“I cannot help asking, whether we do not, in that very heat of extreme gratification when the generative fluid is ejected, feel that somewhat of our soul has gone from us?” – Tertullian
“As Balzac said, ‘There goes another novel!’” – Woody Allen
Chanel’s pint-sized butt pokes up into the misty, brisk, black night beach air. Each champagne-colored, pearl-shaped cheek bubbles outward under a delightful patina of gritty, flaxen sand.
Chanel is at attention like a good doggy. Hands and knees. Me on my knees behind her. She jutting away from my groin pointing toward her ass.
Minutes earlier, Chanel had been lying naked on her back. This explains the butterfly-shaped coating of sand ornamenting her perfect, tanned buttocks.
So perfect, in fact, I bow downward to bite her left cheek where she’s spotted with a black, strawberry-shaped birthmark. Something about this makes her ever-the-more adorable and I bite again, harder.
Chanel winces, but does not turn around to stop my nibbling her fleshy morsel.
She knows better than that.
The waves of the black, frothing ocean ooze up the beachhead twenty feet from where we’re enjoying our nocturnal assignation. Over this calming sound of the sea, I do hear Chanel’s winsome, “Careful…”
She’s still not turning around as I nosh on her drum-skinned, burnished buttock with growing fervor. “Quiet!” I demand between breathless bites.
I want only to tear through her skin with my teeth as one would the silky tenderness of a boiled chicken breast. But I’m lustfully hardened by twee Chanel’s beatifically repressed whimper and – cocksure – I can wait no longer to arise, driving my swelling erection peeking out of my unzipped, sandy denim jeans into that warm-moist aperture betwixt her two champagne pearls.
The Moon’s celestial luminance coruscates the sand on Chanel’s opalescent ass, as she deeply sucks in the cool mist that encysts us on this vacant plot of beach belonging only to us.
I shuffle my knees imposingly closer to her body, thrusting myself deeper into her crevice, clutching her flank with my right hand and slipping my left arm underneath and across her tight, washboard stomach.
I lower myself against her fey body, allowing my scratchy red flannel shirt to gently scrape across her maple-colored back.
She’s quiet like a good girl. Gasps once or twice as I pump myself back and forth, slow and steady, so deep inside her. The warmth of her inner body comforts and excites my nascent penis pressing onward within.
The rest of my clothed body is cold, clammy, and sweaty as it slides up and down her naked and fit soccer player frame.
The roiling waves continue to bat against the shore with a faint susurrus. A seagull squawks in the unseen distance of night. And the sand beneath our entangled bodies churns as my penis plunges the depths of her, me tightening my arm’s grip on her belly.
My hand stealthily smears up her flank to her fist-sized hard ball of a breast.
I squeeze tight – too tight, or perhaps just tight enough – and Chanel moans, craning her head backwards. My cold-sweat face is now diving into her redolent, bronze French twist of a downy soft hairdo.
“I love you,” I whisper not so much to her but to the pelagic air… and she knows this heralds what will come next.
“Wait…” she tries. But it’s of no use.
Strengthening my grip even now on her flat-hard stomach and crushing her tennis-ball tit with all my might, I clamp my dressed body to her denuded one and…
… groan a prolonged release, relieving myself of the impossible tension at once, pressing through her, squirting the hot spurts of gooey garlands within her. Quick fragments of the semen fusillade paint the inside of her with my effervescent essence.
Chanel seizes wildly – but only momentarily – with me still sealed to her like a stamp to an envelope.
Tremulously, Chanel blurts out, “Oh… my goodness…” Her puritanical reserve makes me giggle, and I slip out of her, rolling off her back and onto the ice-chilled granola sand crunching beneath me.
I extend both arms outward like Christ or the wings of the chimerical seagull out there squawking. The painfully refreshing sea air I’m quickly sucking into the back of my throat is salty and sweet.
I stare up to what almost seems to be an artificial glow of the Moon looming over us, perfectly round like Chanel’s perky backside.
