Wordsmoker

Who do I want to fuck the most right now? I want the cute-ugly guy from work. I know that he’s gay. I know that he’s gay because I found some incriminating pictures of him online. Yes, I was looking for stuff about him on purpose. When it’s about people you don’t know, like the heads of companies, it’s research. When it’s people you do know, it’s suddenly called stalking.

But it wasn’t like I was looking for his address or phone number or anything. Just a little information to feed my crush. Oh, the things I find within five minutes of searching. I feel like such a creep afterward. Never again, I say. And then I do. Woe to the trained librarian with the research toolkit. Use the power for good, not evil!

What I found were really casual, completely clothed pictures of him at some barbeque with some other guy’s fingers in his mouth. And those pictures, while extremely innocent, were really, really hot.

I said he was cute-ugly. There are some people who walk a line between being extremely gorgeous and looking like something is really, really wrong with them. His face is all angles. I think in books they call it “chiseled,” and this is supposed to be attractive, but Bizarro Superman and Master Control Program were chiseled, too. Faces should have a little curve to them, around the nostrils, for example, and the lips. Such a hard face. I stare and stare. I think I make him nervous. Well, I’d like to believe I have that much power in his world. That he notices me that much. I know I don’t make him hot. I have the wrong kind of tits. Totally wasted in his presence. I can arch my back and smile pretty all the livelong day and it won’t make a damn bit of difference.

The fact that he allows men’s fingers in his mouth makes him more appealing as a fantasy figure. The only porn I really like is gay porn. I like men. The more men, the better. I could totally get down with a harem. That would be the best Showtime series ever: me, with four husbands who fucked each other. At least I’d watch it. I’d have a straight-laced, dependable, surly one, ex-Marine, a contractor or something; a dreamy, spacey, slightly insane one, some sort of artist; a funny, scheming, prankster one, who can’t be bothered to get a real job; and a young, wild, daredevil one, professional skateboarder. Sex, hijinks ensue. Eh, who am I kidding–these days, that shit plays on The Learning Channel, because there’s someone who really has that lifestyle and will let cameras in the fucking house, and they make cakes. And they’ll make my fantasy as boring as ever. Full of assholes arguing about trash and dishes. And cake. Thanks, TLC. Thanks for nothing!

How do I want him? I want to smell him. I love smelling men. I like them a little sweaty, not shower-fresh. It’s manlier to me. I want to feel him, rough under my palms. He’s a bit stubbly, though he looks to shave on the regular. I want to run my fingers through the thick pelt on top of his head. I don’t need that, but when it’s there I want it. I want to feel all the angles of his face, try and cut myself with them. I want to feel those thick eyelashes over my entire body as he smells me, kisses me, nibbles me. I love that extra get, the eyelashes. Everyone focuses on the lips, but when their eyelashes are that thick you get an extra touch that is like nothing else in this world. Butterfly kisses, an ex called it. I love it. I want his hands on me. I’ll bet they’re soft. He’s not a manual labor guy.

I want his body to be lean. I want to taste his salty neck. I want to cup his ass as he lies on top of me and feel the hollows in the sides of the cheeks. Feel the scapula sticking out of his back as he adjusts himself. Sandpaper of an elbow. Knobs of the spine jutting out. Strange bows of the clavicles protruding from the chest. I want his cock to be thick and long. I want it to take a good few thrusts to really get all the way inside of me, not because I’m not wet, but because he’s so big. I want him to have a hard and steady stroke, with an occasional extra, unpredictable hit–or two or three–in there, just to keep me guessing. I want him to shift me onto my knees facing away from him, then onto his lap facing him, then onto the side of the bed, then up in the air, bouncing me, then back onto my back as I finally climax. I want it to take a long time for me to come, and I want to come so hard the blood leaves my head and I get woozy. I want him to make sure I’ve had mine before he takes his. Slinging my knees over his shoulders, with a quick, urgent rhythm, because he needs me.

I want him to sleep in the wet spot.

Even if he weren’t gay, I don’t fuck with the workfolks. No kind of short-distance relationship is for me. Because then I’ve totally fucked up my shit when it inevitably goes sour. Quickly goes sour, I should say. I’m the girl who’s too cautious to try to fuck the guy who works at the store next door, because then I’ll have to walk five extra blocks to get half and half. It’s not worth it to me.

But somewhere, in some other reality, I don’t want to be so cautious, and I want him to be interested in my kind of tits, and I want us to be having crazy monkeysex right now, while my husbands play spades in the other room.