Face Fuck, Part 3

Face Fuck, Part 3

August, 2014



After the show it’s the afterparty, then,
After the party it’s the hotel lobby, then

—R Kelly, Fiesta


Blind Barber

I climb into an uber car with the groom’s brother and his college friend, and we are off into the LA night. On my way out, I told Garrett I would text him with our whereabouts and he could meet up with us whenever he got off work.

They practically funnel-feed me from a 1-Liter bottle of Poland Springs. And I oblige, because I’ve already drunk more than intended to have an excuse to talk to Garnet Garrett, and I’m about to drink even more waiting for him. Flush out the system, make room, open the flood gates.

We nurse drinks at the bar and immediately the brother is picked up by some chick in tight jeans and a diamond necklace whose brother has a blood-money mansion in West LA. Snoop Dogg is blaring on the speakers. I impress the friend with stories about vomiting on cock. And continuing. Narratives of heroic persistence. Overcoming obstacles. Lapping up vomit on the sly to conceal ineptitude. Struggling with a smile smeared across my face. Absentmindedly sniffing my hand afterwards and inhaling the mixture: pussy, semen, and vomit. A fragrant trifecta. Wait, add dried spit and stale sweat to the mix. If you’re gonna spew, spew into this!

The friend tells me they noticed I vomited on them; they just didn’t care. “Nobody’s calling it off.” And then he adorns me with the highest compliment, “I would think you were a champion.”

Cock sucking champ, that’s me.

My clit swells with pride.

The night is over. It doesn’t get any better than this. Unless I could be publicly medaled and stand on a podium. Strut. As my national anthem plays: insert filthy hip-hop song from the mid-90s. Think Lil’ Kim, Foxy Brown. Though wildly inappropriate for LA.

Better grab a seat

Grab on your dick as this bitch gets deep

Deeper than the pussy of a bitch 6 feet

Stiff dicks feel sweet in this little petite

—Lil’ Kim, Junior Mafia, Get Money

Sliding my phone out of my pocket, I finger through my texts—a sexual superhero with places to be.

12:40 am LA time (3:40 am NY time, Principles of Bio II final in a few days: yikes!)

Me: Hey, so we’re at blind barber. Or you can meet me at marriot coutryard westside later.

1:01 am LA time (4:01 am NY time, Principles of Bio II final in a few days at 10 am NY time: fuck!)

Garrett: Trying to finish up quickly here

1:18 am LA time (even closer to sunrise NY time)

Me: Word

It is getting late. The brother is long gone with that girl. I ask the friend if he is ready to head out soon. Figure I will text Garnet Garrett from my hotel later, if I am still awake. We share a cab back to our respective hotels, but when we are arranging for two stops, circumstance makes a decision for me, if you can call it that. Bart is staying at the same hotel as the groom’s brother’s and his friend. What if I get back to my hotel, alone, and Garrett cancels or I decide it is getting too late. Then I’ll have to catch a separate cab to their hotel, anyway. If I don’t want to end the night with a heavy heart and empty vagina. One stop, I decide. If you can call it that. I pull a bait-and-switch on myself. Let’s call it that. Because that’s what it is, technically speaking. I text Bart on the way over.

1:36 am LA time

Me: Hey, what are you up to?


Bart: Hanging out at last call around the corner from the culver hotel, what about you?


Me: Wanna meet up there?


Bart: Sounds good, where are you coming from?


Me: I’m at culver hotel


Bart: Cool i’ll be right there

Take note of that time: 1:41 am. This is a numbers game, kids. Coincidence, chance, circumstance: Say it with me. Now don’t ever rag on me for sexual “decision making,” again. It’s not, like, even a real thing. It’s a human construct to make us feel like we have control, aren’t insignificant specks blowing in the wind. God doesn’t exist. Santa isn’t real, either. Things just happen. Sorry to break it to you, kiddos. We are molecules bumping into each other and humans bumping uglies. He is the ugly, to be clear.


