Damen was no stranger to women, and yet he couldn't be anything but. He could know each of them at any moment, be with them wherever they were and watch, cowardly, from a few feet away. He'd followed them home with their boyfriends, watched them fuck or fight, made rules and found exceptions, and for years, found his soul engorged with their bodies. He'd had every fetish in the world, could indulge each in turn, and did, from the dungeons to the high class whore who sucked toes like nipples, seen them in action and melted along with their suitors, before passing onto the next. There was, of course, just the small matter of never having touched a woman himself, and this became his last, deepest need, the one so impossible, the unachievable that everyone else seemed to have.
And Elise, naked, her skin pink from the hot water, breasts floating, put her arms out on the side of the tub and closed her eyes. Damen's hand hovered over the water and he mimed dipping in, pushing through the liquid and finding her firm flesh beyond. He held, and held, and, disgusted with himself, pulled away, walked out of Elise's bathroom, tiptoed down the stairs and slowly, quietly, opened and closed a door to the outside.
He hitched a ride to the city, in the back seat of a cheaper car with soft, quiet seats (nylon and fire-resistant cotton), driven by a twenty-two-year-old college student on spring break. She talked on her phone the whole way down and Damen cringed, finally blotted her out with a song he'd made up years before, hummed it in his head until the car stopped at a light in a promising neighborhood and he scampered out. He waited a few moments outside of an expensive club and saw a woman exit. Her pupils were wide and a little bewildered. Heat pounded over him and he followed her, right behind her, smelled her and tasted her when he opened his mouth. Up her back stairs, she climbed slowly and very deliberately, Damen following, then into her apartment, the smell of old, dirty dishes and an ill-tended cat. In her kitchen, he reached under her arm and cupped her breast. She started a little, asked who he was in a slurred and accented English, clutched at his arm, but couldn't see it.
"Relax," Damen said. "You're dreaming."
She swung around violently and looked for him. He ran his hands over her skin and she watched it bend for him.
"What the?" she said. "What's going on?"
"You're dreaming," he said again.
Her stoned eyes, crushed with the pressure of whatever it was she'd taken, ran as fast as they could around the room, and she gave up. He didn't think he would stop anyway. He reached between a woman's thighs for the first time and found heat and softness. She took her pants off, now taking in longer, shallower breaths and he fell to his knees in front of her, reached out and touched, dove into folds only to find more, slid around her wet flesh with his fingers, fascinated, impatient, then fascinated again. He leaned forward and pushed his face in close, his nose slipping into the wet and smelled her, a woman, up close for the first time. He was overpowered then, and helpless, his entire body drugged like hers. He took her arms and bent her, pressed her palms into the floor, kicked her knees down to the tiles (treated vinyl), lay across her back and pressed his cock deep, pulsing, tight in its skin within her.
"Who are you?" the woman said.
He didn't answer. He was thrusting deep, grunting, worried, peaked and then, before he could help it, he came, burst, wailing on her floor. He waited, his eyes boggled in his head, and stood up, walked out of the woman's door and watched, half expecting his hand to show on the doorknob (brass), as it was twisted in his palm. It didn't. He walked back to the main road and listened to people talking, trying to decide whose car would take him back to Elise, to his quiet corner, satelliting her alone.
Friday, March 28, 2008
Thursday, March 27, 2008
The Missing Sex Scene: The Invisible Man-Part One
This has nothing to do with the H. G. Wells novel, the Ralph Ellison novel, or any movies or anything else. I think of the Invisible Man as just a character that we all own, like the Boogeyman or the Sasquatch. Here, he's in love and lust. I'm going in short parts for this one. This is part one. Just love in this one, sadly. Part two tomorrow. Part three Saturday.
Damen followed Elise through her garage door to her house, snuck around behind her without touching anything but her ridiculously large purse and backed into an empty space between the floor lamp (bronze antique) and the couch (overstuffed ultrasuede). He didn't cast a shadow. Elise looked around before proceeding to a hook that she kept her keys on, checking herself in a mirror that didn't reflect his gaze. Elise always looked around like this. Damen figured she'd had a cat or cockroaches at one time or another. There was nothing now.
