This is a tale of a different age, a time so long ago and yet not so long ago.
Cell phones did voice and nothing more. There was no Facebook, no social media. We still used the Yellow Pages, read news in the paper, and viewed porn in print magazines and DVDs. We talked to each other online under false names, making up this or that pseudonym and playing the field. It was a different culture on the net, one in some ways freer and more liberated than today.
This is a tale of those times.
2001 it was. Spring.
Phil saw another handle enter the room. Nycsubf, she called herself. He had learned to be wary of obvious come-ons in female names. Far too often they turned out to be men.
Hi, how are you? he messaged. Always keep it polite. Don’t mention sex until she does.
On he went, with the usual introductory banter. My name is Phil. I’m from San Jose, California. Twenty-seven years old.
whats ur ethnicity, she asked. Assuming it really was a she.
What makes you ask that?
just tell me, she replied.
Calm down, he reminded himself. Stay positive. But how could he? In dating rooms it was this that often finished him off. Black or white? they’d ask. Sometimes they simply vanished on hearing his answer. Other times it was the photo that sent them packing.
I’m Asian, he wrote.
oh great whats ur skin color
What did this mean? People in China or Japan or Korea are white, if the actual pigment in their skin counts for anything. But someone with black hair and narrow eyes doesn’t count as white, in the sense that people now use the word. Race is a social construct, not biological.
Of course, not everyone who asked that question wanted a white answer. He’d occasionally run into women with a fetish for big black cock, which irritated him. Goddammit, the average black man’s cock was only half an inch longer than the average white man’s! And hadn’t Masters and Johnson proved that, blindfolded, women can’t even tell what size a cock is?
I’m brown, he wrote. Is that a problem?
Oh no, not at all! Can you send me a photo?
This was not going the way he planned. Phil didn’t send photos until long after the woman had shown signs of attraction, which never happened before his strong points came out: his intellect and his writing skill. His looks were something he’d learned to keep hidden as long as possible.
Still, Phil noted that, suddenly, the girl was punctuating sentences correctly. Almost as if she was taking a greater effort to talk to him than her no-doubt endless other suitors.
I’ll send you mine if you send yours, he wrote.
To his surprise, she complied.
It wasn’t a large picture, but it was a good one. Not model looks, but undeniably sexy. Clear brown eyes, plastered with thick makeup. Medium-length straight brown hair, but with a glossy look, as if a lot of product had gone into it. Pouty red lips, again with heavy lipstick. She looked made up, done over. It was attractive, yes, but it was not appealing.
Nonetheless, Phil didn’t choose women on whether they were appealing, he chose them on whether they thought he was appealing. He had a photo that showed only his face, hiding his worst parts. He doubted that a hotshot like this would go for a visage like his. Unless her photo was fake, which could never be ruled out.
He sent it. This was the worst part, waiting for a response. More often than not, this was when the messages stopped coming.
Handsome devil, she wrote.
What? Nobody said that who wasn’t a blood relative.
Do you have any more pics? she asked.
Yes, do you?
I’ll email them. What’s your address?
There had been some occasions when Phil had been incautious enough to give his email address to what turned out to be a bot. He wasn’t going to make that mistake again.
First tell me some more about yourself.
I’m 26, live in NYC, work in consulting. I’m a sub. I have a thing for overweight Middle Eastern or South Asian men.
What in the world?
He’d never run into anyone with a fetish for brown-skinned men. Even some brown-skinned women did their best to avoid his sort. And he had never heard of any woman, anywhere, any time, with a fetish for the overweight.
There were men with such a fetish, he knew. There were men with every fetish one could imagine. Every major porn site had its “big beautiful women” category. He’d often been told that was the body type he should go for, one that would match his own. But he’d found approaching the overweight no easier than the thin and beautiful. Nor had he been any more successful.
My name is Sue, she continued. Email me. She filled in her email address.
Her screen name faded. She’d signed out.
Now what? Well, she had sent him the address. Either this was one hell of a practical joke, or he had hit the jackpot. He sent a few more photos.
***
1997 it was. Fall.
Until his graduation from university, Phil had avoided dance clubs. He loved classical music and easy listening, not the loud throbbing music of a dance club. But you have to get out there, people told him. That’s where you go to meet girls.
It was a long wait in line. There were plenty of beautiful girls, but most were already with a guy. Or in mixed groups. Was he supposed to approach girls when they were with a guy?
Inside, things were no better. The music was so loud! Some people were dancing, others were holding drinks and talking. How did they hear anything? Confused, Phil stood there, not sure what to do. This place was so strange and alien. How on earth was this hookup business supposed to work?
Finally, he saw one girl sitting by herself. Not very pretty, but what did that matter? Phil breathed hard, trying to remember his exercises from therapy. He forced one foot in front of the other, fighting back panic. Just keep walking. One step. Next. What’s the worst she can do?
The girl noticed him gingerly stepping towards her, and looked at him, an expression of cool contempt in her face. The music fortuitously paused, between songs.
“Don’t even try it,” she said icily.
Phil felt his stomach clench, felt the knots tighten, felt the knife twisting inside. He turned away from the girl, his face twisting to avoid tears. Soon he was running, running as fast as his legs could carry him, out of the building and out to safety. To the nearest massage parlour.
***
It was a few more days before Phil ran into Sue again.
Hey. I loved your pics, she typed. Do you have any more? Maybe wearing sandals?
Phil didn’t even own a pair of sandals. They tend to be worn at a beach, or poolside, two places he avoided going to as much as possible. He was ashamed to show his body in a public place.
I can probably arrange something, he wrote back. How about you?
I’ll send you some more soon, she wrote. So what brings you to these rooms? What are you into?
I come on here because it’s easier than in real life. Nobody has to worry about what they look like.
The first thing men ask me is my photo. Or measurements.
I don’t, Phil wrote.
Really??
Girls typically find that the most attractive thing about me 🙂
He’d had a few women call him for phonesex, and they’d raved about how hot it was that he never bothered asking what they looked like. What did it matter, really?
***
1995 it was. Winter.
Keith had a triumphant expression on his face. “Listen to this,” he said to Sue. “I knew this Internet thing was just another passing fad.”
