The minutes on Sunday sandbag past me. I read in a Tom Robbins book a while ago that it’s impossible to make Sundays go by fast, like it is with February, the shortest month, and yet it takes forever. Sundays for me are made up of guilt trips in the park, indignant television and dread. This Sunday is no different. This Sunday adds the sting of a needle-sick email out in front of that boy I think I’m falling in love with, and the convention of our society that unlike conversation, email won’t, in fact, must not, be answered right away. I have confined myself to a bread-box of embarrassment, but it is the only alternative to no chance at all. So I spend the day trying to focus my eyes on a chapter that I should have read last week, finally deciding to memorize the study notes by rote, finally unable to make them anything more interesting than the curvy lines on paper that they are. In short, I spend my Sunday completely freaking out.
My roommate, assuming that I’m asleep, if she’s even remembered that she lives with someone, forces herself on her bed with her boyfriend at 3:24 in the morning. She is drunk and barely makes it. Her boyfriend, following the rule that objects fall at the same speed no matter what their mass or weight, flops simultaneously on her. They make out furiously in an alcohol-blue flame that I can smell from the other bed. It surprises me that I can smell it because I am, of course, drunk too, my eyes pinned to the glo-stars that some previous occupant put the effort into installing onto our ceiling. They only put them on the metal rails of the acoustic ceiling tiles, ruining any random effect. My eyes look for clumping, unfair weight of yellow-green clustering in one area while another is neglected, but, as I’ve found out before, the previous occupant seemed to have just as much to avoid thinking about as I do, and really planned this glo-star arrangement out. They’re uniform and maddening.
Lucia and her boyfriend, from the advanced state of rustling and moaning coming from that side of the room, have been crossing bases left and right. Envy rises in my chest as it always has, just as misconstrued as the rest of me. My “prudishness” is nothing but mortified longing and indignation. I crawl out of bed and knee-walk across the floor, a single hand ahead of me.
Max, in an outfit that I’m sure I’m making up, appears in my dorm lounge Monday, just as I’ve just about started to re-dread seeing him in class. I decide that he’s there to see someone else, and think of how to nod at him politely, when he stands up and looks at me, holding his hand out.
“Psychic people should know when they’re about to ditch class,” he says.
“You’re right,” I say, after a guffaw, “I’m probably making the whole thing up.”
I take his hand. It feels like happiness.
The lecture room is enormous and empty. Wooden seats perch ever higher in a downright fetishistic voyeurism at a single card table that sits center stage before a black slate chalkboard. The card table is laughingly out of place. All around it are limestone columns and carved tile. It’s like watching a crowd of dignified elderly couples in tuxedos come to worship a fifteen-year-old boy in a torn blue bathrobe. I wonder if Max brought the young card table in here, moving the veteran podium, squeaking, off to the side.
“Do you…. Do you mind being photographed?” he asks without looking at me. He squints nervously at the table, as if regretting it.
“No.” The word comes out louder than I thought it would, knocking around the room like a stray bullet. Max quells a smile.
“Good,” he says, pretending to distract himself with his tripod.
“As long as they’re off the record.”
He doesn’t dignify this with a response, but instead looks around the room with purpose, shuffling here and there. He’s dressed in safari gear, khaki and many-pocketed. It wobbles when he walks.
“Why are you dressed like that?” I ask him.
“To make you more comfortable with unusual things.”
“Ah.”
“Is it working?” he asks, pulling the sides of the jacket down in his fingers.
Definitely. “I can’t tell. Why don’t you give me something else that’s unusual to test it?”
He holds a light meter to my face and throws the flash.
“I think I believe you,” he says from behind a new pink and blue light-bruise in my eye. I’m too stunned to say anything. He throws the flash again. Something in my heart loses its grip and falls, twisting gracefully, gliding in ether. He asks me to lay down on the table and guides me without actually touching into a pose. It feels different, his hands above my legs, cupping the air and moving them into a lotus position. It’s almost as if I can feel them, or as if I want to feel them, or can imagine, even without the contact, what it is that he’s feeling. He silently backs toward the camera, presses a button and takes the photo. I’m temporarily blinded and at home only with my other senses. He takes a few more shots, completely distracted, then finally removes a gauzy sheet from his bag.
“I want you to wear this,” he says.
I choke up, but manage a laugh. “Guan Yin?”
“The goddess of empathy.”
He was paying attention in class.
He leans very close to me as he hands the sheet over, getting as close as he can without touching. I feel him again, through myself and not my oddity, and I’m still so scared I’m unable to do anything but what he says. He backs away and it hurts. I want him to touch me so bad part of me is yelling inside. I think he’ll turn around in some sort of girl-worship bullshit chivalry, but he sits in the first row of desks instead, his ankle over one knee, watching with dark eyes. My fingers go to the bottom of my shirt and lift in one brave move. He blinks in a tiny jolt and exhales. I look at him seriously, my heart a twittering jello sex organ, reach behind and undo my bra. My breasts fall, the nipples in a shock at this sudden, chilly exposure. I giggle a little despite myself, but Max doesn’t return it. He hasn’t looked at my face recently. I stand and unzip my jeans, kick my shoes off, hook my thumbs in my waistband and drop jeans and underwear to the floor. I have never been naked in front of a boy like this, and even though I have no doubt that my body is welcome, it’s nerve-wracking all the same.
“Say something, Max.”
“You’re going to know this anyway, so I’ll tell you now.” He raises his eyes to my face and his expression droops. “I’m falling in love with you.”
I bite the inside of my mouth. “That was the right thing to say.” I put the sheet on, a whisper-thin cheese cloth of a thing, hung around me like a sari. My breasts show through, the tacky cloth scratching at the nipples. I sit on the edge of the card table, awaiting instructions.
Max stands suddenly, shaking a thought or two from his head, and picks up his light meter again. He holds it to my face and throws a flash.
“You’ve never had sex?” he asks.
“Not really.” Flash.
“Not really? Meaning what?”
“I did something weird last night.”
“Okay.” Flash. “You’ve never physically let another person cause you to have an orgasm.”
“Um.”
Flash. He examines the meter and I can see some sort of outline of him blink from it and look at me.
“No,” I finish.
I feel his arm around me and a sudden rush of affection and desperation. It hurts, really, but it’s wonderful. It matches perfectly everything I want and all of the horrible high-strung wistful joy that’s been rolling in my body since he showed up in this outfit. He kisses me, his mouth open, his breath in mine, his hand around the back of my head and for the third time, someone else’s feelings are welcome in me. Someone else’s emotions are there because I want them to be. He pulls himself away with a terrible force of will and stands in front of me, hitting the flash again.
“You’re blushing,” he says.
“You’re in love with me,” I say.
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure I am.”
He stands back and purses his lips for a couple of seconds before urging me into a pose. My arms cross my front, cradling my breasts between them. One hand is held palm up. My eyelids are rolled forward and a loving smile, this part my own contribution, is hinted on my face. Flash. Flash. Flash. Flash.
He mimes me on my back, my torso twisted around to face him, my pelvis gently back. He almost takes a picture, but stops to remove the safari jacket. He’s wearing a white undershirt, again covered in paint stains, holes in certain areas revealing beautiful skin. He tucked it in, and wrinkles form above his belt. I want to untuck it. He sees me looking and blinds me quickly with another flash.
“Do you paint too?” I ask.
“Houses.”
“Oh.”
Flash.
I hope to God that he’s going to stop being a gentleman sometime soon. When my eyes clear of the last flash shadow, they land on his safari pants, the loose fit only hinting at a slight bulge. Flash. He comes close to arrange me again and I force a touch, a slide of my thumb on the heel of his hand. It sends me reeling. He’s so full of sex it aches. I’m aching too. He hovers his fingers above the bottom hem of my sheet and raises them. I pull it up slowly until he stops just below my pussy. He looks, closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, exhaling slowly. Flash.
Flash.
Flash.
“Max?”
Nothing.
“Max?”
“Yeah?”
“Touch me, okay?”
The latest flash is only a pink warp somewhere above my main focus and I can just make out the look on his face. He blinks slowly, puts the camera down and reaches to my face. When he makes contact it’s ignition, pure jet fuel and burning, his and mine. He kisses me deeply and strokes my hair through his fingers. “Sarah,” he whispers in my ear, “I believe you.”
He pulls at the inside of my thigh and it’s a new rush, the focus of all of this almost unbearable bliss and need blurs and spreads, from toe to face, across the ridiculous card table, all sweet jitters and love. I sit up as he pulls my legs down off of the card table, feel his entire body on me. “Do you feel that?” he asks.
“Yes. Of course.”
I reach down and touch his penis, the only one I’ve ever touched. I feel my own touch and what it does to him. He wants me so bad it’s almost bitter. He lets go of me for a moment to get to his jacket and I feel only me, finding that I’m just as bad now, just as dizzy and throbbing, air like lighter fluid on the fire. He comes back to me and spreads my legs, kicking the card table out from the back of me and pulling us to the ground. The material of the sheet slips back and my lower body is exposed to him. He drops his pants on the way down.
The empty seats fill with ghosts of the kind of life I could have had up until now, inspected and rejected for not good enough. I smile at them over Max’s shoulder, kissing his neck and then closing my eyes on them. A condom is put on, his intensity more blunt than sweet now, and he grasps my nipple, flicking it with his thumb. He lays between my legs, buries his face in my neck and slides his penis inside. I yell out, unable to wait, two people at once now, twice the fuck, my neck twisting my head and come, my face twisted, my body jolting, I come, right away. But there is more. There is his too, blurred and basic, just a rise of a mountain, a purple moan with each thrust and his feeling pours into me. We come together, because I am him, in sweat and sex and affection. He understands me. He believes me. And I’m not afraid of a fucking thing anymore.
“I love you too, Max,” I say to him, from a warm fetal position in his arms, feeling him change from sweet curiosity to blessed relief. “I love you too.”
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Wednesday, May 9, 2007
Booths
Hello. I'm going to be out of town for a while, so this place will be unattended for about ten days. Behave yourselves. I'll be back.
Drunk and stumbling home one night, the language around me fading from the one I’ve studied and felt that I have come to own, back to the bellowing and feminine gibberish that it was when I first arrived here, I heard the words “Come inside, sir,” in English, by an affable-looking barker in front of a blacked-out door. I went inside, in a hypnotic state brought on by the essential trustworthiness of one’s own language, the heft of the door unable to dissuade me. There was, of course, a short price list and a long list of don’ts, in several languages, the second of which was well-translated English.
Watch: €60
Participate: €100
Not Negotiable.
I glanced over the list of don’ts, which made me more comfortable, though I was hardly uncomfortable before, and handed over my credit card, an erection warming and tightening my pants.
They’d gone with a fin de siecle look, all red velvet and yellow mood lighting. Vinyl overstuffed chairs with well-hidden drains where buttons would have been. The few higher-tech items were cloaked as nickelodeon machines and large iron switches, needlessly solid buttons and time-machine ornate. It put one in mind of a cocktail, but I was there for the sex. I showed my receipt to a slyly good-looking man in a tailored white shirt and black pants. He nodded, letting his hair slide forward, and showed me to my curtain.
“You may watch until there is a vacancy, sir,” he said, in only the slightest accent. I almost teared up at the welcome, and entered the curtain humbled and flattered, grinning like I’d just gotten a love letter. He closed the curtain behind and left me in the beveled and etched confines of a two-way mirror and a vinyl chair.
Immediately, the vinyl still squeaking and settling under my ass, I felt that I’d wasted my money on the participation portion. I’d just simply never make it. I stood up again and resettled, the chair reclining, with my knees out, the better to manage the erection. In front of me, almost uncomfortably close, a man knelt, his pants loose and belt half out. Knees shook on either side of him, the pants that had once covered them in an accordion pile on the floor. The kneeling man bent over between them and bobbed, hugging one leg to his torso. The other arm occupied itself in front of him. The rest of the prostrate man was hidden behind a screen where muscular dryads and satyrs frolicked and fucked.
I got over the initial shock of the sight in a few seconds and glanced above me. Two monitors, both designed to look like portholes, showed the scene in front of me from different angles. The one on the left showed the man doing the work, the other the man enjoying its benefits. Each porthole had two buttons within easy reach. They were labeled in arching, serif script, “Above” and “Side.” I played with them absently, dazzling my eyes with the views provided, one man, hollow-cheeked and sweating, filling his mouth with the cock of the other and sliding it out, the other’s face distorted, fingers toying with his nipples, mouth open to thank whatever gods brought this down to him.
“Fuck,” I heard myself say, and white-knuckled the curtain behind me to keep my hands busy.
The man behind the screen, the view abandoned in “Side,” arched his back and began to writhe. He was about to come. The other man slowed his efforts and pulled the orgasm out of him sweetly, eyes watering with exertion. A light came on in the booth and flashed a yellow, low-tech announcement, “Position Available.” I ignored it. The man came in huge waves, his back snapping against his bench. The light pulsed more rapidly. A voice outside said, “Sir, there is a position available now.”
I inhaled deeply and said, “Okay.”
I was lead to a booth at the end of a hallway of the same length as the curtains outside. I would not be in the same booth as the one I watched. I was told to stand near the mirror. The screen was shut in front of me and I waited a few moments until a pair of legs and a medium-sized cock was presented to me, uncut, as the Europeans prefer. I spread his knees, knelt, took off my shirt and bent over it.
I felt a need to blow him away, to service him with skill and tenaciousness, to make him make sounds I’d never heard, loud enough to penetrate the other booths, so that they could be envious. I teased him for more time than was really necessary, sucked his balls with tickle and force, pushed him deep into my throat and held there until he’d just about given up. I wondered what he looked like, whether his face was as twisted as the one I’d seen just a few minutes before, if he was fighting to stay in it as long as possible. I wondered if we had a watcher, if he was passing time like me, or whether he was jerking off now, getting off on watching me. I trailed my tongue below my lips a few times just in case.
My own cock was branding my pants, working its way to my pockets, a seething, needy, whimpering thing, begging to be released and relieved. I sadistically made it wait, made it settle for whatever friction it could find in my underwear. It continued to bash my thoughts, but it didn’t know that things would only get better.
Then I heard him moan, the man behind the screen. I heard him growl and felt him kick. He got louder, and I glowed in it. I wanted them all to know I was the best. Everyone in the whole place. I wanted whoever was on the other side of that mirror to know it. He mumbled in the local tongue, my mind clear enough to hear it as if it were my own again, “That’s fucking good, fucking good, don’t stop.” His legs twitched and he settled into a guttural gush. My mouth froze and I gently licked his orgasm out of him, swishing along the tip. “Jesus!” he said. “Oh, Jesus!” And he locked under me, though I held him in place by the legs, my face riding him like a toboggan down an icy hill, my mouth filling with salty bitter.
When he stopped shaking, stopped tensing and shoving and his legs went limp in my arms, I let him slide out of my mouth and stood up, wiping my face and huffing. The legs slid away and I turned around, lifting my shirt to the mirror, so that the watcher could see what I had resisted.
I heard the door open and shut and soonafter the screen was pulled back, the dryads and satyrs fucking more thin before they disappeared, and the man who’d looked at my receipt appeared behind it. “Go through this door and wait until I open it, please,” he said. How this man survived this job without getting tackled and fucked by the clientele twice a day was beyond my understanding. He was suddenly aggressively good looking, and I was sorely tempted to grab his face and push it down as I walked past him, but I reminded myself that I was about to be relieved as it was.
Beyond the door was a room only large enough for a comfortable chair, and side table with a lamp and an ashtray. I sat in it and covered my face, wondering how long it would be, the ashtray, though I don’t smoke, tempting me to start.
It wasn’t long before the door was opened again and the beautiful employee lead me back into the room and exited. The screen had been replaced. I lay down on a vinyl but comfortable bench, slid my knees forward, and felt eager fingers on my cock through my pants. The erection returned full-force and I cried out the minute that it was freed, touched, and swallowed into a warm mouth. When he’d settled into a rhythm, the see-sawing disembodied pair of lips on the other end of the bench, I found the strength to open my eyes and found yet another pair of portholes on the ceiling, one of the man on the other side of the screen, another of the curtained booth, the luxury cocoon of the watcher. Two buttons again for each were within my reach on the walls, “Above,” “Side.” While I was distracted by these, the man changed rhythm, and I found the next level of pleasure rush into me. I jolted. The watcher, a decent-looking man in his forties, squinted and exhaled. His hand grasped his cock tightly and he paused before stroking again, his cheeks filled with air.
