This raven-haired naked lady was staring cross-eyed at the almost-coming
cock in her face, panting: "He he he, yum! Haaaaaa." She must have been on
coke. Either that or she's a Satanist. The man had a hole in his thigh!
Perhaps a weasel took a bite there. The Coke/Satanist/Insane Lady kept
laughing all the way through, even when the man had left the bed and she was
rubbing and rubbing his sperm into her nipples. She was trapped in a stained
twelve-inch screen; Dave and I were trapped too, in our doorless booth
watching her while the big men in coats shuffled by, their hands down, or
pointing to, their pants. We were hemmed in. Being in a dirty bookstore's back
booth is like wearing a chastity belt: you can't think about anything but
sex, but you're prevented from having it. Well, you're not exactly
prevented, but the strange, flaky-skinned men who aren't embarrassed at all
make you feel paralyzed.
The next day a guy Instant-Messaged me: "I'm working up a juicy load to
spray in your face." It was just awful enough to pique my interest, and then
he said, "If we're going to continue, you have to promise to not write about
it or talk about it from here on out." What could I do? I promised. (The
juicy load comment and the request for secrecy came before the promise;
that's why, ethically, I can tell you.) Normally my day goes: work,
errands, lunch, bills. But every once in a while some dirty opportunity
arises, and since I don't work in an actual office, I can drop everything
for the dirty thing, and then I can't wait for Dave to get home so I can
tell him. But this time when Dave arrived, I was stuck. I'd sworn secrecy.
Dave just went on saying things about his day, not really looking at me.
Then he looked. "What's wrong with you?" he said.
"Wanna watch me masturbate?" I burst out. No one's ever watched me
masturbate. I used to hump pillows like a dog. I'd be all over the place,
chasing that pillow across the carpet. I had rug burns on my knees from age
eleven to about twenty-two. But the longer I live, the less I move. I don't
think it's laziness; I think it's that I didn't used to be able to concentrate. Now all I do is lie under the tub faucet and I'm like a statue. Once my legs are spread and my back is arched, I simply flex, contract and hold. (When girls say they can't get into masturbation, it's
because no one told them to flex.) I would be the most boring porn star in
the world, if they shot me solo. All the activity is subdermal. They'd have
to use one of those peel-back devices like in medical textbooks — lift a
film off the TV screen to see my gently undulating musculature.
In answer to my masturbation invite, Dave said: "Sure. Just let me go to the
bathroom first." In the three minutes he was gone, I made myself
completely naked except for a headband with reindeer antlers and jingle
bells attached and lay down with my veiny pink friend (the "Realistic Penis"
vibrator) — my second favorite after the water faucet. Dave closed the door
behind him and didn't say anything about the antlers. "Now I'm not
going to try to be sexy," I warned him. "I'm just gonna do it like I really
do it, when you're not here." So I stuck the vibrator between my legs, put
two pillows on top and secured the whole thing with my heels (I assume a
sort of yoga position on my back with my knees spread wide and my feet
between my legs). I closed my eyes and waited. Nothing. I turned
up the vibrator. Still nothing. I couldn't concentrate! Half of my joy in
sex is describing it — both to the person who's there, and to the people
who will be reading about it later (I write in my head as I go along). It turns private moments into ghostly orgies. But the Juicy Load guy had locked me up inside my brain. He put me in sexual isolation! It felt like I was wearing a gag and handcuffs, but it wasn't goofy in the least,
because it wasn't a gag and handcuffs. It was worse! I threw my
pink friend across the room and pulled Dave into the walk-in closet and did
things in there that Dave did not recognize. It was mime. Since I
wasn't allowed to repeat to Dave what I'd done that day, I had to act it
out. Yes, I was a mime wearing reindeer antlers.
My very first spy sex was when I was twelve and we lived on
Sixth Street. Our neighbor was a red-headed floozie. She was visited once a
week by a portly, balding older man. As soon as they closed the door, the bedsprings would start
squeaking and she'd yell that he was tearing her apart. I'd put a drinking
glass up to the wall to hear better. She'd scream that his cock was
so large it was a train, and then I'd hear what must have been her head
banging against the headboard. It was inspiring. It gave me the impression
that sex is wildly joyful and that it doesn't matter what condition your
face or body is in — the important thing is to tear apart and to be torn.
She sucked that man up the stairs and down her cunt and he came out just a
little balder each time.
