by Cara Bruce
I don’t think the boy could help but have an orgasm. But he was obedient and pretended to wait until I told him to.
“Mugsy!” Joe shouted between calls. “You are hot tonight, girl!”
I peered through my fingers as my head wallowed in misery. Joe was grinning from ear to ear. “Yessirree!” he clapped his hands together. “We’ve gotten ten callbacks—all people who want to be your regulars.” He scratched his head. “I may need to give you an extra shift.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I muttered despondently. Joe walked away muttering about time schedules and salaries.
My fingers closed in front of my eyes. I knew that I wasn’t going to surprise Squeak at 3 A.M., not unless I wanted a surprise like the one I had earlier. Joe was ecstatic when I asked to work Sunday morning.
“Great!” he gleamed, “I’d like for you to work the whole ‘football-not-church’ crowd.”
By the end of my Sunday shift, I was angrier than ever at Squeak. She hadn’t called to explain “the situation.” I figured the best way to get back at her would be to spend our anniversary dinner with Nathan.
As I walked over to Nathan’s, I started thinking about how selfish Squeak had been this last week. She hadn’t brought me to orgasm once. My anger increased as I theorized that this was a result of her preoccupation with her other lover.
Standing in front of Nathan’s door, I suddenly realized that my underwear was wet. I was incredibly horny. When you haven’t come in a week, almost anything can get you riled up.
I opened Nathan’s door with my key and stalked into the room. He was sitting on the couch, white shirtsleeves rolled to the elbow, bent over his laptop computer. I loved looking at Nathan. Even when he was working he looked peaceful. He had an elegant way about him, moving smoothly as though he was at a cocktail party in a 1940s movie. He brushed his jet-black hair away from his face and smiled.
“Mugs!” He moved toward me, folding my body into his. I breathed in his scent and was happy at that moment that there was nothing feminine about him.
Nathan gently kissed my lips. “If you give me a few minutes to finish up, I’ll take you out to dinner.”
I didn’t want to wait until after dinner to get fucked. The urge became immediate and animalistic. I unbuckled his pants and pulled out his semierect cock. As I dropped to my knees, I gently pushed back his foreskin with my lips. My tongue encircled the tip and he became immediately erect.
“Mugs, I’ve got to finish….” The sentence was completed with moans.
I slid his entire cock into my mouth. I could smell his musky pubic hair. My lips moved back to the tip and I sucked. His cock pushed to the back of my throat as he gently pulled my head toward him. My tongue hungrily rubbed the bottom of his prick. I sucked slowly as I firmly held onto his thighs. The thrusting became faster and I quickly pulled my face away. I had come here to get fucked, not to service.
I stood up and pulled off my sweater. “Fuck me,” I purred.
Nathan looked shocked. I never used my “work voice” with him.
We briefly looked at each other and then tore into each other’s clothes. A few buttons skittered along the floor as I ripped off Nathan’s shirt. The tip of my leather belt gently slapped my back as Nathan yanked it from my jeans. Soon we were on the wood floor, kicking off shoes, pulling socks, tugging at underwear. Nathan didn’t stop for foreplay. He threw himself on me, plunging his cock in. I gasped. The momentary pain gave way to frantic pleasure, and I clawed at his back. My eyes rolled up into my head and I closed my lids.
“Fuck me! Fuck me!” I gasped.
Nathan stopped only for a moment. Again, I had used my work voice. He hammered his cock into me even harder. I had never been penetrated so deeply. Loud screams escaped my mouth, and soon Nathan was echoing them. Before I knew it, a powerful orgasm washed over my body. Nathan convulsed; his entire weight collapsed onto me. I held him for a long time, until our hearts calmed back to normal. Nathan kissed me gently and rolled over. My hand brushed the perspiration over the sparse hairs on his chest.
Nathan caught his breath and said, “My God, that was wonderful.”
I nodded in agreement.
He turned and smiled. “Now, dinner?”
I slowly put my clothes back on and shook my head. I decided to face the problem head-on. “I have to see Squeak. It’s our anniversary.”
“Oh, yeah.” Nathan grabbed his shirt and assessed the damage. “Hey, what do you want to do for ours?”
