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Desdmona's Erotic Story Contests
2004 Typewriter Contest
Honorable Mention

Imperfect Perfection

Something was missing.

He was touching me in all the right places. His breath felt hot on my neck, his lips firm on my nipples, his cock hard against my leg as he darted his tongue inside me. Don’t misunderstand, it felt good, great, even, but something was different. Mechanical. Steady. Measured. Smooth. Perfect. And very quiet. The only sound was his breathing, and then my breathing—uncharacteristically unsynchronized, oddly unlabored.

“Is something wrong?” At least he noticed it, too.

“Oh, God no,” I acted, hoping. I focused on his ministrations. He was such a wonderful lover. He sucked my clit into his mouth, I moaned appropriately (only half-uninspired) and the flash of pleasure gave me new hope. He traced my slick, puffy lips with his fingers and then slipped two of them, well-lubricated with his saliva, inside me on a quest for my rather explosive G-spot.

I focused on what I knew should have felt spectacular, should have pushed me right over the cliff, should have caused my hips to freeze in mid-spasm, eliciting the caught-in-the throat sighs and “oh babys” that he loves so much. My own disembodied voice, declaring my love and undying passion for this wonderful man—that’s what I should have been hearing.

Instead, I was focused on a monologue delivered by that little-shit voice that jabbers at us during unsatisfying or otherwise self-conscious sex—the one we can’t silence no matter what, whose script this night seemed to be a collaborative effort between my brain and my clit. “We’re just saying, there’s no way that you are going to come.” On top of that, some goddamn fly or mosquito was buzzing around my head. Not right. Something was missing.

As a writer, he often took off for a few days or weeks at a time, and “home-coming” was an apt description of our reunions. We had kissed hello, hello again, again when we opened the wine, kissed when we toasted his return, kissed when we finished it, again when we agreed to skip dinner and go right to, um, dessert.

Even in our fifth year, we still tore at each other’s clothes like frantic 16-year-olds, touching and exploring with fingers and tongues as if it and we were brand new. I had never known such a giving and sensitive lover. He made me ache to do things I had never even considered, much less allowed myself to try.

The idea of just giving up was anathema to me, but the vocal duo inside my head would not shut up—“We told you that you couldn’t come.”—and I knew his tongue was getting tired, so I did the only thing I could. I faked an orgasm—the first time ever with him. Hip freeze, sighs, moans, Oscar quality. “Oh, God, that was amazing. Come up here and fuck me, I want to feel you come inside me.” I was so good. He smiled and brought his glistening face to mine.

“You faked that, didn’t you?” I hate this man.

“I really don’t know what to tell you. I don’t feel like I’m doing anything different.” He wasn’t defensive, and neither was I. He trusts me, I trust him, and there’s nothing we can’t talk about. Of course, we’d never had to discuss why I didn’t have an orgasm before. Plus, as loud as that little voice was in my head, I knew it’s exponentially louder in the head of any man, and often manifests itself. Flaccidly. I knew I was on delicate ground.

We lay nose to nose. “I’m not even sure it’s you. But I think it is. It’s not what you’re doing—you’re doing everything you ever did. Perfectly. It’s just…the way you’re doing it, it just feels…odd. Like everything is the same. Almost like it’s too perfect, if that makes any sense at all. Oh, God, I’m sorry. I’m not saying this well.”

He smiled and kissed me. “I’m not worried. None of my other girlfriends have trouble coming.”

Fucker. I knew he was kidding, but I was determined to unravel this. My sudden inability to orgasm with the love of my life was not a small matter to me. What had changed in the past three weeks?

“Let’s not fixate on this. Mr. Wiggles will develop a complex.” OK, at least he was being mature. “I’ve got something to show you—I want to prove what a significant influence you are on me.” I slipped into one of his shirts and padded behind him toward his second bedroom, which doubles as his office.

Now I hesitated at the door. I had always been afraid to venture very far into his inner sanctum. My fear was not of infringing on his creative process. I’m not that noble. I was afraid of being consumed by the ungodly spawn of the reams of unopened typewriter paper, the desk, boxes and shelves full of skewed piles, books and magazines, and the cases of typewriter ribbon. My guy may be disorganized, but at least he’s extremely messy. He motioned for me to follow him. I looked past him into the room.

