Sexy Book of Sexy Sex (28 page)

THE LEGEND: This guy totally walked in on another guy putting peanut butter on his dick and letting his dog lick it off.

True or false: TRUE!

WHAT REALLY HAPPENED: The peanut butter pervert was Jonathan Duke of Downers Grave, Illinois. But it wasn’t peanut butter, It was Nutella, The Original Hazelnut Spread.

Jonathan had been having a bad day. No one had remembered it was his birthday, not even the cute receptionist Julia. Frustrated by loneliness and an extended romantic dry spell, Jonathan decided to turn to some creature comfort after work. He knew his Boston terrier, Sandy, loved the rich and creamy taste of Nutella. So much, in fact, that she would hardly notice whether she was licking it off his finger or his lonely birthday penis. Convinced his beloved pooch wouldn’t be traumatized, Jonathan slathered his member with Nutella’s chocolaty goodness. Soon the dark kitchen was filled with the sounds of Sandy’s lapping and Jonathan’s ecstatic moans.

Little did Jonathan know his friends, coworkers, parents, grand-parents, and even the cute receptionist Julia were hiding in the den, waiting to throw him a surprise birthday party. After hearing strange sounds coming from the kitchen, the well-wishers decided to investigate. Clicking on the lights, they shouted something along the lines of “Surpriii-oh my GOD!” and Jonathan saw both his dignity and his erection disappear before his eyes. Even the dog was mortified, but only because she’d missed the last heavenly dollop of Nutella on Jonathan’s hazelnut nutsack.

RODENT TO PERDITION

THE LEGEND: A certain famous actor had a live gerbil up his anus.

True or false: TRUE!

WHAT REALLY HAPPENED: The actor was Clarence T. Conway of the Stony Brook Players and the gerbil belonged to his son Rudy’s first-grade class. Rudy had volunteered to take care of Yu-Gi-Oh:’ The Gerbil (whose name had been decided by a class vote) over the Christmas break.

One night, Clarence tossed and turned as he tried to rest up for the next day’s performance of Wicked at a local retirement home. Remembering an old actor’s trick for beating insomnia, he drank a whole bottle of gin. One thing led to another, and before long Clarence had inserted Yu-Gi-Oh up his classically trained keester. In addition to being uncomfortable, the shock of having a live creature inside him sobered Clarence up instantly. Unfortunately, little Yu-Gi-Oh wasn’t going anywhere. Finally, the tired thespian coaxed the gerbil out of himself with an empty toilet paper roll and a few pieces of popcorn.

The next day, Clarence was in the middle of a heartfelt rendition of “A Sentimental Man” when he felt something other than Sentiments stirring deep inside him. Committed to his craft, Clarence soldiered on with the performance. But just as the song was building to its emotional climax, five hairless pink gerbil babies scurried down the Wizard of Oz’s pant leg and scattered about the dayroom. Yu-Gi-Oh had birthed them in Clarence’s rectum, and his unsuspecting warmth had made them strong and healthy (except for the sixth gerbil, which died and remained inside Clarence). Several seniors called the performance “nice.”

A Brief Conversation with a Dominatrix

(and her slave)

