Levels

"Where did you get this?"

"I told you."

"But they don't know. Tell me like it's the first time." she was making it walk over my hairless (but manly) chest, still bulging with all the muscles and upper body strength that soccer players and bike riders are world renown for.

"Saw it in a supermarket. Wondered who would make such a thing. Who would think it was cute and that kids would want it? I bought it because I knew no one else would."

"Oo!" she peeped, "I'm not answering, you just poked the right place. Wait, go back."

"Not yet, I'm not close yet."

"We can't come at the same time. It doesn't work."

"but then you'll flop down and it's like I'm fucking a dead person. Wait, can you play dead?"

"Eww. Not after that comment. Well maybe. Wait, have you ever? Like if I'm passed out?"

"No, but I have played with you and tickled."

"Did I laugh?"

"No, you wiggle and jerk. It's erotic as hell. Then I have to jerk off."

"Ohhh, so sad."

"All over you. Then I clean you up with a warm wash cloth so you'll never know if I'm telling the truth."

"I do too. I play with your penis if you're out cold. It still works. It throbs and bounces up and down. I draw a little face on it with a magic marker then have a puppet show with the stuffed animals. Want to see the video?"

I stopped, "Oh god, you didn't."

"I'm kidding," she said, taking over the grinding, "I never drew a face on it. I don't want ink rubbing off inside me."

"Are you fucking with me?" I rolled my eyes, "while you're fucking with me?"

"Yes."

"Good."

"Yes. Yes. Yes!"

"Please answer. I don't want to have to be nice to you so you won't post a video." She leaned down and kissed me.

"There's no video. But I really have done a puppet show. I was hoping you'd wake up. It was funny. You didn't because you're a lousy piece of shit who crashes after you come."

"No I don't. You do."

"You once passed out on top of me. I had to shove and wiggle to get out. It was like that movie about the girl who was trapped naked under someone who came in her then passed out."

"I missed that one."

"Ebert liked it. Roeper thought it was contrived."

"Old movie then? Cause they're both dead."

"Not both. Enough of this. I want to come."

"You said to try to make..."

"Against MY will, not yours. You're slacking."

"All this conversation distracts me."

"Then maybe you shouldn't talk, just me."

"You didn't say that. And I can't. If you say something, I have to offer my opinion. It's hard-coded."

"Yeah, no shit," she muttered.

"We need to get into it. Not just mechanical."

"I've been thinking about the socks," she said. "I bet I know."

"No you don't."

"Mister, can you help me?" she pleaded, "I was camping but a bear raided my tent. I had to run away." She was holding her arms up to cover her breasts, but bouncing and doing a bad job of it. "I'm so glad I ran into you in this jungle."

"Forest."

"SHUT UP!" she raged, then right back to normal, "I'm so cold. Oh. Oh your so warm, but this is naughty. All I have to wear are my socks. Do you have any cloths I can borrow? Oh good..." She grabbed a T-shirt and put it on, inside out. "Oh, but you can still see me. You can see my nipples poking, and I still don't have any pants."

My hands went up to her, sliding the t-shirt up over her breasts.

"Oh, I'm too big on top. Help cover me with your hands. Yes. Oh. You're poking me that way. Stop..." I didn't stop. I was getting crazy. I was bucking and fucking like a madman. She continued, "will you take care of me? Oh. oh. oh. Oh god. Make sure I'm safe? Oh. I'm a good girl, but you're making me... oh. I'm... oh."

I came like a geyser. Lifting up my hips with her on top. I was trying to thrust into all of what she was. I was holding her hips to me tightly. Her legs were still bent and all the way off the bed. Seconds later, we dropped back down. I kept thrusting, but slower, stabbing. More. All I wanted was more. But I was slowing down.

"Don't stop, I'm close," she said. She wasn't play acting, she looked me square in the eyes. "Please? Please fuck me." I resumed thrusting, slowly at first. She lit me up, but I hardly had any strength left.

"I'm going to make you come," I said, "whether you want to or not." Who the fuck was I kidding? Still, now I was playing for her. She knew it, but got into it.

"No, you can't. I mustn't. Oh! Oh, god I'm close. Don't. I won't be able to stop!" Yes, she had me excited. We could have just done this before. What's wrong with us?

"You can scream if you want," I said, "No one will hear. I'm going to fuck you till you can't take any more." She looked at me in a way I didn't recognize. Something strange there I couldn't figure out. Sorrow and worry. I hoped we were still playing.

