That Which Does Not Kill Me

On Sunday night I took a bunch of pills, emptying out every bottle in my medicine cabinet and swallowing them by the handful, washing them down with warm Coke. Then I sat down on the couch and watched old Simpsons reruns while I waited. When my stomach started cramping, I panicked, and called 911. By this time the EMTs knew me by name.

“Oh, sweetheart,” they said, “Not again?”

They strapped me into the gurney, and hauled me downstairs to the ambulance, and I don’t know for sure, but I strongly suspect that they didn’t close my apartment door properly behind them. I think that’s when he got in.

It was a quick ride over to St. Luke’s, and I bypassed the usual interminable wait in the emergency room because my stomach was cramping something fierce and I was really scared and just a little hopeful I might have really fucked the pooch this time, and then a tired-looking resident had my stomach pumped, and they kept me overnight for observation, and then sent me on my way in the morning with my stuff in a clear plastic bag and a promise to never do it again.

I went straight from the hospital to work, which was neither any better nor any worse than usual: meetings all afternoon, pro forma sexual harassment from Brinks, and I had to stay late debugging. At home, I sat naked on the windowsill and ate cold pizza, drinking cheap vodka out of a pint glass and looking down through my window at the web of tangled traffic below.

It rained that night, and I stood out in the middle of the West Side Highway for a little over an hour, but apparently no-one felt like running over a drunk fat white chick in her skivvies, so eventually I got dressed and went home, bored and tired and wet.

The next day at work was more of the same: ‘self-assessment and inventory’. Brinks, my supervisor, speculated out loud as to what kind of panties I might be wearing. As usual, he was dead wrong. The new intern winced visibly. She was cute. I stayed in the office until 7:30, eating greasy Chinese food out of styrofoam containers. I wondered, if I hung myself in the supply closet, how long it would take them to find my body, who would handle the paperwork, and how many mandatory team-building seminars my suicide would generate.

That night, I briefly considered masturbating. I hadn’t done it in weeks. I used to be a dedicated twice-a-dayer. I even went so far as to put one of my old tapes on the VCR, but there was nothing. I was dry as autumn leaves.

Sometimes I couldn’t believe it was really me in those tapes; I couldn’t connect with that girl at all. It had been ten years and more since I’d had sex. Does your virginity ever grow back? I slept hard that night, and didn’t dream.

Ever get the feeling you’re not alone? I’ve lived by myself for a long time, and that’s the way I like it. When you live alone, you get used to things being a certain way; nobody messes around with your stuff. Something wasn’t quite right. There wasn’t enough toilet paper left on the roll. I could have sworn I still had a slice of left-over pizza in the fridge. I looked and looked, but couldn’t find my spare keys.

Once I knew what I was looking for, it didn’t take long to find it: my apartment isn’t that big. He’d made a little nest in the back of my coats closet. There was a battered blue sleeping bag and some candy wrappers and a roll of condoms. He was using my parka for a pillow. I touched nothing, beat a hasty retreat, and rode the subway up and down town for hours, dithering about what to do about it. It was one of those days when I wished I smoked.

I remember when I was a little girl, my parents were always bringing ‘friends’ over to the house. These ‘friends’ always looked more or less the same: gym-sculpted bodies, golden deep-fried salon tans, perfect teeth, plastic smiles. When I was introduced to them, they always smiled really big and shook my hand in kind of a greasy, condescending way. I generally only saw them once, twice at the most. They stayed the night, and then they were gone. When I finally figured out what was going on, it was like somebody had thrown one of those ka-chung disconnect switches that turns on all the stadium lights.

There was always a ton of porn around the house: stacks of magazines, books, and video tapes filling up the bookshelves and spilling out across the counters and coffee tables. This was before the internet had come into its own, and VHS was king.

My mom got me a vibrator for my twelfth birthday, which was absolutely mortifying, but didn’t stop me from using it incessantly.

It was sort of all downhill from there.

