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TRIGGER WARNING: Sarah s recalls her childhood struggles with an eating disorder.

For those who pay attention to such things: When Sarah is alone the story is in the past tense. When Claire and Sarah are together the story is in present tense.

Thanks to HaltWhoGoesThere for copy editing.

Impact of Intinction

I always get lost in Williamsburg.

No matter how hard I try to orient myself, as I exit the L train and climb out of the subway, I get turned around. Every. Single. Time. By the time I’m above ground I can never sort out which way is which. In the city – Manhattan – it’s somehow easy. Even in the Financial District and the West Village, where the old curving streets make a hash of the grid, I can figure out which way I’m heading. But Williamsburg never fails to fool me. I’ve even tried going the opposite way I think I should. I still go the wrong way. Tonight I didn’t stand a chance.

I tugged nervously at my hem as I climbed the steps out of the subway, but I was only a step below the man in front of me, staring at the middle of his back. And the guy climbing the steps behind me was right behind me. I could practically feel his breath on my neck. The Friday night crowd shuffling with me out of the ground is too densely packed for anyone to be able to see up my skirt. Still I felt uncomfortable in my skin. My mind kept returning to the unwanted image of my mother watching me going down on Claire. And each time I remembered the ruined fantasy I blushed.

I had felt my cheeks flush hot repeatedly on the train. At one point a man facing me had noticed, giving me a look of surprise even as he turned away. It had made my cheeks burn even hotter.

Once I’d reached the street, I was faced with the decision of which way to go. I needed to go deeper into Brooklyn… so east… I was pretty sure. Bedford Avenue ran north-south… I was pretty sure – everything in Brooklyn is cattywampus. So my choice was whether or not to cross Bedford or go down the block the other way. The avenue was crowded with noisey young New Yorkers, excited starting their weekends.

I usually try to keep track of which direction the train was running as I climb the steps, exit the turnstile, make the switchbacks, and choose an exit, but I was too discombobulated to do that. It never works any way. I kinda felt like I should cross the avenue – but I was also certain, that no matter which way I chose, I would choose wrong – so I walked away from the avenue. I was still entirely sure I was making a mistake – because I ALWAYS made a mistake – but secure in that knowledge, I felt I might as well go the way I wanted to go. I was in danger of crying, but I didn’t.

My shoes made quiet scuffing sounds as, head down and arms folded protectively over my breasts, I passed row houses with cheap aluminum sing and tar shingle fronts. The hubbub and happiness of the avenue and the bustling crowd growing quiet.

I didn’t want the beautiful happy people to see me and I didn’t want to see them. I felt ugly and stupid, angry with myself for turning what had been a good and productive talk with my mother about Claire into something disgusting and shameful. I felt betrayed and punished by my own imagination.

‘And frustrated,’ I thought glumly. I had really wanted to cum.

“Snatching defeat from the jaws of victory,” I could hear my father saying; a criticism thinly disguised as a joke. Something about the lame old “dad joke” brought to mind the story Claire had told about her first time; the older boy with a cock as big as a can of Coke. How he’d pursued her thinking it would make him popular, but ended up more of a pariah. And how he had hurt Claire, left her scared and angry.

“He was a shit,” she said, her face darkening with an anger that still looked fresh two decades later. “I was too young, had just moved back to Paris from Asia… I didn’t see it.”

She had promised to tell me all about all her big dicks, but had wanted to skip the first. I had pressed her to tell me.

“He liked that I was a ‘little virgin’ and didn’t care that he was hurting me and wouldn’t stop. He got off on it. ‘Mon petit Jésus va détruire ton trou. Après lui ta chatte sera béant!'” she said, imitating a crude male voice and arrogant cruel expression. Her face had relaxed and she’d taken a long drink of her wine before continuing.

“But it was his first time too, he thought fucking me would make him some sort of stud. I begged him to stop and he laughed at me,” she said, and I could tell even saying it made her sad, but then she had smiled at me with real pride. “I didn’t tell anyone what actually happened, or make a big deal about it, just the opposite. All I would say was that he was a terrible lay – no big deal,” she says, pantomiming blaise disinterest. Then, smiling at me wickedly, she told me, “But I told EVERYONE! And I said it like I knew what I was talking about, like I had Eryaman Escort had lots of guys and he was the worst. As it turns out my slut-naysaying was way more convincing than all his studly-bragging. No one wanted to be with him after that. He’s a banker in Hong Kong now and he still has a reputation for being a lousy lay – to this day!”

