Here's a short fiction piece called "Sexpot Vignette #4: Racecars Crash" that I read to about 25 people at an Opium Magazine (OpiumMagazine.com) and Envoy Gallery (EnvoyGallery.com) "Litstravaganza", Aug 2, 2008, at a bar called Home Sweet Home, 131 Chrystie St, Manhattan, NY.
Warning: The piece is totally inappropriate and rushed and raw and embarrassing and too try-hard, but hey, I wrote it and I performed it and here it is.
She’s steering me. She makes all the racecar noises as she changes gears. She fists me, accelerating through gears first, second, third. Noises of vrrmm.
She’s sitting on the toilet.
Now she’s BJ’ing me like a trooper.
The noises change. Slurping, slippery noises.
My ejaculation moment is sans mouth. Uncommon for me. I withdraw and throw it chest-way. I diff and doink and spunquish all over her boobs, then I sit on her lap.
I’m straddling her like this.
She’s sitting on the toilet with her legs together like this.
Softly bouncing me on her lap, she sings slowly, “This is the way the lady rides, the lady rides, the lady rides, this is the way the lady rides, early in the morning.”
I don’t know this nursery rhyme.
Softly bouncing me, singing slowly to me. “This is the way the gentleman rides, the gentleman rides, the gentleman rides, this is the way the gentleman rides, early in the morning.”
She starts bouncing a little harder, a little faster.
My parents never sang this nursery rhyme to me.
Now she bounces me at a furious pace and I’m hanging on for dear life. She sings to me, “This is the way Luke rides, Luke rides, Luke rides, this is the way Luke rides, early in the morning.”
She opens her legs.
I learn later that adults play this game with kids, and the trick is to pretend to partially drop the kid between your legs, but catch them before they hit the ground. See, kids know the nursery rhyme, they anticipate falling, they know that they’re going to be dropped and caught.
She doesn’t catch me.
I fall straight down between her legs, then backwards. My head hits the doorknob. My legs jams between the toilet and the heavy magazine rack with a dozen Time Outs in it.
She’s apologizing profusely.
I’m laughing profusely-er.
As I’m typing this sexual vignette into my laptop, we’re having sex. She’s straddling me, bouncing, and I’m typing off on the side.
It’s difficult for me see the laptop screen because I’m leaning back and I’m typing like this and her long hair gets in my eyes as she bounces and this is supposed to be sexual exploration.
I stop typing and pull her hair back so I can see my laptop.
She scolds me, scolds me. “Keep writing,” she commands.
Why does it turn me on--I write--when she spits onto my penis from a great height?
Why am I writing this line and thinking of word counts? Why can’t I just be blissed out writing and having sex simultaneously?
Why did I write that?
I take umbrage at how, the moment I remove my hands from the keyboard, she yells at me to keep writing. That’s pressure. Pressure to write forward. She’s still bouncing on me, bless, but now I’m worried about my typing speed. What are my words per minute while I’m not having sex, compared to my words per minute while I’m having sex?
Also, given you’ll read about my orgasm in the next few paragraphs, and you’ll be able to:
1. Tally my word count.
2. Estimate the time it would take a normal person to type that much, then
3. You’ll be able to calculate how long we were having sex.
4.You’ll also be able to form an opinion as to whether I “lasted” a satisfactorily long enough time before cuming.
Make no mistake: Manhood is a stupid, precarious thing.
I’m going to cum soon. I’m going to write about it and I’m going to do it. I actually don’t yet feel like I’m really that close, but I want to. My neck is starting to cramp.
Okay, think orgasm thoughts. Visualize. You’re forcing it, Luke. My neck throbs. My penis is limping.
Should I cum for her?
Will she haul me over the coals of vulnerability if I do?
Totally limp dick now. This story isn’t going anywhere. I’m typing slower and slower. She climbs off and starts mouthing my unresponsive penis like I’m yesterday’s straw in yesterday’s empty iced coffee cup.
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