by Pynk
“That’s exactly the same thing.”
She again sat on the soft arm of the love seat, gave a long exhale, and crossed her legs. “First of all, you know as well as I do that a woman being with a woman is not seen as the same as a man being with a man. I can deal with a little same-sex action between men, but the whole thought of a man letting another man penetrate his ass is way different. Second of all, you’re the one who convinced me to join a detox group to shake my addictions, and I admitted I needed to. And not because you threatened to end this, but because I knew I had a problem. But now it sounds like you’re holding this thing with Miki over my head and threatening to leave anyway. I mean, damn, Greg. What’s the deal?”
“The deal is I just can’t understand why this is so important to you. We’ve had our fun. It’s time to get serious and get ready to act right. But, damn, I just have to ask you. Are you in love with Miki, or what?” He ceased twisting.
She uncrossed her legs and spoke a notch louder. “Oh, hell no, of course not. I don’t want a relationship with her. It’s just recreational. My goodness. Most men would be happy to have a woman who had a chick on the side.” She talked with her hands. “I’m bisexual. I can’t just shake that like you treat a cold. I mean, I just can’t help it. And making people stop being attracted to the same sex is not what Sexaholics is about. And besides, if it’s not Miki, it’ll be someone else. You said you’d rather it be her, and now you sound like you’re threatening to leave again after almost eight years, like it’s an ultimatum. Damn. I’m trying to shake this addiction shit first, and you won’t even let me get through that part. It wasn’t that long ago you and me were trying out our open-relationship thing. But please, Greg. Wow. Give me a break.” She took a breath, eyeing him down. “I know we’re not your everyday, average couple. But I mean, just because you shook the freak in you so easily doesn’t mean I can do the same at the same pace. It’s like you won’t even wait until I get through a few meetings without acting like I should be Polly Purebred when I walk in the door. This is serious, honey. I need your patience. But I have to tell you that if you can’t deal with this, then let me know now. Don’t waste my time. Please. Hell, I am not getting any younger, mijo.”
Upon her last word he looked down at the floor, then eyed his desk and turned toward the computer screen. “Valencia, you know I want you. That’s why this is so important to me.” He clicked the mouse.
“Then give me a break. Please.” She took in the object of his sudden focus. “And what the hell are you doing? Are you on MySpace?”
“No.” He cleared his throat. “I was looking on the Home Depot site so I can get those low-flow toilets this weekend.”
“All right, now.” She cautiously stood and grabbed her purse. “Anyway, I’m gonna go home and change. I’m going out.”
He glanced up at the oversized iron wall clock over his desk. “This late? Out where?”
“Over to Purple for a minute.”
“You’re kidding, right?” He spoke with his back still turned.
“No. I’m not. Where would you prefer I go?”
“You know, go on ahead.” His voice told on his frustrated thoughts.
She stepped to him and again kissed the top of his head. “And hey. Get off that computer. Even if that shit is MySpace. You know how your ass is, Gregorio.” She walked away and exited his office.
“I’m not on MySpace. Besides, I don’t think Home Depot has a webcam link, so relax.”
Moments later, her heels could be heard clicking along the crème travertine floor of his living room as she stepped. She yelled while opening the front door, “Okay now. I’ll call you later.”
“You do that,” he said extraloudly.
She left and locked the door with her key.
And Greg instantly logged into www.jackoffcam.com, sat back as the smooth leather cushioned his gluteus maximus, and then pulled down his boxers, taking his nearly raw shaft into his left hand.
He scooted down and leaned back with his legs open, assuming his regular position.
The webcam was on.
And Greg was braced and ready to go.
As usual.
5
“Creep”
Brandi
With her medium height, medium build, medium complexion, and medium-length hair, medium Brandi Williams had been home for hours, relaxing after a long day of teaching her beloved eighth graders and attending her first Sexaholics meeting. She’d also stopped by Gelson’s Market for some bananas, her regular breakfast of choice.
