“Are we listening to smooth jazz?” I asked Eric.
“This is funk,” he said.
“I think it’s smooth funk jazz.” We were sitting in his car, parked outside of my apartment. There wasn't an arm rest. I didn't know what to do with my hands. I didn't know how to keep them still.
“Do you hate it?” he asked.
“Kind of," I said. "It sounds like porn.”
“What kind of porn do you watch with this soundtrack?”
“I dunno," I shifted my weight in the seat. "It just sounds like a montage of a girl driving a jeep in a bikini headed to her job as a nanny/maid/sex goddess.”
“That’s very specific.” We were sitting side by side. Maybe it was that or maybe it was the dark but I couldn't tell what he was doing with his face.
“Not really," I said. "It just reminds me of late-night Skinimax.”
“Softcore,” Eric decided.
"It just sounds like a montage of a girl driving a jeep in a bikini headed to her job as a nanny/maid/sex goddess."
He hadn't even touched me yet, nor I him. Which wouldn't have bothered me had I not now been thinking of porn for the last twenty-nine minutes we had been sitting in his car. When we said our fifteenth goodbye, he slipped past peripheral and came into focus. The way he parted my lips with his almost made me forget about the blaring saxophone.
An hour later I was masturbating to that moment. The one where the music disappeared, where I could feel the car still idling under my body. My phone blurted, abject blaring between my subtle moans.
“Serious question time,” read his text message. “It was the smooth jazz that made that date a success, wasn't it?”
Something about the way Carl pulls my ass cheeks apart reminds me of this thing he had said on our third date: “Yeah. I’ve probably had a few relationships end because of porn.”
“I’m really sex-positive,” I said. “I think porn is really important.”
He had tickled me then, the crevice of my T-shirt hiding my pit hair.
“Stop that!” I squealed.
“Oh, you like it,” he said.
He didn't come quickly but he was off before I was. He was dripping with sweat—a feat, I thought, given that I had been on top and doing most of the work. I pulled him out of me and rolled to the dry side of his double-sized mattress. He kissed me on the forehead and put on pants.
He brought me a glass of water and a handful of tissues. I wasn't sure what either of them were for until he started guzzling down the contents of his BPA-free Contigo.
“I have to pee,” I said, even though it was more of a should than a have. I slipped out of his bedroom, summer air making my goosebumps stick to my dress stick to his sweat stuck on my body.
A minute later I was hunched down on his bath mat, masturbating to that moment. The one where he had left but I still felt wet.
I slipped out of his bedroom, summer air making my goosebumps stick to my dress stick to his sweat stuck on my body
Mark fucked like he could decipher my body from the moment we started. He went down on me for thirty minutes, read my freckles like braille, my curls like cursive.
“I like that you have hair here,” he said, running his fingertips through my pubes.
Mark didn't even need porn. “I could get off to a gif,” he said to me once. Watching him jack off was epic.
“You do it with your left hand,” I said, watching from the other side of the bed as he lay cum-drunk.
“The mouse goes in my right,” he said.
A week later I was masturbating to that moment. The one when we came at the same time. The one where I felt his body shake beneath me, each muscle aligned with some sweltering pleasure in my own. I wanted to tell him that’s what made me so good at reading and smoking cigarettes at the same time—my collection of shoplifted lesbian erotica.
Mandee Driggers is a queer writer, artist, and performer fueled by coffee and resilience. Her work has been published in Bitchin' Kitsch, Paper Nautilus, Potluck Magazine, and CrabFat Magazine. Mandee is a New Jersey transplant by way of Minneapolis.
Illustrated by Meghan Murphy.