Eunuchs and Nymphomaniacs

by AnonYMous

  Her stomach would act up if she ate anything other than gluten-free sandwiches or cakes.

  I had often made the mistake of insisting we eat at diners (mainly because they were cheaper) and it turned out to be an expensive decision in that it cost me more sex than I was willing to admit. At first I thought she was putting it on, pretending to have stomachaches just to make me work harder for her affection. I still wasn’t convinced the whole gluten-free thing wasn’t a scam created by cafés so they could charge an extra $4 for bread.

  I wondered how many times she had eaten here when I was encamped two blocks away. What a relief I hadn’t had to watch her strolling along arm-in-arm with her boyfriend. That would have been even more torturous than the mental JPEGs I already received of her impaled on his … I blinked the image away.

  I was suddenly elated I hadn’t called her over.

  When I first spotted her there I was convinced she was stalking me but now I could see that on the way to treating herself to a posh sandwich I had popped unexpectedly out of the pavement. She lingered for those few moments like she half-expected me to beckon her over and I probably would have if I hadn’t been so leery of further revelations, most feared among them being the possibility that she had been fucking the Californian while we were still together. Naturally I obsessed on the café door for the next thirty minutes and only wrenched my eyes away to answer the occasional question.

  “You’ll be here tomorrow?”

  Yeah yeah, I nodded impatiently. Why did they have to lie? Why couldn’t they just fuck off if they weren’t going to buy a book? Why try to convince me they were coming back?

  I didn’t know it would be my last day out there.

  I had only come back out because a journalist wanted to take some photos of the table to accompany an interview celebrating my marketing genius.

  While Marian hesitated, waiting for her name to be called, I couldn’t help thinking her hair looked far too dark. Was she now dyeing it? Had I caused her lovely dark heavy hair to go gray?

  I felt the familiar tightening in my throat. I didn’t dare cry. I had too much hoarded away in there. She was like an effigy of how I remembered her. There was a time when I would have blamed myself for her appearance. Surely I had reduced her to this. But now I had an accomplice. Or more accurately a scapegoat. A big-dicked Californian scapegoat. He could take his share of the responsibility. Or as far as I was concerned, all of it. I was off the hook.

  It was striking how little I felt for her now. I was free. No guilt, no pleasure, no warmth. No fear. No pity. No interest. She might have been a stranger. Just another sad, annoyed-looking girl taking a lunch break from a mind-crushing job. She wore a pair of well-tooled leather shoes, the kind hipster girls like to wear sockless, and she had rolled up her navy blue trouser legs the better to expose them. There was definitely something tragic about being able to regard the girl I’d recently keened over and feel nothing but relief that I hadn’t had to talk to her. And anyway what would I have said? I would have embarrassed myself by inferring she was stalking me. At least I was spared that.

  And for all I knew she might have been on her way to a date. Why not? She might have stipulated in her datemedotcom profile that she preferred gluten-free food and a well-meaning, gainfully employed young man might have invited her to lunch.

  So crazy to think I was outside selling books containing intimate details of her life, including her sexual preferences, while she might be interviewing for a new relationship only yards away. Objectively she was a professional woman, independent in appearance, on her way to enjoy a specialized meal from an upmarket eatery in a stylish part of downtown Manhattan. The woman in question passed a street vendor selling books.

  Would I have felt better if she looked incredible? I wanted to feel something but no emotion presented itself. No sign of the fluttering in the stomach that was at one point synonymous with even the thought of her. Now all that remained was a factual recognition of someone I used to know. It should have been insulting that she might have seen me and walked past. But I had to concede that if she had stopped she would not have been welcome. What impenetrable knots we tie.

  Fuck. There she was again.

