I can feel Austin from the other side of Owen, as if he's got some crazy knot attached to my chest and Owen is capstanned between us, a spinning, accommodating bisexual cog, cock in the wheel. Austin feels like those mornings when your heart is being squeezed high in under your breastbone and you're not sure whether it's good or bad yet, not awake enough yet, or maybe you haven't made up your mind. Austin takes Owen's hand to my breast and it's unsteady, unsure, and I'm not sure which one of them is making it so. My body is expanding and contracting, the whole thing, under the gravity of the hand, and when it touches, the circuit between the three of us closes and it's a shock, but still, an undecided one.
Neither Owen nor Austin has said a word and I'm just talking to keep up a stream of background noise, or maybe I'm just drunk. Owen is waiting for me to kiss him, because, as the girl, it is my responsibility to do so. Austin leaves Owen's hand for a moment and picks up his drink. The ice is still big and solid inside of it and makes for a rocky noise rather than a tinkle. It's sweating all the same, the translucent fog on the glass forming drips under his fingertips and falling, leaving a trail of clear behind that bends as he lifts it. I take the glass from him before he puts it down and hold it to Owen's lips. He takes a sip, Austin's drips and mine sliding to the end of the glass, rolling as I hold it and diving onto his shirt. I've got the angle wrong and some of the drink slips from the edge of the glass and out over the side of Owen's mouth. I lean forward without moving the glass and drink some too, before lowering it, feeling for the edge of the table with my thumb and pushing it away. I leave my mouth there and swallow the last of my sip, a great gulp that was waiting, dammed, on Owen's face. I cover it with my mouth and suckle it off of him. He freezes while I do this. It's only when my bottom lip slips between his that I feel his shoulders relax, the heel of his hand press into my nipple, feel his exhales on the side of my nose.
Owen's body is warm and dry and feels different, the way people always do when you touch them the first time, a different distribution of weight and skin and heat. Austin, whose body I could identify in a dark lineup at the bottom of the Arctic, starts to breathe in the way I understand, and yet he's different too, as if he's had a haircut or shaved his beard or I haven't seen him in years. He's different with this capstan between us, a cute boy on my couch with the reflection of a desk lamp twisting in his eye. He's got his arms around Owen as if he's behind him on a motorcycle. He turns and accommodates him, shifts his weight around on the couch, then loosens, falls back and watches for awhile, the tips of three fingers into the center of the balance of Owen's back.
My shirt is curled in the grip of one of their fists and is pulled up, my breasts bouncing and the nipples cresting in the sudden cold. They leave the shirt in my armpits and Owen leans in again, the wool of his sweater catching and tickling my skin. Coldish and dry, as it always is with a new person, not the sweater that Austin has ever worn. Austin reaches around Owen's body and Owen makes room for it, arches back a little. Austin presses into my left breast above the nipple and curves it up to Owen's mouth. Owen's lips curl open and leave my mouth. He backs up enough for me to focus on him, see his face change at the offering before he looks up at my face again. He sits up more now, backing up a little and bending down, holding my eyes to him as long as he can as if he's bowing, and, his nose nudging Austin's thumb, presses lips to my nipple, containing the circuit again.
I'm aware that I'm frowning, that the worried frown of sex is on my face as I watch Owen, and Austin looks at me with the same worry, an exchange of looks as primal as one of smiles and yawns. Austin releases his thumb and rides down Owen's front, flips under the sweater and makes work of Owen's belt. He pulls it open and turns his hand to unlatch it, I can feel it on my stomach, and leaves the cold metal of the buckle against my belly. He's taking his time, counting on Owen's distraction to feel his entire body, commit it to muscle memory and smell. He slides Owen's jeans down and presses his cheek to his exposed ass. in the dimple at the side, the concave to Austin's convex.
Sweetness and comfort bubble into my panties, the slip of the lips apparent when my thighs twist to stay at Owen's mouth. I reach down my own front and twist the waist down, under my ass, over one knee and out of one leg. Owen wears a large, flat ring. I turn his hand down to me and rub it against me. My legs shake and the pants slide down more until they fall at my ankle, an unrecognizable lump at my heel, and then kicked out. I hadn't meant to kick them. I just had to kick. My eyes close and my mouth opens, with twitches in the corners. Austin sees this as an invitation and stands, drops his pants and socks his cock in his hand, turns my face and rubs my teeth with it. I taste it when my lips roll down, salty and smooth Austin, even here, even now, just slightly different with Owen in the room.
Austin teases my mouth, makes me leap for him, suck him down past the barrier of my teeth and lose him again. I feel his jolts and know he's cranking himself up, the tight and loose of his skin above the bulge and throttle of the meat of it. An inhale blurts in the back of my throat and I stop Owen's ring, wait for my body to settle, blink under it, saved and restoring my threshold. Austin's fingers go into my hair, tight toward the scalp and he holds my head in place. He presses index and forefinger over my bottom teeth and slides his cock in over them like rails, They too are dry and a little salty. I rest my tongue on them and press up in between, skate across his large vein. His vowels go from As to Os and he fucks only for as long as he can, practicing this tough-love brinksmanship with my tongue and cheeks.
