The Syntax of Seduction

by Carlos Malenkov

  * * *

  MUSHROOMS

  That's right, I collect asses. Women's asses, of course. I'm as straight as they come, and I'll knock you right on your ass if you suggest otherwise.

  After two years, there are eight items in my collection. Each exhibit consists of a photo album rubber-banded together with a spiral notebook. The albums hold the pictures -- the shots of the women bent over, their bare asses revealed in all their glory. The notebooks contain the case notes: the physical descriptions of the exterior ass architecture and the intimate details of interior of same and, of course, a detailed recapitulation and analysis of the lovemaking.

  I've been thinking about computerizing -- using a digital camera and recording pix and notes on CDRs. Maintaining a home darkroom and writing everything down by hand is getting to be too much of a pain in the butt.

  Much more valuable than the pictures and notes is the knowledge base I'm building up in pursuit of my little hobby-obsession. Women have three basic ass types: pear, apple, and box. Pear shaped is the most esthetically pleasing, of course, but you can't be too choosy if you're looking for willing women. Willing to be added to your collection, I mean.

  Mushrooms. Ass collectors treasure mushrooms. Not the kind that you find on pizza, though.

  The woman lowers her skirt or pants, along with undergarments, just enough to expose the entire buttocks. She bends forward from the waist to nearly a right angle. The waistband tightens and constricts the flesh at the back of the upper thighs, accenting the protrusion of the butt. If you imagine the legs as the stem, then the ass cheeks, viewed straight on, resemble nothing so much as the button of a huge, plump champignon mushroom.

  At the yearly get-togethers, our little community trades mushroom photos. Oh, we carefully preserve the anonymity of the women involved. The faces don't show, and it's considered bad form to name names. Mushrooms don't have faces and names. Just those enticing round buttons. The interior attributes of a woman's ass determine how much pleasure it can yield.

  The shape and appearance of the outer sphincter give a preview of what the overall experience will be like. A round or symmetrically oval rosebud ringed in pleasingly red-tinged brown indicates a healthy colon. In any case, examining the gateway to the rectum certainly contributes to the viewing pleasure prior to actual penetration.

  The muscle tone of the two spincter rings is critical. Conscious sphincter control can facilitate entry of the penis and enhance the pleasure of both partners by squeezing and clamping down at critical moments.

  The degree of rectal tightness influences the intensity of sensation. Some prefer a snug fit, while others appreciate the freedom of movement that a stretched and loosened rectum gives.

  There can be some variation in the texture of the intestinal wall. Ribbed or smooth -- each has its characteristic pleasures.

  The temperature of the rectal chamber varies from person to person. Some women have a surprisingly high level of body heat inside, and this makes the sex hotter, both figuratively and literally. Others are cold inside, a pretty reliable indicator that they are cold-blooded, both physically and emotionally.

  The depth of the rectum is an important consideration. A short rectum may be necessitate changing the angle of entry to avoid discomfort to both parties.

  In Real Life, I'm actually quite shy. Oh, I can hold up my end of a conversation with a woman once I've gotten to know her, but the skill of picking up a stranger is totally beyond me. I mostly rely on personal ads to meet women. This dispenses with much of the get-acquainted dance and also has the advantage of winnowing out women not interested in that activity so dear to my heart.

  Fortunately, I'm a wordsmith of sorts. My ads avoid the sleazy and commonplace, such as "Greek language lessons." Instead, I appeal to the reader's sense of adventure and poetic inclinations. Wanted: A special woman for a special kind of love. Come, let's sail the Windward Passage together.

  There seem to be quite a number of woman who leave their Windward Passage open to navigation. I've met a few in my time. Lubrication and sphincter relaxation are the keys to successful anal pleasure. A recommended lube is "XE-41 Industrial Strength Recreational Lubricant," available at finer sex shops in your neighborhood. Relaxation is mostly a state of mind, but there exist helpful little techniques, such as having the passive partner gently press out at the moment of penetration. Prior insertion of a well-lubricated finger or two may also be indicated.

