I knew when I first saw your hands how many girls you’d fucked, and also that I would be your last. You held my gaze for that extra moment, but I held yours for longer. I had you.
What I mean: I follow your commands in bed, but you know what I want, and I know how to soothe you. An example: the time you had me place an ad online. I would be a good girl; Daddy spank me; only phone sex please. It was the men who responded, the dirty grunting fools, and they called me names while I slowly spread my legs wide upon our bed. The best one didn’t know he was on speakerphone as he ordered me to worship him, to wait to touch myself until he said the word. I didn’t have to wait: you were already slapping my inner thighs with the palm of your hand, letting your fingers graze my clit as you reached back for another smack. Your eyes were blazing as the stranger claimed he wanted me, but it was your dick I wanted inside me, your hands around my throat, punishing me for my indiscretions, this insatiable need for more.
And the caller was getting rougher, calling me “bitch” and “whore,” and you mouthed the words, pinning me down. He didn’t know your cock was out of your jeans, straining—didn’t know you were so stealthy and silent as you bit my chin and pulled my hair. And then you were inside me, the full length of you, fucking me as hard as the stranger claimed to be. We could hear him jacking off, and you matched your thrusts to his, your hip bones slamming my ass, your eyes wild and mean for all the men, like him, who never saw you at all.
We used him, we did, that man on the phone; we used him up and left him spent and gasping. But your cock never goes soft, and your envy streaks to the horizon. The phone clicked dead and I begged you to stop.
“No,” you whispered. “You wanted him.”
I promised you then that I didn’t, but I’m telling you now that I did. Because there is always a stranger in bed with us, an extra pair of eyes: an ex, a student, a prisoner, a phantom desire that makes us hot. And that night there was the real cock you wanted, filled with the blood and pulse and cum of you—that fierce, unquenchable need. So yes, I wanted him, because you wanted him too.
You flipped me over, bound my hands behind my back with your shirt. I glanced at your chest, shiny now with sweat, your beautiful scars pale crescents below your nipples. I tried to catch your eye, but you were slicing me with your gaze.
“Take me, bitch,” you said. “For all the women who wouldn’t.”
You pulled me roughly to the edge of the bed by my wrists and tipped my ass upward with a slap. I felt the tip of your cock bobbing at my clit as you maneuvered me, pushing my face into the bed, shoving my legs wider and wider apart. I was splayed for you, exposed, my cunt still humming from the sex before. It wasn’t enough. You touched me, and I was wet, I knew it, but you accused me of not being ready. You spanked me, hard, on my ass, and then shoved your fingers inside me. I gasped.
“Shut up,” you said. “This is nothing.”
And then I felt your dick at the rim of my asshole. I bit my lip; did you even have lube? Your fingers—three, maybe four—were working inside me, probing at the ridge where I fall into coming, and I could feel your knuckles at the edge of me, forcing their way inside and your thumb, that sneaky thumb, tucked in close. And then your fist, your whole fist was in me, and I was around you, bucking against you and you were ramming into me, through me, pounding. And then: light. A searing, ripping light, from the base of me, up and through my spine. You had spread my asshole wide with your free hand and forced your cock inside with one hard slam. I screamed, but you jerked back and did it again. Your fist in my cunt pulled me toward you and you fucked my ass with a fury, rearing back and bucking into me, faster and faster.
“Take it, my little fag girl,” you yelled, your breath fast, about to come from the friction in the jeans you still had on. “You like it when Daddy fucks you raw. Tell me how you like it.”
“I like it, I like it,” I whimpered, though I was splintering apart from the pain. “I’m your fag. I’m anything for you.”
I could feel your cock and your hand meeting inside me, filling me to bursting, and I needed to come; the endorphins would melt the pain in my ass, would lift me, free me, undo me. I was choking with need. You must have sensed this, because suddenly, you pulled out, and my ass stung with relief. You told me to turn over, and I did, your fist twisting inside me.
