Like little stars.
Hair spreading all over the place like seaweed underwater. Skin hot. Breath. And, what? Is that perfume? Pillow. Sheet. Sheet around my foot. In. In. In. Yeah. OK. She just said something? “What?” “Huh?” “What did you just say?” “Do that.” What did I do? “What?” “Hold my butt like that.” Hold her ass. Smooth. No muscles, well, kind of muscles. Just right. Soft. I like soft, must be why I’m heterosexual, men don’t have asses like this. Ohhh, shit, not yet, don’t … Sheet’s around my foot. Shake it off. Shake off. Fucking sheet. In. In. In. Keep it going there, champ! Fucking, sheet. There! It’s off. Cramp. Owwww! Shit! Is she coming? What was that? Oh, she’s talking to me. “What’s a matter?” “Nothing, just a cramp.” “A cramp? Where?” “Shhhh, it’s OK.” “You want…?” “Shhhh.” In. In. In. In. Oh yeah. She must think I’m a jerk. How can I be thinking about this? In. In. Well, she likes me cause I’m kind of jerky. That turns her on. I’m unthreatening. Not a pig asshole like her ex-husband. If only she knew what I was really thinking. What am I thinking? Why am I thinking? Ohhh, here it comes. This is good. This is a good one. It’s gonna be a good one. Oh yeah!!!! She smells good. I smell her pits. Good. Hold her hands over her head. Does she think this is kinky? Oh, wow, I can smell her ass on my fingers. Not bad. In. In. In. Bite her nipples. Like little erasers. And how clichid is that? Forget it, just enjoy the damn things you fuckwit! In. In. In. I wonder if she likes this? She just said “Oh.” She likes it. Oh, she’s moving faster. All right. Let’s go. Rocky Mountain sleigh ride. Where did that come from? Maybe endorphins make you think different things than usual? Maybe I should slow down, let her do the work. Wow, where did that ripple of pleasure come from? Man! Fuck oh, oh, hair, sweat, breath, hair sweat, my eyes are closed. God she feels good. She feels the best. My eyes are open, her little soft ear, the pillow, what time is it? What difference what time is it! Why do you always think about things when you’re fucking? No one else thinks about things like “What time is it?” Oh, shit, what was that? Is that her finger? Her finger is in my asshole. Am I up for this? Oh, no, here it comes. She’s coming. Yes. She did. She is. My eyes are closed. Oh God, this is intense. I’m yours baby, I’m all yours. Let’s fall, let’s fall. I’m swimming. I’m swimming. I’m falling. My skin is on fire. Oh no, here I go, she’s biting me. I’m going, here I go, I’m going, now, uh-huh, oh shit. I just said “oh shit.” Wait. In. In. In. Not yet. Here we go. Here we go little girl. Here we go little lady. You’re getting fucked and I’m fucking you. Over the edge, uh-huh. All of you. You belong to me, all of you. All … you … naked … fucking … inside … oh shit. OH SHIT… la-la-la-la-la … OH JESUS GOD IN HEAVEN FUCK FUCK FUCK … I’m coming … good-bye.
Me and Randy used to talk to each other about once a week. She was the receptionist at my accountant’s office. Somewhere in Long Island. But I think she came from New Jersey. “Hey, how’s it going?” “Great, how’s it goin’ with you?” I didn’t have a clue what she looked like, but what a voice! Low, with a big smile. “Great, great. You know.” “Yeah.” “What’d you do this weekend?” “Nothing, you know, stayed in.” “What about your boyfriend? I bet he came over.” “Get outta here, I’ll get Ron for you.” This goes on for months. I’m always asking her about her boyfriend, after awhile she starts calling me her boyfriend, joking you know? I mean I’m married. It’s not like we’re gonna get together. I’m wondering what she looks like, ask my accountant. And he’s like, “Oh, very cute. Very sweet. I thought you were married?” So that ends that conversation. So now I’m her boyfriend, and I keep flirting with her. “What are you wearing?” “This mohair sweater.” “Yeah? And what’s under that?” Like where do I get off asking her this shit? “And under that?” She’s laughing like I’m the funniest guy she’s ever met. It’s all a joke. Next thing I know she’s asking me what I’m wearing. Somehow she starts asking about my dick. And it’s like, I can play this game, sure. We’re just joking. So I start telling her how big my dick is and how hard it is and stuff. And we’re laughing harder and harder. It’s like the Howard Stern show on the phone. Obviously she’s bored out of her brains in that office. And then it happened. Somehow I started asking her about her pussy and whether it was wet and then what I was gonna do to it and stuff and somehow we started fucking, right there on the phone. It was like the end of the day and each of us was all alone. Maybe we had been planning this all along. Who knows? But we did it. I came, that’s for sure. And she sure sounded like she did. It was pretty amazing actually. Real “safe sex.”
