Macho Sluts, page 38
A man who sees that there is a shortage of his brand of sex objects in the world and turns himself into something that he would want desperately, if only it were possible to encounter this doppelganger on the wharves, may be doing the best he can with the material available. Performing such a transformation is probably easier (maybe even healthier) than trying to alter the nature of his desire, the face that he sees when he imagines that someone is making him come and watching him do it. But narcissism is a sad kind of love, doomed to be unrequited. We can fall in love with our own legends, but they never love us back.
Tops acquire status not just by doing good work, but by taking down other tops. A fairly mild form of this is the verbal competition over who is the best informed, the safest, the most exotic, the most sadistic. Another mild form of competition is comparing your boy to another man’s attendant, making sure the bottom-man who accompanies you is going to outshine all the other masters’ possessions. A more efficient, albeit nastier, method is to discreetly allow the word to circulate that someone has moved his keys over for you. It is de rigueur to make a disclaimer that this is no disgrace, it is a completely human thing to do … but still, that other top knew who to come to when he wanted someone who was his superior. The speaker then buffs his fingernails and prepares for business to boom.
The spoiler did not engage in verbal jockeying for position because he was interested in being better than other tops, only in attracting them. Everyone wants to get the stud at the top of the pyramid. That’s why enchanted princesses live on top of glass mountains. Need it be said that the spoiler never bottomed in a sense that most leathermen could recognize? He made a perfect icon of the dominant without peer, the unavailable, unattainable beauty who seems ripe for—well, spoiling.
That is why he was so surprised, when he finally came home from the master’s house, to feel a cold cylinder of metal graze his temple and come to rest behind his ear. He froze, his key not quite inside the lock. The man behind him sounded out of breath. His gasps were so wrenching that it made the gun tremble against the spoiler’s head.
“What do you want?” he asked gently. He really wanted to ask who it was. It seemed absurd to die ignorant of who had murdered him, but he was afraid the gunman would be infuriated if he realized the spoiler had not recognized him instantly by the sound of his footsteps or the smell of his sweat. And if he could avoid it, he would rather not die. He had not learned how to use his new straight razor. His wrestling coach was due at eleven the next morning. The magneto he had found in an Army-Navy store was still sitting on his workbench, waiting to be repaired. What about the lessons in Vietnamese he had planned to start at the community college next month?
“I want—I want—I want everything back that you stole from me!” This was no doubt supposed to be a bold and irrefutable demand; instead, it was a whine full of self-doubt and self-pity.
“If I have anything that belongs to you, I’ll be happy to give it back,” the spoiler said carefully.
“Damn right you will!”
A long silence followed. What was he supposed to do, the spoiler wondered, start turning out his pockets? It finally occurred to him to simply say, “Can you explain this a little more? What’s happening here?”
“Don’t play dumb, you sneaking, lying son of a bitch. What do you think this is, a hold-up? I don’t want your money, you asshole. I want my self-respect back! I want to be a man again.”
“Oh. I see.” He thought that over, his brain working with serene rapidity despite the fact that this was a life-or-death situation. “If I hurt you, I’m sorry,” he said. “But I would never deprive anyone of his manhood. I love men. All I want to do is give them what they really want. How can anything that two men do together make one of them less than a man? If I did that I would defeat my own purpose, can’t you see?”
“Bastard. You planned it. You plotted against me. I trusted you, and you turned on me. Now I’m going to show you what it feels like to lose control when you think you’re in the driver’s seat and everything is coming up roses. How do you like it so far, huh?”
“I wish I understood why you are so angry,” the spoiler said, deeply saddened by his inability to console this man. “Did I do anything to you that you didn’t enjoy?”
There was no answer. The gun shook. Would it go off by accident?
“Did I do anything you didn’t want me to do?”
Silence.
“Did you really want me to stop? Would it make you happy to do the exact same thing to me, whatever it was, right now? Come inside with me. I promise I will let you. You can even take pictures.” He had no idea how haughty this sounded. One of the things he had never done to get next to someone was beg or plead.
