I was having a bad day and feeling sorry for myself so when Jefferson invited me to hang out I was only too grateful to be taken out of myself. I went down to Toad Hall to meet him, Anna Smash, her boyfriend Nick and one of Jefferson’s blog correspondents, a Californian named Eleanor.
I was feeling that peculiar aftershock of unhappiness, where you’re holding misery at bay by feeling very detached. I had eaten very little all day and had decided that perhaps my unhappiness would inaugurate some weight loss. But when Nick offered to buy me a drink I quickly relented: “A gin and tonic, please,” I said automatically.
“Sure,” said Nick. He turned to Anna Smash and held out his palm for money. “Honey?”
We all laughed. When Nick stood up to get the drinks he rubbed his arm against my back. Oho! I thought.
We drank and laughed and every so often thoughts about unemployment and family problems flickered through my brain and sometimes I ignored them manfully and other times I probed the thoughts like a sore tooth, trying to see how they hurt. Everything got funnier and we all gave one another high fives – over the fact that I correctly guessed the spelling of Eleanor’s last name, that Eleanor and I were the same age, that Anna Smash had created such a remarkably cool and sexy blog name.
Anna Smash was so pretty, with a glossy black Louise Brooks bob that framed her face like a parentheses. She had fine, delicate features and a slight body. She was gamine and soignée and other French adjectives, as well as being very young; her boyfriend was 38. When Nick told me how old he was I realized he reminded me a bit of Jeremy. Nick had a nice face, plump lips and slightly protuberant front teeth. He also had a faint Southern accent, which I didn’t hear until Anna Smash pointed it out. He was awfully nice. He bought another round of drinks and when he sat back down he slid his hand over my knee.
I liked his hand on my knee, but was this kosher? “Is this OK with Anna?” I hissed.
Nick smiled broadly: “It’s totally OK,” he said, and turned to smile at his girlfriend. She smiled back.
“OK then,” I slurred, and when Nick rubbed my knee I slipped my hand onto his thigh. After another few sips of gin and tonic we kissed; it felt great.
We kissed some more. “Are you going to let me fuck you later?” Nick murmured.
“Is it OK with Anna?” I asked again, just to let everyone know where my feminist loyalties lay, even if I was behaving like a slut.
“Totally,” Nick assured me. “Right, Anna?”
“Uh huh,” said Anna Smash.
I looked at Nick from under my lashes. “Yeah,” I said, “And I’m going to go down on you, too.” We kissed again. I was really turned on.
Eventually we stumbled out of the bar and back to Jefferson’s apartment. I was fairly wasted by this time and within a few minutes we were naked. Anna Smash was ridiculously gorgeous nude. Her nipples were pierced and they tipped upward like little teacups. She was thinner and prettier and younger than me, but luckily I was too drunk to feel outclassed. And then I realized that I was staring at the Sassiest Girl in America.
In case you weren’t an alienated teen or an ironic adult in the late 1980’s and early 90’s, Sassy was a bitchy, smart alternative to more traditional (and frankly pretty insipid) teen fare like Seventeen and the now-defunct YM. It was edited by future Jane editor-in-chief Jane Pratt and the staff featured the likes of Kim France (Lucky). Sassy was relentlessly opinionated and published some provocative stories, like interviews with neo-Nazi teens and an infamous Karen Catchpole article on what losing your virginity feels like (“It will hurt.”) The virginity story created such a furor that Sassy had to backtrack, and a few months later the magazine published a pro-chastity follow up: “Virgins Are Cool.” Yes, really.
I didn’t actually love Sassy as much as I was supposed to, mostly cause it seemed to be written by mean girls. Smart girls, but kinda mean, especially, if I recall correctly, about stuff like blonde starlets, pegged jeans and Milla Jovovich. I was massively uncool in high school and Sassy didn’t make me feel any cooler; it only made me long to be like Sassy staffers, who all seemed to live in the East Village and know all about the cool bands you weren’t seeing. They were your smart, skinny classmates who made fun of all the trends but still managed to be trendy.
So anyway Sassy had this annual contest – The Sassiest Girl in America. It was not a modeling competition, as at Seventeen, but featured contestants from around the country, who sent in amusing entries and wowed the staff. The winner got cash, money for a favorite charity, plus a cover shoot – and the SGIA wasn’t always thin, which was cool. Anyway, watching Anna Smash, it hit me that Sassy would have loved her – that jet bob with its parentheses framing her pale face, her elegant lithe body, coolest girl in the room demeanor and rapid-fire conversation. She would have been a shoo-in for The Sassiest Girl in America, if only she hadn’t been about 4 when the magazine folded.
In a bid for gender equality, the magazine even had a Sassiest Boy in America contest. The winner was in an indie band, natch, and really cute. On a side note, when I first met Jefferson, he revealed to me that he had once met The Sassiest Boy in America!
Anna Smash’s pussy was bald but for a tiny thatch of hair. We all tumbled down the hall to Jefferson’s bedroom and flopped on the bed. Then Anna straddled me and we kissed.
Her mouth was so nice and soft and it was clear she was in charge which was a relief for me after the Jessica affair, nice though that was. As it is I hate to take the lead and with girls even more so. We kissed for a while, our mouths just sort of swirling together. Beside us Jefferson sucked Nick’s dick, and I came to when Nick said, “Sorry, sucking my balls just doesn’t do it for me,” regretfully. I moved my mouth to Anna’s tits, which I sucked and kissed. Then Anna Smash gave me sort of a half-questioning look, and then she slid down between my legs and started to eat me out.