  Some women have a trigger point just below the lowest vertebra, the tailbone. A gentle massage on this may cause the anal sphincter to dilate spontaneously.

  My inflexible rule is to break off with a woman immediately after getting what I want. What I want are the photos, especially the prized "mushroom" shots, and an absolute maximum of five acts of backdoor love. Then, on to the next. This avoids emotional attachment and the sorts of messy entanglements that lead to possessiveness, jealousy, or even, horror of horrors, a long-term relationship.

  So, what do the women get out of all this? Why their own physical satisfaction, of course. I pride myself at my skill in bringing my partners to peak ecstasy in intimate moments. And, women are delighted to discover how much more volcanic an anal orgasm is than the more prosaic vaginal or clitoral variants.

  Do I ever engage in vaginal intercourse with a partner? Seldom, and only when that's the unavoidable price I must pay to get into their ass afterwards. Fortunately, few women of my previous acquaintance have demanded that. The optimum position for breaking in an "anal virgin" is side-by-side, the man facing the woman's back in spoon fashion. The woman pulls her knees up somewhat toward her chest, and the man curls forward, following the curve of her back and buttocks. This permits holding her breasts and massaging the clitoris as appropriate.

  For experienced lovers, the more conventional knee-chest, bent-over standing, and flat-on-stomach positions also work well. Each has its own particular sensations and delights.

  A modification of the traditional "missionary position," provides unusual delights for the female partner. The woman lies on her back, but raises her legs straight up. The man braces against the backs of her thighs, possibly holding on to her ankles for balance. The woman then reaches forward to guide his member into her posterior opening. This position stimulates the wall partitioning the vagina from the rectum. The rectal side of this wall is richly endowed with nerve endings, and pressure and friction against it can give the woman intense orgasms.

  It's well past midnight. I'm sitting here in my hotel room in Kalamazoo writing this. The first day's session of the annual Can Collectors Convention is over. Yes indeed, "Can Collectors." I wonder who came up with that little sobriquet. We collect cans, all right. The cans women sit on.

  I'm expecting a knock on the door any minute now. It'll be the grandmaster of the association. They call him the "Jackass," since he seems to have a special talent for jacking his way into women's asses. Over three hundred of them, all told. We'll be trading stories, seduction and lovemaking techniques, and, of course, mushroom shots.

  He has a strange reputation, though. The rumor is that he collects men's asses as well as women's. He's been overheard saying that an ass is an ass, and that it doesn't much matter to whom or what it's attached. He did give me some speculative looks during the day. I wonder if he's after my ass. Some men enjoy being penetrated just as much as women do. Liquid friction, stretching, and the feeling of fullness inside the rectum are just as exciting for a man as for a woman. The male has the added advantage of the "prostrate button," located near the anterior of the rectal wall, just behind the scrotal sac. The sense of violating a fundamental societal taboo intensifies the pleasure. It is only a matter of overcoming a few outmoded prejudices and psychological blocks.

  I see the first glimmers of dawn through the bedroom window. Maybe I should try to catch a couple of hour's sleep before today's session.

  I've been collected. Me. I'm now part of someone else's ass collection. The Jackass managed to jack his way int
o my ass. The French began cultivating the champignon mushroom, "Agaricus bisporus," in the Seventeenth Century. A favorite of gourmet chefs, the champignon, with its cream-white or beige coloring and delicate taste, goes well in salads, soups, and, of course, on pizza as a topping.

  This is how it happened. He was showing me his mushroom album. I couldn't believe it. Hundreds of shots. Plump, skinny, and in between. All sizes and shapes. More varieties of mushrooms than you could find at the deli. Delicious, mouth-watering female-behind mushrooms.

