The Fantasy of Nonintrojection

So I was going through a bit of a psychoanalysis phase.

It did make some sense, actually. I was hovering on the precipice where my mid-twenties were about to turn late. And it had been six months since we broke up, but still I couldn't say my ex-girlfriend's name without breaking into a fit of coughing.

And so I read The Psychopathology of Everyday Life, and I started to sift through what was going on in my brain with the forlornness and the frustrated, shoulder-intensive yanks of someone trying to untangle a headphone cable. I learned that my tendency to bite my nails, and my predilection for responding to anything and everything with a sarcastic comment, could each be attributed to an unresolved oral fixation, which I had hitherto believed accounted only for my white-hot lust for sticking my tongue up other girls' arseholes. That might, conceivably, have been something else.

I went through a parallel phase of having nightmares as vivid and downright splattery as David Lynch movies. I had a copy of The Interpretation of Dreams by my bed, and I kept up a diligent and careful record of self-analysis. Judging by the stuff that made its way into my Moleskine notebook, though, I might have been more in need of an exorcist than an analyst. It was getting to be a full-time preoccupation, and it was playing merry hell with my work and family lives.

If it's not one thing, it's your mother.

---

Speaking of people who definitely aren't my mother, a scholar I vaguely knew was giving a lecture and launching a new book. She was a feminist psychoanalyst on whom I had a huge and raging crush, which is mostly unrelated to the proceedings which follow. But the event was happening at SOAS, and since Michael's place was just around the corner, it was a trivial thing to persuade him to come with me. We'd been rotating slowly around each other for a good few weeks by now, and I tended to consider myself part of the furniture at the Bloomsbury studio he could somehow afford.

I had been sitting at the foot of his bed for most of the afternoon, except when I went downstairs to get a series of americanos from Pret, until my limbs were vibrating uncontrollably but my head remained perfectly still, my gaze fixed like a kestrel's on the pages in front of me. I had my laptop balanced on my legs, and I was revising a story which an editor friend had gently assured me amounted to five thousand words of turgid garbage. Though I don't really remember what had happened earlier in the day, the likelihood is that we had done one or the other of the things we usually did together, which were sneering at the work of writers we had met and detested in person, or having anal sex. Eventually, we took it in turns to shower, spruce up and salve our genitals, then walked through Russell Square as the evening began to get chilly.

It had been a long time, by now, since either of us had paced the corridors of a university building. I braced myself for the smells of wet linoleum, crushed corduroy, old weed and Nature Valley bars, for the sensation of squashing myself into a folding chair with a hard-wearing but fraying fabric cover. I wondered if it would cause an immediate regression to myself from a few years ago. There was something strangely nerve-racking about it all.

Besides, for me, the corridors of university buildings seem always to remind me of the years in which I first became the disgusting sexual libertine that I remain: cripplingly shy, unable for love nor money to maintain eye contact, yet happy to expose my orifices to anyone who can name their favourite episode of Ulysses. We arrived there in good time, and I dimly noticed that the place was absolutely packed with people I recognised; there were one or two lecturers who had taught me as a Master's student, some classmates that Michael and I had both despised, and various figures of ill repute who made me feel glad that I no longer cherished ambitions of working in academia. I wondered what they were all thinking looking at me, and whether I registered strongly enough to be considered a black sheep.

So we filed in and sat down, and for an hour or so we mostly indulged in all the pleasures of an average weeknight in Bloomsbury. My favourite feminist gave a poised, penetrating and steady lecture, and I tried unconvincingly to pretend that she wasn't even part of the reason I was horny, and Michael was just exceedingly gracious about the whole thing, right down to the outlandish suggestion that I wanted to find an empty classroom someplace where I could suck his cock.

We ducked out just as the Q&A session was getting started. I muttered 'sorry' to everyone whose view we temporarily obscured, and by the time we reached the end of the row it didn't really sound like a word anymore, just a blob of sound falling messily out of my mouth. I succeeded in not tripping over anybody, and back out in the glass-and-granite lobby, the air was refreshingly clear and cool and unmarred by the smell of tightly-packed bodies and tweed.

---

It comes as no great revelation, I'm sure, that this wasn't my first rodeo. In fact it was a well-timed mouthful of nostalgia.