“I’ll suck you dry,” you said, and your mouth was on me like a clamp. Your fist was pounding harder now, doing the work that your cock had performed on my ass. I felt your teeth on my clit, too sharp, and I arched up in alarm, but then you were sucking on me, pulling my clit into you like you owned it, your tongue rough on its tip. I surrendered to your mouth, your fist, the suction that didn’t yield until the tears were squirting out of the sides of my eyes, and my heart was stopping with my held breath, and finally, I burst apart and everywhere.
Your car is like your cock, you’ve always said. But the girl in the passenger seat gets the best ride.
WHEN YOU CALL
Sharon Wachsler
I cry out. She shoves her cock into my mouth. “Give it to me, baby, oh, you need it, you need it.” I choke on her soft hardness and suck and open and tears fall down my face for wanting her, for loving her, for giving her this release. Something clatters to the floor as she fucks my face, her hand in my hair, and suddenly she is yanking me off her and reaching between my legs—“So wet, so wet.” She slides two fingers in before I can say, “Stop, yes, no, I want more. I was feeding you.” Here, like this, my words don’t have to make sense.
She wants me and I want to give her all I can. There’s so little else I can give. She can take all of me, every hole; she can fill and I’ll give. That’s why she fucks the water from me, so my cunt is gushing—and yes—“Yes,” she reassures, pushing me down, reading my frantic words. “I put the towel down. It’s okay. Let go. Give it to me, give it to me.” And I fall back and open, and liquid drips from my nipples from her sucking, and my cunt streams onto the folded cloth cradling my ass, and my eyes tear, and my nose runs. I am streaming for her, I am screaming for her.
And then a terrible pause: Whose name did I scream?
And it takes me a real minute—sixty ticks of the second hand—to sift through past lovers, recent conversations, common phrases: Caren, Carla, car, Connie, Con. Con. Yes, she is smiling. She is full of herself and of sating me. I must have said Con or Connie. I slump back onto the pillows. She stretches over me like a bridge and retrieves my glasses from the floor. “Oh,” I say, laughing, “so that’s where they went. I didn’t even notice they were gone. You look so good blurry.”
“I can always see you.” She taps her temple, then pulls herself away. “I need to take a shower.” She is coated with me, everywhere. My hair sticks to my forehead and neck. My ponytail must have come loose. I scrounge for a scrunchie to scoop the loose strands into a knot.
I try to swallow the knot in my throat. I focus on her eyes—handsome, expectant—her glasses too far down her nose. Her lips are moving: “Okay?” She pats my knee. “Do you remember now? In the car I told you I was going out with Caren to that new French film? That I needed some ‘me’ time? And you said, ‘Okay.’ You sort of waved it away, like it was no big deal.”
“Yeah, vaguely.” I said. “Reading all those subtitles would give me a migraine?” It’s true. It hadn’t seemed important because when she told me, it made perfect sense, then. As long as I know what’s going on, I can relax. I trust her. Neither of us trusts me. No, I recite to myself, not me, the disease.
“Yes, I’m sorry.” My face burns. Why do you always have to be right? I had felt so indignant, enjoying my anger, when I’d accused her: “I understand why you need to go out sometimes without me, but you could at least have told me ahead of time, so it wouldn’t feel like you have to sneak around, like I’m some sort of encumbrance—” I’d stopped to swipe the tears and snot off my face. “Like I’m too stupid to understand. I could have made plans, too, you know.”
Now she pats my
hand. “It’s okay, sweetie, it’s not your fault.” She sighs.
“Don’t feel guilty.” Just a little. I pull my hand away, pick at my thumbnail. She’s patting my hand like a child’s. When this fist is in your cunt, you’re giving over to a woman.
“I don’t,” she says flatly. “I know I need this. I also need to shower. I smell like work.” Con reaches across the couch to hug me, whispering, “I love you,” but I pull myself away. I’m not your charity.
“Go change,” I say. Don’t change. She heads to the bathroom and the sag of her spine strikes me: haggard. Where is her swagger? I hear the shower blast, water hitting the tub. “I’ll get your coat,” I call, my hair pulled back, neat.
