When I finished my shift in the cab, it was 5:30 in the morning. The sun had not yet pierced the horizon over Brooklyn, and air traffic was already piling up into LaGuardia as I pulled into Taxicab Central. By the time I gassed up and paid rental on the vehicle, I had eighty dollars and some change in my pocket; enough at this rate to pay the rent or eat for the rest of the month, but not both. I peed, handed the cab off to Omar, and took the F train home, feeling blurry and stretched thin.
I was running a little late, so by the time I got home I just had time to shower and shave and check my email before my show. I get a ton of email: most of it complimentary, and most of it from horny gay dudes; but I also get a fair amount from girls, and those are the emails that give me the most pleasure.
Sometimes women send me pictures of themselves (or purporting to be of themselves, this is the internet after all). Sometimes they ask me to come on their pictures in my show, and I always oblige them. The weirdest one I ever got was a girl who asked for my address so she could send me a pair of her panties. She wanted me to come on the crotch, and mail them back to her so she could wear them around with my come-stain pressed against her pussy. I gave her my mailing address (she lived in Oregon, and I didn’t use my full name, so I guess I figured no harm could come of it), and sure enough a week later, I received a little black pair of size 7 string bikini panties, along with a padded return-addressed envelope.
I obliged her. At the end of my show that day, I wrapped those panties around my cock and pumped myself hard, riding them straight into long-delayed bliss, and squirting my sticky white come all over the crotch. I put them, still wet, into the SASE, and dropped it into a mailbox.
It’s kind of funny to think about some girl out in Oregon wearing those dirty panties, walking around with my dried-out come pressed up against her pussy. Maybe she masturbates through them, or sniffs them while watching my show. Or maybe it’s just some weird dude with feminine handwriting, wearing them on his head and jerking off. Who knows.
After I checked my email (there were some nice compliments about the previous week’s show, and one nice picture of what some girl said were her own sticky fingers after enjoying my performance) I adjusted the lights and turned on the webcam.
There is a little counter in the bottom-left of my screen that tells me how many people are tuned into my channel at any given time. When I started doing my show, almost a year ago now, I rarely ever broke through the two-digit barrier. This morning I was already up in the low hundreds, and I hadn’t even gotten naked yet. I wish there were some way I could parlay this into some extra income for myself; but there is no way -no way- that anyone is going to pay to watch some rotund twenty-something guy jerk off.
I undressed for the camera; certainly not a strip-tease, but definitely taking my time about it, playfully getting naked. I don’t always. Sometimes I’m a tease, sometimes I do the whole show, start to finish, fully dressed. I’ve even come inside my pants before. I got a ton of emails about that one!
After I was completely naked, I stretched and lay down on my bed, ignoring the camera. I tweaked my nipples with my thumb, yawned, and warmed up some lube in my hands, spreading it all over my fingers, and my still soft penis. It’s funny, I’ve been jerking off for years and years of course, but it’s only since I started doing my show that I’ve really gotten creative about it, started paying attention to what I’m doing, trying different things, and really enjoying masturbation.
I fished out a small lipstick vibrator from my toy box and lounged on the bed, dragging the buzzing little toy lazily around my body: stimulating my nipples and the tip of my tongue, then along my sternum and down my belly, up and down my not-quite-so-soft penis, around my floppy balls, raising one leg and running the vibrator across my perineum, very briefly stimulating my asshole with the buzzing tip, and then back up the way it had come, back up to my penis, which was now, if not exactly erect, thick and floppy. It felt nice. A tiny pearl of pre-come had formed at the tip, which I plucked with one fingertip and brought to my lips.
I’d had this one fare last night, about one in the morning, and I thought about her as I played. She was about my age, more or less, a petite little pixie of a girl with dark hair and big sticky-out ears. She kind of reminded me of a muppet. She said her name was Heather. She’d just gotten off work, and she’d wrecked her bike; the front wheel was folded over like a taco. Between the two of us, we wrestled the bicycle into the trunk of my cab, and I took her home to her place in East Williamsburg. Normally I barely ever talk to my fares, but Heather and I chatted the whole way home. She is a waitress, but she wants to be a writer, and she is working on a novel. She rides her bike everywhere. She’s lived in the city almost two years, and she doesn’t have a boyfriend. She wore a stretchy black t-shirt, and I wondered self-consciously if she could see me checking out her boobs in the rear-view. They were on the small side, and exceedingly cute.
I thought seriously about asking her out; I probably should have asked her out, but the fact of the matter is I’m too damn shy. I dropped her off at her apartment building, helped her get her damaged bike out of the trunk, and watched her carry it up the steps and through her front door. She had a sassy little ass that wiggled as she walked, and just before she went inside, she turned and waved at me.
