“I’m not worked up,” I said. “I’m just curious.”
“Yeah, sorry. Ken used to hit the roof over the stupidest things. This was one of them. He didn’t want me to talk about his ‘bedroom technique.’”
It was classic male chauvinist bullshit. He wanted his wife to be a madonna in public but a whore in the bedroom.
“His loss,” I said.
“Mmm. As far as the other thing, the A-spot… I’m a woman.” It was another verbal shrug. “I’ve been responsible for my own orgasms since… like… forever.”
“Yeah, sorry about that, too.”
“It isn’t your fault.”
“No, but…”
She smiled, reassuring and patronizing at the same time.
“Then tell me what you like.” Unfortunately, my pique came through loud and clear.
“That isn’t what I meant. You’re actually one of the better ones.” Her sincerity went a long way to soothe my bruised ego.
“Thanks.”
She fell silent for a long moment, and I couldn’t tell whether she was letting me cool down or gathering her thoughts. Probably both, I decided, and felt guilty for getting upset in the first place.
“Yeah, I guess I should tell you,” she said at last. “I— I can’t believe I’m about to admit this, but… I’m sort of a size queen. I don’t mean to be,” she added quickly, “it’s just the way I’m built. I need a big dick to get off.”
“Well, I’m glad I measure up.”
“No, no, that isn’t what I meant. It’s just, like, whether I get off or not… from penetration alone. I still enjoy it, though, no matter how big the guy is. I can usually make it work. You know…” She wiggled her fingers, in case I didn’t understand. “Besides, my body’s the size queen, not my mind. The biggest dick in the world doesn’t do it for me if the guy’s an a-hole.”
“You mean Ken.” She didn’t seem surprised that I knew he was well-hung. Christy had been a little vague on details, but “oh my gosh, bigger than Tom” was a decent measuring stick. My brother-in-law was so well-endowed that he made me feel inadequate. I wanted to hate him, except for the minor detail that he was a loving husband, a good father, and one of my closest friends.
“Exactly like him,” Allie was saying about Ken. She decided to elaborate. “He was such a fuckhead toward the end that I couldn’t even get wet when I blew him. It was just a job, you know, something I did to keep him from bruising my insides.”
“Mmm,” I agreed darkly.
“Whereas you… I get wet just thinking about it. Like today. But in general, too. I mean, I see how you are with the girls, and the way you treat women. That’s really sexy.”
“Thank you.”
“It doesn’t hurt that you have a nice body, but I’d wanna fuck you even if you had a dick the size of my pinky.” She thought about it and laughed. “Okay, maybe not that small, but you understand. I’d still wanna fuck you, and I’d come no matter what.”
“Good to know,” I chuckled.
“I’m serious. I like a decent-sized guy once the action starts, but that isn’t what gets me worked up in the first place. I mean, I’ve never looked at a dick and thought, ‘Yeah, I wanna suck that.’ Not like—”
Her silence grew apologetic, so I finished her thought, “Not like Christy, you mean.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean it as a criticism. Just an observation.”
Only, it was a criticism. It was a mild one but still valid, especially if I was being honest.
“It’s okay,” I said. “I know how she is.”
“I love her to death, but sometimes…”
“Me too,” I chuckled. “She isn’t shallow—”
“No! Of course not.”
“—but she’s really hung up on appearances.”
“She’s an artist. And… I guess we’re all a little superficial. I try not to be, but I can’t help it sometimes.”
“Same here. I wouldn’t be in bed with you if I didn’t think you were attractive.”
“Thank you. Me too.”
“Anyway,” I prompted, “you were saying? What gets you worked up…?”
“You, for starters.”
I heard something in her voice. “Anyone else?”
“Mark. Obviously. And Trip. Although… I tend to like guys who’re shorter.” She laughed, “Short guys with big dicks… God, talk about contrasts!”
“Like the guys who want skinny women with big tits.”
“Sorry, guys,” she agreed, “but real women aren’t built like that.”
“Nope.”
“Anyway, Trip too. He’s a bit of a chauvinist, I guess, but nothing like K— my ex. And he’s a super dad. That’s way more important. In my book, at least.”
I raised my head and said to my groin. “Did you hear that? I told you, she doesn’t care what you look like.”
Allie’s eyes danced with amusement.
“He gets a little uppity,” I explained, “especially if he thinks he’s the reason we get laid.”
“‘We’?” she laughed. “Oh, God, that’s good! I’ll have to use that sometime.”
“He’s always good for comic relief.”
“You both are. Still… tell him it doesn’t matter what he looks like. Besides, I didn’t see him— Wait! Why’m I doing it now? I didn’t see you in all your glory until today. Although I’ve… um… seen some very lifelike sculptures.”
“Oh?”
“Mmm hmm. Let’s see… the fountain one was my favorite. You know the one…”
Priapus Pool Boy, for an LA couple’s Medici-inspired garden.
“And the obelisk?” Allie laughed. “Oh, God, the veins were perfect!”
The Johnson Monument, six feet tall and slimmer than the real thing, commissioned by a gay couple, complete with a circle of fifty small Pride flags around the base.
“The boner bud vase…?”
Tulips Are Better Than None, a realistic porcelain penis with an opening at the tip for a “spurt” of flowers.
Christy had a thriving word-of-mouth business in erotic art, and we had a special relationship with a few patrons who commissioned us together, as artist and model. The LA couple were swingers in their thirties, bisexual, childless, and wealthy. They were also perverted, even by my standards. The gay men were just a regular couple, friendly voyeurs who shared Christy’s fondness for phalluses.
Our friend Sara had introduced us to the third, an older woman who’d been delighted by the bud vase. She was a character in the San Francisco art scene, a sui generis widow who was literally in a class by herself.
Countess Irina spoke with a vaguely European accent and looked like a well-preserved sixty, even though she was at least a decade older. She didn’t drink or smoke, and she swore she’d never had plastic surgery. “Clean living, darling.”
She was an interesting lady, a wealthy art patron with a taste for old-world elegance. She dressed impeccably in Chanel or Dior, and she was often mistaken for someone’s rich grandmother who’d wandered into the wrong gallery party. “Oh, how lovely and colorful and exciting, darling.”
We learned about her double life when she commissioned a second piece. “Something impressive, darling.” Christy had been saving an oblong chunk of pink imperial porphyry, and she used it to create Hard Rock Cock, a two-foot version of yours truly. “Oh, how marvelous, darling! Shall we compare it to the original?”
In private, Irina’s accent sometimes slipped, especially when she was tired. Then she sounded like a dustbowl refuge from a Steinbeck novel. “You won’t tell, will you, darlin’?”
Whatever her background was, she was as rich as Croesus, as horny as a succubus, and had the inhibitions of a madame. She told us once that she’d actually been a high-end call girl, “A courtesan, darling,” before she’d fallen in love and married one of her regulars.