“How many fingers do you usually prefer?” Jurgen asks in his slightly seductive German accent, lifting up a bottle of dark amber.
“Three,” I guess, not exactly realizing the question.
He grabs a tulip-shaped glass and pours a splash into it.
“You won’t need that much with this stuff,” he chuckles.
I’m sitting on the tacky tapestry of his sofa, shaking my leg nervously. Or maybe the sofa is beautiful and I just don’t have any taste or class. Everything in his house seems to be out of my price range and I don’t even know who the fuck George T. Stagg is.
Jurgen hands me the glass and winks at me. I can hear his wife clumping around upstairs.
“This is a 2010,” he says, shaking the bottle’s antlers side to side. “F. Paul Pacult championed it the number one spirit in the world, the first one to beat out the highly-favored Highland Park 18 since 2005.”
He walks back to the bar and I can hear him pouring a glass of his own.
“One hundred forty three proof. One of the most exquisite bourbons ever made. It’s released once annually and sells out quickly. I was fortunate enough to be able to grab four bottles. This is only my second time busting it out.”
He noses the glass deeply, letting the smell settle: “Brown sugar,” he sighs, lovingly. “Brown sugar and…”–he inhales again, searching for the answer in the distance–“maple syrup, maybe. Very dessert-y.” The amber dances around in the glass as he twirls it. The sophisticated sour mash lingers on his delicate palette as he tries to identify the notes, swallowing it and smacking on the aftertaste. “Ahh… root beer!” he smirks when he figures it out.
“What about you? How do you like it?” he ask, turning around to see I’d already shot the drink, clutching my chest. I try to play it cool, but my body gives in and I start grunting heavily and heaving rapidly, the Scoville-busting amber burning a hole in my chest.
***
2012
It was another hot September in the Valley, my second since I moved to Los Angeles. I randomly hopped on the Metro bus from where I was staying in North Hollywood to ride around aimlessly, reflecting on my life and decisions I’ve made that got me to this point. In a few day, I would be turning twenty-five and it was just another reminder of where I thought I would be at by that age. Recently, I’d been fired from my job and due to byzantine practices by upper management, I’d been denied unemployment benefits. Between the rage against my ex-employers, the stress of not even being able to find a job that paid even $10 an hour and the realization that I might be heading back home soon qas another failed statistic, my depression made the opiates taste like Skittles. The dream had died and I couldn’t even point out where I fucked up so bad at to try to correct it. I just landed here.
I just landed here at this magazine stand in Studio City. I don’t even remember getting off the bus. San Francisco 49er’s Colin Kaepernick was on the cover of GQ in a $4,600 Louis Vuitton jacket, clutching his gold and red helmet. He was the same age as me and on the cusp of a nine figure contract while I was rationing packs of Ramen, weighing the risk of spending $11.99 on a fifth of Evans Williams inside of BevMo!.
“If you like that, you’ll love this,” says a tall white man, holding out an expensive looking bottle of amber. “Now for around the same price, you can get comparable bourbon, my wife personally prefers Jack Daniel’s Single Barrel Select, but to my palette, Woodford Reserve Double Oaked is perfection. It’s my go-to.”
I smile and throw him a chuckle, acknowledging şişli escort bayan his expertise and take a step to the left, but he and his Armani Black cloud follows me.
“Evan Williams is great for the price, too,” says the man who obviously has no concept of personal space. “But every man deserves to treat his taste buds every once in awhile. My name is Jurgen, by the way.”
He aggressively sticks his hand out. I’m not big on detailed conversations with strangers from left field and my body language is screaming leave-me-the-fuck-be. I sigh at his assertiveness, but my southern manners grips his palm. Finally looking straight at him, I notice he’s a pretty attractive guy; older, salt and pepper mane, immaculately-groomed, thin mustache, perfect in that George Clooney kind of way. Suddenly, I was extremely receptive to his alcoholic expertise.
Jurgen chewed my ear off for the next half hour with his encyclopedic knowledge about proof counts and rankings and comparisons and I acted interested in the overpriced spirits I’d never waste money on so long as Burnett’s could still make my Adam’s Apple do jumping jacks and fuck me up.
