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Butterface-of-the-Month Club
This is the story that I really wanted to write for my third story. I have no intention of submitting it for workshop, not only due to obvious content reasons, but because I pretty much decided to ignore everything I've "learned" from writing workshops and just write the kind of story I wanted to read. Cut for content.
She drove past his driveway four times, slower each time. Finally, double-checking the address, she pulled in and parked rather far away from his expensive car. She wasn't sure what brand it was because it had a symbol instead of a name tramp-stamped onto its bumper. She wasn't good with cars. She didn't know their brands, she didn't know how to change a tire, and she didn't think she was a very good driver. But she could still tell that his was nice. Like his house. Not ostentatiously impressive, but obviously expensive and much better than anything she could ever hope to have.
He opened the door as she got out of the car. She didn't like that. She had imagined walking up, lifting her hand, knocking or ringing a doorbell. She had imagined a pause in between the time that she arrived at the door and the time that she announced her presence, a pause in which she'd have one last chance to reconsider, to drive home and then masturbate and then watch Jay Leno and go to sleep feeling okay. Not great, but okay.
He wasn't very good-looking, but she'd expected as much from the photograph he'd attached to his email. She wasn't very good-looking either, and if she had chosen one of the more attractive men who'd responded to her ad, she would have felt awkward and intimidated by their attractiveness, instead of turned on. But with this guy, she felt like she was on equal footing. He said her name, and she smiled, and said his. They had given fake names to each other, and in both their voices was a trace of irony, acknowledging that they each knew or suspected as much. She didn't like his voice very much, too high-pitched. Maybe feeling like he was less of a man would make this easier for her, later.
"Come in, make yourself at home," he said.
She wondered what she could do, if she wanted to make herself at home. Track some mud in. Forage in the fridge, drink out of a carton or leave a jar with an unscrewed top. Pull up her skirt when she sat down and rub her bare vagina on the nice black leather sofa. Call him degrading names. Punch a hole in the wall.
Instead, she just stood, barely within the threshold of the door, and watched him as he made them some drinks. He asked her what she wanted and she said just water, she had to drive home. He said he was going to have some nice Scotch and she should too, just a little bit, it would help.
"This is always a little awkward at first," he said. He was commiserating with her, because he had done this before, and she had told him she had done this before as well. They were both experienced at Casual Encounters, they both had so much sex with strangers from the internet that they had an acronym for it, NSA. The acronym had nothing to do with the creepy governmental agency. It meant No Strings Attached. That made her think of puppets, which was odd, because she rather felt like they were both marionnettes doing strange things without really knowing why.
She just smiled and shrugged, proving him right with her body language. She was hesitant to say anything, because in fact she had never done this before. She had had sex before, sometimes with people that she didn't know very well, but never with a perfect stranger off the internet. It had been a long time since she'd gone on a successful date, and she felt antsy. She felt as if her lipstick case had a lot fewer notches than most of her girlfriends'. So she'd placed the ad, hoping to do something very nasty and daring. She wasn't sure what - she had many private masochistic fantasies, which she'd barely been able to convince any of her previous boyfriends to act upon, but she wasn't stupid. She wasn't going to let a stranger tie her up, or hurt her. She had been excited by some of the replies from men who wanted to tie her up and/or hurt her, but really, what separates a sadist from a serial killer? She was in no hurry to find out. Maybe just fucking a stranger would be exciting enough, she'd thought. Then she'd come across his reply, and there was some combination of his asymmetrical face, witty and proofread writing, and what he was looking for in an NSA encounter, that she found both endearing and emboldening. She'd never done the particular thing that he was into, but she'd sometimes thought about it (and been shot down by those no-fun exes), and knew that it was fairly safe. She'd be in control, and they wouldn't exchange any bodily fluids. Well, unless they kissed. She didn't want to kiss him. She supposed she'd have to soon, though.
