Fuck Me Through The Phone
I haven’t had sex in a few months. In times of high stress and anxiety, my sex drive is the first thing to rise. I find solace in returning to the comfort of my body, focusing on reaching my climax and pleasing my partner. I wasn’t satiated by masturbation or porn. Pornhub made their Premium service free, but there’s only so many times I can watch Pinky or Cherokee D’Ass without feeling empty inside. Porn is sterile and impersonal, replete of all the things I value in sex. There is no flesh to touch, familiar bounds to explore, moans that tear into your name and the dance of desire.
They wanted to nut. I wanted to nut. So we arranged to have FaceTime sex. My appointment was at 10:00 PM on Sunday. Around 2:00 PM I pulled up a vast assortment of tabs to educate myself. These included an op-ed on the mechanics behind FacetTme sex, a stylized article with suggested positions and a detached piece which explained the strange social phenomena astutely. It was 9:00 PM and I found myself on Facetime with an old friend. The conversation ran its usual course. We talked about our college days and her grad school program. I told her I had to leave in an hour which was unusual.
Since quarantine began I had usually fallen asleep within earshot of her voice. I let her know I had a FaceTime sex appointment. She giggled for a really long time, the kind of giggle that bubbles out of awkwardness. She retorted, “I’ll call you back at 9:59, I mean 10:59.”
I asked, “You think I only last an hour?”
She said, “Matter of fact, just call me back tomorrow, I don’t want you after this.”
I pressed the foreboding red button and exited the call.
I was ill prepared for virtual sex. I hadn’t read any of the articles. My only preparation was free-balling in my camo pants. I wore my favorite ribbed shirt, a gray piece I’d bought from Topman years earlier. I didn’t have time to properly apply coconut oil to accentuate my remaining muscles.
My phone rang. We spoke a little bit before intercourse began. I helped them search for proper lighting. We’re both Black photographers so lighting was of utmost importance. They smoked a bit of ganja to prepare. I got comfortable and laid down in bed.
Their eyes were low, hidden behind thick framed glasses. They moved from the living room into the bathroom. I asked “What do you want?” I took my shirt off. They took their shirt off, nipples peeking underneath a sports bra. I got in position, facing the camera towards my naked chest. They wanted me to touch myself. I grabbed my trusty bottle of lotion next to the bed and began wanking. Their fingers lingered languidly over their boobs and nipples.
I whispered obscenities through the phone screen. In response they pleasured themselves. I felt like Soulja Boy in “Kiss Me Through the Phone” only it was more like... let’s masturbate and come simultaneously over the phone. I guess that didn’t quite have the same ring to it.
Switch position. Butt facing the camera. Butt shaking glossily against the glass. Finger rubbing on exposed clit. Palms exploring a solid shaft. The head bobbing up and down as blood travels along its corridors. Switch angles.
Switch position. Hands lingering over hard nipples. I’m about to cum. They moan, teeth gripping the underside of lustful lips. Finger skimming six pack abs. Switch angles.
Switch position. Vagina facing the camera. Wet and craving sex. Lost in the endorphins, lost in the rush of new sensation. Switch angles.
I come to a climax. I show them the residue on my hands and penis through the glass screen. I feel like a cyborg.