Joyland

PNW |

Smooth

by Kate Jayroe

edited by Kait Heacock

We met outside a coffee shop where you can pay to pet kitties. I said what do you do in the real world. He said I sell rare comic books on the Internet and teach at a preschool. He said what do you do. I said I work at the library downtown and I write things that get published on the Internet for no money.

On the App there’s a little guide, a map of spots all over the metro area that are reported as safe for public encounters prior to an intimate contract. I wanted his mustache in my blood. I wanted to watch it get yeasty and mucked up at the hands of a tried and true goblin. I wore pink sunglasses and Calvin Klein underwear. All black for everything else.

I wanted a smooth one. I hadn’t had a smooth one in a long time. At night, I’m still dreaming about the rough one. The rough one had a brow on him yes he did and he was nothing like the ones who don’t show their want. Rough wanted bad. Rough didn’t care for secrets. Rough felt my fear and brought it straight to my face. Made it warm with ribbons of spit and darkened it with his big, curling shadows.

I wanted a smooth one like the ones from the television. The ones who fly airplanes or deliver large boxes from grandma, all the way across state lines. A laugh to the eye. A hand on the hip. A close-mouthed slip of a grin and a trimmed neck. A healthy flush but not a showy one no not a bit showy at all.

I’ve got someone already. A little something that keeps me going. An old one. Needs his back scratched but picks me up from work. Keeps cookies waiting for me. Gives me milk. We don’t tell anyone but they all know. At work they like it fine. On the computers they say I’m just getting my start on my back like lots of other girls before me. They say he has a taste for younger and younger. Grooms the pretties and teaches them a good line or two. We agreed to try out the program. Here we are, already shying from convention. Why not make the most and really go for a pleasure storm?

We both downloaded the App.

I scrolled through dozens of images, profiles with philosophical statements on eating ass with phrases like, to munch a tender rose bud, and, to tightly tongue a cupcake, pictures of non-smiling faces and their near-oozing cocks of all imaginable sizes and textures. I chose the comic book preschool man from the kitty café. He had a tidy shape and that mustache of his it had a healthy scrub to it. I could tell from his online presence alone that he folds his clothing after giving it a gentle cycle in the wash. Smooth.

My dear old one, he chose a woman with a blonde mop who had a long face. He is good at being polite with his jealousies. I’m still young. I said All the puss you could want and you choose a woman with a spoon face. Hey now, he said. He adjusted his glasses and burped discreetly, clacking away softly at an email. I started to punch on his back and tried to swat at him with my bra but he paid no mind. I clawed into his bed and dug my head into his pillow mountain and growled like a lap dog until I felt I no longer cared. I asked him to fetch me a mineral water from his fridge and he did it and also brought me a bit of granola and half a banana. But only after he finished his email.

After the smell of books and shit all day stuck in my head, I cannot flick it. I cannot get off. I fall asleep without ever getting there and I dream again about the rough one. This time he is spitting kombucha on my hairy tits and then pins me down and begins to eat me through a pair of sweat pants. I can’t feel much but I know the technique is practiced. He disappears and I don’t cum. When I wake up, I need to urinate. My breath smells like blood is coming soon, maybe tomorrow or the next.

My smooth one from the App messages back later that morning. He writes to me in some detail that in our initial meeting at the kitty café, he felt we had an organic attraction to each other through the penetrating quality of our eye contact.

We agree to meet the following week in the Village Inn, a designated spot for rutting in accordance with the App. I had to put down a small deposit to confirm the meeting. The smooth one made available his clean bill of health, scanned and in miniature on my screen. It was viewable three days prior to the encounter, one of the rules. In order to preserve tension and keep the likelihood of the meeting very high, we are only allowed to exchange two nudes each within the week between the initial meeting and the first official encounter. I choose one with a nice angle of my ass in a bathtub and one with my tits looking a bit deflated amongst my clean bedding. I want to appear as someone who plans things and has the luxury of time to pet my own self. His are very clinical and both have deep grey backgrounds. One is his cock sitting down, looking patient and half-sleepy. Another is his entire body reflected in a full-length mirror, a whistle in his mouth, coach-like. The expression on his face stays open, charming, ready to be made up and twisted into a subdued ecstasy.

The Village Inn sits diagonal to a dying pharmacy and is part hidden behind a fast food. Outside, it smells big like a sad treat, the type that sits inside you for a bit. The roof is patchy and hard. Inside, the lobby smells of rubber and bagel scorch. The room is the final one in a curved hall. I wait with my parts crossed, my phone atop my triangle alight with things far off and sentimental. The knock to the door is sharp, efficient.

The smooth one brings a briefcase with the App logo on it. Inside are whips and assorted kegal weights, cock rings, ball cages, a small and a medium sized strap-on, an older-style vibrator. I put a leash on him. He bares his teeth. He keeps that whistle around his neck the whole time. He wears a flat stopwatch around his wrist and pulls out of me from time to time to jot down some numbers on an iPad with a slim stylus. There are three small paintings of chickens above the bed. He only gets rough if I yell. He is not a rough one by nature. Smooth, American, peanut butter. He is not overly curious. He does not suck with too much energy. He is highly skilled in finger work. And that mustache. It goes places. He is uncaring of my blood. A true sport. A gentleman. I ask him after does he want to watch a television with me? He massages my forearms compulsively through several episodes of Cold Case. He snaps his gum and is generous in asking if I want any. Cinnamon flavor. That one, he has a hot mouth.

