by Cara Bruce
I tucked that issue under my Madonna T- shirt and dashed back to my bedroom, locking the door. I masturbated with my pillow, then with my fingers, and then back to humping the pillow. I gawked at those pictures, concentrated on the breasts and pussies, the asses and cocks, and I came over and over again.
Of course, nothing compared to the day I discovered Drew on the cover of Playboy. I’m pretty sure I didn’t leave my bedroom for a week.
I tell Keifer about that now and he’s interested. “Do you still get hot looking at girls?”
“Sometimes.”
“Like who gets you hot now?” he asks. He leans forward, elbows on the table, a smile on one side of his mouth, a glow starting to happen in his eyes.
We’re eating sandwiches. Mine’s a chicken breast sub with extra mayo and pickles. His is Italian meatball with tons of banana peppers falling out the sides. He scoops the peppers up with his fingers and sucks them into his mouth. I like to eat them out of his fingers, just like sometimes he enjoys cleaning mayo off my lips with his tongue.
“Drew still. Of course,” I answer. “Chlöe Sevigny, Christina Ricci, and that chick from American Beauty.”
“The blonde teenage sex kitten?”
“No way. The actress who played the sexually frustrated wife and mother.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No way. Annette Bening is hot.”
“Isn’t she banging Warren Beatty?”
“I hope she’s banging the living hell out of him. They’re married.” I sip on my diet soda, looking out the window at the sidewalk, crowds of people walking fast, impatient in the heat. It’s Thursday and most people have to get back to work from their lunch break, bound to a rigid schedule, monotonous routines.
I sink my teeth into my sandwich, chew slowly, and sigh. Keifer and I fell out of bed two hours ago. And we took our sweet-ass time about it. We’re both in bands. Mine’s called Hilary’s Swank, and his is Billy the Kid. Both bands are rock ’n’ roll, but not all that great yet. Keifer plays guitar. I’m a singer. Of course, there’s competition between us. Our bands play at the same bars sometimes. Last night, Billy the Kid opened for Hilary’s Swank, which sort of implies that my band is better. Of course, we sparred back and forth between sets—all in good fun, of course. I love to tease Keifer. So I asked him, “Why is your guitar so big?”
Keifer eyeballed me, saying nothing.
I smiled, scratched lightly at his hand with my fingernail. “Come on. Why is it?”
“If you’re going to say because my dick is small, it isn’t.”
“That isn’t what I was going to say. Although I heard….” I chuckled under my breath, looked at him through my lashes.
“If you’ve been talking to my ex-girlfriend, then you should know she’s jealous of you.”
“She says your dick is only three inches long because she’s jealous of me? How does that figure?” I shook my head, hiding a smile.
Keifer rolled his eyes at me. “Come on. You know how chicks are. They lie about guys so other chicks won’t want them.”
“Your ex thinks I want you?”
“Nah.” Keifer shrugged. “But she might suspect I got a thing for you.”
I grabbed his head then and sucked on his mouth for five minutes. When we came up for air he told me under his breath, “I wanted to do that ever since we played Taste of Colorado last spring.”
That was a long time ago. Wow. Next set, I sang to him while I simulated sucking off the microphone and rubbing my hand against the seam of my pink vinyl jeans. Keifer toasted me from the audience and afterward, around three in the morning, we ended up at my place. We didn’t have the patience to make out. We got to it right away, balling. His cock, which didn’t feel small at all, rubbed my cunt at an angle, hitting my clit. I stuck my legs in the air, spread wide while I was panting, muttering, “Oh, oh.” Keifer came first, in roughly ninety seconds, but then he kept going, staying fully cocked and rolling until I came about ninety seconds later. Then he came again. Wow.
We drifted off to sleep after that, his arm against my elbow and our legs overlapping, his come leaking from my cunt to the mattress. But that was OK. I wanted to sleep in the wet spot. I wanted to wake up with his semen crusted on my ass. When we woke about nine hours later, the bed smelled like our fucking, and with morning tang on our breath we kissed long and leisurely. Then we explored each other’s bodies, warm from the bed sheets and sleep. His mouth slipped over my belly, my sides, my underarms, my collarbone, then my neck, chin, eyes, then back down to my tits and he sucked them. Eventually, I couldn’t take it anymore. I whispered fervently, “Put your cock inside, fuck me,” and it was really quite spectacular in the afternoon light, his cock—straight, pinkish-red shaft, shiny mushroom head, lots of dark blond hair behind the cute wrinkled balls that were engorging, and heck, it was at least seven inches cocked.