Culver Hotel

Rather count a million while you eat my pussy

push me to the limit, get my feelings in it

Get me open while I’m cumming down your throat

Then, you wanna be my main squeeze

Don’tcha? You wanna lick between my knees

—Lil’ Kim, Junior Mafia, Get Money

I was aware of the hotel. Well before he tried to persuade me to sleep with him, using the perk of a prime real estate as a lure (I’m not that kinda superficial). Well before he tried to dissuade me from sleeping with the beautiful ginger (I am that kinda superficial) in my presumably less posh sleeping quarters. I had checked out and bypassed the hotel online when making my own reservations. My impression: I’m into the idea of videotaping myself wanking in historical locations. I mean, nothing that could get me arrested. I like to keep it classy. The Waldorf Astoria lobby bathroom is on my list. Looking through the Art Deco pics of The Culver, I mentally starred it. But didn’t feel like paying an extra hundred a night. For the joy of petting myself poshly. I mean, let’s not be silly: an orgasm is an orgasm. And, either way, afterwards you look like a hot mess. It wasn’t like I was gonna dress my pussy up in pearls. I don’t keep it that classy.

The Culver Hotel

The Culver Hotel

Twiddle my thumbs just for a bit, the groom’s brother’s friend offers to wait with me in the hotel lobby. Bart arrives almost immediately and asks, standardly, “Been waiting long?” Uh, come here often? The boys nod at each other in acknowledgement, bid each other a pleasant evening and proceed to walk in the same direction, stepping on one another’s figurative toes. We have one of those awkward, communal elevator rides up to our respective rooms after I’ve been transferred from one gentleman to another.

In his room, we make our way straight for the couch. Go through the motions of making out. He tastes like a mop swept through a tobacco field. I excuse myself to the bathroom, which he tells me is reallly nice. So I spend extra long, performing my usual ritual in the beveled mirror, “Why the fuck am I here? Should I just up and leave? What the fuck am I doing with my life.” I add for the occasion, “A chandelier in a bathroom: decadent. And that free-standing bathtub: useless but deliberate window-dressing. I should be undressing—on film. By myself. I wonder if I can ditch him and wank. Though I’m not really horny. Why the fuck am I here, again?”

By the time I emerge, he has undressed himself. From a standard-issue suit to a wife beater and ill-fitting boxer briefs. Or are they relaxed cotton boxers tautened on an oversized man? His pubic facial hairs extend to his chest. His beard harkens back to the 1890s in Portland, lumberjack authenticity. No irony abounds. He is big and burly: shiver!

He excuses himself to the bathroom, and is thoughtful enough to brush the stale tobacco breath out of his chops. I lie down on my back, resigned, and get the spins. Which is a real excuse, a way out. My mind floats and pins the tail on Prozac Nation, that scene where Elizabeth Wurtzel is giving one of the Butthole Surfers a handy and decides she needs to bail. I’ve always admired her for this. Though she’s now in her 40’s and a tragic mess. Nothing to aspire to. I didn’t mean to get this drunk. I only got this drunk waiting for Garnet Garrett. Complacently contemplating my escape, I fumble between my legs and I’m COMPLETELY DRY! Like, I’ve had a lot to drink and I guess I’m dehydrated? Ain’t no sexual encounter happening like this. I cannot remember the last time this happened to me. Earlier in the day I was driving around with my 50+-year-old cousin, who has celebrated her 1st-annual 30th birthday for over two decades. The topic of the day: periods, how she is sooo glad she still gets hers. Every time she gets it she gets all uppity, like, YESS, I still got it! Unfathomable to think one day she will go through menopause. Will serve as confirmation that she is, gasp, not still thirty. But mostly symbolic, anyway. I empathize, “You’re scared of drying up,” and assure, “When you stop getting it, I mean if you stop getting it, I will send you one of those fake hymens that people use to fake virginity. It’s saran wrap or something with a drop of Halloween blood.”