  I must have betrayed my excitement. He placed a steadying hand on my forearm and whispered that some day I could have as many in my own collection. With a little assistance from an expert, of course. Someone who could teach me the secrets and the mysteries.

  "I'd like that," I said. The thought of possessing all those mushrooms was making me light-headed.

  "I can be of assistance," he said. There was a wicked gleam in his eye.

  So I let him talk me into it. He was willing to demonstrate certain techniques, all right, but . . .

  . . . he insisted on demonstrating them on me. This was the only effective method of teaching, he said. I also got the message that it was the tuition I'd have to pay for the lessons.

  I absolutely refused to do the mushroom shots. It was degrading and humiliating. I simply couldn't do it. But how would I deal with the strange urges, the mad lusts, boiling up within me? I'd often wondered what women felt. What it was like on the receiving end. One of my most persistent fantasies was having it being done to me. And now . . . I wanted it. I wanted it up my own ass. I had to have it. If that's what it took, I'd even submit to the degradation of posing for the mushroom shots. Me, bent over with my ass sticking up into the air. Me, a mushroom.

  He had pulled an old SLR camera out of a drawer. It took him some time to load the film. Meanwhile, I stood there waiting, bent over, with pants and underwear pulled just below my bare buttocks. My ass was hanging out. There was a cold draft in the room and I was breaking out in goosebumps. Then I saw flashes and heard the camera's film-advance whining. Mushroom shots. I was the mushroom.

  I knew what had to come next. It did.

  Afterwards, still damp from the shower and wrapped in a beach towel, I sat across from him, snugly encased in a comfortable padded armchair. I munched on a slice of leftover mushroom pizza. He was scribbling furiously in a leather-covered notepad.

  "So, how does my ass stack up against the others in your collection?"

  In answer he passed over his handwritten Encounter Summary. High marks for enthusiasm. Technique a bit unpolished, but will improve with experience. Overall rating: B+. Promising, though not quite gourmet quality.

  NO MATTER WHAT SHAPE

  LA was a way different town back in '70. You could walk the streets at night in most neighborhoods and the gangs hadn't taken over yet. There was still a trace of that heady excitement, that bubbling sense of unlimited possibilities that was the short-lived legacy of the Sixties.

  Jamie was fresh off the bus. Not quite as clueless as fresh off the boat, but close. He had walked out of the Greyhound terminal with suitcase in hand, seventy dollars and change in his pocket, and no place to stay. Not much in the way of plans, either . . . except to survive, and maybe manage to lose his virginity in this city of infinite opportunity.

  He pointed himself toward downtown and began walking. And kept walking. It was late in the afternoon and starting to get dark, and he was getting mighty tired of walking.

  A car pulled up alongside.

  "Need a ride, kid?"

  The woman in the driver's seat was smiling at him. She was blonde, filled out her sweater quite nicely, and looked to be somewhere in her thirties. Well, maybe late thirties. She spoke louder. "You! I'm talking to you, fellow. I asked if you needed a ride."

  "Sorry, ma'am. It's been a long day, and I'm tired. Sure, I'd certainly appreciate a lift. Thanks."

  The trunk popped open. "Toss in that case of yours and hop in."

  Jamie got in the back seat. It was plush leather. Very plush. Now he noticed that the car was a Bentley. Money. Mucho money here.

  "Where to?"

  "Uh, nowhere in particular. Just drop me off wherever you're going and I'll take it from there."

  "New in town?"

  "How did you know?"

  "Suitcase, bedraggled look, and no particular destination in mind. You don't have a place to stay, do you?"

  "Well . . . "

  "Maybe I can help you out, kid. I've got a spare bedroom, and if you don't mind earning your keep . . . The name's Theodora, by the way. You can call me Dora."

  She lived in a mansion. It was a fairy-tale castle with something like fifty rooms. Jamie slept on a cot in a room that was part of a medieval turret. The walls were curved and the ceiling came to a conical point. Not much light came through the single small arrow-slit window.

