"Let me show you," I said, squatting to peer into the jungle of pipes under my late sink. I felt a bead of sweat run down the small of my back and disappear into the crack of my ass. God, I wanted him to see my ass like this, spread in a deep squat, hoping the position would remind him of a body squatting over his dick. If I could make him hot, I could get him off.
Over my shoulder, I grinned (caught him looking quickly up from my ass), "Hey—sorry if I'm flashing."
"No prob," he said nervously. But still smiling, determined to accept my challenge. I sized him up the way I've sized up every man I've ever seen, from my father to the news anchor I watched on TV this morning—I started at his feet and took my time looking up his whole body, staring an extra, focused beat at the mound where his cock and balls were tucked away behind his jeans. He shifted, but held my stare when I looked up into his eyes. A hardness crept into his sweetness; a good hardness, though, a sexual magnetism, a hard, healthy reply to my invitation. I knew it all then—he'd never really had a guy before, just kid stuff, but he was really curious and he really felt like popping some this afternoon.
I turned around and lay on my back, my head and hands in the pipe cabinet, pretending coyly to fidget with the pipes, saying, "It's really a big problem here." From where I lay, I could see his lower half, see the boner riding down his thigh, his palm trying to flatten it discreetly.
Time. To. Fuck.
I spread my legs, the rubber soles of my sneakers pulling pleasantly on the hardwood floor. My shorts were open to his gaze—my erection must've been plain, two gaps at the upper, inner thighs where my hairy nuts must've been visible. I waited until I saw his hand touch his cock through his jeans, then I reach down and stuck two fingers into the gap of my shorts, scratching at my right testicle, leaving the fingers there.
In a heartbeat, I had my eyes closed, ready, and his fingers slipped into my shorts on top of mind, rubbing my fingers and my sack at once. He removed his fingers—just long enough to raise them to his nose, I timed—and then he tugged my shorts to my mid-thighs and took my boner in his fist. I looked at him, but he was preoccupied, fascinated at playing with another man's cock. He curiously rolled my cock between his palms, worked it to make it painfully hard and swollen, leaking. He fingered the head, smeared pre-cum over the tip, rubbed under the crown until my eyes burned and I was gasping. He fondled my nuts so tenderly it felt like little kisses, then he actually did lean in to lick my balls tentatively.
"Please suck it," I whispered too fiercely. It scared him off.
"No way," he said, and started to back away.
"No, wait..." I said, already turning over. "I'll let you fuck me. It'll be great—c'mon, no condom. Just screw my ass." I was on all fours, pushing my ass back to him; to emphasize the pleasure I promised, I reached back with one hand and pulled a cheek aside, flexing my asshole. "C'mon. I'm supertight."
He smacked my ass lightly, felt me up, squeezed my cheeks and spread me apart to get a good look. When he poked into me with a stubby finger, I squeezed it with my hole and pushed back on it.
"Won't this hurt?" he asked incredulously "Shit!"
"I hope so, a little bit," I said seductively. I know what men want to hear. "But it won't hurt you any, just get you off. C'mon—you can fuck me hard. I can take it."
He undid his jeans and took out his dick. I looked back at him as he tugged his shirt over his head—big, brown nipples, really hairy, beefy guy. I was into it—I love hairy guys, don't trust smooth boys at all. He caught me looking and hesitated, but I encouraged him. "You're so hot. You must get a lot of pussy with that hot body, man. I'm gonna love your big dick up me. Show me who's boss."
He sort of nudged his cock around my ass cheek, a supersexy feeling itself, finally working it steadily, enjoying the burn of his engorged head over the hairs in my butt.
"Spit," I urged, delirious with need. He spit down on to his cock directly, then more—a lot—and greased his fat pole with it. Then I just bit my tongue while he penetrated, not as slowly as a gay man would've, but slowly enough to feel good even while it hurt.
"Damn..." I moaned.
"Hurt?" he asked, almost hopefully.
"Fuck yesss," I lied. "You're too damn big. Big meat...fuck me with it..."
My asshole felt stretched and resistant, but then, as always, it gave and I felt the pull as a new boner slipped up my butt and the snap as my anus clenched his raging flesh. He felt it, too.
