Giggling Into the Pillow

by Chris Bridges

  He takes your mouth with brutal and unrelenting force, and you nearly pass out from the thrill of it, don't give me any crap, now. He wraps his powerful arms around you and you love it, admit it. Yes, you do, who's telling this, you or me? Now keep reading and slip a finger inside your panties while I go on.

  Um, excuse me, sir? Unless you're wearing a pair of panties as well, I don't think you're supposed to be reading this.

  Oh. Wow. Well, carry on, then, sorry.

  Your hands dive into his thick, wavy hair of their own accord, luxuriating in the sensual feel of it slipping through your fingers. It's shoulder-length and jet-black… what? No, it's black. Black. No, it's not at all blond, why would it be blond when I said it was black? I'm sure you really like blond guys, but this guy has black hair, trust me. Oh, dammit, don't get like that. It's just a story, for chrissake.

  Your hands dive into his thick hair of their own accord, luxuriating in the sensual feel of it slipping through your fingers. It's shoulder-length and it's blond, all right? Bright neon yellow fucking blond hair just spilling out everywhere you look. You shut your eyes tight against the glare of the fluorescent lights as they shine off his brilliant fucking Aryan hair. And then he grabs your hooters.

  What? No, it's blond, now, this bitch over here complained. Well, I can't make it a perfect turn-on for everybody, can I? Just listen to the parts you like and ignore the rest, Jesus. Mass media my ass.

  Okay, okay. All of you who want him blond, raise your hand. Now all of you who want him with black hair, raise your hand. There, he's blond, deal with it. The deciding vote was for blond, and thank you, sir.

  So he's blonder than fucking Thor and he's pawing all over you and you're ripping away at his clothes and he lifts you up on the counter, pulling your skirt away with his teeth to reveal your shaved pussy, a second hot mouth begging for his tongue.

  No, you weren't wearing underwear. I know you were trying on clothes but you, you, uh, you were hoping you'd get lucky, all right? It was really hot out and shit. Can I finish this?

  Because you love the exotic and slippery sensual feel of a shaved pussy, that's why! Work with me, here! It does not itch that bad, I don't care what your friend said. Okay, it doesn't itch in this goddamn story and he's about to go down on you if you'll just shut the fuck up.

  Jolene who? The sales lady? How should I know? She stepped out. She's helping another customer. She's in the john. She died. She closed the door to the shop and put a big sign on it that said “Back in 15, Fucking” on it, all right? How the hell do you ever get laid, anyway? There's no other customers and no one will walk in, ever, and all the angels shut their eyes and turned the other way and hummed real loud, okay? I don’t believe you people. How the fuck do you even masturbate?

  He licks you exactly fucking once, and then he stands up and shoves his dick in. He's, I dunno, 12, 13 inches and rock hard and he whales away for, like, three hours without stopping once and you come so many times you have an embolism and you die from sheer pleasure and then I never have to tell you another goddamn sexy story. Then he jerks off on your hair, runs off with Jolene and they live happily ever after in the Hamptons and have a hundred babies, so there.

  I mean, Jesus.

  -------------------------

  The Perils of Being a Sex Writer

  Sure, it sounds great. Spend your days, your nights, endlessly researching sex and all its positions, permutations and possibilities until you can't walk no more. Instantly know the answer to any question anyone could ever ask you about the whole sticky business. Get more poon than Woody Harrelson and Scott Baio combined. Get bulk discounts at Good Vibrations, get a good seat at Spago's, get head from passing supermodels while their husbands hold their hair out of the way. Is that what you think it's like?

  Well, yes, it is. But you can't imagine the responsibilities, the pressures, the sheer volume of knowledge you're expected to retain to earn the honored title “Sex Expert.” If you choose this twisted career path as your own, here's what you can expect:

  First off, there's the studying. It was easy for Masters and Johnson; they were making it up as they went along. No one talked about sex, not even to their spouses, so Masters and Johnson could say whatever they wanted and no one would argue. But now there are thousands of sex books written every year — millions if you include the online crap — and you have to know every word. Just because you had a lot of boyfriends in college doesn't mean you can start publishing right out of the gate; that amateur stuff won't wash in today's sex-savvy market.

