‘I was pathetic – but when I finally got caught, I tried to bluster it. I turned on the ridiculous swagger I thought I had. Think I even told her, “You want it, baby?” God, I was such a punk.’
‘You still are a punk,’ I say, but I don’t know if I really mean it. I don’t think punks talk so openly about their sexual habits, before admitting that they are one. And I definitely don’t think they look hurt, when some chick hurls the word at them.
Because that’s what it feels like I’ve done. His eyebrows draw together briefly, like a flicker of an expression he’d like to have, if it didn’t make him seem so vulnerable. And then it’s gone as quickly as it came, leaving me to wonder if it was ever really there at all. I mean, guys like him … they don’t care if girls like me think they’re a little … douche-y.
Right?
And if they do, oh, God, if they do, please let him just say. I’ll apologise if he just says. I can’t do so without it, because then I’ll just look like an idiot who’s imagining feelings that aren’t really there. It’s the first step towards lovesickness – wanting to be sorry for hurt you might have caused.
And he’ll know it, and laugh.
He’s laughing now, as he plunges on into the story.
‘Yeah, I thought I was hot stuff. So when she said, “Oh, I want it all right,” I preened like nothing else. I didn’t think a single thing to her telling me to strip. I thought my body was hot and she just wanted to see it, so I took off my T-shirt, I took off my shorts. By the time I was down to nothing, I was practically mute with excitement. My cock was almost touching my belly, and everything felt real swollen down there, you know?’
I do know. I’m so swollen in that same place I can hardly keep my legs closed. It’s like trying to fit myself around a burning coal – though I think I keep the signs to a minimum. I’m so hot I’d love to fan myself with my notepad, but I resist. I don’t even run a finger around my clammy collar, and I definitely don’t remove my jacket.
My nipples are too stiff for something like that. They’re showing through my shirt, and I know it – though I’ve got less idea about the why. The story isn’t even that exciting, really. I’ve heard lots like it a dozen times before. He’s going to nail her, now, then write. ‘Dear Penthouse’ on the top and mail that sucker in. He’s going to show me what an incredible stud he was, because he could fuck her like her husband never could.
Or at least that’s what I’m sure of, before he tells me the rest.
‘But she didn’t touch me. She didn’t sink to her knees the way I’d always imagined she would. She said: “Do you know how to make a woman come, Dillon?”
‘And now, every time I’m flicking through the catalogue of every sexy thing that’s ever happened to me … every time I’m on the brink and I need to pull out something intense to really get there … that’s what I think about. I think about that one sentence, like a siren’s song. “Do you know how to make a woman come, Dillon?”
‘I couldn’t even tell her yes. I knew it was a lie. In every fantasy I’d ever had about her, she’d screamed like a porn star and lapsed into unconsciousness the second my cock touched her, but I never stopped to think how or why. I assumed my dick was the magical key to a winter wonderland, but when I tried to show her I could do it, when I tried to climb on top of her like some fumbling fucking idiot, she stopped me in my tracks.
‘She waved her red-tipped finger in my face – and I always remember that, too. I remember her pressing me to my knees with just that one talon on my big shoulder.
‘Then she said more words that still send a burst of arousal through me, now: “Lick your fingers. Lick your fingers, baby.” Like she was the one with swagger, and I was just her little cutie-pie, ready to be serviced. And I can remember feeling like I didn’t want to – I was sulking, then, I guess. I was thinking she was messing around with me.
‘But the weird thing was – that didn’t make it any less hot. In fact, it made it hotter. My cock actually jerked when she said those barely-anything words. I was kind of bothered by the mess I was making all over her carpet – I was absolutely dripping by this point.
‘And I was shaking. I was really shaking. Putting my fingers in my mouth felt like the most erotic thing I’d ever done. Like I was sucking myself. Like I had nerve-endings there that I didn’t know about. I actually got lost in the feel of them, sliding in and out of my mouth.
‘Until she lay back on the bed, and spread her legs.
