Out of Season

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Hi, ! I’m an 18-year-old writer; this is my first time writing and submitting erotica, so any feedback and pointers would be much appreciated! I’m still learning how to write this genre and I’d like to branch out in it more.

This is based on an actual conversation I had with a guy I pursued recently. He is Pakistani (I’m Caucasian, if you want a mental frame of reference) and we feuded on and off through school because I was valedictorian and he was salutatorian; he was very fierce and competitive. Though I knew him in high school, we still are in touch in college (and on much better terms). This occurred during our senior year.

Please enjoy! And as stated before, any and all constructive criticism is accepted!

Love and kisses,

Josefina Newton


“I hope you have golf practice in this weather so you freeze your ass off.”

The snow is falling hard. It’s April. That’s fucking weird. As I stare at the glaring screen of my cell phone, ensconced in my dark bedroom, I realize this is fucking weird.

You reply, vibrating hard into my hand. My nerves tingle. The blinds are shut tight. Thank God.

Hahaha. You’re still bitchy huh? You must have really wanted the D.

I can hear your voice even in this black silence—haughty, chauvinistic, snobbishly superior, as you believe you are to everyone. I slip off my bed and check, one last decisive time, to make sure that the blinds truly are shut. The snow tumbles from the sky. I can almost hear it. Or maybe that’s my pulse, hammering in my ear.

“As time goes on,” I text back, “I realize that I just want dick in general, and that yours is nothing special. You, on the other hand, may not get many other offers in the future, so don’t blow up all your eggs in one basket.”

Your response is instantaneous. You’ve taken the bait. Good boy. This was amusing to me from the start. I honestly never even considered any of your offers. That is why I was laughing before. You were so damn serious! Haha.

I glance over at the photograph corkboard hanging on my wall, barely decipherable from my position on my bed. I’ve cut and tacked pictures of my friends there since entering college—at least ten or fifteen, all of comrades both still lingering and long gone. Bitter at this distraction, I tear my gaze away.

“Oh güvenilir bahis believe me, the day you truly realize that you have no sort of accessible vagina because everyone hates you, you will no longer be laughing.”

I recline on my bed, the back of my head hitting the pillow softly. The war continues.

I think I still will be. I would rather get nothing than get with you.

The snap on my jeans is undone. I am no longer controlling myself. I find myself affixed, again, on the “friendship” corkboard. It’s getting cluttered. Where are these people I care for right now? Nowhere. Living their own lives. I am left alone with this boy.

“That’s a comforting thought. You wouldn’t act like this if your penis was average to large anyway.”

There’s a yellow foam butterfly that Elana made for me as a part of her involvement in the Butterfly Project tacked at the bottom. Anti-self-harm, she told me. Maybe I should get on board with that.

You reply. But I am acting like this.

Good boy. You’re such a good boy for playing along. You know what this does to me. Zipper down. My jeans are down around my ankles.

“Therefore, you have a small penis. That’s what I was insinuating.”

Panties next. Am I wet already? I’m such a slut. Please, call me a slut.

Whatever floats your boat. I don’t really give a fuck about how big you think I am.

There’s also a picture of Sam on this corkboard. Sam’s an affable guy. He’s nice company; we pontificate about video games and consume large amounts of soda. Some of it may be spiked with whiskey. Not that I notice. Not that I care.

“You wouldn’t be defending yourself if you didn’t have a small penis.” I’m usually much more articulate than this. I’m too horny to delve deeper. I’m smarter than this. Smarter than him.

I am aware of that. You obviously did not comprehend my response. You are just mad that I rejected you. News flash. It’s gonna happen to you a lot more.

Why aren’t you calling me a slut? God, I hate you. My fingers travel down the plane of my stomach, skirting my skin like sand vipers across a desert.

“I’ve dealt with rejection. Just not of your difficult variety. Most guys just say no at the start instead of fucking around for twenty-four hours. You led me on. Therefore, you pissed me off, causing türkçe bahis me to hold a grudge. Your own damn fault.”