  Striding purposefully now in the other direction without even a glance back for me. She had taken no more than five paces when a young man ran past me in the direction of Vito Veritas. He looked like he was about to run past her too until he sort of jumped and twisted himself in midair so that when he landed he was facing her. She stopped abruptly and I held my breath as I waited for her to burst into tears as she had once done when some students carrying a sign saying FREE HUGS had embraced her in the street. But the young man, whom I now recognized as the Streetmeet coach, simply smiled. As his lips began to move he made deliberately slow, unthreatening gestures as if addressing an excitable deer. Nodding reassuringly he blushed as if aware of his own ridiculous predicament while slowly, theatrically, moving his right hand toward his breast pocket. It was as if she had a gun on him.

  His eyebrows, raised higher than was reasonable, were comically interrogative.

  But she didn’t cry. Instead she began to sway in the same way she’d done at my table two months earlier. The same way she’d done so many times when she needed to effect an override of logic. Passing men now began taking notice of her, and she did not need to turn around for me to know she had deployed her dizzying smile because it was obvious from the delighted expression on the guy’s face. He handed her his phone. She took it and began to type. Now at last I did feel something.

  Sick.

  Even as it was happening I knew the entire exchange would be available to watch on Streetmeet.com. Everything he said, her responses, his tactics discussed, her looks graded. It’d be worse than watching her getting fucked. But I knew I’d never watch it, it was torturous enough to know it existed. I hate that this exists! She’d be a Streetmeet case study, the subject of helpful commentary and slo-mo replays. She wouldn’t like that. Or would she? She was single now after all. Or at least she was for the moment. And there I’d be, like a fucking meerkat, forever in the background.

  * * *

  Prnnnnngggg

  That night I was just drifting off to sleep when my phone vibrated on the bed stand. A text from Emmeline, it was 2:30 AM.

  Okay, it’s official, this girl does NOT understand the workings of the male mind

  Then another.

  But I seem to understand you so that’s something!!

  Does this mean your shoot was less than you hoped for?

  We didn’t meet at my place, we met at his, the entire thing was ridiculously erotic, suggestive hints, it went on for hours, he touched me countless times, and then nothing, I just left

  And then another.

  I don’t even know if he’s straight or … I am just so confused

  She was asking me to console her because she hadn’t managed to get him to fuck her.

  I’m shocked, I replied truthfully. He didn’t take any photos?

  He did.

  Pause.

  Of me crawling around naked on all fours while he whipped me in his Nazi uniform

  I’m crying. Again I was being truthful.

  Yeah

  He spent 90% of the time staring at me while smiling. I have no clue.

  No bulge in his trousers?

  I mean I’m not imagining it, could he be messed up when it comes to women? … yes it was there.

  And he made no attempt to take it out? Maybe he just sees women as porn that he can jerk off to later … some guys can’t handle the real thing in 3-D … you can’t be feeling very flattered right now.

  No

  Was it just you and him?

  There was a pause now while I waited till 3:20 AM to hear how cheated she felt at not getting impaled on a competitor’s cock after spreading her ass cheeks in front of him all evening.

  He just wrote me to say he “had so much fun” and ‘‘you’re fascinating and smart”
/>   And then she sent another, presumably answering my question twenty minutes earlier about them being alone together.

  Yes

  That’s so weak, I ventured.“you’re fascinating and smart” you’re scorching hot

  Thanks, that makes me feel a little better. Oh well.

  I’m sorry to hear all of this but maybe you’ll get a couple of cool shits out of it

  She ignored the typo.

  He basically implied he wanted to see me again … but i dunno …

  Implied? I’m sorry but shouldn’t he be a little more enthused?

  It was enthused but i’m not sure why.

  You mean he got off on being aloof or something?

  I can’t tell

  Hmm strange indeed

  There followed another long pause of about twenty minutes until I received a screen-grab of their text exchange. Their dialogue immortalized.

  @drkroom: That was very productive thank you

  Emmeline: You’re welcome, I hope I wasn’t too awkward?

  @drkroom: Not at all you were perfect

  Emmeline: Unless of course you find that sort of thing charming

  @drkroom: Very charming

  Emmeline: I wasn’t too inexperienced or naive?

