I can almost guarantee that every adult you know is operating under the same basic misunderstanding. Let’s call it the Lonely-Freak Delusion. All of them, your boss, your parents, your friends, share this delusion: they all think that *they* are uniquely, or at least unusually, messed up, while everyone else has got their shit together.
This conclusion is so obvious, so natural, that it takes concerted effort and training to overcome it. Everyone you know is fucked up, just as much as you, and yet they *all* think that everyone else has their ducks in a row.
Let me show you: here is the subway and here comes the train, kicking up little puffs of dust in its wake. The doors slide open and we glide silently into the carriage. It’s late on a Saturday afternoon and most of the seats are vacant. This is George. He is 37 and works in the building trade. He wants, more than anything, to share his wife of ten years with another man. Sometimes he thinks of particular men: his boss, his best friend, his father, but mostly the men are faceless. Just cocks with which to ravage and degrade Jenny, his wife and his best friend in the whole world.
On the other side of the carriage, next to an abandoned Happy Meal, is Martha. She sat in this same carriage six weeks ago, reading 50 Shades of Grey, and was so helplessly aroused that she frigged herself to orgasm on the empty daytime subway, with only an elderly gentleman in the next carriage to bear witness. For his part, he has thought of nothing else ever since, and racks his brain for ways to find her again – this 47 year old Goddess, with the sagging breasts and flabby thighs, this avatar of sensuality that visited him, one Thursday, between Prospect and Union.
Here is Amos, an accountant, 29, on his way back from a client meeting uptown. Amos’s secret is this: after a meeting, when everyone else has left, Amos walks furtively over to the seat where you sat in your pant suit, or your pencil skirt, and he kneels down and sniffs the seat pad. The warmth of your recently departed bottom, and the faint (imagined) odour of your vagina will sustain him later through marathon masturbation sessions.
We’ll skip over Tariq, because, quite frankly, the less said the better.
Under the burka, four seats along, sits Aaliya. She would have been a classic beauty but for the accident of biology that gave her a cleft palate. Her surgeries were successful but left her with deep scars that cause her to feel a profound and irrational shame. Her body, below the billowing black robe, is perfect, ample and taut, a teenage wet dream. When alone at night Aaliya, undersexed by her neurotic husband, plunges three fingers into her wet pussy and thinks about the neighbour’s doberman.
Lastly, Miriam. 53 year old Miriam, dressed in her respectable three-piece lemon yellow suit, with the skirt that comes below the knee and the blouse buttoned up to the chin; Miriam in her sheitel and her sensible flat shoes, right at this very moment, is thinking about Hilary Rodham Clinton. She’s imagining how Mrs Clinton, fresh from a tub-thumping stump speech, exhilarated by applause and public fervour, would seize Miriam – aged 23, a political intern of uncertain duties – and bend her over the richly engraved walnut desk to fuck her mercilessly with a nine-inch black strap-on. Her fantasies lose coherence around the time that Hilary pulls out from Miriam’s dripping pussy and produces a packet of Cuban cigars. Miriam has more self-control than Martha and, though she feels a heated dampness growing between her legs, does not frig herself in front of her fellow passengers, but is contented instead by squeezing together her thighs and guiltily enjoying a warm throb of muted pleasure.
Miriam has been plagued by these fantasies for months and has spoken of them, in oblique terms, to her Rabbi who does *not* share the delusion that only he is messed up, and has listened sympathetically, and advised her that all marriages ebb and rise with the tides of the moon and the factors of daily life and the broader socio-economic environment, and that she should be happy with her lot – a loving husband and two fine children who are a credit to their community.
Tonight, though, Miriam is going to shock herself, and you, and this is how it will happen: in a few minutes time, just another few stops to go, Miriam will exit the train, look quickly around herself, and walk to her apartment. There she will remove her sheitel and kick off her shoes before pouring a glass of wine. She will wonder whether to order takeout but decide, for the sake of the household budget, that she is fine with the leftovers from the other night, especially because there is ice cream in the freezer. Miriam adores ice cream.
