(Apparently we have to post what we’re writing today, so here’s the next thing. We’re still at Blind Tiger and only three beers in, but so far it’s a good fucking day.)
There are six women I have crushes on.
I want to fuck three of them up the ass, have two of them call me Daddy, and the last one… There’s not even a good place to begin. Not to say that I order my crushes or my partners, because we’re all fucking equal and all this primary stuff is bullshit. As if two people don’t have enough of that on their own.
So, let’s go with number six because nothing is hotter than calling women by a number. I’d call her Tits, or Legs, but they don’t come close to describing how fucking tight her pussy is. I could call her Flower or Love Of My Life, but you still wouldn’t understand what it’s like when she chokes on my cock. Hell, you wouldn’t understand what it does to me when she whispers the word yes in my ear.
Number Six, Number Six, even the words make my cock hard and my breath shallow. If I had to tell you I’d leave the rest of them I’d say it over and over again. Just for a taste of what I can only imagine is today a very smooth cunt. If I had to stop writing, stop drinking, and stop lying I’d do them all for a moment of bliss in your ass. If I had to go door to door for the goddamn Mormons for just one minute of you looking in my eyes with my balls against you chin I’d at least make the fucking promise.
I love you too numbers one through five and I want you all more than I could ever put into words (let alone a blog post). But Number Six, if you want me to murder everyone I care about for just seconds of your lips against mine, I would lie through my fucking teeth and tell you I’d do it.
"Dude, does your wife always come that loudly, or is it just with me?"
"I don’t know. Does yours call everyone Daddy, or is that just me?"
I stared at him over the rim of my glass of Rodenbach Grand Cru and I wished for a moment I had ordered the Three Philosophers like he had. He always knows which beer to order.
"Last night after we had fucked six times I thought she was going to pass out, but instead she sucked my dick all the way down her throat until I came again. She’s a pro."
"Yours can’t get mine more than halfway in her mouth. But I’m sure it’s not her fault."
The bartender poured the rest of the bottle out into his glass, and I smiled at her. She had complimented his order when she had raised an eyebrow at mine. Sometimes I think I don’t get anything right.
"Has your wife always loved it up the ass like she does now?" he asked out of the blue.
"I don’t know, has yours always enjoyed begging and crying at the same time?"
We were both quiet for a while as we nursed our beers. What else was there to say?
"Do you want a sip of this. I think I’m over it."
"Sure. You want to finish my Grand Cru?"
"I’d love to. What a perfect fucking beer. I was jealous when I heard you order it."
I pushed my glass over to him and he did the same. I smiled as he took my hand and held it for a few long minutes.
Everything was going to be just fine.
She only smokes in the bathtub.
She puts her feet up, places her beer on the edge of the tub and goes through six matches before she gets one to light. From my seat on the edge of the toilet I watch her inhale the smoke through her mouth and then out through her nose; I go from being disgusted to erect.
I watch as she adjusts the taps with her feet, letting the hot water flow until she can barely stand it and then turning it off again. She doesn’t talk with the Camel between her lips, and sometimes I forget what she sounds like. In fact, I look at her like a stranger, and I wonder how she got there.
And then it all starts.
I wonder what this stranger’s lips taste like when she’s done smoking, and I wonder what her cunt would feel like against my chin. I want to know how loudly she’ll moan if I pinch her nipples and what she would do if I wrapped my fingers around her neck and squeezed. When she closes her eyes I picture myself standing above her, my hard cock in my hand, jerking off above her until I come on her face and in her hair. I think of her choking and crying, and I don’t recognize her at all.
At the end of her bath she stands up and runs the shower as I climb in behind her. I pull her hair back and rub her shoulder under the hot water. I kiss her neck and push my fingers inside her until I can’t stand it any more. She leans forward casually and let’s me slip inside her from behind without ever saying a word. I touch her gently as we make love beneath the water, and I come within seconds.
Below Burp Castle is a bar that’s not supposed to be a secret. They share the same beer cellar, and it feels even more like a Trappist Brewery than the room above, but I forget about it more often than not.
“How come you’ve never taken me here before?” she asked, sitting between us as we dipped artisanal cheeses in sweet local honey.
He looked over at me and shook his head. He didn’t know it was there either, and Belgian beers were supposed to be my specialty. It wasn’t out of the way, and it was cozy and warm on a cold night. It was always right there, but I passed it by unless something unhinged my memories.
I noticed they were holding hands beneath the table, and I smiled remembering our morning together. There’s something about three people in one relationship that’s impossible to describe.
There’s a look in her eye when she looks at us both, and when he watches us kiss it’s with something between envy and joy. I’ve watched them sleep and fuck, and they’ve washed me in the shower after a night of sweaty transgression. He always mixes the drinks and she makes the coffee while I choose the restaurants.
I took her other hand in mine on the hard wooden table that stretched down along the wall, and I smiled at both of them. Why hadn’t we been there before? Why had we never stumbled down the stairs for late night snacks or even a kiss in the darkness of the basement bar?
“I suppose it sometimes feels like hiding down here,” I said without thinking.
“Hiding can be fun,” she whispered, her breath against my cheek.
“But with you two…”
“What about us two?” he asked.
“There’s nothing to fucking hide.”
Guy New York