Watch Out Boys, I’ll Chew You Up!

By Joy Saint James (joy.st.james@hotmail.com)

To say I’m a sex object is like admitting I’m a zombie. Not an oxymoron exactly, but how can an object have self-knowledge? How can it even know that it’s an object? As for zombies, one of the classic definitions is “bereft of consciousness and self-awareness.” Just an animated corpse, right? I don’t know why I’m going on a riff about zombies when the subject (and object!) is sex, but anyway….

Hey, babe, how R U? “Ping” goes the sound signaling a new instant message on my laptop. So annoying: I must get hundreds a day, and if I try just ignoring them, the senders’ desire only intensifies and the pings grow more insistent.

Woke up thinking of you, baby, my cock so hard. Another ping, different sender.

Bisou chère! Yet another ping. Anyway….

Most of my friends and followers are guys, of course. “Followers” – that sounds so creepy, doesn’t it? But no, surely it’s a positive thing, this term, with a meaning more like fans than stalkers. And my fan base is truly global. Anyway….

I don’t have a bimbo’s clue how it all works, with its computerized algorithms and whatnot. All I know is that it does works. Facebook, I’m talking about. Just to take my smartphone and snap a self-shot in the bathroom mirror and post it on my timeline – saying something fatuous like, “In my new demi-bra and matching panty from Victoria’s Secret getting ready for work….” – and suddenly I have a score of new friend requests.

I want to ravish you! Another message goes ping.

Yes, I admit it, I’ve fashioned myself into a sex object. If that’s what it takes to get attention, then, yes, I proudly proclaim: I’m a sex object! Plus, I must confess that it’s an incredibly good sensation -- to know I’m so desired -- as if I’m having sex 24/7. It makes you feel so alive, truly alive, just the opposite of a silly zombie, right?

Already, in the six months I’ve been on Facebook, I have over 4,000 friends and thousands more followers. I sometimes wonder how my life would be different if only I had gotten on Facebook sooner. But like a lot of women who preferred to use their leisure time curled up with a good novel or flipping through the pages of a fashion magazine, I had smugly scorned the whole notion of what’s called “social media.” Which seemed to have about much relevance to my real life as a zombie (there’s that word again!) or something equally outlandish.

Now everything has changed….

Ever since what I euphemistically call “the accident,” Facebook has helped me get on with my life -- actually, to create a brand new life. And that new life has curiously given me meaning and significance that I never knew before -- even restored my faith in some kind of timeless, higher power.

Let’s start at the beginning. Not the historical date on which I was born – that was the old me. My new beginning, I sometimes think, can really be traced to when I joined Facebook! As for what my birth certificate alleges, I’ll invoke every woman’s “fifth amendment” right not to incriminate herself; that birthdate now seems irrelevant anyway.

I’m much more popular on Facebook than I’d ever been in “real life” (whatever that quaint notion really is), and I wonder why it took me so long to join the party. Maybe my true age -- I’ll admit to being neither a teenager nor a 20-something -- has something to do with it; so while others may be experiencing Facebook Fatigue, I’ve now got Facebook Fever.

What do they want from me, all these online people who make me feel so popular? What aspirational dreams do they see embodied in me? And what exactly do I want from them? It couldn’t all be about sex, could it? Maybe….

Love and approval: is it as simple as that? Or in Facebook parlance, “like’s?”

I want to kiss your toes, lick your legs. Ping.

No, I’ afraid it’s even simpler: yes, it’s all about sex. And seduction. The seduction, not the actual act of sex itself, is always the most interesting part: to become alluring, tempting, enthralling – and yes, lickable, but most of all, fuckable. Wooed and courted, even.

Will you marry me? Ping. A message expressing that exact same sentiment happens, I swear, at least once a day.

It’s fun to be wanted, to be so desired. I admit it. So I flirt, sometimes outrageously so.

Maybe, sweetie. Maybe I’ll marry you. I message back.But first you’ll have to fuck me.

