“Every dildo should come in tie dye - Johnny Vixskin”
‘When everything else in my life has gone to shit, I often think back on all the wonderful times I’ve had with Johnny, drop everything and go fuck myself stupid. Seriously, there is not a problem in your life that cannot be solved with 6.5 inches of this girthy creation by Vixen. Of the freakish number of dildos I own at this point, Johnny is the old companion that always comes with me to Thanksgiving at the old family compound.
Whether you’re aiming for the prostate, g-spot, or a-spot (just learned about that one, dear readers with vaginas) you’ll hit something that just feels awesome. And then you’ll thank me, your friendly neighborhood sex blogger for changing your life. Now here’s the part where I’m petty and give you my SheVibe coupon code…’
For a guy who didn’t ever really want to fuck anyone, Quentin thought about sex a lot. Like a lot. Sometimes so much that he wondered if he should hand in his little asexual club pin. He liked the idea of it. Sex seemed like fun, if kinda messy and chaotic. But there was a part of his brain that picked up the controls the moment anyone showed the littlest bit of interest and ran the fuck away. As in actually ran away.
Like he’d walked in on a boss fight he wasn’t prepared for at level 2.
When Darcy Peters kissed him at a party in 10th grade and Quentin had flushed from his head to his toes and then felt a bucket of cold panic wash over him, high-tailing it out of her laundry room like he was on fire. He’d wanted to stay, wanted to keep on holding her hand like he had before she pulled him into the previously mentioned laundry room. But a deep, twisting urge to get out had overridden all of that. It was unexplainable. He pretty much thought he was broken. For any number of reasons, but that was the biggest one.
And it just kept happening.
He deflected. Laughed things off. ‘Forgot’ to text people back.
Quentin wanted but couldn’t.
His dad called him a late bloomer.
His mom asked why he was hiding being gay from her when she was a lesbian. Which had been more accusatory than anything. That had been an awkward spring break, stuck at the beach, 17 and unable to tell his mom that yeah, boys and girls were both really pretty but also he didn’t want them looking at him. She just thought he was repressed.
So he masturbated a lot, stayed in on weekends in college in the dorms as much to get some peace and quiet as much to treat himself to a few orgasms alone. The allure of a frantic jerk off session pretty much burned off after high school. Regardless of how much he hated that any indulgent moment was deemed ‘Selfcare’, yeah, coming once or twice or three times in one night was definitely a priority.
But really, when he’d figured out how to finger himself, that had been a revelation. One that left him panting and smiling up at the ceiling of his lofted twin bed about two feet from the ceiling on a Thirsty Thursday. Later, once he’d cleaned himself up, he’d pulled open his laptop and headed over to the most reputable online sex shop he could find.
A peach flesh tone dildo with a suction cup that hardly worked and tended to just fall off whatever surface it was placed on with a sickening pop! Then a thwack as it bounced off the floor. He’d probably had eyes a little too big for his asshole since the thing was a hair bigger than his own dick--which, all of the blogs he’d read has definitely said to start small and work his way up. And though it had been kind of boring and too floppy when he held it in his hands the first time, the back of his neck had prickled and his stomach had swooped in a way that only happened on a roller coaster. The sudden flush across his neck and shoulders felt good, like a bit of a contact high while it zipped all over.
That first time, he only managed to get the very tip inside--sweating and swearing at himself to relax despite the pressure and too much ache of not nearly enough prep and blunt force application. Still--maybe it was the ‘this is new’ feedback look on a hamster wheel in his brain, but he came in like three strokes, the dildo slipping out of him from the force of his muscles around it. He felt vaguely like a champagne bottle opened by someone wholly unqualified.
Once that ball had started rolling, well, there was really no stopping it.
After a couple months, he grew bored with that first dildo and did some more research.
It was kind of a right of passage to nonchalantly pick up a package from the campus post office while knowing the contents of the brown cardboard box behind the counter were less than innocent.
In fact, this hadn't been the first time that Quentin had thoroughly investigated the definition of ‘discreet shipping’, going so far as to confirm with a customer service representative that every mail carrier and worker who came in contact with a package wouldn't know immediately what was inside. He’d once made the mistake of ordering something from overseas only to have it stamped with ‘Novelties’ by customs in at least 10 different places. After that knee-knockingly awkward moment, joking about Doctor Who collectible mugs with the student worker manning the post office desk, Quentin had stuck to domestic companies.
Had he lived in fear that his package had been opened and some poor government official had seen the blown glass dildo he’d treated himself to sophomore year?
Yes. But also, maybe that was the risk you took opening people’s mail?
Regardless, Quentin was very familiar with the quiet thrill of hitting the ‘Check Out’ button and then refreshing his email throughout the day, waiting for a shipping confirmation. Sometimes, he even booked it to the student post office at Columbia before the mail had even been sorted, begging with puppy dog eyes for them to look in the back for him.
Anyone who said online shopping wasn’t an appropriate coping mechanism for stress could go fuck themselves as far as Quentin was concerned.
“Finally, a tentacle dildo you can put on your mantel”
‘...if you can’t get over the embarrassment of ordering yourself a dildo like this, take a bunch of edibles and act shocked when the box arrives. Just don’t be around your friends and family when you open it, or you’ll have some explaining to do…’
Living with Jules, that made getting mail easier. Though, he was constantly paranoid that his order would be delivered to the wrong mailbox in the apartment complex and that wasn’t a great way to meet your neighbors. His ordering may have ramped up in the two years he’d lived off campus with her, until the point where Julia had commented, “Jesus, how many editions of these books do you need?”
Quentin, looking sheepishly over at his already filled bookshelves just shrugged and said, “They’re collectibles. It’s an investment.”
And honestly, the shape of the box in Quentin’s hands, should have been an indicator that it wasn’t books from Ebay that were in there. It wasn’t exactly square. But, it was certainly an investment.
Julia rolled her eyes and invited him out to happy hour with her and James. Quentin made up an excuse about homework that wasn’t true.
So she left, Quentin threw the curtains on the door to his room and tore open the package the moment she was gone, stashing the squeaky loud plastic packaging he had to cut with a special pair of scissors under his bed for throwing in the chute down the hall in the middle of the night when he could slip out. He sat on the bed, admiring the heft and squish of a new silicone dildo, feeling heat rise in his cheeks.
Then it was off to the races.
He had probably a dozen realistic dildos at this point, but Quentin could be totally sold by a pronounced head and good sculpting. Eh, it was fine. He was a dildo enthusiast. It was totally normal to have to have an organization system for your sex toys, right?
Within minutes he had his new dildo washed and absolutely went to town on himself, working himself open, a bit impatient, with two fingers and too much lube, keeping an ear out for the front door just in case. Then, when he was panting and feeling all fluttery inside, Quentin knelt up, naked on bed so he could rock down, down, down onto the thickness of the dildo. He probably could have done a better job with prep, but he liked the stretch of working himself open. He lost himself in the pleasant ache and fullness, high sounds of pleasure spilling from his lips as he rode his new toy.
When he got going, let’s just say there were a lot of fantasies he had rolling around in his brain for inspiration. It was like spinning a giant Price is Right wheel until he landed on one that would get him off.
He had a type of fantasy . One that likely wasn’t tough to figure out just by spending time around him. Quentin liked the idea of being told what to do, how to make it right, when to come. And yes, those kind of self imposed rules felt like playing four person monopoly by himself on a rainy afternoon, but was a close approximation of the real thing. Maybe. He really couldn’t know.
That night it wasn’t the fantasy about someone watching from next to him in the bed, telling him how hot he was, saying ‘Slow down, there you go, you’re always so desperate for it’ because he did get too worked up and cranky if he couldn’t get himself off right away. Or if he got himself off too quickly and didn’t build himself up to it properly. That felt like a waste.
It wasn’t a girl who smelled like strawberries but had an unnaturally strong grip on his hips as she fucked him with a strap on, who pushed his face down hard into the bed and jerked her hips into him even when the aftershocks turned painful. ‘We’re not done. What do you say?’ She’d ask, breasts swaying when she swung her hand and sharply swatted him on the ass until Quentin quietly found himself saying, “Thank you!” out loud. So yes it really was imperative that Julia was out for the evening. He didn’t need her walking in on that.
Sometimes he imagined there were multiple people there with him. The kind of fantasy born from porn that would have been endlessly tedious and stressful if brought to real life. Completely impractical. But in his mind, he was in a room with faceless, well-dressed people who demanded he get them off, one after the other with his mouth, his hands, his body. Whatever they wanted. It was always a blur in his mind, but it ended the same way. They’d pass him around like a party favor until Quentin was absolutely useless and then one would kneel down, over his panting, wrung out body and tell him he’d done well, that he could come. And Quentin would go off like the Fourth of July.
Tonight, Quentin imagined riding up and down the cock of some amalgamation guy with David Duchovny’s eyes, David Tennant’s hair, and David Bowie’s dick. The holy trinity of Davids. His thighs ached and he felt their eyes on him, how David Ducovney-Tennant-Bowie would stare up at Quentin while he keened and worked himself slowly down their shaft, how they’d say, ‘Come on, open up. Take it. Relax--remember what we worked on?’ when he made it all the way down, when it felt like there was an impossible never-ending amount of cock inside him, like he’d never bottom out against the silicone balls at the base. He imagined that if he reached for his own hard, aching dick, how they would take him by the wrists and hold them behind his back, tutting something about how he knew the rules--wasn’t allowed to touch himself. At first, Quentin would feel embarrassed, aware of how uncoordinated his motions were, his lack of rhythm. But then the slick drag of the toy--no, dick --inside him became so addictive that he was raising and lowering himself with abandon.
They’d praise him, ‘That’s it. You’re so good. So tight. Make me come.’ The hands on his hips guiding him up and down, maybe reaching back to press a curious finger to his tender asshole just to feel his walls lock down on them when Quentin whined and shook his head, “Ah--too much, please.”
Eventually, when the needs of his body were too great to keep up the narrative, Quentin toppled over onto the bed, onto his stomach and lost himself in the frantic motion of his hand thrusting the toy over and over into himself, trying to start slow, but always devolving into fast, hard thrusts. He closed his eyes and tingled all over, lighting up from the inside when he angled the dildo and the head glanced off of his prostate, toes curling. If he gave it to himself just right, used the heel of his hand to thrust in and grind the toy right up against the perfect spot, it was enough to send him over the edge, his untouched cock blurting come all over his sheets while Quentin whimpered and writhed on the toy. When it was all too much, he collapsed down onto the bed and laid there, panting, feeling stuffed full and satisfied, maybe a touch annoyed about just how happy it made him feel.
Quentin got himself into the shower at some point in the night-- after round two, that always took so much longer but made his thighs shake like at the end of a five mile run. His new toy had been sanitized and lovingly introduced to the rest of the gang in the padlocked shoe locker at the bottom of his closet. He’d written in black sharpie on the red plastic lid, “If I am dead, throw this into the East River” which was only kind of a joke. The locker wasn’t full by any means. But there was a bunch dildos ranging in size from the cheap, thin and too-floppy number that Quentin had purchased first--and now kept as more of a memento than something he would deign to fuck himself with--to the aforementioned glass dildo that he could just get his thumb and forefinger to touch around the shaft. That was for special occasions and required some warmup to work inside since it had no give, it was all rigid mass slotting inside him. Quentin could really only commit to it if Julia was staying over at James’ place.
There was some other stuff as well, plugs and a fleshlight that he’d bought in a weird mood and then used exactly twice because it did kind of feel like fucking a flashlight. Sometimes it seemed like a waste to let all the prep he’d done go back to waste so he nestled a plug inside himself and then felt like the world’s biggest mess when James would pull him into a rough hug upon returning from the bar with a, “Q! Hey man! There was this cute girl with a septum and Lovecraft tattoo--totally your style,” like it wasn’t going to turn Quentin into a shameful little puddle of Jell-o.
“Yeah--maybe next time.” Quentin said, knowing full well that if it came down to a night in a crowded bar drinking overpriced cheap whisky and then succumbing to buying a $12 pack of cigarettes on the corner when he got too jittery or fucking himself silly--if a bit shamefully--in their empty apartment, Quentin would always choose the latter. Plus. It was economical.
Yes, then he went to go jerk off again, pressing against the base of the plug, roughly stroking himself with his sleep shirt rucked up over his nipples so he wouldn’t have to change.
Yes, he was a mess.
It was fine.
"The only happy hour you need is SquarePegToys Happy Hour Plug"
‘Gentle reader, it’s time that we talk about plugs. That’s right. And I know what you’re thinking ‘Oh, but we came here to read yet another rant about the perils of jelly toys or how you thought Roommate was out of town and Boyfriend-of-Roommate saw your dildo in the dishwasher’ and you are right, and I will tell you that Boyfriend-of-Roommate somehow never spoke a word about this to anyone. Maybe he thinks it belongs to Roommate? As though Roommate owns anything better than a buzzy/stingy vibrator she bought at Spencer’s in her freshman year.
I’ve gotten off topic.
Plugs. There we are, back on topic. I’m going through a phase where I just keep buying plugs, and being in the position I’m in--where companies seem to keep sending me their products to give you honest and genuine reviews, plugs keep arriving at my door.
But lets talk about why I didn’t really get into plugs for a while, their skinny little necks. Yes I know the neck to base ratio is important. Never fuck yourself in the butt with something that doesn’t have a base; not even telling you from experience here, it’s just something you should never do. I liked a plug in theory, no worries about it slipping out if you’re into partnered up sex wearing one (good for you) and you get that nice stretched feeling inside. If you’ve done your work right, you should be relaxed by the time you work one inside.