‘Of course, I’d seen pussy before – in magazines. In pornos. But it’s kinda not the same, don’t you think? Have you ever looked at yourself, when you’re aroused? It’s not the bleached, waxed, perfectly positioned and pert thing from porn, as dry as the Sahara and hardly a notch above pastel pink. It’s flushed, and slippery, and so swollen, like a beating heart between your legs – or at least, that’s how it was with her.
‘All of her folds were coated in her clearly visible wetness, and her clit … oh, Jeeze, her clit. I’d always thought it was something kind of mythical, you know? You couldn’t really make anything out in dirty movies, and no one ever talked about doing anything to it. There’s no locker-room talk about banging some chick’s clit last night.
‘But seeing that stiff little thing up close …
‘I actually leant forward, thinking she’d want me to lick it. Hell, that’s what I would have wanted, in her place – and that’s the first time I understood that particular concept, too.
‘Women want the same thing men do. They want to get off. They want what feels good, not necessarily what feels good for you – though I think some girls like that idea, too. I think you do, if that squirming you started doing when I told you about stroking my own dick is anything to go by.’
And I thought I was being so subtle. I thought I looked composed, but I can see now that I didn’t. And I certainly don’t, now. I feel like there’s a wrestling match going on inside my body. My eyeballs are boiling alive inside my head. I try to sit still – but it’s almost impossible with this constant pulse thrumming between my legs.
I have to move around just to keep it from beating me right off the chair.
‘You like hearing what turns me on, right? Don’t be embarrassed. There’s nothing quite like a selfless lover – someone more interested in your pleasure, than their own. But somehow, I think you’ve had a lifetime of that, and not very much of the other way around, am I right?’
I’ve never had it the other way around. Never.
‘Yeah, I’m right. I bet you’ve laid beneath a dozen guys called James or Jake or Jack, counting ceiling tiles over their shoulders as they fuck you like they’re doing their tax return. And then when they’re done dealing you out your two-minute portion of passionless sex, you wonder why people go crazy for something that feels like getting a shot at the doctor’s, for some disease you don’t actually have.’
I’d laugh here, if it wasn’t so awful. And so dead on, oh, God, he’s so impossibly dead on I could cry.
Instead I briefly close my eyes, and tell him:
‘Just tell me the rest of the story.’
In a voice like dried leaves.
Only that just means that he does.
‘She didn’t want me to lick her there, however. She didn’t want me to touch her there, either. I felt almost swamped by the scent of her body – like coconut oil and something furtive, something secretive – and it made the urge to stroke her so strong … so incredibly strong. It was like a compulsion – but she stopped me there, too. She said to me: “Not like that, not like that,” while I wondered what else there could possibly be.
‘And then she took hold of my hand, and forced it down, down … until those two fingers I’d sucked on simply slid into her warm, wet hole. So easy … man, it was so fucking easy. I didn’t even know what was happening until I was already halfway inside her, and after that I didn’t think about anything at all.
‘Finally, finally I was getting to feel what that slick heat w
as like – and, oh, it was better than I’d imagined. What my own hand always missed was that sense of being pulled in, of being sort of … sucked on, almost. I thought of my own mouth as I slowly eased into her – the tingling feeling I’d gotten when I’d licked between the webbing of my fingers, the slippery sense of my own tongue …
‘That was what it was like.
‘And it blew my fucking mind. I got pretty close to passing out with pleasure before I’d even done a thing – though I figured she’d have slapped me awake, if I had. She was all commands, by that point, real bossy about things – but I’d stopped caring about three decades prior.
‘“Fuck me with them, then,” she said, and I did. I did what I thought fucking was, back and forth, like a piston. I had no more sense than a dog – but that turned out OK, too. Because I think, more than anything, she liked the idea of teaching me. See what I mean? She’d cluck her tongue and tell me, “No, like this.” Or she’d nudge me with one of those incredible thighs, until I went where she wanted me to go. And all the while I’m getting hotter and hotter and more frustrated, the frustration like some other layer of arousal I’ve never encountered before.