He showed her an article in his copy of Newsweek. “No online database will replace your daily newspaper,” he read. “They say we’ll order airline tickets over the network, make restaurant reservations. Stores will become obsolete. So how come my local mall does more business than the entire Internet?” Keith chortled in vindication. “A network chat line is a limp substitute for meeting friends over coffee. And who’d prefer cybersex to the real thing?”
He went on in that vein, but Sue wasn’t listening.
Later that night, she spent some time browsing through Usenet groups. There were several she enjoyed reading, such as alt.sex.stories and alt.sex.bondage. She’d emailed a few men. She hadn’t had cybersex yet, but it sounded even better than the real thing.
***
Phil had, of course, started out seeking real sex, not virtual. He’d first tried local rooms. One girl seemed quite taken with him and promised to come to a coffee shop the next morning, but there was no such place at the address she gave. Another he spoke to on the phone remarked what a good conversational partner he was, but vanished after he admitted he was only five foot five.
After a few months, he had to admit that there was basically zero chance of local chat leading anywhere.
He began exploring more sexual rooms, sometimes vanilla, other times BDSM, chatting with women from anywhere. Younger women, he soon found, were seldom worth talking to. They had only contempt for the notion of online relationships. Older women — it took a lot of persistence and patience, but you could sometimes have fun times. Many had been through at least one marriage and divorce and were often at the point where they preferred virtual to real relationships. He even confessed his sexual history to some of them. They at least weren’t so free with the word pathetic.
We come across that word a lot, don’t we? Pathetic. The man without a partner, or who pays for a substitute, is jeered at, dismissed, a laughingstock. A woman without a partner is admired for her independence, her self-reliance, her ability to make it on her own without being clingy or needy. A man without a partner is a loser, a failure, an object of derision, someone worthy only of contempt. No woman would ever pay for it, preferring to go without than to purchase an imitation.
Even masturbation has its stigma. A woman who masturbates proves she doesn’t need a man. A man who masturbates proves only his failure to attract a woman.
Along with the contempt comes the advice. Oh, the advice. You just need to get out there more. What on earth does that even mean? You’re looking in the wrong places. What are the right places, then? There’s someone for everyone. Who? Maybe you’re driving women away. That was certainly possible, but how? And more importantly, whom?
***
1992 it was. Fall.
Now that he was in university, Phil had made his way over to the school’s free counselling service.
“I think I’m a sex addict.”
“What makes you say that?”
“I keep trying to stop reading pornography, but I can never stay away longer than a few days.”
“And how does that interfere with your life?”
“Jesus said whoever looks at a woman to lust for her has already committed adultery with her in his heart.”
“What does your clergyman say about that?”
“I could never admit to something like this. That’s part of my addiction.”
“Do you think you’re the only one who reads porn?”
“No, but that doesn’t make it right.”
“What makes it wrong?”
“You can’t just stare at women like they’re pieces of meat.”
“Do you ever stare at pieces of meat?”
“No, I mean — women aren’t supposed to be sexual playthings for men.”
“Have you ever treated a woman like a plaything?”
“Yes, I’ve told you I’ve looked at porn. It’s degrading to women.”
“All porn, or just some porn?”
“All. I guess hardcore is worse. They show… they show women forced into performing fellatio on men.”
“Forced?”
“They claim it’s voluntary, but I don’t believe it.”
“Why not?”
“No healthy woman would go down on her knees, to the level of a toilet, to put a man’s penis in her mouth.”
“Have you ever asked a woman if that’s true?”
“I can’t ask something like that, that would be sexual harassment.”
“I see.” The counsellor frowned. “I’m curious — if you have such strong feelings about it, what makes you buy porn?”
“I don’t. Well, a few times I have, but I always throw it out after. But most of the time I just read it in the store.”
“Don’t the stores object?”
“I get kicked out a lot.”
“But back to my question. What makes you read it in the first place?”
“I usually get triggered when I see a girl in a miniskirt or other tight outfit. Or a bikini on TV.”
“Do you think those outfits are degrading to women?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“You’re not supposed to value a woman’s looks. Only her mind and personality.”
“What would it mean if you found a woman physically attractive?”
“That would be shallow and selfish.”
“Why?”
“Women suffer body image disorders because of men like me.”
“What would it mean if a woman found you physically attractive?”
“They won’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m not attractive.”
“Do you think that might be a body image disorder?”
“No.”
The counsellor shook his head in disbelief.
***
It did not take long for Phil and Sue to have cybersex. Phil had had cyber-relationships before, but all vanilla. Sue was the first BDSM.
She wasn’t one for the BDSM rituals popular in chat rooms. Nor the paternalistic “the dom loves and cares for the sub” bit. Sue just wanted to be degraded and used. She pushed him to get creative in how he did that. Soon every long-buried taboo fantasy in Phil’s psyche was finding its way to the surface. He once mentioned he’d tried to watch the film The Story of O, but had found its violence hard to take. Before he knew it, Sue was asking him to chain and whip her, just as O had been.
Her biggest fetish was watersports. Phil hadn’t even heard of such a thing. He secretly had a few fantasies in that department, of course. The flow of urine is like a stronger version of cum, and touches some of the same nerve endings. Especially when standing at a urinal, it is hard to avoid a mild euphoria coursing through the body while pissing. But it was Sue who opened his eyes to the full sexual possibilities.
Phil had never expected a woman to want to be on the receiving end. But Sue did. Her fantasy was to be taken by Phil and a gang of his buddies, made to crawl on the floor, taking their piss, drinking their piss, even licking it off the filthy floor, degraded and dehumanized beyond belief.
Her favorite was one day he and a dozen or so imaginary buddies stuffed her in a locker, cut a hole in it, took turns urinating through it, and then gang-raped her. Phil didn’t find this arousing at all. In fact, he’d gotten the idea from when he’d been badly bullied in Grade 6, though that had been just one guy, and just the piss, no rape. There are some guys into inflicting rape, but not Phil. He had a morbid fear of rejection, and his fantasies were about girls who said yes, not no.
But Sue was in seventh heaven after that. For months afterwards she talked about it, often asking him to re-enact it with minor variations.