So when I picked up the Happy Hour Plug, it was the shape that really drew me in, and I wanted to give their super soft silicone material a test drive. The neck on this sucker is nice and wide (with a considerable base so everything is above board and secure), the silicone is plushy and feels awesome to hold in your hands and clench down on. Plus they come in a series of sizes so there’s something for everyone. If you’re new to anal, this probably isn’t the plug for you, and that’s okay! But once you have your feet under you and are looking for something a bit more challenging, give the Happy Hour a go. Oh! And I’ve heard around the web that if you have a vagina, this guy also feels great in there too.’
He was not above admitting that he spent too much money on a collection of sex toys that had once been on a list of, ‘Things to keep going for’ that he’d written on a particularly razor sharp day as a last ditch effort to make himself leave the apartment and not to find a picturesque place to die. He’d somehow snorted with laughter when ‘all my dildos’ had ended up on the list along with his dad, Julia, and the Fillory series that Netflix was apparently in the works to make.
And maybe that was also why he’d started the blog, not just as a way to get stuff sent to him for free or supplement his pitiful college income with the occasional sponsored post. But so he could actually talk about things people seemed to care about--they cared about his opinion? They wanted him to do a Patreon? Which--what the fuck was that even about? So there were people--ones he’d never meet or know, who would probably be annoyed if he killed himself and the blog entries stopped.
If Quentin was anything, it was a pleaser.
Which made it all the harder to sidle around the people Julia and James kept bringing out with them. A guy from Julia’s spin class. Nice enough but he didn’t drink or smoke or read, so what the hell were they ever going to talk about? One of James’ fellow interns. James always introduced him to girls, while Julia would drop a hand on James’ shoulder and say something like, “She looks a little intense,” while glancing at him knowingly.
They’d both explained it to James before, multiple times—“I’m just not into people until I really get to know them.” Quentin had insisted, since saying ‘I’m into the idea of people, I just don’t want them in real life’ was a little too cerebral for James to really get. God love him, he was an ‘ally’ but there was only so much they could do.
“Well, part of the problem is that you don’t want to get to know anyone else in the first place.” Julia commented. Which, true. That took too much effort. But also, how was it that Julia had known him for so long and was still putting so much emphasis on a ‘normal’ relationship? A sweaty piece of him whispered it was because she didn’t want to have to be around all the time to keep an eye on him. Surely when she eventually had kids, Julia would have less time to check in on Uncle Q to make sure he’d left his apartment in the last week.
Which was just not a helpful train of thought.
Or probably true since she’d been the only person to really stick around.
So Quentin had focused on calmly explaining things to James again when he’d finally asked, “As your only friends, does that mean we’re the only two people you’d consider fucking?”
“Probably.” Quentin shrugged. But not really. He’d done the whole crush on Julia thing, realized it had mostly been proximity. James was a nice guy but hadn’t been up for anal until Julia flat out told him she liked it, and even then she’d been the one to make it happen. So really, they were both out since he wouldn’t have been able to keep a straight face if Julia was the one fucking him. Other people, strangers, it was easier to imagine the possibilities and then never follow through with them.
“Huh.” James had gotten a far away look in his eyes and Julia shook her head at him.
“That wasn’t a proposition, babe.”
“No way, seems like just about the most awkward situation I could get myself into. Plus I’d ruin you for all other men,” Quentin had said.
Well. no. The most awkward situation Quentin could get himself into would be explaining to some perfectly nice stranger that James or Julia brought around that he’d thought through the logistics of sex so much that it was like he was planning an escape from prison but he’d taken the Chicken Exit every time the opportunity had presented itself. That he was a grown-ass adult with student loan deferments and his own Netflix account but still felt immature about sex stuff. Like everyone else had access to a TV show that wasn’t on Quentin’s feed. And they talked about it all the time. So Quentin knew the characters so to speak and the basic plot lines. But he didn’t get the inside jokes or the memes. He could chime in and hope it would come off like he knew what he was talking about, but mostly it was safer to just nod and smile into his coffee, hope they wouldn’t root him out for being an imposter.
It really wasn’t worth his time to go into the whole asexual thing with anyone other than Julia, and by proxy--James. His dad was very sweetly still trying to wrap his brain around the whole part where Quentin was attracted to people regardless of their gender.
“You mean you’re gay?”
“No--that’s really not it. It could be boys or girls or neither.”
“So--not gay then.”
“Just, you don’t need to worry about it. I have enough on my plate, won’t be bringing anyone home for Thanksgiving for a long time.”
And that had left his dad looking a bit relieved.
So Quentin could laugh along with the internet when barbs were thrown at Incels for frankly abhorrent behavior, but privately stinging a bit whenever the age old joke of the sad, basement dweller guy who’d ‘never known the touch of a woman’ came up.
Which--first of all was heteronormative.
Second of all--what if that guy just didn’t want to be touched? Or was perfectly happy in his basement?
Third, why was it anybody's business in the first place?
Frequently Asked Questions
Will you ever post a photo of what you look like?
No. The last thing I need is someone shouting ‘There’s the guy who almost missed his graduation because his Bandit arrived a day early!’
What can we call you?
Q is fine.
How do you identify? How old are you? What’s your vibe, etc?
Cis. He/Him/His. 24 years old. Asexual. Pansexual.
Wait--but you just said asexual but we all know you jerk off for your job?
Yes, my friends. Sexuality is a spectrum. I fall somewhere along with asexual, and we come in many other shades as well. I’m just the kind of guy who thinks about sex constantly but the idea of bringing another person into the mix is--well, it’s something I should probably figure out on my own before I talk about it on the internet.
Have you ever been in a relationship?
What’s your real life job?
Wrapping up my undergrad degree this semester, then starting graduate school in the fall. Here’s to holding off on living outside of the academic bubble for at least another few years! Cheers!
Would you ever start a Patreon?
Probably not? I don’t know what other content I could share with you other than the D&D campaign I’ve been writing and my long, meandering thoughts on obscure British fantasy novels, which I already do.
What do you do for fun?
I mean--you’ve read the blog, that’s about it, my friends.
So he was 24 and a virgin--which was a social construct and Quentin was a power bottom for himself--and the night before he found out magic was real, Julia still somehow ended up crawling into his bed and asking him why he hadn’t asked Unicorn Shirt Girl to dance. Like she didn’t already know. Like she hadn’t been the one to send him that asexual/greysexual/aromantic infographic on Tumblr in the Dark Days of high school.
“It was too loud in there.” Quentin shrugged, curling a bit into the familiar warmth of Julia along his side, the sound of her tights scritching against his jeans. The truth was, she was too sexy, a girl like that, all cute--who knew she was cute--with those legs and shorts, his anxiety had spiked the moment he saw her. She’d want him to kiss her. Pull him close and feel the swell of her breasts through her shirt, a little damp from dancing by herself all night. Of course he’d escaped to his bedroom the moment that she smirked in his direction.
Then Julia asked him where he’d been over the weekend, which let him fully deflect out of that situation and into another.
The truth: he’d been thinking about throwing his foot locker into the river himself rather than move on with his life and go through with his graduate program interviews, so there wouldn’t be any embarrassing evidence left behind for his dad or Julia to stumble upon if he was gone. Like how embarrassing would it be for Julia to have to figure out where you could recycle upwards of 25 dildos? And then his dad. Oof his dad. So he’d checked himself in for a quick 72 hour hold until things settled down in his brain, and hadn't even been home long enough to even jerk off, what with Julia’s early birthday party preparations happening.
The lie: he’d been in New Jersey with his dad.
He was glad he hadn’t thrown all his dildos away, and now that he thought about it, it probably wasn’t cool to contribute to the pollution of the East River.
He was especially glad he wasn’t dead the next day, when it turned out that magic was real. Not only that—but magic was hard???
Like--just because he had an aptitude for magic, didn’t mean he actually could perform it reliably. And what the fuck was that about? Years and years of feeling like the world operated with a set of rules he couldn’t quite grasp. The feeling of constantly having to have a bit of a time out to ask for clarification. You would think that if you were accepted into a place like Brakebills, having that innate magic inside you would mean that this shit was easy.
It was frustrating and despite how fascinating it was--magic was boring sometimes. Way more math than he’d expected. You couldn’t just cast a spell without knowing the circumstances so you didn’t punch a hole through time and space or turn yourself inside out.
He could study for hours-- days even only to fail his practical demonstration like nothing. Was he only capable of performing magic when someone was screaming in his ear, demanding to see it? If magic was so attached to emotion, what would happen when he couldn’t get out of bed-- couldn’t feel anything. Just a heavy pressure of nothing across his life. On wildly unhelpful evenings he wondered aloud if magic was just going to suck all the potential happiness right out of him and just leave him to wither.
Meanwhile, Brakebills was populated by seemingly endlessly talented magicians with really nice hair and hands that were somehow always everywhere. Who never seemed to need to study or go to class and was somehow one of the top magicians in the entire school? And who when Quentin voiced such maudlin statements, tilted his head to the side and said with a snort, “We’re both far too sober to have that discussion, my dear.”
In the strangest turn of events, said magician wanted to be his friend. Regardless of the fact that Quentin was more akin to a nervous elderly lapdog these days.
“Easy for you to say.” Quentin grumbled. Like he didn’t need to have his full wits about him to get anything done.
Eliot seemed like he’d come from a completely different world than Quentin. With a dichotomy about him where he could just as easily rattle off something about Victorian mourning jewelry and then have something scathing to say about the Kardashians. And at first he hadn’t been able to figure out where Eliot got the time to dress so impeccably, plan parties, travel to Europe during the school week, etc. but then Quentin had realized that Eliot didn’t do any of his classwork. He was just naturally gifted with perfect hair and an aptitude for magic.
So it was no big deal to him, mastering all of his tuts and stringing them together into complex hand motions that left Quentin’s own tendons sore and shaking after hours of practice.
“How is this so fucking easy for you?”
“I’ll let you in on a little secret.” Eliot told him on an afternoon where Quentin had literally left all of his belongings in the library and wandered until he found The Cottage and Eliot napping on a lounge chair. So Quentin had stolen a cigarette, waking Eliot in the process. “I slummed it with a hedge coven--horrifying, I know. Learned more here, obviously. But with years of practice on the poppers alone, it’s a leg up. Raggedy Ann has the same look about her--”
“Who?” Quentin huffed around his cigarette. Apparently there was a pre-Brakebills education he’d missed out on.
“Kady.” Eliot lit himself a cigarette, “Sit down before you have an aneurysm.”
“I just can’t--I can’t go now that I know this is here. I can’t do it.” Quentin’s stomach turned at the next inhale and he coughed, head between his knees. A hand rubbed between his shoulder blades and Quentin really hoped he wasn’t gonna vomit.
“Q--you aren’t going to wash out, if not because of your talent, because I won’t allow it and we all know I have Fogg wrapped around my little finger. You should have seen the state of this place when I got here. Who has a wicker sofa? ” Eliot patted him on the back. “Tell Daddy what you’re working on.”
“Oof--I hate that you call yourself that.” Quentin rolled his eyes and somehow managed to tell Eliot what was wrong with his PA assignment.
"So you want to fuck one of the clouds from Disney’s ‘Hercules’ - Tantus’ Hookah"
'..look at this thing and tell me I’m wrong! I dare you.'
Quentin had to wait months until he could figure out how to portal back to the apartment to get his stuff. Okay, his dildos. And several unopened packages with blog entries yet to be written.
He had to move his footlocker of sex toys out of the loft and back onto campus under cover of darkness with the help of Julia, who wanted to go back to collect her laptop and crop tops. She’d held her hands up when he’d finally snapped and told her what was in there.
“Dildos! It’s sex toys, Jules! Are you happy?”
Julia called him a ‘Dragon with a dildo horde’ while they were dragging the foot locker back through campus.
“How do you pay for all this?” She asked, grunting. “Sex toys are expensive. Is this an MLM thing?”
Fuck it. This was Julia. “I have a blog. Companies send them. No, I will never tell you the name.”
“So that’s why you were so fucking judgmental about that bachelorette gag gift.” Julia giggled, both hands lugging one of the handles on one side of the locker as they made their way inside and up the stairs of the cottage.
“If you wouldn’t drink out of a water bottle that wasn’t BPA free, why the hell would you put something inside your body that isn’t safe? You don’t order sex toys off of Amazon— you just don’t!” Quentin insisted, shuddering at the thought of the jelly monstrosity he’d thrown directly into the garbage chute down the hall when drunk Julia had waved it in his face.
Margo flicked her magazine down and looked over at them from over the pages.
“Baby boy’s got a point.” Margo shrugged.
“Jesus--don’t call me a baby.” Quentin grumbled, adjusting his grip on the locker, he was praying that Julia wouldn’t let go from the front, leading to him being squashed like some perverse cartoon death. “I know things. I’m not--I didn’t just pop out of the cabbage patch at 24, okay?”
“Jeez Louise.” Margo rolled her eyes and retreated behind her magazine.
“Counterfeiting is just way too easy!” Quentin exclaimed, his face getting redder from both this conversation and carrying the locker along with the box of Julia’s clothes she’d thrown on top. “You wanna fuck yourself with something that could start melting at any point, go right ahead.”
Then, suddenly the weight of the box vanished as Eliot appeared at the top of the stairs with a curious look on his face. “Are we talking about counterfeit dildos?”
“You know, we were.” Julia said gleefully, letting go of the handle. The footlocker just stayed there floating. Quentin sighed and let go as well, his shoulders feeling tight and sore. Thank god for telekinesis.
“It’s all fun and games until things start degrading,” Quentin huffed, pulling his sweaty hair back from his face with a worn out hairband.
“I would say it’s just all fun and games since I personally don’t need help getting my partners off.” Eliot waved a magnanimous hand, floating the trunk up the stairs and towards Quentin’s room.
“Ugh--you’re so fucking boring.” Margo called from the living room right about the same time that Quentin rolled his eyes and said, “Clearly you have no imagination.”
