Humorous Erotica
"The Girl Who Couldn’t Come," a Vanilla short story by Tammy Kenward
Le De Luge, by John Wellington (prints available at ObsessionArt.com)
“Sometimes I feel like I don’t know what I’m doing,” I said.
“It’s not that difficult,” said Samuel.
“I know, but how much pressure should I be using? And should I focus more on the head or the shaft?”
“Medium pressure. Both.”
Samuel grabbed my wrist and stretched my arm out. He placed his palms on either side of my forearm and then rubbed his hands back and forth, chafing me. “The fire-starter,” he said.
Samuel and I had only been working together at Tik Talk Café for two weeks and already he was jerking me off. Earlier that morning, we noticed two men who had been sitting with a group, in what looked like a meeting, sneak away into the back to presumably discuss private matters. Samuel started dry humping the air. I knew right then that not only was Samuel gay, but that the prospect of two men having sex in the café’s kitchen gave me new reason to wake up in the morning.
The fire-starter was causing my arm to turn red. “Well, this is unpleasant.”
“You’ll be lubricated, of course.”
“Of course.”
“No guy wants your bone-dry palms moving up and down his dick.”
“Or arm.”
“I think I saw a bottle of Crisco in the back.”
“Come on, I’m starting to go limp here.”
He took my hand and clenched it into a fist. “The Bottle Opener.” He placed his palm over my fist and twisted his hand in one direction, as though he were trying to open me. “I’m opening you.”
“I get it.”
He placed his other hand near my elbow, gripped it, and pulled at the skin. He was gripping too hard. It stung.
“What are you doing?”
“Stretching the skin of your penis toward the base.”
“Alright, fine. Get the Crisco.”
We heard the front door open. Samuel let my arm drop as he bolted toward the counter. But there was no need to hurry. It wasn’t the boss. It was only S., the man who was destined that night to make me come.
Showtime, I thought.
***
My live-in boyfriend of three years, Riley, and I had been in the process of breaking up when I first met S. It was during the interviewing process of key crewmembers for my short film, and we hit it off right away. Two months into production, we had planned on hooking up once the film wrapped up, and I had finally moved out of Riley’s.
I was now renting a room from an agoraphobic crazy lady name Cindy, and S. and I would finally get to have sex. However, since this would be our first night together, I didn’t want it to be in my new home, especially since I knew Cindy would be in. S. didn’t want it to be at his place since he was living with his brother and sister-in-law for reasons unbeknownst to me. He never explained why, so he could’ve been broke or codependent or lying and married for all I knew.
His idea of the next best place to consummate our budding casual relationship was in a room at the Howard Johnson, of which he insisted I pay half. It’s a good thing I was in it for the sex and not the romance. I decided a while ago that I wouldn’t let S. in on my deep dark secret: That though I was almost thirty years old, I’d never had an orgasm. The men I’ve told in the past, including Riley, had made it their personal duty to be the first. Then I’d feel pressure and hold back, they’d become insecure when they inevitably failed, and I’d have to coax their poor egos and assure them: “It’s not you. It’s me.” I refused to fake orgasms because I knew that once I started, I’d have to continue to do so as to never raise suspicion.
***
“By the way,” I said to Samuel on the way to the washroom with my gym bag, “You really know how to give a girl a hard-on.”
“I hope I never have to see that.”
I changed into the outfit I had bought earlier that day, which I dubbed “Prairie Girl Meets Slut.” It consisted of an off-the-shoulder black peasant top, a long, slightly shear black cotton skirt, and black knee-high boots. I accessorized with low pigtails and the handle of my leopard-print paddle poking out of my black vinyl handbag.
He was dressed in the same manner as when I first met him—before he wore the faded baggy jeans, sports hoodies, and baseball caps—in other words, before the truth stepped forward, slapped me on the ass, and announced, “Hey, guess what? I’m a jock.” His original attire, on the other hand, suggested creativity and stability: the black trousers, striped button-up shirt, leather jacket, leather shoes.
Once we arrived at our room in the hotel, he showed me an array of restaurant brochures for ordering in. I showed him my two-liter bottle of wine. It had been three years since I had had sex with anyone other than my dear ex. I might need to drink the whole bottle. “Time to grease the ol’ wheels,” I said, stabbing the corkscrew into the cork.
"Pourquoi?" He thought this was French for “what” instead of its true meaning, “why.” I continuously tried to explain this to him, but he always ignored me. I wasn’t sure if I thought it was cute or if it made me want to hurt him. I often teetered between both.
“Never mind. Are there any cups in here?”
Pourquoi?”As the corner of my mouth turned up into a smile, my knee bent under my skirt. I could feel myself wanting to adore him and kick him at the same time.
