Yes, they do.
No, that is not hokey, it feels just exactly
like that. And now he's coming over, so get ready.
He walks confidently over to you, looming
over you by inches. Your heart pounds as he reaches up to touch
your face. His thick fingers travel over your lips, over your chin,
and down your throat. You take a single deep breath, anticipating
the plunge. With one finger he lifts your chin to bring your lips
closer to his, and you close your eyes as you feel his leanness
pressing against you. In just seconds your body has heated and
moistened to an incredible degree and out of nowhere you're ready
to follow this stranger anywhere he wants to take you.
Oh, yes you would. You did that UPS guy that
one time, didn't you, and he wasn't half as hot as this guy. Oh,
bullshit, yes you did. This man is the dope and you're ready to do
him in the changing room, so just listen.
He takes your mouth with brutal and
unrelenting force, and you nearly pass out from the thrill of it,
don't give me any crap, now. He wraps his powerful arms around you
and you love it, admit it. Yes, you do, who's telling this, you or
me? Now keep reading and slip a finger inside your panties while I
go on.
Um, excuse me, sir? Unless you're wearing a
pair of panties as well, I don't think you're supposed to be
reading this.
Oh. Wow. Well, carry on, then, sorry.
Your hands dive into his thick,
wavy hair of their own accord, luxuriating in the sensual feel
of it slipping through your fingers. It's shoulder-length and
jet-black… what? No, it's black. Black. No, it's not at all blond,
why would it be blond when I said it was black? I'm sure you really
like blond guys, but this guy has black hair, trust me. Oh, dammit,
don't get like that. It's just a story, for chrissake.
Your hands dive into his
thick hair of their own accord, luxuriating in the sensual feel of
it slipping through your fingers. It's shoulder-length and
it's
blond
, all
right? Bright neon yellow fucking blond hair just spilling out
everywhere you look. You shut your eyes tight against the glare of
the fluorescent lights as they shine off his brilliant fucking
Aryan hair. And then he grabs your hooters.
What? No, it's blond, now, this bitch over
here complained. Well, I can't make it a perfect turn-on for
everybody, can I? Just listen to the parts you like and ignore
the rest, Jesus. Mass media my ass.
Okay, okay. All of you who want him blond,
raise your hand. Now all of you who want him with black hair, raise
your hand. There, he's blond, deal with it. The deciding vote was
for blond, and thank you, sir.
So he's blonder than fucking Thor and he's
pawing all over you and you're ripping away at his clothes and he
lifts you up on the counter, pulling your skirt away with his teeth
to reveal your shaved pussy, a second hot mouth begging for his
tongue.
No, you weren't wearing underwear. I know
you were trying on clothes but you, you, uh, you were hoping you'd
get lucky, all right? It was really hot out and shit. Can I finish
this?
Because you love the exotic
and slippery sensual feel of a shaved pussy, that's why! Work with
me, here! It does
not
itch that bad, I don't care what your friend said. Okay, it
doesn't itch in this goddamn story and he's about to go down on you
if you'll just shut the fuck up.
Jolene who? The sales lady? How should I
know? She stepped out. She's helping another customer. She's in the
john. She died. She closed the door to the shop and put a big sign
on it that said “Back in 15, Fucking” on it, all right? How the
hell do you ever get laid, anyway? There's no other customers and
no one will walk in, ever, and all the angels shut their eyes and
turned the other way and hummed real loud, okay? I don’t believe
you people. How the fuck do you even masturbate?
He licks you exactly fucking once, and then
he stands up and shoves his dick in. He's, I dunno, 12, 13 inches
and rock hard and he whales away for, like, three hours without
stopping once and you come so many times you have an embolism and
you die from sheer pleasure and then I never have to tell you
another goddamn sexy story. Then he jerks off on your hair, runs
off with Jolene and they live happily ever after in the Hamptons
and have a hundred babies, so there.
I mean, Jesus.
