Fucking is such a big deal, and I mean a production. My friends don’t get it, because they are professional THOTS. But this casual tricking is hard as fuck. You have to stretch, like do a Warrior 1 and a Sun Salutation and downward dog because the positions niggas want you in hurt. Bent over, your knee pushed into your throat, folded in half, ankles crisscrossed. Or on your stomach with your cheek pressed against the headboard and your crotch pushed down to hell from the pounding. Or on your side in some kind of cobra.
It’s some bullshit.
Then there’s the cleaning. The fucking hose. I mean, you haven’t inserted anything bigger than toilet tissue in there for six months, so you’re tight as a wall outlet. And the checking and testing and the timed eating for optimal ease with the cleaning so that it doesn’t take longer than the actual sex you’re trying to have. And God forbid you’re out of town, which is where you’re more likely to do some random whoring so as not to run into any of these assholes at the supermarket or a site visit. And you have to go to the Walgreens to get the enema because you’re not THOTful enough about sex to travel with one. But thank God you’re home this time, you tell yourself, debating on whether to tell your best friend your plans to drag your libido out of the garage.
Nope, you don’t want to hear it.
Instead you just move on to the enema, which is still a struggle because it requires you to pour the saline out and fill it back with water if you don’t want your piping to feel like someone lit a match to it. Then you have to make it work and hope that you didn’t make things too sensitive because you can never get out all the saline when you’re rinsing the bottle in a hotel bathroom and the asshole is not designed for this. Well, it’s not designed for penis either. It’s a mess. All a mess.
And you would have done the top thing because you’re really versatile and understand this about yourself. And you’re older than he is, whoever he is, for sure. But the trouble of putting up the shot framed to make you look like trade makes you feel like you’re stooping to some early elementary version of puberty reserved for men who have to feel like men and want to check your voice to make sure it’s not too high. Then they need you to be Fifty Cent and have a giant forearm of a dick to stretch them this way and that and the extra work you have to put in while they lay there is just too much energy for your old ass at this point. So you opt for the fucking Equate bottle instead.
Because it’s easier.
And that’s before we get into the whole back and forth. You open up the profile and your ass or shape or something is splattered in your profile pic and you try not to look at it as you shake your head, embarrassed you bothered to make a profile in the first place only to wait to see if there were maybe two new people in the city that might find you. And then just when you think this is a bad fucking idea and throw your phone on the floor it beeps with a “Whassup” or some other non-greeting non-sentence from a person you would never talk to if you met at the Starbucks but are desperate enough in the moment to entertain after all that cleaning you did. And you fend off repeat offenders and say no to the people you regretted showing a picture to but are too sympathetic to block.
Then there are the one word answers and questions and texts that go something like:
Sup
Yo man - Because “Hey man” is too, you know, gay. Or so some negro said.
Wyd
At home
Horny af frfr
And this is when you pull out my urban ghetto inner project dictionary to find out what this shit means. It’s not in there. And you’re mad at Alonzo Westbrook who is gay and black and had the nerve to start something with his Hip Hop Dictionary but didn’t bother coming out with a second edition with this new millennial acronym in it. You refuse to call your bestie because he already complains that you don’t keep up and won’t let you live down guessing Megan was a Kentucky Derby winner.
Oh me too fr fr
Wyd
Now you have to call your bestie and ask his ass what frfr stands for to confirm that it’s what you think it is so that you can contextualize wyd. Only so that he can bludgeon you with his frustration with why you bother taking yourself through the motions pretending you’re going to actually fuck this time, which makes you have to convince him that you agree that you really need to end the drought after your ex. This admission giving him full reign to now be invested in what the hell you’re doing, excited that you’re going to finally do a booty call but irritated that you are so far removed from the world that you don’t know standard text abbreviations.
So this time you send, “That is what’s up.”
“But you didn’t spell it out like that did you?,” your friend tells you, gravel in his tone. “‘That is what’s up’ is not actually what you wrote, right?”
