Macho Sluts (49 page)

The spoiler was not always kind in the pursuit of his obsession. He often did the emotional equivalent of picking people up and moving them out of his way as if he were passing the ketchup to a stranger in a diner. The erstwhile tops and persistent bottoms he brushed aside were not pleased to be treated like so much flotsam, and some of them had a taste for revenge. He had made enough enemies to acquire his nickname, and not enough friends to hear what it was.

He also did not think that some of his targets might become, in turn, obsessed with him—too obsessed to risk seeing him again. He never knew that the bondage expert began to tie himself up every morning, putting himself in a complex wire harness that he wore under his business suit. This excited him so much that he repeatedly had to leave his desk to masturbate. Lunch hours often led him into the thickest shrubbery of the cruisy part of the park. Sometimes he did not come back to work. The spoiler could not comfort him when he lost his job, because he did not know about it, but the other man could blame him for it, and did.

We are raised to think that everything in the world occurs naturally as a set of paired opposites. It is almost impossible for us to know what anything is if we cannot locate and define its counterpart. The spoiler was an anomaly. The same system that created him found that he threatened its premises. And that system was not known for dealing with irritating matters by making pearls out of it.

There are many reasons why an individual selects one particular role. A man who knows that his need to bottom is much stronger than his need to top, and who persists in presenting himself as a bottom to other people even if he does not get played as often as he would like, may be more stable than a top with a full dance card. A desire that a bottom can take in his stride may horrify a top beyond endurance. The sad truth is that many tops (even good ones) are made out of failed bottoms. To such a man, there is no point in topping if it does not somehow make him a better person than the meat-puppet he is working over. There is a dignity in self-control, there is glory in ruling others, but there is none in being a bottom who simply can't get laid.

A man who sees that there is a shortage of his brand of sex objects in the world and turns himself into something that he would want desperately, if only it were possible to encounter this doppelganger on the wharves, may be doing the best he can with the material available. Performing such a transformation is probably easier (maybe even healthier) than trying to alter the nature of his desire, the face that he sees when he imagines that someone is making him come and watching him do it. But narcissism is a sad kind of love, doomed to be unrequited. We can fall in love with our own legends, but they never love us back.

Tops acquire status not just by doing good work, but by taking down other tops. A fairly mild form of this is the verbal competition over who is the best informed, the safest, the most exotic, the most sadistic. Another mild form of competition is comparing your boy to another man's attendant, making sure the bottom-man who accompanies you is going to outshine all the other masters' possessions. A more efficient, albeit nastier, method is to discreetly allow the word to circulate that someone has moved his keys over for you. It is
de
rigueur
to make a disclaimer that this is no disgrace, it is a completely human thing to do … but still, that other top knew who to come to when he wanted someone who was his superior. The speaker then buffs his fingernails and prepares for business to boom.

The spoiler did not engage in verbal jockeying for position because he was interested in being better than other tops, only in attracting them. Everyone wants to get the stud at the top of the pyramid. That's why enchanted princesses live on top of glass mountains. Need it be said that the spoiler never bottomed in a sense that most leathermen could recognize? He made a perfect icon of the dominant without peer, the unavailable, unattainable beauty who seems ripe for—well, spoiling.

That is why he was so surprised, when he finally came home from the master's house, to feel a cold cylinder of metal graze his temple and come to rest behind his ear. He froze, his key not quite inside the lock. The man behind him sounded out of breath. His gasps were so wrenching that it made the gun tremble against the spoiler's head.

“What do you want?” he asked gently. He really wanted to ask who it was. It seemed absurd to die ignorant of who had murdered him, but he was afraid the gunman would be infuriated if he realized the spoiler had not recognized him instantly by the sound of his footsteps or the smell of his sweat. And if he could avoid it, he would rather not die. He had not learned how to use his new straight razor. His wrestling coach was due at eleven the next morning. The magneto he had found in an Army-Navy store was still sitting on his workbench, waiting to be repaired. What about the lessons in Vietnamese he had planned to start at the community college next month?

