Brooke Shields’ Desk

Dorothy Darker at School

Photo © The Dirty Gentleman

“Brooke Shields used to sit at that desk.”

I turned to look at the girl next to me and shrugged like I didn’t care.

It looked like all the others, but in an instant, I knew it wasn’t. It was special, it was possibly sacred, and why the hell did she have to say that just as class was starting? I closed my eyes and pictured her ass under a short plaid private school skirt rubbing against the cold hard plastic, and I was in heaven. Sure, I never met her, but my mom taught her and so did J’s Dad and that was close enough. All the stories got passed down year to year, and even ten years after she graduated, she was a presence that stimulated both pride and anxiety. But right then, in the middle of English class, all I cared about was the thought that my ass was touching the same damn seat that Brooke’s ass once touched.

“Tom, do you want to come up to the board and punctuate this sentence?”

The teacher’s voice brought me back to the horrible present, but all I could do was nod and try to figure out what I was supposed to do. Grammar wasn’t my strong suit, and standing in front of the class with a hard-on was enough to make me permanently decide that Mrs. Lindon was the devil. I muddled through it, got corrected and sent back to my seat, and as much as I tried to pay attention after that, it was no use. There are times when living in a fantasy world is preferred to the real one and don’t ever feel guilty for it. Sometimes running away is the best option. Especially if your run ends with Brooke’s teenage ass.

“Dude, that was pathetic,” Mark said as we climbed down the back stairs and outside the building. It was a horrible piece of ‘70s architecture and it lacked the typical luxury of a private school, but for some reason our senior year English class got sent up there anyway. I’m fine with old and I’m fine with modern, but this twenty-year-old buillshit was horrible. We crossed the driveway and then headed across the parking lot to the library like we always did.

“It was Jean’s fault,” I mumbled.

“What did she do, show you her tits or something? You looked like you had a banana in your pocket.”

“Fuck you, Mark. But no. She went and told me that Brooke used to sit at my desk.”

“What the hell is wrong with you? She’s like eight years older than you and hasn’t gone here in a decade. What do you care?”

“She’s hot,” I said with a shrug. It was the truth, although to be fair, she was my only celebrity crush, and that was just because it was personal. I didn’t like her because of her movies, I liked her because of her yearbook photos and the arguments the teachers had about how pretty she was and how smart she was. I liked her because she was close to home, and that was enough for me. I liked Brooke Shields because she made me feel like I could touch something bigger and better than myself and I was desperate for importance.

We found our seats in the back of the library and spent the next hour and a half bullshitting with whoever stopped by before the late bus. People came and went, and by four-thirty, most of the building was empty except for me and Tara Williams. We rode the same bus and everyone called her a slut. Which only meant that I liked her instantly. She was quiet, but she smiled at me, and on occasion, she even sat with me on the bus ride and we talked in the back row. I had some strange suspicion that she didn’t have many friends, especially guys since all they talked about was how badly they wanted to get into her pants.

We moved out into the hallway to wait for the bus, and I sat behind her gently rubbing her shoulders as we talked about class. We were in Spanish together and had just gotten into reading Neruda. Or at least attempting to. She thought it was hot and I thought it was romantic, and I mumbled the few lines I had forced myself to remember for just this occasion. Quiero hacer contigo lo que la primavera hace con los cerezos.

Tara leaned back as I whispered the words in her ear, and my hands slipped over her shoulders without another word from either of us. I could see right down her shirt to her bare breasts, and somehow I managed not to hyperventilate. As I moved my hands lower, she nestled in against my legs like everything I was doing was fine. I finally reached down the front of her shirt and began to massage her tits as she touched my arm gently and sighed quietly. I was gentle and careful, practically holding my breath for the moment she would tell me to stop.

A few minutes later the bus showed up outside, and I pulled my hands out of her shirt and we grabbed our bags. We were silent as we climbed on board, and Al, the bus driver, just nodded at us and then shook his head. What a crazy old man, I thought to myself, remembering how he ran us off the side of the road in a snowstorm one time. I liked him, but that didn’t mean much.

Tara sat down and I sat across from her. She pulled out her Spanish book and started reading through the last chapter, so I pretended to do something else. I was surprised that I hadn’t grown hard feeling her up, and I wondered if there was something wrong with me. Just the thought of Brooke’s ass had done it, but this was real and it was here and she was prettier and smarter than Brooke anyway. At least to me she was.

“Hey Tom,” Tara said, touching me on the shoulder a half hour later when we got to her stop. I looked at her big warm smile and my heart melted a little bit. She was more than pretty and I was an idiot who didn’t know how to say anything.

“That’s for the massage. It was nice.”

And then I watched her ass as she wobbled up to the front and climbed down the steps onto the sidewalk in front of her house. I pictured her going up to her room and undressing, and I got angry at myself for being so crass. She was a nice girl no matter what anybody else said. Why else would she have let me feel her up? Maybe there was something wrong with her too.

It got dark before I got home, and I was grateful for the cover of night. I climbed the steps to my house, my backpack heavy on one shoulder, and I stood in front of the door for a while trying to get the nerve to go inside. Maybe school wasn’t great, but it was full of pretty girls and good memories. It was full of old buildings, favorite teachers, and of course Tara Williams the slutty girl that was a saint as far as I was concerned. I took a deep breath and tried to forget about the desk and the imagined plaid skirt. I held my hands up to my face and remembered that just an hour before they had touched the best tits in school.