-------------------------
The Perils
of Being a Sex Writer
Sure, it
sounds
great. Spend your days, your
nights, endlessly researching sex and all its positions,
permutations and possibilities until you can't walk no more.
Instantly know the answer to any question anyone could ever ask you
about the whole sticky business. Get more poon than Woody Harrelson
and Scott Baio combined. Get bulk discounts at Good Vibrations, get
a good seat at Spago's, get head from passing supermodels while
their husbands hold their hair out of the way. Is that what you
think it's like?
Well, yes, it is. But you can't imagine the
responsibilities, the pressures, the sheer volume of knowledge
you're expected to retain to earn the honored title “Sex Expert.”
If you choose this twisted career path as your own, here's what you
can expect:
First off, there's the studying. It was easy
for Masters and Johnson; they were making it up as they went along.
No one talked about sex, not even to their spouses, so Masters and
Johnson could say whatever they wanted and no one would argue. But
now there are thousands of sex books written every year — millions
if you include the online crap — and you have to know every word.
Just because you had a lot of boyfriends in college doesn't mean
you can start publishing right out of the gate; that amateur stuff
won't wash in today's sex-savvy market.
You've got to know that a
“Flying Philadelphia Fuck” traditionally involves a rocking chair,
and that Havelock Ellis didn't write
Deathbird Stories
. You have to know
instinctively which chakra controls sexuality (hint: the one in the
elbow) and which hot lube is more environmentally safe (hint: “I
Can't Believe It's Not Bear Grease”). You have to keep a constant
mental list of the best brothels in Amsterdam, Los Angeles, Seoul,
Tijuana and Dubuque. You have to stay on the cutting edge of
medicine so you can answer embarrassing questions with confidence,
such as “Which Jell-O transmits the AIDS virus the fastest in a
claw-foot bathtub?” You must be able to identify Egyptian erotic
sigils by touch and every possible human fluid by taste. To be able
to force that much accumulated human knowledge into your brain, I
recommend selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors, in horse
dosages.
Next, you have to be
personally experienced yourself. Marrying your high school
sweetheart and maintaining a lifetime lover total of maybe two is
not going to qualify you for your own radio call-in show, not on
FM, baby. You need to experience every aspect of sexuality,
regardless of how personally repulsive you may find it, or how
anatomically awkward you may have thought it was. Read the great
novels of unbridled sexuality and nonstop orgiastic
gymnastics:
Lady Chatterley's Lover
by D.H. Lawrence,
The
Decameron
by Giovanni Boccaccio, and
Poems of Sappho
by Sappho.
Non-stop chain-fucking, all of them, and that's your goal. Push
your body to its upper limits and then screw right through them.
But don't expert to live a long life. You'll be healthy, with some
surprisingly well-developed muscles in odd places, but the shelf
life of a sex writer is not high. Dr. Ruth Westheimer is, in fact,
only 33 years old. She knew the risks.
You have to be able to analyze the sex lives
of your friends and family, even if they don't know you're
watching. You must always keep that impartial observer alive in
your skull.
“You like that, baby? Huh?”
“Ooohh, god, yes!”
“How about this?”
“Aagh! Oh, Jesus!”
“Better than before?”
“Oh yeah, lover, yeah, just keep–”
“How much better?”
“…
unh… what?”
“On a scale from 1 to 10, how much
better?”
“What? Oooh… I don't know, 6 times
better.”
“Really? That's interesting.” [makes a
note]
“What… what are you doing?”
“Nothing, baby. You’re between the ages of
18 to 24, right?”
Don't expect to keep a
loving relationship going for very long. Not only does it limit you
to an unsatisfactorily small statistical universe, but sex writers
are better when they're anguished and single. No one wants to read
about happily married people; they want to read about other
tortured single people that are just as miserable as themselves,
but with more sex. Only after you've assembled many years of wild
dating stories can you allow yourself domestic bliss. Would Cynthia
Heimel, Anka Radakovich, or Inspector Gadget's wife from
Sex In the City
be as
intriguing if they were all happily married? I say no! Maybe if
they were all married to each other.
