0 comments/ 17910 views/ 1 favorites Tacoma Remembering By: Zensoftly (Feedback appreciated) * There have been so many airports this year. First Tacoma, then London, then Glasgow—and finally, Boston. Travel like I'm running away from something, or like I'm finally free. Or maybe it's the same thing. Tonight is a bad night though, and the voices in my head won't shut up. I can't sleep, so instead, I'll sit here at this computer and write. My father died holding a gun to his head. My mother is a writer. I'll try her method first. *** Boston. It is a place where modern buildings line cobblestone streets, and graveyards skulk between skyscrapers. Everywhere, there is the memory, the smell, the idea of the ocean. I can see why she loves it there. Every guy has that one she, doesn't he? The one girl who doesn't, necessarily, need to be named. I have perfect recall of her at the airport; I can still see the expression on her face as we made eye contact the single time I flew out to visit. She pulled up to the curb in her red Cherokee and got out to hug me. She's tall, maybe 5'11", and kissing her has always felt different than kissing other girls—I don't have to bend down, and when we step back, we're looking eye to eye. I won't describe her more than that. You don't need to know. She was still married then, and she's still married now, I think. You can judge me if you want; but there are things you don't know. Circumstances that blur the lines. It had been her husband's idea, after all. At least that first time. I won't write her name here. Even her first name. I'm not ready to write about us yet, so I'll write about other things, until enough time has passed that I can write about her. Does this seem strange? That I'd start writing about her and then skip to something else? It would only be strange if the stories weren't true. There's so much that's happened, and every part connects to every other part—and it all comes down to where I want to start. So, of course, sitting here at the computer, I started with her, my girl in Boston. And on some sleepless night when I'm again weighing the benefits of my parents' respective forms of panacea, I'll probably end with her. Tonight though, I'm going to write about the night Ron introduced me to Lisa. *** Ron met her on his trash route. That's all he'd say at first as we drove through the rain to meet her. It was a wet night, a few degrees below freezing, and the heat in his old Chevy wasn't working. The windshield wipers beat the slush away while I rubbed my hands to keep warm. Ron is my oldest friend. We came up together, as close to brothers as two friends can be. We'd taken different paths for a while after high school—he'd spent a few years in Texas, and I'd gone away to college—but now that we'd settled into our early thirties, we hung out pretty regularly. "You're not going to believe this chick," he said. "You saying she's that good-looking?" I asked. "No, it's not that." I looked at him. "I mean, she's cute," he said. "She's got a face, but that's not what I'm talking about." "Then what are you talking about?" "You'll just have to see." I studied him in the green dashboard light. Like me, he has dark hair and blue eyes. Some people assume we're related because we've got the same coloring, and we're about the same height. But I've got a bigger nose, a bigger jaw—a bigger, more rectangular face. I'm a blockier version of him. Growing up, I'd never had his shock-and-awe looks, but we still seemed to do about the same with girls. I was the brilliant one. The crazy one. "You fucked her, didn't you?" I said. There was a pause, the tiniest pause. "No, of course not," he said. "This is just business." I cocked an eyebrow but questioned no further. Ron had called me a half hour ago. He'd gotten me out of bed. Ron was a garbage man who used to be a business man—and who now wanted to be a business man again. He'd worn three-piece suits to work when he first got married. He'd run an office for a cell phone company. Then came the lay-offs. Now his wife watched him got to work with a name tag sewn onto his shirt. For some kind of women, that wouldn't have mattered. The best kind, I think. Hey, a job's a job. But Ron's wife wasn't the best kind. And he knew it, even if he'd never admit it. Ron loved his wife, and in a fucked-up way, he was doing this for her. "Porn," he'd told me a dozen times. "Is a billion dollar-a-year industry." I had a good video camera. As his oldest friend, that made me his partner. Ron had talked about it before, but we'd never actually tried it. Ron had never been able to find a girl willing to fuck on camera. We pulled up in front of a little duplex that sat just off the main square of Pierce, Illinois. You could see the clock tower of the courthouse from the front yard. It's the kind of duplex that's wedged between shops and restaurants and probably will end