Four writers for the price of one blog
I sit across from her and she smiles guilelessly.
The attractions of the younger woman. The radiant, curious, sexual inquisitiveness of the teenager that rarely survives the twenties. She laughs at her little brother’s jokes. But he, no longer little, suggests a flagrant disregard for genetics or marriage vows. My little nymph of jams, toasts and holey bedsheets dips her knife into the rhubarb with feminine precision. She passes the jam and says we have peach if I want it—canned with her mother.
Should I say thank you?
Should I say no? I don’t like rhubarb.
I’d be lying either way. I should tell her: I’d prefer the peach, but I’ve already taken the peach. I’m at a loss for words. Me, always ready with the witty repartee. Why? The toast crackles under my butter knife. Cinnamon?
Peach. Succulent. Delicate. Velvet skin. Juice spilling down the chin. A ripe peach is the perfect simile. The man penetrates the girl’s delicate thighs until the sugary juice runs down them. Maybe she knows the comparison is apt. She offers the unopened mason jar, but I can’t unscrew what’s been screwed—stupid and idle association.
What are my plans after today?—Jack asks. Hell if I know. After last night?
Jack looks mostly the same as in college. He’s heavier but aren’t all men heavier as they age. Spite me for being attracted to younger women, but as many younger women are attracted to older men, a fact that’s virtually irreconcilable but for the most mercantile of reasons. Marian treats me with unstinting warmth. Because of me she met Jack. I brought her to our room. And though the evening began with Marian in my arms, she capped the night with my roommate, legs split beneath him, voice sounding out the collision of his hips with hers.
But this wasn’t revenge.
I confess Jack’s daughter looks like her mother at the same age. A grown man with a young woman? Why not? Because she’s half my age? Because she’s my college roommate’s daughter? Every woman is someone’s daughter. Because they trust me? Trust me to what? She’s an adult. Would it have been more tolerable if I had paid? I’ve paid for sex.
The world’s oldest profession. But the men and women who condemn prostitution fail to grasp the exquisite ritual of the arrangement. I won’t argue that prostitution is never a sordid affair or that I haven’t wanted to kill a pimp by the cruelest, if most satisfactory, means possible. But the uninitiated can’t appreciate the ritual of the acquisition. The housewife who discovers her husband pays for sex concludes he’s betrayed her. He declares his dissatisfaction with her bed and person. Maybe so, but such would never be the case were I to be married and were my wife to discover my indiscretions.
I don’t go to a prostitute for fucking any more than I’d go to a Turkish bazaar for anything other than negotiation—the haggling—the smells, the noises, the pick-pockets. For the appreciative fetishist, the fucking is the postlude. The pleasure is in the the choosing, the purchasing; and I have met no small contingent who confess an almost poignant loss once the fucking begins.
Prostitution is reviled because it’s recognized for what it is—marriage divested of frippery. There will be no expressions of everlasting love. The woman obtains what she wants, the money; and the man, the woman’s open thighs. There’s often more than a little arousal enjoyed by both. The woman assumes the roll of the purchased and the man the owner. Luckily for both, the marriage is annulled the instant the man orgasms.
Could there be a more perfect union?
I’ve imagined ways—whilst lining up the girls, choosing among them and purchasing one of them—of obtaining my orgasm. I have accidentally orgasmed between the decision to visit the whore house and arrival. Anticipation, choosing, buying is the manna of the fetishist—men and women both.
But there was too little opportunity for the proposition.
I’ve offered to pay for sex when I might have obtained my goal just easily without. ‘Do you think I’m a whore?’ Let’s barter and find out, I answer. The exquisite seduction, part humiliation, part adulation, part denigration, part admiration, has often enough produced such an explosion of incomparably libidinous fucking from the female psyche that the times I’ve been turned out-of-doors have been an acceptable penalty.
Item: Upon my arrival, three days ago, she changed from the comfort-clothes of a modest freshman to a tube skirt and braids.
Item: On our second night, after mother, father and little brother had gone to bed, she asked me why I wasn’t married, an appropriately inappropriate question clarifying her unstated observation that I wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.
Item: Who should offer to take me on a tour of the surrounding countryside and who should flagrantly piss in the woods while I considered filling her mouth while she squatted—the coy blush, the ‘I’ll-just-be-a-minute’ invitation, the 1960’s, summer of love outfit. The gaiety in the hips of the young women.
These are only the most flagrant signposts that led me to her bedroom.
You accuse me, like many other men who write erotica, of justifying my behavior. My she-asked-for-it list. I confess this is exactly what I do. The thief steals bread because he’s hungry. What other rationale does he need? And who leaves freshly baked bread where thieves so easily acquire it?. Only fools think women are not, in fact, capable of asking for it. And don’t think a woman can’t obtain an almost transcendent gratification knowing her fucking is because she-asked-for-it; that recherche consummation that is as rare as it is perfect, both consensual and non-consensual; that satisfies a woman by confirming what a man will risk to possess her. But in general a woman’s seduction is often of a more varied and sublime affair than a man’s; and the most artful pursue by inviting pursuit.
Should the description of our own affair therefore come as a surprise?
I went to her last night, in the early morning, when her little brother slept in the room next door and her parents slept at the end of the hallway. I went to my little whore, and I write that lovingly and admiringly. She played her part flawlessly. The window let in the night air and the moonlight. She slept on her side. She had only a single sheet covering her, all of her, and the contours perfectly illuminated the still girlish formulation of hips and shoulders—that perfect age embodying girlish innocence and womanly readiness.