Because of course, for a few years I had routine swipe-card access to deserted university buildings. And I used to be stunningly persuadable to make the trek there in the dead of night, splatter bodily fluids around the place and look forward to the moment, perhaps the very next morning, when I would sit and make notes about Mikhail Bakhtin at a desk that had been polished to a mirror shine by the squeaking friction of my bare arse.

Frankly, I grew too bold at the time, and it was probably a good thing that I took a few years away from the practice to regroup. On a drizzly November evening, my college paramour Elsa and I wandered up the gentle slope to the largest lecture theatre at the university, probably passing a bottle of red wine back and forth and wondering if it'd be pushing our luck to play Tom Waits through the sound system.

The plan was largely forgotten, and not long afterwards, as Elsa ate me out with her thumb in my asshole, and I slumped forward onto the very same lectern where I had watched one of those tweed-jacketed types get his lecture notes confused and blunder his way through a painful hour on the Paris Commune. I orgasmed, I recall, both wetly and expressively, trickling into my jeans around my thighs, thinking that my moans were unusually loud in the big, open space of the theatre, then realising that the lectern's built-in microphone was switched on.

---

In an unlit classroom, with too few chairs and too many desks and someone's seminar notes on Said's Orientalism still scattered across the dry-wipe board, I ground my knuckles into Michael's stomach. I kneaded the deep furrows between his abdominals, pushing him back against the wall and kissing him. Like the overgrown teenager I used to pretend I no longer was, I kissed him fiercely and sloppily, shoving my tongue urgently into his mouth, nipping at his lips with my teeth when I felt like he wasn't responding enthusiastically enough. I bit his bottom lip, harder, and he brought up his hands to cup my ass, squeezing so tightly that his fingers dug painfully into my flesh even through the material of my jeans.

'What's got into you, Lottie?'

'The usual,' I said, or something like that, and Michael gave me an offhand shrug.

Michael manoeuvred me back until I was sitting on a table, and he unbuttoned the shirt I was wearing, not quite aggressively enough to send buttons flying across the room, but not too far off either. Pulling an irritated face as though he hadn't really grasped what bras were for, other than impeding his access to my boobs, he tugged down the cups of mine to expose my nipples, tilting my head roughly back to kiss me as he pinched and pulled them hard enough to make me whine with pain.

'This wasn't the deal, Michael,' I said, in a voice barely above a whisper, as though the corridors were packed with enthusiastic and hard-working students who might burst in at any minute. The possibility that we might get caught did occur to me, but I imagined anyone who did would assume that we were a pair of graduate students letting off steam—I had, by this point in my life, made my peace with no longer being mistaken for an eighteen-year-old—and not jump to the bizarre conclusion that we were two trespassers who held places like this in mild contempt.

Michael looked confused, so I gesticulated to his crotch. I could see the thick outline of his cock there, and that he was already hard, or something close to it. Hopefully I was able to keep from licking my lips, but I think it was clear either way what I wanted.

'Take it out, then,' I said.

'And why should I do that?' Michael said.

'Because I want to watch you do it.'

And, to his credit, he did. I sat back on the table, which wasn't too comfortable but had a familiarly slippery surface underneath me. And with my legs splayed in my jeans and my tits out, I played with my nipples as I watched him loosen his belt, unbutton his own jeans and pull out his cock. He stroked it for a while, his eyes focused on what I was doing to myself, and then I slid down onto my knees in front of him. He went on stroking himself, as though he was going to cum all over my face and walk out of the room, and I was mesmerised for a moment by the fluid motion of his skin over the shaft and head of his cock, then I gently nudged away his hand and replaced it with my own.

His cock felt warm and firm in my hand, the skin so soft and yet the flesh so hard, and I continued to watch it, entranced, as I began to stroke him myself, angling his cock lightly upwards, tugging the waist of his jeans down a little lower so I could cup his balls in my other hand, then start to lick and suck them as he tilted his head back and relaxed against the wall behind him.

The floor was hard underneath my knees, and I shifted my weight so they hurt a little less, the crotch of my jeans rubbing ever-so-slightly against my cunt as I did, sending a few tingles shooting upward into my stomach.

I started to rub myself through the layers with my fingertips as, eventually and slowly, I took the tip of Michael's cock into my mouth. I remember that I held it there for a while, barely moving my mouth, kneeling at Michael's feet with my breasts yanked out of the cups of my bra and my hand on my pussy, just circling the underside of him slowly and gently with my tongue. Michael always tasted delicious—smooth and warm and a tiny bit salty—and I let my tongue gradually explore more of him.