Damen didn't like to think of himself as invisible, though this was clearly what he was. He didn't want to think of himself as a ghost of something that once existed because he didn't believe in ghosts, and had been only like this for as long as he could remember. A pointless, Cartesian argument had made a home in his mind since he was younger, and he'd given up on it lately. He existed. That much he was sure of, though he, in his own words, looked exactly like nothing. It was easier to think like this, he looked like nothing, than to enter into that confusion again, try to figure out why, what he was good for, or if he was meant for anything, well, higher. There was only Elise now, this woman headed, as she headed every night, for a long bath, and his transparent heart, whose only proof of existence he had was that he could feel it with her, expanding into the transparent pressure of his transparent chest.
Elise put her purse down in the dining room, on one of her chairs (traditional wood) and walked, as she did each night, to the master bathroom up the stairs and two doors down. Her purse (quilted leather) was filled, Damen knew, with the usual things of a woman her age, the Blackberry and the bulging wallet and Wet Naps, but also a small plush rabbit, which had been soft at one time, but now had stringy fur and large, worn holes. He'd held it one night while she slept. This thing all substance and no soul. His negation.
The white noise of the running water crept down the stairs. She would close the door as she took the bath, though there was no one to keep out but him. He swung his weight around the banister and quietly, slowly, ascended the stairs. In his fantasies of her, of which Damen had so many, she always said, "Run to me!"
Damen followed Elise through her garage door to her house, snuck around behind her without touching anything but her ridiculously large purse and backed into an empty space between the floor lamp (bronze antique) and the couch (overstuffed ultrasuede). He didn't cast a shadow. Elise looked around before proceeding to a hook that she kept her keys on, checking herself in a mirror that didn't reflect his gaze. Elise always looked around like this. Damen figured she'd had a cat or cockroaches at one time or another. There was nothing now.
Damen didn't like to think of himself as invisible, though this was clearly what he was. He didn't want to think of himself as a ghost of something that once existed because he didn't believe in ghosts, and had been only like this for as long as he could remember. A pointless, Cartesian argument had made a home in his mind since he was younger, and he'd given up on it lately. He existed. That much he was sure of, though he, in his own words, looked exactly like nothing. It was easier to think like this, he looked like nothing, than to enter into that confusion again, try to figure out why, what he was good for, or if he was meant for anything, well, higher. There was only Elise now, this woman headed, as she headed every night, for a long bath, and his transparent heart, whose only proof of existence he had was that he could feel it with her, expanding into the transparent pressure of his transparent chest.
Elise put her purse down in the dining room, on one of her chairs (traditional wood) and walked, as she did each night, to the master bathroom up the stairs and two doors down. Her purse (quilted leather) was filled, Damen knew, with the usual things of a woman her age, the Blackberry and the bulging wallet and Wet Naps, but also a small plush rabbit, which had been soft at one time, but now had stringy fur and large, worn holes. He'd held it one night while she slept. This thing all substance and no soul. His negation.
The white noise of the running water crept down the stairs. She would close the door as she took the bath, though there was no one to keep out but him. He swung his weight around the banister and quietly, slowly, ascended the stairs. In his fantasies of her, of which Damen had so many, she always said, "Run to me!"
Sugasm: Matin', Fornicatin', Salivatin'
The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #125? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.
This Week’s Picks
In Which Penny Enjoys Her Bath
“In the bathroom, I flipped on the heater and shed my clothes.”
Just passing through
“I twitched under her stare.”
Kegal exercises on wet Monday afternoon
“Do you know what it’s like, to be buggered?”
Mr. Sugasm Himself
WP/PHP Guru?
Editor’s Choice
More Traveling…
See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.
(Sugasm participants should re-post all the links above within a week. The following links may be excluded as long as you include all the above links.)
Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
The Face - The Fall Of Eliot Spitzer
Let me clarify something…
On being a slut.
Regulating Prostitution and its various business models
Would You Pose Without Clothes?
Sex Humor
Lusty Leprechauns
BDSM & Fetish
Black Panties (a story)
Earning myself a spanking
A fun weekned
Goodness Gracious
HNT - Hidden Nipple Thursday
Riding the Wave
The Spiritual Significance of Spanking
Submissive?
