Eunuchs and Nymphomaniacs

by AnonYMous

  She threw her head back, laughed at the good of it. I took a rest to enjoy the sight of her enjoying herself. New York approved of her and she could feel it.

  “I’VE GOTTEN VERY GOOD WITH MY MOUTH,” she continued far too loudly before kissing me with it.

  “Okay, let’s keep in touch,” she said and strode off up Eleventh Street before I had a chance to realize we’d reached our destination. I nodded like I was confident about seeing her again but I wasn’t. Somehow I managed to wait until the following afternoon before texting her.

  So I’ve begun work on my ode to your ass but I’ll need to do some more research, can you bring it to my place on Sunday night?

  The three dots indicating she was typing appeared almost immediately.

  haha I might be able to swing that but I’ll be getting off late so I might have to stay … may I update you during the week?

  It might have been an evasive tactic but it might also be the fucking jackpot. The next day I checked and rechecked my texts, trying to get an idea of whether she was serious when she said she’d visit. I wouldn’t know for sure until I saw her actually ascend the stairs to my door. And I couldn’t imagine that happening. She was a model for Christ’s sake. Undressed, I was going to look like a seal beside her. In fact she’d be doing me a favor by not sleeping with me.

  Ping.

  I can be there in a half hour if that works?

  Oh Jesus!!!!

  I would have preferred at least three hours to shower and shave and clean up and I had intentionally resisted the temptation to prepare for her visit because I was pretty sure I’d be disappointed if I did. It was astonishing what I achieved in the intervening half hour. Make tea, provide snacks, shave, shower, iron a shirt, and sweep the apartment.

  Drinnnnng

  “You look nice.”

  She complimented me as if I was the one who needed to be seduced. Looking crisply perfect in the blazer, blouse, and skirt ensemble required by her job, she stepped out of her introductory pose in the doorway and strode past me to the couch where she picked up a copy of my book and began reading. Reciting random snippets she playfully tilted and turned her head, foiling my repeated attempts to kiss her lovely mouth.

  “Romance has killed more people than cancer …”

  My hand between her thighs got her attention.

  Tossing the book aside she stood up and I marveled as she slipped out of her jacket with a private smile fully aware of the effect she was having on me. Clothes leapt from us in all directions on the way to the bedroom. The sublime slopes of her lovely young body had me giddy with lust until she rolled onto her stomach and I saw the purple bruises on her otherwise perfect ass.

  “Someone’s been getting spanked,” I said, trying to hide my disgust. Not because she’d been spanked but spanked so recently the marks hadn’t had time to heal. Was this a remnant of her rendezvous at Eleventh Street? The mauve marbling on what should have been a pristine pair of buttocks felt like vandalism. My gift had already been opened and rewrapped. My newspaper read. I was okay with the idea of her seeing other men but being confronted with such irrefutable evidence was disturbing. Not so much fingerprints as handprints. And it had been so seriously beaten up she obviously liked it. Until that moment her general demeanor had bordered on aristocratic but now it seemed that under all the affectation and intellectual polish she was just trash.

  Or yes, I was jealous.

  I dove down on her.

  I would need to at least match my rival if not surpass him.

  I brought all my experience to bear on the situation; a steady uninterrupted application of dual finger-fucking augmented by a combination of thumb-in-the-butt and rhythmic tonguing-of-clit usually produced spasms and shrieks followed by a howl of orgasm. I looked up from my ministrations to see her head thrown back in abandon while her long elegant hands pushed against the headboard for leverage. Her face, neck, and shoulders were already flushed but I wasn’t taking any chances.

  “Fuck my face,” I hissed and she began to undulate accordingly. When the shuddering began I curled my fingers against the fleshy coin of her G-spot.

  “Ooooooooohhhhhh … arggggghhhhh fuck yessssssssss-

  sssssss.”

