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“It is a rare gift to venture into the unexplored depths of the self, without delusions or fictions, but with an uncorrupted gaze.”
― Friedrich Nietzsche
Every day’s the best day ever in Barbieland!™
Unless you’re Ken®.
When you’re Ken®, some days are just “good,” or “fine,” or even “okay.” Some days, you don’t even get to leave the big plastic bucket you live and sleep in. Some days, you have nothing to do but screw around and smash your smooth, featureless junk against another Ken’s®. Some days, Barbie decides she wants snow — so there’s snow. Some days, Barbie wants rain — and so there’s rain. And those are the days you dread the most, since you can’t beach at all, and beaching is like, the literal only thing you can do.
Some days, when the rote motions of life grate the mind, when just walking and talking and grinning and cheering embitters the spirit with a profound and untenable absurdity, and the gentle ebbing of despair intensifies into an undeniable, unending, percussive inner wail — Ken® can even get kind of bummed out.
Like today.
*
Dressed to the nines in his 1982 Dream Date Tuxedo — Barbie sold separately! — Ken® lay on the ground, supine, spread-eagle. He was engrossed in the disquieting and decidedly unsexy passtime of contemplating his future.
Being usurped from his brief stint as God-Emperor of the Kendom, Ken® thought, was kinda lowkey slightly bummerific, but definitely for the best. After all, Barbie had said it was for the best, and Barbie always knew best! Barbie was a physicist, a Nobel laureate, a brain surgeon, a personal fitness expert, and even a cultural anthropologist. She knew everything. She was everything.
Including a human, apparently. Weird.
Way up high, the Barbieland™ sky was a hypnotically vivid shade of blue — as if the heavens had been layered with the melted remains of a million, billion blue raspberry pushpops. The sun was big and bright and wearing sunglasses, and was only slightly smudged where the yellow Crayola marker had begun to blend with the black. The birds were singing, and there wasn’t a cloud in sight. All in all, it was basically the most beautiful and amazing day ever, just like yesterday! And just like tomorrow!
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, creeps in this petty pace from day to day, to the last syllable of recorded time —
A hot pink Barbie Glam Vacation Jet puttered by overhead, pursued by a whimsical train of heart-shaped contrails. Ken® lifted a hand from the earth and waved, timidly yet hopefully, up to the vessel’s pilot, but the 1999 Special Edition Pilot Barbie commandeering the plane in question paid him no heed. Which was totally fine. Super totally fine and chill and cool! Ken® let his hand drop back down to the grass with a soft, nearly soundless thump.
Well, of course Special Edition Pilot Barbie wouldn’t wave back. Special Edition Pilot Barbie probably had more important things to worry about. Big, exciting, awesome, glamtastic things. Unlike Ken®, who was none of those things. Ken® was dirt. Ken® was slime. Ken® was a worm, a toad, a nasty little nematode wriggling helplessly against a cold and barren earth, unwanted and unloved —
Enough of that, Ken® reminded himself stoically, folding his hands over his stomach. No more self-loathing thought spirals! I am Kenough. I am Kenough, and you can buy the Mattel Creations Barbie The Movie “I Am Kenough” Unisex Hoodie for only 65 USD. Final sale, no refunds or exchanges, 100% polyester! Fabulicious! What a glamtastic bargain! Am I having a stroke?
*
Before disappearing into that strange, stinky world of horses, genitals, and parking meters, Ken's® beautiful, beloved Barbie had encouraged him to find out who he really was — beyond the Mojo Dojo Casa House, beyond the sequined jumpsuits, beyond the surfboards. Beyond her.
As if it was even possible to get beyond her.
She was everything.
Really, this whole ‘journey of self-discovery’ business was much easier said than done. After all — Kens® didn't go on journeys of self-discovery. It wasn’t a Ken thing. Kens posed in their swim trunks. Kens twirled in their bell bottoms. Kens fussed with their frosted tips. Kens tittered and tottered their way across the dance floor. Self-betterment was for Barbies.
