A Quirky Erotica Series
"NOTES
FROM A DIRTY YOUNG WOMAN: Identity"
by Aimee Herman
Read the entire series here
I widen my thighs as far as they can without disconnecting in order to fit a gay man inside me. He is tall with thick crotch and narration of stubble summarizing his previous night at the Fur Ball, where men with dark, hairy faces, leather skin and buckles buck against each other.
My tiny, though visible breasts disappear. My wild, red hair becomes more masculine, with phallic shaped curls replacing the vaginally smeared ones. My shoulders become broader, higher, harder. Covered in elephant tusk ivory.
I look around at the range of men surrounding me at a bar called Monster in NYC’s village. My thirst cannot be quenched by what’s on tap or colorful concoction with sexual name. I ask for water, and dip my thick tongue down toward the frozen cubes. Each taste bud grows an erection, matching the one in my pants as I gaze toward my left.
Hello, button-down white shirt, black converse sneakers, dark jeans tight only where it matters, where zipper competes with where I want to be.
I gather my tongue back inside my mouth and nod. Stare. Shift my weight very casually to the left. Thrust my concealed cock toward you.
Thank you for noticing.
“Hey,” you say.
“Hehh,” I grunt.
Lady Gaga grooves against the speakers as we simultaneously move toward each other's bulges.
Can’t tell at this point, but mine may be bigger than yours. That’s okay.
You are drinking something pale pink and you offer me a swig.
“Thanks,” I say, tasting vodka and some sort of sour fruit.
“I’d offer you some of mine but it’s no different than what your sink drips.”
You scrunch up your cute, possibly-too-young-for-me face and start toward the dance floor.
I join you as we bend our knees toward rhythm and the flirtations of hip gyration and shoulder twisting. Music is mute to me; all I can focus on is the throbbing pulse in my dick.
You pull me in. Grab my lower back and press your erection into mine. We grind our bodies together, mashing our bones and zippers into skin. I am so hard, that I feel unapologetic when I grab your hand, place it on my denim-protected dick and make you rub what is pushing out.
You smile. Thank you for leaving it there.
There is music playing, but I have no idea what song. We are without any space between us, as you unzip me out and squeeze away my hardness.
Not going to happen.
The lighting and half-drunk dancers help disguise the hand job you give me. Your hand is bigger than I first thought it to be, wrapping around my dick, contracting and expanding. My chest rises as you pump your palm up and down over my exaggerated cock. We dance toward my orgasm as I come onto you, in my jeans, over those knuckles.
Hello bent flexibility.
With my dick still out, you press firmer against me as your mouth impales mine. Your tongue is salty and sour, licking the inside of me, my teeth, the length of my fleshiness. We moan in different directions and my dick becomes so hard, it almost crashes through you.
You take your shirt off, revealing black tank top ribbed over your ribs, and place it over my dick as we hurry to the bathroom.
No line. No waiting. We rush into single stall, lock the door and plunge into each other.
You pull your dick out and I lunge toward it, sucking and licking the sweat off. My hands rub your balls and you curve away then into me.
I like how big you are. I want to say this to you, but my mouth is full with your giant cock and I worry it might ruin this moment if I start talking. Compliments can be held for later when I swallow you, with our clothes back on, as our breath reeks of each other’s ejaculate.
Your cock is digesting my mouth or the other way around. Does it matter? It’s called a blow job because everything inside our powerful organs explodes, blowing out into a thunderstorm of cum, cum, cum. If it is done correctly, of course.
I haven’t had any complaints yet.
So, I am jerking myself off while you swell inside my mouth and I suck on your balls and you push on my head to go deeper and can I possibly swallow any more of you and then I do and then you come inside me. And I leave it there, swirling around between my teeth and roof of my mouth and cheeks, dribbling down my lips. If I swallow, this will be over. You will go and we won’t talk and I won’t get a chance to say something witty because this was all it was about.
You push thick cock back into your jeans and zip up. Wipe yourself with toilet paper and hand me some for my face and hands. I cannot ask you your name or if we can do this again—maybe even later on tonight—because my mouth is full of you.
You open the bathroom door with my cock still out. I still do not swallow. Someone tries to get in. He needs to piss, he says. Get the fuck out, he adds.
I swallow. Cock gets puts away. My teeth are slippery and my jaw is cramped.
As I walk out of the bathroom, passing by a line of gay boys who smell of sweat and booze and sex, I notice that my breasts are back. My hair is wild again. I can even feel my cunt dripping, clit swollen. Small. Small, pink dick. Sticking out of my furry cunt.
I touch my face. No stubble. Smooth and boring. I lick my lips and can barely taste the salty sperm no longer stuck in the grooves. I grab my breasts and try to squeeze them away. Try to push them down.
Gay cock blockers, I mutter.
I walk onto the dance floor and some girl grabs my hips, pulling me against her curves. Curved belly and breasts. Thighs bloated, grooving to the music that I can hear now. She presses her crotch into my ass and I miss the feel of an external reaction. I want to live in a world fenced in by erections. This is an unrealistic fantasy.
I let her rub her clit against me, hoping the friction will cause it to fatten into a vulval boner. She breathes intoxication against my neck. I let her. She turns me around and grabs my tits. I push her away because I don’t want to be reminded of them. Not now. I want to continue dreaming.
Originally published December 2010