The Mammoth Book of Erotica presents The Best of Michael Hemmingson

by Michael Hemmingson

  “She has a point,” Ajax says.

  “I have to pee,” she announces.

  “She has to go,” Mookie says.

  “Ralphie!” Ajax says. “Think of the lady!”

  Ralphie nods, stops the car. Ajax gets out, to let her out. She runs into a bush.

  Ajax gets back in.

  “Cold out there,” he says.

  “Dark,” Mookie says.

  “This is weird,” Fortanbras says, “no one would believe us, no one.”

  “We’re all here to back the story,” Ajax says.

  Mookie laughs. “We just did Miz Good Two-Shoes. What about Shriek and Ralphie? They gonna get some?”

  “We’re going to do her again,” Ajax says, “we’re going to take turns doing her all night long. Like she said, this is her last night.”

  “Choo choo train,” Mookie says.

  “I’m lost,” Ralphie says.

  “What?” they say.

  “I can’t find Hollow Hills,” he says.

  “Shit,” Ajax says, “are we lost?”

  “I think I know the way back to town,” I say.

  “The hills,” Mookie says, “we have to take her to the hills and do her there.”

  “Maybe we should just leave her here,” Fortanbras says.

  “What?” I say.

  “This might be nothing but trouble,” he says. “The girl’s about to get married, we’re looking for Hollow Hills and you know the curse those Injuns put there – something bad is gonna happen.”

  “Curse,” Ajax laughs, “curse me arse!”

  “We might meet some crazy psycho serial killer or something.”

  “Like Jason?” Mookie says. “Like Freddie?”

  “I don’t like this,” Fortanbras says.

  “She just sucked your dick,” Ajax says, “and you say you don’t like this?”

  “Something doesn’t feel right,” Fortanbras says.

  “We’re lost,” Ralphie says.

  “We’ll find our way back,” I say.

  Cynthia returns, sitting in the corner this time. There is a silence. “I feel better,” she says.

  Silence.

  “Are we at Hollow Hills?” she asks.

  “Not yet,” Ajax says.

  “We might be lost,” Fortanbras says.

  “Nah,” Ajax says.

  “We might be doomed,” Fortanbras says.

  “Oh,” Ajax says, “shut up.”

  Cynthia adjusts her glasses.

  I look at Ralphie. He speeds up the speed.

  “Here,” I say softly, pointing, “this is the way back to town.”

  He takes the sharp turn.

  Ajax, Mookie, and Fortanbras all fall into Cynthia, but they move away and give her space.

  “I really had to pee,” she says, adjusting her glasses, checking her blouse.

  I turn around. “Want another beer?”

  She shakes her head. “No, I’ve had enough.”

  THE COMFORT OF WOMEN

  Michael Hemmingson

  ONE

  I’d been celibate for five years. I didn’t think I was a bad-looking man – women had found me appealing in the past – but between the ages of twenty-two and twenty-seven, I hadn’t touched a woman and a woman hadn’t touched me. I’d created my own isolation, going from one dumb job to another, spending my time alone in a studio apartment, writing. My first novel was published in an irregular paperback format by a small press operated by an enthusiastic fellow, reminiscent of those old City Lights Pocketbooks. It fitted easily in my back pocket and not too many people read it, despite all the good reviews. The whole matter was a solitary experience with no one to share it with.

  One day, I received a letter from an English professor at the local university, Barry McGinnis. He wrote that he’d gotten my address from the publisher of my book, and how the book was an unknown work of genius, and that he’d like to meet me.

  I put the letter aside.

  A month later, the professor called on the phone.

  “Your publisher is an old buddy of mine, a former student, in fact,” McGinnis said. “Hope you don’t mind. I got your number from him.”

  “No,” I said. “I meant to call you. I did get your letter.”

  “Listen, why don’t we meet for a beer?”