I love having cybersex with you, she wrote one day. You have such a creative mind. Most of the time, it was Sue, not Phil, who got most aroused by their chats.
As a partner, Sue wasn’t all that reliable. Occasionally he tried to set times to chat, but she couldn’t be relied upon to show up. Nor would she agree to speak by phone, not even with her number hidden.
Even online, she sometimes disappeared without warning. If Phil was aroused enough, he’d turn to a porn session — or, if he couldn’t stand it, a commercial phonesex call or even visit to a prostitute.
But there were a few occasions when Sue was very accommodating, patiently typing out blowjobs. She asked him for dick pics, but he was nervous about sending them. Especially since, whenever he asked for more photos of her, she always sent the same one.
One day, Sue gushed that she had changed her email password to Phil’s screen name, so taken was she with her “best master”. It was not long before he succumbed to the temptation to log into her email. He found little personal there. Most of her incoming missives were from men, many with Arabic names, asking for her picture, and her replies, all containing the same photo.
He wondered about the mental health of a woman who claimed to love licking piss off the floor. But aside from these fantasies, Sue seemed entirely normal. She had friends, she had a job, she liked hard rock music, she went to concerts, she traveled.
Phil practically had to squeeze this information out of her. She didn’t like to talk about herself that much, preferring to go straight to sexual fantasy.
Besides, Phil’s own mental health was hardly something to brag about. He went to a succession of therapists and support groups for depression, social phobia, and obesity. His depression had lifted enough for him to live independently and have a successful career, but the other two remained stubbornly resistant to change.
He tried using telephone dating services, but never got far. Girls seldom bothered responding to his messages. One time a girl did talk to him, impressed that he visited the gym regularly, but Phil felt compelled to explain that he was doing that to lose weight. She didn’t call again.
Sue had little to say about this, other than the usual platitudes. Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll find someone someday. You’re so handsome and smart.
You’re just saying that because you have a fat fetish, he’d write back.
And the problem with that is what, exactly?
Phil didn’t have an answer. Still, he wondered just what had made her the way she was.
***
1976 it was. Winter. Sue and Jack were naked in her bed, touching, fondling. Jack’s cock was as hard as a rock. Sue knew and loved its taste very well, but she wanted him inside her.
He wasn’t her first, but she gave little thought to the prideful boy who had popped her cherry and spent the next week bragging to all his friends. Jack would be the first who counted.
He felt wonderful inside her, young and innocent and beautiful.
Lost in orgasmic bliss, Sue missed the sound of the door opening.
Jack’s cock was squirting into her. He was cumming — she was cumming—
and a fist slammed into her face —
what was happening —
and she heard the sound of kicking. Her father, black with rage, was pounding Jack’s side with his heavy boots. Blood was pouring from her boyfriend’s face.
“No, Dad! No!” she screeched. She grabbed her father’s foot, interposing herself between him and Jack. “You’re going to kill him!”
“What makes you think I won’t, bitch?” he snarled.
“Then you’ll just have to shoot me first,” she said in a scared voice. This was not an idle fear. Her father sported a fully licensed gun at his side.
“Get out of my way,” he said instead, smacking her so hard it knocked her screaming to the floor. Jack struggled to get to his feet, but Sue’s father flattened him with another kick in the stomach. He pulled out the gun and cocked it, aiming directly at Jack’s temple. “You fucking touch my daughter again and I’ll fucking kill you. You got that, asshole? You fucking got that?”
“Yeah,” Jack panted, voice shaking with terror. “I got that.”
“Get the fuck out of my house.”
Jack grabbed his clothes and fled without even slowing to put them back on.
Sue’s father turned to his daughter, his face curled in revulsion and contempt. “And as for you, slut, you’re gonna get what whores deserve.” At least he had to put the gun down to take off his belt.
Sue closed her eyes and tried to focus on something else, some vital emotion to blot out the blur of physical pain. Soon that crystallized on hatred. She hated her father. She hated his brutality, his puritanism, his tyranny. He was a man who tried to crush her spirit, deny her freedom, block out all chance of happiness. His was a home filled with bondage, not with love.
Nothing about her pleased him. Not the clothes she wore, not the friends she hung out with, not the music she listened to, not the books she read. Not even the grades she earned. “You think you’re better than me, high and mighty with your straight As?” he would jeer. “You haven’t got a lick of good old common sense.”
The pain of his disdain was nothing compared to the raw physical pain, the searing agony that weakened her limbs and tortured her very spirit. Endure, she thought desperately to herself, endure. She used to pray to God, but had long since given up on getting an answer.
She hated her mother too. There she was, standing there, apparently helplessly, while her daughter was savagely beaten with a belt. She said nothing. She did nothing. There was only the loud silence of acquiescence.
Later, Sue confronted her.
“Why do you just stand there when he hits me?”
“Maybe if you took a little responsibility, you wouldn’t have to suffer these consequences,” her mother snapped.
“Responsibility? You’re my mom and dad! You’re responsible for me!”
“Exactly. That boy could have given you any number of diseases or gotten you pregnant. I for one think your father let him off too easily. Boys like that are predators and should be treated as such.”
“Mom, this is goddamn child abuse!”
“Don’t use language like that and don’t give me that liberal nonsense. Parents have every right to discipline their children.”
Icy rage gnarled into Sue’s stomach. How many times had she skipped gym class rather than let other girls see her scars? She’d even been suspended over that last year, and the school summoned her parents to a meeting, at which they lectured her about — you guessed it, personal responsibility.
***
Phil logged in after work one day very excited. Sue was online. Perfect.
Start spreading the news, he wrote.
What?
I’m leaving today (well next week, actually)
Where?
I want to be a part of it
Part of what?
New York, New York!
What are you saying?
I’ll be coming to New York in person next week. Work trip. They’re putting me in a hotel in Times Square.
That’s great hope you have a good time.
Do you think, he asked, we could finally meet in person?
She didn’t reply. He waited for a while, then prompted. Are you there?
Yes, she replied.
He waited a few minutes, then sent her some question marks.
I would love to meet you, she wrote. I would love to do everything in person. But
He waited. But what?
I haven’t been entirely honest with you.
What? You’re a man??
