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What's My Name?
by Jim Ruland
(03/05/03)
I'm in a strange apartment, having sex with a woman I do not know. This is what she says to me:
--Do you like that, Eric? Does that feel good, Eric?
Indeed, I do like it. I like it a lot. Only there is one problem. My name is not Eric. It's not even close.
I say problem, but in truth there is very little that can be construed as problematic about this situation. As we are perfect strangers, one name is as good as another. Besides, we're already having sex. I'd say we're way past introductions.
We're doing it in the missionary position, which, while technically boring, is a safe leaping-off point for sexual congress between strangers. It is also a position that facilitates conversation. Welcome or otherwise.
--Yes, Eric! That's it, Eric!
There are numerous possibilities at work here. The first is obvious. She really believes my name is Eric. I can't really fault her for this. She is, after all, intoxicated, as am I. But while things for me have been slowing down since the moment we met, my partner's world seems to be speeding up. It is only a question of how long she can stay in control, something I sense is important to her, before she passes out. I don't think she has much time left.
I'm fairly positive her name is Jessica.
Of course, the possibility she thinks there is some kind of kinky advantage to be exploited by calling me another man's name cannot be ignored. There is something about the way she punctuates her sentences with this name that is both deliberate and malicious. Perhaps she wants me to dwell on the sexual power of this Eric person, this former lover who left such a deep impression his name must be invoked to achieve even the pretense of an orgasm. Yes, I think this scenario likely.
Or maybe she's mocking me again. Earlier, while stripping naked, she laughed, meanly and at great length, at my underwear. Even at my most insensitive extremes, I know that laughing at one's partner's underwear is something one shouldn't do, especially if that lover is new. She wanted to cow me, I think, set the tone for our lubricious adventure. I sensed this and did not let the laughter bother me, that is to say unman me, even though I suppose in the right frame of mind, my underwear, standard cotton boxers decorated with little monkeys manning rocket ships pointed at a green sliver of moon, could be construed as laughable.
So when she starts in with the Give-it-to-me-Eric, Ride-me-like-a-pony-Eric, I go with it. That is, I become, for the moment, Eric.
I'm 99.9% sure it's Jessica.
I don't know how Eric makes love. I haven't the slightest idea. Intercourse is fairly instinctive, and in my inebriated state I imagine that I can be Eric -- if that's what she thinks she wants. What I want is immaterial. My wants were, in a sense, traduced to a thing of whimsy the moment our lips met. I wonder what Eric wants. Better yet, what does Jessica want from Eric?
I think it is entirely likely she wants Eric to speak, to say nasty things to her. She is full of questions. Perhaps Eric has the answers. Or maybe Eric has a few pointed rhetorical questions of his own.
--Do you like that, you dirty little slut? I say.
She stops moving. She pushes me off the bed and I fall on the floor. Hard.
Like a wrestler who received the wrong script, it takes me a moment to figure out what has happened. I watch my desire collapse like something recorded through the filter of time-lapse photography. There's a rug under my ass. It's a comfortable rug. I could sleep here.
My partner's head appears over the lip of the mattress.
--Why are you calling me a dirty little slut? she asks.
--Why are you calling me Eric?
--That's not your name?
--No, as a matter of fact, it's not.
--What is it then?
--I don't think I should tell you, I say.
--Why not?
--It's better this way.
She's skeptical. She needs to think about this.
--What's my name? she asks.
--Jessica, I say.
--Wrong, she says.
--You're just saying that.
--No, actually, I'm not.
I decide that what this conversation needs is a change of subject, the quicker the better.
--Who's Eric?
She thinks it over. A smile comes to her lips, and it just keeps getting bigger and bigger. It seems I have chosen an unfortunate tack.
--Never mind about Eric, I say. I'm going to need to see some ID.
--You've got to be joking, she says.
--I'm not, I say.
--Well I'm not showing you my ID. I already told you my name.
--And I told you mine.
Stalemate. I shoot a glance at the clock. It's so late it's early. We're practically sober and we still have unfinished business.
--I have an idea, I say. We'll write our names on pieces of paper, fold them up and exchange them.
--And then?
--Afterwards, I say in a manner I hope she will construe as cute, coy, devilish, whatever it was that got us in the sack in the first place, and with any luck, will get us there again, we'll open them up and read the names. But only after.
She smiles. She likes my idea.
--Okay, she says, but can I still call you Eric?
--Baby, I say, you can call me anything you want.
©2002 by Jim Ruland
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Jim Ruland lives in Los Angeles. He would like you to know that no animals were harmed during the writing of this story.
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