Hello, my name is Joshua David Stein. I'm a writer in New York City. I also would like to write erotica for you. Please submit three words around which you'd like me to write. Send them to email@example.com. Payment is strictly on a barter system and open to negotiation.
“Everybody dates everybody eventually,” sighed Claire Danes, 34, the American actress as she smoothly reached behind her back to refasten her bra clasp. In one graceful motion, Ms. Dane’s perky breasts were sheathed in black satin. It was 5 a.m. on a recent Thursday morning and the moon still shone. Claire was getting dressed after having spent broad swathes of the night making intense love to Daniel, a 28 year old menswear copywriter from East Hartford, Connecticut. The kind of face-to-face love that involves a lot of staring. He reached for her Lanvin shift, moving aside an old issue of the New Yorker, a Con Ed bill addressed to “Daniel Dougherty.” “Ah, his name is Daniel,” she said to herself, “thank God.” Daniel, rubbing sleep from his eyes, had just pondered aloud how strange it was that Uma Thurman had once dated Gary Oldman. He was just making small talk, hoping to forestall any close contemplation of how his life and limbs had so recently and so randomly become entwined with Claire’s. He feared if he examined it too much, the astonishing reality would dissipate, leaving behind a hardened spot of dried jism in his sheets where, in his dream state, he had imagined Claire Danes’ mouth was. Instead, the two of them easily, if groggily, chatted and got dressed in New York’s lullaby hour. Dan had promised Claire cronuts and he had to deliver.
It all happened so fast. Eight hours ago, Dan was arguing with a colleague over dinner at Skal, a new Icelandic restaurant in the Lower East Side. After the oyster and cucumbers had been cleared, after whether the dish had fulfilled Nordisk Mad’s ethos to showcase natural ingredients in a way that ennobled but didn’t dramatize them was settled in the affirmative, conversation turned heated. Dan’s friend Trainer also worked at a menswear brand. Dan contended that it is deeply fucked up for menswear brands to hawk American heritage while manufacturing their garments in China. Trainer, who had also grown up in Connecticut but in the tonier Greenwich, felt Dan was being too analytical and worse, had a chip on his shoulder because his old man had worked at Ponemah Mills in Norwich, CT, and was broken when the mill shut down in the 1970s. Trainer said, “What harm could possibly be done by celebrating American manufacturing, Dan? Who cares if the CPO jacket is made in China? At least it celebrates America.” Poppycock, explained Dan, dipping an heirloom carrot into a smudge of burnt honey, “Motherfuckin’ flimflam poppycock.”
At the table next to him Claire eavesdropped and nodded. Claire had recently arrived from North Carolina, where she had just wrapped filming the third season of Homeland and saw first hand how gutted the economies were of the South’s industrial towns were. So when she heard Dan weave together the threads of selvedge denim, late-market capitalism and the rapacity of multi-national garment factories, her ears pricked. And when she heard him mention Franz Fanon, she knew she wanted his cock buried deep in her pussy.
Dan would, of course, be willing to do the deed. For someone like Claire the trouble was getting from point A, a very crowded very public New Nordic restaurant in the Lower East Side, to point B, back at Dan’s place where Dan would be worried that he still had some seabuckthorn berry in his teeth but otherwise was elated to be undressing Claire, would be logistically complicated.
Claire was eating with a relatively unimportant and uninteresting woman tabloids would later describe as a gal pal. She contemplated the state of things as she gazed down on her plate. A cube of lavender cured Arctic Char lay atop a scattered handful of walnuts and a few springs of wild arugula, as if the plate was the recently vacated premises of a gourman squirrel. Claire had her back to the room; Dan was sitting at the adjacent table on the banquet. Dan, of course, recognized Claire from “My So-Called Life.” [He was part of a kickball team that practiced Sunday nights and so never got into Homeland. Also he heard the second season sucked balls.] He had spent, it turns out, most of the conversation striving to be extra impressive with his points and studiously avoiding eye contact with Claire. Dan wanted, more than anything, to be cool.
