InDefenseOfGettingOff's Blog

Face Fuck, Part 3

August, 2014

AFTER HOURS

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?

1:38

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

1:38

Me: Wanna meet up there?

1:40

Bart: Sounds good, where are you coming from?

1:40

Me: I’m at culver hotel

1:41

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

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 1^st-annual 30^th 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 27^th, 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.

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

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.

Face Fuck, Part 2

August, 2014

WEDDING

At our distant cousin Cleo’s wedding, Laura grilled me about guys I might want to get to know, pointing out some handsome spray-tanned douche in unironic seersucker and emphatic pink. Either she has given up worrying about my contracting HIV, or she has realized I’m incorrigible. I brushed off her suggestion. I mean, sure, he was good looking in that sleek, self-important way. Probably had a cache of coke-nosed sorority girls back home in Flahrida. But I was not one of them. I could do better. I could do different. I had eyes only for the bartender.

Introducing Garnet Garrett, Ginger God. To protect the guilty, normally I don’t include pics of men. But he is innocent. Unless he has a girlfriend. Or boyfriend. No judgment!

Garrett: Ginger God

Pick-up dialogue is the lowest form of communication. Might as well have winked and grunted to get my point across. The thing with being a girl is, either they want to stick it in you or they don’t. And usually they do. As long as you don’t raise any red flags and unless you want to elicit a specific response in a vetting process, what you say is largely incidental. The body language and tone are more important than the words. SOMETIMES I LOVE HAVING A VAGINA!

Round 1

Painting on my prettiest game face, I stepped up in line and stepped into the ring.

Narrowing my eyes then widening them as they met his, “Hmm, I’llll haaave: the Mango Margarita.” I had rehearsed this for 30 seconds as the man ahead of me swizzled his Manhattan strategically.

“You got it.”

“Look at that: the drink matches your hair!” As if what I ordered had been a coincidence of color. Hey, it was one of the signature cocktails. Too easy! If there is anything I learned from Clueless: Oops, that’s my fluffy pink pen that I dropped there, right in front of you. And now I’m going to bend over to pick you, I mean it, up.

He raised the glass up to his face and smiled kittenishly, sweeping his left hand under it in perfect Vanna White form: Look at what you’ve won. Come on down and claim your prize!

“You sell it so well, you could advertise it!”

Light reflected by the ice cube prisms bounced off his fiber optic eyelashes, “Also works with drinks that have a little ginger in them.”

Goes without saying: I could use a little ginger in me.

In my vocal fry best, “Mmm, ginger drinks are delishhh. I luv gingerrrs!”

At the handoff, I lingered long enough to let that suggestion shimmer. I mean, simmer. Exit Genie.

Round 2

“I’ll go with the Mango Margarita again.”

“Oh yeah, how was it?”

“You sold me on the presentation alone. And it was great, not too fruity.”

“Unlike me?”

Did I hear what I thought I just heard? How could I have missed the telltale signs: naturally radiant, well-groomed, flirtatious, in LA. Most likely an actor moonlighting. This is bullshit. I will not be defeated in the second round.

Back to physical observations. So he knows I NOTICE him. Just putting ya on notice.

“You’re not wearing your cater waiter bowtie.”

“Ha ha, yeah, our uniforms are a little more subtle.”

Unlike me.

“You’re the wife of landed gentry and I’m a cater waiter at a seder.” –Dan Humphrey, Gossip Girl

That’s when I dropped in a few details, so he knew I was from New York, a real adult. Lest he confuse me for some 16-year-old starstruck hillbilly weirdo. Felt the need to show my true colors as a cosmopolitan, weathered ginger-fucking creepo. Reviewed the costumey uniforms at overrated mixology bars in the city, how I will forever get carded despite my dazzling maturity, that the last time I bought a bottle of wine (okay, so mabes it was rosé) the clerk glanced at my DOB and called me “well preserved” as if I were garnish in a careful curated cocktail.

