A Quirky Erotica Series
"NOTES
FROM A DIRTY YOUNG WOMAN: Traveling"
by Aimee Herman
Read the entire series here
It is a late night in Omaha, Nebraska and we have been stockpiling miles all day. My love is asleep beside me and I have run out of songs to listen to on the car radio. I drive into the parking lot of a local motel with home in its title. We are a far distance from our home, so this hopes to be a substitute. I walk through door and greet older man with comb-over hair and personality and order a room for two.
We park car outside of our room’s entrance and begin to unload bags. Man with giant belly and tattooed skin exits his door and approaches us.
“I was ‘bout to order up some food. You want some?” His teeth, angry at lack of brushing, contain a restraining order, revealing giant gaps.
“I, uh, no,” I mutter, too tired for eloquence.
I stare down at his denim crotch—my revenge at all the times men stare at women’s cracks (breasts and bums). His zipper is open and the bulge, attempting a breakout, is engorged like an infected thought or overcooked dumpling. The masochist in me wants to walk right up to him and say the following:
“Food? Do I want some food? Like…pizza or Chinese? Or are you looking for something a little less traditional…something not found on the dollar menu at McDonalds. Maybe a quarter pound cock sucked hard with extra fixings?”
He might whip it out or run screaming depending upon his level of intoxication and if it becomes the former, I would do the following:
My giant lips, like New York hotdogs curved to meet each other, would grab onto his stuffed mushroom and suck out his erection. I’d steal all his semen and stick it in my cunt. Then I’d somehow steam away his germs, fuck my girlfriend with my powerful-sperm-filled cunt and make history.
Life is never as good as I imagine it to be.
We enter our hotel room and the scent of semen is so strong that I begin gagging as though I really did just give the best blowjob of my life.
Disgusted, we leave the motel and continue driving. It is a dark night full of road signs and roadkill. We finally settle on a hotel twenty miles from semenville. Our bags rest on a dresser housing the hidden bible and I excitedly strip off my sweaty clothes allowing my skin to take in the new air.
I am hanging out with my reflection courtesy of full-length mirror. I grab my tits as though they are someone else’s, the thicker parts that cannot be pinched as easily. My nipples curl up into taut pink pencil erasers. I pull my tiny left breast up toward my mouth and bring my tongue toward it. It is an eager, optimistic stretch that doesn’t quite make it. Saliva drips down, lubricating my areola. I close my eyes and drag my hand over my belly; it is sticky and full, a half moon of unsteady skin. I finger my belly button which offers more discomfort than turn-on and quickly move down where unruly dark curls sleep over my cunt.
Wake up! I yell through pulls and tugs.
I am wet—a mixture of sweat and sleep exhaustion and untimely turn-on from earlier. I am aroused by the grotesqueness of humanity—the imagined sex lives of strangers and queer walks of life. My two fingers press hard against each other, battling for center stage inside me. I like their persistence and competitive nature.
Body 38 by Igor Amelkovich available at ObsessionArt.com
Inside, I feel unlatched. My gate has been left open and there is a thorough weeding of my tangled garden. My neck and spine and shoulders expand. I am reaching up, tossing my bones from side to side. I am being fucked by a stranger who has been driving for twelve hours straight (minus pee breaks and coffee refills) and my moans can’t even concentrate enough to make a sound.
When I am done, thighs all rubbery and cunt slimy, I drop myself into bed where girlfriend waits, thoroughly grateful for my impromptu performance. I am kissed with lips carved from the ocean, salty waves too big to jump over so instead I surf along them. We attempt sleep beneath cardboard-threaded comforter, nude flesh against white sheets.
She notices it before I do.
Cum stains with a directional pattern on flower-themed blanket. Several drips leading up to an impressive explosion. Hardened firmly developed crust.
We did not sleep much that night.
Three time zones later and I am in Brooklyn. Relationship between sweet woman and I now connected by phone lines and a national border: temporary long distance. I am watching reruns of where I used to go when I lived here and who I once was. Man on F train grabs my stare and simulates a hand job with his fist. His hard-on barely qualifies him as XY and I briefly consider whipping out mine to make him feel bad. I pass two dykes sucking out each other’s meals through deep kissing—less French and more Hoover-vacuum inspired. Sex is everywhere, which excites me and inspires me. Be careful, New York, I’m watching you.
Originally published September 2010