Respiring, I roll over to my left side and playfully spank her ass cheek. Chanel collapses onto the sand belly-first with a hot-winded “Whoof” characteristic of the position in which we just made feral love.
“Did I do good?” she asks, chin in the sand and facing away from me to the ocean beyond her nose. The waves shimmying against the shoreline, Chanel’s bronze French twist – somewhat tousled now, of course – all but in my face.
I fall again onto my back and gaze up to the low, glaucous Moon. My penis –sticky with her body’s inner-workings – shrinks back into itself for the frigidity of the wet night air.
I zip up. “Did I do well,” I correct Chanel.
“Oh. Right,” she says without a hint of derision.
There’s a pregnant silence then but for the repetitive stretches of the bustling ocean. I hear the sand shift beneath her and I roll onto my left side once more. My fingers interlocked atop my head.
Chanel turns to me: naked, resplendent, delectable. I could easily fuck her again, and at twenty-three – being both sophisticated and easily subdued – she could probably keep up with me if I suggested it. Her eyes glimmer inquisitively in the creamy moonlight.
Her long, dark-brown eyelashes flutter, and she dislodges a grain of sand from her left eye (or right? I can’t quite remember). She’s staring at me. Gazing, really.
“What?” I grin.
She does not answer. Only gawks.
“What?” I laugh this time.
“Before… You said – ”
Oh, Christ. Here it comes.
“ – You said you love me.”
“I know,” I say. “I’m sorry.”
“Why’d you say it, then?” she asks, really wanting to know. As though it were her first time – Oh, at last! – that someone had deigned to confer the proclamation upon she of all people.
Chanel scratches her button-bunny nose tinged with a faint spray of reddish brown freckles.
“Look,” I say. “You feel really good when I’m inside you, and…”
But before I can sigh and resign myself to the mess unfolding, she says something uncannily unpredictable. Particularly uncanny for a twenty-three-year-old who confuses “good” with “well.”
“Is it because you…” she stammers. “… you see something in me that is… more than myself?”
“What?!” I exclaim.
She furrows her brow. “Is it… the objet petit a you see in me when we’re… making love?”
I huff – somehow through my nose – and smirk. “What have you been reading lately?”
Chanel shrugs, shaking her goofy head. “Nothing. I dunno. Tumblr’s ‘n stuff. The usual. Whatever, you know?”
“And, what, you’re reading Lacan’s posthumous blog or something?”
“Who’s that?” she asks.
“Exactly,” I conclude.
“Gosh,” Chanel rejoins in that puritanical way of hers that both delights and exasperates me now. “I suddenly feel like I know what I’m talking about here. You love not me but rather instead that part of me that is more than me. The incomplete gap between the me you perceive as a symbol of me and the me that exists beyond your, my, or anyone else’s subjective parallax view of me.”
I’m shocked. And so is she, apparently. Only, she’s grinning… and I’m not.
“Wow,” she says.
“Here,” I say as epilogue to Chanel’s short dissertation. “Open.”
Leaning on my left elbow into her, I snatch at her chubby-cheeked dimpled chipmunk face, squeezing until she does as commanded, and unzip my pants. I pull out my erect cock – peremptorily jerking it with punishing celerity – and pull her face toward the reddening beast so that I can jam the girth of its flesh into her maw.
I keep her olive-shaped head against my groin and hold it there, staring up at the green-glowing Moon. There is no blowjob here. No back and forth movement on her or my part. I have a load to release into this irritating smart-mouth, and she’s gonna take it.
It happens… and I grunt, a beast myself now discharging into her throat.
Perspiring relief washes over me, as I look down to Chanel’s wide-open bunny blue eyes. Ejecting gobs of goop into her warm, fleshy-moist mouth.
Both of us still on the ground, Chanel smiles and lunges at me, lapping up my face with her tiny tongue. “Mmm,” she says. “You taste like butterscotch.”
“I do?” I say, incredulous.
She tilts her head to the side, questioningly, as though hitting upon another mysterious epiphany. “No. Actually… you taste like... like you. But the you that is more than you.”
