Facial (5 page)

Jasper sawed off Dirk’s head. He did not giggle while he did it, nor did he lick his lips, nor did he breathe quickly in a manner that might indicate sexual excitement, nor did he cackle, so ultimately I was okay with it and actually kind of relieved that we hadn’t been forced to draw straws or something.

Carlton picked up the head by the hair. “All right,” he said. “Let’s do this.”

6

Felicia

“In my face,” I said.

“For real?” asked Chester.

I nodded.

“You mean it? I’m allowed to do that?”

“Uh-huh.”

“That’s the most awesome thing ever,” said Chester, standing by the side of the bed and stroking to finish himself off. “I’ve seen it in movies and stuff, but chicks in real life are always, like, ‘Eeew! No!’ I can’t believe you’re really gonna let me do this. This is so great.”

“Are you almost there?”

“Yeah, almost. What if I get it in your hair?”

“That’s fine.”

“I’ll try not to, but I can’t always predict where it’s gonna go, you know? Oh, man, I really can’t believe I get to do this after all this time. You should probably close your eyes.”

“I’ll be okay.”

“No, really, if I get it in your eyes, I’d feel like crap. I still can’t believe I get to do this. You know what, though, let me move my pillow. I don’t mind getting it on the bed but I probably won’t do laundry until the morning and I’ve only got that one pillowcase.”

I picked up the pillow and tossed it to the foot of the bed.

“I didn’t mean that
you
had to do it. I was going to do it. But thanks. I guess I could flip the pillow over, but that would be kind of nasty. I should buy another pillowcase. It’s just not something I think about when I’m in town, you know?”

“I need you to finish. I need to get back home.”

“No snuggling?”

“My husband will wonder where I am. Since when do you care about snuggling?”

“Well, I guess I don’t, but this is a special occasion.”

“Do you realize that you’ve now spent more time playing with yourself than you spent inside of me?” I didn’t mean for this to sound bitchy, but my spur-of-the-moment decision to let him finish on my face wasn’t supposed to turn into an actual conversation.

“Hey, I could have kept going. I can go for eight or nine minutes sometimes. You’ve been there, right?”

“I apologize for that,” I said. “In my face. Let’s go.”

“I’m just saying,
you
were the one who—”

“Chester, finish now or finish by yourself.”

Chester began to stroke himself more vigorously. “This is so, so incredible. I’ve dreamed about this. Literally dreamed about it. I don’t know why it’s such a big deal for ladies. It washes off. Maybe they think it’s humiliating. But you don’t feel humiliated, do you?”

“No.”

“I wouldn’t feel humiliated if women could do that to guys. I’d be all over that. If you were lactating…” Chester considered that. “I take that back. That would be gross. It may sound sexist but it’s just the way I feel. You wouldn’t be into that, would you? If you were pregnant?”

“No.”

“I used to think that having sex with a pregnant chick was kinky and weird, but then I realized, no, pretty much any couple with kids have done that. You don’t take a nine-month break. And even if it’s not your own kid growing inside there, it’s still not
that
weird, if you really think about it.”

“Are you having problems?”

“No, no, no, no, no, I’m almost there. Almost there. You better get ready, because it’s going to be a gusher. Seriously, you should close your eyes.”

I closed my eyes.

“Almost there…seconds away…oh, yeah, I can feel it…getting closer…oh, man, am I gonna make a mess…I told you that my hot water heater is broken, right?”

“Wait, what?”

“Yeah.”

I opened my eyes. “Then no, you can’t get it in my hair! I’m not taking a cold shower!”

“I could heat up some water on the stove.”

“Are you kidding?”

“I was just trying to be considerate by telling you beforehand. I didn’t have to do that.”

“Can you finish up? Please? This isn’t making productive use of our time.”

Look, I’m all in favor of a guy who can last. The longer the better, most times. But there are also occasions when you should be considerate of your partner and finish the job without a lot of chitchat. If you moan, “Ohhh, I’m gonna come,” and I say to do it in my face, there should be a delay of no more than ten seconds before the big release.

I’m not a bitchy lover, I swear to you. It’s just that when you’re doing something really nice for somebody (and I knew this was one of Chester’s fantasies—he’d mentioned it a few times before), it can be frustrating when they turn the moment from something beautiful—well, not
beautiful
, but fun—into something annoying.

I’d keep Chester around, because he had an extremely large penis and I was in favor of extremely large penises, but if he didn’t make this happen soon, I was going to flick his balls like I was flicking an insect off a windowsill.

If I had to guess, I’d say that your sympathy for me right now is pretty minimal. That’s what happens when you start your portion of the narrative with a moment where you’re asking a guy to come in your face. I understand.

I never expected to be the kind of woman who would cheat on her husband en masse. Greg is the one who deflowered me, after various issues kept me a virgin until my early thirties. Hell, I wanted to wait until our wedding night, but I succumbed to his charms shortly after I bought the dress. It didn’t hurt anywhere near as much as I’d expected, and I regretted not getting started with this aspect of my life much sooner.

It was great for about fifteen years. Not that I had a basis for comparison, but overall, I was completely satisfied.

Then Greg had what we discretely referred to as “issues down there.”

That’s fine. Everybody gets performance anxiety sometimes. It becomes a problem when you’re unwilling to do anything to fix the issue. If I’m down there, being extremely generous, you can’t just sputter, “It’s not working!” and give up after thirty seconds. You can’t refuse to talk to your doctor. You’ve got to work through the humiliation and make an effort. You can’t just
quit
.

