STACEY ANSWERED THE door wearing a tiny red titty top and matching micro miniskirt. I’d encountered her only once before, and that night she made both my Hall of Fame and Hall of Shame by perfectly executing an unexpected reverse cowgirl switcheroo, only to follow up that cunning stunt by drunkenly pissing my bed in her sleep.
Two and a half years later, we ran into each other at McCarren Park one Sunday night and hung out, mocking the grown men and women playing kickball in pirate costumes. A week after, she texted me an invitation to have a slumber party with her and a friend from high school. Figuring that everyone deserves a second chance, especially the wicked hot, I accepted. Should the floodwaters rise again, at least she’d be the one cleaning it up. “Awesome,” she wrote back. “We’ll try not to fight over your cock.”
When she turned for me to follow her up the stairs, her skirt lifted enough that I could see her thong disappearing between her ass cheeks and also the edge of a pussy lip creeping out from under a shred of black fabric. As we entered the apartment, Portishead was already throbbing out of the speakers and Stacey’s friend Melissa was shaking three hits of ecstasy onto the grimy glass coffee table.
Trashy, outdated electronica, younger girls I hardly knew, drugs of indeterminate origin and bad furniture—it was like being dropped into a 1970s porno. Of course, Melissa was hardly the dish Stacey was. An early victim of party-girl excess, she was so fake-tanned under her pink summer dress that she looked orange. Heavy foundation concealed the dark bags under her eyes about as effectively as the dress hid her big ass. But then, I’m not much to look at myself: covered in bad tattoos and laced with scars from 20-plus years of cutting, somewhat muscled but still carrying a beer gut, hairy and unevenly so, like I was dipped in a vat of honey to the bellybutton and rolled on the floor of a barbershop. Combined with my soullessness and big cock, I’m perfect for bad porn.
Except I felt like I had walked on the set without my pizza box or pool-cleaning net. What was the etiquette here, and how was one supposed to get things rolling? I had made it past 30 without ever scoring an honest-to-goodness threesome—was I going to blow my last, best shot for lack of a strong opening line? Then Stacey smiled at me and I kissed her on the cheek and then the mouth and she pressed herself up against me. I put my arms around her and slipped my right hand under her panties and into her. When I felt something on my left hand, I looked down: Melissa was rubbing her ass against me like a cat wanting to be scratched. I slipped my left hand under her dress and was suddenly inside her, too. A moment later, they were both on the floor, taking turns sucking my cock and staring up into my eyes. Aha! This was why I had fantasized about this since, well, since arriving at consciousness.
I like to consider myself somewhere between "uninhibited" and "depraved," but I cannot emphasize how unsettling it was to do things with the lights on with two others participating that you normally only think about doing late at night with the lights off by yourself. At one point, I was fucking Melissa from behind while she went down on Stacey. When Melissa lifted her head to say something, Stacey grabbed her head, forcing it into her crotch, berating her: “Shut up and eat my pussy, bitch! Don’t talk. Don’t fucking talk! That’s it, I want full tongue.” I was rolling so hard I couldn’t speak, which proved to be convenient as, even today, I have no idea what I could have contributed to the conversation.
Melissa seemed content to do whatever she was told, but it was clear that something was building behind the drowning pools of Stacey’s eyes. Though she usually just smiled and giggled at my enthusiasm when I was fucking her, several times a storm seemed to erupt within her, her face contorted and she writhed under me, whaling on my back and chest with her tiny fists as she howled and screamed. Yeah, yeah, I’ve had occasional run-ins with the elusive Female Orgasm before, but this seemed closer to demonic possession. And then when Melissa started getting me riled up and I warned her that I was close to finishing, she leapt off me, admonishing me that I had to cum in Stacey.
Go on and twist my arm, then. But every time I began nearing the final destination with Stacey, Melissa took it as an opportunity to hop up, go over to the computer and put on some ghastly band like 311 or Sublime, then return to the carnal scene to assist. Maybe I’m unforgivably vanilla, but it’s not so easy to get off when someone is trying to jam a long-fingernailed thumb up your butthole and The Bloodhound Gang is blaring from the stereo.
Much later, Stacey put Melissa to bed on the couch, and we retired to her bed. We hugged and kissed and then I tried to roll on top of her. “What are you doing?” she asked.
She was beautiful, we were fucked up on drugs together, we were making out naked in her bed and had spent the last six hours fucking in every conceivable way. Apparently, my assumption that we were about to fuck again was not just wildly off base but also somehow uncouth.
“Um,” I said, choking on a response. I was stumped. “It’s only about sex for you, isn’t it?”
Her words stayed with me, and I fell asleep thinking about pink fleshy maggots lustily squirming over each other. I slept fitfully for a couple of hours then stole out into the day, swearing to change my life. Still, I should have taken pictures.
Peter Jernigan lives in Red Hook and is reconsidering everything.