Christ I hope I don’t taste bad or smell funny was all I could think. Anna Smash herself probably smelled and tasted perfect, but I didn’t get the chance to find this out, which was probably just as well since later on Anna revealed that she had once actually fallen asleep while a friend was going down on her. But I didn’t get a chance to really indulge my neuroses since shortly thereafter Anna slipped onto her stomach and stuck her ass towards Jefferson: “Hit me,” she said.
Jefferson obediently retrieved his cat o’ nine tails and Nick, Eleanor and I looked at one another and then scurried from the room. “I need to get some air,” Nick declared. We tugged our clothes on and walked out into the warm, muggy night, ending up in a nearby diner.
They ordered food (I was still too drunk to eat); it was clear that Nick was upset. But we all chatted for a bit and after his meal he seemed more cheerful. Afterwards we walked back to Jefferson’s and at the apartment Nick and I started fooling around – what I’d been waiting for: “I want to make you tremble,” he said, kissing me. We were half dressed. Oh Christ, I thought, and bent my head towards his groin. “Let’s go and have sex,” he added.
“OK!” I said, and followed him to the back bedroom. In the dark room we got onto the futon, but our combined weights were too much and the wooden frame popped up, like a Murphy bed. “Come on,” said Nick. So we distributed our weights at the foot of the bed and wound ourselves around one another.
He started to fuck me and it felt great. I was so wet and felt all melty inside. I got on top. He murmured: “Lily, you’re so beautiful. You’ve got beautiful breasts.”
Nothing makes me feel more like sucking cock than being told I’m beautiful.
I was shaking as I slid my thighs close together around his cock, my breath raggedy. “You’re going to be a good girl and suck my cock?” Nick went on.
This made me squirm, I was so turned on: “Oh yes.” And I had a revelation: when I suck cock I’m a good girl rather than, say, a naughty slut. I’ve always been a good girl, always sought approval. I like approbation. So if I’m sucking cock, I want to be called a good girl. Though, I must admit, on occasion being called a filthy slut does give me a thrill.
But anyway. I rocked back and forth on top of Nick, and I was so excited but couldn’t seem to come; and it occurred to me that I was really too drunk to fully appreciate how great this felt.
Eventually he got on top but when he thrust inside me he stopped suddenly: “The condom slipped off,” he announced. We sat at an awkward angle and then he tugged it out. “Suck me for a while,” he said then. So I did, eagerly, gratefully, but after a minute he pulled his cock out of my mouth and slid another condom on and started to fuck me again. He slipped a finger in my ass. “Are you going to come for me?” I whispered, as he pumped the breath out of me with his thrusts.
“Yes, I am,” he said, and again I was reminded of Jeremy, who, I remembered, used to say “Yeah, I do” or “Yes, I will” instead of just Yeah. I had liked that.
Then Nick came and we lay there, glued together. He smelled really good and is so nice; this was a good idea.
“Thank you for that,” said Nick. “It was just what I needed.”
He meant that this had distracted him from thoughts of Anna Smash being smacked silly in the next room. He didn’t like to watch his girlfriend being hurt.
“You don’t have to thank me,” I said. “It was my pleasure.” True, that. I smiled at him.
“Do you want a towel?” he asked, and, before I could explain that I was used to being all sweaty after sex, he disappeared, returning a minute later with a damp towel, which he rubbed gently across my cunt.
After we cleaned up we got up and peeked next door: Anna Smash was sprawled on the bed, with Eleanor in the voyeur’s chair with Jefferson’s head in her lap; they were all asleep. “I think I’m going to sleep next to Anna,” Nick said. I nod, and we kissed goodnight and I toddled back to the futon.
But a few minutes later Nick joined me. He put new sheets on the bed and then for a minute he put his arms around me – oh, he smelled so nice. Then he turned on his side and started to snore and eventually I fell asleep, too.
I woke up at 4:30 am, and shortly thereafter Nick woke up, too. He left to join Anna, and I read for awhile before Jefferson wandered in – musical beds! “Hey,” Jefferson whispered, eyeing me blearily. He sat on the edge of the futon.
“Careful,” I said, and told him about how the bottom of the bed had popped up earlier, and that we were at risk of being crushed in a Buster Keaton-style mishap. “Couple die in futon massacre,” I intoned. “Orgy goers stunned.” Jefferson darted a quick, worried look at me. I think he was perturbed that I’d referred to us as couple, even though it was only for the purposes of an Onion-style headline.
Jefferson slipped into bed beside me. I was sleepy, but when he began to stroke my breast I decided I wasn’t that tired. We started to kiss, but I was very tense – overtired, probably -- and it took ages to feel my muscles relax. After a while Jefferson climbed inside me and tugged my legs up around his shoulders. “Oh,” I said. “Oh.”
He gave me a peculiar, searching look – or maybe it was just knee strain – and we fucked for a long time. Funny thing: Jefferson and I talk non-stop, but our sex is generally silent. Jefferson has lots of stamina; but I felt raw and shredded. Jefferson said, “Sit on my face,” so I did, and my legs shook as his darting tongue made quick flickery movements against my most secret skin. After a bit he commanded, “Suck my cock.” He thrust his cock down my throat, but I couldn’t do much in the way of deep throating. My throat just wouldn’t cooperate, my gag reflex was working overtime. But he kept holding my head down and shoving his dick up. At intervals I rubbed his cock against my tits and slipped my fingers up and down the shaft. “My lips are numb,” I said at last – my usual complaint with Jefferson. So he pulled out of my mouth and tugged on his dick until he came. Then he went to sleep and I read, and I thought about being a 34-year-old unemployed would-be writer, and about a fight I’d had with my mother. Then when the sky was light I started to cry.
I cried loud enough to be heard; I wanted to be heard. Jefferson tugged me close to his chest and stroked my hair while I wept.