Story of My Fucking Life

Author's note: This snarky Sellwood tale is only a story and includes cheating, buggery and thuggery, non-sexual violence, and a not-happy ending, all probably fictional. It starts slow and odd but speeds up, I hope. All sex involve humans aged 18+. Your constructive feedback is appreciated. No death threats, please

***** THE STORY OF MY LIFE *****

(it starts and ends with sex or something)

Cissy fingered her ThinkPad's keyboard and considered where to go next. She scanned her screenful of titles and first lines.

Roses Are Red, Too - "What a lovely cock," she whispered, just before biting it off.

Black Magic Woman - I knew I was in trouble when she threw my testicles into the stew pot.

No, she did not really want to try those right now. They might be fun later, though, if she found just the right men, replacable men who were quite depraved and deserving. Not men like her husband. She slipped those into her PENDING folder.

An Act Of Congress - As the junior senator futilely plowed my ass with his pathetic little prick, I thought to myself, "The cloud-computing lobby is NOT paying me enough for this!"

That one has promise, she told herself. She was sure a little googling would reveal some teeny-weeny politician to audition. Hell, they are probably all dickless wonders. They should be pretty safe, especially if she could rig a blackmail setup. She moved that one to her ACTION folder and flagged it as Immediate.

High Plains Drifter - He was just another dusty saddle tramp with a battered Stetson, a dented Sharps carbine, a mouse-eaten bedroll, and a huge ten-pound sausage of a schlong. She was a well-worn saloon floozy with a cunny the size of Carlsbad Caverns. They were a perfect pair.

She shook her head. It had a nice ring to it, but it was not something she could get herself into. Or could she? Maybe, just maybe. She would need to learn more about vaginal deformation and penile elephantiasis. It went to the RESEARCH folder.

Quantum Uncertainty - I had succeeded! After all these years, all my efforts, all the pain, I knew I would win a Nobel Prize! I had finally captured and weighed a neutrino! Unfortunately, I found it in my cheating whore of a wife's overused cunt.

That plot bunny was for a future life cycle. She needed to find just the right scientist - when she was single again, of course. That sailed into the PENDING folder.

The next few were pretty easy.

Houston, We Have A Problem - The lander's engine sputtered and died just as I reached the forbidden planet's sensuous surface. Oh, fuck! And I had run out of condoms.

Trisexual Trifecta - The natives were getting restless, and horny. Here on Sirius IV, that could only mean trouble. I checked my blaster: fully charged. I hoped I was ready when Cftgh and Vfrdw come for me.

Black Hole Sun - When the end of the world as we know it came along, I was enjoying great anal sex.

Honky Tonk Lagoon - I really hate when 'gator-folk get drunk. It's not bad enough that these human-reptilioid hybrids smell so fucking awful. Their bladders are weak, too. And their cum is highly acidic. Ouch.

Stick It Where The Sun Don't Shine - The dark side of Mercury is a bad place for a bring-your-own-babe orgy.

Fantasy and science fiction were great fun to play with, but she could never actually try out those scenarios, not unless technology advanced greatly. She moved all those to the REJECT folder.

The next was a little trickier.

Cthulhu, We Love You - Observing the mating rituals of followers of a tentacled elder god can be rather unsettling. Did we bring enough barf bags?

This was not quite fantasy foo-foo. No, she did not really think she could arrange a meeting with Cthulhu - elder gods do not take appointments - but she was sure suitable groups of monster-worshippers could be found. Not devil-worshippers; Satanists were boring and mostly just wanted BDSM and group play, and she had already written enough of those. But there must be loony cults who thought and acted like they were the real thing. That one went to the ACTION folder, flagged as Priority.

She sat back and sighed. She prided herself on in-depth research for everything she wrote. Not just fact-finding, and role-playing for character insights, but full physical immersion, living the life. But her goddam erotica publisher kept demanding more, more, more. Could she help it if so many of her ideas were in untestable areas?

--

Cissy Dallas, barely thirty-something, medium height and build (bouncy butt and boobs, narrow waist, tight sturdy legs), attractive presence (slim oval face, high cheekbones below piercing obsidian eyes, pouty lips, soft voice, long straight jet-black hair), was hot: sexually polymorphously perverse, aggressively ambitious, and one of the most successful writers in the Anglophone world. The promotional circuit knew her, as Priscilla Amarilla, for her insanely popular POOP-A-ROO series of children's books. But an entirely different (she hoped) underground world knew her only as Miss Terri (mystery, get it?), the super-slutty author of the hottest, horniest erotica known to humankind.