She entered my office smelling of aromatic soap and powder wearing layers and layers of clothes. Thick wools sandwiched silk with leather and fur. The effect was an expensive package, waiting to be opened. I knew what was underneath; she was my patient. I had examined her many times.
But today was different because today she had her 14-year-old daughter with her. I’m a medical professional by trade, not a teacher, but I’ve been around long enough that I instantly recognize certain “situations.” Mother, daughter. Doctor’s office. Of course, she wanted her pubescent child taught the facts of life in the most explicit manner possible.
But I explained to this perfectly shorn, perfectly dressed, powdered and perfumed pillar of up-market society that much as I’d like to be of service, as much as I’d like to bang her tight little daughter right there on top of my examining table (because I knew that was what she wanted me to do), such behavior was strictly against my mandated professional ethics — not to mention the law. No, I cannot “do” your sweet little daughter. I have a practice to protect.
This “Vanity Fair” subscriber, Starbucks imbiber, dauber of Estie Lauder, owner of Volvos and Cuisinarts, didn’t protest. She simply touched her daughter’s shoulder and turned crestfallen for the door. My God, I thought to myself, have some pity!!! Her life isn’t easy. That private school is so expensive, and so is that Donna Karan suit and that trip to St. Barts. Cut her some slack. Give her a break. Do something.
“Wait” I said. “Don’t go. Maybe I can help.”
She turned, the coolness of her eyes shading into warm hope.
Her daughter watched me warily from the corner of the examining room as I took her mother’s hand and led her to the paper-covered table. “Lie down and loosen your clothes,” I said with gentle firmness.
Some women taste like fruit, some women taste like a freshly opened oyster. Mother had obviously been in heat for some time, because when I tugged her lace panties down over her knees, I was instantly wrapped in the aura of love. The cloth over the crotch of my Gap 501′s (I’m a very casual doctor) stretched to drum tautness.
I took off my glasses, gently separated her knees and lowered my face into her muff. My tongue danced over and into her wet sluice, her belly bounced as I moved my hands up to cup her breasts. In moments she was moaning “Yes! Yes!”
I looked over toward the corner where the daughter stood, her eyes wide with excitement, her mouth slightly open, forming inaudible words. Suddenly I realized how beautiful this girl was. Like some pre-Raphaelite nymph. And I thought, “We’re on this earth for such a short time. So I lose my license? Fuck it.” I beckoned to her: “Yes, yes, come here. I’ll have you both. That’s it, slide out of those nasty clothes like a good girl and come to Doctor. That’s it, now…”
OH! OH! OH! SHIT! DAMN! MAN!!!!! Phew. Where’s the fuckin’ Kleenex?
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Read on: No. 4
Eric Bogosian is an actor and writer. His solo shows include "Sex, Drugs, Rock & Roll" and "Wake Up and Smell the Coffee." His novel "Mall" will be published by Simon & Schuster in November.More Eric Bogosian.
Like little stars.
World's best pie apple. Essential for Tarte Tatin. Has five prominent ribs.
So pretty. So early. So ephemeral. Tastes like strawberry candy (slightly).
My personal fave. Ultra-crisp. Graham cracker flavor. Should be famous. Isn't.
High flavored with notes of blood orange and allspice. Very rare.
Jefferson's favorite. The best all-purpose American apple.
New Hampshire's native son has a grizzled appearance and a strangely addictive curry flavor. Very, very rare.
Makes the best hard cider in America. Soon to be famous.
Freak seedling found in an Oregon field in the '60s has pink flesh and a fragrant strawberry snap. Makes a killer rose cider.
Ben Franklin's favorite. Queen Victoria's favorite. Only apple native to NYC.
Really does taste like pineapple.