"All I want is a hamburger with pastrami on it and to write a story about dick." (Image Credit: Mighty Moose Art, @mightymooseart)
All I want is a hamburger with pastrami on it and to write a story about dick. DickDICKdiiiickDICKDick.
The pastrami-burger is leftovers from last night. I went to this restaurant in Menlo Park called Oasis and they had an impressively pornographic menu of meat + bread combinations.
Last night a man named ____ made me cum. He used to be in the ____ industry, but now he’s just a sad guy who doesn’t get blowjobs.
But this isn’t a story about how he’s cute and sad with a slump in his shoulders. Or how he’s paranoid and smokes cigarettes. Or how he acquiesces more easily than most men. Or how his skin doesn’t taste like anything. Or maybe it’s that I chew gum so no one can taste me, and the flavor is so strong that it makes it impossible to taste anyone else.
This is a story about how his 5 o’clock shadow feels and how he didn’t wear underwear last night but how he did wear house slippers (Odd. Am I insulted by this? I’m insulted by life, so this is both insulting and nothing out-of-the-ordinary at the same time. Someone told me once that a word that defines everything defines nothing. So I guess, if I were to extrapolate that outward to my situation, if I am always insulted then I am never insulted.). And how I had to cajole him off the street below the landing outside my bedroom by talking to him over the phone. The window was open so I could hear him in real life and then over the phone and he could hear me and then also over the phone. And I’m so weird and controlling, but also patriarchy and fatphobia made me that way and so now men just have to deal with it, right?
I guess monogamy compounds the awfulness of the fact that most couples are only together because they are strategically attempting to amass as much social capital and wealth as possible so they can be as un-unique but also jealousy-inspiring as possible.
“Listen, _____. We talked about this already. You either have to come up into my dark apartment and fulfill my intruder fantasy without speaking at any point, or you can just go home right now, ____. You decide, ____.” When you’re being adamant, it’s important to repeat someone’s name over and over again.
He gave in again. I guess he does that a lot?
But this isn’t a story about all that.
It’s a story about how he was kissing my breasts. He’s very gentle despite being a Virgo.
He doesn’t really have an ass. I mean, well, it is so hard that it doesn’t feel like an ass. So, maybe it’s there but it’s so hard that it doesn’t light up that “ass touching” part of my brain. His legs are all muscle. So strong.
The first thing I did was kiss his stomach.
His stomach has hair on it. Not too much, but it’s not exactly “faint” or anything. I thought I was going to be able to masturbate to this story, but no. Why does erotica always have to devolve into feminist analysis with you?
Anyway, I really just want to think about _____ing with his ______over and over and over. That might be where this is headed. He made me cum with his hand. I was very, very, very pleased. I was worried that ____ was the only person who could do it, but luckily for me, he opened the gate and forgot to close it behind him. I kissed him. His ears are sensitive and so is his neck. In a bad way.
He kissed the top of my head in a terrified kind of way. Listen to me going on romantically.
And when I told my friend ______ about him while we were eating this citrusy eggy pasta dish I read about in Martha Stewart Living, it turned out that he was her coworker’s boyfriend.
Odd. Am I insulted by this?
Monogamy is as much a story as heterosexuality is, as much of a fib as “thin is good” or “fat is bad” are, as much of a fairy tale as gender is. Monogamy is so awful. Like, why do we do it? I mean, OK no. I guess monogamy compounds the awfulness of the fact that most couples are only together because they are strategically attempting to amass as much social capital and wealth as possible so they can be as un-unique but also jealousy-inspiring as possible.
The point is: no matter how wonderfully delicious a man (or anyone) is, once you’ve seen him shit, sneeze, fall, eat peanut butter or chew loudly, if there’s nothing else (or mostly nothing else), then he will ultimately make your skin crawl. So, there’s no point after all, right? In doing things the way we know how to do them? Because it if all just leads to skin crawling, then what difference does it really make anyway?
In conclusion, pastrami is delicious and I’m very bad at writing erotica.