My favorite picture of Kara—a copy of fifth-grade school pictures, where she’s rocking a long-sleeved blueberry blouse—smiles at me. Kara has always been there. She’s always been there for me, my very best friend in the entire world, for eighteen whole years. I am still amazed of her—our—devotion to each other for this amount of time. She has never let anyone control her. Why didn’t I learn?

I led you on? What the fuck are you talking about? I ignored you for months. Turned you down for prom senior year. It pissed me off that you didn’t get the message. And it was pretty clear. You’re getting angrier. That’s how it should be. That’s what I like. You are the bull, and I am your whorish matador.

I am wet. Soaking wet. My fingers graze my clit and my breath hitches in my throat. Rub. Gently. Not too hard. I ran out of lube last week.

It’s hard to text with one hand, but I am still verbose. “So you ‘accepted’ my offer and even made plans? Because after the apparent signs you put forth, I still didn’t get it, so you decided to pretend?”

It’s sent. I rub harder. Are you smirking at this conversation? Is your dirty, slanderous mouth curled upward in an amused smirk? You’re dirty. I’m dirty. Please, get angrier, you asshole. I need this more than you do.

The corkboard continues to haunt me. Now I’m studying—multitasking is more like it—a photo of Sarah touching Emily’s face in a joking caress, Emily beaming in response. Alongside Elana, those two are my closest friends. What would they think if they knew I felt this way? Would they judge me? No, probably not. They are my friends for a reason. I’ve always been the sexual deviant, anyway—perhaps this won’t even surprise them.

No. We did not. I was playing along with what I thought was a joke. Once I realized you were serious, I kept it going to mess with you. I was also curious to see if you really were that much of a slut. And you are.

Yes! God, yes! That’s what I need to hear. I am a slut. You’re so articulate, even indirectly. That pisses me off. I love it. I want you to look me in the eyes with that black, judgmental gaze of yours and say it to my face. I want to pull your dark hair and glare into you as you hiss güvenilir bahis siteleri it. “Slut. You’re such a fucking slut.”

“Because you couldn’t have just stopped when you realized I was serious? Are you really that much of a sociopath? Did you not stop to think that I have feelings and they might actually get hurt? For being a smart guy, you’re really fucking stupid.” I’m breathing harder now. I’m going to lose control. As if I ever had it in the first place.

The other people on the corkboard smile down at me, eternally frozen in their joy, completely clueless in their silence to my violent heaving and touching. Bruno, a guy in my physics lecture, is captured mid-laugh. Emily’s boyfriend has his profile turned to me, disgusted at the camera I’d been holding in my hand. Frank, a friend in my study group, grins up at me from a textbook, his eyes twinkling behind his glasses. It’s too much. It’s all too much.

I was interested to see how far you had planned this shit out. I wasn’t serious. How many times do I have to say it to get it through your head? I gave you signs to leave me alone and you didn’t. That was payback. Oh, and I don’t give a fuck about your feelings.

I’m desperately fucking myself, my fingers inside me now. I arch my back, squeezing my eyes shut. Rage, a bitter twin to my rapidly approaching climax, builds within me. I imagine myself slapping you in the face, my painfully white skin colliding with yours. I envision your hostile stare as you laugh at my pathetic—no, justified—hatred, thick with sick amusement. I am slammed with the desire to throttle you, punch you, break you into a thousand pieces.

One last time, the corkboard calls. This time, it is your picture. You are in the upper corner, your face stuck with several pins in a foolish attempt to conceal you. I’d still been enamored with your stupid self at the time the photograph was taken, but not when I’d hung it up. One tack is directly in the center of your forehead; another through one eye, and a third in your mouth. The only clear part of you is your free gaze, staring me down.


Black, black, black. That’s all you are. Your eyes, your skin, your hair, your heart.


I am penetrated one last time. Then, I am shaken, and I see stars.


Your voice rings in my ears.


I have come down. I clean up. Text you back. “Then good luck finding a girl who will give a fuck about you.”


I suppose it is still April.

And I suppose it is still snowing, out of season.

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