Breckin Meyer: Fantasy StudSubmitted by AllyJeans at 2007-09-19 06:36:09 EDT
Rating: 1.58 on 57 ratings (57 reviews) (Review this item) (V)
He arrives and everything goes well: good liquor, good food. U2 plays in the background.
Breckin tells me he loves the meal, and I tell him I love the bottle of wine he brought, though I can’t make out the label. I think it’s a bottle I had an eye on in real life, but the name is fuzzy. Vabooshea? That can’t be right. VaBOWshea? No matter. The booze is merely a plot device. A social lubricant for the players.
I skip ahead.
The bottle empties.
He chuckles endearingly.
Now we’re lubricated and flirting, and I find I’m not being too obvious with my flirting, which is a challenge for me; and then suddenly, unexpectedly, my breath catches in my throat and I realize I’m staring—no, we’re staring, staring at one another. Our eyes are locked, mine on his. I can’t see anything but those two dark blue pools.
I don’t know when we started, but for the longest time we remain sitting there like statues. Fireflies and magpies make appearances over head, sparkling and swooping, swooping and sparkling. Life abounds all around as plants and animals gather by our sides, yet we’re immobile; and another minute passes and another, and now tiring of the whole show, a crab with a Jamaican accent waddles in and looks at Breckin and croons, “Go on… you wanna kiss the girl…
Thankfully, Breckin does. It’s quick, delicate. His lips pass over mine soft as tissue paper.
A rather pathetic showing, really.
Yep. Quite sad.
Bah! Who am I kidding? I practically came right there! We lean a second attempt, and this time it’s too much. Bang! The table is upended and we’re catching each other in mid-air. Sexual organs are lining up like plugs and outlets, trains and tunnels. Clothes are shed through some magical means, and off in the corner the CD player pitches up, attempting to play over the noise we’re making. We get louder and louder and Bono is almost screaming the lines: “See the Bedouin fires at night! / See the oil fields at first light!” And right as he hits the B in “Beautiful” were gone, lost in ourselves, our bodies humming like two mid-range, reasonably priced foreign imports. Only we don’t have thin mustaches or bad accents. Or mufflers.
Breckin probably isn’t every gal’s ideal fantasy fodder, but that son of a bitch can sure move in my imagination. Think gummy bears—the ones who starred in 80s cartoons and drank gummy berry juice. Breckin is a goddamned gummy bear. And we’re going all over the place. Things are being pulled and pushed, and he goes down on me and I go down on him (it’s the least I can do). And after having some breakdancing sex—he spinning on his head, while I crouch and hop in at varying intervals—we grab each other and charge to the other side of the room.
Bam! Losing balance, he, or maybe it was I, smashes the bookcase with a flying elbow, the whole splintering into nothing but stray books and sawdust. Not to be dissuaded, he’s back on his feet in a flash, a candle stick tight in his grip. Uh oh. I know not to be there; so I shriek and run, doing summersaults and frantic dives under battered tables and chairs, but no, he’s too quick. And I’m way too exposed. And that’s too….
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGHHHHHHahhhhhAAAAAhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, mother fucking fuck fuck fuck…. JESUS fucking God, AMEN.
I cross myself.
I smile and now some S&M dude in full leather, probably the gimp from Pulp Fiction, is looking on and making whimpering noises. He’s been there the whole time, tied securely to a chair by the kitchen door and to this point has been relatively quiet. There were a few close calls, sure, but he has ducked when needed and was able to avoid any lasting damage.
But for some reason I can’t figure out, he doesn’t seem able to take it anymore. His shoulders cringe as I approach, his hands up as if to say, “Whoa, that’s enough. Let’s not get crazy, OK?” But, fuck! It already is crazy, because Breckin just did a backflip off the wall and caught himself on the chandelier. The gimp, of course, closes his eyes at the sight; and swinging slightly, my Spiderman lowers himself and kisses me upside-down. From what he hangs—the source of the gimp’s latest shiver—I dare not say….
Gravity is displaced; shyness, abandoned; physical discomfort only hinges on my sore arm. And best of all, there is no danger of high-impact sex death. None!
