Monthly Archives: February 2012

Timing

The budding beginning of a new relationship is many things: luck, chemistry, physical attraction, location (location, location) but most importantly, it is timing. On the initial few dates—or, in many instances in my life, interactions, since I wasn’t much of a dater, historically—two people need to be not on the same page or even the same line but quite literally on the same word. If one person is even the tiniest little bit more attracted to the other, more enthusiastic about seeing the other person again or sleeping with the person or playing tennis with the person or whatEVER, it throws things out of balance and leaves the other person thinking, “Wow, he wants to play tennis with me WAY more than I want to play tennis with him!” Or whatever.

In other words, every incremental step that leads from two people meeting or seeing each other from across a crowded room or bumping into each other in a bar, on a subway, at a concert, in church, yes, every single second is a make-or-break moment. When that phone rings, and it’s him, you need to want to speak to him just as badly as he wants to speak with you. And conversely, if a text bings on your phone, if it isn’t a welcome bing, it’s a bad thing.

Now that there are so many ways to communicate with a person there are even more ways to fuck up the timing. Once upon a time there were phone calls. And letters. Or maybe flowers. Now you can text ONE TOO MANY TIMES! Or email them ONE TOO MANY TIMES! Or tell someone how much you really want to fuck them ONE TOO MANY TIMES and, pfft! Game over.

Since men are from Mars and women are from Venus, the chances of any communications between two people of the opposite sex being successful are iffy at best. It’s a fucking miracle anyone ever finds true love! Let us review:

First you need to meet someone. A crapshoot. You can go to a party (or a class, or a library, or an AA meeting…you get the picture) every night for a month. A year? Forever? And never meet someone who appeals to you. They might’ve just left. Or they’re in a different class. NA instead of AA. Again, you get the picture.

Once you’ve actually met someone you’re attracted to, you need to, well, DO something! Date? Dance? Fuck? Have a cup of coffee? Dance, drink, take a walk. And at every moment, neither of you can do anything to freak the other person out or scare them off.

Now, repeat step two…um, as many times as it takes for both of you to come to the conclusion that you’re in love. This does happen. To all kinds of people! Every day! It’s happened to me a number of times. And as I’ve been conducting my present search for true love, I keep reminding myself that I have, indeed, managed to find love and fall in love not once, not twice, but seven times. Which often has me thinking that I’ve used up all my luck in love.

I certainly hope I haven’t. But now that I’m, well, where I am…it’s all even more difficult. Leaving the house is harder. I do it. Repeatedly. And optimistically. But it isn’t as easy as it used to be. The places I might meet people have become more limited. I used to meet (and fuck) people I met in bars all the damn time. I don’t think I’ve met anyone new in a bar in years. I just don’t hang out in bars the way I once did. And when I am in a bar, I must not have my “Buy me a beer and I’ll suck your cock” groove on. I’ve also become considerably less inclined to drag a drunk guy home with me. And honestly, that was more or less my MO for…over a decade.

Which all adds up to why don’t I just give up? My friend Ruth’s comment on my previous blog post was: “If you find disbelief in blind dates, then why do you do it consistently and constantly?” And my response just sounds like excuses: “Spoken like a person who isn’t single! I keep doing to meet new people, most especially people outside my already considerably large world, in the hope that it might lead to, well, all sorts of things! A job, new people for my singles’ events, someone who might enjoy meeting one of my friends, who knows? The bottom line is that it couldn’t hurt! Also, it gives me more to blog about! Are these sufficient reasons?”

On bad days I fantasize about moving to a mountaintop and becoming a hermit. I know I am completely unsuited for the hermit’s life but sometimes it sounds appealing. I wouldn’t feel bad about staying home cause I wouldn’t be missing anything. Well, maybe nature. If I wasn’t meeting anyone it would be because there was no one to meet. Here I come in contact with hundreds of people a week. And I’m not falling in love with ANY of them! I must have bad timing…

A Date with Abby

I’ve written so much about my horrific dates. The other night I subjected myself to yet another. And even though it would be easy to bitch about the guy—too old, too boring—I thought I’d switch things up and write about the date from his perspective and bitch about myself. Enjoy!

This woman, EditrixAbby, emailed me on OKCupid, informing me that the “marshmallow robot” had matched us up. Through a series of emails, she missed my repeated attempts at amusing banter and wordplay. However, I agreed to meet her for a beer. She said she’d been invited to an event at Madame X, which sounded to me like a sex club. I suggested we get together beforehand and chose Milano’s on Houston.

She showed up on time in an enormous black fake fur coat and red fuzzy scarf, a black satin blazer and shorts (?!) with black and red striped tights. Her shoes had kitty cat faces on them and she had a red rhinestone on her face like a beauty mark. She looked like she was a member of a circus troupe.

We chatted through three drinks and I found her opinionated and somewhat xenophobic, sneering about where I live (Sunnyside, Queens), saying she would rather move to another state than move out of Manhattan. She called Milano’s an “old man bar.” I wasn’t sure if it was an insult or not. On the topic of blind dating, she expressed a complete disbelief in the process and, when I asked what all the fuss was about “chemistry,” she explained that people know within the first few seconds if there is any interest. I asked if she’d already decided if there was any chemistry between us and she shook her head “no.” There were more than a few awkward moments.

I expressed my reluctance to accompany her to Madame X but Abby pointed out that I was already in the city; what did I have to lose? I agreed and we walked west on Houston. The party she’d been invited to was in a private room on the second floor of the bar. There were two girls dancing in lingerie and lots of people lounging around on couches. As soon as we entered she immediately began talking to her friends. Fortunately, I knew someone there as well, and spoke mostly with him. After about 10 minutes, though, I’d had enough. It was obvious she was more interested in her friends than in me, so I told her I was going to bow out. She seemed surprised but not too disappointed.

The following morning, I sent her an email thanking her for the invitation into her world and mentioned that my friend said she was a sort of luminary in it. She sent me a rather terse and dismissive response. No loss, that’s for sure!

Dreaming. Seeing.

Years ago, my mom woke up in the morning and told my dad about a dream she’d had. It was a plane crash of some sort; all she remembered was the tail piece  of the plane falling through the sky. It was a United jet. When she turned on the TV later, there was news of an actual plane crash. It was a United jet.

When I was in college, I was awakened by a strange dream. A light plane had landed on a freeway. That evening, watching the news, there was footage of a light plane landing on a freeway. It was almost identical to what I’d dreamed.

This morning feeling disturbed by a nightmare I’d had. A friend’s dog had jumped out of a second story window and he was injured. I ran downstairs and outside to help the dog. As often happens in dreams, things were jumbled: there was a pond of some sort and I had to jump in and swim to get to the dog. Other people were there helping him as well. As we all stood over the dog, I was thinking—within the dream—about how veterinarians handle injured dogs, how they manage to avoid being scratched or bitten. The dog had a big cut and I tried to close the large flap of skin. (Fur?) I was talking to the dog in a soothing manner and the dog spoke back to me. He had an interesting voice. I woke up kinda spooked.

As I lay in bed, I wondered if I should email my friend about the nightmare or if it would just freak him out. I found it odd that I would dream about this dog—Burt Reynolds is his name. I wouldn’t say I was all that “close” with the canine. I do have warm feelings for his “master,” though—Sissy Bitch, in DPW-speak. (Not that kind of warm feelings!)

So when I checked my email this morning and read this:
DPW HELP HELP HELP
Burt Reynolds is in the hospital and has been hit by a car, and it is not good. His jaw is broken and his front leg is broken bad.
Sissy Bitch needs our help. NOW PLEASE!
I was woken up at 5am by an hysterical Sissy Bitch telling me Burt is in the hospital waiting to see a surgeon… The vet is going to need a deposit
TODAY
Waiting to get the paypal info now. (He has to make one)
I report back here when I have more news.
The hair on the back of my neck stood up! I’d always written off the two distressed airplane dreams as my mom and I being “in tune” with air disasters because my dad was a pilot. Am I now “in tune” with dogs because of my little Scribble? It also made me wonder just how much more I could be “in tune” with if I tried. The only other time I’ve come close to “seeing” something like this was when I had a dream that there was something growing in my sister. She told me she was pregnant days later. Which was a good thing, cause I was worried that it might’ve been cancer or something! Maybe I need to meditate more!

