The secret myopic, aforementioned in illustrious footnotes here and here , went on to flourish out several small victories in the native tongue spoken by most gay men and almost all girls with reputations: the Romance language with an Italian root: fellatio.
She both taught and was taught in this dialect, her syntaxes choppy and sometimes unsuccessful at first, but once her execution was purely hers, mastered with loads of practice, she was able to communicate effectively with even the most cunning of linguists* An early tutor, a purist and literal professor and coach, had a surname so wildly appropriate it brought a small (slightly embarrassed) smile to her face even at the tiniest thought of its idiom. The man’s surname was Forcum. For. Cum. Forcum. His first name is inconsequential. He certainly was for that second syllable: It was his modus operandi, his reason for putting one expensive running shoe clad foot out of bed every morning.
She had met him originally backstage during an outdoor production of Anything Goes!, that jazz age romp on a cruise ship by Cole Porter. He was a stage hand, she was a dancer, and thought him a putz. His gossamer-blond looks were in such contrast to her raven-dark hair and moods that a pairing wasn't considered by either party. A few years later their contrasting paths crossed again, somewhere outside again (a park? An alley?) And it was decided that the other party was just as hot as the other, and it was further decided that since they already knew each other in a friendly sense, that all foreplay could be on permanent furlough from that point forward.
Their relationship was simple: he would brag, she would buy fancy underwear. He would talk about his old girlfriend and what she wouldn’t do, and she smiled and vowed to do it. One squeamishly solemn evening, he got very mellow and nostalgic, taking her to his Eagle Scout final project: a bridge over a small creek. What was with her and Eagle Scouts? Their resourcefulness? Their hidden perversions, perhaps a parting gift from their scout leaders? Something about their self-assuredness set her weak in the knees; they could pitch a tent while pitching a tent in their khaki shorts, raising flags and skirts across this great young nation of ours.
After a brief tour around the small bridge, he who was for the release after erection took our girl’s hand and led it down to his rather sizable cock. He was so hard she could feel the veins pulsing through his shorts (yes, khaki). As she was with all new introductions, she was a mix of emotion: fear (what if it was disappointing? What if she couldn’t get him off?) anticipation (for she loved practicing her new and improved diction) and finally, most honestly, impatience. She knew that with most men (mainly boys) she'd been with the likelihood of this conversation being one-sided was high, usually once her monologue was delivered, with only a few interruptions of one-syllable replies, the discourse was done. She was left to smoke a few cigarettes, offer a consolatory closed mouth kiss and then listen for a few withering proclamations of hotness and “where’d ya learn to do that like that?” (answer: porn, duh) Her night was over except for a quiet whispered soliloquy in her small bed, until words finally failed her, and she was asleep.
But this Forcum fella, he was new. He insisted on telling her exactly how he felt about her, about his Eagle Scouthood, about his ex girlfriend, about sex, about how hard she made him…
About music, about trees, about college, about sports, about his cousins, aunts, uncles. He went on, and on, and on until she finally grabbed the back of his neck and pushed his face into her pussy. If she had to listen to ten thousand ruminations of random, she was going to get off first. Luckily, he was true to his name, and her arrival was quick. As soon as he lifted his head up from her lap, however, the conversation picked up from there. She smelled sweet and tasted sweet, her thighs were soft, they were very sexually compatible, and did she like the Barenaked Ladies? No? What about sports, did she like sports? Oh, well.
And again it went on for longer than she thought necessary, so she wrapped her long fingers around his hard on and went searching for his zipper. His cock popped out super-quick and glowed blue in the moonlight. Its length astonished her a bit, she knew she didn’t have a gag reflex by this point in her life, but that reflex would be tested with Mr. Forcum here. What else did she expect a man with a last name like that to have? Anything less would be a cruel joke from the Universe. Literally dripping in irony. As she slid her mouth up and then down, resting on the velvet softness of the head, flicking it with her tongue to watch it jerk of its own accord, he started up his commentary again. By this point she was really into her duties as sex kitten, so the words were muffled like morning announcements in grade school (almost incomprehensible). Finally, she could tell he was close (mainly because he kept telling her how close he was) and when he came into her throat, he uttered the worst thing anyone can possibly utter under any circumstances.
“You go, boy.”
He was speaking to himself. Not to her. Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, she stood up cheerily announced her intention to depart. He had driven them to this secluded spot a few towns over from where she lived, and unfortunately he had driven. Sitting in a brown Buick LeSable with a man named Forcum who had just growled, “You go, boy!” after she had sucked his (albeit very large and attractive) cock proved to be as excruciating as it sounds.
Since his assets were so admirable, she forced herself to endure several more similar evenings, mostly on trails of local state parks and nature centers, except for the last time she saw him. That evening she was back in the Buick LeSable, Barenaked Ladies quietly humming on the stereo (she was more of an Afghan Whigs girl…the relationship was doomed from the get-go - and the "You go, boy."), getting what she knew was her last taste of that fantastically velvet possession of his, when her upper thigh began to feel as though it was burning. Something about the size of a cigar was burning into that famously soft flesh of her thigh, but she was as usual a busy-busy little beaver, so she ignored the sensitivity. After he congratulated himself again on scoring this talented and attentive partner she allowed herself a look at her mystery wound.
This was summer, so she had a short dress on. When she was going down on him, the dress had ridden up past her waist. She noticed a perfectly circular red spot that was starting to throb like a finger burnt on a skillet right in the center of her upper thigh. Looking over at Forcum, whose eyes were closed and was muttering to himself in a stupor, she suddenly heard the distinct POP*CLICK sound of a car lighter exiting its mechanism. Her thigh had been pressed against the car lighter for the seven minutes it had taken for him to reach wordy Nirvana and had burned a hole in her skin.
That’s honestly all I've got in me for this tale, it's extremely late and just thinking about the talkativeness, the burn, and the name makes me want to go into the silent skete of sleep. The. End. And no, I never saw him again. Was there a scar from the burn? Present tense: there IS a scar.
*The author wishes to ask your forgiveness for that horribly juvenile faux Piers Anthony – like pun. She couldn’t resist.