The tables were close together Claire, who had picked up a bit of her character Carrie Matheson’s observational skill, observed a certain amount of sub rosa movement could be made undetected.. And so, as her friend blathered on about a juice cleanse, Claire uncrossed her long toned smooth legs, and let her left foot, wearing the Louboutin Lagoula T-shape sandal she had worn to the Emmys in 2012 extend towards Dan’s leg, clad as it was in right-hand cotton twill denim, and slowly rubbed. Dan looked confusedly at Trainer. But he knew Trainer was wearing Red Wing work boots — made in China! — then he felt Claire eyeing him. Dan pretended he had dropped his napkin and ducked his head under the table. Watching him, Claire opened her legs wider as his head disappeared beneath the reclaimed wood table. She hiked up her dress, revealing her satin panties, already damp, all the while moving her toes closer and closer to Dan’s now throbbing incredulous cock. “Check, please!” said Dan suddenly, when he sat up. Trainer was confused. “But Dan,” he said, “you haven’t even had the beetroot.”
The sun was rising over Vesuvio Playground. Claire was wearing Dan’s Boston Redsox baseball cap pulled down over her eyes. Dan was also wearing his Redsox cap. He, like Samantha Power, was a member of #redsoxnation and had two. Though they arrived at 5:30am, the line already stretched north from Spring Street past the playground and the laundromat. Not fully awake, neither Claire nor Dan spoke much but vignettes from the night before played on repeat in their heads. It was already solidifying into myth. For Claire, it was a story of one night as a regular woman again. Though she didn’t dare tell Dan, one reason she let him thrust against her, was that as she was being drilled, she examined his his in-every-way-ordinary walk up apartment: the Second City poster hanging above his bed, the low quality flat screen on the West Elm credenza, the dirty pans from Target piled in the kitchen which was visible from the bed. “God,” she thought, “I kind of miss this! It’s just so real.” She mentally calculated that she could fit 5 of Dan’s apartment between her bedroom and her kitchen in her home but this train of thought was interrupted by a wave of pleasure that coursed through her body. From underneath the brim of her hat, she peeked at Dan and smiled, remembering how hard was his shaft as she gripped it and slid him into her, how surprising the contours of his man-tool. She remembered kissing his lips, how different they were from the lips of her husband, Hugh Dancy, or Damien Lewis, the Englishman who plays Brody on Homeland. His lips are full, she thought looking at Dan, and remarkably sensuous for someone from East Hartford. His hands too seemed surprisingly strong and rough as they grabbed and smooshed her buttocks while they made love. Dan, meanwhile, was trying to decide if it was too early to tweet about his night. This too is not to suggestDan didn’t enjoy the evening for he did. Claire was by far the most beautiful woman he had ever made love to. And though she was the most famous — really, the only famous woman he had ever even talked to — she was also a genuinely warm and fun (and funny) lay. He remembered how, in the cab ride to his house from the restaurant, they had kissed and how she had nibbled his lips. He remembered thinking at the time, “Oh, I guess this is what Claire Danes does. Now I know.” He remembered how when she orgasmed, which she did twice, her face made the same crumple-faced cry he had seen in her early years. He also thought of her lips, which are well known as sensuous.
But, even more than the sex, it made Dan feel really good that Claire Danes — yes, even Claire Danes — was just a woman as he was just a man. Though it was wholly inappropriate — she, of course, had to return to her life after the cronut — Dan reached for Claire’s hand in his and the two of them moved a little forward in line, edging closer to a sweet ending.
On a recent Tuesday evening, Lafayette felt like the set of one of those ensemble-cast Garry Marshall romantic comedies. It’s the place where Ashton and Julia would eat on their magical first date. Like The Dutch, one of Mr. Carmellini’s other restaurants, Lafayette has been designed by Roman & Williams, the husband-and-wife firm behind the Ace Hotel as well as the sets of movies like Zoolander and Addicted to Love. They are masters of golden glow maximalism.
Even in real life, the crowd — and there is always a crowd — was from central casting. Windswept women with perky breasts, perfect highlights and ballerina flats sat with men with stubble so well groomed it looked more formal than the depilated cheek.
As I was led to my table by one of three siren hostesses in black dresses and white pearl necklaces who hadgreeted me with a beauty so strong it felt like a wall not a welcome, the seated women followed me with their Westchester blue eyes, flicking their tongues over the teaspoons of creme fraiche that accompany any good tarte, as if to say, “The man I am with is wealthier, more handsome, and more successful than you. Nevertheless, I’d be down for a quickie, if you want to meet me in the restroom.”
One woman, Cristina, had actually been a dancer for New York City Ballet, not a soioist but as a member of the corps de ballet. Under her table, across from which sat her date for the evening, an armchair of a man with errant nose hairs, a lazy eye and questionable conversational skill, Cristina wore actual ballet slippers, Repetto’s T230. These she had bought at the Repetto store in the 2nd arrondissement in Paris. She, like most dancers, liked them because though the toe and heel were canvas, with a split leather sole, the arch of the foot was made of more flexible material.