Quiet. Quiet busy as the grave.
“Do you want to be sure no one ever does that to you again? I give you my word I won’t ever touch you or notice you. It will be like we never met.”
Still no answer. ‘I’m getting tired of talking to myself,’ the spoiler thought. Was that grating sound pent-up weeping about to burst forth, or was it someone grinding his teeth as he cocked a trigger?
“Can you think about anything else when you come?”
A Dash of Vanilla
You’re lucky you’re handsome and I’m in love. Otherwise, I wouldn’t bother.
It’s very difficult to get you off. I’m complaining, but there’s also a part of me that likes it. Most women are difficult to get off, and in the past, I’ve dealt with that by encouraging them to masturbate while I suck on their tits or fuck them or talk dirty to them. I’m glad you resist that, saving masturbation for the times when we’re too tired or too sick to come any other way, and need some quick and easy stimulation and release before we can fall asleep. I’m glad you insist that I get you off, insist that I keep trying and work harder to get better at it. When your climax finally does come, it’s precious to me because I’ve put so much sweat and effort into getting you there. I sometimes think it’s better than the quick, helpless orgasms I have when you’ve been fucking me for only five minutes, because I always want more, I always need to come again and again. The one you have leaves you drained. You seem completely satisfied. You’re able to stop. I’m not.
Making love to you doesn’t start out feeling difficult. The summers here are very hot, so you take off your clothes as soon as you walk into the bedroom, and then you lounge around and read your mail. Your legs just naturally seem to come to rest with your knees bent and far apart. I never know if you are deliberately exposing your cunt to me, how much of your behavior is exhibitionistic or provocative, and how much of it is just an attempt to get comfortable in the heat, or unselfconsciousness about your own nudity. It’s probably the latter. You are always surprised when I tell you how powerfully your body attracts me. You do not believe you are beautiful.
No matter what your motives, my eyes are repeatedly drawn to your perfect, small, firm breasts; your abdominal muscles; your sharp and shapely hip bones; the long thighs, scarred during a particularly vicious rape. Your scars are hateful to me because you were hurt there, but so dear to me because you survived to wear them, and have defeated the shame and anger so you can still offer me your cunt, allow me to penetrate and have you. When I look at the dark, fuzzy curls of your pubic triangle (some of your pubic hair wanders up your belly and down the inside of your thighs), the rose color of your crinkled sex-lips and clit, it seems easy and natural to roll over onto my belly between your legs and start licking you.
You always taste good, even if you go for days without showering. In fact, I love you better when you are pungent. It drives me crazy, licking and licking, because the more I lick, the wetter your cunt gets and the stronger the flavor is. I can’t lick it away. I imagine you will produce more and more fluid until I could actually gulp it down, swallow it by the mouthful, like water or semen.
You always respond quickly to the first lick, with a groan that says, “Oh, God, yes, she’s doing that, I need it, will she do it more?” This encourages me, and I begin to think about pleasing you, making you come, instead of just pleasing myself by filling my mouth with the texture and musky taste of your cunt.
You like to have your cunt lips pulled back and up, lifting the hood off your clitoris, until the glans rides snug against your pubic bone, the size of a kernel of corn. I put my hands on each side of your cunt and open it—gently at first, because I know I will be holding it apart for a long time, and I don’t want you to get numb or sore. You spread your legs further and groan a little, a groan that says, “She’s really serious. She’s going to keep on doing it. And she wants me to come. Will I be able to? Can she make me come?”
