Broadcast Lust Ch. 05

Chapter 5: Mark Discovers The Truth

Winter, 1997, Boston University, Boston, Massachusetts

"Is it OK if I touch your breast?" I bleated as my fingers hovered at the edge of Cara's Kurt Cobain T-shirt. It was 1997 and we were crammed like hormonal sardines in her long and narrow dorm room bed. We were whispering and making out and pretending we cared that her oboe-virtuoso roommate was trying to sleep 5 feet away.

Cara was hot in the way only slightly-broken and falsely-defiant college girls could be. She was a 5'7" (plus an inch or two for her big, black Doc Marten boots) Half Puerto Rican / Half Philly girl. Her hair was short, asymmetrical and dyed deep, deep black so half her head seemed to disappear at night. She had a small silver hoop of a nose ring in her right nostril, a Latina ass that filled out her professionally-ripped jeans and piercing blue eyes that made my balls contract whenever I looked at her.

She was beautiful and soft and smelled like sweat and bad decisions and I was finally going to fu . . . I was going to make love with her . . . If she agreed. If she wanted to. If she just told me it was OK.

"What the fuck did you just say?" she spat from her full Angelina-Jolie-Back-When-She- Was-Hot lips and I felt a rush of shame down my spine that I'd spend the next couple decades mistaking for affection and love.

I looked into her eyes and saw a mix of frustrated lust and annoyed pity.

"Is it OK if I touch your breast?" I asked again. She was on top of me. My . . . penis was achingly hard in my jeans. I held my hips down and back like a duck to keep my hard on from touching her. I didn't want her to think I was one of "those" guys who just wanted sex.

"I don't know, dude, can you?" she asked with a mocking giggle as she pulled off her T- shirt and tossed Kurt's sad face on the chair next to the bed. I felt her fingers on my wrist, strong and insistent. She pulled my hand towards her, brought it to her belly, guided my fingers higher to the edge of her shear black bra. I could see her nipples through the thin material. Her lips were parted like one of those girls from Maxim flirting with 14-year-old boners around the world.

Cara shifted her hips and smiled as my hard cock pushed against the gusset of her jeans. I felt my ass clench involuntarily. I felt myself salivate. I imagined her screaming and thrashing and coming so hard the whole building would think we were having a fire drill. I imagined the feel of her. I imagined finally know what it felt like to . . .

"Can you, Mark?" she said again coy and mocking with a sparkle in her eye as she unfastened her bra fast and easy with one hand and pulled it off revealing her beautiful, beautiful breasts dangling towards me.

My mouth was dry. My cock was aching. Even through two sets of thick denim I could feel the heat of her . . . of her . . . pussy as she twisted her hips so subtly against me.

"I need you to say 'yes," I gasped and heard a shiver in my voice. A weakness.

She let go of my wrist. She made a V with her arms so her breasts were pushed together like a bikini model. Time stopped as I imagined fucking those beautiful tits, twisting and pinching her nipples, holding her down until I came on her face and neck like the porn stars from my dad's secret stash of VHS tapes.

She licked her fingers and then flicked and teased her own nipples until they were taught and firm and wanting.

"And what if I don't?" she asked as she dry humped me on the small, squeaking bed writhing and breathing heavy and playing the teenaged-boy's wet dream.

"Then we need to stop," I said with all the willpower left in the world. "If you don't consent we need to stop. I'm not one of those guys who uses my male privilege to take advantage of women and you need to know I respect you and your right to have control of your body . . ."

She put a hand over my mouth and looked at me like a little girl who woke up on Christmas morning thinking she was getting a pony (or maybe a Clydsdale stallion?) and got a slightly used Teddy Ruxpin who only spoke German instead.

I stared at her and felt her body slither against mine and felt the urges humming through my mind and thought of my women's studies class where I saw stats on date rape on college campuses. The same women's studies class I'd met Cara at in the first place. Where she sat in the back looking bored and haughty like she was the only one who understood life because she'd fucking lived and we hadn't. She'd introduced herself by saying "Hey man, you've got a nice ass. Perfect for thrusting."

We'd ended up working on a paper together on the long battle for Women's Suffrage and tonight at the library she'd put a hand on my thigh, looked me in the eye, licked her lips suggestively and said "Hey, Nice Ass, you want to come back to my room tonight?"
 


"Uhh . . . Uhh . . . For what?" I'd asked with an impressive level of forced cluelessness.

