Eunuchs and Nymphomaniacs

by AnonYMous

  I got the job!!

  Drinnnnnng.

  It was so flattering to know that a twenty-two-year-old was coming to my apartment with the sole intention of having sex. There would be no need to hear about her day, her workmates, her mother, her roommate. She politely resisted any contact with me until she had taken out a black leather riding crop, a black leather paddle (it looked like a large Ping-Pong bat), and a leather version of a cat-o’-nine-tails. I was still inspecting these items when I heard her coat fall to the floor behind me.

  “What do you think?”

  There she stood enjoying my discomfort in a schoolgirl’s uniform complete with thigh-high stockings and heels. Without waiting for an answer she turned and climbed up on my coffee table and unhitched the little skirt. No panties. She had walked here wearing no panties. Her beautiful white ass and just-visible pussy lips, presented on all fours like this, was mute-inducing.

  She had a porn-style method of waving and swaying her pussy/ass ensemble into the air as if for the attention of an imaginary camera or yes, an audience of one. Hers was the first butt-

  hole I was happy to tongue and it didn’t taste of anything at all. Except maybe youth.

  Positioning myself in front of her she sucked on my balls with such abandon they might have been leaking life. How flattering it was to see my cock replaced by a young girl’s face. My main problem was that I didn’t want to come. I had to slow her down.

  After all, I had work to do.

  Determined to impress her with an innovation of my own, I attached clothespins to each of her nipples. The same type of wooden clothespin my mother used to hang steaming wet clothes in the freezing Irish air only to find them frozen solid the next morning. And instead of asking me what the fuck I was doing, she moaned with pleasure, and it’s safe to say, pain. She insisted on being spanked. And spanked. And paddled. And whipped. How unexpectedly intoxicating to notice the muted mauve stains appear on the white orbs of her ass and expand there like ink on paper. And the unholy wobble before the chalky cheeks repositioned themselves.

  “Oh Daddy.”

  My cock lurched when I heard it.

  Daddy?

  Suddenly the schoolgirl outfit took on deeper significance and I felt like I was complicit in something that hadn’t actually been made clear. Was this even legal? There were things that couldn’t be said out loud because of the implications on both sides. Did she see me as her father? Had he beaten her? Was I in fact reenacting some crucial moment from her childhood?

  Did I care?

  One look at my cock answered that. All sorts of respectable people enjoyed this sort of thing. As usual it was just Catholic guilt trying to derail my enjoyment. Or maybe the sense of wrongness merely enhancing it. I took her by the hand and led her into the bedroom, looking over my shoulder in case I missed anything. She sashayed behind me with her outfit askew and, lying on the bed, spread her white legs like swan’s wings and flapped them in the air.

  I bowed in reverence and began to lap on her.

  “Oooooh, Daddy, yes.”

  I inserted one and then two fingers into her wet gash and pushed them in and out while my other hand reached for her vibrator. Taking it from me, she ground it against her clit while I continued to finger-fuck her until all that white flesh began to look like it was heating up from the inside. Her entire body seemed to blush as if deeply ashamed of what it was feeling.

  This was when she splashed.

  It was as if a huge oceanic wave had crashed against her interior and what was able to make its way through the fissure did the best it could. A forceful excretion of lukewarm liquid that brought with it a strange acrid odor—not quite of urine but similar, more like seawater or extremely diluted sperm—went everywhere, propelled as it was by heave after involuntary heave launching out of her raised hips and aimed at the world in general. She contracted and moaned like she was giving birth to a water baby. In my mind’s eye I froze the action so that one specific squirt stopped in midair and lent itself to inspection. It was substantial, like a liquid starburst.

  My balls and midriff glistened in baptism.

  She looked up at me smiling sweetly. Her hair wet across her forehead from sweat and ejaculate. She looked down at my wet waist and the widening stain on my bedspread. We had achieved something together that no normal person would ever understand. As the parents of the most avant-garde wet patch, we looked upon it dotingly.

  * * *

  I was only out there ten minutes when a couple dressed in matching pastel shades paid $400 for the Tourette’s sign. The guy looked like he could give a shit but the girl wanted it so badly she kept escalating the price. She started off by offering $25 and I told her it wasn’t for sale. I suggested she buy the book instead since that was where the quote came from. Or at least it would after I added it to her personalized dedication.

  “Will you take fifty?”

  Her eyes sparkled, she was now in shopping mode.

  I shook my head pleasantly.

  A haggling, white, middle-class blond wearing Ralph Lauren was a great advertisement to passersby. She demonstrated how safe it was to stop and browse at my table. She stared at the sign, imagining it on her bathroom wall or in her father’s den or her friend’s bar.

  She would have it.

  “How about one eighty?” she said without taking her eyes off of it. The polo-shirted husband could no longer contain himself.

  “You fucked us with that, he would have taken seventy, he was about to say yes.”

  She was quite pretty in a waspish kind of way, blond hair and blond skin, even her eyebrows were beige. Her smiley-pout-face was borrowed from a little girl who knew Daddy wouldn’t be mad for long. She sidled over to him in an overly cutesy manner and basically rubbed her tits against his upper arm.