“I mean, those are the words in the language he understands, no?”
“Bitch, what is wrong with you? Sound it out and write that. Contractions. Phonetics. That’s whassup.”
Because really if you’re just trying to have sex you should not be interested at all in sounding like you have an absolutely irrelevant degree. And if you’re old enough to remember Hooked on Phonics and Ebonics, it really may not be worth it to adapt.
Then you’re mad that you didn’t use the lexicon right because you switched codes just fine two years ago when you walked in on your boyfriend fucking your TA on your office desk in your house, so you actually know how to switch. Now you just wished you could get to the pictures, which is confusing because you complain daily about Instagram culture and the resistance people have to reading and having full conversations. But right now, you need pictures. Which means you have to go to your pictures on the app and then select one to send, which means looking at it briefly and being reminded how hard it was to even selfie that bitch. You had to make sure the lighting was right, that your entire asshole isn’t visible because then they’ll think you’re a basic THOT whose ass can just be beat up like this is Taggaz or Tim Tales.
He likes it and sends his dick, which is, as usual, two inches bigger than it needs to be in some direction, girth, length, something. And you relent and go to his house, which is a shame because really you think to yourself that if you’re giving up ass he should at least get up off of his and come get it. But you also want the option for him to not know where you live. So you get in your car and drive yourself like some cheap useless slut to his house.
You text your good judy the address and his profile handle so that someone knows the last place you’ve been in case you get stabbed with something other than a penis.
And all you do on the way there is curse yourself out for bothering at all when you know you have to get up and go to work tomorrow while these other negroes stay horizontal in their non-jobs. And you’re angry with yourself that you spent extra time after the shower sorting through all of your casual wear options trying to figure out which one didn’t have some logo or school emblem or something that might invite a guess at who you are or where you graduated or where you invest.
And you expect that when you get to his house, you will do the weird thing where each of you tries to posture and be hood and masculine enough to not turn off the other, which is also some racial post traumatic stress shit that you wish you could just acknowledge out loud and hug and cry cathartically about before exhaling. Except that if you find out he doesn’t understand all of those words, all attraction to his phyne ass will deflate. So you will say less and then take off your own clothes because taking off each other’s is hot and sexy but awkward if you’re strangers and you’re not really a professional THOT. He just wants to cum anyway and his apparatus is so fucking beautiful that everyone is going to let him have it his way.
He doesn’t even have to eat ass for it. But you hope he does. Because you went out of your way to make sure it was edible.
And you feel slightly ashamed for that, not because you judge it but because you might have been able to get away with less manscaping work with the clippers, and then maybe your neck wouldn’t hurt so much from trying to turn it around 160 degrees to see.
Except that this time, you get to his loft and try not to be too freaked out that it’s all white walls, stone, chrome and modern lamps, not a one of them on. You note the television splaying images of architectural feats, one of the shows on TLC about engineering. It is the source of all the light. The sound is low though, and you wonder if he knew that this is exactly what you’d be watching at home if you weren’t whoring around right now.
He is all kinds of things at one time. Generic muscle body, not too ripped, soft toffee skin over those muscles. He looks like the pictures he sent, which is also a mercy.
“Do you want something to drink?”
He says this and you only have enough time to think a full response in your head, which is no, you don’t want to drink a thing because you’re too old for your bladder to fill up and complicate this already delicate casual fuck thing since your nerves are bad. Then he adds:
“The answer is no but manners and decorum make you comfortable, so I asked.”
You are thunderstruck by this. You get actual chills at the accuracy. Then you get self-conscious because you’re trying to figure out how you are so seen so fast.
“No, thank you.”
Then he stands there looking at you, getting larger in front of you like a shadow growing. He stops looking at you and then takes his clothes off like he just came home from work. It’s so sexy and all you can think is that your friend has figured out a way to torture your black ass with a cruel joke. He has hired this negro for sure, you’ve decided.
