Adam Thirlwell - Politics

Having exhausted the fisting gallery, Anjali was offered

29 snaps of horny babe cucking lover off in back of class,

30 zooms of gorgous sexy hottie opening fat bald beaver, 12 clips of baby got ass chicken showing raw pink pussy, 23 peeks at lucious titt girls with very small but juicy cuntz, and 20 snips of a hot pussy babe in leather with a gun to her meat.

This list bored Anjali.

The thing about pornography, which is also the thing about sex in general, is that you need imagination. You need to be precise. And it is difficult being precise. So often, you borrow other people’s plots. You can’t help borrowing other people’s plots.

For instance, class and family were the main stories that Anjali could see. There were 28 zooms of sexy blonde spreading delicious bush for mom’s lover. That was family. Or 16 stills of rough rider babes in the saddle on pony all day. That was class. Or 27 slides of neices visiting uncle and attacking size 12 rod, and 25 slides of dad tucking in favorite daughter for the evening. Family. Or 28 looks at fine wine blonde modeling her gorgous shapely ass, and 16 pix of career girls playing with their snatch after work. Class. Then again, there were 16 slides of little slut who piss on cock before blowing stud, and this was more unusual. It was not Anjali’s thing — it is not my thing, actually — but it showed some imagination.

In fact, thought Anjali, only one description showed potential. This was 18 looks at neighbor boy fucking grandma after mowing her grass. It was the mown grass that was good. It showed such a homely appreciation of context.

Now, the reason Anjali was roaming the Internet was a sad one. But it was also one that could have been predicted. She was not hugely enjoying all the sexual responsibilities of a menage . They were not all pleasures.

She was feeling, in other words, a lack of precise imagination in her sex life. And I know the reason for this. You know this reason too. She had fallen for Nana.

So she had had it, thought Anjali, with boys.

11

Nana’s feelings have been glossed over in this description of the menage a trois. Perhaps some of you are thinking that this is a serious omission. But I have ignored Nana for a reason. I wanted you to observe two facts before I got to Nana. The first fact was this. Anjali and Moshe had good sex. Physically they had good sex. And this was because Anjali was a sexual talent. But there was also a second fact. Neither Anjali nor Moshe were emotionally happy with the sex. This was because they were both attached to Nana.

Nana, however, was feeling unhappy too.

At first, Nana had been glad that the three of them seemed happy. It was not what she had imagined when she first met Moshe, but it was what had happened. And I applaud this pragmatism. I applaud this lack of self-pity.

But there were worries. The sex worried Nana. It worried her more and more.

What a hopeless menage ! It was the most sexual arrangement possible, but none of them was happy about sex. Moshe was feeling guilty. Anjali was feeling frustrated. And now it turns out that Nana was feeling uneasy.

She was feeling envious of Anjali. She was feeling jealous of Moshe. The reason for this was that Nana was not a sexual talent. She was sexually complicated. And it made her sad, being in the same room as Moshe and Anjali, while Moshe and Anjali had sex deliriously and skilfully. It was difficult to stay amused by this. It was a social effort.

That is why I wanted to gloss over Nana’s feelings. I wanted you to appreciate how wrong she was to be worried and sad. I wanted you to see the irony. Moshe and Anjali thought that their sex life was a difficult sham. Nana thought that their sex life was ecstatic, Kama Sutric. She was worried and sad. She was depressed by her pedestrian libido.

There was another irony here too. In order to counter her feeling that she was the sexual anomaly in the menage , Nana wanted to display willing. She wanted to be Anjali’s equal. She did not do this, however, simply by having sex with Moshe. She did that, of course, she had sex with Moshe. But more importantly, she experimented with Anjali. She agreed to all of Anjali’s suggestions. And Anjali’s requests were becoming quite intense. As Anjali became less and less heterosexual, her requests became more specific and outlandish.

I don’t know how outlandish Nana may seem. I assume she does not seem very outlandish. In sex, the one thing Nana liked — and we know all too well that sex was not Nana’s favourite topic — was intimacy. She at least liked feeling cared for. Whereas Anjali was becoming ferocious. This made Nana feel a little uncomfortable. But what could she do? She did not want to seem prudish.

That is why, one day, Anjali’s first, second and third fingers were inside Nana’s vagina, just below the knuckle. They were slick with Johnson’s KY Jelly, whose blue tube with a white flip-cap was somewhere in the duvet.

Into their domestic repertoire, Anjali and Nana had introduced the sexual practice known as fisting. They domesticated fist fucking. And that is an achievement, I think, domesticating fist fucking. They did this, led by Anjali, using tips culled from Internet pornography and lesbian film classics such as How to Fuck in High Heels and Femme II.

For those of you who may like to experiment too, or who simply find it difficult to imagine this, I shall try to give you a guide.

First, Anjali warmed Nana up. She pressed her tongue slowly against Nana’s clitoris. Anjali lapped the mucus from Nana’s vagina. She spread it round her wrinkled doughy labia. And Nana let her head go sideways, raising up her vulva against Anjali’s tongue. This gesture gave Anjali ideas. Anjali pushed her finger round Nana’s arse- hole, dabbing it, then pushed it up and round and in. It made Nana snugly oddly full. And this was what Nana enjoyed, Anjali knew that. But unfortunately, Nana was not herself this morning. She wriggled. She wriggled. Anjali’s finger was slightly uncomfortable. But Anjali interpreted Nana’s wriggle not as a wriggle of discomfort, but a wriggle of pleasure. It was, thought Anjali, a request for something deeper. So Anjali pushed further in. She could feel the scraps of Nana’s shit.

Nana said, ‘Aahyoourrr.’

It was an ambiguous noise. I do not think you could have known without me telling you that this was a noise of pain. It could also have been a moan of pleasure. But no, it was a noise of pain.

Anjali looked up.

The reason why this unique episode of lesbian fisting did not end prematurely, in a crisis of nerves, before it was even fisting, was that Anjali was still deceived. She did not know Nana was not on heat. She thought it was a moan of pleasure. She thought Nana was begging for more. She thought she was bored with just one finger. She wanted the whole shebang.

Anjali picked up her tube of Johnson Johnson’s KY Jelly, for internal lubrication, which she had received as part of her complimentary pack of Johnson’s goodies. She squeezed some jelly on her fingers and rubbed it on to Nana.

Nana, in case you are wondering, was petrified. She was glad that Anjali’s hands were the smallest she had ever seen, but even so, it was still scary. And I am with her on this. I would have been scared. Even scarier, however, was the article she remembered, perhaps from Marie Claire, that informed its readers that only an orgasm could release a fist from the vagina. This put pressure on a girl like Nana.

Anjali had by now spread a large amount of KY Jelly outside and inside Nana’s vagina. She had spread clear strands of it on to her right hand. She was very much enjoying herself. Frankly, this does not surprise me. A six- foot blonde girl with pale pubic hair was a wet mess, reclining, in front of her. It was not an unappealing sight.