"Fuck, yeah!" he said appreciatively.
"It was like a dream so good, so hard, the pleasure-pain as his dick screwed my naked butthole senseless, me incoherent with every animal jab into my wet warmth. After 10 minutes of powerful, backbreaking balling, he was lying flat on me, his hairy chest tickling my back as he worked my tightness just a few last seconds and then came long and loud.
"Oh, God!" he cried, almost in fear. "Oh, cheezus-cheezus-it's sweet!" The cum burned way up inside me as he emptied, collapsing on top of me in a panting heap. I came with a few quick strokes, knowing he'd never have the patience for much more, my asshole trying to tighten to closure, instead clamping onto his lingering hardness all the more.
I felt like crying it was so good.
Then, as I tried to deal with the intense goodness of it all, he jerked out of me suddenly, reassembled and muttered, "Crazy..." And left.
I just stayed there on all fours for a bit, concentrating on the soreness in my palms where they'd grasped the pipes under my sink, the seams of metal having pressed, unyielding, into my skin.
And now, I need more. I can't be satisfied with one ecstatic fuck, I have to have more, to give more. So I pull myself together and get ready to shower before I cruise for more. When I pour myself a drink, I look for ice, but there is none and so I go to fill the tray but there is no water because my sink is malfunctioning; the pipes have ruptured at their seams.
I Fucked a Girl
From "Switch Hitters" (Cleis, 1996) edited by Carol Queen and Lawrence Schimel.
I can't stop thinking about that MTV song, the one about kissing a girl, and about how that singer says it's just like kissing herself, only better.
I'm 26, old enough to know better than to be questioning my sexuality. I've always enjoyed sex with guys, right? I mean, I think I have. I've had orgasms with them. Most of them.
My current boyfriend just isn't cutting the mustard, though. He's a living doll, so cute my mom asked me if I was sure he isn't gay. He's been so horny for me from our first date on that I could only chuckle and raise my eyebrows demurely and assure her he wasn't. That's what my relationship is like with my mom—she's frank, I'm demure. I don't know how that happened.
Tony is not very tall, but he's very solid. He's compact, like a pit bull, but strokebait, like Toto. I actually call him "Toto" sometimes, to which he has been known to say "grrr." He has black, wavy hair that shines with gel, leaving the optical illusion that it is graying in spots. He has a Tony Curtis face, Burt Lancaster shoulders, and a Hugh Grant smile. In bed, he's Warren Beatty: single-minded and insatiable. I'm insatiable, too, sort of literally. I can't get enough because not much of it feels all that terrific. We don't talk too much, and when we do, we usually disagree.
I mean, he forces me to go see movies with cute playthings in them, then gets pissed off if it turns out the cute plaything actually has some lines and makes it through and hour and a half without flashing her tits. I try to make him accompany me to arthouse fare, or even to see some old revival, just for a change of pace, but he laughs it off. I am the one who always gives in. I don't know how that happened, either.
But lately, things have been weird for me. I have been thinking about my lesbian friend, Terry, who is very k.d. lang, but blonde. You know, the kind of lesbian that all the straight girls don't mind having crushes on. I don't have a crush on Terry—her opinions can be so annoying and whoever told her deodorant only masks her naturally sweet scent was bald-faced lying. But if I were allowed to bathe her first, I have been thinking
that I would love to fuck her. "I would love to fuck her," I think. Her.
Tony and I are on a typical date; we are eating at our favorite restaurant (some might call this a rut), Angie's, which has better pizza than John's and gives free refills, unlike Suzette's. Why do people name restaurants after themselves when the restaurants are so-so greasy spoons? Where is the pride?
Tony is a preener. It's okay, I allow it. I like to watch him strut and flex for me. I think it's his self-assurance that attracts me, his confidence in his own libido—something he shares with Terry. If a woman called him on his aggressive flirting, he would never be unprepared to follow through on it. Make her a conquest. I wonder if he considers me a conquest, even now, three months into it, and if he has had others like me recently. I'm not 100% sure I care, but I think I do.
