Amateur Porn
Sometimes we let the kids stay up a little past their normal bedtime and watch TV with us. I’m in my chair with Jane in my lap. Alyna and Andy are on the couch and we’re watching American Idol, which only Alyna gives a shit about. We’re at the point in the season when the only real hot chick they had on the show has been voted off, and it’s down to a few closeted gay guys and a brain-dead country bumpkin who always sings about Jesus and America. I’m sure he’ll win for these reasons.
I look over at Alyna and Andy. He’s sitting in her lap and she’s stroking his hair. He’s absolutely soothed. There’s no place in the world he’d rather be than right there in his mom’s lap in this moment. She’s a good fucking mom, and I realize that maybe the cost of having a good mom for your kids is losing the person you loved, losing the person you fucked, losing the person who still wants to fuck you. I wonder if it’s just a phase for her. I wonder if, when the kids get older, she won’t revert to her old self again. I think of the girl I used to think about when I jerked off, and I wonder if I’ll ever get her back.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I take it out and see that I have a new message from Holly. I’m reluctant to open it while every member of my family is sitting within ten feet of me, but the little shot of adrenaline I get every time I see she’s sent me a text message is too much to deny and I open it. It’s a picture of her ass and pussy, basically a POV shot as though the camera is my face and she’s sitting on it. The accompanying text reads, “I hope you like the picture as much as the real thing.”
I quickly look over at Alyna to make sure she’s not watching me. She’s not. Jane still seems too young to know what the fuck is going on with anything, and she didn’t see it anyway.
I bring the phone up close to my face so I can really study the photo. It’s even more perfect than I remember, and all I can think about is when I can have it in my face again. I imagine that this feeling I have, this all-consuming, burning desire to fuck her again, to bury my face in her pussy again, to just feel her again, is similar to what a heroin addict must feel.
I text her back a message that reads, “I could never like anything more than the real thing, but keep sending me pictures. This is so hot.”
Over the course of the final fifteen minutes of American Idol, Holly sends me a picture of her fingering herself, a picture of her fingering her asshole, a picture of her tits, a picture of her sliding the back end of a toothbrush up her asshole while she fingers her pussy, a picture of her watching porn on her computer and fingering herself, and eventually a picture of her fingers glistening with pussy juice and a text that reads, “I came thinking about you fucking me in the ass. More when I get horny again.”
I turn my phone’s screen off and set it on the ground next to my chair. Then, in a moment of paranoia I think it’s actually a better idea to slide the phone under my chair as I wonder if it’s completely deplorable that I just thought about fucking a twenty-one-year-old girl in every hole while my two-year-old daughter was sitting in my lap. I rationalize that it’s probably happened a million times and it’s not that big a deal unless Jane were ever to find out, which she won’t, so fuck it. Doesn’t matter.