Please note that the characters and situations in this story are fictional
and are not intended to represent any real person, living or dead.

THE PERFECT DATE

by

Paul G. Bens, Jr.

Taylor Joseph could always get laid.  Three or four times a day.  There wasn’t any trick to it.  No money was involved, and there certainly wasn't any pity-fuck influence either.  She was still pretty -- beautiful had never been a term anyone ever used when speaking of her -- and, although she was fast approaching her thirty-first year, she was still young enough to be considered desirable.  Her small frame, the hair she kept cropped close to her face like a little boy, and her pixie-like qualities had always made her so and probably always would.  She could always find some guy or girl to do it with.  It wasn’t difficult.  It had been that way all her life.

She’d never really run with the popular crowd when she was in high school (or even grade school for that matter).  She hadn’t exactly been a nerd, but she wasn’t a Miss Kentucky beauty contestant either.  Her wholesome looks were pleasant, but oddly androgynous -- not quite Sandy Duncan; not quite Peter Pan.  And Tinker Bell?  No way.  She was stuck somewhere in the middle, book-ended by the painfully gorgeous and the exquisitely plain.

But the boys had managed to find her, though she wasn’t quite sure why.  And the gay girls came knocking from time to time as well.  Looking back on it, Taylor thought that it was her God-given androgyny that attracted both groups.  For the boys, she was a safe flirtation with the idea of fucking another guy; for the girls she was just butch enough to be a lipstick lesbian’s dream.  She didn’t mind the attention from both, though if she had her choice she’d rather have a stiff dick inside her than a couple of bony fingers.

It was whatever got her off that mattered most, as long as there wasn’t any pain involved. She hated pain, hated guys who fucked rough or chicks that seemed to want to crawl up inside her womb hand first.

#

The guy she was riding now was her favorite kind of lover.  He was handsome enough, had a nice size cock, and was quiet.  She liked when they were quiet. No grunts, no groans, no inadvertent farts at the wrong time.  His dick (she could never say “penis” without laughing hysterically) was hard enough and slid in and out of her with ease.  He felt good inside her.  He was the perfect date.

It had all happened the way she liked it.  They'd met at work.  There hadn't been any mindless chit-chat over dinner or awkward fumbling over stale popcorn in a sticky-floored movie theatre.  He just came to her.  They all came to her.  She knew she wanted him, then and there.

She looked down into his strikingly blue eyes and smiled as she worked her hips up and down. What was his name?  She looked at him funny, but he didn’t seem to mind, didn’t say anything, probably thought it was just a look of ecstasy.  What the hell was this guy’s name?  She couldn’t remember.  Well, she thought, what does it matter?  Might as well call him number four ‘cause that was the day’s count.  But then it came to her.

Mark.  His name was Mark. She twisted her fingers into his thick jet-black hair and tugged a bit. Not too hard, nothing cruel, just playful.

"Do you like that?" she asked as she ground her hips into him, felt the curve of his scrotum press against her perineum.  It was exquisite.

She almost thought he was going to say something. The sound that growled from his lips, though, was merely reflexive, a plosive expression that was probably more gas than passion.  She didn't care.  As long as he was passive.

#

 Her first time had been painful, a horny football player who rammed her so hard that her head kept slamming against the metal bleachers.  Naturally, despite promises that he wouldn’t, he came inside her (after about three and a half minutes), and left her dazed and raw in the cold night air.  She could barely walk home that night, and it didn’t get any better throughout the week.

Telling her mother had been humiliating; seeing her mother’s gynecologist was even worse.  Mother scolded Taylor, and he lectured her.

“Twelve year old girls,” the doctor chided as he rolled his fingers inside her, “shouldn’t let boys do that.  Especially not eighteen year-old boys with big penises.”

She thought the word sounded funny the way he said it. It had a whole bunch of extra S’s, like a snake’s slither, and it sounded dirtier than she thought it should.

He poked his head up from between her legs to drive the point home.  “Do you understand me, young lady?”  He was scary, with coke-bottle glasses and a funny mole on the side of his face.

“Yes, sir,” she answered, and then his face fell back to her crotch.

“Boys will always want to stick their penises in you,” he hissed again, his fingers still doing a little dance through her genitalia.

She made the mistake of chuckling at that word ...peeeniiiisssssssesssss.  The doctor's face popped up and his wet fingers pulled off his glasses.  He gave her a stern look from between her legs.

