I’ve been told by the almost disrobed couple on the bed, that I’m here on sufferance. I’m the quintessential loser in the car commercial, scripted to gaze longingly at the BMW 3 Series sedan, with the 240 horsepower, turbo-charged 2.0 litre engine I cannot afford. I don’t even possess a driver’s license. I’ve expressed, in the most florid language, my full comprehension of how lucky I am to have been invited to watch them fuck. Protocol demands it.
I say almost disrobed, because Mark is still wearing a chunky gold medallion around his neck. Also, he values time; this is obvious by the fact that he’s still wearing his Yachtmaster Rolex. Maybe this is why there’s not a lot of foreplay before he starts fucking her.
Or perhaps it’s because Amanda, she of the blemish-free, utterly hairless and toned to perfection body, is one of that new breed of perpetually self-lubricating women who is always ready for it.
Whatever it is, I’m grateful for it, because it circumvents all the awkwardness I’ve encountered in less confident couples. In this room, we all know our roles. Stud, sex goddess, and me – witness to the glory that is them.
Amanda is on her knees, on the bed, like a pedigree pornstar. “Look at me,” say her eyes. “Aren’t I hot?” Then she lowers her lids seductively. “Don’t cha wish you were me?” she asks.
“Of course I do,” I say, sitting on the neutral coloured chaise longue, five feet from the bed, under the bay window. It’s night outside, but I can hear raindrops spat against the glass, between their heavy breathing.
As a rule, I tend to stay quiet when I watch other people have sex. In the past, it has been my experience that, at some point, the hospitable couple gets pleasantly involved in each other and forgets I’m there.
“Why?” pants Amanda.
At first, I’m not sure what I’m being asked. “Why?”
“Yeah. What makes you want to be me?”
My first choice is to respond with something obvious like “Well, because you’re getting fucked by a hot man with great abs.” But instinct tells me that is not the answer she wants to hear.
“Well, it’s because you’re so incredibly beautiful?”
She smiles and pushes back against Mark. “And?”
“Sexy. Very sexy. You have a lovely body.”
Amanda purrs her satisfaction and lowers her shoulders a little, so her ass seems higher up. Mark doesn’t seem to notice much. He’s busy looking down at his own cock as it slides into her.
“You like my tits? Do you?”
It’s then I realize that I am not witnessing what I have come to think of as sex. I can feel a tingling at my extremities. Part fear, part exhilaration. The light in the room grows warmer as my pupils dilate. A sensation, like a slick, warm worm inching its way up my spine, warns me that I’m in the presence of obscenity. Not the ‘oh my god, Janet Jackson’s nipple’ run-of-the-mill, mainstream moment of scandal, but perhaps a glimpse of some true perversion.
“My pussy’s so fucking wet.” She moans to end the sentence. Part punctuation, part onomatopoeic porn. “So. Damn. Wet.”
That’s when I realize that poor Mark, for all his workout efforts, is only required to play the part of a mobile erection. The post she’s rubbing herself up against is me. And I’m caught up in this odd inversion, fascinated.
I’m here as the subject of envy. My job is to be envious. And there is, I own, a strange titillation in knowing that the prospect of making me envious is giving Amanda more pleasure that the cock that’s penetrating her. That sends a shrill whistle of lust through my groin.
Not because I want her. I don’t. I am sometimes attracted to women, but she’s not my type at all. But the manipulator, the pseudo-sadist in me, blossoms at the level of power she’s just handed to me. She wants me, she needs me, to envy her. It’s what she wants, what she needs to get off.
Amanda glances up at me through a lattice of immaculately tousled hair and, with no self-consciousness whatsoever, slides the pretty pink tip of her tongue over her plump, pinker lower lip. I suspect she’s practiced this gesture in the mirror, perhaps to the empty corner of a less populated bedroom. But now I am her camera. I’m affording her moment of private, PornTube celebrity.
“You’re so fucking hot,” I say, allowing a wanton whine to thread tendrils through my words.
“I know. I am, aren’t I.”
I am overwhelmed. Although I’ve seen it mediated, I’ve never been in the presence of it, and at such proximity. This perversion I acknowledge intellectually but have no capacity to comprehend in my flesh. I’m like one of those 19th Century botanists who’s stumbled upon a fabled but as yet undocumented species. An alien with a completely different configuration of sex organs to the ones I am familiar with. Right in front of me. And I need to watch it. To watch it feed.
“He would never fuck me the way he’s fucking you. He’d never get as hard for me.” I offer boldly.
“No, never,” she groans, and arches her back into the beginnings of her orgasm.
What a prize for my collection.
(This piece was a product of a collision between Susan Sontag’s “The Pornographic Imagination” and Dagmar’ Herzog’s final chapter in “Sexuality in Europe: A Twentieth Century History“, seasoned with a hefty inverted pinch of The Pussycat Doll’s “Don’t Cha”)