It’s About Sex

You have to have a dream. That’s what Maureen says. My girlfriend, Maureen, she works at Sissy’s Hair on West Main. For a beauty shop that caters to girls with big hair, Sissy’s has some real professional clientele, you know what I mean? Women who don’t just want their hair and their fingernails done red, women who work in some high-powered law offices and dental offices and doctors offices, mind you. Maureen does their hair, and they don’t all want the teased and fluffed-up look. I swear, there was one woman came out of Sissy’s one day all dolled up and just as she walked out a bird pooped in her hair bigger than life, and she walked all the way down the street with that bird poop lodged in her teased-up hairstyle without knowing a thing. People were fair doubled over after she passed and she never knew it. At least that’s what Maureen says.

Anyway, this is about more than bird poop, by a long shot. This is about sex. Sex your mama never told you about when she finally acquiesced (that’s a word I learned from Maureen. Ringo Starr’s wife was named Maureen, too, at least his first wife, I learned that from reading Sixteen magazine when I was twelve, and she had one of those hairstyles that was teased up in the back and on the crown with those long sleek loose curls falling on her shoulders; I thought it was fab, anyway, and they called her “Mo,” which was very British) and told you that one and one makes two and if you go one-on-one with some boy in the backseat, it makes a baby and before you know it the whole world will be against you and you’ll be making your way alone in a trailer park with a baby on your hip living on Lipton’s Cup of Soup and bologna sandwiches with fake mayonnaise. That’s what your mama probably told you.

My mama told me that, too. She didn’t bother to tell me that sex was one of those exquisite (I learned that word from Maureen, too) experiences of life that will change your world and not just your waistline if you let go and give it all you’ve got. Mama must not have liked sex a whole lot or she would have told me it was fab. And when I look at Daddy I can see why. He ain’t a whole lot to look at and he always smells like gasoline and hot rod oil, and he don’t do a whole lot but come in at night and sit in front of the TV and watch shit like wrestling and baseball scores. I figure Mama didn’t do a whole lot to discourage that since she sat around all day on her ass watching Days of Our Lives and As the World Turns and the Young and the Restless and then busted it to clean up and cook some supper around four o’clock every afternoon. She ain’t young but she has always been restless, so I guess that’s why Daddy decides to chill the hell out when he gets home. Know what I mean?

And I understand the restless part, I really do. I mean, a girl living in a town like this has got to spread her wings and fly sometime. Maureen has never done it, but she talks about it all the time, and the reason she’s never done it is because she’s one of those girls who went one-on-one with some boy in the backseat of an old Dodge when she was in high school and wound up with a baby on her hip eatin’ Lipton’s Cup of Soup and bologna sandwiches with fake mayonnaise. But the difference is, Maureen has a dream. She does. She goes to hair shows in Atlanta and she hangs out with the gay elite (ain’t that a cool word, elite) who are not just stylists but hair designers and they give her a glass of wine and she bats those long eyelashes and they tell her she has the talent to break out of Montgomeryville and come to Atlanta and work one of these days. And she’ll do it. She may do it as soon as that baby gets big enough she can’t carry him on her hip anymore and she can put him in day school and go to work serious. Because Maureen ain’t nothin’ if she ain’t serious. She’s young, I know, much younger than I am, but I have learned a lot from her nonetheless.

But back to sex. I was smart. I had a doctor in Jefferson County put me on the Pill as soon as I was into the whole sex scene, and I have never regretted one minute of it. Let me tell you, it has freed me up more than anything else ever has. I mean, in this town, there is very little else to do. You can’t do it with every boy you like because then you get to be a real whore and you have to get an unlisted phone number, and all that mess. And unlisted phone numbers are a real pain because you can’t just give your number out to anyone.

No, you have to be discreet. And that’s a word I learned elsewhere than from Maureen. So, I hate to say it, but some of the guys I fool around with are married. Really married, with kids and stuff. But they are the best kind because they don’t call you all hours of the day and night to talk about shit you don’t really care about. They just want sex. Good sex. Hot sex. The kind that makes your toes curl up when you think about it and can’t tell anyone. The kind that makes you rub your legs together when you’re sittin’ at a traffic light and they pull up beside you and wink or lick their lips. You just rub yourself between your legs a little and go where you have to go and think about sex while you’re doing what you have to do. To me, that’s the best kind of sex. Sex that makes you free as the wind. Sex that makes you wait for it and don’t know when you’ll have it next and it’s always different.