Or so she led me to believe and I was content to believe it. I started at her hip. I placed my palm there. This wasn’t to be hurried. This, I knew, would be the most memorable and exquisite moment of our negotiation. She didn’t stir. I slid my palm into the swale of her waist, pressing the linen into the contour. Her shaking cemented my intentions. Her elbows were just a little forward of her rib cage, her hands presumably under her pillow. As I moved my fingers up her rib cage, feeling her breath, I captured a nipple between two fingers and the linen sheet. I squeezed just beneath, forcing the nipple to expand in its little linen pocket until the petite agony produced the desired effect.
Her hips moved and her spine curled.
I could have pulled away the sheet. Only a fool, or a young man, would have done so. Her fucking had to be surreptitious, a violation of her childhood bedroom, the forbidden idée fixe of the older man defiling the young woman hardly out of girlhood. I by no means would disappoint her and would play the part of the lecherous uncle with self-sacrificing devotion.
I would not remove the sheet.
The sheet was her plausible deniability. The sheet, the thin linen sheet, would protect her from admitting she wanted what I was about to do to her. I didn’t hurry my exploration of her breasts, her ribs, her narrow arms, her thighs, knees, calves and feet. My touch praised every shivering part of her. When I saw, beneath the contours of the half-lit sheet, that she tightly gripped and kneaded her pillow, I rose from the bed and let her hear me removing my few clothes. One of her ankles slipped over the other underneath the sheet.
There, in a pink cup with pictures glued to it, presumably of her erstwhile high school friends, I saw what I needed—a pair of scissors. I took them noiselessly and returned to the bed. No sexual tryst can be without damage and the sheet would be the first to suffer the reckoning. I stretched the linen over her buttocks. I pressed the sharp tip where I knew, experienced man that I was, the dark, rearward slice of her pussy would be exposed—there, in the round, broad, feminine heart of her hips.
She became motionless when she heard the metallic snip.
I would show her what she only might only have grasped intellectually during youthful and groping fantasies: that a man can be fully inside a woman, nakedly, intimately, his skin filling hers, without ever touching her externally—and the naturalness and necessity of it.
I made three more incisions in the linen, two for nipples and one for her mouth.
Now she strained against her own body’s desire to move.
When I tugged one nipple through the sheet, into the shameful visibility of her room, I heard the slightest quiver in her voice. I rolled it and tugged it. I found the back of her neck with my other hand, then pressed my cock through the fourth cut in the linen and briefly felt her teeth brushing the head of my cock, then the fluid warmth of her surprised mouth and tongue. I held her by the back of her neck and gently, firmly fucked her mouth as her thighs darkly scissored under the sheet. The cotton puffed under her nose. Her tongue moved sinuously unable to escape.
I was forceful.
I didn’t stop until she’d tasted some of my semen, just a little premonitory spurt, to warn her.
Then I lay down behind her. I never let go of her nipple, alternating between one and the other. I pulled each out, swollen and red, into the cool, moonlit air, and tugged, forcing just that much of the girl to confess the truth. Then I guided my cock to that first snip in the fabric. She stiffened, abruptly motionless, then sharply arched as the dark fluting between her thighs softly gave way and closed around the head of my cock. I entered her secret world—a smooth and lacquered world of heat and syrupy desire that did nothing to impede my sinking cock—that easily let me fill her belly. She had no secrets now. Though she was still covered by the sheet, I was inside her, cognizant of her pulse, her heat, the small, submissive flinches of her abdomen.
The older man was inside her, the lecherous Uncle, the stranger, the insatiable Wolf, the Bête Noir of her own body’s sexual awakening—in her bedroom—claiming her while her brother and parents guilelessly slept. I withdrew, then thrust hard, masculine, peremptorily, possessive. I wouldn’t disappoint. When the fingers of my free hand found her mouth, she sucked. Her inexperience was intoxicating. I was gratified that she took an instinctive pleasure in the penetration.
I couldn’t thrust as vigorously as I wished.
The horror of being discovered prevented me. Nevertheless, it didn’t take long. In just a few minutes she stiffened, thrust back her opening against my groin, then shook with the delicate, involuntary pulses of orgasm.
Against all common sense, all precaution, any pretense of age or wisdom, I did nothing to prevent my own orgasm—milky, rapid, powerful pulses that blended together as though she procured from me one long stream of semen. I emptied the contents of my desire in her womb. She made no move to prevent it, if she knew what had happened. I was stunned and a little chagrined. I withdrew my fingers and withdrew my cock. A web of saliva followed my fingers and the web of our mutual orgasm momentarily laced the air through the opening in the sheet.
I only saw a hint of the glistening, slowly closing lips of her thighs.
She didn’t move again and I reluctantly put on my clothes. I quietly closed the door. And now? My little nymph of bedsheets, jamb and toast doesn’t betray the merest sign that she has come to the family table with an abdomen full of my semen. And for a strangely panicky moment I consider that it might not have been her at all, but her mother. The panic is not that I might have fucked the wrong woman. Neither would be the wrong woman. The panic, of course, is not knowing. And why does this disturb me?
But I have another question to consider.
I tell her I’d prefer the peach jam, canned by both her and her mother.