In search of guidance, Ken had taken the time to watch the great classics of bildungsroman cinema — The Princess Diaries, Freaky Friday, Aquamarine — and yet, he still felt unbearably lost. He was spiraling through a never ending, Sisyphean abyss of existential Kennui®, yearning for a spiritual Kenlightenment® that seemed forever beyond his grasp.
More than anything, Ken badly wished he just could ask Barbie what to do — but Barbie was gone. She was human now; Barbieland’s™ first (and only) Real World transplant.
Was being a human really that much more fun than being his girlfriend? The thought hurt, somehow, deep within. Every time he stopped and pictured Barbie partying it up in the real world, buying lettuce and taking Real World shits and getting Real World UTIs, he felt — bruised. Which was totally weird, because he wasn’t actually physically capable of bruising.
“Hey, man. Uh. Are you okay?”
Ken® lifted his head morosely. Allan hovered over him nervously, peering down at the defeated splay of Ken's® body, which was presently flopped down against the lawn of Barbie’s deserted Dreamhouse. Allan was Ken’s® buddy, and fit into all of Ken’s® clothes — which was kind of crazy, because Ken’s® body was like, wow, and Allan’s body was like, eh.
“Yeah,” Ken® said. Then, feeling a sudden pulse of defensiveness, he narrowed his eyes. “Why? Do I look not-okay?”
“No! Well — yeah. I mean, no. But also, yeah. No offense,” Allan shifted uncomfortably, his eyes darting nervously across the broad expanse of Barbie’s shiny, perfect, spearmint-green lawn. “It’s just that you’ve been lying on the ground in your tuxedo for a really, really long time.”
“I’m ruminating,” Ken® said quite archly, articulating himself with every last inch of dignity he could muster (which was not very much).
“You’ve been lying there for four days, Ken.”
“I have a lot to ruminate on.”
“In your tuxedo?”
“The tuxedo is a key element of the rumination.”
“Okay,” Allan said. “Yeah. Of course, sure, I bet it is.” There was a brief pause; slowly, gingerly, Allan lowered himself down onto the grass, settling down next to Ken®. “Considering the events of the past two weeks — I can completely understand why you’d have a lot on your mind.”
“A lot on my mind?” Ken® laughed: dry, mirthless, mournful. “My girlfriend left me so she could pay taxes, purchase lightbulbs, eat at Buffalo Wild Wings, and masturbate. I have no Kendom, no power, no patriarchy, no authority, no respect — and no horses. My life is in shambles. I have no choice but to rebuild it all from scratch, but where do I start? I don’t even know who I even am.”
“Well — you’re Ken,” Allan demurred, looking distinctly uncomfortable.
“We’re all Ken,” Ken® snapped, irate. Then, feeling somewhat sheepish, he reeled himself back in. “I mean, except you, Allan. Sorry.”
Allan shook his head, “It’s cool.”
“Do you ever wish you were Ken?”
“Sometimes, I guess,” Allan said. “I mean, it seems like you guys have a lot of fun. Running around, trying on gym shorts, doing conga lines.”
“I do like a good conga line,” Ken® agreed wistfully.
“Look, I’ll admit it — I have no idea what you’re going through right now,” Allan said, leaning back on his launches. “In a way, I’m lucky to be Allan, you know? There’s only one of me. I’ve never had to fight for a sense of identity beyond the, uh, the Ken hive mind.”
A sense of identity . Ken® turned that over in his mind. Once, he had been a Ken® in a world of Kens, a doll in a valley of dolls; just another set of rock-hard abs in a rock-hard universe. And he had been content with that. Not happy, not quite — but satisfied. He’d looked at his life and called it enough.
Now, he wasn’t quite so sure.
“Allan,” Ken® asked, rolling over onto his stomach. “What is a man?”
Allan blinked.
“... Are you asking me literally, like, what is the definition of a man, or is this more of a philosophical thing —?”
“Yes.”
Allan pursed his lips, hazarded, “Uh. Well, I’m not sure.” He hesitated, tightroping his next words — “I don’t think that’s something you can find out in Barbieland.”