“Mmm, aw shit, that’s good,” I said in English, the only language I use in ecstasy. The man on the other side of the screen looked up in the side-view portal, smiled a bit and redoubled his work. I watched my cock slide in and out of his mouth, its anonymous exhibitionism blush-worthy, shocking that it was connected to me at all. It made the heat emanating from it that much more foreign and tantalizing. I fucked his mouth for a while, amazed by the circuit, my order to move my hips ending in this video above me, my hips moving, my cock, shiny wet, forcing its way in and out of a stranger’s mouth. My eyes closed against my will and I went passive again, focusing on the feeling, this bliss I had no control over, rising in my body.
I looked again and saw the watcher, his eyes smoky and glazed, his neck tense, watching me in the porthole, his hand pounding away. I turned and saw the worker, bent painfully over me, struggling against me, his own eyes turning lazy dark, as needy as I was, on this side and that one. He too controlled his speed and licked, sweetly burned his energy away, plugging for all his might at me. I became overwhelmed, cars crashing in my head, and fell into pure stinging joy, an oxygen-sucking fire rising in my belly, swallowing my balls and headed out.
“Goddammitttttt!” I wailed and flailed on the bench, its soft support handling it fine, my hands grasping at the air and came so hard I could feel it in my gums, the natural disaster of my body in chaos, beautiful fucking chaos. When I opened my eyes, the watcher bit his lip and shot out silently, his face contorted and his soul open to the world. The worker held and waited until I’d stopped shivering before he released me. I coughed, my head still full of magic soup, and leaned forward for my pants.
Drunk and stumbling home one night, the language around me fading from the one I’ve studied and felt that I have come to own, back to the bellowing and feminine gibberish that it was when I first arrived here, I heard the words “Come inside, sir,” in English, by an affable-looking barker in front of a blacked-out door. I went inside, in a hypnotic state brought on by the essential trustworthiness of one’s own language, the heft of the door unable to dissuade me. There was, of course, a short price list and a long list of don’ts, in several languages, the second of which was well-translated English.
Watch: €60
Participate: €100
Not Negotiable.
I glanced over the list of don’ts, which made me more comfortable, though I was hardly uncomfortable before, and handed over my credit card, an erection warming and tightening my pants.
They’d gone with a fin de siecle look, all red velvet and yellow mood lighting. Vinyl overstuffed chairs with well-hidden drains where buttons would have been. The few higher-tech items were cloaked as nickelodeon machines and large iron switches, needlessly solid buttons and time-machine ornate. It put one in mind of a cocktail, but I was there for the sex. I showed my receipt to a slyly good-looking man in a tailored white shirt and black pants. He nodded, letting his hair slide forward, and showed me to my curtain.
“You may watch until there is a vacancy, sir,” he said, in only the slightest accent. I almost teared up at the welcome, and entered the curtain humbled and flattered, grinning like I’d just gotten a love letter. He closed the curtain behind and left me in the beveled and etched confines of a two-way mirror and a vinyl chair.
Immediately, the vinyl still squeaking and settling under my ass, I felt that I’d wasted my money on the participation portion. I’d just simply never make it. I stood up again and resettled, the chair reclining, with my knees out, the better to manage the erection. In front of me, almost uncomfortably close, a man knelt, his pants loose and belt half out. Knees shook on either side of him, the pants that had once covered them in an accordion pile on the floor. The kneeling man bent over between them and bobbed, hugging one leg to his torso. The other arm occupied itself in front of him. The rest of the prostrate man was hidden behind a screen where muscular dryads and satyrs frolicked and fucked.
I got over the initial shock of the sight in a few seconds and glanced above me. Two monitors, both designed to look like portholes, showed the scene in front of me from different angles. The one on the left showed the man doing the work, the other the man enjoying its benefits. Each porthole had two buttons within easy reach. They were labeled in arching, serif script, “Above” and “Side.” I played with them absently, dazzling my eyes with the views provided, one man, hollow-cheeked and sweating, filling his mouth with the cock of the other and sliding it out, the other’s face distorted, fingers toying with his nipples, mouth open to thank whatever gods brought this down to him.
“Fuck,” I heard myself say, and white-knuckled the curtain behind me to keep my hands busy.
The man behind the screen, the view abandoned in “Side,” arched his back and began to writhe. He was about to come. The other man slowed his efforts and pulled the orgasm out of him sweetly, eyes watering with exertion. A light came on in the booth and flashed a yellow, low-tech announcement, “Position Available.” I ignored it. The man came in huge waves, his back snapping against his bench. The light pulsed more rapidly. A voice outside said, “Sir, there is a position available now.”
I inhaled deeply and said, “Okay.”
I was lead to a booth at the end of a hallway of the same length as the curtains outside. I would not be in the same booth as the one I watched. I was told to stand near the mirror. The screen was shut in front of me and I waited a few moments until a pair of legs and a medium-sized cock was presented to me, uncut, as the Europeans prefer. I spread his knees, knelt, took off my shirt and bent over it.
I felt a need to blow him away, to service him with skill and tenaciousness, to make him make sounds I’d never heard, loud enough to penetrate the other booths, so that they could be envious. I teased him for more time than was really necessary, sucked his balls with tickle and force, pushed him deep into my throat and held there until he’d just about given up. I wondered what he looked like, whether his face was as twisted as the one I’d seen just a few minutes before, if he was fighting to stay in it as long as possible. I wondered if we had a watcher, if he was passing time like me, or whether he was jerking off now, getting off on watching me. I trailed my tongue below my lips a few times just in case.
My own cock was branding my pants, working its way to my pockets, a seething, needy, whimpering thing, begging to be released and relieved. I sadistically made it wait, made it settle for whatever friction it could find in my underwear. It continued to bash my thoughts, but it didn’t know that things would only get better.
Then I heard him moan, the man behind the screen. I heard him growl and felt him kick. He got louder, and I glowed in it. I wanted them all to know I was the best. Everyone in the whole place. I wanted whoever was on the other side of that mirror to know it. He mumbled in the local tongue, my mind clear enough to hear it as if it were my own again, “That’s fucking good, fucking good, don’t stop.” His legs twitched and he settled into a guttural gush. My mouth froze and I gently licked his orgasm out of him, swishing along the tip. “Jesus!” he said. “Oh, Jesus!” And he locked under me, though I held him in place by the legs, my face riding him like a toboggan down an icy hill, my mouth filling with salty bitter.
When he stopped shaking, stopped tensing and shoving and his legs went limp in my arms, I let him slide out of my mouth and stood up, wiping my face and huffing. The legs slid away and I turned around, lifting my shirt to the mirror, so that the watcher could see what I had resisted.
I heard the door open and shut and soonafter the screen was pulled back, the dryads and satyrs fucking more thin before they disappeared, and the man who’d looked at my receipt appeared behind it. “Go through this door and wait until I open it, please,” he said. How this man survived this job without getting tackled and fucked by the clientele twice a day was beyond my understanding. He was suddenly aggressively good looking, and I was sorely tempted to grab his face and push it down as I walked past him, but I reminded myself that I was about to be relieved as it was.
Beyond the door was a room only large enough for a comfortable chair, and side table with a lamp and an ashtray. I sat in it and covered my face, wondering how long it would be, the ashtray, though I don’t smoke, tempting me to start.
It wasn’t long before the door was opened again and the beautiful employee lead me back into the room and exited. The screen had been replaced. I lay down on a vinyl but comfortable bench, slid my knees forward, and felt eager fingers on my cock through my pants. The erection returned full-force and I cried out the minute that it was freed, touched, and swallowed into a warm mouth. When he’d settled into a rhythm, the see-sawing disembodied pair of lips on the other end of the bench, I found the strength to open my eyes and found yet another pair of portholes on the ceiling, one of the man on the other side of the screen, another of the curtained booth, the luxury cocoon of the watcher. Two buttons again for each were within my reach on the walls, “Above,” “Side.” While I was distracted by these, the man changed rhythm, and I found the next level of pleasure rush into me. I jolted. The watcher, a decent-looking man in his forties, squinted and exhaled. His hand grasped his cock tightly and he paused before stroking again, his cheeks filled with air.
“Mmm, aw shit, that’s good,” I said in English, the only language I use in ecstasy. The man on the other side of the screen looked up in the side-view portal, smiled a bit and redoubled his work. I watched my cock slide in and out of his mouth, its anonymous exhibitionism blush-worthy, shocking that it was connected to me at all. It made the heat emanating from it that much more foreign and tantalizing. I fucked his mouth for a while, amazed by the circuit, my order to move my hips ending in this video above me, my hips moving, my cock, shiny wet, forcing its way in and out of a stranger’s mouth. My eyes closed against my will and I went passive again, focusing on the feeling, this bliss I had no control over, rising in my body.
I looked again and saw the watcher, his eyes smoky and glazed, his neck tense, watching me in the porthole, his hand pounding away. I turned and saw the worker, bent painfully over me, struggling against me, his own eyes turning lazy dark, as needy as I was, on this side and that one. He too controlled his speed and licked, sweetly burned his energy away, plugging for all his might at me. I became overwhelmed, cars crashing in my head, and fell into pure stinging joy, an oxygen-sucking fire rising in my belly, swallowing my balls and headed out.
“Goddammitttttt!” I wailed and flailed on the bench, its soft support handling it fine, my hands grasping at the air and came so hard I could feel it in my gums, the natural disaster of my body in chaos, beautiful fucking chaos. When I opened my eyes, the watcher bit his lip and shot out silently, his face contorted and his soul open to the world. The worker held and waited until I’d stopped shivering before he released me. I coughed, my head still full of magic soup, and leaned forward for my pants.
Saturday, May 5, 2007
Empathy Part Three
Max backs up from me with his hands in his pockets and nods at me. I guess he did hear about the screaming, pottymouthed madwoman at his party.
“I’m not crazy,” I blurt out feebly. “I’m not. It’s a physical thing.”
“What’s it called?”
“Um.”
“Look, Sarah, I like you a lot. And I want to kiss you again, but not if it’s going to be some sort of drama for you every time.”
“It might be a drama for me every time.”
He cocks his head, squints at me and turns around, his foot stamping in a pivot on the concrete. I feel so bad for him, but I don’t know what to say. I feel like I’m being selfish somehow, or dishonest, but I swore to myself that I would let it happen next time, that I wouldn’t let the next one just leave. Besides, suddenly the thought of Max being with anyone else ever again is the worst thing I’ve ever wondered. I close my eyes, trying like I have since I first read about it, think that maybe I can control things too. “Max will not leave,” I think. “Max will understand.” I reach out in front of me to touch his arm, see if it worked, but I open my eyes and he’s gone.
Stage one: Sure that Sarah will admit she’s lying or exaggerating and wait for it.
Stage two: Sure that Sarah is insane even though she seems so normal.
Only my parents have gotten past these two stages. Not even doctors believe me. I should know by now. But this is different now. I’m different now.
Max nods a curt hello at the beginning of class every Monday, Wednesday and Friday for the next two weeks. I do my best in each class to act sane. Very smart people are often insane, so I keep my responses to the professor’s questions simple and shallow. Insane people don’t blink or blink too much. I guard my blinking. Insane people obsessively toy with their hair or their pens. I keep notes with mild interest and leave my fingers against the desk.
When we’re forced to be in a study group together, our desks pushed against each other, the square of void between the four of us tangible, our legs swinging under it, he leans his leg on my ankle for a few seconds, one, schadenfreude, two, guilt, three, sex, four, concern, five self-righteousness. I move my leg. He apologizes, says he thought it was the leg of my chair. I think about giving him a sarcastic look, but control myself. He’s not doing anything wrong, or even un-called for. I wish he could see that I’m being honest, that this was a transmitter as well as receiver, but I’ve had more than enough time to get used to that.
to: maximaxmaxmax@yahoo.com
from: empie.sarah@gmail.com
Max,
I’m not crazy. (I put down my drink as I’m writing, drunken emailing almost more acceptable than drunken dialing, and besides, I don’t have his phone number.) Full disclosure.
When I was a small kid, I couldn’t stand letting anyone touch me and my parents took me to the doctor. He did some tests on me and declared that even though I don’t show any of the physical signs of it, or many of the mental ones, that I must have some sort of autism. I was left in normal schools in normal classes, but had no friends and very little physical contact with anyone. (I take another sip, and consider what I’m doing. Better to say something. Take advantage of the drinks.) When I turned thirteen I began to spend all of my time on the internet, and even though I have a lot of friends, none of them know what’s wrong with me. When talk turns to sex, I sit back and watch. I think they think I’m just a prude, or scared of men, or a lesbian. I assure you I’m not. Sometimes I want to touch so bad I could die, but I don’t. I haven’t until that one night.
You have no idea what that night means to me.
I’m scaring you, but I’ve never taken a chance like this before because I never thought it was worth it before. Do you know what I mean?
Anyway, I’m different than I was in high school now. I different than I was a month and a half ago. You changed me. I thought you should know. I’m not scared of you. I don’t think you’re scared of me. If you like me, you should know that I can do this with you. If you’ve decided I’m crazy, or at least not worth it, then let me just thank you. Thanks for the hope. I didn’t think it was there before. (I take a deep swig. I’m really drunk. I’m beginning to cry.)
Thank you.
Sarah
(555-3314)
I press send before I can change my mind about it, and leave it for the inevitable embarrassment of tomorrow. I am my own drunk friend, daring myself.
“I’m not crazy,” I blurt out feebly. “I’m not. It’s a physical thing.”
“What’s it called?”
“Um.”
“Look, Sarah, I like you a lot. And I want to kiss you again, but not if it’s going to be some sort of drama for you every time.”
“It might be a drama for me every time.”
He cocks his head, squints at me and turns around, his foot stamping in a pivot on the concrete. I feel so bad for him, but I don’t know what to say. I feel like I’m being selfish somehow, or dishonest, but I swore to myself that I would let it happen next time, that I wouldn’t let the next one just leave. Besides, suddenly the thought of Max being with anyone else ever again is the worst thing I’ve ever wondered. I close my eyes, trying like I have since I first read about it, think that maybe I can control things too. “Max will not leave,” I think. “Max will understand.” I reach out in front of me to touch his arm, see if it worked, but I open my eyes and he’s gone.
Stage one: Sure that Sarah will admit she’s lying or exaggerating and wait for it.
Stage two: Sure that Sarah is insane even though she seems so normal.
Only my parents have gotten past these two stages. Not even doctors believe me. I should know by now. But this is different now. I’m different now.
Max nods a curt hello at the beginning of class every Monday, Wednesday and Friday for the next two weeks. I do my best in each class to act sane. Very smart people are often insane, so I keep my responses to the professor’s questions simple and shallow. Insane people don’t blink or blink too much. I guard my blinking. Insane people obsessively toy with their hair or their pens. I keep notes with mild interest and leave my fingers against the desk.
When we’re forced to be in a study group together, our desks pushed against each other, the square of void between the four of us tangible, our legs swinging under it, he leans his leg on my ankle for a few seconds, one, schadenfreude, two, guilt, three, sex, four, concern, five self-righteousness. I move my leg. He apologizes, says he thought it was the leg of my chair. I think about giving him a sarcastic look, but control myself. He’s not doing anything wrong, or even un-called for. I wish he could see that I’m being honest, that this was a transmitter as well as receiver, but I’ve had more than enough time to get used to that.
to: maximaxmaxmax@yahoo.com
from: empie.sarah@gmail.com
Max,
I’m not crazy. (I put down my drink as I’m writing, drunken emailing almost more acceptable than drunken dialing, and besides, I don’t have his phone number.) Full disclosure.
When I was a small kid, I couldn’t stand letting anyone touch me and my parents took me to the doctor. He did some tests on me and declared that even though I don’t show any of the physical signs of it, or many of the mental ones, that I must have some sort of autism. I was left in normal schools in normal classes, but had no friends and very little physical contact with anyone. (I take another sip, and consider what I’m doing. Better to say something. Take advantage of the drinks.) When I turned thirteen I began to spend all of my time on the internet, and even though I have a lot of friends, none of them know what’s wrong with me. When talk turns to sex, I sit back and watch. I think they think I’m just a prude, or scared of men, or a lesbian. I assure you I’m not. Sometimes I want to touch so bad I could die, but I don’t. I haven’t until that one night.
You have no idea what that night means to me.
I’m scaring you, but I’ve never taken a chance like this before because I never thought it was worth it before. Do you know what I mean?
