Justin, Women, & What He Does

"I'd rather not say," she said, lying on her side next to him and reaching to stroke his cock. If sex with Conor was as staggering as it was with Justin, she'd tell Conor that it was. She would then decide that she was now, somehow, able to access a new and bountiful degree of ecstasy. If sex with Conor was no more than the usual, mildly pleasant exertion, she wouldn't reveal that someone else had done for her what Conor couldn't.

"Put on a condom," she told him.

"Uh, okay," he said, brow furrowing. "You don't want some licks first?"

"Not this time," she said. The experiment had to replicate, to the extent possible, the actions with Justin. This left out two variables instead of one (Justin, and Szabo's weird drinks), and fudged another (Justin going bareback), but Camille couldn't think of an easy way to put herself and Conor in the same states of inebriation, and Plan B was something she didn't want to repeat.

Her mood wasn't entirely dour and mechanistic. Next to her was a man she knew to be decent, and he was naked, and he had an erection that nicely bulged the condom as he rolled it into place. She lubed herself, but was also moist on her own.

She kissed Conor, and he responded, and for her it seemed pretty similar to kissing Justin. Her heart rate picked up.

She moved to mount him. He reached for a breast. "No," she said. "Sorry." Justin hadn't touched her bosom once they were banging.

Kneeling athwart his trunk, she spread her labia with the fingers of one hand and pulled up his dick with the other. His glans pushed inside her, but then met resistance. His shaft wasn't rigid. She squeezed his balls and base, trying to pump. Conor winced, but in a few seconds he firmed up. Camille shifted and squirmed, and took in the rest of him.

She began a slow circular grind, smiling down at him, grateful to him for indulging her. Before long, warmth and slickness gave her walls and his latex a smooth convergence, and she began lifting and descending. "You can drive," she said breathily, "about this speed."

Taking what she gave him, Conor gripped her hips and pistoned, pelvic-tilting to go from halfway out to completely in. Camille's eyes closed and head lifted, heat rising through her torso. It felt very good.

It was nothing like what happened with Justin.

She glanced down, and saw Conor gritting his teeth.

"Go for it, Dude," she said. "I'm good."

Within the next minute, he blasted and subsided.

"Thanks," said Camille, detaching herself.

"For what?" he asked with an edge.

"Giving me that," she said, knowing it sounded lame.

"I know this wasn't about me," he said, "and the rest of it is none of my business. But I insist on being a proper guest."

Camille had risen to one knee, but Conor brought her back to the floor. While she was still off balance, he spread her legs and put his face on her crotch.

"Oh, Con, you don't h-have..." Then her mouth hung open, and it was still until moans emerged.

During cleanup and dressing, they chatted a bit. They shared a quick closed-lips kiss at the door.

Alone on the sofa, Camille thought, Now I owe Conor a blowjob. A really good one.

***

After the cycle-altering Plan B, Camille's next period proceeded on schedule. Testing had also made clear that she was free of STIs. Her relief reduced the urgency.

She had learned nothing from her ad hoc investigation. She was close to writing off what she now snarked as 'The Justin Incident,' as the result of too many too-expensive cocktails.

But fleeting thoughts of Justin didn't remain fleeting.

She wanted him. She definitely didn't want that want.

So far, she had stopped herself from calling him, tracking him, finding him among his bevy of enablers. She wasn't sure she could hold out much longer. At the very least, she needed to know why, and how, Justin had this effect on her--and, judging from what Breanna said, maybe on every woman--before Camille put herself in a position where it could happen again.

Camille did not suffer fools, and was equally put off by language she found to be foolish. Before her tryst with Justin, the term agency, meaning a person's influence over one's circumstances, made her roll her eyes. Now, Camille embraced agency, and feared losing it.

She was also literal-minded, and a materialist. But her worldview gave her no explanation.

She therefore began researching the supernatural.

Keeping herself at home one night, and not chasing after Justin, Camille made too much coffee and mustered all of the bandwidth, graphics, and processing of the computer she used for her livelihood. Using search terms she would have mocked mercilessly a month earlier, she thought, Get out of the way, rabbits! I need what's in here more than you do!

