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Last updateTue, 06 Aug 2013 2am

Saturday, 02 April 2011 20:10

Nice Lipstick

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A fat man wedged between the creamy thighs of a naked woman is giving it to her real good. I can tell from his short thrusts, the bored look on her face that he has a small cock. The woman tries to speak to me, her crimson mouth moving, but it’s all croaking to me. All the same, I say to her, “Why, yes, I’d love to tap that ass, but I’ve got a job to do and by god I’m going to do it, because a man without conviction is nothing more than a limp dick with nowhere to go.”

She stares back, confused. I cannot help her.

A waitress comes up to me with two thick, sweet drinks- some glowing alien concoction meant to seduce me with promises of experiences anew and melon flavor. It is now that I remember what I am doing. I am waiting for drinks for my friend and myself. Which raises the question of where he is. Where is he? Where is he and what is he doing? I relieve the woman of our drinks. The waitress slips her warm mucous coated hand into my pants, presumably to gather her tip. From the looks of things, that’s how they roll here.

“Thank you,” I say.

Her gelatinous eyes roll in their sockets and then are still, focusing on me, concerned. Her face contorts, lips spreading into the perfect crimson “O” of a plastic doll, the kind meant to sate the beast-like inclinations of lonely losers like me. She lets loose a high pitch shriek capable of cracking a cheap plastic champagne glass.

“Well then,” I say to her, removing her slimy hand from my cock, “it was nice to meet you. Yeah. Nice lipstick.”

I step away uncertain as to what I am stepping to.

Oh, goddamn.

A hideous man in red lipstick blocks my path.

“Did I just say that?” I ask.

“Did I just say that?” he says.

If nothing else will get you, the mirrors will.

“There you are, man.”

I turn to a wild, unkempt man. My friend. He stares at the man in lipstick. A nervous look comes over his face. An interesting story, I’m sure, lies behind his current trauma but I cannot be sidetracked. We are late getting started on something I cannot remember and somehow I still feel a warm mass moving over my balls although now that I look there is nothing there.

“The game’s started! That’s right, I remember,” I say.

“The game? Didn’t you get my message, man? I left a note. In your pocket.”

His eyes roll and he sweats profusely. I hand him his drink. The ice jangles against the glass loudly in his twitching clutch.

I reach into my pocket, grabbing air.


Where’d my pants go?

“I can’t leave you alone for a second, man,” he says.

With the realization that I’m wearing no pants, the fear takes hold. Had that been me wedged between that bored looking woman’s thighs? Warmth runs up my cock … my stomach turns cold … and the waitress … I shudder, pulling my .38 out of my ass.

“Are you saying I have a small cock, you dirty rat-eating bastard?” I tap my heavy against my friend’s pulsing temple to let him know I mean business.

“Are you saying I have a small cock …” he mimics me, all slo-mo like.


I cock my gun. “Alright, buddy, the ruse is up. What the fuck you do with my pants?”

A great commotion breaks out somewhere to my side, distracting me momentarily. By the time I look back my so-called friend is gone. Replaced by a hallway of scantily clad strangers writhing against each other saying such things as, “God, your cock is sooo big,” and, “Yes baby, that’s exactly how I like it.”

Lifting my warm, sticky balls, I pack my heat back up my ass, but not before using it to light the smoke I pull out from behind my ear. Surely my friend lay buried somewhere beneath this pile of strippers and call girls. Though where one starts and another ends is impossible to tell.

Let him have his fun.

I turn my back on the writhing mass of flesh and head for a booth, a place to lay down my things and collect myself. My bare ass sticks to plastic as I scoot in, causing my drink to spill ever so slightly. Another waitress with bad skin, bulging fish eyes and crimson lips places a plate of food on the table in front of me then walks away. A pleasant smell works its way past the depraved scents of desperation and body fluids. A generous scoop of pork fried rice lies nestled next to a perfect grilled cheese sandwich. Cheddar oozes over edges of toasted bread. Shaking, I lift the first piece to my lips. Teeth breaking crust, hot cheese over tongue, I savor the sticky goo sliding down my throat, the slight abrasion of buttery toasted bread that follows. I close my eyes. Shut everything out except for me and this ambrosial concoction.

Better than sex.

But, alas, my ecstasy is interrupted by loud grunting. The kind usually the result of two wild beasts going at it in front of cameras rolling for the betterment of Man. I’m getting distracted. My balls tighten as warmth turns to tugging and sucking. I fight hard to keep my eyes closed, to ignore the sounds and the what-have-you that’s going on down there.

Cheese … hmmm … Cheese.

I take another bite of sandwich, letting the cheese slide down my throat, this time without swallowing. Hard evidence that mind over matter prevails, even when it comes to the gag reflex. Cheese. Who doesn’t love cheese? You’d have to be out of your mind not to love cheese.

Then BAM! My ecstasy is broken by a bright red flash setting my closed eyelids ablaze. I’m sure my friend has found me, and somewhere along the way he’s picked up a flashlight. Disheartened, I know he is up to his usual tricks and will not give them up anytime soon, so I open my eyes, screaming,

“Grilled cheese, motherfucker!” shaking like some goddamn cheese junky. “Just step away, and leave me alone with my fucking cheese.”

The flashlight obscures my vision. I lift my hand to block it, reproaching him, “You fucker, you’ve had your fun. Now, I’m having mine. Go away.”

He says nothing.

Eyes adjusting to the light, it dawns on me that I am not sitting in a booth, that it is not a flashlight, and that it is not my friend playing hijinks on me. In all actuality, I am lying next to a woman and she is going all oral on me.

She is mad and speaks very quickly.

“What?! What!” she screams, face twisted with rage. Her crimson mouth exploding into an “O” of familiar shrieking.

“Goddamnit, Hunter!” she says, “I wake you up with a blowjob and all you can do is demand a goddamn grilled cheese sandwich! For fucks’sake! Fuck!”

I wince, more from the sunlight than anything but I gesture towards my cock anyways and say, “That hurts.”

She turns her eyes from my face to my raging hard-on. My big raging hard-on, mind you.

“Are you going to finish this or what? Don’t just stand there like some dumb blow-up thing. By god, blow, cook, whatever, just do something!”

She gasps for air.

I close my eyes and already I’m sliding my bare ass full of gun across plastic, ecstatic.

“So. Yeah. Cheddar,” I mumble.

Nice lipstick.


"Nice Lipstick" was originally published in Alien Sex Sloth, Issue 12)

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Nikki Guerlain

Nikki Guerlain lives in Portlandia. She can be reached at nikkiguerlain@gmail.com.

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