(I’m not sure why I feel like if I woke up with a cock I would also have
woken up with money and a car, but just go with my fantasy—I will go with
yours.)

I would drive to Lake City and pick you up first. You’ve been saying you
want to be a story, so you’ve been forcing me down on you in my elevator, on
my balcony, you’ve been fucking me on the roof facing the Space Needle even
though I told you I was freezing and there was smoke coming off of your
cock.

You’ve been lying on my bed, sipping out of my water glass, telling me your
theories on cocks. How you are lucky to have a big one, and don’t I love it?
You’ve been telling me your theories on Seattle. How it has a Napoleon
complex. Don’t I hate it? You’ve been telling me your theories on *me*.

* *And I have been lying next to you, stroking it, wishing I had one of my
own to shove in your mouth so you would shut the fuck up. But surprise
surprise, you stick it in *my* mouth, (same ole, same fucking ole) and then
ram me on the carpet until my elbows bleed before you stick it in my mouth
yet again.

Well. You’re about to get yours.

You are sitting by your Christmas tree playing Fantasy Football with no
pants on and I am outside beeping the horn and *Detachable Penis* by King
Missile. I am wearing the bright yellow lacy underwear you love but I
couldn’t fit my big fat cock in them so I ripped a hole in the front. You
look at me like I am an idiot when I tell you that I don’t *actually
know*what Fantasy Football is and I can’t wait to see what kind of
look you give me when you I tell you that I have a cock.

We get in the car. I tell you we are driving to California for the weekend.

“Why?”

“To get coffee.”

“We’re in Seattle.”

“To get wine, I meant. Notice anything different about me?”

“Oh, you’re wearing the North face Jacket I bought you,” you’ll say,
pleased.

“That’s right.” I’ll say, and then before you know what is happening your
mouth is on my cock.

North Face Jackets can’t buy me love, but blowjobs sure can.
I’ll start pulling your thick brown hair, bobbing your head up and deep down
and calling you every name in the book. But I will assure you that I don’t *
really* think these names of you, baby, I only call you them in bed, or
wherever it is that we are fucking. (Are we supposed to believe that?)

We will drive for twenty-four hours and stop at places that have names like
Mike’s Homemade Chili and Haley’s Indian Restaurant, and I will make you
suck it in the dirty bathrooms.

We will go to IHOP and I will order the Hungry Man’s Breakfast because I
have a penis and I am hungry. Hear me roar.

While we are waiting for your pussy pancakes and my man’s breakfast we start
to bicker because I want you to put the Strawberry syrup on my cock and lick
it off.I have never even been to IHOP, I’ve only read about IHOP in books
and seen it in movies—it’s glamorous to me so suck it and stop being so
argumentative.

You’ll have to give me road head every time a song comes on the radio that I
like. Which is often. And I will sing and come, but I won’t crash. Then I
will come and not crash again. Then I will cum and crash just a little bit.
As long as my penis isn’t hurt, I really don’t care.

You will shout and curse my driving and tell me to turn the damn radio down
but I will tell you to shut up and go suck a dick because I am an asshole
like that.

I will dare you to tell me again, just exactly *why* Chicago is better than
New York. When you open your fucking mouth to debate it, I will jam my cock
against the back of your throat. I will take forty-five minutes to cum and
when I cum I will do it in your dark hair and then say, “So, what was it
that you were saying about Chicago?”

You will call me a bitch and go wash your hair at the rest stop bathroom. I
will get a Dr. Pepper while I wait for you. I don’t normally drink soda, but
today is a special day, and also I have this idea that maybe the weight will
go straight to my penis.

You’ll have to jerk me off under the table while I drink a shot and a beer
at Applebee’s.

Make me love you*.* I want to love you, baby, *really* I do, but you
*gotta*suck it better. You’re almost there. I promise.

Yeah, I will say things like that. I am still a woman, so I’m not *actually
*obsessed with my dick and it’s size, but I’m having fun pretending.

You will suck it until your jaw hurts and your mouth is dry and feels like
sand paper. You will beg me for a sip of my Dr. Pepper. But I already drank
it all.

And I will laugh and cum. And you will cry on my cock and I will tell you
that you are being a baby and to suck your tears off of it baby.

And you’ll be like, “Fuck babe, I had no idea that you had so much rage
against guys and their cocks.”

And I’ll be like neither did I until I started writing this.

© Chloe Simmone, 2010