YEAH LET’S TALK ABOUT BDSM. WHAT DOES BDSM STAND FOR, SLAVE? Bondage and Discipline/Sadomasochism. VERY GOOD. GET UNDER THE QUEENING STOOL. BDSM HAS GOTTEN A LOT OF NEGATIVE PUBLICITY OVER THE YEARS, AND THAT’S BULLSHIT. WHEN BDSM IS DONE RIGHT IT’S ABOUT TRUST. IT’S A BOND THAT GOES BEYOND WHAT A REGULAR RELATIONSHIP CAN OFFER. IT’S ABOUT CARING AND UNDERSTANDING AND TRUSTING LIMITS. In a safe, sane, consensual manner. SHUT UP, SLAVE! DID I TELL YOU YOU COULD TALK? DID I TELL YOU YOU COULD OPEN THAT FOUL LITTLE TRAP OF YOURS? ANSWER ME! No, Mistress. GO GET YOUR COLLAR. YOU DON’T DESERVE TO BE UNDER MY ANUS RIGHT NOW YOU ARE SO OUT OF LINE. ANYWAYS, IT IS A PARTNERSHIP WHERE BOTH SIDES HAVE TO EARN THE OTHER’S RESPECT. IT’S HARD WORK. Arf. Arf. GOOD PUPPY. HE WASN’T ALWAYS MY SLAVE. HE STARTED AS A SUB, BUT AFTER SEVERAL YEARS, WE REALIZED THAT WE COULD TAKE IT TO THE NEXT LEVEL. DOWN, GET DOWN! WHO TOLD YOU YOU COULD JUMP UP? WAS IT ME? NO! YOU NEED TO BE PUNISHED! Arf! GET ME MY WHIP.(Dog whine.) ANYWAYS, I FEEL SATISFIED MAKING MY SLAVE HAPPY, AND THERE ARE VERY SPECIFIC WAYS TO DO IT. THAT’S A GOOD BOY. NOW HOLD STILL!(Whips.) Arf! SHUT UP! I’M GOING TO GIVE YOU THREE MORE LASHES, AND IF I HEAR A PEEP FROM YOU I WILL LOCK YOU IN THE PANTRY! (Three more whips.) IT’S GOING THE EXTRA MILE TO DISCOVER ANOTHER PERSON’S NEEDS. I’VE TRIED VANILLA SEX, AND IT WASN’T INTIMATE ENOUGH FOR ME. WAS IT, SLAVE? Grrrrrr. THAT’S RIGHT. GET BACK UNDER THE QUEENING STOOL.

Fetishes

Still haven’t found that sexy someone? It might be that someone is a something. Fetishes are sexual fixations involving any object, situation, or body part not typically considered “sexy.” As it turns out, just about anything can get your rocks off. Now get out there and get turned on!

1. Dendrophilia: Trees

2. Acrotomophilia: Amputations

3. Agalmatophilia: Statues

4. Urolagnia: Urinating and/or being urinated on

5. Aquaphilia: Water

6. Gerontophilia: Elderly people

7. Trichophilia: Hair

8. Lactaphilia: Breast milk

9. Autonepiophilia: Being a baby

10. Somnophilia: Sleeping or unconscious people

11. Mucophilia: Mucus

12. Chremastistophilia: Being robbed or held up

13. Coulrophilia: Clowns

14. Coprophilia: Feces

15. Formicophilia: Being crawled on by insects

16. Phalloorchoalgolagnia: Being hit in the balls

17. Mysophilia: Decaying things

18. Algolagnia (aka masochism): Pain

19. Necrophilia: Cadavers

20. Dacryphilia: Crying

21. Pyrophilia: Fire

22. Retifism: Shoes

23. Objectum sexuality: Inanimate objects

24. Plushophilia: Stuffed toys or people in animal costumes

25. Libriredimiophilia: Book bindings

The Love Ness

I’ve devoted my life to her. Or him. The gender has never been confirmed. But I’ll call it a her because of the curves. The mouthwatering curves. Sometimes I’ll trace her body in the air with my hand. I follow the long slender neck down into wetness, back up across a sweet hump and then back into wetness, and then along a second hump just under the water. When my hand gets to that submerged hump I have to think about something else; otherwise I’ll get an instant hard-on.

My last girlfriend, Rita, is actually the one who told me about her. She had just returned from a business trip to Scotland. I zeroed in on her succulent, pouty lips as they formed the words. “LochÝ—it was as if her mouth was readying itself for a blow job—ÜNessÝ—and then snapped back into a satisfied smile—” … Monster. We didn’t see it. Joel. Joel? Are you listening?”

Of course I was, Rita. You’d just introduced me to the love of my life.

I developed tunnel vision for this sea creature. I learned everything I could about my sweet Scottish monster. I was no longer interested in Rita. Especially after she declined to get a tattoo of Nessie on her upper thigh.

I’ve stopped being able to orgasm without thinking of her. When her gorgeous horned head breaks the surface of the water I lose control. I don’t like to use the word “fetish.” I don’t like the sound of it. It sounds like a soggy vegetable. I worry that’s what my fascination with Nessie has become: limp broccoli rabe.

