Tuesday, April 13, 2010

Press 2 To Send A Private Message

by Sean H. Doyle

I met "Karen" through a telephone Chat Line. You know, like from those commercials late at night where a sexy girl is laying around on her couch, wearing a tight tank top and some short-shorts, tilting her head back in conversational ecstasy?

I made my pre-recorded message sound like I was someone who gave a fuck. I trolled through a bunch of the other male messages to gather as much information as I could to make myself more appealing.

Her initial message to me was quite mumbled, it sounded like she had a cold, or was in the midst of trying not to cry when she spoke. She said in her message - "you sound so sincere, not like the rest of them" - which meant I did my homework properly.

We messaged back and forth for a while, filling each other in on small snippets of ourselves. I told her that I was an insomniac, and she said that she was as well. I told her that I was pretty much a loner, and she laughed and said the same. Typical Chat Line information changing hands, one little ding at a time.

I think it was in her fourth or fifth message that she mentioned she was a female bodybuilder.

Immediately, I became far more interested.

I'm not a small man, to say the least. I'm a big fella - not fat, but large and robust in stature. Probably what people are referring to when they say "he's built like a brick shit-house."

The prospect of me being able to fuck around with a woman who had physical strength was enthralling to me. I always found myself burying myself into women that I was afraid I would break in half - drug-addled waifs and withering drunkards. None of those women could possibly hurt me.

"Karen" sent me her telephone number in her last message, saying "I think you should call me soon, because I think we should meet up. Tonight."

I think I waited five minutes before calling her, maybe even less.

When she answered her phone, she sounded much more feminine. Somewhat innocent, even. She didn't say much - I did most of the talking. She stopped me mid-sentence, and asked me if I had a pen and paper near me. When I said that I did, she gave me her address, and then told me she’d leave the door unlocked for me.

I took a really fast shower, and hopped in my truck to head over to her place. While I was driving over there, all sorts of scenarios were playing over and over in my mind - what if "Karen" was a set-up? Like, what if she wasn't really waiting for me, and some dudes were going to pop out as soon as I walked through the door and they fucked me up and robbed my punk ass? What if she wasn't alone, and there was some dude there that wanted to watch me fuck his old lady? What if she had a cock?

None of these scenarios dissuaded me from continuing to drive to her house. If anything, these scenarios excited me even more - danger flooding my bloodstream like a perfect shot of warm-out-of-the-spoon cocaine.

I pulled up to the address she had given me and parked my truck in the street out front. I sat there for a moment, gathering myself. I pulled out my stash of blow and dipped my house key into it, making sure to do a decent-sized blast to amp up my already building adrenaline.

All the lights were off, but I could tell there were candles lit inside of the house. The light outside the front door was on, but seemed to be on a dimmer switch. I could hear the faint sounds of music from inside of the house, but it was nondescript, almost ambient noise, really. I softly rapped on the door. Nothing stirred.

When I reached for the knob, the door silently slid open for me. It took my eyes a moment to adjust, but I could see that the candlelight was coming from a bedroom down the hall, as was the music and the smell of incense.

I was totally right about the music, too - Dead Can Dance.

I was starting to think "Karen" was a fucking hippie bodybuilder or something, until I started to slowly walk toward the bedroom. I could see her outline just recessed from the doorway - she was wearing some kind of lingerie/sheer robe thing, and had a half of a glass of wine in her hand.

"Hello, Sean."

I didn't say anything. I just walked into that candlelit room and looked at her. She was something to behold. She wasn't even flexing, and her legs were like Sequoia - beautiful and massive, they looked like they could shatter my skull with one quick jerk. Her waist wasn't necessarily thin, but it fit her frame wonderfully. Working my way up with my gaze I saw that her shoulders were as wide as mine; her neck thick and wide. Looking at her arms, they were cut and sleek at the same time - it was easy to tell that she worked her ass off to be the vision I saw in front of me.

"Would you like some wine?"

"Whiskey. With ice, no water - if you have it."

She walked over to me, and softly pulled my face toward her own. She had beautiful skin, the kind of skin that always looks like a painting in that kind of lighting, so much so that you never want to touch it for fear of tainting it in some way. As she kissed me, I could feel the heat coming off of her - she was starving for sex, for affection.

"I think I only have Vodka, is that okay?"

At this point - it was already too late. I was running my hand from her wrist to her shoulder, slowly and methodically. I didn't need a drink anymore. I didn't need anything other than the consummation.