She had not intended to grow up to be anonymous sexual superstar. Poop-A-Roo came to her early, almost as an invisible childhood friend. She chronicled those fantastic adventures compulsively for years. Compiled, those accounts struck a chord with hundreds of millions of young readers. Her huge back catalog of earlier works needed only slight retouching, and she could easily send her mind to a prepubescent dreamworld to create yet more piquant tales.

Cissy, writing as Miss Terri, came to prominence with a set of memoirs for an entirely different (she hoped) audience - the story of her life.

Bridge Over Troubled Daughters - The young girls had hands-on sex training, at the hands of their parents and their siblings.

Sweeter Than Wine - Rose was 14 when she was raped, 15 when she gave birth to Merry, 16 when she Came To Jesus, and 20 when she vanished. Merry followed pretty much the same trajectory except for the disappearing part.

Wives And Lovers And Police - The patrol car's bubbleum lights revealed the sad end of their tawdry affair. She was lucky to be alive.

The explicit living narratives, barely fictionalized, were heartbreaking, stimulating, and addictive for a wide audience of barely-literate perverts. She followed those early works with a thematic series that many considered her trilogy masterpiece, THE VIRGINITY CHRONICLES:

Virginity: Lost - "Big issue over a little tissue," my friends said. Hah! If only they knew...

Virginity: Regained - The Thai surgeon promised me I would be as tight as a twelve-year.

Virginity: Imagined - What would it be like to be a virgin? I never had that experience.

Another intense trio of explicitly revealing stories recorded the beginning and growth of her polymorphously perverse experiences, proving that Love Is A Many-Gendered Thing:

A Taste Of Honey - Pussy juice is oh so sweet! She just purrs and laps it up.

My Sister, My Lover - The family that lays together, stays together. Spread'em, Sis!

Swing Time - But you'll look sweet / upon the seat / of a bisexual / built for two (or three or five).

And then there was her first disease story:

Test Case - 'Tis better to be Wasserman Positive than never to have loved at all.

That last was painful. STDs will break your heart, your health, and maybe your finances if you do not have the right insurance. Cissy had shopped many carriers before finding one with low rates and a no-questions-asked policy.

These were the plot points of THE STORY OF MY LIFE, she thought. Damn.

Another personal characteristic: Cissy was a workaholic. Research and writing would have been a 9-to-5 job except that writing needed daylight; and research, the personal, physically intimate in-depth investigation that was her specialty and her obsession, usually needed the shelter of night - unless her husband was home.

She mostly spent the 9-to-5 portion of her day at her keyboard, generating new story ideas (plot bunnies), judging and triaging them as she was doing now, and writing them into saleable tales. Online research was a daylight task, as were some physical research chores, like investigating lunchtime dalliances, office-closet affairs, lucky house-to-house solicitors - even peripatetic Jehovah's Witnesses - and repair and delivery people, and zipless fucks on trains, planes, and buses.

Personal physical research - that was the secret of her erotica success. Every move was studied. Every combination was tried. Every orifice was lubricated and penetrated. Pile enough humans together and the number of connective possibilities is almost infinite. But each story had to be just right. Otherwise, why bother writing it?

--

She had thought long and hard about the research necessary for her latest horny best-sellers. This was a different step and had real-world repercussions. It grew from her developing SEX EDUCATION story cycle:

Sex Ed (1) - Dad told me what sex was the day after I first had it.

Sex Ed (2) - My (cock / cunt) is smarter that you can imagine.

Sex Ed (3) - College is a target rich environment. What I teach is not in the catalog. But my students never leave dissatisfied, even those receiving a grade of INCOMPLETE.

Sex Ed (4) - When I married her, I didn't know she was a slut. I found out the hard way.

That fourth one had a prerequisite: marriage. She had worked that nicely.

Bang-A-Bride Boogie - Sylvia's brand new husband Brad thought he had gotten real lucky, getting her. Most of the wedding party knew very well just HOW lucky!

