Dirty Girls

Reality is the best fantasy for females of all persuasions

Our call for raunchy, true-life adventures to grace this special issue yielded lots of juicy material, nearly all of it from women. Below you'll find the cream, as it were, of the crop. Elizabeth Zimmer


Double penetration isn't as easy as it looks. Porno is graceful: Dick slips in back, dick slips in front. Woman, pinned by two throbbing, amply long rods, moans her way to a climax. The men leave her ass and cunt dripping with their own wet cream pies.

photo: Mayumi Lake/M.Y. Art Prospects

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  • Months of working myself into a frenzy jiggling a lubed-up butt plug against the back wall of my cunt (itself filled with a vibrator) have made the fantasy pervasive. Thrusting in my ass during regular cunt duty alone brings lightning bolt highs, beyond the clitoral shiver of thighs and inner gush. Yes, cymbals do crash, and body-wide convulsions rise to a sudden peak. Imagine how it might feel with live ones!

    With my perfect Mister, a gay-leaning, pussy-licking macho man, the fantasy was in my lap. The problem: reality. Movies feature three in natural sync. Coordinated, tidy, everyone gets off. In real life, being the female cog in two threesomes, I've seen knees tire and hard-ons wane, and have myself become rawer than I ever allow otherwise, just to reach this elusive mecca. The first time, the man pounding my ass and I both came: too soon, it turned out. The other guy got so carried away watching he didn't get my not-so-subtle signals to join in, which at that rate would've required him to scramble underneath me, feetfirst, from the direction of my and ass-boy's heads.

    The next night, my partner was ready on the bottom, but once I was thrusting on top of him, with the guy in my ass going in an entirely different direction, underneath man sort of just stayed soft. The condom, of course, was too tight.

    Lust can dissolve quickly. In such a purely mechanical ordeal, DP becomes the grail, and the task is defined by the journey. I did get to feel that earth-moving orgasm the second night, but in the weirdest position: missionary. Lyn Lloyd



    photo: Mayumi Lake/M.Y. Art Prospects
    I wondered how people had the audacity to have sex in a movie theater, until I became one of them. The film was Garden State, and the theater was scarcely occupied. My girlfriend and I sat toward the back, where the rows ascend into stadium seating. Mid-movie, I started teasing her, licking her neck and biting her lips. As discreetly as I could, I ran my finger from her nipples to her pussy, which was quite wet. Her heavy breathing as I fingered her got me excited; we jumped over our seats to the floor of the row behind us. I found myself writhing on my back, skirt lifted, with my girlfriend's head between my legs. Did I mention she has lips like Angelina Jolie's? I had to bite my own hand to keep from squealing. After I came, we scrambled back to our seats. At that moment, a man walked by; I couldn't tell if he'd glimpsed our dirty deed. But the orgasm was well worth it, even if he did. Needless to say, we missed a good chunk of the movie. Every time someone asks us if we enjoyed Garden State, we hold back our mischievous grins as best we can. Becky Sue


    Though I should know better, I often find myself without condoms. Sometimes this problem leads to unexpectedly pleasant results. One time, I was in L.A., and neither my boyfriend nor I had protection. Instead of getting upset, we used the sex toys I'd brought with me. He handcuffed me to the bed, and while I lay on my stomach with a vibrator pressed against my clit, he pushed a butt plug into my ass, then spanked me with the hard side of a leopard-print-fur paddle. When I'd get very aroused and the plug would threaten to slip out, he'd simply paddle it back in. We turned a potentially frustrating situation into something hot. Rachel Kramer Bussel


    Eating pussy in Zimbabwe had gone from taboo to illegal for me—the president had even called gays "worse than pigs and dogs." My lover was maddening in her intensity, but equally compelling. We lifted our skirts for each other, as subtly as possible, often in alleyways. Eventually we rented rooms, as "traveling buddies." I devoured her, each time in a different way, and each time I was unsuccessful in muffling her moans. For safety we fled from one crappy motel to the next. I can't remember most, just the questionable sheets and smell of double vagina. We snuck in. We'd bring food and hole up for the day. Once, on the way there, a street vendor sold me the biggest papaya I'd ever seen. It was football-sized but twice as soft. I split the papaya wide like I spread her legs and gorged on her fruited pussy until I was bloated. Half a papaya later, she got up and licked my entire body clean. We ate the whole thing that night and shit papaya, actual papaya, the entire next morning. Neena



    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


    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


    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.



    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


    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.

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