  On the maid's days off, Jamie washed the dishes, made the beds, and swept up around the house. He also did light maintenance and fixed dripping faucets. It typically took about two hours of the day and the rest of the time was his own. Not bad for room and board. On the other hand, he wasn't putting any money in the bank, either.

  He had been living there for a week, and it was starting to get boring. Aside from watching TV on the large-screen color set in the living room and reading pulp novels, there just wasn't a hell of a lot to do. Public transportation didn't run in that neighborhood, so he couldn't make it into town. Jamie was seriously considering leaving and taking his chances again.

  He hardly ever saw Dora. She swept in and out like a cyclone. She was an actress of some sort, and apparently successful enough at it that she was always working. That had been fine with him in the first few days, when he had still been getting settled in, but now he was lonely. Lack of human contact was driving him nuts. Jamie had always known he was different. Growing up in a working class family with two brothers and five sisters meant being ignored most of the time. He had felt out of place and unwelcome. And he kept having these weird dreams . . . dreams of being a different person, of being in a different body. His family laughed at him and slapped him down when he tried to talk about it. His schoolmates tormented him. His friends . . . well, he had no friends. He had left home at the first opportunity.

  Late one night there was a soft knock on the door. Jamie was instantly awake. "Who's there?"

  "May I come in?" It was Dora's voice.

  Before Jamie could answer, the door slowly opened. The foot of the cot sagged under Dora's weight.

  "Time to earn your keep," she said.

  In the scant light seeping into the room from the hall, he could just barely make out her silhouette. He reached for her. She wasn't naked . . . quite. She had on some kind of form-fitting bodysuit. Nice boobs, nicely rounded ass. There seemed to be a funny kind of bulge down in front at the crotch, but . . . he had no time to think on it as Dora abruptly stood, then turn her back to him. "Unzip me," she said.

  A zipper ran straight down the length of her catsuit, from the neckline to past the buttocks. Jamie pulled it down, all the way down. He hesitantly touched a bare cheek -- a warm, smooth ass cheek.

  She grasped his hand and pulled it into a warm place. "Yes, that's it," she said. "That's right where I want it. Fuck me. Fuck me here. Fuck me in the ass. Put it in there, stud."

  In a flowing, feline motion, she twisted around and bent facedown over the bed. He traced the curve of her bare bottom with trembling fingertips. And there! In the valley between the buttocks was that puckered little opening. It was wet, slick. She must have already lubed herself.

  He had never done anyone in the ass. Well, there was that once with his friend Tommy . . . but that didn't really count. It was just a couple of guys fooling around.

  Oh, that was good! His cock had slid right in with barely any resistance. He was in the burning embrace of a tight velveteen pouch. He could feel the liquid rippling texture of her gut as he slowly moved in and out. It felt -- it
felt just plain good. Not all that much different from being inside a pussy. Yeah, maybe a little hotter and tighter.

  It was the best fuck he'd had in a long while. Thoroughly satisfying. Utterly draining. Jamie wanted nothing more than to just lay down and sleep for a month.

  "My turn now," Dora said.

  What?

  Dora was standing there smiling at him, and in the faint light Jamie saw the silhouette of an enormous hard cock pointing straight at him.

  "Wait a fucking minute!" Jamie screamed.

  "You have a simple choice," Dora said. "Take it in the ass, or toss your things in a suitcase and start walking."

  It wasn't all that tough a decision. Jamie had no money and no place to go. And he had let Tommie put his dick into him that one time. Sure, just a couple of inches deep. Just to see how it felt. It hadn't been all that bad, but they had been afraid to go any further.

  Jamie was lying on his side with his knees pulled up toward his chest. Dora, or whoever she or it was, curled up close behind him. This was supposed to be a "beginner's" position. It would make being penetrated easier for someone not used to it, or so Dora said. Cool hands were massaging Jamie's neck and he was starting to loosen up.