Anyway, I’m different than I was in high school now. I different than I was a month and a half ago. You changed me. I thought you should know. I’m not scared of you. I don’t think you’re scared of me. If you like me, you should know that I can do this with you. If you’ve decided I’m crazy, or at least not worth it, then let me just thank you. Thanks for the hope. I didn’t think it was there before. (I take a deep swig. I’m really drunk. I’m beginning to cry.)
Thank you.
Sarah
(555-3314)
I press send before I can change my mind about it, and leave it for the inevitable embarrassment of tomorrow. I am my own drunk friend, daring myself.
Sunday, April 29, 2007
Beloved
“She could never remember that I don’t like onions,” Glen said, brandishing his beer at Chloe. She smiled, all teeth that never quite cancelled out her pout, and pretended to dodge Glen’s attack. He smiled back, waved the beer two more sweeps at her for good measure, drew it back and pulled a half-forced and shy kiss from her before looking at me again. He smiled, almost as sweetly, at me. “But she was so beautiful that I didn’t mind coming back every time to ask for a new sandwich, or to risk another mess-up.” Chloe pursed her lips, which created a dent and brought the top of her bottom lip down into a further pout.
“You asked for onions every time,” she said, and Glen and I felt that she was genuinely hurt for a moment and exchanged glances (it’s your fault; no it’s yours), before she blushed and looked at Glen as if she’d just noticed that she was in love with him, her eyes open below the irises, and the smile of someone who’d just received a large bouquet of flowers.
“It’s a good thing you’re beautiful,” Glen said, and kissed her again, deeply, with his hand cupped over her cheek, stroking the jaw. It was like watching children play red-light green-light, something you must watch, and you must watch with a hapless grin. They were, in short, adorable. “Or you would have been fired a hundred times over.”
“Yours was the only sandwich I ever messed up,” she said. “I couldn’t think when you came in.”
“I still don’t like onions,” Glen said, with an exhale, turning to me.
I sat up straight, having forgotten that I was there, that it was my question that they were answering, and that it might be my turn to ask another. Luckily, Chloe pushed in.
“You’re an attractive man. Are you gay?”
“What?” I said, in a guffaw as if people didn’t always assume this of me. “No.”
“We don’t care,” Glen said.
“I’ve just broken up with a girl actually.”
“Uh-huh,” Chloe said, waiting for the because-I’m-gay portion of that statement to arise.
“No, look, everyone thinks I am when they meet me and I’m not. There’s nothing wrong with it, but I’m not.”
“But you’ve gone there, surely,” Glen said, cupping his girlfriend’s hand.
I looked back and forth between them and took another sip of my drink. It wasn’t any of their business, but somehow I felt like telling the truth, politely.
“Well, most people have.”
“And…,” Chloe said.
“It wasn’t bad, but I prefer women.” I was a little upset, suddenly, about this line of questioning, the perfect straight couple addressing the imperfect, broken-up-with, slightly bisexual stranger, attractive though he may be. “And you, Glen?” I asked, finally finding my revenge. “Have you ‘gone there’?”
“Yes,” he said. Chloe nodded as if she was agreeing that he had a degree from university. I took another wide dip into my drink, the coolness of it slapping my uvula like a punching bag. They stared at each other meaningfully, little naughty glances between them. I got the attention of the barman and ordered another scotch and soda.
“On us,” Glen said to the barman, waving at an imaginary bill in front of him. I tested him with a look. He returned it, a stare with slow blinks. I bit my lip. I pulled at the inside seam on my trousers, an erection, an uncalled-for one, in there. Chloe stood up, said something in Glen’s ear that made his bottom lip slide out, and made for the ladies’.
“Do you like Chloe?” Glen asked.
“Sorry, mate, I know she’s your girlfriend, but, let’s just say you’re the luckiest guy in this town, possibly the world.” I turned away from him and held my drink to my mouth, biting the glass idly after a sip, and taking another. He noticed me doing it and grinned. I was no longer Alex White, former mail room employee and current middle manager in a software company, owner of two Weimaraners and a goldfish named Tom, officially in mourning of the wasted three year and seven month relationship with a woman from Ealing who had beautiful eyes and a shoddy waistline, but the toy of a man named Glen and a woman named Chloe, and there was very little to be done about it. And all I’d wanted was a large scotch and soda with a packet of crisps.
Glen’s gaze sloshed away from me and his eyes went as bright as they could be. I followed them to Chloe, returned from the toilet, though such a word could never be associated with her. She must have just gone in to do some charity work and give the other girls makeup tips by osmosis. She glided to us, a pink streak, though she wore blue, and lit to my left. I was now between the two radiant, otherworldly angels, my back curving me into the bar and my right arm across my lap.
“Alex,” she said.
“Yeah?”
“Turn your head for me, alright?”
“Yeah.”
I turned and was swallowed whole by a new religion, one of peace and sex and shameless beauty in the face of all obstacles. She kissed me like a shot of sweet morphine and I swam in it, pressed my fingertips to the bottom of the pool and kicked my feet in the air. Her breath was ambrosia, her lips, candied and strong, were at once on all parts of my body, transcending my mouth. My cock went from maybe to its surest moment and pressed into my forearm like an angry mob.
She stopped and winked at me, looked around me to Glen and gave the slightest nod. A hand went around my glass and put it on the inside of the bar. I hastily untucked my shirt and put my jacket on. “Come on then, Alex.” A male voice to my right said. It was someone I knew. Glen. I stood up slowly, grasping the back of the chair and exited the pub with my eyes down, following the floor as well as I could, as I could only see, could only concentrate on three feet of information at a time.
Glen hailed a taxi and I was put in between them as if I was being kidnapped. Glen could manage an address for the driver and I was astounded at his dexterity and facility of language, humbled by it, for I couldn’t evoke my own name anymore. A hand came around my neck and turned my head to the right. It was Glen, a blur of masculine perfection, his kiss a sock across the jaw, a red melee of domination and spirit. He quickly unlashed his belt in his trousers, and fumbling, took my hand to his cock through the top of them. His kiss halted and he timed a move against the driver’s glances, waited, then pushed me down to his cock by the back of the neck. He straightened himself out, pushed his trousers down below his hips and held it out for me. I dove on it gratefully, because my purpose was clear, to serve the beautiful, and I rearranged myself on the seat so I could put more effort into it, one knee on the cushion, one foot on the floor, pushing with all its might by the toe.
Glen organised my rhythm, pushing me down and suggesting me up, finally just fucking my mouth, though I fought to enhance it with my tongue, struggling to impress him. A hand washed up the back of my thigh, made a turn and came down the other, and again, and again, each time making me quiver as it, for the briefest moment, made contact with the area behind my balls. My cock pushed at my trousers, cried sad holy murder to the zip, and fought again. Glen’s cock, as perfect as the rest of him, thickish and thunderously hard, battled my tonsils for space, my jaw aching in self-righteous martyrdom. When he came, a tensed and battering-ram final set of thrusts into my throat, he yanked my head to his face, invaded my mouth and spelunked his funk into his own. Pure gold to him, as it was, deferentially, to myself.
He looked again at the driver and then, sweating and succulently, at his girlfriend, and placed me back in hostage-position, leaning forward again, my erection nagging me like a loose tooth, begging to be nudged. “Here, please,” he said. And for a moment I had no idea what he was talking about.
We piled out of the taxi. Glen stood outside of it and paid the driver with a twenty pound note, his legs apart on the pavement. Chloe took my hand with camaraderie, sympathy and affection. I couldn’t look at her. If I looked, I’d come. She lead me to her door, my knees awobble, my brain fog and dust. She squeezed the hand, produced a key and used it.
It wasn’t a flat. They owned the entire fucking thing. To my left was a salon, straight ahead an enormous kitchen and pantry, upstairs, heavenly opulence in an opal sheen, only imaginable in film and fantasy. They looked around nervously, Jesus fucking Christ, there’s help, and lead me upwards, to the palace that no doubt lay above. Chloe’s arse strode and arched the steps like a temple itself, Glen and I below to worship it. The idea of me getting a leg over this girl seemed like blasphemy, but I would only do as she asked, could not deny an angel her desire and whim. Glen followed me closely, his hands checking the merchandise occasionally, a rub of my arse, a dive between the thighs. Chloe strode the hallway with confident ownership, the rugs certainly chosen by her, the colour of the paint itself her decision. Opulence that only shows true in the cultured. I was now dazzled by the environment and almost slapped away a hand on my cock through my trousers, wanting to say that it was for Chloe. It was Chloe, of course, and looking at her briefly, the idea of her under me, filled by me, made me stop in the hallway to get my bearings. She knew, of course and kissed me briefly, saying “Come on and fuck me, Alex.” I looked shocked at her and she glowed a bit, all fluorescent in pink to contrast the yellow light.
She drifted to the floor right there in the hallway, the back of her fingers coasting my stomach and hooking into my trousers. She took me down with her and twisted, arch-backed on the floor, her thighs spread. I sat on my knees for a while and stared down at her, examining her, toes to the top of her head. Glen knelt next to me and leaned forward, lifted her dress and hooked his fingers in her underpants. They slid over her hips, revealing a trimmed, diminutive triangle of hair, above swollen pussy lips, her clit a crimson tongue between them, peeking out. Glen left her underpants on one foot’s toes and bent to smell them. He buried his face in the crotch and visibly sucked her scent inside. She had my trousers open, pulled them forcibly over my arse and my cock flipped up like a bicycle kickstand. She pushed her index finger into the precome and slid it around the tip like it was medication, a soothing to my aggravated cock. Of course, it was only the opposite, what was dry, now suggestively wet and ready.
I spread her thighs more, twisted my hand around her pussy and entered her with reverence and modesty, prodded by Glen’s fingers toying with my ass. My hand curved her neck and went into her hair, pulled her mouth to mine again, and we did not so much kiss as share the space, the intimate blood-breath of a couple in fuck. I ground into her, my entire body waving into her, my knees apart and bitten into the floor. Glen watched beside us, his pants down below his waist, his cock, a flag of perfection, halfway to hard again, his lips on his girlfriend’s forehead before sitting back to watch the show.
I began to shiver above her, my arse clenched and tingling from effort. Glen jumped up and walked down the hallway, stepping over us as if we were a curled rug. “Are you having fun?” Chloe asked when Glen was out of earshot. I answered with a deep, sucking kiss with a bit of a moan, some stirring, deadly affection for her. Glen returned, naked and muscular, a chest of soft hair descending to a treasure trail that would save any lost woodsman, and leaned against the wall for a bit, watching us. I looked at him, Chloe’s mouth at my ear, her breaths ragged. Glen wiped the side of his face. I waited until his eyes were in mine again and descended his body with them, landing on his cock, curved in the air like an enchanted cobra. He smiled once more, turning his face as though I’d just said something wonderful and surprising. He exchanged a look with Chloe and she stopped my hips with her hands.
She kissed me and rolled over under me before sliding out. I was heartbroken, my hips still bent as if she were there. I turned, finally, to a seated position, posing as best I could for the both of them and watched Chloe turn and lean over the railing, her legs spread, arse in the air and tiptoed. I know I grimaced with pleasure, but waited for Glen to take his position. I waited and waited. “Alex?” Chloe said. I jumped up, held her hip, pushed my cock down and entered again. Glen gasped. He was stroking himself. He approached me and with my head turned, I felt him come around my back. He’d gotten a bottle of lube. He squeezed some out and I was helpless and shocked. He held my arse in place, pressed against me and entered me without ceremony or comment. I wailed, pain and unbelievable pleasure, and smoothed my thrusts.
I seesawed against them, pain, pleasure, pain, pleasure, a slap and then a reward and then a slap. My senses drifted away. My eyes could only see Chloe’s skin. My mouth could only taste Glen’s come. My ears heard naught but desperate panting. I could smell only pussy juice and sweat. And I felt the rush of cyanotic pleasure, some dredge of it never seen before, concentrated and crystallised. “Fuck, that’s fucking… wonderful… that’s… FUCK! God God God God GOD!” I yelped and trembled between them, my feet jumping on the floor. I held fast and waited for the world to right itself, ready to plunge over the railing, for it would never happen like that again, until Chloe twisted around me. Glen pushed me to the floor, reentered and fucked hard, my knees sore and shifting my eyes on Chloe’s fingers, dragging across her clit. I grimaced for her, spread my knees wide and lay down on my chest. She shift to our sides and continued to toy her clit, slow and thorough.
“Let me know, sweetheart,” Glen said, his heart in it. She nodded.
“Now,” she said. Glen slipped out of me, rushed to her and lay his mouth on hers. Her neck arched and so did his, two elegant curves in a complement, and their bodies rattled. She squealed and he caught it, comforted it, even as his body locked against hers. They came beautifully, her fingers drawing art out of her pussy, his cock shooting wide splats into her stomach. They fell down and spooned on the floor. I found my clothes, kissed both their cheeks and left them, envious and in love with them both.
“You asked for onions every time,” she said, and Glen and I felt that she was genuinely hurt for a moment and exchanged glances (it’s your fault; no it’s yours), before she blushed and looked at Glen as if she’d just noticed that she was in love with him, her eyes open below the irises, and the smile of someone who’d just received a large bouquet of flowers.
“It’s a good thing you’re beautiful,” Glen said, and kissed her again, deeply, with his hand cupped over her cheek, stroking the jaw. It was like watching children play red-light green-light, something you must watch, and you must watch with a hapless grin. They were, in short, adorable. “Or you would have been fired a hundred times over.”
“Yours was the only sandwich I ever messed up,” she said. “I couldn’t think when you came in.”
“I still don’t like onions,” Glen said, with an exhale, turning to me.
I sat up straight, having forgotten that I was there, that it was my question that they were answering, and that it might be my turn to ask another. Luckily, Chloe pushed in.
“You’re an attractive man. Are you gay?”
“What?” I said, in a guffaw as if people didn’t always assume this of me. “No.”
“We don’t care,” Glen said.
“I’ve just broken up with a girl actually.”
“Uh-huh,” Chloe said, waiting for the because-I’m-gay portion of that statement to arise.
“No, look, everyone thinks I am when they meet me and I’m not. There’s nothing wrong with it, but I’m not.”
“But you’ve gone there, surely,” Glen said, cupping his girlfriend’s hand.
I looked back and forth between them and took another sip of my drink. It wasn’t any of their business, but somehow I felt like telling the truth, politely.
“Well, most people have.”
“And…,” Chloe said.
“It wasn’t bad, but I prefer women.” I was a little upset, suddenly, about this line of questioning, the perfect straight couple addressing the imperfect, broken-up-with, slightly bisexual stranger, attractive though he may be. “And you, Glen?” I asked, finally finding my revenge. “Have you ‘gone there’?”
“Yes,” he said. Chloe nodded as if she was agreeing that he had a degree from university. I took another wide dip into my drink, the coolness of it slapping my uvula like a punching bag. They stared at each other meaningfully, little naughty glances between them. I got the attention of the barman and ordered another scotch and soda.
“On us,” Glen said to the barman, waving at an imaginary bill in front of him. I tested him with a look. He returned it, a stare with slow blinks. I bit my lip. I pulled at the inside seam on my trousers, an erection, an uncalled-for one, in there. Chloe stood up, said something in Glen’s ear that made his bottom lip slide out, and made for the ladies’.
“Do you like Chloe?” Glen asked.
“Sorry, mate, I know she’s your girlfriend, but, let’s just say you’re the luckiest guy in this town, possibly the world.” I turned away from him and held my drink to my mouth, biting the glass idly after a sip, and taking another. He noticed me doing it and grinned. I was no longer Alex White, former mail room employee and current middle manager in a software company, owner of two Weimaraners and a goldfish named Tom, officially in mourning of the wasted three year and seven month relationship with a woman from Ealing who had beautiful eyes and a shoddy waistline, but the toy of a man named Glen and a woman named Chloe, and there was very little to be done about it. And all I’d wanted was a large scotch and soda with a packet of crisps.
Glen’s gaze sloshed away from me and his eyes went as bright as they could be. I followed them to Chloe, returned from the toilet, though such a word could never be associated with her. She must have just gone in to do some charity work and give the other girls makeup tips by osmosis. She glided to us, a pink streak, though she wore blue, and lit to my left. I was now between the two radiant, otherworldly angels, my back curving me into the bar and my right arm across my lap.
“Alex,” she said.
“Yeah?”
“Turn your head for me, alright?”
“Yeah.”