up being an antique store at some point, once downtown has a few more years of sprawl under its belt. "Her name is Lisa," Ron said. "But don't mention I gave her real name, okay?" "Sure," I said. "Sorry I got you out of bed so late, but she's married and can only do this at certain times." We walked up the stairs to the second floor and knocked. I'm not sure what I was expecting, but Lisa wasn't it. She answered the door with a huge smile, looking for all the world like some conservative doctor's office receptionist. "I thought you guys would never get here," she said and ushered us inside. Ron did the introductions. She was smiley and bubbly, mid-thirties, with dark hair and a pleasant, oval face. She was a little heavy in that curvy, sexy kind of way that makes a little heavy look good. She looked like somebody's wife, or somebody's mother. Not the kind of fake-sexy you'd see on TV, but the more lived-in kind you might come across in a grocery store. The small front room was cramped. The furniture was dingy and worn. A poster of a huge body builder armed one wall. It looked like the home of a frat boy, not the home of a married couple. I gestured to the posters. "So you're husband likes working out?" "Brian? No." She smiled. "Oh, you mean the posters. This isn't my house. Lord, no. I wouldn't live here for anything. This is my boyfriend's place." "I thought you two were married." "I am. Do you boys want something to drink?" "Sure," I said. Ron declined. "So when is the guy supposed to be here?" Ron asked. Lisa looked at her watch. "Any minute." "So we're going to be shooting you and your boyfriend?" I asked, quick on my feet. She looked at Ron. Ron gave me an apologetic look. She turned back to me. "No, honey, my boyfriend would kill me if he knew I was doing this. He's an old-fashioned guy. We're only using Kevin's apartment because your friend," she hooked a thumb in Ron's direction, "is too cheap to spring for a hotel room." "Oh." "I can't do it at my house," she continued. "Because my husband is home with the kids...but I had a key to this place, so I figured, what the heck." "Where's your boyfriend now?" "Work. He's a night foreman. Doesn't get off till six in the morning, so we're safe till then." I looked at Ron. "We'll be out of here before that," he said. "So who's the guy then?" I asked. "I met him over the internet," she said. "Well, I haven't actually met him, met him." *** Ron and I sat on one of couches while Lisa went to the kitchen to get my drink. "Is Miller, okay?" she asked, handing me the bottle. "That's fine." I took a sip. It was nice and cold. Lisa sat down next to Ron and draped a hand over his thigh. She leaned into him and smiled, "So what have you told your friend about me?" Ron glanced at me. "Not much. I didn't think you wanted me to." She looked me up and down. The smile widened. She turned to Ron. "He looks pretty trustworthy to me." Her hand drifted to my leg and caressed my thigh. "So tell me, why are you here?" "I'm going to be taking the stills while Ron handles the video." "Is that the only reason you're here?" "And moral support, I guess." "Is that it?" I looked at her. "And because I'm curious." It was the truth. "Why are you here?" "That's easy," she said. "Because I always wanted to be a porn star." *** Married women don't film pornos in their boyfriends' apartments because they can help themselves. Or because they're careful. Lisa fascinated me. Everything about her fascinated me. We made small talk while she took her clothes off. She'd been married for eleven years. She worked for a bank. She dropped her blouse to the floor and unclasped her bra. She was a member of the Parent Teachers Association at her daughter's school. She drove a BMW S series. She kicked her skirt off and stepped out of her panties. She was a charter member of The Meals on Wheels program, an organization that brought food to local shut-ins. She talked about herself while she stripped. She sat down, naked, next to Ron and draped a thigh over his legs while she leaned back against the cushions. She was a real person with a real job and a real family. And she was also, by her own admission, from her very earliest recollection, a freak. "When I played with Barbies as a kid," she said, an evil smile spreading across her face. "Barbie loved taking her clothes off in front of Ken." "So you were always into this?" I asked. "It started in High School," she said. One hand drifted down between her legs. She spread them wide apart, revealing an open, glistening slit. She was shaved completely bare. She had no embarrassment at all. Her fingers began working circles. "By the time I graduated, I needed to come three times a day. Needed it." She closed her eyes now, letting her fingers work. When she spoke again, her voice was softer, almost a whisper. "I had boyfriends. I tried to be faithful in college, but there