Anyway, best wishes to Sissy Bitch and a speedy recovery to Burt Reynolds!

UPDATE: Further pleas for help were posted, as well as more details about the accident, including this extra bit of info:
He jumped over a traffic wall thinking there was land on the other side and fell into a traffic underpass.
So uh, yeah. I dreamed that he jumped two stories. And he did. Weird. Er.
And they’ve managed to raise a lot of money to help with the costs of surgery but more is still needed. If you can chip in, click here to donate!

Technicolor Nightmares

After Michael Perkins turned down “Quick Study” I needed to dredge up something much darker and more violent. This was the result. It was published in Coming Up: The World’s Best Erotic Writing (1996) under Richard Kasak’s imprint.

The glaring lights reflected off the pools of grease on my plate. I pushed my last pierogi around like a hockey puck and looked out the window. The sun had caught the sky a hazy green-grey. How had it gotten so late? All attempts to secure a buzz last night had been thwarted by the dull ache in my head. Now, having sent a combo plate of Polish dumplings splashing down into the Meisterbrau mire, I knew I could count on some serious Techncolor nightmares. It must be the mushroom gravy that expands my sleeping consciousness. Those little crescents of sauerkraut and dough look so innocent. I left that last one in its greasy puddle, shoved a grimy dollar half under my coffee cup and went to pay the cashier.

“Smoke, smoke. Sens, sens,” the disheveled black dude hissed under his breath. I wanted to backhand him, or at least bring it to his attention that I had passed by this corner, oh, about a million times before and not once had I been interested in any of his smoke, smoke or sens, sens. But why bother? No sense in wasting precious mental energy. I walked around him, giving him wide berth, to let him know I wanted nothing to do with him.

I nudged the rancid bum in my doorway with the toe of my boot. “Good morning! Excuse me.” I unlocked the door above his head and wearily climbed the stairs. Entering my little hovel, it was a nice change not to hear anyone breathing. It was bad enough living in a modified closet, but the ultimate drag was to share one’s coveted closet space with someone else. I had ultimately decided that I would rather eat Top Ramen three times a day than put up with Carla for another month, so, hoping to end our roommate relationship on a civil note, I had told her tactfully that I wanted my privacy.

Not one to let anyone off easily, Carla sneered at me. “Your privacy? For what? Or should I say who? I’m the only one who ever brings any guys home.” I had grunted in response to that particular jab. Ouch. She was right. “Or is that it?” she continued. “You’re jealous of Collin and me. You’ve had your eye on him ever since Danny’s party, haven’t you?”

Actually the thought had never crossed my mind. I mean, he was okay, but not entirely my thing. “Whatever,” I said flatly. No way was I going to let it turn into an argument. She would think what she wanted, regardless of what I said.

“Hmmph. I thought so.” And she started stuffing her belongings into her laundry bag. Then she was gone. That was last Tuesday and the past week had been heaven. I climbed into my loft, happy that there wouldn’t be any egg scrambling or MTV bellowing to wake me, pulled a pillow over my head and prayed that sleep would rescue me from my relentless headache.

I awoke, sans headache, around three in the afternoon. I could tell it was late the second I opened my eyes by the way the sun was slanting through my stained glass. All I had planned for the day was a stroll over to Kinko’s to run out a few more résumés and some strategically targeted cover letters. Shaking the remnants of the last snippet of a mushroom-gravy-and-sauerkraut-inspired nightmare, I stepped into the shower.

The steam accumulating in the low-ceilinged bathroom made it feel even closer than it was. It was hot. I was hot. I hadn’t gotten laid in ages. Maybe Carla had been right. I now had my privacy. And it was extremely private. Far more so than I would have liked. Ah, but there was tonight. People became rutting animals in heat like this. I know I certainly felt like I was in heat. I slid my soapy palm between my legs. I was hard down there under all the suds and sopping hair.

I rinsed off all traces of soap and conditioner and stepped onto the bath mat, not even bothering to towel myself dry. Why bother? I’d be dripping sweat in a few seconds anyway. Instead I stretched one leg up onto the edge of the sink and looked at my semi-obscured reflection in the steamed mirror. My nipples were already stiff, even in the heat. My body is always quick to pick up on impending masturbation vibes and this was no exception. I rolled my nipples between my thumbs and forefingers, tweaking them gently, closing my eyes. I wanted to get good and wet. And not with dripping sweat or shower water. I wanted to be drooling cunt juice, go out into the tight, humid evening with my own scent smeared on me like war paint. To attract a rutting animal of my very own.

I slipped both my thumbs into my mouth, moistening them, and returned them to my nipples, sliding my fingers over the puckered areolae, gliding in the spit, pinching. Then I spat onto three fingers and slid them down to my pussy. I felt even hotter there. I stroked my clit, smearing the saliva around, arousing myself further. I pulled on it gently, urging it to become stiffer, and skidded into my steaming cunt. Mmm, I was wet—very wet. I plunged my fingers in as far as they would go and held them there, feeling the muscles clench. I pumped my hand a few strokes, pulling out far enough to brush my clit, then dragged my juicy fingers out and fingered my clit. It was ready. I was ready. I watched myself through squinted eyes as I rubbed frantically, drawing more lubricant up every few strokes. One hand pinched and rubbed at a nipple, the other was a blur between my legs. I could feel my climax just seconds—strokes—away and sucked in a last breath, tensing every muscle in my body, the leg I was standing on wobbling like a colt’s. I arched my back as I reached the last crest of the roller coaster ride and then down, down, I was flying, my fingers sliding and sloshing in the dribbling secretions, my orgasm caroming from my cunt through the rest of my shuddering body. I slid my fingers in through my slippery lips to feel my inner muscles clenching powerfully and I stood there, moving them just slightly, savoring the fading jolts of climax.

Before I rinsed my hands off, I smeared a bit of my juices behind each ear and ran my fingers through my pubic hair, distributing the scented hormones. This would surely trigger some horny guy’s subconscious, eh?

It had been the hottest day of the summer and, as the sun set, it felt as thought it would also be the hottest night. Forgoing sustenance in hopes of attaining the buzz that had eluded me the night before, I pulled on a pair of baggy drawstring shorts tight around my waist while I was still damp, partly from my second shower of the day and partly from nonstop sweat. The thought of actually putting on a shirt—even a tank top—was enough to make me pass out, so I rummaged in my drawer for a bathing suit, settling on a black bikini top. I pulled all my hair into an I Dream of Jeannie ponytail on top of my head—the coolest do I could come up with—and tried to decide which earrings would finish off my faux flygirl motif.

I met Lennie at Downtown Beirut for a couple of pitchers, grateful for their wheezing air conditioner. After about our third, I asked him if I could interest him in a trip crosstown to Jackie 60.

“I’ll pay your cover,” I volunteered, knowing his financial situation wasn’t a whole lot better than mine.

“Okay, sure,” Lennie replied, draining his glass. “Let’s go.”

The two of us worked up quite a sheen walking all the way from the East Village to the Meat Packing District. By the time we got there, I felt like I’d been for a swim in an overheated pool.

We pushed our way through the drag queens and night crawlers to the bar and ordered the cheapest beer available. Clutching our Rolling Rocks, we weighed the “dance or hang” question and decided that it was too hot for any unnecessary movement. Besides, downstairs it would be cooler.

And it was, if only slightly. I sipped my beer, scanned the crowd, and thought I saw Collin slouching in a doorway. Having seen the guy only once or twice, and even then not taking much notice of him since he was spoken for, I couldn’t be sure. If that was him, he had his hair pulled back. And where was Carla? Not here, I hoped. In any case, the situation required further investigation. I told Lennie he was on his own and slipped through the crowd.

“Collin?” I asked, startling him out of an apparent trance.

“Uh, yeah. Oh, hi Arielle.”

“I wasn’t sure if that was you. I’ve never seen you with your hair pulled back.”

“Well,” Collin said, flipping his ponytail self-consciously, “it’s hot.” I agreed.

“Where’s Carla?” I asked, not really caring, but curious.

