Sort of like Blue Velvet, I guess [M/F] | 2016

I wrote this short book of sex-related experiences I've had, and then it sold, like, two copies outside of my friends who bought it, so... yeah. That was a thing. Anyway, one of my friends reads this board, and he suggested I post it here. It's a thing that happened but it's sort of spruced up language-wise, because it was written for publishing.

And it begins like this...

The first thing that comes to mind, I guess, is a feeling of being lost. This was only a fleeting feeling, but I definitely remember it being there. Which is to say, there was a point at which I knew I’d been cast away into vacancy, like a playing card flicked out into a unit of air, and there it goes, twirling off into a space whose mood resembles your favorite freeze frame from Tarkovsky’s Stalker. Imagine that I was in a pine forest, sort of turning about this way and that as if that would help me get my bearings, crying out to myself, begging for myself to come back to me. If a response comes, it is only in the form of a giant laugh. But after a few moments that terrible feeling disappeared, shrinking away to a single dot that was easily overlooked, and I’d be back in the real world again.

I did things to him. His back played home to joyous pounding from my fists. His rich ass demanded to be clasped at. Fingers pushing up against taut muscles, I drew his buttocks apart and let go and moved my hands somewhere else. Elsewhere, the same hands developed a mind of their own, me ceding control to them out of a desire to see what they might accomplish. Manically they searched; without temperament they wandered. When they had explored the great lengths of his body they shifted to the bed, again pounding, again pulling, violating the sheets and making a mess and meeting face on face with entropy, and with a smile shaking hands. I moaned and screamed and desperately tried to stop making such a racket. What is that, when the pleasure is so great that it becomes unbearable? For dashes here, seconds there my body stung with incomprehensible agony, only for that torment to soon wash out and cede ground back to a mode of euphoria I had never felt before. And then the aching would return, and I would yell, and he would clutch at me and be as reassuring as he could, and I bit into him and kissed him and loved him as best I could a stranger, and then it would leave again.

And all the while he dug at me, his thick sex backed by a body with parts so well defined and unfairly hard that he might have been cut from diamond. He should have been fake: a rack of muscles, chest definitely imaged by a Swiss laser, with hands whose span nearly matched a dustbin lid. When he flipped me around and had me atop him, his hand easily engulfed my ass. When he flipped me around and had me atop him, he slipped a thick digit into my ass and delved until he was contented. He made no noise during this, leaving the vocalizing to me, but I wished he would join in, and I imagined him roaring, gasping as he arranged my legs however he pleased, spreading them wide to rout me better, clasping constantly at my hands now and mixing our fingers together because god that embrace felt good. I begged him to slow so that the feeling might last longer, and for a time he would, but then he would forget and give in to his own pleasure, and return to a harder, faster pace more familiar to him. I came. Compared to the magnitude of his penis, my orgasm felt tiny and totally insubstantial—small muscles quivering pathetically around a fat, hard, immovable presence. And yet it was an orgasm that crushed me. And I came again, and he must have felt liquid splattering upon his skin because he responded by thrusting harder. His motion grew hungrier. But I came again. And again. And again.

Or maybe that whole thing was too saccharine?

Occasionally Victoria and I will conduct long conversations in the dead of night—say, two or three in the morning. This happens when we find we have woken up and we know that neither of us has any chance of getting back to sleep. It always begins the same way: she drags a long leg over mine, presses her nose against the back of my ear, and whispers an asking question, asking if I’m awake. She moves hard into me, forcing her exterior to be rendered upon my skin—her large breasts pancaking in an epic collapse across my back, the ends of her small and highly engineered tuft of pubic hair flicking playful touches against my ass like whispers in the summer air. Eventually I respond that I’m awake, and then we get to talking.

On the particular occasion I’m thinking of, which I’m about to recount because it is directly relevant to the above passage (which is the focus of this story), I began by telling her that I was about to tell her a secret, and that she couldn’t repeat what I was about to say to anyone else. A few days prior, I had gone for a long walk along the beach with my friend Julie. Julie is an old friend. We took piano together back in the seventh grade. She was worse than me, though neither of us had any real talent—just a sort of utilitarian collapse of fingers on keys to make sounds that, though textbook and governed by some code of logic, were nonetheless caustic and utterly lacking in artistry. The tutor was an old man in his late forties, and my mother got along with him well because she likes intellectuals.

