Drop 169: You Know?

glass bottomAmanda is surprised Joe’s still talking to her. He’s blonde and good-looking, with bright eyes and a tanned fit body. He has been laughing at her jokes and has given her more than one complement already. As an overweight, nerdy girl, she’s not used to the attention, but it’s going great – so great in fact, that she decides to go for it. Why not? You never can tell who a person might be into. It’s personal and sometimes quite surprising. Maybe this guy’s into big girls with glasses!

‘Say, Joe: you think you might wanna get some dinner with me some time?’

‘Yeah, sure, would be fun.’

‘Just the two of us, you know, and maybe catch a movie too.’

‘Oh, you mean like a date?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Sorry, darling. I think I gave you the wrong impression. You’re awesome and I think you’re really cute too with your funky glasses and pretty eyes, but I’m into dudes. Actually, if you want to know, I’m into older bald black guys with tattoos.’

‘Oh.’

‘Something about them just gets me, you know? We can still catch that movie though!’

‘Sure.’

Later that night Joe hits his usual spot for a quick drink, just to check out the scene.

Bingo!

After talking to Chuck – a large black man in his late forties with an amazing wide smile, fully tattooed arms done really nicely, and a perfectly round shiny head – for half an hour, and buying him a drink, Joe suggests they get out of there.

‘Oh, sorry buddy,’ Chuck says. ‘I must have given you the wrong idea. I’m not gay. Just here with some friends. You’re a handsome dude, for sure, but I’m into chicks – hefty pale white girls with glasses, to be precise. Something about them just gets me, you know?’

 By EM Vireo

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Drop #166: Date

This post is not suitable for children – you have been warned

icecream bearThey stepped out of the movie theater into the warm night, hand in hand. It was only a first date but it seemed to be going well, and he hoped it would progress to something delicious quite soon.

‘So, what do you want to do now?’ he asked.

‘What do I want to do? I want to fuck – that’s what I want to do. I want to fuck you. I want you to fuck me. I want to suck your dick. I want it between my tits and in my ass. I want to lie you down on the floor and destroy your face with my meticulously waxed pussy. I want to do it for hours on the couch and the bed and the kitchen table, rest for half an hour while we drink champagne and do lines, then go again even longer. That’s what I want to do now – right now. I want it bad.’

‘Yeah, that sounds good. Also – and I’m just throwing this out ­there – there’s this new ice cream place that opened just up around the corner I’ve been meaning to try. It’s an organic creamery with like 56 flavors, all made in-house, and a million toppings to choose from, and they mix it all together on frozen marble slabs right in front of you. Anyway, that’s another option – I’m easy, either way.’

By EM Vireo

Drop 153: Napkin

orchidThis post is not suitable for children. You have been warned.

‘It’s kind of refreshing,’ she said, looking at him across the table and smiling softly, ‘to be out with a nice guy for a change—you are a nice guy, right? I mean, it’s our third time out and you haven’t made a move beyond that one short and careful kiss. You haven’t grabbed me, made any crass comments, acted macho, even stared openly at my breasts.’

‘Because I respect people, and women especially.’

‘I see that.’

‘And yes, I am a nice guy, in terms of: I would never prey on insecurities, coerce or manipulate a girl into doing anything, or make it seem like she has no option, or is flawed if she doesn’t, or use alcohol or promises to seduce her; and sure, I only kissed you that once, and gently, and I haven’t tried to sleep with you, and I’ll always value a woman’s wishes and comfort as I try to do with all people.’

‘Yes, that’s clear.’

‘But, if I may speak frankly?’

‘Of course.’

‘In truth, my urges are not so polite; I just manage them skillfully. For instance, if I knew for sure you’d want it, I’d be under the table in an instant, teasing your panties aside and gobbling up your pussy as if it were an impossibly ripe mango, then ripping them and diving so deep down that snatch I’d almost drown. Yes, if I had a green light, I’d be under this table tonguing your asshole till it shone like a star, wearing you like a warm winter hat before filling you up with my footlong sub. Of course, I always put subject above object, even though, if you gave the word, I’d straight up beast on your delicious pink, plain revel in that stank. I’d snort coke off your clit, film it all so I could jerk off to it later, record your squeals and use them as the ringer for my phone—the higher ones to alert me of a WhatsApp message. I will always respect the person first and foremost, even if I want to deconstruct her into options, objects, holes to abuse. Always! But damn, girl, I’m less man than epic throbbing cock for you by now!’

She was silent.

‘Forgive me, have I shocked you?’ He looked at her meekly and topped up her wine. ‘Have you nothing to say?’