Perhaps at times I imagined footsteps in the corridor outside, and perhaps on occasion they were real. Or maybe I just wanted them to be. But for the most part, the room and the building around us were quiet, and I heard only Michael's deep and occasionally-rattling breaths, and the liquidy, flickering sounds of my tongue against his cock.

Of course, and true to form, it didn't take long before I wanted more of him, and I took him deeply and longingly into my mouth. I felt the tip of his cock nudge the back of my throat, felt my jaw stretch as my tongue tried to attend still to the underneath. I pushed my mouth hungrily toward the base of his cock, gasping as I came up for air, stroking him now his cock was thoroughly wet, circling the tip in my palm, trying to wipe my mouth in a dignified way with my other hand.

Never one for inappropriate bouts of tenderness, Michael responded very eagerly indeed to my obvious desire for his cock. He tangled his fingers in my hair at the back of my head, thrusting hard into my mouth, gasping with pleasure as my mouth and throat seemed to open up to take more of him. Sooner or later, I stopped listening intently for footsteps at all, preferring instead to relax into the gentle rhythm of Michael's cock gliding wetly against my lips, my tongue, the roof of my mouth and the back of my throat.

'Don't swallow it,' Michael said.

I was confused, and I wondered if I had misheard him. It's not all that often a man doesn't want you to swallow his cum. But I didn't have much time to think about it, because moments after he said it he was filling my mouth: I felt a hot jet of him hit the roof of my mouth and the back of my throat, pooling in the centre and around the sides of my tongue. It seemed to go on for some time, and I wondered if my mouth could really contain it all, if that was what Michael had really said.

I looked up at him quizzically, my mouth full of hot and salty cum and his cock, which he slid gently from my mouth, as though trying carefully not to spill anything. The softening flesh of his cock slid between my lips with a slightly wet slap.

'Yeah, like that,' he said.

I looked up at him, making some comical and open-handed gesture of query.

'Let's go,' he said.

'Hmmm?' I said, since I could hardly form any words without making a mess of my own tits.

'Exactly,' Michael said. 'Just like that.'

And with that, Michael rearranged himself back into his jeans, buttoned them up and opened the door, looking back and forward along the corridor. Hastily, I got back to my feet, scooped my boobs back into my bra cups and started buttoning my shirt.

'We're alright,' Michael said. 'Come on.'

And so Michael led me back through the corridor, back along sticky linoleum floors and past anonymous doors to anonymous classrooms, past a vending machine filled with dusty old bottles of water, since by now nobody was buying plastic bottles anymore, and all the while I tried to stop myself from trickling any jizz down my shirt.

And don't get me wrong, there was nothing particularly unpleasant about Michael's cum, which I had on occasion willingly ingested even after he had licked it out of my arse. He wasn't some kind of cigar-and-steak-tartare-chomping eighteenth-century nobleman. But still, it's a bit of an odd texture to keep wobbling around under your tongue for that long, and pacing through empty corridors, approaching the hubbub of voices helping themselves to the wine reception, all the while with a mouthful of cum, just feels like a strange and slightly wrong combination of feelings. Like eating your mother's roast chicken while wearing a buttplug, which I have definitely never done, because I don't eat chicken.

I should have known that, in a situation as ridiculous as this, the only plausible continuation was for it to get more ridiculous still. We stepped through a pair of swinging double doors and back into the mass of hobnobbing academics, and I tried furiously to avoid catching anybody's eye. And it would have worked, too, had my feminist crush not made such a concerted effort to catch my own.

'Lottie,' she said, 'isn't it?'

I couldn't remember where and when she knew my name from. Perhaps someone had pointed me out in the audience, and said 'that's Lottie; she was longlisted for the Booker last year. You must catch up with her afterwards, only be quick about it because she'll be off down a corridor swallowing someone's cock before you know it.'

And of course, there was really nothing I could do but smile weakly and hope I didn't pull a telltale mouthful-of-salty-phlegm-and-detergent face as I followed Michael out into the fresh and cool air of the early-winter evening, trying to look like I had somewhere important to be.

'You can swallow now,' Michael said.

I spat it into a flowerbed.

'You're a pervert, Michael.'

I'm sure the subtlety of my remark wasn't lost on him.
http://ciencia.ara.cat/joguinesdelaboratori/2012/06/07/com-enganyar-la-conciencia-corporal/

The Fantasy of Nonintrojection

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