They sat side by side on the couch. She tugged the hem of her skirt down and listened to the couch squeak under her. She wasn't fat, but he was so skinny that she felt a little flabby and ungainly, and had an idea that her weight was unequally burdening the couch. He sipped at his drink and she finished hers quickly, then regretted it, because he had something to do with his hands, and something to do when he didn't feel like talking.
He offered her a second drink but she declined more forcefully. She wanted to be able to leave at any moment. She wondered how fast she would be able to put her clothes back on and grab her purse and get out the door and get to her car, if she needed to bolt.
"Shall we?" he asked when he finished his drink.
She said yes, relieved to be done with the small talk portion of the evening. Small talk is even harder when you're trying not to reveal any identifying details. Still, wasn't her presence alone an identifying detail? What if they ran into each other at a supermarket or gas station?
She followed him into the room, still carrying her purse. She felt a little awkward about carrying her purse, but leaving it in the living room and carrying the strap-on and harness by itself would have been worse. It would have dangled, swung. She wondered how men dealt with the dangling and swinging on a daily basis.
She set her purse on the bedside table. He stood next to the bed and began undressing, and she did the same. She did not enjoy seeing him naked. She had never found naked men particularly arousing. She only enjoyed what they did to her. She didn't like that he was watching her. She wished, when she took off her skirt and noticed his stare at her large labia, that she had worn panties, or let her pubic hair grow out. She felt as though she were the more naked one, somehow.
He walked over and began caressing her, but when he put his hand between her legs she shook her head and began putting on the harness. She told him to take a shower, both because he needed one - he smelled of fear sweat and stale urine - and because she wanted to establish that she was in charge. He seemed to like that. He asked her if she'd care to join him and she said no. Then she told him not to take too long.
She sat on the edge of the bed, stroking the dildo until it was warm. She had noticed that cold dildos were unpleasant from personal masturbation experience. She was proud of herself for being considerate.
She told him to get on all fours on the bed and he did.
She touched his cock and balls for a little while, and began preparing his asshole. She was proud at herself for being considerate in this department, too. She had been fucked in the ass without nearly this much preparation and/or lube in the past. Actually she had rather liked that at the time. But seeing him in front of her, hearing his noises and smelling his smells, made her feel strange. She wondered if the men who had fucked her in the ass had felt strange. If they had felt she was so vulnerable as she felt he was vulnerable now. She almost didn't want to do it, but she felt she had to.
It was so strange to be fucking without being touched. She wondered if men missed being touched. It's not that she never touched men, but she realized how much she had taken them for granted, now that she was in their position. She hadn't realized how unequal it was.
She went very tentatively at first but when he asked her to fuck him harder she did so. It felt a little good but she wasn't getting off on it. It was strange that she was supposedly in control, and he was supposedly vulnerable, yet he was the one getting off.
She gave him a reach-around, something that her previous lovers had not always been considerate enough to do for her. She wondered if she was hitting his prostate correctly. When he came, his whole body tensed up. Men are always so melodramatic. She doubted that the male orgasm was any more intense than the female one; men are just such babies when they feel anything. She had heard from a male friend that when men are taking a shit in a public restroom, they moan and grunt and curse. Or take when a man is sick. They expect to be pampered. They think that being sick makes the world revolve around them. They whine. They constantly ask you to check on them and do things for them. She kept having these thoughts as she watched him come, then collapse on the bed. She didn't have sexy thoughts at all, just contemptuous ones.
She asked if he was okay and he said that he was, and thanked her. She went to his bathroom and washed the dildo and dried it with his expensive towel. Then she took two of his expensive washclothes and cleaned him and he thanked her a second time. Then she dressed and thanked him and left. She wasn't sure what she was thanking him for, but felt that she ought to do so, since he had thanked her twice.
She realized when she got back to the car that they had not kissed. She smiled to herself. Although it was dark and she couldn't see her reflection, she imagined that it was a sly smile, the smile of an experienced woman. A wanton woman. One who's done some interesting things. One who will go back to the office the next day and have a good secret.