Then there's the public pressure. Just like
doctors, lawyers, and taxidermists, everyone you run into keeps
asking you for free services. “Is my dick too small?” “Are my
breasts too big?” “Why won't my wife/husband/dog let me (fill in
blank)?” “Does this feel inflamed?” “What's Madonna really like?”
It's aggravating having people in your golfing foursome drop their
pants and ask you the best ways to check for testicular cancer. You
don't dare let yourself be recognized on public transportation,
lest you be inundated with requests for advice on multiple
infidelity, anal sex, and necrophilia (or all three) from society's
less fragrant members. It's so rude how beautiful women will come
up to you in restaurants and ask for tips on their deep-throating
techniques.
Well, actually, that's pretty cool, but the
rest is still annoying.
And the worst part of the whole thing — you
have to write about it all. You have to let people read about all
the sick, depraved, twisted things you've done, with diagrams. If
you become popular, you might even get on a national talk show
where everyone can see you, even your mom.
There is an upside, don't
get me wrong. Your sex life, at least theoretically, improves.
You're
expected
to
surf for porn on the net at work. When you meet a new lover, you
can coast on your reputation the first few times. You get on some
amazing mailing lists. They let you get on stage at Aerosmith
concerts. You get personal phone calls from Janet Reno, often with
heavy breathing and minimal security taps.
And you get to write stuff like this.
-------------------------
A Tall
Tail
Two quick notes of explanation: First, I
used to edit for the excellent online erotica magazine CleanSheets.
com, and we once did an April Fool’s issue with silly articles. One
of them was an example of one of our editors' meetings in tall-tale
form.
Second, Raymond was one of the proofreaders
(galley slaves) for the magazine. Whenever we would get together
online in various chat rooms or through instant messaging, horrible
puns ensued and strong men wept.
This was my attempt to punnish him once and
for all. The fact that I submitted it hours before deadline so that
he barely had a chance to respond was a complete accident,
really.
Raymond walked over, tea in hand, and handed
Chris a Coke. “Never figured you'd be shy. You going to join the
group?”
Chris accepted gratefully and made room on
the couch. “Hey, it's the galley cat!”
“I prefer ‘Corrections Officer,’ thank you
very much. Shouldn't you be over there, reporting for
Articles?”
“I will, it's just that Jed's report
unnerved me a bit. It's been a strange month.”
Raymond sipped once, carefully, before
setting his cup down and turning back. “Begin. Omit no detail,
however slight.”
“Okay, but keep it to yourself, the friction
fiction people won't believe it. It started a few months ago,
really. I had met this couple online in the weekly chats and they
invited me to watch them on their webcam, sort of a virtual ménage
a twat. They were incredible. Dick and Lisa. Both blondes, both
gorgeous. Once I got there they set right to it, they settled into
a 69, and then they started singing. Singing! I've heard of
hummers, but they actually sang while they ate; she warbled on his
weeble while he yodeled in the gulley. Weird.”
“I think I've heard of that technique, it's
called choral sex.”
“I guess it's an a-choir-ed taste, then.
They played in the bathtub for awhile and committed sudomy, then
they got down to the gland finale. He attacked her with phallus
aforethought until the wows came home, and she rode him hard and
put him away, wet. I have to admit I was getting a little too big
for my britches and was considering logging off and offing my log,
and then they invited me to come over and super-vice. Turns out
they lived within an hour's drive so it only took me fifteen
minutes to get there.”
“What about your wife? I thought you were
monogamous.”
“Oh, I planned to keep a civil tongue in my
own mouth, but I'm allowed to look. I was just going to take a
closer peek than usual. She wouldn't mind, and she was busy anyway.
She had been invited to a cinematic retrospective of a famous
comedian.”