Divorcing Myself from Myself Ch. 01

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Note: This is a small volume of stories that I have posted here previously. They will appear with different names as chapters (10 in all). I think these stories stand alone well, but they are meant to be read as part of a larger work entitled “Divorcing Myself From Myself.”

This chapter,

, is called “Sarah.”

Thank you in advance for checking this out, and I’m looking forward to hearing what you all think.




I am 27 years old.

I have arrived, today, in Seattle, because it’s as far away from my hometown of Chicago, and my life there as I could get.

I need to leave myself behind and start over.


I packed my bare necessities into a green Chevy pickup, and put the rest of my meager belongings in a storage facility near Wrigley Field, and drove across America on I-90 until I reached its terminus in downtown Seattle.

Then I headed over to a dumpy residential hotel on SW Alaska Street where I plan to stay until I find my own place.

I arrived early in the afternoon.

I checked in, unloaded my belongings, and went outside.

I noticed a park with a large totem pole across 35th that overlooked the city.

I walked over there.

The totem pole grabbed my attention.

The park is called Rotary Viewpoint, and there are panoramic views of downtown Seattle and the Cascade Mountains behind it.

I took a seat on a bench, and looked at the totem pole was right in front of me.

It grabbed and kept my attention.

I couldn’t take my eyes off of it.

I felt an energy in this park.

I felt an energy in this city.

It tingled through my body.

I realized it had been tingling through my body when I first saw the skyline on the freeway when I first drove in.

It’s a presence.

A spirit.

It’s the place you’re in when you awaken from a vivid dream, and for a moment, you aren’t quite sure whether what you experienced really happened or not.

It’s that experiential.

Everything feels and looks different.

The sky, the mountains, the buildings, the trees, the streets, the cars, the people, the grass, the bench I’m sitting on.


They’re all different.

I can’t describe precisely how they are all different, but they are entirely different.

And constant.

I sat on that bench, looking at that totem pole, and the city behind it for about an hour.

Then I left and went back to my room and took a nap.

A while later, I woke up feeling the same way.

It never stopped.


I have not had sex for four years, one month, one week, and three days.

It has been even longer since I’ve been out on a real date.

At first, this celibacy was by choice.

Then habit.

Finally fear.

I haven’t been just avoiding women, I’ve been avoiding humankind.

I hate people.

I hate myself.

I hate life.

I hate for the pure joy of hating because life gives me no joy.

I’ve been ashamed of who I am.

What I am.


The last thing I have wanted is intimacy.

The second last thing I have wanted is to be seeking intimacy.

Fleeting intimacy.

Illusory intimacy.

Playing “the game.”

The game of love.

Freddie Mercury said, “it’s so easy when you know the rules.”

He was wrong.

I know the rules, and it isn’t easy.

Not for me.

I couldn’t “play the game.”

Every time I “played the game,” I lost.

It felt stupid.

It was stupid.



I always felt self-conscious.

No matter what I said to strike up a conversation, it always felt like I was saying, “so what’s your favorite color?”

And when I saw other guys “playing the game” and boning chicks with no effort at all, I got depressed and quit.

Nobody wanted me.

It was like I didn’t have a dick.

It was like I was a Ken doll in Toughskins.

So I quit.

And I liked it.

But then I didn’t like it.

I wanted back in.

But I never was in.

I never knew how to relate to people well, let alone women.

My social skills had atrophied.

So I ignored women.

And they ignored me.

I was invisible.

So I remained celibate.

And stuck.

And hopeless.

And then I uprooted myself and came here.

To Seattle.

To start over.

Like Alice Hyatt.


After waking up from my nap, I get up and start exploring my new surroundings.

After an hour, I stop into a bar up Alaska Street from the hotel just after 5pm and sit down at a table.

I’m still tired.


My back is sore.

I go to the bar and get a beer and sit back down.

The TV is on CNN with the sound down, and a Mariners baseball game is on the radio.

I’m dividing my attention between the TV and a newspaper I found on a neighboring table.

At 6, a stunningly beautiful young woman, 20ish, petite, with a swarthy complexion Escort bayan and luxuriously shoulder-length wavy brown hair comes in and replaces the bartender.

He gives her shit, saying she’s late and he has to go to his second job, but she points to the clock on the wall, as well as her watch, which says it is six o’clock on the button, and she is, in fact, on time.