I turned and was swallowed whole by a new religion, one of peace and sex and shameless beauty in the face of all obstacles. She kissed me like a shot of sweet morphine and I swam in it, pressed my fingertips to the bottom of the pool and kicked my feet in the air. Her breath was ambrosia, her lips, candied and strong, were at once on all parts of my body, transcending my mouth. My cock went from maybe to its surest moment and pressed into my forearm like an angry mob.
She stopped and winked at me, looked around me to Glen and gave the slightest nod. A hand went around my glass and put it on the inside of the bar. I hastily untucked my shirt and put my jacket on. “Come on then, Alex.” A male voice to my right said. It was someone I knew. Glen. I stood up slowly, grasping the back of the chair and exited the pub with my eyes down, following the floor as well as I could, as I could only see, could only concentrate on three feet of information at a time.
Glen hailed a taxi and I was put in between them as if I was being kidnapped. Glen could manage an address for the driver and I was astounded at his dexterity and facility of language, humbled by it, for I couldn’t evoke my own name anymore. A hand came around my neck and turned my head to the right. It was Glen, a blur of masculine perfection, his kiss a sock across the jaw, a red melee of domination and spirit. He quickly unlashed his belt in his trousers, and fumbling, took my hand to his cock through the top of them. His kiss halted and he timed a move against the driver’s glances, waited, then pushed me down to his cock by the back of the neck. He straightened himself out, pushed his trousers down below his hips and held it out for me. I dove on it gratefully, because my purpose was clear, to serve the beautiful, and I rearranged myself on the seat so I could put more effort into it, one knee on the cushion, one foot on the floor, pushing with all its might by the toe.
Glen organised my rhythm, pushing me down and suggesting me up, finally just fucking my mouth, though I fought to enhance it with my tongue, struggling to impress him. A hand washed up the back of my thigh, made a turn and came down the other, and again, and again, each time making me quiver as it, for the briefest moment, made contact with the area behind my balls. My cock pushed at my trousers, cried sad holy murder to the zip, and fought again. Glen’s cock, as perfect as the rest of him, thickish and thunderously hard, battled my tonsils for space, my jaw aching in self-righteous martyrdom. When he came, a tensed and battering-ram final set of thrusts into my throat, he yanked my head to his face, invaded my mouth and spelunked his funk into his own. Pure gold to him, as it was, deferentially, to myself.
He looked again at the driver and then, sweating and succulently, at his girlfriend, and placed me back in hostage-position, leaning forward again, my erection nagging me like a loose tooth, begging to be nudged. “Here, please,” he said. And for a moment I had no idea what he was talking about.
We piled out of the taxi. Glen stood outside of it and paid the driver with a twenty pound note, his legs apart on the pavement. Chloe took my hand with camaraderie, sympathy and affection. I couldn’t look at her. If I looked, I’d come. She lead me to her door, my knees awobble, my brain fog and dust. She squeezed the hand, produced a key and used it.
It wasn’t a flat. They owned the entire fucking thing. To my left was a salon, straight ahead an enormous kitchen and pantry, upstairs, heavenly opulence in an opal sheen, only imaginable in film and fantasy. They looked around nervously, Jesus fucking Christ, there’s help, and lead me upwards, to the palace that no doubt lay above. Chloe’s arse strode and arched the steps like a temple itself, Glen and I below to worship it. The idea of me getting a leg over this girl seemed like blasphemy, but I would only do as she asked, could not deny an angel her desire and whim. Glen followed me closely, his hands checking the merchandise occasionally, a rub of my arse, a dive between the thighs. Chloe strode the hallway with confident ownership, the rugs certainly chosen by her, the colour of the paint itself her decision. Opulence that only shows true in the cultured. I was now dazzled by the environment and almost slapped away a hand on my cock through my trousers, wanting to say that it was for Chloe. It was Chloe, of course, and looking at her briefly, the idea of her under me, filled by me, made me stop in the hallway to get my bearings. She knew, of course and kissed me briefly, saying “Come on and fuck me, Alex.” I looked shocked at her and she glowed a bit, all fluorescent in pink to contrast the yellow light.
She drifted to the floor right there in the hallway, the back of her fingers coasting my stomach and hooking into my trousers. She took me down with her and twisted, arch-backed on the floor, her thighs spread. I sat on my knees for a while and stared down at her, examining her, toes to the top of her head. Glen knelt next to me and leaned forward, lifted her dress and hooked his fingers in her underpants. They slid over her hips, revealing a trimmed, diminutive triangle of hair, above swollen pussy lips, her clit a crimson tongue between them, peeking out. Glen left her underpants on one foot’s toes and bent to smell them. He buried his face in the crotch and visibly sucked her scent inside. She had my trousers open, pulled them forcibly over my arse and my cock flipped up like a bicycle kickstand. She pushed her index finger into the precome and slid it around the tip like it was medication, a soothing to my aggravated cock. Of course, it was only the opposite, what was dry, now suggestively wet and ready.
I spread her thighs more, twisted my hand around her pussy and entered her with reverence and modesty, prodded by Glen’s fingers toying with my ass. My hand curved her neck and went into her hair, pulled her mouth to mine again, and we did not so much kiss as share the space, the intimate blood-breath of a couple in fuck. I ground into her, my entire body waving into her, my knees apart and bitten into the floor. Glen watched beside us, his pants down below his waist, his cock, a flag of perfection, halfway to hard again, his lips on his girlfriend’s forehead before sitting back to watch the show.
I began to shiver above her, my arse clenched and tingling from effort. Glen jumped up and walked down the hallway, stepping over us as if we were a curled rug. “Are you having fun?” Chloe asked when Glen was out of earshot. I answered with a deep, sucking kiss with a bit of a moan, some stirring, deadly affection for her. Glen returned, naked and muscular, a chest of soft hair descending to a treasure trail that would save any lost woodsman, and leaned against the wall for a bit, watching us. I looked at him, Chloe’s mouth at my ear, her breaths ragged. Glen wiped the side of his face. I waited until his eyes were in mine again and descended his body with them, landing on his cock, curved in the air like an enchanted cobra. He smiled once more, turning his face as though I’d just said something wonderful and surprising. He exchanged a look with Chloe and she stopped my hips with her hands.
She kissed me and rolled over under me before sliding out. I was heartbroken, my hips still bent as if she were there. I turned, finally, to a seated position, posing as best I could for the both of them and watched Chloe turn and lean over the railing, her legs spread, arse in the air and tiptoed. I know I grimaced with pleasure, but waited for Glen to take his position. I waited and waited. “Alex?” Chloe said. I jumped up, held her hip, pushed my cock down and entered again. Glen gasped. He was stroking himself. He approached me and with my head turned, I felt him come around my back. He’d gotten a bottle of lube. He squeezed some out and I was helpless and shocked. He held my arse in place, pressed against me and entered me without ceremony or comment. I wailed, pain and unbelievable pleasure, and smoothed my thrusts.
I seesawed against them, pain, pleasure, pain, pleasure, a slap and then a reward and then a slap. My senses drifted away. My eyes could only see Chloe’s skin. My mouth could only taste Glen’s come. My ears heard naught but desperate panting. I could smell only pussy juice and sweat. And I felt the rush of cyanotic pleasure, some dredge of it never seen before, concentrated and crystallised. “Fuck, that’s fucking… wonderful… that’s… FUCK! God God God God GOD!” I yelped and trembled between them, my feet jumping on the floor. I held fast and waited for the world to right itself, ready to plunge over the railing, for it would never happen like that again, until Chloe twisted around me. Glen pushed me to the floor, reentered and fucked hard, my knees sore and shifting my eyes on Chloe’s fingers, dragging across her clit. I grimaced for her, spread my knees wide and lay down on my chest. She shift to our sides and continued to toy her clit, slow and thorough.
“Let me know, sweetheart,” Glen said, his heart in it. She nodded.
“Now,” she said. Glen slipped out of me, rushed to her and lay his mouth on hers. Her neck arched and so did his, two elegant curves in a complement, and their bodies rattled. She squealed and he caught it, comforted it, even as his body locked against hers. They came beautifully, her fingers drawing art out of her pussy, his cock shooting wide splats into her stomach. They fell down and spooned on the floor. I found my clothes, kissed both their cheeks and left them, envious and in love with them both.
Saturday, April 21, 2007
Sic Semper Tyrannis
The play is boring. Sebastian and I wait outside the box, yet another night of endless staring at each other, his hands toying at his sideburns, running down his chest when he’s sure no one’s looking to play at his breeches. I’ve been trying to forget those nights, after endless drilling and marching and drilling, the sounds of the men in tents gasping, some with the etiquette to escape to the woods, most just unbuttoning their Union suits, grabbing some bacon grease and quickly abusing themselves. It was the only thing to do. The smell of the men would loom in my nostrils, the heavy salt and sour of their sweat, the curdled food too, and the dizzy boring panic. Nauseating fear and lurid scraps of the living. All of us piled too close together in one clearing or another, mosquitoes, hard tack and buggery.
“Do you remember how easy it was for me?” Sebastian asks.
I can’t think of what night he’s referring to. It could be one of several. He could be talking about me or Hubert or Adam or Ogden. A couple walks by, some soldier and his young, pregnant wife, all of us trying to repopulate The Union as quickly as possible. She sees Sebastian and I and seems to test us, to mark if we’re serious enough for our posts. Her husband grasps the back of her elbow and clears her of the alcove.
“I’m going in,” Sebastian says. “Can’t do a damn thing out here anyway.”
I follow. I don’t know how I ever came to outrank him. That I am his thrall is obvious. He stands behind The President for a while, as a formality, then slips behind a curtain. Again, I follow. There are a few moments of listening to each other’s breathing, the smell of Sebastian, distinct enough to render me instantly tumescent, trapped in the folds of the velvet and silk.
“We were marching to Vicksburg,” he whispers, “and our legs were so tired that we made do in the mud. You were down in my breeches, and you remarked upon the beauty of my cock.”
I take his hand and slip it in. I am in an instant returned to the side of that dirt track, the taste of him between my lips.
“We were so tired every part of me felt like a cannonball,” I whisper into his ear.
“And every bit as hard,” he whispers back, before pulling at my mustache and sipping my breath. He grasps my cock too hard and I blurt a nasal moan. He takes it as a sign of weak obedience. It is. His hand withdraws from my breeches and he grasps instead either end of my mustache. He pulls me down. I go to my knees. He rends braces from trousers, dropping them with alacrity, and I pull his drawers down to his boots. “There you are sir. Attend to your man.”
I take him in hand and tease the tip of him with a few licks. His back falls to the wall. A roar waves across the audience behind me. I start at the noise, my hand searching for a weapon, and remember that it is only laughter. That it is a comedy. He knocks my cap off and forces me upon him. “Sergeant, teach your man how to do it. I’m just a bumpkin. I’ve never been under the hand of a superior before.” I take his full length into my throat, such that his short hairs tickle at my nose. He bends his knees into my armpits. My tongue twists along the underside of his cock as my mouth makes its sweet ascent and descent.
“Mmm. That foul evening in the muck and you were down my front, much as you are right now. I glowered at the blood-red clouds at sunset, you taking the last of me. I felt that if I should die the next day, this is what I would want for my last night on this earth, in the earth, really, as we were half sunk in the mud.”
He leans forward a bit, losing balance, and I raise my arm to shove him back against the wall, lest he fall upon me. I redouble my efforts, the laughter of the audience becoming more sincere behind me, the end of the play will be coming soon. He tastes of soap and savory, my tastebuds rubbing at his skin.
“I couldn’t move even if that should have been what I wanted,” he continued. “Your body and mine so lean from the drilling and the starvation, and pounding at each other each night.”
He’s trembling. It’s true that we do have a bit more on our squalid bones now. He has a pouch that my forehead slams into. It makes him more attractive, if anything. More like a real man than the walking specters that we were not so long ago. There is a howl of laughter from The President. It shocks me into a pause.
“No, sir, you must continue,” Sebastian says. “I’m quite beyond the threshold.”
I wasn’t planning on stopping. Sebastian’s cock, harder still than the bodies we had on the battlefield, sure that death was all that was ahead of us, not planning on anything more, is alight and pulsing. He seems to vibrate in my mouth, but it is easily explained by the numb friction in my lips. Pins and needles.
“And when I came, my soul rising from the… squalor… and the… mmm… insects and… it seemed that my balls were… gunpowder… and you… you were the fucking match. Mmmph!”
He’s almost there, epiphany and ecstasy now. I’m going to finish him in time. I hold at the tip of him and work simply with lips and tongue. He squirms like a dying squirrel, trying to force me into thrusts.
"Don't know the manners of good society, eh? Well, I guess I know enough to turn you inside out, old gal—you sockdologizing old man-trap..." I don’t know what the line means, but it makes everyone laugh, including Sebastian. I am wrong, though. He is coming, the sweet and bitter sludge on my tongue and between gum and lip.
“Sic semper tyrannis!” I hear, and then a gunshot. Sebastian and I are recovering, panting, but we must hurry, as those laughs have quickly become screams.
“Do you remember how easy it was for me?” Sebastian asks.
I can’t think of what night he’s referring to. It could be one of several. He could be talking about me or Hubert or Adam or Ogden. A couple walks by, some soldier and his young, pregnant wife, all of us trying to repopulate The Union as quickly as possible. She sees Sebastian and I and seems to test us, to mark if we’re serious enough for our posts. Her husband grasps the back of her elbow and clears her of the alcove.
“I’m going in,” Sebastian says. “Can’t do a damn thing out here anyway.”
I follow. I don’t know how I ever came to outrank him. That I am his thrall is obvious. He stands behind The President for a while, as a formality, then slips behind a curtain. Again, I follow. There are a few moments of listening to each other’s breathing, the smell of Sebastian, distinct enough to render me instantly tumescent, trapped in the folds of the velvet and silk.
“We were marching to Vicksburg,” he whispers, “and our legs were so tired that we made do in the mud. You were down in my breeches, and you remarked upon the beauty of my cock.”
I take his hand and slip it in. I am in an instant returned to the side of that dirt track, the taste of him between my lips.
“We were so tired every part of me felt like a cannonball,” I whisper into his ear.
“And every bit as hard,” he whispers back, before pulling at my mustache and sipping my breath. He grasps my cock too hard and I blurt a nasal moan. He takes it as a sign of weak obedience. It is. His hand withdraws from my breeches and he grasps instead either end of my mustache. He pulls me down. I go to my knees. He rends braces from trousers, dropping them with alacrity, and I pull his drawers down to his boots. “There you are sir. Attend to your man.”
I take him in hand and tease the tip of him with a few licks. His back falls to the wall. A roar waves across the audience behind me. I start at the noise, my hand searching for a weapon, and remember that it is only laughter. That it is a comedy. He knocks my cap off and forces me upon him. “Sergeant, teach your man how to do it. I’m just a bumpkin. I’ve never been under the hand of a superior before.” I take his full length into my throat, such that his short hairs tickle at my nose. He bends his knees into my armpits. My tongue twists along the underside of his cock as my mouth makes its sweet ascent and descent.
“Mmm. That foul evening in the muck and you were down my front, much as you are right now. I glowered at the blood-red clouds at sunset, you taking the last of me. I felt that if I should die the next day, this is what I would want for my last night on this earth, in the earth, really, as we were half sunk in the mud.”
He leans forward a bit, losing balance, and I raise my arm to shove him back against the wall, lest he fall upon me. I redouble my efforts, the laughter of the audience becoming more sincere behind me, the end of the play will be coming soon. He tastes of soap and savory, my tastebuds rubbing at his skin.
“I couldn’t move even if that should have been what I wanted,” he continued. “Your body and mine so lean from the drilling and the starvation, and pounding at each other each night.”
He’s trembling. It’s true that we do have a bit more on our squalid bones now. He has a pouch that my forehead slams into. It makes him more attractive, if anything. More like a real man than the walking specters that we were not so long ago. There is a howl of laughter from The President. It shocks me into a pause.
“No, sir, you must continue,” Sebastian says. “I’m quite beyond the threshold.”
I wasn’t planning on stopping. Sebastian’s cock, harder still than the bodies we had on the battlefield, sure that death was all that was ahead of us, not planning on anything more, is alight and pulsing. He seems to vibrate in my mouth, but it is easily explained by the numb friction in my lips. Pins and needles.
“And when I came, my soul rising from the… squalor… and the… mmm… insects and… it seemed that my balls were… gunpowder… and you… you were the fucking match. Mmmph!”
