Dirty Girls

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

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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.

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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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