  I met the professor at a pub near the campus, and listened to him talk about how great he thought my work was. He’d not only read my novel – and assigned it to one of his classes – but had seen my work in various and (quite) obscure literary journals and underground publications.

  “You go by Nicholas?” McGinnis said. “Or –”

  “Nicky.”

  “Nicky, Nicky Bayless – where’d you go to school?”

  “College?”

  “Yes.”

  “Never went.”

  “No degree? No creative writing program?”

  “No.”

  “Probably a good thing,” McGinnis said, nodding his head, his long grayish-black bushy hair bouncing. “But you know, I bet I could get you into the MFA program here.”

  “With no BA?”

  “Hell, your published work will vouch your worthiness,” the professor said. “I bet I could get you a nice fellowship, too.”

  And that’s just what Barry McGinnis did.

  TWO

  I met Alexia in one of the graduate courses Barry McGinnis taught. She had a quirky look to her I found appealing – thick, dark-rimmed glasses; a white streak in her otherwise jet black hair; an odd-assortment of attire, cool in this age of awkwardness; when geekiness, coupled with intelligence, was sexy. She was one of the regulars who hung out at the pub where I first encountered McGinnis – often this crowd was orbiting around him, a charismatic man in his own right. He was at the pub three nights a week, and I soon found myself there as well. Alexia was there. I was sort of the odd-ball, I felt, brought into this circle by McGinnis because of my book and not my academic struggle (and I had a new book, a collection of stories, coming out from another small, obscure publisher).

  One night, at the pub, McGinnis wasn’t there, and many people departed. I sat drinking beer with Alexia and Bart (a blond surfer poet) and his bombshell blonde girlfriend, Randi. We all decided to go to a different bar and play pool – Alexia was insistent on this particular bar, telling us all we’d like it very much.

  It was an OK bar. Bart and Randi wanted to play pool, which wasn’t my thing. Alexia bought a pitcher of beer and we sat together.

  Bart was bending, ready to take a shot at the table, his rear end very close to us. “Get your butt somewhere else,” Alexia said, “or I’ll take a pool stick and shove it up –”

  “Oh, yeah” said Randi.

  “That’s not very nice,” I said. “How’d you like it if someone stuck a pool stick in your ass?”

  Alexia raised her brows. “I just might like it.”

  That was the first clue I didn’t get – I wasn’t paying attention. I’d recall in hindsight, yes, as well as overhearing her talk about how her favorite scene in Last Tango in Paris was when Marlon Brando put butter up his young lover’s backdoor before sodomizing her.

  Bart and Randi left (we’ll get back to them in another chapter), and Alexia and myself finished the pitcher of beer.

  “What will you do now?” Alexia said.

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “Drink more?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She took her glasses off and looked at them. “I live a block away, you know.”

  “No,” I said, “I didn’t know.”

  This was the second clue – and I wasn’t paying attention.

  “Well,” she said.

  “Maybe we can go there,” I said.

  She put her glasses back on. “OK.”

  We walked up the block to her place, which was a small cottage. It was nice, a little messy. I asked how much she paid for it.

  “Nothing,” she said. “My parents own the property.”


  “Nice.”

  “I don’t work,” she said. “I go to school. Like you.”

  “I used to work. I worked too much. Dumb jobs, blah blah blah. Now I have a fellowship.”

  “What about your book?”

  “I don’t make any money from that.”

  “Oh. I have it, your book.”

  “Really?”

  “I didn’t read it.”

  “That’s OK.”

  “Dr McGinnis said I should.”

  “Listen to him.”

  “I have beer, I think,” she said, going to the kitchen.

  I sat on the couch in the small living room.

  Alexia returned with two Budweisers. “Yes, I have beer.”

  She sat next to me.

  I don’t remember what we talked about. On the floor, I noticed an action figure of the Warner Brothers Martian from the Bugs Bunny cartoon. “I always loved that Martian,” I said.

  “Me, too,” she said, going to the floor and picking it up. “Marvin the Martian. ‘I’m going to destroy planet Earth!’ ” I touched her hair. She put her head in my lap. It was nice to touch somebody.

