So anyway, like I was sayin....

We've kissed before.

We've touched, squeezed, and rubbed, and nibbled. But there always seemed to be something keeping us from letting it get too far.

It always seemed to be inopportune for Jenny and me; it always seemed that there was too much risk of getting caught, or that we would just do it next time. Part of me thinks that it wasn't so much the circumstances as it was her inhibition. HERS, not mine, because I certainly had none.

Jenny is intelligent. She shouts out answers while watching Jeopardy!. She is bright enough to be a physician's assistant, a step below a doctor, and assertive enough to give medical advice to pushy parents of sick kids. She is a person of substance, someone who any guy would be proud to be with.

Sure, I find all that attractive. But that's not why I think about Jenn so much. The real reason is that we are related, that we are not supposed to be doing this, that bedding her would be pushing the envelope just a bit further, taking another risk, another gamble, knowing that the consequences could be huge and not only not caring, but wanting to do it, if only for the knowledge that I can get away with it.

Today is going to be different. Today, we are alone, at my house. For once, the mood is right. The recessed lights in my drop ceiling are dimmed silghtly; the TV is off; it's a beautiful night, with just a hint of a breeze blowing in through a slightly-opened window.

Finally, I think, and I can't help but feel the way Wile E. Coyote might after catching the Road Runner at long last. But Jenn certainly is no victim. I ain't the studliest guy in the world, but I know a booty call when I see one, and I'm looking at one right now.

My hand whispers up her black silk blouse and finds the top button. It slips effortlessly through the buttonhole, exposing a shadowy patch of flesh.

Another button. Another. She moves her shoulder just a bit to the side so I can reach the ones at the bottom, and that little movement, that voluntary flexing of a muscle, lets me know for sure that I am going to have sex tonight.

Her blouse shimmies down her shoulders, exposing a black satin bra to match her blouse. Our mouths crash together as the rest of our clothes tumble off and I feel the warm press of her naked breasts against me for the very first time.

Her sultry, dark eyes open as I enter her, my pulse pounding in my ears, my hands almost too weak to hold her. My eyes pore over her body, drinking in every curve and contour as if admiring a priceless statue.

She crooks one leg, then the other, around mine and pulls me more tightly against her.

I want to remember this, all of it; her soft smell, the way her thick black curls pool on the sofa cushion behind her head, the almost musical rising and falling of our bodies, the whisper of her breath against my neck and the desperate urgency with which we pull ourselves ever closer together.

We have been flirting since I was 12 years old. Twenty-three years. Twenty-three years of sly smiles, and hugs that lasted a little too long. We wanted this, both of us, and we have for a while. And ever since mom's party, I've thought about it even more often. To be honest, I never thought it would happen, and I still don't quite understand the circumstances. It didn't seem like THAT big of a fight. Anyway, I don't care.

We lay there, basking in the post-sex warmth, her legs still grapevined around mine, her hands linked behind my shoulder blades, her hot skin pressed pliantly against mine, her eyes closed firmly, as if to open them would be to release the moment like a puff of smoke.

As I study her face, and feel her body tight against mine, I know that I can't be all that bad, because someone truly loves me.

But not to worry: It's only a minute before I realize that I am probably full of shit.

We're getting there....

I don't want to.

No, I SHOULDN'T want to. Big difference.

Tim stopped seeing Dom a month ago. Told him it was getting old, that they both needed to move on. It was a transaction they each carried out periodically, emotionlessly, like a busboy clearing dirty dishes and wiping with a damp cloth 37 times in one night, and then not remembering any specific table the next day.

She never mentioned my name specifically. Neither did he. But they both thought about me, because I had woven my way into each of their lives, tangling and knotting and complicating their relationship like a slinky that's been stretched too far, so irretreivably twisted and malformed that the only solution is to throw it in the garbage.

Dom and I went drinking one night, two weeks after the breakup. The conversation made its usual rounds, from work, to current events, to sports, and Dom's voice was as soft as an eye pillow, his disposition as cool as a slushy drink with an umbrella in it. Like always.

But as the bartender's tray became more and more crowded with empty glasses, the ice thawed and dribbled, and Dom's eyebrows tried harder and harder to meet in the middle of his forehead. The air tasted sour, like a Margarita with too much lime juice.

He stared at me from the sides of his eyes, not turning his head. "The only reason you know her is because of me."

I expected him to say more. He didn't. His words hung in the air next to me, like an invisible bar patron in the next stool.