We have a subversive waitress. I make this judgment based on the fact that she is the only one not in a uniform, her name tag sports the obviously self-chosen "ZiZi" and her hair is very short and very orange. Her only concession to convention is her makeup, which actually goes overboard—she looks like she is made up to be filmed. She's in a checkered skirt my mother would've worn in 1973 to look hip, and a man's white T-shirt, boxy at the hip and clingy at the tit. I'm humming that girl-kissing-song as she dryly requests our order.
"Burger, cheddar cheese, everything, but no onion," Tony says without even looking at her. He's hunched over toward me, but he isn't looking at me, either, just as my breasts. He is into them. Tony, as he smilingly tells me every once in awhile—usually after 20 minutes of wallowing in them—is a "boob man." So what am I? A boob? Or a boob woman? I think I could be both, in different senses.
My breasts are not fake. They aren't quite big enough that anyone would think them fake. They are, however, fleshy and large enough to require restraint at all times. If I jogged without an athletic bra mashing them into place, they would be too sore to be handled for a week. I am grateful that tube tops are not the rage this decade, and have considered having a Drew Barrymore done to them to make them more manageable and less oppressive in the summer heat. But I think I like them too much to lessen them. I like Tony's excitement over them, his little-kid glee while he squeezes them, kneads, tests. I like when nervous nerds peek at them, and when Terry sizes them up every time we bump into each other on the street.
"And I'll have a milkshake," I say, and don't even recognize my voice. I sound like a funny female cast member of "Saturday Night Live," or like Julie Brown, or like I'm flirting. With our waitress.
ZiZi looks up from her pad and I can tell that she'd look at least as pretty without a drop of makeup. She has the right shape to her face, enough cheekbones, and dark brown eyes—everything you need to go barefaced. I like that she was plucked her eyebrows into a perpetual arch.
I just know she's a lesbian, even without more obvious markers. For one thing, she isn't writing my order down, she's just pretending to, staring at me like a cat eyeing a fishbowl.
I crack a big smile and Tony asks me why I'm getting a milkshake and no real food.
"A milkshake is real food," ZiZi protests. "The man with the burger and the standards over here."
"Thanks," I'm thinking, and I smile at her real big.
ZiZi winks at me and takes off to get our food, our real food, wiggling her ass, I think, in my direction. I realize I'm much more interested in her shake than the one I've ordered. It's slightly scary to me that I'm getting so hot for her, for a her, another woman, so suddenly. I've been thinking about this for some time, but thinking and doing....
Tony starts talking about work, complaining about all the stressed-out personalities around him. He makes sure to tell me that his boss has praised him madly for two days in a row now, and takes special pleasure in telling me that he found his own name mentioned in the extensive graffiti in the men's room stall. This piques my interest, distracts me from thinking about kissing a woman in makeup. I'm a bit surprised to find Tony pleased that his name is in the men's room stall.
"Yeah," he says, shrugging and grinning. "Some gay guy wrote, 'Isn't that Tony too hot for words?' and some other gay guy wrote back, 'Very, but straight.' Isn't that a kick?"
I'm using water to tide me over until I get my lovely shake. "It doesn't bother you that guys think of you in that way?"
"Nah," he says. "Those guys in that office are all gay. It's the art department, for Christ's sake. They're all okay guys. I don't care as long as they're not making a grab at me or anything."
I realize I am confronted with an ego so grand it can overlook homophobia, which I've seen him exhibit, albeit mildly, on occasion.
I remember my first encounter with a lesbian. It was in college. I was maybe 19. I'd gone to a rinky-dink "alternative" club with two girlfriends, two of whom I no longer like, and the other of whom I can't clearly remember. We were at the bar, bobbing our heads to whatever, probably New Order, when my ex-friend said, "That girl who just walked by was a dyke!"
I had been accused of lesbianism in junior high because I had a short perm and ran track, so I was hypersensitive to hair-trigger labeling. The fact that I had had a secret crush on another girl at the time didn't make me any less angry at the people who called me "lezzie." In fact, it enraged me even more, because at the time, I suspected they were right.
"C'mon," I chided. "How do you know she was a dyke?"
"Because her T-shirt said: I'M A DYKE."