Me and my dear sweet old, we meet for coffee and pancakes later in the week. He asks me in-depth questions about technique, postures, balances of hydration, and if I got the release I need to have a more productive peace to my day-to-day. I tell him it reminded me of my rape but only in the exciting parts. He winces and tries hard not to follow-up. He has a bit of syrup on his chin and I ask him does he want to have a go back at his place? And he asks am I still bleeding?

My sweetheart met with that spoon. They met at a salad joint and I joked that I’d be there with binoculars to watch him. I joked that he better use a condom with the old spoon. He hated that. He knew too that I’m prone to raw-dogging it and later falling into a stupidly curable despair. He said she is not very old. I think she might be thirty. I did not watch him with binoculars. I imagined they spoke about emails and journals and had a lot of mutual pals scattered about California and the like.

I ask the next time we have a spend-the-night does he want to keep going with the spoon? He says they might follow up but he does not want to be monitored by the App now. This is, to my mind, a breach in our terms. He may only have a spoon under the cloud of the App. This was our agreement. Oh, how I moan! I howl and climb on top of him and he laughs and laughs and laughs and says, Oh, little chicken, it is only a coffee date. I do not want to whip the spoon. You’ve had your fun. Now get some sleep.

The next afternoon, the smooth one messages me through the App. Little jostling balls move about the message box, a mean clue to tell me I am reading a brain in true time. Truly, I had the best first encounter with you. But I’m afraid my real life partner no longer accepts my professional sexual life. I will be terminating the App soon. Would you like to meet back at the kitty café, outside of the App, to discuss what you need in terms of closure? He leaves his personal number and I immediately flood it with graphic pictures of my asshole from four months ago that took some strategic angles to capture. He responds with fifty heart and wet droplet emoji back to back to one another. I am impressed that he has the restraint in avoiding the eggplant.

I am pragmatic about my odd news. I say to my old one that I too, am now venturing outside of the App. He can now be absolved of his transgression only through my own transgression. This is how we make the age difference fairer, is what I tell him. He adjusts his shoe and asks me to rub his shoulder with a bit of heated ointment.

There are tears at the kitty café. He brings a woman, his partner, on his arm. She is taller than he and appears to be carved from a fine, machine-made wax. It is a cruel move to have to witness her, an unwarranted surprise. I suppose it was her grand idea. She hugs me with limited warmth and before she even introduces herself she says, I have no anger toward you. I find out that the smooth one has a real name outside of the App and this real name is Grayson. His partner, Leah, fits in at the café. She looks like a big cat. I too have cat-like qualities, but feel inferior beside this wax woman. My gap tooth is whorish but compelling. My hairy parts are dotted about my body and are not the expected parts. She is most hairless on her body and pulls her expected head hair back into a long twist. Her voice sounds like she might catch cough in an alluring way. She says I’m a Leo. Me too, I whisper. I now want to rut with the wax woman as well as the smooth coach.

She says to me but also to him, Grayson has been with the App for a few months. But it’s never changed him. After he met with you, he seemed different. He forgot his whistle last week on the way to the grocery. He had two time-keeping violations at his Montessori preschool within the same pay period. In bed, he is a daze. A dope. This won’t do. I know this must feel a little odd, she says, shifting her weight in her seat, keeping her hand firmly planted on Grayson. But, we spoke about it and I wanted to extend an invitation for you to meet with the both of us at once. Outside of the App, of course. I was tested in the last month and have no outstanding conquests. Tears begin down her wax face. She keeps her expression blank as they puddle to her softly pointed chin. Grayson looks pained. His freckles turn anemic and I see that one eyebrow is arched high, involuntary, locked into an exciting new chapter in his relationship.

I am thrust into an emotional upset I had taken some pains to avoid. I say to her and not really to him anymore that I truly appreciate the sporting nature of all this but I need some time to decide. Of course, she says, an insecure twinkle in her large, dark eye. Grayson shakes my hand on the way out and Leah presses her waxen palm to mine in a gesture that borders on too dramatic to be manners.

In bed, my head stunk of the scenarios. The wax woman’s asshole in my mouth. The smooth one coaching us along, blowing the whistle and jerking like a business. It was too new and too emotionally dangerous, overwhelming. I would certainly be sore. And what would my old one think? He would likely not care on the outside but it has to be a kink somewhere in his kind intestines.

Certain that the rough one has had his fair share of this. Certain he’s been more tough about it. More tragic. He probably slogs down whiskey every night until his toes get fat and sucks his lips off like it’s nothing. And he probably does it analog, no App, no battery-charged Mommy watching over to make sure we all play nice and have documents. He’s probably getting at it right now, at large in the humid, southern air with that mess of curls and the heat still coming off a parking lot even so late in the night.

Once, the rough one banged bruises all along my chest, collarbones. Like a chain of flowers for me to keep on in the bath. Just for a week or so. Oh, I delighted in it. I was proud to have to hide it at work and I touched all the spots deep in their middle in front of a mirror in the mornings before they faded. We walked barefoot on his roof before he gave me all those pretties. He made me cum over and over with his calloused, big hand and that fucking brow was over me. He had fed me fermented garlic with his arm snaked around his countertop. He had smashed an egg on the ground for fun and laughed as his dog lapped it up in a great, wet hurry.