Sometimes I can feel their desire even exciting me. The sexting is our foreplay. So, yes, I want you, my Facebook friends and followers, to want me. It’s as simple as that.

Tell me how you want me to fuck you, baby.

In first creating my Facebook page, as I said, I had no clue what I was doing. But I now realize that “creating” is absolutely the correct word, for what I share and post feels more like a novelistic narrative than an unedited diary. So let’s just say Facebook pages (mine anyway) should be classified as a subgenre of “creative nonfiction.”Like all modern memoirs, in the words of a (non-Facebook) friend, they bear only “a fuzzy, postmodernist relationship with the truth.”

Who I am – the persona I present to the social media world – is a composite character probably best described as blending stereotypic images of high-end hooker, chick-lit devotee, and sarcastic (but environmentally correct) social commentator. I “choose” this persona much the same way I choose hairstyles, makeup, and what I wear out of the house – based on whim as much as premeditation.

I want you to suck me, baby, like the dirty slut that you are. Ping.

As with a peekaboo blouse flashing a bit of skin, I often let my whimsy show. For instance, although my Facebook profile proudly boosts that I’m a graduate of Bimbo University, my student major in philosophy is also noted. But mostly what I let show is my insatiable sexual yearnings. Though never hardcore lewd or pornographic, I have to say I’m suggestive, even salacious, in virtually all my posts, photos, and comments. That’s what gets the attention of all the men, I know – and why they keep “pinging” me with instant messages.

And in this knowledge lies my power. That, in turn, brings a wisdom that can only be described as god-like – or, rather, goddess-like, I should say. That sounds conceited, doesn’t it? But I don’t know how else to explain what has turned into – for lack of a better word – an addiction. As with a strange, strong drug, yes, I’ve become addicted to the exhilaration such power bestows. The power to make men hard!

Please, please let me cum all over your gorgeous titties. Ping.

The power I feel: I suspect the intensity of the pleasure it gives me is directly and inversely proportionate to the powerlessness and passivity that, I’m embarrassed to say, once defined me.

At the mercy of men, that’s the way I was then -- once upon a time, the time before what everyone called “the unfortunate accident.”

There’s nothing so scary as young men in groups, who wouldn’t agree? A pack of wolves, a swarm of insects, they’re looking for something to eat, something to devour, something to do…. Without something to do, they’d be bored, have no reason for living. Their drug is testosterone. They’re the ones who become delinquents or -- worse, so much worse, of course -- terrorists.

They can also become rapists.

If caught, they never accept individual responsibility. Rather, they blame each other. Or it’s the fault of fate, whereby free will is subsumed by mob psychology. Or, in the best defense of all, they blame the victim: the way she dressed and acted, as if she were “asking for it.”

I can’t say that I remember all the facts, and certainly even fewer of the details. But what I do remember with the clarity of a sharp pain is the fear, such an intense feeling of fear as if the feeling itself was a physical object splitting me open. The feeling started in my cunt and then moved to mind, or was it vice versa? I was being raped. Not by just one man but by a group of men – or were they boys? Not so many men as now friend and follow me on Facebook, but still enough men that they seemed uncountable. One after another, they entered me, each seemingly ever bigger than the one before.

Strangely, when what seemed like the biggest man got on top and entered me, the pain and fear begin to vanish. Though his body suffocated and his cock plunged forever deeper, the sensation now washing over me was not at all unpleasant. I felt as if I were luxuriating at a beautiful beach while the tide was going out, exposing exquisitely designed seashells all over the still wet sand.

Was this the precise moment when I lost consciousness?I still don’t know for sure.

Strange, too, were what possibly would be my last sentient thoughts of self-awareness: I was mulling over the philosophical concept known as the Cartesian dualism, the subject of my philosophy class assignment that I had been studying right before going to the fraternity party. There, while being plied with fruit punch mixed together in huge vats with grain alcohol, I remembered laughing and giddily blurting out to turn Descartes on his head:

“I’m too drunk to think, but I’m still here. I don’t think, therefore I am.”