I was stunned. The shelves were clean, the piles gone. The reams of paper were neatly stacked in the bookcase, along with, of all things, books. And everything was dusted, fercrisske! I checked the door, just to ensure I hadn’t stumbled through some bachelor-pad wormhole, known only to men, via which they exploit innocents like myself, charmed into bed with smoke-and-mirror cleanliness.

Nope. I was in his office, all right. But, aside from the mess, something else was missing. I looked at him. He was smirking the smirk of someone who just knows that once you finally see what should be obvious, you’ll shriek your approval. I looked back. Tried to recreate the disaster that was this room just three short weeks ago. Paper? Check. Books? Check. Desk? Check. Chair? Check, but I still hate it. Typewriter ribbon? Typewriter ribbon? Maybe in a closet. Typewriter?

Countless evenings I’d sat in his living room, listening to music, sipping wine, and reading some trifle while trying to ignore the staccato, arrhythmic snap, slap, crack as my man pounded out his heart onto his aging, trusty Underwood 255. “Jesus Christ!” I’d yell. “You know, they do have these things called computers now that would let you do that a whole lot quieter!

“Soulless dictation machines!” he’d shout back. “Slaves to alternating current!” I’d turn up the volume on my Eric Clapton or Stevie Ray to drown him out, only to hear, I swear (but I could never prove), his typing get even louder. He’s such a bastard sometimes.

Now, it hit me. The Underwood was gone.

In its place, a shiny new gray plastic notebook computer. And an equally shiny new beige laser printer. I shrieked my approval.

“Oh, baby! I’m so proud of you! Do you like it?” I ran to the desk.

“It has everything—plays music, wireless Internet, and it’s so easy. I can’t believe I waited so long.” He was very pleased with himself, and I with him. “I knocked out 5,000 words in record time. It was like I didn’t even have to think about it.”

“Wasn’t this better than lugging that hunk of junk with you?” I knew the Underwood was portable, but it must have weighed eight times as much as this beauty before me. Really, I was a little jealous—my company-provided computer was ancient by comparison.

“Yeah, without a doubt.” He closed behind me, snaked his arms around my waist and kissed my neck, sending chills down to my toes. “I never tell you this, because you never are, but this time you were absolutely right.” I smiled and sagged against him. I could feel his cock twitching beneath his shorts, and the walls of my pussy began to sweat. I turned to him and he kissed me, his tongue brushing mine, his teeth nipping at my lips. I kissed him back, teasing his tongue out of his mouth and sucking the tip.

I slipped my hand inside the extremely convenient opening of his boxers and found what I was looking for. I kissed my way down his bare chest, stroking his shaft as I went. I licked my lips and slid them down over his rubbery purple head. His cock wasn’t rock hard yet, and I was glad, because I could easily take all of him into my mouth. He moaned his approval as I began to pump my hand, slipping and sliding in time with my mouth.

“Oh my God, that feels just like your cunt.” I smiled around his cock because he always says that. Probably because it’s true. Since I first had discovered this most powerful of relationship tools, I’d tried to imagine what it feels like to have a dick, and how it must feel slipping in and out of my pussy, and I’d tried to impart that feeling with my hands and mouth. So far, without complaint.

Now, his cock was rigid and ready. He pulled me up and moved me to the futon that he sometimes crashes on when under deadline. He pushed me down onto my back and slowly kissed his way up my legs until he got to my pussy. Oh, God I wanted him. I didn’t know whether to fuck him or let him make me come with his mouth, all I knew was, I was ready this time and nothing was going to…

If I was God, I would definitely modify the design of the brain to include a volume control.

There it was again. A kernel of doubt. The same freakin’ voices, although this time their focus was less tactical and more strategic. They were no longer mocking that I wasn’t going to have an orgasm, but that something was amiss between us. That the reason for this was not his technique, but that somehow he had changed since I’d seen him last. Or I had, but I wasn’t ready to hear that, so the blame quickly shifted back where it belonged. To him. What was he doing different?

I silently analyzed his movements, his agenda, his syllabus, as it were. Clit, tongue, swirl, probe, lick, fingers, ass, lick, clit, swirl. Rinse and repeat. Rhythmic. Steady. I never paid that much attention to what he did before because of how it made me feel. In my mind I could almost see what he was doing. It was as if I was watching one of those nasty, gynecologically explicit porn films, which, of course, now meant the voice in my head was being accompanied by a cheesy soundtrack. And that damn mosquito again. This was getting depressing.