He’s almost there, epiphany and ecstasy now. I’m going to finish him in time. I hold at the tip of him and work simply with lips and tongue. He squirms like a dying squirrel, trying to force me into thrusts.
"Don't know the manners of good society, eh? Well, I guess I know enough to turn you inside out, old gal—you sockdologizing old man-trap..." I don’t know what the line means, but it makes everyone laugh, including Sebastian. I am wrong, though. He is coming, the sweet and bitter sludge on my tongue and between gum and lip.
“Sic semper tyrannis!” I hear, and then a gunshot. Sebastian and I are recovering, panting, but we must hurry, as those laughs have quickly become screams.
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
Lunch Break
I’m on all fours, or, more accurately, on all twenties, forced to hold myself up by my fingertips and my toes. I see only her boots. I picked red this time. Her heels are spiky, but not in the normal way. There are nails instead of heels, long, deadly ones, sixteen for each shoe, and short, sharp cleats in the front. They scratch the floor as she walks around me, leaving little wood shaving curlicues.
His eyes are closed, his legs apart on the toilet lid. He thinks he hears something and stops, then decides it was nothing and continues. He picks up a bottle of hand lotion that he keeps at his desk, the scentless kind in the manliest packaging possible. He really does use it on his hands most of the time. Today is an anomaly, but he saw her the night before, her hand on the back of her new husband, and he can’t concentrate on work until he get this out of his head. He squirts some into his palm and pulls his shirt up over his nipples. He takes his cock in his left hand, already half-erect, and grasps the handrail with his right. It’s the handicapped stall, the last one anyone goes to. He bites his lip and inhales.
She spanks me. One sharp, hard spank, enough to make me lurch forward and bite into the heavy candlestick she put in my teeth. It has a horrible metallic taste. “Ohhh, sorrrry,” she says mockingly, then spanks me again. The candlestick, it turns out, is very cheap, and accepts a bite mark. She comes around to my front again and holds my head up by the hair to look at her face. Her hair is wild, twisted and teased like she’d been fucking other men all afternoon. I suspect this is the case. She pulls harder and my mouth opens from the pull of my neck. It drops the candlestick. She watches it drop and lets go of my hair. I’m in trouble. The candlestick rolls back to my fingertips. She clamps it in the arch of her shoe. The cleats gouge my hand. She twists them, then rolls the candlestick back toward her, stands it up with her toe and bends down to get it, her legs spread, the very edge of her slit appearing under her skirt.
She does not stand up. She slides the candlestick inside of her pussy, thrusts it a few times and pulls it out. She shows it to me. It’s glistening. She opens my mouth by the chin and forces it back in, slapping my mouth shut by the jaw.
His body tenses and releases, tenses and releases. His fingers slide into the hair on his chest, his pinky teasing a nipple. His left hand strokes slowly. He needs a good, long one. A special effort is put into it. It’s needed. She was wearing heels last night. His mouth opens, droops. His fingers echo the curves of his cock as they move across it, like an arm slipping into a tight sleeve. Each stroke begs for another. Each is a lick from his ex.
”Don’t worry, boy,” she says to me, stroking my earlobe between her forefinger and thumb. She pinches it. “That wasn’t going into your asshole. This is.” She produces a ten-inch buttplug from her purse. I stifle a laugh. She catches it, smiles knowingly, shakes her head slowly, then gets a wide roll of cloth tape and says, “And it ain’t goin’ anywhere either.” Her hand drops into her bag again and brings out a bottle of lube. She stands the buttplug on the floor and bends over again. She snaps the lube open and lets it drip down. It slowly coats the buttplug. She slides the skirt over her hips and holds her asscheeks open with one hand. She slowly sweeps the buttplug up to her asshole, twists it there a few times at the opening and then swings the tip in the open air a few times, saying “Nuh. Uh. Uh.”
She quickly stands up straight and scoots behind me, her shoes denting the floor. My ass is held tight open with one hand and then there is a tickling shock on my asshole. I barely have time to breathe before she plunges it inside of me. The candlestick receives new bitemarks. A yelp comes up behind it. She spanks me. Then I hear the sound of tape ripping from a roll.
His body is rolling a little. Some waves caused by the muscles in his chest and stomach in a war with the ones in his back. A moan escapes him. He pauses for a moment and then continues. He’s unable to pace himself anymore. His balls lift between his legs, the skin wrinkling. His hand twists at the rim of the tip of his cock with every stroke. It feels like her lips. It feels like her lips used to feel. He gasps and grabs at his thigh. He tickles the inside of it with his fingernails.
She wraps it around me, my cock in it too as if it meant nothing to her. After three passes of the wide tape, I’m bound up tight. She spanks me all around it to make sure anyway, then straddles me backwards. I’m still on the tips of my fingers and toes and the extra weight is excruciating. She laughs. “You can go down on palms and knees now, boy,” she says. I do, quickly, watching her shoes touch the floor. It’s much better, but the buttplug still burns. She rubs her pussy around my back a few times and I can feel the wet.
He is quivering now, his legs kicking at his pants at his ankles, his mouth wide open, his tongue pushing at the back of his bottom teeth. His head fills with smoke, all of his bodily functions set only for his hand, cock and the strong smell of his ex-wife’s pussy. His strokes concentrate on the tip now, and each one brings him more blurred ecstasy. Something in him is thrown into the air and flies, waiting for the inevitable stall mid-parabola and descent. He flies higher, higher.
She lifts from me and turns me on my back. She ignores my cock again and arranges my arms instead, each at forty-five degrees from my chest. She straddles me again, facing my head, and drags herself, hand over hand until her knees hit my arms. She climbs them, hooking them in the arch before her ankles and pushes forward until her knees are on either side of my head. She removes the candlestick from my mouth and rolls it away. Above my eyes lie her pussy lips. She puts one finger on the outside of each of them and presses in. She descends. “Go on boy, and take your time.” My tongue twists out for a taste.
He reaches a high point in the atmosphere, things here orange and fuzzy, and begins to come down, his body shuddering, his legs kicking back into the toilet. The door to the bathroom opens. He bites his lip. Another stall door is open and shut. Come shoots out of him, swift and ambitious. The first oversteps his nipples and lands on his shirt. The second, third and forth in descending rippling blots down his front. He mouths fuck, fuck, fuck.
He cleans up, pulls his pants up, lowers his shirt, silently lifts the toilet seat, flushes the tissue away, opens the stall door, looks at himself in the mirror and wipes the last bit of a spot he missed off of his collar.
His eyes are closed, his legs apart on the toilet lid. He thinks he hears something and stops, then decides it was nothing and continues. He picks up a bottle of hand lotion that he keeps at his desk, the scentless kind in the manliest packaging possible. He really does use it on his hands most of the time. Today is an anomaly, but he saw her the night before, her hand on the back of her new husband, and he can’t concentrate on work until he get this out of his head. He squirts some into his palm and pulls his shirt up over his nipples. He takes his cock in his left hand, already half-erect, and grasps the handrail with his right. It’s the handicapped stall, the last one anyone goes to. He bites his lip and inhales.
She spanks me. One sharp, hard spank, enough to make me lurch forward and bite into the heavy candlestick she put in my teeth. It has a horrible metallic taste. “Ohhh, sorrrry,” she says mockingly, then spanks me again. The candlestick, it turns out, is very cheap, and accepts a bite mark. She comes around to my front again and holds my head up by the hair to look at her face. Her hair is wild, twisted and teased like she’d been fucking other men all afternoon. I suspect this is the case. She pulls harder and my mouth opens from the pull of my neck. It drops the candlestick. She watches it drop and lets go of my hair. I’m in trouble. The candlestick rolls back to my fingertips. She clamps it in the arch of her shoe. The cleats gouge my hand. She twists them, then rolls the candlestick back toward her, stands it up with her toe and bends down to get it, her legs spread, the very edge of her slit appearing under her skirt.
She does not stand up. She slides the candlestick inside of her pussy, thrusts it a few times and pulls it out. She shows it to me. It’s glistening. She opens my mouth by the chin and forces it back in, slapping my mouth shut by the jaw.
His body tenses and releases, tenses and releases. His fingers slide into the hair on his chest, his pinky teasing a nipple. His left hand strokes slowly. He needs a good, long one. A special effort is put into it. It’s needed. She was wearing heels last night. His mouth opens, droops. His fingers echo the curves of his cock as they move across it, like an arm slipping into a tight sleeve. Each stroke begs for another. Each is a lick from his ex.
”Don’t worry, boy,” she says to me, stroking my earlobe between her forefinger and thumb. She pinches it. “That wasn’t going into your asshole. This is.” She produces a ten-inch buttplug from her purse. I stifle a laugh. She catches it, smiles knowingly, shakes her head slowly, then gets a wide roll of cloth tape and says, “And it ain’t goin’ anywhere either.” Her hand drops into her bag again and brings out a bottle of lube. She stands the buttplug on the floor and bends over again. She snaps the lube open and lets it drip down. It slowly coats the buttplug. She slides the skirt over her hips and holds her asscheeks open with one hand. She slowly sweeps the buttplug up to her asshole, twists it there a few times at the opening and then swings the tip in the open air a few times, saying “Nuh. Uh. Uh.”
She quickly stands up straight and scoots behind me, her shoes denting the floor. My ass is held tight open with one hand and then there is a tickling shock on my asshole. I barely have time to breathe before she plunges it inside of me. The candlestick receives new bitemarks. A yelp comes up behind it. She spanks me. Then I hear the sound of tape ripping from a roll.
His body is rolling a little. Some waves caused by the muscles in his chest and stomach in a war with the ones in his back. A moan escapes him. He pauses for a moment and then continues. He’s unable to pace himself anymore. His balls lift between his legs, the skin wrinkling. His hand twists at the rim of the tip of his cock with every stroke. It feels like her lips. It feels like her lips used to feel. He gasps and grabs at his thigh. He tickles the inside of it with his fingernails.
She wraps it around me, my cock in it too as if it meant nothing to her. After three passes of the wide tape, I’m bound up tight. She spanks me all around it to make sure anyway, then straddles me backwards. I’m still on the tips of my fingers and toes and the extra weight is excruciating. She laughs. “You can go down on palms and knees now, boy,” she says. I do, quickly, watching her shoes touch the floor. It’s much better, but the buttplug still burns. She rubs her pussy around my back a few times and I can feel the wet.
He is quivering now, his legs kicking at his pants at his ankles, his mouth wide open, his tongue pushing at the back of his bottom teeth. His head fills with smoke, all of his bodily functions set only for his hand, cock and the strong smell of his ex-wife’s pussy. His strokes concentrate on the tip now, and each one brings him more blurred ecstasy. Something in him is thrown into the air and flies, waiting for the inevitable stall mid-parabola and descent. He flies higher, higher.
She lifts from me and turns me on my back. She ignores my cock again and arranges my arms instead, each at forty-five degrees from my chest. She straddles me again, facing my head, and drags herself, hand over hand until her knees hit my arms. She climbs them, hooking them in the arch before her ankles and pushes forward until her knees are on either side of my head. She removes the candlestick from my mouth and rolls it away. Above my eyes lie her pussy lips. She puts one finger on the outside of each of them and presses in. She descends. “Go on boy, and take your time.” My tongue twists out for a taste.
He reaches a high point in the atmosphere, things here orange and fuzzy, and begins to come down, his body shuddering, his legs kicking back into the toilet. The door to the bathroom opens. He bites his lip. Another stall door is open and shut. Come shoots out of him, swift and ambitious. The first oversteps his nipples and lands on his shirt. The second, third and forth in descending rippling blots down his front. He mouths fuck, fuck, fuck.
He cleans up, pulls his pants up, lowers his shirt, silently lifts the toilet seat, flushes the tissue away, opens the stall door, looks at himself in the mirror and wipes the last bit of a spot he missed off of his collar.
Saturday, April 14, 2007
Empathy Part Two
There is a couch on the porch. College towns seem to inherit everyone’s old couches, like they just land there, sometimes on the football field or precariously on a roof or in the parking lot of a convenience store, but most of them end up on porches. They are by no means waterproof, but they never smell bad or seem to have a lingering wet. They are inevitably of eighties-design, strange arches and triangles all over, like Nagel paintings. Many were at one time red. Max’s feral porchcouch has a dramatically high back and laughably low armrests. I sit in the center, examining the flight of suicidal moths on the bare lightbulb above me.
Max, in lieu of a gentle touch on my shoulder, waves to me, bending in front of me. “Did you go in at all?” He asks me. I smile at him.
When I entered Max’s house twenty minutes earlier, praying that he had very few friends, all I saw was the back of people’s necks at the door. They were immobile too, wouldn’t listen to “excuse me” or “pardon.” I inhaled and tapped the shoulder of the one who was talking at the door. I felt anxiousness, joy, confusion, all of it slow with the guy’s alcohol, and dropped my hand right away. I touched it again, at least knowing what I was getting into. Slow confusion and disappointment gave way to a slight resentment in the guy’s head. He turned around.
“I’m sorry,” I said, trying not to shake out my hand, “but I need to get through the door. He turned to his side and his friends pushed in closer to each other. I would have to touch him to get through. There was no time to dread it. I plowed in, got past the first group of people, self-righteousness, insecurity, fear, confidence, and plow into the next group. They were dancing, three people rhythmically dry humping in the middle of the living room. The man, mocha-skinned and sweaty, was feeling hope, sadness at something lost, concern for someone, but most of all desire. I got a charge, and felt a swelling in my underpants. I made it past him and simply got more of the same, insecurity, sadness, fear, confidence and desire, desire, desire, none of it my own. There was no path, no simple way to avoid the touch of others. I wanted to scream, searching desperately for Max but drowning in other people. I had to get out and yelled out as loud as I could, “Let me out! Let me out! I’m sorry, but get me the fuck out of here!”
That cleared a path. I ran through it, fighting tears, my own tears, embarrassment in a wash over me like a syrup, and the sex part, now real in my body, though it started with someone else, leading to self-loathing, like I’d been raped.
But now there is the couch and the moths. “I went in a little, yeah,” I say to Max, smiling in case he’d already heard it. He smiles back, friendly, his lips parting for a second as if to blow me a kiss. If he heard about some madwoman screaming to be let out of his living room, he’s being polite about it.
“Let’s take a walk,” he says, and holds his hand out for me. I reach for it, then we both remember at once and let them drop.
Max and walk slowly, closer than we did on campus. I ask him about the house (his older brother got their fraternity disbanded and sold it to his friends at a discount, only to coincidentally need a roommate at the same time Max needed a place to live), the graffiti site (he plans to expand on it, into handwriting analysis of the vice-presidents, but is taking a break for school), where he’s from (city kid, went to Catholic school even though his parents are Baptist), and what all he wants to do with his life (he just got finished reading Kerouac and was enthralled with it for a while, thought about working as a line cook across the country, he read Kerouac’s biography and decided he was a free-loading asshole, he’s not sure what he’s going to do now). I don’t tell him much about me and he doesn’t ask much. That’s fine. I don’t want to get into the seven stages of accepting Sarah’s uniqueness yet. He seems to take it at face value.
“Max?” I ask him, though I’m so scared my stomach is turning. “I want you to do something for me, okay?”
He stops and looks at me. While we walked I could feel him get closer to me. Right now, he’s right in front of me. Now or never.
“What?”
“Could you try to kiss me?”
“Try to kiss you?”
“I’ve never let anyone do it.”
“I’m either going to kiss you or I’m not.” He looks at my lips. He got all shy on the word “kiss.”
I bite my top lip and inhale. “Kiss me,” I say, absolutely shaking. “Please.”
He blinks a couple of times and leans in. I close my eyes. His lips touch mine and it’s all there, all of it, synched, mine and his. Sex, affection, fear, sedition. It’s the most wonderful thing that’s ever happened to me. He lets up and goes back to his heels.
“How was that?” he asks, genuinely worried.
“That was the scariest thing I’ve ever done.”
He turns his head suspiciously. He doesn’t believe me. And I haven’t even told him yet.
Max, in lieu of a gentle touch on my shoulder, waves to me, bending in front of me. “Did you go in at all?” He asks me. I smile at him.
When I entered Max’s house twenty minutes earlier, praying that he had very few friends, all I saw was the back of people’s necks at the door. They were immobile too, wouldn’t listen to “excuse me” or “pardon.” I inhaled and tapped the shoulder of the one who was talking at the door. I felt anxiousness, joy, confusion, all of it slow with the guy’s alcohol, and dropped my hand right away. I touched it again, at least knowing what I was getting into. Slow confusion and disappointment gave way to a slight resentment in the guy’s head. He turned around.