One day, she announced that it was time for me to learn to give a proper blowjob. It was a Saturday morning, we’d just finished breakfast, and next thing I knew, Dad was sitting on the kitchen counter with his pants around his ankles, and Mom was slurping up and down his erect dick, licking his fat hairy balls, lavishing her tongue around the purple head, and pausing now and then to give me pointers. “Don’t try to cram the whole thing in your mouth, at least not at first.” “Keep up a good rhythm with your hand” “If your mouth gets tired, guys like it when you rub your boobs on their cock.” Which she then proceeded to do, peeling off her tank top, and capturing my dad’s penis between her breasts, so that only the head peeked out. He slid his dick up and down her cleavage, and she stuck out her tongue to lick the tip. He was juicy. Her boobs completely enveloped his cock, so it looked sort of like a pig-in-a-blanket. My own breasts were still just speed bumps, not yet developed enough to capture anything of the sort; but my nipples were suddenly achingly hard.

Mom turned to me, releasing Dad’s hard cock, which waggled and bounced like a jack-in-the-box. “Do you want to try it, Honey? Here, have a lick!”

I fled upstairs to my room, and locked the door. My panties were sticky wet. I masturbated on my bed, pressing my vibrator hard against my agonized clit, coming over and over again.

“Do you think she’s ready?” Dad asked. We were in the car, driving home from the mall. I was in the back seat next to Sherry, another one of my parent’s ‘friends’.

“I think she’s ready” Mom replied, “What do you think, Sherry?”

“Oh, I think she’s definitely ready.” Sherry squeezed my hand and smiled at me, and I felt my tongue go dry and my cunt get involuntarily sopping wet.

“Why don’t we start her out on Eric?” Mom said thoughtfully, “He’s got a pretty small dick.”

Eric was an Asian guy, in his late twenties or early thirties, with a lot of tight, compact, toned muscles, and a receding hairline. He was actually pretty cute, except for his orange salon-bed tan. His dick was not “small” in any normal sense of the word. Dad prepped the cameras while Mom got Eric ready to go downstairs in the rec room and I sat in a chair and watched; horrified, on edge, nervous, and intensely turned on. Then we all went upstairs to my bedroom.

Mom and Dad swarmed around us, dancing and weaving with the bulky video cameras balanced on their shoulders. I sucked Eric’s dick a bit, which I enjoyed, though I had the distinct feeling I wasn’t really doing it right; and then he went down on me for a little, which actually didn’t do much of anything for me. Then he came up and snuggled next to me, and played with my titties while my hand discovered his cock, and suddenly, quite insidiously, I wanted him inside me more than anything.

I wasn’t really prepared for the idea that it might hurt. Eric held my hands and gazed into my eyes and slowly slid his dick straight up my pussy. “Ouch!” I cried out, “Ow, fuck!”

Eric looked questioningly over at my mother, who nodded and gave him a ‘thumbs up’. He was reasonably gentle about it, sliding his dick rhythmically in and out, a little deeper and a little harder with each thrust. Mom was zoomed in tight on my crotch. Dad had his camera jammed right in my face. I gritted my teeth and held on tight, clinging to Eric’s hands as he pistoned mechanically in and out of me, grunting audibly, his brown eyes vacant and fixed on my forehead. I couldn’t look. It felt like my pussy was being turned into hamburger. Suddenly he pulled out, leaving me vacant and gasping, scrambled up the bed, and jerked off onto my face, splashing his hot sticky semen all over my cheeks, nose, and into my eyes. That was the one part I never understood. When I asked Mom, she said “That’s the money shot”, as if that explained everything.

Torn-up, sore and tender, I was still ridiculously turned on. I lay on my stomach and masturbated, squeezing my thighs together and tracing circles around my swollen clit while Dad filmed and Mom hissed at me to roll over and to spread my legs. There was blood on the sheets, blood smeared on my thighs.

When it was all over, I was definitely sore and tender, but not actually torn to shreds. I wanted to try it again, and my parents were more than happy to acquiesce. Before I knew it, I was addicted.

