She kissed and licked and sucked her way down my body and then she ate my cunt until I nearly died from pleasure.
See how much time and space we save that way?
But oh, oh, how fantastic it was. On a purely physical plane there should not be very much difference between being eaten by a man and being eaten by a woman. It is, after all, the same general thing. One’s eyes are closed, and it could be any disembodied head gobbling away between one’s thighs. There are few things nicer than being soundly eaten by a man who enjoys that sort of thing. It is best, of course, if he is either immaculately clean-shaven, or, praise God, equipped with beard and moustache. (Whenever I see a man with beard and moustache I find myself assuming that he likes to eat cunt, and is considerate of his partner. But I’m sure there must be some men who wear beards and moustaches because they like the way they look. Odd.)
A girl’s face is softer, and her mouth is a little softer, and that should be all the difference there is.
Not so.
How to explain it? How can I tell you about it, Mirror Girl, when I don’t understand it myself?
Never mind. It happened, it was divine, and I know as much as I need to know about it. Afterward, while I bubbled blissfully in afterglow, Susan’s sweet face lay briefly on the pillow of my loins. Then she came up and rested her head on my breast, and I put a hand on her back and a hand on her head and rocked her, cradled her, and she purred and told me she loved me, and I told her I loved her, and she purred some more. I patted her head, stroked that silken hair. Those earlier inhibitions seemed so utterly foreign to me now, just as her presence in my arms seemed completely natural.
(Once you jump in, and find the water fine, you wonder why you shivered so long on the bank.)
“Oh, Jan,” she says.
“And to think I didn’t want this to happen.”
“I was afraid you wouldn’t let it.”
“I almost didn’t.”
“We didn’t even need drinks.”
“No.”
“We could have them now. You don’t need it, you showed that much, so now it would be all right to have them just to give us that extra drive, don’t you think?”
“I think so.”
“I’ll get them.”
“No, let me.” She rolls off of me and lies on her back, eyes wide, smiling sleepily. I get up, then bend over to kiss her mouth. She tastes deliciously of me, of my cunt. I do not turn from the taste but kiss her deeply, my tongue working past her lips and into her mouth, tasting myself as I taste her. How good the taste of sex, of men and women!
(When I first learned to suck men’s cocks I lived in horror that some of their seed would be swallowed before I could spit it out. How awful, to spit out the essence of a man! Now, a new woman, I greedily suck up and swallow every precious drop.)
I leave her reluctantly, leave the bedroom, go to the kitchen. There is a decanter of the red liquid on the counter top. And two glasses. I fill the glasses. In the living room I stop to gather up my cigarettes and a pack of matches.
I return to the bedroom. I hand her a glass, keep one for myself. We drink them straight down. It is the same liquid he has given me before. The scent is of rose petals, the taste sweet and sour.
I set my glass aside and light a cigarette.
“Susan?”
“What is it?”
“I want to make love to you.”
“In a few minutes.”
“Would you like that?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I wish I knew what was in this drink.”
“Something kicky.”
“Some kind of drug.”
“Uh-huh. You really never made it with a girl before?”
“Never.”
“It’s good, isn’t it?”
“It is.”
“It’s not as powerful as with a man, you dig what I mean? No thrusting and heaving and everything. Nobody getting under your skin. Can you dig it? A man gets inside of you, he gets under your skin. Girls, it’s different, girls just get themselves together, like.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know which is better. You were so many things when I ate you.”
“What do you mean?”
“In my head, like. The different hats you wore. You were my mother and my sister and my daughter, you know, all those female roles.”
“Oh, I see.”
“I tend to trip out that way. Role playing and sex. I’m a little crazy, I guess.”
“Who isn’t?”
“There’s a question. Nobody I know.”
“Eric?”
“I don’t suppose you could really understand Eric. Not you, personally. I mean like anybody.”
“Do you understand him?”
“Not for a minute.”
“You’ve known him a long time.”
“All my life, it feels like. Three years, not quite. More like three hundred years. I don’t know him at all.”
I draw on the cigarette, inhale. The smoke unaccountably makes me slightly dizzy. I breathe out, butt the cigarette in an ashtray on the bedside table.
I say, “What does he do?”
“Eric?”
“I mean for a living. Does he work?”
“No.”
“Did he inherit money or something?”
“I don’t think so. I think—”
“What?”
“He never said this, it’s just a guess, and maybe I shouldn’t say anything, so if you’ll keep it quiet that I said it—”
“Of course.”
“I have the feeling, it’s just a feeling, that he’s like some kind of a criminal.”
“That’s what I think.”
“Really?”
“But I don’t know what makes me think so.”
“Neither do I. He goes away on these trips. He doesn’t say anything, he just goes away. And then he comes back. I get the feeling that he steals money on these trips, or gets money illegally one way or the other. Maybe it’s just that I couldn’t picture him doing anything else. You know, he’s a man who when he wants something like he takes it.”
“Yes, exactly.”
“And I don’t think he would do anything respectable. He would never work for somebody.”
“God, no.”
“And he wouldn’t have a business. He’s not the type. I’ll tell you one thing, though.”
“What’s that?”
“I would never cross him.”
“No.”
“I would not want him to be upset with me.”
“I have the feeling, Susan, he would just kill anybody who displeased him.”
“He could do that, yes.”
“Without a second thought.”
“Don’t even say it, it gives me chills. I can’t stand that.”
“What?”
“Talking about that kind of thing. About killing or dying. The whole idea of death. I wouldn’t smoke a cigarette because of the idea that I might die of cancer fifty years from now. Fifty years is like forever but even that far off I can’t stand to think about death. And when you say like that about Eric, and I think about him killing a person, and then inside my head it becomes me that he’s killing, and it does things to me, it makes things happen in my head. Look at me—” holding out a hand, straight out, the fingers spread, and the tips it is true are trembling “—look at me, I’m actually shaking, that’s what this kind of talk does to me. Now that’s not normal, is it?”
“I don’t know.”
“To be that frightened. I mean you would have to be sick not to be frightened of dying, but to be this frightened of it for no good reason, that has to be a kind of a sickness too, right?”
“It’s something you’ll grow out of.”
“Do you think so? I hope so. Jan—”
I kiss her.
“Oh, groovy. Yes, let’s love each other. When that happens all of the fear goes away.”
“My turn, though.”
“Huh?”
“To do you.”
“Oh, we can do each other.”