***

The bubbliest and most obsessed of the Justin entourage were Ronit and Sela. They seemed to have nothing else going on in their lives. They had Justin's measurements memorized. Whenever any men's garment entered their awareness, be it in a store, on the internet, or draped on a red-carpet stroller, they conferred at once on whether it should be added to Justin's ensemble.

Camille had to send a few texts to both of them, to convince them that Camille, too, was interested in making Justin an exemplar of haute couture. Then, when joining them in person at a mall, Camille had to persuade them about something else.

"I'm not looking to interfere," said Camille, to the two women who eyed her suspiciously. "I just think it'd be fun to do what you're doing."

"Have you seen him naked?" asked Ronit, fingering black curls to behind her left shoulder.

"Um--"

"Have you been with him?" said Sela sharply, looking over the tops of her glasses.

Ronit followed, "You can't know how to dress a man without knowing everything about him, undressed. Full nude, package unwrapped."

"All the contours of his buns," said Sela, sculpting the air with her fingers. "Width and length of the taint, descent of the sac."

"Separation of the nipples," said Ronit, "their lift above the chest arc. Height of the shoulders, span ratio to that of the hips."

"Don't know all that," said Camille quickly, and truthfully. "Wow, maybe I can't do this."

Sela smiled, her posture more relaxed. "You can still make suggestions. Colors, patterns. That's a lot of what we talk about."

Ronit beamed. "You're right, this is fun."

Camille realized that, without having worked at it, she had convinced them that she hadn't banged Justin. Sure, how could anybody receive his dick without feeling and scanning every part of his skin? She realized that she'd like to do that. Another awareness that worried her.

As she thought over the start of this conversation, Camille got a hunch about the others' suspicion. It wasn't just that they saw Camille as a sort of arriviste to the Justin-glorifying camp. For all the work they did on themselves, the styling and accessorizing, Ronit and Sela were in fact plain-looking. Sela's blond hair was in an impeccable shag, and the cutesy blue glasses frames brought out her eyes, but her chin was weak and starting to double. Ronit's teeth were a bright white, and she showed them as much as possible, maybe in the belief that this would distract from her beaky nose.

While Camille had stopped working at it, she was better looking, and with a more alluring body. Despite how she'd named her breasts, they were well-centered, with their bulk overcoming their low placement when exposed. The other women were clearly aware of all this. Jealousy would surely be a factor if they 'protected' Justin from Camille.

In a hip menswear store, Camille tried to get a grip by asking, "Do you take his hair color into account?"

Justin's auburn locks turned out to be a sore point. "Too easy," said Sela. "Tessa and Ruby, among others, seem to think that because they decide what to snip and how to comb, they somehow know best what belongs below his head."

"Certain bitches," said Ronit, almost in a snarl, "should stay in their lane."

Sela appealed, "Do we tell Moira what to think, when finding him new cologne and body wash?"

Ronit giggled. "I wouldn't mind helping her taste-test his dick."

Camille almost jumped on this, but forced herself to say it slowly and obliquely. "Just a joke, right? Or would you really, um, like to be with him, while, uh, there's somebody else too?"

Sela and Ronit shared a look. Not a brief one. Then they both looked at Camille.

"We like to have fun with him," said Ronit. "If that's the kind of fun he wants, I'd be interested."

Camille spent a split-second trying to parse the initial use of 'we' and the later use of 'I.' Then: "I didn't know about Moira. Is there anyone else dealing with other aspects of Justin?"

"No," said Sela, almost in a whine. "Somebody should make him more, you know, cultured."

"So he could spout poetry," said Ronit. "Shit like that." Then she brightened. "Could you do that? Be, like, a tutor?"

There flashed into Camille's mind an image of her and Justin in something like a movie notion of an English country garden, with him and her dressed in some sort of 18th-century finery. Justin was reading his latest sonnet, while Camille, enrapt, waited for her empire bodice to be ripped.

"Uh, no," said Camille, shaking herself back to the reality of men's wear. "Definitely not my skill set."

"The only culture he gets," Sela lamented, "is from his bros."

Camille needed to keep them talking, so she said only, "Oh?"

Ronit looked askance at Sela and said, "Tonight they're going to ultimate fighting." On the last two words, she lowered her pitch and made finger quotes.

"Eww," said Camille, commiserating. "I guess that'll give you some time off."

"Oh no, we'll be there," said Ronit.