She lived on the west side of Hollywood on a narrow street just south of the Sunset Strip. Her neighbors’ quaint homes ranged from French chateau and Venetian villa–looking houses to newly remodeled, California stuccoes. And Brandi’s one-bedroom, eclectic-looking Spanish bungalow resembled a Hansel and Gretel–like cottage, though life inside was far from that of a fairy tale.
Along her lush lawn, a large nectarine tree sprouted its growth from west to east, enough to shield her small front yard. A brief wind had kicked up, and even after the midnight hour, a sparrow could be heard singing along one of the slightly swaying branches. Small jasmine vines crawled along the front stained-glass window, giving off a sweet smell.
West Hollywood, also known as Gay Village due to its large gay population, resembled the French Quarter. It was also known for its trendy, well-known shops and restaurants, its never-ending extravagant nightlife that looked as if it were Halloween on any given evening, and for its amazing view from the top, near the Sunset Strip. The magical view of the city was breathtaking.
Overall, the area was one of busy sounds, bustling happenings, and a constantly hurried feel. Yet inside of Brandi’s home, it was none of that.
Her comfortable residence was her safety zone. It was her isolation sanctuary when she wasn’t spending her daytime hours as an English teacher at Harcourt Middle School, in the upscale neighborhood of View Park.
Her perky and energetic public side was the side her students knew and loved. But her private side consistently made its usual appearance once she stepped in from the moonlit, outside world and double-locked her front door. The door that safely separated her from the surefire cruelness that lurked out there.
Her average-sized home with crisp celery-colored walls always smelled of the citrus FreshMatic scent that intermittently chased away any evidence of stale gloom, just in case the scent of jasmine from the outside hadn’t been able to permeate the premises. It was always dark. The only illumination was from the overhead stove light. And that was just the way she liked it. She stepped through the arched doorway into her vintage small, tiled kitchen, and grabbed a tall drinking glass and a bottle of Patrón, pouring the clear liquid to the rim. She was not one to sip nor drink from a shot glass. She drank tequila head-on. No fear.
Actually, anything strong and anything straight would do. But tequila had been her desired liquor since her days at UCLA, where she earned a degree in education. Back then she drank Cuervo, guzzling shots that raced down her throat like Mexican moonshine, doing the lick-it-and-stick-it move. The firewater brought about many a morning filled with headaches and hangovers, lying upon stench-filled sheets spotted with lingering remnants of her upchuck. Though now she seemed immune after having learned to imbibe only the premium brands.
Alcohol was the perfect fit back in the good old days of college, when she’d party most of the time, skip class, sleep the day away, and cram for tests with whatever time of the day was left. Even so, her knack for making the grades brought her much attention, even scholarships. But not the kind of attention the other girls got. She was, after all, nothing to write home about. Or at least that’s what the one guy who took her out the one time in college told her. And it wasn’t the first time she’d heard that. The thing was, without question, she agreed.
She was, after all, very average.
Plain-as-paper average.
Average at everything but the books. Brandi overcompensated her dow
nsides by having an overly exuberant public personality and an inherited high level of intelligence, though she also inherited her love of booze. Her favorite pastimes were her greatest escapes… crooked sex and straight liquor. Both always seemed to fill in the blanks once she shielded herself from the world by being… at home.
Home facing herself.
And her demons.
Just like those before her, who had passed it on down like a cursed baton.
But recently she admitted to herself that even the sex and booze weren’t enough to fill in the blanks.
Brandi had kicked off her low heels and stripped down to all but her brown boy shorts. She’d stepped, bare feet against the cool, mahogany hardwood strips, while shutting down her Motorola phone. With drink in hand, she took a seat on the black leather sofa, turned on the volumeless TV, and drank her liquor, swallowing the strength of the silver petroleum liquid as though it were water. As with all the other nights alone, the intention was to feel numb.
A porno movie that she’d neglected to finish watching from the night before shone before her, called Monster Booty Meets Monster Dick. Actually, she’d neglected to watch it the night before that and the night before that.
