SEXIS WRONG

Pervert
Jill Nagle
He’s on his stomach, breathing slow. I’m moving my hands
over and over his back, kneading the knots out of tight muscles,
smoothing the surface of his skin, feeling the occasional
sprout of hair or random mole—and then it happens.
The feeling overtakes me; in that instant, I know there’s no
turning back. From that moment on, I contrive to orchestrate
all my movements to reach my goal, without tipping him off
to the truth.
I pinch and press the skin all over his back, holding and twisting
in many places, as if I meant to execute a special neuromuscular
technique—so that when I press and wriggle my
thumbs around that special pore, he won’t wonder why.
I’ve found that long strokes of my fingers alongside the target
area help to loosen the skin in preparation for removal. In
these circumstances, it’s always a multiphase process, with
each step needing to be worked in around the, well, more
expected activities. Irving writhes whenever I stroke his ass,
and tilts his large, white, hairy buns skyward. I spank him
lightly, and he groans. I yawn.
I don’t know why I’ve never just come right out and asked
someone, Dude, can I pop the zit on your back? Maybe it’s
because I’m afraid they’ll say no; maybe it’s because I love
the challenge and the satisfaction I get of using my stealth
extraction skills undercover.
My breathing becomes labored as I pass the designated coordinates
again and again, searching for signs of readiness for
the kill. Suddenly, Irving turns his head up toward me.
“I have to ask you something,” he says. My hands freeze.
Fuck. BUS-ted, I think.
“Sure, Irving, what’s up?”
“I’ve never had a woman, you know,” he pauses. I know
what’s coming.
“Fuck you up the butt?” I offer, brightly. His face reddens.
“Uh, yeah.”
Am I tampering nonconsensually
with a part of him I have no business
touching?
As we ready ourselves for this deed, I’m pondering how to
proceed with the important task at hand. It’s not as if I have
no practice.
During my tenure as a San Francisco call girl, I have successfully
extracted approximately 26 columns of compacted sebum,
otherwise known as blackheads, which are now probably
forever lodged in the camouflage of my beige carpet.
Despite my best efforts, I’ve never managed
to retrieve one later for closer inspection of my
triumph.
Yet I know from looking before tossing that
some are long and hard, and, I suspect, have
been hiding in their host’s back for many, many months, if
not years. This sort of incubation period yields a product that
is quite firm and deeply rooted. I have no use, of course, for
the young ones that have had no time to ripen and solidify.
Besides, they are usually too messy, and I tend to be squeamish.
I’ve become quite a connoisseur over the years and
often pass over prospects others would jump at. Let them,
I say. I know my vintages and will harvest no fruit before its
time.
118 EVERYTHING YOU KNOW ABOUT SEX IS WRONG