I woke up on the floor of some dude’s house with a screaming headache and one ear smothered against someone’s skin. In the dimness of the room I opened my eyes and saw the polyester rug staring back at me. I tilted my head slightly and stared ahead at her landing strip bush practically shoved in to face. One flap of her vagina was sticking out from the other flap. My head was pressed against her inner thigh. Her other leg trailed off to the left, as if in mid-kick.
I breathed in the plastic-tangy smell of recent sex. I raised my head and looked over the rest of her body. She was snoozing on the floor, a pile of clothes as a pillow, completely naked. She wore a dark-ish wife beater. She was attractive enough. A number of other people were sprawled out beyond her, along the floor leading up to the couch, on which two figures seemed to be trying to get busy under a large blanket.
I didn’t remember anything. I stood up. I was wearing boxers but I wasn’t wearing a shirt. I looked on either side of myself and didn’t see anything resembling one of my shirts. I reached under thigh-pillow-smelly-vag’s head and yanked out a white t-shirt. She stirred, but didn’t wake up. I put the shirt on. It seemed masculine enough. I felt too ill to go looking for my pants.
I found my sandals by the door and wandered out of the house. Thrash-Metal music played at a soft volume as I opened the metal door with a screen on it and stepped in to the morning. I licked my lips and swallowed to see if I could taste anything remotely like pussy in my mouth. I tasted only the Jameson I’d drank the night before. I wiped my mouth and a spindly black hair came off my lips. It was obviously not a hair from somebody’s head. It had a female twist to it. The cool air met me like a shield.
There was a strip of orange running across the rooftops below dark clouds. It looked like the sun was overflowing from a bathtub in the sky. I wandered home, my headache failing to subside.
I made a ton of booty calls later on that day. Chicks I’d banged a long time ago and hadn’t spoken to in months or over a year, girls who I was just friends with, but who probably wouldn’t want to be friends with me after receiving my strongly flirtatious text messages, and two chicks who I’d been keeping around. The second one of these two, Emily, said she wasn’t doing much and that she’d come by later on that night. I breathed a sigh of relief that I wouldn’t have to just watch a stupid video and resort to calling on Ms. Palm that night (Ms. Palm is my hand, by the way).
Emily was tanned, half-Hispanic. Curly black hair. A Sophomore. She wore a fake gold necklace that she claimed to have bought in Cancun. At my request, she rode on top of me. At her request, I let her chug from a bottle of wine while fucking me. It was incredibly hot. She looked down at me between swigs with the same smile she keeps on her face when you’re telling her a joke, except with moans coming out of it. Emily’s moan style was great because there was a lot of breath in it. It was an even combination of vocal chords and breathing. She moaned on both inhales and exhales. This is how I like my women.
Emily shook her hair out of her face, cocked her head back, and took a swig. She offered the wine to me once, but I shook my head. I bounced her up and down with one hand squeezing her stomach from the side of her torso. I wanted her more focused on fucking and less focused on drinking. With my other hand I reached in to the space between our genitals and rubbed at the upper part of her clit with two fingers, the part that had escaped penetration by my cock. My hand bobbed up and down in sync with her body. Her vagina started sucking on my fingers after I got them deep enough and I didn’t have to consciously move my hand up and down any more. I’ve always been fascinated by how gigantic most vaginas are capable of becoming.
Emily’s thighs contracted and retracted around my wrist. Looking at my wrist, I saw a blue vein throbbing under my skin. Watching her thighs push inwards, I saw a blue vein streaking down one thigh and fading in to tanned Hispanic skin. I wondered if the blueness of the vein in her thigh was contingent on the intensity of the sex she was having. I knew the blueness of the vein in my wrist was.
Emily was a one-woman symphony; she moaned a beat per second, her pussy kept making wet squishy noises and the bed sheets rustled as her legs bore down on them and lifted off. She looked straight ahead through squinting eyes—not at me, at my door—raised up the wine bottle in slow spasms and took a huge swig.
I’m sure she didn’t intend to cum simultaneously with wine glugging down her esophagus, but it was hilarious when she did. Her knees knocked against my ribcage and the bottle popped out her mouth and smashed on the floor behind the headboard of my bed. She vomited all the wine in her mouth on to my face and pillow and the sound it made was a really strange female orgasmic noise/guttural throat sound/ liquid splashing on fabric /bedsprings creaking combo. Someone needs to record it. Play it in reverse and maybe it will say ‘Paul is Dead’ or something.
I came. While my cock throbbed inside her, Emily groaned and slung her head down. Her eyes were fully shut, her mouth curved open in a super-smile stained with wine. I stopped rocking her and let my cock throb for as long as it needed. Emily’s hair tickled my chest. I hoped, at that moment, that I would get her pregnant. Emily’s birth control would be canceled out by the wine and months later she would have my child. We would fuck every day while raising this child.
“I’m sorry,” Emily said, freezing in place while my dick slowly went limp. She laughed a high pitch laugh and flung her hair back over her shoulders. “I’m so sorry, Dennis.” The sex was out of my by now. It had disappeared inside her and I thought of how I never, ever wanted kids. Kids were gross.
While she cleaned up the bottle and the wine stains from my floor afterward, I lay on my pillow amidst a red catastrophe blotch, feeling really mellow, my cock still somewhat tingly, my eyes closed. I listened to the squeaking of the paper towels and windex Emily pushed across the floor. She wore her panties and her black blouse. Her panties looked rumpled and misshapen on her ass. I think she knew that she looked sexy. I shut my eyes and told Emily about how I’d woken up that morning on some random girl’s thigh because I had blacked out at the party and had no idea what her pussy tasted like, but that Emily’s tasted better, and felt better, too. As soon as I’d stopped telling the story, Emily had stopped cleaning. She stood over me, just breathing. My eyes were still shut.
Emily said; “Dennis, you’re a fucking creep, you know that?” A pause. “I’m not going to fuck you anymore. You need help.”
She put on her pants, charged out the door and slammed it. I fell asleep almost immediately after.
The next day I went to one of my required psychiatry appointments. Deirdre, the psychiatrist, must have been about 60 years old. She wore clothes that looked even older. Even still, I bet that she had been hot forty years before. I could tell that she had probably worn the same clothes forty years before also, and that guys probably loved it.
Deirdre and I fell silent after talking about my Dad and how I didn’t want to go home to him that summer, how I didn’t think it was fair. We had about ten minutes left. She asked me about my love life. I shrugged and said it was fine. She asked me again and this time I didn’t answer. We ended the session early. I went home, washed my sheets and took a nap.