Monoculture
by Jeremy Edwards
Of course, I remind myself, there is a pattern to this.
Last fall there was Maria, a charismatic intellectual whose conversation always made me wish she might invite me to her bedroom, where I could kneel behind her, bring her panties down, and fondle one round buttock (the left one). That, and only that.
There was theatrical Erica, invigorating Erica whom I wanted to lick in the pale hollows of the underarms, with long, slow strokes. Simply this. As with all such recipes, it made me ache with arousal to imagine how she’d thrill to it, how turned on she’d be.
And sweet Meg, the elfin folk singer: I fantasized she’d take me home, straddle me, and pee—something I’ve never desired, before or since, from anyone else. And yet it was the one and only physical intimacy I craved, with Meg.
But you can’t propose a relationship with somebody when, sexually speaking, you only want to do the one extraordinarily specific thing with her, over and over.
Can you?
What if a woman just wanted to kiss my scrotum—only and always that? We would have dinner every Friday and then go back to my place, or her place, and she’d lower my jeans to midthigh and kiss my scrotum for a while, a long while, and then we’d say goodnight. And eventually, if we decided we were in love and compatible, we’d make a long-term commitment and build a life together, and we’d live that life day in and day out, and a couple of times a week we’d turn the lights low and she’d kiss my scrotum. And she’d be passionate about it, certainly: she’d moan between the scrotum kisses, she’d have her fingers squeezed tight inside her thighs. She’d tell me how delicious I was, how irresistible. She’d whimper and she’d come, and that would make me make myself come. And we’d have a terrific rapport and a happy partnership, and this would be her one way of expressing and fulfilling her lust for me. And she’d long ago have made it clear that it wasn’t anything off-putting about the rest of me—no, nothing like that, this was just what she wanted to do with me, the one thing she wanted to do. With someone else, it would have been some other, equally specific, thing; but that was hypothetical, she’d have explained, because she was with me, and being with me meant always wanting to mouth my ball sack till she orgasmed. Only that.
I find myself getting infatuated with the woman who wants only to kiss my scrotum—this woman I’ve merely conjured up moments ago, to explore a concept—even though having my scrotum kissed has never been more to me than a briefly enjoyed display of appetite and affection, nothing I’ve particularly wanted to linger over, nothing I’ve yearned for or drawn great shivers of pleasure from, just a nice little warm wet garnish of surprise, a purr in my loins.
I imagine nonexistent her imagining an imaginary me, and her cheeks are burning with excitement because, in her imagination, the imaginary me is of course incredibly turned on by having his scrotum kissed.
She has long black hair, contemplative eyes, and a hint of a Midwestern accent.
Absurd. I don’t even know anyone like that.
And I look back across the room toward Annie, lovely, witty Annie, the woman I long to see privately in a low-cut dress with shoulder straps, so I can slide a strap down one shoulder (the right one; that is, the one on my left), and lift her right breast up out of the bodice far enough that the entire nipple becomes visible, underscored by the fabric, and kiss that nipple gently, and probably dampen the fabric a bit because the nipple will be so very, very close to it.
Bio: Jeremy Edwards is the author of some one hundred fifty erotic short stories and two erotocomedic novels, including The Pleasure Dial: An Erotocomedic Novel of Old-Time Radio, which won an Independent Publisher Book Award.
Explore more: Purchase Jeremy’s Books – You will not be disappointed!