Phil would not have believed it possible. Why would someone go to all this trouble for a prank? Most internet practical jokers didn’t try to go more than fifteen minutes.
No, silly. I’m a woman. Everything I told you about what I like is true. But the photo I sent you is fake.
Well to be honest I suspected that wasn’t real. Real women have more than one.
I’m not 26 at all. I’m really 40.
I still want to meet you. The best-looking women aren’t always the best in bed. That was definitely true. He’d learned long ago not to go for the prettiest lap dancers, masseuses, or prostitutes. The chubby one sitting there looking sheepish was the one who let you suck on her tits. The older, battle-hardened one was the one whose fingers caressed rather than rubbed. It was always the drop-dead gorgeous one who wanted you out in five minutes.
You don’t mind meeting someone almost old enough to be your mother?
My mother is 57, he shot back. Heather Locklear is 40. Liz Hurley is 41.
I’m not them, she said.
Let me be the judge of that.
It was another while before Sue responded.
Oh what the hell. You only live once. Of course we can meet!
Phil was so excited he stood up at his desk, clapping his hands in triumph.
One more thing though, she added.
He waited for her to continue.
I’m married.
Oh, shit.
Cyber- or phonesex with married women was one thing, but meeting in person was another. Phil may have been a regular buyer of sexual services, but he wasn’t totally without morals.
Maybe meeting in person isn’t such a good idea?
Why not?
What about your husband?
Typical male, she wrote. You’ve never even met my husband, and all of a sudden you care more about his feelings than mine.
Phil started to type a response, but her messages came fast and furious.
Haven’t I been your friend?
Haven’t I listened to you moan about how you don’t have a girlfriend?
Now a woman is offering to meet you and you’d refuse?
You’ve been to prostitutes, haven’t you?
How come that’s okay, but my meeting you isn’t?
How do you know they weren’t underage?
How do you know they weren’t trafficked?
If you’d rather go to a hooker than me, it’s your loss.
Her avatar went blank. She had signed out.
***
1996 it was. Summer.
“Bear with me,” said Phil. “This is my first time.”
“Yeah, like hell it is.”
“No, seriously. This is my first time.”
“How old did you say you were?”
“Twenty-two.”
“Twenty-two? And you’ve never had sex before?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Nobody wanted to have sex with me. Even you’re only doing it because I’m paying you.”
“But…but you’re a guy!”
Phil spent years trying to understand what she had meant by that.
***
Phil was reading his email.
Dear Phil,
I don’t want our friendship to end this way. I have had many good times with you and I still want to meet in person. Why don’t we meet for lunch? Just lunch. Somewhere public. It doesn’t have to go further if you’re not comfortable.
Sue
Feeling a bit guilty, Phil wrote back with the address of a café, across the street from his company’s New York office.
***
On the plane Phil was restless. Was he really going to meet his online fuck buddy and have a wild night or two of real, unpaid sex? Or, more likely, would he face one more humiliation? Once he had met a cyber-fuck buddy, who lived in the same city. He still remembered how her face had fallen when she saw him, how she suddenly had a boyfriend she’d never mentioned before, and couldn’t stay long because she had to get back to work.
***
1988 it was. Spring.
“You’re always reading!” said Pauline.
Phil found this a little annoying. Of course, he was always reading. What else were the breaks between classes for?
Pauline, a plain but slim blonde girl, tried to make conversation with him in almost every Grade 9 class they were both in. He never understood why. She also seemed to smile and giggle a lot.
This only went on a few weeks. Phil didn’t even notice when she stopped talking to him. He did see her holding hands with her boyfriend in the halls. Idly, he wondered how teenage couples got together. Where did it start?
***
1994 it was. Winter.
“Well, this is my stop,” said Phil.
“See you next week,” said Roos. She was a pretty Dutch girl, slender as a rail, with long curly reddish-brown hair. She took the same bus home as Phil on Friday nights. They’d sit opposite the aisle from each other, comparing notes on school. She majored in psychology, he in computer science.
Phil quite liked Roos. He had a warm feeling in his stomach each week after talking to her. He knew little about her other than academic interests, but still, it was pleasant to have someone to look forward to. He’d never been friends with a girl before.
He wished he could see Roos more often, but she only took that bus on Fridays. Oh well, he thought, better than nothing.
He had to miss that bus the last day of the semester, staying late to finish an assignment. He never saw Roos again.
***
It was a small café. Phil sat down unobtrusively near the entrance, scanning the room. There was a hot blonde in a corner. Could that be Sue? He gazed at her furtively, then dropped his eyes. Be honest. The real Sue is almost certainly a middle-aged overweight woman. Well, nothing wrong with that.
The minutes ticked by. Where was she? Was she going to stand him up, as so many had done before? He stared at the menu, but the choice of burgers hardly seemed the most pressing issue facing him. Still, he had to be back at the office by one.
He signaled the waitress. “I’ll have a bacon double cheeseburger with fries.”
“Okay,” she said, scribbling in her pad. “And for the lady?”
“What—”
“I’ll have a chicken salad,” said the hot blonde helpfully. Phil had not even noticed her sitting there. She was looking at him with an impish smile.
“Sorry, I was waiting for someone—”
“—and you have found her.”
Phil stared as the waitress headed off.
“Sue? You’re Sue?”
“Are you surprised?”
“But you were here when I came in. Why didn’t you—”
“Did it ever occur to you that I might be nervous? It’s not every day you meet someone who masturbates to thoughts of you drinking their piss.”
Phil blanched.
“But then,” she went on, “I could see that you’re even more nervous than I am. You didn’t seem to notice me staring at you.”
“You were staring?”
“I think this might be why you’ve never had a girlfriend. You’d never notice if a woman was interested in you.”
“I’m pretty sure that none ever have been.”
Sue didn’t buy it. “Do you have any idea how sexy you are?”
“No. As far as I’m concerned, I’m a hideously ugly, socially retarded, uninteresting, boring—”
“Stop it!” she said sharply.
“I don’t look like — well, like you.”
She dimpled. “You think I’m sexy?”
Sue was slender and fair, with long straight blonde hair. She had the beginnings of wrinkles, and her breasts lacked the perkiness of a younger woman’s, but she was still a beautiful woman. Perhaps not quite the standard of Heather Locklear, but better looking than many prostitutes Phil had hired. She was dressed conservatively, in a black and white striped blouse and black pencil skirt.