Cristina was bored out of her mind. She had stopped dancing professionally at age 30, her limbs still long and lovely but her joints utterly ruined. Now she was a real estate agent for Douglas Elliman. The man across from her was named Jason and, as if God was lazy the day He made him, Jason was just a quick sketch of a man, all outlines and no definition. Admittedly though, with a name like Jason, it’s hard to be more than a blob.
My eyes met Cristina’s only briefly for I had not yet made love to her. She was, therefore, just one of the many woman to whom I had not yet made love eating at Lafayette. Later on in the evening, between the excellent Maine scallops cru with sauce aigrelette but before the Dry-Aged Strip Steak Frites with béarnaise butter, when I was pleasantly full but not stuffed, buzzed but not drunk, I went to the restroom and got to know her better.
The path from my table there took me past Cristina’s. She must have noted that for soon after II entered the restroom noting, momentarily, how glossy was the finish on the walls though there were some signs that the construction was recent and to some extent ongoing, she walked in.
"Um…" I said, because no matter how much I talk about being filthy, I am actually quite puritanical and staid, "this isn’t Schillers." See, Schiller’s has unisex restrooms.
But Cristina didn’t do what I had expected her to. She didn’t realize her mistake, apologize and back away. It wasn’t a mistake at all. Instead she came towards me, slinking like a cat, not a cute kitty cat but more like a feral hunting cat. She wore a pink blouse that on any other woman would have been dowdy but on her was really beautiful. It was slightly see through though she wore a white tank top beneath it.
She didn’t say anything at all but threw her arms around my neck, even as I was half turned to the wash basin. Up close, her skin resolved itself into thousands of brown freckles against a pale sky. I could see her mascara, smell her lipstick. She had had the Butter Lettuce salad and, not in a gross way, I could smell when millimeters from her face, the herb vinaigrette. That’s what I remember most: the herb smell and the doughy smell of her make up.
Her arms around my neck, mine encirciling her tiny waist, we stood. I, unsure of how to proceed, thought about how to proceed. Cristina, cocksure, pressed her lips to mine. And thus we stood. My back was against the sink counter and, in the midst of the awe, I had no time to be concerned whether, since sometimes the counter is wet, I’d have a line of dampness on the seat of my trousers. Instead, I wondered what was happening, why Cristina was kissing me, whether this constituted cheating (I am married) and how far and fast should we go.
Ultimately the decision was not mine to make. We kissed, open mouthed and passionately for not more than 30 seconds. She bit my lower lip hard. I held her head to mine forcefully. But, as quickly as it started, Cristina broke it off.
She looked past me to the mirror and smoothed her hair. She re-applied her lipstick and I stood watching her. She reached into her bag and handed me her business card. Cristina cast me a look as if to say, “The balls in your court. I, for one, would be content leaving things as they are but am amenable to their continuance.” Then she left.
When I returned to my table, my steak frites had arrived with their pick-up stick pile of fries. I studiously avoided looking over to Cristina’s table but when I did, she was gone. The waiters, serious folk in suspenders, were already setting up for the next guest.
Submitted by a Restaurant PR Manager in New York City
Tomas and Martine are a very attractive couple from Hungary who in December 2010 decided to spend their holiday in the Maldives. Unluckily (terrorism? pilot error? technical failure?), the plane on which the couple were flying crash-landed over the Indian Ocean. Tragically, the rest of the occupants died. Luckily, Tomas and Martine survived unscathed. This is where we find them now.
Tomas was clean-shaven upon departure but now his dark brown mop of hair is complemented by a full beard. Always skinny, he has gotten skinnier. He has — like many Hungarians — blue eyes, despite his fair skin and dark hair. Martine is slightly older. She was a night nurse in Budapest but once exposed to the sun, her skin has developed a deep tan. The two are in love and have been since they met at the Central European University eight years ago.
Upon gaining consciousness on the beach, the two acted as any castaways might: deftly fashioning a makeshift lean-to out of palm fronds, weaving a cistern from the rope-like fibers of the local trees and harvesting from the abundant foliage fruit. That night they gorged themselves on the fresh mangoes, picked like Christmas ornaments from the fulsome trees. That night, Tomas and Martine lay down in their palm frond bed, upon pillows of woven shredded date palm bark. Tomas sang goofily to Martine Jackson Browne’s Doctor My Eyes, “I have wondered through this world / and as each moment has unfurled / I’ve been waiting to awaken from these dreams/ People go just where the will; I never noticed them until I got this feeling…” Then, because they loved each other and there was no television, they made love in a very leisurely manner for they had all the time in the world to grow old together. Martine, sexually satisfied and sleepy, kissed Tomas’ sticky with sweat forehead, wiped his hair from his forehead and said, “Szeretlek,” which is, apparently, Hungarian for “I love you.”