Hard logic to ignore.
I'd spent the rest of that night discreetly stalking that lesbian, watching her every move. I'd watched her position herself near other women, strike up brief conversations. She wasn't there to dance. She wanted to score.
I told my friends I needed a Coke and took their drink orders, sidling up right next to the dyke, pretending to be oblivious to her. I expected her to be really harsh, like those quasi-dykes from all the old Hollywood movies: sophisticated, predatory, hard. Ever see "The Haunting" with Julie Harris? It was...haunting.
Instead, she turned a heart-shaped face to me, a face full of freckles, and chirped, "I like your hair!"
It was long then, long and actually quite pretty, though it has since lost its attractiveness, much like my hands and feet have. I thanked her and searched her eyes for a trace of lesbianism, something I could identify and then hunt for in myself. But she just looked like a rejected sister from "Eight Is Enough." I left her, clueless, and I consciously tried to put the concept of girl-girl sex out of my head. It had worked up until the Tony era.
"Get cracking."
I'm startled as ZiZi places an enormous shake in front of my eyes, along with a gleaming canister full of another entire shake's worth of glop. She unceremoniously hands Tony his burger and asks if we'd like anything else.
?"Nope."
She saunters away and perches at the bar, crossing her bare legs (for me?) under her short skirt, and feigns reading the paper. I knew she is trying to make me look at her.
Tony chows down and I patiently suck my shake through a straw, my eyes pinned to her knees. She looks up to see if she has my attention, then re-crosses her legs and sits back more, allowing me a full view of a triangle of white panties on the vinyl stool. I am suddenly dripping wet and feeling uncomfortable, like Tony or one of the other patrons will see what's up and freak out, call me a lezzie, and abandon me to my adorably arch pixie, who by now is scratching something on her pad. Without any real reason, I know it is a note for me .
At the end of our meal, we get the check and I snatch it out of Tony's mitts—"On me!"— just in time to see that she has rather recklessly attached the note to our check. What if Tony had seen? What would he have said? The whole scene feels...naughty.
The note says: "Ditch Guido. Let's play."
I am being handed a golden opportunity. It is being served up to me on a silver platter—by a waitress, no less. I have always wanted to sleep with a woman, I allow myself to think, and the obviousness of it makes me shudder. I may be intimidated by my new galpal, but I'm not
about to pass it up.
"Tony," I say, cold and clammy to the clore of me, "I think I'd like to leave now."
His jaw drops. "We just finished eating. Ever heard of coffee?"
"Ever heard of fuck off?" I'm feeling vicious, like a cute puppy with a taste of red meat: Mine, mine, mine. "I told you I wanna go and I'm going. I don't feel well. See ya."
He stumbles trying to catch up with me, throwing a ten at ZiZi and following me out the door. He is not used to following me. It confuses him. He doesn't know what to say as we hit the door.
"Sorry," I lie, "I'm gonna cab it. I'll see you later." I have my hand in the air and about 14 cabs are duking it out to pick me up first; we are a block away from dispatch.
I climb into the winner and wave good-bye over my shoulder, instructing my cabbie to drive for five minutes, then return to the same spot. The cabbie is more than happy to oblige, in the spirit of fun. He strikes me as the type of person who spends long nights hoping to God someone will step into his cab and say, "Follow that car!"
When we pull up to the restaurant again, Tony is history. I imagine he is moping, walking the 10 blocks to his apartment, trying to figure out what he'd said to upset me. I will have to apologize to him at some point, but right now I have only one thing on my mind, and that thing has short orange hair.
When I come in, ZiZi nearly hits the ceiling, she's so surprised.
"Hi," she drawls.
"Hello," I reply, expectant, eager, scared.
"I thought you were flying home with your friend, freaking out. I didn't expect you to come back."
Ignoring her, "What about these customers?" There are half a dozen patrons in the place, and at least a few of them must be guessing what is up. I see two women at one table who look sort of like PTA moms with their spiky hair and frosted tips, but their smiling eyes tell me they are enjoying the show and having no trouble following the plot.
Young and Horny: 10 Gay Erotic Short Stories Page 8