When she went to the office, though, she felt just about the opposite of the way she'd felt in the car. She felt like a stupid, foolish, unattractive woman, who'd done a ridiculous thing. It was not good, and it was not secret. It's amazing how quickly a website can change one's feelings about so many things at once.
She was not close to her coworkers, and she didn't find out by being pulled aside by someone nice who'd break the news with a "men are such bastards" speech. She started suspecting something was wrong by the way people were treating her, and ended up catching a glimpse of her own face on someone's computer. She could tell the photograph was from last night, because her shoulders were bare, and his expensive beige walls were in the background. She controlled herself so that she didn't make a scene and give her coworkers the satisfaction of knowing that she knew. Instead she noted the URL and went to her desk and looked for herself, keeping the minimize button close to her cursor.
Apparently he, under his true name, or possibly merely under a different false name, maintained a blog entitled "Butterface-of-the-Month Club." Apparently he took clandestine pictures of women that he'd met on the internet, and then posted reviews of their bodies and faces and sexual prowess on the blog. Despite his witty, urbane email, she found the "reviews" to be rather dull, ad hominem attacks. She wasn't very interested in any of the previous months' picks, although she did quickly glance to see if she really thought they were butterfaces. Some, she decided, were, and some weren't. She didn't think she was nearly as homely as most, but there were one or two prettier ones.
Instead, she read the post about her. It described her face and her tits and even mentioned that her labia were large, even though thankfully all the pictures were from the waist up, probably due to the fact that he had been kneeling between her and the camera. She spared a moment to feel lucky that she wasn't completely exposed, as some of the other women had been. She was also grateful that he only posted still pictures and not videos. She wondered if this was because he didn't want his website to show him getting fucked - there was no mention of the act, which he had referred to as "pegging," and said that he had enjoyed many times in the past. She wondered if all these girls had pegged him.
She went home early, claiming to have a headache. She ignored the sniggers. She wondered if perhaps she should find a new job. Or move to a new town. She went home and masturbated as usual. But this time she imagined him fucking her, with a bag over her head.
She drove past his driveway four times, slower each time. Finally, double-checking the address, she pulled in and parked rather far away from his expensive car. She wasn't sure what brand it was because it had a symbol instead of a name tramp-stamped onto its bumper. She wasn't good with cars. She didn't know their brands, she didn't know how to change a tire, and she didn't think she was a very good driver. But she could still tell that his was nice. Like his house. Not ostentatiously impressive, but obviously expensive and much better than anything she could ever hope to have.
He opened the door as she got out of the car. She didn't like that. She had imagined walking up, lifting her hand, knocking or ringing a doorbell. She had imagined a pause in between the time that she arrived at the door and the time that she announced her presence, a pause in which she'd have one last chance to reconsider, to drive home and then masturbate and then watch Jay Leno and go to sleep feeling okay. Not great, but okay.
He wasn't very good-looking, but she'd expected as much from the photograph he'd attached to his email. She wasn't very good-looking either, and if she had chosen one of the more attractive men who'd responded to her ad, she would have felt awkward and intimidated by their attractiveness, instead of turned on. But with this guy, she felt like she was on equal footing. He said her name, and she smiled, and said his. They had given fake names to each other, and in both their voices was a trace of irony, acknowledging that they each knew or suspected as much. She didn't like his voice very much, too high-pitched. Maybe feeling like he was less of a man would make this easier for her, later.
"Come in, make yourself at home," he said.
She wondered what she could do, if she wanted to make herself at home. Track some mud in. Forage in the fridge, drink out of a carton or leave a jar with an unscrewed top. Pull up her skirt when she sat down and rub her bare vagina on the nice black leather sofa. Call him degrading names. Punch a hole in the wall.
Instead, she just stood, barely within the threshold of the door, and watched him as he made them some drinks. He asked her what she wanted and she said just water, she had to drive home. He said he was going to have some nice Scotch and she should too, just a little bit, it would help.
