I carry condoms in my bag. It was my ex who brought me to carrying them. I never had to carry them before her, my first real lover, a person I fucked and loved many times for many years, always carried a condom in the side-pocket of her purse, until in monogamy — not monogamy, but lust — until in lust we ceased using condoms altogether trusting to luck, fate, and the pill, but more often than not, trusting to lust.
Once when broken up — several times when broken up when neither of us was seeing anyone, and certainly when neither of us were sleeping with anyone — fucking anyone, we would meet clandestinely, late at night, once a long day of need and desire — of lust — had slowly simmered, a telephone ring late at night with hesitant, expectant, musk-filled voices would ask what the other was doing: can I come over (can I cum). A couple of times — once, and only once — there were no condoms. I can go inside once, just for a moment, just for a moment more, but no more or else our bodies would be fucking, touching inside, and that would be too much, so we gave eachother head and kissed and fondled in all the ways we had taught eachother. One or both of us had condoms after that never wanting to miss a chance at pretending to intercourse the way we used to — never to miss the chance to fuck — anyone we wanted, whenever, although I’ve — we’ve passed passed on fucking several people, several times. Lust will only overcome so much.
I wonder I do not need to carry condoms, that there will be no random fucking, but what if? Who would I fuck — drunk enough and comfortable to not touch someone the way I know. Lust is not wanting — all day body simmering. Wanting is will and wherewithal, and the condoms in my bag are there in case I come across — in case I grow the wherewithal to fuck someone — fuck anyone. I can think of a few, but I have no wherewithal with them and those with wherewithal with me find only my lust and no wanting.
I do not miss lust having no occassion to. I miss wanting. I do not miss wanting. I miss the act of wanting, the chance to want, the opportunity, the someone.
When I was younger I never lacked for someone. I did not believe in someone. I did not believe in love. I believed in contentment. Annoying less than the rest. There was lust, but no need. The first girl I fucked because I felt I was supposed to. It is what you do late at night all day simmering loins making out in a car. There was no want. There was obligation. The second girl I fucked because I wanted to. There was no wanting. There was lust and drunk and a long day spent simmering, a long furious rut where all I did was fuck fuck fuck.
I have fucked three women and am called a liar. I have made out with others and am also called a liar. I am a liar for not wanting, for having only lust. But I do not believe in lust, only need — I do not believe in need — need is only lust. I believe in wanting. When I was younger I did not believe in love, but I am a liar. I did not believe in love because I did not want. I had no wherewithal to want. I did not want to need someone. I did not want to miss wanting. I did not want to miss love.