The island was shortly afterward hit by a tropical storm. This delayed the search efforts and investigators didn’t find the wreckage of the plane until eight weeks after it crashed. By the time they stumbled across two bodies, clinging to each other Pompeii-style in the middle of a heap of rotting palm fronds with the ruins of a makeshift cistern beside them on the far side of the island from the crash site, flies buzzed in a thick cloud in the clearing, attracted by the sickeningly sweet smell of rotting mangoes and the decaying flesh of the last survivors. One can’t, after all, survive solely on fresh fruit and love.
Submitted by a restaurant public relations professional in New York City.
Rosie, a German shepherd/Border collie mutt the color of a Caramello, made sure to spend a few hours in the afternoon lying on her side. She lay not just anywhere but in the regions of the living room floor where the sun tracked its afternoon hours. On Fridays, when the cleaning lady Joanna came, Rosie was displaced to the couch or to another room.
There were three main resonant sounds in Rosie’s universe: Walk (and its variants, walkies, W-A-L-K, outside?), the muffled jingle of her person’s keys at the lock which gave her immense pleasure, and the annoying alarm of Joanna rapping on the window with her knuckles. This meant the arrival of Joanna, her weird floral smell of a flowerbed manufactured in some gray factory somewhere, liquified and added to a brew of astringent chemicals to be sprayed on filth worldwide and the ruin of an otherwise perfectly featureless afternoon. Joanna, to Rosie, smelled of an artificial arboretum, polyester pants and the dust from the very loud vacuum machine that Joanna would periodically empty.
Sometimes, Joanna would bring her daughter, Dawn. To Rosie, Dawn was grey and slightly blurry. She smelt of varsity letter jackets, slightly soiled denim and sometimes, of sex. Those days that the musky smell which, being an animal, Rosie knew well was present, another chalky soft smell, lipstick, could also be detected. She was 18.
Dawn left at dusk with her mother. Beyond the sycamores and the stolid silhouettes of the suburban squaw — ha! — the sky turned from gunmetal gray to opal on a lucky night to black, cut ugly by sodium vapor streetlights. [A streetlight reduction program, however, is working to change this.] Dawn would be gone and Rosie would listen for the gentle ba-dump of her person’s car as it drove over the part of the driveway driven up by the roots of a sycamore tree. Then on to sound #2.
Dawn was Upper Dublin pale with a slight overbite that made her seem wanton. Also, her being wanton made her seem wanton. And, since Rosie was a dog and a female dog to boot, one couldn’t argue that it is simply man’s desire to see women as sex-loving succubi that caused her to realize this. It was obvious from the amount of sex smell that came from Dawn. The girl loved dick.
On one Friday, the smell of sex on Dawn and the sound of her person’s keys overlapped. Joanna had left in her Ford Taurus but left her daughter, proud owner of a new Ford Fiesta, to follow her. Dawn did not follow. She remained, anchored in place by the discovery of, as she helped her mother tidy up, a stash of skin rags hidden beneath sedimentary layers of unmatched socks in his credenza.
Rosie was confused by the intersection of smell (sex, Dawn, loneliness, Friday) and sound (master, home, food, walk, happy). More confused she became as these gray forms murmured to each other. It was the collie in her that made Rosie’s vision bad. Collies, because of where their eyes are situated, have worse vision than, say, a Golden Retriever. Rosie saw a motion as Dawn’s hand reached out to her person’s crotch. [Dogs can see movement better than humans.] She didn’t snarl exactly, Rosie, but as much as a dog can she grimaced with the premonition her walk would not be coming anytime soon.
Her person and Dawn moved quickly to the bedroom, without even giving Rosie a pat on the head as was customary. The door closed and Rosie, not knowing what else to do, circled once then twice then thrice, and lay down at the threshold. Sounds unknown to her came from behind that door. The smell of sex grew strong and Dawn stayed late into the night.
This essay departs from the Bespoke Erotica formulation but I believe it maintains the animating spirit of the site. I was recently asked to distinguish between a handjob and jerking off. This essay, I hope, does just that.