Take Roy. Roy is a married lawyer. Maureen does his paralegal’s hair, and I don’t even know what the hell a paralegal does, but she despises Roy with a vengeance. That’s because Roy is a real lawyer and he has the mahogany shelves in his office and the big thick books on his mahogany shelves and he gets paid about a thousand times more than his paralegal does. But she has a pissy attitude, anyway, know what I mean? She’s one of these women who studies all the time and never gets anywhere with the men because for her, to put out a little bit means she has to give up a little bit of who she is. Well, let me tell you, Roy don’t get but a little bit of me and it puts him out cold. I mean, stone cold. And he’s a fine-lookin’ man, too, with a pretty little wife whose insides are as cold as a Hotpoint freezer. She has two little girls that don’t wear nothin’ but Tommy Hilfiger shit and if it don’t have a logo on it, they won’t put it on their prissy little asses.

Let me tell you, if you find a married man who ain’t gettin’ any, he will do anything, and I do mean anything. He’ll lick you up, down and sideways to bury that cock in a warm place, and I believe I could tie him up and cover him with honey and he’d lay there hard for three hours just to get a taste of what I’ve got between my legs.

Because, what I’ve got between my legs is nice. It’s wet and it’s sweet and it’s tasty. And it never does lack for attention or anything else. And Roy knows that. He also knows he can’t just have it any time he wants it, which makes it all the nicer. Once in a while he has to work late, and that means real late, and Miss Priss simply does not care. The longer it takes for him to get home, the happier she is.

Then there’s Colin. Colin is a doctor. He’s a gynecologist, to be specific, and you’d think after looking at every cunt in Montgomeryville, he’d want to just go home and go to bed. Not Colin. Colin’s wife is a high-maintenance woman who has to have her twice-a-month visit at some spa in Arizona, and that’s when Colin gets to indulge in his nicest fantasy: yours truly. You can tell by listening to Colin that he ain’t from around here, and I don’t really know what led him to practice medicine in Montgomeryville. Maybe they needed somebody in this town who knows what a pussy is for. Because if there’s a man who knows a pussy, it’s Colin. He has got the nicest, most gentle touch in the world ’til he makes direct contact with his tongue on my hot button and then he’s like a wild man. I think he plays the clarinet or some such instrument, to tell the truth. And the music he gets out of my sweet little instrument is like the angels singing. Or something fucking close to heaven.

Anyway, I go to him, but not to get my Pills. I go about every six months just to lie there and let him examine me with my legs open and my pretty little pink lips pushed up toward his face, and it just drives him crazy. If I go on a week when his wife isn’t in Arizona, he tells me he has a hard-on for days til he can sink his tongue into my cunt. And I don’t need any of that doctor’s office lube, let me tell you.

Last, but most definitely not least, is Justin. Justin owns the best restaurant in Montgomeryville, which means long hours but lots of luscious leftovers. His wife lets him have it often enough, but she’s a bitch to deal with the rest of the time. She is just not a pleasant person. He says doing her takes everything out of him because she wants it just this way or that way and it takes him hours to get her where she wants to be. And after she comes, she practically goes comatose and he’s left to work it out whatever way he can.

I have to tell you a secret about Justin. He’s got the biggest cock I have ever had in me. I mean, that thing has its own zip code, if you can imagine. If I was his wife, I’d be on that thing day and night, sucking and fucking the life out of it because it’s something that can’t possibly be ignored. And I may be kind of tight, because I have never had the displeasure of giving birth and carrying a fat baby on my hip, but I’ll make room for him any day of the week. Because not only is it big, he knows exactly what to do with it. He’s the most rhythmic (and I learned that word from Maureen, too) fucker I have ever fucked. When he gets it going on, and he’s in a rhythm, I know my whole body is moving with him. My breath is in sync with it, my tits are bouncing in time with it, and it must be a sight to behold. Justin tells me I scream when I come, but for the life of me I don’t remember it. All I remember is that after he comes, and he goes down, he’s bigger than any of my other lovers when they’re hard as a rock. I could get off with him inside me without him ever having a hard-on. And that’s the God’s honest truth.

It’s about sex, you know? The kind of sex you can’t have with a single guy who wants to stay overnight and let you make his breakfast in the morning. The kind of sex you can’t have if you want to have any kind of life of your own. If you do the whole sex scene with one of these single guys here in Montgomeryville, the next thing you know, they tell somebody and the whole town starts putting the two of you together, and they expect you to get engaged and everybody from Sue the gift shop owner to Bob the Jiffy Lube guy starts looking at you like you ought to have a rock on your finger and you need to start planning the wedding and have your bridal shower at the community room at the First Baptist Church.

I don’t need that. I don’t have time for that. You can’t do that kind of thing if you have a dream. And I’m working on one. I really am.

© 2002 by Jill. All rights reserved. No reprints or retransmissions without my permission, please.

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