  You've got to know that a “Flying Philadelphia Fuck” traditionally involves a rocking chair, and that Havelock Ellis didn't write Deathbird Stories. You have to know instinctively which chakra controls sexuality (hint: the one in the elbow) and which hot lube is more environmentally safe (hint: “I Can't Believe It's Not Bear Grease”). You have to keep a constant mental list of the best brothels in Amsterdam, Los Angeles, Seoul, Tijuana and Dubuque. You have to stay on the cutting edge of medicine so you can answer embarrassing questions with confidence, such as “Which Jell-O transmits the AIDS virus the fastest in a claw-foot bathtub?” You must be able to identify Egyptian erotic sigils by touch and every possible human fluid by taste. To be able to force that much accumulated human knowledge into your brain, I recommend selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors, in horse dosages.

  Next, you have to be personally experienced yourself. Marrying your high school sweetheart and maintaining a lifetime lover total of maybe two is not going to qualify you for your own radio call-in show, not on FM, baby. You need to experience every aspect of sexuality, regardless of how personally repulsive you may find it, or how anatomically awkward you may have thought it was. Read the great novels of unbridled sexuality and nonstop orgiastic gymnastics: Lady Chatterley's Lover by D.H. Lawrence, The Decameron by Giovanni Boccaccio, and Poems of Sappho by Sappho. Non-stop chain-fucking, all of them, and that's your goal. Push your body to its upper limits and then screw right through them. But don't expert to live a long life. You'll be healthy, with some surprisingly well-developed muscles in odd places, but the shelf life of a sex writer is not high. Dr. Ruth Westheimer is, in fact, only 33 years old. She knew the risks.

  You have to be able to analyze the sex lives of your friends and family, even if they don't know you're watching. You must always keep that impartial observer alive in your skull.

  “You like that, baby? Huh?”

  “Ooohh, god, yes!”

  “How about this?”

  “Aagh! Oh, Jesus!”

  “Better than before?”

  “Oh yeah, lover, yeah, just keep–”

  “How much better?”

  “…unh… what?”

  “On a scale from 1 to 10, how much better?”

  “What? Oooh… I don't know, 6 times better.”

  “Really? That's interesting.” [makes a note]

  “What… what are you doing?”

  “Nothing, baby. You’re between the ages of 18 to 24, right?”

  Don't expect to keep a loving relationship going for very long. Not only does it limit you to an unsatisfactorily small statistical universe, but sex writers are better when they're anguished and single. No one wants to read about happily married people; they want to read about other tortured single people that are just as miserable as themselves, but with more sex. Only after you've assembled many years of wild dating stories can you allow yourself domestic bliss. Would Cynthia Heimel, Anka Radakovich, or Inspector Gadget's wife from Sex In the City be as intriguing if they were all happily married? I say no! Maybe if they were all married to each other.

  Then there's the public pressure. Just like doctors, lawyers, and taxidermists, everyone you run into keeps asking you for free services. “Is my dick too small?” “Are my breasts too big?” “Why won't my wife/husband/dog let me (fill in blank)?” “Does this feel inflamed?” “What's Madonna really like?” It's aggravating having people in your golfing foursome drop their pants and a
sk you the best ways to check for testicular cancer. You don't dare let yourself be recognized on public transportation, lest you be inundated with requests for advice on multiple infidelity, anal sex, and necrophilia (or all three) from society's less fragrant members. It's so rude how beautiful women will come up to you in restaurants and ask for tips on their deep-throating techniques.

  Well, actually, that's pretty cool, but the rest is still annoying.

