roxycallahan

I couldn’t blame Dara as she kept pushing for details about how sex the fifth day of Christmas went. She wanted juicy stories, and all I wanted to talk about was how Corey and my relationship was being transformed: We snuck off for lunches whenever we could; he made me breakfast; we fell asleep holding each other rather than on opposite sides of the bed. All the touches, caresses, sweet words, and little romantic things meant the world to me.

After each romantic comment, Dara would pat my arm and say, “That’s wonderful, but I want to hear more about how you didn’t need lube because your impossibly sexy boyfriend somehow came with his own built-in lube.” Her comments didn’t really bother me.

When Garry told me that we’d be missing our second Thanksgiving in a row I pretty much lost it. He didn’t deserve my rage, but I just couldn’t hold back any more. He was on his second tour in the Navy, and I hadn’t seen him in months, and his ship couldn’t be without him for even a long weekend?  

I cried as he kept repeating, “Sam, I’m so sorry,” even though it wasn’t his fault, and that only made me sadder and angrier. We could at least see each other via our Zoom conversation, but even that made me feel self-conscious. I was a blubbery mess, yet Garry looked handsome, rugged, serious, and concerned. 

We said goodbye, and over the next few weeks my mood didn’t improve. I missed my husban

Friday night was supposed to be me, a bottle of cheap Malbec, and a deep dive into the anecdotally-supported theory that all serial killers were obsessed with model trains. Instead, I’m staring at my closet, which has exploded onto my bed, and I’m in a state of low-grade panic.

All because of Jordan.

It had started on Tuesday, during a particularly boring Zoom call. I was aimlessly swiping, my thumb moving in a blur of jaded rejection—Beard, fish pic, gym selfie, no bio, group photo (which one are you?), beard AND holding a fish—and then I stopped.

His first picture was… a problem. He was 'ruin-your-life' handsome. Dark hair, eyes that were somehow smiling, a jawline that looked like it

DREW

My thumb hovers over Sophia’s name in my contacts. My heart is doing a stupid, frantic tap-dance against my ribs. Just call her. It’s Soph. She’s the only person in the world who won’t immediately tell you you’re a complete sociopath.

Maybe I am a sociopath. Who invents a girlfriend? And then... keeps her? For six months?

I groan and hit the call button before I can lose my nerve. She picks up on the second ring, as always.

“Drew. You’d better be calling to tell me you finally quit that job so we can start our '80s cover band,” she says, her voice a bright, familiar splash of Houston sunshine in my quiet Dallas apartment.

“Hey, Soph. Yeah, no, still gainfully employed, wh

You're back in your cabin, the director's words echoing in the quiet room. A free use party, or the glory hole. The choice feels less like a dilemma and more like a question of what kind of pleasure you are now ready to claim.

You pace the floor, thinking it through. The glory hole... part of you is undeniably intrigued. You think back to the gang bang, to the stunning, overwhelming sensation of the parade of cocks. The idea of experiencing lots of different sizes and shapes again, the sheer variety of it, is a thrill. It's simple, anonymous, a pure physical service with the raw enjoyment of variety. There's a dark, depraved efficiency to it that part of your new self finds appealing.

Bu

TORI

The humming starts at exactly 6:02 AM. It’s the same four-bar loop he’s been obsessed with for a week, and it's drilling a hole in my skull.

“God, Ash, must you?” I snap, my voice rough with sleep. My ass is already numb from the passenger seat, and we’re not even out of Pennsylvania. Seven hours of this. Seven hours in this Subaru that smells like old guitar cases, stale coffee, and him.

He just grins, not looking away from the gray ribbon of the highway. “It’s a hook, Tor. It’s catchy. If you can’t get it out of your head it’s a good thing.”

“I can’t get it out of my head because you’re constantly humming the damn thing.” 

He sighs, a dramatic, long-suffering sound I know by

I didn’t realize that things had gotten so bad between my husband and me. Sure, I knew Paul and I had drifted apart, but Halloween was our favorite holiday, and now we were going to be spending it at separate parties. It scared me.

I truly loved Paul, but our life had become so distant. We both worked long hours, and when we got home we wandered off to different parts of the house doing different things. And when we finally crawled into the bedroom together? If I was lucky, we would have a quick fuck to at least maintain the illusion that our relationship still had passion. 