“I gotta write all this down,” Chanel says, bolting up, and pitter-pattering across the sand on her bare feet toward her clothes a few yards away. She quickly pulls on her frilly, pink underwear, tight black jeans, and red woolen sweater.
“Come on!” she calls out to me. “I just gotta write!”
* * *
Me, I can’t write at all lately.
I’ve been trying to finish like a fiend this piece I’ve been doing for The Coast – funnily enough, about Lacan and the objet petit a. But, nothing has been coming.
Certainly not since my beachfront tryst with Chanel.
To cope with the strain of my first-ever bout of Writer’s Block, I’ve instead been watching that new cable show Some Young Broads. The plots and dialogue are the worst kind of puerile flummery, and when I first tried to watch it, all I could think of was, Yup: This is definitely the work of ‘some young broad.’
But something about the main young broad – the show creator, of course – sickeningly gets me every time. Trini Dobowitz, with her stocky tree-trunk stems characteristically enveloped in white schoolgirl leggings, and those billowy polka-dot dresses of hers affectively widening her already generous waistline.
That haggard, droopy face. Her bobbed brown hair that’d look so damn good if Trini Dobowitz weren’t so damn ugly.
There I’d be, naked on my Good Will orange-peel couch in the near-darkness of my compact studio apartment. Mercilessly jacking off to the corpulent image of Trini on the intermittently glowing television before me. The corduroy ridges of the couch slicing into my bare behind. Keeping my t-shirt on (as always) even while masturbating to the boob tube.
Jacking it to that dumb dame with a flare for 1930s fashion and twenty-first century technology, with tits she so loves exhibiting to the public, to the camera, to me… and the millions out there glued to their sets and basking in the static-electric warmth of TV’s glass teat.
Me, pulling and tugging at my circumcised six inches bobbed at the tip (like Trini’s bobbed hair that in this scene is festooned with an O’Keeffeian purple rose).
She’s lying on her bed. Her deadened brown eyes peering up into those of the infantile series’ interchangeable svelte, five-o-clock shadowed Semitic boyfriend always named “Dave” or “Jonathan.” He lumbering over her bare, neotenous chest. The boys on this show always on the verge of tears; the gal always the man of the show…
… And I’m maniacally shucking my shaft in the flickering glare of the TV screen. Harder and faster, practically peeling off the cob’s irritated skin.
No moisturizer for me – I crave the friction and grit my teeth. I bite down on my bottom lip, close my eyes, hear only the sound of Dave-Jonathan and Trini on the screen making sloppy, silent white-people love.
I think the fellow is really crying now and I hear Trini cackling on screen between moaning and slapping Dave-Jonathan’s behind. He cries out and she laughs more with that mannish guffaw of hers.
But my eyes are shut, and all is a consuming void less the twisting and turning of my erect penis puffing larger, thicker in my right hand. I can feel it, the thickness swelling and the snake’s skin pushing upward.
I should loosen my grip and let the thing breathe, but instead tighten my grasp – along with my eyes that are clenched to the point of “seeing” before me a reddish kind of white light that comes to me always before sleep.
I gulp the excess saliva in my mouth that I’ve forgotten to swallow and listen as the creaky bed on the TV screen squeaks up and down with the continued banging of the broad and her boy.
I’m blowing out hot air through my clamped lips, intermittently squeezing my cock while violently stroking the bastard, and my nose forcefully expels my air like I’m a frantic bull, before…
… I open my eyes to see Dave-Jonathan leaning down to gently kiss the flappy flapjack tits of his porcine paramour, licking circles round the pointy, bright-red, sweaty nipples poking out from her brown areolas. She looking hopelessly into his whiny epicene eyes…
… And… Fuck her! I let loose the font of sticky-white spray, still ripping at the steamy skin of my erection handful.
I stand up and rush over to the TV, letting the last gasp of semen spittle pelt the screen. Right at Trini’s fucking face. Right as the purple rose falls from out of her antique hair, onto the remarkably well-kept carpet of her unrealistically large New York apartment.