Sex News, Reviews & Interviews
Blog Anniversary Contest Winners
Call for submissions: Theory and Practice
Dana DeArmond Stripped Of Her Name During Slave Training With Julie Night
Euphoric Tendencies - a review
Gianna Lynn Endures Water And Suffocation Bondage Underwater On Waterbondage.com
Get a Personal Shopper for Your Genitals
My First Review on Adult DVD Talk!
Pushers
San Francisco Fetish Ball 2008 Photos and Review
Erotic Writing and Experiences
A black shemale sucked my cock in Amsterdam
Captivating the college girl part one
Clandestine
Close Your Eyes
In His Pants
Leopard print: you just can’t beat it
Northern lights and sleepless nights
Wet Vagoo
You’re my pornstar (part 3)
Sex Advice
How Women Can Learn to Have an Orgasm with Intercourse
NSFW Pics, Videos & Audio
Dahlia Grey by Andrew Blake
Exotic Jewel
Half-Nekkid in the Shower
Her Intentions Fall to the Floor
How do you like my cock?
Pornsaint Kimberly Kane
Spring Garden
Sunday, March 16, 2008
In His Pants
Cameron was in Syd's room again, studying his posters and letting his fingers dip and swish in Syd's laundry. Two tickets to the Bloc Party show, stapled right into his lathe and plaster. Cam had watched him do it, still sweaty and hoarse from the show, and wiping his nose with his sleeve, Syd climbing his single bed and bouncing before he threw his weight on the stapler, legs apart, shins bulging through his jeans. They exhaled together when he threw himself off the wall and the bed in one push, and Cam, finding nothing to add and pulling his t-shirt down in the front begged off for the night. He hid in his room and listened to Syd on his laptop, straight porn as always, and tried as best he could to hear the swick swick noise. He never could, but imagined it as clear as if it were at his lips in the dark.
And Syd was at work, stocking shelves in a coop grocery store. He never told anyone that he eats Slim Jims all day. They'd never guess. He's got the body of a pure grass juice drinker. Cam felt his fingers catch on the elastic strip of a blue-grey pair of boxed briefs, and he told himself to stop, before he reminded himself that he wouldn't think that anymore. He felt the letters of the designer pass his fingerprints and pulled at them, plucked them out of the pile of laundry. They came to his nose in a loose bundle, and he smelled Syd's cock for the first time. What was left of it, anyway, resonating in this shell that once touched him.
Cam was painfully erect, swollen and frustrated in the middle of the room, though he was unencumbered by clothes, his skin seemed to press into him oppressively. He dropped the underwear from his nose to his cock and rubbed the material against it. His face flushed with fantasy and friction, the soft cotton across his skin, the force of his hand behind it. As if Syd were there, dry humping him, struggling for his own satisfaction in his own cage.
Cam switched underwear to bare hand on his cock, back and forth, the underpants too subtle, his cock too familiar, his body riding the sensations like a skier on moguls. He almost dropped them several times, his other hand going limp in the concentrated ecstasy, then had to break out of it to grip. He finally dropped one end to his knees and stepped into them, pulled them up. He was embraced at last, surrounded by Syd, tight and affectionate. Cam's hand, shaking more, entered the underwear and stroked slowly. His other hand wandered the stretch of cotton, pulling at the leg to feel the tightness across his balls, at the waistband to pinch the tip of his cock.
"Syd," he said, "fuck you. Fuck you, Syd."
He held some of the material across the edges of his fingers and began to stroke faster, his knees apart, faster, faster. Syd. Do it. His other hand leaned back and found the edge of Syd's desk, the laptop shut on top of it. He almost knocked over his bottle of lube. He rolled it into his hand and clutched tight. He thought of Syd there, the swick swick sound, imagined his lips. The whole room smelled of sex, then. Cam twisted the cotton around the tip of his cock and came into the wad, into his roommate's underwear, and they were his and him, belonged to Cam. When Syd wore them in the future, Cam would be in them, with him.
And Syd was at work, stocking shelves in a coop grocery store. He never told anyone that he eats Slim Jims all day. They'd never guess. He's got the body of a pure grass juice drinker. Cam felt his fingers catch on the elastic strip of a blue-grey pair of boxed briefs, and he told himself to stop, before he reminded himself that he wouldn't think that anymore. He felt the letters of the designer pass his fingerprints and pulled at them, plucked them out of the pile of laundry. They came to his nose in a loose bundle, and he smelled Syd's cock for the first time. What was left of it, anyway, resonating in this shell that once touched him.