“You’re definitely way sexier than that photo you sent me,” he said, truthfully.
“If you’re trying to get me into bed with compliments, it’s working,” she said slyly.
Phil felt scared. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“Don’t apologize. You can say nice things about what I look like any time you want.”
Phil had to close his eyes and take deep breaths to continue.
“Thank you for being so patient with me—”
“My looks,” she said, impatiently.
“You’re beautiful. Your face is just so, I don’t know, so appealing. You’re thin and I can see your curves.” He let his eyes flit downward briefly. “Your waist is tiny. And your…your…”
“My tits?”
“Your breasts look really nice.”
She chuckled. “That will do for a start. Now will you listen to some for you?”
“Me?”
“Yes, you. I think you have the most wonderful dark brown eyes. You’re as cute as hell, especially when you’re nervous. And you look really professional, even distinguished.”
That last one had a ring of truth to it, as Phil had often heard similar things from recruiters.
“Why don’t you tell me what you’re doing here, in New York?” she asked.
Phil’s body relaxed at familiar turf. Soon he was happily chirping away about the tech projects he was working on. Sue never lost patience, listening intently. It turned out she also worked in software, as an engineering manager. Just as Phil had moved to Silicon Valley to seek his fortune, she had left her Texas hometown to pursue a career on Wall Street.
“It’s amazing that you’re an engineer. You see so few women in the field.”
“And so many men,” said Sue dreamily.
“But…you’re married?”
“Yes, but I think it’s best we don’t talk about that,” said Sue. “Are you free tonight?”
“To…tonight?”
“I was wondering if you’d like to have dinner. Do you like Italian food? Little Italy—”
“Oh. Sure. Yes. That would be great.”
***
1988 it was. Summer.
Sue was excited. It seemed like they were in paradise, a taste of heaven itself. Here she was, in a glorious Caribbean island with the man she loved. Their hotel was the very epitome of luxury. The resort was everything she could have asked for in a honeymoon.
While Keith was in the shower, Sue was admiring herself, decked out in a light green bikini. The top was a thin triangle, the bottom a little square thong and a g-string for the back. It was the smallest, flimsiest thing she’d been able to find, and judging by the material, it would be transparent when wet. She would be virtually naked in public, and the thought sent little tingles of excitement down her spine, warming her blood like strong drink.
Keith came out of the bathroom, wrapped in a towel. Sue turned towards him, her green eyes inviting.
He stopped, and stared. Sue permitted herself a half-smile, hoping to see the towel fall…
“What is that outfit?” he asked, sharply.
“Don’t you like it?”
“Oh, I like it,” he replied, his face filling with disapproval. “So will everyone else. A little too much, if you ask me.”
“But…I like it,” said Sue.
“Sue…honey…this is what we talked about, remember? You’re my wife now. You don’t have to be a whore anymore. You’ve said goodbye to that life.”
“I wasn’t going to fuck anyone—” she sputtered.
“I know you weren’t.” He took her hands in his. “But showing your body like that isn’t respecting yourself. It’s telling everyone that you’re cheap, that you don’t value you who are.”
“I do value myself,” Sue protested. “I just like showing off—”
“What effect do you think that will have on other men?” Keith asked. “Most of them are here with their wives or girlfriends. And how do you think that makes other women feel?”
“I wouldn’t mind if you looked at other women—”
“You should. I don’t look at other women. I never will, now that I have you. And I value you. Maybe more than you value yourself. But you’ll learn how. Together. With me.”
Sue could not find in her the strength to insist. She changed into a more modest, forgettable one-piece outfit.
***
Phil had meetings most of the afternoon, but in between he thought about Sue. It was wonderful to meet her as a person. Even if they never had real sex.
He walked to the restaurant. He had always had a childish love of tall buildings, and Manhattan’s fabled skyline enchanted him. Many were the times he stopped to admire the city’s breathtaking panoramas.
“I’m here for a reservation for two for six-thirty,” he told the hostess.
“Name, sir?”
“The name is Susan.”
Phil turned and stared. The modest blouse and skirt had been replaced by a very short, tight, and sexy green dress. Sue’s shoulders, arms, legs, and a generous amount of cleavage were bare. Gone was the plain, relatively unvarnished look he’d seen this afternoon. In its place was brighter lipstick, tapped-on rouge, and blue mascara.
It wasn’t what a prostitute looked like. Real prostitutes dressed in ordinary clothes, except for streetwalkers who dressed in flashy, garish outfits. It was what an average person would think a prostitute looked like.
The hostess led them to their table. Sue was grinning wolfishly.
“What do you think of my looks now?”
“I’m thinking how soft your cheeks are. How much I’d like to kiss them. How beautiful your hair is. I want to run my fingers through it.”
“You’re getting better at this. What do you think of this outfit? I just bought it today.”
“Today? What for?”
She just raised her eyebrows in response.
“You bought that outfit…to impress me?”
Phil loved staring at women in miniskirts, but struggled to do so without them noticing. Never had a woman worn a particular outfit entirely for his benefit. He felt deeply moved.
“It’s okay, Phil. I feel fantastic wearing it. Please tell me you like it.”
“I love it.”
“Tell me why you love it. And don’t be diplomatic. Tell me what you’re really thinking.”
“I…I’d like to put my hand up it.”
Sue smiled, a sweet, welcoming smile. “Go on.”
“I look at your breasts—”
“Tits.”
“Your tits, and…I want to pull them out and play with them. I…I want to slide that dress off you. What do you have on under it?”
“Would you like to find out?”
“Yes,” he said with sudden resolution. “If your husband doesn’t mind?”
Sue’s good humor vanished. “My husband does not own me. There is a reason why I’m here with you, and not at home with him. But that is a matter between him and me.”
They were interrupted by the waitress taking their drink orders. Manhattan for the lady. Screwdriver for the gentleman.
Seeing the look of fear on Phil’s face, Sue softened a bit. “I’m not angry at you. But it’s funny how we’ve done all sorts of graphic sexual things together, but you’re worried about my being married.”