I stand, trembling. Spent.
My penis strained and stingy. My fingers and wrist stiff with arthritic exhaustion. There’s one more squeeze of juice in me and I shoot it out at her dumbfounded face, frustrated now at the unsatisfying technique of her lover du jour who resembles all the others in her TV life.
I let go of my penis, already shriveling back from the seeming fluorescence of the TV. Standing, balling my hands into fists.
Ejaculating to that corpulent cunt? Christ! Fuck her. Fuck her! Me, feverishly jerking off to her mounds of gluttonous glob – purely out of spite, mind you! – and she gets picture deals and book deals and TV shows and her own fucking cereal… All of this: the shows and the success – just like Chanel, I realize – coming from my essence. These broads taking my essence and flourishing…
And that is what’s been going on! It all flashes before me at once!
There was even that one girl who became a poet. What was her name?
Let’s call her… Amy. Soft, simple, subtle, supple. Amy. Yes, “Amy”: the perfect name for this girl with messily cropped plucky pixie highlighter pink hair (did it glitter? can’t recall) and bright, alabaster-skinned face that never shined as though the whole of her physiognomy was nothing more than a matte photograph.
Pearly, smiley teeth and, just… You get it: adorable. A gentle swan of a girl working at the coffee shop across the street from me. Silvery barrettes in her pink-pixie hair and those emerald-green eyes bursting out of her alabaster face in vividly vivacious 3D.
She’d have on a too-tight, pedomorphic rainbow-striped 1980s retro polo that would really flaunt those size-B boobs of hers, poking out of the horizontal Skittle lines of her shirt. Her short sleeves would reveal the treasured tattoo on her right arm of a puckish fairy-child (not unlike Amy herself) enmeshed in a baroque network of faded-gray ivy.
Oh, and those black-and-white striped referee shorts she’d wear over her ultra-firm, nearly non-existent butt, all of which was then covered from waist to knees by her green, cotton coffee shop apron that domesticated this fallen angel in a way that made it ever-the-more inviting when she would come to you from the coffee maker to the register before saying, “Any room for cream?”
That night, I’m opening the door to my apartment with Amy on the other side of me. Her back to the door now nearly ajar. Me mashing up against her face-to-face, mouth-to-mouth, tongue-to-tongue. Forehead-to-forehead.
Pushing her the rest of the way through the opening door with one hand; my face and body against hers. Closing the door with a reverse mule kick and shuffling her across the stained gray carpet toward the orange-peel Good Will corduroy couch.
Amy unwraps her bright-red homemade knit-yarn scarf in the infinitesimal space between our two bodies even now smashed against one other.
We do not stop with the mindless kissing, and Amy falls against the back of the couch, allowing me to collapse atop her.
The scarf now off and thrown to the floor.
With the same cat-like dexterity – and without failing to continue consuming my mouth with hers – she unbuttons her black pleather jacket and tosses it too to the floor beyond us while I unzip my jeans and hold the side of her head with my other hand.
We’re making out like we’re sixth-graders in the back of the baseball field – full and vital, lustful and unfettered, sloppy and slippery, slobbering and great.
She says between panting and kisses – with her eyes closed and frenzied octopus hands all over my face and body now – “So how’s the cheese book coming along?”
I stand up, my pants in a heap around my shoes, my bare shins against the couch, the arrowhead knob of my erection protruding through the dark brown plaid of my boxers, right toward Amy’s head resting against the back of the couch.
Slowly, I pull her rainbow polo up and over her head. Amy’s raising her pale, silky-smooth doll arms (there’s the tattoo) in subservience to my touch, which I feel rings a quiver down her now…
… and – bending toward her body – I slowly, slowly suckle her ripe, pointy, salmon-colored nipple that caps her pastel-pink areola a thumb’s length round in circumference.
Amy’s whole body sinks back into the couch – arms still sprouting above her head, allowing me to do as I please – and I hear the crinkle-creasing of the corduroy as the only sound in the humid apartment.
