Literary Erotica
"John," a sex story by Aimee Herman
After we fucked, he offered me a cigarette. It was ultra light and I could barely taste the nicotine. Strangely, this poor impersonation of impending death reminded me of his dick. I felt absolutely nothing. My lungs felt unsatisfied, faking an orgasmic rush from its weak toxins. I sat beside him in bed; vagina still dripping from the remnants of his released thrusts. All I could think about was finishing this awful interpretation of a post-coitus release, getting dressed, going home and taking a very, very long shower.
Drawing by Dogfish
My preference for women was a slight obstacle for me, however I endured our fifteen minutes of fucking with the fact that his dick was small, kind of like an enlarged clitoris. As he grunted on top of me, I imagined him as a woman with small breasts and an oddly shaped cunt that had the strange ability to spew semen inside of me. When he assaulted my mouth with his hard, pointy tongue, I envisioned a softer substitution. Our mouths just did not fit very comfortably together. He dug as deep as he could, slipping minty-fresh saliva down my throat. I appreciated the consideration of hygiene. However, I wondered if he was deep-sea diving with his tongue -- searching for some sort of hidden treasures attached to my vocal cords. He poked and prodded like a dedicated surgeon and I did my best not to choke upon his enflamed taste buds.
I left myself as he entered me. Got a cocktail. Read a short story. Listened to four songs on the radio. Took a catnap. Organized my cabinets by size, shape and food group. Made myself a martini with extra olives -- eating them slowly as I removed them from a plastic sword, mixing their saltiness with chilled vodka. I balanced my checkbook and found that I was only two dollars and thirty-three cents off. I envisioned what I might look like with bangs and decided they didn't go very well with my facial structure. I tried to recall how many pairs of clean underwear I had left -- estimating about seven which meant I could go at least another week without doing my laundry and even longer if I chose to walk around unprotected. I planned the next vacation I would take if I had the money to afford one. I composed a poem, tried to decide if an artichoke is really a vegetable, and I even had a few minutes to spare as I found myself wondering: what the fuck brought me here?
There was a distance of about one hundred pounds between us. I almost preferred that since I already had issues with my weight and a girl can look quite skinny beneath a two hundred and fifty pound behemoth.
My thighs were pushed against my chest like two thick prison bars locking me against the mattress, which he kept shoving me into. I closed my eyes.
"I'm gonna come," he said. "Do you want to feel it or see it?"
I waited for a moment, hoping there was a third option. Unfortunately I waited too long and he went with the latter. He pulled out and peeled the condom off. His fat fingers wrapped around his small dick, holding it like a hose. I lay beneath him as he jerked off, shooting an impressive array of cum over my stomach and breasts. My skin looked like a glazed pastry, covered and seeping from the sides. He sighed and collapsed on top of me as his sweat mixed with mine. His skin fell over me like a tight blanket and I could not think about anything else besides his sticky sperm stuck to my flesh.
These sexual encounters had been going on for about three months. Once a week, sometimes twice if requested. It had become very methodical: I hop on an elevator to the thirty-sixth floor after the concierge alerts him of my presence. On my ride up, I fix my hair, do a quick breath check, and turn my cell phone off. As I approach his door, I take a deep breath and press my finger against his doorbell.
He greets me with a hug that lasts seventy-four seconds. Sometimes more, never less. He hands me a business-sized envelope, which I immediately place into my bag. I never count it in front of him, as it might give him the impression that its contents fuel my purpose for being there. As true as that might be, I still wait to open it. I prefer to do that in the elevator ride down. It ranges in amount -- around three hundred dollars. Sometimes more, never less. He helps me off with my coat if I am wearing one, and I remove my shoes.
We engage in a game of small talk to artificially sanitize the air from appearing too business-like. He sweetly asks if I would like to change into something more comfortable. I excuse myself toward his bathroom, grabbing my bag on the way, as I reapply more scented lotion to my body with an emphasis on my pussy.
I dig into my bag and unzip the tiny compartment where I keep a small pillbox. It is gold with a small, beaded, floral arrangement on the top. I flip open the lid and take out a small plastic bag, just a little larger than a quarter. I shake a small bump of cocaine onto my hand and bring it to my nose. I inhale and wipe the remnant of powder onto my finger, pressing it into my gums and licking it with my tongue.
Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.
I become numb. Calm. And. Numb. And. High. A combination of my favorite emotions.
I put the pillbox back into my bag and exit the bathroom.