"Uhh . . . I donno, man. 'See my etchings?' 'Borrow some CD's?' Whatever. Pick your fucking euphemism already. Do you want to come back to my room or are you going to be an asshole and make me go to some fucking 80's club and let frat boys grind up on my ass until I find one who doesn't make me vomit in other people's mouths?"

"Don't you have a roommate?" I asked as I felt a nervous excitement build in my stomach.


"That little cunt? Don't worry, she's so fucking uptight she'd rather suffocate herself in her own pillow than actually have a fucking confrontation."

And so here we were.

"I have control of my body, Mark," she spat at me and I heard a shift of the covers as her roommate pushed her pillow over her ears. "Do you? Do I have to get your consent Mark?"

Her fingers traced their way down my chest as she drew agonizing circles with her hips and tortured the eternal erection only available to 18-year-old boys.

"Do I have to get your consent before I touch your cock?" she mocked as she unbuttoned and unzipped my jeans.

"Lift your hips," she commanded and pulled my pants and underwear off so my cock was hard and throbbing against my belly, curving so slightly to the left.

I felt my hands shake and my belly convulse as she lightly kissed the shaft with her fingertips. She grazed her nails along the underside of my cock and smiled as it throbbed and twitched.

I watched as she turned away from me, her short hair and bare back; her ripped jeans riding low on her hips. She made a show of unbuttoning her pants, bending at the waist and pulling them down over her big, beautiful ass like a stripper. I clenched my jaw tight and tried not to move. Tried not to moan. Screamed in my mind at the urges to grab her, FUCK her and her timid little roommate too.

Cara opened her nightstand. She eyed my cock like a fashion designer sizing up a model and rummaged around in the drawer until she found what she was looking for.

"The Golden Ticket," she said as she tore open the gold tinfoil of the condom wrapper.

She stared me in the eye as she rolled the condom down my cock.

"You know, for some reason I thought you would have a small dick," she laughed as she squeezed me so hard in her hand and straddled me again.

"No," she said as she rubbed the head of my cock against her clit and rocked her hips back and forth above me.

"No, it's not OK if you touch my breast," she said. "It's not OK if you touch my ass, or my tits, or my hips or my pussy," she whispered as she used her free hand to drag her fingernails down my chest. "The only thing it's OK for you to do is lie there and let your cock prove you actually really are a fucking man."

She tilted her hips just right so the head of my cock slipped inside her.

"Ahh . . . fuck," she gasped. I saw her jaw quiver as she shifted her weight back onto me and slowly took more and more of me in.

"Is it OK if I fuck you, Mark?" she mocked as, for the first time in my life, I felt the nuclear heat of a woman's pussy.

I tried to relax. I tried to stay still but suddenly my ass clenched hard and thrust up into her.

"There we go . . . I need your consent," she gasped as her hips rippled and twisted. "I need you to say yes," she moaned in a voice an octave higher than the "Don't fuck with me" tone she used with the world.

"I need you to say yes, or we can't do this," she laughed as she rode me on her dorm room bed. As the cheap, old springs squeaked and screamed. As her roommate tried to hide under her blanket like a little girl hiding from her parents screaming in the kitchen.

As Mike Doughty sang about "Super Bon Bons" on her crappy little CD player and as the sad eyes of Kurt Cobain stared at me from her half-ironic T-shirt, hung just right on the chair.

Cara used me like a fucking toy until her chest flushed red and her eyes squeezed shut, and her nipples turned to needles and with a screaming sigh of relief she came on me.

Cara collapsed on me with my cock still buried in her. I don't know if it was the condom or what, but I was still hard . . . I still hadn't come. I tried to kiss her but she turned her head away. Pulled herself off of me with a groan.

"Thanks. That was great," she said as she pulled on her robe, grabbed her little shower caddy and walked out the door.

I lay there for just a moment realizing I'd just fucked a woman for the first time in my life . . . or been fucked by one anyway. I thought I'd feel relieved or proud. I thought I'd want to call my Dad and tell him the news. Tell him I was straight and I could prove it. Tell him I was a "Real man like my brother." But instead I just felt . . . guilty. I stared at my still-hard and unsatisfied cock and felt revulsion at this thing that had such control over me. This thing that made me follow Cara back here like an obedient and horny puppy even though I didn't even like her that much. I lay there and felt a low ache like my balls had been kicked and wondered what was I going to . . .

