Ass Fucking (Naked Words Excerpt)

"Where's Angie?" I asked. Her brother Tommy shook his flat crew cut, "My mom and dad aren't letting her come over anymore cause you pull down her diapers."
"They were falling off, stupid, I was just pulling them up."
"That's not what I saw," Tommy said.
"Get off my land!" I said.
Tommy climbed to the top of the slope and spread out his arms.
I ran to the screen door, "Ma, I told Tommy to get off our land. It's my land, too, isn't it?"
"My father's coming," I said, because Tommy's father had the spikiest crew cut and Tommy was always saying "yessir" and "nosir," and not much else.
"If you set one foot on my land, I'll shoot you," he yelled while he skidaddled down the slope and flagstone path leading to the front.
"And if you set one toe on my land, I'll skin you alive and you know where I'll start. And better not leave your window open at night, neither."


Gary, who the whole time had been sitting his sister's Dale's balcony and practicing his Mississippi John Hurt licks, let out a wild whoop. The truth is I was a freak. Every time Tommy's baby sister climbed the hill in our back yard, I'd be there yanking down her diaper. Then there were those kleenex-up-the-asshole games with his sister Dale and my flashlight "Story of O" daily bedtime reads. No one on my list of eleven premarital fucks ever suggested ass fucking, except Philippe who adored sodomy though not with me. As it happened, I was a bodybuilder and forty-eight and living on Nina Street with Garth in a bachelor basement apartment with a ceiling too low for him to walk around full blown upright, when he first shoved his prick up my asshole. Garth weighed four-hundred-and-twenty pounds and I guess if he were lean, he'd have weighed three-seventy-five. "I've been dreaming about this for twenty-eight years," I told him, as he rammed away. I didn't tell him I'd been practicing since I was five.

First version. I ask him what he might like. I lie naked on my side like one of Matisse's models and chat aimlessly on his new high bed, my arm draped carelessly around him, hoping he'll kiss me. In our beginnings, we used to spend all morning in bed. He would lie, his curly and sometimes shaved head pressing on my stomach, and confide to my belly while I outlined the circles of his hair, clockwise and counter clockwise. These days he’s hell bent on counter clockwise. He wants to talk about the relationship. "It’s not that I don’t love you or that I don’t want you,” he says. “I just don’t like being with you. I don’t like the way we’re heading. Romantically. I think I should tell you this although maybe it means something that I keep trying. My patience is running a bit thin." He says he has these mixed feelings. He can’t tolerate me, but he loves sex with me.

“Why would you choose to share such information when you’re planning on fucking a woman? I mean you have your fucking arm around me for shit’s sake and I’m lying fucking naked.”
“You see, I can’t even talk to you.”

Fuck you fuck you. I hold my index finger in a staunch up-yours while visualizing climbing off that egotistical bed and leaving him there, alone on his raving mattress. But I’m quiet. If I speak, I might cry; there are too many words and recriminations welling up alongside all the tears. Finally I say, my voice tuned tight to stop sad notes spilling, “Well, perhaps we might be fucking friends.” Begging really, which he doesn’t realize. “Perhaps we might just be friends without romantic expectations who fuck.”

I know Garth isn’t good for me. He’s a closed man who cannot hold or wrap tender arms around me. He lies deadpan, all tangled up in my words and emotions. Garth hates constraints. He's like a superhero: tie him up and in the next instant he breaks free. But I figure if he would ass fuck me, I could lock him in.

He tells me to take a shower.
“I have,” I say.
“Now."
He says he won’t ass fuck me if I refuse. It’s for my benefit, he says.

His twelve-year-old son is in the other bedroom. I walk in the dark, my body, maybe an arm or a thigh, banging against a wall, the back of a chair, a doorway. I’m like that. Lacking direction it seems, when actually I am right on.

Next Version
I take a shower. Focus the spray on cunt and ass, using soap on top, and carefully, not in. I comfort myself with feather whispers and turn off the tap. There's no towel, so I put my jeans and shirt back on, returning with my breath just skimming the surface and some self-depreciating thoughts as to who I am and why the fuck I'm playing this. I tiptoe into the room and close the door. Why the fuck doesn’t he have a lock? Thoughts can be great time-fillers. There should be a lock. I take my clothes off and set them down, noting location and order: jeans, shirt on top, right side of the sofa, depending on which way you’re facing and isn’t the world like that.

