one four

Whips. Leather. Full body, vibrating massage. Tongue bath. How many toes can I get in my mouth? How many times can I get off with my face shoved in your ****? Will you be my pony? Will you wear a diaper? Nipple clamps. Mouth clamps. Sucking and pissing and fingering and eating and eating and eating…you out.

I signed up for an alternative dating website. I was honest.

I said: ‘I will pleasure your feet. That is all.’

I didn’t say ‘I will call you Alyssa.’    

I didn’t think it was necessary.

Within three hours of charging my credit card and posting my simple profile, I had an in-box full of obscene requests and questions. Apparently what I wanted was irrelevant. Selfish perverts. So fitting. So me. So I went with it.

Of those mentioned above, ‘Will you be my Pony?’ was my personal favorite. I don’t know what it means and I’m pretty sure I don’t want to find out. But at least it brought a smile to face. Not much else does these days.

Alyssa is gone for two weeks. Fourteen days. One full week of seven days and then another week after that which will be equally as long. And me left here, empty handed. Not a single thing of hers left behind for me to sniff or sleep with or rub on myself as I drunkenly masturbate. 

When I first found out I panicked. I drank a fifth of vodka and I threw up over my balcony. Then I decided to just take some pills. I figured, if I’m in a stupor the whole time then the two weeks would be over before I realized it.

But I’m not a teenager anymore. I have a job and I have **** bills and responsibilities. I have an adult life. It sucks. But I can’t just disappear for two weeks.

So then I figured I would just find some objects to occupy my mind. Nothing will ever erase her. But maybe some pleasure and pain could help fill the void.     

The first girl I started a dialogue with was really into me sucking her toes. She said she wanted to take a long walk through the grassy park first and get them nice and dirty. Then I could clean them off with my tongue.

I said, ‘whatever.’

She made it clear that under no circumstances would I be ‘munching on her carpet.’

I said, ‘whatever.’

Although, she would like me to wear a neatly pressed shirt and speak with a British accent. Oh, and were my nipples pierced? No…damn, because she really wanted to hang weights from them.

Whatever….whatever…whatever.

She came over on a Wednesday night at 2:30 in the morning. I was so drunk by that time I knew I wouldn’t ever get an erection. Not that it mattered. She wasn’t there for sex. She was there to stick her filthy feet in my face. And pinch and twist my nipples. Now, normally these prospects would be moderately appealing. But I hadn’t seen Alyssa in 22 hours. And despite my best efforts, I knew that I would never be able to adequately convince myself that any other woman was her. No combination of vices could distort my senses enough. There was no panacea except for her.

Still, I had to try, right? When you suffer a deep cut and there are no band-aids, do you not stick toilet paper on the wound? Or a paper towel. Or maybe some scotch tape?

I answered the door and she was the bride of frankenstien.

I said, to myself, ‘whatever.’

She introduced herself and it sounded like Charlie Browns parents. I couldn’t have cared less what her name was. I moved her silently to the bedroom and I put on a freshly ironed shirt. I had burned the pocket in my drunken stupor and the iron mark stood out. She wasn’t pleased. I didn’t care.   

She kicked off her sandals and asked me, “Waaa wa waa waaa….waa wa?”

I took a deep swig off the bottle and I slurred, “I’m always ready for you Alyssa.”

To which she responded, “Waaa wa waaa waaa. Waaa waa wa waa waaaa.’

I considered it for a moment before I offered back, “Don’t worry Alyssa. Nothing will change between us if we have sex. I promise.”

And she declared: “Waaaaaa. Waaaa. Wa wa, waaaa. wa”

I knew there was nothing more I could say. And yet I couldn’t hold my tongue. I had to reply: “I promise you. Oh, my darling Alyssa, please. I promise it won’t be uncomfortable between us at all. Just please…please let me pleasure you.”   

She put her sandals back on and stormed toward the bedroom door. As she passed she hocked deep and let fly with a wad that landed right on my chest, inches to the left of my burn mark. More inches from my burning and aching heart.  

I turned and pleaded: “Alyssa…don’t go. Please! Don’t! Go! I promise I will never make another move on you. I swear it!”      

But she was gone. And the spell was broken. Not that it ever was really there. I’m not into mind games. I’m not an idiot. I don’t believe in Voodoo. I knew it wasn’t really Alyssa. Her name was ‘Alexis’ and apparently that point was non-negotiable.

I heard her car start up and peel away.

I said, “Whatever,” and I passed out.

The next one was actually kind of cute. Not beautiful. Or sexy. Just cute. She had a tiny little upturned nose and she wore librarian glasses. She told me she was a waitress and I told her to turn around and be quiet. She pulled off her panties and bent over the couch to expose her heaping helping of ****. The deal was I would bury my face in-between her cheeks and bang her pucker hole with my tongue. Apparently. I didn’t recall negotiating this arrangement but, ‘Whatever.’

HER: Come on baby. Lick that booty hole.

ME: Do you mind not talking please. You sound nothing like her.

HER: Oooo, just do it Baby. Put that tongue in my shitter.

ME: No, seriously…stop **** making sounds with your mouth. And don’t you ever **** call me Baby. Do you understand me! No one calls me baby but…

The third one agreed to let me call her Alyssa. As long as I would let her boyfriend Mark watch from the closet while I fisted her on the bedroom floor.

Whatever.  

Garbage bags. Baby oil. Suction. And me hating every minute of it because even though I could call her Alyssa, I didn’t once dare. It wasn’t right. 

Instead I turned on the computer so I could watch my Alyssa picture show screensaver while I jammed my hand deeper and deeper into her and listened to the sickly moaning coming from inside my closet.

No doubt I washed every single article of clothing hanging in there the next day.

Midgets in wrestling costumes. Dogs and peanut butter. Clown noses and anal beads. Double penetration. Shitting in cups. Humiliation. Tied to the bedposts with yarn.   

I’ve talked to them all. I’ve answered their emails. I’ve negotiated deviant contracts.  

* Are you into trannys?

Only if they wear Alyssa’s perfume. 

* Can my husband stick his finger in your **** while you pretend to rape me?

Can you dye your hair blond and pull it back tight on your head and wear no make up and still look like the most beautiful woman in the entire universe?

* Will you stick fruits and vegetables into my teenage daughter’s hoo-hoo while my boyfriend and I masturbate? (There was no negotiating here. It was reported directly to the webmaster)

Fourteen days. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven.

Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen.  

336 hours. Enough time for multiple encounters including penis rings and ball gags. 20,160 minutes. Plenty of time to wear a ski mask and get sodomized by a six foot six woman in a police uniform wearing a strap on.  A whole lot of precious seconds. Seconds without her. Seconds with angled dildos and vibrating pocket pussys and long nails gouging across tender flesh.

Fourteen days until I can touch her face. Inhale her. Listen to her excited, titled talk. I need to find something else to occupy me because perversions arent working.

Two weeks. A mere drop in the bucket of a lifetime. But for me, a maddening, Chinese water torture drop.