In this brief essay I hope to elucidate the ontological difference between a handjob and jerking off. First of all, we must define with what exactly we are concerned. The central and defining act of both a handjob and jerking off is a manual manipulation of the male sex organ until orgasm is achieved. Technically, these acts can be performed on a woman’s sex but due to anatomical differences, this rarely occurs. Beyond this core definition, the similarities end. Let us clarify this by examining each act in turn.
What is jerking off? Clues to the cursory pragmatic nature of jerking off might be found in the grammatical construction of the term. The key term is the verb, “to jerk” defined as “to make move with a jerk” wherein the noun form of jerk is taken to mean “a quick, sharp, sudden movement.” One usually would say, “Janice jerked off Tony.” or sometimes “Janice jerked Tony off.” But one would never say, “Janice gave Tony a jerk off.” This is undoubtedly because when one jerks off another the emphasis on the act is reaching the goal. The defining characteristic of jerking off isn’t that one delivers sexual climax to ones partner using ones hand grasping the throbbing shaft and wringing it furiously as if it were a brass pole and ones hand were a chamois. No, the defining characteristic is that that act is done with a single goal in mind . All action — each quick, sharp and sudden movement — is ruthlessly oriented to achieving orgasm in the quickest amount of time possible. It seems paradoxical, since it is the process — however curtailed and pragmatic — that defines it, but jerking off is simply a means to an end. A brashly teleological action, jerking off is simply a necessary step to achieving orgasm. Jerking off is an interstate to orgasm: straight, fast and direct.
In 1982, author William Heat Least-Moon set off to explore America in a converted truck he dubbed Ghost Dancer. Least-Moon’s aim was to explore the country using her windy back roads. He called these, and the book that resulted from his journey, ”blue highways.” Least-Moon wasn’t interested in getting from point A to point B in the least amount of time possible. For him, it was the peripatetic wanderings down dirt-roads across fields of grain and soy, meals at six-stool diners with a lone septuagenarian waitress, that made up the substance of his journey. It may be said, therefore, that William Heat Least-Moon handjobbed his way across America. For as opposed to jerking off, the handjob — though if successful ending in orgasm — is no mere tool of the rough trade to precipitate a jism explosion. A handjob, when properly done, is a complete ceremony in itself. Elaborate and performed with care, the handjob is akin to a tea ceremony. But instead of a chashaku (tea scoop) and chaki (tea caddy), one’s chadōgu is usually baby oil and a tender touch. [The chakin, a small rectangular white linen or hemp cloth mainly used to wipe the tea bowl, however, is common to both the hanjob and to the chanoyu.] The focus of a handjob is the enjoyment of the sexual touch, regardless of climax. Properly performed, a handjob can tease, titillate and simmer just below the point of no return for 20 minutes. In fact, what makes a handjob successful — the coyness, the coquetry, the playfulness, the anticipation — is what would be considered demerits if we were using the pragmatic schema of jerking off as an evaluative tool.
A point I would like to address before I conclude: An argument made to distinguish between a handjob and jerking off is that while one can give a handjob to others, one can not give a handjob to oneself. Conversely, one can both jerk off others and jerk off oneself. This, however and as we can see, is not the case. It is true giving onself a handjob is difficult. This is not only because, like tickling, it is hard to tease oneself. Rather it has to do more with a larger scourge on society: that we do not feel we deserve to receive the love and attention which are the underlying animating spirits of a handjob. And since we can not receive love, we can not give it. There is a a problem here but it is not the fault of the handjob. The problem is less ontological and more psychological and too large to be dealt with here.
In conclusion, we can see that though both acts often end the same way — a geyser of ejaculate ending up on one’s supine stomach, annoyingly hard to get out of ones belly button — the handjob and jerking off are two separate beasts completely. One is a ruthless hunter, sleek and single-minded at it hunts its quarry of orgasm. The other, much elevated, is a forest wanderer, delighting in the indirect, in dew on leaves at dawn and stumbling upon unexpected pleasures. Though the hunter may bag his meal sooner, one can be assured the meal of the wandered, when found, is much more satisfying.
Bloomberg was a billionaire and a mayor but he still needed a break. So halfway through his third term, the sexagenarian decided to take a vacation. Trying to shake the persistent charges of elitism that dogged him despite what he saw as his populist policies, Bloomberg chose to forego his estate in Bermuda. He decided on the Peruvian Amazon. Now being a billionaire has its perks. One of those perks is inclusion in the Diners Club Fidelity Card, which is akin to American Express’ Centurion card except it differs in one significant way. If American Express’ Centurion affords its members access to exclusive luxury, the Diners Club Fidelity Card affords its members exclusive access to all sorts of totally fucked up deviant sexual experiences. One of the most misunderstood organizations in the United States credit card industry, despite its reputation for being the preferred card of retirees, the Diners Club is in fact one of the country’s largest and oldest networks of individuals into totally fucked up deviant sexual experiences.