“You’ll never dry up.” In my eyes.

If my cousin can fake it, so can I. Before Bart emerges from the bathroom, I spit on my fingers, and transfer the spit inside my vagina, using my fingers as a plunger of sorts. An applicator. I may be fakin’ it, 30 and stagnant, a tragic, sloppy mess, but I ain’t dried up, yet.

He places his 200+ pounds of weight on top of me, we make out, some light petting. Which leads to him telling me in 3 or 4 different ways how badly he wants to eat me out. Different but the same.

“I want to taste you.”

I nod.

“I want to put my face between your legs.”

I nod harder, look him in the eyes like I mean it.

“I want to spread your legs open and put my face there.”

“Uh huh,” I say, and spread ‘em some more. Exaggeratedly. Since he isn’t doing it himself.

I think, what is the hold up? How much affirmative consent does he need? Should I shove his head between my legs. Wave him to the runway with air traffic control orange flags? Be Captain Obvious? What. Exactly. Is. He. Waiting. For?

“I want you to say please.”

Ha ha, whaa??? Seriously? Is this the first day of kindergarten?

Did not realize I was with Mr. Manners. But I oblige. Probably the least offensive request issued evar.

I say the magic word: “Please.” Dutifully. Then I can’t help myself, I get carried away in the moment. I pepper it with something horrible, a boldfaced lie: “I’m getting soo wet just thinking about it.” As if I need to one-up myself in our tragic roleplay.

So wet, mwahuha! Little does he know, I am barely moist even after surreptitiously transferring spit to my desert-dry vagina. That’s desert, baby, with one ‘s.’ This charade cannot last for long.

The corn-fed boy eats me out like he is a pig lapping slop out of a trough. Overeager. Overenthused. There is a difference between being gracious and being so desperate so grateful. He is starved. Ravenous. And with his nasty, nappy beard brushing up against me, tickling me with every lick, all I can think is that he is a literal animal and I don’t mean a human. Chewbacca? Disney Robin Hood’s Friar Tuck? Or is it King Richard? I try to come up with the correct character reference. Never have I ever felt a full beard bristle between my legs before. Like a vacuum cleaner with brush attachments, I imagine. So this is why guys stick their cocks in vacuum cleaners, I guess? I have to admit, it is really good. He is really good. It feels amazing. Against my best judgment, things are progressing. Mentally, though, I can feel nothing but disgust. Too bad I haven’t gotten off in three days. And if I’ve learned anything in science class, it is that things will travel the path of least resistance to reach their lower energy states.

He sure knows how to lick pussy, and all I have to do is pretend to be excited.

Sometime then, the present turned to distant. And I watched the experience in the third person. Which wasn’t any sexier.

It allowed me to talk the time away. Like when you’re on mushrooms and find something disconcerting, the bugs who are moving freely in opposition to you, unlike the grass which is firmly planted and of no relation to you, except you know it is all because you are on drugs. And as the time ticks on, everything will fade to normal and work in concert again. Your body will sync back up to an orgasm deficit of zero. No longer respond to things that make your mind stall and crawl.

The stirring in my stomach ceased when I could partition it to alternate reality, vacation time, a pornographic sequence, acting and passing.

Out of my body, my body was close.

His boxers still on, or his boxer briefs, I tell him I want to suck his dick, which I imagine to be in his pants, somewhere. Another boldface lie, that I want to, that is. But I will. If it’s going to happen, it’s going to be now. My alleged desire is more of an order than anything, a script delineating the sequence. In the imperative, is how it is intended. Take it out.

I shutter my legs and shudder inside.

He pulls his pants down and IN HIS DEFENSE he isn’t hard. Do not know whether I should feel sorry for him or sorrier for myself. It is a sorry situation.