Cam was painfully erect, swollen and frustrated in the middle of the room, though he was unencumbered by clothes, his skin seemed to press into him oppressively. He dropped the underwear from his nose to his cock and rubbed the material against it. His face flushed with fantasy and friction, the soft cotton across his skin, the force of his hand behind it. As if Syd were there, dry humping him, struggling for his own satisfaction in his own cage.
Cam switched underwear to bare hand on his cock, back and forth, the underpants too subtle, his cock too familiar, his body riding the sensations like a skier on moguls. He almost dropped them several times, his other hand going limp in the concentrated ecstasy, then had to break out of it to grip. He finally dropped one end to his knees and stepped into them, pulled them up. He was embraced at last, surrounded by Syd, tight and affectionate. Cam's hand, shaking more, entered the underwear and stroked slowly. His other hand wandered the stretch of cotton, pulling at the leg to feel the tightness across his balls, at the waistband to pinch the tip of his cock.
"Syd," he said, "fuck you. Fuck you, Syd."
He held some of the material across the edges of his fingers and began to stroke faster, his knees apart, faster, faster. Syd. Do it. His other hand leaned back and found the edge of Syd's desk, the laptop shut on top of it. He almost knocked over his bottle of lube. He rolled it into his hand and clutched tight. He thought of Syd there, the swick swick sound, imagined his lips. The whole room smelled of sex, then. Cam twisted the cotton around the tip of his cock and came into the wad, into his roommate's underwear, and they were his and him, belonged to Cam. When Syd wore them in the future, Cam would be in them, with him.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Sugasm-Providing that Twang in Your Naughties
So I'm at work and I shouldn't, but I go on over to the Sugasm because I've got to and there I am right there on the top line and I go "Creak!" and I don't explain it to anyone but I just kind of grin a lot and think, "Hey, you all think I'm just some boring cubicle dweller, but I'm really a pervert and I've got the link to prove it!" And I think things like, the certified pervert now reaches for a pen, and, the certified pervert now staples documents together, and, you see, even though she's a pervert, she can also name folders really boring things with only single entendres all day, but she really is a pervert, as proven by this here link.
Thank you, fellow perverts. May we win over the world together.
Thank you, fellow perverts. May we win over the world together.
The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #123? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.
This Week’s Picks
Sex and love; anger and appeasement
“And in some way, the love I had for him will never be extinguished entirely.”
The Tetrised Luggage
“Our thighs are touching and I can feel him inch forward in his seat.”
You never know who we are
“People tend to have an idea of who can/does talk about sex.”
Mr. Sugasm Himself (one from the vaults)
The Media vs. Pornography
Editor’s Choice
Red Assed Mouthsoaping for His Lies
See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.
(Sugasm participants should re-post all the links above within a week. The following links may be excluded as long as you include all the above links.)
BDSM & Fetish
The Best $1.50 I Ever Spent
A Big Hole in Her Crotch
If only he was naughty more often…
“Is it Any Wonder?”
More Cock Worship
Pavlovian Training of a Submissive Phone Sex Slut
Sex News, Reviews & Interviews
Blog Anniversary Contest
Braces and Medical Fetish Movies From Beauty And Braces
Getting to the Bottom of DickHats.com
Plastic Bag Suffocation And Forced Orgasms On Hogtied
Shot at Home’s 100% Authentic, Homemade, Amateur Video
Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
Audacia Ray Returns!
Defending the sex-positve element of Feminist Carnival #53
Nora Roberts Doesn’t Write Porn!
Robot Love
Some thoughts as I navigate through the waters of non-monogamy
Sperm Donor
Sex Work
Thoughts On Dominating; My Dos & Don’ts
Erotic Writing and Experiences
Amber’s Wedding Day Confession (Continued)
The best leopard print lingerie ever
Found Out
Fucking girlfriend’s brother
HNT - Caught pt 2
‘Ho, me?