“I knew there was a reason we’re keeping you.” Margo called from the couch as Quentin followed his trunk up the stairs.
Eliot was spluttering, positively clutching his pearls.
“I’ll have you know, Quentin Coldwater, that if there was a Yelp regarding my sexual prowess, one of the common reviews would be about just how creative I can be.” Eliot haughtily informed both Quentin and Julia. Like a little too loud in case there were any impressionable first year boys about that Eliot had somehow missed fucking so far. “Right along with prompt service. Cleanliness. And minimal wait time.”
“Gross.” Julia muttered, swiping her clothes from on top of the locker and booking it for the door. Great. Awesome.
Which just left Quentin and Eliot and the floating, locked box of Quentin’s sex toys.
“I’m sure.” Quentin shrugged, like okay, buddy.
Eliot shook his head, “If you don’t believe me, I suppose I could prove it myself.”
Quentin paused, a hand on the knob to his bedroom. “You’re just offering to have sex with me? Just like that?”
Eliot looked around, seemed a little caught off guard by Quentin’s blunt response. And frankly, so was Quentin. But somehow he was standing there in the hallway with a levitating box of dildos and Eliot looking like his brain was doing a hard reboot. And he wasn’t running away, yet. His stomach hadn’t turned. Nerves fluttered through him, but this was Eliot. The guy who’d stayed up with him three nights in a row helping through his PA homework--while incredibly high, but still so articulate--and threw his arm across Quentin’s shoulders mere hours after getting into Brakebills. He had sex with everyone. Well, not everyone. But it just wasn’t a big deal to him.
Quentin hated to admit it, but he was pretty sure the beginning of this friendship had probably been predicated on Eliot playing the long game to get Quentin into his bed--only Quentin didn’t know the rules. But rather than taking his ball and heading home, Eliot had stuck around for reasons unknown.
And was apparently just up to fuck Quentin like it was no big deal.
Was this the part where he was supposed to pivot into some amalgamation of all the porn he’d watched where one of the actors would now say something like, “I’ll give you five stars on Yelp if you give me that big dick” while biting his lip or licking his lips or doing something with his lips?
The locker dropped onto the floor with a thud, Quentin jumped a bit, now worried that he should have wrapped his glass dildo in bubble wrap. He would bill Eliot if he had to.
“No, I don’t think I am offering. I much prefer a refined seduction technique.” Eliot crossed his arms, threw back his head haughtily.
Quentin rolled his eyes. Making a guy a couple of drinks and then doing a body shot off of them at a party hardly seemed refined. “Alright, well let me know when that happens.”
Then he turned away and hauled the chest into his room, dragging it across the carpet. When he turned back around Eliot was staring at him with narrowed eyes, tapping his foot.
“What?” Quentin asked.
And then Eliot left Quentin to shut the door and make sure that all of his precious babies were in fact, intact. They were.
So now he had a good handle on his shit and it turned out that there was even sex magic--which cut down on clean up and some prep work, though Quentin would tout that nothing was really better than doing things the good, old fashioned way when it came to fingering yourself open. And the lube spell had taken some fine tuning to produce something that wasn’t gonna be too thin and slippery for his liking. That had taken a good couple of weeks locked away in his bedroom casting the spell, tweaking the tuts and recasting again.
Then there had been all the materials testing. Since Quentin wasn’t about to ruin any of his toys with magical lube made from who knows what. So that had required patch testing and observation. As it turned out, magical lube was slickness made manifest, and therefore wouldn’t degrade any of his silicone toys.
He was a nerd. It was fine if that meant conducting scientific tests on his sex toys.
"Solo kinky sex & you - D20 Ball Gag"
‘But, Q if you aren’t in a relationship what’s the point of owning a ball gag such as this one?
Well, gentle reader. Because in this case, it looks really fucking cool, it’s well-made and now I live in a house with like a million more people than I did before. So sometimes it's to my advantage to keep the noise down. Plus, kinky sex is not just for coupled up sex! Seriously. I operated for years like it was not for me during alone time, but you know what, if having to have Roommate on call to let me out of a set of velcro wrist and ankle restraints is wrong, I don’t want to be right! But for real though, if you are restraining yourself during solo play, always make sure you can slip out of whatever it is, or go by my old standby of wrapping a cloth around your wrists tightly and holding the ends so you can let go whenever--that’s a free bit of advice for you.
It’s your alone time. It’s your fantasy. So treat yourself and do whatever feels right to you.
There’s an actual review in here somewhere, I promise.
This ball gag will have you shouting ‘Critical hit!’ only, it will come out totally garbled, because you won’t be able to talk at all and this baby does its job …’
Well, the positive of being at Brakebills was that Julia was so infatuated with magic that it seemed finding Quentin a partner to have awkwardly painful smalltalk with had gone to the wayside. Sure, she still shoved him in the direction of the occasional fellow first year, but he could actually talk to them about things, like magic, or in the case of Gretchen--their mutual thirst for Doctor Spock. Brakebills was populated by high-strung magic nerds in every shape and size. Except for the Nature Kids who always seemed like they were just at a retreat in Joshua Tree.
“Leave him alone.” Eliot appeared to save him from Julia one rowdy Friday evening, all loose limbed but still not knocking things over when the Cottage was littered with knick knacks on every table. “Young Quentin, walk with me. Talk with me.”
But there was real no walking or talking. There was just Eliot making him another drink and Quentin loitering around the bar for the rest of the night. Several guys looked annoyed when Eliot turned his attentions back on Quentin as he instilled his plethora of knowledge of tending bar on him rather than hunting for dick that night.
“It’s fine, El.” Quentin snorted, tipsy and tired--maybe looking for an excuse to quietly exit the party and put in his ear plugs. “Me here--I’m becoming enemy number one, I think that guy wanted to poison me just for sitting with you.”
“Who, Gerald?” Eliot rolled his eyes, continuing his demonstration of how to make a perfect lemon peel curl. It was all in the wrist. “In that case, stay. I don’t have the heart to tell him he gives terrible head.”
Heart sinking a bit, because honestly poor Gerald. Quentin threw back the rest of his drink and set aside his own thoughts of what it would be like if he ever tried to give someone a blowjob only to have them rather talk to an antisocial guy practicing card tricks.
"You’ll shoot your eye out - The Real Deal"
'Rarely will I tell you not to purchase something. Everyone’s body is different and all that. However, now I am here to tell you, dear readers if you value your eyesight, do not purchase this dildo. I am not a novice at this stuff. I know what I’m doing. There’s more silicone in my home than has ever been at the Playboy Mansion. Gross but apt in both cases.
Alright, I’m just gonna fucking say it--this dildo is a menace to society. The trigger mechanism is so sensitive it ended up blowing a load in my own face. So then I gave it the benefit of the doubt and tried again. Before the fun could even begin I was doing emergency laundry because it exploded lube all over my duvet. So a third time. Same thing, and lube flew like five feet across the room.
Attraction was a malleable thing to him. He could tell from first glance if a person had a set of features that he might find attractive. Eliot. Attractive. Margo. Attractive. Alice. Attractive until he’d realized just how alike they were and that was just a feedback look of stress.
That didn’t mean he wanted to have sex with, or even date someone he thought was hot. And how could Quentin date someone without getting to know them really know them first? It was a bit of a vicious circle.
All of this to say--he was just as good at taking care of his sexual needs and had a healthy imagination.
Much to Penny’s chagrin.
The guy steered pretty much clear of Quentin for a while, finally grabbing Quentin from the line in the cafeteria, sitting him down on a bench and teaching him how to lock down his wards until they were air tight.
“A guy could catch a contact boner from your imaginative ass.” Penny hissed at him. “I can’t sit by you in class knowing this shit!”
“Okay?” Quentin said blankly. He’d been vaguely thinking about if one of the railings on the Cottage staircase might be sturdy enough to get fucked up against. “If it bothers you so much, show me or whatever.”
How did people get anything done if a stray thought could lead to an erection in the middle of the day?
What was not fine was the fact that no one would leave him alone. Seriously. If he wasn’t being pulled into a study session with Julia, he was working on his tuts with Alice, or somehow being tackled into a window seat by a tipsy Margo who was demanding he help her paint her toenails. So then Quentin had purple toenails. And the parties, you would think that no one would notice if he slipped away early to get some time to himself and maybe give himself a moment to let a good orgasm or three to wash away the stress of his classes. Time to really put his brain to the good use of imagining how helpful a handle on telekinesis could be for fucking himself from both ends. That seemed like a worthy pursuit of inquiry.
But no, if Quentin somehow managed to get up to his room with the wards up and the door locked, Eliot would be there moments later, banging on the door, calling him a, “scoundrel of the highest order!” and Quentin knew at this point that Eliot wouldn’t stop unless Quentin came out. So he’d just pull up his pants, look longingly at the box in his closet and head back out so he could stand around while Eliot and Margo sized up their prey for the evening.
Honestly, good for them if that was what they were going for--he still had no idea why he needed to be around for this part--but the number of hookups they both seemed to go through was tedious. How could it even be worth it when he seemed like from what he’d heard, things didn’t even get that good until you learned the ins and outs of someone? And it really didn’t seem like one night was enough time for that to happen. So what was the point when no one stuck around for longer than a weekend staggering down to the kitchen in Eliot’s silk while Quentin was trying to make coffee?
Over the first few months at Brakebills he’d been regaled by the stories of Eliot and Margo’s exploits like it was supposed to impress him.
“He’s slept with that many people? Sounds exhausting, TBH.” He’d told Todd, back against the wall at one of his first Cottage parties after becoming a Physical Kid.
If that’s how they--and most of the student population--wanted to spend their time. Great. But could they agree to leave Quentin alone some of the time to get himself off? He hadn’t updated his blog in months. Didn’t these people do things like sleep or watch Netflix to relax? He felt like he was back on his Model UN trip while everyone was finding a delegate to pair off to have ‘committee meetings’ with.
“What about a nice cream-faced girl to take the edge off?” Eliot mused, hand on one hip and spatula in the other behind the grill out back. A familiar sight in the perpetual summer of Brakebills. Quentin picked at the frayed cuff of his hoodie. “You look like you’re about to pop.”
Did that have more to do with being pulled away from his homework or the VixSkin package he’d somehow managed to forward to campus? Quentin couldn’t be sure. Regardless he was annoyed.
“What does she do? Research my PA assignment for me?” Quentin said, Eliot’s cocktails never seemed to water themselves down, even in the summer heat. The first sip of his jalapeño margarita was just as strong as the last.
Eliot tsked at him, flipping a burger with what had to be telekinetic guidance as it landed back on his spatula. “Sure, right after you two make tender, sweet missionary-position love.”
Maybe it was the second margarita on an empty stomach and the fact that Quentin had never had a high tolerance for alcohol. Or finals quickly approaching. Not to mention his illicit trip to Jersey to finally pick up his meds from his dad’s house so he could live in fear of Dean Fogg booting him from Brakebills because his brain didn’t produce the correct chemicals to make him a stellar student on his own.
But it was mostly the shitty little smirk on Eliot’s face, the reflection of Quentin sitting on the end of the chaise lounge in the polarized lens of his sunglasses that made him open his mouth and let it all spill out.
“In the long list of shit that stresses me out, sex with a cream-faced girl is like at the top. So no, thanks for the suggestion, but I’ll pass.”
Eliot just sort of stopped, head tilted to the side, smoke and flame rising from the grill before him. “Didn’t think you had it in you, Coldwater. A cream-faced boy would do fine then.” he said it like, if you don’t have homemade, store bought is fine. “But they can’t be so interesting that you end up ditching Bambi and I. I won’t have it.”
“I said a person Eliot. Either. Boy. Girl. Non-binary. Whatever. Not really into it. Not ever. So it’s not going to help anything--getting me laid. Like--losing my virginity isn’t just a hard reset on my anxiety. Okay?”
He slid his sunglasses down, the better to see Quentin sitting there on the end of the chaise lounge as he polished off the rest of his drink, clearing away a dribble down his chin with a swipe of the back of his hand.
“Does it look like I’m kidding?”
Eliot plopped his sunglasses on his head, arms crossed over his head as it appeared he needed to devote all of his brain power to figuring this out. A slippery warm feeling of anxiety snaked through Quentin, squeezing at his insides until he wasn’t hungry anymore.
“So you haven’t had sex--we can fix that.” And though he said it gently, like Eliot was actually trying to be sensitive here, it just threw Quentin back into a dozen different conversations that ended the same way. With fixing something. Fixing him. And the implication of being broken-- yeah, it sucked just about as much as it always had. Perhaps even more so when it came from Eliot.
“Right yeah. Okay.” Quentin blinked hard. Maybe if he did that enough it would abate the sudden spike of tears somehow always on the periphery whenever shit like this came up. “Except no. I’m gonna go actually. I have a lot of homework and clearly you have a lot of strategizing left to do on how you’re going to fix me. I’ll uh--good luck with that.”
“Quentin.” Eliot said, mouth left hanging open as Quentin levered himself up from his seat and made for the back door of the Cottage.
Cheeks burning, he was on a clock to get back to his room before he totally lost it in the hallway and this turned pitiful.
“Coldwater--I need you to get my back.” Margo shook a bottle of sunscreen at him as they reached the bottom of the stairs at the same time. “Who pissed in your cornflakes?”
Quentin cleared his throat, Jesus--his mouth was watering like he was going to vomit.
“I have homework.” Quentin said, averting his gaze from her.
“Sure.” Margo said in a gentler tone. “Go get it and we can work on it on a blanket.”
“No--that was a lie. I mean, I do have homework, but I just don’t want to be around for when Eliot tells you all about how I’ve never slept with anyone, what a waste of a good dick, huh?”
“Q. We wouldn’t.”
