A Quirky Erotica Series
"NOTES
FROM A DIRTY YOUNG WOMAN: Driving my Sex Through Airbrushed Magazine"
by Aimee Herman
Read the entire series hereResearch by busy
sex-obsessors say that once a woman is in a
relationship, her sex-drive plummets. I realize that I’ve never quite
felt a
part of the majority, but I worry that something is wrong with me. The
average
count of disrobed people imagined in my brain each day is around
seventy-four.
However, if it is on a non-work day and I’ve ventured out, that number
could
double, if not triple. I have twelve-second affairs—the length of red
light to
green—when I’m in my car and swap brief eye contact with the driver
beside me.
Gender is irrelevant; it is the safest sex I’ve found.
When a cashier hands me my change and their
fingernails
accidentally slice me open, I think it is an invitation for sex. When
someone
asks me for directions because they are lost or late, I think they just
really
want to hear the pitch of my voice, allowing them to gauge how loud it
can go.
I have some issues I am working out.
Now, it has come down to my mail. I have been
experiencing a
severe love affair with my postal workers for many years. I think about
disrobing them and placing self-adhesive stamps all over their sweaty,
hard-working bodies. This would only work on a Sunday, of course. We
would
exchange dirty talk about the shape of mailboxes and plastic wrapped
magazines.
It would be a multi-tasking exploit of licking envelopes and genitals.
As I fantasize about the shape of my mail
deliverer’s
nipples and wonder if a forty-two cent stamp would cover them
completely, I
begin to think not-so-subliminal messages are being sent from beyond the
post
office toward my sex drive. Suddenly, I have been receiving a
graphically-airbrushed men’s magazine in the mail. I did not order them
and yet,
I have now received two. As a non-conventional feminist, I believe in
freedom
of choice with regards to sexual positions, jobs, and decisions about
whether or not to
expose an extra long line of cleavage. I am not against breast implants,
I just
personally prefer authenticity. The only thing I fake, though rarely,
are orgasms.
I worried about being watched. Maybe an angry
postal worker
bugged this magazine and is listening to me flip and fondle each page,
from
a hidden mail truck in the alley behind my house. I thought about
throwing it
away. Recycling it, of course. However, I felt forced to listen to the
grumbling in my cunt, as though it contained a famished stomach, and I
needed
to binge as much flesh as possible to fill it.
Unnamed Men’s Magazine contained giant sized white
breasts
with flirty nipples beneath black bathing suit straddling woman’s chest
on the
cover. She spread her lips in a way to show off newly rearranged and
bleached
teeth. Only I would notice the teeth. Thighs argue with each
other, doing their best to remain as far apart as possible. My
imagination takes a rest as vaginal shape exposes itself proudly.
But, it’s about the articles too, right? How to
chug beer
while being sucked off simultaneously. Foreplay switchoff: shaving balls
and
pussy. Safe sex options found in tit-screwing and anal fucking using
toes
(depending upon length). Between informative articles, I found myself
making
eye contact with a new, young actress from Norway, doing her best to
remain sexy, while still explaining the need to recognize global
warming.
My sex drive revs its engine, when I reach page
sixty.
Advertisement for health drink shows geometric shape of two round,
fleshy
circles pressed together like an engorged
infinity sign, used as a shelf for vitamin-infused beverage. The
most
beautiful, round bum I’ve ever seen. I choose to use my imagination as I
attach
it to thick, meaty thighs like the one’s R. Crumb would draw: a big,
beauty
with round belly and full tits that bounce and giggle.
Imaginary Girl by R. Crumb
I start to jerk
myself
off, as I remove air-brushing and silicone and wipe off all remains of
tanning
lotion. Wash out the peroxide in hair and yank on roots. I spread my
free hand
around curvy waist of woman with appetite and conversational abilities.
My
other hand, flicking away at my clit as I churn out my favorite beverage
of
cunt juice and sweat.
I scream out my ex-postal worker's name right
before I come:
Rusty! The pages are crumpled from orgasm-bent fingers. My sex-drive is
refueled and at full tank, though I wonder if I can wait another month
until
the next issue arrives. My vagina is happy, and I do my best to ignore
the
guilt of reading someone else’s mail. Although, if sex didn’t include
just a
little bit of guilt, it probably wouldn’t feel so good.
Originally published March 2010