by Asa Akira
They call an Uber and I get in without knowing which direction it might take us. Growing up, I was taught never to talk to strangers, never to get into a car if you don’t know the person driving, and especially don’t go anywhere with boys if you’re unchaperoned. But the invention of Uber has lulled me into a strange comfortability with getting into any car with a stranger, and it’s pretty clear by now that tonight is the night I set out to break all conventions. Besides, statistically I am far more likely to be killed by a family friend, family member, or boyfriend/spouse (of which I have neither). I repeat this fact to myself intermittently so I don’t get cold feet and not at least make out and dry hump one of these dudes. Squirming in my seat with anticipation, my phone battery at less than 20 percent, I know I am all in for whatever transpires. Even if I get murdered by these adorable dickheads.
The car arrives at a house at the top of the Hollywood Hills—so Billy’s daddy is rich! I enter the house and am immediately intoxicated by the aroma of filthy young men. Dirty laundry on the bathroom floor, unopened mail scattered around indiscriminately, tubs of protein powder in the kitchen, along with an expansive collection of empty liquor bottles in a row atop the cabinets as trophies of previous wild nights. A stoneware plate with white powder cut up into lines is just sitting there out in the open. Mom and Dad definitely don’t live here; I am inside a hot-rich-boy squatter house. Aka, heaven.
I have yet to find a term that describes men as coquettish, because the word in and of itself is in reference to a flirtatious female, often younger, looking to win male affection. But these boys were being just that: Coquettish.
There’s something about millennials that is so relaxed about sex that I find both shocking and adorable. It is clear that I don’t have to choose one or the other; this is their “thing.” I ask coyly if they’ve ever done something like this before, hoping that they’ll say no, and I am about to be the one to finally turn them out. I’m going to seal the deal. That joke about them kissing? That was exactly the seed they needed to be planted to nurture their curiosity.
But to my disappointment, Billy chirps, “We’ve done this, together, what? Three times?” This dance has been rehearsed; they fancy themselves gigolos. And that’s just fine with me, I suppose.
We are all on the same page. No baited traps necessary. The hot summer night air is hanging heavy and it wants me to be naked and touched and have my sweat lapped from my body. They take turns, at first, like a couple of tomcats batting around a mouse before ripping into it. They caress and kiss me, and I hardly notice they are slowly disrobing me. Billy scurries off to the bedroom and Jared, now shirtless, hoists me over his shoulder like a caveman, following Billy and throwing me down onto the bed. I can see the bulges of their super-hard cocks through their pants. I stroke them both, as my floral print cotton thong becomes soaked with pussy juice.
One kisses me deeply while the other teases my hole through my panties, as if occupying one end will distract me from the other. I feel everything, my body becomes electric. I hear a condom packet opening, then a condom rolling down the shaft of Billy’s cock as his buddy continues tonguing my mouth hungrily. His cock pushes into me and I think about how seldom I ever have sex using a condom. I’ve been having unprotected sex for over a decade in the adult film industry and I love the feeling of a rock-hard dick inside me, but there’s something extra kinky and even maybe taboo about using a condom at this point in my life. A condom is a permission slip to be a filthy whore.
I get fucked in just about every possible devil’s three-way position. Doggie-style with dick in mouth, missionary while getting face-fucked on the edge of the bed, reverse cowgirl while snorting a line of ketamine off a dick, double blowjob. I make the cocks touch in my mouth, a thin layer of my sloppy throat slime is the only thing between the boys. When they fuck me, I feel them gravitate towards each other. I fantasize that they want to be with each other so badly that they rip me in half and finally give in to their deepest homoerotic instincts on top of my discarded body parts.
I look up at their heaving bodies, their abs rippling. They are panting as I stroke them. Their foreheads touch, their sweat combines before dripping down on my writhing naked body and into my mouth. I am envisioning them just one inch closer and their lips meeting. I am tasting the salty sweat and dreaming of it finally happening for them.
Billy shoots a load; the salty and sweet combination of sweat and cum fills my mouth. A few seconds later Jared cums too, probably from seeing Billy glaze me with jizz. I rush off to the bathroom to take a whore’s bath in the sink and image them alone. They probably didn’t kiss. But I like to imagine they did. Not for me—for each other.
There is just enough power in my phone to call an Uber and whisk myself home.