‘Oh, sorry, yes,’ she said, adjusting herself slightly on her chair. ‘It’s just that I dropped my napkin under the table and was wondering if you’d be a gentleman and get it for me.’

By E.M. Vireo

Drop #139: Paper

IMG_2026Barefoot in soft pajamas, she went to the front door to fetch the paper. This flawed old medium, with its wide ungainly pages that kinked at every turn and stained fingers a disturbing blue, still did it for her. In the twenty odd years she’d been addicted to coffee, she’d found no better companion for her morning cup.

She walked past the kitchen, ignoring the high-pitched squeals. A glue trap had finally worked. Opening the heavy gray door onto suburbia, the crisp air teased with the promise of a pleasant day.

The paper lay on the front porch, just two feet away. Some mornings, victim of a wayward arm, it barely cleared the fence. She stepped forward to pick it up, noticing the two boys as she bent down: maybe 8th or 9th graders, maybe on their way to school. They’d stopped beside the elm tree just outside the yard.

‘You little shit,’ the bigger one said loudly, as she straightened back up. ‘I’m gonna make you eat my fist.’

Curious now, she waited and watched. The bully was already well into his routine: ‘I’m gonna make you pay,’ delivered with a curt little shove.

‘Please,’ said the little one. ‘I didn’t do anything. I didn’t–’

‘Shut up, faggot.’ He put a hard palm to the other boy’s jaw and pushed it away. ‘Or I’ll hurt you worse.’

‘Please.’

‘I said shut up!’ He slapped the kid twice before grabbing him by the collar and shoving him against the tree. ‘You just don’t seem to get it.’ He flicked him on the forehead, smirking slightly. He was good at being mean. This was what he did. This was what he was. ‘And now I’m going to have to hurt you.’

She watched motionless in her pajamas, from her camouflaged spot on the porch, holding her rolled up paper. She watched the children with her adult eyes, with a responsibility, a duty to intervene. It was all so close, so clear: the hollow sobs, the growing wet patch.

‘Oh don’t cry, you pussy,’ the bully scoffed. ‘Take a beating like a man—oh Jesus, you went and pissed yourself too. That’s disgusting.’

Too clear: the humiliation, the sad reality. She’d watched it all with her terrible adult eyes; now she’d had enough. She’d seen enough.

She turned and went inside, closing the door softly behind her. She leaned against it, too taken by the scene she’d just witnessed to move another inch. Playing back the degradation, the closeness, the keenness of those slaps, she slid down the hard gray wood, banging her head twice against it and pursing her lips as she slipped four fingers under her pajamas bottoms and into her panties. In the past she would have fought back tears but it had long been all too clear: what one is, what one does. The mouse still squealed but faintly, slowly dying but not dead.

By EM Vireo

Drop #95: On the Sly

It’s been a long time since I rock and rolled, but here’s something new, at last:

My life had become repetitive and I was bored, so I dropped by Larry’s apartment on Saturday, even if it promised no great reward. His girlfriend let me in. Larry was passed out on the bed. He likes to drink and take pills: Valium, Quaaludes, Vicodin – I don’t really know.

I’d only met the girl twice, but he’d been with her for a couple of months. She’s much younger.

‘You wanna smoke a jay?’ she asked, sitting on the bed beside her guy and crossing her legs.

‘Sure.’

‘Oh, there’s beer and wine in the fridge, scotch and rum on the kitchen counter, and vodka in the freezer.’

‘I’ll have one of each,’ I smirked. She smirked back and started rolling.

She’s a good-looking girl—I mean, tight in all the right places, blonde—I like blondes (and brunettes, redheads etc.), with just a killer ass and tits. You know, she’s just hot.

I went to the kitchen, poured two freezy shots of vodka into shot glasses I found in the cupboard (surely the only two in the place), grabbed two beers from the fridge, and took it all back to the other room. ‘Here,’ I said, giving her one of each.

‘Cool,’ she said. We clinked glasses and downed the shot without saying ‘Damn!’ and making those stupid faces people make in movies when they drink strong drinks. We clinked bottles and swigged on those; then I went to sit on the chair by the desk, leaning back.

‘Put on some tunes,’ she said, looking indifferent but alert. ‘I’m about done rolling this guy.’

‘OK.’ I scrolled through iTunes, past all the bands I like but never feel like listening to anymore: Stereolab, The xx, Gorillaz, The Cinematic Orchestra, trying to find the right fit – there was some pressure in getting it right – then panicked cause I was taking so long, and put on The White Album.’

‘Good thing you chose disk one,’ she said, tossing me the spliff. ‘I love disk one, but fucking hate disk two.’