  He looked into her buy-me-stuff eyes.

  “Aww?” she said.

  It had probably worked a thousand times before but he pulled away.

  “I’m a bitch?” she said incredulous.

  He must have whispered it.

  “Yeah … I’m really pissed at you,” he said, taking out his wallet. Far from being hurt she was aglow. She stepped back the better to view her handiwork. She had just put the finishing touches to a living breathing irate man. She knew that blind rage was as good as undying love, maybe even better.

  “I don’t even know if I have two hundred here, I was going to get you a handbag or something really nice today but now you’ve blown it.”

  She caught my eye, naughtiness itself.

  Then she looked to my side.

  I followed her gaze.

  The scraggy-looking boy-faced woman in the tight dress shocked me when I turned and realized Marian was standing beside me. Why had she crept up on me like that? And why stand to my side instead of approaching from the front like everyone else?

  I wanted to tell her to fuck off.

  It was my first instinct when I realized who it was. But I couldn’t let the opportunity pass. I still had too many unanswered questions. A breakup was something that only happened at the end of a real relationship. It meant she’d been involved in something serious. I had to know more. It turned out she had resumed seeing the guy she’d been with before me. She volunteered this without me even having to ask.

  That’s how keen she was to talk about it.

  “How long?” I asked, expecting her to say a few months, six at the most.

  “Three years,” she said quietly.

  I looked at her. She would not meet my eyes.

  Three years.

  I tried to update my information. Frantically downloading all the new data while at the same time trying not to react. I wanted to react. It was life-changing news but I had to hide it from my face. Something must have showed but I minimized it as best I could. This was a surprise attack. And at my table. My place of work. Actually it was more than that. I had tried to present my street vending as a form of self-flagellation to atone for my sins against
her but now I was learning she could have cared less about all that. It wasn’t a question of love or hate. Such strong emotions would indicate hope. She had been indifferent. I felt I was reddening but I couldn’t help it. Maybe this was what she wanted. Watching me try to affect nonchalance as these muffled explosions took place within me must have been deeply satisfying. I tried frantically to recall what I knew about the guy but all I could remember was that she said he was low energy … and that he had a big dick.

  She was getting fucked by a big dick while I rolled around in anguish … on my floor … biting on towels … for the past three years. Oh, and that he was Californian. I’d actually met his mother because she and Marian had still been friendly but I hadn’t got the impression Marian had unfinished business with her son. Or that there was even a distant possibility of them getting back together. Percolating inside me now was the uncomfortable realization that I had merely interrupted their relationship.

  I was determined not to get angry.

  Or at least not to let it show.

  A silence descended as she sauntered to the front of my table the better to view my display. She picked up the book that related with glee the story of how intimate photos of her magnificent ass were harnessed to sell the other book on the same table, both of them written by the guy standing in front of her with the blood-filled face. She smiled to herself, eyes lowered, aware of my gaze. She might have been a little nervous but who could tell.

  Her lovely long fingers that had caused such havoc on my cock tip trembled slightly as she turned the pages. With rage? Or was it the thrill of victory? Her movements were slightly theatrical as she touched one book and then another, allowing her gaze to meet mine only to make sure I understood there was more going on than casual browsing. But what exactly? I was still trying desperately to count the years backward to the day we broke up. Three years? This meant she’d been seeing him pretty much from day one.

  Day one? Oh fuck.

  Had they started again before we’d broken up?

  They already had a history together so why not? We hadn’t had sex for almost the entirety of our last year. Had she been fucking him then?

  And why tell me now?

  If it had been so important to hide it from me for all this time why was she now so keen to share? She hadn’t even mentioned him when she read about herself in the second book. The same book she now held in her hand. That would have been the perfect opportunity. Had she been ashamed? Was she afraid of hurting me? Maybe she’d been waiting for this moment? Three years. Was that how she saw it? We’d dated for three years. Having had three years stolen from her she was owed three years of mine.

  Jesus. Fucking. Christ.

  I recalled those excruciating evenings where I tried every trick I knew to get her back only to cycle home through streets blurred by my own tears, sobbing so loudly pedestrians turned to look. At the time I had been consoled by the notion that she must surely be going through something similar but now it was beginning to look like this was not the case. She’d had her boyfriend to fall back on, his big dick to back into. She’d been able to retreat into an already existing relationship. This meant she had watched me frantically flapping around in my own silt with little more than detached interest.

  The knee sock? Was it hers? Surely not? Had she just pretended it was in my bag so she could fuck with me? The pictures she posed for in the woods? Send them to me, would you? They were for him. New Paltz was where they’d originally met. It was him she’d dressed up for that day, not me. It was him she had taken that walk with before. Fuck.

  “How was your trip to Maryland … for surgery?”

  She looked at me. Puzzled.

  “Oh. That wasn’t for me, that was my sister.”

  Fuck.

  She had been happy to meet me occasionally. I was encouraged to think I still had a chance of getting her back. Or at least the possibility was not extinguished. Torture through hope. It was beautiful. So elegant. I knew I couldn’t shape these accusations into audible utterances and yet there they hung, tangible in the air between us.