  @drkroom: Not at all … you were great?

  Emmeline: Sorry I’m just so bad at reading situations … new in town and all that

  @drkroom: Naive about … ?

  Emmeline: Imagining there was something going on between us beyond just a photo shoot?

  Emmeline: Talk about awkward!! Please don’t even answer that … I’m soo sorry.

  @drkroom: Hahah yes, I felt it too

  Emmeline: Hah ok that is SUCH a relief … I’m not going crazy after all

  And then a text to her eavesdropping eunuch.

  Are you cringing? Was that the most awkward series of text messages you ever read?

  So you haven’t lost your touch after all … calm and quietude return to the realm … exhale

  Not exhaling … just breathing

  She had been literally on her hands and knees begging him to fuck her. The next day she communicated with me in a way that immediately made me suspicious.

  She initiated an actual phone call.

  But the reason for dusting off what was, for anyone under twenty-five, an anachronism was to ask the old Irishman if she could use his apartment for “a Mr. Darkroom fetish shoot.” She managed to make it sound like I should be honored. Like it was something I’d tell my grandchildren about.

  When I recovered from her insult I had a pathetic thought.

  “Only if I can be present.”

  She remained calm.

  “Hmmm not sure how that would work, I don’t think he’d want someone watching.”

  Watching? I was superfluous in her mind. The cheeky cunt thought I was going to allow her and this sick-fuck loose in my lovely apartment? For a second I thought it might be cool to have such filth being shot in my place (I could product-place my books) but what would I do while they fucked in my bed, or worse, on my coffee table? I’d be livid with jealously. I already was. She continued to plummet in my estimation. Or maybe I was just jealous. My last remaining hope was that he was only into humiliating her. That he’d stop there. That she’d still avail herself of my services after he was done with her.

  “So it sounds like you’ve got him in the bag,” I said, trying not to sound too crestfallen.

  “Yeah but I’m not going to get laid because I made the mistake of saying I love being tortured for ages before being rewarded … so now I’m going to have to clean his floor and lick his boots.”

  * * *

  Burrrrrrr

  Emmeline called to tell me that @drkroom took photos of her in her Williamsburg apartment and after meticulously covering her naked body in baby oil finger-fucked her. I couldn’t tell if she actually got off on telling me all this or whether she saw me as her male girlfriend. The only reason they hadn’t actually fucked was because a text arrived from her meddling roommate just as she heard the sound of what she imagined to be the unbuckling of his belt.

  “Imagined?”

  “Oh, I forgot to mention I was blindfolded.”

  She related the story breathlessly as she walked to work at the Palindrome. Was she looking for my opinion? My opinion was, I didn’t like it. I wanted to be the one fingering her all oiled up and blindfolded. Even so, I was happy I hadn’t agreed to let them use my apartment, not just because I’d spared myself the anguish of jealousy but because baby oil would be a bastard to get off my leather club chair. He had apparently confessed he was in a sexless relationship with his live-in girlfriend. Could it be that actually fucking Emmeline would count as infidelity but all the other stuff was okay?

  I don’t know why I was encouraged by the fact that he hadn’t actually penetrated her yet. It wasn’t as if I was doing such a great job in that department. But at least it bought me some time.

  After hanging up I saw she had forwarded me a list of demands she’d set out for her newly acquired slave. Yes, that’s right, her slave. Some guy had emailed her on deathlete.com, her commercial website, begging to be her slave. She thought it was a joke. But when he listed the tasks he hoped to perform for her—pick up her laundry, walk her dog, clean her apartment, pay her rent (pay her rent?)—she realized it was a serious proposition from a real person. Attached were confirmation orders for a pair of Jimmy Choo shoes and an entire season of gothic lingerie. She promised she’d wear them for me the next time we met. So I was still in the running.

