Jerk Off Instructions

On Sunday night, to get out of my apartment, I walk over to Dante’s for a quick drink. It’s just down the street really, not bad. Plus I like being out at night sometimes. It’s kind of quiet. Less cars I guess. And you can look up and see stars and stuff.

Tony’s there. Tony’s always there. We work at the same place, the Bob Evans sausage plant. He’s in maintenance, I actually wrap the sausage. It pays ok, except I have to get up at 4:30 every morning. But I got benefits too.

I sit down next to Tony and order a beer. On the tv there’s pictures of people getting pulled off their roofs by helicopters after that hurricane down south. Tony buys me a shot to go with my beer.

—So how are you and Marsha going?

—Alright I guess.

—Getting any?

I shake my head and down the shot. —No.

—Look, if she won’t let you fuck her, at least make her suck you off.

I sip my beer. —She doesn’t like to do that, Tony.

—Why not? Is she a lesbo?

—No, I don’t think so.

—Christian?

—Yeah…

—Like, go to church every Sunday Christian?

—I don’t know. She’s got a necklace with a cross.

—Then why are you still seeing her?

—Well, I like her.

—Like? There’s lots of women out there you can like.

—Yeah…

On the tv there’s something about Iraq. A bombing. None of our guys, just Iraqis.

—Look, at least jerk off.

—I do.

—No, I mean with her there.

He orders two more shots. The bartender Tammy does have a nice ass when she bends over. Tony downs his shot.

—Next time she won’t do anything, just ask her. But don’t whine, women hate whiners. Just ask her like, if she would mind.

I down the shot and take a sip of beer. —You just say, Do you mind if I jerk off?

—Exactly. She’ll be confused, but she’ll say she doesn’t. They always say they don’t. It’s because it has nothing to do with violating any of their body parts. And if for any reason she says she’s not sure, tell her you’re going to do it anyway when you get home.

—That is true.

—Then whip it out and look at her and tell her how beautiful she is. Chicks dig that. And make sure she can see your cock.

—Why?

—You have to get her used to the idea of your cock being there. Then you can ask her to help out a little.

—Help out?

—You know, jerk you off a little, massage your balls. Women don’t mind using their hands, and in fact they like touching, because they’re curious.

—Curious about cocks?

—Exactly. All their lives they’ve been told that cocks are bad and they should avoid them, but yet cocks are attached to men, who women find attractive. And since cocks are important to men, we think with them after all, women are always curious to see them, even if, like in your case, they don’t want to put them in their mouths or pussies.

I clear my throat. —So I jerk off.

—You’re jerking off and telling her how hot she is while she’s massaging your balls and now she’s getting more curious, like thinking maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to put it in her mouth for a while.

—And then she’ll go down on me.

He finishes his beer and motions Tammy over for another. —Maybe not right then. You may have to come. And make sure she sees it. She’ll want to of course. All women are fascinated by sperm shooting out of cocks. It’s like a primal thing, a mysterious magical liquid that comes from nowhere. Excuse the pun.

—Well, sounds good. I mean, I think she’s had sex before…

—But it wasn’t good. If it was good, she’d be a cockgobbler by now.

Tammy shoots him a look. I finish my beer and check the time.

—You put it so well.

—The point is, you have to go slow with the conservative ones. Is she worth it?

—What do you mean?

—I mean, there are other women who suck on the first date.

—Really?

—Dude, come on.

—Ok… No, I mean, I like her.

—Ok, but don’t let her jerk you around. Jerk you off, but not around. You want another beer?

I look at my watch again. —No. I gotta get home I guess.

—You gotta get out of the sausage line. Those early mornings are gonna kill you.

—I know.

—So when you gonna see her again?

—Oh, later this week. We’re supposed to have dinner.

—Alright. You got my advice.

—Yeah, thanks. Well, maybe see you later.

I walk outside and look up at the stars. They’re still there. Well, so am I. I walk home.

I Fuck

I don’t look like much; five-one, ninety pounds. Near-sighted brown eyes. Mousey brown hair that’s always greasy, no matter what I do. A-cup. Doesn’t matter. Guys want me.  Pheromones? Whatever it is, I ping their radar. Hard.