I kissed his forehead, grateful he remembered. “We’ll talk about it later,” I muttered. My mind was already preoccupied with Squeak.
I was now half an hour late to meet her. I gave Nathan one last passionate kiss and left.
I was depressed about Squeak’s other woman, but the anger soon returned. My stride changed from a saunter to a march—all the way into Squeak’s apartment. She was sitting on her bed reading a magazine.
“There you are,” she said with a smile as she closed the magazine. “I was getting worried.”
I was stunned. How could she be so sweet when she was cheating on me?
“I called your apartment,” she continued, “but you weren’t home.”
I ground my teeth. She was acting as if nothing was wrong.
“So,” she said, giving a little bounce on the bed. “Where are we going to eat?”
I wanted to physically assault her but kept my hands at my side.
“I was thinking….” Her words were drowned out by the wicked thought that crept into my head.
My hands sprung up and onto her tits. I clawed my way through her shirt and tank top and began nipping at her breasts.
“Mugsy!” Squeak was shocked but obviously loved my impulsiveness.
She reached behind me and pulled my shirt up over my head. We were soon naked and I was teasing her by licking her stomach, moving down toward her pussy. When her hips began to writhe, I stopped, rolled over on my back, and commanded, “Eat me out!”
Squeak was motionless. She knew I talked to my customers this way, but never to her.
“Eat me out!” I commanded and added silently in my head, bitch. Squeak moved between my legs and cautiously licked my clit.
“Fuck me with your tongue!” I called out sternly.
Squeak hesitated but did as she was told. I was still horny from my escapade with Nathan. I closed my eyes and saw her tongue enter where Nathan’s cock had just been. She didn’t know it, but she was eating his come. The thought turned me on, and I thrust my hips harder into her cheeks.
I yelled in my mind: Lap it up! That’s what you get for fucking with me!
I moaned louder and smiled. I felt wicked—I wanted this revenge. Soon I was coming just as hard as I did with Nathan. I was so turned on by my little scheme, I could have continued forever. But Squeak was now cuddling up next to me.
“That was weird,” she said and kissed my cheek.
“Huh?” I was still smiling.
“I’ve never seen you so aggressive.” Squeak was now stroking my hair.
I patted her thigh and said sarcastically, “Well, after one year, you’ve got to try something new, right?” I placed my hands behind my head. “Don’t want to get bored, do you?”
Squeak shrugged. She kissed me again and gathered my clothes.
“Hey, Mugs,” she called over her shoulder. “I’m sorry about lunch and not calling you yesterday. My old college friend Wanda came in from out of town.”
I propped my head up. So, here’s the bombshell. I feigned interest. “Oh, yeah?”
Squeak sat on the chair facing me. “Yeah. She drove in unexpectedly from Baton Rouge on Friday.”
“Really?” I said knowingly. I began grinding my teeth. I couldn’t believe she would wait for our anniversary to tell me this.
Squeak stopped putting on her shoes. “It was sad, Mugs,” she added, looking as if she were about to cry. “Her mother had dropped dead,” she snapped her fingers, “just like that. Wanda had no idea she wa
s even sick.” Squeak shook her head and continued dressing. “The rest of her family treats her like shit because she got pregnant and married her college professor. Remember? I told you about her.”
“Oh, yeah,” I said, recalling the faint memory. All of a sudden, I got a queasy feeling in my stomach.
“Anyway,” Squeak continued, “I let her crash here so she could avoid all the relatives hanging out after the funeral. She was really upset. We spent all our free time talking about her mom.” Squeak stood up and was ready to go. “So, what about dinner?”
Nausea swept over me. “I don’t feel so good all of a sudden.” I sat up and frantically gathered my clothes.
“What’s wrong?” Squeak asked.
“Nothing.” I hastily threw on my clothes and grabbed my shoes. “A touch of the bug, I think. It’s going around at work. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.” I zoomed out the door.
I walked home like a zombie. Squeak’s words played over and over in my head. Then, the images of my evil deed flashed before my eyes. I was embarrassed that I never once gave Squeak the benefit of the doubt. I felt dirty for using Nathan to get back at Squeak, and doing the one thing Squeak would find unforgivable.
