A Quirky Erotica Series
"Notes from a Dirty Young Woman: Women" a sex story by Aimee Herman
Read the entire series here
Dear Charles,
That woman has fingers sewed into her voice, which peel me open each time she speaks. I am banana skin and she is hungry fruit-eating bat.
This may not end well.
I fill my basket with whiskey and blank sheets of paper, ride my bike toward the direction of painted man on lane meant for my wheels. Two pigeons on curb of sidewalk are fucking and I get jealous of their public display of feather fondling. I have never wanted to be a chicken-wing-eating-rat-of-the-sky so bad in my life.
The heat has arrived, Charles, and my hair holds my brain hostage as curls carry ammo now. You are going to tell me to locate my own protection like electric razor or lighter fluid, and it may get down to that.
When the sun dissolves all that hangs on my bones, I go home.
My room is not much cooler, though there is a bed and it waits for me to tear it apart like last piece of cake in room full of gluttons. My strength almost lets me down, Charles, when I grab my sneakers and pull them off my feet. Everything is stuck to me.
I am glued-to-skin cotton monster with laces and buttons, and zipper-teeth nipples.
You’d come over if you could.
Recite to me pleasures of the damned.
Remind me to run with the hunted and fill my lap with portions of your wine stained notebook.
It matters little you write.
Very little love is not so bad
or very little life
What counts
is waiting on walls
I was born for this
I was born to hustle roses down the avenues of the dead.
Oh, Charles.
And then,
I consummate my grief,
By consummating me.
Studio Torso #160 by Craig Scoffone
I push and pull and rip and force these fabrics away from me and finally grow free of everything but skin and drips of sun-screened sweat filling in the curves of my body.
My bed sheets scald my skin, so I move to the floor and there is comfort found in wooden boards nailed together with bits of Brooklyn street dusted into each one.
The batteries have run out of my favorite vibrator.
The old one. The purple one. The one that has since been replaced by the pink one.
The color unnerves me and almost keeps me flaccid, so I must turn off the lights each time we fuck so I can forget its prescribed gender.
I use just my fingers this time, washed carefully with cold water and enough soap to stun away the dirt found from my handlebars.
I always start on my back, Charles.
Pull my knees up like I’m about to give birth to myself.
Sometimes I lift my spine up into the air like a drawbridge.
Sometimes I curl onto my side and pretend I’m being fucked from behind with a cock made of poems, dripping with my favorite shade of beer.
This hard poem-cock pushes its uncircumsized head into my bum and almost slits me open.
The in and out motion of non-rhyming stanzas causes me to writhe in surprise pleasure.
Come inside me, I breathe.
And this meaty dick of poetry slings its cum, filling me with satirical metaphors and abstract shards of mention.
I need more, Charles, so I am on my belly now.
Sticky breasts press against unswept floor.
Wild bush of curls are wet, sliding, and in need of a twist.
I curl my fingers into a fist into a ball into a hundred thousand atoms burned into a bumpy sphere and try to force it into me.
I have always struggled with impatience. You know this about me. So, I unfasten fingers from palm and throw some in.
One is never enough. I begin with two, held tightly together as though they are each other’s soulmate. These fingers decide to add another. Decide they are polyamorous and two more join in. I’ve got a crowd of participants wanting in. My knuckles have now paid the entrance fee and waste no time showing off. I ride my fist like it is attached to my cunt, an add-on to my clit, hard as a stack of dishes.
I am not a woman in this moment, Charles. I am without textbook classification. I am not pink or pussy or soft or skinny or emotional. I am animal. I am coming.
I am here.
That woman screams out her name from my mouth.
I do this sometimes. I don’t watch videos or look at pictures to push out an orgasm.
I think of words. Shaped as women. Letters shaped as skin. She pushes her lips together like they are too heavy for her face. Her teeth are perfectly straight line-up of criminals waiting to bite me away.
Women, Charles. I am trying to get away from them. I left the country with passport and two backpacks and folded clothing and empty notebook and extra ink and I just needed to find my way out of these women.
Their smell. The salt and vinegar. Smell of nail polish remover or mascara. Grease and leather.
You like the pretty ones. The ones with inches against their heels.
I like the girls who look like boys. The dirty ones. The ones who confuse men like you or challenge men like you or put men like you out of commission.
Oh, women. I think about the one who dipped me in the Pacific and covered me with shells and dried kelp. Or the one who never owned a bed, preferred bathrooms and barrooms and dance floors and car parts like hood or roof and alleys and brick wall blankets. Those women.
Women with wrists tied up like elliptical gifts.
Hair, sometimes enough to pull on or that stubble that scrapes or what gets shaved away that slides beneath me.
I left so I could write, Charles, because their sex is too distracting. You and I, we are supposed to be alone, with occasional bouts of bodies releasing us toward our next poem. They think I am capable of love, Charles.
Can I send you on over? Can you let them know how we are?
That woman kisses an erection onto me.
I get up. Peel weight off of floor and stand. My nudity is alarming at times. Bruises form and I forget to ask why. I used to be hairless. All those men and women like that, you know. They hate the challenge of hair.
Don’t want your pubes in my teeth, she says.
My cunt hides now, which I like because sometimes I don’t want it there. Sometimes I want a different shape or Latin classification. Not a mammal but a reptile. Or amphibian maybe.
I fucked a man who let me pretend it was longer. Thicker. External. He pulled on it like they pull on you.
Those women popped your pimples with their manicured press-on nails, with their crooked, nicotine teeth. They never asked you to stop being ugly. And if they had, you would have just sent them to get more beer.
That woman blinks slowly enough to translate the wind pattern of clouds.
She moves over me like a wave of grunts.
I fake three orgasms in seven different languages. I yearn to grow hairier, to challenge her digestive system. I order up another round of poems, place them beneath my body and use the still-wet ink as lubricant.
When I look outside my window, Charles, I see only the tops of trees.
Everything is dark, yet the sky is plum.
Yours in whiskey and women,
Aimee.
Copyright September 23, 2011
Published with permission from author on OystersandChocolate.com. Copying or reprinting this work in part or in whole without permission is illegal.