"We have to represent," said Sela. Before Camille could work out exactly what that meant, Sela added, "You should come too."

***

As Camille followed Ronit and Sela into the basketball/hockey venue, temporarily converted with a mesh-screened octagon at the center, she glimpsed Justin. He was among six or eight guys, seated in the third row, cheering as raucously as his mates. He jumped from his seat in response to especially forceful punches and kicks.

"He's not this macho with you, is he?" Camille asked her companions.

"No way," said Ronit, displeased by the sight of her dress-up doll. "He's like a chameleon, only with people."

Sela led them into a row where other women sat. Camille recognized Breanna, and might have known which one was Ruby. So 'representing' appeared to mean showing Justin who really cared about him. Whatever friction might exist among the women was set aside to achieve this goal.

Camille went on, "And this posse of his, do they try to move on you?"

"Sometimes," said Sela, actually watching the bout. "Most of them aren't worth the trouble."

"But not all?"

There was no answer. Ronit, too, got caught up in the action. Or chose to behave that way.

Camille looked closely at the cluster around Justin. What would be the term for a group of men like this? she wondered. A beer-pong of bros? She set this topic aside, and noticed that one guy in particular was saying things directly to Justin. Tall, olive-skinned, short dark hair. Most of the time, Justin merely nodded. Once in a while, he talked back. None of it was clear to Camille in the thunderous ambient noise.

"Who's the guy next to Justin?" asked Camille loudly.

"Hmm?" said Ronit. "Oh. Darrell. This is pretty much his crew."

Camille shouted, "Is he worth the trouble?"

Sela said sharply, "I'm a Justin gal."

"Me too," said Ronit quickly.

Nothing else Camille said or did drew any more information from them.

At the end, the men headed one way, but the women dispersed. Camille followed the men at a distance, just enough to see them enter a sports bar next to the venue, and settle in. The men remained raucous, focused now on the many video screens.

Camille made no attempt to approach the men, and went home.

***

The internet declared to Camille that there were many mystical entities that presented as male humans, to unsuspecting women, and lured them to Bad Ends. Many of these 'reports' were steeped in slut-shaming and victim-blaming. The principal such entity was the incubus, which when examined closely, was stated in some accounts as having been ginned up as the male equivalent of the succubus. The legend, dating back to Mesopotamia in the third millennium BCE, persisted. It had been adopted to some extent in the Judeo-Christian cultures, as anything from a warning about letting a spouse stray, to an explanation of venereal disease.

An origin in Mesopotamia could carry through to pretty much all of Western civilization. But there was also non-Western civilization. From what Camille saw, however, the incubus notion could have spread eastward along trade routes. Any story based in sexual fear and insecurity could be picked up readily by any human society.

There were enough variations to suggest that many were cooked up with no supernatural connection at all. Did succubi and incubi always kill mortals? If so, was this always done during sex with mortals? Were the sex acts themselves deadly? Whatever else Justin did to Camille, she was still alive. As far she could tell.

So, was Justin carrying around some entity outside the Mesopotamia-spawned legend? Where else was there enough of a civilization for such an entity to flourish?

Zimbabwe? Mesoamerica? The Andes?

Egypt?

Camille sighed, and plunged into other rabbit holes.

***

"You're in no danger," said Meghan, not quite chuckling.

Camille wasn't so sure. She was even shabbier than usual. She had assumed that a complete lack of makeup, and the old clothes she normally reserved for housework, would deflect any interest on the part of this tavern's clientele. But it seemed as though she was still being checked out. Or maybe this was just her lesbophobia acting up.

"I'll deal with whatever I have to," Camille muttered, then repeated that more clearly to be audible above the music. Then: "Are you sure you can take this seriously?"

"Maybe more than you can." Meghan's large eyes showed no guile. "Human senses are limited. The world surely includes realms most people can't perceive."

"Most people?" asked Camille. "What about you?"

Meghan went from brash to abashed. "I'd rather not say."

Camille sipped her white wine. She had spent hours on friends-only meeting sites, inviting contacts from women in the most oblique terms, only later getting into more detail and, in some cases, receiving angry rebukes. Meghan, alone, had claimed to be what Camille was looking for, took no offense at the inquiry, and was interested in what Camille suggested.