He shakes his head and leaves.

She’s wearing a black tank top, denim skirt, and black Converse Chuck Taylor’s.

She has a butterfly tattoo above her right ankle.

She has an athletic way about her.

Toned arms and legs.

A runner, maybe.

After a bit, I get up and get another beer and head back to my table.

I sip it as I peruse the baseball scores from yesterday, and when I’m about done, she comes by with another beer and sets it down on the table.

“Excuse me, I didn’t order this,” I tell her.

“It’s on the house,” she replies with a smile and a glint in her light brown eyes.

I thank her, and she heads back to the bar.

It’s on the house.




This cute bartender just gave me a beer.

And it’s on the house.

At this point, most guys would act like this happens every day and be nonchalant.

Not I.

I am a wreck.

I try hiding it, going back to reading the paper and sipping the beer, but deep inside I’m a basket case.

I nurse the beer while I read, watching the TV, checking out of the corner of my eye to see what this cute bartender is doing, and finally, I drain the last of the beer and get up to go back to the hotel, because I’ve got things to do.

She’s over at the end of the bar by the door, talking to a woman about her age.

I make my way towards her slowly, hoping I’ll catch her eye and she’ll turn towards me so I won’t have to try and get her attention.

Because I’m not good at getting a woman’s attention.

Especially someone as smokin’ as this barkeep.

It’s likely she won’t even hear me, no matter how many times I say, “Hi,” or “Excuse me,” and I’ll stand there like a stick looking pathetic, reminded again why it’s been more than four years since I’ve seen a woman naked.

So I shorten my stride to increase the amount of time it will take to get to the end of the bar where she is, hoping that in that extra time, she’ll turn her head in my direction and see me.

Fortunately, at the very moment I reach the bar, she does that very thing and sees me, and smiles.

Thank God.

I tell her, “Thanks again for the beer.”

“My pleasure,” she says, still smiling.

Her friend looks up at the TV.

There’s a pause that I don’t allow to become pregnant.

“My name’s Tim,” I say, extending my hand.

“I’m Sarah,” she says, and we shake hands.

Another pause is on the brink of becoming fertilized before I speak again.

“I’ve gotta get back, but are you working tomorrow?”

“Yep. Stop by after 6:00. I’ll be here till 10, maybe sooner if it’s slow.”

“Alright, I’ll see if I can do it.”

“Very good. Bye.”

And with that, I head out the door.


The next day, I am calmer, because I realize that this whole stupid game hasn’t changed much in the four years, one month, one week, and now four days since I last boned, and we’ll just see what happens.

So with reasonable expectations, and nothing to lose, I head back to the bar the next evening.

It’s just past 8pm when I arrive.

It’s pretty dead – just me, a couple of old men at the far end of the bar talking, one of them nursing a whiskey, and smoking unfiltered Pall Mall’s, as well as two young women playing pool in the back.

The old man smoking Pall Malls occasionally sounds like he’s coughing up a lung.

“My Everlasting Love,” by Buck Owens is playing on the jukebox, and I take a seat at the bar.

I don’t see Sarah, but after about ten minutes, she pops out of the office, and her face lights up when she sees me.


“How’s it going?” I say taking a seat at the bar.

“Can’t complain,” she says as she goes over to the tap and starts filling a pint glass with Rainier Beer. “Here you go,” she says, placing a pint down in front of me.

I reach for my wallet, but she waves me off. “This one’s on the house, too.”

“I think I like this place. Cheers,” I say, raising the glass and taking a sip.

She smiles, and there’s that glint in her eye.

The phone in the office rings.

“Shit. I better go get that, I’ll be right back,” she says, going through a door in the corner.

I nod.

I watch her every move.

Another Buck Owens song comes on the jukebox.

Then another.

And another.

Somebody paid to play the whole CD.

The whole thing.

This is a long conversation she’s having.

I can see her in the office, standing in front of a desk, talking on the phone.

She’s wearing a faded purple UW T-Shirt, black shorts, and the same black Converse Chuck Taylor’s from last night.

I love what those shorts do for her ass.

While she Bayan escort talks, I also passively watch a baseball game on the TV set above the bar.

The TV looks like it’s at least ten years old, probably older.

The picture isn’t fully tuned in, and the color jumps in and out, but I can see that Ken Griffey Jr. has just flied out to right.