Ken® pushed himself up onto his elbows, his plastic heart climbing up into his throat — “You’re saying I need to go to the Real World?”
“I’m saying that you won’t make any progress if you just keep standing still,” Allan said, using his voice very carefully, very delicately, as a Barbie might use her very best pair of vintage gloves. “Or, uh, lying still. Literally speaking.”
He gestured at Ken’s® prone form rather pointedly.
Feeling only a teeny tiny bit humbled, Ken® scrambled upright, swiping the dust off his knees.
*
When Ken® rolled back into the Real World — alone, this time — it was late July.
The streets smelled powerfully of car exhaust, sweat, and tutti frutti vape fog; the aroma assaulted his nostrils, an affront to the senses — yet not an entirely unwelcome one. Dubious though it might be, this was the perfume of the Real World — the world of horses and cars and interesting genitals! With the wind in his hair and a song in his heart, Ken® glided freely across the beachside pavement. Each stroke of his legs was buoyed by that most delicious of fuels: the thrill of the unknown. L'appel du vide.
The Real World felt new and exciting, much in the way thrifted books and clothes can feel new and exciting. The Real World was in great condition. The Real World was gently used.
Up above, the mid-afternoon sky was wan and pale; its uneasy, rather grayish permutation of blue was interrupted at intervals by large, dark, sketchy skeins of cloud. The airplanes, when they blew past, were noisy, remote, aluminum behemoths — and the sun was little more than a whitish blot against the horizon. It was an industrial sky; a cold sky; a weathered, patchy, neither-this-nor-that sky. It didn’t look a thing like the Barbieland™ sky, and for that reason, it was both unspeakably hideous and unspeakably beautiful.
During his first foray into the Real World, Ken® had gleaned a valuable piece of information: the people of this world were overwhelmingly concerned with the acquisition of Moneys™ and Dollars™. It seemed that if you wanted just about anything in the Real World, you needed to trade some Moneys™ or Dollars™ for it. Ken® didn’t have any Moneys™ or Dollars™, and he wasn’t entirely certain of where to get them. Context clues suggested that working a job was a paramount step in the accession of currency, but Ken® wasn’t entirely sure about that. The career girl Barbies never seemed concerned about Moneys™ or Dollars™, and the beach queens and party girls never seemed to want for it. When they wanted new clothes, there were new clothes. When they wanted new cars, there were new cars. When they wanted new boyfriends, there were new boyfriends.
No Dollars™ necessary.
Maybe if Ken® just asked around, someone would give him the Moneys™ he needed. After all, the Real World was full of nice people, and there were so many things he would need if he was going to be staying here for an extended period of time — like a new pair of slippers, and a beach house, and a jetpack.
“Hey!” Ken® shouted, skating right up to a woman on her cell phone. “May I please have some Moneys™ !”
The woman flashed him a somewhat bewildered expression, then started walking away at a markedly quicker pace. Weird, but fine. Maybe she didn’t have any Moneys™ either. Tough luck out here.
Ken® decided to try his luck with a second passerby, skating up near a young man wearing a rather cumbersome looking backpack: “Hey! My dude! Do you have any Moneys™ or Dollars™? Also known as Cash™, Green™, or Benjamins™? I need them to purchase goods and/or services and/or jetpacks.”
Once again, his simple request was met with a full-body cringe and an immediate escape. Ken® frowned. Were the Real World humans intimidated by his godlike body and boldly trendy fashions? (At present, he was sporting a bright purple crop top, matching booty shorts, and a humongous pink helmet. Safety first!) Or perhaps… it was considered somewhat gauche to ask for Moneys™ outright? Was the act of disseminating Moneys™ to strange hotties in need considered to be taboo?
Ken® pursed his lips, dissatisfied with this conclusion. In Barbieland™, everyone was so generous with one another. Especially Sugar Daddy Ken! He was always giving Ken® the prettiest outfits and taking Ken® out on the nicest vacations! Ken® smiled fondly at the thought of him. They used to smash their featureless crotch regions together all the time.
Ken® swapped his rollerblades for his cowboy boots and proceeded to roam. He didn’t have any particular destination in mind, per se — just a short list of vague, optimistic, yet highly achievable goals.
