The Juliette Society(30)
And I feel sorry for them. Not because they’ve compromised themselves. But because they did it for so little reward.
Not really even a line.
More like a bump.
What is it about guys with small dicks anyway?
They always have something to prove, always want to show you what they’re made of. They always have to tell you how big their cock is. How women always tell them how big it is. And they get away with it, for one reason and one reason only.
Because ‘big’ is such a relative term.
When you finally get to see it, after all that hype, it couldn’t fail to be a disappointment and you try not to show it on your face. Because, in actual fact, ‘big’ is no bigger than a cocktail sausage with one of those tiny bows of skin at the end.
And the ones who don’t want to tell you how big it is, the ones who think they’re smarter than that, they’ll try and show you instead.
They’ll pull out a bunch of badly composed, self-shot polaroids of them fucking a girlfriend and pretend it’s an art project.
Big guy. Tiny cock. Something to prove.
Because they’ve only just worked out what everyone in Hollywood, everyone in the porn industry, has known for years and years and years.
Everything looks bigger on film.
Everything but everything.
Because, despite what you may have heard, the camera always lies.
Or else they might try and show you photos taken on their phone of some random lonely girl they and their best bud picked up in a bar one night and plied with drinks using their dad’s credit card until she was almost totally shit-faced. Then they dragged her back to their apartment, virtually unconscious, propped her up on the couch and both face-fucked her. First in turn. Then at the same time.
They face fuck her until they both come. Simultaneously. Both telling themselves it’s not because they were rubbing up against their best bud’s cock in the same girl’s mouth.
But because she gave such good head.
Or else they face fuck her until she wakes up, realizes what’s happening to her, and vomits.
Whichever comes first.
Bundy has a website for that too: What Girls Want.
No irony intended.
Devoted entirely to Bundy’s personal archive of girls, in various stages of undress and inebriation, chowing down on his penis.
Even though I can’t imagine it has much of an audience, other than Bundy. And the women who appear on it, who only check it out as a memo to self:
Never accept free drinks from strangers in bars.
The bar is starting to get pretty full now. Bundy’s hardcore army of fans have already worked out where he is from the GPS data on the photos he posted not thirty minutes ago. He’s starting to draw a crowd. Things are getting out of control.
This poor girl is pumping Bundy’s cock with her pretty little mouth, and there’s a crowd of jocks standing around them. A bunch of jocks in a hipster bar looking terribly out of place. They’re slamming shots of Jäger and Jack Daniels and pumping their fists in the air, chanting:
BUN-DEE.
BUN-DEE.
BUN-DEE.
And it cramps his style. As it would.
So Bundy gets a few shots off, because that’s all he needs, uploads and pulls out.
He slings his camera around his neck, dashes over to Anna and me at the bar and says, ‘Let’s go.’
And we split.
11
It’s early when I crawl to bed. Three, at least, maybe close to four. I didn’t expect to be out this long. The room is dark and still. I think Jack’s asleep.
I’ve barely laid my head on the pillow when he says, ‘Where were you?’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say.
He says it again. ‘Where were you?’
I can’t tell him.
‘With Anna,’ I say.
Only half a lie.
I wait for the conversation to continue. It doesn’t. He’s not happy. I know he’s not happy.
‘Jack,’ I say.
No reply.
‘Jack?’
I reach over and touch his arm. He recoils and turns away from me sharply, rolling onto his side and out of reach.
‘Jack, I’m sorry,’ I say.
What else can I say?
Still no response. The silence is deafening. I want to scream just so I can drown it out, just so he’ll have to react.
The room is dark and still. For the longest time.
Then he says, coldly, ‘We’ll talk about it in the morning, Catherine.’
We don’t talk about it in the morning. I oversleep and Jack’s already gone. I hate waking up and he’s not there. Some people are afraid to go to sleep alone. I’m afraid of waking up, never knowing whether the new day is going to greet me with an empty bed, and no one there to hold me.
‘Jack?’ I call.
No answer.
I know he’s not happy. I feel rotten, laden with the dread of a whole day of not knowing if his anger will have eased off by the time he comes home. And what will happen if it hasn’t.