The actual wedding a year before was fun. Her new hubby David was sweet. The groomsmen and bridesmaids were even sweeter, mostly, except for a couple of real animals. David's swinging Uncle Adam and Aunt Eve were pretty good, too. Great tongues. And his cousin Les - oh fuck! Les was more, as far as she was concerned!

That was really the highlight of the festivities. Sure, the pastor droned the couple into avowed partnership. But just before walking down the aisle, Cissy had ducked into a ladies-room stall where Les waited to give her a last-unmarried fuck. They met again at the reception and slipped into a cloakroom for a first-cuckold fuck with his big Basque boner smoothly sliding in and out of her like a well-oiled machine. Then she went back to David to cut the cake.

She saw (and fucked) Les regularly since then. He was her inspiration for:

Afternoon Delight - While the husband's away, the pussy will play. Meow, baby.

Of course, she know how it would all play out. She already had outlines:

Flotsam & Jetsam - My life was cluttered with emotional debris, starting with my soon-to-be-ex husband.

To be inevitably followed by:

Your Daily Ration Of Passion - "You've been served," the young woman yawned, and walked away, chewing gum.

No, she entertained no illusions about the longevity of her marriage. This marriage, anyway. Who knows how the long term might play out?

--

David Dallas was an investment banker devoted to financing green, Save-the-World projects, the exact opposite of Cissy's rust-belt redneck Nuke-the-Gay-Whales upbringing. David knew money and ecology; he was not so clued-in to how actual people lived, Cissy knew. She spent a portion of her married life soothing situations well-meaning but socially-inept David inadvertantly created. Some of that soothing required blowjobs, or more.

Cissy met David as a research subject in an earlier project. The story:

One For The Money - Money won't buy happiness, but it's better to be miserable in a Lexus than in a Yugo.

Cissy had trolled money guys and found one with good looks, a quick wit and skilled tongue, inventive hands and imagination, and little suspicion of her past. He was perfect.

The Dallas home was a refurbished classic bungalow in Portland, Oregon's quaint old Sellwood neighborhood, set between Reed College and the reedy, lethargic Willamette River. Eco-conscious David hopped on his locally-made BikeE recumbent and bicycled daily to his downtown office over the ancient, creaky Sellwood Bridge.

(Want to buy a bridge? Now is your chance! But it's a cash-and-carry deal.)

Nearby streets brimmed with eateries, drinkeries, breweries, distilleries, druggeries, antiqueries, spice and tea shops, tattoo and beauty parlors, massage and bodywork spas and gyms, liberal attorneys, gay chiropractors, and computerzed psychics - all the detritus of an advanced postmodern civilization. Cissy loved the area.

She loved the local people, too, although she had mostly given up screwing everyone who came to her door during the day. She had already written those stories. She had no need for more research. Of course, it was still fun, and it never hurt to have backup material.

Cissy owned a century-old house nearby. Her publishing earnings made her rather richer than David but she liked a modest life and a secure portfolio. And a safe refuge; she was sure her pre-nup guaranteed that. Whatever might happen with David, and whenever it happened, she had her own power base.

--

Okay, enough of idea-filtering for now. She heard nearby church bells toll noon. Time for lunch, maybe over at the Oaks Bottom Pub. She felt like a dose of bistro soul food and their great dangerous Lompoc brewpub ale.

And she had an afternoon to plan. Maybe it was time to work more on Sex Ed (4) - When I married her, I didn't know she was a slut. I found out the hard way. Slutting, she could do, no problem. Discovery, she could do. Slutting so that David discovered her in just the right way... sure, she could do that too, with the right perparation.

The fresh dark beer was good. The hot po-boy sandwich was good. Sandy the waitress was as sultry and snarky as always. The room was crowded; Sandy cheekily seated a young man wearing black slacks and turtleneck at Cissy's table. He was tall, pale, light-haired, hatchet-faced, with frosty eyes.

Cissy peered into those gray eyes. Something stirred inside her. Something in pheromones. Something about this guy, something...

"Of course I don't mind you sitting here. I never like eating alone," she lied. She pushed her notepad aside. "I'm Terri. And you're...?"