We smoked, listening to ‘Glass Onion, and Wild Honey Pie,’ and I kept getting up to pass her the joint till she said: ‘why don’t you just sit here till we’re done?’ scooting over to offer me the corner of the bed.

‘OK,’ I said, ‘I’ll be right back.’ I got two more shots of vodka, fetched my beer and scooched in beside her to lean against the wall. Larry was lying across the foot of the bed facing us.

We clinked again and downed the shots. We finished the joint, listening to Bungalow Bill and she immediately lit a cigarette after stubbing out the jay in one of the five ashtrays scattered around the place.

‘Your name’s Jake,’ right?’ she asked, looking me in the eye.

‘Yeah.’ I said. ‘Jack. And yours is Janice, right?”

‘Janet, yeah.’

‘So, Jack. You want something?’

‘Huh?’

‘You want something?’

‘Like what?’ I asked looking at my beer. ‘I’m doing pretty well, I figure.’

‘You know, like a blowjob or something.’ Her face had remained unchanged since I’d come in.

‘What?’

‘You heard me. You want me to suck you off?’

‘Jesus. No.’

‘Seriously? You don’t want me to do you one? Not into me?’

‘It’s not that. I mean, Larry is right fucking here!’ I pointed.’

‘I know; that’s why I wanna do it. I love that he’d be in the bed while I blew you. I love that he’s so close. It turns me on.’

‘Jesus! What if he wakes up?’

‘That’s what makes it fun, Jack. Anyway, guy’s out cold. You should have seen what he took.’

‘But what if–’

‘Look, I’m tired of talking. I’m up for it. You want in or not?’

I paused for a second but of course I was in. Jesus, I was already harder than tungsten. ‘Yeah.’

She wasted no time and made no effort to be quiet as she guided me onto my knees, unbuttoned and unzipped me, pulled my jeans down a few inches, and my piece out of my boxers. ‘Nice,’ she said. ‘Larry can’t even get it up lately.’ Then she dug in.

I was crazy aroused, but nervous too, and I couldn’t help glancing over at Larry, only three feet away while she blew me. She looked at him too every now and again, once stopping to say, ‘you like, that, don’t you Larry?’ before getting back to work.

Though the anxiety stayed, it was never going to take long, and, as any gentleman would, I warned her: ‘I’m cumming,’ I said in a loud whisper. ‘Oh God! I’m cumming!’

She dealt with the news most pornographically, and as I unloaded on her outstretched tongue, I couldn’t help looking over at Larry again. His head was slightly raised, and his eyes were open, though only as slits. I felt like jumping up and running, but I was only half way done, and other reflexes overrode. And a second later, he made a sound with deep of his throat, those waxen eyes fell shut again, and his head flopped back down onto the mattress.

By E.M. Vireo

Drop #81: Soap

There was a bathroom attached to the outside of the old building behind the kitchen. He ducked in to take a leak. It was cramped but he managed not to dribble on his spotless gray suit.

He washed his hands in the tiny, low basin, encountering, for the first time in years, the same blue liquid soap used in the dispensers of his high school bathrooms. The smell triggered memories of teenage masturbation. He’d just discovered it back then, going at it pretty often and hard, and those bathrooms had been his sanctuaries in the act.

He quickly got turned on, unzipping again and searching out his hardened shaft with one hand while sniffing the soap scent off the other. It was a full, creamy arousal; one that crept through the gut and scratched at the hard-to-reach places, and he worked his rod with all the eagerness of a 14-year-old. It came quickly, aggressively and he climaxed hard, convulsing five or six times to expunge a large load. He had to support himself against the wall as it took him, buckling his legs and fogging his mind.

He had forgotten what that type of orgasm felt like. He hadn’t had one in a very long time and suddenly realized why he’d managed one now: while the bulk of his life had become so immersed in love, this act had been devoid of it. Subjects offer different gifts from objects. The two can overlap, sure, but for him, they tended not to.

It took a minute to straighten and clean up. He wiped the evidence off the walls, toilet seat, faucet and mop handle. It was a miracle he hadn’t hit his pants, shoes or shirt. That would have looked bad.

Leaving the small sanctum, he glanced at his watch and hurried up. He checked his appearance one last time in a broken pane of glass he saw on route, then walked quickly towards the entrance, where guests had already gathered.

By E.M. Vireo

Drop #59: Mosquito

Eleven-year-old Andy can’t sleep. And here’s the mosquito again, looking for blood: the obvious culprit. It disappears into the room’s broad expanse, then returns, buzzing intimately around his ear. If only he could kill it, things might be OK. But you can’t kill what you can’t get a hold of.