“No. I don’t want you to do that.” Quentin shook his head, took a couple of steps up towards his room. “You’re Margo. Don’t do that. You would and you do. It’s just not usually about me. Alright? So I’m gonna--fuck off to my room and forget this happened.”
So he did just that and then took a long shower until Kady pounded on the door demanding proof of life.
“I’m alive; life update and the Le Wand Hoop”
‘After months of being gone, how can I return in an appropriate manner befitting you, my gentle readers?
Well, perhaps it will be with this picture. It’s a Wednesday evening and our resident blogger’s all settled in to review this frankly gorgeous dildo that arrived at my door. The Le Wand Hoop is hefty my friends. It’s solid stainless steel and the sort of thing you could accidentally leave out in your room or on your coffee table--I don’t know your life--and anyone visiting would just think it’s a paper weight.
And alas, for me, it will likely be just that. A paper weight.
You know me and my preference for a toy with a bit more umph in the size department.
So while the Hoop makes a great beginner toy with its smaller end and generous curve, and you’re bound to hit something that feels good, whether it be a prostate or a g-spot. If you’re anything like me, you might just find yourself laying there after a few long minutes of play wondering ‘Is that all?’
Yes, yes that is all.
Still, it’s a breeze to clean, you can use any lube you like--and you should use lots--and warming it up or cooling it down results in some fun sensation play.
3 stars from me
As for the life update, graduate school has been much more intense than I expected it to be. Believe me, I have missed you, gentle reader.’
His name was Mike of all things. Mike. Mike. Not even Michael.
Why was that so annoying to Quentin?
Probably for the same reasons that he felt like he need to leave the room immediately whenever Eliot and Mike spilled into it, fresh from whatever picnic, brunch, or fucking international museum date they’d just come back from. So fucking chatty and all over each other.
Quentin had no time for it. He was already exhausted from the onslaught of work from the beginning of spring semester with no break to go home and collect himself for a couple weeks catching up on the last season of Survivor with his dad, having a bit of a crisis about how Jeff Probst might be the only person he was attracted to. He wasn’t going to call it a mistake, making the commitment to himself to post at least three times a month to make up for his absence. But it did mean he was busier than ever. Weirdly, he had inadvertently tested a hypothesis, his readers had missed him. That much was clear when he’d posted his short and sweet “I’m alive and here’s a review of the Le Wand Hoop, Stainless Steel Double Sided Dildo I’ve been meaning to post” blog entry. The comments had cheered him up somewhat. He’d always been a bit of a comment slut.
So he had writing to do--not only that but also research so he could know what the fuck he was talking about. But it was hard to know what he was talking about if he wasn’t fucking himself with something. With Mike around and all the chatter, he wasn’t exactly feeling in the mood. Mostly he felt like he was constantly packing up his things and trying to find an area free from Mike’s stupid self deprication and the way that Eliot seemed to find that charming?
And did no one else think it was really fucking weird that Mike had already graduated--like two or three years ago--and was still hanging around campus? Didn’t he have adult friends or a plant to water? Why was he always around, monopolizing Eliot’s time?
Which--yeah. It felt like every day that went by, the unspoken divide between them grew wider. Made Quentin replay his outburst over and over, like he could have taken that moment to just educate Eliot like some kind of after school special that not everyone wanted to have sex with another person and instead he’d gotten pissy and stomped up to his room.
But why was that his job to do? Virginity was really such a stupid concept to be gossiped about on the band bus in high school and to base entire seasons of The Bachelor on. He’d watched that entire season with Julia and James, cringing at this guy who’d been pretty honest about the fact that he’d just been too busy to be in a relationship and then had kind of looked around and realized he was a virgin in his late twenties. A virgin with washboard abs in a house with 20 women who were dead set on deflowering this guy before the Fantasy Suites. A Virgin Bachelor, like that was his selling point. Honestly, Chris Harrison had been the most respectful and supportive of Colton that season.
He hated how he always felt like he was blindsiding people when it came up.
Julia was right, he consistently forgot to come out to people as asexual. Or avoided it all together. Which was probably some kind of coping mechanism doing more harm than good. Like--how stupid was it that you had to come out as a guy who didn’t find sex all that appealing? Why was that just a given that everyone liked sex and wanted it all the time?
Maybe if day one when Eliot had taken him on his tour, Quentin had just gone ‘You’re panning for gold in the wrong stream, buddy. I’m asexual.’ at the first sign of flirting from Eliot, this would have never happened. He wouldn’t have gotten to experience the flirting though, and those three weeks had been sort of thrilling, while he figured out if the fluttery feelings he had were because magic was real or if he might just actually consider having sex with a real life person who called him ‘Darling’ and brought him sandwiches. It had turned out to be the magic thing. But still, imagining what it could be like, if he’d followed the trail of breadcrumbs to Eliot’s metaphorical candy cottage, had at least been entertaining. And he’d had Eliot as a friend, at least for a while.
He was moving from the living room window seat up to his room to continue his reading when Margo called to him from her room, the door slightly ajar.
“Got you something.” She purred at him, lounging on the diagonal across the bedspread. She indicated a folded article of clothing on the foot of the bed. “It’s a bribe.”
“A bribe?” Quentin slipped into the room, shutting the door behind him. Somehow Margo’s room seemed to get twice as much sunlight as his cave did. Maybe he should open his curtains every once in a while?
“You deserve a little treat.” She said, smirking at him on her bed.
Quentin just shook his head, this was not the typical kind of treat he was used to. He plopped his books on the edge of the desk and walked over, shaking out the black article of clothing.
“It’s French terry cloth. So much more breathable than whatever poly-cotton blend your wearing is.”
“You got me a hoodie.” Quentin rubbed his fingertips across the fabric in appreciation.
“Thanks.” Quentin said, slipping off the hoodie he was wearing in favor of the new one, tags already clipped off and thrown into the garbage can.
“Well, I figure if you’re going to be moping around, you might as well do it in something more comfortable.” Margo said, patting the bed next to her in a silent order that he join her. Quentin hopped up onto the bed, let Margo drape herself over him as she wanted. He sat stiffly as she relaxed against his chest.
Margo was like a house cat, she wanted a cuddle but only on her terms, and those could be cut short at any moment. He was still getting used to it, being touched after over a month in a tundra.
“We haven’t had a chance to hang out since you got back from Brakebills South and we returned from Encanto.” She nuzzled her head into his shoulder. Quentin felt somewhat like a stand-in for Eliot but she was warm and smelled like coconut and lime. “Since Eliot brought back his souvenir instead of a fucking t-shirt like a normal person.”
Quentin cleared his throat, tried to sound impassive. “He’s been around often. I guess. Mike.”
“Ugh,” Margo growled. Quentin felt the reverberation of breath move through her. “Wouldn’t leave us the fuck alone while we were there. Don’t know why I expected it to be any different once we got back to school. Trust me, his dick’s nothing to write home about.”
A hysterical little chuckle broke free from Quentin’s chest before he could stop it.
“That’s important.” And he wasn’t kidding.
Margo scooted back a bit and looked up at him, eyes narrowed. “I think I'm going to treat myself to a little weekend shopping trip in Paris. Go through the portal to London, grab a pint and then take the Chunnel over. Come with me.”
“T-to Paris?” Quentin spluttered at her. “Margo, if you want Eliot to come, I’m sure he could ditch Mike for the weekend--”
“That’s not what I said. I want to go to Paris with you.” Margo positively fluttered her eyelashes at him. “Come the fuck on, Q. Let me drag you around to some stores and make you all chubby on the best almond croissants you’ve ever had.”
Oh, so eating his feelings would be an activity that was planned?
“I don’t know.”
“Fine. This is a kidnapping. You’re coming to Paris. We’re leaving tomorrow after class. I already packed you a bag.” Margo said, sounding so reasonable and not to be trifled with.
So Quentin packed a few books and his digital camera in his messenger bag. Margo activated the portal in her closet and pulled him through into what was a lovely little pub where Ed Sheeran was playing on the radio while they drank perfectly poured pints of Guinness, which tasted more like perfect iced coffee than beer.
It was already pretty late by the time they staggered off the train over to Paris and Margo located the apartment she’d rented for the weekend, a studio on the third floor with one big bed but a comfortable looking couch in the living room area. No T.V. and that really didn’t seem like a shame at all because there was a door off the kitchen leading to a balcony where he and Margo sat with a bottle of wine, looking out on the lights of the city. The sprawl of tourists and effortlessly chic people, the Eiffel Tower lit up off in the distance.
They ate the bread and cheese they’d picked up at the grocery store on the corner off the little bistro table between their chairs. That barely did anything to sop up the alcohol from the beer earlier, the train wine out of a bottle in a paper bag, and now more wine with a view. Quentin would blame that on where the conversation turned. Not the fact that it had been on his mind for the three weeks he’d been back.
“So did you and Eliot have a good laugh--earlier. Like fuck two months ago now?” Quentin asked, happy for the cover of darkness and that it was totally appropriate to avoid eye contact and not face the person you were drinking with when there was a view involved.
Margo silently lit one of the filterless French cigarettes she’d picked up at the shop, handing it over to him. Quentin retched through the first drag, but after that the nicotine filled his bloodstream like champagne bubbles.
Of course she knew exactly what he meant. “Of course we didn’t laugh at you. The burgers totally burned. That was annoying. Then I spent the rest of a perfectly good evening talking down Eliot to give you some space.”
“And space is for sure what I got.” Quentin mumbled, looking for a plant or something to ash his cigarette into. He ended up just flicking it over the railing. “We left a few days later. You could have warned me.”
“Takes all the fun out of it.” Margo shrugged. He passed her the cigarette, watching the cherry grow brighter as she took a drag. “Eliot’s--got a limited perspective when it come to sex. We all have our shit--Eliot’s a love em and leave em type. He doesn’t get that it's not a choice thing with you, I think. It’s just who you are? Isn’t it?”
Quentin nodded silently. “Yeah, I don’t--haven’t ever looked at a real life person and wanted to have sex with them. Not really. It’s fun to think about in an abstract way. Which already makes me a polarizing figure to my fellow asexuals.” He hated that word. Hated needing a definition for what he felt that was so rigid regardless of the fact that it had blown his mind that there were other people like him to begin with.
“Who doesn’t like cranking one out on their own?”
“Many people.” Quentin shrugged. “I’m not one of them. But I feel like I am at the moment. It’s like impossible to get a moment to myself at school. Like at this point it’s a miracle no one’s caught me trying to hump the arm of the couch.”
Margo giggled, “That’s a classic move. I like your style. Here’s what you do--just be honest. Nothing will get someone to leave you alone like telling them you're about to go spend time with the showerhead in the hall bathroom. Or just say ‘fuck off’ and put up a silencing ward on your door so you can’t hear people knocking.”
“You’ll have to show me that. Every Hitachi Magic Wand should come with instructions to cast that.”
“You have one of those?”
Quentin shrugged. “I have two. One’s cordless.”
“Well that’s just greedy.” Margo said. “I’ll have to give one a whirl, see if it replaces all need for human contact.”
“You--you don’t date people.” Quentin began, tapping his fingers absently against the wine glass in his hands. Only a Parisian Airbnb would have nice wine glasses in the cabinets. “Eliot doesn’t seem to either. Mike’s-- Mike. I don’t know. I don’t date either--I just--”
“Sex--with other people--stresses you out. I remember that part verbatim. But that’s not just what being in a relationship is. Granted, this is the blind leading the blind here.” Margo filled in. She topped off her glass, the cigarette sticking out of the corner of her mouth as she spoke. “I don’t date because it gives people the wrong impression. They get attached. They want more--emotional intimacy. Catch feelings. And that’s just not something I’m into. I don’t feel it.”
“I think I could--could catch feelings.” Quentin polished off the cigarette and vanished it away. He felt jittery and a bit sick. Maybe from all the cheese, probably because of the topic of discussion. “I do but--the rest of it. The sex part. It’s a gamble. I’m not great with that. It’s just easier to not risk it. If you know what I mean.”
“Are you happy?” Margo asked bluntly.
“That’s uh, a loaded question for a guy with clinical depression. I’m satisfied, I guess?” Quentin polished off the rest of his wine, already reaching for the bottle to pour more. “Like I’m fine. On my own. I get by. Really well. I’m vaguely curious about things. Like I only ever kissed one person and it was in high school, so part of me wonders if it would be better or if I’d like it now.”
“Would it be better than it was in high school? Of-fucking-course it would be better.” Margo scoffed. “For some reason it takes a solid four years of makeout experience to train guys not to aim for just actually trying to lick your tonsils.” Margo set her glass down and scooted towards him in her chair, dropping her legs over his knees, taking Quentin’s hand between her own smaller palms. “I think it’s absolute bullshit when people tell me I haven’t met the right guy and that one day I’ll settle down. Because who knows, they could be right? But I know how I feel about myself right now. Love--romantic love, I don’t get it. I love you and I love Eliot in my own way. Eliot gives great head and is the only person I can usually stand to be around. But I’m not in love with him. That’s my long winded way of saying--if you wanted to give the sex thing a try or even just make out a bit--I’d make it good for you. And I wouldn’t catch feelings. There’s no pressure.”
A bit speechless, it took him a while to process this offer that Margo was making. No strings attached. No risk of messy emotional red tape. He swallowed around the lump in his throat.
“And if I freak out and can’t do anything?”
“Then I guess I’ll settle for the normal pleasure of your company.” Margo squeezed his hand. “I really don’t care, Q. You know I have zero judgment about sex.”
Right. Right. This was Margo who was direct and abrasive when it came to getting what she wanted. And yet here she was kindly offering herself to him in the hopes of some mutually assured orgasms and no judgment.
“I’d like to try. I think. I can’t promise anything.” Quentin’s stomach swooped with some form of excitement perhaps? It wasn’t dread or worry. Maybe he was far more drunk than he’d thought initially. “I think I’d like it if--I mean, would you fuck me? I’ve always wondered what that would be like. For someone to do that.”