She will remember, with a girlish delight, that she can watch RuPaul this evening because her husband is away on business, and she will busy herself with preparing the leftovers and washing some dishes when her phone will ring. She will make her way to the phone, shaking suds from her fingers, and pick up with a “Hello?” that speaks of her displeasure at having this cozy moment disturbed, but her reticence will be replaced with joy when her daughter, Sarah, answers, “Hi Mom.”
Sarah has had a bad day, you see. This morning – it will later transpire – she argued with her husband, David over whose turn it might be to empty the bins, but the argument has escalated, and the question of the bins has risen to assume a terrible significance as a kind of Rosetta stone by which to understand the failings of their marriage, and – in particular – David’s continued underperformance as a bread-winner and provider of affection. As the day wore grimly on, doors were slammed, plates were smashed, and things have been said by both parties that perhaps oughtn’t to have been said, and certainly weren’t meant, not really, not in their heart of hearts.
David has left. He has stormed angrily from the brownstone and out into the chill December air, and so Sarah will turn to her mother – her once and always source of comfort and safety and refuge. She will make her way across town, on the very same subway full of freaks, and she will arrive at Miriam’s apartment and Miriam will behave *exactly* as you would imagine a Jewish mother to behave in these circumstances, and after tears and sympathy and recriminations, the two women will feel better about themselves and start to drink wine.
Perhaps because they are both, in some sense, dissatisfied with their respective lots, they will drink more wine than they intended, and Miriam will forego Rupaul’s Drag Race in order to watch Bad Moms with her daughter, which both women will find *impossibly* hilarious and the laughter will beget happiness, and the happiness will beget drinking, and the drinking will beget laughter until they are simply overflowing with hilarity and joy and a sense of the deep, rich closeness of their maternal-filial bond.
At some point their conversation will turn to men, and – encouraged by the wine – they will talk of things that tightly-buttoned Jewish ladies do not normally discuss with their mothers and daughters, and they will compare notes on their husbands’ sexual performances and they will roar with laughter and relief to know that they are not alone in their sense of having missed a connection, of other possibilities in lives not lived.
Sarah will confess that she is the proud owner of three vibrators, and that her favourite – a recent Lelo model – is so powerfully effective that she must hold her pillow between her teeth when she uses it, so as not to distress the neighbours. Miriam will then make her confession: her secret shameful desires on Hilary Rodham Clinton and her cigars and her strap-on, and she will admit to her gluttonous consumption of lezdom pornography. Sarah, for her part will find this admission *so* unbelievable that Miriam, hopelessly drunk and happy, will offer to show her a selection of her favourites and so the two women find themselves sat on the couch, giggling and snuggled up together, with the PornHub logo shining brightly from the television.
Miriam will choose a video that she has watched many times, it’s a classic scene where Nina Hartley dominates Rachel Steele. If you haven’t seen it, you should go and do so right now, it’s good, you’ll like it, I promise.
At first Miriam and Sarah giggle like schoolgirls at the obvious fakeness of the setup and the two porn stars’ incredible reactions to one another; the clear unreality of the situation in which they find themselves, but then a peculiar thing happens. As Nina begins to seduce Rachel, it occurs to both watchers simultaneously that what they’re doing is capital-W Wrong, and a sense of panic overcomes them, but the lonely-freak delusion kicks in, and neither woman feels able to articulate, without alarming the other, that what they’re doing – drunkenly watching lesbian dominance/submission porn together – is, while legally and technically innocent, a close neighbour of something that looks and smells a whole lot like incest.
Since Miriam remains silent, Sarah will assume that only she is disturbed by these darkly intimate thoughts of illicit lesbianism, and will say nothing so that Miriam, in turn, assumes that she is the only one depraved enough to be aware of this sick, wicked framing of their blameless circumstance.
In fact it is this very blamelessness, juxtaposed against their mutual fear of less charitable interpretation, that will keep the two women rooted to the spot, essentially paralysed by their own moral compasses, which – of course – is a problem: the video is a modern classic for the very simple reason that it is fucking _hot_, and so the shame and fear felt by our heroines will, moments later, be joined by a steadily growing arousal.
