He’d never taken a dick pic before, or so he said.
Me, I scoffed.
“Unlikely. Not even to check for lumps and bumps, assess a decent shave job?”
He seemed offended that I asked. The only millennial who had not got to grips with phallic photography. Incredible.
I changed tack.
“May I see it, please?”
“Why?” He replied, cagily.
“I like dicks. I like you.. Stands to reason I might like whatever you’re packing in those boxers. You don’t have to say yes, obviously. But the idea of your cock turns me on.”
And I left it at that for a few days whilst he percolated his answer.
Summer, so I’m wearing less and less to bed at night, writhing under a single sheet and leaving damp patches wherever I sit. Lying on the bed after a shower I take a shot of the full swell of my breast and its drying water droplets.
“Would you like to see?”
I send it to him.
There’s no response.
I masturbate each night picturing the straining imprint of his cock in his underwear, imagining the feel of the almost yielding flesh under my fingertips.
“Don’t if you don’t want to. I want to see it but that doesn’t supersede what you want. I’m not pressuring you.”
Life goes on as normal.
I’m eating popcorn and lazily browsing YouTube. It’s Thursday night but not late.
“Hello.” He says, as if we haven’t been in a lengthy WhatsApp conversation all week.
“Are you being good?”
“This popcorn has a lot of butter on it so no, not really.”
“Oh that’s a shame. I’ve got something but it’s only really for good girls.”
“Oh. Can I be a good girl?”
“I don’t know. Where are you?”
“In the front room.”
“Let’s see your tits.”
I’m a slut, my t shirt over my head, bra shoved down for the photographic evidence before he’s had a chance to draw breath.
“I want to come on them. Go to your room.”
So close to tripping over my own feet I make it to the bed as the next message buzzes through.
I don’t know where this has come from but I am all for it, I don’t even care if tomorrow he goes back to being evasive. The promise of the elusive cock shot is further from my mind than ever.
“And let me see you.”
Tits, belly, thighs, and that scrub of hair on my cunt, all on display.
“Very nice indeed. I approve.”
Liquid arousal makes it hard to concentrate.
“Touch yourself for me.”
I assume he wants evidence of this too. I balance the phone in one hand and rub my clit with the other, holding down the record button awkwardly, my moans breathy and desperate.
“Desperate cunt.” He types approvingly, knowingly.
When the photo comes through it’s as beautiful as I thought it would be; thicker than average, the hair untrimmed and lighter than I’d pictured during those long, frustrated wanks.
“Oh. Thank you.”
I wish he was here fucking me. That’s the point of the dick pic in this context really, isn’t it? Not the scummy morons who clog your inbox with unsolicited wang. When you crave every part of someone, and seeing their body at the height of arousal is something you need to keep you going.
I wish he was here fucking me even though he’s never actually going to fuck me. Too much stands in the way. Too logistically messy. But I can imagine every last one of the fucks we’ll never have. That’s free.
“What do you think?”
“I think I want to swallow you whole until your cum drips out of me.”
“That can be arranged.”
No it can’t, we both know it can’t. I hate sexy talk that isn’t grounded in reality and I hate that I hate it and that it stops me enjoying the moment, enjoying an isolated incident for all it is and nothing more. So many missed opportunities.
It doesn’t matter, I’m wet and naked now and he’s got his cock out and they say you should be careful what you wish for and they’re probably right.
“Are you wet?”
So wet, a torrent, a typhoon between my thighs all because of this stupid boy in my phone.
Dutifully I dip two fingers into myself and show him the slickness glistening in the dusk.
He shows me that he’s hard now; I want him to fuck me like he hates me because on balance he probably hates me more than he likes me anyway. Precum shines on the head, I want to wear it like lipstick.
“Come for me.”
He knows all the lines, dispassionate and disassociated though he may be. I masturbate in fury now, in frustration, in aroused agony, with one finger jammed on record as I’m picturing him grabbing me and bruising me and my orgasm crashes out of me, angrily, almost without pleasure.
He doesn’t say anything for a few days. I don’t know why I expected things to change. Next time someone tells me it’s their first time, I’m going to run fast in the opposite direction.