An article I wrote for Ravishly was picked up by the Huffington Post. It's about threesomes. I wasn't really expecting it to get picked up by anyone, but I guess that's what I get for putting it on the internet. You can read it here.
Alas! The Shipwreck event featuring author Chuck Palahniuk was cancelled due to scheduling conflicts. Oh well. Please enjoy the piece I wrote for it anyway. My character was Robert Paulson (Bob. Bob had bitch tits) and I had a lot of fun writing him.
His name is Robert Paulson. And he is fucking sick of this shit.
Today, at Project Mayhem, while the rest of the guys, their bodies skinny and taut, whittled down to skeletons and sinew, had their usual 3pm circle jerk in the backyard, Bob made some hot cocoa.
He could hear them shouting, like they always did, about how their daddies left them, or how they’d never be famous, or how hard it is to be a young and purportedly heterosexual man as they joylessly masturbated themselves and each other.
It was always over quickly, just a puddle of angry cum and disappointment left in its wake, and today was no exception. Afterward, the men dispersed. The first rule about circle jerks is that you don’t clean up after circle jerks.
At least they still have their balls, Bob thought bitterly.
It’s not like he didn’t hear them—Tyler or Cornelius or whatever the fuck he was calling himself these days, he was the worst—“Bob, Bob has bitch tits,” they said, and not in a nice way, either. You’re damn right I’ve got tits, Bob told himself angrily. And they’re FUCKING GLORIOUS.
He hadn’t joined Fight Club OR Project Mayhem to get made fun of—he’d joined to feel alive.
He needed some alone-time, some Queen-B time to. Treat. Him. Self. Being around these assholes all day, he’d fucking earned it. So while his Project Mayhem brothers made plans to deface Starbucks—AGAIN—Bob booked an Air BnB in the woods.
Isolated, quiet. The log cabin was just sort of place Bob had been craving. It was like where Abraham Lincoln would have gone, if Abraham Lincoln needed some alone time to jerk off without being yelled at.
Bob was just getting comfortable when a key turned in the door.
A man walked in, wearing a suit and tie, talking into a flip phone. “Hold on Scully,” the man said. “Something’s wrong with my rezo.” He flipped the phone shut.
“Well, HELLO,” said Bob. He was very taken with this sexy young man. He looked like a Jewish Clark Kent without the glasses. And Bob was INTO it.
“Special Agent Fox Mulder. FBI. Nice to meet you,” the man said. “Looks like we got double booked. Fucking Air BnB . Trust no one, amirite?”
“I’m Bob. And I don’t mind sharing, if you don’t!” Bob kind of shouted. Fox was foxy, and this was a one bedroom rental. “What brings you out here? All alone?”
“Oh you know, chasing down a Bigfoot lead. Normal Saturday night shit. The truth is out there, you know? Anyway, my partner didn’t want to come because she has a life or a date or some shit. So it’s just little old me.” Fox eyed Bob up, and then down. Bob liked it. A shiver of sexy electricity ran through him.
“So…” Fox said, a smile toying at his otherwise unexpressive face. “You’re here alone, too, huh?”
“Just little old me.”
“Bob, may I say something a little… forward?”
“Yes, please,” said Bob. His bosom buzzed with anticipation.
“Your tits,” Fox said. “They’re… they’re magnificent.”
I know, Bob thought. “Why thank you,” he giggled.
“If I could choose a way to die,” Fox continued. “I would want to be crushed to death between your glorious boobs.”
“We’ve all gotta die somehow,” Bob said, and suggestively fingered the outline of his nipple through his tee shirt.
His name is Robert Paulson. And he is finally, finally going to get laid.
They didn’t so much embrace as cling to each other, the way a drowning victim clings to debris. Mulder furiously fondled Bob’s tits, and Bob groaned. They tore at each other’s clothing, paying no heed where they threw this tie or that sock. Fox pulled off Bob’s shirt, letting his tits jangle free, and enormous.
“My. God.” Mulder said. Bob was glad he hadn’t worn a bra. For a moment, Fox just stared, his eyes agog at Bob’s breasts, which were generously dusted with thick, blonde chest hair. “It’s like my bigfoot fantasy. But even boobsly-er.”
Bob unzipped Mulder’s pants, and pulled out his FBI: Ferociously Bulging Instrument. Then he knelt, and placed Mulder’s tumescent dick between his boobs.
If you’ve ever titty fucked a six foot tall man who used to abuse steroids then you know: it’s not like other kinds of titty fucking. It’s hairier. It’s sweatier. And it will change your damn life. Special Agent Fox Mulder couldn’t get enough.
Suddenly, a key turned in the door once more. Bob and Fox froze, their pose as incriminating as was humanly possible.
But what entered the cabin wasn’t human.
“But this Bigfoot’s masturbation cabin!” the Sasquatch howled. “What puny humans doing here?”
“Bigfoot!” Mulder cried. “I knew it!”
“Who’re you calling puny?” Bob demanded. He stood, and shook his splendiferous tits to the American folkloric legend. Bigfoot’s eyes went wide.
“Big BOOB!” Bigfoot cried.
“It’s Bob, actually,” said Bob. “And Bigfoot, is it Mr. Bigfoot—Whatever-- if you’re down, I’ll let you motorboat my mountain melons ‘til your balls explode.”
Much to Bob’s delight, he learned that two American legends were true: Bigfoot was real, and big feet really DO mean a big dick.
As Mulder took Bigfoot’s footlong down his throat, Bob pumped his much more reasonably, human-sized dick into bigfoot’s ass. Bob’s tits bounced, and all three moaned with pleasure.
“This is great and all,” Bob said. “But how do you fellas feel about getting a little weird?”
Both the Special Agent and the Sasquatch nodded their consent.
They writhed on the floor in a messy fuck tangle, Bigfoot’s dick in Mulder’s ass, Mulder’s balls in Bob’s mouth and Bob’s dick in deep in Mulder’s throat, as the Bigfoot used a lamp post in Bob’s eager asshole. Their groans and grunts and howls of pleasure echoed through the woods.
“I WANT TO BELIEVE!” Mulder cried, over and over again.
Bob felt something he hadn’t felt for years.
This complicated, sensual configuration he found himself in now, it felt like home. It was right, and it was good, and Bob was alive, damn it!
It was definitely better than getting repeatedly punched in the face that was for sure.
Tomorrow, he thought, maybe he’d return to Project Mayhem, and he’d do as he was told, and he wouldn’t say anything when they laughed at his tits, and he’d make soap, and circle jerk, and fight and cuss and complain just like the rest of them. He’d go help deface The Olive Garden, or whatever, and maybe an overzealous security guard would get scared, and shoot him in the head. But Bob didn’t care.
His name is Robert Paulson. And that night, in the cabin in the woods, he had a gross hairy threesome with an FBI agent, and a Sasquatch. It was an encounter rich with butt stuff, ball sweat, and titty tickles.
“This most meaningful day of Bigfoot’s life,” Bigfoot sighed. “Bigfoot feel existentially revived.”
“I wish it never had to end,” Mulder pouted.
“Well, why should it?” Bob demanded. And so the three kept right on fucking.
And when the aliens landed, it only got better.
AKA the night that Daniel Handler called me a skank. This was for a great Shipwreck SF event, run by Amy Stephenson and Casey Childers and hosted by The Booksmith. Hear the reading of some pretty meta tentacle porn here.