Men are sluts too.
Mostly I'm obsessed with fucking. Lately it's all I ever think about. Probably I’ve been reading too much quality literature. It’s not even sex, it’s the idea of sex. I want to fuck: Him, Her, You, Them, Me. But one at a time, single file, orderly like, and all without ever having to compromise a god damn ounce of flesh in exchange.
Something led me to that moment. Somehow I knew it was going to be me lying on a bed between the two of them, the other one just watching, or jacking off in the corner, or doing whatever else you fucking compulsives do to pass the time. I was the one who put the music on, chose the melody. I like to feel rhythm flowing deeper through the beat. Tempo. Watched through curious eyelashes, as the one on the right slipped his fingers down the length of my stomach. Knowing that they want you is the biggest turn on of all. His breath on the left side of my neck seemed easy enough, another hand now getting familiar with the fabric of my shirt. I'm not saying I was helpless. Infact I'm almost always to blame. Each time they stroked I moaned. Every time they rubbed me I pushed back twice as hard. I play a shitty character in a porn movie even I wouldn't pay to rent. I just want to get lost in a moment. Pure of thought. Free of doubt. Not have to worry about how fat my ass looks from a particular lighting angle. Or some asshole's fragile emotional state concerning the size of his erection. Or the ever dramatic flow/duration of my bloody menstrual cycle. I just want to allow myself to get fucked. Fucked until we both collapse in a heap of hormonal exhaustion like the sweaty animals we so desperately love and despise. FUCKED.
Then he unbuttoned my jeans, and slid them down a few inches from my hips so he could push my legs apart. He started fingering me, and it wasn’t gentle or like a woman would. He was pushing his fingers in hard and fast, trying to vibrate his whole hand while I muffled the pain inside my throat so as not to alarm the guy in the corner, who sat watching like this was some demented game show, trying desperately to appear as though we were all perfectly casual. His violent method induced speculation as to the origins of his technique. Probably the usual gangbang porno or some drunken frat boy initiation. Perhaps a lifetime of subscriptions to weekly advice columns like dear Abby. Thanks a lot, bitch. The other one took off my shirt and pulled down my black bra, slanted purple now from the falling glow of neon stars along the ceiling. I remember this clearly. My nails were digging into the back of both necks, their tongues and mouths slowly fucking my skin, tasting the salt and sweat off my breasts. And then both were sucking hard on my nipples as I arched my back, wanting release from the pressure of his stupid hand and wet fingers, filled with shame and self-hate, touching every part of my body, but all of it like a muted orchestra with the only real sound or expression in the room focused directly between my barely parted lips. I remember that because this is what I think about lately when I need to get myself off.
After that it was a complete fucking disaster, and to tell you the truth, I try not to think about it very much. I try not to think about it very much at all.