My key didn’t make a sound as I turned the lock and opened the door. It was quiet in the house, but I could smell dinner cooking. Macaroni and cheese most likely.

“Hey, mom,” I said to nobody in particular. “I’m home.”

Grown-up Sex (Erotica from QNY)

“What the fuck is grown-up sex?”

“I don’t know,” I mumbled, trying to wrap my mind around the words I was hunting for. “I just mean we should fuck like adults. Without the… You know… Without the stuff…”

“We should fuck without the stuff?” she asked skeptically.

The night was not going as I had planned, but maybe that was part of it. Grown-up sex meant we talked even when it wasn’t easy and it meant we didn’t get exactly what we wanted. We were adults and we understood sacrifice and delayed gratification. We knew that every relationship was a complicated dance of compromise, emotional navigation, and empathy; sex was no exception. Consent meant we talked through everything no matter what that felt like. It meant we worked out the logistics and settled into the necessity of agreement. We were adults, and we could fuck like adults.

“You know what I mean,” I finally said.

“You mean grown-up sex is negotiated?” she whispered, moving until she knelt over me. She reached down between my legs and took me gently in her hand. I nodded in affirmation.

“Grown-up sex is something we talk about and don’t jump into without consent?” she asked, squeezing harder as I wiggled beneath her. Somehow the blankets were gone and her thumb was doing something to the head of my cock that made me lose focus.

“Yeah,” I muttered. “All of that.”

“It’s dignified,” she whispered, as I arched my back in frustration each time she let go. “It’s safe and it’s beautiful. Grown-up sex is neat and tidy and it doesn’t leave room for mistakes.”

“I mean, I don’t know about all that…” I said as she moved up until she was just inches away from my mouth.

“It’s clean and it’s sober and it’s all about taking care of each other,” she whispered, lowering herself down until all I could do was open my mouth. With fingers in my hair, she pulled me to her, my lips and tongue opening her as she pulled harder and didn’t let go.

“It’s kind and it’s polite, isn’t that right you filthy little slut?”

My hand was on my cock and the other on her ass as every word I had struggled to grasp left me in an instant. My body was so hard it nearly hurt, and all I could think about was how badly I wanted to fuck her where my mouth was. All I wanted was to fill her, fuck her, and finish inside her, and there wasn’t a damn thing else that mattered.

I rolled her to her back with a squeal, and she bit my lip in reply to my kiss. In less than a second I was in her and her legs were wrapped around my back as we fucked on the bed without any words at all. One hand pinned her arms above her head as the other moved to her throat, and her eyes opened wide in amazement and surprise. Her hips arched up against mine as I thrust harder and faster, and for a brief moment the only thing I wanted, the only thing that mattered at all, the only thing in the entire world that I needed, was to come until I couldn’t see, and nothing was going to hold me back.

“Fuck me!” she screamed as her nails raked my back and my fingers clenched tighter. She choked and she coughed, her face turning red in an instant, and then we were both shaking as we came, and the waves rolled through us again and again. I kissed her lips, my breath lost with every thing else, and she held me tightly, her spasms still holding me inside of her.

“Was that what you meant?” she finally asked, letting me roll to one side. All I could do was shake my head.

“Not at all,” I said, kissing her nose as I brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “It was so much better…”

Growing Older in Photos

Why is it that there are far more women on Tumblr willing to take their clothes off for strangers than men? It’s easy to say that they need it more, they get feedback that is necessary in a culture that tells women they will never be pretty enough. But I suspect there’s something else that’s easy to ignore. It takes strength. It takes courage. It takes a willingness to be judged over and over again that most of us men simply don’t have.

As I look at my body, getting older each day, I remember that liberation I think I once felt. But as I drink my coffee more slowly, wake up earlier, and watch the lines appear on my skin, I can see the lie. There was no confidence there in the end. My teenage body didn’t require strength or courage. I believed I earned desire for having doing nothing. I believe I deserved it for no reason at all.

And now, for the first time, as I watch everything change, I wonder where that courage might come from. How will that strength arise, and what can I do to nurture it? What will it take for me to be as brave as the thousands of women who each day drop their robes and bare themselves to the world as a matter of survival?

So I take photos all morning, hoping that the light will make a difference. Hoping that maybe a new angle, maybe a new position will create that glimpse of glory that used to be there. I place it high and then low, wondering which position makes my chin look less soft and more square. I rub my cock as I play with the camera, hoping that maybe an erection will draw away the attention, and the raw energy of excitement might be enough. But each time I lean back to the camera, my fingers busy with something new, I return limp once more. There is no salvation in a hard cock.

But maybe the right photo can make me feel like a handsome old man, if nothing else. Maybe if I live hard enough there will be lines in my face that, if not sexy, are at least interesting. Possibly the right hat, a jacket, or a scarf might let people ignore the flesh and instead be mesmerized by the character. But I’m not old enough to be anyone’s grandfather, and I’m not young enough to ignore it. My beard doesn’t grow full, my hair is a mess in just the wrong way, and my pale skin does not inspire mystery.

If I breath deeply enough, there is a chance I might be able to pause in the moment and remember. There is a chance I might recall that my only job is to be exactly as I am. My stomach, my chin, and my sad eyes are just as true as my strong shoulders and my powerful legs. No matter how hard I try, the camera will never catch everything.

I am getting older. My body is changing, and taking photos of it does nothing to slow the progress. But in each shot there is also something else. Something real. Something honest. In each shot there is both me and not me.

And if women on the internet have taught me anything, it’s that there are a million ways to find strength.