Redirecting the conversation to him, intimating flattery, I went in for the kill: “So, are all of the bartenders in LA actors?”

“Most of us. I do other stuff, too. Act, write, direct, consult for TV shows… have my YouTube porn channel.”

Pretty sure he was joking. Dead serious, especially if his sexual proclivities were what I had feared, “I’d watch that.”

If you won’t have me tonight, my hand will.

Sheepish smile. Exit Genie.

Cocktail hour was through. Dinnertime: Everyone take your places. My seating arrangement was perfect. Next to Cleo’s cousin from the other side of her family (read: we aren’t blood related). He is 6’5’’ with a name as Waspy as they pop out in Jay Kos, straight off the Mayflower. Let’s call him Bartholomew Cushman. In an attempt to tell off his blue blood, he is an aspiring musician in Brooklyn; wore his tight, kinky, blondish curls in a topknot that begs to be picked out; and accumulated a year’s worth of lumberjack beard growth with cigarette smoke clinging on. We have the same cultural references, he appreciates off-color humor: I figured our relationship might extend to New York.

Dinner wound down, the doors to the cocktail patio reopened, we ventured into the mingling mix. Now seemingly indecent, here is a photo of me surrounded by two men, 6’5’’ and 6’3’’. If only you could see my look of wide-mouthed joy. Me, surrounded by men. Commanding their presence. The way Our Father intended it. My face height halfway between their faces and crotches. Open wide!

Sexual Dimorphism

Laura joined us, looked up at Bart and inquired whether I had told him about my injury.

“Yeah, I told him all about my colon, my back. You know how it is.”

“But did you tell him about your INJURY? How it happened.”

“No, uh, it’s not an injury. It’s a little worse than that. I just haven’t told you yet…” my voice trailed off, ashamed. Slinking away.

Why was she alluding to Clyde breaking my fucking back? Yo, that bitch tried to blow up my spot!

When she moved on, to mitigate the ensuing awkwardness and squelch Bart’s curiosity, I attempted an infantile joke about my history with oversized men, my flagrant morphological incompetence, my undying fear of big parts.

And that is what you call dramatic irony.

Round 3

We used to see in color
Now it’s only black and white
Yeah it’s only black and white
‘Cause the world is color blind
Does anybody know how the story really goes
How the story really goes
Or do we all just hum along

—STP, Big Bang Baby

In a last ditch attempt, I went back for one, final drink that I did not need nor want. A reunion with Garnet Garrett before it was too late. Parting would be such sweet sorrow. During our previous conversation we had established that he used to live in the city: Williamsburg, Bed Stuy… Chelllseaa? Ambiguous. Considering his artistic aspirations.

Out of both hope and material, this time I let him take the lead.

“When are you going back to the city?”

“Tomorrow, morning. After brunch.

“Aw, too bad. I wanted to show you around LA if you had time.”

Not. A. Homosexual. Whyyy. Eyyy. Esss!

“I do. Later tonight. How about you show me around, tonight?”

Read: How about I show you around my body. I mean, hotel room.

“Sure,” squinting slyly. As if to discern whether it were too good to be true. “I should be able to break this down and get out of here around 12.”

“Cool. Wanna text me when you’re done?”

“Yeah,” fishing it out, “Here’s my card.”

He hands me one of his New York/LA bicoastal PR company cards. For real, a jack of all trades entertainment.

“It’s the 202 number?”

“Yeah, text that one.”

Sliding out my phone and scanning the card, “You’re a manager. Can I call you Mr. Manager?” Wink. Wink.

“I am a manager. I know how to take charge.”

Definitely. Not. A. Homosexual.

YES!

Cannot wait ‘til we reconvene at the end of the evening. He could be the gingerfuck to replace Reed the Rugged Redhead as my Fuck of the Year. Knock his Fuck of the Year plaque off my mantelpiece. Just kidding. We don’t have fireplaces in the city. Though that boy was a true masterpiece. A chiseled work of art.

