It’s always the quiet ones.
I was browsing around in the General Fiction section at the bookstore the other night, and was flipping through Chuck Palahniuk’s “Choke,” when a guy came up to me and said, “Excuse me.” I looked up, and he handed me a folded piece of paper, before making a hasty exit. It read:
Pretty and reading fiction? No way! Call me sometime? I’m Tim, um I’m blonde, blue eyes, 6 ft., 170 pounds, 31, college grad. I’ll be home around 11:00 if you’re interested in calling! Sorry for telling you like this but I’m a little shy and rejection stinks!
His phone number was scrawled at the bottom of the note. I laughed quietly, feeling quite flattered (and surprised, too—he’d looked younger than 31).
I hung around for awhile longer—I got a hot spiced chai tea, and flipped through Mark Z. Danielewski’s “House Of Leaves,” finding all the hot parts. Most people don’t know it, and most would never think so, but horror novels tend to have the best sex scenes. Don’t waste your time with romance novels. I used to sneak my mom’s romance novels into my room to get off to when I was younger. I outgrew that really quickly, once I got my driver’s license, and could go spend evenings at the library. By myself in the Horror section, I discovered a whole new aspect of that genre. I finally learned what all the fuss over Anne Rice was about, and was surprised to find out just how sexual some parts of Stephen King’s work were. After some time, I graduated into the realm of the more obscure: I was charmed by Sheridan LeFanu’s subdued, melancholic sensuality, seduced by Poppy Z. Brite’s edgy earthiness. Even now, erotica and horror are all mixed up on my bookshelf, because I so often have trouble seeing the difference—Carlton Mellick III sits beside Poe, Pauline Reage is paired with Neil Gaiman.
Between what I’d been reading, and the fact that someone had come onto me (even though he was a guy), I was all jazzed and horny. I bought the newest volume of the “Hot Blood” anthology series, and took the bus back to my dorm, shivering inside my leather jacket.
I don’t know why I called the guy. Maybe it was because my roommate has already cleared out for Christmas Break, and I’m not going to be heading back to New Orleans until tomorrow, so it was one of those situations where you say to yourself, *Aw, what the hell? I’m between relationships, I’m horny, I’m lonely, I’m bored, so, what the hell.*
I waited until 11:20, just to keep him in a little bit of suspense. When I called him, he seemed every bit as surprised as glad to hear from me. I let him know I’m a lesbian, but wanted him to know I admired his guts, and was flattered. He said that was all cool, and that he actually has a cousin who performs as a drag king at a bar in New Orleans. I said I’d still like to be friends, and he said he would, too. “You can call me Darlene, by the way,” I said. For some reason, at the time, I saw something mildly amusing about telling him my real name while leading him to believe it wasn’t my real name. I don’t know. While I silently undressed, we started talking about ex-girlfriends, and loneliness, and we both revealed that we yearn to have a relationship with a goth chick.
We started talking about horror novels, and when I mentioned my obsession with vampires, he told me, “Yeah, I’ve got kind of a vampire fetish, but I won’t go there.”
“Oh?” I slipped between the sheets, pulling the quilt just up over my tits, luxuriating in the much-missed sensation of being naked in bed. My roommate is cool, but having privacy is even better. “Really, this is getting more interesting by the minute…”
Looking back, I think I was subconsciously hoping for a chance to turn the conversation in an X-rated direction from the very beginning of that call. I still don’t know why I did it, but once he’d given me that opening, I was off and running with it. I turned the light off, and reached over to pull the blinds up so I could look out at the courtyard, glittering with strings of white lights, before settling back against the pillow. It took a while to convince him I was not going to laugh at him, hang up on him, or think he was a “retard” (his word, not mine), but eventually, he revealed that he wanted to be dominated by a goth chick.
When I told him I have the same fantasy, he asked me, “No shit?”
“No, no shit,” I answered, and that wasn’t the last time I would have to use that phrase during our conversation.
He told me his favorite fantasy was of a goth girl tying him up, torturing him with candle wax and clothespins, whipping him, and then fucking him with a strap-on. It turned out he was a sadomasochist in the truest sense of the word—he liked both giving and receiving pain. He leaned more towards receiving it, though. He said he hadn’t ever told anybody that, not even any of his girlfriends.
“Why not?” I asked.