  As her orgasm subsided I teased and caressed her lovely body, drawing spontaneous eruptions of gooseflesh along the way. Follow that, you bastard, whoever you are.

  Back in the living room, over what was left of supper, she enthused about a photographer she’d met earlier that day. She’d been a fan of his for many years and had dreamed of collaborating with him. Her former boyfriend back in Austin (I would later learn he was her husband) forbade her from contacting this guy because he knew from personal experience that “collaborating” with him meant having sex with him. He knew this because that was exactly how he’d met her.

  I made a conscious decision to be flattered that she trusted me enough to confide that she did indeed intend to fuck him. This was what it would be like to be with her. You’d be expected to show interest in the constant airing of her artistic and erotic ambitions. Could I do that? For the moment I could, because I wasn’t in love with her. But what about when I was? Or when I was willing to admit I was. I decided to like her less. To protect myself. I forced myself to notice that there was something unwashed about her. Smelly even. And she was still so inexperienced. Yes she was filthy-minded and debauched but she hadn’t yet developed the skill set to match her intentions. She had yet to progress beyond the obligatory blow jobs and feigned wifely concern that had served her so well in Austin.

  “More tea?”

  “Awww you’re so sweet.”

  I winced.

  She had already made it very clear she loved darkness in men. Men like @drkroom. A casual glance at his work and you knew you were dealing with one seriously sick fuck. Naked women draped over scaffolding like butchered meat, rapey Polaroids, security camera voyeurism, broken doll bondage. He was art house elite and even I could see they were made for each other.

  At this point I’d seen her splayed on couches, backlit in forests, spotlit on roofs, submerged in baths, glistening in oil, wrapped in plastic, bathed in sunsets, dipped in milk, and suspended from ropes, but the more naked she was the less visible she was. In the same way a truth is more elusive when there are thirty different versions of it, the countless conspiracy theories thrown up around the Kennedy assassination had the same collective effect as the endless supply of images purporting to represent this girl.

  Rather than reveal they enveiled her.

  Scrolling though her pictures, it was interesting that the most erotic among them were the self-portraits. I decided she was an artist trying to be taken seriously. A bookish girl trapped inside the body of a lingerie model, fascinated by the antics of the latest contender. Like the Korean man halfway up a ladder washing the windows of the Palindrome who persisted until she gave him a false phone number. I was amazed she considered this even worth reporting. Surely she was hit on constantly.

  Apparently not.

  “It’s impossible for me to find friends.”

  I felt the heat of panic rise up in me, she had just said the one word I did not want to hear.

  Friend: (noun) the enemy of sex.

  And yet it had to be difficult to find people she could be honest with. Would I be able to withstand her honest appraisal of the world? I’d only be valuable to her for as long as I could. The moment my jealousy showed she’d spot it and be gone. It was safe to assume she was fucking half of New York. For the moment I was just happy to be included in the fucked half.

  * * *

  You get off at 3PM right?

  I do.

  Would you also like to get off at 3:01PM, 3:06PM and 3:09PM?

  She had two responses to indicate laughter. The first and most sought-after was a long train of ha’s usually extending to two lines. The second was what I received now.

  Haha

  I tried again.

  Your pussy whispers obsc
enities in my ear “pleath leth me thuck your cock”—she has an adorable lisp

  A further rummage in her Tumblr revealed rather tantalizingly that she was still married. To a distinguished looking gent who looked, in their artsy wedding photo, like he might burst into tears any moment. She had probably fucked him up quite a bit. After all I was in a bad way after only knowing her a week, what would it be like to be married to her? I had not yet received a reply to my carefully crafted text explaining the meaning behind band names like Spandau Ballet and Steely Dan. (Spandau Ballet came from the grotesque dance performed by hanged war criminals, and Steely Dan was a metal vibrator.)

  Ping

  Exhale.

  You’re full of entertaining tidbits.

  This was like being called sweet again but at least it was a response. It was followed by an unexpected bonus.