The other girls at school had a view of sex that was completely alien to me. They talked in hushed and giggling tones about French kissing and heavy petting and blowjobs in cars, and getting felt up, and the various bases; trying to walk an impossibly fine line between being a prude and a slut. I think because I didn’t participate, because I didn’t date boys and get crushes and preen and pout and pose and shriek, people assumed I simply wasn’t sexual. How wrong they were!

There is a video of me, I don’t know how old I am – maybe sixteen – where I am naked, in a room full of older men. I have a penis in each hand, and I am trying to suck two cocks at once, and a bunch of the other guys are jerking off onto me, and you can see it in my face: I am an enthusiastic participant. I was having a blast, enjoying every minute of it.

I had sex with Sherry, which was a little like having sex with a dress mannequin. I guess I had secretly hoped that doing it with a girl might feel different, special, magical somehow; and the truth was it didn’t, though she did make me come.

From time to time, Mom would try to get me to do a scene with them. “Come on Honey, I could just eat you out while your Dad does me from behind. Then if you want we’ll switch” I always demurred. I’m still not sure whether they thought the idea was hot, or if they just thought an incest film would make them a ton of money. Either way, the idea made me slightly queasy.

Dad asked if I wanted to try anal, and I said “sure”. The guy they assigned the task – I don’t remember his name – was actually really good. He took his time and did it right. He got me on all fours and attacked me from behind, gently licking and fingering my pussy and my asshole until I was literally squirming with want. I was braced for it to hurt when he finally slipped his lubed-up cock up my ass, Dad right there with the camera in my face whispering “Hold that look for the shot, hold that look…”, and I was mildly surprised when it didn’t hurt at all. The sensation was decidedly strange, and not necessarily in a bad way. I started to relax and sort of get into it, as he started sliding his dick in and out of my rear end. It started to feel really good; really, really good, and I suddenly realized that this had the potential to make me come. I reached down and started playing with my clit; and that was when he pulled out and deftly flipped me over and squirted off all over my face.

I had always assumed that the money from the movies I’d been making was going into a trust fund or something, that it was going to pay my way through college. In retrospect, I shouldn’t have been surprised. My mom had a penchant for really good cocaine, and my dad had a bad habit of wrecking sports cars. Even while our house was being foreclosed on, they insisted on taking lavish Caribbean vacations and calling them ‘business expenses’. In the end, I didn’t even bother finishing high school. I walked out of their lives, got my own apartment, gained a lot of weight, taught myself how to code, and got a job. The first time I tried to kill myself, I jumped out the window and sprained both my ankles.

I discovered that work can be a lot more tolerable if you have a project that you are actually interested in. On the sly, I wrote a bit of code that told the camera on my computer at home to take a still photograph every fifteen minutes, and to email the file to me. It mostly turned up blanks, shots of my empty apartment, but around nine, there was an intriguing blur in one corner of the image. I finally saw my new roommate in the next picture. He was naked, and his hard-on jutted straight out from his skinny frame. I’m a lousy judge of age, but if I were a bartender, I wouldn’t have served him, no way. He had a cute face, and a pretty nice dick.

Brinks wandered by on one of his ‘I-am-a-supervisor’ mini-tours of the office, and I alt-tabbed double quick into the spaghetti code that I was supposed to be sorting out. He congratulated me on my productivity, compared my breasts to a certain variety of melon, and then he retreated to the safety of his own double-wide cubicle.

The intern girl, whose name was Holly, I suddenly remembered, asked me why I put up with that shit. “Meh” I said, “I’ve had worse.” She was cute, cute with a capital C; messy pageboy haircut, sticky-out ears, long, clever fingers with carefully trimmed nails. She was lithe and graceful in a playful sort of way: she reminded me of an otter or a mongoose. Her breasts didn’t look like melons. Peaches, maybe.

Brinks is a rodent. He wouldn’t dare sexually harass Holly. He just jerks off to fantasies about slipping her roofies and molesting her unconscious body.

I wondered what kind of panties Holly had on. Probably sexy boy shorts that don’t leave panty lines.