Now the truth of the weighty notion of mind-body polarity seemed to descend upon me, as the huge frat boy humped me. It was as if my mind no longer inhabited my body. My brain, I knew, was still pumping impulses within my throbbing skull, but floating up above near the ceiling my mind was looking down at all the action. An out-of-body sensation, for sure. But was it also a near-death experience?

In the emergency room at the hospital that night, I could hear the doctors and nurses, huddled around my body, saying I was in a coma, a deep coma. Was this, I wondered, what’s called “locked-in syndrome?”

And weeks later – was I still in a coma? – I could hear the district attorney drop all charges against the guys implicated in my alleged sexual assault (he didn’t even call it rape). According to text messages, smartphone videos, and eyewitness testimony, I had dared everyone to fuck me. I wanted to see how many men I could take, they said. Moreover, according to my two best girlfriends, I had always entertained -- even bragged about one day acting out -- a “rape fantasy.”

No one came to my defense. No one cared. I might as well have been dead.

Maybe I was? Dead, that is. And what I’m experiencing now – including my amazingly popular Facebook page -- is all just some kind of dream from the after-life or spirit world?

Who knows? Who really knows? Who knows anything really? Descartes was as clueless as the rest of us.

All I know is that I’ve never felt more alive! Or more sexually active. Especially sex, yes! And sex in a good way, sex in which I’m always in control -- from which I derive not pain but pleasure, the most joyful pleasure ever! Let me try to explain:

It’s as if my psyche, indeed my entire being, has been taken over by what Freud identified as the Id. No more Ego, much less Super-ego. All consciousness and conscience have been subsumed by my “pleasure principle.”

I fuck, therefore I am.

Actually, it would be more accurate to say: I suck, therefore I am. I now love sucking more than fucking. It’s almost as if, like Linda Lovelace in that porn classic “Deep Throat,” my clitoris is located where my epiglottis should be. And my Facebook friends and followers feed me!

“All I really want, all I ever want, is you,” I tell them, each and every one of them, when I set up a date to actually meet, away from Facebook, away from the protection of the computer screen. Usually I pick a high-end hotel -- its honeymoon suite if available. When I open the door to greet them, I smile and grind my hips, encased in the tightest of what’s called wet-look leggings, and run my hands between my legs.

Sometimes I meet my suitors each singularly, privately. Sometimes I’ll do it in a group (when I invite them to a gangbang or bukkake party). Whichever, my modus operandi is always the same.

They – you! – like it, love it, when I unzip your trousers, with my face pressed close to your crotch to make sure my sculpted nails are precisely and delicately following my mind’s instructions. You gasp in delight when I reach into the now unzipped opening and grasp your cock. You marvel at my firm and expert touch. My puckered lips now planting kisses upon your shaft are like – among many other analogies –soft, chilly drops of early spring rain whose mission is to make things grow.

Your lips are so cold. You say, startled. But your cock stays firm.

And then before you know it -- like a magician whose hands are quicker than the eye -- my fingers press your penis into the heart-shaped oval of my lavishly lipsticked mouth. I keep them gently sealed, my lips, my cold, cold lips, so that your shaft must pry them open. I know the precise amount of friction to turn pleasure into perfection.

Then, and only then when your cock is fully in and down my throat and my lips can brush against your balls, do I begin my signature bob and glide.

Yes, oh God, yes. You gasp.

From my kneeling position, I bend my neck so that my eyes, smiling, may look up into your face as if asking for your approval -- and for yet more of your cock, if at all physically possible, to be thrust down my throat. Reinforcing my longing look are the muffled sounds coming from my mouth in blissful groans and grunts of satisfaction.

Strangely, there’s something missing in this scenario, however. You don’t notice. You’re too self-absorbed to observe that I never once gag or gasp. Nor am I breathing heavily through my nose. You display not the slightest curiosity about why I never need to unclamp my mouth from your cock to take an occasional gulp of air.