“I don’t have much in the way of sexual morality,” said Phil, “but I do have two rules. One, don’t use force. Two, don’t lie.”
“Are you lying to me?”
“No, but are you—”
“I am lying to my husband, yes. But that’s not your doing. And if it wasn’t you, sooner or later I’d probably be doing this with someone else.”
Phil digested this for a moment, torn between his libido and his principles, until the waitress came back with drinks and took their food orders. Shrimp linguini for the lady. Spaghetti bolognese for the gentleman.
***
Sue looked at Phil as they ate.
“Have you ever wanted to just, you know, throw caution to the wind? Forget about all the rules, the regulations, just go wild?”
“Yes, many times. Especially—” He blushed.
“Especially what?”
“Especially when looking at girls.”
Sue laughed. “Do you know what I’d like to do?”
“What?”
“Open your zipper and suck your cock.”
Phil gaped at her.
“I’ve felt that since I started talking to you. It’s because of the way you think of blowjobs. They aren’t vanilla sex to you. You think of them as BDSM, as an act of submission.”
“Of course.”
“That’s what makes you so hot. I’ve never met a guy like you before. You get so turned on and so grateful for the littlest things. Hell, just typing out sucking your cock online makes me so horny I need a vibrator.”
“Really?”
“Yes really. You can’t conceive that women can enjoy blowjobs and swallowing, can you?”
“There are surveys showing that only seven percent—”
“Seven percent, not zero percent. And that’s including the average woman with the average male blockhead for a partner.” She leaned forward. “Tell me something. Have you ever had any kind of sex without a condom?”
“No.”
“Do you have any kind of sexually transmissible disease?”
“No!” said Phil with some heat.
“Neither do I,” said Sue. “And I’ve had the operation. I can’t have children.” She gave him a shrewd look.
***
1989 it was. Spring.
Phil noticed a girl drinking from the water fountain.
Her body… oh, god. He felt he would forsake all the art of man just to stare at that body, at that incredible hourglass waist. The sight was so lovely it brought tears to his eyes.
Her back was to him, she could not see him staring. His eyes bore hungrily into her ass, round, perfect, and adorable. Her long blue jeans fit it perfectly, framing it, tempting him, tantalizing him.
More than anything else in the world, Phil wanted to touch that ass, put his hands on it, just explore it and feel it. Could he do it? He felt the desire flooding him. Just one feel. Please. Please.
He shut his eyes tightly and clenched his fists, forcing himself to walk away.
***
Sue insisted on splitting the tab for dinner, just as she had at lunch. “I’m a manager, you’re just a young pup starting out,” she admonished.
They stepped outside. It was a beautiful evening. The dying rays of the sunset poked through the pillar-like Manhattan buildings. All around were the rush of cars, the yells of shopkeepers, the bustle of pedestrians. This was New York, full of life and energy.
And in the heart of it was Sue. Middle age had not dimmed her appeal one iota. Phil unabashedly stared at her legs. Just stared. He usually had to be furtive looking at women, glancing out the side of his eyes, or turning his head ever so slightly. To look with open desire at female flesh, without having to hide himself…he felt a rush of gratitude to his friend.
“Are there things you’ve always wanted to do with a beautiful woman?”
“Tons.”
“Do them. Anything you want. Just don’t get us arrested.”
Phil ran his fingers through that hair, that long blonde hair. It wasn’t like a man’s hair. It was soft, silky, luxurious. It felt wonderful.
He moved his lips closer to her cheeks. They didn’t have the smooth perfection of a younger woman’s, but that did not diminish their appeal. Up close, he could smell her perfume. He did not know what it was called, but it was intoxicating. He’d never been close to perfume, except when having lap dances. Only a few sex workers let you kiss them even on the cheek, and none on—
Sue’s lips were on his. It was his first kiss. Her tits nuzzled up against him. His hands found their way to her ass — oh god, did it feel good! Her lips parted, and he had his first taste of tongue, smooth, sensuous, and succulent. He knew she could feel his erection, and as if to confirm it, her hand snaked down and caressed it.
Phil stepped back and took her tits in his hands. In public! I can play with her tits in public! Would men be jealous? Would women be judgmental? He welcomed both. He squeezed her tits, feeling the hardness of the lacy material under her dress. She was smiling at him — smiling!
Could he do it? He put a hand on her thigh. Still, the same smug smile. Her leg felt so soft and smooth. He stroked her gently, sliding his hand up the dress.
How many hundreds of times had he seen girls in short skirts, girls in alluring dresses, girls with legs too gorgeous to be real? How many times had he longed to feel those legs, creep up those skirts?
Sue was wearing…was this a thong? It was hardly underwear at all, in the sense he understood it. It was just a thin, loose string over the wetness…
Over the wetness! Prostitutes have only a mild wetness, one the customer is never permitted to touch with fingers or tongue. Sue was wetter than any woman he had ever been with, and he could feel the warm liquid on his fingers.
Phil’s hand jerked with excitement. He was feeling up a woman! Live on the street!
“Get a room!” someone yelled from a passing car. Sue grinned.
“Let’s do it,” she said. “I want to suck your cock so badly, it hurts.”
Phil signalled an approaching cab.
***
1982 it was. Fall.
Phil spent every afternoon alone. Both his parents were at work. His big brother went to a different school now. He didn’t come home until late, late in the evening.
Phil was hungry. He opened the freezer. He saw ice cream! Tasty. He served himself a big bowl.
It was very good. He served himself another bowl. And another.
He was still hungry. He helped himself to some buttered toast. And more. And more.
***
1983 it was. Winter.
Christmas is coming, the goose is getting fat, please come put a penny in the old man’s hat, went the record.
“Christmas is coming, and guess who’s getting fat? Ha! Ha! Ha!” Phil’s older brother loved making jokes like that.
Filled with a sudden, violent rage, Phil grabbed his piggy bank and threw it at his brother. It missed him by inches and hit the wall, shattering into fragments.
Their mother, hearing the loud crashing noise, found them seconds later, staring at each other, one face appalled, the other livid. The floor was filled with broken glass and scattered coins.
Phil never forgot his mother’s face, filled with rage, mottled rage, the kind that makes you cower and run to the cellar, her eyes wide open, glaring like a tiger.