The pictures came in blank again for a while. Then, out of nowhere, there was a shot of a man in a shirt and tie and nothing else sitting on the edge of my bed, and my naked young roommate kneeling between his legs, blowing him.

Another picture, another man lying naked on my bed, my roommate sitting next to him, glancing up at the ceiling.

In yet another picture, he was squatting between the open legs of a thickset middle-aged lady in business attire, with her skirt piled up around her waist, her back arched, and her head thrown back in apparent ecstasy.

And then, starting around five o’clock, nothing. Just a series of blanks. He had either left, or retreated to his burrow in the back of my closet.

After work, I went straight to a bar I know and got thoroughly plastered on red wine. When I finally got home, I thought about climbing into the bathtub and slitting my wrists, but then I thought about him getting up to go to the bathroom and finding me there, cold and pale and bloated, floating in a tub full of pink water. I decided to wait.

My office has no specific sick-day allowance, which is a passive-aggressive way to shame employees into never calling in sick. On the other hand, if you don’t give a shit, it makes it really easy to ditch work. The next day, I stayed in bed, with the sheets pulled up over my head. About nine-thirty I got up to pee, and when I came out of the bathroom, I found myself face-to-face with a skinny, naked, surprised-looking kid.

“Who are you?”

“I live here,” I said, “Who the hell are you?”

His name was Jason, and he had run away from home. I didn’t ask him his age, so he didn’t have to bother lying to me. I told him he could stay as long as he wanted, but he had to stop bringing strange dudes home.

“I’m not gay,” he said defensively, “I just turn tricks to make a little money.”

“Do whatever you need to do,” I told him, “Just not in my apartment.”

Perhaps inevitably, we had sex. It was the first time I’d had sex in over ten years, the first time I’d done it with a guy wearing a condom, the first time I’d done it without a video camera pointed at me, recording every move. I’d like to say it was a fantastic, mind-blowing, life-altering experience, but I can’t. It was definitely nice though.

We lay naked in my bed together, and just kissed and touched for a while. That was probably the best part, for me. Then I sucked his dick a little bit, an activity that I’ve always enjoyed. Then he went down on me a little. For an amateur, he wasn’t bad at it. He could have stayed down there all day, as far as I was concerned. Then he put on a condom, climbed on top, and fucked me. He came pretty quickly, which I think embarrassed him, but I didn’t mind. I ordered a pizza, and we ate almost all of it, and then we did it again, and he lasted much longer this time, and I was even able to squeeze an orgasm out of the deal.

I set him up with sheets and blankets on the couch. He offered to sleep in bed with me, but I think we were both much more comfortable sleeping separately.

The next morning at work, Holly asked if I’d gotten a haircut or something, and I actually caught myself blushing.

At the staff meeting, Brinks voiced the opinion that the company dress code should be amended to allow female staff members to wear lingerie to work, and suggested that he might be the ideal person to select said lingerie. That got a big chuckle all around the conference table.

After the meeting, Holly asked me completely out of the blue whether I’d ever dated a girl. I told her “No”, which was true: I’ve probably had sex with a couple dozen women, but to the best of my knowledge I’ve never dated anyone.

I stayed late, pretty much as per usual, and to my complete surprise, Holly totally seduced me while I was compiling. We did it right on the conference table.

It turns out that Holly eschews panties altogether, and prefers to go commando. Her pussy was unlike all the polished, waxed, professionally promiscuous vaginas I had encountered in the past: her kitty was covered in a dense matt of curly, soft fur, and the inner bits were petite and shy, and had to be gently coaxed out of hiding. And once she was really turned on, her pussy was wetter than I had ever imagined it was possible for a pussy to get.

She liked it when I played with her boobs, which were about peach-sized – firm, ripe, delicious peaches – and she seemed to enjoy me toying with her butt, and she definitely like it when I licked her tiny, erect clitoris; but what she really liked was getting finger-fucked, deep and hard. In the end, I had four fingers up inside her, my thumb curled up out of the way, and I fucked her pussy like I was karate-chopping a punching bag. When she came, her screaming should have brought a dozen or so security guards down on us. But somehow it didn’t.