Dom couldn't have cared about Tim. Dom, who probes the vagina of a different blonde ingenue every Friday night, could not have been affected by this. He was too jaded, too emotionally unavailable, to care. He was INCAPABLE of caring!

And yet, the words still sat there, next to me, looking at me with their sad, drunk eyes.

I asked him who he was talking about, but I already knew. I needed time to process what he had said, and to conjure a reply.

I cupped my hand and rubbed his shoulder, as if polishing it. "It's just like you said, Dom: Next week, there'll be someone else. Right?"

"Right, Steve," he said, staring first at his Beck's Bier coaster, then at the movie posters on the wall.

It would have been considerate to stop seeing Tim. And professional, and smart, and selfless. And so I searched every inch of my psyche, combing it the way you would a wine cellar in search of the last bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon, looking for just a thimbleful of compassion, enough to allow me to hear my words with someone else's ears.

I found nothing.

I didn't care.

I didn't. Fucking. Care.

Tim and I dated, and IM'd, and chatted on the phone, and gradually learned to finish each other's sentences and to make each other's day by calling just to say 'hi'.

Then it was disclosure, an agreement under which we bedded who we wanted, but confessed all to each other when we did.

Healthy communication, you say? Trust, you say? HORSESHIT, I say.

She confessed more than I did. A lot more. She confessed every fucking week. Sometimes twice a week. And each confession was just like a sewing needle through the groin of a voodoo doll that looked like me. It was a sexual call to arms, a booty-knocking gauntlet being thrown down right in front of me. She was getting more than I was, and my pride could not accept that.

She fucked, and then I fucked back, and then I raised her fucking with more fucking. And then she fucked in return, and pretty soon I was Reagan and she was Gorbachev, and this was a sexual arms race. And somehow, all the while, every visit ended with a smile, every email with a happy emoticon, every phone call with a "take care!"

Well? Did we want to kill each other, or were we in love?

I didn't know. But we decided to date each other exclusively anyway.

After all of these weeks, I should have been feeling something. By "something", I don't mean envisioning her in a $20,000 Vera Wang gown with a cathedral-length veil and a fistful of cartoonishly red roses, or seeing us at an obstetrician's office, a technician rubbing cold gel into the basketball-like bulge in her abdomen, and looking up at a grainy black and white screen, joking that the little guy looked just like an alien. But I should have felt SOMETHING more than I did, which was basically nothing except, "I want to fuck you."

It's come to me in flashes. With Stephanie, yes, and moreso with Lila, I did sometimes feel like I wanted to be with one person forever. But they were just teasing glimpses, like someone tapping me on the shoulder and then running away before I could turn around.

In each case, the relationships built very slowly. So if anything was going to happen with Tim, it was going to take time. She was nice enough to be around, and she certainly wasn't afraid to take her clothes off for me. Besides, I was tired of scouring my BlackBerry for girls with names like "Chrissy" and "Jamie", and saying, "You've been on my mind lately" and "I'd love to buy you a drink sometime," when she hadn't and I wouldn't. So why not?

That was two weeks ago. And now, here is Jenny, right in front of me, Jenny, with her tumbling black curls, and the thick, heavy tits under her blouse, and the sexy, compassionate way in which she so selflessly helps ailing boys and girls feel better, and the horny manner in which she has just asked me to play her the 15-second porn clip that I was jerking off to when she walked in.

I play it. Cocks penetrate the young girl's vagina and anus, pumping in feverish rhythm, like pistons in a horny engine.

I turn around. She's biting her lip.

The mouse, slick with sweat, slips out of my hand. I sit down next to her on the couch.

"Why did you come here?"

We kiss.

The depths of my debauchery

Wednesday, September 7, 2005
10:32pm
Steve's house

Everyone's got their own way of winding down.

Some people take bubble baths. Some kick back with a beer. Some do crossword puzzles.

Me? I watch porn.

The Hun. BangBus. OxPass. CumFiesta. Mr. Chew's Asian Beaver. Qmov. One ultra-hard core, ultra-close up, ultra-graphic depiction of sexual intercourse after another; each teenaged, big-breasted, pouty-lipped, completely shaved, loudly moaning female somehow hotter than the one who came before.

I sit and watch, and feel that familiar tingle. I look down and see that bulge, and I watch as my hand makes its inexorable way underneath my boxers.

I rub and stroke and pull, and marvel at how a part of my body can double in size so quickly.

