I won. We had sushi. Sam made so many jokes about raw fish that we ended up fucking when we got home, too.
THE ONE WITH THE HOARDING
APRIL = ME
BRIAN = Mike (the one with the bad knee from the time we fucked in that ride outside the drug store and he tripped out when his button fly got caught in the coin slot)
Basic points to add to the beginning later:
- April meets Brian at school. He’s cute and works as a college librarian.
- Brian likes to read, they go to a date at that used book store. He mentions how he likes to “collect things.”
- Trip to thrift store. Doesn’t set off any alarms because he needed skis. Forgot the skis in the shop because I’d she’d put my her phone on vibrate and stuck it up my her pussy, and he kept texting.
- Discovery that his apartment is full of shit. Mention the gerbils. Mention the month-old pizza.
- April’s apartment is being fumigated, she has to stay with Brian. Makes him clean a room first if he’s going to get any head or ass at all while she’s there.
Then go on to:
April had to make her way through a kind of narrow mountain pass to reach his bedroom, which was all the way at the back of the apartment. She was suddenly sure he hadn’t gotten rid of anything to clear it. He’d simply taken all of the crap that used to be in the room and balanced it precariously in the living room, bathroom, and dining room. She saw the Mearle Haggard records he used to have on his bed balanced on top of several years worth of the New York Times. She saw the disassembled pool vacuum in the bathtub, covered with that truckload of used underwear he’d saved from the thrift store’s dumpster, arguing that it was at least clean and that he might someday need a rag. The kitchen cabinets were full of Denise Austin VHS workout tapes, and April couldn’t even protest his outdated technology since there were seven VHS players under the coffee table like a set of very small drawers. The room had been cleared, yes. But the rest of the apartment had become twenty percent fuller.
“Nice and sparse, huh?” he said, smiling as he gestured toward the bed. “Have I done well?” This time, he gestured toward his belt. It was probably not supposed to be obvious or even conscious, but it seemed that at least part of Brian’s mind had equated “job well done” to “pay attention to my dick.”
“This room is, I guess,” said April, looking back at the narrow aisle she’d barely traversed from the doorway. The path was wide enough for one person and six feet tall on both sides. April had once gone caving, and had squeezed through narrow passageways she thought would crush her. This was like that. And the path only went to the door; if she wanted to go into the living room (there was a five-foot clear space where they could watch TV while fearing death from above), she’d have to go to the door first, then take a separate path. She almost wanted a map.
“So, you’ll be happy here?”
“Um…”
He made his voice sly. “And horny here?”
April had never felt less horny in her life. It was hard to focus on your crotch while the rest of you thought it might be trapped and have to eat off its own foot to survive.
“Um…”
“I haven’t had sex with room to spare in here in years,” said Brian. April realized she didn’t know how old Brian was or how long he’d lived here. This all might be a very bad idea, but they’d screwed a bunch of times before she discovered his hoarding and he had a very special tongue. Her pussy was having a hard time letting go, like a jilted romantic.
“Um…”
Brian unbuckled his belt and lowered his jeans. His cock sprang out.
“Know what I mean?” he said.
It wasn’t as forward as it would normally have seemed, since April and Brian had had sex in the library a dozen or more times and this was their standard cue. Usually it was funny. She looked around, saw the tottering piles that she hadn’t noticed were, in fact, still in the corners of the otherwise clear room. He had tried. Maybe she could pretend she was in the library stacks.
April put a smile on her face, then took off her shirt, displaying her cute, small-C tits with their perky nipples. Then she pulled off her own pants and panties in the same undramatic, unromantic way he’d done and sprawled back on the bed, stark naked, her knees in her hands and legs parted wide. Her pussy opened a little, betraying her disgust with its ill-informed interest.
“I know what you mean,” said April, giving the countersign.
She told herself that this was hardly the weirdest thing she’d done.