"This is always a little awkward at first," he said. He was commiserating with her, because he had done this before, and she had told him she had done this before as well. They were both experienced at Casual Encounters, they both had so much sex with strangers from the internet that they had an acronym for it, NSA. The acronym had nothing to do with the creepy governmental agency. It meant No Strings Attached. That made her think of puppets, which was odd, because she rather felt like they were both marionnettes doing strange things without really knowing why.
She just smiled and shrugged, proving him right with her body language. She was hesitant to say anything, because in fact she had never done this before. She had had sex before, sometimes with people that she didn't know very well, but never with a perfect stranger off the internet. It had been a long time since she'd gone on a successful date, and she felt antsy. She felt as if her lipstick case had a lot fewer notches than most of her girlfriends'. So she'd placed the ad, hoping to do something very nasty and daring. She wasn't sure what - she had many private masochistic fantasies, which she'd barely been able to convince any of her previous boyfriends to act upon, but she wasn't stupid. She wasn't going to let a stranger tie her up, or hurt her. She had been excited by some of the replies from men who wanted to tie her up and/or hurt her, but really, what separates a sadist from a serial killer? She was in no hurry to find out. Maybe just fucking a stranger would be exciting enough, she'd thought. Then she'd come across his reply, and there was some combination of his asymmetrical face, witty and proofread writing, and what he was looking for in an NSA encounter, that she found both endearing and emboldening. She'd never done the particular thing that he was into, but she'd sometimes thought about it (and been shot down by those no-fun exes), and knew that it was fairly safe. She'd be in control, and they wouldn't exchange any bodily fluids. Well, unless they kissed. She didn't want to kiss him. She supposed she'd have to soon, though.
They sat side by side on the couch. She tugged the hem of her skirt down and listened to the couch squeak under her. She wasn't fat, but he was so skinny that she felt a little flabby and ungainly, and had an idea that her weight was unequally burdening the couch. He sipped at his drink and she finished hers quickly, then regretted it, because he had something to do with his hands, and something to do when he didn't feel like talking.
He offered her a second drink but she declined more forcefully. She wanted to be able to leave at any moment. She wondered how fast she would be able to put her clothes back on and grab her purse and get out the door and get to her car, if she needed to bolt.
"Shall we?" he asked when he finished his drink.
She said yes, relieved to be done with the small talk portion of the evening. Small talk is even harder when you're trying not to reveal any identifying details. Still, wasn't her presence alone an identifying detail? What if they ran into each other at a supermarket or gas station?
She followed him into the room, still carrying her purse. She felt a little awkward about carrying her purse, but leaving it in the living room and carrying the strap-on and harness by itself would have been worse. It would have dangled, swung. She wondered how men dealt with the dangling and swinging on a daily basis.
She set her purse on the bedside table. He stood next to the bed and began undressing, and she did the same. She did not enjoy seeing him naked. She had never found naked men particularly arousing. She only enjoyed what they did to her. She didn't like that he was watching her. She wished, when she took off her skirt and noticed his stare at her large labia, that she had worn panties, or let her pubic hair grow out. She felt as though she were the more naked one, somehow.
He walked over and began caressing her, but when he put his hand between her legs she shook her head and began putting on the harness. She told him to take a shower, both because he needed one - he smelled of fear sweat and stale urine - and because she wanted to establish that she was in charge. He seemed to like that. He asked her if she'd care to join him and she said no. Then she told him not to take too long.
She sat on the edge of the bed, stroking the dildo until it was warm. She had noticed that cold dildos were unpleasant from personal masturbation experience. She was proud of herself for being considerate.
She told him to get on all fours on the bed and he did.