“Got me. We had a fight. She’s still in a shitty mood about you kicking her out.” I weighed whether to pursue this line of conversation. If their fight lasted only till the morning, Collin would remember enough of anything I said well enough to repeat it. I shrugged, waiting for him to continue. “I’ve about had it with her.” That was enough for me.

We made small talk, yelling over the music and sipping our beers. When we both tired of standing, we sat side by side on the slightly vibrating pool table, leaning into each other conspiratorially to make ourselves heard. The seemingly innocent conversation became flirtation as we exchanged pleasant compliments and subtle body language, only to be answered by increasingly more pleasant compliments and decreasingly subtle body language.

After one particularly flattering comment from Collin, I blushed and sat staring into my lap, thinking that perhaps Carla had been right about my being attracted to him. True, he wasn’t exactly my type, kind of skinny and shy and bookwormish behind those John Lennon glasses of his. But he exuded a kind of warmth, a trait that chilly ol’ Carla had been in desperate need of and, when he overcame his shyness enough to speak, he had a clever, biting kind of wit. At that present moment, his wit was doing a bit of nibbling at me.

By the time he mumbled something about wanting to kiss me, I answered, “I was just thinking the exact same thing,” and we kissed a long, humid, tongue-tangling kiss that sent shivers through me. Between the vibration of the pool table we were sitting on and Collin’s thigh pressed against my own, I was experiencing that electric, hot-to-fuck feeling that summer nights were made for; his kiss sent me over the edge.

Flustered, I looked down at my empty beer, thinking I could use another. Collin read my mind and suggested a run upstairs to the bar. “I’ll come with you,” I offered. I felt light-headed climbing the stairs; most of my blood had traveled to my loins. I’ll burn in hell for this, I thought to myself, but the “fuck her” response came faster than even I could have anticipated. I was thoroughly damp, both inside and out, just thinking about Collin’s cock quivering in my mouth, as we stood leaning against the bar, touching and kissing, our hands reading the braille of each other’s bodies. The sentence I translated when Collin rubbed his crotch against my hip was clear. When he asked, “You live on Tenth Street, right?” I laughed at his oblique suggestion and, knowing precisely where this would lead, answered, “Yeah, let’s go.”

Out on the sticky city streets, I couldn’t help periodically pressing my moist flesh against Collin’s, cramming my tongue into his mouth and inhaling the smell of him. We pulled each other along in the direction of my apartment, eager to be horizontal but hungry for immediate bodily contact. I interrupted one particularly crotch-zapping kiss to say we’d probably both burn in hell, but Collin just shushed me and resumed the kiss.

Arriving at my apartment, slightly disheveled and completely aroused, I unlocked the door quickly and yanked Collin over to my sofa. I sat down, positioned him between my legs and went straight for his zipper. As I peeled off his black denim shorts, I gasped at his totally hairless crotch. Carla hadn’t mentioned anything about him being kinky or anything; this was an exciting discovery indeed. Feverishly, I ran my tongue across the cleanly shaven surface. I licked and fondled, rubbed and grabbed, and then enveloped his stiff cock with my wildly salivating mouth. I took a grab of his ass with both hands and pulled him into me, relishing the feel of his hard cock scraping the back of my throat.

“I knew it,” he said.

“Hmmm?” I mumbled around his cock, questioning the exact meaning of his comment.

“I knew you’d be good,” he continued, sliding himself smoothly in and out of me. “I knew it.” I laughed and released his dick, and pushed him down onto the sofa, on his back, his smooth, pale skin reflecting the glow of the streetlight outside my window, his erection casting a shadow across his belly. I admired his luminosity for a moment and plunged hungrily into his crotch, sucking his balls, slathering them with saliva, and then took his rigid cock into my mouth once more.

Collin continued to compliment me and marvel at his premonitions as I gripped his cock, slick with my saliva, and he rhythmically pumped in and out of my slobbering mouth. He pulled the tie from my hair and raked his fingers through as I licked and sucked, urging him toward orgasm. When he wondered aloud if he could come in my mouth, I paused, answered, “Please,” and stuffed his cock back in, anxiously anticipating his explosion. Moments later his cock stiffened in pre-orgasmic tumescence, his balls tightened and then he climaxed, his cock spasming and shooting a stream of sticky come down my throat.

We woke up in the same position, Collin on my couch, naked, and me on the floor, half-draped beside him, still dressed. It was glaringly early. He groped his way into his clothes and mumbled something about having work to do.

As he stood poised at the door, it didn’t even occur to me to offer him my phone number. I knew this was going to be another notch in my bedpost and I wondered why he had bothered making excuses about having to leave. Yeah, yeah, yeah. Places to go, people to see. Don’t get all overwrought. You came, you saw, you conquered. And you came. I’m satisfied. You can go now. Besides, he had the number. It had been his girlfriend’s number too, only days earlier. I held the door and as he slipped past me, he smiled wryly and said, “I hope I don’t see this little encounter written up on Downtown Beirut’s bathroom wall.” Hah! He should be so lucky.

I just smiled and said, “See you around.” Which was, really, what I meant. I mean, it hadn’t been bad, for a one-nighter. But then, of course, he called.

* * *

Thus Collin and I entered into our sexual relationship of mutual worship—of each other’s bodies, of each other’s talents. Although I’d certainly heard it before, he had me believing that I did, indeed, give the best head in the world. And, using my wildly checkered past to back me up, I managed to convine him that he was a cunnilinguist whose skills were equally unmatched. He read every word I bled onto paper and praised them. I matted his stark creations with black construction paper and put even the most insignificant shot on the wall proudly.

My writing gradually improved in the fluorescent Gro-Lite glow of Collin’s encouragement and he actually purchased a portfolio to store his prints properly. We both began to feel invincible. And our sex life was incredible. We challenged each other’s creativity sexually as well as artistically.

We bought cheap sex toys. Blow-up dolls. Edible underwear. We made use of food products. We fucked on the fire escape. Actually, we fucked just about everywhere. Then we started experimenting with fantasies. I was a hooker in a sleazy Times Square bar and he was my john. I was the virginal student to his college professor. It soon became evident that the next step would be to include a third party in our escapades.

Our first girl was a cute young punk squatter we found on a park bench in Tompkins Square, drinking a 40-ouncer. Half her head was shaved and the tribal tattoos winding up and down her arms were colored in with bright plaids. Tattered fishnets stuck up out of battered Docs, the requisite uniform, but what I loved were the bloomers she wore underneath her ass-grazing kilt. “So I can sit cross-legged without everyone getting a good muff shot,” she explained when I questioned her off choice of undergarments. Hmmf, a good muff shot was exactly what Collin and I were looking for.

We lured her back to my apartment with another 40-ouncer. Too easy. After she polished that off, she looked ready for anything. Collin and I certainly were. I reached to stroke her stubbly temples and she offered no resisitance. Soon I was rubbing her shoulders, nudging her layers of chopped-off tank tops out of the way, moving closer. I leaned in to take a lick of her cocoa skin. She tasted like beer and cigarettes and sweat and dirt. I liked it.

Her head lolled back as my tongue reached her tit and when I made contact with her nipples, so small and tight, she moaned like a porn starlet. No virgin this one, I thought. Ah, just as well. And I yanked down her shirts, one by one, as you would peel back the leaves of an artichoke, until I could see her heartbeat beneath her breast. I stopped to look at her, wondering for a second where this was going. Collin had gone for his camera. Without thinking any further, I knelt to unlace her boots and slid them off. I decided that leaving the holey fishnets on would be a nice touch, but the bloomers would have to go. The elastic at the waist was used up and crunchy and didn’t have much give. I had to tug to get the damn things down over her slim little teenage hips. But it was worth the work. When the grayed bloomers were in a heap on the floor, I got that muff shot she’d been covering up. The grey-pink outer lips of her cunt were pouting out beneath a healthy tuft of wiry black curls, crosscrossed by what was left of the threadbare fishnets. Obviously Collin and I weren’t the first to go spelunking here; the seam up the center of her crotch was about the only thing left holding the stockings together. I chewed through it like so much dental floss.

Her cunt smelled like her skin, only more tart, more pungent. I closed my eyes and slid my tongue into her, tasting piss and sweat and more dirt, earthy dirt, like you get under your fingernails playing in the mud. I started sucking and slurping, pressing my hands into her firm, muscled thighs, opening them wider, listening for her to gasp or something. I thought she’d passed out when she rested her hands on my head and began humping my mouth gently.