  When I return to full health I’ll come and darken you doorstep again

  I liked that. Yes I did. It was so unsolicited it verged on considerate.

  Darken my doorstep, darken my duvet, darken my wood.

  Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahhhahahaha

  At last.

  * * *

  Drinnnnnngg

  Turning sideways now, she offered me a classic profile framed by my doorway. She was joking but she looked fucking amazing.

  She had an unusual habit of holding her head fixed while her eyes swiveled sideways to look at me. I wondered about it until it struck me rather logically that taking unassisted self-portraits required this sort of discipline. You’d need to hold a pose while leaving your eyes free to dart around checking camera settings and angles.

  I jumped on her a little too enthusiastically, kissing her, groping her, inhaling her heady scent. And though she didn’t resist she obviously wasn’t ready to get straight into it.

  “So you missed me,” she said, translating my breathless pawing into words.

  I had snacks laid out for her. Nuts and biscuits presided over by a teapot of freshly brewed strong Irish tea.

  “You certainly know how to treat a lady,” she said.

  This was you’re so sweet in eight words.

  “Just the thin veneer of civilization,” I said, trying to appear world-weary.

  She beamed at this and there might even have been a hint of relief. The last thing she wanted was another older man (in truth much older) mooning over her. And then as if to confirm the impossibility of us ever becoming anything even resembling a couple, not that I wanted that, well, not really, she began to tell me about her latest suitor.

  The Korean window-washer had metamorphosed into a revered war photographer. Any trace of levity left her face when I asked about this. She turned and looked at me full on, no side-glances now.

  “Oh yes, he’s very good.”

  The fact that this guy had supposedly been in combat zones immediately gave him a very good chance of getting into her pants. Any mention of death or decay and she was almost sexually aroused. A section on her website featured beautifully composed black-and-white photos of executed collaborators from World War II. Slumped in armchairs, propped on park benches, or lifeless on linoneum, they were all female and oh so glamorous. As if Rita Hayworth, Katharine Hepburn, and Grace Kelly had been carefully killed so as not to ruin their outfits. The Korean guy took her to a bar where he knew all the staff.

  “He kept saying we’re not going to have sex, he didn’t mean it, but he kept saying it.”

  She paused to select a treat.

  Oh the luxury of indecision.

  He groped her in the bar and felt her up in the cab. He said they should go back to his place to say good night, which was illogical since she lived in Williamsburg and his place was in Carroll Gardens but obviously they were way beyond reason’s reach at this point. And I was far too relieved to hear he hadn’t managed to fuck her. And flattered. Secretly I thought myself better than him. More intellectual. More civilized. And yet he’d taken her out and spent money on her, which was more than I would have done. But I was shocked to hear she’d met him at all since she told me the last time she’d given him a fake number. This meant I wasn’t significant enough to keep track of the lies she told me. But any mention of @drkroom was conspicuous by its absence.

  “So you’re still prepping for the Nazi shoot?”

  I feigned nonchalance, a fellow artist interested in an unusual project.

  “Oh that’s not happening”—there was a pause as she swallowed before finishing her sentence—“till next week.”

  My nerves were shot.

  The day before I had paced my floorboards hoping to hear from her during a long silence necessitated by a supposed cold that I assumed was merely a delay tactic to enable her to see @drkroom instead of me.

  But then, I thirstily received two texts in a row.

  What are you up to this week? and I’m on the mend and feeling horny

  She obviously hadn’t fucked him yet if she was feeling horny. But now that I had brought the subject up I would learn far too much about her plan to lure him to her apartment that Saturday.