The girls in the back have stopped playing pool, and one is sitting on the side of the pool table unable to finish a joke she was telling because she started laughing hysterically.

The walls are wood-paneled.

A faded picture of Sonny Sixkiller hangs over the cash register, one of Brian Bosworth near the jukebox, and one of Dennis Johnson near the door.

There’s also beer signs and a dartboard.

It feels like someone’s basement in here.

Then the hacker at the end of the bar starts coughing again.


He takes out a hankie and coughs into it, and I’m amazed no blood came out of his mouth.

Sarah puts the phone down and runs out of the office.

“Let me get you some water,” she says, filling up a glass and taking it to him.

He drinks slowly, and it seems to help.

She comes back over to me.

“Is he okay?” I ask.

“I think so. He comes in a lot and smokes like a chimney, but I’ve never heard him like this,” she says, looking at him out of the corner of her eye.

“It’s no wonder. Pall Mall’s are a death wish,” I say, shaking my head. “I could never imagine smoking those things. If I smoked at all.”

“Yeah, they’re nasty,” she replied. “I smoked a little in school, but I quit when…”

There’s a pause.

She doesn’t finish.

I let it go.

“I smoked a little bit in college myself, but I got tired of huffing and puffing going up stairs,” I say, taking another sip.

“Where did you go to school?” she asks.



“Northern Illinois University.”

“You’re from Illinois?” she asks.

“Chicago. Northwest Side,” I reply. “Are you from around here?”

“Tacoma. I went to the U-Dub,” she says, pointing to the “W” on her shirt.

“What’s your degree in?” I ask.

“I don’t have a degree. I dropped out three years ago during my junior year, but I was studying art history.”

“Why did you drop out?”

“I ran out of money,” she replies. “So I’m working here, and downtown at a print shop to save up so I can go back. One of these days I’ll finish.” She looks uncomfortable for a moment. Then she asks, “What was your degree in?”

“English. Which explains why I’m presently unemployed,” I say as we share a laugh.

“English, eh?” she says.


“Who do you like to read?” she asks.

“A bunch of people. Lately, I’ve been reading Henry Miller.”

“I loved Tropic of Cancer,” she says.

“Really? A lot of women I know hate that book,” I say.

“I know, because he says ‘cunt’ a lot, but I love the energy of his writing. I’ve read it about ten times, and I can never put it down. Tropic of Capricorn, too.”

“Me too,” I say as I lean back, stretching my arms.

“I’ve also been reading John Cleland lately,” she says matter of factly, and then her eyes twinkle.

My eyes narrow a bit.

“Fanny Hill?”

“Yeah,” she says. “I really like it.”

“Is that right?”

Then the old man at the end of the bar starts hacking yet again, this time even louder and harder than the last time.

It sounds terrible now.

His buddy, wearing a blue USMC cap, helps him off his stool.

“That’s it,” he says. “You’re going to the ER.”

“Hell no! I’m not going there. Just give me some more water and take me home. I’ll be fine,” the coughing man gets out between hacks.

“I don’t think so,” the Marine guy says. “I’ve been telling you to quit those things, but you don’t listen.”

“Fuck you!” says the cougher.

“That’s a good one. I should write that down,” his friend says.

“I can call him a cab,” Sarah says after going to the phone.

“No no, I’ll take him,” the Marine guy says. “I’m okay to drive. I’ve only had water tonight,” he says.

“I’m fine. Leave me the hell alone,” the coughing man pleads.

“Shut the hell up! You’re going to the ER, and that’s all there is to it. Now come on!” his pal says as he helps him out the door.

Sarah comes back over to me.

“I hope he’s okay,” I say.

“I do too,” she says.

During all this, a guy with greying temples comes in and goes into the office, and comes back out a few minutes later and walks over to Sarah.

“What’s wrong with that old guy who just left?” he asks. “I’ve never seen anyone cough like that.”

“Too many Pall Malls,” she says.

“Shit! Glad I don’t smoke. Anyway, it doesn’t look like it’s going to pick up tonight,” he says, checking his watch, “So you can go home. I’ll hold down the fort, probably close early,”

“Okay, thanks,” she says and smiles at me before going into the office.

After a couple of minutes, she comes back out, putting on a black hooded sweatshirt and carrying her purse.