“You think this is funny?”

“No, sir,” she whispered quietly.

He went back to whatever he was doing down there, and, of course, no one -- not mother, not father, or even the doctor -- ever told her that the boy had done something bad.  And it wasn’t until she started seeing her own gynecologist that she realized pelvic exams weren’t supposed to take forty-five minutes.

#

She swore she would never feel pain or humiliation like that again; so she would always be in control, would never let anyone fuck her.  She would fuck them.  Of course, it was all a matter of semantics.  Whoever was in her arms was always inside her, but she was the one calling the shots and setting the rhythm.  She was the one on top.  Thems was the rules.

Mark didn't have a problem with the rules.  He just looked up at her with those beautiful eyes, seemed to stare right through her.  She brought her fingers over them, coaxed the lids down and then let her hands roam over his muscular chest.  But his eyes wouldn't stay closed, and she decided she liked it better with them open.  They made his features sparkle.

Had his face been prettier, Mark might have looked a little like JFK Jr., but he hadn’t been blessed with those genes.  That didn’t matter to Taylor, though. She wasn’t Julia Roberts and she didn’t need someone with movie star looks.

She did find it odd that he’d shaved off all of his pubic hair.  She always thought it strange when guys did that.  What did it accomplish?  Did they think it made their cocks look bigger?  Or was it a fantasy of being a little boy again and being fucked? Ultimately, she didn’t really care.  She found it naughtily hot and it definitely made clean up easier...none of that pesky hair to wash out.

"Why do you all do that?" She asked, her pixie qualities taking over.  She giggled at her private joke.  When he didn't answer she leaned down on him, let her nipples brush over his chest.  He was a little chilly, and she thought for a moment that she should turn down the air conditioning.  Fuck it.  She was comfortable, that’s all that mattered, and he wasn’t complaining.  Even if he could complain, she wouldn’t care.  This was her show, and he had no choice but to go along with whatever she was saying.  Again she giggled, had to bring her fingers to her mouth to stop herself.

She ran her tongue up his chin until it crept over his bottom lip and into his waiting mouth.  Her tongue chased down his, and she sucked it greedily into her mouth.  It was a beautiful tongue, and just hard enough, though some softness still remained.  She thought about making him go down on her with that piece of meat; thought he might enjoy it, but she didn’t want to let go of his cock.  So, she settled with the kissing.  She loved kissing, and this guy was very good at it.

She ground her hips faster into his crotch as they kissed.  She could feel the pressure rising inside her, and her stomach muscles contracted, making the strokes a little shorter and a little more intense.  She was close.

She could sense he was starting to go soft on her, and she didn’t like that.  She wanted to come and come big.  She flexed her muscles around the shaft, worked it harder, refused to let things go south at this point.  She was going to come, damn it, even if it meant his meat would be raw when it was over.

The trick worked. He was hard enough, and she went back to sucking on his tongue.  She wanted them to be kissing when she came; she always liked that best.  And they were.

She didn’t scream when the orgasm hit.  It was a moment too exquisite to be obscured by vocalization that would be more for his benefit than hers.  She just rode the waves as they hit, over and over again.

He was the best, by far, today.  She lay for a moment on his chest, heaving in as much breath as she could, letting his rigid skin wipe away the sweat from her face.  She still moved her hips a little, but she had what she wanted.  Finally, she caught a sneaky look at her wristwatch before jumping off him.

“I’m sorry, but I’ve got to get to work.”  She grabbed her clothes off the floor and threw them on with lightening speed before leaning in to kiss him one last time.  He didn’t say anything as she pulled away, but had a surprised, slightly pained look on his face.

Taylor went to the door, took her white jacket off the peg next to it and then flipped the bolt that had assured that their love-making would be an affair uninterrupted by some hapless diener.  And then she returned to him, bringing the little rolling table along with her.

She reached up, snapped on the overhead light. The room went white as fire and she looked down at him again.  “I hate to do this to you, but I really do have to get to work now.”   She reached above her head and clicked something else on.

“February 19, 2003,” she said as she slid rubber gloves over her hands.  “Subject is a male Caucasian. Twenty-eight years old.  Apparent gunshot wound to the head.”

She picked up a freshly sanitized #22 scalpel from the tray and lovingly made the first stretch of the Y incision.

___________________

© Copyright 2003, Paul G. Bens, Jr.  All rights reserved.