Jodie
When he saw her profile online, Jodie’s whole body throbbed. It took him days to click through and start a chat. He’d returned to his own profile, tweaked it, agonized over his photo, stared at her photo. She had a look that made Jodie feel the breath rush out of his chest. High cheekbones and sparkly brown eyes that betrayed a hidden challenge, a confidence, a fuck you, an I-dare-you. But also an innocence. A hunger. Her chin was jutted out. She was looking up at the camera. She was holding the phone above her and the frame of the photo captured part of her arm where he could make out the edge of tattoos and a knobby elbow.
He lay in bed five nights in a row, the blue glow of his iphone pooling over his face and pillow as he wrote and deleted text after text. She looked like a dream he’d once had. Every time he looked at her profile, he could feel the muscles in his arms shake. He wanted her. He felt like he already knew what it would feel like to touch her, to take her out, to feel her on his arm. He could feel the electric charge of seeing people see him with her. He wanted to kiss her gently at dinner. He wanted to tear her clothes off. He wanted to be inside her. He wanted to become her.
After deleting a version of the same message a couple dozen times, he hit send with the side of his thumb and threw the phone across the bed and tried to sleep.
An hour later, still tossing with adrenalin, he heard a ping at his heel.
His heart thumped against his ribs.
It was her.
hi jodie 😉
ohmyfuckinggod, he thought
Hi Wendy.
You’re up late, she pinged.
Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck, he thought
Yeah, he wrote, feeling bold, or pretending to be, your photo made me feel things that kept me from sleeping.
The three dots appeared. He flushed. They disappeared. FUCKfuckFUCK he thought, imagining her texting other people. Flooded with hot dykes and dudes. God, she was hot.
The three dots appeared again.
well now, the experience is mutual, she wrote.
Oh, he thought. Oh FUCK.
They flirted for a few days, sharing tidbits about their lives, taking lustful selfies during breaks at work. It turned out they were into the same music – folk and punk, queercore and Adrianne Lenker. They talked on the phone a couple of times. She had a voice like chestnuts. She sounded nervous, quieter than he expected. He liked her. Jodie was both eager and hesitant to meet. The dream of it all – the dreaminess of her was so pleasurable he didn’t want to break the spell. He masturbated thinking about her. He imagined eating her out, his tongue up her ass, her body arching above him. He imagined blindfolding her with a silk bandana and tying her to his bedposts and touching her so tenderly, so softly, so slowly she begged him to climb on top of her and fuck her with his dildo. He imagined her hands on his tits, making circles around his nipples.
One night over text, he asked about her earliest sexual fantasy.
She told him that when she was a little kid, she visited an eccentric uncle who had a camel in eastern Oregon. They stayed up there for a whole summer while Wendy’s mom took care of the uncle who had broken both legs in a motorcycle accident. The three kids were expected to take care of the camel but Wendy’s two brothers just ended up out in the high desert shooting lizards with BB guns and catching snakes to put in Wendy’s bed. Wendy spent her days sitting in the pen with the camel. She told Jodie that its velvety wet lips were irresistible, a sexual awakening. She said the first time she came, she had spread peanut butter all over her arms and let the camel lick it off. He had loved the peanut butter so much, he’d tried to chew through her, his fat ivory teeth leaving bruises all up and down her arms. Wendy’s haggard mom had screamed at Wendy’s oldest brother to leave his sibling the fuck alone and Wendy never told anyone how she’d gotten the bruises. She told Jodie that for years she would touch herself imagining lying on the ground naked while four or five camels nibbled at her with their wet furry lips.
Jodie told Wendy he wanted to be that camel.
🙂 she’d said
He could feel her smile through the phone.