I’m sucking her tongue hard in my teeth. “French kiss” wanders into my mind. Why, when, the French are so fastidious and controlled, do they call jamming this organ into someone else’s mouth, “French”? My tongue babbles against the roof of her mouth, rolling across her teeth. Enamel on enamel: I love it when we scrape at the rough edges, where pieces of ourselves might break off into each other. I am straddling her, she grunts beneath me and I flatten myself on her, so warm. “Lu—” I start to say, but stop, keep swiveling my hips. “Love,” I morph it. “Love, Conileh.” I bite her neck. They both loved me to bite their necks. Both fat and butch and computer engineers. Both needed lessons in how to interpret their feelings. I taught Lu to dance with my ass pressed against her groin. That got her onto the floor. Soon Lu wouldn’t even leave the floor. Then she left. Connie already knew how to dance. She regrets—regrets for me—that I can’t dance anymore. I brought it up once, that I recall. She said, “We dance our own way.” But I know she misses moving that way, the right way. I dance on Connie’s dick, though. I shimmy all over her. I told Connie to learn to put herself first, to figure out what she’s feeling, to fulfill her needs. Now she is, goddammit. Now she’s using phrases like “me time.”
I flop down to watch TV, loud, even though the noise makes me nauseous. I don’t ask when she’ll be back. If she’ll be back.
Con grabs my hips, pulls me roughly toward her. I feel her dick slithering, bumping inside of me and lean back so it rubs my G-spot. I can’t stand how good it feels. I almost fall over. She groans and grunts, pulling me against her, my breasts swaying, hair swinging into my eyes, hips burning from being stretched so far apart (she has no idea how much this hurts, but so much hurts me that I don’t tell her; it’s too much) my clit banging against the harness ring. God, how I love her.
“Uhn, uh, uhn,” she grunts as she drives into me. I open a blurry eye to adore her sweaty face, her intense—almost angry—look of concentration.
She asked me once, “Are you fantasizing about someone else?” Startling. “No. What on earth made you think that?”
“Because you keep your eyes closed.” Do I? “Oh, I guess I didn’t know I did that. You keep yours open?” Before she answers, I know: “Yes, I love to watch you.”
“I love to be watched. I love you to watch me,” I purr in her ear. She moans. Sometimes I open my eyes to see her watching me. I straddle her lap. Her eyes roll back and I grab her by the nape, pull her in, biting her lower lip. I roll into my mind, my hips rocking against hers. “I guess I just can’t concentrate with my eyes open. All the sensation, I want to feel it, with my body.”
I know she’s there, looking at me. The way into my mind is with hands and words and sounds, grunts and sighs, and a dick between my thighs and fingers digging into my hips. Make me yours. Pull me in. My mind is the safety. The fault lines, too.
“I’m entering this—you—with my eyes wide open,” she told me in the beginning. But nobody really knows me until they’ve entered me, my illness, my life. That, I remember. She tells me we’ve had several conversations about it—that the illness won’t drive her away. Then why don’t I remember? Something like that, I’d remember, wouldn’t I? She says she wrote it down, but I can’t find the scrap.
I’m trapped in the middle of a suspension bridge: I can’t believe she’ll stay; I can’t ask her to keep telling me she will. I don’t want her to know that I lose the pieces I write down. She might look at me that way—too much sympathy, like how her friends look at her when they say how good she is, how brave, how strong. They tell me how lucky I am. I know I’m lucky. Why don’t they tell Connie how lucky she is? They don’t hear her groan or feel me grip her when I come; they don’t watch us giggle on the couch or smell my lamb stew simmering on the stove. I know she is lucky, sometimes. Sometimes, I forget.
“Come on me!” she commands. “I want you to come on me.” There’s no dick this time, the first time; just me and her on the couch, the television on. The film becomes foreign as I climb onto her; she’s groaning in time. Just her rough jeans and my yielding leggings, bumping my pussy against her zipper as she grabs me ferociously by the throat, growls into my ear, “Come on me, baby—”
“I don’t know if I can—”
She bites off my words. “Come on me, come on me!” She is shaking me, grabbing my ass, hard. “Soak me, I want to feel you soak me,” and I scream with surprise as much as pleasure. I’m so turned on by her wanting me that bad that the words alone reach into my cunt, squeeze it free: there are convulsions from my cunt, my stomach, teeth, mind, clench and release, wet heat staining our laps. “Oh, yeah, baby; oh, yeah, oh, yeah,” she’s saying, pulling me against her, our breasts tumbling together.
