“You are so wet,” he said, and licked me, and wedged his fingers inside and, pressing my G-spot with two strong fingers, fairly lifted my pelvis off the bed to meet his mouth. For a while Trevor seemed to be eating persimmon with both hands tied behind his back, interrogating the ineffable borders between fruit and wall, and my fingers reached out for his, but it didn’t last long before he stopped and knelt upright. He stroked his penis even more erect than it was already, and I looked at this marvelous thing, a big hard dick! And a man’s hands on it! And he was stroking it as if to say, “Behold this, girl,” as if he didn’t need a woman, so content was he to hold his own hard cock. And I beheld: the dark bush of hair at his groin, his cock upright, the tip of it pink and smooth with a drop of moisture at his urethra, and then his smooth hard stomach—a physique groomed on brown rice and bubbly water—and his bottom rib, and then the violent white scar between his nipples (“cracked open” is the slang cardiologists use to describe sawing through sternum and butterflying the rib cage apart). His collarbone. His neck. The tilt of his chin, the usual smirk, his eyes checking me out sideways as he stroked himself for me, and when I shifted in reeking wet lust, my walls glazed against each other slickly.
By now I was open and pliant, hot with syrupy martyr agony—that suffering when it’s four in the morning and there’s no one, not ever anyone, and flat alone on your bed, you clench your legs against it—only now I had Trevor there, doing something about it.
“You’re gorgeous,” he said—not to my face. And as much as Trevor’s gaze made me feel exposed and unfairly known, I saw in his eyes how badly he was hooked. Yes, behold this, boy, because I know that every political ideology and armed revolution, every campaign speech, every manifesto written about theater or art or music, the gunning down of JFK, the erection of the Berlin Wall, the Intifada, the Taliban, your disgust for wealth, when you boil it all down, is somehow about the creepy loveliness of this, my Great Wet Equivocator.
When he moved for me, his smell, the airborne ineffable presence of sex, swirled around me like hot water, when eddies of volcanic water elicit cold goose bumps of pain, and it was like that as Trevor came near me, crawling toward me in the candlelight, him and his raging hard-on, the bearing down on a woman by a man, the lowering of his torso on mine, the clouds of his scent that cleared away as the distance between us diminished, the great big Yes you are going to get it now, it is going to happen and there’s nothing you can do to stop it now, I am going to enter you and I am going to fuck you, Ma’am and don’t look at me like you don’t want it, like you’re not sure. Like all men are potential rapists—that insulting trash—because we are, and we aren’t, and that’s what makes us burn so splendidly in your lonely bullshit fantasies every night. Isn’t that right, Ma’am? and I said aloud, “Yes.”
“Far out,” Trevor replied.
He braced his legs and positioned himself, and I tilted to accept him, and he pushed pretty hard but it didn’t go in.
“Damn,” he said with a big smile. “It has been a while.” It took real effort to get in there, which only made him sigh, “You are so tight,” and it was worth those many moons as finally Trevor pushed past the forbidding muscle, the moat of the castle, the drawbridge, the mah-daddy’s-gonna-kill-yew muscle, ramming his way past that and inside, and for a second both of us were stunned by the fullness, and hardness, and wetness, the utter totality, and we looked in each other’s eyes not like strangers anymore, and he kissed me tenderly, the smoothness of his chin against me (nothing more flattering than a close shave, the ritual preparation for me—and take note I was a lover now, not just a woman-flesh-thing who bought tampons once a month and inserted them, but a lover) and with six zillion nerve endings rejoicing I said, “Why did I do that to myself?” and he said, “I can’t imagine.”
I rocked beneath him the better to feel him against my furthest reaches, though I had no idea where that was. It’s the coolest part about being a woman: you have no idea what’s really going on in there. Then Trevor kissed me as if he were trying to talk me off the ledge of a building (“For the love of God, please…”), and heat spread out from me and I had to turn my face, but he tracked me, kissed me while I made noise, eased in and out slower than I could take it. It felt like dragging a wet string in honey, and all my thoughts converged in meditation with Trevor’s tongue, my brain sinking against the floorboards, blank now, zeroing out. The bed creaked and rocked (would anyone hear?) and I hadn’t come like this in years.
