X S E X


Sweet To Eat by khemistry

So I have this problem, see? Like everyone else on this planet, I know. But mine is kinda freaky. And kinda vanilla. Maybe not so strange. I’m just not sure how weird I am. I mean, I was married once. Sort of. Back then a girl couldn’t marry another girl, not legally. But we had the ceremony. Both of us were lipstick lezzies. Everyone we knew said it wouldn’t last. And it didn’t. I mean, I’m not strictly speaking a lesbian. Neither was she. But I liked her pussy, and when she left she took it with her.

So what is my problem, then? Well, she did leave this little denim one-piece dress I liked a lot. It zipped up the back, slick as sin. An oh how I loved to reach behind her while we were kissing and unzip her. She was a tiny thing with curly blonde hair. Let’s call her J for the purpose of this discussion.

I don’t know why she left the dress. Maybe she just forgot it. But it was one of her favorite outfits, and she looked so sweet inside it. Like a piece of candy, all for me. And she used to wear a certain perfume. I think it was called ‘Red Door’. She left a little spray bottle of it, too.

Now I’ve had several partners since those days: two men and another woman. But no matter how serious it gets, I do this thing with the denim dress…not a lot…but every few months the feeling will get me going, right? Now, I’m basically a good girl. I write about my sex life with three other college friends. We started XSEX a long time ago, to discuss our ex-girlfriends and boyfriends. Our x-sexlife. Now none of us have really kept up with the site. My college buddy G actually did all the work building the site because I don’t like computers. But we all know the login codes and we all contribute. Until G stopped to become “serious” about a sci-fi novel. Plus, he said talking about this stuff was not “healthy”. I disagree. And it makes me horny.

And it’s been awhile since I got the urge, with the dress. So here it is: last night it just hit me like a wall. I even thought about calling J up. We’ve talked a few times. She’s married to a guy. She has video of him wearing women’s clothes and she will take care of him with a plastic dick. So I don’t know what that means. I guess he’s a freak like all of us. But I have these urges…maybe if I had a copy of the video I could make him leave. I could get into J’s panties. Because I really want to. So instead I find the old bottle of ‘Red Door’ and spray it on the denim dress. The denim dress is way out of style now. But I keep it in the bottom drawer of my dresser. With the perfume and some pictures (PG-13 or a soft R) we took on our “wedding night”.

I lay the denim dress over me, like J used to lay on top of me and we would touch each other. So now I have this physical weight, and it smells like her, and I unzip it and touch myself and remember it all. All the stuff we used to do. And in five minutes I am a wet rag, all wrung out. Breathing heavy. Wow.

I guess I need to get out more. I mean, I’m 40 years old now! I feel cheap when I do this. Once a year now. Maybe twice. And I went for about three years without it. So why do I still think about her? I don’t love her, she doesn’t love me. We’ve talked on the phone. She sent me a picture of her tits once. Still firm. “Remember when these used to be yours?” she texted me. What a bitch.

My boyfriend is home. Oh shit.

 



ARE TATTOOS SEXY? by khemistry

The short answer: YES. The long answer is a sad story involving check-out line literature, Wal-Mart bathroom masturbation, Right Said Fred (“I’m too sexy for my [insert item]”), Kat Von D, wikipedia, Vicodin and lots of shame. Buckets of shame, in fact. If you don’t have a lot of time, but you need a little more than a three-letter affirmative, I’ve provided a brief medium that may help get you by this question of universe-defining importance: Tattoos are sexy on some people, in some situations. Like a maggot-riddled three-day dead skunk laying on the otherwise perfectly naked and nubile body of Jennifer Love-Hewitt, there are situations that make sexy sick. To most people. Yes, I’m aware that there’s probably a whole “community” of freaks out there who find worm-infested road kill the perfect aphrodisiac for a night of passion with name-your-obsession. But speaking just for myself, there are some people who can get away with the shittiest-looking tramp stamp and others who would look much better with a whole other BODY tattooed over their original equipment. 

A sad but unfortunately true story: Hating Wal-Mart as I do, I live in a small town where the necessities of modern living require the occassional stop for supplies. I figured if we went at 1 AM the place would be mostly empty. Bad assumption on my part. Every meth-addled freak in the county apparently decided to stock up on drain cleaner, frozen pizzas, tampons, and dandruff shampoo. And since everyone (myself included) also needs cigarettes–and Wal-Mart helpfully provides only one possible line for making tobacco-related purchases–we’re all in the SAME FUCKING LINE. This line also happens to be a “20 Items Or Less Please” line. But this apparently doesn’t apply to the bitch in front of me–or the jackass in front of her–since both of them have carts piled high with D-cell batteries (for vibrators), AA-cell batteries (for remote controls), the frozen pizzas, tampons and other things mentioned above, plus every other item people can’t do without at 1 in the morning in north Alabama. To make matters worse, the two 20-item rule ignoring assholes are actually talking (conspiring, really) about how one of the half-dozen or so DVD’s from Wal-Mart’s $5 cheap movie bin is really a $20 new release with a $5 label applied fraudulently. Of course, I hate Wal-Mart, so even though I hate these two criminal masterminds too, I’m not gonna spoil their sins.