“I’ve racked up a lot of points on my card this month, allow me to buy you bottle for you, just for listening to me go blabber on” he offers. I don’t even feign reluctance and hand it off to him.
He keeps my bottle in the bag as we walk out back towards his car.
“Do you have a girlfriend?” he asks.
Shaking my head negatively, I wondered if I’d have to repay him by blowing him in the behind the dumpster; because I would.
“My wife and I, we’ve been married a long time. Our relationship is like any other relationship, y’know. It has it’s ups and downs and for a long time it was really down. Especially after our youngest left for college. It’s like we didn’t have a reason to be around each other anymore. Constant bickering about nothing, a lot of silence. Hell… we went years without so much as touching each other. We developed this way of dealing with each other.” He shakes the clinking paper bag he’s hoisting in his arms. “We’ve been together since our teenage years. Immigrated out here from Stuttgart in the late 80’s and started our family. We’re stuck with each other for the rest of our lives,” he sighs and shakes his head. “Depressing thought really. Don’t ever get married, kid.”
He moves in closer to me. That whole personal space thing he doesn’t grasp.
“But, lately, we’ve been trying this new thing, y’know. Really put the fire back in our relationship. Lately, we’ve been letting other people into our sex lives. I like to watch my wife get fucked by black men.”
I was utterly emotionless and slightly disappointed at where this had went. I should’ve known by his perverted Pepe Le Pew mustache that he was into some twisted shit like this. I’m already not a huge fan of vagina but the thought of relic pussy makes my dick wilt and invert, so I asked him for my bottle of Evan so I could go wallow on my couch.
“Usually we find guys on Craigslist or Backpage,” he continues, talking past my rejection. “But those situations can become a little…uhh,” he shakes his hand from side to side. “We don’t really know the guys and what their intentions are or if they’re gonna rob us or not.”
I wince.
“…But you seem like such a nice guy and you’re just our type.”
I’m amused at the attraction. My skin was starting to melt away from my face. I was eating more pills than food and it was starting to show. Besides, I wasn’t exactly the Mandingo of people’s curated BBC taksim escort bayan fantasies.
“I have some really top shelf stuff back at my house, really impressive bourbon,” he begins pleading, seeing I’m still on the edge. “Plus, I can really make it worth your while. I’ll pay you. Maybe…$200.”
This took me completely off of the edge. I looked him in the eyes and he smiled.
“You’ll pay me $200 to fuck your wife?” I ask, incredulously.
He shakes his head affirmatively.
“What exactly does this session consist of?” I ask, pretending to have morals.
“Nothing out of the ordinary. You just let her blow you and you fuck her while I watch.”
“This is completely out of the ordinary,” I reply. “But for $200, I’ll fuck the gossamers out her pussy.”
***
Gossamers, indeed!
The Cialis must’ve kicked in, because I look down and my dick is brick hard pulsating with varicose veins. Jurgen’s wife is bent over on all fours, dressed in a plus-sized beer girl costume with her skirt hiked up and her titties sagging out of the blouse. The strings in the girdle were holding on by a blessing. Her brown, crusty asshole keeps blinking at me, so I squeeze my eyes shut and summon my imagination. I think about the Colombian go-go dancer from RAGE that pays me no attention after he finesses me out of my soggy dollar bills. Then, I think about the Lebanese model on Instagram who doesn’t know I exist, even though I check up on his life more often than my own family members.
The German caterwaul cuts through my thoughts and the silent Studio City night. This wasn’t a romantic session with ambient jams swelling through the radio and long, slow Jodeci stokes. I grab a slab of loose flesh and thrust as hard as I can hoping it will expedite the process, clasping a small key between my jagged teeth. Her yelps begin to turn into histrionics. Jurgen is sitting across from her on an end chair we moved into the bedroom, fully naked except for his stubby erection, bulging purple from inside of a metal cock cage. The chastity device is secured shut with a small brass padlock, clutched between my incisors is the only thing keeping him from satisfaction. He stares intensely at it for a while and then moves on to her.
“HURE!” he screams angrily at her, sweat pouring down his face. “YOU DIRTY FUCKING SLUT!”
She responds to him in their native tongue, excluding me from their insanity.