He breathed in my ear, “You like it when I open you like this?”
“Yes.”
“You like my cock all the way inside you?”
“Yes.”
“Come for me.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I want to see you come. I don’t want one of those shy orgasms either, I want you to come hard, come like we’re all going to get blown up tomorrow.”
And then the images of the ninjas crept into my head, the default fantasies so hardwired in me by now. The coldness at my throat; on a ritual floor mat, the sword puncturing my neck as Trevor assaulted me from behind; the sight of myself as a bloody corpse. As usual, next came a wave of low-grade fear and asthmatic shutting down, the part where I floated away from my body like a rusty, abandoned screen door flapping in a wind, and I felt nothing anymore, just a man on top of me doing his thing. So I turned my head to the side and made sound.
But Trev noticed. “Get back here,” he said, and cranked my chin toward his face.
“I’m here,” I said.
“No you’re not. You’re spacing out.”
I met his eyes, then looked at his shoulders. They reminded me of my father’s. Like at the beach when I was little and he played with me, resting me on his chest. “I can’t believe you’re my daughter,” he’d coo. He tickled me and snatched off my baby bikini. Which maybe was fine: I was six, and some of the other girls weren’t wearing tops either.
So lost was I in this memory that I didn’t notice Trevor touching me, still hard inside me, waiting for me to speak, kissing my cheek and temple with something like tenderness, but I thought, I can’t come and I can’t deal and I want to crawl under the covers and start over as another person.
“You need to let go,” Trevor said, and stopped moving. “I don’t know what’s up with you, or why you had to go celibate for five years or whatever, but you’re in bed with me now, so…” He rested on his elbows and twisted a strand of my hair, softening inside me. “We all have our shit,” he said.
I wanted to shout, “Some more than others!” To deflate the conversation, I tried to think of a line to feed him, but his expression was too generous and unafraid for me to steal from him like that.
“Whatever issues you got, I don’t know—you seem pretty open to me, legs all over the place—you seem a lot less burdened than you think you are.”
Which was not anything I expected to hear.
“Really?”
“You’re a fine lay,” he joked, and I would’ve been pissed if it hadn’t been the perfect thing to say.
He stretched out his arm for me to rest my head upon. “I’m only guessing, but you act like you’re really damaged, and maybe you are, but everyone’s messed up about sex.” As he spoke, he brushed his fingers across my chest. “Like they are with money, family, religion—all the bigs. People are even more demented about money than sex because we think our psycho spending habits are actually reasonable, like I criticize everyone and then blow it on bike gear, and then I’m all, You have to have this gear to ride!”
I laughed. “You are definitely weird about money.”
“I’m impossible. I think with sex, it’s the opposite: most fall within a happy bell curve of malfunction, but we’re all convinced we’re more damaged than everyone else.”
I curled around a pillow and shut my eyes. “I think I’ve got that in spades, Trevor.” With a sense of defeat, I said: “I’m sorry. This was supposed to be light.”
He touched my back.
“Sex is never light.”
And through this intermezzo, he kept touching me, kept vibing me, and soon we were kissing, and soon Trevor was rock hard again, and it was true that I was craving a bigger O than the puny ones I usually settled for, the kind where I tamped it down so as not to scare the guy off with what I saw as the sexual and emotional gigantism of women. Now, with Trevor, I gave myself a break, and it was fun.
And that’s how a quasi-Marxist blowhard led me back to my womanhood after nine hundred seventy nights, and after the heavy conversation we were laughing again, and he couldn’t help but pound at me, saying, “I can’t hold out much longer,” but I promised him that if he did I’d come for him like Midwestern hail. He worked his ass on me until the sheets were wet, until I was in pain and then he slowed, and made sure I felt every nerve as written by himself inside me, made sure I didn’t drift off, and after nine hundred seventy nights and two hours, this woman’s halves dissolved like the ripe fruit of audacity in a young man’s mouth, which is to say that at long last, I came better than I ever had before.
Three weeks later Trevor was ending it over Indian food.
