A Good Little Slut by Robert Beveridge

To Constance V. Plumley

You knew how long it had been. I’d told you enough.

The first and only time a man had taken me had been in the sweltering summer of 1997, twenty-eight

years before, in a corner booth in the basement of House of Books, a porn shop that had been torn down

in the early 2000s, a few years after the cops cracked down on what they called public sex. (21 and over

for entry and paid admission to the booths always struck me as a funny definition of “public”.)

He was slim, shorter than me by about eight inches. Dark skin. Horn-rimmed black glasses. Working on a

beard but not there yet. When he came into the booth and unzipped his black jeans there was no hesitation on my part. There never was. I took him into my mouth, skin and pre-come salt and sweat from wearing jeans when it was in the nineties outside. Sheer delicious bliss. But after a few minutes he pulled back, whispered stand up. When I did he turned me around. My own jeans were already open, he just had to lower them to my knees. I heard the condom wrapper tear, and less than thirty seconds later he was inside me.

I expected pain, of course. All virgins do. But there was nothing but rapture, my body taking his cock as

far as it could, wanting as much of him as I could get until that final, forceful thrust as he stiffened. I have

never been so frustrated with latex as I was at that moment, as good an idea as it was.

I never knew his name. Names were throwaways in bookstores the few times they were proffered. I only

heard his voice for two whispered words, but for twenty-eight years I have ached for him, or someone like

him, to fuck me again.

* * *

So tonight, when you asked me how long I would need to prepare for you to top me—as completely as

you could—I just whimpered now. Please. We spread a towel, just in case. You gloved up, lubed your

fingers. More latex, not to bar disease when you’ve been monogamous for eight years. Just in case.

Once again I expected pain. This time I should have known better. But you started with one finger, then

two, then three, easing me into it the same way my own fingers often find their way into your slick,

delicious cunt when I go down on you. But just like last time, there was nothing but rapture.

I am less silent now when making love than I was in 1997. We sweet-talked our way through, as we

always do. Am I your good little slut? I asked.

Yes. Oh, yes. you replied. My own hand got me close while you fucked me, made me feel a sensation my

mind had forgotten but every cell in my being remembered and still craved.

I wanted it to last longer, of course. I almost always do, no matter what it is we’re doing, but my

treacherous body got me too close. I’m coming, I cried, I’m coming, and you thrust into me deeper, harder,

one last time, as if your hand could do the same. I covered myself in sticky salt. A few seconds later, you

slid out of me.

Asking me if it was good seemed redundant with my belly covered in my own spunk. But you did, and I

purred. Should we do it again soon? you asked.

Please, I answered. As much, as often as you want, I want you inside me.

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Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry on unceded Mingo land (Akron, OH). He published his first poem in a non-vanity/non-school publication in November 1988, and it's been all downhill since. Recent/upcoming appearances in The Pierian, Maryland Literary Review, and Qutub Minar Review, among others.