Fifty-Five Fucks

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Fifty-five Fucks

by Sam Lipsyte

One is her, Heidi, maybe, or Helene, Heidi with the hair, the face, the
nips that ended in little pink knots. Two is Betsy in the shrubs at

pottery camp. Three is Lucretia, three is always Lucretia. Four is
Kenneth by the lake. Five is Kenneth and his brother Keith by the lake,
their cocks like great, quivering cocks by the lake. Six is Moira with
the tragic scar from tennis. Seven is me coming in Heidi, or Helene, in
the front seat of my Dodge Dart, and me, or maybe not me, thinking nips,
or thinking nips, knots, nips. Seven is me or rather not me coming in
Heidi, or Helene, but also me throwing my hand over the vinyl seat to
clutch the hand of Donna who is topping Brian, who is maybe bodkinned
there by Brian, who is coming in Donna in the backseat of my Dodge Dart.
Eight is me and Donna, later, near the trestles next to Main. Nine is Ann
Anteater, but only my finger, like a great, quivering finger by the lake.
Ten is Heidi, or Helene, again. Eleven is very much the same.
Twelve is the swine herdess, dressed as a nurse. She was the love of one
of my lives. She lays down, or maybe she lies down, with men of
other lives now. They suckle, I suppose, that mole on her hip, and I hope
they taste me. Thirteen is there is no taste of me. Fourteen is with the
girl with the poster of Fanon. Fifteen is somebody and Fanon. Sixteen is
what is the strangest place you’ve ever had sex with? Seventeen is reamed
by the Space Needle, or sticking it deep in the loop of Orion’s Belt.
Eighteen is buggered by chance. Nineteen is the girl who said no. Is it
twenty yet? Yes, it is twenty, yet. Twenty is begging those two women
leaving the party to let me in their car. Twenty-one is me on my knees,
begging them to bugger me in their bed. Twenty-two is me thinking
twenty-three. Twenty-three is me waking to me bathed in their blood. Head
to toe. Neck to knee, really. Twenty-four is wanting them, the bleeders,
to bleed on me over and over again. Twenty-five, twenty-five is to stand
before God and confess my fifty-five sins. Lying, after all, is a sin,
whereas laying, who knows? Did I say fifty-five? I just wanted the others
to like me.

Story of My Cock

Listen to this: I had a wee-wee, then I had a dick. Now I have cock.
What’s so crazy about it? I thought I had small balls until she told me
they were big. I thought I had a small wee-wee until she told me it was
an average-sized dick. Cock, I corrected her. If you prune the pubes the
way the men on the video tapes do you get more cock, or more shaft of
cock. You get more of a sense of shaftness. You can kneel over someone

the way they do in the video tapes, you can bend yourself over them and
what you have in your hand is referred to in certain circles as a
superabundance. I use my dead mother’s sewing scissors.

Story of My Pussy

What was that about, the way we used to put our things away to make a
pussy for ourselves? You fold it down and under, press it into
disappearance. You get half of a hairy Star of David down there. It
feels like God singing through you when you make a pussy for yourself
down there. I don’t want to hear a theory for it. The Nazis are coming. That’s Dad’s car in the garage.
You better make a pussy for yourself quick.

Phone Sex

You can get it all the way up in there, but I’d be careful.

Phone Sex Part II

Here’s a good way to go about having what you can never have denied you:
restrict your carnality to the fiber optic kind. What I mean is make sure
you do your fucks long distance. Get a headset, do the lotion with both
hands. I’m talking as a man here. I’m talking headsets and lotion and I’m
talking as a man. I’m also talking as a man talking on a headset to a
woman in another country, or in another kind of country than this one.
What she has in lieu of lotion is something small and silver (she says),
something mechanical and of a genius beyond my means. That’s okay. Most

things are of a genius beyond my means. Could I have invented the
can opener, for example, that genius device for opening canned-meat cans,
if it wasn’t already invented? Not on my life. Still, I do alright. Like
the Incas. Look at the Incas. A whole civilization without knowledge of
the wheel. How many roads did those Incas build without figuring out the
wheel? No can openers that I know of, either. No knowledge of canned
meat, that I know of, in terms of knowledge imparted to me. Still, they
did okay, the Incas, for a while. They did great until that prick Pizarro
dragged his horses to the beach. Which is my point about phone sex,
exactly. Point being, have you ever played King’s Fifth? What you need
is lotion, a headset, a small and silver thing, a smattering of Spanish and
ancient Andean dialects, some canned chicken, and a burning desire to
deny yourself what you can never have.


Get this: I was celibate for a few years, and after most of it I got a
thing on my thing. Do you know what that means? Jesus, can you even get
your head around what that might even possibly mean? I’ll tell you, so
you can pretend you’re not one of the dumb ones who can’t get his head
around what it might possibly mean. It means I gave it to myself. It
means I gave myself the syph, the clap, the clyd, the King’s Fifth,
whatever the hell you want to call that thing on my thing.

Beat that.

A Sexy Narrative for the Erotic Market

I wanted to make her come. I wanted her to love me for trying to make her
come. I wanted her to think of me as Jesus come back from my daddy’s
throne room just to make her come. I wanted her to come in a way that all
the times she might ever come afterward with anybody else or all alone
would just be some twitchy thing to do instead of reading that book again
or making that call she didn’t want to make. I wanted her life to be
somehow ruined by the exaltation of this one moment of coming, ruined in
the sense that life in its wake would be a kind of falling away.

Guess I had some problems.

Guess I still do.

So what, glass houses, pal, know what I mean?

Sam Lipsyte is the author of a story collection, Venus Drive, and a novel,The Subject Steve. His fiction has been published in The Quarterly and Open City.

Sam Lipsyte