She named my dick “Larry.”
Larry. Of all possible names, she chose an actual human man’s name. Though, a man’s name from a different culture, would have been less questionable. If she named my cock and balls Faraz, I would have worn it openly. That would have been exotic. But Larry is some lame cousin you see on High Holidays who piles beet horseradish on the gefilte fish. A better Jewish name would be something like Yitzhak because it gets in the back of your throat, or something that sounds cooler, like Lazar Wolf from Fiddler on the Roof – you think I’m after your cow but I really want your daughter. I later told my Friend about it, and he claimed two different women independently named his penis “Fred.”
These distractions aside, she knelt before me in front of the couch, and hugged Larry with her hands and gave him kisses and I dipped my paring knife into the pink baggie and brought it up to my nose for a little bump. While I often find myself unable to concentrate, or focus my attention on important tasks, I love multitasking vices.
And while I find my anxiety makes daily life a frightening chore, it’s also what makes this scene possible. I positioned the coffee table just close enough to the couch to be a convenient resting place for her cocaine, and my weed, and her wine, and my beer, but also just far enough away so that there would be enough space for her to get on her knees.
“Do you like Larry?” I asked. I don’t know what she said within her muffled words but I giggled and said, “Larry likes you too.”
I giggled some more, I told myself to relax, I ran my hand up the back of her neck, I reached the edge of her wig, I clamped down on the sides of her throat from behind, I felt the shock run through her jaw. Just the edge of her teeth grazed my shaft.
By now her thirst had Larry dripping from head to toe, like macerated fruit in syrup awaiting a pie, and she cradled each of his slick, fermenting peaches in each hand, repeating to herself her promises to not fall in love with Larry, while simultaneously reciting her vows.
She cared for my balls the way only a grandmother could. No twenty-something ever gave them the attention she knew they deserved, not without being told.
I licked my finger and rubbed it all over my framed picture of William de Forest, making a little coke schmear on my pinky, which I rubbed thoroughly along my gums. I smacked my lips and thought about my hero of broadcasting, stuffed in the back of a turn-of-the-century concert hall, sharing a symphony over AM airwaves using laboratory equipment, envisioning a future where one day young perverts could share the sounds of their raunchy lovemaking all over the world with nothing more than a portable telegraph blasting out one’s and zero’s.
The rest of the night was a gleeful cycle of drugs, blowjobs, and cuddling. She didn’t want our first time having sex to be on her period, but she had no problem sitting on Larry and teasing him between her warm thighs amid rounds of mouth sex, nose candy, and white merlot. Smoke a bowl, make out, and do some lines. Get sucked, crack a beer, and drop some ice in her wine. When she went out to go smoking, I would keep stroking, waiting for her return.
Hours later, I lay on the bed, stroking my cock, shivering all over, precum bubbling from my head, smacking my meat around and I heard the outside door open.
“Honey come here I need you” I squeezed out. “Honey please.”
She put the cigarettes down and the butt bucket aside and came running, saying ‘baby I’m here’ and slipped into the bed with me where she began to massage Larry’s dense balls and she quivered at the sight of my running precum, and she licked it up and down and she fucked me with her mouth until I told her I was finally going to cum and she plunged my whole shaft past her sopping wet lips, anticipating the load she built up that whole night. She choked just a little, but swallowed it all and thanked me as I whinnied and whimpered against the pillow. She made sure to drag out every last drop and told me to relax, taking her time to clean me up as though she were enjoying an honor.
She asked me if, when we do have sex, after I cum, if she could turn me over and lick my asshole. I said that she could try, but that I was very ticklish, and she continued to milk me of my essence.
I dissolved into the pampering and stared at the wall, where my framed picture of Rod Serling hung above William de Forest’s bare spot. Everything was out of place: the paring knife on the picture frame, the wine in the fridge, the thoughts on my mind, and the woman in my bed. Perhaps I should be far away, myself. Perhaps I should wander, admitting to everyone I meet, everywhere I go, that my loyalty is both beautiful and fickle, mortal and subject to the winds — less like Ulysses, who braved the sirens’ song, and more like a falling leaf.