- Make some new friends!
- Accrue Moneys™ and Dollars™!
- Cobble together a solid sense of identity that’ll provide me with a sense of purpose, allow me to process my feelings of anger, hurt, abandonment, and sexual confusion, and stave off the gnawing emptiness of maintaining exemplary citizenship in an aggressively conformist society that disrespects my perspective and interests, discourages me from taking up space, and forces me to grin and clown and cheer and exult in my own second-class status while relegating all aberrations, outsiders, and undesirables to the bleakest of margins!
- Walk the runway!
- Do beach!
- Totino’s Pizza Rolls Baybee!!!!!!
*
But where did one go about making friends in the Real World? That was a true conundrum. In Barbieland™, you never had to worry about making friends. You could just walk up to any Barbie or Ken® on the street and already know you were friends! Out here, things were far more complicated — and the friend-making process struck Ken® as unfathomably byzantine. Women avoided his eyes. Men dodged his attempts to discuss important manly issues, like the S&P 500 stock market index, and monster trucks, and big naturals. And absolutely nobody seemed willing to be anonymously solicited for financial gain, which was, like, a major bummer.
The majorest bummer, even.
As Ken® walked, he was eventually seduced by a searingly beautiful beacon on the horizon. This was no ordinary sign — this was a neon-drecked siren, a hotly-whispered promise of orgasmic potential, a dizzy dream of ethylene-vinyl acetate, a homing signal: TOYS R US.
As he slipped betwixt its revolving doors, he was enchanted into its airy, continental embrace — a soft white heaven of familiar sights and sounds. The sharp, strong, chemical tang of plastic. The fizzy whisper of precision-cut glitter. The flutter and smirk of babydoll eyes, the false purse of their unmoving lips. And the Barbies.
God. The fucking Barbies.
There were rows upon rows of brand new Barbies. Infinities of Barbies. Galaxies of Barbies. They filled the shelves, lined up in their darling little boxes — a dizzyingly pristine collectivity. They had all clearly been produced to meet the same standard, the same imperial ideal, and yet they were each so marvelously and impossibly distinct. Ken® was spellbound at the sight of them. A familiar feeling struck him there. A heady blend of frustration, desire, and religious awe.
Once upon a time, he’d called that feeling love.
Slowly, methodically, taking great care not to disturb the holy ground he tread upon — Ken® walked the shelves. It was an embarrassment of riches. There were Barbies of every colour, every shape, every size, every career and disposition… unthinking, he reached out, his fingers skimming against the warbling plasticine edge of a Prom Night Barbie’s packaging. What would it be like to hold her in his hands? How would it feel?
Would she warm beneath his palms, or leave him cold?
Ken®'s pulse quickened; he felt himself in the grips of a strange, bodywise shiver he’d never experienced in all his life. If he held her — if he took her into his hands — he could do anything he wanted with her. After all, a doll was just a thing in this world. And things could never leave you. Never hurt you.
Never refuse.
This was what men did, right? Circumvent refusal? Deny the denial? This was the bloodied, pulsating heart of his species — the itch of the wound —
His mind whited out. His head flurried with hot, staticky nothing. His whole body seemed to howl for him to to do it, to take her — to rip out her pretty blonde hair and beat her squishy, bloodless skull until she was as nasty and gross and fucking weird as he felt.
And yet — he didn’t. Some strange, hitherto unknown force compelled him to hold back. To stop. To turn his eyes away for her. To lift his gaze to the next shelf, to see the doll standing on the lowest rung, smiling like a goon, brushed and fussed into his glittering garments: Beach Day Ken.
Ken®'s stomach dropped. It was like staring into a mirror — and not a very kind one. The doll’s face was permanently sculpted into an expression of blithe, mindless pleasure; his blue eyes were as cool and empty as a dead lake. His shiny, plasticky beach bod — nearly orange beneath the store’s harsh fluorescent lighting — showed no wear, no tear, nor the barest suggestion of animating breath.
Another complacent, unresisting thing.