Margo didn’t purr something sexy into his ear or give him one of her patented disgusted eye rolls. She just nodded pragmatically and said, “We’ll go shopping tomorrow and find a dick. Somehow, I neglected to pack one.”
“My first time with Maxime”
‘...this is my official declaration of love for dual-density silicone. We’ve been flirting off and on for years. I’ve vociferated between dual-density and harder, firmer toys for such a long time. But Maxime has really changed my life. The perfect balance between squishy and solid. The drag of the softer silicone on the outside is truly delicious when you clench down on it. Couple this with a harder silicone core so Maxime goes exactly where you want her, it was, dear reader, a mind blowing experience. For more reasons than one…’
Of course Margo brought him to the fanciest sex shop Quentin’s ever seen. Not that he’s seen many, but sometimes when you run out of lube, it’s just easier to swing into a brick and mortar store than hold off while waiting for something to ship.
It was the kind of boutique where everything was perfectly on display, with lots of open floor space to meander around like he was looking at art and not displays of artisanal sex toys and bondage gear. Frankly, the only reason he was pretty sure they didn’t throw him out immediately was because Margo dressed him in a new pair of jeans and a nice peacoat to fend off the spring chill on a dreary morning in Paris.
Margo immediately waved him over to a display with high end, handcrafted dildos and other toys while she perused the selection of lingerie and accessories on the other end of the store. Quentin couldn’t help but really feel like a kid in a candy shop with so many options available. Finally, he settled on Maxime, a pretty hefty dual-density silicone dildo that came in a nice range of flesh tones that were more iridescent than realistic. He picked one that was a nice bronze color with flecks of rose gold pigment swirling through the silicone.
“You’re a trooper,” Margo commented blandly when he arrived at her side with the dildo in its packaging after spending long minutes squeezing and admiring the floor model.
“It’s not even that big.” Quentin rolled his eyes, tucking the box under his arm. It was kind of big. Quentin couldn’t deny the thrill that rolled through him, the gathering warmth in his core at the idea of the dildo thrusting in and out of him. At least if it went to shit, he could add it to his collection. “Shut up.”
Margo shook her head at him and handed him a bunch of hangers to hold while she continued shopping. He didn’t even bother looking at the price tags on any of it. It was obvious that everything was well made and expensive here. The sales woman gave them a wide berth as Quentin and Margo browsed, seeming to understand that Quentin knew exactly what he was looking for and that Margo wanted to look through everything.
Including the display of lacy undergarments cut for men over in the corner of the store. Quentin blushed, staring at the male mannequin--Why did they always have such a pronounced bulge?--dressed in one of the pairs of panties, that was it, they were panties and a long black robe that was open in the front. It was also the softest thing he’d ever touched when he rubbed the buttery material between his fingertips. The underwear were just cool, neat that they were cut for a guy but made from the same lace that the other pairs in the store were fashioned from, with a delicate waistband and high cut in the back like the underwear he saw women prancing around in during those awkward Victoria’s Secret commercials.
“Micro modal.” Margo filled in at his elbow as he continued feeling up the robe while staring at the underwear. “Here.” She picked up one of the robes on a hanger and thrust it at him to hold with her other selections. “You wanna try the rest of it?” She left the question open ended for him, picking up a few pairs in different styles and adding them to the pile when Quentin nodded despite a great big confusing swirl of heat plowing through him.
It was just that--anticipation washed over him like when he got a new toy in the mail to review or when he was locking the door, flicking off the light, undressing on his own--this was new and Margo didn’t care. And the idea of wearing them, material straining to contain his erection, the drag of the lace over his skin if he got greedy and thrust against the bed. Well, it was enough to make him a little loopy.
So much so that he was a bit out of it for the rest of the morning after Margo tried on and purchased a few pieces along with Quentin’s dildo, a harness, and his underwear. He carried their bags as they went from store to store. Eventually Margo found them a little table under an awning of a cafe and ordered them lunch and espresso.
“Do you think we could head back to the apartment now?” Quentin asked, ears burning when the check came.
“I’m not going to tease you for being eager.” Margo signed her name with a flourish. “It’s flattering.”
“Right. Okay. Can we go?”
“We can. C’mon.”
They took the metro back to the apartment in companionable silence, Margo absorbed in eyefucking every available man and woman they came in contact with. Quentin, trying to remember how to be a person.
“Go take a shower.” Margo instructed gently when they got back to the apartment. “Freak out in there for a bit and I’ll get things sorted out here.”
In the middle of toeing off his shoes, Quentin couldn’t help but falter against the door at Margo’s words.
So scrubbed and having had fifteen minutes to himself to privately wonder if he should call the whole thing off, Quentin emerged from the bathroom in a cloud of steam, not to the sight of Margo laid across the bed in one of the negligees she’d purchased that day, but sitting on the couch dressed in a navy lounge set with a glass of wine and her hair in a ponytail.
Quentin grabbed some sweats from his bag and hightailed it back to the bathroom to change.
“I’d joke about it being too early for a drink, but I’d really like one of those.” Quentin threw himself down on the other end of the couch, accepting a glass when Margo poured him one. It was probably a nice merlot but all Quentin knew was that he wanted to drink it fast. “So should we--”
“Hold up. Take a minute, Coldwater.” Margo insisted. “We’ve got all day. And tonight if that’s your thing.”
“Alright.” Quentin set his glass down lest he tip the whole thing back in one go.
“Just sit here and talk to me.” Margo said, then stuck her feet in his lap and wiggled her toes at him. “And make yourself useful. And remember that virginity is a social construct.”
For a ‘first time’ it was strangely comfortable? Eventually when they moved on from chatting to Margo asking if he wanted to kiss her, Quentin felt himself falling more into the physical sensation of his body rather than the roundabout of anxiety that was his brain. Margo’s lips were soft and plush. She tasted like the wine they’d both had to drink. The sound of her breath so close to his ear was like the crashing of ocean waves. It was nice. It was kind of addictive. Quite honestly, maybe Margo had the right idea with her hookups, he could see himself finding a nice hideout during a Cottage party with a willing makeout buddy for a few hours instead of trying to make small talk over loud music.
She was a tiny but compact weight when she slipped into his lap, the warmth of her thighs bracketing his own, forcing him to tilt his head back against the back of the couch with the new angle, with her above him. “You good?” Margo panted against his lips, buzzing like bees and swollen from kissing. Quentin nodded, feeling a bit manic to get her lips back on his own now that her hand was in his hair, pulling at the roots in a way that made his eyes roll back in his head and his dick slowly began to gain interest. Like it could be coaxed out, but Quentin was so wrapped up in how nice it was to breathe the same sips of oxygen between the two of them, feel Margo’s tongue gliding against his own, coaxing him out. Not too much. Trying not to slobber on her or come on too strong. “Put your hands on me. Okay?” Margo kissed him on the cheek, returned to his lips.
She was really good at this.
Hips. Hips seemed like an okay place to rest. Though with their bodies sharing this much space, her breasts were squashed up against him. So much he could feel something digging into his sternum that was rigid and pokey. It seemed like such a guy move to go right for her boobs. Margo’s hips filled his hands nicely and she moaned into him when his fingers gripped her tighter. She twitched under his hands, body rocking down against Quentin’s lap. A friction similar to rubbing off against the bed, but unpredictable and he couldn’t help but whimper with every press of Margo’s clothed pussy--that felt weird to think about--against his dick.
“Do you like that?” Margo pulled him away by the hair, head back against the back of the couch so she could stare down at him with flushed cheeks and liquid eyes. This-- this part-- her staring down at him and the gentle strain on his scalp was closer to his fantasies than she could have known. Got him harder, made him feel desperate to be good for her.
Pinned beneath her, Quentin nodded. “Feels great. Uh-huh.”
“I’m gonna fuck you so good, Quentin.” Margo said, intense and still grinding against him with little up and down movements of her hips. Quentin let out a somewhat horrifying high pitched sound--that sounded just perfect. Honestly. “You like the sound of that. You’re getting hard for me. I can feel it. That’s good. Just tell me to fuck off if I do something you don’t like or want and I’ll stop, deal? There’s a bunch of other things we can do.”
Quentin nodded, bottom lip clamped between his teeth to keep all the sounds in. Too warm in his sweat shirt and a bit tingly all over, Quentin felt the loss of Margo in his lap immediately when she rose to standing and pulled him up off the couch, over to the bed where the dildo and harness were innocently resting on the bedside table.
Ostensibly Quentin knew Margo was gorgeous. That wasn’t up for argument. She was beautiful to look at as they undressed on opposite sides of the bed. Stepping into the harness like it was nothing in her lacy bra and underwear while she gave him a pretty okay critique of his kissing, “A bit tentative but overall not terrible.” Quentin liked the way that the black straps cut into the backs of her thighs, emphasizing her round ass. He’d like to touch her, but in an idle, curious way, not one that was hungry for her.
Being naked while she wasn’t--that wasn’t exactly fun, but the alternative was Donald Ducking it in just a shirt. Just. No.
“We should put a towel down.” Quentin muttered, tapping his chin, staring at the empty bed.
“Oh right.” Quentin nodded, not totally afraid to acknowledge that if his eyes left the bed, they would be stuck on the rigid line of the dildo extending from Margo’s crotch.
“Come on.” Margo sat on the bed, patted the space beside her. “You know this part. Let me work you open.”
“We could just do the prep spell--if you want. The stretching one.” Okay now he was staring at Margo’s dick, his own perking up again at the sight of it. Fuck, his mouth was watering for it. He’d picked good. It was nice and girthy, not too long and the bronze of the silicone was pretty flattering. “I did the other ones, cleaning and protection in the bathroom earlier.”
Margo cracked her knuckles, rubbing her hands together, “Where’s the fun in that? I want to make sure you’re all relaxed for me. Feeling good. You like it, don’t you?”
Quentin slightly regretted telling her about his collection--not the details of how he acquired it, but the fact that he had one--as it definitely gave her insight into just how much of a bottom he was.
“I do, yeah.” Quentin blushed, finally sitting on the bed, trying to get his hands to untense. He absently gave his cock a few strokes, the familiar pleasure grounding him. But then he felt weird standing there holding his dick in his hand, so he let it go. “It’s just--if you don’t want to.”
What? If she thought it was gross to finger him when she was for sure going to fuck him? Come on.
“Get over here. Onto your stomach for me.” Margo said, switching to directness, which made it easier to do as she asked, lay over the pillow she plucked from the head of the bed, bury his face down into the sheets by his arms. “You have the tiniest ass, Quentin.” he couldn’t help but flinch when her hands landed on said tiny ass, kneading the tight muscle.
It was clear--Margo liked this part. She enjoyed working him open herself, was methodical about it every step of the way. Even pinching him playfully on the back of the thigh when he got impatient at the same slow, scissoring of two fingers in his ass over and over, never pressing into his prostate. Just working him open.
And he did go quiet, for about thirty seconds while his brain kind of reeled at being told what to do coupled with the addictive, hot rush of her fingering him. Letting someone learn how his body worked because they wanted to.
“That’s uh--is it good?” Quentin felt his pulse in his earlobes , fishing for what he wanted to hear.
Margo chuckled, her free hand petting over the back of his thighs, reaching to pull his cheek aside so she could look at him Jesus Christ. “You’re doing great. I can tell how much you like this, opening up so quickly for me. But I want to take it slow, okay sweetie?”
Dick twitching at her words, but he really wanted something particular. “However you want. It’s--fuck, so good Margo. Like it when--when you’re in charge.”
“When I’m in charge, huh?” Margo curled her fingers, easily finding the bundle of nerves that sent him reeling, brought back down by the feeling of her dick against his thigh and her nails gently raking across his back. “You want to be a good boy for me, Quentin?”
“Uh-huh.” Quentin nodded into his arms, then peered back over his shoulder at her, nestled between his thighs as she worked him open with a fond but determined look on her face.
“Yeah you do.” Margo winked at him, Quentin hid once again in the bedding. She conjured more oil, dripping it along his rim. A few rivets dripping along the back of his balls and down into the bedding. He groaned, bearing into the stretch of another finger slipping into him on the next pass. “There you go. That’s three. Look at you.”
“What does it--” Just spit it out, Coldwater. “What does it look like?”
“Hmm.” Margo made a small sound, thinking. Was she looking at him with her head gently tilted like he was a piece of art or a shop window full of clothing. “You’re all pink and stretched around my fingers. Shiny with lube and it’s cute when you--there it is, when you squeeze around me. I can see you tremble. It’s perfect. A perfect little hole for me.”
Quentin moaned into the bed, the sensation so familiar but he couldn’t anticipate the movement of her fingers, didn’t have to deal with the angle of his wrist or the embarrassing soreness that came from bending his hand awkwardly. He never took this long on opening himself up when he was alone. Margo seemed to love it. Switching from thrusting in and out with her fingers folded together into a little cone to making him take all of them down to the knuckle her fingers flattened into a line, twisting them back and forth while her thumb and pinky played over his rim and he thought--
And four? Four was more fingers than he’d ever taken. Corkscrewing inside of him while she told him, “Breathe, you’re taking this--Christ, Quentin. That’s it. That’s so good. You take me like a champ. Such a good boy. Gonna slip inside you like nothing now.”
Margo was small, but four fingers was still practically her whole hand. Which made the backs of his legs tingle at the thought of just taking that, just begging her to get him so wet with lube that the top of her palm would slip right in, halted by the joint of her thumb.
“Margo--” Quentin blurted into the bedding as she pulled her hand mostly free, petting against his asshole curiously with the flat of her fingers. His hamstrings bow tight, thighs spread as far as they could but still he canted his hips up-- take me.
