Women in Lust by Rachel Kramer Bussel

Author:Rachel Kramer Bussel
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Cleis Press
Published: 2011-10-03T04:00:00+00:00

ODE TO A MASTURBATOR

Aimee Herman

I am leaving in three weeks and I don’t even know your name. I am going to miss the sounds I have created in my mind for the music your palm makes when it mashes against your erect dick. You are tall, even when tilted against your wall, which I believe is painted white or some pale color. Your hair is dark like soil and long, always pulled back in a ponytail. If I had courage or confidence, I might talk to you. I know where you live, where you work, what you drive.

I am thirty-one years old and currently work as a server at an all-you-can eat Brazilian steakhouse. Most of my shift is spent watching various-sized humans devouring as much protein as they can, in the form of meat brought to them on skewers, which is then sliced thinly and placed into salivating mouths, chewed enough times to get through the gristle and blood and then swallowed. The competing scents of meat from various animals and limbs has caused me to become vegetarian. It is just too much to take sometimes. However, the pay is good and I met my boyfriend here. We don’t have to mention him, though; it doesn’t seem fair to either of us.

I know you have a wife. She is blonde with enough curves to appear like a cursive lowercase q. Her tits are swollen like flesh-covered marshmallows swelling out of her tops. My tits are small and unclaimed by bras or cleavage. But maybe you need change. I have less to hold and play with, but my nipples are hard like thimbles. They are expressive and overdramatic. One boyfriend even called them challenging. I don’t know your wife’s name or what she does for a living, but I know that she holds your ears when you eat away at her cunt and scratches at your head when she is just about to come.

I like to pretend that you know I am watching you, from below your window, as I walk my dog and pause just as we approach your apartment building. I first noticed you on a Thursday evening at close to six. I looked up for some reason. Your giant window, which exposed your living room, was also exposing you. I didn’t see your face then, though I noticed your hand moving up and down with such speed that I worried about possible skin erosion. I was shocked and turned on, frozen at the image of you fucking yourself.

At the restaurant where I work, I am not naïve about what happens below the tables. Meat can be a turn-on to carnivorous men who are paying twenty-five dollars for unlimited flesh. I have seen men in ties and wingtips fondling their wives/girlfriends/ mistresses’ thighs with their sausage-like fingers, squeezing their way toward panty lines and neatly manicured bushes. There are some nights I yearn for you to walk in and request a table. As I lead you to your seat, you press your erection into me.

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