Tears were streaming down my face by the time I was home. I kicked my couch and ranted about how stupid I was. This must have gone on for hours. But at some point, in the early hours of the morning, I began to change my perspective.
“How was I supposed to know?” I yelled at the ceiling. Anyone would have jumped to the same conclusion. Besides, no one knew what I had done, so no one could be hurt. Nathan got great sex, and I spiced up Squeak’s sex life a little. None would be the wiser. This secret would go to my grave, and everything would return to normal.
The next day, I was exhausted from being up all night. I was distracted and knew I couldn’t give the kind of performance that I gave over the weekend. Chicken George called, so I decided to have a little fun to take my mind off my troubles.
“Tell me about the chicken, George,” I commanded in a throaty voice.
George didn’t respond immediately. This was the first time I had ever mentioned the chicken.
I slammed the ruler against my desk. “Don’t make me punish you!” I screamed. “Tell me how you do it!”
“I, uh, enter it….”
“Where?” I was getting annoyed. “Which end?” George was always so whiney.
“Well, uh, where the neck used to be.” George added meekly, “I hold onto its wings.”
George stopped, and I prompted him, “Tell me what it feels like!”
“Uh, it’s cold…” he stammered.
“And?” I asked impatiently.
“It’s slippery…” he continued.
“Go on!”
I heard George gulp. “It’s not completely frozen, you know,” he explained. “I like it that way.”
“Why?” I roared into the phone.
“Well,” George said, gaining a little confidence now. Perhaps he was happy that someone was finally interested in his chicken. “I like it firm, but I like the skin to move. Just a little. Just a little, like this….”
I realized George was getting off on his own description. I propped my feet on the desk. This was going to be an easy call.
George’s voice got lower, and he talked rhythmically to the thrusts he was probably foisting into his fowl. “The skin gives a little as I push it back and forth onto my cock. The inside, the inside is, oooh, so cool, and the outside, uh, keeps warming to my touch—yes, and the tip of my cock, oh, can feel its little ribs, and I get harder and harder, yes, the bird, ooh, it swallows me, oh, and I can do it hard! And harder! And harder! And Ugh! Ooh! Ahh!”
I waited a moment for him to compose himself. I asked him quietly. “Why? Why a chicken, George?”
George gasped for air. “Well, you see, I cook the chicken for dinner.” He hesitated, but continued. “It’s the only way I can get my wife to eat my come.”
I dropped the phone, mortified. I was worse than Chicken George. I kicked my chair and walked out of the building.
Hair Club for Bisexuals
Carol Queen
I finally made an appointment to get my hair cut today, at the trendy little salon in my suddenly trendy neighborhood. I have been trying to hold out for long hair, in spite of the fact that I haven’t successfully grown long hair since I had it cut off, against my better judgment, in high school. My compromise this time was clipping it up: rhinestone clips if I was up to something fancy or little plastic jaws when just trying to do the librarianesque “You can have me if you take my hair down” kind of thing. Granted, I wasn’t making it easy on you—I always wore four or five clips, adding another half-dozen plastic butterflies if I was really playing hard to get. But it’s too late for that now. I can’t catch the fine hairs, brown in back, going splendidly silver up front at my temples, in a clip anymore. No more showing off my nape, unclasped strands tendrilling down. The kiss spot will just barely be hidden by a demure sweep of hair.
My Hair Girl is way too young to remember firsthand the slick magazine pages I have in mind when I say, “My partner likes it when you cut it Breck Girl.” She grins, though; all the hair people, even the ones who weren’t born yet, must know about those pastel pictures of women with hair too good to be true, or maybe she’s remembering the TV commercials of the seventies. No, I couldn’t even pray for hair like that, but maybe she gets it anyway as she lifts the limp wisps away from my face and then leads me to the long communal basin. She leans me back. She’s femme, but has a trace of the mistress too: puts my head in the basin’s groove, moves me bodily until I’m at the right angle to shampoo. Then, familiarly, she washes my hair, using four times as many sweet, slick hair products as I ever do at home, and her fingertips find tight neck muscles and rub them looser. It’s so intimate, yet I’m facing away, and though I know that everyone at this salon gets the same treatment or some variation on it, it still feels as if I’m being taken to a place of great openness. I feel as if I could unclose my eyes and an erotic adventure would have started instead of a haircut.