Minute after minute, I go at it, nonstop, sucking and sucking, more like a machine than a person. And I could keep at it for minutes and minutes more…indeed, forever!

For time no longer has any meaning for me. Yes, I could suck your cock for eternity. Long, long, long before that, however, you will ejaculate into my mouth, and time will commence again. Actually, I won’t let you ejaculate in my mouth, as much as you and I both might desire that. Instead, as soon as I feel you quiver and I start to taste that signature salty sensation, I suddenly pull my head back and grab your cock with both my hands.

As if it’s a hose, I point your cock at my dark red cheeks, their blush now so smudged that my skin seems eerily decayed and black. As soon as your semen splashes on my face, I lift up my hands to massage and rub it in, this magic moisturizer. (When I need a large quantity of lotion for the rest of my body, that’s when I schedule bukkake!)

Voilà! My face no longer looks like a zombie’s! You know what I mean: that signature zombie look of too much menacing makeup. Instead, my skin now has that healthy, taut texture and shiny, glowing complexion of pink porcelain.

But here’s the best part, the very best part: I take your now flaccid cock and reinsert it into my mouth, ostensibly to lick and suck it clean. I open wide, much wider than is needed to take in your now tiny dick. But just wide enough to give me sufficient power so that when my jaw snaps shut, my sexy white teeth cut off your penis cleanly and quickly at the base of its shaft.

Snap, my mandible goes and, gulp, it’s gone – just like that! -- your once hard cock now slipping and sliding, as I chew and swallow, into my gut. You’re left with a stubby stump.

While you scream and holler and run frantically away, with blood spurting everywhere, I sit on my haunches and smile and savor the moment. It’s more than a moment really; a better description would be a still-point. For us who are called the “undead,” moments or other measurements of time have absolutely no meaning. We really are eternal.

“I’m the last bitch you’ll ever enter!” I call after your fleeing figure. “Bitch, or was it cumslut? Was that what you called me on my Facebook timeline?” Oh, the yummy pleasure I feel.

“But it was good, wasn’t it, baby?” I cackle. “I pride myself on giving good head!” Call me smug, but I really do take satisfaction in knowing that a victim’s last sexual act can be fairly characterized as perhaps his most enjoyable. Certainly, it’s his most memorable!

I shouldn’t use the word “victim,” of course, for all the guys invariably bring the penis amputation on themselves. Their behavior on my Facebook wall – not to mention the instant-messaging – invites my macabre performance. I can’t even begin to tell you, dear reader, how many unsolicited pictures of penises I’ve been sexted. (To make matters aesthetically worse, often the pictured cocks are ugly and flaccid!)

Yes, actions have consequences, every frat boy should know.

Vengeance can certainly be said to be one of my motives. Yes, we the undead have all the time in the world to mull over such notions as sin and retribution. But this is not to deny the pure pleasure I take in the act.

Yes, I confess, I’ve always loved sucking cock; and now that I can literally eat it, words simply fail in trying to capture the intense enjoyment I derive from performing fellatio.

The only pleasure that comes close is the scrumptious, signature entrée at one of the world’s few five-star restaurants. While my zombie comrades are content to dine on any old human flesh, as if it were fast-food carry-out, my diet is of delicacies only.

My undead girlfriends often tease me for my snobbish foodie pretensions. They call me the “Maneater,” after that ancient roll ‘n’ roll hit whose infectious beat I can never get out of my pretty cock-sucking head:

Oh, here she comes

Watch out boy she’ll chew you up

Oh, here she comes

She's a maneater

Oh, here she comes

Watch out boy shell chew you up

---

Joy’s erotica has been published in "Best Bondage Erotica," "Best Fetish Erotica," "Naughty Stories from A to Z," "Erotic Travel Tales," among other story collections. She divides her time between the U.S. and Europe and has a blog at http://joystjames.wordpress.com/. She can be reached at joy.st.james@hotmail.com.