“Work,” he said. “Getting some direction in my life.”
As I stood at the window, I assumed Trevor would dress and split, but instead he waited, picked up the Adbusters on the nightstand and flipped through. Childhood memory smarted in me. Though it was a moot point to tell Trevor what all the fuss had been about—his jeans lay in the corner, ready to be put on and walked out in—I knew that there’s no substitute for words, for voicing in plain English the shames that gnaw at us. In bed that first night, I’d never actually told him what was wrong. And why did I need to tell Trevor of all people? Not Jeremy, not girlfriends, but this guy. I figured it was part of the intensity of that period—one of those times in life when perspective fritzes out and you become a disembodied, photonic light-storm of emotion, when you’ll say anything to anybody. But I think I’d actually handpicked Trevor. Like I said, he had acceptance going for him.
“It’s not a big deal,” I started. “So many other girls have had worse.”
“So?”
He put the magazine away and stared at the wall, which at first I took as a sign of ignoring me. He said, “I’m listening.” I addressed the rug at my feet.
“I was around thirteen, and I was…there was a guy I liked in school who I wouldn’t shut up about, and he lived a few streets away but he was over at the neighbor’s one day, so I went outside to hang around and be noticed. I had on shorts and a white T-shirt with satin trim on the sleeves which was simply the shirt to have at the time, and my dad was watering the front yard, but he kept staring at my chest. Staring at it. When he turned to the bushes, I looked down thinking I had spaghetti sauce on my shirt, which, in front of this tall eighth-grade boy would have been the end of civilization, right? And I realized what Dad had been staring at—I had those itty-bitty tits that girls get. Mosquito bites. It dawned on me that that’s why other girls wore tanks under their shirts, and that’s when the boy came outside on the driveway, him and this other guy, and I waved at them and said something I thought was very sassy. And my dad turned to me with the hose and nailed me, and was laughing, and he shouted, “Wet T-shirt contest!” And the guys busted up. I stood there topless, basically, with a see-through shirt clinging to my dark skin.”
I stopped and looked up. “That’s it,” I said, embarrassed. “I ran inside. It sounds stupid,” and then I started laugh-crying.
“That’s so fucked up.”
“I know. Three years and a lot of melodrama over a small thing.”
“No, what he did. That’s mean. That’s strategically cruel.”
“Millions of women have had much worse. I shouldn’t have let it get to me.”
“Your father humiliated you at the first sign of sexuality. It’s terrible.”
“Yes,” I admitted. This was my father we were talking about, the man I called every week not out of duty but because I liked talking to him. Except for recently, as I was in such a rage that the sound of his voice made me ill.
“Yes. And it’s more than that, Trevor,” I said to the rug again. “So often he treated me like his property to be admired, like my coming-of-age was happening for his entertainment. Or was an aberration. When he hugged me or kissed me goodnight, he always made a little groan.”
“Come here.” Trevor waved me over, and I sat down. Taking my hand, he said, “You’re stronger than you think,” and, “I’m sorry that happened to you,” and, “I usually mean this as an insult, but you’re totally normal.”
I lay down next to him, cuddled up against his legs while preparing to let him go.
“Thank you,” I said, as much to the world as to him, because my search for Mr. Right had for now brought me three-week Trevor, who showed me that a great fling is as precious as a great love.
TIC SEX
Debra Hyde
THE FIRST TIME I HID RICHIE’S HALPERIDOL he went apeshit on me right there in the kitchen.
“Where are they?—Bitch cunt! Cunt face!—Where?”
Naked, I sidled up to him, caressed his chest, and ground my groin against him. An instant erection rose in his pajama pants. Richie was right about one thing: I was a bitch cunt. Especially when I wanted it.
“Come on, Richie,” I urged, “I’ll give it back. Just make love to me first.”
He glanced up to the ceiling, rolled his eyes upwards, then back and forth four times. As he lowered his head to meet my gaze, Richie nodded violently four times. He was working in fours today.
“Come on,” I continued, “you know I like it.”
Richie sighed. “And you know I hate my verbal tics. They ruin things for me.”
