I make her come on the hour drive back to her mother’s house. She squeezes my fingers and I am so lit on fire, burning so hard, I start to squeeze my own clit. “Baby, I’m gonna come. I’m gonna come all over you.”
She never speaks—she never says how she likes it, how she’s gonna come, how she’s fucking me. She doesn’t need to. She’s pulling my fingers in now, gasping and checking that she’s still driving straight. We come together, all over our seats at sixty-four miles per hour.
“Did you like that, baby boy?”
“Fuck.”
We aren’t the same for the rest of the day. We need more. We wait until everyone’s asleep before I start again. I climb on top of her, wasting no time. But Jae surprises me. Every so often, she wants to own me. And it just so happens that today, I want to be owned. I give in, no fighting. I don’t flip her back over after her hand slides under my boxers; I don’t make a fuss as she stretches them so she can fuck me hard, three fingers pushing me apart and splitting me open. My baby boy wants to take me, and for once I’m going to let her. I ride her hand, rocking back on her lap, pushing her farther into me. She stops. “I think we need to put you up on the kitchen counter.” I’m surprised. She doesn’t do this, not in her mom’s house. After a whirlwind of movement, I’m perched on the counter tiles, boxers on but stretched to allow her mouth. She wrenches my legs apart and pushes me against the cabinets. Her head is between my legs and I grab a handful of her hair as my blood heats up, and I feel myself get wetter as her tongue circles my clit, as she flicks languidly up and down, over my slit. It’s hurried—we need this. We need this so badly that neither one of us is out of her pajamas. This is necessary.
I come in her mouth like a punch and I scream soundlessly into the dark kitchen. I claw at her back, mouth open and wanting to receive her. I’m wishing we had a single toy in our suitcase; wishing she could strap on a cock and I could suck on her until she comes in my mouth, return the favor. I want to unhinge my jaw and swallow her whole—I feel raw, animal. I try, after I stop twitching. I slither off the counter and I want to flip her. To make her mine—own her. But she stops me. “You made a promise.” I did. I forgot. I said I wouldn’t top her here, not when the screaming could so easily reach prying little monkeys’ ears. But she made me no such promise. Without ever discussing it, I turn. I switch my hips out, press into hers. She’s facing my back and she breathes into my ear. “Fuck.” Her hands are not masculine, but they aren’t feminine either. They’re strong. Hers. They can cradle me and command me all at once, the latter being a power she usually skims over. Her hand is on my shoulder now, and she shoves; lays me out on the counter as if to say she’s not finished yet. I feel I’m dripping down my legs—this is unlike her. But we haven’t fucked in a week (and that is a long, long time). I swell again, blood on fire, pounding through every part of me and stopping to make me hard. Is she fisting me? That’s not possible. We don’t have lube on this vacation. But I feel my hips spread apart, ease open and pull her hand. Three fingers, perhaps. Maybe four. She fills me and I brace myself on the counter, legs trembling. The smooth tiles are teasing my fingers and I wish I could yell, bite something. But I am left to my own devices and I’m holding my scream in my throat once again. I keep pushing back—I feel her directing me, telling me how to move, how to receive. (It is not something I’m used to.) I feel teeth on my ass. I hope it bruises as she bites me—I love being marked. Her tongue slides across, on an adventure to find a spot that makes me squeal, push and beg to be fucked. She finds it as she starts rimming me and I ball my fist, smack the mocking white tiles. I don’t know how she touches me, fills me from every direction. But she pours herself into me, somehow. My legs become useless wooden stilts as I come again, arms scrambling to support the weight of two women wrapped in complete rapture and forced silence.
Thank goodness for vacation.
COME TO ME
Ily Goyanes
I wasn’t able to masturbate until I turned thirty. Well, I guess you can say I was able to masturbate, but not successfully. I couldn’t come. The first time I tried I was probably around fourteen years old, extremely horny, slightly slutty and harboring a secret fear that I might be a nymphomaniac. I didn’t know much about technique, but I touched my pussy and tried to achieve the mythical orgasm I had read so much about.
My girlfriends would ask me over the years, when they found out about my disability during sex-filled conversations conducted over liquid lunches, how could I not masturbate. When I told them that I couldn’t bring myself to orgasm, they gasped and laughed, completely incredulous because many of them could only orgasm when they were masturbating. I would smile, shrug and repeat my standard line, “I don’t know. I just can’t come knowing that it’s me.”
That was the problem, you see. The fact that I was the one touching myself, playing with my clit, fingering my wet cunt, just didn’t do it for me. It wasn’t a lover overcome with desire for me, it was me. And I guess I just didn’t desire myself at all.
As I trudged through my early adulthood and countless male lovers (I use the term “lovers” loosely; there was never any actual love involved), I gradually abandoned trying to make myself come. I mean, after all, I had only sought masturbatory relief on nights when I couldn’t sneak out and get some cock. What I didn’t realize until almost seventeen years later is that masturbation is not simply a replacement for sex. It is a form of sex in itself; sex with your self. And who should know you better than you? With whom else can you be so uninhibited and so free?
Sometimes I thought the problem was a faulty imagination. I should be able to imagine that someone else was touching me, right? But that wouldn’t work either, for the same reasons I could never meditate. I was too grounded, too in touch with my physical world to believe I was somewhere else or with someone else. But that wasn’t it either. I just didn’t want to have sex with myself.
Occasionally, I put on a good show. As I got older and started having sex with both men and women, I would perform the obligatory masturbation scene for them. Lesbian and bisexual women really love to watch another woman get herself off. Men also enjoy the show, but eventually want to become active participants, before you start to think that you might not need them anymore. It was always just a show, though; a precursor to what I really wanted: to get fucked good and hard and without mercy.
My friends, always a source of inspiration, would offer suggestions. “Have you tried using your showerhead?” Or my personal favorite, “Maybe you should try watching some porn first.” What they didn’t and couldn’t understand was that the problem lay not in the preparation, the utensil or a lack of fantasy—I just didn’t want to fuck myself. By my midtwenties, I had tried the folkloric showerhead, numerous dildos, vibrators, porn and all kinds of accessories. I had placed nipple clamps on my tits and fucked myself with an eight-inch vibrating dildo while watching porn, and still… nothing. “It’s not you,” I whispered to my unhappy cunt, “it’s me.”
When I turned thirty and had brought my barhopping to a slow crawl, I met Cody. I had never dated anyone like Cody before. Cody was neither male nor female in gender. Cody had a cunt, but that didn’t confine her to being a woman. Being “strictly dickly” most of my life, I have to say that my high level of inebriation had a lot to do with our first sexual encounter. And our second. But by then I was hooked. Cody would finger-fuck me in the bathroom of the bar, in the parking lot, and once up against the front door of the bar. She would fuck me hard, the way that I most enjoyed it, and make me come and come and come. She would keep fucking me as I came, telling me how dirty I was, what I slut I was to let her fuck me in public, the humiliating statements making me rupture in orgasm until I saw only white and stars and could hear nothing at all.