I kept thrusting. I was horny but didn't have any more in me. I needed to stop.

"No!" she yelled, "No, I'm going to come! Oh no! Unnng..." Her vagina pushed me out and she squirted. I reached down and massaged her clit.

"No! For real no. Don't." She dropped onto my chest. I pulled out my arm from between us before our sweat dried and I got stuck and would have to gnaw it off. I had a feeling she wasn't going anywhere soon. There was a snuffling sound as some air was sucked back into her vagina.

"I needed a breather," she said. We both giggled like idiots.

Her: "That's it. Come on, we're going to fuck."

Him: "Yep."

"We need safe words," I said.

"Do we? I never thought we were those kind of people."

"Me neither, but still... I mean I knew when you really meant to stop, but... We need safe words."

"What would yours be? Oh, you've already been thinking haven't you? Okay, hit me."

"Megatron," I said grinning. "It works on so many levels."

"Of course," she chuckled, "Does it have to be a word? How about a phrase?"

"Sure, what is it?"

"I love you." she smiled. I thought about that.

"You know, there's funny, then there's stabbing me in the gut and twisting hard."

"Sorry," she said. "How about Applejack."

"The cereal? Okay."

"Not Apple Jacks, Applejack. Get it right or it could lead to misadventure in our sex lives."

"What's that from?"

"I'm not telling," she said in a little squeaky voice.

"For fuck's sake. Where's your phone?"

"Bed ate it. You'll have to call it."

"Then get up, my life can't continue not knowing."

"It's a pony. One of the My Little Pony... ponies. She's the only one that's lasted since G1. So she's like your G1 transformers."

"Old school cool. I respect that. But I hate those ponies."

"How? How would you have any opinion about them?"

"There are people who belong to clans of them in that game I play. Like they're cool because it's anti-cool. I learned to hate the ponies because of the choads who love them."

"Well now when you hear it, it means to stop the fun." She thought a moment. "About that, was I right about the socks?"

"No, but it was better. Was I right about the... whatever we did after."

"Mmmmmm, you're getting warm," she said stretching out over me.

"Good," I said. "Or wait, was that a double... thing?"

"Entendre."

"I know that. I was just thinking. Never mind. I can't think. I want to sleep. I'm fucked-out and really happy. I keep thinking about what we did. That kind of play acting is a new step for us."

"Good things come to those who come good," she said. I just sighed.

"Well?" she said.

"It's a terrible line."

"That's all?"

I sighed again, "and your grammar sucks."

"That's how she paid for my dad's college."