So my friend and I, bored, start thinking up ridiculous sexual-themed dares we know neither one of us are going to do. I tell him I’ll give him $20 if he gets up on the counter, drops his shorts, and whips up a batch. The two criminal masterminds overhear us. They are horrified that one of us might publicly masturbate in the 20-or-fewer line at Wal-Mart. The woman tells my friend he’s a “evil monster.” This makes me laugh for a second, but my friend is overcome by righteous indignation. I’m the evil monster, but you two are talking about ways to screw this fine commercial establishment out of a copy of Avatar?

“You’ve got WAY more than 20 items, lady!” some guy grumbles behind me, and that settles things.

So our dares continue: wrap a $20 around my dick and reach into my pants to pay the cashier; refill one of the bottles of Gatorade we’ve been swilling in the line with pee; ask the cashier to demonstrate a “Dirty Sanchez” (we can’t remember if this is the real name, or if it even IS real, or even WHAT it is, and the cashier looks about 75). My friend suggests we could pretend to make out, which is followed by a minute of uncomfortable silence followed by another minute of snickering, then five minutes during which both of us call each other a “gaywad”. This caused him to erupt into even more maniacal laughter, since he is in fact gay. Neither of us knew what a “wad” represented in this particular cut-down.

Maybe two people have checked out. There are 15 people or so still in front of us, and at least ten people behind us, having variations of the “conversation” my friend and I are having, or plotting to steal things.

Then I get dared to go to the Wal-Mart restroom (directly across from the tobacco aisle, in case any of us addicts need to run shoot up after making our purchases; FYI: the Wal-Mart bathrooms also feature convenient baby diaper changing stations) and jack off, writing “Wal Mart Blows!” in my own spunk on the mirror. I consider this.

“Wal-Mart doesn’t sell porn,” I reason. “I can’t make a dry-run. Dude, I’m not 15 anymore. I need some kind of inspiration.”

My friend waves his hand across the row of check-out literature. To many people in our society, these magazines really ARE about the closest thing to literature that exists in their own personal universe. Yeah, I’m being a bit of a classist snob here. Which is kind of funny if you consider that the reason I’m perusing this reading material is to find some suitable photos to masturbate to in a public restroom. Okay, that’s not too funny now that I think about it. But we’re talking about shit like People, US, National Enquirer, Cosmopolitan, etc. The best choice is, of course, Cosmo, but that thing is like 500 pages and I don’t think I can get it unnoticed into the bathroom. Perhaps I can thin it down some by removing all the scratch-n-sniff perfume ads…maybe tear out all of those “surveys” (like “Is your Mister Right Right For You?”, “Is Romance A Part of Your Relationship?” and “10 Steps to put the ‘SEXY’ back into your Love Life”). No. That will draw unwanted attention, what with all the ripping and tearing and suchnot. I pick up a copy of  a “summer swimsuit edition” of something. Maybe it’s People. Ahhh. Celebrities in bikinis…

Lady GaGa? Lady Gag. Britney Spears–apparently recovering from her recent bout with insanity–basks in the bronzing rays of some Mediterranean beach where guys with Uzi’s shoot you if you’re not wearing a speedo. She looks pissed. Page after page of starlet and celebutantes. One-pieces, two-pieces, bikinis, sarongs, speedos, strap-on’s (okay not really), etc. etc. Maybe I’ll just tear this one out and…OMG! Is that…Kat von D?? The tattoo lady from TLC’s “reality” hit? 

Normally, I think a tattoo or three on a woman is a good thing. Just the right amount of spice to set off the cinnamon-n-sugar or whatever girls are supposed to be made of. But Kat’s pale skin is covered in these things. They make her look even paler. And don’t get me wrong: I like me a nice goth girl, especially on full moons.  In fact, I once described my ideal girl as “beautiful but frail; wan and slightly sickly, perhaps suffering from consumption and addicted to laudanum, living in a drafty cold-water flat in Dickensian London…someone Edgar A. Poe would write poems about”. Sad-to-say, I wasn’t joking. So it wasn’t the paleness of Kat’s flesh that turned me off. I think it was all those damn tattoos. Oh, and the fact that she’s SUCH a bitch. Yeah, that definately played a part.

Wal-Mart’s bathroom was safe from my ribald jackery.

But when I got home I turned on the radio and looked up Kat von D on wikipedia. About the time I got to the details of her estrangement and subsequent divorce from a fellow tattooist, Right Said Fred came on, polluting the airwaves, my RV and my personal headspace with their smash hit “I’m Too Sexy”. Any follow-up masturbatory plans were dashed on the altar of 1990’s English gay anthems. Now, I like a good English gay anthem as well as the next straight guy, but Right Said Fred–like the aforementioned maggot-infested skunk–is like unto a bad tattoo.

I looked up Jennifer Love-Hewitt, pleasured myself with her wikipedia entry, and went to bed.