“I’m sorry,” I said, trying not to shake out my hand, “but I need to get through the door. He turned to his side and his friends pushed in closer to each other. I would have to touch him to get through. There was no time to dread it. I plowed in, got past the first group of people, self-righteousness, insecurity, fear, confidence, and plow into the next group. They were dancing, three people rhythmically dry humping in the middle of the living room. The man, mocha-skinned and sweaty, was feeling hope, sadness at something lost, concern for someone, but most of all desire. I got a charge, and felt a swelling in my underpants. I made it past him and simply got more of the same, insecurity, sadness, fear, confidence and desire, desire, desire, none of it my own. There was no path, no simple way to avoid the touch of others. I wanted to scream, searching desperately for Max but drowning in other people. I had to get out and yelled out as loud as I could, “Let me out! Let me out! I’m sorry, but get me the fuck out of here!”
That cleared a path. I ran through it, fighting tears, my own tears, embarrassment in a wash over me like a syrup, and the sex part, now real in my body, though it started with someone else, leading to self-loathing, like I’d been raped.
But now there is the couch and the moths. “I went in a little, yeah,” I say to Max, smiling in case he’d already heard it. He smiles back, friendly, his lips parting for a second as if to blow me a kiss. If he heard about some madwoman screaming to be let out of his living room, he’s being polite about it.
“Let’s take a walk,” he says, and holds his hand out for me. I reach for it, then we both remember at once and let them drop.
Max and walk slowly, closer than we did on campus. I ask him about the house (his older brother got their fraternity disbanded and sold it to his friends at a discount, only to coincidentally need a roommate at the same time Max needed a place to live), the graffiti site (he plans to expand on it, into handwriting analysis of the vice-presidents, but is taking a break for school), where he’s from (city kid, went to Catholic school even though his parents are Baptist), and what all he wants to do with his life (he just got finished reading Kerouac and was enthralled with it for a while, thought about working as a line cook across the country, he read Kerouac’s biography and decided he was a free-loading asshole, he’s not sure what he’s going to do now). I don’t tell him much about me and he doesn’t ask much. That’s fine. I don’t want to get into the seven stages of accepting Sarah’s uniqueness yet. He seems to take it at face value.
“Max?” I ask him, though I’m so scared my stomach is turning. “I want you to do something for me, okay?”
He stops and looks at me. While we walked I could feel him get closer to me. Right now, he’s right in front of me. Now or never.
“What?”
“Could you try to kiss me?”
“Try to kiss you?”
“I’ve never let anyone do it.”
“I’m either going to kiss you or I’m not.” He looks at my lips. He got all shy on the word “kiss.”
I bite my top lip and inhale. “Kiss me,” I say, absolutely shaking. “Please.”
He blinks a couple of times and leans in. I close my eyes. His lips touch mine and it’s all there, all of it, synched, mine and his. Sex, affection, fear, sedition. It’s the most wonderful thing that’s ever happened to me. He lets up and goes back to his heels.
“How was that?” he asks, genuinely worried.
“That was the scariest thing I’ve ever done.”
He turns his head suspiciously. He doesn’t believe me. And I haven’t even told him yet.
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
The Prognosis
The patient walks into the examining room with a look of hope on his face. He is a man in his mid-thirties, though he could pass for late twenties. People guess that he is twenty-eight. He has young skin, a full head of dark hair and a quick step. The only real wrinkles he possesses show in times of emotion, small waves at the outsides of his eyes when he laughs and ribs on his forehead when he is concerned. He is concerned at the moment, though not dejected. The wrinkles in his forehead pull his eyes open wide, expecting an answer, because when this patient has expected things in the past, he has often received them.
The doctor walks in the examining room a few minutes later to find the patient bouncing on the examining table. The doctor’s eyes drop just before they would make contact with those of the patient and he takes his stool, running it under his ass and sitting down. The stool is broken in for the doctor, bent to the correct curves of the doctor’s ass when he sits on it, but it still pushes air out as the doctor’s weight settles, a sound that both doctor and patient wait to end before they begin to talk.
The doctor is also a man in his mid-thirties and unmistakably so. He has grown a beard and cut his hair very close to the scalp to mitigate the receding hairline that has formed at the bends of his skull, as if rubbed away by a stubborn hat. The beard shows grey in stripes just below the end points of his lips. The patient finds the stripes distinguished. They give him fantasies of old Englishmen, of sucking off Sherlock Holmes. The doctor thinks of the stripes as dribbled milk, thinks, sometimes, in a bleary shower in the morning that he’ll be able to wash them away, only to find them in his mirror again.
The patient spends his time trying to make eye contact with the doctor, but the doctor does not concede. This makes the patient smile, imagining the doctor childish, that this is all a game between two fully grown twelve-year-olds on the playground. The doctor sees that he is being childish and, with a sigh, looks at the patient.
“Whaddaya want, Jeff?” the doctor asks, tapping his wedding band on the back of his metal clipboard. It’s a sound that grates both doctor and patient, but the doctor pretends not to care.
Jeff, the patient, looks shocked, almost pulling it off. He flicks the suggestion away with his hand and a smile. “Just my yearly checkup.”
“Alright.” The doctor opens a drawer and pulls out a paper gown. The patient begins to unbutton his shirt slowly. The doctor nods at the gown and shuts the door just at the sound of a zipper. He attends to other patients with a red face and an eye above their shoulders. He makes Jeff wait.
When there are no more scrips to fill out, no more swollen tonsils to gawk at and the nurses stare with concern at the remaining shut room, the doctor puts his hand on the door handle and twists it with authority. Jeff smiles at him as he enters, prostrate on the table, his legs crossed with patience.
“Sit up,” the doctor says. Jeff sits up and turns, letting his legs dangle over the side of the table. He leans toward the doctor, expecting. The doctor goes to his side and puts an otoscope in his ear. Jeff looks at the doctor’s shoulders, muscle draped with white like an Italian statue. The doctor, satisfied with the contents of Jeff’s left ear, backs off and dives awkwardly on his right.
“Doctor,” Jeff begins.
“Hang on,” the doctor says, and rubs the glands under Jeff’s chin, comparing them. He frowns and lets go.
“Oscar,” Jeff starts again, but the doctor has a thermometer now, and slides it under Jeff’s tongue, slapping his mouth shut by the chin. The doctor lifts his stethoscope to his ears and slips its dangling appendage into Jeff’s sleeve and around to his front.
“Inhale and hold, please,” he says. Jeff does. The doctor makes him hold it longer than he should and Jeff finally exhales out of necessity. The doctor backs the diaphragm out of Jeff’s sleeve and reenters the gown between the ties at the back. “Inhale and hold, please,” he says again. Jeff inhales and holds. The thermometer in his mouth beeps. It sounds like Jeff’s alarm. The doctor leaves it. Jeff exhales, again out of necessity and waits, the beeping continuing. The doctor moves the stethoscope down Jeff’s back and to the right and says, “Again, please.” Jeff inhales and holds, feeling Oscar’s breath on his neck. He holds to the count of five and exhales.
The doctor pulls the thermometer out, briefly looks at it, stashes it aside and takes an ophthalmoscope and puts his fingers under and over Jeff’s left eye. Jeff reaches for the doctor’s cheek. The doctor takes it before it makes it and holds it. When he is done examining both eyes, he turns Jeff’s wrist and presses to the area below the thumb. He looks at his watch and counts.
“Your pulse is very high.”
“I had a Coke before I got here,” Jeff says sarcastically.
Jeff takes the doctor’s other hand and puts it on his thigh inside his gown. The doctor flinches, but doesn’t pull back.
“Oscar,” Jeff says. “Come on, Oscar.” The doctor drops Jeff’s wrist and opens Jeff’s legs. He stands between them and examines Jeff’s eyes again, this time without an ophthalmoscope, admiring their beauty instead of looking for cataracts. The truth is, they’re perfect. Oscar stands for a moment, watching Jeff blink, until Jeff takes his chin and puts their lips together. He pulls Oscar’s hand up his thighs by the index finger, opening his mouth gradually and twiddling Oscar’s upper lip with his tongue. The beard, dishwater blond but thick, brushes at Jeff’s face. This is what Jeff loves the most, the feel of Oscar whiskers in his lips.
“You said last time would be the last time,” Oscar says.
“I said that, yes.”
Oscar presses his forehead to Jeff’s and rolls them against each other for a few beats. Then he takes the paper robe between the thumb and forefinger of each hand and tears it open, thigh to neck. Jeff’s body is revealed inside the paper tube. It’s bare and youthful, pink nipples and very little hair, cut like an Olympic diver but for a few stray, nearly imperceptible rolls, one at the stomach, two at the edges of the armpits. Oscar bends into Jeff’s chest and buries his face in it. It had been too long, but not long enough to forget. Jeff kisses the top of Oscar’s head, smelling the shampoo that Oscar still uses, though there’s barely a need, and slides off of the table. He holds Oscar to him tightly and kisses him some more, slowly, affectionately, letting the heat build steadily and true. He feels Oscar’s clothes against his naked skin, a poke in the chest at the pens, a poke at the stomach at his belt buckle, the rivets on Oscar’s jeans at his hips.
Oscar’s pulse is also fast. He feels it throb at the top of his sternum. He can see that Jeff wants to stretch this out, but there is a time limit, an adrenaline fear that gets bigger as the time passes, that any minute a nurse can enter the room with a single knock. There are no locks on the doors by design. With the smallest heart-chip, Oscar breaks from Jeff and asks him to sit on the end of the table. He takes a tube of KY from a tray and puts some on the tip of his finger. He walks to Jeff. Jeff bends like a contortionist, ass out over the edge of the table, lips bending into Oscar. They kiss deep and fast now, and Oscar slips his fingers inside Jeff. He locates Jeff’s prostate and begins to stroke. Jeff stops kissing Oscar and bends back a little over the paper on the table, the crunching noise of jarring pulses, his elbows tearing it up.
Jeff’s head falls back and Oscar admires his neck, the high arête at his laryngeal prominence, his Adam’s apple, the sternocleidomastoid curving down his neck to connect with the clavicle. If he concentrates, he can see the blood bounce in his carotid, faster now, sweat forming all over. Jeff’s mouth is clamped shut, but his head crackles against the paper, betraying his pleasure. Oscar slips more fingers inside and massages with weight, with power and skill. Jeff’s cock stands wickedly straight, hovering just above his stomach almost to his navel. Fuck me, he whispers, Fuck me, Oscar.
Oscar is dizzy, but slides gingerly out of Jeff’s asshole and stumbles to the drawer with the condoms. He wipes his brow on the sleeve of his coat and opens it. He gets one, takes the tube of KY and rears back to Jeff. He pulls the stirrups out of the table, sets them high and puts Jeff’s ankles in them. He unzips his pants, suits up, pulls out the step, mounts it and angles himself above Jeff. Jeff is smiling, naughty and exposed. Fuck me, doctor.
Oscar plunges inside of Jeff, abandoning himself to fate and nature, his eyes screwed shut, his body on fire. He pumps. He takes the KY and squeezes some onto Jeff’s cock. He pumps. He rubs it in. He pumps. He jerks Jeff off in his hand, already fully tumescent and throbbing. He pumps, a cool static forming in his ears, his body taking over his mind. He pumps. Jeff’s sweat has melted the paper and it has ripped, tiny rolls forming at the edges of his skin. He pumps. Jeff jolts and his ankles, trapped in the stirrups, lift his ass from the table. He pumps. Jeff’s ass contracts around him like a tight fist and his come sprinkles and sprays and splats on his stomach and chest. He pumps, his brain feather-light. Fuck me, doctor, FUCK ME.
The doctor’s office disappears. His lab coat disappears. His wife disappears. There is only Jeff and narcotic, shivering his body. He comes like a paintball gun and stays, quivering, for a while inside of Jeff.
In ten seconds, the office is back, his wife is back, the dread of the single knock is back, and his cursing of nature returns too. He takes his condom off, throws it in the biohazard bin and lingers for a moment, watching the prostrate man on his table. He zips his pants and hovers over Jeff. He bends down to kiss him.
The doctor hands the patient back his clothes, has him sign a few things while the patient gets dressed and leaves the examining room, his face back to normal.
The doctor walks in the examining room a few minutes later to find the patient bouncing on the examining table. The doctor’s eyes drop just before they would make contact with those of the patient and he takes his stool, running it under his ass and sitting down. The stool is broken in for the doctor, bent to the correct curves of the doctor’s ass when he sits on it, but it still pushes air out as the doctor’s weight settles, a sound that both doctor and patient wait to end before they begin to talk.
The doctor is also a man in his mid-thirties and unmistakably so. He has grown a beard and cut his hair very close to the scalp to mitigate the receding hairline that has formed at the bends of his skull, as if rubbed away by a stubborn hat. The beard shows grey in stripes just below the end points of his lips. The patient finds the stripes distinguished. They give him fantasies of old Englishmen, of sucking off Sherlock Holmes. The doctor thinks of the stripes as dribbled milk, thinks, sometimes, in a bleary shower in the morning that he’ll be able to wash them away, only to find them in his mirror again.
The patient spends his time trying to make eye contact with the doctor, but the doctor does not concede. This makes the patient smile, imagining the doctor childish, that this is all a game between two fully grown twelve-year-olds on the playground. The doctor sees that he is being childish and, with a sigh, looks at the patient.
“Whaddaya want, Jeff?” the doctor asks, tapping his wedding band on the back of his metal clipboard. It’s a sound that grates both doctor and patient, but the doctor pretends not to care.
Jeff, the patient, looks shocked, almost pulling it off. He flicks the suggestion away with his hand and a smile. “Just my yearly checkup.”
“Alright.” The doctor opens a drawer and pulls out a paper gown. The patient begins to unbutton his shirt slowly. The doctor nods at the gown and shuts the door just at the sound of a zipper. He attends to other patients with a red face and an eye above their shoulders. He makes Jeff wait.
When there are no more scrips to fill out, no more swollen tonsils to gawk at and the nurses stare with concern at the remaining shut room, the doctor puts his hand on the door handle and twists it with authority. Jeff smiles at him as he enters, prostrate on the table, his legs crossed with patience.
“Sit up,” the doctor says. Jeff sits up and turns, letting his legs dangle over the side of the table. He leans toward the doctor, expecting. The doctor goes to his side and puts an otoscope in his ear. Jeff looks at the doctor’s shoulders, muscle draped with white like an Italian statue. The doctor, satisfied with the contents of Jeff’s left ear, backs off and dives awkwardly on his right.
“Doctor,” Jeff begins.
“Hang on,” the doctor says, and rubs the glands under Jeff’s chin, comparing them. He frowns and lets go.
“Oscar,” Jeff starts again, but the doctor has a thermometer now, and slides it under Jeff’s tongue, slapping his mouth shut by the chin. The doctor lifts his stethoscope to his ears and slips its dangling appendage into Jeff’s sleeve and around to his front.
“Inhale and hold, please,” he says. Jeff does. The doctor makes him hold it longer than he should and Jeff finally exhales out of necessity. The doctor backs the diaphragm out of Jeff’s sleeve and reenters the gown between the ties at the back. “Inhale and hold, please,” he says again. Jeff inhales and holds. The thermometer in his mouth beeps. It sounds like Jeff’s alarm. The doctor leaves it. Jeff exhales, again out of necessity and waits, the beeping continuing. The doctor moves the stethoscope down Jeff’s back and to the right and says, “Again, please.” Jeff inhales and holds, feeling Oscar’s breath on his neck. He holds to the count of five and exhales.
The doctor pulls the thermometer out, briefly looks at it, stashes it aside and takes an ophthalmoscope and puts his fingers under and over Jeff’s left eye. Jeff reaches for the doctor’s cheek. The doctor takes it before it makes it and holds it. When he is done examining both eyes, he turns Jeff’s wrist and presses to the area below the thumb. He looks at his watch and counts.
“Your pulse is very high.”
“I had a Coke before I got here,” Jeff says sarcastically.
Jeff takes the doctor’s other hand and puts it on his thigh inside his gown. The doctor flinches, but doesn’t pull back.