“Not all things,” I countered. I took his hands and placed them on my tits. “I like having sex with you and your tics. I’m the freak here, not you.”
His hands, callused and rough, covered my little breasts, and my soft flesh encouraged him to squeeze. Four times, of course. His fingers found my nipples. He toyed with them, pinching them lightly, alternating from left to right, one, two, three, four.
Richie ate eggs the same way, in fours.
“Tit shit, tit shit,” he muttered. Already he was aroused enough that he spoke instead of barked. Focus does that; it dulls his tics. I reached into his pajamas and brought out his thick meat. I slipped to my knees and took it into my mouth. I sucked and tongued him and broke his focus.
“Dick licks! Oh God! Dick licks!” He groaned, then sputtered four more “dick licks.” I tasted precum.
“Yeah, baby, I’m licking your dick. Like it?”
“Bitch mouth!”
He liked it.
I kept at it, sucking and nibbling and tonguing him until “dick licks” degraded first into rhythmic grunts, then into normal moaning. By the time he reached that point I was wet and ready. I pulled away from his dick and looked up at him. Richie looked down at me, plaintively, and asked, “Why?”
“Because I like how you talk dirty to me.”
“You are sick,” he decided.
“Yeah but the sex is great, isn’t it?” To prove my point, I lay down on the kitchen floor and spread my legs. “Come fuck me,” I invited. Richie stood there, wondering whether to scowl and stamp out of the room or fall to his knees and take me. So I helped him decide. “Right here, on the floor, Richie. Everybody does it on the kitchen floor at least once.”
Everybody does it. That did it. That normalized my request and normal appealed to Richie. He lowered himself to his knees and then onto me.
“Fuck floor.” Jesus! “Fuck floor!”
I took him by the dick and guided him to me. I parted the lips between my legs as I brought my other lips to his cheek. I kissed him lightly as the tip of his cock nudged at my threshold.
Richie pushed into me hard, but it would take three pushes for him to access me. Three, not four. Richie compensated with four massive, full-body jerks, which righted things enough for
him to start fucking me.
“Squish, squish,” he muttered as he screwed me.
“Yeah, I’m wet for you,” I agreed.
Richie quieted then. The rhythm and focus of fucking made the tics recede.
But I didn’t care by that point. Richie’s verbal dirt had worked its magic on me, and I grunted and went at it like the sex pig that I am. I clutched Richie’s ass and pulled him into me, encouraging him to pump me hard and fast. I bucked, giving better than I got. Richie grabbed my breast and pinched the nipple hard enough to make me thrash and squeal and come. That was all he needed. Richie slammed into me and came, snorting like a wild animal.
Soon after, his cock limp enough to slip from me, me wet enough with juice and jism to slick the floor, we rested in a tight embrace. The stillness of lying close made Richie’s tics reemerge and he shuddered and jerked several times in my arms. As he yelled “Cunt fuck!” explosively, I realized that the tics were mimicking his orgasm.
Yeah, cunt fuck for sure.
Cunt fuck, cunt fuck, cunt fuck, cunt fuck!
GRIT
Kathleen Bradean
I WAS WALKING ACROSS CAMPUS WHEN I HEARD my roommate, Janine, yoo-hoo me. Mortified to hear her rebel yell attached to my name, I turned just in time to see her pulling into the parking lot in front of the women’s dorm in a ratty old used-to-be-blue Trans-Am.
Janine’s boyfriend slithered out of the car through the window; I suppose he fancied himself a race car driver. I could just picture him working languidly on the wreck he drove, wearing an old R.E.M concert T-shirt, sucking down beer, pissing away a hellish eternity of duplicate days in a town so shell-shocked by time that it didn’t realize it was already dead. I immediately christened him Grit.
I admit I saw the attraction. Long and lean, Grit had a beautifully sculpted face, Michael Stipe lips, and thick eyelashes that shyly hid cornflower blue eyes. Fringes of dark hair lay just beneath his nipples. A stripe of hair below his belly button disappeared into the waistband of his tight jeans. My imagination followed that line down to a delicious end.
Best of Best Women's Erotica Page 7