Honestly, I thought he was so charming the day I interviewed him. He knew things, he knew people, he was going to help make my dreams come true. He was also tall, dark, and semi-handsome. And he liked me. How can all those things put together not be attractive? But during the shoot, other kinds of qualities came out, like his love of sports, his inability to focus or listen, and his lack of good ideas. I started wondering how he ever came to be in film. It just didn’t suit him. But as the man to give me my first orgasm, judging by his confidence and long fingers, he had potential.
“Cups. Do we have any cups?” I asked.
He grabbed two plastic cups from the bathroom and filled them. I pulled my shirt a little farther down my shoulders and sat at the wooden table, preparing for intimate conversation. He sat on the bed and turned on the TV. I guessed that I’d be forgoing my plan of mentally lubricating myself to watching The Simpsons. Who needed to talk anyway?
I joined him in bed, leaning back against the headboard. I could feel the one sleeve of my shoulder sliding up again. I pulled it back down. He looked at me and pulled it up. “So what are you in the mood for? Swiss Chalet or Pizza Pizza?” Here I was offering up my flesh and he was offering me a choice between two restaurant chains my mom used to force me to eat at after dragging me around in Wal-Mart. We lived in a metropolis; surely there were more options than what one would find in a Manitoba strip mall.
I refilled our glasses and hoped that by the end of the program he’d be ready to pull my shirt back down and not ask me questions like pourquoi or what kind of side I wanted with my chicken. I sat closer to him, kicking up my leg and sweeping my skirt up to my thigh before resting it on his pelvis. He placed his hand on my knee but didn’t move it until the credits rolled, and then he moved it up only an inch. I took it as my cue to hike the skirt all the way up to my panty line. With his other hand, he picked up the remote and started changing the channel. I jumped on top of him and grabbed the remote. “Are we seriously going to watch TV all night?”
“No,” he said as he passively watched me turn off the TV. “But do you want fries or salad with your chick—”
I grabbed his head and proceeded to demolish his mouth with mine. Finally, his hand was where it was supposed to be: where skirt and panty line co-existed. I put my hand where his cock and balls co-existed.
He rolled me over, pulled my skirt up over my head, seized my underwear, and stripped them off.
The first thing S. did was go down on me. With Riley, any face-in-vagina contact, or its tongue and finger variant, would cause the involuntary closing of my legs. I didn’t realize I was doing this until he pointed it out. We both knew that it was my subconscious attempt to shut him out. With S., instead of nearly crushing his head with my thighs, I splayed them open. I was so open, in fact, that my legs cramped up and my breath stopped. He reached into me with his fingers, which were delightfully long. I felt like I was back in high school, being fingered for the first time, the novelty of it, the asking yourself, Is this really happening? and the glee that followed when your answer was a resounding yes, yes, yes. I was gleeful now, with my eyes bulging and my tongue hanging out the side of my mouth like a dog trapped in a hot car with the windows rolled up.
Then, without notification, S. hit a spot with such precision, it was as though he were pressing a magical button. Could this be the elusive G-Spot I’d heard so much about? Every wag of his fingers caused my jaw to clench and my pussy to compress. I couldn’t be sure what would happen if I let both of these go. Would I laugh? Would I cry? Would I come? And then an uninvited question: Would I have his children?
My pussy neutralized and I started breathing again. Somehow, the laughing/crying/coming feeling went away. I clenched up again and held my breath in order to try to get the feeling back. He took this as a sign to stop what he was doing.
That was it. It was over. S. pulled my skirt down and then asked me what I wanted from Swiss Chalet.
“Can’t we order dinner after?”
“I’m really hungry.”
“I’m really horny.”
He laughed and then tossed me the menu.
I had ruined it. Just when I was experiencing a new sensation, I started wondering if we’d have children together. I didn’t want children with him. I didn’t even know if I liked him as a human. Was that why I thought about breeding with him? Did I need to invent an emotional connection in order to justify having sex with him? The word children creeping into my mind, the epitome of commitment seemed to have killed whatever it was that I was on the verge of. I had wanted to have children with Riley, and yet I never wanted to have sex with him in order to set this want in motion. What did this mean? Did I see commitment as the death of sex?
There was still time. I could teach myself how to fuck without emotion. I had done it before, hadn’t I? There was Sean, for instance. He was the most attractive man I’d ever been with, but he was also superficial and dumb as shit. “Is Titanic based on a true story?”
I never thought about having children with him, intentionally or accidentally. I thought about how dashing we’d look together in our engagement photo in the Announcement section of the Toronto Star, but never children. I might’ve had an orgasm if I had stuck it out instead of dumping him for sleeping with my former best friend/nemesis from high school.
I made the mistake of smoking a joint after our meal, even though I was already wasted. By the time he had me on my back again, with my skirt hiked up and one of my breasts falling out of my shirt, my mouth was devoid of moisture and my head felt like it was spinning on an axis, like a toy top. But that didn’t stop me from taking notice of the throbbing that was going on below. I was full of lust and counting down the seconds for him to get back on his knees and finish what he had started.