“I have a headache. I think it’s the wine. Can we do this later?” I couldn’t believe the words coming out of my mouth. A headache?! He smiled, without a trace of disappointment. I love this man. But I was becoming more concerned by the minute.

“Do you want to go to bed, go to sleep?” he asked.

“No, baby, I want to spend time with you. I’m just not feeling myself.”

“Can I get you anything?”

“How about a movie—why don’t you go down before Blockbuster closes and rent a couple of flicks and we’ll curl up and watch them together, like old married people.”

He smiled and we went back to the bedroom, where he quickly dressed. He kissed me quickly on his way out. “I shouldn’t be more than a half hour.”

“Get something good for a change!” He smiled and closed the door behind him.

I went into the living room and sat on the couch. My mind raced—what the hell was going on? I propped my feet on the coffee table and saw my reflection in the window. Was the woman I was looking at becoming…frigid? I shivered, but the woman in the window laughed at the thought. As if to prove a point, she let her hands slide down her thighs. She seemed to be enjoying herself well enough. I was certainly enjoying watching her.

Suddenly, the frustration of the previous two encounters made me extremely horny, and I willed the woman in the window to pull up her shirttail and touch herself. Like me, she was shaved from her ass to the top of her pussy, and the sight of her, pink and bare and exposed like that, began to make me wet. I’m not gay, but this chick was hot. I followed her lead and slid my index finger down into the folds of my pussy and was pleased at how instantly slick it became.

The woman in the window smiled at me. I smiled back and slipped that finger, then another, inside my now drenched cunt. My hips bucked at the same instant hers did, and it didn’t look like she could control her movements any more than I could.

I could see her shove her fingers deeper inside, then slowly rake them against the front wall of her pussy, causing even more spasms. I did the same, and began to stroke my clit with my other hand. The combination began to make my head swim. I looked at the woman in the window. Her head was rolling from side to side, as she had taken my lead and was pounding one hand into her snatch while furiously massaging her clit with the other.

Suddenly there was a small, weak voice from inside my head. “You’re going to come in about five seconds, don’t stop, don’t…keep…keep…ungh!” I caught a glimpse of the woman in the window who began coming the same time I did. I closed my eyes, feeling the muscles of my pussy in their final spasms. I reached over and turned off the light—I didn’t want to see the woman in the window when I came around.

After I recovered, I stood up and wandered back into his office. My pride in what he had done with the place was overshadowed by my mounting concern. All my equipment was apparently working just fine. He wasn’t doing anything different, but yet he must be. And I couldn’t leave. I was head-over-heels in love with him. I was beside myself.

The phone jangled me back to the world. I normally answered his phone if he wasn’t around, mostly because he asked me to, but that night I just didn’t feel like talking. I let the machine pick up.

“Dude—just finished your manuscript.” It was Roger, his editor. “I gotta say, man…well, I’m not sure just how to say this, but, uh, it’s not good. Not by your standards. It needs a lot of work. I mean, it’s all there, nothing’s missing, but there’s no…it’s like you were just going through the motions or something. It doesn’t burn the page like you usually do. Call me tomorrow. We’ll fix it. Later, amigo.”

For a second I considered deleting the message. This would kill him. He and Roger go way back, and Roger just never criticized his work. “Great,” I thought. “He can’t make me come or write anymore. Mr. Wiggles will be MIA for years.”

I went to the bookcase. Next to a pile of his previous work, his new manuscript practically shone. The paper was crisp white, where the others suffered the dual insults of long-term exposure to dust and light. But something else caught my eye. The text on the new manuscript was sharp and crisp. The type on the older work was fuzzier, uneven.

I smiled to myself at how neat the new work looked as I realized it was because of the laser printer. Every character was perfect, identical to every other.

But the old manuscript displayed inconsistencies of both machine and operator. Some characters were bolder, some much lighter, some smudged.

I turned the papers over and held them at an angle to the light. The backside of the laser copy was perfect. You’d never know the other side was an intricate mass of thoughts. The typewritten version, however, was a mess. Smudges of ink from the platen, deep impressions of some letters, none of others, the “o’s” cut almost cleanly through, each period, raised, like a Braille “A”. I ran my fingertips over the impressions.

Lightning flashed behind my eyes.

When he returned with The Story of O I almost cried, laughing so hard, but I had work to do. I led him into his office.