Damn it. Spoke too soon. My head caught on something.
I rewind, avoid the sharp coat hook. Shir.
(Thanks for nothing, Jeremy Piven.)
Anyway, while I gather myself for round two, Bono returns in full force: “Touch me / Take me to that other place.” And you better believe Breckin does. Places with no zip code pass by in true Technicolor. Six people with six sets of limbs couldn’t do what Breckin and I are doing, and after hours of sex—which sort of fast-forward after I reach my last, and greatest, transcendental moment—we collapse, our bodies satiated.
Laying on my bed, Breckin is petting my belly. We’re sweaty. The smell of our passion mingles with the spring breeze passing through my shattered window.
“Breckin, sweetie,” I say, supporting myself on my elbow and pulling a set of pliers out from under my back. “I think it’s time for you to go home.”
His stunned look is only matched by the gimp’s.
It’s becoming a cliché now—the strong woman kicking out the humble man—but that’s how I want it; not because I’m a strong woman, or he, a humble man; but because the gummy bear has to refuel, and I have to turn off my stereo before Bono starts playing “Stuck in a Moment,” which in a fantasy is just as interminable as the real fucking thing. Goddamn melancholic Irishman….
Anyway, Breckin is pissed (understandably) and starts saying I used him. I admit as much.
“Damn right, and you’ll go until I need you again.”
Now he’s REALY pissed, jumping around like an orangutan with a yeast infection and threatening to kill the gimp with his bare hands.
(In hindsight, the gimp probably could have kept his “snap” comment to himself.)
The truth is, you really don’t want Breckin Meyer hanging around after some marathon fuck-up-your-house sex. Really, he’s wonderful. He bends his body the right ways, always asks before putting his tongue in strange places. But after it’s over and his gummy berry juice is all spent, Breckin can get a little…childish.
Breckin, now Breckin-light (less protein—same great face), happens to do voices on an animated program called Robot Chicken. I love it, even own the first season on DVD. But if I give him free rein in my fantasies, he gets carried away with himself. My stuffed animals, usually very peaceful and reticent, start having conversations with each other, usually about OPEC; and when he’s feeling really spry, Breckin makes my vagina talk like cartoon characters—more often than not—like Keith from Voltron:
“Activate interlocks! Dyna-therms connected!”
He pokes me in the side…as if I’m covered in buttons.
“Ow—Breckin. Really—you’re marginalizing my—.“
“INFRA-CELLS UP! MEGA-THRUSTERS ARE GO!
Vroom, indeed. Before long, my tits are having lightsaber fights—nipples making zoom zoom noises—while Leia (clit) tells Obi Won (hood) that he’s her only hope—which I suppose he is.
And then there’s Yoda. Breckin’s Yoda is intolerable.
First he gets himself hard again, which isn’t difficult because he is Breckin fucking Meyer, super lay. Then he coughs to get my attention.
“Intercourse with you, I shall have. Yes?” He grabs his penis and wiggles it with two fingers, “Shaky, shaky?”
Look. I’m a laid back person. I’ll laugh and make the occasional joke in bed. But I won’t abide, under any circumstances, a man who makes a puppet of his penis. Sex is mind-blowing enough without having a personified wang murmur aphorisms deep in your hole. Frankly, my cervix doesn’t need any lessons on the force.
Besides. I can’t think of a female counterpart to Yoda in the Star Wars saga. This means his Yoda penis would have to have to make it with a male character stand-in. That’s unacceptable. It would turn our coupling into a quasi-homosexual act—a penis ramming into some theoretical pussy-butt. And if it were Chewy—my hair down there, though well coiffed, seems to make this the logical choice—we’d get arrested. Breckin’s role playing would require that we break some major sex laws, the kind that are written down in 1682 and originally punished by shackling a person by the heels and whipping with big fish. I ain’t going down that road. I hate fish.
So, you see, I have to send him packing; and he eventually leaves with a scowl, probably thinking about what a bitch I am but knowing that it will be all the better if he has time to become a full-grown adult again.
Alone, I retire to clean the mess. When that’s done I open my eyes and clean the other mess.
what the hell were the pliers for.jpg