Hmm, nice.
Keifer sank his beauty inside me gradually while his thumb strummed my clit back and forth, slow, gentle pressure, and then in circles while I closed my eyes, sighing, going with it, holding his ass in my hands and squeezing the tightly toned muscles between my fingertips. I loved the way his ass flexed as his cock sliced wet and warm through my cunt. I couldn’t help going over the top—his thumb, our rhythm. I bucked underneath his thrusts, coming, bunching up the sheets in my hands, and the whole bed was warming up moist beneath our bodies. Keifer buried his hands in my hair, his face in my neck. His breath blew on my skin, tickling hot, while his hips thrust faster, harder, and my cunt felt like soft slushing fruit sticking to his cock, sweetly satisfied, splashing over onto my legs, his balls. I circled my calves around his waist, whispered at him, “Come for me, baby,” and Keifer shuddered, throwing his head back, all that long sexy hair.
Minutes later, I could feel his come leaking out with mine as we lay next to each other: the smell of sex layering the smell of sex. I loved it.
“Let’s eat,” Keifer suggested.
I wriggled my tongue at his cock and he grinned.
“Later,” he said. “How ’bout the sandwich shop on the corner of Penn Street? Not far from here, right? We could walk.”
We walked hand-in-hand. Sometimes I leaned over to kiss his cheek, which felt rough with stubble that softly scraped at my lips. Keifer’s got that classically handsome face: you know, thin and chiseled, great jaw, strong. His lips are thin and pink. His blue eyes look lighter in the sunlight. So does his hair—more sandy blonde, and it’s a shaggy but sexy mess. Keifer always insists, “Heavy metal hair bands are coming back, babe.” And sometimes his band breaks into a rendition of Poison’s “Unskinny Bop” toward the end of their third set. Keifer’s too cute not to forgive. At least he hasn’t busted out the spandex yet—although that would put the small-dick rumor to bed for good.
Still, I feel compelled to give him shit about hair bands. And he always comes back at me. “Chicks are fed up with ugly rock stars like Kid Rock and Fred Durst,” he argued a couple of weeks ago, before our night of mad passionate love.
I wasn’t sure Kid Rock was ugly. When I want to talk fufu- fuckable rock stars, I always go with the guy from Sugar Ray, or the chick from No Doubt, Gwen Stefani. Hell, I like to talk about the two of them and me at the same time.
Keifer eyeballs me when I tell him that now over sandwiches. Then he quips, “I’m gonna fall madly in love with you.”
His declaration makes me sad that my sandwich is gone. I’m still hungry. Together we eat up every last crumb of his meatball, then Keifer asks me, “Ever done a chick?”
I sit back, arms across the back of the booth, leg propped in his seat across the table, foot in his lap so that, you know, the heat from his dick can rise through his jeans and trickle across my bare ankle.
“I’ve done a few chicks,” I tell him.
“A few? Really?” His hand starts rubbing my ankle.
“Hmmm…you know, here and there. I used to have a different bass player. She was a blonde like Drew. N
amed Rhiannon, after the song. We called her Ree for short. Very leggy, tight tits, really good on her bass, solid songwriter, even a vocalist sometimes, sweet. And she liked to watch. That’s what she told me one night after a set. She says to me, ‘Cass, I really like watching people fuck.’ So I take her down Colfax, because she was from Seattle and didn’t know her way around, and find one of those live sex clubs. You know, tucked out of sight and very dark inside so you can’t see people’s faces unless you get up to their nose.” I lean across the table with big eyes for effect. Keifer pushes me playfully back.
“Go on, “ he says.
“We’re standing in front of the lighted stage with a small throng of people and there’s a not-so-good-looking couple getting it on. The guy has this crooked dick and the chick is screaming like she’s going bonkers. Maybe because his cock was bent it hit her G or something.”