The card itself, deviantly, is beige and unassuming. With it comes quarterly a similarly common seeming pamphlet. It arrives at Gracie Mansion marked, “Hand Deliver to Michael Bloomberg,” which the house staff has been instructed to do. This pamphlet is perfect bound and contains between 15-20 personalised perverted experiences. It is said to be so titillating, one immediately spends oneself simply paging through and reading the descriptions. Certainly Bloomberg spewed and spewed pearlescent cum into his tailor made cotton boxers whenever he perused the pamphlet. He looked forward to it and one would have thought since it was delivered quarterly he would have learned to remove his boxers prior to its reading but that too was part of the pleasure.
Thumbing through the pages, Bloomberg decided on the following itinerary:
4 day/3 night cruise about the Puta D’Oro, a four cabin cruise ship travelling from Rio Ucayali to the mouth of the Amazon River in the Peruvian Rainforest. Included in this journey are:
Full luxurious accommodations and all meals. Our chefs specialize in creative Creole cuisine using the freshest ingredients from the Amazon River.
Excursions with local guides down the Amazons tributaries to see some of the world’s most beautiful birds, and wildlife.
On board will be five women whose sole role will be to provide you sexual pleasure in anyway you desire at any time you desire. At Puta D’Oro we are committed to supporting local communities so one of these women will be from Iquitos, a town in the Amazon known for its beautiful mestizos. The other four women we will obtain for our client after a rigorous research process in which we shall ascertain your preferences. We usually, however, recommend one white woman, one black woman, one Asian and one Italian.
For an additional fee, Puta D’Oro will do its best to recruit from our client’s life — past or present — a particular woman after whom he or she lusts. Results are not, however, guaranteed.
Bloomberg pondered the possibilities while gently daubing his ejaculate from his shorts with a 500 thread count Pima cotton hankerchief from Turnbull and Asser. There was one girl he had spotted in 2003, when he had given a commencement address at New York University. She was petite and pale with a slight snaggle tooth and, since she was on the Dean’s List, she stood directly in front of him in the front row. He could see her large blue eyes from the dais. She wore her hair in a blue bandana beneath her mortarboard and Bloomberg couldn’t concentrate on the platitudes he delivered for the images which danced in his head of her young breasts — heaving with pride and possibility — and the thought of hiking up her purple gown and snaking his sunburnt arm (Bermuda, he forgot the suncreen) to gently cup her porcelain breast as he inserted himself into her quivering cunny as she bent over the railing of Bobst Library. [This was before they installed plexiglass on the balconies.]
He imagined the hot Peruvian sun, beating down on his whithered flesh. He would, he thought, use lots of sunscreen. He imagined calling the steward and asking for this young woman. He imagined standing on the deck, looking out over the deceptively calm brown water of the Amazon which at its widest reached 4km: the plaintive call of horned screamers, thatched roof huts belonging to the local populations nestled into ficus trees in the groves that would disappear during high water season. Or no. He imagined lying on a hammock, sweat pooling in his belly button, eyes protected by glasses and head by hat. He imagined this young woman whose name he didn’t know approaching him, pulling up a stool and removing her shirt. He would ensure she too would have proper sunscreen. He imagined her leaning over him so he could suckle on her breasts as they neared his parched sweat slick skin. He imagined her unbuckling his Bermuda shorts — they too are appropriate in Peru — and removing his stiffening divining rod from his trousers.
Or no that wouldn’t work because the hammock well, first of all the hammock isn’t good for his back and second of all it would be awkward for her to lean over from a stool to the hammock. Ok, so he’d be in his cabin where the cabin boys had very thoughtfully folded his towels into what looked like a lotus flower. It would be air-conditioned to approximately 22 degrees C. This woman would come in, shut the door gently behind her and without having to be asked, remove her American Apparel v-neck shirt and her Gap jeggings. She would curl up to Bloomberg and he would enjoy her warmth. She would let her hand graze his crotch to see if he became erect. He would. And then she would remove his penis from his trousers. Careful not to mistake the insect repellent/sun screen with the baby oil, she would lube up his penis and give him a handjob, all the while looking at him as he looked at the shoreline.