"You should go," said a small voice from under the covers on her roommate's bed. "You should go right now, please."

"OK . . . so . . . I'm sorry," I mumbled at the shapeless mass on the bed. I found my grey button-down shirt and forced my cock back into my jeans wishing I had somewhere . . .

anywhere private to go to "take care" of things instead of back to my dorm room with my beer-guzzling frat boy roommates.

Two days later we handed in our Women's Suffrage paper outlining the societal factors leading to the decades-long battle for women's right to vote. It was a good paper. We ended up getting an A even though Cara had a whole section she insisted on putting in there about how "The right to vote is a sham and an illusion designed to give the proletariat the illusion of power and control in a world in which we truly have none. Your vote doesn't matter because the RICH WHITE MEN of the shadow government control everything anyway. While we obviously agree that women should have the same rights and privileges as men and admire the tenacity and passion of the women who took up this cause, fighting for the 'right to vote' really makes as much sense as fighting for the right to make love to Santa Claus."

So.. .yeah...

I tried asking Cara if she wanted to get together to "hang out" but she just rolled her eyes, looked at me over her vintage cat-eyed hipster glasses and said "Just because you can make me come doesn't make you Jesus."

And that's how I lost my virginity to a girl who un-ironically quoted Tori Amos lyrics.

******

August 23rd, 7:23PM Emerald City Yoga, Capitol Hill, Seattle, WA

I let the water burn me. I felt it sear my flesh until my skin was blotchy and red. I grit my teeth and tensed my muscles and made myself stand under the faucet when everything in me wanted to scream and run. I felt the scalding water caress my chest and light fireworks on on my nipples. The water flowed like lava through my chest hair. I let out a small cry as I felt the terrible, agonizing heat on my cock. Tears welled up in my eyes. My neck muscles spasmed. This terrible guilt welled in my chest for what I'd somehow done. I took the pain. I took the hurt. I took the punishment I deserved. I wished I could open my mind and burn whatever it was that was in me that had thought those thoughts and done those things.

And I tried as hard as I could to keep my eyes open no matter how much they wanted to close.

Because I knew . . .

I knew if I closed them I would see her again and the thing that looked like me . . . the thing I saw in the mirror would wake up and I would feel that cold ache in my head and I knew it would do something. I knew it wanted more.

More of her.

The girl in the pink tights with the lemon yellow yoga top. The girl with the astonishing ass. The young woman I'd imagined crawling across the floor like an animal and smiling around my cock like some slut. The girl I'd fantasized about teasing and torturing and touching in front of everyone in so much excruciating detail. The girl I'd spanked and toyed with. The girl who had surrendered to me, given herself to me, obeyed everything I told her to do until she screamed and thrashed and came like thunder right there in front of the whole class while the Beast in the mirror smiled and and terrible joyous satisfaction filled my chest.

What the fuck had happened? Had I actually touched her or had it just been a fantasy or . . .? What made her . . . come like that right in front of everyone?

It had been so quiet for a moment after her moans and screams. Just a moment. All you could hear was The Girl In Pink's quiet sobs as hot-yoga-teacher Mandy picked her up boneless and light and carried her to the office.

All you could smell was sweat and heat and the fucking delicious scent of the girl's (Tessa? Mandy had yelled "Tessa." She's a person. She has a name, Mark.) Of Tessa's excitement and pleasure and shame.

And all you could feel in that studio was primal, passionate tension . . . like all we needed was a tiny spark to make the whole room of lean, flexible women and hard, toned men explode into an orgy of desperate animal lust.

I scanned the room and saw the confusion and hunger in everyone's eyes. A room of hard nipples and squeezing thighs and erections lewdly bulging from shorts.

I felt a cold ache in the back of my head at the base of my spine and felt myself sinking as I locked eyes with the soccer Mom on the mat next to Tessa's . . . Her mouth hung slightly open. Her tongue danced across her full lips. I felt something growl and rise in me and even though I didn't want to I imagined her . . .

"I'm sorry, everyone but I have to cancel the last few minutes of class . . . uhh . . . just do pigeon pose if you want and . . . um . . ." Mandy said as she flicked the switch and harsh fluorescent light flooded the room snapping me back to my senses - putting me back in control. Mandy gathered The Girl In Pink's mat (was that sweat or . . .?). She bolted from the room like a deer fleeing from a pack of wolves. A deer who somehow, deep down, knew she wanted to be caught.

