He is inside me. It is a very standard thing to say. An overused description. Fucked, screwed, tapped, porked, dicked, stuck, jabbed, sexed. It doesn’t matter, except you know that we are having sex. You have a clear idea of a penis being inside a vagina. You understand the concept.
Maybe I could describe it so you could picture it. I could tell you his cock is pierced and his pubic hair, unruly. His skin is dark tan or maybe light brown. And I have razor burn from trying to shave my bikini line. My hair is almost black against white-white skin. None of that is the point. It’s not important. Just forget it.
The important part is I’m about to get off. It has nothing to do with his penis inside me. I can’t even feel that thing. What matters is the way his stomach, his fat roll, is rubbing against my clit every time he jabs, sticks, fucks, dicks me. I want to get off, but I’m disgusted at the way his stomach is rubbing me.
Just before, the second before I am about to cum, he pulls out and splatters across my stomach. I slide out of bed, careful not to rub against the sheets. I stand in front of the bathroom mirror watching the gunk slide down my belly. Then I wipe it off with damp toilet paper.
I close my eyes. Reach down. I feel sick. I vomit into the bathroom sink. I have to pull the stopper out and wipe the vomit off, a mixture of wine and hunks of chicken and broccoli. But at least I came.
Copyright 2009
Author's Bio: Brandi Wells has a BA in Creative Writing and her fiction appears in or is forthcoming in elimae, Pear Noir, Monkey Bicycle, Wigleaf, and Rumble. She has a chapbook forthcoming as part the chapbook collective Fox Force 5, which is being released by Paper Hero Press. She blogs at http://brandiwells.blogspot.com/
