Bastard Life

Polyamorousalicious. As in, getting to fuck whatever gender you want, however you want, whenever you want—without a care in the world.—N.B.

“Eat Me.” Okay, the hamburger didn’t say those exact words. In fact, it didn’t say anything. But oh, how I heard it talk to me. I was at an elegant, upscale restaurant with my husband. The kind of restaurant with multiple forks and spoons, cloth napkins, and waiters who touched up my water glass after nearly every sip. If the place oozed anything, it was pomp, not perversity, but I couldn’t help it. My mouth watered and my pussy tightened as I looked at the juicy, tempting hamburger on the stranger’s plate.

The older gentleman was about to pick it up. My lips opened, slackened, my eyes wide. I knew Ben was watching me like a hawk when his hand reached for my knee under the table. I gasped when he touched it, then looked up at him, guilt and panic flashing across my face, but I couldn’t deny it; the sight of the hamburger had made me horny.

“You want it, don’t you, Beth? You want to open your mouth and slide that hunk of meat between your lips. You want to bite into it and have its tasty juices spurt in your mouth. Don’t you? Admit it,” he said, knowing he had me. We’d both made a solemn vow to quit eating meat altogether and return to our vegetarian roots. We’d met a yoga retreat where we’d dined on tofu and spinach, and I’d exulted in finding a guy as committed to good health and the environment as I was. But ever since I’d found out I was pregnant, I’d started dreaming of meat, in both my waking and sleeping states. When I’d told Ben about it, he’d pressed me for more.

“There’s just something so…sensual about it. Like I could eat it raw, with my bare hands.” I growled, then grinned. He took me in his arms and kissed me, hard. “Turn around,” he said, “and close your eyes.” He rarely talked to me like that, so I barely had time to ponder his order. I just did it, planting my hands on the kitchen counter while I stuck out my ass. He pushed up my skirt and slid his hand inside my panties. I was soaking wet. Ben shoved two fingers deep into my pussy and I cried out. “Tell me about it, Beth, tell me what you want for dinner.” It was surreal, yet it made perfect sense, to be telling my husband about the great big steak I craved while he finger-fucked me in that special way he has that makes me crumble. I trembled as the words tripped over themselves, the forbidden images of butcher’s trays and sausages and meatballs swimming through my mind. Finally, I had to break part of his order to look up at him as I came, spasming against his fingers. It was the most powerful orgasm I’d had in a while. “Maybe that’ll get it out of your system,” he said, then hummed as he went to the freezer and took out some veggie burgers.

“It’s not funny!” I wailed. “I really want it. The baby, the iron…” I trailed off, knowing that I wasn’t fooling anyone, let alone myself, with that line of reasoning.

“It’s just a phase,” he said, but I could tell he was amused, and when I walked over to him and cupped his crotch, I found that he wasn’t just entertained, but tantalized as well. I unzipped him and took out his dick, the one piece of meat that was safe to eat.

“You want it, too, don’t lie,” I said, my thumb running over the slit at the top. “You’d love a pork chop or sloppy joe,” I continued as I wrapped my fist around his dick. I continued regaling him with every meaty meal I’d eaten growing up as we both got horny for flesh of the edible kind. Our fridge was filled with soy this and organic that, competing versions of fake meat that were delicious, but didn’t quite have that special zing.

We agreed to let the subject go, but that burger brought it all back and then some. I bit my lip when the waiter walked over, unable to turn away from his crotch. Ben was onto me, and ran his hand up my leg. “I think we’re ready,” he said. “I’ll order for both of us. Filet mignon for me, and a well-done cheeseburger for the lady.”

I gasped. It was just a game, wasn’t it? We wanted to raise our child as a vegetarian, if not a vegan, didn’t we? On some level, that was still true, but I couldn’t deny that I wanted what he’d ordered. My very wet pussy certainly didn’t lie. I felt completely out of place at this fancy restaurant, where we were ostensibly celebrating our anniversary. By now I’d forgotten why we’d chosen it when we both usually prefer our local veggie-friendly diner or Mexican joint. But maybe it had chosen us; maybe the meat wanted us to eat it. I’d never been one to deny anything that made my pussy pound so fiercely. “Wait a minute,” I said as our server, started to walk away. “Could we get those…to go?” I asked, my cheeks reddening.