She touched his cock and balls for a little while, and began preparing his asshole. She was proud at herself for being considerate in this department, too. She had been fucked in the ass without nearly this much preparation and/or lube in the past. Actually she had rather liked that at the time. But seeing him in front of her, hearing his noises and smelling his smells, made her feel strange. She wondered if the men who had fucked her in the ass had felt strange. If they had felt she was so vulnerable as she felt he was vulnerable now. She almost didn't want to do it, but she felt she had to.
It was so strange to be fucking without being touched. She wondered if men missed being touched. It's not that she never touched men, but she realized how much she had taken them for granted, now that she was in their position. She hadn't realized how unequal it was.
She went very tentatively at first but when he asked her to fuck him harder she did so. It felt a little good but she wasn't getting off on it. It was strange that she was supposedly in control, and he was supposedly vulnerable, yet he was the one getting off.
She gave him a reach-around, something that her previous lovers had not always been considerate enough to do for her. She wondered if she was hitting his prostate correctly. When he came, his whole body tensed up. Men are always so melodramatic. She doubted that the male orgasm was any more intense than the female one; men are just such babies when they feel anything. She had heard from a male friend that when men are taking a shit in a public restroom, they moan and grunt and curse. Or take when a man is sick. They expect to be pampered. They think that being sick makes the world revolve around them. They whine. They constantly ask you to check on them and do things for them. She kept having these thoughts as she watched him come, then collapse on the bed. She didn't have sexy thoughts at all, just contemptuous ones.
She asked if he was okay and he said that he was, and thanked her. She went to his bathroom and washed the dildo and dried it with his expensive towel. Then she took two of his expensive washclothes and cleaned him and he thanked her a second time. Then she dressed and thanked him and left. She wasn't sure what she was thanking him for, but felt that she ought to do so, since he had thanked her twice.
She realized when she got back to the car that they had not kissed. She smiled to herself. Although it was dark and she couldn't see her reflection, she imagined that it was a sly smile, the smile of an experienced woman. A wanton woman. One who's done some interesting things. One who will go back to the office the next day and have a good secret.
When she went to the office, though, she felt just about the opposite of the way she'd felt in the car. She felt like a stupid, foolish, unattractive woman, who'd done a ridiculous thing. It was not good, and it was not secret. It's amazing how quickly a website can change one's feelings about so many things at once.
She was not close to her coworkers, and she didn't find out by being pulled aside by someone nice who'd break the news with a "men are such bastards" speech. She started suspecting something was wrong by the way people were treating her, and ended up catching a glimpse of her own face on someone's computer. She could tell the photograph was from last night, because her shoulders were bare, and his expensive beige walls were in the background. She controlled herself so that she didn't make a scene and give her coworkers the satisfaction of knowing that she knew. Instead she noted the URL and went to her desk and looked for herself, keeping the minimize button close to her cursor.
Apparently he, under his true name, or possibly merely under a different false name, maintained a blog entitled "Butterface-of-the-Month Club." Apparently he took clandestine pictures of women that he'd met on the internet, and then posted reviews of their bodies and faces and sexual prowess on the blog. Despite his witty, urbane email, she found the "reviews" to be rather dull, ad hominem attacks. She wasn't very interested in any of the previous months' picks, although she did quickly glance to see if she really thought they were butterfaces. Some, she decided, were, and some weren't. She didn't think she was nearly as homely as most, but there were one or two prettier ones.
Instead, she read the post about her. It described her face and her tits and even mentioned that her labia were large, even though thankfully all the pictures were from the waist up, probably due to the fact that he had been kneeling between her and the camera. She spared a moment to feel lucky that she wasn't completely exposed, as some of the other women had been. She was also grateful that he only posted still pictures and not videos. She wondered if this was because he didn't want his website to show him getting fucked - there was no mention of the act, which he had referred to as "pegging," and said that he had enjoyed many times in the past. She wondered if all these girls had pegged him.
She went home early, claiming to have a headache. She ignored the sniggers. She wondered if perhaps she should find a new job. Or move to a new town. She went home and masturbated as usual. But this time she imagined him fucking her, with a bag over her head.