She leaned back and opened her legs to allow freedom to her greedy, needy vagina. She put her hand down into her panties like Al Bundy would do on Married… with Children, and began fiddling with her curly pussy hairs, petting herself with long strokes as though she were a cat. She poked the tip of her middle finger inside and she was wet. She was ripe and ready like always.
Her thoughts momentarily shifted from the light-skinned young woman who was giving deep throat with her amazing soup-cooler lips, heading down further to lick the lucky man’s balls. Brandi thought back to her meeting. Rachel Cummings had talked about abstaining from unhealthy sex. She remembered the one sentence more than the many others. Stop lusting and become sober.
But as usual, the alone time with nothing to do but produce thoughts from her addicted mind brought out her other half. And thirty minutes later, even with the success that getting liquored up brought toward reaching her numbness, she’d transformed herself into the fast side she’d given a nickname.
She stood in her bedroom feeling a little dizzy, but that was usually how she felt when her mind shifted from worried teacher to not-a-care-in-the-world sexpot. She gave long blinks as her head began to swim, then she shook it off. Having learned to deal with it, she squared her shoulders and stared at her reflection in the full-length mirror before her.
She was now a vixen of a woman, wearing a low-cut, sheer-back jumpsuit and high heels, a ruby-red curly wig, hazel-blue contacts, false eyelashes, and heavy makeup. Brandi snatched her keys and a credit card, driver’s license, cell phone, three orange condoms, and a can of Mace, and locked the door behind her. She jumped into her bright red Chevy Camaro, red for the world to see, and headed out under the nighttime skies to be all she needed to be. She drove the short distance over near Sunset and La Cienega, listening to her radio. The song was “Naughty Girl” by Beyoncé.
She parked her bright car in the nearly packed, dark lot of a closed gasoline station and began to walk through the night with a sweet, sticky stroll. A stroll she had mastered. She shifted her hips in a way that the sun would never see. It was a sight only for the moon and stars, and for sore, horny eyes.
Immediately she heard a honk, and then a holler and a hoot, and then a catcall, and then a whistle. She knew she had the look. And she worked it even harder as she kept on strolling.
“What’s a nice girl like you doing on a street like this?” a thirty-something woman with blond hair asked as she pulled up in her dark blue SUV, going one mile per hour.
Brandi looked on but kept her stroll on. “I’m just taking a walk. Why?”
“How much?”
Brandi stopped. “For who?”
The woman stopped. “For me.”
Brandi chuckled. “I think maybe you might be missing the right equipment for me to answer that question.”
The woman leaned over to her right and opened the passenger-side door just enough. She reached down and lifted her pleated skirt, exposing that she was not wearing panties, and showing Brandi the eight inches of manhood she was working with. “Now, can you give me a price?” the chick with a dick asked, now with a voice that had slipped into baritone.
Recalling that Valencia’s sexaholic confession involved a similar freaky lay, Brandi said assuredly, “This is your lucky night. No charge.”
“No charge? What? You just fuck guys indiscriminately just for kicks?”
Brandi came closer and closer as she spoke. Her eyes showed odd pleasure. She could clearly see the throat with a well-defined Adam’s apple and a chin tainted with razor stubble. “I’d hardly call this haphazard or by accident. I’m here for a reason. And you, my dear, are just what the doctor ordered. So are you down with it or not? Cause I am.”
“Hell yeah, I’m down.”
“Perfect.” And Brandi hopped in.
“What’s your name?” the woman-slash-man asked as he pulled off. The inside of the messy truck smelled like old, musty sweat socks.
Brandi rolled down the window and looked over to notice the strands of forearm hair as he kept hold of the chrome gearshift. “I’m Camaro. I’ll just call you John. Or Johnetta, which one?” Brandi giggled inside.
“Johnetta will work for tonight. Pleased to meet you, Camaro.”
“The pleasure is mine. All mine. Don’t tell me, you’re the stereotypical man who looks for women on the street… the giant in the corporate world and your wife isn’t into what you’re into, right?”
