, and constant diligence looking over my shoulder are to blame for parceling this out to you in short segments rather than just having it transcribed as a whole. Because I am predominantly alone and relatively isolated from society (about which I will explain more later) I am driven to publish this stack of notes as I finish each day's work, from my fear that one day I won't wake to another day's work.

Given what I then considered to be the grand life I once had as a responsible social being with both the doctorate in philosophy and military rank, I never expected to say this into the ferocious ears and eyes of nobody but the vast, empty desert creeping toward the sloping mountains which stretch southward toward Mexico, though not quite that far, and northward to Canada, where I know she has been in the last two years.

But, ironically, the embarrassing fact is true: You, my readers, have become my best friends, because it is only with you that I can speak of Her.

And so long as I speak of her to you, and take this search one day at a time, without writing the final chapter that I would need to pen to set myself free from Her, I still hold out hope: She is there. I will find her or she will find me.

First my morning coffee, a few encrypted phone calls to assure that a vast fortune is secure and ready for immediate transfer in case I don't make the calls tomorrow morning, and I begin the unenviable, but sacred (to me) task of trying to impose at least arbitrary order to the stacks of her notes, notes from strangers who encountered her, and notes from many who loved her once or many times -- interspersed further with various newspaper and magazine articles describing her sightings and activities -- or sightings and activities attributed to her: sometimes it's hard to know.

For reasons I will disclose in time, God willing, I have at my disposal two hours per morning with which to pursue her bidding.

You will easily discern my own weak notes among those of the writers she encountered, herself foremost -- again, I am no writer. I am a relatively isolated man whose life has culminated in this: Searching for Her.

So, the last words she spoke to me, piercing deep into my soul though her burning eyes, were: "Penning, tell this story. You KNOW."

Her last actions, ironically reminiscent of countless episodes of me thrusting my life essence deep into her, were to thrust the large cardboard box full of her journal entries, essays, and notes into my trembling hands, then she turned and walked into the pungent Asian darkness, East China sea at her back, one last mysterious unexplained letter clenched in her hand.

*

Penning's note: I return to work with more of her notes from the time of our earliest acquaintance. I, a young psychotherapist; she a sprite enigma whose prodigious journal continued to grow over the fleeting few years I had her to love in person.

* * * * * *

Undated:

I make a ton of money when I fuck, but I don't fuck for money. I fuck because I am consumed with fucking. Calling me a slut is safer far than calling me a prostitute. Not because prostitution is beneath me - nothing sexual is beneath me - but because prostitution bores me and doesn't provide me enough freedom to fuck as creatively as I am drawn to fuck. Imagine that. I couldn't be a prostitute because it would distract me from my appetite for cock and pussy.

I understand you probably must think my only job is telling you how to run your business or your life, and that my only money is what your company pays my company in cash for me to be here in your office, and that the only reason I could possibly be interested in wrapping my lustful arms and thighs around your waist tonight might be because I might be a little lonely this week.

Surprise. Actually, I am indeed going to fuck you, suck your cock until you provide my tongue her favorite taste, and let you feast in my eyes while I feast between your thighs. But it's not because I am lonely and you are here. It's because I love you and want to savor you and pleasure you like you've never been done. Something in your eyes and your face tells me to try you. To unabashedly fuck you.

Surprise, my new friend, my lucky lover. You are going to like this a lot.

We are going to fuck. The real thing.

I love you because you might be him. I'll know. You'll know. You'll know if you see me again.

I want to be as free as I can to pursue fucking with all my being. Fortunately, I have all the money I could possibly need to fuck you beyond your wildest imagination.

Lucky you.

But you will probably want a lot of money on your own. Not because you will need to give me money to fuck you like I am going to do - I am going to fuck you because I need to, not because I need any more money - but you'll need the money because you are going to want to find me again after I fuck you. And you are going to need a lot of money to do that. I get around.

Because I was born to fuck, I faced my morality head on, eyes wide open, heart throbbing with fear and excitement - say with excited fear.

Morality is the human rationale for not taking the next plunge into something new.

I'll say it again: Morality is the human rationale for not taking the next plunge into something new.

I knew I was going to sin when I came in to your room. I knew I was going to enjoy it. I knew I was going to be forgiven. But I knew I was going to break rules.

I honor only one rule: and it is golden. Do you know the rule of gold?

Anything else, everything else, we can consider. Always consenting, always by choice: I choose yes. I consent. Do you? Since every moment of my life is consumed with sex and its pursuit, and with the certainty that a man holds my soul and is searching for me one pussy at a time, as I search for him one cock at a time, I knew I needed a ton of money.

If morality is the human rationale for not taking the next plunge into something new, I hereby check my morality at your door when I let myself into your room. Open your soul, mister. I'm stepping inside, wet, ready, willing, able, craving. I want your cum. You want mine.

Whatever we don't do while we are here will not be because of moral barriers - not mine anyway.

Shawn Colvin said it best in her song, something like this: You don't have to drag me down - I descend.

My objective reason for starting Porn Next Door (PND) was to provide myself a beautiful life - on my own terms.

I started it near the campus of a prestigious North American University. I chose the hottest and smartest girls I could find, and I let them choose their men. I told them only one thing when I handed them an envelope containing exactly one million and one dollars in cash:

"When you fuck on film, fuck messy. When you edit your takes, edit out what's clean and contrived - leave the sacred semen sacrosanct. When you write your scripts, talk messy."

I looked the two astonished, athletically prepared, ravishing beauties in the eyes for a few long seconds, and I slowly undid my blouse. Then I stepped out of my jeans, then my pink, frilly panties. I unstrapped my leg holster and removed my pistol, setting it closer to them than me. I handed Beth my panties and reached to kiss Elle. I took both girls by the hand and led them to my bed.