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Onesies
My boyfriend's birthday was coming up. Kyle would be 25. That's a pretty important one, a quarter of a century, so I thought maybe I should get him something special. I thought and thought about what he might want, apart from a '63 Corvette Stingray and anal sex, but my mind wouldn't cooperate. I had the horrible thought that I didn't really know him well enough. I wanted to know him well enough. Then I had this brilliant idea. I'd just ask him.
"As long as I have you, that's all that matters, that's all I want," he said. Brilliant guy.
I probed. "Besides me, what do you want?"
"You mean like a threesome?" he said. Not such a brilliant guy.
"You know I'd never share you," I said.
"And I'd never share you," he said.
"Right."
As kind of a joke, I said, "I could always make a donation to your favorite charity in your behalf."
His expression led me to believe this wasn't the best idea for a birthday present he'd ever heard.
"What is your favorite charity, anyway?" I asked.
He seemed to be taking the question seriously. "Uh, I guess breast cancer research—something that does that," he said. Then I remembered something I did know about him. His mom had died of breast cancer a few years before I'd met him.
"Oh, honey," I said, and I hugged him to my breasts.
The next day I did some research. I found out that some of the breast cancer charities were scams. I also found one thing that I thought might interest him. It was only loosely connected to breast cancer charities: a filmmaker did these short films of women sitting behind a table reading stories. Below the table, unseen by the camera, the filmmaker's assistant used a vibrator on the women, stimulating them to orgasm. I showed the site to Kyle. He seemed pretty interested in these women having orgasms. He said, "So that's what you're going to give me for my birthday?"
"Huh? What?" I said.
"I think I'd really like that," he said.
"Huh? What? You want me to...?"
"Yeah," he said. "I do."
"What would I read?" I asked. "You wouldn't film me, though, right?"
"No, I think it should be filmed," he said. "That would make it a true present."
I wasn't sure about this logic. "I don't know," I said.
"I'm really happy about this," he said. "I think it will be really great."
"I don't know if... And I don't even have a... I..."
"Don't worry," he said. "I'll take care of everything. All you have to do is read. And come."
His birthday came all too quick. I was really nervous about it. I was hoping he'd forgotten about the special gift. I'd bought him twenty-four cheap pens and a really expensive pen and I'd made him 25 blow job coupons good anytime anywhere. I was going to put in "within reason" and then I decided to live dangerously. I made him his favorite dinner at his place, spaghetti, and I am about to give him the gifts when he says, "I have a present for you," and he hands me an elegantly wrapped package.
"But it's not my birthday," I say.
"I know," he says. "This present is as much for me as for you. Open it."
It was a sleek, vibrating dildo.
"It turns on if you twist the base," he says. "I've put in fresh batteries."
"And you want me to...?"
"Yes, for the movie. I'm ready to make it now."
"You are?"
"This is going to be so good," he says. "I love you so much. Now you have to undress."
"But the women in the films..."
"I know. You can leave your top on."
Besides my top I am only wearing jeans and panties, so it just takes me a few seconds to get those off.
"You're so beautiful," he says. "This is going to be so good. Now sit on this chair."
He'd placed one of the kitchen chairs in front of a blank stretch of wall. I sit in the chair. Then he moves the glass-topped table in front of the chair.
"In the movie the table wasn't trans..."
"I know," he says, "but I think it will be better if we can see a hint of what's happening below. Now here's what I want you to read."
He sets a book, a collection of short stories by someone named Donald Barthelme, on the glass-topped table. "I've marked the one," he says. "It's one of my favorites. It's called 'Game.'"
I open the book. I start reading:
"Shotwell keeps the jacks and the rubber ball in his attaché case and will not allow me to play with them. He plays with them, alone, sitting on the floor near the console hour after hour, chanting 'onesies, twosies, threesies, foursies' in a precise, well-modulated voice, not so loud as to be annoying, not so soft as to allow me to forget."
I only get about halfway through the opening sentence when Kyle says, "Stop. Wait. You have to put the thing in."
"Oh, right. But this isn't going to..."
"Please."
I'm not wet. "I thought you were going to..."
"No," he says. "You have to put it in. I have to work the camera. And anyway it would look strange with me under the table."
I manage to get the vibrator into my pussy. I turn it on. It isn't turning me on. I am too nervous. I start reading again. "'Shotwell keeps—'"
"Wait," Kyle says. "Could you pull your top down over one breast?"
"Why?"
"Because you have such beautiful breasts. Please."
I pull my top down over one breast. I start reading again. The story is about two guys in an underground missile silo with keys to launch nuclear missiles. Both guys are clearly crazy. The story isn't the least bit erotic. Kyle is clearly crazy if he thinks it is. I am clearly crazy for going along with this. The vibrator isn't working. Certainly not well enough to make me come.
I read and I read. The vibrator is still not working. I read: "'We sleep uneasily and acrimoniously. I hear Shotwell shouting in his sleep, objecting, denouncing, cursing sometimes, weeping sometimes, in his sleep.'" Part of my mind is still on the man playing jacks. Onesies, twosies. I can picture the ball bouncing. Part of my mind is thinking: I'm letting Shotwell, I mean Kyle, down. I love him. I want him to be happy. I'm going to fake it.
I read another sentence and then I start faking it. I don't want it to be obvious. I want to do a good job. I want Kyle to be happy with my orgasm. With me. If only it were his hand in me and not this fucking vibrator. If only it were his cock. Or even Shotwell's cock. I picture Shotwell's cock. "'Shotwell bounces the rubber ball on the floor in a steady, stolid, rhythmical manner. I am aching to get my hands on the ball, on the jacks.'" I picture Shotwell in his underground shelter. He is naked, like a million other guys, like my father, stroking his cock, masturbating while watching me read, waiting for me to come. His cock is aching for my cunt. He is about to... He is going to... I try to see the words. Onesies. Onesies. Onesies. He is coming. I am coming. "Oh, fuck," I blurt. Maybe because of the vibrator, the convulsions of my orgasm go on and on.
Later, while Kyle is fucking me sweet and slow on his living room rug, I try to make sense of it. I have no sexual interest in my father. He has no sexual interest in me. There. That settles that. And I decide not to give Kyle the pens or the twenty-five blow job coupons. Maybe tomorrow I will buy him a set of jacks. And a replica of a '63 Corvette Sting Ray. And we can be kids again. For right now, the vibrator actually feels pretty good in my ass.
story and illustrations by Mat Twassel |