It becomes our joke: remote-control orgasm. She tells me to come and I do. Her desire for me is my desire. Is it funny how much power she has over me? For her birthday I gave her a book of erotica. On the flap, I inscribed, I’ll always come when you call. What if she stops calling? Like Lu, who called me: a burden. No, I correct myself, not me. The illness. Lu stopped calling. “The illness is too much for me.”
I don’t understand too much. For me, it’s always a matter of too little. Too little I can do, too little I can remember. Too little keeping me just crazy enough to handle it. People used to chuck me on the shoulder, “Geez, you’re too much!” But that was before. Now it’s even more true.
Connie is calling me, my name, and “baby,” which I love. That, itself, gets her another shower. I’m sobbing into her shoulder as she rocks my ass in her wide-open hands that can hold so much, pressing me into her lap as I come and rent my throat with her name, wordless. She croons, “Oh, baby, yes, baby, give it to me. Give it all to me.” I always do. “I love it when you come on me,” Connie whispers. Then I always will. If you come to me, I will come on you. However you want. How often you want. Remote control girlfriend. I come fully loaded, no warranty on parts or labor. I am tuned in to her frequency, ready to be activated.
I look at the door. There on the knob is her pebbly wool coat. She forgot it. I totter over, rehang it in the closet. Connie never notices the cold.
I’m watching “Stars on Ice,” remote in hand, when Con enters. Somehow between all the commercial interruptions I’ve forgiven her for knowing what I’ve forgotten, because I’m happy to see her. I twist in my seat, “How was the movie?”
“It was okay,” she sighs.
“That’s a ringing endorsement. I’ll make sure to add it to my rental list.”
“Caren was getting on my nerves.”
“Really? Why?” So there. I put concerned sympathy on my face.
Con flings her shoes toward the boot tray, misses, hits the rocking chair. It sways back and forth, deciding whether to fall. “She talked through half the movie and then she gave away the ending! I wanted to throttle her with her Twizzlers!” I laugh and silence the TV. Con flops next to me.
“You are the perfect movie date, did you know?”
“No, I’m not. I can never keep track of what’s going on. Half the time I don’t even remember if I’ve seen it before.”
“Exactly. So you never ruin the ending!” She smacks my ass, then grabs a piece of rock candy from the coffee table, knocking the remote onto the floor. The crunch is so loud when she bites in
, but Con doesn’t like soft candy. With her mouth full of fillings, she tempts fate.
“You’re making a mess,” I grumble, snuggling up and trying to decide if I’ve been complimented or insulted. “Well, you wanted to get to know Carla better and now you have.” Connie’s glasses are at the base of her nose. I push them back up to her eyes.
“It’s Caren. Remember, you met her.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“At my fortieth birthday party,” she sighs.
I wish she’d stop sighing. “Well, there were like a hundred people there—” I point out.
“Thirty-seven.”
“Whatever. A lot… Wait! Was she the one who ate all the shrimp?”
“No, that was Sylvia. Caren was the blonde with the long nails.”
“You expect me to remember the nail length of forty-seven guests?” I poke Connie in the ribs, tickling her. She’s back. Carla was annoying.
“Isn’t that the kind of thing femmes are supposed to notice?” she pokes me back, then glances at the TV, eyes widen: ESPN. “What were you watching?”
“Football.”
“No, you weren’t.”
“Yes, it was the Bears against the Blue Jays.” I think these are real teams.
“Try again,” she smirks.
“Okay, figure skating. Kurt Browning. Yum.” I lick my lips. She swats me. “So, what movie did you see that blabby Carla ruined?”
“Caren. Amelie. And she didn’t ruin it entirely. You should rent it. It’s good.”
“Oh, bleagh, that’s French, right? Subtitles? I’ll take a pass.”
“Whatever.” She shrugs. “I’m tired. Let’s go to bed.”
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