I have a switch. I call it my orgasm switch. Of course a lot of women have switches all over their bodies. My girlfriend Becky, if you touch her nose and armpit at the same she practically projectile cums through her jeans. I don’t know… I think it has something to do with her repressed catholic school upbringing, like maybe when the nuns and Jesus weren’t looking the boys copped a feel. Since the parental controls on the internet are strong with religious types, who can fault them for not knowing better.
Of course I have more than one switch. We all do. But some are like the switches you find near the back door of a house, where you flip it up and down, trying to figure out what the fuck it’s for. In the meantime flood lights flash in your neighbor’s bedroom window, convincing him the aliens have come back. “You aren’t taking me without a fight you green bug-eyed sons of bitches.” Well that’s my clit. Yeah, there’s a switch there, but the evening stands a better chance of ending with anal probes from ET than it does with an orgasm.
I am told most girls have a switch inside their pussies, the G-spot. I probably have one, but I think the contractor who built this place mucked up the wiring. Also, and the likelihood that this is true isn’t lost on me, but the guys who’ve tried to find it act like they’re shucking an oyster. “Easy, tiger. I’m not a fucking mollusk.”
My one switch; my one big switch, the one that could be flipped by a Gary Busey/Clay Akin hybrid, turns me into the drunk prom queen with daddy issues. Maybe one day I will be hip enough to join the nose and armpit fetish crowed, but for now my switch, the switch that works every time, is my hair.
Fuck, me. I’m not lying! Henry Kissinger could slip his hand up the back of my neck, his fat old republican fingers woven with my peach-colored hair. Once he grabbed hold with a firm grip, the kind of grip cowboys need when they break a horse.
This doesn’t mean come up to me in a bar and grab my hair. Introduce yourself first. “Hi. My name is John,” and *then* grab the fuck out of me. Later that night when I am naked and John’s asking himself, “How did I pull this slut? Her body looks like it was sketched by Dali in the spank-art note book he kept by his bed,” he better not puss out. I’ll be on my hands and knees, waving my ass at him, my smooth pussy poking out between my thighs, my back arched, my spine pressing into my skin. Do you see the tattoo on the back of my neck? It’s an arrow, and it is pointing up to my scalp for a reason. “That’s it. Come here, boy. Come on. You can do it. Thatta boy.”
His hand moves up to my shoulder, using me for leverage as he eases into my cunt. “That’s it, good boy! Good boy!” His fat dick splits me. I’m positive now the g-spot mystery is all equipment malfunction. If a dick that thick can’t find it, it’s not there. “Just a little more. You can do it. Come on boy.” Fingers glide into my hair and I wonder if John realizes how fucking soft that shit is. Angles could wipe their ass with my hair. I washed, rinsed repeated, four damn times. “Oh, FUCK, yes!” I cry out when he grabs hold.
Smacking his body into me, all the hairs in his hand are attached to my sex neurons. Yanking my head back, I expose my throat, his grunts warn all the other cavemen that mating season has begun. I scream, “Scalp me like I’m Custer, and you’re a Plains Indian. Oh, God.” I feel my skin pulling away from my skull, “That’s it…” making fists with my toes, “shit!” my head tilted so far back I’m staring at waters stains on the ceiling, “If you don’t fuck this up…” my ass slapping into his hips, “I’m…” already excited about sucking my cum off his cock, “going…” my hands gripping the sheet and my eyes clenched tight, “CUM!”