We were interlocked on her bed, limbs and clothing all over the place, when she slipped her hand inside my pants to pull out my cock. I felt her hand jump when she tried to wrap her fingers around me, and I heard her breathing change. As she pulled me out of my pants and lowered her mouth onto me, she made this quiet little humming sound.

She was working me over with her mouth and her tongue as I was pulling aside her panties to play with her. She had soaked through them already, and my fingers were sticky and gluey before they even entered into her. She was so warm it felt like putting your hand into paraffin. She moaned, thrusting herself onto my hand as she sucked more of me into and out of her mouth.

I think she came within a couple of minutes or so. Shuddering and stuttering with my cock in her mouth.

She then pulled out a condom and put it on me with her mouth, slowly and gingerly. She asked me quietly if I was ready, and then mounted me as I lay back on her bed.

I could feel her heaviness on my hips immediately - such an immensely powerful and sexy woman. As she ground herself down on me, I could feel her muscular legs wrapping around my own.

This, was exactly what I was hoping for.

"Karen" was pounding me, relentless in her grind. In my head, I envisioned those old oil pumps in West Texas, the ones that as a kid looked like giant mechanical grasshoppers - grinding away at the ground for that magic elixir to keep everything moving. My cock was heating up inside the latex of the condom and even though she was shaved, I could feel the little stubble around her pussy etching its signature into my flesh.

I didn't care.

I wanted her to destroy me.

After that first round was over, with her jumping off of me as I was about to get off, ripping the condom off so she could let me cum into her mouth, we just lay there silently in our post-coital heat-wash. Sweat glistening off of the both of us in the candlelight, "Karen" spoke softly, but clearly - telling me little details about herself, revealing more and more of who she was. She was in the middle of a divorce. Her husband a cheater and a steroid user. She grew up a devout Mormon, repressing all of these sexual urges that we were that very night letting out of the cage. She took up bodybuilding to prove to her husband that she wasn't weak - that she had the same strength within her that he claimed she'd never know.

The cocaine in my bloodstream caused me to let little things about myself slip out as well, which was not normally on my agenda when fucking random strangers. I would catch myself in the middle of revealing something, but it would be too late to stop.

Throughout the night, I would excuse myself briefly to go to the bathroom every now and again, to do some more coke and get geared up for the next round of whatever she had in her mind. My body, even in the tiniest light of her bathroom, was wrecked - scratches, some with little bloodlets. The skin around my cock was rubbed raw and red, like I had been dragging myself along some carpet.

We were laying in her bed, with her rubbing me between her fingers, as the sun started to rise.

I had to be at work at 6AM.

This was not good.

I told her I had to go - and she totally understood. She watched me get dressed, and even offered to make me some coffee before I left, which I declined - I would hit the 7-11 on my way to my job.

As I was leaving, she stood in her doorway for a good long minute before she kissed me on the mouth something fierce.

"Thank you. I never knew that I had all of this in me."


I was at work three days later when she came in. She had already left me a few voicemails, which I didn't return. I was totally under the impression that she understood that this was just one of those "things" people do, lonely, fucked-up people. I never thought she'd show up at my job. Hell, I'd even forgotten that I mentioned where I worked, but as soon as I saw her I knew I'd fucked up.

"Why haven't you returned any of my calls? What did I do? I thought this was something we could maybe build off of, you know?"

I just stood there, blank stare on my face, trying to hide my shame through my apathetic body language.

"I never intended for it to be more than it was - I thought you understood that? This isn't my bag, you know? I'm not boyfriend material, trust me. Think about how you met me to begin with?"

I hate seeing tears. Tears are the fucking worst thing I can ever see on a woman. Even to this day - tears will fuck me up. You want to torture a cat like me? Just cry in front of me. Even better - cry in front of me because of something I did to you. That's like fucking stabbing me over and over with a rusty fucking letter opener.

At least with "Karen," the last thing I saw was her hand, slapping me right in the fucking mouth.

I never told any of these women where I worked, ever again.

Sean H. Doyle lives in Brooklyn, NY. He is currently at work on a memoir. His writing can be found at The Tao Of Sean. He contributes to the collaborative site Blanketf0rt, and he also curates a music site called What Gets Heard?
SSFuck: What's one thing you did this week that you are proud of?
Sean: I am proud to say that I did not take the bait and answer the masturbation question. A man has to have some secrets, you know?


  1. Whoa, shit.

    This is great.

    Goddamn tears are men's weakness and my freakiest quality is that I don't cry, ever. I think I need to become a bodybuilder.