But she’s still dressed when I get up to go to the chair, all the other salon workers and customers too, and I settle in. For some reason I don’t open my eyes once during the whole cut and style—no chatting today, just reverie and feeling her hands. She is really quite masterful: moving my head around to suit herself, hands right on my neck and scalp, or else using my hair like fine pony reins, putting me where she wants me. Well, I always like that. It’s one of the reasons I want to have long hair, after all: giving my tresses up to a lover so that he or she can grab the reins and ride. I like having my hair pulled—not yanked, usually, but just the way I love it when my limbs are positioned for me and I’m turned into a fuck-doll. I love having my hair treated as if it’s there for the taking. In real life it won’t grow long or thick enough, it’s too fine to really be used to haul me around, but I can dream.
I’m not a hair fetishist, not really. I love Robert’s hair as it is now, daddy-short in a flattop, and as it was when it was so long that he, too, wore it all gender-fucky in plastic clips. It was softly curly then. His hair now is animal, especially when wet—some indescribable place between bristly like a hedgehog’s and soft like a cat’s. But more, I think, like a seal, though I’ve never touched a live seal so I can’t be sure. My first girlfriend had a perfectly straight, thick drape of strawberry blonde hair; it obscured her fingers moving on her guitar’s strings, obscured her face as she sang. Another girlfriend had hair so much finer, even, than mine that it was like spun silk, the only remotely femme thing about her; when we drove in her old Peugeot with the sunroof open it would fly crazily skyward as if trying to escape. A halo of gold, an angelic sign on a woman whose hands were always stained with motor oil.
I can’t even feel the Hair Girl’s hands on my head or in my hair. I feel my head changing positions so I know she must be adjusting me, exposing my nape so that she can snip it bare, si
de to side, where I can read her deliberation in the slow sni-i-i-ick of the scissors. She’s delicate, though, precise. I’m sure it’s going to be a good haircut. Even the poet William Butler Yeats had a thing for good hair: “Only God, my dear, / Could love you for yourself alone, / and not your yellow hair,” he wrote to someone whose tresses inspired not just him, but everyone in the region. A blonde Irish pony that everyone in town wanted to ride.
I’m not a hair fetishist—not really. I’ve never chosen a lover specifically because of her hair. I’ve never turned on to a man just because his hair was long, straight, curly, or fuzzy, as we used to sing way back when, when hair was, if anything, even more important than it is today. Although I’m not a hair fetishist, I can be impressed. Our girlfriend J’s hair was thick and hennaed red, luxuriant and somehow just begging to have hands sunk into it while palms cradled her cheeks. I’m not very toppish in real life, but hair like that—or maybe it was the look in her eyes, which the gorgeous red hair framed—just made me want to fist my hands in it, pull her in, devour her.
The last time we had a date with Jack and Linda, I started marveling at their long hair, each so different—hers dark and sculpted, falling down her back like a smooth waterfall, and his long, light, wild, a silvery cascade.
Linda’s not really tall, though she seems that way—the hair adds to her length. Her limbs are slim in my hands, such a good fit, the way it felt the first time I held a woman in my arms, realized sex would have whole new dimensions now that I would sometimes be the same size as my lovers, or even bigger than. Linda’s touch is so sure, so practiced, and so cool. She is practiced in her body, too. I know what works for me but don’t always ask for it. Sometimes I prefer to take the train ride into the magic tunnel to see what will happen, if the stars are lining up. If they’re not, I can always reach down and touch my own clit.
Last time a nirvana moment happened, I was lost under a curtain of Jack’s hair, like mosquito netting in a tent in paradise, another place and time. He fucked me into such a perfect arc of taking it, of I want it, that somewhere mid-yell the talisman he wore around his neck, which had just been tapping and teasing my nipples before he rose up higher, slipped into my mouth. Suddenly I was fucking it too, lost under that wild sweep of hair.