slippery when

Before I found Toots to lick my pussy in the back of his Subaru wagon, there was Armand.

Armand was older—twenty-two, maybe. He was my friend Gen’s cast off. She had found him, somewhere, some club, some bar, some hangout where older guys prowl for hot blooded teenage girls as much as we scoped for them. A guy with his own apartment, a guy free of parents we had to hide our naughty furtive dealings from, a guy with a door we could close behind us.

Armand found Gen, or she found him, the same night the third leg in our foxy triad found Jay, this ne’er-do-well son of the owners of the tony camp I’d attended from twelve to fifteen, a night when I was with neither of them, probably because I didn’t have a car and given that our high school was a union high school I lived too far for them to go out and also drive me home. So they went out together and they found Armand and Jay. And I’d probably found some new position in which to masturbate and sulk.

Eventually, Gen took up with this guy in a trailer and she introduced me to Armand. Armand was not merely older, and not merely the proud tenant in what might the tiniest apartment I’ve ever seen (and having lived in Gotham, I am really saying something, because we Gothamites pay big rent for tiny spaces), and not merely the neighbor of Jay, the ne’er-do-well son and the proud tenant of the third tiniest apartment I’ve ever seen, but Armand was also hott.

I don’t remember Armand’s last name, It became, over time and with the full flower of my corniness, “Hammer” in my memory, though that is factually incorrect. He was muscular and hairless and vain. He probably thought this song was about him. He would get lost staring at himself in his own mirror, ostensibly hung to enable him to watch himself have sex, but really, I think, hung merely to watch himself.

If it had been liquid, he would have dived in; his reflection to him was mesmerizing.

Armand was, in addition to being shelled nut smooth and good-looking, both stupid and cruel. We like to think of cruelty as the province of the smart, because we tend to think that it takes real brains to be darts-accurate with cruelty, but the truth is that stupid people can be exceptionally cruel, thereby giving credence to the notion that we humans have several kinds of intelligence that layer over one another like transparent pages from an anatomy textbook. All layered one on top of the other, these different systems of intelligence become the facsimile of one, but really, they are many. Like jellyfish, but not like poplars. Armand, though intellectually stupid, had to have been emotionally genius, because he was pinpoint-precision cruel.

His cruelty could have drilled holes for Swiss watches.

It may not be a testament to my best self, but cruelty holds a page in my erotic self. I respond to a bit of cruelty, especially if it’s well-timed and well-placed. These days, the cruelty that makes me melty-drippy is assumed, not real. It takes its form in a kiss that bites, a caress that pinches, a word that commands. It is a fuck with force. It is not the kind of cruelty that leaves me with invisible scars.

That was not always the case.

Armand got handed to me like a baton. I got a phone number. I called it. We made a date to fuck. It shocks me now that I was that pragmatic then about sex. But my friend Gen told me that Armand gave amazing head. I wanted amazing head. I made a date with him in order to receive said amazing head. I’d dreamt of head, imagined head, stroked myself in the gasping cold of night under eiderdowns in a nun-wide bed to rococo speculations of amazing head, and I wanted nothing more than to experience it, right then, right there, on that hard little wet knot between my thighs.

So I called him. I went over to his tiny apartment. I rang the buzzer. I was let in. I was pleasantly surprised by his looks, and within a few tens of minutes, I found myself on his bed fucking him.

But he didn’t give me head.

I gave him head. I gave him plenty of head. I fucked him in every possible position I knew. I worked and worked at pleasing him. I was all of sixteen.

Behold, the cruelty: once, after fucking me, Armand gazed at my naked prone body. “You have a big ass,” he commented, and added, “but it’s round, though.” And then he looked levelly in my eyes for a reaction. I like to think I didn’t give him one, but I’m sure I betrayed myself.

I would go back to that tiny apartment again and again. I’m not sure how many times, exactly, that I fucked Armand, but it was probably a handful. It wasn’t like I had a boyfriend, and it was like I wanted head. I wanted to know what felt like to have a warm, wet, human tongue buried in my girl bits, licking and sucking and tenderly teasing me into the glistening pinkwet surrender that I’d only experienced from my hand and my vibrator.

I wanted to come with a person. I wanted, for reasons still not entirely explicable to me, that person to be Armand.

I think, in part, I picked Armand because I felt him to be eternally beneath me. He was just this townie. This guy in this tiny apartment. Older and fucking teenage girls because it gave him a measure of power, a power that I realized I was complicit in giving him and realized too that it didn’t matter because this was just a moment, just a slender passing shred of time to me, and was to him his whole life. His life would never, I sensed, get better than this.

Mine, I sensed, would.