“I want—I want—I want everything back that you stole from me!” This was no doubt supposed to be a bold and irrefutable demand; instead, it was a whine full of self-doubt and self-pity.

“If I have anything that belongs to you, I'll be happy to give it back,” the spoiler said carefully.

“Damn right you will!”

A long silence followed. What was he supposed to do, the spoiler wondered, start turning out his pockets? It finally occurred to him to simply say, “Can you explain this a little more? What's happening here?”

“Don't play dumb, you sneaking, lying son of a bitch. What do you think this is, a hold-up? I don't want your money, you asshole. I want my self-respect back! I want to be a man again.”

“Oh. I see.” He thought that over, his brain working with serene rapidity despite the fact that this was a life-or-death situation. “If I hurt you, I'm sorry,” he said. “But I would never deprive anyone of his manhood. I love men. All I want to do is give them what they really want. How can anything that two men do together make one of them less than a man? If I did that I would defeat my own purpose, can't you see?”

“Bastard. You planned it. You plotted against me. I trusted you, and you turned on me. Now I'm going to show you what it feels like to lose control when you think you're in the driver's seat and everything is coming up roses. How do you like it so far, huh?”

“I wish I understood why you are so angry,” the spoiler said, deeply saddened by his inability to console this man. “Did I do anything to you that you didn't enjoy?”

There was no answer. The gun shook. Would it go off by accident?

“Did I do anything you didn't want me to do?”

Silence.

“Did you really want me to stop? Would it make you happy to do the exact same thing to me, whatever it was, right now? Come inside with me. I promise I will let you. You can even take pictures.” He had no idea how haughty this sounded. One of the things he had never done to get next to someone was beg or plead.

Quiet. Quiet busy as the grave.

“Do you want to be sure no one ever does that to you again? I give you my word I won't ever touch you or notice you. It will be like we never met.”

Still no answer. ‘I'm getting tired of talking to myself,' the spoiler thought. Was that grating sound pent-up weeping about to burst forth, or was it someone grinding his teeth as he cocked a trigger?

“Can you think about anything else when you come?”

A Dash of Vanilla

You're lucky you're handsome and I'm in love. Otherwise, I wouldn't bother.

It's very difficult to get you off. I'm complaining, but there's also a part of me that likes it. Most women are difficult to get off, and in the past, I've dealt with that by encouraging them to masturbate while I suck on their tits or fuck them or talk dirty to them. I'm glad you resist that, saving masturbation for the times when we're too tired or too sick to come any other way, and need some quick and easy stimulation and release before we can fall asleep. I'm glad you insist that I get you off, insist that I keep trying and work harder to get better at it. When your climax finally does come, it's precious to me because I've put so much sweat and effort into getting you there. I sometimes think it's better than the quick, helpless orgasms I have when you've been fucking me for only five minutes, because I always want more, I always need to come again and again. The one you have leaves you drained. You seem completely satisfied. You're able to stop. I'm not.

Making love to you doesn't start out feeling difficult. The summers here are very hot, so you take off your clothes as soon as you walk into the bedroom, and then you lounge around and read your mail. Your legs just naturally seem to come to rest with your knees bent and far apart. I never know if you are deliberately exposing your cunt to me, how much of your behavior is exhibitionistic or provocative, and how much of it is just an attempt to get comfortable in the heat, or unselfconsciousness about your own nudity. It's probably the latter. You are always surprised when I tell you how powerfully your body attracts me. You do not believe you are beautiful.

No matter what your motives, my eyes are repeatedly drawn to your perfect, small, firm breasts; your abdominal muscles; your sharp and shapely hip bones; the long thighs, scarred during a particularly vicious rape. Your scars are hateful to me because you were hurt there, but so dear to me because you survived to wear them, and have defeated the shame and anger so you can still offer me your cunt, allow me to penetrate and have you. When I look at the dark, fuzzy curls of your pubic triangle (some of your pubic hair wanders up your belly and down the inside of your thighs), the rose color of your crinkled sex-lips and clit, it seems easy and natural to roll over onto my belly between your legs and start licking you.