“Because, it’s embarrassing! I can’t even believe I just told you that! I’m blushing right now.”
“What’s embarrassing about it? I would love for a chick to bang me with a strap-on.”
“Yeah, but you’re a chick, so it’s different.”
“Well… still, I think it’s cool.”
“You think it’s cool?”
“Are you serious?”
“I’m just, like, totally red right now.”
“Would it make you feel better if I told you what my favorite fantasy is?”
He seemed as surprised at me asking that question as I was at myself right then, but he said sure, go ahead. So I told him about my fantasy of being followed and watched for weeks by a vampire, before she finally comes into my room one night, saying my need for her is enough of an invitation, and refusing to listen to my false protests. Sometimes I imagine her persuading me to give myself over to her, other times I picture her having to hold me down, but either way, she always has me.
“No, I’m for real,” I laughed. “Why, do you have the same fantasy?”
“Yeah, pretty much!”
“No, you’re making that up!” I exclaimed with a grin.
“No, I swear,” he told me.
We also found that we both fantasize about sex in a coffin.
“Seriously,” I said, “I know I’m most likely never going to be in a situation where it could happen, but if I ever had the opportunity to get it on in a casket—a real casket—I would.”
“Yeah,” he half-sighed, “I’d like to lay in a coffin watching a chick take off a pair of black stockings, and have her choke me with them while she straddles me. Choke me to death and then fuck me back to life.”
“Oh, hell, yeah! That reminds me of this lesbian porno I saw one time! Only it was on the floor in front of a fireplace, not in a coffin. Would’ve been even hotter if it had been in a coffin…”
We went on taking turns telling each other about our fantasies. We talked about torture chambers, about watching lesbians, and about getting away with quickies in public. We spoke of the joys of enduring verbal humiliation, spankings, piercings, biting, and hot wax.
“Hey, here’s a question,” I said. “Do you ever fantasize about stuff happening to other people? I mean the fantasy is about characters you made up, it doesn’t directly involve you, and you’re just kind of a voyeur to the storyline you’ve put together inside your own head?”
“Really? I didn’t think other people did that, thought it was just me.”
“No, I’ve got one I think about every now and then. Basically,” he explained, “there’s a middle-aged woman who lives out in the middle of nowhere, a really rural, religious type, only, she has a younger woman who lives with her, and they’ve got this kind of fucked-up, pseudo-religious, domme-sub discipline relationship going between them. Like she’ll make the younger woman kneel on rice or recite phrases from the Bible while she flogs her with switches or nettles, old-school backwater holy-roller shit like that.”
“And then one day they’re walking along the Mississippi, and they find this woman lying near the bank. She’s unconscious, and it seems like she’s been beaten and raped. They take her back to their house, and she has complete amnesia when she wakes up, so the middle-aged woman has the younger one take care of her. During the first couple days, she’s still a little out of it, drifting in and out of consciousness, but she thinks she hears the younger one asking the older one if they can keep her with them, and telling the older one how much she’s been wanting a ‘sister.’ The woman who’s been rescued doesn’t know what that means at first, but she starts to understand as she starts getting better. Sometimes the middle-aged woman comes in to pray over her, or hold her down and force her to drink some kind of home remedy concoction, and as she starts to recover and gain strength, she starts resisting the middle-aged woman more and more, and they start arguing a lot, especially when she starts witnessing the kinds of things she does to the younger one. The younger one ends up seducing her and convincing her to submit to her Mistress, and usually the story ends with the Mistress tying them both up, standing facing each other, arms up over their heads, bodies pressed together, and whipping them both while they’re rubbing their pussies against each other.”
“I like that! How’d you come up with it?”
“One time when I was driving from Darwell to New Orleans, going through the swamp, I started wondering what kind of people might live out in that Godforsaken place,” he chuckled, “and my mind just took it from there. It’s a lot more drawn-out than I made it sound, that’s just the long and short of it. I don’t usually run through the entire story in one go, I just pick whichever part of it I’m most in the mood for when I start jacking off.”
“I know what you mean. I do that kind of thing too.”
“Do you have one?”
