It’s 4:44 in the morning and I’m watching lesbians fuck on a couch. From the back, the butch looks like Ponyboy. Red Tab Levis and a sleeveless black t-shirt thrusting a large pink strap-on into a sexy Ukrainian girl with big thighs. The sticky-sweet smacking of wet vagina being penetrated, like kids chewing with their mouths open.
Ponyboy stops to pour sips of water into her lover’s mouth, both of them high on weed and ecstasy. She takes a drink and a moment to vibe to the Portishead floating out of the generic iPod sounddock, then grabs the base of her rubber cock and guides it back in, not letting go once she’s inside, holding it steady like a lesbian lightsaber. The Ukrainian girl moans and tilts her head back. Ponyboy builds rhythm.
Flicks of the tongue over barbell-pierced nipples.
I have a smile on my face that’s wider than a midget’s head.
I met C about a week after I was dumped. She’s a bigger girl, about my height. Half Filipino, half white. A too-goofy personality that is way cool. We have sex sometimes (she helped me discover that I enjoy having my taint tongued while I jerk off). She’s a fun girl and an ego-stroking friend. I love hanging out with her.
I’m just not that attracted to her.
Our first few fuck sessions were mind-blowingly awesome, like getting a new video game. But new games get old fast and, unlike Goldeneye, the replay value isn’t high on this one. C is the girl who won’t shut up during sex. She talks too much. Overacts. As Dirk Diggler would say, “It’s just not sexy, Jack.”
I think dirty talk should be treated like sexual landmines. A couple well-placed “fuck me’s” or “you’re so deep’s” do the job just fine. Constant moaning, screaming, squealing; questions (“Do you want to do doggie? Do you want to keep doing me like this? What do you want to do?”) – it’s all overkill. Takes you out of the moment. Plant too many mines and the person’s going to avoid the field altogether.
Sex is best when you’re not thinking.
So I get a drunken text message from C the other day suggesting a threesome with her recently heartbroken lesbian friend (the Ukrainian girl). C is convinced she can get her to go along with it.
“But she’s a lesbian.”
“But you have a big dick.”
I get an email later informing me the Ukrainian girl “likes pussy more than I thought” and that “she’s bringing her butch friend”, but “they’ll be fucked up” and I can “still probably fuck her”.
It’s 3:30 by the time I get to C’s (don’t ask). I’m a little tipsy and feel somewhat invincible because I was listening to Lil’ Wayne at a high volume. She meets me downstairs, tired and drugged, makeup smeared, and we take the elevator up to her condo. As we walk, she tells me what’s going on (“They’ve been at it for hours”, “I can’t sleep”, “I was afraid they were going to attack me”). I ask the Howard Stern follow-up questions (“You didn’t participate?”, “Are you turned on?”, “How did it start?”) and then squeeze her left breast.
When I first see Ponyboy, she’s fingerfucking the Ukrainian girl like a Coke machine that stole her money. Sucking on her tits. I’m surprised at how butch she is. I wasn’t expecting someone who could be a 14-year-old boy.
She hops off the couch and shakes my hand with the one she was just using.
“Nice to meet ya,” she says in a lesbian voice.
I smell my hand. No scent. Nice.
The Ukrainian girl gives me a little wave from the couch. She’s thick and husky-voiced and reminds me of the movie The Saint with Val Kilmer. There’s a black skirt hiked up around her waist that hangs just low enough to cover her pussy lips. A kite tattoo flies up the doughy skin on her right side.
Not wanting to delay things, I take my dick out.
“So that’s what one of those looks like,” Ponyboy says objectively, which is humbling because on some weird subconscious level I expected her to reject the pussy-filled life she has made for herself and devote herself to cock.
C has this surprised look on her face like she can’t believe I just whipped it out. I’ve seen this look before: when a girl writes a check her ass can’t cash. Big talk syndrome. Mena Suvari’s character in American Beauty. C makes it a point to talk about how sexually liberal she is, and now, faced with possibly the weirdest sexual encounter of our lives, she clams up.
“Come in the room with me.”
“But the girls are out here.”
“Come fuck me.”
“I can fuck you any time. I never get to see lesbians.”
I playfully slap my dick against her forehead and convince her to give me a half-hearted blowjob while I watch Ponyboy go down on the Ukrainian girl. I can feel C watching me watching them and I can feel her feeling inadequate, like she’s not enough for me, like I’m only over because there are lesbians – which is true, but the point is moot because I fucked the shit out of her the night before. Plus she talked this whole thing up. Advertised the hell out of it. She got me all excited and now she was letting me down. Just like the movie Independence Day.