What was I supposed to do, slip Viagra into his drink?

The first time I cheated on him, it just happened. I know, I know, that’s a complete cop-out excuse. It doesn’t “just happen.” What I meant is that it was unplanned. Brett, the server at the Tex-Mex place where I often went for lunch, had always been harmlessly flirty, but when he asked why I was crying, I forced myself to give him a brave smile and said that it was nothing, just the problems everybody has, no big deal. He said that if I ever wanted to talk, let him know.

He was young and fit and apparently into older women, and the next time I went there for lunch, I flirted back, less harmlessly.

I called Greg to let him know I’d be late from work.

Now I had a basis for comparison, and oh my freaking God had I been missing out.

I felt sick with shame. I was now a woman who would cheat on her husband. A cheater! A reprehensible cheater! And when Greg found out, he’d divorce me for sure, and everybody would know what I’d done, and I’d be an outcast, and I’d deserve to be an outcast because I was a
cheater.

But, damn, it had been good.

And we did it again.

One evening, maybe three months after this started, I realized that Greg had been poking around in my e-mail. An e-mail from Brett that I hadn’t read wasn’t in boldface. His e-mail didn’t say “I certainly enjoyed sliding my erect penis into your vagina and thrusting repeatedly,” but it wasn’t innocuous, and it was clear that something was going on between us.

I was sick to my stomach, physically trembling, waiting for Greg to confront me.

He never did.

A week passed, and he didn’t say a thing.

I vowed to quit. I’d break it off with Brett, chalk it up to temporary insanity, and go back to being a loyal, faithful wife.

Instead, I created a secret e-mail account and joined one of those websites for singles.

I made a lot of new friends (and they were all friends—I wasn’t seeking a romantic relationship). Yes, I’ll admit that the number was getting kind of high, but if I’d had one boyfriend a year from the ages of eighteen through thirty-five, nobody would shout “Oh my God! She’s the worst slut
ever
!” I’d simply gotten off to a much later start and had my lovers in a more compressed timeframe.

Greg knew. He had to know. His genitals didn’t work but his brain did.

I kept waiting for him to say something. He never did. Was he too cowardly to confront me? Did he not even care? I started to resent him. If he wasn’t going to say anything, why shouldn’t I have fun? Why shouldn’t I have my physical needs met like never before?

Sure, I felt guilty. Especially when I did things that had been strictly off-limits with Greg. The thing is, when you ask in a different way, and you’re careful to ease into it, and you bring plenty of lube, I’m more receptive.

Like I said before I went into the backstory, I’m not a bitchy lover. There are simply different levels of longevity for different circumstances. If we’ve got a hotel room and three hours of free time, then I want you to pound away at me in a marathon session. If I’m going down on you in a parking lot, and there are people wandering around with shopping carts, it’s in both of our best interests for you to climax in an efficient manner. When I ask you to come in my face,
do it
!

“You’ve got ten seconds,” I said.

Chester nodded. “Ten…nine…eight…seven…”

“Please don’t do a countdown.”

Chester nodded again, and continued to nod down the rest of the count. He squeezed his eyes closed, tilted his head back, and jerked with such fervor that I worried that his penis might tear off, pop out of his hand, and hit me in the face. Since there was a very specific reason I kept Chester around despite his personality defects, it would probably give me a concussion.

Finally,
finally,
he got there, letting out a moan of victory like a caveman who’d killed a bison.

“Oh…oh…oh, yeah…that was so awesome…I just can’t even…oh, man…I never thought I would…oh, yeah…I love you.”

“It got in my nose,” I said, wiping my face in disgust.

“You sound like you have a cold.”

7

Jasper

Now that the job was done, I felt sort of self-conscious about my enthusiasm for cutting off the dude’s head. I shouldn’t have admitted anything. I should have volunteered with more of a “taking one for the team” attitude than an “Ooh! Ooh! Me! Me!” one.

I’m not a weirdo. It’s never been my fantasy to chop off a head. I’d always thought it was as vile as everybody else did.

Yet when the opportunity came up, it seemed kind of…cool.

And you know what? It was. It was fun. I wanted to sing while I was moving the hacksaw back and forth across his neck. (I didn’t.) Instead, I made up a song in my mind:

Cuttin’ off a head.

Cuttin’ off a head.

He’s already dead.

So he won’t need his head.

It wasn’t a great song, but it had a catchy tune. I kept singing it to myself as Greg’s brother knelt down next to the face on the floor.

“It’s not going to fit,” said Carlton.

“It will if you are persistent,” said the face. It opened its mouth wide.

I had to agree with Carlton. No way was that head going to fit. I’d happily saw it in half or quarters, but I didn’t think it was a good idea to volunteer.

“Just do it,” said Greg. He was a nice boss, easy to work for, flexible with me arriving late or leaving early, but ever since he’d hired the assassin the dude was unpleasant to be around.

Carlton placed the head on the face’s mouth. It wasn’t even close to fitting. Carlton picked the head back up. “Maybe we need to slice it.”

“Just push,” said the face.

“I don’t want to hurt your teeth.”

“You will not hurt me. Push.”

Carlton glanced at Greg, and then at me, with an expression that seemed to say,
You guys are witnesses, right? He asked me to do this. It’s not my fault if his teeth all break off.
Then he set down the head, facedown on the face, and pushed.