  I hated her now and was glad for the clarity.

  At least now there might actually be an end to it. It had stung all the more that I had to be the one who ended the relationship three years earlier. She would never have done it. I had to be the executioner and condemned in one. She had already had a man in place to console her. Actually there was nothing to console her for. She would have been relieved I ended it. I didn’t dare mention any of this. An angry outburst might have felt good but I couldn’t risk giving her an excuse to withhold answers only she could provide. If I lost my shit she might walk away and leave me to stew forever.

  Three years of self-imposed hell.

  I needn’t have suffered like that.

  “If I’d known you were with someone I wouldn’t have felt so guilty about … everything.”

  But as soon as the words left my mouth I realized I had no rights here. Why should she tell me? Especially after the way I treated her. I knew it had to end and the best way to do that was to negate our time together from the first day. So when I told her the entire relationship had been a ploy to gain access to her body I myself had set the ball rolling. Why shouldn’t she watch me suffer now? It was justice. Yes she had stolen three years from me but when you steal from a thief there is no higher authority to appeal to.

  She remained silent as if thinking about it.

  “Well, we never talked about who we were with … and anyway what about you?”

  This was her way of asking if I’d been with someone too.

  This suddenly explained her reaction at one of our dinners when I told her I had become an American citizen. She had looked horrified for a split second and at the time I had no idea why. Now I began to wonder if she thought I’d gotten it through marriage. She probably thought I had been with someone too and had kept quiet.

  “It’s not as if I was with anyone … consistent,” I said.

  I felt like I was being forced to concede a point. Like I was less dateable than her. But the real reason I had avoided talking about other potential suitors was because I was sure we were on the verge of getting back together. New realizations impacted me like the rear carriages of an abruptly stopped train. Was she fucking this guy while we were still together? It would certainly explain why we’d had so little sex in that last year. And those freckles she always got after an orgasm—I noticed them on her face one day a few months before we broke up. Had she banged him that afternoon before meeting me?

  Why not?

  She might have wanted to keep me on the back burner, such as I was, in case it didn’t work out with him. Either way she was definitely getting fucked by a big dick for the preceding three years (maybe even more) while I begged for crumbs. The reason I’d started selling books on the street was so I could prove to her that I could make a living from my writing without using photos of her ass. Or at least this was what I told her. I searched frantically for the moral high ground. Surely she was a cunt and I had been wronged? But even through the fact-warping haze in my head as I watched her standing there holding my books to her chest I could clearly see how I, and I alone, had brought all of this to my table. Should I give her a copy? I had only ever sent her the PDF. Nah, I’m good, I imagined her saying. If she did I would most certainly cry right there in the street. I wanted to run away but I couldn’t leave my table.

  “If I’d known you were with someone I wouldn’t have felt so bad. I felt so guilty about the things I’d done while I was with you.”

  “What things?” she said quietly.

  She wasn’t trying to get away, she wanted to hear all about it. Jesus Christ. Maybe she was worried that there were other things she didn’t know about. Some new atrocities on my part that could alleviate the sense of guilt she now felt for her actions.

  I couldn’t look at her. I daren’t.

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “There’s nothing new, just the same stuff we
talked about … like me being online and well … all the rest of it.”

  “It’s okay,” she said quietly. “It’s okay.” Like she was talking to an excitable horse. As if to say, It’ll hurt less if you don’t fight it.

  She was standing beside me again so that we now faced customers together and in my peripheral vision I sensed she was looking down at the books on the table, mimicking or maybe mocking my penitent stance. I yearned to look at her. But it was too risky. I wanted to look at her. I wanted to gather her up into my arms like freshly laundered sheets and take her away with me to a safe place whispering and giggling as we bundled through the streets, but instead my right hand rose involuntarily and blocked her from sight. I stepped awkwardly away, breaking any symmetry that had crept in between us. I was as surprised by this as she was and I squinted now at triangles of her between my fingers. My hand would shield me from the emotional onslaught emanating from this stranger. She peered comically around my raised hand like she was trying to get through to a lost little boy.

  It didn’t help that she had once told me he had a huge dick. All those times I’d sat in front of her hoping for a hint that she might want me back. I was reminded of the scene where a drugged detective is dining with Hannibal Lecter. They converse pleasantly as the detective forks slivers of his own brain into his mouth. He has no idea he’s been anesthetized and the top of his cranium has been opened like a tin of sardines. This was how manipulated I felt. And this in turn communicated to me how she must have felt when I told her I had only used her for sex.

  Our eyes met for an instant.

  I hated her.

  She hated me.

  My stomach churned in the same way it would in the presence of an enemy. The fact that she actually came to visit me at my table suggested she knew I wasn’t ever going to respond to her email. She knew she’d never get another word out of me if she didn’t turn up and surprise me. I had already dismissed her when I thought she’d only been with a guy for a few months but to hear she’d been in a relationship for three fucking years. And not only that but with the same guy she’d been with before me. It seemed unthinkable that I should have been cycling all the way out to Park Slope on those evenings after selling books all day in freezing temperatures and all the time she was getting serviced by a huge dick.