  He’d texted her about a dream he’d had where he was a serial killer about to go on a spree but had deliberated before setting off because he couldn’t decide what color towels to take. Red or white. He couldn’t decide whether to celebrate the blood or conceal it. She told me this like it was the cutest thing in the world. There was a pause now while she shot me a sideways glance before nibbling delicately on a cupcake. Aware of my adoring eyes she fingertipped the excess crumbs from the sides of her mouth and shamelessly sucked them off before continuing. Her apartment had been suggested as a possible location for their upcoming shoot. Who suggested it was left unsaid. And if they were going to work without interference from her roommate, they would need to use … wait for it … her bedroom. She had either forgotten or didn’t care that she had already told me she couldn’t have visitors because of her “uptight roommate.” But she was okay with @drkcunt coming over to photograph her naked? In her fucking bedroom? Holding her phone up to my face, she invited me to look at the photo of it she’d sent for his professional appraisal.

  It was completely empty.

  Nothing in it but floorboards and a window. No bed, no chair. Nothing. One deft tap of her finger and I was eavesdropping on their text exchange.

  It’s empty!! he squawked.

  It now has a bed in it, she demurred.

  Ahh so you don’t sleep in a coffin?

  No, she replied, I sleep naked.

  I want to see that.

  She put the phone down and cupped some nuts.

  “Up to then I thought I was losing my touch,” she says.

  Losing her touch? Who did she think she was talking to? How good a job I must have done convincing her I could care less who she fucked. Or maybe she knew exactly the effect she was having. That exquisite torture caused by the shift of two diametrically opposed tectonic plates in my mind. One representing affection, love, and cuddles, the other, punishment, cruelty, and despair. Was it masochism to want to fuck her even as she shared her intention of fucking someone else? You better fuck her fast before she changes her mind. It was not an elegant thought but it was the real reason I nodded when I offered to refresh her teacup. Still munching on my humble supper she began to remove items of clothing.

  Nothing too revealing. Just making herself comfortable. The big incongruous eighties-style sneakers and a vintage wristwatch. She was the hardworking New York executive visiting her bit of fluff. There was no need for pretense, she could be herself around me. I wanted to take this as a huge compliment and decided that if sex ensued then this indeed was what it was. It was the first time in my life I’d felt like the mistress while the girl behaved like a visiting adulterer.

  Meanwhile I had to hear more about this fucking guy.

  As I had suspected, he was the real reason I had received no texts for the preceding days and now it was being confirmed that the Nazi shoot was indeed set to happen that weeke
nd. At her place. In her bedroom. She removed more clothes; the tight little cardigan, the starchy blouse, and reaching to her side for the zipper on her pencil skirt, she lamented her chances of getting fucked by a taller, younger, better-looking guy than me and I didn’t care. The removal of clothes was strangely clinical until I realized that for her, it was business as usual. Turn up at a studio, make some small talk, perhaps over a cup of tea or coffee, and then down to business. But the more she talked about @drkroom the more I wanted to fuck her. To compete? No. I wasn’t so optimistic as to think I could ever seriously rival him. I was merely trying to grab as much fruit as possible from this slowed-down truck before it gathered speed and left the area forever.

  SKINNY-DIPPING IN NEW YORK’S GENE POOL

  #TheOxygenThiefDiaries

  I didn’t realize it was her until she had already walked past. I mightn’t have recognized her at all if it hadn’t been for her most striking feature. We had a running joke that the security guard at her studio spent so much time looking at it she should replace her ID photo with a picture of her ass. I felt the familiar warmth spread across my midriff that only it could produce in me. Still with her back turned she slowed almost to a stop and tilted her head as if straining to hear something. Was she waiting for me to call her over? She couldn’t have known I had moved to this new spot. She was probably as surprised to see me as I was to see her.

  If it was her.

  She had presumably decided against coming over to talk to me because the last time she’d done that I asked her to go away. Told her to go away. She wouldn’t want a repeat of that.

  When she resumed walking and began to mingle with the other pedestrians, I rose onto my toes, memorizing every nuance for later analysis. But just as she got into her stride she disappeared.

  Had she entered that café?

  A quick google revealed that Vito Veritas on Prince Street was a high-end sandwich shop specializing in gluten-free fare.

  So that was it.