Then she went to town on me. I had sex with a lot of different partners back in the day, and had a lot of orgasms. But I had never ever been with anyone as energetic, wriggly, playful, as fun as Holly.

She swarmed over my body like the Marines storming a beachhead. Her lips found mine and kissed me fiercely and urgently, without any restraint, as her hands roamed through my hair, down my neck, along my shoulders, across my breasts, down my torso, pausing to fondle and molest the twin mounds of my ass, before finally zeroing in on my pussy.

I rolled over onto my side and lifted one leg to give the camera a better shot, and then I remembered that there was no camera. It made me feel oddly naked.

“Is this good?” she whispered softly in my ear, “Do you want me?” It was an honest question. She really wanted to know if I was enjoying myself. One of the things that is so neat about guys is that it is always readily apparent just how turned on they are. There’s no lying: their cock is soft but firm; half-mast and mildly interested; standing up, hard and ready to go; or completely and utterly erect, swollen and rigid and drooling and practically quivering, ready to explode. That is exactly how my cunt felt at that moment. The things that her fingers were doing to me were driving me insane. Wetness isn’t an exact gauge of how horny a girl is, but it’s a pretty good barometer, and right then I felt like Niagara Falls. Sometimes we feel wetter than we actually are.

“Oh yes, oh yes I want you,” I told her, and in response, she slid down my body, kissing and licking all the way down, and dove straight into my almost painfully horny pussy.

I don’t think she had a lot of experience, but whatever she may have lacked in technique, she more than made up for with enthusiasm. She buried her face in my crotch, and her tongue and her fingers simply never stopped moving. I had to help her a little, stroking my clit while she alternated slurping at my pussy and running her fingers up and down and into my cunt, but I came, and I came good. And then I surprised myself by realizing that I was still turned on and ready for more.

She grinned up at me, and I rolled over so I was kneeling on top of the conference table, while I shamelessly masturbated, and she tongued and fingered my pussy and my asshole from behind. This time when I came, it knocked the breath out of me, and I ended up curled up into a fetal ball in the center of the big formica table, shaking and twitching and purring like a kitten. Holly snuggled up next to me, and we kissed and snuggled for a bit, and then she got herself off one last time by grinding her wet pussy up and down against the outside of my thigh.

We had made quite a mess on that conference table. The room smelled like sex, a huge improvement over the scent of stale potpourri and nervous sweat that usually pervaded the place.

When we finally scraped ourselves together and cleaned up, it was nearly eight. I felt dizzy, as if I’d just been picked up and spun around by a rampant tornado. My life, which until very recently had been depressingly monochromatic, had suddenly become a crazy-quilt of complications, and so far all the complications were pretty damn interesting. I wondered if my code had ever finished compiling; I wondered if I even cared.

“So, um, Holly,” I asked her as we strapped on our respective bras, “Did you imagine this being a one-time thing, or a recurring event?” Had I just been bushwhacked into a relationship? Because I wasn’t sure I was ready for that.

She looked sheepish. “I didn’t exactly plan this…” she pulled her sweater on over her head, and flapped her hands at her adorably mussed-up hair. “I guess I’d say a one-off… with sequels?”

“Holly?” I asked just before we parted ways at the subway station, “Do you own a video camera?”

“Sure,” she said, “There’s one built right into my phone. Why?”

“Oh, no reason.”

As I walked home, I tried to picture tying a noose, putting my head through the loop and stepping off the chair, kicking and flailing until sweet asphyxiation took over and I slowly faded to black. But I couldn’t do it. Nothing about it sounded appealing at all.

When I got home, James was home, which was bizarre to me, but not all bad. He was naked on his couch-bed, watching one of my old pornos on tv, and looking delectable.

