Dirty Girls

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We were 19, less boyfriend-girlfriend than comrades who really liked fucking: a fag-and-dyke duo, Punch and Judy, but with less bickering and more butt play. We figured our sex was the queerest thing out there. With our shared high school histories of nerdy, frustrated virginity, he and I made it our duty to screw as often as possible. It was a great summer: hands in (his) panties at the park or plugging him behind his parents' building, feeling him bite down hard on my shoulder when my strap-on hit home, his nails tearing my skin. One can only fuck so much, though. I loved the dick-as-accessory, but all that thrusting gets a girl tired. "Well, I could just blow you," he suggested, eyeing the purple dildo. What the hell, I thought—he gets off, and I do less work. Most times we were brutal, cursing and daring each other. What I remember best, though, is our softness then—how he looked into my eyes while he ran his tongue up the shaft, how soft his cheek felt when I reached down for him. And his words afterward, delivered with a perfect shy-kid smile, "I like a girl who's well hung." Julia B.

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photo: Mayumi Lake/M.Y. Art Prospects

I desperately needed Christmas cash. Amber, my massage therapist friend, called with a "money-making opportunity." A slender redhead I fooled around with in college, she was no ordinary masseuse. She gave happy endings—a term I hadn't heard. I arrived at the tiny, candlelit apartment in Washington, D.C., but faltered when she instructed me to strip. Our client would arrive soon, she barked, ordering me to "use plenty of lotion."

He was a well-dressed man and one of Amber's best clients—fiftyish, lean, and graying. The massage itself barely cracked the PG-13 category, save for the dirty talk between me and Amber as we rubbed his legs, back, and shoulders.

When he turned over, I followed her lead, brushing him with my long hair. She grabbed my hands, but instead of placing them on her own lotion-drenched A cups, she fastened them to his modest-sized penis. Panic ensued. My amateur paws felt clammy. She watched me struggle before taking over, moaning as she stroked him to orgasm. After he left, she cupped my round, naked ass with her palms, then leaned in and handed me $200. Meghan McMahon

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Bunched panties, unopened champagne, an evening bag hemorrhaging lipstick, cigarettes, birthday cards. The cab of his truck was as we'd left it the night before, and in the woozy noonday light a particularly colorful tableau. We laughed at the mess we'd made—a perfect set piece for the giddy, swooning mood that led to our fucking in my driveway in the pickup's cramped interior instead of upstairs in bed. As we sat in the driveway the night before, the usual polite post-party exchanges ("I had a nice time." "Me, too") had given way to my straddling his lap. Conscious of my neighbors' proximity and weird nocturnal habits, I clamped his hand over my mouth as I came, careful, too, not to press back against the steering wheel and horn. Without leaving my body, he shifted around and on top of me so that I lay on my back across the bench seat, then raised my legs over his shoulders. My foot braced against the windshield. He fucked me and I fucked him back. When at last his body with a sigh melted into mine, we lay together silently in the suddenly foggy truck, breathless and shivery though neither of us was cold. What I could not remember the following morning was hitting the rearview mirror during our tryst, though I must have, because there it was, nestled among my personal effects. e.o.