His pubes: comically well groomed in contrast to the rest of his head, facial, and body hair. In the world’s most ineffectual attempt to attenuate the, cough, situation. Which I suppose is how it goes. Judging from my meager experience with miniscule dicks.

And here is where this story becomes the lamest genie joke ever. The adult version of an episode of Eureka’s Castle. I should have never nervous laughed about my grisly history with oversized men, my flagrant morphological incompetence, my undying fear of big parts. Be careful what you wish for!

What this is, is the perverted punchline of Simon Rich’s New Yorker piece. About a bartender who wishes for a 12-inch penis and assumes his genie is hard-of-hearing when he receives a midget pianist:

And then the genie says, “That bartender’s tiny penis is going to seem huge from the perspective of his one-foot-tall boyfriend.”

—Simon Rich, Guy Walks Into a Bar

Oh man, I’m basically one-foot-tall, relatively speaking, and Bart can’t fool me!

His size was only half of the situation. The other half was his flaccidness. Which I couldn’t seem to cure with my hand or mouth. And guys, I think it is super gross to put a flaccid penis in one’s mouth. The worst part of many pornos: like, they are gay for pay but can’t even be bothered to get hard (does that cost extra?) But I was really going out on a limb here. Arranging my limbs for maximal success, minimal failure.

Putting my thinking cap on, I straddled his face.

Hard he got: GOAL! And I decided to claim what I was there for. I’m not gonna lie, he seemed less than enthused when I told him to grab a condom and fuck me. Ohh, well, what can you do. Obviously after two-and-a-half months of attempting to save myself from sexual demotion, what I get is two-and-a-half sexless months followed by the most laughable sexual demotion. The stuff of stories.

I’m now going to explain, by way of conversation, what sex with a tiny-dicked giant is like. You know my theory about how sex with Clyde broke my body because of the force behind the thrust? I was wrong. Without a large cock as the projectile, it’s more of a poking than a pounding. And I need to be pounded.

April 27th, 2014

Andrew: My friend said her tiny penis boyfriend was the best sex of her life. Like 4 orgasms each time. Something about the way his gut hanged. He was out of shape and when unerect his penis disappeared into his body.

Me: Gross. But gotta say, all the truly teeny guys I’ve been with have been really good. Like they were extra attentive, listened to me, and learned how to make use of what little they had.

Me: Contrarily, I’ve been with huge dudes who didn’t prepare me and thrust about randomly. Torture.

Me: The very smallest I’ve been with, I have saved in my phone as “adam smallest penis ever to be seen,” except my phone cut off the last 3 words. Quite the distinction.

Andrew: There really is no lady equivalent to having a small penis.

Me: No, there isn’t

Andrew: Like MAYBE being an uggo is the equiv. as far as unappealing but attentive goes.

Me: I dunno, some ppl don’t care about faces. I think fatness is worse.

Me: I’m very resourceful, so with adam smallest ever, I requested anal. This was before my surgery, obviously.

Andrew: ^That’s great.

Definitely not the best sex of my life because I’m wayyy too superficial for that. But I gotta say, I was ready to cum very rapidly. Like so fast I felt like I had to hold off. Normally I have to rub my clit manually during sex. His gut did the trick. Tugged on it. I did not even know it was possible for the up-down motion to get me off. A dial ‘0’ on the pink telephone kinda gal, is the anachronistic euphemism a teen magazines would use to describe me.

Except before I was done, he retreated. Not sure if he didn’t think he could stay hard much longer or if he loved burying his face in my pussy that much. Probs a combo of the two. I was instantly disappointed. But, Jesus, he sucked like a Hoover again so I felt I couldn’t complain. And when he got me as close as I thought one could get me with their mouth, I straddled him and did my little routine. My signature number. Where I start wanking and tell a guy I’m going to cum all over him.

Despite my subjective lack of arousal, it had been days. There was a lot to drain.

It is now my duty to completely drain you
I travel through a tube and end up in your infection

Chew your meat for you, pass it back and forth
In a passionate kiss from my mouth to yours
Sloppy lips to lips, you’re my vitamins
I like you.