I had planned on just having a drink and going straight to bed – alone –; I was exhausted. But James had a hard-on, and he asked pretty-please if I could do him. He said he’d blown four different guys that day in the bathroom of a Starbucks. He wasn’t gay, he repeatedly defensively, but giving out all that action without receiving any in return had given him a bad case of the blue balls. Could I just fuck him, really quick, before I went to sleep?

Well, my parts were way too sore and tender for anything of the sort, but I’m not without compassion. Besides, like I said before, he had a really cute dick.

I knelt on the floor in front of the couch, while behind us, a younger, skinnier, less damaged version of me frolicked carelessly on the television screen. He rested his calves on my shoulders. I wet my middle finger and slipped it up his asshole, and made tiny beckoning motions while I flicked my tongue at the underside of his cock. It took him about ten minutes to come, but when he did, it was the strongest male orgasm I had ever seen in my life. He shot come all the way up his chest and onto his neck and chin. His dick twitched delightfully, his body wracked and spasmed, and his asshole clenched down on my invading finger like it wanted to squeeze the damn thing off. It was deeply gratifying.

Video cameras had gotten a lot smaller during my sabbatical. Holly’s was the size of a tarot card, and the video it shot was much higher quality than anything my parents’ old Panasonic could do. She cradled it in the palm of her hand as I sucked Jason’s cock, zooming in tight for a super-close-up, and then pulling back and circling around for an overview of the action.

Horny didn’t even begin to describe it.

I could tell he was getting a little over-excited, so I had him flip over, and I rimmed him for a little bit, tracing my tongue all over his balls, and darting up between his buttocks to lick his asshole before meandering back down to his nuts again. It was pretty hot on my end, and it really made him moan! Holly was capturing it all in high-def. Her shirt had, at some point, come off, and her nipples were all swollen and pointy. I knew for a fact, though Jason didn’t, that she wasn’t wearing anything at all under her jeans.

Jason rolled a condom on, and lay on his back on my bed, his dick pointing straight up like a totem pole. I climbed on, and sat down, luxuriating in the feeling of being penetrated, pleasantly being filled up with cock, stretching the walls of my pussy. I rocked back and forth, savoring the sensations. I didn’t have to worry about him coming too soon; Holly and I had given him a combined hand-job before she had started filming. I bounced up and down, like a happy kid on a pogo stick.

After just a little of that, I extracted myself from his jutting cock, and clambered up his prone body, and presented my wide-open, dripping wet pussy for him to lick. Holly handed me the camera phone, peeled off her jeans, and climbed aboard for a ride of her own. Jason kind of forgot to lick me much for the next little while, but I didn’t really mind.

I watched, my eyes flicking between the tiny screen and real life, as his slimy, latex-sheathed cock nosed its way into Holly’s furry little pussy. I had never been the one behind the camera, and I found it a shockingly sexy place to be. Addictive, even.

I zoomed in on her crotch, until it filled the little screen, Jason’s dick sliding in and out, burying itself in her folds, pulling out until just the tip remained inside her, and then plunging back inside. She was madly rubbing at her clit all the while, like she was trying to erase indelible ink. I pulled back just in time to capture her full-body orgasm. She came hard, and she came loud, yipping like a coyote, her little tits shaking and blushing red.

One of the great things about having sex with Holly is that she is both multi-orgasmic, and really easy to bring off.

“Why don’t you fuck her in the ass?” My voice would show up clearly on the sound track, and the beautiful thing was that I didn’t care. At my parents’ house, ‘silence on the set’ had been the golden rule.

He repositioned himself behind her. She grunted softly as he entered her. Holly closed her eyes and rested her face on my lap as he slowly eased his cock up her asshole. Jason was pretty considerate and meticulous about it, for such a young kid. I assume he’d been on the receiving end himself at some point, and had some idea how it felt.