This strange fuckable dude is naked with a penis so pretty it looks like God took some time out to sculpt that shit Himself. There’s a lost book of the Bible somewhere about this man’s dick, you swear. Your mouth opens and then you close it back because suddenly don’t want him to think you’re a slut even as stupid as that seems since you’re at his house with your plumbing ready at this hour.
And you beg yourself to get out of your head.
“You think it’s unfair that I’m naked and you still have all of your clothes on. So what are you afraid of that you won’t take them off?”
Okay that’s it. This negro is clairvoyant or some shit and you can’t have it. Before he can read or anticipate you anymore, you start taking off your clothes very mundanely, like you’re in your house. All the while you’re trying to concentrate on something conceptual so that nothing else shows up on your face, if that’s where he is reading you. In fact you concentrate on the real origin of that word as you’d use it in homosexual slang, which is spelled “rede” and means “to counsel,” which is ultimately what you’re doing when you let somebody have it.
By the time you complete the thought you are naked. He takes you and guides you down to the bed, from standing to moving back to seated, to reclined, to horizontal. It feels choreographed and so damn spooky that you relax. He starts kissing things. He studies your breathing and listens to what you like. He adjusts the pressure of his lips and figures out what sends you and then he does more of that all over your stomach.
You are a limp mess.
He draws these lines on your body with his fingertips and you are panic-stricken when he stops at areas that make you weak, that make your whole soul light up like Vegas and open up from your inside down your entire rectal column. He sticks around in these places of weakness and continues this with the lips and the fingertips. He keeps the lips in the general collar area while the hands probe down at least to your knee.
Then when he’s done messing you up, he goes down every one of those weird places you didn’t know feel good, except he does it with his tongue. This negro’s tongue is its own organism. You’re now scared to death, thinking this is beyond God’s endorsement of you having a tryst from time to time (or sex at all for that matter). You start to let go finally, clear that you should just go on ahead and be okay.
You give up. Surrender to him. Let go. You sink into the sheet and stop worrying about your friend, or getting murdered Gone Girl style, or places that might get soft if you start breathing deeply. You don’t think about your love handles, nor worry about whether he can still see that your stomach is really flat like the picture. You just fucking let it go and feel him decode every erogenous zone you never knew you had.
That thing he did with his lips, exploring to find out what felt good? He does the same thing with his magical perfect penis. He pushes it in, the way eighteen wheelers pull into a parking spot. The head of his dick is like a sci-fi scope. As insane as it sounds, you feel him probe your entire canal and record the parts that are going to sell you to him, like some discount floozy. He stops at every place of ecstasy.
You’re mad that you feel like there is ecstasy. You have closed your eyes and just gotten into it. Then his dick grows sideways inside pushing up against your walls and hitting that one spot with fury. You’re fighting not to cum. He must see you open up your mouth to try to say to stop making the feeling so good. The struggle goes on as you search the backs of your eyelids to find some self-control. There is none to find, so you open your eyes and watch him make decisions.
You’re mad at his detachment, that he is doing this to you with the regularity of ballers dribbling or nail techs filing.
You look down toward his shoulders and see a thin, twinkish black man standing on his knees. Obviously, the man on top of you is a magician; he has you seeing shit now. The twink is cute with cat eyes and thick eyebrows, looking like something out of a Netflix sci-fi soft porn, or maybe some anime. You close your eyes again and try not to figure anything out. You’re sure there are drugs on your body-pleaser’s fingertips and it’s okay at this point.
“Thank you. Walk out now.”
Did you hear him just talk to someone? No, no, because that would mean there is a real person in the room other than you and that’s not true at all. Right? You open your eyes just to check and see that this is not magic. There is an actual young man walking away from the bed with a black jock strap framing his ass. He has more ass than your entire staff, which you know isn’t saying a lot because of the waifish girls in public relations, but the two white guys have black back you’re admittedly angry about.