‘Which was when I really started to appreciate patience. Not some five-second hold-off in my own bed, thinking I’m hot stuff ’cause I don’t come right away. Not fantasising at three o’clock then waiting ’til seven to fucking do it, everything all tight down there and just ready to fucking come. No, no, no. Real patience. Really holding it off. Just … revelling in that feeling you get, when everything’s too much and there isn’t a thought in your goddamn head. Getting a sense of your own body, and every tiny little sensation it goes through.
‘Yeah, that’s what I learnt from her.
‘But I got something even better than that, too.’
I can’t imagine what’s better than seeing him in this theoretical state of sexual euphoria, but I’ll hold off on my verdict, for now. He’s deep into his story, by this point – eyes all far away, body practically sprawling back against the boxes – and I’m just as far into it with him.
No sense in distracting him now.
‘After a while, she started sighing and tossing her head, as though I was the most useless person in the world. And then she said something else I’ve never forgotten. She said: “You don’t get anywhere by banging on the door. You want a girl to come outside? Beckon her over.”
‘Of course I didn’t have a fucking clue what she was talking about. I started wondering if this was some hint to go down and answer the doorbell that wasn’t ringing. Maybe she didn’t want a sex slave, after all – maybe she wanted some guy to run her errands and do her chores for her.
‘And I fucking hate admitting this – but I would have done it too.
‘Lucky for me that she didn’t mean that at all. She gave me a demonstration, when it became pretty clear that I was lacking most of my higher brain functions. She crooked her fingers, like this –’
He makes that exact gesture – of the kind I’ve seen a thousand times before in everyday life. Teachers used to do it to me in staid classrooms; my elderly Nan was a fan, for those times when she wanted to give me a boiled sweet.
But it’s different, when he does it. For a start, I don’t think he’s got a sack of pear drops waiting for me in his pocket. And then there’s the way he goes about it, all seemingly innocent, with a layer of lewd on top. It’s kind of like … he’s stroking the air with the tips of those two crooked fingers.
And the air really, really likes it.
‘– and told me to do it that way. “Do it hard,” she said. But when I did she only wanted it harder. I couldn’t get the pace right, the rhythm right … nothing I did was what she wanted. I fucked her in a way I was sure should hurt, and held myself back a dozen times.
‘Until I realised that it didn’t matter what I thought. It mattered what she thought. It mattered how she responded when I did something. Yeah – that was the thing. That was what I started to pick up on. I didn’t have to tiptoe around, waiting for her to say or me to guess. I could see it in her, if I only took the time to look for the clues. Her face gave away almost nothing – but her body did.
‘When I pressed upwards, just a little, her back would arch. And if I just kind of … drummed my fingers against that soft, sweet spot inside her, I’d get a sound. A faint one, but a sound all the same.
‘I tell you, I could have lived for a month on that barely-there sigh. I’d have worked on her pussy until my arm dropped off – which it wasn’t far off doing, anyway. I was drenched in sweat, exhausted, aroused to the point of hallucination, but I didn’t want anything else, right at that moment.
‘I wanted to hear her sing for me – though I wasn’t really prepared for it, when she did. You know what a woman looks like, when she comes because you’ve done her like that? She’s not polite about it. She doesn’t blow you a kiss and gasp a yes in your ear.
‘She loses every bit of control of her body. She loses it so badly you can hardly believe it’s the same person – the one who wore gold-rimmed sunglasses and gave you thousand-yard stares through their blank, black lenses. The one who could have graced the cover of an eighties fashion magazine: all power and money and long, blonde beauty.
‘She went to pieces when I made her come. Every muscle in her body turned tight, in a way I can’t forget. I can’t forget the way she made a stiff little ball out of her perfect body, and begged me to stop where once she’d only known how to command. She nearly crushed my fingers, and ohhhhh the slipperiness of her. How wet she got. She practically came all over my hand, like a teenage boy, unable to help herself.