She had laughed with real amusement at that, but admitted she’d been “gun shy” about sex for years after that. All the boys had chased her, “Thinking I was easy!” – but she wasn’t interested.

“Not even a little!” she had laughed with glee. “It drove them all fucking crazy.”

Looking up, I crossed Berry, hoping Driggs was the next intersection. I thought of the stories she had told me about rollerblading in Paris with “her boys” – Benoit, Tristan, and Moussa – the four of them holding each other by the hips, weaving faster through traffic than any one of them ever could alone. I imagined being one of her boys in that chain behind her, staring at her round ass, wanting it and knowing I couldn’t have it.

I was in a fog, practically stumbling at the thought of holding her by her hips, looking down at her teenage ass, of her meeting the Algerian. Clearly, I had really needed to cum, and my own twisted fucking imagination had ruined it. Now here I was walking in a cloud of unresolvable lust. I was going to embarrass Claire infront of her friends and coworkers if I didn’t snap out of it. But all I could think of was her, of her younger, gun-shy, self.

“But after all that, my second fuck was even bigger than the first,” she had told me, laughing at herself.

She said that by the time she met the Algerian she had mostly lost her fear – but not entirely. She must have been in her late teens, very early twenties when they met. He was a couple years younger, she had told me, “still in school”. They were acquaintances, part of the same friend circle.

“He was a footballer – and really good – but you would never know it the way he acted,” she told me. “Smart and unassuming, and so shy. He had such a gentle manner, very sweet and soft spoken – a real gentleman.”

She said they weren’t lovers, that he wanted to be, but she didn’t.

“I was moving around a lot at that time. All the boys then were just… there was no one who could hold me,” she said smiling, proud of her younger self.

They were only together a handful of times over the next couple years. “We’d run into each other,” she explained. “It was very casual, at least for me. I don’t think he had anyone else really…”

She had told me how self conscious he was about his cock. The first time she saw it, he was almost as inexperienced as she was. They had only fooled around that first time, stoned in a friend’s flat after a party, he kept apologizing for it.

“It was so big Sarah,” Claire had confided, looking at me over her wine glass, her eyes remembering that first glimpse. “You would not believe,” she said, her attention snapping back to the present, to me, laughing at my obvious excitement. I had been squirming in my seat.

Claire told me how his erection was long enough to “climb all the way up his stomach” and that it was “curved like a scimitar”. That first time they had fooled around he had told her he knew it was too big, that he hated it.

“Instead of being more scared of him, it made me sympathize,” she’d told me. “It was like we shared different sides of the same fear.”

“Still,” she admitted to me. “I was too afraid to do much with him, but I didn’t want him to know that – to make it worse for him”

Instead she told him she didn’t hate it, that it was OK it was so big, better than OK, that she liked it, that it was beautiful.

“It really was,” she said, wearing her appreciation on her face. “If it hadn’t been so fucking big I think it was one of the prettiest cocks I’ve ever seen.”

I screamed in mock horror as she told me what it was like to suck his giant cock. We had both laughed as she pantomimed, with her mouth open and neck bent, how she held it with two hands, still able to stroke it while sucking just the head.

“Did you suck his arm?!” I wailed in outrage, which had sent her into hysterics.

But watching her delight, I had thought of my shame – that cheating bastard William.

The first time I had put my hand in his pants we had been fumbling on my loveseat in the dark like teenagers. He had insisted on turning out all the lights, which I’d thought was funny, maybe romantic. But because it had been dark I’d been able to hide my shock. I could tell by the way he held himself he was anxious, probably afraid I’d laugh at him.

And the first association I’d made was comic. I’d thought of changing Wes’ diapers with my mother, his tiny pink erection, no bigger than my little finger, pointing at the ceiling. I’d remembered my mother and I laughing as Wes shocked all three of us Sincan Escort by peeing a high golden arc. He had started to squawk when it hit him square in the eye. His squint-eyed outrage had been cut off as the stream found his mouth, gaging him, his face a little red ball of choked outrage – which only made my mother and me laugh harder.