“Mmff, wait,” I panted, getting up off my knees to strip and spotting Collin, his cock in one hand, camera in the other, smiling slyly.

“Tasty?” he asked, nodding in the squatter’s direction. I strolled over to him, unhooking my overalls and stepping out of them, then kissing him hard on the mouth, making sure to smear a sheen of the squatter’s grease across his cheek. He jerked his cock once or twice and rolled his eyes and I returned to the task at hand, naked now, and hot for this kid’s twat.

Collin clicked off a couple rolls of film, catching flashes of cunt and tit, but he couldn’t capture her fabulous grunts and squeals. It was kinda nice that she was having as good a time as we were. Collin finally jerked off onto her, all over her training-bra tits and all over her face, and I licked some of it off before succumbing to a case of cotton mouth.

So that was my virgin foray into female territory. What I’d been fantasizing about for a long while, however, was slamming some cunt with a strap-on. I hadn’t had the nerve to try it on our little squatter, partially out of sheer lack of courage and partially out of some sort of respect for the tattered and shredded little cappucino nymphette. Shit, she was tasty. I didn’t feel the same respect for the next dumpling Collin and I carted home.

We decided to live life a little dangerously and journeyed to the Upper East Side, staking out a spot at a yuppie bar and waiting for just the right girl. I was all pumped up on adrenaline and a line of cheap street coke. Collin, knowing I wasn’t much for artificial stimulants but saying it was a special occasion, had brought home a few crumbs for me, wrapped in a tagboard band flier from Brownie’s. It made me feel hateful, especially among the so-called beautiful people, their expensive sweaters draped so uncasually across their gym-toned shoulders, their AmEx numbers being scanned and approved in a swipe of plastic. I wanted to hurt someone.

And Sally turned out to be that someone. She strode in confidently with a friend and sat a few bar stools down from us. We watched as she talked to her friend out of the side of her mouth while surveying the prospects at the bar. Every so often someone would appeal to her and her eyes would brighten, but it wouldn’t take her long to find something wrong with her prospective pickup and turn her attentions elsewhere. Her pal wasn’t quite so particular; within a half-dozen frozen drinks, she was out of there on the arm of a somewhat pudgy frat boy-type. Instead of leaving, however, our mark simply scooted down a few stools and kept up her search.

Collin struck up a conversation with her and, although I could tell he was not at all her type, she was intrigued. We plied her with another foo-foo drink and started talking about our recent ménage à trois and Sally, as she had introduced herself, stopped her scanning and started warming up—to Collin and to me. She had her hands all over him and kept shooting what I’m sure she thought were meaningful glances my way. I just wanted to get the hell out of yuppieville. She looked primed.

“Whaddya say we take this little party to my place?” I suggested, certain that I had stolen that line from some bad James Bond movie.

Sally about slid right off her seat. “Sure!” she squealed. And we practically had to chase her to the curb, where merely half-raising her arm brought a taxi screeching to a stop at her feet.

Sally had a slightly green expression when the taxi pulled up in front of my building. “I hear this neighborhood has gotten really popular,” she offered weakly. Shit, she had seemed like such a willing participant uptown. I hoped she wasn’t losing her, uh, curiosity. She relaxed a bit upon enterting my apartment. It may be a tenement, but over the years I’ve managed to make it look respectable. I left Collin to charm her and slipped into the bathroom. The plan was for me to get into my robe, which would conceal my male appendage, while Collin got her comfortable. I rifled under the sink, behind my vibrator and old hotel shampoo bottles, for the strap-on. I had yet to try it out, or even take it out of the packaging. My clit throbbed.

I pulled off the shrink wrap and opened the box, smelling that fresh rubber new-car smell mixed with cheap leather. I peeled off my jeans and underpants and got a good whiff of how exciting the prospect of fucking Sally with this little apparatus was to me. I dragged my thumb slowly through the viscous liquid lubricating my cunt and groaned. The tiny buckle tinkled as I stepped into the strap-on and pulled it up, the thong slipping between the cheeks of my ass and sinking into the slick moistness of my slit. I slid the strap through the buckle and looped it back, pulling it snug around my hips. The rubber cock lolled and I pushed down on it, letting it spring back in an almost lifelike motion. I closed my robe and went out.

Collin and Sally were in a tangle on the couch. I watched for a moment, stroking my rubber cock through my robe. Sally was wearing velvety soft black Ann Taylor jeans and a silk button-down blouse. I knew her panties would match her bra, Victoria’s Secret, no doubt, and I couldn’t wait to see the set. I moved in closer and could smell their excitement, Collin’s testosterone-laden scent mingling with Sally’s piña colada and Eternity stench. I hated her. I had to have her.

“Take her clothes off,” I said to Collin. “I want to see her tits first.” Sally giggled and sat up, facing Collin, and pushed her breasts at him. He struggled with the first button, but the rest went smoothly, eventually revealing a lavender lace push-up bra with silky thin straps. My mouth watered at the thought of her pussy, pressed smooth beneath a thin layer of the same lavender lace. Sally shrugged out of her silk blouse and it slid off the couch to the floor. She oblingingly reached behind her back to unsnap the bra and her tiny tits tumbled out. They were freckled—a bit of a surprise, since her coloring had appeared so pale and flawless. Collin clumsily cupped her breasts and started to slurp at a nipple. “Now her pants,” I gurgled. Sally leaned back on her hands and poked her pelvis into Collin’s face. She sure was cooperative. He unbuckled her heavy sterling concha belt and slid it out of its belt loops, no doubt envisioning a more useful use for it than decorating her designer jeans. She giggled again and wriggled a bit, almost teasing him to hurry and finish undressing her. I was still stroking my cock and groaning softly, eager to see her pussy.

The sound of her zipper going down was practially deafening. I was so turned on, and so incredibly tuned in to the whole act, that all I could focus on was this chick’s body. I could practically feel the soft denim on my own skin as it slid down over Sally’s slightly rounded hips; the tiny triangle of lavender lace made me gulp. Her pubic hair looked thick and it poked out between the lace, above it and at the sides in a mad scramble to escape bondage. I ached to liberate it.

She wiggled her ass while Collin pulled the jeans all the way down and, as soon as they were off, she pulled her legs up and sat cross-legged, apparently pleased with herself. Her nipples were tight and shriveled and I wondered for a second if she was cold.

“Okay, now fuck her,” I rasped, pulling on the rubber cock, causing it to chafe against my clit. I was only a few strokes away from a cirppling orgasm and I wasn’t sure what to do next. When Collin ripped the little Victoria’s Secret panties off Sally’s sorority-girl tush, I yanked harder and felt a flash of heat spread through my loins. He didn’t even take his pants off. He just ripped open the button fly and shoved his cock into her. Her giggling stopped. It was replaced by sharp little gasps and her eyes were opened unusually wide. She no longer looked so eager. He slammed into her for a few strokes, then pulled out and spewed his load all over her tits. I thought she had stopped breathing.

“All yours, babe,” Collin panted as he climbed off the couch. Sally’s eyes opened even wider.

I untied my robe and let it fall to the floor, right beside Sally’s lovely silk blouse. She let out a nervous giggle that sounded more like a hiccup and eyed the strap-on curiously, apparently unsure as to how she should react. “Stand up,” I told her, and she scrambled up from her slightly crunched position. I grabbed her by the shoulders—her skin felt soft, with decent muscles underneath—and spun her around. “Bend over,” I whispered, so hot and horny I thought I’d burst. Sally bent over, leaning her hands on the arm of the couch. I lined the dildo up with the puffy lips of her cunt and slid in, feeding her the entire length of the dildo, pressing the cheap leather against the cheeks of her ass as I held them apart. I heard another one of her little hiccups and I moaned. The butt of the dildo was jutting into me, stimulating my stiff, throbbing clit. I knew that with a few well-positioned thrusts I would come. I gripped Sally’s hips and pulled the dildo out a few inches, then slammed it back in. As the cock sank in deep, the rubber bumped into me again, and again I groaned. I pulled out once more, slowly, but that was it. I pumped the rubber cock into Sally’s tight little hole in a mad frenzy, leaning a bit to get just the right pressure on my clit, and climaxed, crying out and thrusting feverishly, feeling the dampness of my juices seep around the cheap leather strap and down my sweaty thighs. My heart was hammering in my chest. I draped myself onto Sally’s back, my tits spreading against her supple flesh, and panted. Another nervous hiccup-giggle.