There's an art to jerking off. You kind of.... tease yourself. You stimulate yourself, almost to orgasm, then you back off, just a bit. Then you do it again, and again, until you are so horny that your balls ache. Then, THEN, when you can't stand it anymore, you release.

I'm watching a video on Qmov. "I want it in my ass," says a horny teenaged girl.

The film cuts to two guys with impossibly huge schlongs violently DP'ing her. Her asshole is stretched cavernously wide; her pussy turns inside out as she gets fucked. "Ughhh," she moans.

My cock goes stiff, stretching against my boxers. It feels good! I reach down for it, squeezing it between my fingers, outside my pants...

creeeeeeak!

My computer room is in a finished basement. The third step from the bottom squeaks when you step on it. I've been meaning to nail it down, but I haven't gotten around to it.

Someone is coming. Instinctively, I let go of my pants and click the little black "X" in the upper right corner of the screen. I turn to my right.

It's my cousin Jenny.

She walks crookedly across my carpet, as if blown by the wind.

Is she drunk?

"Hey Jenn!"

"Hi!" she blinks in slow motion, and for a moment, I think she's nodded off where she stands, but slowly her eyelids open again. Her movements are deliberate and lethargic, like a toy that needs new batteries.

I always leave my garage door open all day, and only close it before I go to bed. The door that leads from garage to kitchen is always unlocked, too, so anyone who was inclined to do so could enter my house very easily. That's just what Jenny did.

"Are you ok?" I ask, searching her face for clues. But my gut feeling is that she is loaded.

"I'm afraid I've had a little too much to drink." She gropes behind her for the couch and pats it, to make sure it's not going anywhere. She plops down. "Bill and I had a very. large. argument."

A large argument? Shoulda super-sized it. You woulda saved money!

"About?"

"He took a two-month job out of state without discussing it with me."

"Out of state where?"

"Wyoming."

"Jesus!"

"I know."

She is rocking this way and that in her seat, as if she were on a boat. "I'm sorry, Jenn, I'm sure he-"

"What were you watching before, Steve?"

"Nothing," I chuckle.

"Tell me!"

"Jenn. Guys are different. I'm sorry if I offended you, but you didn't ring-"

"Steve. TELL me!"

My stomach flips. my cock, which had gone back to normal, rises back to instant, rigid attention. She wants to fuck. SHE WANTS TO FUCK!

"You really want to know?"

"Uh-huh."

"It was a girl. Getting DP'd."

"What?"

"Double penetrated. One in the front-"

"And one anally."

"Yeah, so that's what I was watching," I say, staring intently at the baseboards.

"Show me."

"I did it for you, baby"

Friday, June 24th, 2005 (continued)

I decide to go for it. Tim is neatly trimmed down there, which helps with both the hair issue and the smell. With a lesser girl, I might hold out. This time, no way. The sex was too good the first time.

I flatten my tongue and run it over her pussy, bottom to top, then do it again. And again. By the fifth or sixth time, she's starting her "Ah!Ah!Ah!" moan, and I am wishing I could somehow harness her crotch heat, because it feels like it could replace a nuclear reactor.

She doesn't taste bad at all, neutral really, which is a huge victory when it comes to pussy-eating. With each lick she grows wetter, until the entire lower part of my face is hot and slippery.

I slip my index finger inside her and point it upward, as if trying to feel her bellybutton from the inside. I run it along the roof of her vagina as I pull it back, and when it's almost out, I slip a finger from the other hand inside behind it and do the same thing, then follow it with the first finger again. The result, hopefully, is constant stimulation to an extremely sensitive area.

I've never tried it before, and it's awkward as hell, but it seems to be working. Her moaning grows louder. She shifts her legs this way and that, her heels rubbing against my back. My finger slows to an almost complete halt and I slide my wet tongue over her again, pausing to admire the way her tits shift heavily as she writhes from side to side.

I coax her clit gently with my tongue. "Ohhhh, SHIT," she whispers. Her body starts to tense.

I take her clit into my mouth and slowly pull it out. It's hard, like an erect nipple.

"Oh my God, I'm coming!"

It took me completely by surprise.

A hard, jetlike shot of... something squirts out of her, spraying my face. It's over in an instant, and when the shock wears off, I realize that it's in my mouth. I taste it, and almost puke.

It's acrid and bitter, like piss - or at least the way I would expect piss to taste. Instinctively, I spit, and wipe my face on her bedspread.

"Kiss me."

You asked for it, honey.

What have you learned today since July 6th?