Despite that, I had always felt that our relationship was fixable. We loved each other. We didn’t really fight, and

You wake with the director’s final choice echoing in your mind, a stark, explicit fork in the road. Bukkake, or a gang bang.

Lying in your bed, you let your mind drift to the first option. Bukkake. At first, the word itself conjures not just a sense of messiness, but a feeling of being drowned. Cum in your nose, in your eyes, and just covering you. It feels overwhelming. 

But as you push past that initial reaction, a different picture forms. You imagine the feeling of it. The shocking, almost searing heat of a man’s orgasm as it hits your skin. The thick scent. The surrender of being a destination for their pleasure. There’s a strange, undeniable erotic charge to the idea of feeling that

The candlelight flickers between us, casting dancing shadows across David’s face. He’s telling a story about a disaster at work, but the way he’s telling it, with his hands gesturing and his eyes alight with humor, turns a mundane office catastrophe into a comedy. I just watch him, a slow, warm heat spreading through my belly that has nothing to do with the expensive red wine in my glass. Five years. It feels like a lifetime and no time at all.

I love anniversary sex. It’s in a category all its own. It’s not the frantic, clothes-ripping-off lust of a new relationship, or the comfortable, easy fuck of a lazy Sunday morning. Anniversary sex is a celebration. It’s a physical reminder of every

After a day that included a picnic, a visit with family, dinner out, and then watching a basketball game at her and Roland’s alma mater, Amy knew sex that night wasn’t likely. She and Roland would just be too tired.

Actually, she wasn’t going to be tired. In fact, she was getting more and more worked up as the day went on. Roland was incredibly charming at the picnic, making everyone laugh and just basically looking and acting super sexy. Then he was kind and wonderful at her mom and dad’s, and at dinner he said all the right things. 

In fact, she ran her foot up his leg under the table and pressed it into his crotch. He was pleasantly firm as she pressed against him with her toes. The l

The coffee shop is aggressively cheerful, a brightly lit box of blonde wood and the incessant hiss of the espresso machine. It smells of burnt sugar and the vague, milky perfume of the girl wiping down the counter. Across from me, Mark smiles. It’s a good smile, technically. Symmetrical, teeth straight and white. It’s the kind of smile that’s supposed to make a girl’s stomach do a little flip.

Mine remains stubbornly, clinically still.

“So, Lacrosse is going well, then?” he asks, leaning forward over his untouched scone. “You guys are undefeated, right? That’s awesome.”

“It’s good,” I say, my own smile feeling like a mask I’ve painted on. “Practice is brutal, but it’s a good outlet.”

“I

GRACE

I escape my date, Mark, mid-sentence as he’s explaining the nuances of collateralized debt obligations to a senior partner who looks even more bored than I feel. My excuse is a desperate need for another drink, but it’s really a desperate need for a moment of silence, for a pocket of air in this stuffy, high-rise party that isn’t filled with financial jargon. I find a small opening at the crowded bar and slide in, my mission singular: get a glass of champagne and retreat to a corner. As I lean in to catch the bartender’s eye, my arm brushes against the man next to me, the wool of his suit jacket soft against my bare skin.

“Sorry,” I start to say, turning. The apology dies on my l

You walk back to your cabin in a daze, the director’s words echoing in your head. Tied up, or fucked while his assistant watches. The choices feel less like doors to liberation and more like two different paths to humiliation. You collapse onto your bed, a wave of nausea and anxiety washing over you.

You hate both options. You hate them with a fiery passion. The thought of being watched, especially by the director’s assistant with her knowing, wicked smile, makes your skin crawl. All your lifelong insecurities about your body—the shape of your stomach, the way your thighs look, the sounds you make—come screaming to the surface. What would she think? Would she judge you? Pity you? Worse, w

I wasn’t an idiot, so I gave Candy all the information—where I would be, when she would hear from me, that kind of thing. While I was impatient to be surrounded by naked men, I also knew that for the first time during one of my Tinder adventures I was about to meet some men that I hadn’t interacted with via a Tinder account. Also, I was only a couple years out of college and had a pretty good idea as to how crazy it could get with a bunch of horny jocks in a room. Part of that was the plan, of course, but I also needed there to be limits. 

Safety concerns addressed, I moved on to other practical concerns: What to wear. I chose a supertight black minidress and flats. That was it. This was no