I hear the sounds of him fucking himself from the shared wall between our bathrooms—his apartment, 15B, is just to the left of mine. There’s not much space to walk around, though I can’t imagine how much is needed during his self-service moment.
No, he’s probably in front of the toilet.
Lid up, so he can easily shoot his wad into the pond of recycled water for easier clean up.
Or he could be in the bathtub, finishing up his shower by finishing up himself.
In the eight months I’ve lived here, we’ve never seen each other’s faces. The sound of him masturbating has become quite regular, like a Seinfeld episode played several times a day on competing channels. He is a man of endurance. A marathon masturbator.
I only assume the act is solo, as I’ve never heard another voice accompany his.
In my head I have named him, Lionel Enthusiast III.
By day, I imagine he works as a short-order cook at the nearby pancake house.
I envision him having to excuse himself every few hours to tug toward ejaculation.
Maybe he has an accomplice: a young waitress named Alice.
Nineteen and flexible.
Small asterisks on the ticket order signal Lionel to meet her in the back room.
Scent of cleaning supplies and dirty water become foreplay as Lionel lifts her skirt, sticking his oily fingers inside her juicy cunt.
Alice squeezes her vaginal muscles like a tight fist, ready to bruise her pray. She orgasms three times before he even has the chance to come inside her. She begs for his cum because it makes her feel full and complete—like a really good meal without the hassle of cutting into pieces, chewing, and then having to throw it up later to excuse her body of its cumbersome contents.
I imagine his birthday to be well-celebrated, as she presents him with a key and a note.
The instructions lead him to room sixteen at the Motel 8, where Alice keeps herself busy with a regular customer from the restaurant named Jeanie.
Jeanie is thirty-three, with two kids and occasional child support checks.
This is her first time getting eaten out by a girl.
This is her first time getting eaten out by anyone.
As the door opens, Lionel is greeted by a view of Alice’s perfectly round and creamy ass rising into the air. A thick set of thighs squirm beneath her and Lionel listens to the sounds of Alice licking away at another woman’s cunt.
There is no pause or interruption as Lionel enters the room, throws his jacket and keys on a chair, and removes all of his clothes.
He is hard and ready, jerking off to Alice and company entwined like flesh-covered pretzels. Alice flips around as Jeanie dives between her thighs, sticking her tongue and fingers into Alice’s sopping cunt.
Lionel doesn’t know this, but it is at this moment that Jeanie decides she loves the taste of pussy. She loves it so much, in fact, that she becomes obsessed with it.
Jeanie will become a cunt connoisseur, sharpening her palette for pussy.
She will know exactly what each woman eats per day just from the flavor.
She will become infamous within the lesbian community and eventually fall in love with a bulldyke named Chrys, who will completely change her vegan diet just for Jeannie, so her cum tastes better.
However, no one knows this yet, especially Jeanie.
This is Lionel’s best birthday ever.
But maybe Alice doesn’t exist.
Maybe there is no motel room.
No Jeanie.
Maybe there are no women at all.
Maybe Alice is really Jeremy, the dishwasher working part-time to help pay for school.
Jeremy is twenty-four, lanky, and a bottom.
Lionel isn’t drawn to Jeremy because of looks or personality.
The attraction is based upon the impressive bulge bending into Jeremy’s zipper.
Lionel wants more of what he cannot see.
In the third month of Jeremy’s employment, Lionel stays later than usual and insists on helping the wait staff close up. He times his entrance into the back room just perfectly as Jeremy is wringing out the mop and pouring dirty water down the drain.
The scene will go something like this:
Lionel, with cock pulled out, walks up behind Jeremy.
Jeremy doesn’t turn around, enjoying the act of his belt being undone, pants falling to the floor. Thick cock climbing its way into him.
He feels the warmth of Lionel’s cum drip down his thighs.
He wants to taste it.
He wants to know what he tastes like on Lionel.
Down on his knees, Jeremy takes Lionel’s dick in his mouth, hand gripping his balls.
He alternates licking and sucking and rubbing.
Jeremy almost gags as Lionel thrusts his cock further into Jeremy’s mouth, enjoying the heat and rough surface of Jeremy’s tongue around him.
Lionel squeezes his thighs into Jeremy’s neck just as he’s about to come again.
The semen travels into Jeremy’s mouth, down his throat, fertilizing Jeremy’s insides.
* * *
I pause from my reverie.
I’m in my bathroom—tiles cold against my bare feet.
I rest them beside the bathtub, providing a perfect angle for my fingers to rise inside me.