  “I, um, I don’t know what to do,” I said.

  “What?”

  “I haven’t been with anyone in a while.”

  “I don’t believe that.”

  “It’s true.”

  “It’s a line,” she said. “Do you like me?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “I like you.” She got on the couch with me and we began to kiss. She had to take her glasses off: they were getting in the way. We kissed for a long time. She pushed me back on the couch, and lay on top of me. I grabbed her ass, put my hands down her skirt.

  She pulled her mouth from mine. “Bad boy,” she said.

  I grabbed her head, and we kissed more.

  When I tried to touch her cunt, she stopped me.

  “No,” she said.

  “Sorry,” I said.

  “Don’t worry about it,” she said, and we kissed.

  When I touched her breasts over the fabric of her blouse, she pushed them away. “Now, now,” she said.

  “Sorry,” I said.

  She took one of my hands and put it back on her ass. “Play with that.”

  I did, and we kissed. My hand, and my second hand, were all over her butt.

  “Hey,” Alexia said, “rub my asshole.”

  “What?”

  “With your finger,” she said, and I found her asshole with my finger. “In small circles,” she said, “yeah, like that –”

  She pulled away from me, and sat. She took the finger I’d been rubbing her with, put it in her mouth, sucked on it. She smiled, and gave my finger back. She put her glasses on.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked, moving to her, wanting to kiss her more.

  “Nothing,” she said. “I have to pee.”

  “Hey.” I grabbed her hand as she stood up. “Can I watch?”

  “You want to watch me pee?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “I need a commitment before I go that far,” she said.

  “We hardly know each other.”

  “Exactly,” she said, and went to the bathroom.

  I sat there. I got up, and followed. The door was unlocked, and I went in. Alexia was sitting on the toilet; she glanced up at me. She smiled and said, “You.” I could hear the stream of her urine. I sat on the floor, cross-legged.

  “You’re bold,” she said.

  “The door was unlocked.”

  “There is no lock.”

  “I couldn’t resist.”

  She stood up. “OK, Mr Bold. Clean me.”

  “With my mouth?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  I would’ve done it with my mouth, if she’d asked. I took a wad of toilet paper, and wiped her cunt. She pulled her panties up.

  “I have to go, too,” I said.

  “Then I get to watch,” she said. “Quid pro quo.”

  She took my place on the floor; I stood in front of the toilet, took my cock out, and started to go.

  Alexia made a weird sound. She moved, snagged my cock, and put her mouth before it, drinking my urine; what she didn’t get flowed out of her mouth, down her chin, and into the bowl. I liked the sound this made. I breathed hard; it was an experience in itself watching her drink from me.

  She pressed her face to my leg. “Nicky, I’m sorry. I couldn’t help myself,” she said, softly. “Now you know my fetish. OK, I’m weird. You’ll never love me.”

  “I could love you,” I said.

  “Do you mean that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will you kiss me, to prove it?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I said.

  She stood, and we kissed, and I tasted her – and me.

  “I want to make love to you,” I said.

  “No, I can’t,” she said.

  Alexia left the bathroom and sat on the edge of her bed. I sat next to her; we both fell back. It was a nice, big, comfortable bed, the kind of bed I liked; the kind of bed I didn’t have.

  “It’s late,” she said, moving away from me. “I’m a little drunk.”

  “Me, too,” I said.

  “You can stay here,” she said, “if you want.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “I’d like it, too,” she said, standing. “I’m going to turn the light off.”

  “OK.”

  In the dark, I saw her silhouette; she was removing her clothes. I also took my clothes off, and got under the covers. She joined me; we didn’t touch. My hand went to her body. She was still wearing her bra and panties. I moved closer to her, kissed her.

  “I don’t think I want to screw,” she said.

  “OK,” I said.

  “I mean, I’m not sure if I can.”