It was dusk. We came to an empty playground and sat in the swings, not swinging but just plopped there in the harnesses as if we were part of a subversive art installation on the matter of societal decline. Julie was coming off a breakup of a relationship that had lasted about two-and-a-half years. We all thought she loved the guy, but now I was learning that the relationship had long been untenable, and that the outward image of a happy couple they had done a plus-plus job of projecting was actually three-part ruse and one-part lie. Her boyfriend liked to sleep with older women—forty- or fifty-something cougars. Always they were women he’d met randomly in daily life. It was a habit. He and the women attracted each other naturally; it was as if they knew their type was his primary interest, and they saw his pretty face and were keen to gobble him down. Often they were married, and always it was performed as an exotic fling, as in quiet stealing away to motels for hasty sex, or week-long live-ins at her house while the husband was conveniently absent. The boyfriend asked they make sure to wear some kind of animal print clothing for each encounter, because animal print aroused him incredibly.

Curiously, Julie knew about all this. The boyfriend had made it clear several months into the relationship that these sexual excursions were something that had to take place. It was something he needed; something crucial to his character, crucial to his very being; to cease this behavior would be equal to removing his liver, or taking one or two chambers from his heart. It was as if this love for older women was a track that he had been set on as soon as he became sexually capable, a track from which he could not escape or, perhaps to put it in slightly less fatalistic terms, a track which he had no desire of escaping from. He had abstained from this behavior for the few months in which he and Julie had been together, but now a beautiful real estate agent with three children had approached him, and he had to sleep with her shortly. She had been wearing a purple business dress when they met. She had maneuvered his hand up her skirt, and he was appalled at how wet she was—so appalled that he designed to do something about it. And so, it was fated to happen, he explained apologetically.

For whatever reason—Julie herself failed to provide an answer—she remained with him. She said, in passing, that he was a legitimately good lover, and that at that time she wasn’t interested in committing herself to a real relationship anyway. Everybody else was busy getting serious, and Julie was never one to go along with the crowd.

I suppose the most salacious bit is that the boyfriend eventually invited her to watch his sessions with the older women, and after some initial resistance she caved and did so. She observed from within a closet, peering out between the blinds like in Blue Velvet. She witnessed her boyfriend take a range of women. It would begin under the covers, but eventually he would coax them out onto the bed so Julie could receive an unlimited view of the lovemaking, the women clashing madly against his youthful form, writhing on him furiously, leaving to conference with the bathroom and then returning for more. In time, he gathered the daring to ask Julie to come out from hiding and to sit in a chair instead. She agreed. Now he chose only partners who’d agree to being watched by her. Finding them was no problem. Some of them shot her cunning looks. Julie, for her part, would do nothing but survey.

“That’s a weird story,” Victoria said, her hand caressing my vulva.

Three mornings later, sitting naked on kitchen stools, we had another conversation. “I want to watch you have sex,” Victoria said. “Like in the story you told me a few nights ago.” She said she wanted to be in a closet, peering through blinds, resigned to touching herself while I engaged with a man.

I didn’t reply immediately. My flinch reaction was to reject this and pretend to be mildly disgusted by the suggestion, and then play it off with a laugh, but then sometime in the future, maybe ten hours or ten days later, secretly lust over the idea, touch myself to the fantasy once, and then forget about it completely. I tried to summon reasons why agreeing to this would be a bad thing to do, but aside from some slight concerns here and there and in that corner, I found that there was nothing significant enough to stop me. It was not as if my relationship with her would be damaged in any way. It was (and is) a curious one. We entered into it by making it safe, by declaring outright that we wanted each other first as lovers, lovers in the decadent sense, lovers for the love of the bedroom. That was all we sought to gain. I didn’t (and don’t) expect to spend my life with her because I ultimately wanted (and want) a man and children. She has reported feeling similarly. But we are both intractably attracted to each other. To be clear, nobody is not attracted to Victoria, and by some stroke of luck one day she declared she was interested in me, and so we became attached. But we are both acutely aware that sooner or later it will come to an end. Maybe we’ll just see each other less often. Maybe we’ll not see each other at all. I don’t know right now.

I say all this simply as a way of explaining that I was not concerned our relationship would be destroyed as a result of me having sex with someone else not called her while she watched. Our relationship was not destined to have a storybook ending in the first place.

The way I’ve described us here makes our relationship sound antiseptic, like some sort of mangled ink blur atrocity in a picture book where there had been a mistake at the printers. But this framing is my failing. It’s not merely some artificially concocted beast that will be slaughtered once it has run its course. It’s genuinely not like that—we love each other; the feeling is irrepressible, bordering on noxious. I just knew that the relationship couldn’t be hurt because, in a way, there was nothing there to be hurt.

“This is going to be an amazing experience,” she said later on. “The person I’m thinking of for you—he’s the number three fucker on the Eastern Seaboard. He’s incredibly handsome, he’s black, he’s over six foot, he’s passionate; smart—he’s an unbeatable lovemaker. So to speak. I mean, he’s number three, but... you know what I mean.”

“The ‘number three fucker?’” I asked.

“I don’t know numbers one and two. Number three’s as high as I go. Arranging the hookup will be no problem.”