“THIS IS WHAT YOU WANTED THE WHOLE TIME!” he frowns, clutching the arms of the chair. “GETTING FUCKED BY SOME BIG, BLACK COCK LIKE SOME FLEABAG-RIDDIN WHORE? ÜBERSCHLAMPE!”
I grimace and begin pumping away more rapidly. Harder. Savagely.
“SCHWUCHTEL!” she yells repeatedly and overly theatrically, banging her fist on the bed, never switching over to English. He yells back at her in their mother tongue. The only word I can make out is “NEGAR!” which is universally fucked up to my ears, but I give him the benefit of the doubt because I don’t know the language like that.
He begins to grasp and tug at the brass padlock but she yelps at him and he clinches the chair again: “BITTE!” he begs over and over, but she responds NEIN!
I slap her ass and lean forward to grab a handful of her sagging raindrops and ask her if she likes that, but she ignores me and continues berating him in Deutsch. She pushes me back and pulls my dick out–creaming with white vaginal discharge–and smacks it on her lumpy ass, still staring vehemently and sneering at Jurgen, chastising him as he visibly palpitates.
Is this what a marriage’s attrition looks like? fatih escort bayan Was this some scathing type of love? I asked myself if some fleeting emotion was worth the lifetime contractual obligation of dealing with personalities that change constantly? Drinking a distillery’s worth of brown liquor out of dissatisfaction? Scraping for twisted, sexual peccadillos to extract some perverse joy in each others company? The transcendent feelings are ephemeral and never seems to be worth it in the long run. I think about whether or not I’m as odd as societies lead me on to be for never being able to find legit love with other people. And then I think about how much I can’t wait to raid these depraved fuck’s medicine cabinet.
Jurgen’s wife queefs and I yell “GESUNDHEIT!” I should’ve asked for more money.
My knees start aching so I ask if we can switch positions through the brass in my clenched teeth, but apparently nobody hears me. She continues on with a quiet, pinched anger now as he wilts in his chair; his cock nearly bursting out of the cage. I just want this to be over. This wasn’t my escapade. I wasn’t apart of this experience, my dick was. I contributed no personal worth except for the extra added vitriol of me being black. Jurgen, clandestinely sneaking me into his house and small talking around the awkwardness without ever even asking my name in the process. The wife introducing herself to me on all fours, avoiding eye contact. They could both psychologically get off on the fact that their partner had slummed for sexual satisfaction, dealing with their contempt with each other through my dick. He was able to deem her a whore of the highest degree while she was able to emasculate him by finding intense pleasure he could never offer with a societal-deemed *lesser* being while both sated some corny lustful desire, dehumanizing me in the process.
…or maybe the Cialis is clashing heavily with the Stagg, making me über-emotional.
I feel my shaft tightening, pull out and finish off a weak load on top of one of her drooping ass checks, dropping the key on her other one and falling on my back in exhaustion. The clarity kicks in as soon I hit the bedsprings and my post-nut depression and overthinking Virgo shoots into overdrive. I feel supreme shame in myself. Today marked the day that I could officially and literally bullet point whore on my moral resume, specializing in race play. Having sex with some pasty heifer for a paltry fee and shaming my ancestors in the process, solely because I couldn’t allow myself to hold a stable job.
Jurgen begins pleading for the key and I chuck it at him harder than a bullet from Kaepernick, bouncing off of his chest onto the floor. He chases it under the bed and gets up, fumbling around with padlock with Parkinson’s fury. Pointing at the white cream on my dick, I mumble something about a bathroom and his wife points me towards the door, still being evasive with eye contact. Jurgen replaces my spot on the bed when I get up, sliding his tongue up and down the ass cheek my unborns were dripping off of. After I shut the bathroom door, I turn on the faucet and cup my hands under it, splashing the puddles onto my face. I didn’t know it yet, but this was going to be the beginning of the nadir of my life. Stretching through spring of the following year. I lift my head up and look into the mirror, staring into my visage, berating myself, memories of the younger me chastising my position in life, ashamed of how far I’ve fallen off. Orgasmic shouting is loudly muted from the other side of the door. I ask myself one last time do I have the capacity to love anybody, even myself and close my eyes tight, knowing that I couldn’t tell myself the honest answer.
… And then I start investigating the orange bottles in their medicine cabinet, because these unstable motherfuckers gotta at least have some Xanax lying around.