I shake my head, laughing. “Anyway, Ree really buys into it. She’s craning her neck to see. Then she grabs me, starts feeling me up. We end up at her place, great studio downtown, and she has a mirror over her bed. God, I love looking at myself while we’re getting it on. My red hair is splayed out all over the silk pillows and my green eyes are lit up like jade. She is sucking my neck, then my tits. She gives me a hickey on the left side of my right tit. I’m incredibly turned on by this point.”
I pause to catch my breath, reveling in the memory, and Keifer is waiting and he gives me a nudge. “Go on.”
“The next thing that happens is Ree leaves and runs into the kitchen. I stay on the bed gawking at myself, playing with my tits. The nipples look really hard and red and sexy. I’ve got cute little tits.”
“You do.”
“Hmmm…. Well, I’m expecting Ree to come back with champagne and strawberries, but she comes back with peanut butter stuff mixed with jelly. She unscrews the cap and I smell peanuts and raspberries as she rubs it all over my tits and eats it off me before spreading some more downstairs and, man, she gives good face.”
I stop, smiling like a cat with a bird in its mouth. Or a chick with a mouthful of peanut butter.
“You lying about the last part?”
“Fuck, no. She gave great face. I wish I didn’t have to fire her, but you know how it is. You can’t fuck someone and play with her, too.”
Keifer says, “Actually, I was talking about the peanut butter jelly thing.”
“You liked that?”
He shrugs. Smiles a little. He liked it.
“How ’bout we buy some on the way back and make our own peanut butter and jelly sandwich?” I say. “I’ll be the top.”
Keifer starts rubbing my ankle harder and his hand feels warm.
I sigh. And then I give him a look. “So tell me. You ever been hot for a guy?”
Keifer thinks for a moment, then answers, “Scott Weiland.”
“Singer for the Stone Temple Pilots?”
He nods.
“Not a bad choice, but I thought you dug hair bands. How ’bout the cutie who used to front Warrant?” Then I can’t help it. I start to laugh. Warrant? Tee-hee.
Keifer rolls his eyes. “OK. Stephen Dorff.”
I know who he’s talking about but I don’t let on right away. I want to have some fun with it. So I stare at him blankly.
“The actor.”
I pretend to think for a moment. “Oh. You mean Stephen Dwarf.”
“No. Dorff.” And then Keifer catches himself and frowns, waving me off. “Fuck you, Cass. He’s not a dwarf.”
“Dude, that guy is like five foot two. Dwarf.” I start laughing again. And then I ask, “Fuck me? You promise?”
He’s still pissed.
I rub my foot in his lap so that it’s getting his dick, and I can feel it’s already half-hard. Guys do turn him on. Who can blame him? I mean, Stephen Dorff—come on, the guy is short, but he’s hot looking, especially when he played the sleazy little vampire in Blade.
I tell Kiefer that. To make him feel better. Then I say, “I’d like watching a guy suck your dick. Has that ever happened before?”
Keifer nods. “On the road. This guy was in another band. He sort of reminded me of….” Keifer eyeballs me. “Let’s just say he was good looking. And he was cool. Fucking kick-ass drummer, too.”
“A drummer? Hmm….” I rub my foot a little harder against the erection in his pants. His hand around my ankle tightens again.
“Yeah. We have a few beers after the show and we talk and I get this vibe off him. Like he wants to say something but won’t. I’m not sure how we end up in his van. We’re just there. We don’t say anything. He opens my pants and goes for my dick. I’m a little freaked out at first. My cock isn’t hard in his hands until he goes down on it. He’s sucking me off. I can’t make him out in the dark, and the van is quiet. Everything is dark and quiet, almost like the fucking world has stopped, and all I hear is my breathing, this guy breathing, and the sound his mouth makes on my cock. I sit back and let it roll. It’s good—his warm mouth, all the saliva, the way he uses his tongue. My cock is fucking granite. It almost hurts, and I feel kind of clammy, maybe freaked out still, a little, but man, I shoot off a couple of mouthfuls at least.”