Now, he thought, he would need to find her. It wouldn’t be hard, he reflected. He would simply look up the graduating class of NYU in 2003 and then the Dean’s List. Then he would simply have an intern or someone look up the women students on the Facebook. Bloomberg was reasonably confident this woman would be game since a) accommodations and airfare to Peru were included, b) the class of 2003 he knew would probably not be far enough in their careers to be spared the asphyxiation of the economy. This woman, he thought, might be unemployed. C) He was the 10th richest man in America. Bloomberg smiled and picked up the phone to talk to a Diners Club Fidelity Club specialist about travel arrangements.
Submitted by a very stylish Investment Banker in New York City
“Barry Bonds,” screamed Grant, enraged. “Barry Bonds is that what you said?”
Lisa shrugged and licked her lips. A soft pretzel sang a love song in front of her, leaving an outline of itself in grease on the cheap paper napkin below. “Grease angel,” she thought.
“You might as well have said Sandy Koufax,” he snorted.
Lisa eyed Grant. They were in the midst of playing a game Grant loved and Lisa loathed: picking fantasy baseball teams throughout history keeping in mind not only statistics but also temperaments. After screwing, Grant often insisted on this game while Lisa often insisted on eating a soft pretzel from the stash she kept in the freezer after a recent trip to the Reading Terminal Market and microwaved, almost pathologically, post coitus.Thus, Barry Bonds, who was sure to bring unwanted scrutiny to a lineup, was a stupid choice. Thus Sandy Koufax, a Jew, would never have harmonized on her fantasy baseball team whose outfielder was bigot Ty Cobb. Thus did the pretzel call to Lisa to eat it.
As far as the lovemaking goes, Grant and Lisa fucked like champions. Lisa had a big old butt, apple bottom jeans and boots with fur. She had the tits of the Venus of Willendorf but the waist of a Giacometti. When she had clothes on she was demure bordering on priggish. But O! underneath the placid cotton surface roiled a great undertow of filthy just incredibly raunchy bawdiness. Filth: spreading her ass cheeks as she’s fucked from behind! Filth: saying just really superlatively dirty things—“Fuck me, Grant, with your fucking ramrod cock right in my dripping pussy!” Filth: As she pulls her butt cheeks open and sits on his face, “Lick my fucking asshole, Grant.” Grant was skinny and bony and hairy. He liked to talk big but when supine was surprisingly conventional. He couldn’t take himself seriously enough for the commitment of dirty talk. Only when he was tipsy would he venture a tentative, “How do you like to be fucked, Lisa?” or the more descriptive, “I’m going to fuck you real good. I’m fucking you real good now. Vroom-vroom. Boom goes the dynamite.”
Lisa’s mind wandered, pussy still full of Grant’s cum, mouth full of Amish pretzel, asshole still moist from his tongue. She thought back to the first time she met Grant. They were both sitting in section G of Letterman the night Warren Zevon appeared back in 2002. She worked in restaurant PR; he was an IT guy at Deloitte & Touche. Expecting to laugh, ready and primed to laugh by the opening comedian, Grant and Lisa applauded wildly when Warren Zevon appeared. “He’s a real cut-up,” Lisa told her friend. Grant thought it was funny she used the word “cut-up.” “A-wooooo!” howled Grant. Lisa thought it was cute. But then Zevon announced he had throat cancer. He was so funny about it and looked at Death, his death, with such an open and wry gaze, the audience was thrown. It was like a funny 9/11 story. Asked if he had any end-of-life lessons to impart, Zevon said simply, “Enjoy every sandwich.” Grant and Lisa laughed and applauded, barely realizing how trenchant the observation was. By the time he had finished his four songs, Lisa—who didn’t even know any Zevon songs—was in tears and Grant—who knew exactly one, guess which!—resolved not to waste another day building Excel spreadsheets and dating lame girls.
When the show ended, Grant tapped Lisa on the shoulder as they walked down the bleacher stairs. “Wanna go grab a sandwich?” he said. Lisa, unsure whether to laugh, cry, or run, had said yes. They left their friends and split off to Quiznos. The two ate a crappy sandwich but loved it. Then they went to that weird Bikini Bar near Penn Station. At around 2am that night, exhausted emotionally and physically and at her place, Lisa stripped off Grant’s pants andGrant removed Lisa’s bra. Her tata’s were unleashed to the world. His cock sprung up. She grabbed his balls with her pleasantly porcelain hand and said, “Fuck me, Grant, fuck me, dirty but tender.” He was taken aback but did and halfway through—she on her hands and knees andhe fucking her from behind and watching the street lights play upon the tenement walls in an effort not to cum too quickly—felt enough uninhibited love to venture a joyous “A-wooo!” Timed between the grunts and the slap of of Grant’s hips against her ass, Lisa let out a rhythmic, “Were [grunt] wolves [slap] of [grunt] Lon [slap] don [moan].” They both laughed and came gallons.