“On your knees.”
“Where?” I ask, although I know. I lean my elbows against the beige leather love seat he keeps in his room, both for the look and the lack of space in his living room which also serves as his office. He has lube in his hand, some new kind of quick all-purpose moistening lube called "Dew" I bought at the Ex’s soft core, overpopulated sex fair with my drummer Mark in mind. I had him in mind, you see, because he was this new flame and I liked him. He was this moderately cool man who said "Baby!" every time I called, like he'd been waiting all his life to hear from me. So I thought we might fuck; I figured I'd do anything he requested which is always a great thrill for both sides. Now I have this new lube and it’s in the palm of Garth’s giant hand. Life is strange.

The truth is that I brace myself and that I'm afraid. I press my head down, my forehead touching the cool leather of the couch, my teeth grab the flesh on my wrist, leaving a souvenir with my top front teeth angling inward. He squeezes wet lube on my asshole and his middle finger and wiggles two fingers up my ass. I’m cold-hearted scared and that’s the straight dope.

He kneels directly behind me, his cock and balls brushing me, and presses in. The flats of his hands cover each side of my hips. I've written poems and had a few published about his massive hands soft and warm on my hips. When I’m home I think of his hands, the look and feel of his cock, his fuzzy orange pubic hair, and the shape of his eyebrows. One of his calves is the size of my thigh. His leg is a side quarter.

“Relax. That’s it. Relax,” he says. He has a gentle side.
“Rub your clit," he says, which I do, although, shit, I am so stressed out that all the rubbing in the world won’t stop the pain from his cock at its half way mark.
Still he keeps pressing in, talking to me in his low rumbling voice.
“It hurts honey,” I say, “Oh honey, it hurts.”
“Sh,” he says, "sh sh."
He pushes, and rests and whistles, and then he's at it again. At times I say nothing or I gasp softly and then he stops, but stays his ground. “Ssh shhh, almost there. Soon.”

I can feel the end of the earth, the edges of the flat earth, I know I’ll fall off and all I can think about is his cock and my ass and it hurts damn it really does, but I’m doing this for him so I can forget who I am and why I’m here. Ass fucking with existential motives. Finally he reaches that point where there is no crossing over. The line just stops. He’s familiar with the space just beyond that line where I fall in love with him all over again and he feels at home and free. So he settles in, deep, filling me up. Even though I cry out a few times, he stays, adding more pressure until I utter a high flying sound and a sigh, because he's in me, jamming all the way up my ass.

“Stay!” I cry, “don’t move, stay!” and he listens.
“Tell me. How you want it.”
“I said tell me how you want it.”
“Harder. I want it harder,” even though I don’t, not yet.
And then, because I know he's waiting for more, I say quietly, “Hurt me.”

At first it hurts like hell or heaven depending. He grabs my tits, squeezes my nipples between his thumb and index finger, and pulling my hair so my head flings back, rams fucking hard in, but I don’t care; he's screwing me up the ass and I want him and that’s all there is. See, I just want to belong to him─his cunt, his ass, his tits, his mouth. I was a member of Voice of Women when I was eleven, but this is how it is between my Garth and me. I do it because I love him, although sometimes I'm filled with hate so big, it feels like a ball of wire twine stuck at the back of my throat. He says one day he's not going to have to use any lube, that's how wet I get when he slides his finger or cock up my asshole. Except he says penis instead of cock.

Encore:
I take a shower, aiming the water jets downward. There is no towel, so I stay wet, put on my clothes, and tiptoe back to the room. His room is dark. “Kneel against the sofa,” he tells me and leaves the room. I place my clothes on the floor beside the leather sofa: black pants, then black muscle shirt, mismatched socks. I arrange myself on the bed, bending my legs, one hip curved, and an arm flung to the side in a careless pose. I hear the door handle. When I think of Garth, his head touches a sky that's cerulean blue clear through and through. His presence fills the door frame.

I kneel by the leather sofa, my forearms on the pillow seat, and I wait. He brings something over from the bureau, and whistling all the while, he slides a hand along my flank. “Mm,” he says and squeezes cold lube near my asshole. I have bought this lotion, some lubricant with spectacular qualities, and have given it to him. He’s going to enter all holes, he says, and I ask him if he includes nostrils and ears in his plan.

“Of all things,” he says, “I love to fuck you in the ass.”
“Talk to me. Tell me about the first time, how it was the first time I fucked you this way.”
“I was scared,” I say.
"I wanted to belong to you."
“It really hurt.”
Garth presses his cock into my asshole. “Easy, easy now," he says.
He has wonderful, big hands. He slides his palm down my back, along the line of my ass, the outside of my tits.
“Relax,” he says. “Tell me about the first time. Remember what you did. What did you do with your hand? Do you remember?”
“I touched myself."
“Where?” he says and I say "Here."
He asks because he wants me to say it, to hear me talk of sex and fucking. “My clit,” I say. “I rubbed my clit.”
“And are you doing that now?”
“Yes.”
“What?” He presses his cock further into my asshole.
"I'm rubbing my clit," I say.
“Good,” he says, squeezing more lube onto his prick and opening up my asshole with his fingers.
I'm afraid, scared shitless, with his prick at my ass's door, and the thing is I love being afraid and doing it anyway.