  “OK.”

  “I’m not sure if I’m in the right frame of mind.”

  “OK.”

  “It’s not OK” she said. “You don’t understand, you don’t know.”

  “I want to,” I said.

  “I know you do.”

  “Alexia,” I said.

  “It’s nice having you in my bed,” she said.

  “It’s nice to be in a bed with someone.” She placed her head on my chest, and then a hand, playing with the hair. We were quiet, touching each other. Her hand moved down, and grasped my cock.

  “This is nice,” she said.

  “Yes,” I said, “it is.”

  “Nice . . .”

  I kissed her on the head.

  “I know,” she said, and, “I’m twenty-eight years old.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m still a virgin.”

  I laughed, after a moment.

  “This is true,” she said.

  “Now who is giving who a line?”

  She let go of my cock. “Nicky, listen. I’m Jewish. I’m not a nice Jewish girl, but I’m Jewish and a virgin. I come from a really hard-ass strict Jewish family, even though, like I said, well, I made up my mind years ago that I would save myself for my husband, because some day I plan to marry a nice Jewish man, I mean my family won’t have it any other way. And this man will expect me to be a virgin.”

  “I see.”

  “No you don’t see,” she said. “I don’t expect you to understand. Other men haven’t. Like I said, I’m twenty-eight. This doesn’t mean I’m sexual. Obviously I’m sexual, and I have fetishes. I’m really pretty basic in that matter – I have a pee fetish, and a butt fetish. I mean, I’m a virgin, vaginally, but I like having sex in my butt.”

  Things started to come together for me – the pool stick remark, her living close to the bar she wanted to go to. “You lured me here,” I said, “from the bar.”

  “Of course. I’m terribly attracted to you. I want you. I want you inside me. But I want more than a fuck-buddy. I had a fuck-buddy for a while, for a few months: it was just sex, nothing more. I didn’t like it. I mean, it was OK, but it wasn’t me. I
t was a different me.”

  “He fucked you in the ass?”

  “Yes. I don’t know if he liked it that much. Some men do, some don’t.” I’d only had anal sex with a woman once, and I think I was nineteen or twenty.

  “I want you to fuck me,” Alexia said, “but I’m looking for more than just fucking.”

  “I’m not a nice Jewish boy.”

  “I’m not looking for a husband. I’ll do that in my thirties, maybe my forties. I’m looking for companionship, closeness, a little love. Devotion, all that.”

  “Sounds nice,” I said.

  “Yes. It sounds – it sounds nice.” She took her panties off. “I’d like you to fuck me,” she said. “I want you to.”

  “I don’t have a condom.” I felt stupid.

  “I’m not going to get pregnant this way,” she said.

  Lubricant?” I asked, thinking the last time I’d done this, I had to use a lot of petroleum jelly.

  “Spit is fine,” Alexia said. She spit into her hand, put her hand between her ass-cheeks. She spit into her hand again, and rubbed the saliva over my cock. “I’m getting impatient,” she said.

  I moved on top of her, feeling inexpert. Alexia reached back, took my cock, and guided me into her ass – where it slid in just fine, without hesitation or resistance. The warmth of her interior sent a tingle up my body and soul. Alexia whispered, “Oh boy,” and pushed her rear up, hard, slamming into my pelvis. I looked down at the streak in her hair, which was scattered about the back of her neck and on the bed with the rest of her hair. I swear she had an orgasm, I wasn’t sure, but mine came quickly, and it was a lot; I emptied myself inside her.

  We lay next to each other, and Alexia commented on the amount of semen I’d gushed out, that she liked how it felt up her ass, and coming out her ass.

  She touched and played with my cock and balls, and soon I was hard again. She got on top of me. “This position is always tricky,” she said, sitting down on my cock and sliding it in. She leaned forward to kiss me, and it popped out, covered in semen from that first ejaculation. Alexia giggled, and put my cock back in her. I reached for the light. “What are you doing?” she said.