Submitted by male construction supervisor for his brother-in-law and sister-in-law, Manhattan
You never can change someone else. But you can, if you work hard enough, blind yourself to those angles and hues in them you deem unacceptable. Sand them through grit, young lover. Recast narcissism as creativity. Recatalogue nastiness as misplaced wit. Turn obtuseness to stoicism. The world can be yours. Just put your eyes out.
Sheila had worked hard to blind herself in order to better love Mickey. Mickey was brilliant, she knew, so too then were his sins, They were anti-matter to what truly mattered. So what if he looked at kiddie porn, or if not technically kiddie porn then at least pornography wherein the young women are attempting to pull off pre-adolescence? Their tiny tits bounce and pigtails flail in thirty second fucked-up MPEGs childhoods.Their thin legs in American Apparel tubesocks bend strangely over their heads as they are drilled on some sad beige sofa in a shitty room—glass and steel shelves, VCR, wires everywhere—by a chubby man and his purple cock. Who cares, Sheila said when she first saw the files in his browser history, when on the same hard drive as this were Mike’s theses and theories, emails and memos the digital proof of his intellect. A plain casts no shadow. The taller the peak, the longer the shadow and more profound its darkness.
Sheila had worked hard to blind herself in order to better love Mickey. But it failed when she met Eric. Eric, who was actually witty, creative and stoic without being a cruel narcissist. Eric tares me, thought Sheila the first time she met him, at Café Barrone. After him, the true weight of things can be measured. This was a very clever thought, she thought. She was with Mike, laptops out. Sheila was in the middle of a lol lmao ttyl conversation on IM with Darcy, her friend from medical school when she heard a gravelly voice ask, “Do you know the password?”
“What?” she said, looking up.
“Do you know the password for the wifi?”
“Oh,” she said, “it’s Cigar. Capital C.”
“Thanks,” said Eric, who to her was still stranger.
Mickey shot her an accusatory look. Sheila turned back to her computer and wrote, “OMG, some hot dude wearing denim just talked to me.”
“Hubba hubba hubba,” replied Darcy, adding a smiley face with a wink (semicolon, close parens).
“LOL,” wrote Sheila, “I wonder what his cock would feel like inside me.”
“I bet it would feel real nice [equal sign, close parens]
Sheila sipped her macchiato but her panties were fully soaked with her pussy juice. She tried playing footsie with Mickey. Who knows? Maybe he could fuck her in the bathroom. But he just grunted and moved his leg. So Sheila discretely frigged herself off, there among the internet moguls and retired Stanford professors, fingers working furiously on her clit, up and down and sometimes around but mostly up and down. She climaxed thinking of Eric.
When she looked back at Mickey, all her hard work of mending his broken fucked up fences, of willfully misreading his jibes, the dyslexia of love, all that had been erased. Instead she saw a scared sad skinny old motherfucker with a Swiss cheese conscience for whom everything fell into two categories: things that glorified him or things that didn’t. A real binary motherfucker, she thought. Mickey had lost all the vestigial charm, that bloom of youth, that had bound Sheila to him initially. By wriggling around she not quite discretely yet not incredibly noticeably—at least not if one wasn’t paying close attention to her and for Sheila this was a given—shimmied out of her dripping fragrant panties. Holding her underwear in one hand, she unbuttoned her white shirt so that when she bent over, her pert tanned breasts could be seen, a fleshy fucky landscape inverted, capped by her purplish nipples.
“I’m going to get another macchiato,” she told Mickey, “you want anything?”
Mickey nodded no, “No,” he nodded.
Hiding her lacy drawers on the far side of her empty demitasse, Sheila scooted the chair back. As she made her way to the counter, she dropped her unders onto Eric’s Dell and let him gander at her tits. “Meet me in the bathroom,” she said, “the password is Cigar.”
A few moments later, the stranger Mickey had eyed suspiciously when he sat down, scooted his chair back and made his way inside. Sheila wasn’t back. But that didn’t concern him. She always takes so long, he thought, foolish woman. He sighed dismissively and went back to work.