Ben laughed, but that didn’t stop him from bending me over our dining room table, a pillow beneath my belly, when we got home, the burger in one hand as he shoved his cock into me. “Open wide,” he said, and fed me the meal I’d been hard pressed not to devour in the car. As he pounded into me, filling me all the way up, those juices I’d salivated over earlier filled my mouth. “Good girl,” I thought I heard the burger say as I savored every last bite. Sex and food, I learned during the rest of my pregnancy, are inexplicably intertwined, and sometimes, your food knows what’s best for you. I recommend that if a burger ever begs you to put it in your mouth, you do so immediately. You can thank me when you’re done.—Rachel Kramer Bussel

“I want to learn to give head like a man,” she said. “Tell me how it’s different.” In a drunken moment of openness, I had told her about my bisexual past, a youthful experiment that I was growing out of in my early thirties. Usually, when I was trying to pick up women in bars, I kept this information to myself. A lot of women were turned off by a man who’d had sex with other men, but then, once in a while, the truth crept out, and luckily, this particular woman—Tracie was her name—was intrigued, wanted to know all about it, was obviously turned on by the very idea. I supposed that one of the reasons my secret had slipped out was because we were getting along so well, and my guard was down. We were both singing along animatedly when an old song by the Smiths came on the jukebox, and the topic of conversation had very casually taken a turn from the singer Morrissey’s alleged asexuality to sexual orientation in general.

When I’d admitted to having had bisexual experiences, she asked me whether men or women gave better blow jobs, and I said—because it’s generally true—that beyond a doubt, men do. A man knows what it feels like to receive a blow job, and so it’s obvious that a man would have a better instinct about how to give one. It was clear to me that this got Tracie’s feminist dander up. She was very competitive, she said, and thought she should be able to learn to do this as well as any man could, despite the drawback of not having a penis of her own. Besides that, she’d been told by men that she was very good at it, but as far as she knew, none of those men had ever gotten head from another man. So the challenge was on, and I took her back to my apartment to discuss it further.

It was a short walk from the Greenwich Village bar to my place in Chelsea. We laughed and flirted all the way up 7th Avenue, talking about our lives, getting to know one another. She was a copy editor, and I was a techie doing various types of freelance computer work from programming to web design. She was a native New Yorker, and I was originally from Alabama. Her father was South American, which explained the slightly ambiguous ethnicity that I found exotic and interesting about her. Along the way, we made fun of people we saw who were dressed poorly or acting bizarre, such as one typically sees on a Friday night in Manhattan. A casual observer would have thought we were old pals, would never have guessed that we just met an hour before in a bar. When I opened the door to my apartment, though, I immediately came back to the reason we were here—a lesson in giving a blow job like a man.

“First of all,” I told her as I flicked on the lights, “you have to really want it, and not like you want a piece of candy. It’s not a lollipop. You have to want it like you want a piece of steak. You have to be ravenous for it. Typically, women suck cock. Men devour it.”

“An interesting distinction,” she said. “But no teeth, of course...”—Robert Peregrine

Michael Lucas, America's most successful adult gay film entrepreneur, actor, and director—on love, lust, and living. Today's topic: Never aging, gracefully.

He's sitting in the darkest booth in Niko's, one of Manhattan's oldest Italian restaurants. When I walk in, only half of his face is lit by the flicker of a small white glowing dinner table candle. Hand stitched deep blue thread can barely be seen on the lapel of his formal dinner jacket, but I notice it and it shows off his irrepressibly fashionable presence. As always for our dinners, Michael stands with chivalry and greets me with a slow, warm handshake before we take to the table and the conversation begins.—N.B.

"Several of my readers have written in about asking how they can stay hot in bed after 35—and into their 40s," I tell him. "Is it all abs and ass or is it a state of mind?" He grins thinly. Then I ask, "When can a man stop trying to be the 'hot young guy' and embrace his age?"

Michael Lucas: A man should always embrace his age with confidence. Regardless of what stage of life he's in—take it on with a stance of purpose. Besides, a firm demeanor is always a turn on and that will give you a firm cock and a sea of boys who'll want it. 

BastardLife: You've aged phenomenally. What's your secret? 

ML I think it's all about discipline. It’s about how I treat my body. I never drink, have never smoked, and have never tried drugs. I also don't party into the night—I get a good night's sleep and stay out of the sun. People claim that the sun gives you a good dose of vitamin D and makes you look "happier”, but you'll only end up looking like a happy dried up old raisin. (Think Donatella Versace: she loves her sun).

BL: An old ass is an old ass, but is there something over the years that can make you a timeless fuck? Mick Jagger still walks the earth as if he's the sexiest man on the planet—and in a way, even though he's 62, he still is.

ML: It's all about how a man carries himself—his subtle arrogance. I'm sure Mick Jagger has an old, droopy ass—but he obviously doesn't give a fuck about it, nor should he. I wouldn't. I'd walk in any room, at any age, like Mick, with the same balls slappin' against my thighs strut that we both have.

BL: Speaking of Mick and men who'll never retire, we have a feeling you're going to keep it up and going for a hell of a long time, yes?"

ML: Absolutely. As long as I can bring something new to this game and be a pioneer in this industry—I'll be around to teach these boys new tricks.

Photograph for Genre Magazine by Ray Lego.