The lights are off and I can see the tiny room by the soft flicker of light from the small, unscented candles.
Musical accompaniment? Lionel Enthusiast III grunting like a sweaty boar, wearing nothing but his hand and extracted semen.
I have closed the bathroom door.
I live alone, but I want to feel contained.
I want to feel as though the small square of this room is a body embracing me as I hold myself.
My accessories lay inside the dry bathtub:
purple vibrator with three-speed setting,
four dildos, varying in size, width, and curvature.
I slowly step into the porcelain tub.
I decide that my clit is cold, so I pick up dildo number two.
Seven inches of steel, lime green, and pre-warmed.
I tease my clit by rubbing the dildo against it—softly at first, then pressing harder.
I pretend my clitoris is a dick, expanding when hard.
It wants a blowjob.
Fierce tongue-lip pressure, slight grazing of teeth against texture,
warmth of breath and moans.
It needs a hand job. Palm and fingers creating a cave I can hunt and hide inside.
My cock wants to penetrate as many holes as it can.
It wants to get a girl pregnant.
It wants to shoot a giant wad of cum inside someone’s mouth, cunt, anus and open wide-open window pane.
It feels like a superhero, but refuses to wear a cape.
* * *
I touch the divider between us and press my face against the tile, pretending it’s Lionel.
Or maybe I want him to be Alice.
Nineteen-year-old flesh. Crisp nipples that rise when licked or pinched.
I pull on her hair so hard that several strands come off in my fingers.
Alice tastes like a ripe Bartlett pear. She is bruised, but oozing flavor.
Then, I imagine Jeanie walking in.
I fake surprise by her spontaneous entrance.
Jeanie is like an Olympic swimmer, gracefully diving between my legs.
Her nine-inch tongue penetrates my cunt—mouth mumbling all the foods I ate today.
Sharp pecorino cheese.
Half an avocado with barely ripe tomato.
Spoonful of smooth peanut butter. No, wait—extra chunky.
Handful of chocolate chips. Lingered a little too long inside palm of hand—melted.
Grilled cheese on whole wheat. No. Sourdough.
A banana, eaten slowly
Three glasses of Malbec wine.
Jeremy appears.
He pushes my back up against the bathroom wall, skinny legs pressed against my thick ones. He grabs my neck and thrusts his hard cock inside me.
Or, maybe I am still wearing mine and I thrust it into him. He is impressed by my thickness. I am impressed he can take all of me in.
He sucks on my neck, making my clit jealous.
Jeremy eventually works his way down.
The soundtrack ends.
My eyes open. Fingers relax as cunt exhales.
Lionel must have finished himself off.
I have yet to orgasm, and I realize that it’s the mystery of Lionel’s actions that allow me to come with an explosive eruption.
I want to bang on the wall and scream, “More! Keep going! Don’t stop! I need this!”
My skin is electrified by over an hour of experimental fucking.
I need more. I want to gush all over the tub, fill it with my juices, my flavors.
I want Lionel Enthusiast III and Alice and Jeanie and Jeremy to bust through my door and fuck me so hard that my spine breaks.
I want to feel them inside me for days. Weeks.
I want to scream three coats of paint off my walls just from the force.
I want them to need scuba gear, drowning them in the thick fluids rushing out from my cunt.
But I never meet Lionel Enthusiast III.
I never find out what he looks like, or what he really does as his profession.
I never learn how close I am to guessing his sexual preference for position or person.
I never knock on our shared wall and ask him to finish me off.
Four months later, I move into a one-bedroom apartment with a woman I meet at the grocery store.
Her name is Joanna and she’s much taller than I.
Our first conversation is about kumquats, which I confess to thinking was a sexual position. As she diagnoses its origin, I wonder how strong she is and if she could lift me high enough so my cunt lines right up against her curled lips.
Our first date ends with her tongue drifting from inside my mouth to inside my cunt to beneath my armpit to below my neck. I feel the warm power of her fingers pressing into me. I beg for her to finish me off, as I cover her bare flesh with everything that has been brewing inside me, everything Lionel had inspired.
Joanna sucks on her fingers and places them inside her pussy, as I drive my face into her bush. It smells like a rainforest, a mix of fiddle-head ferns and wood shavings.
We fall asleep with the scent of each other on our faces and bodies.
After a month, she says I love you for the first time.
In three, we move in together.
Lesbians.
I forget about the wall—my bathroom adventures, the soundtrack of Lionel and his low-octave pleasure moans. Everything becomes lost—
until the day Joanna tells me a story about my next door neighbor…
Originally published October, 2008