Another shadow on the cave wall.
Ken® turned around, his cowboy boots squeaking softly against the store’s commercial vinyl flooring. He fled the Barbie aisle, past the Hot Wheels, past the Beyblades, past the weirdly horny Monster High dolls, past the checkout, and headed out the door — and into the cold, impersonal moonlight.
While he’d been wandering, sundown had come and gone. The night air tasted of someone else’s saliva; the Real World sky was huge and dark and napped with strange, hurling spirals. A banner juddered; a rat skittered; a baby cried, somewhere, nowhere, far off, everywhere.
“Bummers,” Ken® said aloud, his teeth chattering. He huddled back against the store’s brick façade, arms folded one over the other. “Bummers everywhere.”
*
One of the inevitable perils of the Real World: few accommodations for the broke hottie on the go!
Unfortunately, Ken® did not (as of yet) have his own Mojo Dojo Casa Home in the Real World, nor did he have the Moneys™ ™ required to purchase a hotel stay; there wasn’t even a large plastic bucket sitting somewhere on the outskirts of town for him to crawl into overnight. (Though the local dumpsters were a promising simulacrum.)
As it got later and later and the streets of Los Angeles began to shutter, his options for exploration became increasingly fewer.
Fortunately, he managed to find an establishment that appeared to be open quite late into the night — some kind of cheerful little nightclub by the name of the ‘OILED N’ READY STUD BAR.’ Very charming! Very chic! Very ooh-la-la!
Maybe they serve smoothies?
After a somewhat confusing altercation with the bouncer, Ken® was eventually invited inside to bask in the polychromatic glow of the nightclub’s lights. The Stud Bar, as the locals seemed to refer to it, was densely packed with revelers — mostly men, intriguingly enough.
Ken® drifted deeper inside. The lights bathed him in purple, in red, in hot, enduring pinks; the crowds were impenetrably groomed, dolled up in their most flamboyant fashions, hollering along to Dua Lipa with their arms up in the air. Just like home.
Ken® settled by the bar, observing the scene with a degree of anthropological interest. Although the zany outfits, oiled pectorals, and elaborate dances all struck him as familiar territory, there were truly alien sights to behold. For instance, there was a large, metal cage suspended over the dance floor. Inside, a leather-clad man with a truly impressive set of pectorals was writhing to the beat. Another thing: the bar at the back of the club didn’t seem to offer any of the usual smoothies Ken® was accustomed to. Instead, a bevy of mysterious, iridescent elixirs seemed to fly out from behind the counter, served in a truly dizzying variety of ornate glasses. Some of them even came with teensy little drink umbrellas.
As he jostled through the human ocean, Ken® felt a large, coarse hand grope his rear. He offered the perpetrator in question a cheerful thumbs-up. That had to be an affectionate greeting between dudes, right?
After a long, rather arduous day, Ken® felt his spirits lifting at long last. He was finally making friends!
With a burst of renewed confidence, Ken® strode up to a nearby table, where a group of five or so men were nursing their drinks.
“Hey there,” Ken® said, standing before them with his hands on his hips. He flashed a Malibu-ready smile at them, his pearly white teeth nearly iridescent beneath the hot, strobing dancepad lights. “I’m Ken®! I’m on a journey of self-discovery! Anyone else here learning to control their outbursts of directionless, impotent, misogynistic rage?”
A laugh went around the table. One of the men lifted his glass and said, “I’ll drink to that, sister.”
At the table, they shuffled over to give Ken® room to sit with them; Ken® nearly fell over himself in his eagerness to join their ranks. The brotherhood he’d been longing for! The secrets of masculinity! The balm for his weary soul! Could it be here at long last?
A hand braced his knee lightly, testing his nerve. “First time here, sweetheart?”
“Yeah!” Ken® grinned, elated. “It’s just so great in here, you guys — everyone is so sparkly and beautiful, and it smells absolutely insane.”
One of the men— a large, rugged type with a thick beard — let out a hoarse chuckle. “Like piss, sweat, and way too fucking much cologne?”
“Yes!”