Brian moved in and slipped his fuckpole into her waiting snatch, and after a few strokes she started moaning enough to mercifully forget the piles. He flipped her over and put her on top, then she rode up and down on his dick with her tits bouncing. Because she could see his horde, April got onto her hands and knees and looked back, her wet pussy beckoning him. With her ass in the air she said, “Fuck me from behind.” So Brian did while April looked out the window and pretended that she was in wide-open spaces, until a few minutes later she had a somewhat unremarkable orgasm, immediately preceding Brian’s rather sizable one.
He pulled out and blasted the window with a blob that looked a little like Elvis.
April knew she’d have to stay with Brian for a few days, and that was the situation’s true bummer. One of her girlfriends worked for the fumigator, and she’d managed to get April and her roommates a rather sizable discount in exchange for flexibility. Specifically, the company wanted to be able to handle her apartment whenever it found the time, and that depended on the shifting of schedule, the comings and goings of workers who weren’t always reliable, homeowners’ whims, and so on. So she’d tied up the apartment and planned on staying with Brian for a week if necessary. On the ninth day, however, nothing had been done, so she called her friend, who told her they were “getting to it.”
Brian had done well keeping the bedroom clear for the first few days, until his need for collection reasserted itself. On the third day, he bought three entire baseball card collections from a sports shop because he figured he could mix and match then sell them. On the fourth day, he retrieved six suits that were too large for him and were twenty years out of style. On the fifth day, he found a recumbent exercise bike in storage and brought it up so he could exercise. It didn’t make sense to bring the bike into the bedroom, so he put it in the living room and brought some stuff from the living room into the bedroom. “Just for a few hours until I can organize,” he said. Then he set out to exercise on the bike, ordered a pizza, and watched TV.
Brian was a good guy and in no way passive aggressive, but he did seem to think that having a live-in girlfriend — even a temporary one — should entitle him to a daily sex regimen. So every day and sometimes more than once, April laid down for him, bent over for him, stuck a leg up in the air for him, or polished his knob. It was cool. She was horny most of the time. But each day she had less and less space, and was feeling increasingly claustrophobic.
“I think there’s some room in here,” Brian told her. He moved a collection of troll dolls and pointed to a two foot square of bedding.
“I can’t get my ass in there,” she said.
“Bend over, then,” he said.
So she did. As she put her hands on the bed and leaned over a pile of stuff, her boobs nested neatly in an open-topped box filled to the top with porcelain figures. She felt like her tits were being filed for later consideration. Then something big and warm rubbed against her pussy and plunged inside.
“It’s like being in an airline bathroom!” he said. “Or a bathroom stall in a public restroom!”
It was. It even smelled like one.
“What is it with you and bathrooms?” April said. Brian couldn’t hear her because he was making plane noises and had found a small plane in the porcelain figures and was zooming it around. He came all over her pussy and his cum dripped into a box of rags. April cleaned herself up and went to throw the rags out, but he stopped her.
Totally serious, Brian asked, “What if I need some spare cum rags?”
Brian didn’t put away dishes. He stacked them in the sink. Sometimes he couldn’t get to the sink, so he put them wherever he could find room. Sometimes he couldn’t find room, so he tossed them over the top of the nearest pile and figured he’d find the plates eventually.
April called one of those hoarding reality TV shows. She sent them photos. Nobody responded. She sent emails. Nobody replied. She set her camera up to record her and Brian attempting to have sex standing up between the couch and the TV because he’d brought home five damaged bean bag chairs and they were taking up all of the room and sent that to the reality shows. Someone replied asking for more footage exactly like that, but was vague about coming to film them or get Brian help.
After two weeks, Autumn’s bedspace was reduced to a two-foot strip between filing boxes. She could only sleep on her side and suffered from recurring dreams of suffocation. Brian showed up and tried to have sex with her, saying there was plenty of space, shoving the boxes aside to grant enough room to lay April flat. Then he’d start thrusting and things would fall on them. Brian said it was like fucking in a cave.
