October 18, 2006
Fiction
The Plan
Monday, December 6. 7:14 a.m. Happy birthday to me.
It’s been a good year. I’m feeling feisty and go-getting in that Bust magazine uber rriot-babe sort of way. I’ve been published, promoted, positively reviewed, and even satirized. Best of all, I lost 12 pounds from sheer self-delight. Found my ego and lost my ass all at the same time.
So. Now. I have a plan. Well, actually I have a flaw. A particular flaw. And because I have that particular flaw, I have a plan. I, at long last, I am going to learn to Swallow.
Don’t ask me why, but I’ve always been a little shy and nervous talking with the Big Boy Downstairs. No. That’s a complete lie. I’m not shy. I just don’t like it. I have an insuppressibly strong gag reflex, I’ve never had anyone arrive in my mouth, and the idea of actually swallowing any orgasmic effluvia is a big incomprehensible EEEW.
Also, while I don’t have a terribly refined sense of smell, I do have a strong aversion to a few specific musky-type odors: cigarette smoke, cooked mushrooms, wet dogs, and groin. So really, on the Head Front, we’re talking three, three, three problems in one. And while I know I don’t HAVE to swallow, I figure that as long as I’m climbing the learning curve, I might as well go for the gusto. I mean, spitting is so unladylike.
10:43 a.m. I’ve been emailing friends all morning asking for help, and so far, responses have included:
Abby: Just keep it in your mouth, look up, raise your finger and say, “Mmm mmm-mmm,” And then run run RUN to the bathroom.
PS: Balls. Get the balls.
Dina: lick it like a lolli
then slurp it like a runny ice cream cone
swallow it like you couldn’t help yourself and took too much of a very good thing
but dear god, if you put this in a book, please keep me anonymous!
Gioia: Why don’t you like swallowing? Semen is very nourishing. Did you know it contains the most highly digestible form of zinc?
These women are no help. Neither was my friend Billy, who wrote me a Ph.D. thesis on tonguing sensitive nerve bundles, orgasmic power relationships, and the absolute necessity of deep-throating. I quote:
“Nothing you can do with your tongue feels nearly as spectacular as pushing the head down an esophagus.”
An esophagus. Like I have an extra one lying around.
What these boysuckers don’t seem to understand is that I’m dealing with something like a severe handicap gene-spliced to a crippling phobia. I need professional help.
1:32 p.m. My friend Tav, an aroma-hypnotherapist with a specialty in sexual dilemmas shows up at my door with a pink-striped hatbox. “I developed this kit for another client. We’ll just reprogram your fears. Happy fucking birthday, darling.”
“Thanks. And I’m not afraid!”
“Princess, don’t lie to Dr. Daddy. If you don’t want it, you’re afraid of it. If you liked it, you wouldn’t fear it.”
“Tav, this is really sketchy science.”
“Welcome to the frontier. So, look, you can learn to love anything. This’ll be fun. Trust me.”
He opens the hatbox, and pulls out a CD and a bottle of oil.
“Tonight, run a hot bath, and add a couple drops of this. It’s patchouli oil blended with a few secret ingredients to smell like warm, yummy crotch.”
“Eew.”
“No, just wait. Remember, only a couple drops. You won’t consciously smell it, so it’ll get in under your radar. Start playing the CD when you climb in, and follow the instructions. Oh, and you’ll also need these.”
Out of the hatbox comes a 6-pack of jumbo bratwurst, a cooking thermometer, a quilted yellow tea towel embroidered with a naked, erect Victorian man (you can tell by the hat and the moustache), and a pastry bag - which is full. Of something. He squeezes out some of the something onto his finger. It looks like. Oh, god.
“Here, taste.”
“Tav, is that yours?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. What? You think I keep a whole supply of wank around just for my phobic clients? This is an almond-flavored gelatin mix - specially formulated for authenticity of flavor and mouth-feel. While you’re running the bath, heat this in a double boiler to exactly 105 degrees, and then wrap it in the tea towel. By the time you need it, it’ll be down to 98.6.”
He looks so pleased with himself.
“I must fly. I have a 3:30 rubber fetishist who’s allergic to latex. Just remember, darling, we shall cum and overcome. Ciao!”
6:45 p.m. There’s a knock at the door, which I open, revealing Dina (she who licks it like a lolli) and her friend Haley. They’re holding an extremely large package. Dina and Haley create special effects for films. But they’ve also recently branched out into novelties, and I have a funny feeling that whatever they’re toting is going to prove very, very novel.
“Happy birthday, hottie!” yells Dina. “Forget about the Head Quest! Have we got something for you!”
I rip off the paper, revealing two boards bolted in the shape of an L. Long board on the bottom, short one sticking up in the air, topped by a giant green power button.
Sitting on the bottom board is a wheeled dolly - like what mechanics lie on to scoot under cars. Attached to a track on the vertical board, about six inches from the bottom is a kind of sort of a large, bright purple hand. It’s flanked by stirrups. Everything is covered in red velvet.
“Tess,” says Dina proudly, “I’d like you to meet The Hand.”
“Hi.”
“This is an animatronic hand. It can move all the ways a regular hand can move, it can go up and down on its track, and plus it rotates 360 degrees on a swiveling ‘wrist.’ Also, it has a little hydraulic thing which lets it move in and out, as well as vibrate.”
“As you can see,” adds Haley, “It’s pretty lifelike, except for the fact that the thumb is nubby - like a cat’s tongue - and the fingers are a little thicker than real life.”
“And,” I add, “it’s purple.”
Haley twinkles. “My favorite color.” Dina gives me an odd-looking glove. “Now look, it’s operated by this glove, which is embedded with motion capture sensors. There’s a transmitter at the wrist built into a What Would Jesus Do bracelet. Just ‘cuz we’re naughty.”