We slept.

~~~~~~~~

I woke up. Today I'd send in my story. My laptop was missing. WTF?

She was in the kitchen. Using my laptop. She has her own laptop, so why? Terror.

"What are.." I began.

"Don't worry, it's fine," she said, "Breathe." She waved me over. "Come look." I pulled up another chair beside her. She was scrolling back up.

"I added to the end of it," she beamed, "Don't judge yet, just read and tell me what you think." I laughed a few times. Laughed again. Frowned. Grimaced. Blushed. And became horny.

"You used the tape fiasco? That's not the best example of our scintillating intellect."

"It's works."

"It's like we shouldn't be allowed to care for ourselves."

"That's the alcohol," she said, "It makes fools of us all." I scrolled back and read.

"You don't mention any alcohol. We're just morons. Scratch that: I'm a moron."

"You come off cute."

"I don't sound like that," I said, "and some of it isn't flattering. I see everything written about you is glowing and wonderful."

"Artistic license," she said. "I even left out the mole on my tit."

"It's a beauty mark," I countered. "Like Cindy Crawford's but closer to the fun."

"I also went back and punched-up your story. Now before you..."

"WHAT!?"

"...lose your shit, It was just touch-ups. Words here and there, like changing 'icky' to 'yucky'.

"What's wrong with 'icky'?"

"Yucky connotates a taste. It's more childish and playful. It's better."

"I bet 'icky' would win a poll. Why is 'connotates' in red? I'm sure it's a word."

"This program is retarded, It made me think I had it wrong, but I looked it up, it's right. Why don't you use Word?"

"Right-click on it, choose 'add', and choose 'standard.dic'. Yeah. And because I'm rebelling against the corporate something something, that's why."

"What if I want non-standard dick?"

"That's what I'm here for," I smiled. She turned and placed her hand on my shorts, snaking her way into the front. Stroking, tugging, even twisting a little, like my privates were a Fisher Price Busy Box.

"I slashed the marching band scene," she said calmly. I didn't lose it. I was already happy. Well played, madam. Well played.

"I liked it," I whined, but in a manly way.

"It was too stupid. Besides I hate marching bands."

"Hate. How can anyone hate..."

"They're noisy, loud, they never sound good. Every time they go by me they're just playing drums anyway. It's annoying. I bear with it, waiting for the old guys with the red hats in their little cars. I love those."

"It wasn't about the band though, it was about them."

"And now it's about them without a stupid marching band. You know, I should start an anti marching band club. We could get weapons and go around ridding the world of them. It'd be like 'Hunger Games'. Use bows to shoot the drums, and hacksaws for the horns."

"Bolt-cutters"

"Shut up, it's my idea. We wouldn't even have to hurt anyone. We could sneak in before parades and sabotage the music stuff."

"That's a lot of expensive damage. Not to mention crushing their musical dreams."

"We could leave a big pile of kazoos. It would be better."

"Have to admit, if a marching band went by in a parade playing nothing but kazoos, I'd hold up my lighter. It would be too beautiful."

"but they'd still have Xylophones and Glockenspiels."

"They get a pass?"

"They never hurt anyone. You can't ever hear them anyway. I feel sorry for them."

We paused in silence a moment. I finally said, "You know, slashing it out without asking me is reeeeeaaaaaly not cool. Even if it's the right choice, you should tell me." I didn't want to start a fight while she had my enormous throbbing wiener in her hands. Intimidating in its length and girth. Like a monument of sex, casting a shadow across all humanity.

"I saved it in the notes, along with all the other stuff you must have thought was great but then chopped out because it sucked."

"Sucked?"

"You know what I hope you think I mean."

"Okay... but I need to know about changes so that I learn from them."

"Fine. After this piece we're writing together, I promise never to do that again."

"Together?"

"Yeah. We already sort of are. We can even tweak each others parts, baaaaby," she said, tweaking my part, "and you can edit mine. We could blend it together."

"Like a word smoothie?"

"Yes," she said, "As long as people know that the shitty smoothie simile is yours."

So it became a joint piece / collaboration (we'll make a poll and they can fucking vote).

Some hers, some mine. At first, looking over the others shoulder, then scooting them aside, then working alone while the other paced. Finally sneaking to work on it when the other wasn't around.

Our words blended like something that was not a word smoothie.

We stopped telling the other what we had done. We'd have to go back and read the whole damn thing from the beginning again to spot changes. Then the sabotage began. Inserting little barbs at each other. Making fun. Most were funny so we left them in. We got to the point that we were losing track, changing things without remembering who wrote them in the first place.

And it expanded to cumbersome proportions. Turgid with words. Bulging paragraphs that spilled out and over, barely held in check by the brassiere of normal literary constraint. The word count just wouldn't go down. It pulsed with a life of its own, needing to be released.

Ultimately, progress was going backward, and we had to reach the point of "fuck it" or it'd never get done.

Then the part where we were writing about writing. We'd reached truly masturbatory proportions. That's still erotica on some level, right?

Writing about the sex was terrifying, but just like balancing on a unicycle on a high wire over a pool of piranha while juggling fruit, you get used to doing it. We helped by reminding ourselves that "We're not us." But we were. It also turned out that I (even being a god among men in my worldly knowledge, yea, tremble before the masterful execution of my dexterous prestidigitations and aim) still had things to learn but didn't know it. In the long run (long, like really long. So long that I don't know how I get around corners. (stop it.)) I didn't get my ego boosted, but I did feel better and more confident. And the sex got better (Yay!)