She comes up to me.

“Do you Escort mind walking me home?” she asks, “My place is just a block away from here on Oregon.”


My heart races.

She says goodnight to the owner, and we head out.

We walk up 39th Avenue SW past a bowling alley until we come to a small green house built on a hill behind a wooden fence.

‘This is it, right here,” she says as she opens the gate. “Want to come in for a beer?”

“Sure. I can come in for a while,” I say, following her through the gate.

She turns and smiles and says, “Only awhile?”


We get inside, and she takes off her sweatshirt and brings me a beer, and herself a glass of wine.

She turns on the TV and flips through channels before settling on a movie on HBO, Just One of the Guys.

We sit on the couch watching for about half an hour, before Sarah gets up to refill her glass, and comes back and sits down on the couch very close to me.

She leans back and puts her head on my shoulder.

I put my arm around her.

She takes my hand.

She squeezes it.

We sit like this for a while.

A short while.

Then she turns around and looks at me.

“Let’s see what you look like without these,” she says, removing my glasses.

Then she looks at me.

I kiss her.

She kisses back.

It’s perfect.

“I hope you don’t mind,” she says.

We smile at each other.

And kiss.

It really is perfect.

So perfect.

Wet, but not sloppy.

Her tongue darts in and out of my mouth.

Mine darts in and out of hers.

She pulls back for a second.

“I need to tell you something,” she says. “I can’t promise anything from this, okay? If you’re not cool with that, no problem, but I wanted to be upfront about it.”

“No worries,” I respond. “Really. Now, where were we?”

She starts kissing along my neck and unbuttons my shirt and kisses down my chest.

She finds my right nipple and teases it with her tongue.

Then she stops.

Then she does it again.

And again.

Then she stops again.

Then another tongue strike before she takes it ever so slightly in her mouth and nips it with just the right amount of pressure.

I flinch.

She gets up and takes my hand, pulling me off the couch.

“Let’s go where it’s more comfortable,” she says, leading me by the hand into her bedroom and resumes kissing me, pulling out my shirttail and unbuttoning the rest of the buttons and pushing it off my back.

She caresses my chest as she kisses me all over, striking at each nipple.

Then she stops at the belly button.

She stands back and pulls off her shirt.

Then she unhooks her bra and lets it drop.

She unzips her shorts and lets them fall.

She stands before me wearing only black panties before she drops to her knees.

She sticks her tongue into my belly button

Then she heads further south.

Further and further south.

To my jeans.

She unfastens the belt and pulls it off.

She nuzzles her face into my aching groin, and as she undoes the button and unzips the fly.

She takes the bulge into her mouth, biting lightly.

Then she undoes the button and unzips the fly, and pulls my jeans down and off.

Then my boxers.

My fully erect johnson pops out and bounces around.

“I see you’re glad to be here,” she says as she looks into my eyes and smiles and then takes the head softly into her mouth and rolls her tongue around it.

She cups her hand under my sagging balls and takes more of me into her mouth and goes back.

Then she takes more in.

And it goes back.

Finally, she takes everything in and gags a little bit.

And then goes back.

She licks along the shaft and then on the head.

Then down to the boys and then back up again.

For several minutes, this goes on.

Every inch of my groin aches for her.

Then she pulls back and takes a breath and looks up, gently stroking.

“You’re leaking, mister,” she says. “You’re going to have to do something about that before you make a mess.”

She goes over to her nightstand and opens a drawer and pulls out a package of birth control pills.

“Don’t worry, I’m up to date, see?” she says, showing me the package.

She is indeed.

She puts them back in the drawer and then sticks her thumbs in the waistband of her panties and slides them off, letting them fall to the floor, and then stepping out.

“Lay down here on the bed, if you don’t mind,” she says as I sit down and scoot back.

She climbs on top of me and takes my cock and guides it into her pussy.

It is hot.

And wet.

And amazing.

She rides me slowly and then finds a rhythm and rocks her hips slow and steady before going faster.

And faster.

Then she starts bouncing up and down and closes her eyes and throws her head back.

She starts moaning.

And it gets louder.

And she starts going faster.

And she keeps up this pace for a long time before her hips buck suddenly and she falls forward crying out loudly, and her arms are barely able to hold her up.

She stays in that position for a minute or so, catches her breath, and brings her face to mine.

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