were parties, and alcohol, and guys hitting on me; and I found even when I told myself I wouldn't do anything, I still ended up fucking other guys. I'd get drunk and then some guy at a party would drag me into a dark room, and I just couldn't say no. When other guys heard about it, I got invited to a lot of parties." "How many guys did you fuck in college?" I asked. "I don't know, maybe thirty or forty." Her face scrunched. "No, it had to be more than that." She paused. "I was in school for five years, and there were parties two or three times a month. It had to be a lot more guys than that. It was so crazy." Her face lit up while she talked. "They'd just get me drunk and pile me into a room, all these bodies. Sometimes guy after guy, and that was my favorite. Usually I'd be too drunk to remember the details, just flashes, and I'd sit on the toilet the next morning, touching my sore pussy, trying to tell if it was full of cum, or if the guy had used a condom. Because I wasn't on birth control back then." "Weren't you worried about getting pregnant?" "I was terrified of it. That was the crazy thing. I'd sit in class the next morning and that's all I could think about, being pregnant. It scared me to death—but that didn't stop me. My parents are so religious. Sometimes I'd tell the guys to pull out. Sometimes they would and sometimes they wouldn't. And do you want to hear something fucked up?" "What?" "Those were the best orgasms I ever had. When they did that. When they came in me anyway. I'd almost pass out from coming so hard—like glass breaking, or something shattering inside me, I can't describe it." "Does your husband know?" "No. I started dating him around the time all this was happening. He was kinda shy, and kinda nice. He was a virgin and didn't really know what he was doing. I liked that." "So how did you end up married?" "I loved him. I mean, I do." She paused again, and her fingers slowed on her pussy. She looked at me. "He's what I wanted to be happy with. My parents liked him. I wasn't pregnant when we got engaged, either. I made the decision to marry him before I found out about being pregnant. To be honest, by then, after all those times in high school and college, I'd just assumed I couldn't have kids." She shrugged. "Some women just get pregnant easier than others, I guess." "So did you stop fucking other guys when you got engaged?" "I tried to. But there were slips. I can't work for a man I haven't fucked. I can't respect him." Just then, the doorbell rang. Lisa got up from the couch and walked naked to the door. She stood to the side and opened it slowly. "You must be John," she said. A voice from the hall answered. "Yeah, that's me." "Come on in," she said and led the man into the room. She introduced us. We shook hands like there wasn't a naked woman in the room. "Where should I put my coat?" the man asked. "Anywhere is fine. Over there, on the chair." John was medium height and build, mid-forties, with sandy hair and a trimmed mustache. His hair was thinning a little in the front, and when he took his jacket off I saw the beginnings of a paunch. If Lisa looked like a receptionist, this guy looked like somebody's high school algebra teacher. For all I knew, he was an algebra teacher. "You have a long drive?" Ron asked him. "I live in Chicago, so it was a drive. I would've been here sooner, but the traffic got bad around the state line." "Traffic's always bad on 294." I said. And the small talk went on. It was bizarre. We talked about all kinds of shit. The guy told us about his kids. I didn't want to know about his kids. I didn't want to hear about his wife's back surgery, or about his son's wrestling record in middle school. I think we were too nervous to start what we were really there for. Lisa was the one that got things rolling. While the guy talked about his job at an auto parts store (so he wasn't an algebra teacher after all), she dropped to her knees and unzipped his pants. She pulled out his flaccid cock and engulfed it with her mouth. He stopped talking. That had shut him up. "So Lisa told you what we're doing tonight?" Ron asked him. Lisa sucked. We were finally getting down to business. "Yeah, she said you needed a guy for filming." He put his hand on the top of Lisa's head. "That's right," Ron said. "I'll need you to sign a release." "That's fine. She told me you'd make sure the porn wasn't sold in Illinois, right?" "Yeah, there are regions I can avoid in distribution." "Okay, because I can't have anybody recognizing me around where I live." "No problem." I hoped for their sakes that Ron really had control over that. He'd talked about distributors to me, and he'd never mentioned being able to control where the porn was sold. Basically, Ron was going to try and sell the footage to a production studio he had contacts with. I guess it was possible they'd agree not to sell it in certain