“Oscar,” Jeff says. “Come on, Oscar.” The doctor drops Jeff’s wrist and opens Jeff’s legs. He stands between them and examines Jeff’s eyes again, this time without an ophthalmoscope, admiring their beauty instead of looking for cataracts. The truth is, they’re perfect. Oscar stands for a moment, watching Jeff blink, until Jeff takes his chin and puts their lips together. He pulls Oscar’s hand up his thighs by the index finger, opening his mouth gradually and twiddling Oscar’s upper lip with his tongue. The beard, dishwater blond but thick, brushes at Jeff’s face. This is what Jeff loves the most, the feel of Oscar whiskers in his lips.
“You said last time would be the last time,” Oscar says.
“I said that, yes.”
Oscar presses his forehead to Jeff’s and rolls them against each other for a few beats. Then he takes the paper robe between the thumb and forefinger of each hand and tears it open, thigh to neck. Jeff’s body is revealed inside the paper tube. It’s bare and youthful, pink nipples and very little hair, cut like an Olympic diver but for a few stray, nearly imperceptible rolls, one at the stomach, two at the edges of the armpits. Oscar bends into Jeff’s chest and buries his face in it. It had been too long, but not long enough to forget. Jeff kisses the top of Oscar’s head, smelling the shampoo that Oscar still uses, though there’s barely a need, and slides off of the table. He holds Oscar to him tightly and kisses him some more, slowly, affectionately, letting the heat build steadily and true. He feels Oscar’s clothes against his naked skin, a poke in the chest at the pens, a poke at the stomach at his belt buckle, the rivets on Oscar’s jeans at his hips.
Oscar’s pulse is also fast. He feels it throb at the top of his sternum. He can see that Jeff wants to stretch this out, but there is a time limit, an adrenaline fear that gets bigger as the time passes, that any minute a nurse can enter the room with a single knock. There are no locks on the doors by design. With the smallest heart-chip, Oscar breaks from Jeff and asks him to sit on the end of the table. He takes a tube of KY from a tray and puts some on the tip of his finger. He walks to Jeff. Jeff bends like a contortionist, ass out over the edge of the table, lips bending into Oscar. They kiss deep and fast now, and Oscar slips his fingers inside Jeff. He locates Jeff’s prostate and begins to stroke. Jeff stops kissing Oscar and bends back a little over the paper on the table, the crunching noise of jarring pulses, his elbows tearing it up.
Jeff’s head falls back and Oscar admires his neck, the high arête at his laryngeal prominence, his Adam’s apple, the sternocleidomastoid curving down his neck to connect with the clavicle. If he concentrates, he can see the blood bounce in his carotid, faster now, sweat forming all over. Jeff’s mouth is clamped shut, but his head crackles against the paper, betraying his pleasure. Oscar slips more fingers inside and massages with weight, with power and skill. Jeff’s cock stands wickedly straight, hovering just above his stomach almost to his navel. Fuck me, he whispers, Fuck me, Oscar.
Oscar is dizzy, but slides gingerly out of Jeff’s asshole and stumbles to the drawer with the condoms. He wipes his brow on the sleeve of his coat and opens it. He gets one, takes the tube of KY and rears back to Jeff. He pulls the stirrups out of the table, sets them high and puts Jeff’s ankles in them. He unzips his pants, suits up, pulls out the step, mounts it and angles himself above Jeff. Jeff is smiling, naughty and exposed. Fuck me, doctor.
Oscar plunges inside of Jeff, abandoning himself to fate and nature, his eyes screwed shut, his body on fire. He pumps. He takes the KY and squeezes some onto Jeff’s cock. He pumps. He rubs it in. He pumps. He jerks Jeff off in his hand, already fully tumescent and throbbing. He pumps, a cool static forming in his ears, his body taking over his mind. He pumps. Jeff’s sweat has melted the paper and it has ripped, tiny rolls forming at the edges of his skin. He pumps. Jeff jolts and his ankles, trapped in the stirrups, lift his ass from the table. He pumps. Jeff’s ass contracts around him like a tight fist and his come sprinkles and sprays and splats on his stomach and chest. He pumps, his brain feather-light. Fuck me, doctor, FUCK ME.
The doctor’s office disappears. His lab coat disappears. His wife disappears. There is only Jeff and narcotic, shivering his body. He comes like a paintball gun and stays, quivering, for a while inside of Jeff.
In ten seconds, the office is back, his wife is back, the dread of the single knock is back, and his cursing of nature returns too. He takes his condom off, throws it in the biohazard bin and lingers for a moment, watching the prostrate man on his table. He zips his pants and hovers over Jeff. He bends down to kiss him.
The doctor hands the patient back his clothes, has him sign a few things while the patient gets dressed and leaves the examining room, his face back to normal.
Saturday, April 7, 2007
More Than Five and Less Than Ten
The door opens without a squeak. You can only tell that it’s the door because the air sweeps your face like a door. It’s not a clean sweep, but a warm one, full of humidity, in this, the room they do this in. The only room without air conditioning. I wonder if I’ll feel the door swing shut again, another cloud of black, soft air, but there isn’t. The door remains open, so that they can come and go as they choose. They know the room much better than I do, will have no trouble finding the door. I wonder what the first touch will feel like, whether it will be strong or light, how forceful, really, this whole experience will be. I wonder if they’ve got some ritual, some secret handshake in the dark, if they discussed what they would do before they got in here, all of them in a lit room, hunched over as if preparing the plays in the second half.
Of course, I’m shaking. Of course I am. I tried not to think about it too much, told myself I was going to a party with friends, that I would tell all my good stories and they would laugh and shake their shoulders, but they left me here in the dark for a long time, long enough for me not to know how long, and I’ve worked myself up, in the fifteen to sixty minutes that I’ve been in here, to a frothing nervousness, the kind that you get at a podium, the vicious tomfoolery of your opposing muscles, unable to decide what to do, uncontrollable wave cancellations in your electricity.
You only have to do what we ask you to do, Nick said. We may ask you to turn around, or open your mouth, or stand up. We’re polite, but you better take it as an order, or you’ll never get this opportunity again.
The first touch is not gentle, but it is a kiss. He palms the crown of my head and shoves me to his mouth. I’m shocked at first, but I get it, try to do my best and find it easy. The time in the room alone was also filled with blurred beats of what might happen any minute and I’m ready. I’m more than ready.
You can’t lift your arms unless we lift them for you.
My arms dangle at my sides, still hopelessly twitchy, with real messages to fight now, ones that want me to paw the air, count the visitors, feel their bodies, but I manage to dangle them. A hand comes around my front from behind, slips under my shirt, nail-skates my skin and lands on my nipple. I buckle and feel him pinch. This buckling thing isn’t allowed. I whimper a little because the pinch is hard and unexpected. The pinch is emphasized with a twist to see if I’ll call uncle. I don’t. The man behind me gives a satisfied “humph,” and kisses the back of my neck just below the hairline. He drags his tongue, circling what he has to know is my tattoo, stops and blows on it. I arch my neck. I can’t help that.
My keys swung in the ignition and I regarded them for as long as it was safe to do so, wondering that the wind didn’t flutter them around like the chaos of current above the steering wheel. Nick said he hadn’t been in a convertible in years and would stop mid-sentence to lean out to the side or straighten above the windshield, the hot day completely negated in the wind. “Do you really have the authority for this?” I asked him, watching the bend of his jeans at his hip as he sat down, his arms relaxing at the bicep. He simply looked at me as if he was about to end the deal if I said one more stupid fucking thing like that. I turned forward again and bent my neck back, squinting at the glare of the car in front of us.
I can feel the hard-on of the guy behind me, half between my ass-cheeks and half above, as if he’d put a flashlight in his pants. He bends his knees until the hard-on is below my asscheeks and lets it catch on the way up, pushing me into the man who’s kissing me. The man at my lips takes this as an affront, twists my face and bites the side of my upper lip. It stings awful and I suck air in around it, mostly his exhales, I gather. The air tastes like him. Why? I want to ask, but he relents with a lick on the inside of the lip, looking for blood, no doubt. The man behind, as if sensing the mercy up front, pulls my pants down over my ass and slaps it hard, rubs the sting away, then slaps it again. A whine escapes, though I’m clamping my mouth shut to stop it. The man behind takes this as a challenge and spanks harder, four, five, six! He rubs the sting away, but bends over to rip at it with his stubble.
”Is there a safe word?” I asked.
“Is there a safe word?” Nick repeated incredulously. “You need a safe word?”
There are two more hands now, each descending the sides of my pants, pulling them down my thighs. My shoes are removed without much thought for my balance and the pants are removed to parts unknown. A hand enters my underwear through the right leg, weighs my balls gently and taps behind them. “Give me your hand,” says a voice to my right. I lift it toward the voice and it is taken, puddled with lube and wrapped around someone’s cock. “Twist it slowly,” he says. Then all I hear from him is moaning. As I turn him in my fist, he fucks it. I consider dropping, taking the tip in my lips, though the one is still sore, but remember that I must wait for orders.
My knees are kicked bent behind me. I take it and straighten again. “No, on the floor,” says a man behind me. My knees fall to the rubber floor, the one I’d bounced my heels on as I waited. A chop of the forearm arches my back concave. There is a squirting noise, a slap of latex, one thumb in my asshole pulling one direction, another pulling opposite. Then a cock and nails into my skin. Exquisite pain, a 911 call within me in a gasp. I’ve lost pace on the man in my fist and he flicks at my fingers and wraps them tighter. “You’re multitasking today, boy,” he reminds me. I’m very sorry and match the twists to the fucking behind me. There are fingers in my hair and my head is lifted painfully. I’d been hearing squishing smack noises in front of me somewhere and they approach quickly. The smell of cock is here, salty and sour, and my lips are split by the tip of one. I taste the candy bubbles of the lube and open my mouth wide for it, my lips wrapped around my teeth. “Good,” I hear. The cock is rubbed sincerely on its way in, a welcome for the swollen traveler.
Lube has begun to pool on the rubber and my right knee has found a daub. It keeps slipping, parting my legs and pulling me down. The man who’s fucking me gets impatient having to pull me up and spanks me hard and red. A new sharp twinge stampedes up my back. The knees are withdrawn from between my legs and my knees are nudged shut. A hand comes up to my shoulder and wrenches me back. The cock is returned full force with hardly a consideration, a warning, a bow to etiquette. I almost lose the cock in my mouth in the tussle and my head is wrenched forward again by the scalp. After a few pushes and pulls, the two men figure out their tug-of-war, and instead of relenting, pull harder. I’ve got hands hooked around my hips, controlling their every move and another twisting my head by the hair, taking the neck in yanks when this isn’t enough.
The man fucking my hand begins to slow and stops my wrist from twisting. He lifts my thumb to the tip of his cock and circles it slowly. He’s groaning, shaking, calling for God. Then there is warmth and pressure, three gooey gushes under the pad of my thumb. “Umph,” he finishes with. I’m too tired to think about it. The hand in my scalp changes direction, however, and shoves my face down and to the side. I see it glow blue. There must be a blacklight. “Lick it up,” he says. I descend, my tongue leaving wider and fainter bastes of pale blue on the rubber with each pass, the salty bitter swept into my mouth and swallowed.
The room is Machiavellian hot. Sweat pours off me in rivers. I can taste it, feel the others’ sweat hit me in little rainstorms. With a jerking plunge, the man fucking me comes, bounces in grunts. He waits, pulls out and smacks my ass one more time for good measure.
”How many are you?” I asked Nick.
“More than five, less than ten.” He saw me squint with doubt. “Don’t worry, though. Some are just watchers, or listeners mostly. You won’t have to take care of all of them yourself.”
It occurs to me that I hear squishing smacks all around, that not all of them are coming from the men who are touching me. The one who finished behind me is replaced, this one in a hurry without grind or romance, simply pumping into me quickly, as if there were a time limit. I hear a groundswell moan to my left and teeth chatter. A Fuck!
“Talk to me,” says a voice to my right, very close. “Tell us what you want us to do.”
“I want to make you come. I want to make you all come. I’ll lick it up. I’ll fuck you dry. I’ll suck you crosseyed. Whatever you want is what I want you to do.”
Another cock is brought to me and my face is lifted by the chin. I feel warm shocks to my upper lip and nose, open my lips and suck it in between my teeth. “Aw, God!” I hear from just above. His thumb sweeps my lips and pushes the remainder inside. The man behind me stops abruptly with a yelp and pulls out. Nothing happens for a while, but the exhales of men, my own probably the loudest.
A ghostly apparition of bluish white brush strokes gets closer and farther away. My mouth twitches and so does it. It’s a mirror. Light comes up, just enough to see myself. The men come into the picture and lift me to my feet. Two hold my arms back, two bend at my feet to hold them in place. One stands behind me and waves at me in the mirror. He nibbles the back of my neck. A finger is plunged into my ass, then another and another. I’m hanging from them, exhausted and drained. The fingers begin to rub and a harsh blushing tingle rushes my body. The man under my right arm licks the sweat off of my cheeks, reaches to my front and grasps my cock. The one on the left gently pulls at my balls, biting into my shoulder. I can barely lift my head to watch. Another man drops to his knees and licks the tip, rubbing his tastebuds across it.
A steamroller hurricane passes through me and I come with the very last of my energy, almost a death-throe, a cracked jolt and I’m swimming in a dream. Then there is black again. I wake in a comfortable bed hours later, sore but comfortable. Nick, the man who made the lick that almost did me in, hands me an aspirin and some Gatorade.
“You did good, buddy,” he says and gives me a sweet kiss on the mouth. There will be a new one next week. I’m in.
Of course, I’m shaking. Of course I am. I tried not to think about it too much, told myself I was going to a party with friends, that I would tell all my good stories and they would laugh and shake their shoulders, but they left me here in the dark for a long time, long enough for me not to know how long, and I’ve worked myself up, in the fifteen to sixty minutes that I’ve been in here, to a frothing nervousness, the kind that you get at a podium, the vicious tomfoolery of your opposing muscles, unable to decide what to do, uncontrollable wave cancellations in your electricity.
You only have to do what we ask you to do, Nick said. We may ask you to turn around, or open your mouth, or stand up. We’re polite, but you better take it as an order, or you’ll never get this opportunity again.
The first touch is not gentle, but it is a kiss. He palms the crown of my head and shoves me to his mouth. I’m shocked at first, but I get it, try to do my best and find it easy. The time in the room alone was also filled with blurred beats of what might happen any minute and I’m ready. I’m more than ready.
You can’t lift your arms unless we lift them for you.
My arms dangle at my sides, still hopelessly twitchy, with real messages to fight now, ones that want me to paw the air, count the visitors, feel their bodies, but I manage to dangle them. A hand comes around my front from behind, slips under my shirt, nail-skates my skin and lands on my nipple. I buckle and feel him pinch. This buckling thing isn’t allowed. I whimper a little because the pinch is hard and unexpected. The pinch is emphasized with a twist to see if I’ll call uncle. I don’t. The man behind me gives a satisfied “humph,” and kisses the back of my neck just below the hairline. He drags his tongue, circling what he has to know is my tattoo, stops and blows on it. I arch my neck. I can’t help that.
My keys swung in the ignition and I regarded them for as long as it was safe to do so, wondering that the wind didn’t flutter them around like the chaos of current above the steering wheel. Nick said he hadn’t been in a convertible in years and would stop mid-sentence to lean out to the side or straighten above the windshield, the hot day completely negated in the wind. “Do you really have the authority for this?” I asked him, watching the bend of his jeans at his hip as he sat down, his arms relaxing at the bicep. He simply looked at me as if he was about to end the deal if I said one more stupid fucking thing like that. I turned forward again and bent my neck back, squinting at the glare of the car in front of us.
I can feel the hard-on of the guy behind me, half between my ass-cheeks and half above, as if he’d put a flashlight in his pants. He bends his knees until the hard-on is below my asscheeks and lets it catch on the way up, pushing me into the man who’s kissing me. The man at my lips takes this as an affront, twists my face and bites the side of my upper lip. It stings awful and I suck air in around it, mostly his exhales, I gather. The air tastes like him. Why? I want to ask, but he relents with a lick on the inside of the lip, looking for blood, no doubt. The man behind, as if sensing the mercy up front, pulls my pants down over my ass and slaps it hard, rubs the sting away, then slaps it again. A whine escapes, though I’m clamping my mouth shut to stop it. The man behind takes this as a challenge and spanks harder, four, five, six! He rubs the sting away, but bends over to rip at it with his stubble.
”Is there a safe word?” I asked.
“Is there a safe word?” Nick repeated incredulously. “You need a safe word?”
