Dirty Girls

Reality is the best fantasy for females of all persuasions

photo: Mayumi Lake/M.Y. Art Prospects
My first college roommate, JoJo, was a butch seductress who lured naive girls into our tiny room. Her first victim, Maria, helped her transform her side of the room into a nasty love nest. They moved her mattress to the floor (to silence the rocking) and surrounded it with our wobbly bookshelves (for privacy), keeping her illegal pet goldfish atop them. I grew to love the polite fish; he silently blew bubbles while JoJo blew pussies. At three a.m. on the day classes commenced, the sucking and moaning, licking and giggling of the girls intensified. I shouted an angry obscenity into the darkness. Immediately, sheets rustled, knees knocked; then, a huge crash. I shot out of bed, thinking only of my new friend, now floundering on shattered glass. Two naked, sweaty, lubed-up bodies collided under the halogen glare. They yelped for their glasses and grasped each other's breasts blindly. I rescued the fish and we collapsed into awkward hysterics. I glanced at my desk; wet gravel sprawled across my new laptop. It lay in ruins, but JoJo sighed and assured me the destruction was worth it. Katie Clancy

photo: Mayumi Lake/M.Y. Art Prospects


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  • New York City college kids fuck efficiently. Forty-eight-hour study sessions for final exams make us delirious; celebration cocktails at a wild Frenchman's dinner party make us horny; subway delays, snow flurries, and impending flights out of the city heighten our anxiety: a perfect recipe for end-of-semester speed sex. My Mexican lover waits in the lobby as I pop in a premeditated "sex mix" and dim the lights in the room. I unbuckle his belt and tease his nipples in the elevator; he responds with rapid Spanish dirty talk. He works his quick fingers inside me as we move to the grimy, glaring bathroom. We lick each other with firm tongues under the persistent pressure of the showerhead. Soon I am moaning and bent over the sink. We make eye contact for a second in the steamy mirror, and I sigh for what will be our last meeting. Finals have ended; so has his visa. I ride him like a stubborn steer, and we climax with clenched fingers and teeth. I smoke a cigarette and he recites a haiku. Exactly 20 minutes after arriving, he disappears down Third Avenue. Jolene

    When you masturbate on a regular basis, you have to get creative. I did it in school by squeezing my thighs together tightly and concentrating on achieving an orgasm. When it finally happened, I had to remain composed among my unsuspecting classmates. One day I decided to do my exercise regimen naked so that when I finished I could just jump in the shower. I lay on my back, rested my head in the cradle of the crunch machine, spread my legs apart, and began to count. "One, two three . . . " As I went up and down my vaginal lips pressed together and separated. The room grew extremely hot. When I hit 30 crunches I imploded with such energy that my entire body tingled. If this isn't motivation to work out, I don't know what is. Sakir

    Work romances are always the most intense. You can cultivate feelings for your co-workers, whether romantic or purely sexual. Lewis and I worked the closing shift frequently, so our relationship went from flirty wordplay to fondling in the stockroom. One day we were behind the cash wrap, and I had the bright idea of giving him a hand job on the sales floor. So as to not tip off any of the customers, I measured, from the front of the store, how close a customer could actually get to the cash wrap without detecting what we were doing. As I pulled down his zipper he was already hard with anticipation. I began to stroke. An unsuspecting customer entered the store and I greeted her from the cash wrap without slowing down the tempo. Lewis was so fired up that it wasn't hard for him to orgasm, and I wasn't stopping either. As soon as I finished I ran to the bathroom, leaving him helpless on the sales floor with the hard-on and the customer. Sakir

    Stumbled in post-drunk New Year's; somehow I ended up in stays. Must have been graceful, getting in the corset. It was tight, how I like it, and when he fucked me from the back it felt like all the air was leaving my body. His hands gripped my back and sides, fingers tangled in laces, pulling them tighter and pushing my ribs, my heart harder as my breasts squeezed against my chest. His hand on my back pushed my torso down over the bed, the other pulling my hair—the same hands that later loosened the laces just enough to let me sleep. Morning a tangle of laces, hair, and fingers with tiny rope burns—vanilla that time, in lazy daylight. C. Dagmar

    photo: Mayumi Lake/M.Y. Art Prospects
    My penchant for narrow spaces began with stairwells. Collegiate circumstances bound me to hooking up in odd nooks and crannies; stairwells became the nook of choice. Corners behind doors seemed made for braced arms; legs could be thrust against opposite walls; stairs allowed all sorts of high-low posi tions. Ridiculously prolonged, unconsummated gropings or rapid-fire fucks were all enhanced in tight quarters. Closets; clefts in rocky, oceanside cliffs; and niches in cellars did just as well. Scents of warmth and sweat stayed close. Small spaces amplified sounds deliciously. Muscles in our flanks and bellies quivered with the pressure of pushing against the surroundings and each other. When men arched their backs against a wall, cum would jet harder and faster into my mouth. Even tastes seemed stronger. Imagine my luck—I found an apartment with a long, narrow corridor, the very width of my outstretched arms. Some people never made it any further than this hallway. Juniper Stevens
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