Thigh Pillow

The end of Freshman Year of college…

I woke up on the floor of some dude’s house with a screaming headache and one ear smothered against someone’s skin. I opened my eyes and saw the polyester rug staring back at me. I tilted my head slightly and saw that half my head was on some chick’s inner thigh. I stared ahead at her landing strip bush practically shoved in to face. One flap of her vagina was sticking out from the other flap. I could tell this despite the general dimness of the room.

I breathed in the plastic-tangy smell of recent sex. I raised my head and looked over the rest of her body. She was snoozing on the floor, a pile of clothes as a pillow, completely naked. Her other leg trailed off to the left, disappearing in darkness. She wore a dark-ish wife beater. She was attractive enough. A number of other people were sprawled out beyond her, along the floor leading up to the couch, on which two figures seemed to be trying to get busy under a large blanket. I didn’t remember anything. I stood up. I realized I wasn’t wearing a shirt. I looked on either side of myself and didn’t see anything resembling one of my shirts. I reached under thigh-pillow-smelly-vag’s head and yanked out a white t-shirt. She stirred, but didn’t wake up. I put the shirt on. It seemed masculine enough. I found my sandals by the door and wandered out of the house. Thrash-Metal music played at a soft volume as I opened the metal door with a screen on it and stepped in to the morning.

I swallowed and tasted vagina. That plus the Jameson I’d drank the night before. I wiped my mouth and a spindly black hair came off my lips. It was obviously not a hair from somebody’s head. It had a female twist to it. There was a strip of orange running across the rooftops below dark clouds. It looked like the sun was overflowing from a bathtub in the sky. I wandered home, my headache failing to subside.
I sent many texts later on that day. Chicks I’d banged a long time ago and hadn’t spoken to in months or over a year, girls who I was just friends with, but who probably wouldn’t want to be friends with me after receiving my strongly flirtatious text messages, and two chicks who I’d been keeping around. Of these two, the second chick, Emily, said she wasn’t doing much and she’d come by later on that night. I breathed a sigh of relief that I wouldn’t have to just watch a stupid video and resort to calling on Ms. Palm that night (Ms. Palm is my hand, by the way).

Emily was tanned, half-Hispanic. Curly black hair. A Sophomore. She wore a fake gold necklace that she claimed to have bought in Cancun. At my request, she rode on top of me. At her request, I let her chug from a bottle of wine while fucking me. It was incredibly hot. She looked down at me between swigs with the same smile she keeps on her face when you’re telling her a joke, except with moans coming out of it. Emily’s moan style was great because there was a lot of breath in it. It was an even combination of vocal chords and breathing. She moaned on both inhales and exhales.

Emily shook her hair out of her face, cocked her head back, and took a swig. She offered the wine to me once, but I shook my head. I bounced her up and down with one hand squeezing her stomach from the side of her torso. I wanted her more focused on fucking and less focused on drinking. With my other hand I reached in to the space between our genitals and rubbed at the upper part of her clit with two fingers. My hand bobbed up and down with her body. It took a few seconds until her vagina started sucking on my fingers. She was basically being double penetrated by one guy. Her thighs contracted and retracted around my waist. Her voice knocked up a register in to a wheezy high-pitched sound that pierced my ears.

I watched two of my fingers disappear further inside her pussy. Looking at my wrist, I saw a blue vein throbbing under my skin. Watching her thighs push inwards, I saw a blue vein streaking down one thigh and fading in to tanned Hispanic skin. I wondered if the blueness of the vein in her thigh was contingent on the intensity of the sex she was having. I knew the blueness of the vein in my wrist was.

Emily was a one-woman symphony; she moaned a beat per second, her pussy kept making wet sucking noises and the bed sheets rustled as her legs bore down on them and lifted off. She looked straight ahead through squinting eyes—not at me, at my door—and raised up the wine bottle in slow spasms and took a huge swig.

While wine glugged down her esophagus, she had a moment of something or other. Not a full blown orgasm but enough pleasuer to impair her motor skills. It was hilarious. Her knees knocked against my ribcage and the bottle popped out her mouth and smashed on the floor behind the headboard of my bed. She vomited all the wine in her mouth on to my face and pillow and the sound it made was a really strange female orgasmic noise/guttural throat sound/ liquid splashing on fabric /bedsprings creaking combo. Someone needs to record it. Play it in reverse and maybe it will say ‘Paul is Dead’ or something. I came. While my cock throbbed inside her, Emily groaned and slung her head down. Her eyes were fully shut, her mouth curved open in a super-smile stained with wine. I stopped rocking her and let my cock throb for as long as it needed. Emily’s hair tickled my chest. “I’m sorry,” she said, freezing in place while my dick slowly went limp. She laughed a high pitch laugh and flung her hair back over her shoulders. “I’m so sorry, Dennis.”

While she cleaned up the bottle and the wine stains from my floor afterward I lay on my pillow amidst a red catastrophe blotch, feeling really mellow, my cock still somewhat tingly, my eyes closed. I listened to the squeaking of the paper towels and windex Emily pushed across the floor. I told her about how I’d woken up that morning on some rando’s thigh because I had blacked out at the party and had no idea what her pussy tasted like, but that Emily’s tasted better, and felt better, too.

As soon as I’d stopped telling the story, I realized she had stopped cleaning. She stood over me, just breathing. I didn’t look at her, I just heard her. Emily said;
“Dennis, you’re a fucking creep, you know that?”
A pause.
“I’m not going to fuck you anymore. You need help.”
She charged out the door and slammed it. I fell asleep almost immediately after.

The next day I went to one of my required psychiatry appointments. Deirdre, the psychiatrist, must have been about 60 years old. She wore clothes that looked even older. Even still, I bet that she had been hot forty years before. I could tell that she had probably worn the same clothes forty years before also, and that guys probably loved it. Deirdre and I fell silent after talking about my Dad and how I didn’t want to go home to him that summer, how I didn’t think it was fair. We had about ten minutes left. She asked me about my love life. I shrugged and said it was fine. She asked me again and this time I didn’t answer. We ended the session early. I went home, washed my sheets and took a nap.