Tacoma Remembering

"Do you think you could?"

"Yeah, easy. There's a bar a half a block around the corner. It wouldn't take long."

"Yeah, but what about us?" I said. "Do you think some random guy is gonna be okay with doing it in front of two strange dudes with cameras?"

"Well, I'll just tell him if he wants to fuck me, that's how it has to be. Free sex, no strings attached, but he's got to do it on camera. I'll bet I can find a guy."

***

And she did. I was amazed. It didn't take her long.

This guy was younger than the other one, a little chubby. He looked like an ex-frat boy that had let himself go. He also looked like the kind of guy who might not have gotten any in a while. He jumped at the chance.

We filmed him fucking her for twenty minutes.

Ron was very, very clear that the guy HAD to pull out for a money shot. He humped her like a bull. He had big balls and a smallish penis, but by filming from behind him and between his legs, Ron got a great shot of those big balls slapping into Lisa's ass. The guy had put a condom on, but the thing kept slipping off, and eventually he just tossed it aside and fucked her bareback.

His rhythm sped up as his orgasm neared. He pounded into her, and you could actually hear his balls slapping. Finally, her pulled out and bucked forward—she brought her face up and opened her mouth wide.

Cum shot into her eyes and into her nose and mouth. She gagged and squinted. Tears ran down her cheek as the frat boy plastered her face. Then he collapsed next to her on the couch.

After that, he couldn't get dressed fast enough. We all shook hands, and the frat boy gave Ron his number, saying, "If you ever need a guy again..."

Once he was gone, the three of us broke out a final round of beers. We toasted to our porn's future financial success and sat back on the couch.

"Just let me see it." Lisa asked me again.

It took me a second to realize she wasn't talking about the pictures.

"Why do you want to see it so bad?" I asked.

"It's been a while since I've seen a really big one."

"It's not that big."

"How big is it?"

"I never measured it," I lied. Of course, I lied. Every guy has measured his dick at least five times by 9th grade. It's a law of nature.

"Just a peek?"

Maybe it was the three beers. Or maybe I was horny and over-stimulated. Whatever the reason,

I stood and started to unzip.

"But you," I said, glancing at Ron, "No looking. This feels weird enough without a friend ogling me."

"I'll get another beer," Ron said and headed for the fridge.

I unzipped the rest of the way, reached into my underwear, and flopped myself out.

"Whoa." She said. That was all.

"What?"

"Do you know how fucking rare you are?"

"What are you talking about?" I flopped myself

back into my shorts. Ron popped his head around the corner.

"So is it true?" he asked her.

"Yeah," Lisa said. "Those girls weren't exaggerating."

"Let me see it?" Ron said.

"No fucking way, dude."

"C'mon, I'm a porn director now, so this is, like, official business." He was trying not to laugh.

"No."

"You ever think this might be fate?" he asked. "I'm filming porn and my best friend is

hung like a donkey."

"Can I touch it?" she asked.

"I don't know." This was all moving too fast for me, and my friend was right there.

She took my reply as a yes. She extended a hand and slipped it into my underwear. Her hands were warm. I felt her encircle me. She drew me out and used her other hand to lower my underwear so she could get a good look.

"You are amazing," she said. "You're not even hard. Can I see it when it's hard?"

I said nothing.

"Can I suck it?"

"No." It was a firm answer. She looked up at me and saw that.

"Why not?"

It was difficult to answer. It was part of a dozen different reasons. But one most of all.

I couldn't say it though. I couldn't think of a way to put it without it sounding like a lie. Or without offending her.

Her eyes gazed up at me. "Can I get you hard with my hand?"

I said nothing. I closed my eyes, standing there, feeling strange and distant. I could feel my heart beating.

Her hand began to stroke me. She pushed my pants and underwear all the way down to my ankles, and I felt her other hand move to caress my balls. I started to lengthen, stiffen. It took a minute. The process was slow. Ron didn't say a goddamned word, and for that I was truly grateful.

When I was hard, she took her hand away and I opened my eyes. She was looking up at me. "You are rare," she said again.

"Bullshit." I said.

"No," she said. "Seriously."

"You are so full of bullshit. You've seen a lot of guys."

"Yeah" she said. "So I'd know."

She circled it with her hand again. "Like a wrist."

I finally glanced at Ron, who was making a point of not looking south of my chin. But when he spoke, I knew he'd looked, because he said, "Dude, you've got to be in one of my porns. Seriously, it's such a fucking waste."

"No, I'll have to pass."

And here's the part where I'd give in, if I were making this up. Here's the part where a true story becomes less interesting than its fictional counterpart.

If I were sitting here at 12:04 a.m. writing some piece or erotic fiction, I'd say that my will power collapsed, and I let her suck me off, or I fucked her while Ron filmed the whole thing. Or maybe Ron and I took turns with her. Or maybe her boyfriend came home early. Or maybe her husband broke the door down.

But none of that happened. She asked me again to fuck her, and I said no. She said she'd go to the bathroom and clean her pussy out, so that she'd be nice and fresh, and I still said no, and no.

And even the reasons I said no were too real to be fiction, because the truth was that I did want to fuck her. I did want to lay her down on that couch and pound the shit out of her, and stretch her until she screamed—but I was scared of catching something. And I was scared of giving it to someone I loved.

Maybe scared is the wrong word, but I just didn't feel like the risk was mine to take. Because I was with someone at the time. And I didn't want to risk bringing something home.

Fuck, it sounds so lame. And now, looking back, I don't know. I'm not with that girl anymore, the one I was so careful for, and I've done so many crazy things since then. Some with my girl in Boston. The very wildest things, with my girl in Boston.

But that night, I took the road less traveled. That night I was strong.

I found out later Ron fucked Lisa a time or two over the next few days, but never on camera. She's still married. She still works at the bank. I saw her family crossing a parking lot at a restaurant a few months later, and it struck me how incredibly unlike her husband her daughter looks.

And if you read erotica stories, it seems like every other guy has a ten inch penis, and I always figured it was like basketball and Jordan—the Chicago Bulls always announcing him as six-foot-six, but at the Olympics they called him six-four, and that bugged me at the time, until somebody explained that the Olympics don't just take your word for it, but actually measured you.

And a year or two later, I came across the Kinsey report, and it said that an eight-inch penis was the 99th percentile. And only one in a thousand guys has a penis bigger than nine inches. And that shocked the hell out of me—one in a thousand.

And I realized then that Lisa probably hadn't been full of bullshit after all.

But it doesn't matter.

Stuff like that doesn't matter to most women—only to other guys in the locker room. And maybe a few Lisa's.

Maybe a few Boston's.

And the night is still so long.

And I still can't sleep.

Tacoma in the summer.

So many things going through my head—the psychiatrist's wife in the back of his SUV, all while he drove looking back over his shoulder, watching her suck, his personal kink, physician heal thyself—and then there's Nonnie, sweet Nonnie, a hundred and two pounds, her boyfriend's idea to see it, to watch it. And other stories, too, I could tell, might tell. Friends I've made and kept. Others I've lost along the way. The strange life I've lived.

She emailed me today, the Boston girl. That's why I can't sleep. That's the real reason I'm still up writing. I don't know if I'm going to email her back. Maybe. I want to. But I've fucked things up so much already.

It is late. I have to work in the morning.

Good night, gentle reader. Sweet dreams. Maybe you'll hear from me again.

(emails welcomed)