Free Sugar in My Bowl by Erica Jong Page B

me?” he repeated. He got down on his knees in one motion, parted the shirttail of the chamois I was wearing, and pressed his face right into my pussy. I grabbed the sink to stop from falling over. He steadied my thighs with his hands. His fingers were like soft sandpaper. My cunt was on his mouth, like a ball sunk into a mitt.
    I’d had guys eat me out before. It’d always been an event, an antic. The Olympics of Teenage Fumbling. I wondered if they liked it or if they were just going through the motions.
    But Stan wasn’t like that. He was crazy; it was like he had to get inside me—he had to get his entire head in me. He was going to cannibalize me from the cunt out, put his cock in my pot and stir it until I screamed. The only way to relieve his ache was to stake me right through my cunt and take us both right down the rabbit hole. I could feel myself getting bigger and smaller every second.
    “He’s a great fuck . . .” Wasn’t that Temma’s advertisement when Stan first arrived in town? Who was she talking about? Not this man. Not where he was driving me now. This was the roller coaster no child had ever lived through. I gasped from holding my breath for so long.
    Baby. Fuck me.
    I couldn’t speak, but he heard me. His tongue was stroking my clit and it was all I could hang on to. My legs were shaking bad and I doubled over like Raggedy Ann. Stan stood all the way up and lifted me one more time—this man was never going to let my feet touch the floor again.
    I hopped onto his waist, hugging my legs and arms around him. He sank me onto his hard prick, like the last piece of a puzzle. My head dropped back. He squeezed my ass to lift me just an inch off his cock, and I whimpered. Don’t make me wait.
    He was going to make me.
    “I’m going to make sweet belly love to your pussy ’til you come for me,” he said, carrying me across the floor to his bed. His sheets were blue jersey; an Economist lay half-read on the floor. I bit into his shoulder, and he drove himself into me to the hilt.
    Who was this man; what was this fucking? Robin, Temma—none of them looked desperate when they said his name. Their bellies didn’t tremble like mine.
    Baby. Susie. Come on my cock. He called my name over and over.
    I’d come for him; I arched my back as if to break it. My cunt begged him. He said, “You’re taking me down,” like my pussy had the ammunition, but how did I ever make him turn me into his fuck doll, his mewling cat, his baby?
    The head of his cock came out and teased me one more time. I cracked before he could even bury me for a final stroke. I pulled all his weight onto me, and he shuddered while I milked his cock. The tables turn, don’t they. Kittens become cats. I felt ageless—he was my boy, a very big boy falling apart in my arms.
    “Are you okay?” I guessed that was his big question.
    Yeah, I was. I cried harder letting him pull out of me than when I’d hidden under his basketball sweats in the Valiant. Daylight was breaking. He got up to get me another whiskey and a ginger ale. I asked him if I could roll a joint, and he tossed me a Baggie from under some Emma Goldman autobiographies on the floor.
    “What are you reading her for?” I asked, licking the Zigzag.
    “I’ve been reading Emma since I was a draft dodger.”
    “Yeah, I heard about that. How’d you do it?”
    “I wore a dress.”
    “Like Phil Ochs?” I threw the sheets off. “Or like a Teamster girlfriend singing the ‘Draft Dodger Rag’?”
    “How can you be old enough to know that song?” he said.
    “I’m not.”
    I started it, and he caught up to me on the second line:
    “Yes, I’m only eighteen, I got a ruptured spleen
    “And I always carry a purse.”
    I reached out for him with my scabbed-up hand. “I’m not eighteen, but I know a lot of things,” I said. “You underestimated me—well—I guess I thought you were an asshole, too.”
    “Yeah, you got that right,” Stan said, and took a drag on the