I nurse on her tit so small and proud. I am satisfied that Amy feels no need for a bra.
I’m on my knees now, buttressed by hers.
Amy’s black-and-white striped ref shorts lead to her opaque black leggings that scratch a bit when I gently caress one, but look too damn good on this little swain to complain.
I’m licking her nipple, lapping up crystalline sweat droplets with my oversized, puppy-dog, raspberry-skinned tongue. Playfully, quietly squeezing the breast itself with my right hand.
My left hand continues to caress Amy’s scratchy legging filled with her leg before me.
I stop for a breath to answer, “Oh. You know, cheese is cheese.”
But what Amy did not know – while I retracted my hand from her leg in order to guide my arrow point penis from out of the plaid boxers through the slit in front, gripping its head and stroking; she taking the cue to bring her arms down and pull down her leggings to the floor, followed by those referee shorts of hers – was that the “cheese book” would never be finished.
I had stopped working on it and in fact had to return the advance from the publisher (not an easy task in this tough economy of ours, I can tell you!).
It was my second bout of Writer’s Block. A block of big, fat, stinky, Limburger cheese.
Not knowing this (or probably not much caring, anyway), Amy slowly raised her white, ceramic leg past the side of my head with the skillful grace of the ballerina she once most likely was as a fragile young thing.
I reached out to her foot just above my head and folded it down, popping a green-nailed big toe into my mouth, bobbing it as one would a tasty sucker; my right hand now playing again with her left tit whose nipple was unbelievably firm against the cautious swirls of my thumb.
Thinking to myself all the while, if only you knew…
All those faggoty years of fantasizing about being a poet! The modern-day laureate! No one does that anymore… but for a few sad, suicidal goth girls and rich, effete androgynies living in Park-Slope. I would bring back the Bukowski, the Miller, the Kinski.
Hence, no more cheese book.
These things came to mind to the new soundtrack: the faint flesh-petting of Amy’s soft, meringue of shaved pussy. Masturbating with her leg still vertically held against me.
Bending her foot further toward my face and gleefully feasting on her big toe, I selfishly decide to shove the entire size-6 into my grateful gob.
Taking the moment to climb spryly into her lap – folding her leg back into her; foot still in my mouth (further proof of those years of ballet flexibility) – and mounting her. My thickening, hot-blooded meat finding purchase in her gaping creaminess of crack.
I’m pushing myself forward, against her body, against the back of the corduroy couch. Pressing myself up inside her malleable innards with a soft groan from her closed-eye fairy face framed by sweat-lined strands of lithe pixie pink hair.
No, in lieu of confessing my longing to be a poet, I held her small head with both hands, thumbing her baby elf ear. I leaned in to nuzzle her cheek-to-cheek, hearing the sound of the couch keening (almost as though it were that creaky bed of Trini’s; Get it out of your mind!).
Breathing out of my nose and rocking myself back and forth – gently but true – against and inside Amy’s small body. I could feel my back straining. My spine tingled as I did burrow myself deeper inside her, pulling her impossibly close to me, jowl-to-jowl and eyes closed.
Amy’s chapped pink lips popped open, exposing the silver ball piercing her kitten tongue and then (no, I did not tell her)… it came. A long, prolonged stream of hot viscosity bursting forth from out of my body and into hers. The arrowhead shaft of my penis purging itself, flushing her insides with me; she digging her short-nailed fingers into my back and shoulders, pulling me even – yes – closer.
Clinging to me, inviting my sperm to enter her, wanting it, needing it.
I’m now drawing her closer, all but crushing her skull between my bear claws, mashing the side of my face into hers, pumping and pumping my hot load up into her warm, creamy crevice; filling her fey, frail body whose eyes suddenly bolted open.
“Wait,” Amy said, as though shocked back to life.
Amy’s surprisingly iron-grip on my back and shoulders loosened and she pulled away from me. I had heard it all before and knew it was coming. Here we go…
… But, no. Instead of How dare you, it was, “I suddenly have… thee… best… idea… for a poem… ever!”