I’d forgotten about Collin completely. When he “ahemed,” I noticed his cock was a bit purple and raw. “What’s the matter? That wasn’t enough? You wanna get off?” I asked, still lodged in Sally’s little twat.

“Mm, I wanna spill this inside her,” and he gestured in Sally’s general direction with his hard-on.

“Well then?” I replied, making no moves to pull out of her.

Collin just grunted and strolled over, climbing up onto the couch and propping himself on the back of it, leaning against the wall, his feet sinking into the cushions. His prick was inches from Sally’s face. I thought it might be cool to see her snotty little Upper East Side face get sprayed with his spunk, but Collin had other ideas. He pushed his thumb into her mouth and then followed his thumb with his cock. Yet another hiccup-giggle from Sally, slightly muffled this time due to the mouthful she had. I watched as Collin gripped the sides of her head and rammed himself into her throat. It didn’t sound like she was enjoying this little part of our games.

She made small choking noises, but I held her body still while Collin kept his grip on her head. He’d gotten plenty hopped up watching my scene, I suppose, because he shot his load after only a few frenzied thrusts, groaning deeply. Sally emitted a few snorting noises and I wondered if she’d be snarfing Collin’s come out through her nose.

But she took it like a trooper, swallowing down the mouthful before gasping for air.

“Thanks, you’ve been a sport,” I said to Sally as aI slid my eternal hard-on out of her. It was shiny and slick. She must’ve been really digging that mouth rape Collin had given her; her cunt was drooling. By the time sweet Sally was stepping into her expensive jeans, Collin and I were rutting away on the couch, panting like a couple of teenagers at a drive-in. I didn’t hear her leave.

* * *

Every few nights we would bring home another girl and each time I’d enjoy it more, fucking and slurping them, making sure Collin got some, preferring to see his come splash their bodies, but not minding the times he felt the need to deposit his load inside them. Sooner or later, though, I knew I’d have to broach the subject. And I knew Collin wouldn’t like it.

“Ya know, all thses chicks are entertainint and shit, but whaddya say we try a guy?”

Collin glanced sideways at me from the opposite side of the couch. On the TV, Pat and Vanna were admiring each other’s outfits.

“Not a guy, really, but a kid. A young guy. Someone virginal. Wouldn’t that be hot? Maybe fuck some kid in the ass? I’d love to deflower a virgin.” “Song Title and Artist” was the category. Collin looked preoccupied. “Come on, whaddya think?”

He never said a word in response, but he was fairly cooperative when we went out. I put the moves on a frail, young-looking blond kid at Sophie’s and all I had to say was that I had cable before he was agreeing to go home with us. But as soon as I’d maneuvered him onto the couch and was negotiating the removal of his baggy jeans, Collin lost it.

“Get the fuck out of her, you queer,” he cracked at the kid. And he didn’t have to ask twice. The kid was out the door and down the stairs before I could even ask what the trouble was.

“No guys. I can’t handle guys,” was all he said. Which was the end of my attempt to get guys into the action.

Somehow weeks passed by without any more “guests,” male or female. Our sex, when we managed to work up the energy, lacked its usual enthusiasm. It was mechanical and uninspired. And fast. I wondered if we were losing interest in each other. I felt so out of touch with my feelings that I couldn’t even say. Nothing seemed to have changed, really. A muted, slow-motion effect just seemed to have taken hold. I waited for it to pass.

But it didn’t. And I attributed our boredom to our lack of extracurricular sexual partners. I brought this up with Collin one evening when Vanna was wearing a particularly unbecoming ensemble. Still absorbed in her silver dress with matching silver pumps, Collin agreed with me and suggested we go out on the prowl that very evening. While he watched the Wheel, I slipped out the door for a six of Bud talls.

At the store I thought better and bought two six-packs, supplementing our beverage selection with a tube of Pringles and some peanut M&Ms. By the time I got back, the 300-pound woman from Arizona had won a powerboat, which meant that Collin and I could concentrate on sucking down our beers and contemplate the evening’s festivities.

“Where d’ya wanna go?” I asi,ed, coming up for air after a long swig.

“Let’s find ourselves somebody truly vile. Someone we can really hate—from the word go.”

The thought intrigued me. I had hated most everybody we’d brought home for some reason or other, if only that they could afford to drink better beer than I could. Except for the squatter. I still had some warm feelings about her. Then the hazy newsprint memory of Screw’s story about cheap hookers trolling Eleventh Street fluttered behind my eyelids. Used-up crack addicts. Human pollution. Truly vile, indeed. And so convenient! We could chug a few equally cheap pitchers on the way.

It took us a while to distract the bartender from her scrawny rock ‘n’ roll boyfriend. “Pitcher of Bud,” I yelled over the blaring jukebox. “Touch Me, I’m Sick.” How appropriate. The lifeless beer went down easy. We sat propped up by the greasy window, seemingly miles away from any air. Just a soupy fog of cigarette smoke. Collin fought off the advances of the five-dollar blowjob girl and I briefly entertained the idea of taking her home and drowning her in my bathtub, but I knew she’d be way too much trouble. Flower Man presented me with a flaccid rose and Collin pled poverty when he asked for monetary compensation. “No, man. All our money’s for beer.” And Flower Man moved deeper into the bar. “Orgasm Addict” came on and I mused that if they ever made a movie of my life, this particular jukebox would provide the perfect soundtrack.

By “Venus in Furs” we were on our third pitcher and I was feeling primed. “Let’s down this piss and get on with it,” I slurred to Collin. I could feel the beer molecules bonding with my DNA, becoming an elemental building block of my very being. With the sour aftertaste of stale Budweiser stinging my tongue, we exited Beirut to the strains of “Rape Me.” Indeed.

It was only a short three-block walk to the local cheap hooker district. And there they were, just as promised. Collin and I slunk along, eyeballing each one. “So, what’s the plan?” he whispered to me furtively.

“Let’s go to the deli at the corner and buys us a couple beers—for you, me and our guest. We can decide which one to purchase while we’re making our purchase.” I giggled at what I thought was a clever turn of phrase. I had a good buzz on.

“Mm,” Collin responded, apparently oblivious to my wit.

Standing in the glaring fluorescent lights of the deli, I squinted into the beer cooler, seeking some serious shit beer. “So, any of them catch your fancy?” I asked Collin, who was behind me rubbing his hard-on into my shoulder blades. I reached deep into the cooler to get a cold one and handed it up to him.

“Colt 45, a fine vintage,” he giggled, still rubbing. “I kinda liked the looks of the black chick. She looked kinda kinky. You?”

I passed him another 40-ouncer and leaned into his grinding crotch, wavering slightly, feeling woozy for just a second. “I don’t know. She looked awful…aware…to me. I had someone more, um, out of it in mind.” I passed up a third bottle and stood up, grabbing Collin in the crotch, squeezing his cock. He had his hands full; he was defenseless. “I thought that weasely little blonde was kinda appealing,” I said, still squeezing.

“Ugh,” was Collin’s response. He mashed himself into my groping palm.

“Fuck it. I don’t care. Let’s do the black chick,” I grumbled, glancing up at the Big Brother mirror in the corner. The cashier was watching us. “Let’s get out of here.”

At the counter, I pulled a strangled wad of singles out of my pocket. The guy rang in our purchase and squirreled away the cash. “You lovebirds have a good night, now!” He grinned. His teeth were brown and grey and frightening.

Back on the hooker block, we spotted the black chick leaning limply in a doorway. “Maybe she’s already high,” I whispered to Collin. It was practically a squeal. “That should make things easier.” My heart was rising in my throat. I wanted this one to be extra special.

