Inmates send me the best letters. Almost all of them are aspiring stars, equipped with huge cocks and endless stamina. They all have one other thing in common—they are all innocent of their crimes, and finishing their “bit” soon.
Prison sex letters, however, are not the most interesting items I receive in the mail each day. That honor is reserved for the dearth of dildos, vibrators, silver bullets and other assorted fuck-toys the creepy mail guys leave on my desk while I blush. The objects are obscured by brown cardboard, but these guys know what is hidden beneath—the keys to my relationship’s sexual awakening.
I work at a porn magazine. I do not work at Playboy or Penthouse or any of the other sex magazines that have interviews with relevant personalities and short stories written by John Updike. No, my magazine features hardcore fucking on almost every page.
The girls in my magazine—and in the DVDs that accompany it (because who would buy specifically print porno, especially with the Internet giving video away for free)—also cum every single time they have sex. It’s quite odd: Roughly half the girls I have had sex with more than once have climaxed with my dick inside them. The other half have cum due to some very special attention paid to their erogenous zones with my tongue or hands. That’s just the way it is in real life.
The latter includes my girlfriend of two years, who is OK with my profession, but sometimes becomes sensitive about the girls I am forced to ogle every day.
“They aren’t natural,” she will say. “Real girls aren’t like that.”
Since I work in porn, though, she sometimes thinks that I would prefer these girls, who seemingly cream upon penetration.“You hate it,” she says. “You wish I was like porno ladies.”
I don’t, I just wish she could finish while we were having sex. It’s something that I’ve had before, and while it isn’t a requirement to date me by any means, it certainly makes things easier and more enjoyable in bed.
In fact, sometimes it goes the other way; sometimes I wonder if she wouldn’t prefer one of the impossibly large dongs owned by the male talent in these films, but that’s another story.
So, to make her—and myself of course—feel better, I started bringing some of my special deliveries home, hoping I could make her cum like the girls she was convinced I compared her to.
First I gave her a metal rocket ship–looking dildo.
“Too cold,” she said. “Doesn’t feel right.”
I brought home some “passion beads,” because they sounded exotic and fun. They have yet to be opened, a thick layer of dust caked on the box.
Sometime after we moved in together, I gave up. There were no words spoken about it, but I figured it was over. I was going to give myself Carpal Tunnel rubbing circles on her clit, and we were never going to be able to cum together, something I feel is an important part of intimacy.
So it figures, by sheer coincidence, that the time we finally reached our goal was the time I wasn’t pushing toys on her.
The other night, we were having sex in the spoon position on the new couch that I had just carried all the way up Manhattan Avenue. I felt that we should break it in, and she felt that I deserved a swift reward for my hard work.
It started out like it normally did, although, to be honest, our sex had become routine and infrequent. It was looking like another roll in the hay for us, after which I would most likely lend a tired hand to her cause.
Somehow, however, she remembered that I had once brought home a vibrating egg. Fishing it out of my box of porno DVDs (another perk of the job), she brought it back over the couch. I wasn’t hopeful since it didn’t really do much the one time we’d used it.
The egg, a silver little toy, fit perfectly on her clitoris, and had a speed control, something that she could adjust based on how she felt. Ingenious! For whatever reason, this time, the godsend of a machine sent my girlfriend to climax in less than three minutes.
I took it out again when we went to bed. Like magic, it worked.
Keep in mind I could have bought any of these tools at one of the sex stores not shuttered during Giuliani’s reign, but that just isn’t me; I’m way too nervous buying this sort of thing in public.
My job perks have finally done something for me besides provide me with creepy letters from prisoners with “12-inch cocks that can fuck all night” and too many porno DVDs; seriously, you can have too many.
At long last, the divide between work and pleasure, between what I did at my job and whom I did at home, was bridged. Finally, what was getting me paid was getting me laid.
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