“Now, the idea is that you lie on your back, put your feet in the stirrups, and snuggle yourself up against the hand. Then you manipulate your gloved hand in mid-air, as if you were getting someone else off, and The Hand does exactly what your hand does. So you’re doing yourself, only from a much better angle, and you don’t get a cramp because the animatronic hand does all the actual work.”
Haley adds, as a kind of side note, “The dolly lets you move back and forth, but you can also tip this on its back, and kneel over it. Or you can keep it horizontal, turn around and present yourself doggy-style.”
Stunned, I can only ask, “What about the velvet? Doesn’t it stain?” As if that’s the most troublesome aspect of this whole contraption.
“Nope,” says Dina. “The velvet’s made from recycled soda bottles. Wipes clean with a damp rag. Couldn’t stain it if you tried. So it’s good for you and good for the environment!”
1:11 a.m. Bath run, drops dropped, fake jizz heated and wrapped, bratwurst opened, CD popped in, me naked, a bong hit for good luck. Houston, we are prepared for lift-off.
I hit play, and pulsing Buddha Bar techno fills the room as I slide into the tub. Tav’s voice slinks up under the music:
Greetings, my sweet, and bravo to you for facing your deepest sexual fears. With a little faith and effort, you can become one of the few true fellative masters.
For the next few minutes Tav guides me through standard hypno territory: slow, cleansing breaths, muscle-by-muscle relaxation, walking down imaginary stairs leading to a shining golden door, through which one enters into a powerful hypnotic trance.
Now, deep in your hypnotic trance, you turn, and see another golden door emanating powerful sexual energy. Reaching for the shining crystal doorknob, clearly this is Liberace’s hypno-pleasure palace, you fling the door open and walk into a room filled with beautiful, naked, rock-hard men. All of them look at you with fiery, lust-filled eyes. You look back, at all the straining, velvety, erect flesh. You want all of them. You walk over to the most beautiful man, and you say to him, (now repeat after me, Sugar) “You! “You.” “I want you!” “I want you.” “I want you, hard, in my mouth, between my lips, on my tongue, down my throat. I will make you groan and squirm and lose control, and I will swallow it all.”
I, of course, repeat.
Now darling, pick up a bratwurst. Everything you imagine doing to the man, you do to the brat.
Now, take him into your mouth. Your tongue swirls around and around. You feel him shake, you hear him moan. You slide him deep down your throat with ease. Nothing in the world is better than this man in your mouth, going mad with pleasure. He’s heaving and thrusting and moaning and you take him deep, deep, deep. You love his smell, you love how he feels, you love the taste of him, you love it all. You -
And then I happen to open my eyes and see a giant bratwurst sticking out of my mouth. I gag and accidentally bite it in two. Deep hypnotic trance or not, this is fucking ridiculous. I need help. And then I remember. The Hand.
I jump out of the tub, smear the patchouli oil on my face, grab a fresh brat, the pastry bag, slap the power button, and lie down on the dolly. Glove on, feet in stirrups, I slide forward and open myself to the big, purple, vibrating Hand.
I do a little testing to coordinate. The Hand is backwards to my hand: right is left, left is right. But I’m still hypnotized, so even though I’m also totally stoned, I get the hang of it pretty quickly. I thumb myself in little circles and damn if those kitty tongue nubbins aren’t a work of genius. I slip a finger in and push - The Hand moves forward to meet me. I slip another finger in and pull back, push in, pull back - this thing is unbelievable. Thumbing, pushing, pulling, thumbing, vibrating fingers inside me. I am REELING. I grab the bratwurst and am suddenly happily fellating again.
I suck and thumb and moan and thrust and throat and pull and push! Oh my god! Oh my GOD! I can’t take much more of this, and on the CD the still-droning voice of my Obi Sex Kanobi seems to know, because he says:
He can’t take it any longer, and neither can you. So, toss the brat, stick the pastry bag in your mouth, and give that baby a SQUEEZE!
I manage to coordinate the squeeze with the climax of my glove work, and Tav’s fake spunk shoots down my throat as my own hips fling into the air. As my body heaves and spasms and arches high high high, I squeeze the bag again, savoring the warm, almondy goo. I roll it around on my tongue, lap at the tip of the bag and squeeze some more. It goes all over my face and I arch again for one long moment of mad release, and collapse.
Wow.
Wow.
Wow.
Ow.
I slowly pull myself out of my orgasmic haze. I’m still on the dolly, but I have shot myself halfway across the room and crashed into the couch. I sit up. Ow! What the hell. I look down.
Oh. My. God.
The Hand and I have not parted company. Apparently, we can’t. It seems my gloved hand was in open spasm when I launched into space, and now, disconnected from its power source, the animatronic hand no longer works. It’s open too wide to pull out, and no amount of Goddess-style power-Kegeling makes a damn bit of difference. It just won’t close.
I scoot myself back to the L-mount and try to reconnect The Hand to its track. Nope. I tip the L-mount on its back and kneel over it. I flip it back and try connecting doggie style. Still no fucking luck. I call Dina and Haley. They better be able to fix this. I am NOT going to the emergency room. I will NOT become some kind of Shaved Gerbil Urban Legend.
December 7, 2:30 a.m. Lying on the floor, waiting for rescue. I’m starving, and have no choice but to polish off the rest of the pastry bag and the remaining four bratwursts - which I discover, to my great surprise, I can easily swallow whole.
Happy Birthday to Me.
• • •
is an actor, writer, and environmentalist whose hobbies include excessive yoga, improbable erotica, and saving the world. Her website is http://www.Frisson9Point5.com.