“Let me admire my handiwork before I wreck you, alright?”
And that’s where he died.
Not really, but the flood of heat though his body at her words did feel like it would break something in the onslaught.
“I’m close.” he whined, hips jerking into the pillow and back onto the shallow pressure of Margo’s fingers against his hole. Fuck, they should have gotten him a plug. He was gonna be weepy about being empty later. He could tell. “Please can I come?”
“Hmmm.” Margo contemplated this, tapping against him absently like the tacky slick hollow sound of her fingers on his asshole wasn’t going to condense him into dark matter. “You still want me to fuck you?”
“I can go again.” Quentin nodded, fingers curled into the bedding. “Just--your hand. It feels so good. Please?”
“Since you asked so nicely.” Margo spread his cheeks with her other hand, thrust back in with all four fingers stretching him deliciously, pressing into him all over. She was everywhere, in his ear telling him he was good, inside him as he clenched down around her, grinding into the pillow as tears spiked in his eyes at the rising pleasure getting a hand under himself, around his dick. “Come on, Baby Q. Let me see it.”
Fuck--there was just so much of her filling him up inside, it felt like she was forcing his orgasm out of his body, the stroking of her fingers-- fuck, four-- against his prostate didn’t let up as he cried out, bowled over by the strength of his orgasm. It went on and on, of course she knew how to keep it going, petting him from the inside in tandem with the contractions of his body until he felt emptied out and hollow --reaching back in a panic for her wrist when she went to draw her fingers out of him.
“It’s okay--you’re okay. It’s just a lot.” Margo babbled to him as four fingers slipped out and came back as less. “Hand cramp. But I’ll stay.”
Golden and liquid, Quentin melted into the bed, shaken occasionally by the aftershocks running through him, the hunger he still felt for her dick pressing itself into his thigh. God, he wanted his mouth on it, on Margo. On her dick and her mound. Wanted her to tell him how to take it for her, how to give head.
“How are you feeling, Q?” Margo’s words joined his own labored breathing, filling his ears. Curious and amused. He could picture her all knowing-smile. Too bad he’d never open his eyes again.
“You want to keep going?” Margo asked, Quentin felt almost like he’d be lulled to sleep by the gentle, methodical way she was petting his insides with a couple of fingers. How clenching down on her brought a bit of gentle soreness. A well-used feeling.
“Wanna--” Fuck, he was slurring his words like he was on a bender. “Suck you off before you--wanna make you feel good.”
Fingers stilled inside him. Margo’s other hand pressed him firmly into the bed by the small of his back. That pressure--Quentin melted into it, wanted it everywhere holding him down. What would it be like--hands everywhere. “I get to show you how to make me come? Is that what you want?”
Quentin nodded into the bedding, aware she could only see the back of his head so he turned, letting him see the side of his face. “Then after you’ll fuck me?”
Margo’s face was framed by a few tendrils of hair that had escaped her ponytail. She gave him a luminous smile and a nod, “Of course I will. You deserve it, for being so good for me. Such a good boy.”
His body came down from orgasm and then back up languidly as Margo laid back against the pillows at the top of the bed, working a tut to clean her hands of lube, legs spread decadently for Quentin to lay between--or fall between. He had all the grace of a newborn colt when she motioned him over, pulling aside the thin, delicate fabric of her panties, baring her pussy to him. Above, the proud line of her cock protruded, her hand wrapped around the base, fingers barely meeting on the other side. Slick and open like a flower, Margo took his face in her hand and the rest of the world blotted out like the moon passing over the sun.
He did that. He got her so wet he could taste her clearly on his first curious lick, when the feeling of smooth skin against the roughness of his taste buds made him feel like he was licking silk, diving in for another taste of her. Sort of briny and musky. Her scent curled into his lungs, like they were connected and pheromones were a thing, right? That’s why his blood was fizzy and he couldn’t look away.
She was direct about what she liked--that made it easier for Quentin. Margo didn’t let him flounder, wondering what she needed. Instead she took his face in her hands and directed it exactly where she wanted it, she showed him with her own hands how she wanted to be touched and then said, “Now you do it.” and he did. She said he had a talented mouth, and it made him blush like crazy, wanting to prove her right, peeking up at her as she stroked her dick. Kind of a tight fit, mashing his face under the harness as he ate her out.
“Suck on my clit now, come on.” Margo instructed, Quentin felt his way there with his mouth, eyes closed. The warm latex of the dildo resting against his cheek felt perversely comforting as his lips sealed around the bud of her clit and he did as she asked, working his tongue back and forth against the prize in his mouth when she clamped her thighs around his face and pulled his hair, “That’s it. That’s it. Gonna come all over you. Good boy--keep going.”
Everything dissolved into the pulse of his ears pressed directly to her thighs, the warm mess of her against his chin as she bucked against his face with a laugh, a great big throaty delighted laugh that made his chin wobble for how much he liked hearing it.
Sweat dotted the tops of her breasts and her collarbones when she pulled him away by the hair and pressed his head down to the inside of her thigh, the axis of his world all tilted from this perspective.
Her skin was just so soft and warm wherever he put his hands on her, when they clasped around her waist as Quentin lifted himself with great effort to mouth at the pronounced ridge of the strap. Margo petted his cheek, hips barely thrusting up of the bed, giving him that illusion--no there was really no illusion to it, she was fucking his mouth. And Quentin could do this, drop his jaw and hold the base with a hand, the drag of silicone like skin as it warmed. Maybe. He didn’t really know. Margo took his free hand, drew it to her breast and pressed it there firmly and oh they were heavier that he expected. Squishy but there was heft there. He wanted to mouth at her, press his face between her breasts and worship them, suck on her nipples like he’d done between her thighs.
“Gonna fuck you right after this. Get me wet for it.” Margo’s thumb dug into his cheek, pressing down into the indentation where her dick was in his mouth. Quentin’s eyes rolled back into his head, mouth flooding with saliva, some of it leaking out of the corners of his mouth. She was so big, he couldn’t even take half into his mouth, stretched beyond his limits. She’d feel so good filling him up later. Quentin gave himself over to the mess of it, the labored, desperate sounds of his breathing, how his mouth just remained open when she drew out of him and he kissed down to the base, getting her ready. So hard for him. He was leaking against the bedding again, hungry to have her inside him.
“How do you want this big cock, Quentin?” Margo asked. God, she looked so at home confidently staring him down, stroking herself absently.
“Hard--from behind.” Quentin voiced hopefully as he sat back on his knees. He wouldn’t beg for it--probably. “I need you to fuck me before I actually die.”
“Alright, bend over the bed for me then.”
Quentin scrambled up off the sheets, bent over the foot of the bed. Legs spread, trembling, he waited for Margo to leisurely get off the bed, walk over to him. “Can you spread yourself for me now? I want to see it perfectly.”
Some switch flipped in his brain, cutting off whatever shame he would have felt at doing this before. But he trusted Margo just too much to deny her what she wanted or himself the raw, cut open feeling of being seen and appreciated when she called him ‘pretty’ and spread more lube across the dildo and his hole.
“Thank you--for doing this.” Quentin blurted in a moment of clear headedness, like right before a flu shot or towards the end of a long, drunken night when sobriety hit. And Margo thumbing over his asshole tenderly really shouldn’t have made him want to cry. But it was oddly sweet.
“You’re welcome.” Margo said simply then-- fuck, there was the blunt head of her cock against him. “Here we go, Coldwater. Bare down.”
He took it--of course he took it like it was nothing. After four fingers in his ass and the desperate want he felt for Margo to take him, he breathed into the stretch, the slow ache that filled him. Jolting with the pop of the head and then the long meandering journey as Margo took her time filling him up with the rest of it. The warmth of her skin against the back of his hands when she finally bottomed out. There was someone else here who’d do this--who wanted to do this. Fuck him. And it was okay that Quentin didn’t know if he could return the favor to Margo when he craved this sensation so much, that he was selfishly moaning into the sheets while she did the work of fucking him.
He babbled at her, about how good it felt, later he’d be embarrassed that he’d asked if he was a good boy for her. But then Margo had mixed things up and called him a ‘good slut’ for her and he’d gone totally nonverbal. Yeah--apt. He’d do anything to get it again. Wanted her to fuck him in a few hours while he was still open, wanted to walk down to a cafe for dinner and feel her still inside him.
This was--this was something he could, had done himself. To himself. Only, with a dildo suction cupped to the wall or the floor, not so much better but different having Margo here taking over how he was fucked. So he could just lay back and let her do the work, scramble at the sheets when she drew one of his legs up onto to the bed to get inside just that little bit more, “There you go. Let me get at that prostate. I bet you're so wet for me already.” press him into the sheets with a tiny, strong hand by the back of the neck as he jolted with her thrusts, drooling on the sheets.
It took some getting used to, but Margo laughed a lot during sex--not in a mocking way, just kind of joyous about things. The first time that Quentin squirmed somehow off the dildo on his belly out of some kind of mixed up fight or flight response when he really wanted more , she giggled and said, “Get back here!” before swatting him lightly across the ass, climbing up onto the edge of the bed to get more leverage and it seemed like her full weight was resting on him as Margo thrust inside. “No you don’t. Stay here with me. So fucking perfect. Gonna have you ride me later, so I can watch you fall apart for me--you’d like that. Want to see this cute little dick bounce up and down. You love it.”
“Oh my god. Yeah.”
“Yeah?” Jesus, she sounded delighted. “Got me working up a sweat, sweetie. I’m gonna sit back and let you do all the work for once. You want that?”
“Yeah--yes, fuck me so good, Margo.” Quentin babbled. “You’re so big.”
“You like it--who knew you were such a size queen?” Margo panted, working up a sweat from the strength of her thrusts. “You think I didn’t notice you practically begging me to fist you?”
Quentin let out a broken half sob into the bedding.
“Wish what? Come on. Tell me.”
“Wish you could come in me--wanna feel it.”
“Aww, baby.” Margo grasped him by the hips, delivering a few quick, hard thrusts in a row. Just a few inches in and out at a time, lighting up his prostate over and over. Claiming him. His ass ached from the sting of flesh on flesh. “Would if I could--fill you up like you want.”
He was out of his mind.
“Shh--” Margo soothed him, though she was still rocking into him so it did nothing to ramp down the building pressure inside. “Maybe a modified lube spell?” She mused aloud, Quentin whimpered. “Could cast it on my dick instead of into my hand, spill inside of you like you want?”
How was the managing to talk about magic while fucking his brains out? Why did it make him even hotter?
“I’ll do it, don’t worry. If you want me to, I’ll come in you. Plug you up so you can keep it inside as long as you want. So I can fuck you later no problem.”
She seemed delighted when he came and wasn’t expecting it, when it hit him and knocked him for a complete loop. He grabbed for her desperately, any part that he could to ground himself while he writhed. And she praised him, giving him another wicked grind of a thrust until he was pulling away with nowhere really to go, all scrunched up over the end of the bed.
“Ahh-- ngh. Margo--”
“I know, I know.” Margo ran her hands soothingly down his back. “Give it a minute.”
Quentin panted into the bed, the sheets under his face gross and humid from sweat and drool. This poor Airbnb. On the other side of his orgasm, the stretch of the dildo still inside was grounding, if a little uncomfortable as Quentin realized just how sore he was from a good, hard fuck. Margo drew out of him slowly, making a sorry little wince when the head popped free and Quentin was just still open. And usually that was something he could privately wonder to himself about, feel used up and ready to go again in an hour or so. He might even play with himself absently, just because it felt good.
But with Margo there, seeing everything, it made Quentin try to roll over too quickly onto his back, rather have her see his stomach and chest splattered with come than how absolutely wrecked he knew he was.
“Don’t freak out.” Margo said, already pragmatically undoing the straps of the dildo, bands of red marks across her thighs.
“Strangely, I’m not.” Quentin couldn’t move from that spot, rested his eyes while Margo went about the room, dropping a bottle of water on the bed by his head and then heading off to the bathroom, shutting the door.
Quentin laid on the bed for a long time, this should have been like the monumental moment where things defined themselves, right? Where he figured out that the needling part in his brain that whispered to him that he’d just been afraid of having sex this whole time had been proven right. Or that it had been underwhelming and he was just totally fine being on his own forever.
But really, the idea that crystalized in his mind at that moment was this it didn’t have to be any certain way at all. Look at Margo. Perfectly content with her casual relationships, up front and honest about what she wanted and didn’t want from her lovers. Bleh, lovers.
Quentin could--he could do that too? Couldn’t he? In his own way.
He could just be up front with someone about wanting the trappings of a traditional relationship--maybe not the sex part though. Maybe. Who knew? And the irony of that thought while he chugged his water with his own come drying into his chest hair was not lost on him.
Maybe he could dip a toe into those waters when they got back to Brakebills, see what would happen?
Margo had unleashed a bit of a monster without knowing it. Like worrying a bruise, Quentin couldn’t stop himself from curiously clenching down even after he’d changed into his underwear and a t-shirt. He wanted her to fuck him again. The perks of silicone being that you didn’t have to wait for it to get hard again. But Margo deserved a break. She took a shower and emerged in a cloud of steam with a determined look on her face.
They fucked on the couch.
Like that, face to face, Quentin quickly got over the fear of crushing her when his full weight came down on his lap. Between them, his dick wept precome over both of them as he rocked up and down, chasing the addictive pleasure of filling himself up, controlling the drag over and over again. It took a while longer than the first time, Quentin so caught up in the sensation, the new ache in his neck as he mouthed at Margo’s breasts. Just about the most decadent thing he’d ever imagine for himself, honestly.
His hips stuttered, muscles burning when she pulled his hair playfully and thrust up herself.
“Any time--Q. Seriously. This is better than cardio kickboxing for my anger management.”
Quentin blurted out a laugh that dissolved into a high moan.