He smirked, focusing on her chest. “No comment.”
With a leer like she knew the deal anyway, Brandi sat back in the passenger seat as the kinky driver headed the few blocks to the seedy Astro motel.
The Hollywood air met Brandi’s curious face while she reached into her bra and turned on her phone. She had two missed calls, one from her mother and one from her new friend, Teela. They wouldn’t get a call back, even if she wasn’t playing free hooker for the evening. They shouldn’t feel slighted, though. She shut her phone as the driver put the car in Park and adjusted his stiffness under his skirt as he stepped out.
Camaro’s pussy was on fire.
The anticipation of the unknown had her all worked up.
He came around and opened her door as she stepped out and followed his lead. He towered over her, wearing a long blond wig, parochial skirt, white midriff top, and bobby socks with bright pink stilettos.
Fast-ass Camaro couldn’t wait for her first taste of the cross-dresser with the sexy, brown muscular legs in four-inch heels.
Or transvestite he-she.
Or whatever the hell it was.
6
“I Kissed a Girl”
Miki
Miki’s girl, Valencia, pulled up along the curb on Pico Boulevard in L.A. and rolled to a stop, placing the platinum Infiniti FX in park as the hustling, well-mannered valet opened her door. Another fast-moving valet approached and opened the passenger side.
Miki stepped out. “Thanks,” she said, speaking softly with a head nod, while adjusting the strap of her zebra barrel purse along her shoulder.
Valencia and Miki strutted up to the purple door wearing tight jeans and tighter braless tees, both with ruby red pumps.
A burly-looking bouncer who wore all black greeted them. “Ladies. Go right in. Good to see you, Valencia.”
“You, too, Miguel. Gracias,” she said, as he held the door open for their more-than-welcome entry.
The song was Gorilla Zoe’s “Pole.” Miki sang along, “She drops it down low, she mix it up slow, she’s workin that pole,” bobbing her head as they made their way inside with an energy that smelled of estrogen.
The strip club’s crowd of testosterone was thick. Some of the gentlemen, who made up 90 percent of the patrons, held dollar bills in hand. Most sat around the stage with their mouths open,
lost in a mental fantasy, comparing the young ladies who danced before them to some woman they wished could be so limber, or so damn fine, and so willing to fulfill their every lustful eye-need.
The room smelled like an urban honky-tonk spot, with day-old cigarette smoke and lingering cheap perfume. The guys made sure to steal glimpses of Valencia and Miki, like they hoped the ladies would be down for anything, being freaky enough to even show up. Or that maybe after a little while they’d be juiced up and ready to take home once the dancers did their preliminary jobs of foreplay. Miki and Valencia had other plans.
Miki took a moment to eye a girl on the main stage. She was a tall Brazilian dancer with much yellow ass. She hung upside down with six-inch clear platforms, expertly spreading her legs and bouncing her bare cheeks. “Damn. I remember when I used to be that damn flexible.”
Valencia took a quick peek but kept focused on claiming a spot at a large bar table. She stepped to it and adjusted two leather stools, moving them closer together. Her reply to Miki was a delayed half smile.
Miki noticed her reserve as they took their seats. “I keep forgetting you’re about to get married, girl. I know Greg’s trippin out about this girls-only stop of ours.”
“He is, with his insecure, narcissistic ass. But you know I don’t give a damn.”
“Oh, girl, stop playin it off. You know you care.”
“No, really. I don’t. He can just move on if he can’t handle it.”
“Oh please.” Miki crossed her legs and placed her purse on the table. “He’s not going anywhere and neither are you. You two have been together far too long.”
“True. That’s my point. If he doesn’t know me by now, he’ll never know me. We both fucked anything that moved for years, but hell, his ass went cold turkey so damn fast, it’s like he’s a different person. But now he’s replaced fucking other people with choking his chicken all damn day. Chronic masturbation is one fetish he’ll never kick. And I don’t beat him up for beating himself up, now do I?” Valencia tilted her head and gave a sly-looking smirk.