I was very careful not to laugh at William.

‘Women have been killed for less,’ I’d thought, as I wordlessly tried to put him at ease, to show him with my hands and mouth that I was kind, that everything was still OK. I’d even moaned for him, pretending to be excited.

William had a baby dick. Touching him would have been like touching a little boy except he had a giant manly bush. His pubic hair thickly carpeted his whole crotch almost up to his navel. The curly dark mass entirely hid his genitalia – except when he was erect, and then only his little pink head would show. Pulling one of his hairs from my throat it had struck me that his pubic hair was longer than his penis. Unlike the Algerian, William’s erection was too small and thin to fill one of my hands. It had felt strange sucking him off, and while I didn’t mind having him in my mouth, I hated burying my nose in his thatch of curls. It revolted me.

But I had been trying very hard to convince myself I was falling in love with William. He was Catholic, had gone to Harvard, and was lawyer for the U.N. – someone I could imagine my parents not just approving of, but being impressed by. So I’d imagined what it would be like to suck him off if he’d been hairless, that if I were to shave him I would be able to easily fit all of him in my mouth – not just his erection but his little balls too. I fantasized about sealing my lips against his hairless groin, sucking his bald little cock and balls simultaneously, playing my tongue over and around them like a French kiss. I’d imagined how I could hold all of him in my mouth that way while still being able to put out my tongue to lick his smooth hairless perineum. It never made me cum, but something about the perversity of image was exciting. I kept coming back to it in my mind – especially when we were together.

Finally I made the mistake of telling him about my fantasy, asking him if I could shave him, telling him I thought it would be sexy. I had convinced myself it would be.

He had totally freaked out.

I thought at the time he was upset that I might be mocking his manhood – being made to look like a little boy. I had felt terrible for making the suggestion – that I was a twisted shitty person. It was only later I realized he had freaked out for the same reason he freaked out about social media and never paid with credit cards: because he was married. He would have had to explain his hairless micro penis to his wife.

The memory of William’s penis had made me feel sour but Claire had distracted me from my own failed love life with the wonders of hers. Her face had been so serious. She had breathlessly described for me what it was like to guide the Algerian in the first time, how scared they had both been he might hurt her.

“He went so slow,” she rumbled, easing her glass back and forth to show me, her wine sloshing gently, a far away look in her eyes.

“He was a true gentle giant,” she laughed, her focus snapping back to me as she started to describe what it was like to be filled and stretched that way. She had laughed at how I’d blushed, how hard it was for me to hold her gaze.

“You don’t have to be scared!” she’d teased, but I’m sure she knew it wasn’t fear that had made me look away, that made me blush. I’d gotten so turned on listening to her, and she had known it. I’d felt ashamed because I was watching her lips as she spoke. I wasn’t thinking about the Algerian’s enormous cock. I was thinking about her mouth, thinking about her moaning and crying out; of her cumming.

She had been seducing me and I had been so afraid… afraid that she was and that she wasn’t.

I was on the far side of Wythe by the time I spotted the river and realized how entirely turned around I was.

‘This is a new low,’ I thought, impatient with my own terrible sense of direction – but also my distraction. I’d even budgeted extra time and I was still going to be late. By this point too my arousal felt like pain, like my stomach was hot and over-full. My ovaries ached.

I looked down at my phone and saw I had a text from Claire. Opening it I felt flush and lightheaded.

Are you close? Everyone else is here, they’ll seat us soon.

few blocks away.

Perfect! Don’t rush

After asking a woman walking by for directions I did rush, turning and marching back the way I’d just come. My heart was racing and I was flush, but my mood had changed. I was moving towards Claire, she was filling my mind, the image of her crying out in ecstasy was all I could Etlik Escort think about. It didn’t strike until later, but I was no longer walking head down and arms crossed. My heels were clicking with real purpose. Claire was going to fuck me tonight.

When I got to the restaurant, Claire and her group were no longer waiting to be seated. The place was in a cavernous warehouse space decorated with enormous Chinese lanterns. They were lost in the sea of diners, the roar of excited voices, but rather than looking for their table I made a beeline for the ladies room.