Collin approached her first while I hung back with our bag of beers. He negotiated with her silently, rubbing his cock for effect. I wished my hands were free so I could rub myself, too. I wanted her to know what we had in mind, so there wouldn’t be a need for renegotiating later. Collin gestured in my direction and the chick nodded. I took that as my cue and joined them. “Okay, let’s go,” was all Collin said.

We walked the three blocks back to my apartment silently. My heartbeat was knocking the bottles together rhythmically, or so it felt. My cunt was aching. When I handed the bag to Collin so I could unlock the door, I saw a peculiar look of fright in his eyes. God knows what he saw in mine.

The second we walked in the door, the cat slid under the couch. Never a good sign. I wondered what sort of strange vibes we were emanating. I cracked open the Colts and suggested we all have a seat on the couch. Collin and I sat on either side of the hooker, who swilled her beer like she’d just been rescued from the desert. I started stroking her thigh. No sense in wasting time. Time is money, I thought fuzzily, and giggled.

Quickly bored with her thigh, I shoved her skirt up a bit and wormed my hand into her crotch. She had panties on. How very unhookerlike. I wiggled my fingers around them and poked at her cunt. Dry as a bone. “Get those clothes off,” I rasped. “You too, Collin. Why don’t you two put on a little show for me?” I didn’t want anything to do with that parched cunt of hers. Collin would fix it. While they peeled off their clothes, I did the same, shrugging out of my T-shirt and shoving my jeans to my ankles. Underneath her K-Mart special, the hooker’s skin looked hard and shiny, like a cocoa bean. “Suck his cock,” I instructed. “Make him hard.” Collin was already hard, if only halfway. He didn’t appear to be as excited about the current situation as I was. I spread my legs and started stroking myself, hoping that would help him out.

The black chick popped the head of Collin’s cock into her mouth like a cherry and sucked joylessly. “That’s enough. Fuck her.” She opened her legs with a sigh. Ah, the ennui. I’d hated her back on the hooker block. She was making it worse. I was getting juiced. Collin moved forward awkwardly and placed his cock at her opening, waiting for encouragement that I knew he wasn’t going to get. “Spread those crusty cuntlips for him, honey,” I said sweetly. She sighed again and did as she was told. I stood behind Collin and leaned into him, watching as his prick edged into her. “Spit on him.  You’re so fucking dry you’re gonna give him rug burn,” I ordered. “Shit!” She leaned up, drooled over Collin’s hard-on and gave it a few pumps to spread her lubricant. This time he slid in. Their coupling was nothing more than the fusion of two slabs of flesh. I stayed behind him, dry-humping his ass in sync with his thrusts, feeling as though we were both fucking her. “Come in her face,” I whispered. “Spray all over her. Get some in her hair. She’ll wear it for a week.” I reached between Collin’s sweaty ass and my pressing body to rub myself. God, I was hot. I could tell that Collin’s enthusiasm level was tentative, so I continued urging him on. “Close your eyes if you have to,” I whispered, thinking he was the one who picked up this cunt. Soon his breathing hitched and I waited to see him shoot. He leaned back into me, pulling his cock out of her, pulled her head around and yanked on his cock once or twice before his come splattered her shiny little cocoa-bean face. The first glob  splashed her cheek, the second the corner of her eye and the third, thankfully, fell thickly in the hair above her ear. Her hair was the color of shit after a night of too much drinking. “Perfect!” I groaned. “Don’t move.”

I stumbled to the bathroom, almost tripping over my shorts, and groped under the sink for my strap-on. I had myself buckled up in seconds and hurried back to the couch, the stiff rubber bobbing in front of me. “Move!” I barked at Collin. “My turn.” I positioned the strap-on at her cuntlips, hoping Collin’s cock had at least gotten her a little damp. Just in case, I spat on my palm and gave the cock a couple of jerks, then rammed it in. It didn’t slide as easily as I’d hoped, but it went in. Then I was close to her. She smelled like chemicals. Not like a person at all. This wouldn’t work.

“Stand up,” I gurgled. I didn’t want to be so close. She stood up mechanically and waited for my next request. “Bend over.” She did. I lubed the cock again and pushed into her. She braced herself against the couch and I started really slamming her. The friction had me coming after only a few thrusts, but I wanted to hammer this chick forever. Forever. I hammered. After a while, Collin put his hand on my shoulder and said, “Don’t you think that’s enough?”

“No! Sit down! Jerk off or something.” And I continued slamming the dildo deep into the hooker cunt’s pussy. She seemed completely unfazed and I almost offered her a nail file so she could make more efficient use of her time. That set me off. “Get me a knife!” I rasped at Collin. “From the kitchen.” Like we had them anywhere else. The whore’s flanks tensed, her ass clenched a bit, but she didn’t say a word.

Without question, he returned with the knife I use to chop vegetables. When we eat vegetables. I slid the sticky strap-on from the hooker’s cunt and replaced it with the knife, blade in. She didn’t even have time to protest before it was in her, deep. She yelped, but I slapped her ass hard and pushed her down onto the couch. “Shut up, cunt!” I shoved the knife in again, twisting it a bit, trying to fill up her sapless twat with the stainless-steel blade. She was making little grunting noises, almost as though she liked it. Collin was silent. I increased the tempo of my fuck-motion and saw the first few dribbles of her blood daubing my knuckles. “Okay,” I said, feeling like I’d finally accomplished an impossible task. “Now she’s wet! Fuck her again, Collin.” I looked over and he had sunk to the floor. He didn’t look well. “Fine then, I will,” and I climbed onto the couch, climbed on top of the stuck pig, and shoved the strap-on into her liquid gash.

I couldn’t say for sure, but I think she actually got off when I fucked her that time. She moaned and wailed like she was coming, anyway. And I came about a million times, orgasm after orgasm rocketing through me, each one stronger than the last. I had found the perfect rhythm, the perfect angle, the perfect juicy wet cunt.

When finally my clit was numb, I pulled out of her. Blood oozed down her special select thighs. She still didn’t say a word. No “thank you,” no “that was my best fuck ever”—nothing.

“Shit! I need a shower,” I gasped and, in a bit of a daze, I climbed into the shower, bloody cock and all. By the time I’d had enough of the therapeutic steam and pounding stream of water, the two of them were gone. The cat was on the couch, licking the droplets of blood the hooker had left behind. I picked up a bottle and took a long swig, feeling hungry, thinking that a little visit to Veselka would be just the thing to take the sour edge off. And maybe the paper. The crossword puzzle.

I spread the Times out like a place mat and started in. Deciphering the secret little clues and squares always made me feel so superior. I sure did miss Eugene T., though. These new ones were too easy. I took a sip of my coffee. No special select here. Soon my steaming plate arrived. I positioned it so it wouldn’t obscure my little squares. As I popped the last pierogi into my mouth, a blob of sour cream dribble out the side. I wiped it away with the crumpled corner of a sandpapery napkin. Nap time, I thought to myself, somehow certain that the yummy little dumplings would no longer disturb my sleep.

Don’t Tell Mama

My mother learned not to ask about my love life years ago, sometime around 1990. That was at the end of a decade that declared a woman over 30 had as much a chance of getting married as being hit by lightning. I’m sure she desperately wanted my sister and I to get married so we’d have the standard, acceptable life she’d lived. Our 1990 argument was about why I didn’t have a boyfriend, that perhaps I was too picky, and it got pretty ugly. Despite all my perceived “defects,” I eventually got married and so did my sister. Well we’re both divorced now and thank goodness my sister’s contentious divorce provides my mother with so much to worry about that she doesn’t concern herself with my love life. I think she still knows not to ask.

I recently made the mistake of mentioning my dating adventures to my mom. First it was the socially awkward one, which caused her to worry about my safety. I told her that since it took him two subway rides and two cab rides to find his way to meet me, I didn’t think he’d have much luck tracking me down. Then it was a more recent man whose company I’d enjoyed; I said I was actually looking forward to seeing again. I should’ve known better. As soon as I told her there was someone I liked, he stopped calling. And texting and emailing. Oh well. Easy come, easy go. At least I can be thankful that my mom won’t be asking about him!

Update on this: I got a few more “Scrabble emails” from the guy. (Yes, Scrabble emails are emails that take place in the midst of a Scrabble game, and not some weird sex-related euphemism.) But he hasn’t texted or called since our last game, so I’m assuming the insistent desires behind his multiple “I want to make out with you” texts have since faded. Sigh. And yes, my mom did ask about him. She won’t be asking again.