I leave, block their numbers and all social media, and ghost completely so I can remember them just as I left.
Perfect, alone, together … probably kissing.
IN, OUT
BY YHIVI
The greatest gifts I’ve received have been the toughest to name. There’s a depth to them that words just can’t touch. That’s not to say this existential challenge has dissuaded me from trying to find the words—to understand and communicate what it is that makes those gifts so special. In fact, when I receive something I register as special, it inspires the inclination to push past that surface feeling—to commemorate the moment, to document it.
Most of my day-to-day is a matter of that very push. Or pull, depending on how you look at it. Every interaction, however minute or massive has the potential of breaking down some wall. Walls that I’ve put up myself. Walls that you’ve put up yourself. Walls that are merely a figment.
They’ve been put there to protect the body, the mind, the heart.
A constant cycle of barriers.
For a larger part of my life, I’ve lived by that cycle. With brief interruptions of unapologetic ignorance to the dangers of an open heart. But when you put up a wall, your barricade doesn’t just keep negative consequence out. It also locks you in complacency. I now work every day to break them down. Discovered strength in this vulnerability, and warmth in the willingness to subject myself to the cold possibility of rejection. In pain and discomfort, I’ve found the most growth and relief: a release from the theory that the best thing to do for yourself is hide your light from others. I shine brighter now than when I lived by fear, and every risk has lit the way to a life more vibrant than safety could ever conceive.
Among the wreckage of walls long since torn down, I’ve fashioned a haven for my heart, still healing, still detaching from an existence very present in the hearts of many others. I fill this refuge with trinkets of love and hope I find living in every honest interaction or blessed experience.
Our interaction provides a solace and inspiration to nurture the parts of myself I hold dearest to me. I hope I do the same for you.
Your companionship gives way to a remarkable flow and exchange of gifts that words could never adequately describe.
In, out. In, out. In, out.
Your touch enlivens a sanctuary of light within me. With each caress, with every stroke, it glows brighter.
There’s a balance in our exchange. A back and forth.
A push, and pull.
It’s equally humbling and elevating, the way we embrace our contradictions to celebrate each other. I feel your strength, yet you hold me with a tenderness I can only describe as the softest presence I’ve ever experienced.
Our moments together are beyond words. Your eyes tell stories to which your mouth just couldn’t do justice. Likewise, my embrace says things that only your bare skin could understand.
In, out. In, out. In, out.
You can feel it in the spaces between your fingers, running along the lines of your body. At times you don’t notice, at others, you feel like it’s the only thing you have left to hold onto. But you can’t hold it—not for long. So it ebbs, and it flows.
I want to fill any space that’s l
eft between you and me. Listen to it crash between your lips as you let go. I want to take it from you.
In, out. In, out. In, out.
Slowly, you seem to feel it more as I touch your body, and as you touch mine. It’s becoming heavier and heavier with each moment. Heavy upon our lips, as they shift to get closer to one another. Heavy upon our eyelids. Heavy upon the nape of our necks, and in between the cracks that sit between our skin and the fabric of our clothes.
The pattern of your breath emanates along the curve of my ears as we pull each other closer, and now it’s anything but heavy. You seem to get lighter with every movement.
In, out. In, out. In, out.
I feel like I’m floating away, but I can’t recall the last time I was ever so present. We drift higher, higher, higher. We’re filling the spaces in between our bodies and the rest of the room with a melody that aches to be sung, over, and over. We continue to fill one another up.
Pushing your lips against mine, my mouth opens—in, out. In, out. In, out. Our moans blend with each other’s before they touch the air around us. And suddenly, those spaces don’t feel like a separation anymore—not when every inch of them carries this bottomless fervor we’re exchanging more fiercely with each gliding moment.
I feel us expanding, every second more expansive than the last. I want to saturate myself in each instant more than the one before, but I am simultaneously pushing for the next. Going back and forth between each fraction of each second with the urge to stay right there forever, and push to experience as much of you as I can hold.
In, out. In, out. In, out.
The word “tremble” suggests a tone of unsureness, or a lack of intention. But as we do just that—tremble. Each shudder speaks to a confidence that encompasses my whole body, an intention I embrace with an intensity matched only by the one I can feel pulsing inside of you too.
Every part of me is captivated by every part you’ve been so brave to share. Both tangible and not, the beauty you hold within yourself holds me in adoration.