This miasma, this cauldron of eroticism, shame, and pre-existing sexual frustration will simmer away in silence, and the longer Miriam and Sarah sit together, the hornier they will become, and the more implausible it will seem that they could say “Hey, this is pretty messed up right here, a bit incestuous. We should stop at this point.” In fact, the shared awareness of carnal impropriety only intensifies their arousal, and the unthinkable thoughts – the dark fantasies of lesbian incest that they so quickly put out of their minds – become continual and intrusive desires. Miriam thinks longingly of her daughter’s warm mouth suckling at her hardening nipples, while Sarah can’t help but imagine, alternately, her mother and Hilary Rodham Clinton, dressed in shining red latex, furiously pegging her, Sarah, with an improbably large cock.
Five minutes into the video, Nina grabs Rachel by the hair and leads her with a gentle forcefulness to the bedroom. Miriam’s hand seeks out her daughter’s hair and strokes it soothingly. Sarah rests her head on her mother’s shoulder, no longer giggling, as Nina – in a career defining tour de force – undresses a reluctant Rachel, stripping her of her blouse and her natural chastity before kissing her hungrily on the lips. Her hand seeks Rachel’s crotch through her underwear and Rachel swiftly succumbs to her arousal, moaning despite herself.
Sarah, reminded suddenly of teenaged indiscretions begins to wonder just how her mother would taste, whether her pussy would be sweet, how her juices would feel on her tongue. Without conscious oversight, her hand seeks Miriam’s and their fingers intertwine as the buxom women on screen begin to groan and push into one another, Rachel’s mouth on Nina’s full breast while Nina grinds her thigh into Rachel’s overheated cunt. It is, by now, completely impossible to discuss what is happening. It is simply too shaming and too, too erotic for words.
Miriam kisses her daughter’s hair and strokes her neck, lets her fingers play over her shoulder blades while Nina is squeezing and grabbing Rachel’s pussy. She rides Rachel’s face, rubbing her clitoris into Rachel’s mouth while reaching back to abuse her labia. Her fingers push deep inside over and over while the camera lingers on Rachel, her eyes closed, sensuously kissing Nina’s engorged pussy.
Fifteen minutes into the video Nina is sucking on Rachel’s clitoris, and rubbing her G-spot when Sarah lifts her head up from her mother’s shoulder and looks into her eyes. Both of them are agonisingly aware of their own arousal, and the shock of recognition, of the heat reflected back from each other’s eyes, makes them both shiver. Their lips meet for the first time at exactly the moment that Nina begins to lick and finger Rachel’s asshole while diddling herself furiously, and at that point – quite honestly – it’s all over. Tongues and hands fly, high-necked blouses are doffed, and orthodox sensibilities are forgotten.
Miriam’s first delicious taste of Sarah’s wet hole occurs at 24 minutes and 31 seconds into the scene, while Nina is massaging Rachel’s cunt lips, stretching and probing them, while spanking her soft, warm buttocks. By the time that the video comes to an end – unheeded by its audience – Miriam’s tongue will have wormed its way deep into her daughter’s vaginal canal and will be busily stroking her g-spot while her hands are furiously working her own pudenda.
The train comes to a stop and Miriam disembarks. She looks around herself quickly and heads for the exit, still without any inkling of what’s in store for her. She is immediately replaced by a new passenger. Here is Peter, charming, clever Peter whose dissertation on Henry James’ “The Europeans”, recently finished, moved his spinsterish English professor to quiet tears in her office. Peter takes secret photographs of probably-legal teenage girls on his smartphone, looks at them only once, and deletes them again. He feels a crippling sense of shame about this activity, which makes it impossible for him to approach an actual adult woman despite his striking looks and his sparkling wit. This perpetuates a cycle in which he seeks gratification through shameful shuffling and candid snaps. He sits in the seat where Miriam sat only moments before (Amos pulls a grimace of disappointment at this) the doors sighingly shut and the train whisks them all off into the darkness.
Source: reddit.com/r/sexystories/comments/7ino10/the_lonely_freak_delusion_ffinc