With an okay from Quentin, Margo spat in her hand and wrapped it around his dick, giving him something wet and warm to thrust into.
“You want to come on my tits, Coldwater?”
Quentin’s eyes pretty much rolled back in his head as he dropped back down, heels meeting the back of his thighs, Margo’s cock filling him up so right.
“Is that really a q-question?”
And for that he got his hair pulled again.
It wasn’t a graceful slide, lifting up off her dick once he came, slipping down onto the floor to get to the right height. Everything was fever bright and his ears were ringing when he licked her clean, feeling like a jungle cat and then just like a common tabby when he just collapsed with his head in her lap, expecting her to pet his head.
Which she did.
And then Margo put him to work again.
"Has dildo technology gone too far? No. - Peacemaker Double Dildo"
'...I’m gonna keep this short and sweet. Just when I thought I was already a huge slut for anything that Vixen Creations puts out, I get my hands on this bad boy. Or I should say, someone in my life got their hands on it and then fucked me with it. Let’s just say there was an argument after the fact about who got to keep Peacemaker and we ended up both owning one of our own. Because I’m a greedy completionist.
As it turned out, it was not hard to find a willing makeout buddy at a Cottage party. Like at all.
Heels drumming absently along the lower kitchen cabinets, Quentin couldn’t stop smiling, leaning into that taffy stretch sensation of a long, sloppy makeout session. Chris was a good kisser, and he was certainly pretty high in that lazy, unconcerned way when the buzz settled in. So was Quentin, he and Chris met on the patio an hour earlier when Chris offered him a hit from his magical weed vape in exchange for Quentin’s remaining slice of pizza. Good trade. Quentin’s lips felt puffy and a little sore as they kept breaking away, Chris crowding in between Quentin’s knees where he sat up on the counter, working on a hickie. His fingers--fuck he had really big hands--hooked into the neck of Quentin’s t-shirt, pulling it aside to gain access to his skin.
Head thumping back against the upper cabinets as Chris fully went to town, Quentin happily felt up the other man’s biceps through his flannel shirt. He hummed to himself at the feeling of teeth gently scraping against his skin, shivering. Quentin had worn his lacy underwear for its first test run out of the confines of his own bedroom, felt nice and secure. He wasn’t hard at all, but it was nice--turning his brain off. Maybe he’d head up to his room soon and jerk off while he was still kind of toasted.
“Do you mind?”
“No. Not particularly.” Quentin mumbled back, face falling grumpily as Chris pulled away, hands still rubbing up and down along the top of Quentin’s thighs. Eliot stood in the kitchen doorway, hands on his hips with an annoyed expression on his face. “Hi Eliot.”
“Hi.” Eliot walked further into the room, creating a little storm of throwing open drawers, collecting a knife and a cutting board. Chris slipped back in, pressing a kiss to Quentin’s lips, not pulling away when Quentin bit down on his bottom lip and refused to give it up. “You know, people prepare food in here.”
Quentin sighed, letting go of Chris’ lip with a pang of regret.
“Yeah man, it’s a kitchen.” Oh sweet Chris, how oblivious he was to the fact that this was Eliot’s way of telling them both to get the fuck out.
“Charming.” Eliot slammed the fridge shut, armed with a bowl of lemons and limes. “I’m pretty sure there’s an entire wing of this party where you’d be more comfortable.”
“Hey--” Quentin broke in, patting one of Chris’ firm pecs with a hand. “Why don’t you go grab some food? I’ll come find you in a bit. Okay?”
So then Quentin and Eliot were alone once Chris shrugged, already pulling his vape back out as he left the room. Quentin remained on the counter. There was a vibe rolling off of Eliot, had been ever since Quentin and Margo rolled back through the portal in her room to find Eliot sitting straight backed on Margo’s bed with his hands folded in his lap, “Well, good to see at least you’re alive,” he’d said before snapping to attention and leaving the room.
Margo had hurried along after him and judging by the snippets of conversation Quentin had heard from the living room for the next several hours, Eliot had been very put out that he hadn’t been invited on their little weekend getaway.
“I wasn’t about to risk that you wouldn’t bring the Texan along with you. You two are practically joined at the hip--” Margo had said drollishly, echoing up the stairs as Quentin had scampered from the bathroom to his bedroom that day with a towel around his waist.
Speaking of Mike--
“I actually think we’re okay on garnishes, there’s a whole tray in there-- hey, Quentin.” Mike entered the room, Eliot’s hand flexed around the knife he held. Quentin hopped off the counter. Where Mike was, Quentin wasn’t.
“I’m gonna go grab a drink.”
Eliot sighed, “I could make you--”
Quentin waved a hand, “Beer’s fine. I know where to find one.”
So then Eliot sighed again while Mike rubbed between his shoulder blades for reasons unknown. The casual touched of couples was a thing still lost on him.
Margo ended up sleeping with Chris that night. Quentin couldn’t help but wink at him over the rim of his coffee mug that morning as the guy collected his jacket and gave him a little wave at the door. Good for Chris. Good for Margo.
Mike left not long after, though Eliot had the decency to walk him to the door, be it in a silk robe open practically to the navel to kiss Mike sleepily at the door and then throw himself on the couch dramatically like a romance heroine. Quentin drank his coffee, absently flicked through his notes.
“So are you ever going to talk to me?” Eliot asked, in that nonchalant way that meant he’d practiced this no fewer than a dozen times.
“I talk to you, all the time.” Quentin shrugged, twirling a pen in his hand to rid himself of his excess energy. It was far too early for anyone else to be up on a Sunday. There was no saving him.
“We talk in passing.” Eliot lit a cigarette, exhaling a cloud of smoke towards the ceiling. “Quentin, it’s been months. I’m sorry for whatever I said.”
Quentin actually burst out laughing at that. “Eliot you said something very specific. An apology doesn't exactly ring true if you can’t cite your sources. I told you I’d never had sex and you said you could ‘help fix me’ that’s just--first of all, incredibly presumptuous for a number of reasons. Second of all, there’s like nothing to fix. The having sex thing--tried it. It was fun but I’m still me on the other side of it.” He watched Eliot’s face in profile grow drawn and pale. If he hadn’t been the one to show Quentin how to make the hangover potion, Quentin would have asked if he needed a batch right then.
“You tried it?” Eliot said, oddly flat.
“Please don’t throw a weird party in my honor or anything--sex is such a weirdly built up milestone. I just don’t get it.” Quentin said, slipping his notebook closed. “I’m not a ‘man’ now.”
“You had sex with someone?” Eliot asked again.
“Margo.” Quentin said, a bit surprised that Eliot didn’t already know.
“Margo, right.” Eliot sat bolt upright on the couch, stubbing out his cigarette in an ashtray on the table. He walked to the bar and poured himself a shot--hair of the dog and all that but it was 9 a.m., a mimosa would have been more appropriate. “You went to Paris and tenderly fucked her after a leisurely stroll down the Champs Elysées.” Eliot was holding onto the edge of the bar, white-knuckled.
“That’s not exactly how it went. But go off.” Quentin said, feeling a bit like he was watching someone totally unravel. “I get it, it's kind of random especially after the fight we had--not that it was really even a fight.”
Eliot nodded to himself, raking a hand through his wild hair, drawing it away from his face.
“I’m going to change. Brunch will be served at 11.”
Mike was there and then all of a sudden, he wasn’t. And it made him a terrible friend, but it took Quentin a good month to realize he hadn’t felt the need to flee any room in the Cottage to get away from the guy. He still left when Penny and Kady started dry humping on the sofa--he was more comfortable about the idea of sex, didn’t mean he wanted a practical demonstration while he ate a sandwich.
In that time, Eliot relandscaped the back garden and built a pergola with his bare hands over the course of a weekend. Quentin had been awoken to the sounds of hammering, only to be somewhat shocked by the sight of Eliot with a giant pile of lumber and a saw, swinging a hammer with abandon. The dichotomy of Eliot wielding hand tools, dressed in his ‘work pants’ was not lost on Quentin, and he stood there a good few minutes while Eliot worked with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth like a South Jersey roofer.
Quentin had to go see what that was about, but all Eliot would tell him was that the garden was in serious need of an update and that he could ‘Manage perfectly well’ on his own when Quentin fake-offered to give him a hand. Though, he did ask Quentin to bring him a beer. Once again, at about the crack of dawn. He came inside smelling like fresh soil, sweating from the summer sun to drink endless glasses of lemonade right at the kitchen sink.
Why the hell did it not even surprise Quentin that Eliot could build things, grow things, barter with the Nature Students to spell roses vines to grow at about 100 times the regular speed until they covered the top of the pergola and offered some protection from the sun overhead?
There was a classy little afternoon day drinking party to christen the new garden when it was done. The dress code had been Country Club Chic. Quentin wore what he always wore. Eliot gave him a discerning look, a soft cream sweater tied about his shoulders. He and Margo played croquet against Quentin and Alice. Though, of course Margo got a little too into the game and threatened to go all ‘Misery’ on Eliot if he didn’t get his shit together. In the end, Quentin wasn’t sure if anyone won or lost, they got sidetracked during an argument over Todd accidentally stepping onto the course during a winning shot.
Quentin had to take a look around as the party wound down, most of them having stained their white county club clothing with sangria. He felt like a piece of sea glass, this year having tumbled down his edges quite a bit. This was fine. Fun even. With a little group of them in a circle of lounge chairs, Eliot carelessly sprawled across one instead of off on one last mission to cross off any missing names from his docket during the school year. Quentin didn’t want to leave this place, this moment. Even to go hang out on his own when he began to feel the strain on his attention, the tension across his shoulders. Instead, when Margo pulled him into her embrace, both of them somehow fitting in the same chair because they were both ‘tiny’, Quentin let her, and rested his head against her shoulder, quietly taking in the party still going strong. He breathed in the warm tropical smell of her.
At some point someone lit a bonfire nearby. A couple of nature students with actual flint and steel, to see if they could do it. And they hadn’t been able to, so they just conjured one. A fire that appeared suddenly in Quentin’s peripheral vision and brought that woodsmoke smell he associated with Junior Cowboy Camp and Quentin and his father both sulking while his much more outdoorsy grandpa dragged them out of bed to go on camping trips that were always too hot or got rained out. He always appreciated that his dad was just as much of an indoor kid as his son was.
Quentin caught Eliot’s eye across from them, stuck between Alice and Julia deep in a conversation that might have been about bras or horomancy--he couldn’t be sure--Eliot’s eyes reflecting the firelight, flashing green and gold. He smiled tightly at them, went to go refill his glass at the abandoned bar cart on the patio.
“We should move before Eliot gets sulky and dramatically chops down all the foliage like in ‘Mother Dearest’. Entertaining, but not how any of us want to spend a Saturday night.” Margo murmured, patting him on the knee. It had to be a sign of the times that she was practically sitting in his lap and he hadn’t been eyeing an exit this whole time. Mostly he wanted her to stay as the chill of the summer air had settled in and she was so soft and warm.
“Ugh.” Quentin grumbled.
“Freezing my tits off out here.” Margo growled, extricating herself. “Give me your jacket.”
“Then I’ll be freezing.”
But he still ended up giving her his denim jacket besides and they migrated to the bonfire to warm their hands.
“I’m glad you didn’t wash out, Coldwater.” Margo said into her glass. In the dark of the night, he was reminded of a little terrace in the City of Lights and instead of Sangria, it was a full-bodied merlot staining his lips.
“Me, three.” Eliot appeared, three mugs balanced in his hands from years of ‘hospitality’ experience. Quentin had no idea what it was, but the stream coming off the drink filled his lungs and filled him with warmth, the ceramic almost too hot to hold. He’d take anything from Eliot at this point, hoping that some of his standoffishness had worn off. Quentin was so ready to go back to the way things had been, only without the feeling like his world was constantly falling apart.
Margo tucked herself into Eliot’s side, her shoulder slotting right into his ribs, her head against his bicep. Quentin jolted as Eliot’s other arm dropped over his shoulder, pulling him in as well, staying there, a comfortable weight across where he usually carried most of his stress.
“Look at us, we’d make the most attractive throuple the world’s ever seen.” Eliot raised his mug in toast.
“No thanks, I can hardly handle my own schedule.” Quentin snorted, Eliot squeezed him a bit.
“We’ll get you a planner.” Margo waved a hand. “One you’ll actually use.”
“Sure. Like either of you are good at sharing.”
“Well, we certainly excel at teamwork. Don’t we, darling?” Eliot cooed down at her.
“We’re both too creative and limber for our own good, honestly it’s not fair to the rest of the world.”
That was a picture.
Sex with Margo, that was fun. Left him kind of stupid and exhausted in a runner’s high kind of way. Margo’d fucked him again not long after they’d gotten back and they’d made out a few times, Quentin was apparently improving where giving head was concerned. Margo had no complaints, only gentle corrections for him. He was still figuring out the fingering thing, hard to figure out the motions when he wasn’t doing it to himself. She didn’t have a prostate or something to really aim for that stuck out like ‘ touch me here’ so the whole curling his fingers to rub across her g-spot had been something he accidentally stumbled upon. Quentin would like to do that again soon. Maybe Margo could tell him exactly what to do again, that made his brain turn off.
He’d begun to grow just as fond of the quiet afterwards of sweat drying on their skin and the inability to string a coherent sentence together without dissolving into giggles as he was the part where he was panting and crying out in orgasm.
Was that what it was like for Margo and Eliot when they were all together? Them and someone else, or them with just each other?
Eliot had strung lights all through the enchanted rose vines wound around the slats of the pergola so at night it was a really choice place to be, by the new babbling fountain with it’s koi pond.
Quentin sat out there most nights now, able to get his reading done by the golden lights above. The semester would be over in a month’s time and maybe it was the fact that his body couldn’t handle any more stress so he’d gone into shock, but Quentin felt prepared? Like he wasn’t going to fail out and have his memories totally erased.
