Next morning, fittingly, it’s his cock that wakes me,
insistently pressing against the crack of my ass; it’s
sometime well before dawn, the room dark and soft as
blue chenille, and though his penis is up and strutting
about, cock-a-doodle-doo, H is still sound asleep with
his arm around my waist. Nevertheless he’s
unconsciously thrusting his pelvis against me, his
erection instinctively seeking entrance into my warm,
soft body. It’s endearing, I think, this blind drive to
hump me. I’d like to encourage it at every opportunity.
Yes, that’s it, the idea I want to get across: I am a
thing-for-fucking.
I reach behind me and take hold of H’s cock and guide
it between the cheeks of my ass, which is already
sticky with the precum of his earlier somnolent efforts
to penetrate me. The head of his cock feels so smooth,
so sleek, so hot…and so very big against my tight
little hole. Alas, I can’t wait for the day when H can
simply roll over and sleepily fuck me at will, bend me
over anywhere and everywhere, whenever the mood strikes
him, to deposit an urgent load of cum in my ass.
And why stop there? Mouth, ass, even if they hollow me
out a cunt…it hardly seems as if the body’s potential
to give pleasure has been even close to fully utilized.
For instance, I can imagine “designer orifices” being
opened all over my body, warm wet pockets at various
fetishized places where a man might want to fuck me.
With a cunt cored out of my sole, for instance, a man
could screw me in the foot as I wiggled my toes to
intensify his orgasm; with other strategically placed
cunts, I could be fucked in the chest, between my tits,
under my arm, between the shoulder-blades, or even in
the back of my head, where perhaps a man might shoot
his cum directly into my brain—imagine that, a
braingasm!
The liquidity of my sexuality, pouring as it does from
one gender into another, respecting no boundaries,
causes me to question the very notion of erogenous
fixities—i.e. whether such libidinal localities do or
even should exist—and to consider my desire for the
impossible as something perfectly natural… a logical
extension of my irrationality, something not unlike
what was once mankind’s desire to travel to the moon.
As it is, I am already something of a sexual proteus,
an ever-changing, unnatural object of male fantasy. Why
shouldn’t I then have at the very least seven or eight
different cunts for a man to fuck me in?
For now, in lieu of orifices not yet ready, or still
imaginary, I’m just going to have to make due with the
one hole I have at my disposal, trying to make up in
versatility and availability what it lacks in novelty
and variety. An asshole, after all, hasn’t the mobility
and responsiveness—the loquaciousness, let’s say—of a
mouth, nor can a cunt boast a muscle inside as
possessive of wily intelligence and as subject to
voluntary control as the tongue.
There will always be something uniquely transgressive
about fucking a mouth. No other bodily orifice whether
used for sex or not has the power to communicate with
the subtlety and complexity of language. One can’t help
but feel this is significant, even without thinking the
matter all the way through to its logical and
metaphorical conclusions.
And then, of course, there is the whole matter of
fucking me in the face—the most distinctly unique and
individual part of my body—the thing that makes me
“me.” An ass is faceless—it can be any one of a
thousand, ten thousand asses. A cunt is every bit as
masked and anonymous. To stick a cock into either of
those places, ass or cunt, is to defile nothing, it’s a
zero-sum game, a sexual draw. Ass, cock, cunt—it’s a
horizontal progression, equal backwards and forwards,
an erotic palindrome. No hierarchy is disturbed, no
idol pulled down, here we have neither revolution, nor
vandalism. But to fuck a face is to turn the ladder
upside down.
A cock plunging in and out of a face is to deface—a
graffiti of semen sprayed across the Mona Lisa. A pair
of hairy black balls bouncing against a chin is the
Dali-esque metaphoric equivalent of the bristling and
swollen bellies of two large spiders assaulting the
angelically golden visage of a sunflower. It inspires
in us a perverse frisson of irresistible repugnance and
shuddering fascination. I suggest, as Bataille might,
that this is nothing less than a vision of God.
I manage to extricate myself from H’s embrace just
enough to turn around without quite waking him. He
murmurs, stirs, grabs at me blindly. I slip under the
sheets where his cock is jutting up from beneath his
warm and furry belly. Did I say a vision of God?
Perhaps it is the Goat of Mendes. But is there really a
difference? I slowly lick the shaft, watching how the
light touch of my tongue-tip makes his cock leap and
lunge.
I wonder if he’s having a sex dream; if so, I wonder if
sucking his cock will make it glow more intensely. If H
isn’t having a sex dream, maybe sucking him off will
inspire one. I’m his suckubus, his cum angel, his cock-
a-doodle-do, and my entire raison d’etre is to
facilitate his early-morning R.E.M. orgasm.
At some point before he deposits his load into my
mouth, H is more awake than asleep and, accordingly,
his thrusts grow longer and stronger, until, at last,
he grows still and stiff to prolong the penultimate
moment. Then it’s sliding over my tongue, slippery as
egg yolk, my breakfast, a surprisingly copious amount
of semen. I swallow, like Rocky Balboa in training. I
come up from the tangle of sheets and H motions me into
his arms.
“Good morning,” I whisper, licking my cum-slicked lips.
“Sorry if I woke you. But you were so hard.”
“Oh baby. I’m not complaining. What a way to wake up.”
“It’s still early,” I purr, pleased as punch that I’ve
started the day off right doing something right. And I
haven’t even gotten out of bed yet! There’s hope for me
yet. “Go back to sleep. I’ll start the coffee.”