Writing about sex brought the act into a kind of focus that we never had before. I remembered questions I always wanted to ask, but never did because it was a bad time. I thought of the actual motions and actions that went along with it. When I turned my computer hobby into a life career, it sucked all the magic out of it and I learned to hate computers. Not so with sex. The more I we realized about each other, the more intrigued we became.

Writing a sex scene is way harder than it first appears. That is, if you're trying to write a good one. Still not sure if we accomplished sexy, or funny, or both. Though this may not go over as erotic, some of it really got us hot and bothered and we had to take a break from writing.

One thing that was a surprise was the minefield of double entendre. So many expressions can be thought of as sex, that when writing a sex scene, we had to be careful about word choice. Really careful, or it became confusing. Strange feeling, having to watch out so that only the correct words were interpreted as erotic, while already writing something where you could otherwise say anything. I guess that's a given that everyone but us already knows, but we're neophytes here.

If you're doing first person, it's also baring. She still won't do her perspective yet (but she will write MINE, so WTF?) but there's no pressure. There are other ways where she's a better writer, and... Nice, I earned a smooch! And by the way, if a man is standing and getting a blow job, he can't reach her breasts unless his arms are inhumanly long or he's crouched over, which is an uncomfortable way to stand for any period of time. [continued rant redacted]

She was determined to add the stuff she thought she felt was missing from sex scenes. Make it less fairy tale -- against the grain of idealized erotica: Expelling vaginal air, or that slimy kissing isn't for everyone. That G-spots need to be pushed, and that they even exist. [continued rant redacted]

And that not everyone who doesn't do anal is actually pining for it. Oh. Well damn. OK. We're going to try anal (how can a guy not want anal? He's repressed (I'm practical)). Other peripheral stuff too. It doesn't have to be a celebrity couple to be loving and sexy. Not that there's anything wrong with fantasy. Hell, we love it. But there should be room for Ordinary Sexy (Can that be the title?).

Looks like we're going to write the mother of all anal stories. That may even be the title. Don't expect anything good to come from this (See? Unintended double entendre is everywhere. It's a pain!). {We couldn't wait, and stole the "Red Bull" line from TMOAAS and added it to "A Beautiful Sibling Story". We'll come up with other stuff.}

Some of the stuff we wrote was even hurtful, and it got us talking about things we normally wouldn't mention. In the end, it brought us closer together. We really care about each other. Our opinions have weight. When your opinion no longer matters to someone, cash it in. It's done. Most important, we know not to test it. Not to see if you can hurt someone just to find out if they care. It's preachy, we know, but both of us have been in relationships where that was the fare (piss off, I love that metaphor).

And because I loathe to end this with some kind of mushy moralizing, I'll impart this bit of wisdom I've discovered. It answers the question, "Why do these people write all this for free?" At least for me.

I first came here (hee! (stop it.)) because I wanted to write about my own life. I couldn't think of anywhere it would be acceptable. I found some subreddits on the topic, and more searching led here. I researched to see what other people wrote. It appeared to be fantasy, but I diligently kept reading stories for some hint of truth. I don't think I've found any, but it was erotic. I didn't always think of my own past that way.

Then I did. I allowed myself to see things from a perspective I tried to hide from myself. It's hard to be ashamed after witnessing the environment here. I not only got used to it, I got competitive. I should be able to do this too. Maybe a short story first. Oh wait, I need to at least see how the submission process works. Okay, something quick and funny.

"You know, I can write 'He stuffed her pie with his manliness, erupting into her with his ropey seed' without blushing now."

"His seed is inferior and lacking?"

"No. Wait, what?"

"That's the British meaning of ropey."

"We're not British. I'm learning to write erotically. So that people will blow a load from reading stuff. It's even more power than comedy. Making people laugh is hard, but making people hard is..."

"Funny?"

"No. I'll think of something."

"That's nice dear."

There's also a fascination with a new genre. It's a challenge to see if (we) can. I tend to write humorously. Even in solemn pieces, my humor bleeds through. I can't write about the Hindenburg disaster without wondering if someone could see their house from up top when they jumped. I'm curious to know if funny and erotic can work in the same piece.

I know that's like putting spinach in your Captain Crunch, but I'm set on it now. My ultimate goal is to make a reader laugh and come at the same time. Almost like torture.

"We have veys to make you talk."

"I won't tell you shit!"

"And laugh."

"Um, you're kidding, right?"

"And orgasm."

"You serious? Cause you're not getting the secret plans, I'm starting to think you're nuts, and that last one doesn't sound too bad."

Writing erotica is enthralling. I don't sit here hard, but after a while my balls really start to ache (I get squishy, and have my own aches in my tummy). It becomes a circular spiral: writing about sex makes me want to write about more sex. And makes me want to fuck. Jeezus, I thought Henry Miller was a good writer, but never got to the sexy parts before my book was found and taken away. Now I think he was really onto something.