Unlike me, you want to feel my tongue right on the glans of your clitoris. You don’t want it too hard, but you like it much harder than I do. So I have to begin carefully and get over my fear of hurting you. This is why I usually go in circles around your clit instead of licking straight up and over the glans or from side to side across it. Once I do something that makes you feel really good, you want me to stay in the spot and keep doing the same thing until you come. You like it when I flick my tongue quickly against the hard bud, hummingbird-quick, but I can’t keep this up for very long, so I’m reluctant to start it. Now, in the beginning, before I’ve committed myself to a clear pattern of stimulation, I feel like I can tease you a little without frustrating you, so I slip further down to run my tongue around the inside of your vagina, as far in as I can get, and sometimes tip your ass up and your legs back over your head so I can eat your ass, too.
You’ve told me to stay in one place and do the same thing until you come. You’ve also told me that you sometimes need to move around to put my tongue in just the right place. So I never know when I should let my mouth follow your hips, or when I should hold my head still and let your hips drift past my face until you settle into a more effective rhythm and location. You never seem to be able to tell me what’s going on while it’s happening, so I have to guess, and half of the time I’m right and half of the time I’m wrong.
You also confuse me because if you are really turned on, you hold absolutely still, for fear that I’ll move off of the right spot. But when you get close to coming, you move a lot, fast enough and hard enough to hurt me if I’m not quick enough to follow you. But in the beginning, if you move, it’s usually a sign that you’re frustrated and want it to feel better and are starting to worry that it’s not going to work. I do the best I can to tell the difference, but there’s always a point when I’m eating you where I lose touch with you completely and lose all my self-confidence, too. I think, “I’m so clumsy and inadequate, I’ll never be able to make her come. I’ll bet I never really made any of my lovers come. They were all faking it.”
Your thick, coarse bush makes my nose and cheeks just slightly raw, and the salty wetness of your cunt makes these raw places burn. My hands keep slipping off your lips because they’re wet and slippery, and I get so discouraged, I want to scream or cry. Then I have to pump up my ego and get very arrogant to continue, to keep myself from giving up. Which means I have to guard against suddenly licking you too fast and too hard, because I get macho and too full of myself.
This burst of bravado can’t last long. Circling your clit with my tongue, my lips, my nose, hoping, hoping, struggling to keep just the right pace and pressure and tension on your clit, I get worn down to my stubborn core, the tough silent part of me that does not question the decision to perform a difficult task, but simply shoulders it like a heavy burden and carries it until I drop. I forget about you tasting good or feeling good to me or turning me on. The idea is to make myself an instrument of your pleasure, as if I were a sex machine or a slave. So I make my mouth passive, keep my hands still in absolutely the same position, and repeat again and again a motion that I hope you will find erotic enough to eventually succumb to.
By now, you are usually holding still, not making any noise at all, barely breathing, and my neck is starting to hurt and my hands are tingling. Perversely, just as I abandon my ego, I get very turned on to the idea of servicing you, of having you use my mouth for hours, and I start humping the bed and coming, about once every five to eight minutes. I come even if I hold my legs apart and try desperately not to, because it disrupts my rhythm and embarrasses me. Sometimes you catch fire from the noises I make and the groveling motions I’m making with my hips, and you make a little sex music with me, saying, “Oh, yeah, baby, go ahead, come, come now!” or simply moan and thrust yourself against my mouth. But I get progressively more depressed and full of despair anyway, because nothing seems to be happening or changing or getting better with your body and its physical response, and I want to make you come, I don’t want this to be for my benefit, you allowing me to suck you off—even though you don’t get off on it—simply because I get off on it. I start making questioning noises, asking you with whispers and moans or outright words if you want me to continue.
You usually respond, “God, yes!” But sometimes you tell me, “No, you can stop now,” and I’m crushed, even if I know you are just trying to be kind, reluctant to wear me out when there’s no hope that it’s going to work. And I can understand that, because there are times when I’m not going to come, no matter what somebody does for me or to me. But I know I have failed you, failed to give you bliss and relief, and I will never be good for anything.