“Yeah. I still can’t believe all these little things we have in common, because one of my little ‘mental storylines’ has a religious theme too, sort of. This one is a bit vague, though. It’s set in a huge farmhouse, during the Victorian Period. There’s a widower, and his daughter, who’s in her twenties, and there’s nobody else for miles. The guy’s been so lonely since his wife died, he’s started banging his daughter, and now she’s knocked up and starting to show. It’s the middle of autumn, and, here’s where it gets vague—I don’t know why, I’ve never been able to dream up a valid reason for it, but there’s a novice nun, who’s on her way to the convent that she’s going to be living at, and she ends up stopping and staying for a week or so at this farmhouse during her travels. The father and daughter conspire to corrupt her before the end of her stay. At first, they just do weird, subtle things, just to fuck with her for their own amusement.”
“The father takes her out to the stable and makes her watch while two of the horses are mating, and keeps staring at her, waiting to see her reaction. Or, the daughter pumps out some of her own breast milk into a cup—because she’s pregnant, remember—and gives it to the nun in the morning, without her knowing what it really is of course. She winds up finding out later on, though. And they have all this explicit artwork, all over the house, and they both try to draw her attention to it every chance they get. The nun gets all turned on, and she knows it, but she fights it, praying the Rosary and whipping herself at night to try to ‘cleanse’ her mind, but even that just turns her on more. Everything culminates in the father taking her out to the barn, where the daughter is waiting, and the daughter tells her that she’s carrying her own father’s child, just before the father forces the nun to go down on the daughter while he rapes her from behind. They give her a branding, in the shape of an upside-down Cross, right between her tits, before they allow her to escape—but of course, by that point, there’s nowhere she can go.”
“Whoo. That’s an intense one.”
“Thank you.” I felt proud.
“I know this is a really weird question,” he said, “but, do you ever think about—it’s hard to explain—do you ever think about sex with… like, sometimes I wonder what Bettie Page was like in bed. Shit like that, you know?”
“Okay, so you mean sex with historical figures.”
“Aw, hell, who wouldn’t want to do Bettie Page? Where would you have done it with her, any particular location?”
“Somewhere in Florida, where she did those really famous photo shoots.”
“With Bunny Yeager?”
“Uh-huh. I would’ve boned her on the beach, probably. She would have to be in something from one of her swimsuit photos.”
“Hm. Anyone else?”
“Janis Joplin, in a tour bus that reeks of weed, with bead curtains on the back windows. I’d have a threesome with her.”
“Damn! With her, and who else?”
“I don’t know, one of her female fuck-buddies, I guess.”
“Finally, a guy with some imagination,” I commented.
“Yeah, I’m into retro shit.”
“It’s not just that—you didn’t just take the easy route and say you’d bang Marilyn Monroe!”
“Marilyn? Nah, too vanilla. So, who would you do?”
“Sometimes,” I admitted, “when I’m fingering myself, I think about Audrey Hepburn.”
“You know that outfit she wears in those promo shots for “Breakfast At Tiffany’s,” the black evening gown, with the diamonds and high heels and all that, where she’s got one of those long cigarette-holders? I picture her in that outfit, only holding a bullwhip instead of a cigarette-holder.”
He burst into laughter. “Awesome, awesome! I never would’ve thought of Audrey fucking Hepburn that way…”
“Well, she had that ‘librarian-I’d-like-to-fuck’ vibe going on. You just look at those big, innocent eyes, and you just know it had to be bullshit. She must have been a freak in the bedroom.”
“Oh, totally, I can see what you’re saying.”
“Know who else I think of that way? Well, not so often now, but back when I was in high school, I used to sit in the back row in English class and fantasize about Sylvia Plath. I used to have such a crush on her. Kind of still do.”
“Sylvia had a lot of repressed sexuality,” he said, thoughtfully, almost to himself. “She *was* a fifties housewife.”
“How would you have brought it out of her?”
“Oh, I used to imagine sitting with her in her living room, in England, watching the snow fall, and telling her what a goddess she was, praising her poetry, telling her that she never deserved to suffer. I had this really detailed scenario in my head—it always involved her wearing a red sweater and scarf and a long wool skirt, holding a steaming cup of coffee while we talked. Her typewriter would always be on a wooden desk off to one side, by the window. And I’m not sure why, but I always pictured us on a big, old, overstuffed green couch, and it always ended up with us getting it on, on that.”
“Yeah? And then?”