I walk back into his living room and he hands me a tube of lotion. He sits comfortably in an easy chair, while I straddle the ottoman pushed against it. I am wearing see-through, red lingerie that offers slightly more protection than a napkin, with no underwear or bra beneath. He likes to remove the straps with his feet and pinch my nipples with his toes. It's an odd feeling, which I generally don't like. Unfortunately, my own pleasure or satisfaction is not of the essence.
I squeeze a generous amount of unscented lotion into my palms and begin to massage his feet. He likes it soft and slow. I weave my fingers between each toe, trying hard not to breathe in the pungent scent congealed therein. He loves this. I gradually travel toward his thick ankles and dry calves. He has a few sores on his legs, which I subtly steer clear of. When there is no lotion left on his skin, I squeeze out some more. Hands move over knees, lingering, as I push up the fabric of his pants and travel beneath his clothing toward his thighs. I graze his tiny penis, causing him to moan and rise from beneath his cotton pants.
His eyes alternate between tightly closed to deep, intense eye-contact. I feel compelled to flirt with my lips and mouth. My tongue licks my top lip, then bottom. My eyes look up and then down. I take a deep breath, as I push out my breasts. Look at me, my nipples say. They stand at attention in response to the cold air pressing against them. Pants come off and my head is pushed down upon baby penis. My loose head bobs up and down, taking in every inch of him. I swirl my tongue around the base of his dick as though it were a half-eaten Popsicle. I lick his balls and squeeze them gently with my hands. He likes this. I just might be the only lesbian skilled in giving good head.
He leads me into his bedroom. I try my best not to look around. Not to stare at the photographs of his family. Three grown children probably older than I. His wedding photo. Happy couple standing beside each other after vows have been sworn and rings had been stitched on. I try not to focus on his wife's face as I step out of my lingerie.
He pushes me onto the bed. Head plunges toward breasts as mouth sucks on them. Alternates between right and left nipple. Right then left. Left a little longer. His mouth widens as he takes more of me in and I start to worry that he might leave a mark. Wide body slowly moves down as though I am a slide made of skin.
I become a swimming pool as he dives between my thighs and eats me out until I am wet enough for him. His tongue is like a battery-operated machine -- moving up and down, in and out. My hips rise as I grind my lower half against his face. I am a meal for him and he has starved himself for days.
While he digs his tongue all around down there, I close my eyes and imagine my last girlfriend. Her scent like ground-up fabric softener sheets. Or the girl behind the counter where I get my coffee in the morning. The way her hand sometimes lingers against mine as she hands me back my change. One time, I imagined him as my sophomore English teacher, Ms. M, whose legs helped me to realize how incredibly gay I really was.
His tongue turns into a finger, but it could also be his penis, because really, it is that small. Usually I can tell when his finger transitions into his dick because I can feel the condom and hear the rubber move in and out of me. My legs create the letter "V," if it had a mouth and could yawn. I become extremely impressed with my level of flexibility. The cocaine in my system allows my limbs to feel elastic.
Once he is inside me, I know it is almost over. It never lasts long. Maybe it's his age -- he is 56 and, assuming from his weight, not very healthy. He is never rough. In fact, after he comes, he slowly folds on top of me and just likes it when I rub his back, holding him tightly. Sometimes we fall asleep. He holds me close to him and buries his deep snores inside my neck. The longer the nap, the quicker our three-hour session creeps toward its culmination.
Afterwards, he graciously offers me a beverage -- a glass of water or orange juice and a well-deserved cigarette. He puts his pants on and hands me a towel, while I excuse myself to the bathroom. The mirror becomes increasingly unkind toward my reflection. My hair is ruffled in the back like an unmade bed. Mascara appears to have run a marathon across my face. I throw my clothes back on after wiping the leftovers of his good time off my skin. I cannot make eye contact with my vagina. I know it is angry with me. I am angry with me.
I leave the bathroom and we smoke our cigarettes. More small talk, where I pretend to listen and appear thoroughly interested. Maybe a few more kisses, the open-ended appointment for next time, and then I am off. I press the elevator button going down. Luckily, it is always empty allowing me a chance to count my earnings. Then I take a deep breath and casually exit, hoping that the strong scent of sex saturating my skin and clothes can only be detected by me.
I walk a few blocks toward the subway and impatiently wait for it to arrive. I hop on and hope to find a seat so I don't have to stand. I keep my green book bag close to me and take out whatever book I am currently reading.
Originally Published November 2006: Simply Sexy