Employee of the Month

As the night winded down, the olds and borings cleared out, making way for the cool kids—the afterhours crowd. Again, there I was, surrounded by many men. Each one I had talked to throughout the course of the evening resurfaced. And that’s when they began fighting over me. Competing.

A pretty, skinny one clung to me magnetically. Pulled me over to the Polaroid area with him, for commemorative photographs of our 5 minutes together. Was very handsy. Cute, for sure. Lived in the city a few blocks away from me. Sooo, longish term prospects. A two-night stand, at least, I could squeeze out of it. He didn’t have a hotel room for the night, was lugging around his suit bag, toiletries. Was leaving for the airport at 3amish to catch a 5amish flight. Easily invitable back to my room, imminently disposable if the sex was no good. He was handsome in a generic way. Everything in a generic way. Unimaginative.

My allegiance was pledged to Garnet Garrett. Even though I wasn’t sure he was a sure thing. There was no way I could juggle the two.

I sauntered back to the circle of popular kids, clunk down my window-dressing drink on the nearest tabletop. The groom’s older brother invited me out afterward to barhop with him and his college friend. What is a night in LA without a little nightlife? I would have accepted outright if not for my prior engagement.

“For sure, I’m down. But I already made plans with the bartender for later tonight.”

All eyes on me. Watch. And. Learn.

“Ohh. Really? Which bartender, the Black one?”

Quizzically, “Is there a Black bartender?”

The brother and his friend cocked their heads, smirked at each other, and looked back at me, expectantly, “Seriously? This one really is colorblind.”

Muffled laughs.

“Of course I’m not. No one is. I’m color enhanced: Only have eyes for the ginger.”

Pause.

“Can I invite him along? He’s not gonna be off work for a while anyway.”

“Yeah. Of course.”

Pulling my phone out of my purse, there was already a reply to my “This is Genie” introductory text. Two replies:

“Hi Genie!”

“You’re kinda rad :)”

Ah ha ha, so LA. Had to resist writing back, “Totally tubular.” Or, “The waves were gnarly, man. Did you hear that Brock’s parents are outta town and he’s throwing a rager after the show? Cowabunga, dude!” Contemplated whether I should text him our plans and head out or walk back over to feel him out.

Totally Tubular!

That’s when Bart intervened. Tried to siphon me off of him. “Can I convince you to ditch the bartender for me?”

Ah, intrasexual competition. Mate Poaching. So primal: the animal kingdom in action. Was it survival of the fittest? Not exactly. More like conquest of convenience. Circumstances make decisions, after all.

“Ehhh.”

“Is he prettier than I am?”

“Well, chaaa… But it’s not just that. I figure we can hang out in the city. Tonight is my only chance with him.”

He looked a little defeated. Not quite annoyed. Win some, lose some.

“I mean, maybe I shouldn’t annoy you because there is more of a chance for us to hang out on a long-term basis. But I figure we can hang out in the city. Just being practical.”

Look at me, maximizing my chances of reproductive success. Spreading my seed. It was a ballsy maneuver. And I think it inadvertently increased my mate value. Like if this girl thinks she can get away with that, she must be hot shit. And I am. Also, there is something attractive in admitting your assholery. Like, when one employs the construction, “No offense, but…” the other person can’t be mad, riiight?

I upped the ante. Made him feel like I was cutting him a deal. And this, my friends, was the ballsiest maneuver of all. Watch and learn.

“How about I use you as my fallback plan if things with Garrett don’t work out… Whhaat’sss your number?”

Ready to receive his digits, I swooped up my phone before he had a chance to say no—retain his pride. Hey, before then he wasn’t getting fucked at all tonight. No chance. No one’s turning down a chance to dream. A vote of confidence. A concession, better than nada.