Ponyboy says this:
“Is it weird when straight people have sex? I ain’t never seen two straight people fuck.”
I tell her that she can watch C and I. We’ll go in the room and fuck on one side of the bed and they can fuck on the other. Ponyboy looks at the Ukrainian girl. Thinks for a second. She’s calling the shots here.
“A’right, but none of that’s going near her,” she says, referring to my dick.
“No no no. Not at all.”
I lose an inch.
Me and C go into her room while Ponyboy stays on the couch and works the Ukrainian girl towards another orgasm. I can’t shut up about how cool all of this is.
“I think you’re freaking them out,” C says.
“What do you mean?”
“They’re not some porno. (The Ukrainian girl) is my friend.”
My hard-on, which was already on its way out the door, dies. A wave of disappointment rushes over me. Shit is serious all of a sudden. What’s the point of a (potential) four-way fuckfest if all parties aren’t going to treat it like a party? This isn’t some Maury Povich vignette with sad-sounding piano music. This is motherfucking exhibitionism. Let’s objectify each other, goddammit. Nobody should be treated like a person in a situation like this.
The lesbians enter.
“A’right, move over.”
“I’m actually going to get going,” I say, sounding pissed off and let down at the same time so C will feel like shit. And she does. And then I feel like shit for making her feel like shit.
“Yeah. I’m cool… I’m done. Thanks for letting me watch though.”
I get up and go out to the living room and put my pants and shoes on. Ponyboy comes out with the Ukrainian girl. She asks what’s wrong. I tell her C ruined it for me.
“… and it sucks too because I’ve never watched lesbians before and you guys were going to pop one of my life-cherries.”
I look at the Ukrainian girl. She shrugs.
“Yeah,” Ponyboy says. “I’ve never been watched. I want to find out if I’m an exhibitionist.”
I can’t believe how scientific she is about all of this, like this is research or something. An “if… then” hypothesis:
If a penis-haver watches me make love to another woman then I will be x-amount of times more turned on.
I kick off my shoes.
Ponyboy tells the Ukrainian girl to lie on the couch. She takes a rip from a veiny, curved-dick shaped bong (oh the irony) and saunters over to her generic iPod sounddock.
“What song you want me to play?”
“Uh… I… you choose.”
“Come on. Pick something.”
“Uh… do you have any hard rap?”
In retrospect I should’ve said Nine Inch Nails or Marilyn Manson or something else just as sleazy-sounding. For some reason, I almost said Boyz II Men. Can you imagine watching lesbians fuck to End of the Road?
“I’ve got a good one,” Ponyboy says. She presses play.
Splash Waterfalls by Ludacris.
It’s at this moment that I realize that Ponyboy is cooler and cornier than I ever will be. I admire her showmanship.
She takes a sip of water and struts over to her Ukrainian lover with the confidence of an Asian breakdancer who’s about to one-up the guy that went before him. She flings the Ukrainian girl’s legs apart and goes to town with her mouth, snaking her tongue over the clit with precision and accuracy. I’m a little jealous of her pussy-eating skills. I can’t control my tongue for shit and usually end up treating a girl like an all-you-can eat buffet rather than a last meal. What I lack in control I make up for in enthusiasm. I’m the team retard everyone grows to love.
I move to the right to get a better view. Ponyboy looks over to make sure I’m watching and I wonder if she wants me to masturbate. Is it proper etiquette to jerk off in this situation? If so, do I ask permission, or do I just take it out and start jacking? Would that be rude?
I stick my hand down my pants and try to resuscitate my hard-on. Ponyboy actually makes my dick want to crawl inside of me, so I focus on the Ukrainian girl and the way her face contorts. How wide her legs are spread. How hard her nipples are. I undo my belt and unzip my jeans. Easy access. Slowly but surely, my dick starts to breathe. I feel a pulse. But I can’t get the motherfucker to stand up – mainly because I can’t stop thinking about what an awesome blog entry all of this is going to be.
Ponyboy looks over again and I immediately hide my dick, embarrassed because I’m not hard and because I’ve never jerked off to people in person.
“It’s floppy now,” Ponyboy observes.
“Don’t squirt on us.”
Why? What’s wrong with my semen? The problem is I’m thinking too much. Thoughts and boners are inversely proportionate. Unless they’re dirty thoughts. But this moment is so surreal to me that it’s impossible not to think. I mean fuck, I’m no Jedi. I can’t just use the force. On a side note, I think male pornstars are awesome at cock control because they’re idiots. When you eliminate intelligence from the kingdom of you, the dick is free to reign supreme.