“Have you been with him?” I asked.

“Not really. I was at a fancy party last year, and he tried to get me into bed, but I wasn’t having it. I let him eat me out, but that was it.”

“Was it good?”

“Of course. He’s number three. But I stopped myself from coming. I wasn’t interested in being won over by him. We remained friends after that. He’s a really nice guy. Some of the best conversations I’ve ever had have been with him. He’s got a Masters in philosophy so, you know, we sort of clicked. Each dinner ends with him trying to talk me into sleeping with him. But he’ll never get there.”

“So how does this happen?”

“We can get a hotel room—one with the proper closet for me to watch from. But he can’t know I’m in there. You can’t let him know.”

Though the actual lovemaking was of virtually unsurpassable quality, I’m not especially enamored with that night. It was a two hour journey into utter passivity. I found myself allowing myself to be guided into this strange hypersensitive space, a sort of surrender to his guiding hand, a sort of surrender to the feelings he was a master at evoking. To get to those previously unmapped peaks, to feel that previously unknown pleasure, I had to give up and give in, like a ship riding on an especially cranky sea. The ship resigns itself to taking each wave and praying that the storm will break before its hull does—oh well, there’s another wave, and as you watch it shuffle off behind you, look up in time to see the next one bearing down, all jizzing on you from above. It feels like it’s going to be like that forever. Certainly, there would be some who would have no problem ceding so to a greater force; they might even feel more pleasure from it than I did then. But they are they, and I am here with this keyboard, and that kind of play is not for me. That’s the sole aspect of the number three fucker’s game, though—he’s big, bulky, commanding, confident, incredibly attractive, while concurrently genuinely romantic and genuinely sweet, a comfort-inducer that constantly threatens to ravish. Taken in his arms, I ceded myself and followed him into this hall of euphoria. Was it for Victoria’s sake, she being the one who wanted all this? The truth is that I forgot about her and everything else the moment he touched me. In any case, I wouldn’t do it again.

He had a finger in me—maybe two—and we made out as I wriggled against his hand, his body resting leaden upon my small frame. On the other side was his back, a tremendous expanse, and my hands played across it like mice, never reaching the limits of his form. His fingers searched harder and faster in me. Lurking against my thigh was his giant sex, it rejoicing in its engorged state, this beautiful organ so deliriously alive but sealed between us. I tried to kiss him as I would kiss anyone else, but he was using his tongue as a probe, behaving as if my mouth was a hole to sink fuck into, thrusting this way and that, his ultimate goal to work himself right down into the true me. I spread my legs wider and came jaggedly all over his fingers, gushing landmine strong, and he made a sound like a grin. I spread my mouth to him too, offering my innards to his pursuit, writhing in something vaguely reminiscent of anguish as he plunged deeper into me. Thoughts flashed out. He was like a virus reaching in to infect my core; running me through with sex; pleasure his vector, worming into the small glowing ball of life that was all that was me and rewriting whatever little there was left, replacing it with a singular feeling: a simple, dumb ecstasy. He would condemn my mind to executing one task alone, to processing the communications sent from the muscles in my sex, the punchy grind of his penis within me, the boorish way his dickhead kissed my womb with each stroke, the exhausted pulsing of my vagina, my little, faithful sex delivering a memorandum for every second that passed, a careful itemization of every tug and spasm and shiver and contraction of every muscle fiber; the precise production of fluid by every gland. He would have this be and I let him have it. And when it ended, a cooing pretty girl was left, mind all silly, vagina broken compass crazy, me a firsthand experiencer of orgasm mayhem.

Really though—there’s no place here for a princess.

The room looked like a Kandinsky by the time we were done. Sheets and covers were torn and splayed like carnage across the floor. The bed was soaked in my fluids—most of it urine, which announces itself during a particularly good orgasm, and some of it female ejaculate, which tends to come out, I’ve noticed, during an especially good orgasm—and, generally speaking, the place looked like a man with axes for arms had been set loose in it. I kept rubbing my thighs together like that might put the blaze between my legs out. Wetness continued to run. He was out of me now, but I could hear myself moaning still, though the voice sounded like it was being threaded in from somewhere else. His arms shook as he jacked himself off over me. The cum dripped out all tired, pattering down onto me in great big gray splotches that splashed across my stomach and oozed into my navel.

I was still lying on the bed when he left, and when Victoria finally emerged. I’d forgotten she was there. “The place smells like curated fuck,” she said. She crouched over me. She smelled. “I didn’t masturbate,” she said. “I’m dying. I hate you.” She lowered herself to my mouth. Honey dripped over my lips. I was out of energy. As I passed out, I felt her lay next to me. When I woke up in the morning, she was splayed out across my corpse. Two naked girls, touching.

Sex is icky when it dries on your skin.