Navigating around my body, Amy stood up off the couch, tugged up her leggings and shorts, and was out the door and from my life for good. Out of the coffee shop, even.
About a year later, her two-volume poetry collection (Before the Storm and After the Wake) were bestsellers, single-handedly revitalizing the fledgling poetry industry. Meanwhile, I… I couldn’t write line one of my grand poetry opus.
Not after that evening with this bright new star.
You may have heard of her, in fact. They call her “Anais” Annie. Actually… Yes! That was her name. Annie. Not Amy. Annie.
* * *
The memory flashed to finito and I was left vacantly flipping through the TV channels in my otherwise dark studio apartment with one hand holding my emptied, limp dick. Literally marinating in my own juices of failure.
And what followed was yet another rerun of Some Young Broads (now on three channels, as you may know; one of the runs dubbed for Spanish-speaking audiences, which finally makes me laugh in a way that the English version never could).
So these fucking bitches keep stealing my ideas. My energy. My power. My… me.
Whether I’m pumping into her twat, face, or even TV image, it doesn’t matter. Off they go to become bigger, bolder, better than I could ever imagine (and if I could imagine, they would steal that from me, too! Whores!).
You don’t believe me?
I tell you, the more I jerk it to this Trini Dobowitz slut – to her fat fucking face – the more powerful and successful she becomes. It’s happened all year. OK? The same fame and power that then eludes me.
It’s mine. There inside me, percolating inside my loins, incubating and ready to rock and/or roll… then POW: a simple lapse of judgment and I flush it all out of me and into HER. Whomever SHE may be at the moment of too tantalizing temptation.
But… wait! Why hadn’t I realized it before? (Christ: The latest promo for Some Young Broads says Trini has been nominated for an Award for Brilliance in Women…)
And, more importantly, why hadn’t I done something about it? How could I have been so foolish? So weak? So cowardly to face the all-consuming fait accompli of the thing: Each time I come for a girl, she absorbs my ideas!
Really, it’s not even my fault. Or their fault. Like Chanel. Poor thing is (was?) so scatterbrained, I was always a bit surprised when she actually remembered to remove her tampon before our getting down to business. Then, suddenly, she’s deconstructing the double negations of Hegel through the perspective of Lacan’s Seminar III? Becoming some kind of grand poobah in the psychoanalytical Academic Circle that continues to shun me?
Clearly, this was happening all along.
I knew now what I needed to do. This would be the thing. This would be the one that would bring me to that next level of my career. The elusive “loose fish” mariners tried to best in the stories told by Moby Dick’s faithful crew.
Here it was. I couldn’t believe my luck once it all came together in my mind: I possess some weird “reverse” magic power, if you will, and now I can write about it. Do a standup act! Sure! Who’s doing standup these days? A bunch of hipster kids talking about their troubles with social media? Bah. I could do better!
I could wrap an entire set around this wacky story!
All I needed to do was write the christing motherfucker!
My palms were sweaty with exhilarated anticipation. Oh, how fun it would be to write! Oh, the exuberant joy of seeing my story told. And how – oh, yes! – how amazing it would be to at long last land myself in the coveted Victor’s Throne!
And I was off!
Off to the bar calling me with clarion siren’s song. (I needed a snifter of potvaliancy here before taking on that most formidable of all foes: the white-blank page.)
Three shots of Wild Turkey 101 and two bottles of Sam Adams later and my arm’s around the short shoulders/neck of the utterly ravishing, dark and brooding June sitting on the barstool next to me.
I’m laughing my sick fucking ass off, and June’s trying her best to smile with a crooked, placating grin, revealing her baby Chiclet teeth all adorably misshapen. Her pillows of red-red ruby lips glint in the dun-colored gas-lamp lighting of the Degas-blurry bar scene. And her blackest Snow White hair is topped by a purple-and-white polka-dot hair band affixed just so.
Just so for me. Just so for this night of revelation, excitation, and celebration. I will be writing all the wrongs of my life and finally…
… But, first: two more shots. And June.