More than this though, you’re horrified, indignant and afraid. Before you can protest about all of it, your captor parks his dick right on the cum button as if he knows it’s GPS coordinates, and grows. Truly, he grows. He makes his shit get bigger while you dig your fingers into his arms. You pull him in as you also try to push him away. You don’t want the experience to end for him.
You don’t want the experience to end for you.
“Wait.”
He does not wait. He digs a bit harder in that spot and you start to cum. “Start to cum” because it was only the beginning. You feel that spot on the inside swell like a fiesta is happening. The party carries itself along your whole asshole and moves all the way toward the base of his dick before it doubles back, having grabbed more festivity. You have grabbed his ass and pulled him further in. The party makes its way along his growing dick to the place he’s pushed it and grabs the pleasure before it can make it out of your open mouth.
This is all before your cum floods the crease between your stomachs. Without even moving the dick holding you hostage, he undulates to move more cum out of you.
It seems like three whole minutes of straight ecstasy.
“Would you like to keep going?”
You can’t speak.
He picks you up and puts you on top of him. You are open in every way and you are vulnerable when he opens you up from below that you start to worry. You think about how much you’re going to think about this all week, how much you’re going to want to be back here tomorrow and then the next day having him open up your insides from below. Against your will, you accept that you will be cleaning out your asshole again.
You close your eyes because now they are making actual tears. Less than an hour after arriving at the house of this dude, who could be a psychopath for all you know, you are actively rescheduling entire evenings in your head so that you can come back and do this. You will have to summon whatever ounce of self-respect you have not to beg if he is unavailable. Because right now you are doing everything you said you wouldn’t, starting with allowing this man to continue fucking you after you’ve cum.
Then you realize he probably flipped you over because he knew your dick would be too sensitive to touch right away.
Tears. Real fucking tears. You blink them away.
You start to reference the contact lenses you don’t have on until you notice that twink reflected in the mirror over his headboard. He’s back, his body facing the wall, slowly lowering himself as if sitting on a penis himself. Because you actually don’t have on your lenses you can’t quite make out for sure if you’re seeing this black boy for real.
Your ass conqueror slaps your ass cheeks with fervor as if urging them on and your body beams. It can’t help itself. You are startled as the twink you think you see drops from the mirror field of view all the way. You’re now sure that this magician under you is behind it all.
And then you cum again.
When this is all over, you’re ecstatic, embarrassed, doomed. He has not cum and you feel obligated, whorish, greedy.
“You may come back. Unless you want me to visit you.”
You are undone. Maybe drugged by the new serotonin he pushed in you with his dick.
“Yes,” you say. “I mean, sure. I—”
He nods, understanding that you have no no’s for him. Then he does a soft whistle.
The light in the hallway turns on. You wonder if there is a whistle-oriented Alexa. You glance over to the hallways and see the dark, smooth, thin arm slither away from the doorframe. It was so quick that you almost don’t believe it. Maybe you imagined the twink completely. Maybe it was that good.
It is good enough that you have to call your judy right away.
“You came twice?? Yes bitch! I’m so proud of you!” your friend is saying on the drive home.
“I felt bad that he didn’t.”
“Don’t. He’ll be alright. Probably one of those dudes who thinks he loses brain cells every time he has an orgasm. Dumbasses. He’ll be fine.”
But he is smart as fuck for sure. Because over the next three days you have no fewer than two dozen thoughts about some aspect of this night. You don’t even realize that you’ve refilled the Equate bottle and started eating dinner a bit earlier. By the fourth day, when your pride has run to Elephant Graveyard, you go back on the app to ask him for seconds.
Except that he’s nowhere to be found. You panic like a karen around a black girl in a catsuit. Then it occurs to you, Did he block me?
You break on down and call your good judy to search for the guru that made your asshole woke.
“He ain’t on here,” he tells you. “It’s not just you. I mean the dude vanished from the app. Looks like we’re going to have to keep this plumbing going with an alternative pipe. Let me get my drink and start looking!”