My roommate asked me to do a reading. I asked whether or not I had to censor myself. He said no, and I had just bought this dick, soooo…
The audio’s shit so if you don’t have headphones, you can check out the footage from the LiveStream here. I go on around 1 hour 36 minutes.
Check out the wordz themselves under the cut.
PS: To the dude I pegged – sorry I wrote about your ass hole. Again.
All I wanted to do was go home. I was cranky and tired and hungry and horny and my feet were sore as fuck, ‘cause who the fuck wears the same flats for like four years straight? I wanted to go home and take a shower, then eat a fuck ton of biscuits and fried fish and green beans and mac and cheese, and even those fucking lima beans that he put on my plate regardless of my repulsion. I wanted to smoke the rest of my cigarettes, this pack being the one I swore would be the last, for real this time. I wanted to go to bed and, since he was such a good house bitch, I wanted to reward him with my mouth. And then, I wanted to pass the fuck out. Finally.
But when he mentioned having a “friends and family discount” at the Hustler Hollywood store that wasn’t actually in Hollywood, but in Nashville, Tennesse, I had to fucking go. I quickly regurgitated some energy from the pit of my stomach – actually, no, my stomach was empty, so I’m sure it came from somewhere deeper, maybe even borrowed from the energy of my pussy that had been aching for months to finally fuck this boy in Nashville, a boy who was almost a stranger just days before. So I scooped up that handful of vag-energy, brushed off the bile and piss and cum, and shot it up intravenously – because there was no fucking way I was gonna miss an opportunity to buy sex apparatuses at a discounted price. I knew exactly what I was gonna buy – my first dick.
I’d wanted to buy a dick for a long time, ever since my last weekend in Philly almost two years ago, when I fucked some married dude in the ass with a strap-on. It’s one of my favorite stories, and a night where I’d reached two epiphanies:
Epiphany #1: Ass holes have superpowers. That shit can stretch, like, a fucking lot. I was amazed to see my 8-inch-long, three-inch-thick fake cock disappear into such a tight and tiny hole. That dick was just so big, it bruised my vag, The Duchess, black and blue.
Epiphany #2: I love dick. Now, this is something I’ve always known, being a slut and everything. But I’d always been a slut of the combat-boot-stomping-super-brash-feminist persuasion, the kind who wears her pussy with pride. Soon, though, the femme in me was being challenged, because I just couldn’t deny the fact that I fucking loved having a dick, too.
Like, seriously, as soon as I shoved that dick through my MacGuyvered cotton thong harness, what came over me is what I can only assume is the natural impulse of a teenage boy who’s still years away from discovering what somebody else’s insides feel like. All I wanted – no, all I needed – was to stick my dick in things. I bounced it against the wall, on top of the dresser, hands-free, until the cat tripped over it, and then I whacked the cat with it too. I stuck it in a large-mouthed bottle. I stuck it through the hole in the door where a knob used to be. I hung laundry and cat toys from it, luring the cat back to me, wondering how his wife would react to seeing her closeted husband’s mistress taunting her cat with a feather and bell attached to the head of a fat silicone cock that I was about to ram up his ass. She would never find out about that… but she did kinda find my thong in their recliner. Oops.
It was ever since that unusually sober night that I’d been wanting to buy my own wiener. But, unlike my natural blabber-mouth tendencies, I didn’t tell a fucking soul. Something just felt wrong about it. I was ashamed to admit it – that I really, really, really wanted a dick. Am I really a guy somewhere under all this fat and pussy and tits? But I love my pussy! The tits could be a little bigger, but I still loved those too! Couldn’t I just have both? No, definitely not, just forget about it.
But I couldn’t. In fact, my fantasies were soon invaded by thoughts of a giant hunk of mean meat throbbing between my legs. My all-time favorite fantasy had been of like, some macho UFC motherfucker dragging me by my hair to the hood of a Mustang or something equally as beefy, and then he’d shove me against the hood and say something cheesy and degrading like, “Yeah, you’re just a fuck hole, you little bitch,” and then he’d rip off my panties all impatient-like before forcing himself inside of me. That shit was hot, and I thought about it a lot, but then suddenly it was slightly altered… and I became the testosterone-induced horn dog who was taking advantage of young girls in alley ways and shit. It freaked me out. I mean, it was just too fucking butch. Seriously, I would never, ever tear up a cute pair of satin polka dot panties. At least just yank ‘em to the side or something…
That self-dicked fantasy haunted me for months. I had never been so confused about my gender… until I finally discovered the Vamp Giorgio. It’s an 8-inch dong with a slight bend upward, and it’s super cute and sparkly. Duh! If I was ever gonna have a dick, even if it could somehow suddenly sprout naturally from my very own flesh, it would obviously be a glittery one. Being femme didn’t mean I couldn’t have a dick, it just meant I needed to find a cute dick.
I drug my boyfriend through the Hustler-not-Hollywood Store, my new dick in one hand, and his hand in the other, before he stopped for a second and wondered – Do you think people know? Know what? Well, what do you think they think, you know, watching you buy a dick with a boyfriend attached to your hip?
I always knew I wasn’t straight, but had a hard time figuring out what that really meant, especially coming from a super straight family. There may have been a few different dads involved, but they were still dads with dicks, and my mom was a mom with a vagina. It was really hard to grasp my own queer identity when all I could see were dicks paired up with vaginas, and all I could think was that I definitely did not want to be paired up with someone just because our parts supposedly “fit”.
Sure, I’ve had boyfriends, and even more fuck friends, but I’d never been entirely excited about them. Straight men were just always there. They were easily accessible in college, especially in the film department, a section of Columbia College that had become infested with scruffy, white, typically overweight, twenty-something straight dudes in Evil Dead shirts and red Converse. My bedroom has come to know these men very well, but I never actually have. I never felt like I truly belonged with these dudes; just because we’ve been told that we have corresponding parts, doesn’t necessarily mean that those things in our chests are thrashing to the same Black Flag beat. Before finding a queer partner, I had never known what it felt like to feel right with someone – not until James.
He asked me again in the car, as we finally made our way to where my coveted shower and southern dinner would await me. Babe, really, what do you think they were thinking? I contemplated it some more, but the silence was overwhelming, my crankiness was rising, and I just erupted – “I don’t give a fuck!”
In that moment, I didn’t give a fuck because I was too tired and hungry and horny and sore to give a fuck about some rednecks’ assumptions of what may or may not be in my or my partner’s pants. But I thought about it some more, after I’d showered and eaten and came and slept, and realized when it comes down to it, I still don’t really give a fuck about what some rednecks – or anyone for that matter – wonder about my sex life. It’s mine. My boyfriend is mine (of his own free-will, I guess…) And our sex, which may or may not involve my new, big and squishy purple wiener, is mine and only mine to contemplate. Or I guess it’s “ours” now that we’re official. Whatever.