areas. Lisa and John moved to the couch. Ron wasted no time getting the camera out. John's cock didn't react well to all the commotion. It took him a few minutes to get hard. Lisa was on her knees sucking away while he lay back on the couch and closed his eyes. Ron got a real close-up, and Lisa played for the camera, running her tongue up and down the guy's shaft. He had an average dick. Or like my idea of what an average dick might look like. Around five or six inches, kind of on the skinny side. His balls were shaved, and she moved lower to suck on them. After a few minutes, she moved to the couch and he spread her legs and ate her. Hung though he may not have been, one thing the guy excelled at was eating pussy. I must admit, he seemed quite the enthusiast. Dove in and ate box like a champ. I snapped pictures from a dozen different angles. When he finally mounted her, he made one quick thrust, and he was balls deep, pushing into her in short, fast strokes. She moaned, and I clicked, and ray recorded, and it was all so fucking surreal, happening right in front me like that—this housewife from across town, and a stranger she'd just met whose name almost certainly wasn't John. John drove into her like a piston. Fast. Too fast. We should have seen it coming. In a few moments, he groaned, and his hips bucked. "I'm coming!" he shouted. He buried deep, ass clenching, emptying himself into her. Just how she likes, I thought. "Fuck, yes!" She locked her legs behind his ass, driving him deeper while he came. Finally, he collapsed on top of her. "What the fuck was that?" Rob asked. Lisa looked up at him. The guy just laid there and breathed. "I needed a money shot." "I can do it again in a few minutes." The guy said. He still hadn't moved. "Seriously," Rob said. "This footage is worthless without a come shot." "Just give me a few minutes." "No problem., how long are you going to need?" The guy sat up. "Like fifteen minutes." "Okay." Cum drooled from Lisa's open pussy. I closed the camera and turned it off. Lisa got us all beers and we watched the footage on the video camera's view finder. It was pretty decent footage. "I'd fuck me," Lisa said. Then came the small talk again. Fifteen minutes turned into twenty, turned into half an hour. The small talk was getting smaller and more threadbare. Lisa tried getting the ball rolling the same way she did before, but this time it didn't work. She sucked, but nothing happened. She took a break, and we all had another beer. I don't even remember what we talked about next. The fucking weather or something. It was as awkward as anything I'd ever seen. Lisa went down on the guy again and this time his dick actually shrank, I think, instead of getting longer. "I don't think I'm up for another round tonight, guys," he said. By the time he said it, it was obvious. Ron got him to sign the release, and then we shook hands, and the guy said his goodbyes. "Email me," was the last thing he said to Lisa before he walked out the door. She nodded and waved. "Fuck," Ron said when the door was closed. "We need a money shot." He turned to Lisa. "Is there anyone else we can get tonight?" "On camera?" she asked. "It's pretty short notice." "Fuck." "What about one of you two?" she asked, looking back and forth between us. "I'm up for it if you are?" I won't say the thought hadn't crossed my mind. "I've got to deal with the distributors" Ron said. "They think I'm a producer. It wouldn't be professional if I were actually in the film." She looked at him. "Besides that," he said. "I've got a small dick." I've heard funnier stuff in my life, but hearing my best friend bemoan the size of his cock to a naked woman ranks pretty far up there. Not that I hadn't heard him complain about his dick-size before—but I'd never heard him tell a woman. I'm pretty sure his feelings of inadequacy were unfounded. I'd seen him naked a time or two growing up, at the gym and such, and he'd seemed pretty normal to me, as far as that goes. "Besides that," Ron said. "My buddy here's the one with the big dick." He patted me on the shoulder. I almost choked on the last sip of my beer. Lisa looked at me. "Really?" "I don't know." I said. "How big is it?" "Pretty fucking big," Ron said. "I got tired hearing about it from girls back in school." "That was a long time ago," I said. "Let me see it," Lisa said to me. "Listen," I said. "I'm here to help film a porno, not be in one." "C'mon, you were born for this kind of shit," Ron said. "Let's see it." I was starting to sense a conspiracy. "I'm here to take pictures; there's no way I'm doing anything on film." "Shit." Lisa said. "I'm so fucking horny." She started rubbing her bare, sloppy pussy. "There's got to be something we could do." "I'm open to ideas," Ron said. "How about I go to a bar in the square and pick up a guy?" Lisa asked. 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)