  She didn’t know the city well enough to suggest locations so she now wanted my opinion about where she should meet him. I was aware of being sucked in but I couldn’t resist the titanic pull of her sexual machinations. In fact I surprised myself by how easily the ideas came to me. He should book a room at the Tribeca Grand and a table in the restaurant downstairs.

  She should have him freeze one of his own turds and use it as a butt plug.

  hahahahhahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha

  hahahahahahahahahahahahaha

  But the more she involved me in her antics the more insatiable those appetites seemed to be. I tried to convince myself that there would naturally be a period of adjustment as she sampled all these new flavors but an intuitive voice cautioned me.

  Within the hour she texted me his emailed receipts showing the room he’d booked and the restaurant reservations made in her name. Also attached were confirmation orders for an array of whips, paddles, and restraints.

  She picked up the language effortlessly.

  Maybe in reality she was already an experienced dominatrix who knew exactly what she was doing. Slowly coaxing me into obsession. She sent a JPEG of the finished Nazi shoot and it was suitably depraved. Completely naked except for an officer’s cap she crawled on all fours, aiming that stupendous ass at a semi-silhouetted SS officer in full uniform of jodhpurs and jackboots. The riding crop he held at an angle explained the dark stripes across her white buttocks.

  Her plan was to have the slave book hotel rooms two or three times a month and then “kick him out so I can invite someone more interesting over.”

  i.e. you or @drkroom

  Oh and she was leaving her job so she’d have much more time off soon.

  * * *

  Drinnnnggg and Burrrrr

  When the name of an AA newcomer came up on my screen at exactly the same moment the doorbell sounded, I did something that surprised even me. I deliberated. Where did my loyalties lie? On the one hand I owed my life to AA, everything good that had happened to me in the preceding seventeen years had been directly attributed to the teachings of its program. All that was asked of me in return was that I help a newcomer find the same freedom I had. On the other hand there was the smoldering hot pussy perched on long shapely legs standing in the hallway. I answered the door.

  I knew she’d met @drkroom earlier so I had to assume it hadn’t gone well or she wouldn’t be calling on me.
He can’t have impressed her or at least I hoped not.

  Between munches and sips she had just begun to tell me about her slave (his name was Marc) when she received a text from who I would later find out was her estranged husband saying he was filing for divorce. She said they’d met for a drink earlier in the week but she was “definitely done with him now.” So accustomed to shoring up the egos of the men she was with, she obviously thought I needed to hear this. Didn’t she realize she’d already told me about her attempts to fuck @drkroom? Telling me she was done with her husband was hardly a consolation.

  “So he’s your ex-what, exactly?” I said, inviting her to tell me what I already knew.

  “Husband,” she said, sadder about having to give up the truth than the marriage. It turned out she’d left him only two months earlier and he had now followed her to New York to try to get her back. She’d seen me four times in those two months and fucked god knows how many other men while holding down a job, picking up a slave, and cultivating a collaborator/lover. It was so flattering to even get a text from her let alone have her tonguing the tip of my cock like she’d do ten minutes later.

  “I guess I should reciprocate,” she said, meaning she should give me a blow job. And just as she was about to put it in her mouth she stopped and smiled.

  “This is my first uncircumcised penis.”

  The three Irish guys she’d been with were obviously not native-born then. And the sight of her perfect model’s body leaning over to suckle on the tip of my being was difficult to endure only because I felt so strongly that I didn’t deserve it.

  She tongued it.

  Her beautiful face was frowning and determined as her stiffened tongue strafed the helmet. She was willing to make herself ugly in the service of my orgasm. But I wasn’t able to pay her the compliment of coming because I wasn’t confident enough to believe it was a compliment. I could tell by the increased frequency of her flicking tongue that she was expecting me to come but somehow I was still unable to release myself. I grabbed the cock away like a schoolmaster admonishing a schoolboy and beat him until he was in tears. When I handed him back, suitably chastened, he was much more forthcoming.