Andy is unnerved. He calls his parents: two lovely, caring adults, and they rush in with orange, open hearts. ‘Don’t worry, Andy. It will be alright. Don’t let a mosquito get you so down.’

They turn on the light and hunt the tiny vampire, the stealer of sleep. Dad finds it on the curtain and smacks at it with gusto. And when it escapes, mom gets in on the act, pinning it against the window to ensure a mangled death. Happy to have fixed the problem, they leave their boy’s room, sleepy but proud, secure in the fact that all is now fine.

But it is not fine. I know this because I am an omniscient narrator. You can picture me however you want: a thin bearded man with a limp, a midget with a lisp, a gray-haired gypsy woman with a glass eye and an orange cat, but that has no bearing on the story. All you need to know is that I am far more familiar with Andy’s situation than he is, or his parents are (bless their hearts), and I’m willing to share my knowledge with you. You see: though I’ve titled and set it up that way, this story isn’t really about a mosquito at all. It was merely a convenient scapegoat (insects so often are) to Andy, and a narrative mechanism to me. This story is about the exact night on which a boy is forced to make the jump from innocuous childhood to messy adulthood.

His parents have no idea that all night long, Andy’s been seeing images, and entertaining thoughts he is not yet capable of processing cleanly. Images of naked boys and their private parts. Thoughts of touching and playing and doing. And now they rush back in to fill the room’s dark silence. He hates them, yet welcomes them back; resents, yet molds them, and they make him feel uncomfortably warm and horribly intrigued, and of course, guilty too. No brand of lust is easy to fathom and harness at age eleven, and this one’s got him beat, at least for now. Here is a new hunger he has no place to put. And that is the root of his anxiety.

There. That’s all I wanted to say. I’m not sure I have a specific point to make. I just think the events of this particular night describe a loaded, meaningful moment in this character’s life and thought you’d be interested in the truth behind them. I thought it would be cool for you have a quick glance at the surface, before becoming omniscient too, and gaining deeper insight than the both kid and his parents do.

Who knows what will become of them all tomorrow, or later on in life. My knowledge is limited to the length of this story, and the night in question. And now, literally, I have nothing more to say.

By E.M. Vireo

Drop #33: The Next Maggie

‘You’re right, again, Carl,’ Maggie said, putting away her iPhone. ‘Aren’t you tired of always being right?’

‘No.’ I answered. ‘It’s like that Roxy Music album whose name I always forget. I never tire of it.’

‘You know what’s sad?’ Maggie asked, moving on methodically.

‘I know loads of things that are sad, but I doubt any are what you’re on about,’ I said, watching Josephine as she lifted the lid of her omelet with her knife, peaked inside, dug out a cherry tomato, flattened it with her fork twice, then ate it unaccompanied.

‘I don’t remember the last time I was horny,’ Maggie said. ‘I mean properly keen and up for it.’ I was ecstatic she’d brought Josephine along. The two of them were friends from Pilates class.

‘I’m horny now,’ I said.

‘Or even had a decent orgasm.’

‘Well, that happens.’

‘It does, right?’

‘Sure,’ I said. ‘To losers.’

‘Gee, thanks.’

I watched Maggie sip clumsily on her coffee, with her elongated, alien looking face suggesting one of her parents might have been a praying mantis; with her lips puckered and drawn forward, as if she was sucking on a tasteless hard candy, and her nostrils pointing down and out like an angry bull’s. I couldn’t get over the fact that just a month earlier I had been immensely attracted to her; now, psychosis remained as the only explanation. I even tried to summon sadness at the thought of her hypothetical death, but came up empty. I simply couldn’t guarantee I’d care.

Josephine was an entirely different story. She had the best, most appealing walk I’d ever seen, like that of a cartoon figure on a video game intro, with fluid hands swinging along her sides, and her ass in jeans was something I instantly wanted to bite, slap, tickle, fuck. She had effortlessly pouty lips that said the dirtiest things without speaking, and a tongue piercing that never stood still inside her playful pink mouth. I also liked the way she drank. She was on her third Bloody Mary.

‘I went to a concert last night,’ Maggie started again, ‘at The Stand. You know, I’ve always regretted not learning how to drum. I can watch a jazz drummer for hours on end – it’s so hypnotic. Even a geeky Jewish kid becomes sexy on a set of drums.’

‘Yeah,’ I said, distracted. Josephine was taking a bite and I was curious if she’d dig for another cherry tomato. I was riveted, but wondered if maybe, in a month, she’d be just another Maggie to me.

 By E.M. Vireo