You always taste good, even if you go for days without showering. In fact, I love you better when you are pungent. It drives me crazy, licking and licking, because the more I lick, the wetter your cunt gets and the stronger the flavor is. I can't lick it away. I imagine you will produce more and more fluid until I could actually gulp it down, swallow it by the mouthful, like water or semen.

You always respond quickly to the first lick, with a groan that says, “Oh, God, yes, she's doing that, I need it, will she do it more?” This encourages me, and I begin to think about pleasing you, making you come, instead of just pleasing myself by filling my mouth with the texture and musky taste of your cunt.

You like to have your cunt lips pulled back and up, lifting the hood off your clitoris, until the glans rides snug against your pubic bone, the size of a kernel of corn. I put my hands on each side of your cunt and open it—gently at first, because I know I will be holding it apart for a long time, and I don't want you to get numb or sore. You spread your legs further and groan a little, a groan that says, “She's really serious. She's going to keep on doing it. And she wants me to come. Will I be able to? Can she make me come?”

Unlike me, you want to feel my tongue right on the glans of your clitoris. You don't want it too hard, but you like it much harder than I do. So I have to begin carefully and get over my fear of hurting you. This is why I usually go in circles around your clit instead of licking straight up and over the glans or from side to side across it. Once I do something that makes you feel really good, you want me to stay in the spot and keep doing the same thing until you come. You like it when I flick my tongue quickly against the hard bud, hummingbird-quick, but I can't keep this up for very long, so I'm reluctant to start it. Now, in the beginning, before I've committed myself to a clear pattern of stimulation, I feel like I can tease you a little without frustrating you, so I slip further down to run my tongue around the inside of your vagina, as far in as I can get, and sometimes tip your ass up and your legs back over your head so I can eat your ass, too.

You've told me to stay in one place and do the same thing until you come. You've also told me that you sometimes need to move around to put my tongue in just the right place. So I never know when I should let my mouth follow your hips, or when I should hold my head still and let your hips drift past my face until you settle into a more effective rhythm and location. You never seem to be able to tell me what's going on while it's happening, so I have to guess, and half of the time I'm right and half of the time I'm wrong.

You also confuse me because if you are really turned on, you hold absolutely still, for fear that I'll move off of the right spot. But when you get close to coming, you move a lot, fast enough and hard enough to hurt me if I'm not quick enough to follow you. But in the beginning, if you move, it's usually a sign that you're frustrated and want it to feel better and are starting to worry that it's not going to work. I do the best I can to tell the difference, but there's always a point when I'm eating you where I lose touch with you completely and lose all my self-confidence, too. I think, “I'm so clumsy and inadequate, I'll never be able to make her come. I'll bet I never really made any of my lovers come. They were all faking it.”

Your thick, coarse bush makes my nose and cheeks just slightly raw, and the salty wetness of your cunt makes these raw places burn. My hands keep slipping off your lips because they're wet and slippery, and I get so discouraged, I want to scream or cry. Then I have to pump up my ego and get very arrogant to continue, to keep myself from giving up. Which means I have to guard against suddenly licking you too fast and too hard, because I get macho and too full of myself.

This burst of bravado can't last long. Circling your clit with my tongue, my lips, my nose, hoping, hoping, struggling to keep just the right pace and pressure and tension on your clit, I get worn down to my stubborn core, the tough silent part of me that does not question the decision to perform a difficult task, but simply shoulders it like a heavy burden and carries it until I drop. I forget about you tasting good or feeling good to me or turning me on. The idea is to make myself an instrument of your pleasure, as if I were a sex machine or a slave. So I make my mouth passive, keep my hands still in absolutely the same position, and repeat again and again a motion that I hope you will find erotic enough to eventually succumb to.