—Nirvana, Drain You

He LOVED it. Mouth agape as his hairy stomach turned into a willing waterfall.

Then he said the magic words: Cum. On. My. Face.

Obliging, I scooted my butt up from his stomach to his chest, pussy close enough so I might hit him head-on if I angled it right and squirt far. More likely to drip down his neck, though. He locked his arms around my thighs, pulling me up onto his face. I was strapped into the saddle, feet secured in the stirrups.

She only liked to do one thing: sit on my face and suffocate me for about an hour… she loved this dominant position. She said it made her feel like a queen on her throne. She wouldn’t even move that much while I flickered my tongue and struggled for air… After an hour of just sitting there like a hen, she would have an orgasm. And the whole thing was so exotic and unusual that I enjoyed it.

—Jonathan Ames, What’s Not to Love?: Bald, Impotent, and Depressed

Perched on his face, I thought about 3 things:

1) How gross and pathetic I was,

2) How I wished he were Andrew or, like, any other pretty skinny, and

3) How I hoped he washed his beard before brunch—like Peter Griffin, he coulda housed birds in it.

peter griffin birds beard

I thought__, I thought__, I thought__. And we all know that thinking is antithetical to sex. Though not so much if you wish you were elsewhere.

The tragedy of my face-fucking Hawaiian brain vacation was I could not visually imagine another man. Whip my body into the mindset. Because it is hard to make a 200+ lb man disappear. And, besides, in my entire sexual career I’ve only successfully invoked another man’s image once: during my post-surgery virginity taking. Just wanted to get it over with! At least in that instance, the guy I was fucking was skinny and pretty so the image swap was plausible; chemistry was all we were missing.

I wished that I were with Andrew, a face I woulda liked to fuck. Which is extra super sad considering how mediocre he was at oral. Though amaze enough at fingering and fucking that I didn’t care. And could cum all over myself just thinking about his slick body and scent. Like Goldilocks, I am a high-maintenance bitch and like my porridge juust right. Whereas Bart was overenthused about oral, he was underenthused.

In the battle between faces and genitals, focusing on someone’s face is actually more flattering than focusing on her vagina. And I missed Andrew’s smiley, empathetic eyes. A narcissist’s dream—interactive. My euphoria was palpable broadcast in his face—mirrored. As if we were swapping mental cum. And I got to watch myself, watch us—entangled. With Bart, the mechanical manipulation was predominant because I got no joy out of his. There is a fine line between being hungry for puss and being starved. The former says, “I love pleasing you,” while the latter connotes,” I love sniffing butts.” I like a layer of mental abstraction. An epidermis to humping and groaning.

Heedful Headboard

Heedful Headboard

Perched a top my throne, fucking Bart’s face silly, I served as the dynamic counterpoint to the hen in Jonathan Ames’s vignette. Equally indifferent to his presence and no less exotic, I gave no thought to his face as an entity contextualized. I grabbed on to the tufted, Art Deco headboard, rubbing against and stabilizing myself with it’s luxury. When I instructed him to finger me more, he fumbled and almost missed, nearly inserting erroneously into my ass—the closest hole. On top of my game and less sloppy than he, I grabbed his hand and guided his fingers. Clutching the tufted headboard tight, I felt like a prostitute in Boardwalk Empire—someone hailing from the gilded era. With theatrical exaggeration and a monomaniacal goal. Equally removed from the scene. Mashing my nipples into the topography of the wall, I became stuck at the point of inevitability for a full minute, parched in a pained expression atop my perch. Paralyzed. Before my body tied into a knot of contractions and I literally fell off of his face. Except I was still somewhat impaled on his tenacious finger. So my vag snagged a little. Would have been way more charming if he had a snaggle tooth.

My whole body turned into a cartoonish clit—oversensitive. I pushed him off me. And off me again.

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