My only hope is that Nessie is real. Why else would she be haunting me like this? She’s a siren singing me to shipwreck … or paradise. I bought a ticket to Scotland today. One-way.

*

Virgin Atlantic coach sucks ass. Don’t fly Virgin across the ocean unless you’re Dick Branson. It’s a rich man’s airline with a miserable coach section to fly the help. I’m average height, but my knees were still crunched against the seat in front of me. For the first time in my life I felt claustrophobic. I waited for the stewards to come by every couple hours and pop ice creams and snacks into our mouths like baby chicks. Then I forced sleep on my cramped muscles. I imagined the smallness of the seat was just the pressure of the water as I sank farther and farther below to meet my love.

In my dream everything is pitch-black except for an iridescent glow in the distance. It pulses and I am pulled in like a planet. I don’t worry about breathing because the energy from the light is my new life source. I’m also dressed in a black vintage three-piece suit with a dusty orange tie and a gold pocket watch. Not important, but I look good. The water is freezing until I get closer to the light where I feel a sensual warmth. At first I think I peed myself, because I always have to pee in my dreams. But the embarrassment goes away as a rush of even warmer water passes over me. I’m in her aura, lit up in a soft neon green, and in front of me floats Nessie.

She’s radiant. Saying she resembles a plesiosaur is not accurate. She is her own species. She is shaped like a serpent on the ends and a camel in the middle. Her body is covered in iridescent scales that shimmer like peacock feathers. Her flippers are large diamond discs with fringe like a prehistoric buckskin jacket. Her neck is long, almost six feet, and slender. She curves it in the water with the elegance of a ribbon twirler, quick Os and Ss, sideways 8s, she could be spelling something out for me, but I am distracted by her eyes. They are as large as a cow’s and neon green, the source of all the light. In a flash her neck wraps around me and guides me to her. She pins me against her torso with her diamond tin. Her flank is quivering. It feels like a school of fish is still alive inside her, swimming rhythmically. It’s electrifying. I’ve never felt this excited in my life. I’m shaking uncontrollably. My skin is covered in goose bumps and my pants are bursting. She is face to face with me. I’m inches away from glowing eyes and a delicate snout and mouth accented by two small horns.

I smile. And she smiles. It’s a smile that I know. It’s sort of a cross between my first dog Buster’s grin and Rita’s. Then she rubs her cheek against mine and it’s soft. Her scales are made out of some sort of water-resistant velvet. I love her. I feel amazing. Sexually charged, confident, and peaceful. I don’t want to be anywhere else but here, underwater with Nessie. She knows it too.
She runs her long neck down my body and licks at my crotch.

“Flight attendants, prepare the cabin for landing.” Thank God.

*

I picked the cheapest and most crowded tour bus to Loch Ness. I didn’t want to make friends. I didn’t want anyone to notice that when the bus left, I wasn’t on it. I kept my head down and listened to the tour guide.

“Now if you look out your window there to your right, you’ll see an outhouse. That’s where J.K. Rowling lived when she was first writing the Harry Potter book. We’ll pull over so you can all touch it.”

It was difficult to contain myself as the bus inched slowly toward my love’s lair. I could almost smell her. It was a freshwater lake, but Nessie was salty, and I could detect the faintest scent of brine in the air. Brine and sweat

The brochure of the tour had a cartoon Nessie. Green and cheerful, winking. Scaling her great mythology down to a commercial. They have no idea. No one knows Nessie as I do. None of those scientists with all their sonar scans, hydrophones, and motorboats have a clue who Nessie is. I am the expert. I know that she is real. I am constantly in touch with her. On a subconscious level. A spiritual level. If I ever meet one of her

Her home was even more beautiful in person. The lake was a steel sword cutting through miles of green hills. The tourists snapped a few pictures and tumbled back on the bus to go to a pub where J.K. Rowling got drunk for the first time. I was already drunk, on salty Nessie air. I ducked behind a tree until the sound of the bus engine faded into the distance. The lake was still. Everything was. Nessie, I thought, don’t make me wait. We’re alone now.