Back on the bed in my own apartment, live and streaming, my cock was now fully erect, glistening with moist lube. The head was sharply defined, like a storm trooper’s helmet, and it seemed to strain up and out. I like to think I have an attractive penis, even if it isn’t the biggest thing ever.
I set the little vibrator aside, and fished my brand-new anal beads out of the toy box. There are twelve beads on the string, about two feet long, each bead the size of a large marble. I rolled over onto my tummy and, with the aid of more lube, I began the process of inserting the beads up my ass.
It’s kind of funny: these days I spend almost all my “disposable” income on sex toys, something that would have been unimaginable only a year ago. Live and learn…
I was kicking myself for not asking for Heather’s phone number or email. We even like the same kind of music: we’re indie rock geeks. She told me the name of the restaurant she works at; maybe I should swing by there tomorrow night. If her bike’s not fixed yet, maybe I could offer her a ride home.
I got the last bead stuffed up my ass. I felt pleasantly full and stretched taut and naughty. I got up on all fours, my stiff cock hanging down below my gut, and started moving my wet hands up and down my penis. I snuck a peek over at the counter on my computer monitor: at that moment just over a thousand people were watching me jerk off.
For the next ten or fifteen minutes, I delighted in teasing myself. I stroked myself slowly, softly, using my whole hand, or just my index finger up and down my length. I alternated hands; I cupped and squeezed my balls. I pinched my nipples, pulling hard and twisting. I licked my fingers and petted my cock, which was practically quivering with pent-up desire. Finally, I rolled over onto my back, squirting copious amounts of lube all over my dick and hands. My cock stuck eagerly up in the air, like some weird, horny toadstool.
My entire being ached for orgasm at this point, and still I continued to tease myself. I was moaning softly, more or less continuously, giving myself over to the sexiness of it. I never used to make noise when I masturbated; lately I’ve discovered that it magnifies the intensity of the sensations. Now I’m not even self-conscious about it: I let myself make whatever noises I feel like when I’m turned on. My ass felt full to overflowing with the anal beads, and they seemed to squirm around inside me like a nest of snakes. I gripped my penis with just my thumb and forefinger, forcing myself to hover agonizingly on the very edge of release.
I lifted one leg straight up in the air, turning slightly so I was directly facing the camera. One hand reached around my back, finding the little ring at the end of the string. My other hand wrapped firmly around my over-eager cock, barely restraining it from galloping away.
With agonizing deliberateness, I pulled the string, slowly removing the fat beads from my ass. Each time one passed through my puckered asshole, my entire body received a blissful jolt of pleasure. I pulled harder, faster, pop, pop, pop, at the same time increasing the speed of the hand sliding up and down my slick, wet cock. I felt myself slide inexorably past that delicious brink of no return. I heard my moans increase in volume and desperateness, becoming the roar of an oncoming freight train.
As the last beads popped out of my hyper-stimulated asshole, my hand was a virtual blur on my cock. My back arched and my body clenched, and I came, hard, squirting come all the way up my belly onto my chest. A few drops flew all the way up to my face, catching me on the chin. My body shook with pleasure as I came and came, pumping slippery white come all over my torso. It went on and on, like rolling summer thunder. I rode it like a surfer, enjoying the wave as it crashed and tumbled, rising again and breaking, slowly subsiding.
Finally, I resumed breathing. I let my spent cock flop down against my thigh. Smiling for the camera, I scooped up a glob of come and brought it to my lips, carefully sucking my finger clean. I don’t mind the taste really, it kind of reminds me of yeasty wet bread dough. Actually I find it curiously sexy.
With my finger, I spread the slippery pool of semen up and down my chest and belly. Once more I licked my finger. I smiled sleepily at the camera, and finally signed off. I was ready for another quick, hot shower, and then bed.
Maybe I’ll swing by Heather’s restaurant before my shift. Maybe I’ll sit at one of her tables. Maybe it won’t be busy and she’ll have time to sit down and chat with me for a while. Maybe I’ll ask her out. Maybe she’ll look at me intensely, head cocked to one side, arms folded under her small, pert breasts. Maybe she’ll ask me if we’ve met anywhere before, if we have friends in common or went to college together or something. I’ll tell her ‘no, I don’t think so’, and then maybe she’ll say “I know what it is! I know you from the internet! I watch your show every week. I’m a huge fan, I never miss a performance!”
Maybe she’ll agree to go out with me. Maybe I’ll drive my entire shift with her phone number in my pocket, an unquenchable erection in my pants. Maybe we’ll go out for dinner, and have a great time together, and end up coming back to my apartment. The possibilities are endless.
END
So Wrong (the collected pornographica of Elsie) 