  And the worst part of the whole thing — you have to write about it all. You have to let people read about all the sick, depraved, twisted things you've done, with diagrams. If you become popular, you might even get on a national talk show where everyone can see you, even your mom.

  There is an upside, don't get me wrong. Your sex life, at least theoretically, improves. You're expected to surf for porn on the net at work. When you meet a new lover, you can coast on your reputation the first few times. You get on some amazing mailing lists. They let you get on stage at Aerosmith concerts. You get personal phone calls from Janet Reno, often with heavy breathing and minimal security taps.

  And you get to write stuff like this.

  -------------------------

  A Tall Tail

  Two quick notes of explanation: First, I used to edit for the excellent online erotica magazine CleanSheets. com, and we once did an April Fool’s issue with silly articles. One of them was an example of one of our editors' meetings in tall-tale form.

  Second, Raymond was one of the proofreaders (galley slaves) for the magazine. Whenever we would get together online in various chat rooms or through instant messaging, horrible puns ensued and strong men wept.

  This was my attempt to punnish him once and for all. The fact that I submitted it hours before deadline so that he barely had a chance to respond was a complete accident, really.

  Raymond walked over, tea in hand, and handed Chris a Coke. “Never figured you'd be shy. You going to join the group?”

  Chris accepted gratefully and made room on the couch. “Hey, it's the galley cat!”

  “I prefer ‘Corrections Officer,’ thank you very much. Shouldn't you be over there, reporting for Articles?”

  “I will, it's just that Jed's report unnerved me a bit. It's been a strange month.”

  Raymond sipped once, carefully, before setting his cup down and turning back. “Begin. Omit no detail, however slight.”

  “Okay, but keep it to yourself, the friction fiction people won't believe it. It started a few months ago, really. I had met this couple online in the weekly chats and they invited me to watch them on their webcam, sort of a virtual ménage a twat. They were incredible. Dick and Lisa. Both blondes, both gorgeous. Once I got there they set right to it, they settled into a 69, and then they started singing. Singing! I've heard of hummers, but they actually sang while they ate; she warbled on his weeble while he yodeled in the gulley. Weird.”

  “I think I've heard of that technique, it's called choral sex.”

  “I guess it's an a-choir-ed taste, then. They played in the bathtub for awhile and committed sudomy, then they got down to the gland finale. He attacked her with phallus aforethought until the wows came home, and she rode him hard and put him away, wet. I have to admit I was getting a little too big for my britches and was considering logging off and offing my log, and then they invited me to come over and super-vice. Turns out they lived within an hour's drive so it only took me fifteen minutes to get there.”

  “What about your wife? I thought you were monogamous.”

  “Oh, I planned to keep a civil tongue in my own mouth, but I'm allowed to look. I was just going to take a closer peek than usual. She wouldn't mind, and she was busy anyway. She had been invited to a cinematic retrospective of a famous comedian.”

  “Oh, so she had a Pryor appointment.”

  “Exactly. I showed up and was greeted at the door by Lisa, who was wearing her one-button suit. I apologized to the damsel in disdress and made sure she understood that I was only there to offer vice advice, and I think she even believed me. As usually happens when a beautiful woman is around, Dick showed up. 'Hey Chris', he said, 'ready for some pant counterpant? ' We repaired to the living room and I was offered the best seat, but I turned her down again. All I needed was a comfortable seat, a good view, and a supply of three-ply.”

  “Weren't you afraid of hurting her feelings?”

  “Nah, she knew I just had a case of can'ts in the pants. Besides, I had been bragging about my sowing machine and I didn't want to be exposed as a male fraud. Anyway, Dick was quintessentially tumescent and the big dame hunter was ready to go. They embraced and began some serious foreplay, something I've always considered the other 96% of sex. I'll skip the details–”

  “Hey!”