There are two more hands now, each descending the sides of my pants, pulling them down my thighs. My shoes are removed without much thought for my balance and the pants are removed to parts unknown. A hand enters my underwear through the right leg, weighs my balls gently and taps behind them. “Give me your hand,” says a voice to my right. I lift it toward the voice and it is taken, puddled with lube and wrapped around someone’s cock. “Twist it slowly,” he says. Then all I hear from him is moaning. As I turn him in my fist, he fucks it. I consider dropping, taking the tip in my lips, though the one is still sore, but remember that I must wait for orders.
My knees are kicked bent behind me. I take it and straighten again. “No, on the floor,” says a man behind me. My knees fall to the rubber floor, the one I’d bounced my heels on as I waited. A chop of the forearm arches my back concave. There is a squirting noise, a slap of latex, one thumb in my asshole pulling one direction, another pulling opposite. Then a cock and nails into my skin. Exquisite pain, a 911 call within me in a gasp. I’ve lost pace on the man in my fist and he flicks at my fingers and wraps them tighter. “You’re multitasking today, boy,” he reminds me. I’m very sorry and match the twists to the fucking behind me. There are fingers in my hair and my head is lifted painfully. I’d been hearing squishing smack noises in front of me somewhere and they approach quickly. The smell of cock is here, salty and sour, and my lips are split by the tip of one. I taste the candy bubbles of the lube and open my mouth wide for it, my lips wrapped around my teeth. “Good,” I hear. The cock is rubbed sincerely on its way in, a welcome for the swollen traveler.
Lube has begun to pool on the rubber and my right knee has found a daub. It keeps slipping, parting my legs and pulling me down. The man who’s fucking me gets impatient having to pull me up and spanks me hard and red. A new sharp twinge stampedes up my back. The knees are withdrawn from between my legs and my knees are nudged shut. A hand comes up to my shoulder and wrenches me back. The cock is returned full force with hardly a consideration, a warning, a bow to etiquette. I almost lose the cock in my mouth in the tussle and my head is wrenched forward again by the scalp. After a few pushes and pulls, the two men figure out their tug-of-war, and instead of relenting, pull harder. I’ve got hands hooked around my hips, controlling their every move and another twisting my head by the hair, taking the neck in yanks when this isn’t enough.
The man fucking my hand begins to slow and stops my wrist from twisting. He lifts my thumb to the tip of his cock and circles it slowly. He’s groaning, shaking, calling for God. Then there is warmth and pressure, three gooey gushes under the pad of my thumb. “Umph,” he finishes with. I’m too tired to think about it. The hand in my scalp changes direction, however, and shoves my face down and to the side. I see it glow blue. There must be a blacklight. “Lick it up,” he says. I descend, my tongue leaving wider and fainter bastes of pale blue on the rubber with each pass, the salty bitter swept into my mouth and swallowed.
The room is Machiavellian hot. Sweat pours off me in rivers. I can taste it, feel the others’ sweat hit me in little rainstorms. With a jerking plunge, the man fucking me comes, bounces in grunts. He waits, pulls out and smacks my ass one more time for good measure.
”How many are you?” I asked Nick.
“More than five, less than ten.” He saw me squint with doubt. “Don’t worry, though. Some are just watchers, or listeners mostly. You won’t have to take care of all of them yourself.”
It occurs to me that I hear squishing smacks all around, that not all of them are coming from the men who are touching me. The one who finished behind me is replaced, this one in a hurry without grind or romance, simply pumping into me quickly, as if there were a time limit. I hear a groundswell moan to my left and teeth chatter. A Fuck!
“Talk to me,” says a voice to my right, very close. “Tell us what you want us to do.”
“I want to make you come. I want to make you all come. I’ll lick it up. I’ll fuck you dry. I’ll suck you crosseyed. Whatever you want is what I want you to do.”
Another cock is brought to me and my face is lifted by the chin. I feel warm shocks to my upper lip and nose, open my lips and suck it in between my teeth. “Aw, God!” I hear from just above. His thumb sweeps my lips and pushes the remainder inside. The man behind me stops abruptly with a yelp and pulls out. Nothing happens for a while, but the exhales of men, my own probably the loudest.
A ghostly apparition of bluish white brush strokes gets closer and farther away. My mouth twitches and so does it. It’s a mirror. Light comes up, just enough to see myself. The men come into the picture and lift me to my feet. Two hold my arms back, two bend at my feet to hold them in place. One stands behind me and waves at me in the mirror. He nibbles the back of my neck. A finger is plunged into my ass, then another and another. I’m hanging from them, exhausted and drained. The fingers begin to rub and a harsh blushing tingle rushes my body. The man under my right arm licks the sweat off of my cheeks, reaches to my front and grasps my cock. The one on the left gently pulls at my balls, biting into my shoulder. I can barely lift my head to watch. Another man drops to his knees and licks the tip, rubbing his tastebuds across it.
A steamroller hurricane passes through me and I come with the very last of my energy, almost a death-throe, a cracked jolt and I’m swimming in a dream. Then there is black again. I wake in a comfortable bed hours later, sore but comfortable. Nick, the man who made the lick that almost did me in, hands me an aspirin and some Gatorade.
“You did good, buddy,” he says and gives me a sweet kiss on the mouth. There will be a new one next week. I’m in.
Monday, April 2, 2007
Two Phones and the Internet
“I never do,” I said, covering my face, though she couldn’t see it. I really hoped she’d never ask.
“You don’t masturbate?”
“No. I mean I tried a couple of times and just, I dunno, nothing happened. I felt numb and dry.”
“Get some lube.”
“What?”
“Get some lube. Go to the Walgreens or whatever and buy some freaking lube.”
“I don’t know if I want to talk about this.”
There was a long pause and the sound of her having a sip of something over the phone.
“Well, I do,” she said, having made up her mind. The only way to get out of this conversation now would have been to get off the phone.
“I just don’t get into it that much,” I said, desperately searching my mind for something else to talk about.
“I’m emailing you a porn site.”
“No! Come on.”
“There, click on it. I’ll watch with you.”
I clicked and the window popped up.
“I’ll give you my password. It’s J. S. Y. R. 1. 3. O. R.”
I hadn’t even found the field for it yet and had to ask her to repeat it. I was shaking, but told myself I was being silly. People do this all the time, right?
“Okay, I’m in. What do I do?”
“It’s a website, Megan, do what you would normally do. Find something you’re interested in and click on it.”
“This one looks pretty normal, I guess. Um, try the….” I couldn’t decide what kind of words to use.
“The one with the guy fucking the girl scissors style?”
“Um. Sure?”
“Okay, we’ll click at the same time. Let me know when you’re ready.”
“I’m ready.”
We watched on the count of three. It started with a guy in a ridiculous haircut taking a girl by the sides and pulling her face to him on a couch. Her hair was curly and enormous.
“Her hair is huge,” I said.
“Shh.”
He kissed her hard and then tried to gag her with his tongue.
“Are they always this bad?” I asked.
“Usually, but most people fast forward through this part. Don’t say anything, okay? Just watch.”
He grabbed her breast like it was about to run away and she moaned like it was the most amazing thing ever. I took the phone away from my ear so Nina couldn’t hear me laugh. The man in the video took the woman’s hand and put it on his dick. She squealed a little and squirmed down to it. She unzipped his pants and pulled his dick out. Things became very silent between me and Nina. The woman in the video slid off the couch and looked up at the man from her knees. He held his dick over her as if to bless her with it. She took it and played with it, her tongue, unnaturally long, slapping it and rubbing it. Then she put it in her fist and sucked it in. I watched her as she went down on him, sometimes in slow motion, sometimes the same shots repeated, her face elongated and slack in the cheek, her eyes watery staring up at him. They would focus in on his face occasionally, bored, really, staring down at her.
Two minutes passed and the only sound was Nina’s breath.
“Are you feeling anything yet?” she asked.
I decided not to lie. I didn’t want to get out of this as much anymore. “A little warm, tingly, kinda. I feel like I’m slowing down.”
“Are you wet?”
“What?”
“Are you wet?”
“Nina!”
“Check.”
I slid the seat of my panties to find out and find myself very wet, to my surprise, swollen too.
“Yeah! Wow!”
“Good, keep watching and then decide what to do.”
“Okay, I guess I’ll talk to you later.”
“Megan, come on. You hang up and you’ll shut it off. I know you will. So stay on the phone.”
“All. Right.”
The man was standing then, his arms akimbo, unclothed, the girl in stockings and high heels sucking him off vigorously. The camera shifted and showed her enormous fingernails on her clit, digging in.
“Are you doing that?” I asked.
“Aren’t you?”
Nina was so fearless, so scary sometimes. I worried about myself around her. Whether I was afraid that I was nothing like her or that I was going to become her, I can’t say for sure. I pushed my panties to the side anyway, though it was hopeless, of course.
“You need to get some of that wet on your fingers,” Nina said. I was blushing, like an awkward boy being forced to dance. I went to the hole and coated my hand.
“Now what?” I asked.
“Rub.”
“Where?”
“You don’t know?”
She was not making this easy for me. “I… I don’t know where it is.”
She sighed for me and said, “Okay, here’s what you do. Put your index finger in the entrance to your naughty hole.”
“My ‘naughty hole’?”
“I’m trying not to make you uncomfortable.”
I did. She continued. “Now, there’s something like a ski slope between two folds just above it. Can you find it?”
My fingers stabbed around a bit until the inner lips separated and I saw what she meant, a little ramp.
“I think I’ve got it.”
“Follow it.”
My finger slid up and ran to the top. I pressed in. “There’s a piece of cartilage or something in there.”
“Don’t press that hard. Think of it like trying to clean the keys on your computer without pressing them down.”
I flinched and had to find it again. “Okay.”
“Now, just little flicks…. Cleaning the keyboard…. And keep your nails… away.”
The man had the woman on her back, one heel over his left shoulder, the other on the floor. His face was tense and he was panting. I began to flick.
“Oh God,” I said. It was like being tickled but you didn’t want it to stop.
“There you go,” Nina said. She was gasping, her breaths like wool across the phone.
“Oh God, Nina, holy shit!” There was a zip and a vibration up my spine. My feet were sweating and my knees were shaking.
“Slow down…. You’re gonna come too… too fast.”
The man in the video twisted the girl onto her stomach with her knees on the floor behind her. I tried to keep watching, but my neck was taking my head in all kinds of directions. My eyes were blurring.
Nina began to whine and yelled out, “Fuck!” I heard her lose control over the phone and finally heard it slap to the floor. I let mine go and it rested on my breast. Jolts started where the shaking began in my knees and something terrible, something unbearable, something beautiful tore like a penis shaped arrow through my body. I screamed through my nose, biting my lip, and rode the orgasm, because that’s what it had to be, through to its end. I shivered for a while and felt a new elation change my body for the good, the electric warmth gradually subsiding enough for me to pick up the phone again.
“Megan?”
“Yeah?”
“You came, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, good. Now, clear the history on your browser and go to bed.”
“Nina?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, friend.”
“You don’t masturbate?”
“No. I mean I tried a couple of times and just, I dunno, nothing happened. I felt numb and dry.”
“Get some lube.”
“What?”
“Get some lube. Go to the Walgreens or whatever and buy some freaking lube.”
“I don’t know if I want to talk about this.”
There was a long pause and the sound of her having a sip of something over the phone.
“Well, I do,” she said, having made up her mind. The only way to get out of this conversation now would have been to get off the phone.
“I just don’t get into it that much,” I said, desperately searching my mind for something else to talk about.
“I’m emailing you a porn site.”
“No! Come on.”
“There, click on it. I’ll watch with you.”
I clicked and the window popped up.
“I’ll give you my password. It’s J. S. Y. R. 1. 3. O. R.”
I hadn’t even found the field for it yet and had to ask her to repeat it. I was shaking, but told myself I was being silly. People do this all the time, right?
“Okay, I’m in. What do I do?”
“It’s a website, Megan, do what you would normally do. Find something you’re interested in and click on it.”
“This one looks pretty normal, I guess. Um, try the….” I couldn’t decide what kind of words to use.
“The one with the guy fucking the girl scissors style?”
“Um. Sure?”
“Okay, we’ll click at the same time. Let me know when you’re ready.”
“I’m ready.”
We watched on the count of three. It started with a guy in a ridiculous haircut taking a girl by the sides and pulling her face to him on a couch. Her hair was curly and enormous.
“Her hair is huge,” I said.
“Shh.”
He kissed her hard and then tried to gag her with his tongue.
“Are they always this bad?” I asked.
“Usually, but most people fast forward through this part. Don’t say anything, okay? Just watch.”
He grabbed her breast like it was about to run away and she moaned like it was the most amazing thing ever. I took the phone away from my ear so Nina couldn’t hear me laugh. The man in the video took the woman’s hand and put it on his dick. She squealed a little and squirmed down to it. She unzipped his pants and pulled his dick out. Things became very silent between me and Nina. The woman in the video slid off the couch and looked up at the man from her knees. He held his dick over her as if to bless her with it. She took it and played with it, her tongue, unnaturally long, slapping it and rubbing it. Then she put it in her fist and sucked it in. I watched her as she went down on him, sometimes in slow motion, sometimes the same shots repeated, her face elongated and slack in the cheek, her eyes watery staring up at him. They would focus in on his face occasionally, bored, really, staring down at her.
Two minutes passed and the only sound was Nina’s breath.
“Are you feeling anything yet?” she asked.
I decided not to lie. I didn’t want to get out of this as much anymore. “A little warm, tingly, kinda. I feel like I’m slowing down.”
“Are you wet?”
“What?”
“Are you wet?”
“Nina!”
“Check.”
I slid the seat of my panties to find out and find myself very wet, to my surprise, swollen too.
“Yeah! Wow!”
“Good, keep watching and then decide what to do.”
“Okay, I guess I’ll talk to you later.”
“Megan, come on. You hang up and you’ll shut it off. I know you will. So stay on the phone.”
“All. Right.”
The man was standing then, his arms akimbo, unclothed, the girl in stockings and high heels sucking him off vigorously. The camera shifted and showed her enormous fingernails on her clit, digging in.
“Are you doing that?” I asked.
“Aren’t you?”
Nina was so fearless, so scary sometimes. I worried about myself around her. Whether I was afraid that I was nothing like her or that I was going to become her, I can’t say for sure. I pushed my panties to the side anyway, though it was hopeless, of course.
“You need to get some of that wet on your fingers,” Nina said. I was blushing, like an awkward boy being forced to dance. I went to the hole and coated my hand.
“Now what?” I asked.
“Rub.”
“Where?”
“You don’t know?”
She was not making this easy for me. “I… I don’t know where it is.”
She sighed for me and said, “Okay, here’s what you do. Put your index finger in the entrance to your naughty hole.”
“My ‘naughty hole’?”
“I’m trying not to make you uncomfortable.”
I did. She continued. “Now, there’s something like a ski slope between two folds just above it. Can you find it?”
My fingers stabbed around a bit until the inner lips separated and I saw what she meant, a little ramp.
“I think I’ve got it.”
“Follow it.”
My finger slid up and ran to the top. I pressed in. “There’s a piece of cartilage or something in there.”
“Don’t press that hard. Think of it like trying to clean the keys on your computer without pressing them down.”
I flinched and had to find it again. “Okay.”
“Now, just little flicks…. Cleaning the keyboard…. And keep your nails… away.”
The man had the woman on her back, one heel over his left shoulder, the other on the floor. His face was tense and he was panting. I began to flick.
“Oh God,” I said. It was like being tickled but you didn’t want it to stop.
“There you go,” Nina said. She was gasping, her breaths like wool across the phone.
“Oh God, Nina, holy shit!” There was a zip and a vibration up my spine. My feet were sweating and my knees were shaking.
“Slow down…. You’re gonna come too… too fast.”
The man in the video twisted the girl onto her stomach with her knees on the floor behind her. I tried to keep watching, but my neck was taking my head in all kinds of directions. My eyes were blurring.
Nina began to whine and yelled out, “Fuck!” I heard her lose control over the phone and finally heard it slap to the floor. I let mine go and it rested on my breast. Jolts started where the shaking began in my knees and something terrible, something unbearable, something beautiful tore like a penis shaped arrow through my body. I screamed through my nose, biting my lip, and rode the orgasm, because that’s what it had to be, through to its end. I shivered for a while and felt a new elation change my body for the good, the electric warmth gradually subsiding enough for me to pick up the phone again.
“Megan?”
“Yeah?”
“You came, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, good. Now, clear the history on your browser and go to bed.”
“Nina?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, friend.”
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