Filthy is powered by Vocal creators. You support Micah Brown by reading, sharing and tipping stories... more

Filthy is powered by Vocal.
Vocal is a platform that provides storytelling tools and engaged communities for writers, musicians, filmmakers, podcasters, and other creators to get discovered and fund their creativity.

How does Vocal work?
Creators share their stories on Vocal’s communities. In return, creators earn money when they are tipped and when their stories are read.

How do I join Vocal?
Vocal welcomes creators of all shapes and sizes. Join for free and start creating.

To learn more about Vocal, visit our resources.

Show less

She Took a Chance and Got a Third Arm

It was more than a study break for this med school student.

They were the two people on opposite ends of the classroom playing dodgeball with their eyes. Sometimes their irises would meet and sometimes they’d miss one another sliding away quick and discrete. Either way, the game went on. Stare, dodge, stop. Stare, dodge, stop. But that got old and so did summer.

Their summer program was coming to an end and they wouldn’t be sharing space for much longer. She wanted to make a move because he wasn’t moving fast enough. Why should she wait for him anyway? She wanted her quarter of century year to be special. Apparently, one’s brain stops growing at 25 which to her meant, “now or never.”

She took a chance and asked him over for dinner the following day. He accepted. Her armpits were still sweaty from getting up the courage to get him over, but she was proud she took the chance.

Friday night came and she made sure all of the organic vegetables were purchased and all of the fish was fresh. Dinner would be served on ceramic plates with wine glasses, this was adulting.

The doorbell rang, he was four minutes late which was 30-minutes early for her. He’s still outside the apartment door as she dips her head down and to the left to sniff test her armpits. Sniff sniff, #score, she’d remembered deodorant. “Shit. I’m not wearing perfume. Should I wear perfume?” She’s tittering back and forth between the apartment door and the bathroom where the perfume lives. "Feminists like to smell like flowers too," she thought then headed to the bathroom. One quick spray later she’s darting to the door fast, but not too fast. Wouldn’t want to break a sweat.

He looks patient and relieved as she welcomes him in like a vampire who needs permission.

They talked, they cooked, they ate. The seared salmon was perfect and the conversation was even better. He was genuinely funny. She didn’t fake laugh once that night, she didn’t fake anything. He was smart, reflective and opinionated in the interesting not arrogant way. He was Van Jones, not Kanye West.

When they finished dinner, the talking continued. He asked to check out her bedroom and even though there was little to check out because she’d just moved in, they moved to the bedroom anyway.

He turned on her music, a move she mentally doubled tapped. Not all guys value the magic of good mood setting, it deserved a like. "Hunger of the Pine" by alt-J started to play. Another mental double tap because he hadn’t chosen The Weeknd. They talked about the music until the silent energy in the room fogged all of the words leaving only room for action. He tickled her, releasing little girly giggles and quick jerks away. He could make her laugh even without his words. #Score

Then he moved in for a kiss and she opened her space to let him in. It was great.

Being welcomed in, he removed her clothes and she let him, but she didn’t do much else. Her mind was racing too much to make her fingertips explore him the way he was exploring her. She wanted him, she knew she did, but was this okay? Was she a hoe for having this casual guy, casually in her bed, casually taking off her clothes? Did she really want to add another finger to the count? One, two, three… her count didn't matter, she wanted him.

This guy who knew good music, who knew how to make her laugh and who had a banging body; this man who was, “Thank you God!” taller than her, was pulling out all the stops without stopping and she needed her mind to catch up to her body. “Negative self-talk, be damned,” she whispered to the negative Nancy on her shoulder. She was going to rock this smart, sexy man’s world and he was going to return the favor. Her fingers finally started to move and she took off his shirt. Soon there were too completely bare, completely cocoa-colored Amazonian bodies grasping and kissing one another.

When things could only get sweatier, she pulled back to offer him insight into her sexual history. You can’t fault a woman for being thorough. In her mind, an informed partner—even a one-night-stand—was a better off partner.

Feeling perfectly prepared to move forward she slid her body lightly off the side of the bed and walked to her top drawer for a condom.

“You looking for this?” The stripped 6-foot-3 man with what looked like twelve abs asked. She turned and saw he had three arms then she saw the condom. He’d come prepared. Presumptuous? Maybe. Accurate? Most definitely.

It was summer so her coconut oil was in liquid form. #Score Massaging it into him was easy. Each two-hand stroke was fun and each gentle twist down made her more ready. A combination of his groans and girth steamed her. He went batshit for the job she was doing; she went batshit for the size she was handling. Challenge accepted.

She climbed on and he pushed through. All of him combed through her turning her skin tingly and wet. 

He pushed, she bounced, he licked, she sucked. Perfect harmony, perfect pitch. Perfect penis, “Ahhgh this dick!”

He ate up her words and her. She got louder and still never faking anything. Even as he stroked on and she bounced back he kept his hands in more places than one reminding all parts of her body that he was there. He would leave no place untouched and no ending unhappy.

All ends ended happily.


Now Reading
She Took a Chance and Got a Third Arm
Read Next