Reinvented with spacing, although I cannot breathe . . .
I take a shower. Focus the spray on cunt and ass, use soap, on top not in. In is for later. I close the water. I put my jeans and shirt back on, return with my breath held.

Shit baby doll what the fuck you doing in a dark earth hallway, what the fuck you doing getting your ass ripped wide open? I tiptoe into the bedroom, close the door, wishing for a lock. There is none. Thoughts weave easily through fears, settling a reassuring hand on my forearm. The sky shifts from a grey haze to softly glowing yellow. There should be a lock. I take my clothes off, placing them deliberately: jeans, shirt on top, at the right side of the sofa, depending on which way you are facing. And isn’t the world like that?

“On your knees,” he tells me.
“Where?” although I know. I kneel down and lean my elbows against the sofa. He has the lube in his hand, some new kind of quick all-purpose moistening lube I bought it with him in mind. I had him in mind because even after one decade, I love him. He’s a cool man in his way, so I thought we might fuck and he could do anything he wanted. Now I have this new lube he’s holding.

“Talk to me,” he says, “tell me about the first time I fucked you up your ass.”
“I was scared.”
"And you thought?”
“I thought, I thought I’m yours, you know, belonging to you. I wanted to belong to you. And I thought, that if you ass fucked me, that if you wanted to, anyway you chose, then I would. That’s what I wanted.”
He presses his cock against me.
“Sh, sh,” he says “gently now, just easy.” He places one large hand over my back, pressing me down, and slides his other hand along my back, ass, tits.
“Relax,” he says, “tell me more about the first time. Do you remember what you did with your hand?”
“I touched myself,” I say.
“Where?”
“I rubbed my clit like I am now.”
“Beg,” he says. “If you want it, you have to beg.”

So I say please and please again and thank you. He wants words, scenes in sharp colour, while my scenes are in black and white and the camera’s hand held. He pulls my head back and his cock brushes against my asshole.
“Please hurt me,” I say. “Pull my hair. Hard.”
“Good,” he says, squeezing more lube onto his prick, and using his middle finger, up my ass. He decides not to be gentle.
“It hurts honey,” I say, “oh honey, it hurts.”

His cock stretches and fills my asshole. We’re from two different countries, Garth and I, and he’s pumping away in a language I don’t understand although I nod yes, yes. And then he comes to that border, that halfway mark and barrels right through. I think I’ve come to the end of the earth. I grasp its flat edges and I just know I’ll fall off. And then I stop thinking. Which is what I want. I brace myself oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck, press my head down on the seat of the sofa and bite hard into my right forearm. The bottle cap pops and he spreads cold lube around my asshole. He wiggles his finger up my ass. I’m afraid and that’s the truth. He positions the tip of his prick against my asshole, leans his body over mine, and covers my hips with his hands.
“Relax.” he says. “Rub your clit.”

He presses in while he talks to me in his soft rumbling voice and I cry out again “It hurts, honey. Honey, it hurts.” He’s just so cool and even. He stops, stays, pushes his prick in a bit deeper and croons “Soon, soon, almost there.” Which sounds sexy as all hell. I figure I’m at the end of the earth, right at the edge, and you know, if he’d ask me, I would jump clear off, right at that moment because he’s reached that point of no crossing back and the line just stops. Only there's a space past that line, such a sweet place where I fall in love with him all over again and I’m home and free.

I pull my breath up into my throat and heave it out nice and slow because he’s in me, all the way up my ass and I’m fine and loving his being there.
“Stay. Don’t move, stay.”
“Tell me,” he says, “tell me how you want it and I’ll consider it.”
“I want it harder,” I say, even though I don’t, not yet. “Harder, please. Please go hard.”

He starts to move in and out, just a bit at first, and it hurts like hell or heaven depending. He adds more lube and grabs my tits and my hair and he’s ramming real hard. But I don’t mind. He’s fucking me up the ass and I want him so bad. And that’s all there is.

I have to want him first you see, have to belong to him. I am his cunt, his ass, his tits, his mouth. I think when he fucks me hard up the ass that I can’t hold him. But still, I want to. After everything. Still. I am his cunt, his ass, his mouth.

© Janice Colman 2008