Miranda or Amanda
My art practice is a joke but that doesn’t stop the collectors. Steven and Stephen—a gay couple in the Hamptons—they buy everything, convinced it will perform well in the market. One of them, the tall one, looked me in the eye once and said, “Marc Jones, you boy genius.” I hoped he wasn’t serious. When I went to their house this other time, they showed me a secret room with red lights. I think we were supposed to take off our clothes, but I just flirted.
Upstairs, I saw my prints installed on different walls in their guest bedroom. They’re scans taken from dirty magazines. On one side you see part of a photograph—part of a girl’s ass or a guy’s penis or whatever and, on the other side, it’s an ad. I put a red polka dot on a random part of the image and print them out huge, then this guy that grew up rich tells other rich people that my work has a connection to the Pictures Generation and sells it for a lot of money. It’s fine. I don’t know. It gives me time to explore my main passion—fucking hot girls.
It started as a novelty, all this fucking, but now it’s my pastime. I like when my cock expands in a girl’s mouth and she reacts. I like touching a girl’s pussy lips and feeling that they’re already sopping wet for me. I like tan lines. A hint of cellulite. Lingerie. I like control.
The girl sleeping on the couch now—Miranda or Amanda (no it’s Amanda, I actually do know her name)—she’s decently hot, nice big butt and good dick sucking lips. I met her right after she moved to New York and we’ve had an occasional thing where she comes to my place once a week. All she talks about, though, is how much she hates the city. And that’s a problem because all I have to offer her is my thick cock.
“Do you want to fool around?” I asked.
She closed her eyes, put her hands on her temples, and said, “I have to go, Marc. I have to go home.”
“I’m tired, I need to leave.”
“Because I’m freaking out.”
“Why are you freaking out?”
“Well, to start, I work sixty hours a week at H&M. And all of that money goes to rent. I haven’t made a single painting since I moved here. I only eat this one type of expensive health food cereal that I don’t think is actually healthy. I can’t…do….”
“Stop complaining,” I said.
She told me to fuck off.
I said, “Me fuck off?” She told me that my own art was derivative (nice fancy word) and claimed that I just know how to play the game really well (no argument there). I rolled my eyes and that pissed her off even more. She punched me in the chest, kind of hard. After that, I gave her my serious look, one that I’m 90% sure says “Alright, girl, it’s time for me to fuck you.”
I ripped off my shirt so she could see that I’d been working out. Her eyes were fixated on my chest muscles. I moved back behind her and held her tight. She writhed around, but had to give up when she knew that I had her exactly where I wanted her. She liked that, I could tell. “Good little slut,” I said. I pushed my cock against her butt so she could feel how hard I was.
“Are you ready?” I asked, more earnest-sounding than I would have ideally liked.
She said something that I couldn’t make out.
“I said I’m ready, dude. Stop talking so much and fuck me.”
My fingers reached under her dress and rubbed her clit through her leggings. She reached down and rubbed, too. She whispered, “Just fuck me, big man…Let’s do this.” When I finally got to her pussy, she wasn’t wet. This threw me a little bit. I gave her a little kiss on the top of her ear and then on the back of her neck. “Please just start fucking me,” she said. “I want to get this over with.”
I told her to take off her dress and, then, her bra. She took a few steps away and obeyed. She looked good—smooth and clean. When she started to take off her leggings, I told her to stop. I liked seeing her with just those neon blue leggings.
God, her ass popped.
She paused to take a breath. She made this little pouty face that I’d seen her make before. I told her to pull the leggings down slowly. She must not have heard me. She pulled them down quickly, revealing a recently shaved pussy. I walked toward her and grabbed her right shoulder.
“Wait…” she said.
“What?” I asked. I kissed her hard on the mouth.
She pulled back and looked at me. “Do you have any coke?”
“What? Coke? The drug?”
‘Yeah, I’m just…Do you have any? Is that okay? I can’t…” She shook her hands. Her eyes followed the movement of her fingers.
“Yeah…that’s fine…are you alright?”
“Yeah, I’m sorry, I feel stupid. I have anxiety, like diagnosed.” She hugged herself.
“And you want cocaine?”
“It…” She hugged herself tighter.
“No, it’s cool. Um, hold on…Just wait there.”
I walked to the kitchen, my boner still raging. When I got there, I poured a glass of water from a Britta for myself. I drank a little and set the glass in the sink. Then I found a little bag of coke in this drawer where I keep rubber bands and this one random friendship bracelet. I dangled the bracelet in front of my face. It was green, orange, and black. I brought it along with the coke to Amanda because I thought she might like to have both.