I think, in part, I picked Armand as I picked a string of cruel men. Because on some level I felt the need to be punished for my choice in picking them, my choice in being promiscuous, my choice in being sexual. Long before I’d even lost my virginity, I’d dreamt of acts of excess sexuality, I’d dreamt of seducing a boy in my class, of our having wild and rampant (if hazy) sexual congress, of us merely coming together to come together and then parting until the next inexorable coupling. Because on some level I felt the need to both have sex and to feel badly about it.

And in part I picked Armand because he came with recommendations, dammit. My friend had assured me he was, in our parlance, very considerate. He would eat me like a five-course meal, she said, and I would come like a rocket.

Neither happened. Again and again neither was I eaten nor did I come. Until finally I summoned the courage and I talked to him about it (we never did much talking. It was not a meeting of the minds, Armand and me).

Gen said you gave her head, I said. He mumbled an assent.

Why won’t you give me head? I asked.

He stared at me for a moment, and then he said, “You get too wet.”

Too wet. I got too wet. My pussy dripped and it was too much. My body betrayed me with my desire. Not only did my desire make itself present, but it was too much, too loud, too voluminous, too wet. It was a prodigious, off-putting desire, a slippery wetness of veering tire tracks and dented galvanized railings. It was a clamoring, needy wetness, a wetness that announced itself and demanded unspeakable, unlickable, disgusting acts. It was, like me, excessive.

“But I’ll make you come,” he said, and he went to his dresser and pulled out a yellowed appliance that resembled my dad’s blow-dryer. Looking kind of like a rectangle on a handle, it had a big suction-cup attachment square in the center of the rectangle and a long plug extending from the handle.

Armand told me to lie on my belly. He plugged the appliance on, and he started a long vibratory journey down my shoulder blades, over the valley of back, around the cleft of my big and round ass. Then he told me to roll over; I did.

He parted my thighs and set the vibrator to work on my clit. Predictably I came. My first orgasm with another human being was also with a machine. He watched me come and then he smoked a cigarette. I got dressed and left, noting a big wet spot on the bed where I had been lying.

I never saw Armand again after that. It seemed pointless, really. He wasn’t going to give me what I wanted. More importantly, his cruelty had lost its charm for me.

While I wish I could say I never felt self-conscious about my wetness, my palpable and viscous desire, I can say this: at that moment I knew Armand was a dick. It was one thing to say my ass was big. It was, however, another thing altogether to insult my pussy.

Comments

[ell]

Funny, I just this minute finished reading a piece that included reference to the work of Desire Magloire Bourneville, a male doctor at the Paris hospital, the Salpetriere, who in 1878 pubished a three volume work on women and orgasm - his detailed observation notes, which were said to have read like soft porn included - "La vulve est humide" and "La secretion vaginale est tres abondante." Thank goodness for medical research and the good doctor...

Poor Armand was a fool to sneer at an "abondate" of pussy juice. His loss. Cavalier cruelty can be attractive, ignorance hardly ever is. :)

Lubriciously,
Ell

[M]

Foolish man. I've dated a woman that on occasion would ejaculate. Never a problem it was a compliment really. It's something that happened when she got very turned on and even then not every time. So I took it as a compliment, changed the sheets, and continued the fun. And yes, it has happened both during intercourse and when I was giving her head... It was damned fun!

[KtotheE]

Too wet?

I've never bought into the 'can't be too rich or too thin' nonsense. But there's no such thing as too wet. Not when we're talking about girl-bits.

That's like saying too much orgasm. Too responsive. It's like saying, there's too much oxygen in my air.

Bring you too-too-wetness here. I'll drink you all day.

[Autumn]

Wow. I've seen men impressed with the amount of my wetness - but afraid of it? That's just... Wow.

[Ice Maiden]

I will never ever understand a man who complains of a woman being too wet. I've had it said to me once, actually, as a reason not to go down on me strangely enough. I tried to point out the fact that he should take it as a compliment.... He merely asked me to suck his cock some more. To which I gave a reply I won't repeat here. I love the realism of this, it's something I always find here, it keeps me coming back!

[Suse]

Cg, I must say... everytime I read you I feel as if I'm reading a book that will simply never finish giving me a new page to turn. Sure your writing is hot, and often amusing, but it has this sense of clarity, or at least realism where so often sugar coating covers true emotion.

Something about this made me consider my own problems in a different light. I've never expected that from a blogger, and there are no expectations here - simply a happy bonus.

Thank you.

