Fantasy #13: “Dystopian Drive-Thru”
We go to the Lucky Devil to see the strippers dancing in the strip-thru. Jackie drives, and I sit beside her. They’ve fashioned a makeshift drive-thru and cars line up to roll slowly through it like they’re at a car wash, only better. The gas masks and rubber gloves the strippers wear make it more dystopian than sexy. But we’re desperate for an excuse to get out of the house, if only to pick up greasy fries for the chance to see tassel-covered titties shake at us from outside our windows.
The thing is that this place can only function if they are serving food, so the most well-known strip club in the city pivoted to fast food service. Those brief moments of watching the dancers swing around the pole before our order is ready is the closest we’ll get to a lapdance for the foreseeable future.
Jackie promises nobody can see us through the tinted windows, which is part of the plan. She keeps one hand on the wheel and slips the other under the short dress she told me to wear. I’m not wearing panties, which she didn’t tell me to do, but which I know she likes. She traces the outline of my pussy with her forefinger.
“Watch them,” she instructs, though it’s hard for me to take my eyes off of her. With a casual ease, she steers the car with one hand and fingers me with the other. I squirm in the passenger seat as she moves her fingers inside me. Outside the window, a blonde with sleeve tattoos flips upside down on the pole and opens her legs into a perfect V. I get off on experiencing this pleasure with others so close.
“Oh fuck,” I blurt as my orgasm envelops me. I cover my mouth, afraid someone will hear me, but the music blasting over loudspeakers drowns out my sounds.
Afterwards, as she drives us home, Jackie comments, “I used to date her.”
“Why didn’t you tell me before we went there?”
“Because you wouldn’t have come if you knew that.”
As a Scorpio, she keeps secrets. Jackie thinks she is protecting me, but she is only serving herself. She gets off on keeping secrets. Secrets are sexy sometimes, I admit to myself after we’ve made up back home.
Fantasy #27: “Marathon”
Jackie goes down on me for forty-five minutes. She never once asks me, “Are you close yet?”
Fantasy #32: “The Oval Office”
Jackie is Monica and I’m Bill. I wear a suit and tie, but loosen it and unbutton the top button of my shirt. She wears a shift dress, and when she sits on our desk—my books and her art materials pushed aside—I pull her panties over the perfect hump of her ass and down her legs. I leave the underwear dangling from one high heeled foot. I rub her clit with my thumb until my finger becomes slick with her juice. Ripping off the packaging, I take a fresh cigar and run it along the edges of her cunt. Jackie giggles because it tickles her, but also because she is drunk with wanting. With a quick straightening of my wrist, I insert it into her and fuck her with it like it is our newest toy from Babeland.
After she comes, I put the cigar in my mouth and taste her sourness. She stands up and pulls her dress down. It’s blue—I think that’s the color Monica wore, but I was too young to remember much besides the cigar. I light the cigar and suck on the wet end, tasting Jackie mixed with the deep earthy smoke. On her knees, Jackie unzips my slacks and pulls them down. She tongues my clit and slides two fingers inside me. I exhale a cloud of smoke as I come.
Afterwards, we feel ashamed to have turned a woman’s imbalanced relationship into a role-playing game. We stay up late discussing Beyonce’s “Partition,” power, and how much internalized misogyny creeps into our bedroom. We are gentle with each other, speaking softly and caressing each other’s hair. Jackie’s blonde locks are dyed green right now. She did not make a convincing Monica Lewinsky, but I love her anyway.
Fantasy #49 “Last Night on Earth”
We re-enact my favorite date right inside our apartment. In the kitchen we feed each other slices of vegan pizza and drink beer out of cold cans. We smoke joints on the fire escape and laugh about how we used to be able to do this at parks. Then we put on a comedy before the reality of life in quarantine can seep into this perfect night. We sit on the floor on a picnic blanket and pretend we’re outside.
When the movie ends, we turn on Robyn and dance in our living room, which is the best lesbian night at the bar if we want it to be. We forget to have sex, or are too tired for it after the dancing and making out. We kiss like we used to while waiting for public transportation at the end of a long night out, drunk and sloppy and in love like two people who don’t know what’s coming.
Fantasy #1: “Before”
Aaron and I have been in quarantine together for fifty days. We are around each other 24-hours a day and haven’t had sex in three weeks. In the middle of the night when he thinks I’m asleep, he masturbates while watching porn on his phone in the living room. I offer up ideas as often as the home baked chocolate chip cookies I’ve been perfecting in quarantine: We could role play; we could buy a new toy; we could tie each other up. He says no to all of them, and slowly I fold each part of myself up and put it away like an out of season sweater. We rarely talk of those who came before him, of the threesomes and one night stands, and especially not of Jackie, the woman I left behind in Portland.
While he refreshes the news on his browser, I sneak into our bedroom and search the name I haven’t looked up in years. Her face is in my mind’s eye again, and her breasts, and the tattoos on her thighs. I climb into bed and crawl my fingers down my stomach. As I begin touching myself, I close my eyes and think of her. I think of how she never said no to anything, and I fantasize about all the ways we could say yes now.