June with the shockingly penetrating onyx eyes. Eyes that are pupils only. Somehow. June with the bashful button nose that crinkles when she continues to placate me with her custom crooked grin. June with the baby powder pale skin wrapped tightly around her baby-doll frame.
June in the flickering, fluorescent light of the drip-drop, claustrophobic box of the wet-floored, tile-floored bar bathroom.
There we are together. And she’s about 5’4, making her the perfect height to be spun around (bathroom door click-locked), and my two lesbo fingers – middle and ring – dig up and into her slippery, slick-wet cunt from behind.
We’re both standing, but that does not stop me from drilling her sweet vagina with these fingers, pounding her and all but scraping her bulbous clitoris along the way.
Over and over, fingers diving deeply into her gut, palm of my hand slapping against her supple white ass enshrouded in shadow for the moments of darkness from the flickering, erratically humming low light above us.
In the scratched, broken mirror before us, we can see through the layer of rust-brown dirt to our muddy reflections.
June’s eyes shut as I continue to finger-ram her remorselessly, gritting my teeth and letting go of any inhibition, allowing the alcohol to take over and make my hand a machine pelting her ass and forcing my fingers up and into her, over and over, without stopping, doing all I can to rip her whole goddamn petite body apart.
She’s loving it – I think – and I can barely see in the mirrored reflection her closed eyelids are painted with a light lavender hue.
There’s that crooked smirk of hers again, both of us hearing only the on-again/off-again buzz of the low light above and the quickening, gooshy flesh-slapping of my pile-driving fingers penetrating her body endlessly.
The fingers of my left hand knowingly wrap around her left ribs to clasp her flat stomach beneath her tight black leather biker jacket whose jangling, kitschy chains assure me she’s no motorcycle rider.
Holding her in place grants me purchase to really go to work here, forcing her to climax. My brow folds with sweaty, deliberate dedication. I want her to come and she will do it, and she will do it from my fingers alone.
Up and in, again and again, these two of my hand’s strongest fingers, ruthlessly excavating her slimy-lipped slit; her warm and welcoming body taking each thrust, almost inhaling the entirety of my hand.
June is soundless, licks her lips slowly, and I can then hear her deep breathing; each exhale long and quivering. Each inhale quick and strong as though her last.
“Harder,” she whispers as I quicken. “Harder!”
And I oblige, even faster still, pummeling her wet dripping vagina oozing with excitement and sweat.
With each rapid thrust pumping her insides, I feel the cold, firm skin of her buttock against the palm of my perspiring hand. I notice a small, brownish-black bruise just underneath the back of her knee and something about it turns me on in a way few other things could.
I’m really railing her now, banging her with my one hand, clutching her stomach with the other and literally pulling her into each advance of my fingers inside of her all but breaking her spine in the process.
No sound from her at all, as I open my eyes to look into our shared reflection in the grimy mirror and see her eyes – pupils, as I’ve reported already – and her lips mouthing the word, “Please…”
She whispers it now: “Please.”
And I stop, losing my balance a bit, and with both hands (my right fingers sticky and warm from her insides) I unfasten my belt, unzip my black slacks, and drop them to the floor.
I spin June around to face me.
Her body trembles as I drag my sticky-wet hand up and down her tight-crack vagina sprayed with a black peppering of prickly hair, and injudiciously ram myself home (a trick, to be sure, in my besotted state; but, still…).
And her eyes bolt wider than I’d ever dreamed and her breath expels a galaxy of cool spritz motes in my face.
I lean into her face, bite her lip, let her go, and birl her around again, shoving her up against the mirror with a crash and a grunt from June.
I spread her ass cheeks apart, draw back spittle in my throat, and shoot it out at her puckered spiral of an asshole practically winking at me.
“Wait,” she says. But I’m not listening. Clutching her pert size-C’s (impossible for her tiny frame, but not my prerogative) from behind, I bash myself up and into her, driving home and boring her tender, fleshy asshole.
