The Charm of Tabloid Talk Shows

I couldn’t get her out of my dorm room.

She was a small girl, just a little over four feet. Wide nose, big brown eyes. Her hair a long mass of tightknit braids, bound together with bits of brightly colored African cloth, slowly unwinding from neglect and the biting cold of New York City in the middle of February.

She wasn’t attractive. Didn’t even try to be. She wore fat hiking boots with thick red laces, a winter parka with a busted zipper, and too tight t-shirts. Her tummy was swaddled in baby fat.

I liked her.

I felt a kinship for her that made it hard to ask her to leave. Occasionally she dropped provocative hints about her life in Brooklyn, her father. I imagined he was cruel to her. That he drank, wore a stained white tank top, and spoke with a thick Caribbean accent. I didn’t know if any of it was true, but I felt a certain confidence around her, a closeness borne of similarities both real and imagined.

She was sitting in my chair, my favorite seat in the room.

I sat on the bed and my back ached. I wanted to be in a chair with a back, my own sturdy chair. We were watching daytime TV, a tabloid talk show featuring teenage mothers making tearful confessions. I wanted to get my pants off, snow wet denim kissing my ankles. Grabbing my sweats, I stood behind the chair. Asked her not to turn around. When I had my pants off, I looked up and realized she could see my reflection in the mirror on the door.

“Don’t look in the mirror,” I said.

“I’m not,” she laughed. But I could tell by the way she’d said it that she’d already seen.

Something about standing nude behind a girl I didn’t find attractive made me horny. It might have been the way she laughed or maybe the fact of my nakedness, reflected back to me in the glass. By the time I pulled up my sweat pants, I had an erection.

“Listen,” I whispered.

I stood just behind her. I had to thrust my hands into my pants to disguise the bulge at my groin. I didn’t bother putting on my shirt. She turned her head and sighed.

“Why do you have your hands in your pants?” she said.

She asked, but she knew.

She intended to chide me, maybe to flag me off. Maybe the same way she warned off the boys her own age. I felt a little trill of anticipation in my tummy, the head of my penis rubbing against the soft cotton shell of my pants. Pulling my hands from my waistband, I reached behind my head, stretching my frame. I twisted my trunk, enjoying the feel of her shy gaze on my body.

“I’m gonna have to jack off,” I offered.

She snorted. Put her forehead into her hand. Slowly shook her head.

“Let me jack off—” I whispered. My voice faltered. She laughed softly and I almost lost my nerve. She touched her tongue to the top of her lip. Arched one eyebrow.

“—on your face.” I said.

Her smile disappeared.

She turned to look at me, her mouth open wide. She was making an exhaling noise, but not saying any words. She was slowly twisting her face, her brows crashing down like the sea.

My heart was tripping in my chest. I felt lightheaded, but also relieved. A little sated. My dick was hard and I had to be careful how I touched it. I resisted the urge to laugh. If I laughed, she’d think it was a joke and I didn’t want that.

She stood.

She bent at the waist, her hands on her hips. She had a boxy little bottom.

She moved away from the chair and I eagerly took her spot. It was the best place to sit in the entire room, and I felt grateful. She paced the little room, made an attempt at language, but it was just sentence fragments. Mostly she just sighed heavily and strode in a little triangle pattern. She went from the sink, to the TV on the dresser, to the bed by the chair.

She was in a constant holding pattern.

My dick had gone down, but I was enjoying her discomfort with me, which by now had settled into a slow rolling boil. I felt something nagging at me, something like guilt, or a certain bit of culpability, but it was a small feeling, easily ignored.

“It won’t take long,” I offered, as if the number of minutes I would take from her lazy day was all that stood in our way. “I promise,” I said.

“Five minutes,” I said.

She exhaled. Made a sad laughing noise deep in her throat and then sat on the bed.

I watched the television. One of the girls steeled her face as the audience hooted their scorn. I could hear my guest from Brooklyn sighing, mewling to herself on my bed. When I looked over, she had stretched herself out on her back, her boots hanging off the edge of the thin mattress.

It occurred to me that she might want me to do exactly as I suggested. My cock made a lazy roll in my pants, like a bear waking from sleep. I went over to her. Stood silently by the edge of the bed.

She turned her head to the wall.

“Want me to come on your face?” I whispered to her like a lover.

She wouldn’t look at me. I put my knee on the mattress, slipped my hands into my sweats. Suddenly I wondered if she were legal. Was she eighteen?

I looked at her tiny body and tried to assess her age.

“Just do it,” she said. “Whatever it is you’re going to do, just do it.”

Perhaps she was one of those precocious girls, a gifted teen who entered college early. My cock withdrew inside me, like a frightened turtle.

“What’s wrong?” Her voice was sharp, annoyed.

I felt a cold damp spot on the inside of my pants.

She raised her head, tucked her elbows under her, and stared at my crotch.

I felt embarrassed of my shrunken manhood and was glad that I had both my hands in my pants, this time to hide my shame. I laughed.

She flopped her head onto the bed. Sighed with disgust.

With no real choice, I took out my dick, all tiny and small. Like a robin’s egg, huddled in the nest of my pubic patch. I stroked it delicately with my index finger and thumb. She tilted her head, looked on with quiet curiosity.

“This what you want,” I said, trying my best to reclaim some male authority. Some vigor.

She made a tired face, scoffing like one of those teen mothers on the television.

“Why is it so small?” she whispered.

I laughed.

“Kiss it,” I suggested.

She grimaced.

I thought about filling her mouth with my semen and this turned me on. My cock swelled a little. I knew she wouldn’t take it willingly, but maybe a happy accident?

“What would your daddy say,” I huffed in a breathy whisper, “if he knew you let me jack off on your face?”

“Fuck you,” she laughed.

And then she sighed. She thought about what I’d said and rose to the occasion. Started to tell me about myself. She spoke fast, in fragments. The same way she’d spoken as she paced out her little Bermuda triangle earlier.

In my hand, my cock grew a bit. It was still small, but ready.

And then she saw where we were headed and immediately stopped talking.

I grinned. Bit my lip, consumed by the effort, the task in my hand.

She snorted, shook her head. Waited.

I came on her sealed lips, squeezing it out like an old baker decorating a birthday cake. Almost immediately she made a low wailing keen and turned her head. I laughed and ladled more onto her cheek, as if I were spreading mayonnaise with a tablespoon. She cackled and groaned and then leapt off the bed, her hands holding big tufts of her hair away from her messy cheeks.

I chuckled.

Rolling onto my back, I held my spent cock in my hand. Let my sweats tangle around my knees.

Later, after she washed her face, we lay side-by-side on my narrow bed, her hair like a comfortable plush on my shoulder.

“I thought a guy had to be hard to come?” she asked.

Lying in the small dark room, I thought about what she’d just asked. I considered it for a long time. I wondered again about her age. Wondered if I really wanted to know.

Finally, I just said:

“That might be fucking you’re thinking about.”

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