‘Man, I was proud. I was so full of pride that I might have gone away from that encounter even worse than I was before – that stupid fucking swagger bolstered by my badge of honour, courtesy of her. I even stood up, cock sticking out like I’m flipping her the bird with it, most of me ready to get my reward, now.
‘But she saved me from that fate. She waited, until she was calm and I was not. She took her time composing herself. And then she said the worst possible thing she could – the thing I’d based my whole idea of seducing her on, the thing that made me grin whenever I glanced across at the picture of her skinny little nerd of her husband, on her bedside table. She said:
‘“I guess no one’s as good as he is.”
‘And some part of me is still trying to be whatever it was that he gave her. To reduce a woman to a mess so helpless that it compares to the great and incomparable Mr Edwin G. Goldman – accountant, owner of some bitching hair plugs, sweats when he’s nervous, Edwin G. Goldman, who had the hottest wife in my neighbourhood, simply because he knew what to do with his hands.’
There are many things I feel, once I realise he’s finished with his story. Which I don’t, at first. In fact, my faintly stupefied lack of realisation is so bad that he claps his hands together, and does a kind of semi-wince. He sucks air over his teeth, the way people do when they’re bracing themselves for a horrible verdict.
However, I don’t know how to give him one – horrible or otherwise. I’m still shell-shocked. And once I’m done being shell-shocked, I’m trapped between a whole bunch of conflicting emotions – and all of them are the most intense versions of those feelings I’ve ever experienced. My arousal is stalking around inside me like a rabid dog. No matter what move he makes – from innocuous chin-scratching all the way down the pervert scale to fairly obvious rubbing through the pocket of his shorts – the thing has to be yanked back on its choke chain.
And this giddiness I’m going through … it’s of the hysterical kind. I feel like I might get up at any moment and start frantically shaking his hand, before offering him the grand prize for Being a Man.
Because he deserves it. Even I know that, and I kind of hate him. I hate him for making me feel this way – so inexplicably grateful to another human being, for doing things that probably aren’t even real. I mean, they’ve got to be made up, right? Everyone’s heard t
he ‘Dear Penthouse’ story of the pool boy and some hot older woman who looks like Chrissie Brinkley. And even if Chrissie was real, what’s the likelihood that she’d do these things? That she’d instruct him in the ways of womanhood – ways that are even more ridiculous than the idea that bored housewives really do fuck the help?
It never happened, I think. It’s all just another fucking fairy tale.
‘I should probably go,’ I say – though, in my defence, I’m an idiot. I know I am. I don’t even know why I care that he might have made it up. At least he told it.
Telling something like that is more than I’ve ever gotten before. And yet somehow I’m still trying to pull my bag over my shoulder – wrapping the strap around myself several times in the process. I think I actually send it into orbit, briefly, and I know how stumbly and fumbly I must look.
I go over on one shoe – these stupid fucking heels I shouldn’t have worn – and everything in his apartment is in the way. I almost trip over an old ski boot, just to make it absolutely easy for him to laugh. He’s got to be laughing.
That’s why he did it, didn’t he? That’s what he likes, isn’t it? To reduce women to helpless messes? Well, he’s certainly succeeded with me. My shoe has actually kind of come all the way off, and I can’t seem to get it back on.
‘Kit,’ he says, but I’m not listening. I’m too engrossed in this shoe debacle. It’s like The Krypton Factor, only with a leather-heeled Mary-Jane instead of an intense logic puzzle.
My shoe is the intense logic puzzle.
‘Kit.’
I think I shout, ‘You stupid fucking shoe’ in response.
‘Kit,’ he says. He won’t stop saying my name. And he’s stood up now, I’m sure of it. I can see him out of the corner of my eye. He has his hands in his pockets, and he’s kind of casually sauntering over – as though he suspects that sudden moves and the appearance of his hands might incite me to attack.
I’m like a bear. A bear who doesn’t know how to deal with sexual feelings – which is weird, because I’m pretty sure bears are really good at that sort of thing. Don’t they just lumber up to each other and mount?
Addicted (Mischief Books) Page 6