Finally April got a concussion from a new-in-box set of Cuisinart cookware while riding cowgirl and loudly announced she was moving out. Brian seemed sad. Then he asked her for a parting blowjob.
April did it from the bathroom sink while Brian hung from the shower curtain rod, but then the rod folded in half and Brian fell onto a used Rock Band drum set, was knocked unconscious, and April had to call 911.
“Is that you again, April?” said the voice on the other end of the phone. The operator sighed. Then: “Okay, what’s stuck where?”
MARCH 12
I’M WRITING THE DUMBEST STORY. It’s also awesome. It’s about two paranormal investigators who investigate paranormal sex crimes. I’m thinking I’ll call it “The XXX Files.” Feeling less bummed about my sales and more patient in general because things really are pretty great for how new I am to this, and I’m getting good reviews and even some awesome reader emails. Some of the email is strangely inspiring, or heartening. I’ve had a few women email me and tell me that I’ve saved their marriage. And… great, but isn’t that strange, that the crazy, over-the-top shit I write is saving marriages? I figured I’d save boners and wet snatches.
I’m kind of becoming aware that there’s a lot of people out there with a lot of shame around sex, and I think that’s what’s doing it. Maybe my stuff is saving marriages and maybe it’s just saving a little bit of people who suddenly realize that they have permission to like dirty, sexy stuff. It’s okay to like a finger up your ass. It’s okay to want to suck a guy off in a movie theater. It’s okay to want a threesome. Who fucking cares? I wonder if maybe the fact that I’m so off the wall is giving them someone to look at and say, “See? I’m not the only one.”
Either way, it’s encouraging. I’d think I’d have to write serious, soul-searching stuff to reach people and “save marriages,” but that’s not the case. I get to have my pussy and eat it too, it seems — I can write crazy, nasty, sometimes funny stuff, and still it helps. And it also gets them of.
We’ll see how this XXX Files thing does.
MARCH 19
OKAY, I DON’T KNOW IF my XXX Files thing will be popular, but it’s definitely fun. Who doesn’t want to laugh about a drug that makes guys cum like fire hoses? Well, okay, maybe not my mom. But she’s not really my target market.
It’s all made me realize something: I don’t need to write sex. I can write whatever I want and then ADD sex.
Or I can just write sex.
Speaking of sex, I sucked Sam off in the car today. He didn’t want me to do it. He was all, “We’re going to get in a crash, Autumn!” He’s so funny. He then tried to act like he wasn’t into it because he knew that if he was into it, I’d do it whether his brain wanted to do it or not. So all the while he’s protesting, his cock head just keeps getting bigger and redder and seeping more pre-cum, and I’m just slurping it up, and he’s like, “I DON’T WANT YOU TO SUCK MY DICK IN THE CAR WHILE IT’S RAINING AND SLIPPERY AND THERE ARE TWO CARS OF OLD MEN WATCHING US.”
I’m like, “Prove it” while squeezing his dick and rubbing that little nub just below the head on the underside. I gave it a lick and pulled up my skirt and shoved my fingers into my pussy. So he gets all serious and I see his lips moving and I realize he’s trying to think about baseball. Like a big cliche. So I’m like, “You’re up to bat, and you swing, and the ball goes into the outfield, and then I turn around and back into you and shove your dick up my ass.”
Just like that he shoots this massive surprise load into my mouth. I wasn’t ready for it, so it went up into my sinuses. I laughed and it shot back out of my nose. Holy shit did that hurt.
PARTIALS
I’VE GOTTEN ALL OF THESE little story paragraphs that don’t go anywhere yet but that I don’t want to lose, so I’m going to stick them in here so I don’t lose them.
NOTE TO SELF: CHANGE NAMES. It’s easier to write them as they happened, but some of these guys might get pissed.
NOTE TO SELF: Why do I care if they get pissed? WTF?