“Then I would imagine her leaving with me, and me learning to be a morning person because she was a morning person, learning to cook so she would never have to serve dinner to anyone ever again, that kind of thing, just doing everything I could to devote my life to her.”
“I’ll bet she really could’ve been ferocious in bed. Not to mention, I would’ve loved to have been bound to the bedposts with that red scarf of hers.”
He said he’d never been tied up—he’d tried asking girlfriends to tie him, and they’d flipped out on him, poor guy.
But I wound up being more jealous of him than he was of me, for two reasons. One, it turned that he’d had sex in a cemetery. He and a girlfriend were out in a little cemetery around 3:00 AM one night. They’d intended on just going for a walk through there, but they ended up having sex on a gravestone, and then she gave him a blowjob while he leaned back against a mausoleum. That lucky dog…
But two, even more enviable: he’d gone down on a woman. I asked him to describe what it was like, telling him I’ve never had the opportunity to go down on a woman and I want to really badly.
“Really? You never have?”
“Like I said, I’ve never had the opportunity.”
“It’s the best. I could just do it for hours. I love it.”
“Yeah, but… details?” I asked, dipping my fingertips down into my Delta Of Venus.
“Well… I like the smell, and I love the taste. It’s hard to describe. When a woman comes in my mouth, I’m in heaven. I could just drink it. When she moves her hips, and clenches her thighs…” He paused. “Are you masturbating?”
I laughed. “Oh, my God, you’re a fucking psychic!”
“Oh, my God, no way! Are you still doing it?”
I laughed again. “I’ll keep going if you keep going!”
“Okay—like, while you lick her clit, you’ve got to rub her back. Have her arch up, and start rubbing her shoulder blades. And massage her tits, too, and run your fingers through her hair. And you can’t just play with the clit—that’s the most important part,” (*Enlightened man,* I thought to myself) “but you’ve got to tease her pussy. Lick around it, lick the lips… put one or two fingers in it, get her all nice and wet so it’s dripping all the way down into her asshole…” I made no secret of the fact that I was getting close. He stopped to listen to me come, twice.
And I didn’t stop. “…I’m about to come again,” I moaned, not exaggerating at all, but greatly enjoying showing off. “I’m stroking my clit, and I’ve got a finger in my cunt, I’m pulling it out and shoving it in… shoving it in, and out, I’m dripping on the sheets, and I’m… close… I’m coming now, I’m comiiing…!”
“Yeah, do it…”
Those first two orgasms had been intense, but that third one was the Story Of O-My-God!
Once I’d calmed down somewhat, he concluded, “…The first time you go down on a woman, you just can’t wait until the next time you can do it. And you will someday. You’ll get to eat a chick out.”
We talked for some time longer, bragging about which body parts we’ve gotten pierced (both my nipples are pierced, and sometimes I like to wear a chain between them. He said he had a Jacob’s ladder), and discussing our experiments with shaving.
He told me about a girlfriend who let him shave her—”It’s great when a chick lets you shave her pussy. Lather it up, shave it and rinse it, rub baby powder on it so it’s all smooth, and smack it. Or oils, like a massage oil, rub that on, that’s really good, too…”
We were shocked when we realized it was almost 3:00 AM. He said he had to go, since he had to get up obscenely early the next day.
“This was fun!”
“Yes, it was.”
“I’m probably going to go jack off again before I go to bed. I’ve actually never masturbated while on the phone before,” he confided.
“Never have. I’ve never even had a conversation like this on the phone. You are so awesome—I was all depressed earlier, and now I’m cheered up! You made my day… hell, you made my week.”
That was a couple nights ago, and I’m still surprised that I did it. Holy shit. That really was a thrill! Even though I wasn’t at all attracted to the dude, I really dug the conversation itself. I suppose that just goes to show how powerful my fetishistic obsession with words is. I doubt he minded, either, considering how many times during that conversation he said, “You’re so awesome,” and, “I am so horny right now.” Really, a beautiful, horny, 21-year-old stranger calling him up at 11:20 at night and getting him to talk sex, then getting off to the stuff he’s saying—who wouldn’t enjoy that?
Before he and I hung up, he said he would call me the following evening, but I knew deep down that he wouldn’t really. I was right, too. But that’s okay with me.
It’s up to you to decide how much of this story you think is true. Just remember: the truth is no stranger to fiction.