  “–and tell you what freaked me out. He was doing some muff maintenance when he began to add some of his fingers to the mix. Two was no problem, three followed quickly, and it was apparent that he planned to be fister right. She seemed fidgetty but happy, but I couldn't help it, I had to ask, 'Geez, don't you use lube? ' So help me, they both stopped and looked at me. 'What's lube? '“

  “Wow. Talk about miss management! Didn't he look before he lipped?”

  “Nope, never occurred to them. I couldn't believe it! All the action they had been figuring and they never thought to prime the pumper. I went through their house and pointed out all the things that could help out with their swap meat. Dick finally took an entire bottle of freshly squeezed baby oil and hosed her down before he hosed her down. This time he had no problem lending her a hand and he quickly found that now, thanks to the lube, he could keep her at arm's length. She was shrieking and moaning just like a woman being fisted, and she couldn't get enough. I knew this because she kept screaming 'More! Oh, God, more!' I hadn't guessed her for a religious woman, but there must have been something to it because when I looked back at Dick he was in over his head, literally. One shoulder was still visible, but Lisa still wasn't getting enough Dick. It was like watching a snake consume its prey; only the prey was getting off on it. Atlas shrugged until he got the other arm in, and then he started wriggling like a breech birth in reverse. Lisa's moans were making the window glass shake, and all I could do was just watch. I was petrified, in a localized manner.

  “Shouldn't he have tied a board across his–”

  “It all happened too suddenly for safety measures, and at any rate her pussy wasn't OSHA approved. By the time I realized I should do something he was gone, his feet disappearing with a slurping sound between her legs. Lisa released one last shuddering moan and then came violently, possibly from the fact that she had more Dick in her than any woman alive. It was incredible, definitely one for the spurt's pages. Then she opened her eyes and looked at me. She had that 'there's more food on the buffet' look, and she was still moaning.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I wasn't planning on finding out what sort of glandstand play she had in mind, I got the hell out of there.”

  “Can't say as I blame you, but it wasn't very gentlemanly of you, leaving her hanging like that.”

  Chris smiled ruefully. “C'mon, Raymond. Everyone knows that the moanin' Lisa belongs hanging in the lube.”

  -------------------------

  World’s Greatest Gang Bang IV

  [Dynamic sports show music starts, low audience sound, voice begins halfway through]

  BILL: Hello, and welcome to the World's Greatest Gang Bang IV! Start your VCRs and get ready for 8 hours of non-stop excitement as we watch world-famous porn star Throbbin' Robin Redwood take on all comers and come on all takers as he goes for the world record and nails a thousand women, right here on our stage!

  STAN: Ladies from around the world have gathered here in the Hoot Island Uberdome to become part of the magic. This is going to be a great event, so get your Kleenex ready and hang on!

  [Music ends]

  BILL: Hi, I'm Bill Harfarkinson.

  STAN: And I'm Stan Bulimic.

  BILL: And it's ti
me for the World's Greatest Gang Bang 4! You folks may remember back in 1995, a pretty little Asian thing named Annabel Chong decided to go for the record and got poked 251 times in one day.

  STAN: Nothing like all-American dedication, Bill!

  BILL: And then the next year Jasmine St. Clair took on the challenge and managed 300 times in a 24 hour period.

  STAN: She's quite the romantic.

  BILL: And finally, last year a bouncy blonde named Houston went for the gold and went at it a reported 620 times, and there the record stands.

  STAN: But tonight we're turning the tables as famed porn star and recording artist Throbbin' Robin Redwood takes the stage and physically satisfies one thousand women with determination and thick, throbbing fury.

  BILL: Let's go down to the stadium floor where former Baywatch stand-in Kandi Frottage is talking to the Throbber himself.

  KANDI: Thanks, Bill. I'm here in the Uberdome locker room where Throbbin' Robin Redwood is going through his pre-bang stretches. Robin, whatever possessed you to do this?

  ROBIN: (stretching while he talks) Oh, ah, ever since I was a young man I've, ah, always been interested in nailing more women in one day than any man alive, and I think every thing I've done in my professional life has been leading up to this incredible moment.