He gave me security, a sexual insurance plan. In exchange for a half-stiffie. Win-win, right? Nice doing business with you. Of course, I would have preferred the skinny, pretty as my fallback plan, but no way even I could have orchestrated that. Win some, lose some.

Now I should mention what a mark of a good man I believe offering oneself as a backup plan is. It says: I care more about penis strokage than ego strokage. And no one wants a dude who is full of himself, who doesn’t acknowledge your sexual superiority. As a woman, a hustler. That’s how my sexual relationship with Allister commenced and look what that, in combination with his insistence on enthusiastic consent, got him: 9 years and counting of easy access to me. I would never have gone with him as option numero uno, but once you are in the ‘gonna get fucked tonight’ mindset, settling for less is better than going home with a heavy heart and empty vagina. Me and my machinehead. Better than the rest.

Face Fuck, Part 1

August, 2014

Ask two Jews, get three opinions.

—Jewish Proverb

Three Opinions, All mine

1) Late July I had a stern talk with myself: You need to get over yourself and get fucked. Mediocre sex is better than no sex. Get over him. Go back to before you remembered what satisfaction is. Before it was tangible, attainable. Be comfortably numb. Ignorance is bliss. So is semen.

At twenty-six I hadn’t accomplished much in my life, but I knew the difference between good and bad sex. People fail to mention that one of the side benefits of sleeping around is that you have a much better chance of stumbling across a gem or two. It’s the law of slutty averages. And once you experience someone with real skills, it’s very hard to go back.

—Ophira Eisenberg, Screw Everyone: Sleeping My Way to Monogamy, The Nice Fetish

2) The less harsh critic in me told me to give myself a break. Let’s face it: you’re just not that interested in sex. If you were, you would be less melodramatic about the paltry prospects. You don’t have to rough it through 40 for 1 gem. You’ve gone on dates with dudes that you didn’t fuck for logistical reasons. Indifference. You know you’re attracted to them. You’ve already narrowed 40 to 10. Text them and they’ll turn up. Above and beyond that, one of the 3 most stellar fucks of the year, a a member of the gilded trio, had returned to town months ago. When I saw him at the beginning of the summer, he invited me over. I was still hung up on Andrew and still held false hope. Besides, nothing could really come of he and I. He was too good for me (physically, professionally). So after a few texts back and forth, I threw him into the indifferent pile. If I wanted to get fucked, though, a little effort and there he would be: guaranteed great sex. Ergo, I didn’t want sex. Oh well, I have other things going for me, right? RIGHT!?! Guys, are you there?

3) The third voice in my head could compartmentalize itself from the other two: Vacation Genie. Wait, let’s call her “Vacay Genie” because this story involves LA and THE VALLEY. Isn’t geographical, I mean cognitive, distance lovely?

Early June, in the thick of my AMCAS application and beginning summer classes, I declared, “At the end of the summer, when I’m done with everything, I need to go on vacation.” It had been 3 ½ years. My mother agreed, “Absolutely.” I had decided on Scandanavian countries. For four very reasonable reasons: 1) I needed to be someplace where I wouldn’t get digestively ill from the food or water, which eliminated South America and much of Asia. 2) I needed to be someplace where I could get excellent medical care in case something happened to me. It was the first time I would be traveling alone or for an extended period of time since all my medical stuff. 3) Because I am a woman and would be traveling alone, I wanted to be someplace safe, especially for women. Scandanavian countries are known for safety because of little income inequality. 4) In a Gender Roles class in grad school we read an article about the gender equality in Sweden, and how it was totally socially acceptable for women there to have one-night stands. Because of the egalitarian views on gender, sex crimes are minimal. It sounded like a sexual fairyland to me—the kind for straightish people. Ever since I’ve wanted to do some sexual tourism—the kind that does not involve 14-year-old Thai girls.