Wendy asked about Jodie’s first sexual fantasy. He told her about sneaking into his mom’s room as a 12 year old and finding her copy of Nancy Friday’s Secret Garden, a collection of letters written by women in the 1970s. He’d sat cross-legged on the beige carpet next to her bed and devoured the letters. They were wild. Stories written by a woman whose uncle had fucked her with a hot dog when she was 10. A story about a brother and sister who started fucking as teenagers and lived together as a couple and sometimes fucked their German shepherd whose dick had a ball that got so hard it sometimes got stuck in the woman’s pussy. He told her that his favorite was the one about a woman who fantasized she was a journalist reporting on a men’s hockey team. In the fantasy, she found herself in the locker room surrounded by naked hairy, sweaty men with thick knuckles and bulging thighs. Jodie could picture her, there, a grown up, wearing a black pencil skirt and a see-through white blouse without a bra. In the story, the woman wrote that the men all got hard, their huge cocks straining for her. Jodie pictured them in various stages of nudity – their cocks protruding as they toweled themselves off with those small, rough white gym towels, cocks curled on themselves, straining out of jockstraps and stinky plastic cups. In his fantasy, Jodie told Wendy he could see the men line up according to the size of their erections. Smallest to largest. They were hungry. Obedient. He wanted to be that woman and, even more, he wanted to be those men.
Jodie confessed that he would imagine that first guy walking over to the bench when Jodie nodded at him. Proud to get to go first. He’d have a tiny white towel around his neck and was still dripping from the shower. He’d rip Jodie’s skirt up, scrunching it above Jodie’s hips, pushing him down, his hand pressed between Jodie’s nipples. He would shove his dick into Jodie’s hot pussy and fuck, hard, desperately, Jodie’s tits shaking as the man’s pelvis hit his thighs. Jodie would feel himself being stretched open, but still so hungry, angry at him for not filling him, like he was being teased. The man would come fast, pull out his wet cock and Jodie would see how relieved the next guy was that he got a chance to fuck Jodie. Man after man would fuck him, the guys in line growling, obedient, passive.
Part of the fantasy was how deferential they were, he told Wendy. How far from Jodie they knew to stay, like schoolboys desperate for teachers. Wendy kept asking for more details. Tell me how it felt. He said he’d loved imagining cock after cock, each one filling his pussy a little bit more. Stretching him. Feeling how differently the guys moved. He imagined the men in line becoming more and more frenzied as Jodie started to enjoy himself. Everyone knew that as soon as Jodie came, no one else would get to fuck him. The gig was up. He told Wendy that every time he imagined one of the men coming in him, he would feel himself get closer, his clit straining under his fingers.
Jodie felt some shame sharing his fantasy like this. He still thought about it though, and not infrequently, but he’d never shared it with anyone. He was never the type to wear a skirt or want men to look at him. He didn’t even like men. He actively disliked men. In a way, that was part of what made it so hot. In the fantasy, he was both completely in his body and completely not himself. Free to just be in the pleasure, to not worry about what he wanted or didn’t want, what a partner was thinking or feeling or doing, whether or not he would come.
Wendy’s responses elated him. She sent emoji after emoji. Fire. The melty face. The burning hot face. Texting her made him feel bold. Seen. He wasn’t sure why this was so different. He was showing up as himself and the more he did, the more she seemed to respond to him, to open up to him.
Finally, he told her about the ending.
When I get close, he wrote, and then stopped typing. He couldn’t believe he was sharing so much with this stranger, but she didn’t feel like a stranger, she felt like she was inside him already.
when you get close? she wrote
When I would get close, I would turn into one of the men, and I could feel my cock fucking myself.
OMFG, Wendy wrote, yesssss
I can feel my dick inside her, inside my own pussy, and I feel her -me- the girl spasming against my dick. And I feel him –me- straining, my cock hard, filling her, reaching the end of her pussy, pressing against her cervix, until her spasms of pleasure make me explode, spilling wave after wave of semen into her – me- and she’s screaming with pleasure, and so am I.
There was a long pause.
what’s your address Wendy wrote. I’m coming over.
Biography
Hank “Lola” Cohen, PhD is a writer of fiction, literary erotica, and academic texts. His writing has been supported by the National Endowment for the Humanities among other fellowships. He is a professor at a small university in California.