Fiction

Anonymous

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 FICTION



Anonymous by Courtney Eldridge



He fucked his girlfriend, and he fucked his wife. He fucked his neighbor, the chesty brunette who
routinely powdered, lotioned, dressed and undressed in front of her bay windows in broad daylight
and who requested he hog-tie her with men’s ties — so he bound her with whales and sailboats and
anchors and then fucked her on the stained hardwood floor until she squealed. He fucked his best
friend’s wife in his best friend’s mahogany four-post bed, and fucked his best friend’s wife’s best
friend,

then he came onto a discarded Times, and casually kicked the paper under the driver-side
seat. He gladly paid the fare, then he fucked his best friend’s wife’s best friend’s chubby
seventeen-year-old daughter in her brownstone garden during her lunch break, and she called him
Daddy, while digging her chipped blue-polished nails into the dirt. And Daddy, he
fucked a pre-op man from Houston, then a post-op woman from Dallas, about an hour before his own
lunch, at which time he returned to his tidy desk and fucked Dallas and Houston both in a
transsexual ménage, with a Texas two-step, until his wrists tired.

    
He fucked a Japanese salesgirl, while purchasing handsewn lingerie for his mistress; wrapping the
salesgirl’s coarse, foot-long braid tightly around her neck, he fucked her in the three-way mirror,
which she then cleaned with vinegar, water and newsprint, before she gift-wrapped his
three-hundred-dollar purchases. He walked home, whistling forgotten showtunes, whistling songs from
Carousel and Oklahomaand fucked himself with his wife’s black vibrator, watching
hardcore gay porn in his bedroom, and he chuckled, spilling low-fat mayo eggsalad on his starched,
light blue Oxford broadcloth shirt. He grabbed a handful of rippled potato chips, changed his shirt,
chose a gray lightweight wool jacket and hailed that crosstown taxi, at which time he fucked his
best friend’s wife’s best friend,

who slumped against the right-side door, crossing her legs, while he gouged a deep hole in the
crotch of her pantyhose with his favorite Cross pen, a silver felt-tip, which bled upon her cotton
shield, before fucking a long-legged, siliconed stockbroker, after fucking the immaculate Japanese
salesgirl and before the seventeen year old with dirty nails. He fucked the stockbroker in a
stairwell smelling of Lysol and rolls of beige carpeting — they were extremely agitated as they
awaited the elevator, before opting for the stairs — and this broker, the blonde, she also wore a
lovely satin and lace garter with three latches per leg in which he entwined his knuckles,
especially pleased with her splotchy purplish birthmark, about the size of a melted half dollar,
partially concealed by the front latch; and he whistled, listening to the echo, while he dipped her
over the rail, appreciating the view from the seventh floor.

    
He fucked a scrawny baby dyke ticket-taker Uptown, fucked her up the ass, for novelty’s sake; stuck
his fingers in her mouth, cupping her chin, and, reaching around her tiny waist with his available
hand, balanced her trigone upon his three middle fingers; and then he washed. He fucked an
angel-faced bouncer, wearing chaps, off-duty, downtown, after downing a double-shot of whiskey,
straight. He fucked his statuesque dominatrix, who was also off-duty, in her cavernous black
dungeon, after she untied his balls, spat in his face and repeatedly called him filthy names,
deriding him for the hassles of latex care — but not quite up to her usual today, not today — so
he fucked her tits instead. He fucked his sister-in-law’s ruby lips, his pixie-cut sister-in-law,
whose red lips peeled horribly due to her matte lipstick, and kindly accepted her Kleenex, after
coffee. He fucked his sister-in-law’s scruffy, collegiate boyfriend,then he came in her boyfriend’s
unshaven face and wiped him clean with the same Kleenex, after tea. He ate a peanut butter-chocolate
chip cookie, brushing the crumbs off his wrinkled, untucked Oxford and fucked his extraordinarily
beautiful wife the second she walked through the front door that

evening — surprised his wife, hiding behind the door, hooded with a French seam, evenly dividing
his face — hearing her keys jingle. He fucked his wife upon their kitchen table, twisting her left
arm, then right arm, then both arms behind her back; he pinned her fine wrists and pulled her hair,
watching her graceful neck and porcelain chin jutting forward, before she changed her panties and
primped for a business dinner, her social business. He then drank a glass of milk, rubbing his
fingers in her cum on their imported green marble kitchen table, as his wife kissed his cheek and
kissed the fingers he pressed against her dark lips, rushing to catch her own taxi, which was
honking on the street below.

    
He showered, then called his girlfriend, whose tits he’d soaped and kneaded that morning, his rosy
handprints lashing her breasts, and who was indisposed, by the sound of her hoarse voice; then he
called his mother, who was also indisposed, busy with her senility, and who no longer remembered his
first name, often confusing him with a man she confessed loving long before his own father, asking
when he would make passionate love to her as he once did, breathless as she recounted the first
time, at the lake, after he threw her into the water, and gently laid her against the warm, jagged
rock or against the juniper trees, wearing her white eyelet sun dress, or that once, while she sat
on the tire swing kicking her tanned legs through the air, and he gripped the rope, cutting his
strong hands — when would he love her as he once did for hours upon hours; then he called me, and
spoke to my machine: I know you’re home; and so I was. Then: But you know how I feel about you; and
so I do, though I still did not answer. I simply listened, before I wept, immediately erasing the
message.





©1997 Courtney Eldridge and Nerve.com