SEXIS WRONG

While my dildo is plugging away at Irving’s butt, I take advantage
of the angle to further my cause. If I scratch the surface
of his skin in just the right way, I can often catch the head of
my target and dislodge it just a bit. It’s tricky to keep it intact,
which is 90% of the satisfaction of a job well done.
Pressing and heaving and scratching in rhythm with Irving’s
bucking and grunting, I gradually move things along. I’ve
made some serious headway when Irving
decides it’s time to turn the tables. And no,
I don’t mean me on my stomach; my smooth
back is no fun, anyway, and I wouldn’t let him
tamper with it even if it were. That’s only for
sacred intimates. Irving, not surprisingly, is in
the mood for...the Big Missionary Finish.
While Irving is screwing me, I wonder about the ethics of
what I’ve done. Am I tampering nonconsensually with a part
of him I have no business touching? Is there a Mrs. Irving?
Has she monitored The Big One over the course of Its life?
Has Irving expressly forbidden her to disturb It? What if she’s
like me and has been mourning the opportunity to have at It?
Upon witnessing the gaping hole soon to be in Its place, will
she pack up her things and leave him, now certain by this evidence
that he’s been with someone else? I’m nervous now.
Still, I can’t let It be.
It’s in the Death Zone, which means that merely a few wellplaced
strokes and prods will free the particle permanently. I
pray silently that he doesn’t miss it. I have to time this carefully,
because once the thing is gone, I will want to simply roll
over and go to sleep, no matter whether there’s still more
time on the clock. Okay, four more minutes. Here goes:
Thumbs up the vertebrae, concentrate there, almost. Fake
him out with a double press along the right, so he thinks nothing
of pressing hard on the l-l-l-left, come on, you little fucker,
I haven’t got all night, once more, oh who gives a shit if he
It’s unusually large, solid steel-gray
at the top, fading down to a roasted
golden color, and finishing off
with a delicate ivory.
knows what I’m doing, WHAM! There it is. Almost! I run my
fingers over it; it doesn’t move. Okay, scratch. Scratch down
below, work my way up, run my fingernails RIGHT OVER that
baby, and yes! Yes!! YES!!!
I perch the bibelot on my thumbnail and stare. It’s unusually
large, solid steel-gray at the top, fading down to a roasted
golden color, and finishing off with a delicate ivory. I can’t
dwell here too long, or he’ll wonder. Still—it’s a rare beauty. I
wish for a moment that I had a magnifying, three-dimensional
Polaroid. Reluctantly, I flick my treasure away. Ephemeral and
unsung, like Irving’s orgasm, my peak moment has come and
gone.
Irving has had a completely silent, unremarkable (at least
in its palpable manifestations) orgasm, and is resting on his
side, probably thinking about the next round of semiconductors
he must peddle to Silicon Valley. I offer to finish up with...
a back rub!
With Irving on his stomach again, I notice that the prior
course of events has rendered my hidden prize ever-so-ready
to be liberated from its tight, fleshy prison. My groin is pulsing—only
from having been plumbed, I’m sure.
I breathe, enjoying the resolution period, and pass my hands
absentmindedly across the impressive hole I’ve left in Irving’s
back. Goodbye, little work of art, I think. Irving’s DNA, and
the weeks of history you contain, are now forever immortalized
in my carpet, along with the other 26 unsuspecting
tricks’ epidermal artifacts. A few more strokes, and I get up
to wash my hands.
As Irving sheepishly dons his creased slacks, white buttondown
shirt, and tie with sailboats cruising a sea of navy, he
says, “Tell me something, Isabella.”
Terrified, I say, “Sure, Irving, what is it?”
“Do you think I’m a pervert?”
PERVERT 119