I stare at him, stare, and my clit’s got a fucking boner. I swear to God. “That just turned me on,” I tell him. “Even better than my story.” I rub his dick harder with my foot. It’s fully cocked now, straining against the seam of his pants. I want to crawl under the table and suck him off. Step up to bat and beat out his mysterious male lover. And fuck, if I don’t need to masturbate right now, or get fucked fast, or man, if he would go down on me and try to top Ree with his tongue. That would be something else.
I manage to sit still in my seat. “Tell me another thing, Keifer. Did you give this guy head?”
“Nah, but he wanted me to. He was busting to blow after getting me off.”
I push my foot harder against his crotch, and he moves his hips a little so that his cock presses the arch, my toes wriggling. “Wasn’t ready to go down on a guy, I guess. But I let him rub his cock against my ass through my pants and he finally unloaded. Fuck, there was so much guy jizz all over that van, and my pants.” Keifer laughs. “He had to loan me another pair.”
I stand up from the table. My clit is tickling and it won’t stop. Now my nipples are standing up inside my T-shirt, too, and to add to the aching tickle in my nipples is the fact that the cotton is rubbing my sensitive skin right there, ahhh…. I sound breathless when I say to Keifer, “We’re skipping the grocery store for peanut butter and jelly. I need to get you back in bed. Right. Fucking. Now.”
Sometime later, Hilary’s Swank is playing a gig. The band breaks into a trashy groove and I sing, “Don’t call me Mrs. Clinton, call me Msss…. I don’t smoke cigars. But I do eat Bush. Hey, ey, ey….”
Billy the Kid has the week off, but Keifer is in the crowd tonight and he’s giving me the thumbs up, wiggling his tongue between his fingers and grinning, laughing it up. It’s hard to get out of bed anymore with him in it. I think he moved in last week. Still, I’m determined to get better as a musician, so I rehearse with Hilary’s Swank almost every day, and I’m writing new songs all the time. I want to write one about Keifer, a love song. It’s called “Hilary’s Swank on Billy the Kid.” I got another one, too. It’s about Keifer and Stephen Dorff. Which makes me smile while I’m singing to this crowd tonight. It’s all so fucking happening. My band is kicking ass. The crowd looks wild. They’re all screaming and getting it on.
And then I hear my man over the top of all this other mayhem. He’s standing on a table, hollering, “Drew Barrymore forever, baby!”
I fucking love that guy so much.
Go
Jen Collins
My girlfriend sees that look in my eyes again tonight. We are out at dinner, sharing a lovely meal of avocado maki, California rolls, and plum wine. Instead of focusing my attention on the way Laura’s lovely lips wrap around my fingers as I feed her each bite of sushi, I am wondering how
I can hook our waiter into the men’s room to give him a proper tip.
Laura always sees my wandering eyes, no matter how good I think I’m being. She says, with a grin, “Why don’t you hit the Masque tonight?” I try to act cool in response, but she can see my cheeks flush in anticipation. I pay the bill quickly, leaving the indifferent waiter too large a tip just so that I don’t have to wait for change. I leave Laura at her car with a long kiss, listening to her delighted laughter following me as I walk through the steamy night toward the club.
Laura never comes with me when I go out on nights like these—she’d blow my cover. She loves to hear my stories when I get home, though. And tonight, I grin to myself, will be no exception.
As I pay the cover, I ignore the smirk of the man taking my money. He knows me, and knows why I come here.
“On the prowl, Murph?”
“Shut up, Jim.” I keep my eyes down. If I meet his, I’ll surely smile. My smile always gives me away.
When I first came to the Masque a year or so ago, Jim simply saw a piece of fresh meat. He looked me up and down and started with his best come-on lines. A quick glance at my ID and he did a double take. I met his shocked eyes when he looked back up at me—my skinny hips and broad shoulders, my cropped hair and squarish jaw. I put a finger to my lips, returned Jim’s confused smile with my own, and took my ID back. I slipped into the crowd while he was busy reconciling what he had been thinking about doing to me, and the “me” I turned out to be.
Later that night, Jim watched, mouth hanging open, as I hurried the boy I wanted, a boy Jim recognized from the gay men’s community, out the door and over to the side of the building. Luckily, Jim didn’t get the chance to say anything before I got this guy’s pants down.