Late summer is the height of the harvest when the summer crops like nectarines, green beans and melons are still sweet, and the fall vegetables such as grapes, tomatoes, peppers and even early apples are piled high in the greengrocer's to tempt our palates. This golden abundance is one of life's pleasures, and I'm happy to say my harvest of erotica anthologies this season is equally delicious. Today I'm going to give you a sneak peek of one of my sentimental favorite stories--no doubt because it's about another randy academic--that appears in Rachel Kramer Bussel's marvelous Fast Girls anthology. The quality of stories in this book is extremely high, not a bad apple in the basket--and you know how picky I am about my fruit! Rachel has made a sexy book trailer for Fast Girls, which you can see here, and you can also follow the blog tour which makes a stop at Emerald's Green Light District on August 30. That's where you'll find me come the end of the month with a juicy peach in one hand, a sweet tomato in the other.
And now an excerpt from "Waxing Eloquent":
This wasn’t the way it was supposed to be. I wasn’t planning to fuck anyone during the two weeks I was house sitting at my brother’s condo in Manhattan Beach. And the only hair removal on the schedule was to figure out how to yank my bearded—and very married—boyfriend out of my life for good.
Unfortunately, the plan started going wrong about an hour after my brother and his fiancée left to catch their flight to Barcelona. I was surfing on my laptop in Mike’s airy kitchen when an email from my advisor, Professor Connors, popped up in my in-box.
He wanted to know if I’d arrived safely. This was a perfectly collegial question, except that he tacked on a little P.S. asking me what I was wearing. Was it that filmy dress that showed off my sweet little raspberry nipples?
I was just about to type back: Don’t forget I’m in L.A so I’m wearing a string bikini. My thong’s pressing up into my tender slit like a man’s finger, and I’m so worked up, I’m juicing all over my brother’s chair….
Fortunately, at the last minute I had the good sense to shut down the computer instead, but I was still trembling like a junkie. It was so fucked up, and yet I couldn’t resist him. Carl Connors had taken an interest in my intellectual development from the day I started grad school last fall. The bond was purely platonic. Except when we “lost our heads.”
We lost our heads in the grove behind the library--and I lost my panties somewhere in the leaves when he took me up against a tree after an evening lecture on “The Fluidity of Gender in Internet Chat Rooms.”
We lost our heads on the way back from a conference in San Jose after he confessed he’d never fucked a woman in the ass. We both agreed it was a necessity for his career that he grease up his cock with Vaseline from Seven-Eleven and shoot his load in my backdoor in a cheap motel room that very afternoon.
That doesn’t even include the day asked me to stop by his office to show off the sex toys he collected from the woman-friendly vibrator store on San Pablo. It seemed like research at the time, to let him bend me over his desk, a pink butt plug in one hole, a purple dildo in the other, while he buzzed my clit to multiple orgasms with a battery-powered silver egg. But, to be honest, afterwards I felt a little used and empty.
Part of the reason I’d jumped at my brother’s offer, even though I hate the L.A. beach scene, was to find my head and glue it on good.
Of course, Carl and I had decided that the cyber-sex part didn’t really count as cheating on his wife. Our habit of exchanging sexually explicit messages was merely an extension of our common fascination with the construction of gender and eroticism in the Internet age. But here, under the relentless L.A. sun, it was painfully obvious that all my professor and I were doing was preparing for second careers as porn writers.
This vacation was definitely time for a fresh start. From now on, I’d only share my body—and my words—with a lover who could be open and honest with me and himself. I decided I should mark the occasion with a proper ritual, something very L.A. Maybe a spa purification treatment involving avocado pulp?
Suddenly an earthy female laugh roused me from my saintly musings. I glanced across the courtyard that separated Mike’s house from its neighbor to see a tall, good-looking couple in beach wear groping each other outside their patio door. Actually, the slinky red-haired woman in the thong bikini was doing the grabbing. Muscle Boy was mostly trying, unsuccessfully, to fend her off.
“Come on, Cody, let me suck it here.”
“Cool it, Jess, we’ll be inside in a minute.”
“You might be saying ‘no’ up there, but down here you’re saying ‘yes, yes, yes’!” She giggled again and I wondered if she was drunk or high.
He finally got the door unlocked and she pushed him inside, still laughing. The guy shot a quick look across the courtyard. I almost ducked, but he didn’t seem to see me, because his expression was blank as he slid the glass door closed and let the redhead back him up against the wall that separated the living room from the galley kitchen.
It occurred to me that I’d merely switched perversions, from Internet sex addict to salacious voyeur, but I couldn’t stop staring. The woman fell to her knees and yanked the man’s swim trunks down to reveal a rather impressive baton that seemed to wave hello to its kneeling admirer. She grabbed his erection in one hand and leaned forward, her tongue extended like a brat on the playground. The guy looked down at her, his face shadowed, unreadable. She gave the head of his cock a few quick licks, then immediately gobbled him up in her mouth as if she were starving. Given her 100% fat-free figure, she probably was. That’s when his head lolled back and I could see his handsome face. But the expression was strange, less ecstasy than a grimace of resignation.
It was the saddest blowjob I’d ever seen.
I slipped out of my chair and crept up the stairs to the bedroom, aroused and disturbed at the same time. I remembered Mike had mentioned his new neighbor: a struggling actor who finally scored a supporting role in a popular series. The show was called “Family Secrets,” a comedy about a gay man and his whacky family. The neighbor played the straight brother who was always falling into bed with a new woman to prove his heterosexuality. Apparently this Cody Cheyenne was now much in demand, and Mike guessed he’d be moving up the coast to a better place soon.
If the scene outside the window was any indication, the poor guy was getting sucked dry both on the job and off.
I flopped down on the bed, still reeling from the X-rated reality TV show I’d just witnessed. Maybe this was the L.A. ritual I’d wanted, my own wake-up call to renounce pathetic, meaningless sex?
So then why was I all tingly down there, my mouth and fingers itching to make that pretty boy sing a different tune? Without really thinking, I slipped my hand between my legs and imagined I was on my knees sucking his strawberry Popsicle cock, raking his muscled belly with my fingertips. All the while he moaned and babbled I was the best cocksucker ever, a veritable goddess of fellatio. Sure, I felt a little guilty diddling myself to thoughts of my brother’s neighbor, but Professor Carl was always saying that celebrity fantasies were a safe way to work out our complex sexual desires. Millions of young women masturbated while dreaming about Cody Cheyenne. One more couldn’t hurt anybody.
To read on and learn about Brazilian waxes (based on real experience--ouch!), fast L.A. sex and how to seduce a T.V. star with tricks of the tongue, get your own copy of Fast Girls. Believe me, you're in for a very speedy ride!