Camille looked at Meghan. "Have you learned enough about me?"

"I think you're sincere," said Meghan. "I invited you to my home turf, so I could be sure."

Two women danced up to Camille's bar stool, glanced at her, then began deeply frenching and crotch grinding each other. Meghan started to wave them off, but they were already moving on, laughing.

Camille composed herself, more or less, and said, "This may not work. The legends generally portray a virgin as a sweet young thing with a hymen that has never been violated. I gather that's not true of you."

"Correct," said Meghan brightly. "My vagina has welcomed many visitors, ranging from the plastic products of the arousal industry, to the long fingers of my lady friends. My hymen is a memory lost to the mists of time. But never have I received a penis, and I have no desire for that to happen."

Meghan was cute. Perhaps, in Camille's assessment, terminally so. Straight coal-black hair contrasted with almost pigmentless skin. Her features were delicate, and her frame slender.

Camille slid on the stool to lean closer. "Are you absolutely sure? That you have no interest in sex with a man?" She pressed the point. "Your home turf, here, doesn't put you to the test. Have you ever been excited by, say, a male face?"

Meghan shrugged. "In the abstract, I can see a guy as handsome. And think mostly how lucky he is. Then I look past him if I can see a hot lady."

"Penises?"

Meghan sipped her cosmo, then said, "I've only seen images."

Camille stood. "Let's go somewhere else."

Which was a girls-night-out joint. Camille watched Meghan closely as strippers cavorted, lights blazing on sweat-sheened musculature and hairless cocks and balls. Meghan applauded skillful dance moves, winced at the too-loud music, and laughed at the panty-throwing of night-out girls in full cry.

Camille was convinced. But still she worried.

As she drove Meghan home, Camille said, "That was prime beef that left you unmoved, but they were human. What's inside Justin is much more male, and might turn violent about ending your penile virginity. If you want to back out, I'll understand."

Meghan's look was serious. "If this is really what you say it is, I think I have to do this. And take the chance."

***

Camille had to buy supplies for her next move. If she still had eye shadow and mascara, she couldn't find them.

She didn't own a makeup mirror. She got the same effect by taping strings of white LEDs along the sides of the medicine cabinet. The familiarity of this made her grumpy.

She remembered the last time she had dolled up to pursue a guy. It was a year and a half earlier. The target then was Ross, a smart, well-spoken, energetic programmer. He was tall and lean, and from brief encounters she'd had with him, he had listened to her, at least as far as following her witty remarks with related ones of his own. For Camille, he checked plenty of boxes.

To her delight, she landed him. Happily she brought him to her cleaned-up apartment.

Her delight didn't last. Despite having signaled that a woman's pleasure mattered to him, Ross was either inept orally or unwilling to apply himself to good effect. He also seemed convinced that as long as he could keep his dick inside a pussy without said dick either spewing or slumping, his partner had no excuse for not reaching orgasm. Camille was not entranced by long-term emplacement within her of what amounted to a dead fish, and Ross was offended by her addition of clit rubbing.

It wasn't just that the night went badly. The event put her off what she thought of as high-value dating. From then on, when Camille got too horny for her fingers or her toys, she went out as she was, with an unadorned face and in comfortable clothes. Even in that condition, as Justin had noted, she was hot.

She didn't trust that approach, in this case. She wanted to leave nothing to chance.

As she brushed her freshly-conditioned hair, Camille had doubts. She knew practically nothing about Darrell. What she did know of guys who ran in packs, told her that women who came on strong scared them. She was going to have to hold back, and be pursued, yet in a way that sloughed off the betas and let Darrell know that he, and not Justin, had the best shot at her.

It didn't help that Darrell resembled Ross.

The full-length mirror on the front hall closet door hadn't been cleaned in she-didn't-know-how-long. It nonetheless showed that Camille, in a dress from deep in the closet and jewelry from the bottom of a dresser drawer, was an absolute smokeshow. Light brown hair tumbled in rich waves to her shoulders. The hazel of her wide-set eyes was especially compelling at close quarters. Even with a lift of only two inches, her heels arced her calves fetchingly, and could make her walk a sashay. Also, her push-up bra would have her nates enter a room well before the rest of her.

She enjoyed her appearance, and regretted that she did.