“I hate you!” she screamed. “I hate you from the bottom of my heart!”
***
1985 it was. Summer.
Phil and his mother were looking at the family photo albums.
“What happened to the cute little boy I used to have?” she scolded, pointing to his younger incarnation. “Look at you now. You’re like a barrel!”
Phil put his emotions in check. He would not let her see him cry.
“You are going on a diet right now. No more excuses. And no more books for you. You should run around and play, not sit around all day reading. Go run around the block five times, or no dinner for you.”
Phil arrived late to dinner, heaving and exhausted. There were glasses of orange pop for the others, but water for him. Dinner was his favourite food, spaghetti, but he was served only half a plate.
“Stop gobbling like that!” his mother scolded. “No wonder you look like a barrel.”
“Why can’t you chew your food?” asked his father.
Phil tried to reach for a second helping, but his mother slapped his hand away. He was not permitted dessert, which everyone else ate with relish.
At one in the morning, Phil’s stomach was growling. He snuck into the kitchen and devoured half of a box of cookies his mother had hidden in the pantry.
***
Entering his hotel, Phil noticed the staff giving them knowing looks.
“They think…they think you’re a prostitute,” he said to Sue.
“Let them,” she replied. She unzipped the dress before even stepping into the elevator. When they reached the room, she pulled off her panties and left them on the doorknob, a racy do not disturb sign.
And there she was, nude, and Phil was falling on the bed, and she was falling on top of him, and those luscious tits were on his mouth. He sucked them, they tasted so good, her scent and her hair were all around him, she was kissing him on the forehead, cradling him against her, whispering in his ears.
He’d done this before, in lap dances, but only for a few, precious minutes, with the merciless timer running, before the inevitable moment when he was asked for another twenty to go on. Sue never got tired of cradling him. She cooed at him as he suckled, stroking his hair, caressing his cheeks, nuzzling his ears.
Even for the most mature man, taking breast into mouth is fundamentally maternal. Deep memories of old feedings come back, a return to the safety and security of the earliest times on this earth. Sue felt this too. Soon she was murmuring, “suck it baby. Suck mommy’s tits. Good boy.” It felt right. It felt special, and close. Phil thought of his own mother. That memory sent a shiver down his spine, but now he had a comforting teat to banish the old anxieties.
When he finally let Sue go, she looked at his crotch and giggled. There was a visible wet spot on its front.
Only now did he take a good look at Sue’s nude body. She didn’t have the innocent, princess-like look of a girl. It was the hard, rough edge of a woman who knew her way around. Her tits were big and motherly, with deep dark aureoles. Her pubic hair was brown, even though the hair on her head was blonde. It must have been dyed.
“You know, although technically you’re not a virgin, emotionally you are one, aren’t you?” she asked.
“I guess so. You’re the only person to come to bed with me for free.”
“So if I do this right, you’re going to remember this night for the rest of your life,” Sue reflected. “My cunt is wet just thinking about it that way.”
Phil shivered at the blatancy of the forbidden word cunt. They’d used it before online, of course, but it was another thing to hear it out loud. Sue was already thrusting her fingers into hers.
Desire touched Phil. Masseuses let you touch their pussies, but, since the man is lying down and the girl standing, he hadn’t been able to explore them, just stroke the outside a bit.
He wanted to invade Sue’s space, invade her body, treat her as the plaything he had always craved. “Say it out loud,” Sue reminded him, guessing what he was thinking.
“I want to… to molest you,” Phil said, finally settling on the right word.
“Don’t worry about getting me off,” said Sue. “Just take whatever you want.”
“But don’t I have to give you—”
“No. You don’t. I’m a submissive. I take pleasure from your pleasure.”
Phil was too horny and too male to dispute the point. He slid his fingers inside her, poking, probing, penetrating. She was putty in his hands. He dug deeper, curling his fingers, finding something soft and leathery.
She moaned as he stroked it.
Phil jammed his hand in harder. He put his left hand on her outer folds and pinched her clit, far from gently. He began to play with her private parts, as a boy might play with modeling clay. He squeezed her clit. She yelped. He pinched it. She screamed. Then he wiggled it between his fingers, while slicing into her cunt with his right hand.
And he had her, rolling and tossing her head, her entire body shaking. So intense was she that he felt his own erection diminishing a bit. He pulled his fingers out, dripping with liquid, his nose wrinkling a little at the smell.
Sue lay prostrate. “Holy fuck. Do you do this with your whores?”
“No, they don’t let you touch their vaginas with your fingers.”
“Idiots,” said Sue. “Please tell me at least that they suck your cock.”
“Yes, but only with a condom. It’s not very comfortable either. You can feel their teeth scraping you, and they tend to suck too hard. Sometimes I feel like I’m inside a vacuum cleaner. I usually just do vaginal now.”
“No vaginal for you today, buster. Today you are going to get swallowed.”
“S-swallowed?”
“Did you think I was joking online or something? I meant every word.”
Every word?
Phil stood up suddenly, eyeing her. His heart was pounding. He could barely even believe this was happening. He fought back the panic, the old fear that gripped him like a vice. You don’t need to fear her, he told himself. She’s already said yes. She means it. Sue’s face reflected only calm amusement.
“S-stand in front of me,” said Phil in a small voice.
She obeyed. She looked utterly desirable, like a mature porn star brought to life.
“Kiss me,” he said.
She stepped forward.
“On my feet,” he corrected.
Her eyes lit up. Quick as a flash she was down, groveling on the floor, pressing her lips to his socks.
“Let me pull them off for you,” she volunteered.
Never had it occurred to Phil that even taking off your socks can be highly erotic, if you’re with the right woman. Phil could not see what she was doing — even if his erection had not blocked his view, his belly would — but he could feel his pant leg being lifted, her nose scraping along his calves. Then he could see her, gripping his sock toes between her teeth—
“You’re pulling them off like a dog,” he said in surprise.
She looked up at him, eyes sparkling. “Want me to be your little bitch?”
Bitch!
He had, online, called her a slut and a whore, but had never dared say bitch. He’d never used that word even with commercial phonesex operators. It was out of the question. It was an insult, a putdown, a terrible thing to say.