The slimy flop of entrails’ mucousy skin encase my cock as I pump her faster and harder, jabbing her with all the power in my back and body, hanging onto her firm breasts underneath her leather jacket (jangling chains).
Her onyx marble pupils always open in the reflection of the mirror against which her head is banging with each crash of myself into her cold, fleshy cheeks.
It is in that reflection where I see her agog at me as though in disbelief, still making not a noise – petrified perhaps – and my right hand slithers down her belly-button to her black-peppered, bristly twat whose lips I strum, impossibly speeding up my cadence of savage ass-fucking.
Our inhales/exhales are in perfect syncopated sync, both of us clammy and sweating through the same jouissance and pain. June being torn from within, me tensing my back muscles and feeling the hot sting of my penis teeming with volatile sperm ready to engage.
Then I hear it once again: “Please, please, please.”
I let her know: “I’m gonna…”
“All of it,” she says. “Please. All of it. I want it. Oh, God! Please…”
And I feel it. Starting in my belly, hot and bothered like the whiskey’s gonna come back up – but it’s not – and I clench her left leathered tit with one hand, playing with the top of her ladyfinger pussy with the other; she screeching in pain as I squirt and let loose, draining my juice up and into her guck-ey mash of fenny flesh and breathing out quickly as I finish releasing deep within her asshole.
And I pull out, wipe the excess cum on her left buttock (just above the enticing bruise), place my hand on the mirror beside her face, and lean against it to catch my breath.
I expel a loud sigh and almost laugh.
June turns around, exhausted and pouring sweat. She stares into my eyes as she pulls up the black skirt that had been on the ground round her white, filthy tennis shoes.
She pivots round to her reflection. Fixes her hair, makes sure her polka-dotted hair band is just so once more.
I grip my cramped side in pain and breathe hard, a little wobbly from the booze still violating my system.
“Well,” June says. “Thanks.”
I nod my head. Then she breaks out into the loudest belt of laughter.
“What?” I ask.
“Oh, nothing,” she says.
“No, what? Tell me.”
She tilts her head now, and it’s the first time I sense a semblance of sentience in her otherwise expressionless, robotic face. She’s no longer placating me with a crooked grin. This is her. This is she. This is June. And she just figured it out.
“I just thought of something… sooooo funny.”
I’m suddenly sobered. Oh, no.
Wait, what was I gonna do after this…? What was the idea again?
“Wait!” I call out to her; but June’s already unlocked the door and is out of the bathroom. I see the back of her fake biker jacket – “Sorry! I really gotta go!” – as she’s out of my presence forevermore.
I’m alone. Spent. With an absentee mind.
And I know I’m too drunk to remember June.
Until a few months later, that is.
There she is. On the TV. On cable. It’s a clip from an upcoming episode of Some Young Broads. They’re talking about the season premiere.
And it’s June. Doing standup at a club on the show. I remember her!
I found her first! I… came in her ass! I came in her. And now she’s doing standup. On Some Young Broads. There she is: “Hey, girls. Does your guy ever do something that just… totally gets on your nerves? He’s demanding anal, and meanwhile you’re all like, ‘Uh, no thanks!’” Laughter in the crowd (fake? real?).
June finishes, “Just remember next time, when you’re feeling guilty about it: It’s not ‘complaining’; it’s ‘explaining what bothers you!’” The audience (fake? real? Almost all females, that’s for sure) goes crazy for it.
And now Trini Fuckin’ Dobowitz is discussing the clip and how she found June at a night club a few months back doing this bit about “complaining” and how it tohhhhhhtally gelled with her “aesthetic” and… etc., etc. etc.
Trini then explains that she and June are sooooo gelled in their “aesthetic,” in fact, that she will be executive producing June’s own series on NBC next year…
And I’m in my shitty little studio apartment. Wondering how I’m gonna pay next month’s rent. No food in the fridge. No ideas in my head. In the dark. Alone. And with nothing.
I can only look at the camera deadpan and say the line.
And I swear I can hear canned laughter and applause as the credits roll…