Instead, he took off his pants and lay on his back beside me. It seemed that my vagina would have to wait. By the looks of things, it seemed his penis couldn’t, which was unfortunate since I wasn’t sure how I’d fare with mouth and/or hand coordination in this state. As soon as I sat up, the room torpedoed around me and instead of seeing one erect penis curved upward, I saw about four. I reached out to get a hold of the one I thought was real but missed and grasped air. Luckily, he was staring at the ceiling instead of me, so I could easily redeem myself. I moved my hand slightly to the right and my hand finally grasped what it wanted.
I administered a standard handjob while I tried to remember what Samuel had taught me. There was something about fire, but I couldn’t remember what. Then I heard his voice reverberate in my head, “There’ll be lubrication, of course.” Of course. Shit. I could remember to bring a paddle, but I couldn’t remember to bring lube. I gathered all the moisture I could in my dry mouth and spat into my hand. I rolled my palm over the head of his penis. Wasn’t this The Bottle Opener? It didn’t matter. He moaned anyway, so I kept doing it, over and over, in circles, until there was a lull. I then enclosed my hand over the head and twisted.
“Ow,” he said, pulling my hand away. “What are you doing?”
“I’m opening you.”
“It hurts.”
“Wait,” I said, spitting into my hand again. Instead of continuing with The Bottle Opener, I went back to the standard handjob. It was just easier.
Despite the stoned and drunken state I was in, I was really enjoying this time. I was enjoying it on a profound level. When I first got together with Riley, penis-play had to be delayed when he found blood in the urethra opening. It turned out to be due to a tear in one of the veins in the prostate. Nothing serious, but it was a few weeks before we could do anything, and when that time finally came, I savored it.
My mouth could no longer produce spit. I’d hoped that he’d catch on and provide the saliva himself, but then he rolled over onto his back and said, “Should I get the condom?”
With him deep inside me, everything felt as it should. All needs were being met as he banged his way into my heart, and against my uterus.
With his forceful jabs, he started hitting my G-Spot. As with his fingers, he did so with such precision and control.
I love you.
What? That wasn’t me. I didn’t just think that, did I? Obviously, I was losing my mind.
I brought my one leg down hard over his hip and flipped him over onto his back. “That was smooth,” he said.
“Shh,” I said as I grabbed hold of the headboard and rocked back and forth, trying to fuck this incorrect emotion out of me. I grinded up, down, left, right, diagonally, in circles clockwise, in circles counter-clockwise. My whole lower area was tingling. And then he took my ass into his hands and squeezed. I love you! I love you, S.!
Fuck! This was turning out to be a disaster.
I had completely lost my direction. I couldn’t remember if I was grinding him vertically or horizontally. I climbed off him and went on my side. He entered me from behind and proceeded to fuck the living daylights out of me. This was working out well until a vision of our wedding napkins exploded in my head. I lost my rhythm.
It was all getting out of control.
I rolled off of him, leaving him to lie there, rock hard and bewildered. I pressed my hands to my head, hoping to shut it down. He dug his fingers into my lower abdomen, as though he were trying to pull me back onto him in the most half-assed way possible. “What’s wrong?”
“I just need to take a break,” I said.
“Do you want to go on your knees?”
“Maybe in a minute.” I got up to get water and wondered if it was possible that I was having these thoughts because I really was in love with him. So what if he wasn’t ideal? I’m not sure what he was. After all, love is blind. Isn’t that what they say?
I crawled in beside him, unhurriedly and seductively, with my back arched and my ass sticking up in the air. I must’ve looked like a horny cat, which I’m not sure was a good thing or just plain disturbing. “If we’re not going to keep doing it,” he said, “can I at least get that blowjob?”
It wasn’t possible that I loved him. I was just experiencing some kind of brain glitch. A series of them. Thoughts that had no business being in my head. I didn’t want to get back on the saddle, or go on my knees. If I couldn’t teleport myself back into my lonely bed at home or even back to Riley’s bed, then I just wanted to roll over and play dead until morning. “I’m sorry. I think I need to sleep now,” I said.
“Oh. Well, I’m pretty much sagging anyway. Guess I’ll catch ya in the morning.” He didn’t kiss me or hug me or engage intimately in any way. He just turned over and then asked, as an afterthought: “Did you come?”
Better luck next time, I thought. But maybe not with him.
~
Enjoy our short stories? You'll love our erotic eBooks! Support O&C by getting yours today!
OCEroticBooks.com
~
Copyright January 2012, Tammy Kenward
Published with permission from author on OystersandChocolate.com. Copying or reprinting this work in part or in whole without permission is illegal.