Mardi Blah

Mardi Gras is one of my High Holy Days. Last year I was in New Orleans, marching with the Krewe of Saint Anne on Fat Tuesday. Since Louisiana wasn’t in the budget this year, I had to settle for a little local color. So Ruth, Pinky and I got our glitter on and headed out to Billy Hurricane’s, where the barmaid was wearing a bright red minidress with a plunging neckline, raccoon-eye makeup and a teased ponytail. Not a smidge of glitter, gold or green to be seen. Now this establishment’s raison d’etre is Mardi Gras so you’d think that the only person behind the bar might at least give a little nod to the holiday. Nope. And did she make mention of our festive attire? Nope. She did, however, act like a supreme bitch.

Anyway, we got ourselves a table since the place was, surprisingly, kinda empty. I didn’t trust myself to go back to the bar for more booze, fearing I’d tell off the bitchy barmaid and get us kicked out. Fortunately my friends didn’t mind doing the dirty work. Supposedly she got “nicer” as the evening wore on and even winked at Ruth. Uh, yeah, my bet would be that the wink was pure sarcasm. If she’d winked at me I probably would’ve popped her in raccoon-eyed eye. (Cue kicking out.) The Cajun spiced tater tots were the place’s only saving grace.

After achieving a proper Mardi Gras buzz, we decided it was time to move along to the next event. Which wasn’t a moment too soon because the place had filled up with dozens of BEIGE people: mostly female, all wearing the same clothes, same color hair, same haircuts, same handbags. I stumbled out of there shrieking “That is the muggliest bar EVAR!” (This has become a standard cri de coeur for me. Apparently I have become so ensconced in my own little world of weirdos that I am completely out of touch with “normals.”)

Pinky opted out of the activities at this point and Karie had joined in; the three of us grabbed a cab to Gowanus for a Mardi Gras party at The Bell House. In case I haven’t mentioned it before, I’m a total borough snob. I never know where I am in Brooklyn and most of it feels like a no-man’s land. We circled blocks of warehouse spaces until we arrived to find a room full of horrible denim-clad hipsters! Not one person wearing gold, green or purple! Or beads! Even the bartenders were bead-less in boring blue jeans. A few burners showed up and stood out like sore thumbs: a single blinking EL wire top hat swimming in a sea of BLAH! I’d seen the Hungry March Band a million times — and usually for free — so I wasn’t exactly enchanted by the music. I had to get the hell outta there!

Fortunately my friend Rob rescued me and  swept me back into Manhattan to see Bjork’s drummer, Manu Delago, play an instrument that looked like a flying saucer. On a few of his pieces he was backed by a choir of blonde Icelandic women. Whoa! They were like angels! And all this took place at Rockwood Music Hall, a pizza slice of a venue on Allan Street, mere blocks from my apartment. Aaahhh!

In conclusion it was a good thing I got my Mardi Gras on the previous Friday at “NYC’s Most Authentic Mardi Gras Party!” Now that was festive! Pinky and I handed out beads while Johnny and Billy bartended, Eric took photos against a green and gold backdrop and everyone danced to Brother Josephus and the Love Revival Revolution Orchestra. The two of us had waaaay too many hurricanes and waayy too much fun!

His Wife’s Big Surprise

This little piece of cuckoldry was spun for the July 1998 issue of Hustler’s Leg World. It even got a cover blurb: “Tied & Cuckholded – A Husband’s Exciting Shame.” I’d had plenty of experience at Penthouse, where “Watching My Wife” was one of the most popular letters section.

“Honey, do you think we have a good sex life?”

Anna had her nose half buried in a women’s magazine as she posed the question to her husband.

“Hmm?” was Steve’s response.

“Our sex life. Do you think it’s good?” Anna repeated, emerging from behind her Cosmo. “I was just reading about ways to spice up your sex life. It seems like ours has been, well . . . ”

Her voice trailed off. The thirtyish blonde was tucked under their duvet, the spaghetti straps of her Victoria’s Secret nightie slipping slightly off her smooth shoulders.

“I wouldn’t complain,” Steve offered, not turning away from Letterman. “Would you?”

“Oh, I suppose not,” Anna sighed, returning to her magazine. “But even the best sex life could use some spice.”

“Babe, if you want spice, you just let me know what flavor,” Steve said lovingly, leaning over to peck his wife on the cheek.

And so ended an average evening in the lives of Anna and Steve. He didn’t give it another thought until he checked his voice mail at the office late one afternoon about a week later. “Steve?” his wife’s voice wavered. “Remember what you said about, um, spicing up our sex life?” There was an ominous pause and Steve started to worry. “Well, I’ve got a surprise planned for you tonight, so try not to be too late.” And she giggled. Steve hit delete and smiled. So, Anna wanted to add a little zing to things, he mused. Probably some Frederick’s of Hollywood lingerie, a bottle of cham­pagne and a basket of strawberries. His cock stirred at the thought of some action. It had been a while. Seems like they’d slid into the usual married life sex schedule: once a week, if he was lucky. If a bit of spice were to up that average to, say, twice a week, Steve was all for it. He packed up his briefcase, looking forward to getting home–and getting some.

When Steve strode in the door, nothing seemed very surprising. Anna met him in her usual jeans and silk blouse. He didn’t smell anything cooking and he didn’t notice any champagne chilling.

“Hey hon,” Anna said, kissing him on the cheek. “Go on upstairs and get comfortable. I’m still working on your surprise.”

She seemed awfully calm for a wife about to spring a sexual extravaganza, Steve thought, slipping out of his sport coat. He kicked off his loafers and started up the stairs, nervous again. There was no sign of a surprise in the bedroom either. The bed was still made and Steve didn’t spot any lacy lingerie lying around. He stripped out of his shirt and slacks, debating whether to lose the boxers as well. Finally deciding that naked was best, he removed them and stretched out on the bed in anticipation. To Steve’s slight embarrassment, his cock was already half hard. Kinda pathetic, he thought. But hell, better to be at attention and ready for anything.

Steve gave his prick a casual stroke and closed his eyes, still curious about what was to come. When Anna breezed in, she laughed devilishly. “I see you’ve almost started without me,” she purred, grabbing his hard-on and giving it a playful squeeze. “Guess I’d better get started before you finish without me!” And from out of her pocket, Anna produced a black silk blindfold. “Let’s put this on you, so it’s a real surprise,” she said, smiling. Steve didn’t protest. Anna was in charge of this treat and he was going to enjoy every second. He closed his eyes against the dark silk.

“Now, I’m going to tie your arms and legs to the bed,” Anna whispered. “I’ve got some soft, silky cords and it’s all in fun. Okay?”

“You’re in charge, babe” Steve laughed, figuring that would be the right thing to say. “Just don’t hurt me.” So, she was going to venture into a bit of bondage? Steve had seen a few of those videos at bachelor parties and it sounded fine with him. He didn’t struggle as Anna wrapped the silk ropes around his wrists and ankles, securely fastening them to the bed frame. Steve’s cock jumped and twitched, eager for what was to come. A blowjob, maybe? Hmm, that would be great blindfolded! He grinned knowingly when he felt Anna’s tongue twirling around his ankle. She slowly and torturously licked and kissed him, up one leg and down the other, strangely neglecting his straining prick. From there he felt her move to the side of the bed, where she continued her ministrations, tweaking his nipples, still licking, kissing and sucking.

“Babe, you’re making me nuts,” he growled. “I can’t wait to get inside you.”

“Shhh,” Anna whispered. “Be patient.” Then she was on to his neck, his ears, the palms of his hands. Steve had never experienced anything like this before. He made a mental note to write Cosmo, thanking them for motivating his wife to give him this little treat. When Anna had licked and nibbled just about every inch of his body, Steve’s cock was swollen and ready to burst. If Anna didn’t relieve him soon, he didn’t know what he’d do. That’s when she untied his blindfold. But instead of regaining his sight by seeing his wife poised to slurp his prick into her mouth, Steve was met with the sight of a naked stranger standing at the foot of his bed. And the guy’s cock was bigger–and harder–than his own.