"Call me Izzy. Hope I'm not bothering you," he said, scanning what he could see of her luscious figure encased in a black spandex catsuit. Her heavy harlequin-green Helly Hensen rainbreaker dangled from a nearby hook; today's weather was the customary cool Portland drip.

"No bother. I haven't seen you around before. You new here?" She tilted her head.

The stirring pushed her. Cissy loosened the rose-paisley silk scarf around her neck and leaned forward slightly. A bit of cleavage showed.

"Just a quick stopover. Reed College brought me in to give a couple talks this week. Then I'm back to Columbia U, back to the grind." His eyes briefly accepted Cissy's implicit invitation to gaze between her boobs, then politely bounced to her face.

"What kind of talks?" Cissy bit into her sandwich, savored and swallowed. The rosy tip of her tongue flicked out to snag a spot of cajun sauce from the corner of her naturally-red lips.

"My team's doing a meta-analysis of studies of reproductive strategies of terrestrial viviparous predators. Viviparous means-"

"It means they bear their young live; they're not egg-layers." She batted her dark eyelids at him.

"Ah. Are you a biologist?" The goddam foxiest biologist I've seen in a long time, he thought.

"I passed the classes at least. No, I'm a research writer. I've done briefs and articles on reproduction and such," she breathed. Yes, she told herself, porn is indeed about reproduction. "So what does your meta-analysis reveal? Can I get a preview of your talks?" More eyelid-batting.

Izzy munched his pastrami-on-rye, sipped his dark ale, and took a breath.

"The ultra-short version is, live-birth and egg-laying predators have different mating approaches, as do predators and prey, and the strategies in each group show some commonalities. The long version is... much longer and more detailed. How much would you like to know?" He noshed-down again.

"Oh, I'm just endlessly fascinated." She pursed her prominent lips to signal her elevated degree of fascination. "But we're taking up space here. Sandy is evil-eyeing us already. Maybe you could come to my place to talk? I'm just around the corner." Her quizzical smile invited his response.

"Sure," he said, slurping more sandwich, "I don't have to be on campus till late afternoon." He sloshed down ale. "We can talk as long as you like."

Cissy took Izzy to her private Terri-home. As at the Dallas house, nothing divulging her true self was visible. Her husband David knew she wrote children's books and occasional magazine articles but not much more. She jealously, zealously, and effectively guarded her identity.

Cissy required only about eleven minutes to get Izzy naked, showered, dried, and busily occupied slurping her freshly-clean clit. Her first two orgasms came quickly. She insisted on deep-throating him to well-lubricated rigor before straddling his lanky hips and guiding his kosher dill into her meatbox. Ahh, they breathed simultaneously. Aiiiii, she soon screamed.

Izzy resembled David physically but was a faster-paced lover. A different mating strategy, she thought. Vive le differance. She rolled onto her belly and presented her butt to him. She turned her head back; her eyelids waggled a "Do you know what to do now?" signal to him.

Yes, he knew. Assume the position of the lion. A few score strokes into her dripping pussy while holding her delightful dangling breasts and roaring. Hefty squirts of lube into her blind eye and on his roundhead; and then the slow insertion, the rising tempo, her fingers strumming her clit as he pounded, and the blast of bull gravy deep into her bowels. More grunting and screaming, too.

Izzy saw the occasion as a hot fuck on holiday. Cissy saw it as a hot fuck plus fresh material for the SLUT story cycle. They both enjoyed the afternoon immensely.

They exchanged numbers.

"Hey Terri, you're great! Absolutely fucking fabulous! Uh, I'm in town for the rest of the week. All my talks are afternoons and evenings. Maybe we could get together sometime..." His expression was hopeful.

"If I see you out again, well maybe. But be discrete about calling, especially evenings. I don't want my husband intercepting or overhearing anything."

"Your husband? You didn't mention..." He glanced around. "Doesn't look like a man lives here..."

"No, he doesn't. This is this house I inherited from my family," she lied. "We live nearby in my husband's house that came through his family." She had rehearsed and retold this story since before the wedding.

Cissy took her emotional pulse. Izzy was a good fuck! Great tongue, fine technique, good body; he definitely elevated her mood. But he was just story material, and she had done him. Yet a slut story could have comebacks and replays, couldn't it? Why couldn't she be Izzie's slut all week? Yes, that would be a nice twist. She peered in his nervous face.