Thankfully it was empty. I went to the last stall and locked myself in. I didn’t bother to sit down. Instead I started fingering myself as soon as my panties were down over my ass. I was dripping and my fingers made frantic wet sounds. My hips rolled and pumped while my hand moved in a blur.

I made a guttural sound like a cough and bared my teeth, parting my jaws and sticking out my tongue.

I was making myself ugly, but I was picturing how beautiful I’d felt when Claire had leaned forward, giving me a conspiratorial smile, and told me how gentle the Algerian was, how he fucked her hard without hurting her.

“He fucked like a girl,” she’d said, a finger touching the back of my hand.

I came almost at once.

I was breathing through my nose with the desperation gusts of a race horse. My finger was deep inside me, pumping and jerking with the spasms of my fading orgasm. I didn’t want to leave the stall. I was still so wound up it was as if I hadn’t cum at all.

‘I can again,’ I thought as I began to fuck myself with my finger.

But someone came in. While she settled herself in the next stall, I cleaned myself up, using toilet paper to wipe down my inner thighs and fingers. I was going to wreck my panties, but there was nothing to be done about that. Pulling my panties back up, I leaned against the stall door for a moment and took a couple long slow breaths. My legs were weak and shaking.

‘I want Claire to fuck me hard.’

I was looking in the mirror, washing my hands, my chest and face hopelessly flush when I realized how entirely I’d distracted myself from my mother’s intrusion into my fantasy about The Bitch. It made me strangely proud.

I was smiling at myself in the mirror when the woman from the other stall emerged. She smiled back at me as I made an awkward exit. I didn’t think anything of it as I went searching for Claire, promising myself I wouldn’t tell her how lost I got.

‘She doesn’t need to know I’m Brooklyn deficient.’

“Here she is!” Claire calls, standing to greet me.

“I’m Brooklyn deficient!” I apologize, pulling a face.

“Nonsense!” Claire says with a bright smile and wet kiss. “What is ‘Brooklyn deficient’?”

“I always get lost…” I admit, blushing.

“Well, I’m glad you found us then,” she tells me.

“I’m sorry,” I tell her. “I didn’t mean-“

“No, not at all, but they wanted us to wait for everyone before we ordered our mains… we’ve just ordered drinks – I got us saki!” she explains in a nervous rush, pointing at little wooden boxes of rice wine.

I feel bad, I’ve totally held things up and embarrassed her.

“Sorry, sorry…” I whisper.

“You look beautiful,” she says brightly, pooh-poohing me, but looking down at my little dress.

She’s wearing a loose fitting sleeveless dress that is tight across her bosom but has a simple, smock-like cut. It has thin black and white vertical stripes and has a lovely chaste look to it, going down past her knees. Her hair is up in a pretty bun, but not pulled tight. She’s wearing almost no makeup and her only jewelry is the little heart-shaped locket.

‘Casual Friday Claire is just as beautiful as every other Claire,’ I think. I’ve made myself up and am wearing a strappy new dress I’d ordered while she was away. It’s short and form fitting and I’d been excited for her to see it, but her dress is so modest in comparison. I feel a bit self conscious and slutty; totally out of step with Claire, and I think she can tell. She’s studying my face.

A little frown clouds her face and she asks, “Have you been crying?”

“All day,” I laugh, rolling my eyes and making her smile. She touches the corner of my eye with the edge of her knuckle.

“You really do look beautiful,” she assures me in a whisper. “You are perfect, good enough to eat…” Then, in a loud voice she announces, “And now you are here!”

Introductions are made.

I recognize Molly and Kim as coworkers – they are two of the “gallery girls” that were working the night of Sophie’s opening. And there is Mark, who also works at the gallery. He’s Claire’s age, maybe a little older, but has worked with Paula for years and is a partner at the gallery. There’s a woman named Kimmy and her friend Brent, both of whom I’d met before at the “young collectors” brunch a few weeks before. And then a lot of people I didn’t know, but some I’d heard about.

“This is my girlfriend, Sarah,” she tells each of them. I watch the effect her words have on her friends. Some I can tell are caught off guard by this, but others aren’t – no one is upset. If anything I get the feeling that having a girlfriend might add to Claire’s cachet with this group.

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