[Goose]

He was a tool and probably still is. Probably the kind of not-fun sadist that likes the girl to be dry so it hurts her. What a fucking tool.
XO

[Artfuldodger]

good grief CG! i just never know where you will go next and that is, of course, half the fun. the other half is just how incredibly honest you are, about yourself and those with whom you write. what a very strange thing to say to someone and I wouldn't have believed it if you hadn't said it. the world just keeps turning doesn't it?

[Itkovian]

Ah well. His loss.

[chelsea girl]

Agreed: Armand was an ass.

And not just for not liking/licking a sixteen-year-old superjuicy pussy. But mostly for treating me badly and not being very considerate at all.

Thanks for weighing in.

kissykiss,
cg

[girlzoot]

>>Because on some level I felt the need to be punished for my choice in picking them, my choice in being promiscuous, my choice in being sexual.<<

A wonderful and clear insight into a moment in the past. Nicely stated with the understanding and shading of what you know now. I found myself opening my own memory doors and seeing similar knowledge for my own experiences. Thank you for sharing your words.

[alwaysarousedgirl]

Too wet? Pshaw, pshaw I say!

There is not such thing. Unless it starts dripping through to the apartment below, and even then it's easily remedied by a few towels.

It's a crying shame that someone has not yet written a song called "Hott Tatt Daddy." I've had that phrase bouncing around in my head since I read it.

Kiss.

[Viviane]

Too wet???? Armand was a fucktard.

[kinger's kitten]

Thank god my husband never had that complaint!!! I love the way you write.

[Camilla]

I would love to be described as "too wet."

[figleaf]

Hmm. The aggravating thing, of course, is that it does no good for *me* to say your ass isn't too big. Armand got there first, and you chose to believe him, and now the only person who can say it so you'll believe it is, well, you.

---

Had we met back then I'd have eaten you like an ice cream sandwich, waiting for your to thaw as I licked and breathed warmth into your meltable center, and nibbling your edges as they softened and parted. But I think I'd also have been too kind, too meek, really, for you back then.

---

And now, cruel, pointless man that I am today, I'd want to hold you by the hair and take you to a mirror of your own, press your chin against it and lock my eyes with your reflected ones and make you say it over and over, "it's not fat, figleaf, it's not fat" as I squeezed it, and slapped it, and stroked away the sting of it, and then slapped it again. And it would do no go because that bastard Armand got there first, and while I could maybe make you mouth the words and parrot the sounds I couldn't make you *say* it because you chose to believe him.

---

One of my seminar books in college was on the subject of medical controversies. The one dearest to the author's heart was the decision sometime in the 30's or 40's to use radiation therapy to treat children with abnormally large thyroid glands. The treatment worked great, you know. And somehow, over time, specialists began discovering more and more oversized thyroids, more and more, till one day a specialist who genuinely wanted to help children grow up to be normal, healthy adults declared that thyroid irradiation should be a routine procedure performed at a certain age because, he'd concluded, *all* children had abnormally large thyroids. The practice fell out of favor very, very soon after because, well, first of all because it's impossible for everyone to have abnormally large thyroids, of course, but second of all because cancers of the neck began to skyrocket. (Despite airbrushing, photo of the author on the jacket made it clear why this issue was nearest to his heart.)

My point is that pretty much all women think their asses are, well, abnormally large. And looking at your yummy little butt (so near its creamy-filling neighbor) I guess I'm wondering what to make of everyone else's?

[O]

Fucktard is the right word for Armand.
Like you, and like Ice Maiden up there, I've had a similar experience, of being told I was "too wet". I think 2 different men actually have said it to me.
This is what stays with me:
My body betrayed me with my desire. Not only did my desire make itself present, but it was too much, too loud, too voluminous, too wet. It was a prodigious, off-putting desire, a slippery wetness of veering tire tracks and dented galvanized railings. It was a clamoring, needy wetness, a wetness that announced itself and demanded unspeakable, unlickable, disgusting acts. It was, like me, excessive.

Exactly. One of a long line of ways of being told that one is too much.

Love
O

[sarah]

I love your writing. And I too feel the need to have sex and feel badly about it. You've put into writing exactly how I feel. Thank you.

[August West]

Too wet? No such thing. I'll allow for different tastes, but this fella literally missed the boat. (flashback time) I remember a woman who surprised me as I nooshed her noodle in the front seat of my car. Suddenly a flood of some unexpected fluid had me gurgling. I would soon discover that she could ejaculate with force on my balls as she came when she was on top. I never tired of this. The big inconvenience was waiting for couches beds and cars to dry out. I called her the "Drench Wench" and felt lucky to have discovered her, and blessed that she shared this wonder with me. I am always delighted to find a woman I'm intimate with can drench my face. It's not common.
I think you are a poet... and wish we'd met in high school.