Another hand stroked its way across his shoulders: “Babygirl, you’re too cute.”
“I love your boots.”
“God, you’re fucking fit.”
“Oh, I —” Ken® coloured, overwhelmed. He’d never heard such effusive, genuine praise in all his life — and he was technically over 60 years old, so, that was highkey saying something. “Yes! I am! Yes! Thank you! Thank you — oh, wow — the boots are vintage, actually. I mean, not to brag, but they’re archival.”
“Hey.” One of the men leaned over the counter, waggling his brows. In a light, conspiratorial whisper, he asked, “You wanna do a line?”
“I —” Ken® blinked, tilted his head. “A line?”
“Yeah, you know — ride the white pony?”
With his fingertips, the man mimed the clip-clop of a horse’s hooves, walking them up and down the table. Ken® boggled at this.
“THERE’S A PONY?”
“Paul, knock it off,” another one of the men said. Then, addressing Ken® with a vaguely paternalistic gravitas, he added, “You don’t have to.”
Ken® shook his head, emphatic, “I wanna do a line! Give me a line! Give me all the lines.”
Admittedly, he wasn’t entirely sure what kind of ‘line’ they were talking about — a fashion line, maybe? A fishing line? Men liked to fish, right? Either way, Ken® was determined not to be left out of what was surely a critical male bonding ritual. And if ponies were involved at any step of the process, all the better.
Just then, as his excitement was peaking, Ken® had a new thought. “But — just so you know,” he said, lowering his voice to match the other man’s whisper,“I don’t have any Moneys™ or Dollars™.”
A fresh peal of laughter went around the table.
“Okay, big mood,” one of the dudes said.
“Same.”
“Same.”
“Nate, you’re rich, shut the fuck up.”
“Don’t you worry about paying, angel,” Paul told Ken®, shaking his head gently. “It’s on me tonight.”
From his coat pocket, he withdrew a small knife, a petite white baggie, and one of these Dollars™ Ken® had been hearing so much about. Moving briskly and methodically, he went about performing some strange, exotic alchemy, separating a fine white powder into matchstick-sized lines, then cutting them down with the glistening, whetted edge of his blade. Now, Ken® had no fucking clue what was going on — but whatever it was, it certainly looked extremely cool.
A drink found its way into Ken's® hands; a new hand slid over his flank, caressing the expanse of his abdominals.
“So, is Ken short for Kendrick, or Kendall, or —?”
“I have no idea,” Ken® said, watching Paul work.
“What do you do for work, baby?”
“Beach.”
“Like — you’re a lifeguard, or..?”
“A common misconception! But no,” Ken® said. Then, when Paul gestured meaningfully down at his completed work, “Oh! Wow! Very cool! So, uh, do I just —?”
Paul chuckled, “Here, I’ll show you how.”
*
“Ken, huh,” Nate said, appraising Ken with a long, easy glance as Ken® went facedown in the blow. “You look just like the Ken doll I used to play with as a little kid.”
“I am the Ken doll you used to play with as a little kid,” Ken® said, blinking hard to disperse the starstuff from his vision. There was a weird, hot, crackling sensation burning its way through his nostrils — and through his brain. He felt dizzy and fizzy and bright, like cream soda. Like popping candy.
This was one hell of a pony.
A laugh around the table, smoldering softly and gamely, like the bud of a cigarette.
“Hey,” one man prompted, leaning across the table on his elbows. “What’s the first thing every little kid does with a doll?”
His buddy grinned, replied, “Take their clothes off.”
“Exactly. I remember peeling off my 90s Surfer Ken’s little shorts to get a look at what was beneath — and being weirdly disappointed when it was as smooth as could be.”
More laughter; a flame stoked, stroked, and coaxed, banking high into a blaze.
Paul braced a warm, coarse hand against Ken's® waist, “You smooth down there, babydoll?”
“Not today,” Ken® responded, his voice blurred, strange in his own ears.
This time, when the table laughed, Ken laughed with them. It was a laughter like woodsmoke — like fog — filling contours of the room with sweet, smothering heat. Paul pressed his body up against Ken’s, the strong, cloying scent of gin and tonic heavy on his breath.