I hate this feeling. Remembering it makes me renew my efforts around and around your clitoris (which is bigger and harder now, as big as the whole world to me), and dip my tongue down into your vagina to see how much you are lubricating. I have continually let saliva run out of my mouth to keep your clit wet, because you can’t come if it’s dry. This parches my mouth, so I start rationing swallows of spit—half a mouthful for your clit, half for me to keep my tongue from getting rough and my throat from tickling until I have to cough. Sometimes I slip lower and lick up and swallow a mouthful of my old spit and your sex juice, but this means leaving your clit, so I try not to do it too often.
My neck really hurts. I’m having trouble holding my head up. Sweat is running down my forehead and I can’t wipe it off, so it runs into my eyes and stings. My hands are completely numb, and so are my forearms, all the way up to the elbow. I can’t tell if I am still gripping your labia or not. I can only tell by the shape of the clit in my mouth just how far back I’m still managing to keep them. I am angry with you because you are taking so long, angry because you leave me alone down here, with no idea what is going on with you, if you are enjoying it or not, no indication of how close you are, how much longer it’s going to take. I want to shout, “Are you ever going to come?” I desperately need some help, and I begin to whisper, “please, please,” sometimes loud enough for you to hear me. Any kind of groan or sigh you make is of life-or-death importance to me now and keeps me going for a few more minutes. But I feel as if I am hanging from a cliff face by my skinned and bleeding palms, and I know I cannot hold on to the bare rock for much longer.
I begin to wonder if you are in a good enough space to be able to hold your cunt open for me for a few minutes, maybe take a break long enough for me to get a drink of water and work the blood back into my hands. I am never sure. Sometimes a request like this is enough to make you feel so guilty for “taking too long” that you break things off. I don’t want you to stop me now. I badly need to continue, to keep going, to keep you open to me, keep you believing in me and trusting and needing me. The safety of my whole world seems to depend on being granted the privilege of continuing to go down on you.
Patiently, persistently, carefully, in agony and self-doubt, I keep caressing you, trying to duplicate again and again the same exact pattern of motion and pressure, the same degree of wetness and friction, and if you move or make a noise, I stop for a fraction of an instant, record what I was doing when you responded, and then try to make a copy of it between my lips and your sex. There is an erotic pressure between my own legs, a need to be fucked, to come, but I won’t let myself build up and cry out, thrashing against the mattress, one more time. I need you now, your orgasm, your climax, to put out the fire that’s raging inside of me. My own climax would bleed energy off from you, energy that you need to come. I don’t want to pay any attention to my own body, it’s whining pain and thirst, its nagging need to piss or come. It distracts me. I ignore it.
But it clamors louder and louder, and sometimes I am humiliated by yet another orgasm of my own, which takes place in a state of despair and frustration that infuriates and devastates me.
Still I work on and on, mechanically, softly, like the Colorado River carving the Grand Canyon one eon at a time, like a bird flying across the ocean that can’t stop no matter how tired she is because there is no place to land. Save me, give it to me, help me, seize my head between your thighs and drown me! Come, come!
Sometimes, not all the time, at a time I am never able to predict and for reasons I still do not understand, you promise me a miracle. You begin to talk to me. After your long silence, it feels very odd, being talked to. I pay close attention to what you have to say. It must be important if you can’t keep quiet any more.
“Oh, lover,” you say, “I’m going to come. Can you feel it? Lover!”
Now I am moving fast and sloppy, but it doesn’t matter, you will come now no matter what I do, and anyway we are finally in sync, finally in this together, your hips pumping into my mouth, my lips slipping up and down your clit and inner lips, my tongue pointed to catch the most sensitive peak of the glans. There is so much sex juice! Slippery mucus slides across my tongue and slips down my throat, oh that welcome, salty taste that proves you are turned on and wanting me, I spread the slipperiness of it across your cunt and smear it all over my face. I wish this happy time could last longer, but I know I am nearly used up, and I am unreasonably terrified that I will still somehow bumble and fail, even now; that what you have promised me will not be delivered through some sin or folly of mine.
