After work, I had no energy for the gym. I chewed two pieces of nicotine gum at once and went anyway. When I changed into my workout clothes, I discovered that my spandex shorts were now so tight they gave me cameltoe—chronic cameltoe. Every time I fixed the toe, it emerged again, somehow deeper.
On the elliptical machine, I let the shorts rub against me, feeling horny. It was some new kind of horniness, or maybe a very old kind, raw lust, like when I first discovered masturbation and indulged in it daily. The horniness felt like hunger itself. I was fully famished, and I didn’t know whether it was food or sex I wanted. Maybe I wanted both. All of this eating seemed to have made me more sexually charged, awake. But what was waking up, exactly: my pussy or my soul? I was scared of my soul. What if my soul was monstrous? If a person had a monstrous soul, should she still follow it?
I switched to the stationary bike. As I pedaled, my pussy rubbed against the black leather seat, and I felt a delicious warmth spread throughout my pelvis. The front of the bike seat was horn-shaped. It poked out in front of me like a cock. I took to this right away, having my own thick cock. I wanted to make the cock come alive, to say a blessing over it—Frankencock!—a bike-seat dick. I began reciting quietly any Hebrew I could remember.
“Nun, gimmel, hay, shin, nun, gimmel, hay, shin,” I whispered, intoning the letters on the dreidel to the rhythm of my pedaling.
“Oseh shalom bimromav, hu ya’aseh shalom aleinu,” I sang to myself, using the old tune I knew. But I felt guilty using my grandmother’s favorite song to animate a penis.
Etz chayim hi lamachazikim ba, vetomecheha me’ushar! I crooned internally, delivering a captivating performance of the tree of life song.
Suddenly, I felt incredibly powerful—as though my cock were really coming alive. I imagined, as I pedaled, that Ana was sucking me. For the first time, I felt no hesitance in fantasizing about her sexually. It was as though the cock protected me from judgment.
I had total power over Ana. She looked up at me as I teased her face. She begged me to let her lick it. When I finally let her have it, grunting, “All right, suck,” I acted like I was doing her a favor. She licked and sucked me, and I felt stimulated by two things: her mouth and my newfound dominance. I felt like another kind of creature altogether—some new being I had invoked. If I was a woman, I was not me as I’d known myself, but a woman with more courage than I thought I’d had. I was a woman of impulse, a woman of instinct. I was a woman of pleasure and a woman of confidence. I was a woman of appetites, a growling beast. I was a person.
I continued to pedal, closing my eyes, rubbing against the seat. I imagined Ana sliding my cock between her tits, rubbing me on her nipples, gasping, as though she could come from that contact alone. It was like her nipples were two clits. I whipped her nipples with my dick, then whipped her face with it. Her expression grew serious, ardent. She begged me to put it inside her.
At this point in the fantasy, I hit something of a choose-your-own-adventure. One choice was to lick her pussy. I wanted to taste her so badly. Another was to deprive her. I didn’t want to give her any help in getting wet. I wanted to know that her wetness was effortless, spontaneous, a reaction to the sight and feel of me. I wanted her to be so intoxicated by my presence that she became a river.
In the end, I went with option A: lick it. Why should I rob myself of the taste of her elixir? I ate her dripping-wet pussy, ate it good, but I kept my reaction very self-contained. No reason for her to know how much pleasure it gave me. On the outside, I was a haughty daughter, then an impenetrable soldier just doing her job gruffly. But on the inside, I reveled in Ana’s taste: coppery, like a shipwrecked chalice at the bottom of the ocean.
Now she was crying for my cock. I decided that I would fuck her from behind. I turned her around and bit her gently on the ass, which was ample but saggy with age. The sagginess turned me on even more. I massaged her ass cheeks, opened them like a book, and aimed straight for her pussy hole (a lovely shade of purple: seedless grape). I parked my cock right there at the entrance. She moaned, but not out of pain.
“Please,” she said. “Please.”
When I felt she had begged long enough, I activated Frankencock. She groaned with delight and began moving back and forth on the length of me, so that I barely had to thrust. But I wanted to thrust. I grabbed her hips and steadied her.
“Stop fucking moving,” I said.
Then I used the power of my own hips to thrust deeper into her.
I could go as long as I wanted. But while my phantom cock was made out of a seat, I could still feel all the pleasure in my organ. I felt a surge of tenderness for her as I came.
Do not go there, I said to myself. No heart.
I rode out the orgasm with the pleasure between my legs alone. It felt so good that I gave a little yelp out loud.
I looked over at the man on the bike to my right. He was an older man, maybe seventy, with white hair. He had headphones on and seemed totally absorbed in what he was listening to. I got the feeling it was an audiobook, David Baldacci or Clive Cussler.
I laughed and closed my eyes again. Then I pedaled out the last waves of my orgasm.