—
Eating pussy is easier than you’d think. I learned on the job and I am really quite good at it. Sometimes my disabled ass gets the angle wrong and I’m, like, sucking on a wet dreadlock or whatever, but for the most part I just sort of put my face where it feels like it should go and let my tongue do what comes naturally. It’s sort of like licking the inside of someone’s mouth? Except there’s hair and no teeth and you have to be really careful not to disembowel your girl with your wanton incisors. The first time was in daylight, and I really inspected everything up close, but in a sexy way so she wouldn’t feel like her labia were in a petri dish or something. And then, I don’t know, I just licked it like you would an ice-cream cone. A soft-serve one, though. Because sometimes you gotta get a little rough with the regular kind and use your teeth on the chunks or use your lips really hard to mold it into a lickable shape. Sometimes I use my nose or my chin and really I don’t think she can tell the motherfucking difference. The fingering was easy to master, because I basically just do what I do to myself when the vibrator is out of batteries while intermittently trying to feel what she had for breakfast from the inside. That part is easy; I was doing the Jay Z “brush your shoulders off” dance by the third time we got busy as Mavis was seeing stars and catching the holy ghost while having orgasm after orgasm. I thought it might take some time for me to get good at cunnilingus, but nah, I just get a supportive pillow for my neck (I’m old) and get all up in that soft-serve.
I have always been above average at sucking a d, probably because I am the kind of person who excels at alone tasks rather than thriving in a group project. Like, I just want to make the diorama the way I want to make it, okay, Ms. Mitman? Then I know the shit will be right. So when I’m down there, face-to–open-faced medium-rare roast beef sandwich (picture it), it’s important for me to do a good job. I never much enjoyed being eaten out by dudes. One would slowly make his way down there, burdened by obligation, and I would literally clam up: I’m smelly; I’m hairy; I’ve got enough yeast in there to make dinner rolls; just stick it in my butthole and hurry up so we won’t miss our dinner reservation. But Mavis understands that my nose-searing musk is nature’s self-cleaning oven just handling her business. And that that coarse mouthful of hair I’m serving is payback for never having received my reparations when Obama was elected.
$149.95
The year I turned thirty-four, I decided to buy my vagina her first grown-up-lady sex toy. A Lelo Mona 2, from the Pleasure Chest, more expensive than the most expensive thing in my closet. It’s the Cadillac of vibrators, with its velvety silicone curved for the G-spot and its multitude of settings and speeds. And worth every penny, as one time I had Mavis lying on her side and was banging her with it and she was caterwauling like a crazy person then squirted for the first time ever, so hard and so much that it splashed on the goddamned cat. THAT IS FUCKING AMAZING.
I always thought I would eventually end up with a woman. Men are too taxing, too mischievous, too restless, too naughty, and I don’t want to spend my Chico’s years with my stomach tied in an anxiety knot waiting for a dude to leave me for someone younger. The idea of spending my Social Security checks fussing over some goddamned man has never appealed to me; I want afternoons spent shouting at the television set with my best friend in our matching house sweaters and magnifying readers from Costco. I have always been sexually attracted to both men and women, although the sex part is more of an afterthought for me. My compatibility checklist is full of very important qualifications, like:
? leaves me alone while I watch my shows
? doesn’t leave globs of toothpaste in the sink
? would never finish the ice cream without checking with me first
? understands that I don’t like to touch while sleeping
? isn’t an asshole to the cat
And so on. I understand my limits, and my deficits, and I know that to get through life with some relative degree of happiness, we have to find someone who can figure out the taxes or make the lunches or whatever it is we aren’t good at doing. I don’t need a charming person with a good sense of humor who specializes in getting extensions on the cable bill, I got that covered; I need someone who balances a checkbook and remembers when her last tetanus shot was.
I get tired. I work fifty hours a week, man. I wear compression stockings and orthopedic shoes, and most nights I fall asleep in the middle of my dinner. So when Mavis is nudging me in the ribs at 9:00 p.m., elbowing me in the kidneys to get me out of my end-of-day coma, it makes me feel like an asshole. My body wants to say, “LOOK, BITCH, I AM TIRED” but my brain is all, “Be grateful someone wants to see a body with this many varicose veins naked.” And my brain is right—I do have a lot of weird moles and shit. Halfway into the kissing, I usually realize that I’ve made the wrong decision, that I just should’ve stayed asleep and woken her up at three in the morning with twenty passionate minutes of finger sex, but then I remember the Lelo. Sure, it feels like cheating, reaching for that smooth piece of silicone on the charger next to the bed. But then, as I am the drooling, semiunconscious big spoon working my multispeed robot penis while little spoon is none the wiser, I think to myself, “Worth every goddamned cent.” ZzZZZzzZz
This Is What Wearing a Harness Is Like.
I felt like to really commit to the lesbian thing we had to get ourselves a strap-on, that it wouldn’t be really real until I’d awkwardly tried to have hands-free penis sex. So I did some research (meaning I read two short articles on the Internet), then decided to make a purchase.