Hot Screeching Excerpt - Things That Go Hump In The Night
How to perfectly ruin your panties
Masturbatory Thoughts
Mental Infidelities - The Voyeur
My New York Indiscretion: Part Two
Night Swimming
The Week In Sex: Wednesday Night
You Shouldn’t Rub The Lamp…
NSFW Pics, Videos & Audio
Apple HNT
Catalina loves Rollo
Erotic Photoshoot
Faye Valentine in tight blue sweater
The first blowjob porn film I ever made
Hottie Jordan
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
The Tetrised Luggage
The ground is all little atoms of lights in vast voids. Traveling at five hundred miles an hour, you would think they would shoot past as if we were on the ground. But they don't. You just see more of them up here, sliding past like the minute hand on a clock. I can feel the spark between him and me. It doesn't pass anymore than the towns do, but seems to gather in the space between us, in the sticky skin touching on the armrest.
My tray table is open, a book open on top of it. The first paragraph is something about seventeenth century slang. I've read it three times, but find that my eyes only slip over the words. I'm thinking about him, what I'd say if he said something.
A note folded in thirds lands on the book. "What are you wearing under those clothes?"
Our flight was delayed. We sat in a bar of a town we'd never been to, and now still wouldn't be able to say we had. The conversation turned quickly, and we ignored our blushes, becoming each other's anthropology projects and confessors.
"It's been forever. My last girlfriend held out on me and I've just been too depressed to get back in there."
"How long?" I asked him.
"Two years."
He laughed and so did I, but it was forced. I was supposed to buck him up, tell him it's only a matter of time, that he was good-looking enough. Should be fighting them off.
"How many times do you jerk off a day?"
"Three. I'll blow a hole through my next condom, I know it."
I smile at the note, begin to look for a pen, but just as I lean forward, one drops into the fold of the book. I write, "The usual. Skin, tits and naughty triangle. You?"
"What about you?" he continued, stirring his drink. Every seat in the bar was filled, the spaces between them with tall, black suitcases all Tetrised together.
"It's um...," it had been a year, "a few months, I guess."
He looked me over, a quick size-up in a slow blink, his straw folded over the lip of his glass. He held his breath for just a second and inhaled before looking away.
"I'm thinking about you," the note reads. "It shows."
My blush is overwhelming and beams from my forehead to my neck, pure boil. No matter what I write back, he knows. He takes the note back before I can respond, writes more and replaces it on my book. "Can I touch you?"
The whine of the plane measures a few seconds, the towns replacing one another underneath us. I can hear myself breathe, feel the air nozzle above my face flit my bangs against my face. I pick up the pen and begin to write. I only get to the Y before his knuckles are brushing the inside of my knee. I don't flinch, but inside, my body jolts. Heat pours up my skin, mixing with the blush on my face.
Our thighs are touching and I can feel him inch forward in his seat. I lean forward to check the seats opposite. One empty, two asleep. His lips flip and pinch my earlobe. My heart thuds against my breastbone. I want to feel him, the reason he had to inch forward in his seat. I check again across the aisle and move his hand up. I hear him now, a bang of an exhale. And my body, sensing the force of someone's else's hand, blacks out the periphery and hooks itself onto him.
I shut the lights off over us and look for a moment out of the window. The moon, in the shape of a spinach pie, is blinding and quiet. Our lights flash back at it, like the wing is frantically waving hello. His fingers press into me. I reach across and lay my palm on his abdomen. He reaches up and lowers his tray, then raises the armrest between us. I follow down under the plastic board and find him, a frustrated, caged erection in a tight pair of jeans. I pick apart the button between my ring finger and pinkie and unzip him against the flat of my hand, the zipper teeth pointed into my skin. He jolts and scoots up more.
My body falls into its tense concentration, his hand going above my skirt before it falls again under the material. Its fingers slip and lose themselves in me. I think I must be imagining that he's there. But he must be. I'm shaking.
My hand wraps around his cock and straightens him out so that it rests against the bottom of his tray. He's breathing quickly through his nose, alternately shallow and deep. I look at his face for a moment and find him open-mouthed, watching my chest pump. His fingers snake against me, twist and flutter. My toes bend in my socks, crush into the legs of the seat in front of me.
We work each other for a few minutes, our bodies flying along with the plane, the force of gravity against our weights changing here and there, the blood confused and shifting. My neck bends and grinds into my seatback. My mouth opens and I force back everything but a single gasping inhale. Time stops for a while, unmeasured by towns or clocks or the hiss of the airplane.