There is no fragment of my truest self that isn’t exploding.
In, out. In, out. In, in, in.
In.
It’s heavy again, and the thumping inside our chests brings us deeper into each other. Around, above, below, against.
The air between us has been shifting with a solemn fluidity—a eulogy borne by its own subject.
THE RENTAL CAR GUY
BY CHARLOTTE CROSS
There you were, staring at a computer screen with one of your employees as I barged through the door.
“We have a problem,” I barked at the lady behind the counter. The annoyance in my voice I’m sure was more than apparent, but I was right—we had problems.
My problem was that I hated being back home in the Middle of Nowhere, West Virginia. My problem was that I was stuck at my conservative parents’ house where there was no privacy, and therefore I wasn’t able to have the three-hours’ worth of bed-shaking sex every night like I needed.
And your problem? Well, honey, your problem was me.
I came into the Renter-Prize Center that day because I’m a horrible driver. Let’s say I’ve been awarded more speeding tickets and totaled more cars than your average twenty-one-year-old brat. Reckless, carefree driving had always been my problem—little did I know that today, it would become my solution.
I made my way over to the counter, where you greeted me with a warm smile. Extending your arm out to shake my hand, you beamed. “Hello, welcome to Renter-prize. I’m the guy that’s here to solve all of your problems.”
Or at least, that’s how I heard it.
Hello, handsome. I’m horny and you’re not from around here. If you were from around here, we would have known each other. We would have gone to the same schools, youth group, and secret high school parties. You would have been a football player that I cheered for under the Friday night lights. You would have been best friends with my high school sweetheart, meaning I would have been best friends with yours. Our Saturday nights would have been reserved for double dates and your family would have attended the little Southern Baptist Church that my father preached at every Sunday morning. But most importantly, I would’ve already fucked you in the naughtiest way possible.
You would have already been one of my dirty little secrets.
I was a cheerleader, class president, preacher’s daughter, and the slut. My daddy thought I was saving myself for marriage. That day was supposed to be my special day, the day I finally wed the man that he and God planned to give me to. Little did he know, I wore my purity ring as I proudly sucked off half the county, all before the end of my senior year. Sorry, Daddy, you missed out on the deflowering of the bride. The funny thing is, nobody ever talked about any my wrongdoings. They were too scared of my parents—because who would want to be the one that tells the preacher his baby girl was nothing more than a loose whore? Certainly not you. My dad might have been hell-bent on saving those eighteen-year-old boys from their ungodly desires, but nothing he did could ever save them from me. I was hell in a Sunday school dress. I never missed my chance with a boy.
So, that was how I know we didn’t know each other.
In the South, we call someone like you a tall drink of water. You towered over me as I scanned your strongly sculpted body. Your presence was almost as strong as my desire to be fucked like a porn star on her first day of auditions. Not only tall, but you were tan with broad shoulders. If you were to flex, your arms would have busted the seams of your nicely tailored suit. Most girls would have been intimidated; but not me, I’ve seen your type before.
Boys like you are the boys I live to destroy.
Where I come from, you’re everything a girl’s mama would pray for her baby to find: a charming guy, easy on the eyes, with a steady job and a firm handshake. The kind of man that makes all the sweet, southern girls’ hearts flutter. You might have been the man of their dreams, where I come from. But to me, you were nothing more than the boy I’d use to fulfill my fantasies. My heart was set on devouring you.
And I almost always got what I want.
“Are you renting a car from us today?” you asked with a sunny, bright smile.
“No, not exactly. Well, kind of, I guess …” I couldn’t help stuttering my words as I got lost in your gaze. “I’m renting a car from The Renter-Prize Center inside of Charlotte-Douglas Airport since it’s the closest airport to home that will let someone under the age of twenty-five rent a car.”
In West Virginia, you have to be fourteen to marry your cousin, but don’t even think about renting a car until you’re nearly thirty. And we wonder why there are so many jokes about how backwards West Virginians are.
“Honey, let me tell you about how unlucky I was last night on my way into town!” I attempted to find that Southern charm that I only brought out every now and then, when I was adamant on getting my way. Those Los Angeles boys could never resist it; I prayed it would have the same effect on you.