“What the hell happened?” A mini-tornado had struck. Papers were everywhere again. Books were on the floor. The desk was a mess. Again. And the Underwood 225 was in the middle of it all. The computer and printer were nowhere in sight.

“Sit down.” He did. I handed him his manuscript, Roger’s work-in-progress. “Retype it. All of it. Fix it. On this.” He gazed at the Underwood in complete confusion. Then at me, in the same way. “I’ll be waiting in the next room. And go fast.” He started to protest, but stopped at the look on my face. “If you don’t do this, I’m leaving.”

I fell asleep to the snap, slap, crack of the Underwood. Boy, if I was wrong…

I dreamed that I was lying on the couch, touching myself. In that odd dream-think that allows us to watch from the sidelines, I was puzzled. Hadn’t the encounter with the woman in the window been enough? But who am I to argue with a wet dream? The sensation was wonderful. It was pulsing…slow, then fast, hard, then soft, just like I do when I’m masturbating—the one thing guaranteed to bring me off. I knew I was using two hands, as I always did, because I could feel two of my fingers deep, way deep inside me while my other hand, it must have been drenched it felt so slippery, was toying maddeningly with my clit.

I felt the mosquito land on my nose. I reached to swipe it away. About the time my hand was at my nose, that same hand pushed a third finger inside my sopping pussy. What the fuck!?

I opened my eyes. He was between my legs, his face shining with my juices. The newly typewritten manuscript lay on the table. His motions were uneven, fast, then slow, hard, then soft. His tongue wasn’t so much licking my clit as dancing with it. He plunged his fingers into me and sucked my clit into his mouth, then froze just as I began to come. The waves lifted my hips, which locked into place. My breath caught in my throat. “Oh baby, oh baby, I’m coming…” I shook and quaked as the sensations washed over me. I sucked air gratefully. Most importantly, I heard no voices other than my moans and his murmurs.

I looked down. His cock was rock-hard, and I wanted it in me. I pulled him to me and grabbed his shaft, running it up and down in my slit to slicken it and, OK, to agitate my clit a little more. I positioned his head at my opening, which I could feel clutching with anticipation, each twitch sending more wetness his way.

When his head was pushing firmly against my lips, I reached around and pulled his ass to me, shoving his cock up to the hilt. I felt like I was splitting in two.

“Oh, God, oh God, fuck me, baby!” I looked him in the eye. He covered my mouth with his, draping his tongue over mine, urging my lips apart. I wrapped a hand around his neck—I didn’t want to lose this connection any more than the one happening two feet lower. He loves to kiss me, and I love to kiss him, and I was determined that both of us would come as we exchanged breath.

I rose to match his every thrust. He was as worked up as I had ever seen him. He plunged into me, grinding his pubic bone against my bursting clit. He withdrew so slowly I thought I would faint. Then he pushed into me as slow as cold molasses, rotating his hips so I could feel him, I swear, in my throat. Fast, slow. Hard. Soft. Penetrating. Leaving a deep impression with every stroke.

I felt the orgasm take hold in my toes. I wrapped my legs around his ass, trapping him deep. My hips stopped moving, I stopped breathing, but I kept my tongue moving against his. He whimpered, pulled back and slammed into me once more. I felt his cock swell a little more, jerk, and then spasm repeatedly as his molten come splashed again and again inside me.

We kissed until the need for oxygen won out.

“That computer cost me $1,500.”

Despite my smile, he knew I was serious. “If you ever touch it again, it’ll cost you a lot more than that.”

It only recently occurred to me that writing erotic literature was a way to express that side of me – a side of all of us – that was given to us by our creator, yet is continually suppressed through inherited guilt, ridiculous laws, or imposed shame. As a working screenwriter, freelance writer/photographer, and very sexual being, I’ve touched on sexuality in my work before, but I was always dancing around the edges, always a step behind the lightning that passes between two (or more ... ) people who are connected body and soul. Then I met (re-met, actually) the love of my life, and finally came face-to-face with that lightning – -for which we both feel incredibly blessed – and now I feel it would be wrong to not celebrate it. I currently have two screenplays in development, I plan to work on a collection of erotic short stories if I can find a publisher, and I’m trying to immerse myself in as many other projects as possible that will keep my dog, my cat, and me busy, away from the television, and drinking far too much coffee.

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To: Linda F. Henson

Desdmona's Erotic Story Contests
2004 Typewriter Contest
Honorable Mention