His arm pulls around my neck and when he comes, he only says, "I miss you," and pumps shots against the bottom of the tray. In my ecstasy, the continuing high of the orgasm, I know immediately what he means.
"I miss you too."
We sleep, a man and a woman alone in the crowded plane, our heads bent into each other, our hands across our empty laps.
My tray table is open, a book open on top of it. The first paragraph is something about seventeenth century slang. I've read it three times, but find that my eyes only slip over the words. I'm thinking about him, what I'd say if he said something.
A note folded in thirds lands on the book. "What are you wearing under those clothes?"
Our flight was delayed. We sat in a bar of a town we'd never been to, and now still wouldn't be able to say we had. The conversation turned quickly, and we ignored our blushes, becoming each other's anthropology projects and confessors.
"It's been forever. My last girlfriend held out on me and I've just been too depressed to get back in there."
"How long?" I asked him.
"Two years."
He laughed and so did I, but it was forced. I was supposed to buck him up, tell him it's only a matter of time, that he was good-looking enough. Should be fighting them off.
"How many times do you jerk off a day?"
"Three. I'll blow a hole through my next condom, I know it."
I smile at the note, begin to look for a pen, but just as I lean forward, one drops into the fold of the book. I write, "The usual. Skin, tits and naughty triangle. You?"
"What about you?" he continued, stirring his drink. Every seat in the bar was filled, the spaces between them with tall, black suitcases all Tetrised together.
"It's um...," it had been a year, "a few months, I guess."
He looked me over, a quick size-up in a slow blink, his straw folded over the lip of his glass. He held his breath for just a second and inhaled before looking away.
"I'm thinking about you," the note reads. "It shows."
My blush is overwhelming and beams from my forehead to my neck, pure boil. No matter what I write back, he knows. He takes the note back before I can respond, writes more and replaces it on my book. "Can I touch you?"
The whine of the plane measures a few seconds, the towns replacing one another underneath us. I can hear myself breathe, feel the air nozzle above my face flit my bangs against my face. I pick up the pen and begin to write. I only get to the Y before his knuckles are brushing the inside of my knee. I don't flinch, but inside, my body jolts. Heat pours up my skin, mixing with the blush on my face.
Our thighs are touching and I can feel him inch forward in his seat. I lean forward to check the seats opposite. One empty, two asleep. His lips flip and pinch my earlobe. My heart thuds against my breastbone. I want to feel him, the reason he had to inch forward in his seat. I check again across the aisle and move his hand up. I hear him now, a bang of an exhale. And my body, sensing the force of someone's else's hand, blacks out the periphery and hooks itself onto him.
I shut the lights off over us and look for a moment out of the window. The moon, in the shape of a spinach pie, is blinding and quiet. Our lights flash back at it, like the wing is frantically waving hello. His fingers press into me. I reach across and lay my palm on his abdomen. He reaches up and lowers his tray, then raises the armrest between us. I follow down under the plastic board and find him, a frustrated, caged erection in a tight pair of jeans. I pick apart the button between my ring finger and pinkie and unzip him against the flat of my hand, the zipper teeth pointed into my skin. He jolts and scoots up more.
My body falls into its tense concentration, his hand going above my skirt before it falls again under the material. Its fingers slip and lose themselves in me. I think I must be imagining that he's there. But he must be. I'm shaking.
My hand wraps around his cock and straightens him out so that it rests against the bottom of his tray. He's breathing quickly through his nose, alternately shallow and deep. I look at his face for a moment and find him open-mouthed, watching my chest pump. His fingers snake against me, twist and flutter. My toes bend in my socks, crush into the legs of the seat in front of me.
We work each other for a few minutes, our bodies flying along with the plane, the force of gravity against our weights changing here and there, the blood confused and shifting. My neck bends and grinds into my seatback. My mouth opens and I force back everything but a single gasping inhale. Time stops for a while, unmeasured by towns or clocks or the hiss of the airplane.
His arm pulls around my neck and when he comes, he only says, "I miss you," and pumps shots against the bottom of the tray. In my ecstasy, the continuing high of the orgasm, I know immediately what he means.
"I miss you too."
We sleep, a man and a woman alone in the crowded plane, our heads bent into each other, our hands across our empty laps.
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