When I lived in Chicago, I smoked.  I was nineteen, looked about fourteen because I’m so small, and people didn’t take me seriously.  I thought if I started smoking I’d be in the club. It worked, and I found out some guys lose it when they see a girl who looks fourteen smoking a cigarette. They try to tell you smoking’s not sexy? Bullshit.  It’s totally sexy if you do it right. One guy told me how I came across – he said I looked like if I had a dick in my hand, I’d know what to do with it. I told him to fuck off.

I smoked for five years, until I moved to California a couple years ago.  Oakland. Not as many people smoke here, so it’s not worth it. I don’t need it anymore anyway; I look like I know what I’m doing and guys can see it a mile away.  Fucking radar.

When a guy looks at me, he gets two messages the split second our eyes meet: one – I can see straight through you; two – go fuck yourself.  It’s about establishing control. If they don’t get it immediately, they get it when they walk onto the point of my psychic knife. Sharp point, wicked edge.

If I like a guy’s looks, I let him inside the psychic knife perimeter.  I can pretty much tell when it’s going to happen, don’t ask me how. Fucking radar?

I wear tops that gap when I lean over.  You can do that if you’re an A-cup, and I work it.  He peeks, and I catch him. Predictable. I fool with things while we’re talking – a salt shaker, my keys – so he can see how I use my hands.  I put things in my mouth, like pencils, pens, maybe a knitting needle. (I knit. I like needles and string.) I want him to look at my mouth and I don’t smoke anymore, so I use whatever’s handy.  This goes on until his head is spinning.

Sometimes we’re fucking in the car fifteen minutes later.  I’m tiny, so the car’s easy. (His car – not mine.) Married guys especially want it fast because they feel guilty, and hey, if they can get me off that fast, it’s all good. (I won’t fuck married guys who don’t feel guilty – they’re assholes.)

I make them look me in the eye when they come.  Eye contact. Some guys like it, some guys can’t do it, and some find it humiliating, especially if it’s a married guy – guilty, guilty, guilty!  Look at you, making it with a pip-squeak little girl you just met fifteen minutes ago! Come on, Mr. Man – you look at me. Now. That makes him come really hard, and makes me feel really evil, which makes me come really hard, so everybody’s happy.

I steal things from them, small things like sunglasses if it’s nighttime, or a CD from their car.  Something small that they might have left someplace so they can’t be sure; as long as they know they lost something.  I don’t know why I steal, I just like to steal. Nobody’s ever caught me at it except my fiance.

I met him in a coffee shop, and when I made him look me in the eye it was like we looked right into each other’s hearts.  I stole something every time we fucked – his sunglasses, his change, his comb. When I stole his iPod he looked at me like, “Really?  Come on.” Okay, that was going too far, so I left it someplace for him to find. But I couldn’t let that stand, so I took $134 from his wallet a couple nights later (I left him fifty). He didn’t say anything, and I didn’t give it back.  Then he stole my silver cigarette case (my aunt gave it to me and I used it as a wallet). That was upping the stakes – fine with me. I stole the gold pen he got from his grandpa for graduation. That’s when he asked me to marry him. We were fucking and he asked me right when I was saying “yes-yes-yes” anyway.  Very funny. Nothing’s gone missing since then. Trust, right?

He’s out of town this weekend for a seminar.  When I kissed him goodbye he said, “So who are you gonna fuck tonight?” I said, “I don’t know.  Who are you gonna fuck tonight? Bet you have to pay for it.” Then he said, “I’ll tell you all about it when I get home.”  Uh-huh. Like I won’t take a dare. Game on, motherfucker. The wedding’s in June.

Here’s what’s going through your mind right now: Slutty little shit. (Will she suck it?) Trashy little whore. (Does she do anal?) Sick, fucked-up, control-freak, daddy-issues psycho-bitch. (She fucks.) (When’s the next plane to Oakland?)

I can see straight through you.

Go fuck yourself.

See you around.