I had a lover, her name was Pink.

Pink was visually intimidating.  She was big and mean looking.  Her septum was pierced.  She looked like a bull.  She was wide and had a strong walk and a stance like a linebacker.  She kept her hair buzz cut short.

People would often mistake Pink for a man.  Common perceptions of gender are limited to the idea of ‘what woman would look like that’ and yet, she did.

She had this tattoo of flames around her wrist.  When she would fist me it was like fire pussy.  I loved that tattoo.  Her fist.  I would kiss it when we were done fucking.  When she was done fucking me.

I almost never fucked Pink.  Not because she was stone but because I am.  Pink was a big softie.  She wouldn’t want you to know that her body ached to be touched.  But I was not the lover who could touch her.

Our relationship was violent and out of control.  We made mischief, we caused distress to people of the rule abiding kink community.  We showed up dressed like clowns in gas masks to all black cothing, serious acting fetish parties.  We laughed when people were maintaining silence.  We ate hotdogs and ice cream.  We experienced gluttony in everything we did.

I met Pink at a party.  An all woman’s party thrown by an old school dominatrix.  A famous one from the 80s.  She invited me having only just encountered me briefly.  I arrived at her part early, thinking I was late.  I had kidnapped a client of mine from his mundane weekend.  I had him mummified in the truck.  Hs truck which I had stolen in the process of kidnapping him.  I drove him over 500 miles mummified in the truck to the all women’s party, where I met Pink.

We did not fuck at the party.  I drank beer, she drank water and we talked all night.  I never fall in love with anyone who can’t talk all night.  In the morning Pink invited me to come to her place.  After I set the mummy boy free I went home with PInk.  The next morning she left early for work and left a note that read “stay as long as you like.”  I stayed a year.

That year I traveled, I performed, I dressed in fancy latex outfits and modeled for PInk’s camera, I had fun.  Much needed fun.  I embraced life and I had the best sex.  The best fisting, seeing Gawd, orgasmic sex that I fear I may ever have.

It is possible that I might find someone who can make me come the way Pink did.  Though it is not likely.  I have sex for money.  I have sex for fun.  I thought that maybe it was the gender fuck that got me off so I had sex with a string of butch lovers.  It was not.  It was her skill.  The was she would start off slowly. Make me beg for her fist, the way she would call me names, the way she knew I liked it to the left, and the way she would bark at me while she was fisting me.  Pink was my sex doggie.  My fistie sex pup.

I would dress her up as a doggie and put her on a leash.  I even made a giant pink dog suit for her out of fake fur.  It was a little like making a  pink cookie monster outfit.  Pink fur everywhere.

I don’t miss her.  I miss her fist.  I miss the sex.  I miss the orgasm.  I miss the fuck all attitude I had while I was with her.  I miss not caring if I got caught eating a hot dog in LA.  Not caring about being overweight in a rubber dress with a fist in my pussy in a public toilet.  I miss that.  But I don’t miss Pink.  Our relationship was violent and out of control.

She was overweight and depressed.  She wanted more than I could offer.  I took everything she would give me, as I have done so many times.  I had no remorse.  I provided wild times, she provided an awesome lay.

Pink entertained me, provided me with an Andy Kaufman esque experience of LA that few people get to have.  We would construct these elaborate mind fucks, and then execute them.  We created havoc in ways that I am still hesitant to talk about.  We scared people, then we laughed.  It was mean but it was fun.

Eventually it became time for me to move out of Pink’s apartment.  By this time I had redone the bathroom floors and removed a wall from her tiny little west LA apartment.  I was toying with putting in a skylight.  I’m glad I did not do that.

I’m glad I did not do many things that I had toyed with while with Pink.  I’m glad that we both made it out of that relationship alive, relatively unscaved.  I made her fist me so much that I think I gave her carpal tunnel, but as far as I know that is the worst of the personal injures.

There were other injuries.  The time I knew she was outside listening to me giggle and drink with a friend of mine and I exclaimed loudly I LOVE YOU to the friend, knowing that Pink could hear.  Was that to hurt her?  Did it hurt her?

When she stole everything worth having from my home on Christmas day, was that to hurt me?  It wasn’t for a drug habit.  I never even saw Pink take a hit off a joint.  She never drank.  PInk was in control.  Except when I would make her angry.  She was like a bull.  Calm and stoic.  Large and strong.  Scary as hell if pissed.

I wish we could go back and make up.  I want to know that her life improved.  That she is happy and doing well.  That she lost the weight that was where all her sadness was kept.  I would love to hear that her life is better without me in it.

Also, I would like to have my hard drive back.

Some things might always just remain wishes and memories.

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