Maybe there was something to Brakebills and their dedication to an all or nothing mentality to succeeding in class. There was no room for failure. And Quentin wasn’t failing.
Even Eliot noticed, no longer having to shout gentle corrections at him from across the room and Margo slapped him on the shoulder and deemed him ‘not totally useless’ which was high praise.
"TLDR: Finals are here. Going on a month hiatus. Pray for me."
He bounced around a bit too much that summer, from his dorm, back to jersey to see his dad and reaffirm his deep seeded love of Survivor (even if it was kind of trash and probably fake). But then when his dad had put him to work around the house, asking “You think you could do something about this hinge with magic, buddy?” about a door that had squeaked since they’d moved in when he was in third grade, Quentin knew his time was limited. There was only so many times your dad could call on you to act as a magical handyman before you packed your things and retreated to the city. Yes he felt guilty. But he’d drop by and help out a bit here and there in the coming months.
At the apartment it turned out that Julia and James were in the throes of reunion sex and general gross couple affection.
He lasted three nights.
There was a limit to how much boring heterosexual intercourse he could handle hearing.
So, like Harry Potter staying at Hogwarts over Christmas, Quentin returned to Brakebills where the campus was dead quiet and it was Autumn. The leaves were all in a perpetual state of just ready to fall when he walked through the portal out onto The Sea. It was chilly, actually cold enough to justify his hoodie. That only happened late at night once the heat trapped in the house finally leached away. Maybe that was Brakebills’ way of making sure their overworked students got enough Vitamin D, they didn’t bother changing the seasons until everyone was gone.
Quentin spent a blissfully quiet week in The Cottage on his own, making excellent progress on his Vixskin roundup post, in which he compiled all of the notes he’d made on each of the toys in the line and ranked them. Having received Maverick as a reward to himself for actually finishing the semester, Quentin hauled everything out to the garden to get some photos for the blog in natural light
So of course that’s when Eliot appeared, tan and dressed in linen having come from a tropical beach somewhere if the hollowed out pineapple drink in his hand was any indication.
Eliot looked from Quentin’s face to the big old tie-dye dildo in his hand, back to his face.
“Clearly ‘This isn’t what it looks like’ isn’t going to suffice.”
“It looks like a perverse yardsale, Quentin.” Eliot flicked his sunglasses up onto his head. He didn’t even have the decency to be the least bit sunburned or cold from the breeze blowing through the trees all around them.
So Quentin explained, actually explained the whole story. The blog. The companies who very graciously sent him things to put up his butt or ‘review’ as Quentin phrased it. All the while, Eliot’s eyes kind of glazed over and he polished off his drink.
“I’m finding it really hard to concentrate when you have two dicks in your hand.” Eliot said finally.
So Quentin put down the dildos and explained again.
“Well, I obviously need to read every word of this.” Eliot allowed him to carry everything upstairs, leaning against the doorframe of the room while Quentin put his stuff away. He eyed the locker Quentin put it all into, now organized and embiggened with magic; because if magic was good for something, it was the ability for Quentin to finally organize everything the way he’d dreamed in separate compartments like he’d gone to The Container Store.
“It’s just a stupid little project that pays for my Netflix and Lootcrates.”
“Well--certainly, with that attitude.” Eliot insisted. “It’s no wonder you nearly tackled Todd when he picked up your mail by accident.”
“I can’t be held responsible for my actions.” Quentin shrugged, dropping the lid on the largo box. “You’ll probably think it’s boring. It’s a lot of me ranting about the density of silicone.”
Giving Eliot the name of the blog ‘Ace in the Hole’ was a mistake in that it resulted in Eliot disappearing for three straight days when Quentin was actually starved for human contact and actual cooking that didn’t involve a microwave.
However, when Eliot emerged from apparently having read Quentin’s blog from start to finish, instead of making fun of him incessantly, Eliot had constructive criticism about the design and layout of the blog.
“And you gotta stop with the ‘it’s cool if you use this coupon code or you don’t’ nonsense,” Eliot said, stirring scrambled eggs while Quentin’s mouth watered. “It’s good. The dishwasher dildo incident was one of the more riveting pieces of literature I’ve laid my eyes on. You should take it more seriously.”
Quentin bristled. “I do. But it’s not about that--I’m okay just collecting my small, occasional check from Big Dildo.”
“You should make videos.” Eliot was clearly ignoring Quentin at this point. “YouTube, Patreon, OnlyFans--take your pick--”
“I’m not going to masturbate on camera--”
“I lived with three camgirls in Chelsea at one point, those women made bank.” Eliot went on.
“I--uh, good for them, b-but that’s not exactly--.” Quentin stammered. Eliot gave him a fond smile from the stove, plating the eggs and sprinkling chives over the top. It was in that moment, he realized he hadn’t brushed his teeth yet that morning. “--how much money?”
Both of Eliot’s eyebrows tilted upwards a fraction, “Enough to not give a shit that I never paid my rent.”
“And you need an art director. Your pictures are terrible. There’s no scale to any of them. Throw a soda can in there or something. It’s a public health issue.” Eliot said while Quentin was a bit fixated on the idea of those looming loan payments from undergrad and at some point buying himself a car. And who knew what the magician job market looked like for a guy who really only excelled in sex toy organization and minor mending.
"‘You won’t like me when I’m angry.’ - The Incredible Dong"
'I went on an emotional journey with this dildo not unlike the one I went on with the actual Incredible Hulk. At first it was kind of a joke, a giant green guy who ran around knocking over buildings in little purple shorts is an apt comparison to The Incredible Dong. When it arrived, I laughed for a solid minute at just how ridiculous it was, how whoever sculpted this thing really went all out when it came to pronounced ridge and hyperrealistic veins. Then, I was intrigued by the high quality of the silicone, the powerful suction cup that may be a little too powerful since it nearly took a tile off my bathroom wall. Finally, after about two hours of psyching myself up for The Incredible Dong with my old pal Johnny, I was floored.
People. I came three times on The Incredible Dong. And really couldn’t walk the next day but it was really worth it. Because then I didn’t have an excuse not to do it again.’
He was not gonna jack off on camera for money. He wasn’t. Ever. Probably.
Instead, he started a Patreon and recruited a few loyal commenters to mod a Discord server at the $1 level.
At first, they were thirteen strong. A pretty good group discussing everything from sex toys to Swedish pancake recipes.
Over the summer, Quentin added more and more content behind a paywall, going so far as to review his way through the line of Avengers inspired dildos he’d always coveted but never had a reason to purchase. Now, his full set had a full place of pride and his Patreon count had doubled.
They wanted to see other things from him, so Quentin shared his collection of D&D miniatures and even took a trip back to Jersey to get some pictures of the full scale town map he’d built in high school. He shared his experience realizing that he was attracted to people regardless of gender and what that was like also being asexual. He commissioned one of his followers to make stickers with little dildos with googly eyes on them and people bought them.
A weird thing happened when you told people you reviewed sex toys on the internet as a hobby--he refused to call it a job--first you had to deal with the fact that they knew you reviewed sex toys on the internet, but then they just kind of stopped caring?
So then Quentin stopped caring.
And had business cards made.
He overhauled his blog and updated the tags on his posts, creating a search feature that filtered by the kind of toy, size, and rating.
“What is this?” Eliot peered up at Quentin from his chair out on the patio, bundled up in a green cable knit sweater to combat the autumn chill out in his magical garden. Clearly he’d caught Eliot by surprise having been in the city that morning. He was wearing his glasses. Eliot nearly always had his contacts in. But Quentin thought that his glasses, thick tortoise shell frames suited him very well. He looked quite collegiate in his sweater, with his book.
So of course Quentin interrupted that.
“This is a bottle of Hendrick's Midsummer Solstice Gin. The profits from my first month on Patreon. It’s for you.” Quentin held out the purple bottle with a cork and a stupid bow around the neck.
Eliot cleared his throat, weighing the bottle in one large hand. “I see--let’s see what we can make of it, huh?”
They drank far too much around a fire on the patio, crammed side by side onto a bench laden with a thick, kind of scratchy blanket to throw over their laps, but Quentin took most of it for himself. Ice cold gin and tonics on a somewhat freezing night shouldn’t have worked, but the chill in the air only served to heighten the minty, herbal taste of the gin. It tingled and left Quentin feeling wintergreen and sluggish, leaning against Eliot.
It felt so good--so right to be there under Eliot’s arm with a bonfire blazing--Eliot actually knew how to light a fire the old fashioned way. “You should be on Survivor.” Quentin mused, having watched Eliot scrape Magnesium from a small block in the base of the log cabin he’d created, easily striking a spark that went up, burning through the old newspaper and kindling at the bottom of the fire. “You can build things--start fires.”
“You’re very into that show.” Eliot shook his head, pulling Quentin in tighter. “You’d do terribly. You’re always cold.”
Considering the fact that by the end of week one Quentin’s wrists had been shot and he’d broken into the kitchens of Brakebills south for produce he could steal before succumbing to the depressing realization it would be digital underground for the remainder of that hellish semester. Quentin knew without a shadow of a doubt he’d never make it on Survivor. They’d never let him bring a butt plug as a ‘comfort item’.
“I’m sure you could build a chicken coop and seduce everyone into being in your alliance.” Quentin rambled on, picturing Eliot turning more and more into Indiana Jones as his lovely bespoke vest grew worn--his curly hair all wild without having access to hair masks.
“Ah yes, and the producers totally wouldn’t paint me as the conniving gay guy on national television.” Eliot snorted, Quentin felt the displaced air brush his temple.
“Well--you could just carry that brand right on through to being an influencer. Then you and I could just rule over our little corners of the internet.” Quentin said, “Fashionable clothing to be marooned in--you could make that.”
Eliot let out a high little sigh.
“Yeah, I don’t think so, they’d want my sad backstory and somehow one of my asshole brothers would come out of the woodwork to go on Good Morning America--tell everyone what a pervert I am.”
Quentin’s chest tightened. He stayed very still, like if he moved at all it might startle Eliot enough to realize what he’d just said, what he’d just offered Quentin--a tiny window into his life before Brakebills.
“No--fuck that. Margo would come on for the family visit and you could have a thing worked out with a fake dead grandma and get tons of sympathy from the other contestants to throw the challenge, then you guys could go to the spa and connive.”
“I’d be better off with a fake boyfriend.” Eliot tilted his head, dropping it on top of Quentin’s, the frames of his glasses a bit pokey but Quentin didn’t care. “Come on the show, make everyone see that I actually have a heart after 30 days of backstabbing and bitchy comments.”
“Yeah right. Dead grandma is more believable.” Quentin snorted. But that would mean that he’d be in vicinity of Jeff Probst, could finally make his move. Or rather, stare at him awkwardly and then fantasize about being a contestant who’d do anything for Jeff for like a single Skittle. Why was Jeff Probst the one guy person he’d ever had a specific sexual fantasy about? Maybe it was his quiet air of concern for the competitors and his nice calves? It was probably because he watched an entire season while recovering from having his wisdom teeth removed and Jeff imprinted on his brain while it was vulnerable and the anesthesia wore off.
“Quentin, if I didn’t actually know you, I’d think you’re just fishing for compliments.” Eliot said with a sigh. “You’re a high-strung weirdo. And you are consistently one of the most forgetful people I’ve ever met. You can’t fold a fitted sheet. But you care about shit--you’re not afraid to unabashedly love things that are important to you. Even when it comes off as pretty fucking intense. You still love it. You care. If someone were stupid enough to ever get you and then let you go, they deserve to be ridiculed on national television.”
Heart very full all of a sudden, happy that Eliot couldn’t see his face, Quentin burrowed a bit deeper into Eliot’s side. And they were both very quiet for a long time as the fire burned down to embers.
It was July. Eliot would be leaving soon to meet Margo in Greece, from there they were headed to Encanto Oculto.
“Wasn’t that in December?”
Eliot shrugged, sorting through a collection of swim trunks each smaller and slimmer than the last. “It’s always sort of Encanto Oculto?” And that hand waving explanation was enough for Quentin.
The thought of staying back at the Cottage was tempting, giving Margo and Eliot their time to lounge and seduce tourists like a couple of vampires wanting a snack--but it had taken him a long time to realize, he was part of the group. He wanted to go, but would he have anything to do? How many books should he bring?
“It’s not all sex if that’s what’s got that look on your face,” Eliot put in after Quentin asked if Eliot and Margo would even have time to see him with all the orgies they’d be having. “There’s art--and the food is practically a reason to go on its own. Don’t worry, we won’t abandon you completely. And if you’re nervous about seeing anything--just stick to the Green beach.”
“Hmm--that’s really not what, I’m not grossed out by sex. I just need like a firmly worded invitation and time to think about it.”
“You’ve got the makeout thing down if the string of boys and girls headed home with Quentin shaped hickies is any indication. I’m sure you’ll find a number of willing partners. Just be honest about what your limits are.” Eliot threw a pair of patterned floral swim trunks at him. “These will fit you.”
A bit empowered, reminded of his own little string of minor conquests and the only mild embarrassment of seeing them on campus after the fact, “Would I get kicked out if I wanted to just like watch in other areas?”
Eliot gave him one long, slow blink and then cleared his throat. He began picking up his things with efficiency, “No, I suspect not. As long as you’re not being creepy and wearing a little trench coat and jacking off inside it.”
With that, Eliot took his clothes up to his room to pack and Quentin carried his borrowed swimsuit up to his room, throwing it into the duffle bag he’d cleared out for the trip.
The morning he was set to leave, Quentin quietly packed the rest of the bag, left his laptop behind and met Eliot at the bottom of the steps to go catch the portal.
Yes, he brought a cache of dildos and plugs. He was asexual--he wasn’t dead.