Sue was quite taken with the idea. She rapidly pulled off his other sock the same way. Then she sat on her haunches, lolling out her tongue, making doglike panting sounds, even wiggling her ass back and forth as if she had a tail. Phil didn’t know what to make of this. He had never met someone so utterly lacking in shame.
“Take off my clothes,” was all he could say. Sensing perhaps that he wasn’t quite ready for the dog act, Sue reverted to more human behaviour. She stood up and kissed him deeply on the lips, pressing her pussy against his zipper.
She unbuttoned his shirt and helped him out of it. “Is this what you’ve been so worried about?”
“Yes,” he replied. How could he not be ashamed of his hideous body? He avoided mirrors as much as he could. Photos of him were a rarity. For as long as he could remember he’d regarded his body as something grotesque, despicable, worthy only of shame and pain.
“I think it’s beautiful,” said Sue. She caressed his belly gently. “Don’t be ashamed of who you are, of what you are.”
“But the porn I look at, the women I stare at, they’re all thin and gorgeous. You’re thin and gorgeous.”
“That’s okay,” said Sue. She started kissing his belly, digging into it. “You want what you want, and you have what you have. Nobody said they had to be the same.”
“Yes, they did. Isn’t it hypocritical—”
“Shh,” said Sue. “You worry too much about what’s right and wrong, and too little about what you feel, and what you want. I know what I want — to suck your cock. I will be quite upset, at this point, if I don’t get to.”
She knelt and licked the front of his pants, then fumbled with his button and zipper, slowly pulling off the last of his clothes.
Phil was shaking, trembling, erection wilting. Sue tried to think back to what it had been like to lose her virginity, over a quarter century ago. Then she tried to imagine what it would be like to do this having led the life Phil had led.
“I think you need to lie down,” she said.
She lay down beside him and started licking his chest. “I love your chest. I can suck on your chest just like you can suck on mine,” she said. Fat is more pliable, more manipulable than muscle, and it can be sucked on, not just licked. Phil felt a hot spot spread under her tongue. His cock was lying comfortably between her breasts. He put his arms around her head and stroked her hair.
“You don’t need to worry,” she soothed. “Mommy is here. Mommy will take care of you.” Somehow, these were the right words to pierce through Phil’s wall of anxiety. Her tongue felt so relaxing, it was like a balm of peace, bringing release and softness wherever it went. She kissed and nuzzled him on the parts of the body he had long been most ashamed of, most repulsed by: his belly, his sides, his navel. She even took the trouble of licking his waist, the embarrassingly remote region that lay under the overhang of his belly.
“God, your cock is gorgeous,” she said.
“Mine?”
“Yes, yours. It’s just the right size. Not too big, and not too small. I can get the whole thing in my mouth, easy. And it’s the right color. Your brown skin is so beautiful, so rich and textured. Not too dark, not too light. Not a hint of pink in it, I never like seeing pink men.”
Phil’s cock jerked at the praise.
“And,” added Sue, laughing, “white cum contrasts so much better on darker skin!” She kissed the tip of his cock.
Now Phil was bulging, straining with anticipation. He wanted to grab her head and impale her on his rod. But he restrained himself. He had only one load to shoot, and he wanted as much pleasure as she could give before he fired.
Sue’s tongue teased him, tantalized him, brought out long-buried feelings and surfaced them into a paradise he had never felt before. She spread his legs apart and went for his groin. The feeling of her wet tongue was like a strong drink, a soothing warmth that permeated him, excited him, filled him with a hunger for more. Her tongue was on his balls. Phil felt himself losing coherence, babbling, giggling.
He began calling her names, those words that had such emotional power. Slut. Whore. Bitch. They were not just words of sexuality, they were words of rebellion. Words no decent man would say, no decent woman would want to hear. But neither of them were decent. They were being indecent, obscene. Sue was licking his balls, and, in contemptuously final dismissal of moralistic feminism, she was enjoying it as much as he.
“You’re not going to last long, are you?”
“No,” Phil panted. His jerking cock tapped Sue’s nose.
“Good.” Sue stuck out her tongue and drew it along the tender underside of his cock, the epicentre of male sexuality. This is where fingers went to masturbate, a tiny ridge of passion. Sue flicked it like a banjo, sending surges of feeling up and down Phil’s body. He could endure no more. He grabbed her head and pushed it onto his cock. His hips thrust into her.
I’m in her mouth, he thought savagely, frenziedly. This whore has me in her mouth. Her magic tongue was sending nuclear fire through him. One thought alone burned into his brain. She’s going to swallow—swallow—
and then—
He had done it. He had cum on a woman’s tongue, for the first time in his life. Had he been too rough? Had he hurt her?
She was slithering up his body, a definite smirk on her face. She opened her mouth. He saw his essence lying there. She swallowed it.
His eyes widened, too deeply moved for words. She took him in her arms, holding him against her breasts.
“Was that,” she asked, “everything you hoped it would be?”
“Everything,” he said. He held onto her tightly. “Thank you so much. I’ll never forget this, as long as I live.”
She smiled. “How long are you here?”
“I leave on Saturday.” It was Monday night.
“We don’t have much time,” she replied, making another lunge for his cock.
Phil had to block her.
“I can’t.”
“You can’t cum more than once? Damn.”
She decided not to mention that Keith had easily been able to do it, at least when he was Phil’s age. “How long before you’d be up for another round?”
“Tomorrow morning?”
Sue looked at him thoughtfully. “I think we could work that out. Meet me at my office.” She walked to the desk and wrote an address on the writing pad.
Phil didn’t want her to leave, but she was a married woman and there were limits to how late she could stay. He stared at her body as she dressed.
“I had a wonderful time, sweetie.” She kissed him. “You be a good boy now.” She pinched his cheek before leaving.
Phil tried to take stock of his emotions. How often he had longed for his mother to call him a good boy when he was little, but he was past that now. Or was he?
Still, he had a feeling of warmth and contentment inside, quite a contrast to the feelings of abandonment and isolation he often felt after paid sex. His heart and cock felt deeply, warmly satisfied, and yet at the same time hungry for more. He was still naked, still wet, still pondering these thoughts, when he fell asleep.