“I was drivin’ down the four lane, headed to my mama’s and daddy’s house real late last night. And as I’s comin’ past Mr. Bowles’ Auto Shop, the one up there on the right, just before the broken stop light—you know the one I’m talkin’ about! Well, honey, as soon as I hit the bottom of the hill, I felt that little Chevy run clean over some type of road kill. But honestly, dear, I didn’t think nothin’ of it! I just kept on and then that little light on the dash came on!”
You hung on to my every word as the intelligent, well-spoken voice inside of my head rolled her bratty eyes at me. Listen, brainiac, we don’t have time for good decisions! I silently scolded her. The devil inside of us is horny and will get some spontaneous stranger-cock in this dripping wet pussy that we share whether you like it or not! She had no choice but to oblige my deviant desires. After all, she’s the one that had to coexist with the sex devil inside me. And that devil sure was a force to be reckoned with.
“Ah, yes! Did you call earlier this morning? My deepest apol
ogies, ma’am! Let me see what I can do to make this trip back home more pleasant for you!” Your smile was a breath of fresh air; I was having trouble not getting lost in it.
You continued on about everything you were going to do to fix my problem, but I was struggling to focus on anything but the thought of seeing you stripped down to nothing.
“I don’t have anything I can switch you out in today, but why don’t you take a seat in my office. I’ll make some calls about getting a new tire on your current rental. It shouldn’t take too long.” Chills went up my spine as you gently placed your left hand on my back and guided me into your office.
When you’re as sexually charged as me, it doesn’t take much to create a sticky wet spot in the cotton lining of your silky Victoria Secret panties. I’d grown accustomed to carrying an extra pair of sexy slut-panties around in my purse for this exact reason. It was almost unfair, how much my pussy dripped with desire, but I was sure you wouldn’t complain. Your office was quite plain; I wasn’t the least bit impressed by it. The air-conditioning unit was on full blast, making me regret that I stopped wearing bras when I left my old life behind. The nipples attached to my natural 32C-cup breasts stood at full attention—they may as well have been two new Army recruits headed off to boot camp.
The only things that your office possessed were two chairs, a cheap-looking wooden desk, a bobblehead of Muhammad Ali, and my sexual demons that slowly infected every enclosed area I entered. You left me waiting; patiently and quiet.
That was where you sealed your fate.
Hadn’t your mama ever told you that idle hands do the devil’s work? Maybe you’d never heard that Southern saying before, since you weren’t from here. Never let a good-girl-gone-rogue sit alone to think. Thinking leads to plotting, and plotting leads to destruction—and do you know what I was planning on destroying this time?
You.
I could already picture it: I’m straddling your desk, wearing nothing but ruby red lingerie. The lace is trailing down my young, tight body, accentuating everything you loved about a woman. My firm natural breasts are pushed up, begging you to run your fingers around the top of my C-cups. Every last bit of my body is tan except for the areas usually covered by my tiny string bikini when I go down to Venice Beach on my days off. My body is highlighted in all the right places, showing you the parts that can’t be exposed to the general public. My garter belt and stockings drive you insane. I can see that you want nothing more than to run your tongue from the tip of my left nipple, across my belly button, finishing at the end of my throbbing clit. I open my legs slowly, inviting you in with my favorite sultry look. My voice is at a low, sexy whisper, begging you to come closer to me, begging you to enter me. You move towards me with your fully erect cock. Pushing me on my back, you part my legs at the knees and prepare to dive in. You are Moses and my legs are the Red Sea; their only job is to guide you on your journey to the Promised Land. Using your mouth, you make your way up my body with gentle kisses. The only thing I see are two eyes that remind me of our old barn door, flecks of mahogany infected with speckles of black sin. Those daring eyes lock with mine as you bury your head deep between my thighs. I start gyrating my hips up and down as you continue to tease me with your experienced tongue. I’d do anything if you were to take me right here in this office, pinning me to the top of your desk. I’m begging for you to fill me with the gift you have hanging between your legs, but you won’t give in to my desires. You love teasing me because I’m pretending to be helpless, lying underneath you right now. You grab the base of your cock and thrust it deep inside me. My eyes roll back in my head as I gasp with surprise. The first penetration is the best. The way you pump your cock in and out of me sends electricity to the tips of my freshly pedicured toes. It feels like I’m shuffling my feet across the carpet of my bedroom back in the city. This sex is electric. You’re stimulating every nerve ending in my body. You force your sex in and out of my tight hole, making my body convulse.