+++
The one with the dick so huge even Autumn couldn't swallow the whole thing
Autumn goes to a bar with her friends and there’s this hot hot HOT (!!) black guy there and the whole time, her friends are rubbing the guy’s abs, first through his shirt and then under his shirt. They’re all OOH and AAH and Autumn, being Autumn, is like, “Yeah, but is your body as good where it counts most?”
Her friends are all aghast and shocked but the guy is like, “I’ve got ten inches.” Autumn is like, “BULL-SHIT.” He says, “Once you go black, you never go back” and Autumn says that’s just a cliche, but secretly she’s getting all wet thinking about some chocolate thunder between her thighs and wondering if what he says is true — though of course it can’t really be ten inches. But it could be big, and it’s sure to be beautiful.
So the guy says, “I’ll show you. And then he whips it out to the grand merriment of Autumn and her friends. Dude invites them all to touch it. Nobody does, except Autumn, under the table. Then they all do. Dude invites them to his place. It’s late, but Autumn enjoys a challenge. On the drive, the guy says it gets bigger when it’s hard, and that a real man measures limp. So he’s promising like a foot, foot and a half.
They get to the guy’s place and he pulls all his shit off and stands there and he’s like a black Michelangelo’s David with three legs. Then he gets it hard and Autumn is almost fucking him from clear across the room. So she drops to her knees, totally sopping wet, and takes it in, but she can only get halfway down before gagging.
So she’s thinking, Motherfucker, I am AUTUMN FUCKING COLE and I won’t be defeated by Cockzilla, so she tries again. This time she gets it further down, but she can feel it tucking her uvula aside and she almost barfs. So she tries again, but this time she stops halfway and, curious, grabs a compact from her purse. She opens the mirror and watches herself try again. She makes it three quarters down and sees in the mirror that there’s a bulge halfway down her throat like a snake swallowing prey. Her mouth is stretched so tight around his girth that she’s sure she’ll need the jaws of life.
Then the dude just suddenly cums down her throat from all the attention, and though it surprises she just takes it all, then folds up shop and goes home defeated. Dude puts his hands on his hips like the Green Giant and declares himself the champion of the world.
+++
The one with the Indian guy who claimed his grandfather wrote the Kama Sutra
Autumn, because she’s a total slut and proud of it, is in a Hill of Beans reading a 1970’s photo essay version of the Kama Sutra that shows this Ron Jeremy looking guy with a giant mustache and a headband fucking this woman with an enormous bush in like a million and three positions. Autumn is taking notes. One of the notes is, ‘Shave bush.” This Indian guy with
a super-thick accent comes up to her and says, “You know, my grandfather wrote that.”
Autumn looks up and he’s pretty hot, though she’s going to have to force herself to not listen to him because his accent is so thick. She says that he’s full of shit and the guy says, “A thousand pardons but it is totally true.” Autumn starts to suspect that he’s putting on the accent to seem more authentic, but she doesn’t call him on it. He’s got this giant bulge in his pants and she wants at it. So she’s like, “Prove it” and they go back to his place.
The guy’s apartment is not spiritual or ethnic at all. He’s got a caucasian roommate who is all fat and gross and who keeps asking him if he’s down for some Frisbee. The Indian guy tells him, “I am with a company right now, so I have time for none of your American games.” Roommate gives him a WTF face. Indian guy says he’ll buy him a pizza if he fucks off, but he says it all Indian-like.
They go into the guy’s room, and there are posters for Pearl Jam and shit on the walls and he’s got this double-poster from the Fight Club movie that says, “I want you to hit me as hard as you can.” He scavenges in a drawer and finds one old incense stick. He doesn’t have a holder, so he wedges it between two books on his shelf and then starts praising Autumn’s body by talking about her spirit and shit. Then he tells her to get naked — for spiritual reasons — and to take his vishnu into her prajna. They’re not even real words. At some point he says “punjabi” but he uses it like a euphemism, requesting that she give him a “poon jobby.”
The Autumn Diaries Page 4