As the summer neared an end and my back condition became more of a debilitating reality, this 3-week Scandanavian escapade seemed less and less like a reality. My evening of camping in early August, followed by my brief trip to LA were my test runs. Could my back handle a 5-hour flight? Sitting upright in class for even 2 hours had proved burdensome. As the oldest postbac by years, I brought my own pillow to class: a geriatric accessory. I figured it was versatile, transitional: from day to night, New York to LA.

LOS ANGELES

Which brings us to LA. On my last brief excursion in 2011, I had sex in a shack. Technically the servant’s quarters. Except there were no servants. Because it was in The Valley. When I disclosed the guy’s area code to the cousin I was staying with, she let out a guttural, “Ehhh.” Whatevers, Valley Schmalley, he was so hot. Perfect Strawberry Blonde. Gentile Dream. High functioning penis. Stayed perfectly hard after he came. Told me I was free to continue riding him until I came. Which I did. And never have I ever felt so much like I used someone as a human dildo. He was a nice boy, too. The sex was horribly awkward. I wondered whether he even wanted it. So I gave him a way out.

I met him in New York and texted him months later. Certain he didn’t expect me to end up in his backyard, quite literally. But guys never turn down cute women who show up for sex. He took me to The Woods. Think the wood paneling of Spitzers without the LES douchebaggery. They played Weezer and Jimmy Eats World. He was unexpectedly lovely even though I didn’t need him to be; it is always nice to think well of one’s sexual partners. I would have fucked him no matter what because I am superficial. Did I say strawberry blonde? Cute plastic frames? It was such a trip to be picked up in a car. It felt like 1950. My cousin showed me off at the harbor. The other trip in LA is you have to monitor drinking. Not as in, let’s not get too drunk to fuck; as in, let’s not get too drunk to drive. Ohhhh, also also also the bar was in a strip mall: how quaint! As the night was nearing an end, I told him I would invite him back to my place, but I was sleeping on my cousin’s couch. With her German Shepard and 19-year-old cat, who had dred locks because he was too old to groom himself. Teddy admitted he would invite me over expect he lived with his parents. He invited me over anyway. They would be asleep and wouldn’t care regardless. We would go to the shack in the backyard. He shoulda been all Bel Air and called it “the pool house.” Whatever, I was down. Obvi! On our way to his place, I mean his parent’s place, I texted my cousin to not wait up for me and not worry about me. She replied, “I’m not worried, you’re an adult.”

We made out in the, cough, love shack. Like, forever. Boring! I guess the way the night unfolded, it just seemed like it was assumed. Like, East Coast girls don’t just show up on your doorstep everyday looking to be taken out for drinks. Except I prefer enthusiastic consent. Even though I looked all cute and stuff, things just didn’t seem like they were progressing sexually. So I excused myself to pee in his backyard. He assured me his parents wouldn’t wake up if I peed in the bathroom and they didn’t care anyway. I assured him I preferred to urinate outside. I’m a classy broad. Duhhr. And it was a novelty. Like the bar in a strip mall. Might as well go to Claire’s to get our ears pierced! When I returned, bladder empty and pee dripping down my leg, I gave him the option to not proceed. But I already told you how it ended. With our fucking and my using him as a human dildo. A really pretty one! He drove me home, took the scenic route through Laurel Canyon for my viewing pleasure. The next day he texted me about how he randomly ended up in Las Vegas for his birthday. Haven’t heard from him since.

Here is a photo of the shack. My golden standard. I mean, my strawberry blonde one. For serious, though, it was lined floor-to-ceiling with books and Vanity Fairs from the 1970s to present day, decorated with caught baseballs and nautical gear. So rad it was totes worth the embarrassment of asking Teddy to photograph it for posterity. My hands get shaky after I cum sometimes. As if I’m signing an autograph through floppy Minnie Mouse costume hands. Vacay souvenir ’11! First attempt mine.

Wish I had a pic of this LA trip’s site of sin for stark comparison. But I don’t. Because never have I ever wanted to escape captivity more quickly after orgasming…