“Is that so?” he asked.
“Today —” Ken® sucked in a breath, felt it whistle through the length of his body. “Today, I’m real.”
*
Every day’s the best day ever in Barbieland!™
Well, okay. Every day is almost the best day ever in Barbieland.™ They don't have gangbangs in Barbieland.™
The hotel lights were greasy, pale; the mattress braced beneath Ken’s spread knees was coarse and spare and cheaply fitted. The room was saturated with the telltale scent of sex, of sweat and semen and saliva, of fucklust sold and savored and spent. The air was filled with the telltale sounds of fucking — the slick, flush slap of skin on skin.
Ken had never heard such sweet music in all his life.
“That’s a nice tight hole,” one man purred against the shell of Ken’s® ear. “You’re a good little fuckdoll, aren’t you?”
“I’m — I’m the best little fuckdoll,” Ken® whined, pushing his hips back against the thick cock buried deep inside him. “I’m th’ best little fuckdoll in the whole entire world — mmph…”
He might’ve elaborated on that point — but one of the other men forcibly turned his head, smearing the hot, dripping head of his cock against Ken’s lips. So impatient. So demanding. And quite frankly? Very rude! Still, Ken® loved it. He felt positively aglow — he felt adored. All this attention! And it was all for him, and him alone.
Desperate to please, Ken lapped up the underside with his tongue, tracing his way up the shaft before finally widening his mouth to take the stranger’s in, to give him some good, sloppy up-and-down. He sucked cock like a fucking natural. Like a champ. He sucked deep and nasty like a career hooker.
(Maybe this handy little skill might turn his current pecuniary outlook around?)
Ken® moaned around the cock in his mouth, tilting his hips back against the one in his ass. There was a third cock in his left hand, hot and heavy; a fourth in his right, already oozing sweet, sticky pre. A fifth pushed up against his cheek, demanding his attention. So many cocks, so little time, right? Ken attempted to alternate between the two in his face — a lick here, a kiss there, a suckle, a loll of the tongue — desperate to keep up with the attempted blowbang. To be the perfect little blowjob queen.
A threaded its way into his hair, its grip viselike.
“What a nice little whore,” one man drawled.
His friend agreed with a low hum of satisfaction. “God, it’s like he was born to take cock.”
“I’m next in line when you’re done, alright?”
“Nasty little bimbo, fuck — he’s literally drooling all over your prick.”
“The way his cock bounces between his legs, it’s honestly adorable —”
“Shit, I think I’m gonna — fuck —”
Without so much as a warning, the cock in Ken’s® mouth began to spurt. Ken® reared back, gasping; thick, sticky ropes of cum pumped over his face, his tits, and his outstretched tongue, painting him white. The taste was musky, somewhat salty — not straightforwardly pleasant by most ordinary metrics — and yet, he found himself chasing it up with his tongue all the same.
“Awh, yeah, that’s it.” The hand in Ken’s® hair relaxed. “That’s right. Clean me up, babygirl.”
— But Ken® didn’t have much time to relish in the task before another cock was shoved up into his face, “Do me, angel.”
“Fuck that guy, suck me.”
“Don’t forget about me.”
"Hey, blondie," one of the men, broad and tall, draped himself over Ken's® naked back; he grinned the grin of a jackal. Of a coyote. Of a wolf. "How are you feelin'?"
Ken® closed his eyes, took stock of himself: the quivery, quicksilvery pleasure in his belly, the delicious, electric sensation of being stretched, the rightness of being filled, the slick, liquid glide of being fucked, the drip-drop-slop-slop of cum sliding down his cheeks, the gorgeous heaviness of cock on his tongue — and above all else, there was the bliss of it all. The elation. The sugar rush. He'd never felt anything like this, nothing even compared; it was a euphoria so scaldingly bright that it nearly verged on nausea.
His eyes fanned open; he leaned back, bracing himself against the pulsating point where their bodies were connected, and answered in a voice of dazed, syrupy rightness, "Like a man."