STRAY SOCKS
As we got out of our car in the grocery store parking lot Tucker asked me if I "wanted a sock". He indicated a slack grey sweat sock someone abandoned on the concrete.

As usual, I answered his joking question with the utmost seriousness, telling him, "no -- someone probably jerked off into it!"

Tucker laughed at me like yeah, because everyone jerks off into socks! He acted like my perverted hyperactive imagination concocted this bizarre probability out of thin air, a reflection not of reality but of my own depraved twistings of human sexuality illustrating my own fiendishly fantastic worldview where males are always trying to do "up and over" and stick their penises into shampoo bottles and toilet paper rolls whenever we women aren't looking.

Seriously though, why else would one sock be sitting alone in a parking lot as though dumped hastily out of a car? You don't just lose a long sock in a grocery store parking lot! No, you sit in your car jerking off looking at the housewives and the latest edition of Maxim, or have your girlfriend toss you off late at night after a beer run. The sock is for easy cleanup because you are the fastidious type or maybe your girlfriend doesn't like to get it on her hands. That doesn't seem far fetched at all compared to a sock sitting in a parking lot with absolutely NO explanation. I really think a stray sock in public requires an explanation, it doesn't just fly off one's foot. A sock in a ditch is as telling as a pair of panties, I think.

But maybe I *am* totally perverted. Listening to myself, a woman, stubbornly asserting to a man that OTHER men do jerk off into socks ALL THE TIME (even sitting in grocery store parking lots) is sort of . . . crazy. Maybe even "fuckin'" crazy. Maybe I sound like a sex predator who's convinced women "want it bad" all of the time. That women are sex crazed nymphos and "no" really means "yes". That there is no innocent article of discarded clothing, that they all have a sexual history and a fluid connection to someone's genitals.

Has my immersion in fetishism done this to me? That a shoe is not just a shoe but a smelly five-toed-phallus container/vagina and that everything with an opening is destined to be filled by men's meat and emissions? Or maybe I just remember my high school friend telling me that she jerked her boyfriend off with a sock all the time -- those tidbits of teenage sex had a big impact on me, probably more exquisitely than they would have if I'd been having my own teenaged sex. Instead I had to cling to the little details she would share with me. When she pointed out a broken pipe rhythmically puking out water and informed me that was precisely how cum left a dick. When she refused to share any details of losing her virginity because that was too "special" to tell anyone about, not even WHERE they did it. When she held out her finger and pushed its skin up and down to try to demonstrate to me the stiffness of an erect penis and the mobility of its skin. When she had a dream about her horse.

Apparently I still cherish the memories. Memories of sex someone else had.
posted by Trixie at 6/25/2006 10:30:00 PM -