And just like that the tension was gone.

I blinked and swallowed. I took a long pull from my water bottle and wondered why my mouth was so dry. I felt people staring at me. The guy in the Black Sabbath T-shirt wiped his sweaty palm on his shirt. He walked towards me, hand extended. I imagined his fat palm gripping my hand like a squid and I ran. I grabbed my mat and my towel and kept my eyes fixed on the floor as I weaved my way to the door, up the stairs, past the office (she's in there . . . the horny little bitch is in there just waiting . . . )

Somehow I was the first guy to make it to the locker room.

I stripped off my stupid fucking tight yoga shorts my soon-to-be-ex would mock me for, and grabbed my towel out of my locker. I glanced in the mirror and saw him . . . it . . . me . . . I saw the Beast In The Mirror that had taken advantage of that girl and he was smiling and showing off. I saw my cock throbbing and achingly hard and begging to be stroked and felt my hand clasp and unclasp with need . . .

And again I felt that cold aching headache and let out a low growl as images rushed into my head. Suddenly I pictured yoga-teacher Mandy with her tattoos and her haughty attitude. I imagined her and poor-little Tessa naked and on their knees licking and sucking and kissing around my cock, tickling my balls with their clever pink tongues, stroking my shaft with small, feminine fingers, looking at me with bright, worshipful eyes, purring as I wrapped my fingers in their hair, whispering and moaning and begging for my . . .

I slapped myself across the face. Hard. Hard enough to leave a bright red hand print and a tear running down my face.

And then I climbed into the shower and let the water burn me until my cock finally softened and the hunger lessened and the water turned tepid and then cold and finally I felt something so close to myself. So close to in control. So close to the good man I always told myself I wanted to be.

******

August 23rd, 9:37PM Mark's House, Capitol Hill, Seattle, WA

"OK, if you're 'psychic,' here's what we'll do," my formerly-butch-lesbian-currently- femme-bi-sexual best friend Fiona said in her patronizing-kindergarten-teacher-voice. "You take your pants off and stand there with your eyes closed and I'll believe everything if you can use your amazing new 'psychic' powers to stop me from kicking you so hard in the balls that your dick turns inside out, crawls up your body and sticks out your mouth so you can French kiss and get a blowjob at the same time."

"Fi," I said.

"Don't 'Fi,' me, Mark. This is all Sarah's fault. She finally dumps your ass and I get excited for you because you can finally be with sane women who don't have teeth in their vaginas . . . . but no, her tentacles are IN there. She's made you despise yourself so much you suddenly think you've got what . . . mind rape powers? You think the fact that you want to fuck women besides your castrating bitch of a wife means you're so dirty and so TERRIFYINGLY MASCULINE and so POWERFUL and so disgusting that every time you imagine fucking somebody you're MIND RAPING them like some kind of particularly rapey superhero? Let me guess, the costume has a hole in the crotch, right . . .?"

"I know it sounds ridiculous, Fi, but you weren't there when . . .," I grumbled low and sad like Eor defending his right wing political views to Winnie the Pooh.

"It sounds ridiculous because it's insane, Mark," she chattered as she sat down on the couch next to me and wrapped her fingers in mine. Fiona was wearing a baggy, shapeless Bart Simpson sweatshirt I'd found buried at the bottom of my closet and a pair of ripped, mismatched sweats that billowed around her 5'6" frame like MC Hammer pants.

"Listen, I love you. I accept you for who you are," she said. "Being someone's friend means you accept everything about them, even the things that you think are kind of stupid and should have been worked out in therapy by now. I accept that you've got mommy issues and are kind of a pussy who thinks your penis makes you a bad boy. But why do you have to be such a guilt junkie, man? Why do you have to decide right away that this girl freaking out in class is your fault? Do you know how insane that is? I mean, most people would watch this girl moan and all that and just have a cool story about crazy people to tell at dinner. But you? No, no, no. Not Mark the guilt junky. Instead you come up with this whole crazy fucking idea that you've got "psychic powers" and that your terrible masculine lust creeped into that girl's mind and made her come like a fucking porn star?

Don't be such a fucking narcissist, Mark. Not everything is about you. Maybe this 'Girl in Pink' . . ."

"Her name is Tessa," I reminded her. Fiona rolled her eyes.