The Ukrainian girl complains about the music, probably because it makes her feel slutty, and Ponyboy gets up to turn on the more lesbian-friendly Portishead. She clips a strap-on over her jeans and says this, recalling my hard-on from earlier:
“Think I got you beat.”
I grunt a laugh. A. This bitch doesn’t have me beat. We’re about the same size. B. This is completely fucking unfair because I can’t prove it right now.
But I stop thinking about that shit when Ponyboy slides a condom onto her pink dick. What. The fuck. For. Is this some type of weird lesbian method-fucking, where they simulate the semi-unpleasurable sex that hetero strangers have in the name of safety? Or is Ponyboy too lazy to clean her strap-on after each fuck session? Or do a woman’s juices corrode dildo rubber? Maybe Ponyboy’s just trying to get the most mileage out of her purchase. The most bang for her buck.
“How do you want me to fuck her?”
“How should I fuck her?”
“Uh… I don’t know.”
“Come on. Be a male chauvinist pig and tell me what to do to her.”
I don’t even want to get into the psychological and sociological implications of this, because I could probably write a fucking paper. So let’s just skip to what I said:
“Uh… bend her over the couch?”
The Ukrainian girl stays on the couch and gets on all fours. I actually meant for Ponyboy to have her stand up and bend her over the side of the couch, but I don’t want to get all technical. I figure it’s doggie, it’s penetration. It’ll suffice.
Ponyboy mounts her. She grabs the base of the strap-on and guides it into the Ukrainian girl’s pussy like a valet parker. A sharp breath. And then soft moans. Ponyboy is a tender lover, often pausing to ask if anything hurts or to eat pussy. I’m amazed at her selflessness. I’m not selfish when I have sex, but I have sex for selfish reasons. I feel like my reputation’s at stake, like I have to build it up. Sex isn’t about me; it’s about my ego. It’s about what the girl will tell her friends. As long as she has nice things to say, I’m happy. I can pack it up and go home and jerk off.
But Ponyboy doesn’t seem to care about any of that, and I wonder if this is what the whole lesbian thing is about: the ability to care about your sexual partner more than you care about yourself. Maybe lesbians aren’t turned off by dick; maybe they’re just turned off by all the macho bullshit that goes with it.
My dick is showing signs of life now and I’m feeling a bit bold. I take it out and try to get lost in the moment. But every time I start to make progress, build rhythm, Ponyboy stops to reposition herself and/or care for her lover. It’s like playing Madden with a friend who keeps stopping to watch the instant replays.
Ponyboy gets up and grabs a small bondage whip. I ask her what the technical term for it is and she says “flog”, although later, nothing comes up when I google-image “flog” (but it does when I query “small bondage whip”). She wraps the whip around the Ukrainian girls throat and tugs, choking her and fucking her from behind. The intensity picks up and no longer am I watching a live version of Boys Don’t Cry.
I’m watching fucking.
My thoughts disappear and I am beating my meat, trying to blow my load before the next intermission. My fist bangs against my loose jean flap and my button jingles like a jinglebell. Images of Santa pop into my head and I pull my jeans down further to make the noise stop.
I’m a grown-boy and I can feel the heat building, the tingle tingling. I focus as hard as I can:
Shut eyes. Lips. Tits. Nipples. Thighs. Pussy. Moans. Fucking. Santa (get the fuck out!) Fucking. Fucking. Thighs. Breathing. Fucking. Tits. Lips. Santa. Shut eyes. Pussy. Nipples. Thighs. Thighs. Fuc—
And I shoot. Sticky streams onto the hardwood floor. I make it a point to grunt and be loud so Ponyboy and the Ukrainian girl will look over and see what I’m packing because I’m a typical insecure male who wants everyone to worship my cock. They look over. But they don’t acknowledge shit. They don’t bow to my dick. And it sucks.
Shame washes over me. The why-did-I-do-that shame that usually accompanies phone sex or murder. Suddenly I realize what a pervert and asshole I am. How rude and cold I’ve been to C, who is still in the bedroom, awake and sad.
Mr. Hyde becomes Dr. Jekyll again.
I button my jeans and put my shoes on.
“Where you going?” Ponyboy asks.
I want to explain to her how men can envision a sexless future post-nut, how we can think clear and wax honest and get shit done. But it’ll just be something she’ll nod at. Something she’ll never understand.
“Stay and watch us for ten more minutes.”
And so, to be polite, I do.
C’s cat walks into the room. Meows.
It’s 4:57 in the morning.