Steve tried to sit up and made it only a few inches off the bed. The silk ropes constricted around his wrists. He fell back, chastened. Before he had a chance to ask, Anna introduced the interloper. “Steve, this is Carlo,” she cooed, stroking the stranger’s stiff cock. “He’s here to add a little Southern spice to our sex life!” And while Steve watched, Anna knelt down and took Carlo’s enormous cock into her mouth. Her eyes were flutter­ing as she deep-throated the Latin lover.

“Si, baby, si,” he hissed, grabbing Anna’s blonde curls and pulling her head closer, forcing his huge tool further down Anna’s throat. Steve groaned. This was definitely not what he’d been fantasizing about. Who the fuck was this guy, anyway? He was just about to ask. Hell, ask? Demand! But as Carlo’s hips pumped slowly in and out of his wife’s throat, Steve felt his engorged cock throb. Could he possily be turned on by this? He’d never even entertained the thought of his wife with another man. Not outside of a nightmare, anyway. But here it was, happening right before his eyes. And it wasn’t like he could do a damn thing about it. His hands and feet were still securely bound. All he could do was watch.

Releasing Carlo’s cock to come up for air, Anna asked, “What do you think, honey?” She gave the guy’s cock a tender kiss. Steve winced. “Isn’t he gorgeous?” Steve didn’t respond. He couldn’t. True, the tanned, muscled stranger was pretty good-looking. Probably made a decent living as a gigolo, nothing to do but hit the gym all day. “How would you like to see him fuck me?” Anna asked, pumping her fist up and down the gleaming shaft of the stranger. “Carlo, babe, I would love to feel this magnificent prick of yours buried inside me.”

“No problem, señora,” Carlo growled. “How would you like it?” Anna scrambled up off her knees and braced herself at the foot of the bed. “From behind,” she panted. “Like an animal!” Anna gripped the bed right between Steve’s feet. Her breasts hung down, swaying obscenely, as she shook her ass at the stranger. “Mount me like a bull!” Anna ordered. “Toro, Toro!” Steve’s mouth fell open in shock. He’d never heard his wife talk dirty before. His cock twitched and jerked. God, he was dying for release. It didn’t appear to be happening anytime soon, though. Steve stared as the Latin lover moved up behind his wife, stroking his tool. And not five feet in front of his disbelieving face, Steve watched as Carlo sank his throbbing prick into Anna’s cunt. His wife’s eyes fluttered closed.

“Oh, baby, that is sooo good!” she purred, pushing herself back against Carlo’s grinding pelvis. Carlo reached around and grasped her breasts, kneading them roughly as he began to pump into her. Harder, and harder again, Carlo rammed his cock home. Anna’s hands were still gripping the duvet. She arched her back to meet the Latino’s thrusts. Steve strained to hear the sound of his wife’s pussy belching to accommodate the stranger’s huge cock. He could smell her arousal, pungent and strong. He groaned in distress. His cock was throbbing like never before.

While Carlo was banging rhythmically into his wife’s cunt, Steve hungrily took in the obscene tableau. It was like watching a porn movie, starring his wife! It had him so turned on, wildly, incredibly turned on. More so, in fact, than he could ever remember feeling. If only his hands were free so he could jerk himself off while watching! He fought against his restraints in frustration, desperate for release, half crazy with both jealousy and lust. Small droplets of sweat were sliding down his wife’s arms, dribbling off her tits, dripping onto the bed. Steven couldn’t believe how much she was enjoying herself. She was eagerly slamming her ass back to meet each of Carlo’s thrusts. How could this guy hold out so long? Steve wondered. He’d have shot his load ages ago. But still Carlo kept pumping, his eyes screwed shut with passionate concentration. Then suddenly he stopped.

“How about another position?” he asked, still sliding slowly in and out of Anna’s dripping pussy.

“Sure!” she squealed enthusiastically. “Where?”

“On the bed,” Carlo panted. “Right over your husband.”

Anna didn’t bother to respond. She just scrambled onto the bed, positioning herself on her hands and knees, her sweaty tits dangling enticingly in front of Steve’s face. She had one knee pressed against his hip, the other uncomfortably nudging his swollen balls. She was practically right on top of him! And the scent of her ravaged cunt was even stronger. All she would have to do is just squat down, if she would just move a few inches, and Steve would be gratefully inside her. But that wasn’t the plan. Anna braced herself as Carlo gripped her waist and slipped easily into her greased hole. She moaned as Carlo’s cock filled her and a second later she was sliding back and forth on his pole. The fucker didn’t even have to work! Steve strained to see Carlo entering his wife, but the angle was impossible. He knew what was happening, though, and he could easily imagine the details, her pussy lips stretching wide to accommodate that stiff, shining cock. Anna was moving forward, then back again, sliding her slippery cunt up and down on Carlo’s prick, while Carlo just knelt there with a satisfied smile on his face.

“Your wife,” he said, nodding at Anna’s gleaming body, “she is a good fuck.” Steve’s mouth was so dry he couldn’t speak. He was, by this point, totally out of his mind. “Verrrry, goooood,” Carlo repeated, his cock still sliding in and out of Anna. She pressed herself down against Steve’s chest, arching her back and shoving her ass out lewdly, and he could feel how sweaty and hot she was. But still, no contact—and no release—for his engorged cock! While Anna continued her rhythmic ride on Carlo’s prick, Carlo started to pinch and slap Anna’s ass. This seemed to drive her even more wild, and she sped up her motions. “Oh, señora, that is good!” the Latin groaned. “Sooo gooood!” And Carlo bent over Anna’s back, driving his cock in deeper and deeper, until he slammed in one last time and held it there, his breath coming in noisy wheezes and rasps. Anna moaned as Carlo emptied his cock inside her, mashing her tits into Steve’s chest and pushing her ass back into the Latin’s groin as hard as she possibly could. And when Anna’s belly brushed lightly against Steve’s cock, he erupted uncontrollably, spewing spurt after steaming, pent-up spurt of his seed against his wife’s heaving stomach.

They held that position for a few moments, each reveling in their own post-orgasmic bliss. Finally, Anna pried herself up off of Steve’s chest, her belly gleaming and gooey with his come. Carlo pulled his now-limp member from Anna’s pussy and his copious load immediately began to ooze from her swollen lips, dribbling down her thighs. Carlo moved away from the bed and out of Steve’s line of sight. Not that he was paying attention to the Latin any longer, though, because his wife had repositioned herself. Anna straddled Steve’s face, forcing him to confront her dripping cunt right in front of his nose. “Can you smell his come?” she hissed, smearing her pussy across Steve’s face. “Eat me, baby,” she whispered. “Eat his come out of me. Make me come like you do.” And Steve obediently began lapping Carlo’s come from his wife’s pussy, slurping it off her trembling thighs, nib­bling mischieviously on her swollen clit.

It didn’t take Anna long to climax. The heightened excitement and Steve’s loving tongue conspired to drive her over the edge in just minutes, and she screamed with release, convulsing against Steve’s face. “Man, that was amazing!” she exclaimed, scrambling to reposition herself again. While poor Steve was still bound, spread-eagle, he had managed to achieve another hard-on, despite the previous circumstances and his huge orgasm of only moments ago. Anna mounted him in such a frenzy, he barely had time to give it a thought, and soon the two were fucking wildly, their coupling bodies a sweaty blur. Anna bounced and humped, riding Steve’s cock like something straight out of a sexual fantasy, and Steve valiantly shoved his pelvis up off the bed to meet her every bounce. The sound of their two bodies slapping together seemed amplified by their delerious sexual abandon. Steve felt like he could fuck forever. Absolutely forever. But that wasn’t to be either. Without the usual warning, his orgasm simply overcame him. And Steve cried out as his raw, overworked cock flooded his wife’s already-filled cunt. In answer, Anna’s pussy clenched in climax, squeezing every last, impossible drop of come from Steve’s spasming balls.

When Anna slid off of Steve and flopped, breathlesss, on the bed beside him, she curled up around his sticky body and sighed contentedly. “So, honey, do you think we have a good sex life?” she whispered hoarsely.

“Baby, we have got the spicy, fuckin’ hottest sex life there is!” Steve responded. “Now do you think you could untie these ropes?”