They got into it, and really started to fuck in earnest. Holly lapped a few times at my pussy, which felt juicy and swollen, but she soon forgot all about that. She was growling softly and humping back against Jason’s ever-more-desperate thrusts. Each time he shoved himself into her, she slid a little bit up my body, until her head was level with my boobs. I kept filming with one hand. The footage at this point started to get a little shaky. Jason was huffing and puffing like an old-time steam engine. I reached underneath Holly and found her fluffy little muff. I slipped two fingers up inside her cunt, which was soaking wet and slippery and tight with the cock in her ass. I could feel Jason’s cock thrusting inside her, rampant inside her asshole, making her pussy squeeze my finger every time he shoved into her. They both began to make urgent coming noises, and I struggled to hold the camera steady, or at least to keep them in the frame, as I finger-fucked Holly.

“Oh shit, I’m coming!” she looked up at me, craning her neck, her brow wrinkled with concentration, “I’m fucking coming!”

Jason was right behind her. Watching the video later, all by myself once again, with a tall glass of cheap red wine close at hand and fresh batteries in my vibrator, the best part was the way he came inside her. Instead of pulling out at the last moment and jerking off onto her face, he hugged her close, buried his face in her hair, and shot of silently, his whole body twitching with the effort. When I watch that video, I always time my own orgasm to coincide with his.

Holly and Jason really hit it off, and he ended up moving in with her, which was good by me. Like I said earlier, I like living alone.

Holly threatened a sexual harassment suit against our company; it was quietly settled out of court, but that was the end of her internship. Jason gave me back my spare keys and got a place of his own. I see him and Holly from time to time. Sometimes we get together to fuck, but more often to just hang out. Life sort of meandered back toward the status quo. Except that it was different. Staff meetings notwithstanding, I no longer had any interest whatsoever in killing myself.

An epilogue of sorts, because the story doesn’t really have an end, and life keeps on going on. Holly is using the money from her settlement to go to grad school. Jason got his GED and is taking classes at a community college; he wants to be a NICU nurse.

I lost weight; not a ton, but a step in the right direction, and I’ve been trying not to drink so much. I blew my Christmas bonus on a decent digital video camera with built-in image stabilizers and crap, and an expensive tripod. When I got an email from Holly telling me that they’d just bought a strap-on and wanted to try it out, and could I come over and bring my new camera with me, I literally wet my pants.

Brinks got transferred to another division, upstairs or downstairs, I don’t honestly know, and I went and got myself a promotion, which meant a little more money, and a ton more meetings. I started to put together a résumé; but more and more I realized that what I really wanted was to be a pornographer. But not like my parents.

The other day, I was sitting around the apartment eating take-out sushi and getting quietly loaded, when the doorbell rang. I certainly wasn’t expecting anyone. I opened the door with trepidation, half expecting a throng of Jehovah’s Witnesses.

It took me a second to recognize him out of uniform. He was one of my regular EMTs, one of the faithful guys who used to haul my butt over to the St. Luke’s emergency room on a regular basis. I couldn’t help but check out his package, which made a bulge in the crotch of his jeans, and looked pretty nice.

“I haven’t seen you in a couple months,” he explained, “I started to get worried. So I thought I’d, you know, swing by and check in on you. Make sure you’re ok and all.”

“I’m good.” I said, “I’m pretty good. Things have changed, I’m in a better place now. Thank you, you’re very sweet.”

“Great,” he said, standing there looking very sweet and appetizing, “I’m glad…”

We both stood there, like awkward teens on the sidelines of the school dance.

“Hey,” he said, “Would you like to get together sometime? Like for dinner, or whatever?”

“As in a date?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“That sounds great.”

He stood there in the door, still hesitating, so I felt compelled to ask him in.

His name is Henry. I wonder how he would feel about being videotaped.



  1. advizor54 said

    i love the ending, ’cause I’m a sucker for happily ever after, but you continue to amaze me with the depth and creativity of your writing.

  2. Joyce C. said

    Rather dark story at first,, but oh so very hot and sexy!! Loved this story!!!! Thanks!! I won’t be forgetting this one for a while!!

    • elsiewrites said

      Thank you so much!

  3. Mike said

    I enjoyed this more that the last few stories….I guess because it is so much more hopefull (though at first I was afraid it was another snuff story).

  4. icam said

    i still glad that you are there 🙂

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