I feel the strange arrangement of Owen's back against my ankle and against the couch. He's been watching, stroking the tip of his cock against the shin of my other leg across his lap. Austin bends over his lips and sucks in the bottom one, slips it out and sucks it lightly in again. My pussy is split, open, dripping, in the air between my thighs, locked into Owen's torso for friction. Owen's got the kind of eyes that turn down on the ends when he smiles or pants. They turn down now, his mouth agape and steaming the space in front of it. Austin pulls my right leg off of Owen's lap and pulls it, his hand cradling the thigh, to the side and down. My pussy now holds wide in front of them, steaming the air surely, like Owen's mouth. Austin removes both of Owen's arms from his front and presses them into the back of the couch. I take the one by me and hold it. Austin drops to his knees, his cock bouncing and turns his head, swallows the entire length of Owen in one swoop, the sword in the sheath. Owen trembles and catches it, holds and savors. Austin waits a beat and begins to bob.
I've never seen Austin do this, though he's confessed to having done it in the past. It's been one of those things that even as I need to think about it, my fingers trapping my clit and slipping their rails across it under the sheets, I haven't been able to. Watching it now, my boyfriend's head impaled on this man, the skin see-sawing between his lips, I can't think about anything else. If I tried to speak now, it would be like reading a word jumble phonetically. Austin too leaves his strokes to mere suggestions on himself, squeezing in between to keep himself blocked. Owen's head lolls on the couch. His lips move as if he's talking, but he's not, at least not to us. If he believes in God, I believe he's talking to Him. I steal Owen's hand from off of the back of the couch and carefully maneuver it to my pussy. I roll it, fold it and push it inside, up to his thumb. My clit stretches across the top like the bow in the twine holding the whole thing together. With caution, I touch it with my thumb.
Owen's beginning to thrust up, just little tenses in his thighs and ass at Austin's downstroke. Austin holds onto it and rides him like an Englishman rides a horse, matches it and dances along. I'm on my own rocks, trembling like I'm rolling in gravel. Owen's stomach tenses and his head straightens on his neck, puffing, puffing, puffing. I stand up and straddle his face, losing his hand for only a moment. His tongue curls out just in time and I claw at the wall behind the couch, coming, losing my footing, regaining it, coming hard and groaning against his face. I feel Austin pull at me again, open Owen up, his arms wrapping around my knees and ripping them into the crooks of his arms. Austin, I feel in vibrations on my buzzing, hypersensitive clit, light, then a pfft, then a higher hum, Austin.
Austin's hand comes up and hooks his thumb inside of my pussy, curls his fingers into the front of my pelvis and pulls me down until my face is even with Owen's. Owen kisses me absently, my funk on his lips. Austin's cock breaks in and he fucks the space in the kiss, fucks the burn and the electricity between them, holding our heads together. The pull becomes enormous and he stops, then slides slowly, little centimeters back and forth at a time until the taste and the slip-squish texture of his come fills our mouths, coats our teeth and settles under our tongues. Owen falls onto me like this exhausted and sweaty now, not dry, Austin behind him, seated, but slumped sideways onto Owen's back. And neither of them seem different anymore. They are familiar now and warm.
Showing posts with label female point of view. Show all posts
Showing posts with label female point of view. Show all posts
Friday, April 11, 2008
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.
Saturday, February 9, 2008
Angel and Cicely
It's possible that you've noticed that I'm not writing as much. I've got a lot of excuses, but the main one is that I'm pregnant. This site and all of you have been on my mind just as much, if not more. I'm very excited to be pregnant, but some of you will know what all of this stuff does to your head. The details are pretty revolting, and I'll leave them off the keyboard. I've considered taking a break, but in the end, I just don't want to. Please be patient with me, and I'll be back to full speed as soon as I can.
For those who are curious, I'm due in late May or early June. Love from me and my big belly. Now, onto the smut.
The bristles of the brush fan and curve, spreading Coca-Cola red across Angel's toenail. Her arm stretches lengthwise against the skin of her thigh, her knee up in her chin. She's glad she lives alone, finally, her father married off to a sweet enough legal secretary down in Connecticut. Her apartment is small, just one large main room, one large closet, a tiny bathroom and a kitchen against one wall. To her left, about two blocks away, snow is falling into the tracks that she and Cicely had made, her pink rubber boots slipping chevrons into the white. Angel smiles and finishes her big toe. Her hand is shaking a little, but she keeps the brush steady with her forearm pressed against her shin.
When Angel closes her eyes, she sees Cicely every time, her black hair in a spiky but poised boy-haircut, her chin like a weight in a wide sling, her eyes bending over her lips, dark blue with a darker blue ring at the edges of the iris. Cicely smiles at her when Angel closes her eyes, her face just above hers, pressing her hand down on the frisbee in the snow. She smells the ice now, wet but dry. Angel had fallen, her sneakers soaked through and slippery. Cicely had grabbed her arm to stop her, but fell too, tripped on Angel's legs on the way down, and landed between them.
Angel had one thought when Cicely fell between her thighs, a tongue she must have in there, and what she'd done with it with girls.
Angel blushes and pecks a few more brushes against her little toes, aware, faintly, of a swelling between her legs, more aware of the ATM receipt on the coffee table on her left, the phone number on it, and her cell phone next to that. It's very early in the morning. She's not supposed to call Cicely for hours, to awkwardly make some sort of date with her, or try to figure out if it is one. She's pacing herself with her toes. They take time, their busy work distracting enough to keep her from scooping up the phone, punching the tiny keys with her left thumb and asking Cicely if she wants to come over for breakfast. Angel's heart pumps at the thought of Cicely in here, her physical body sitting on the sofa at Angel's back, while Angel licks this nail polish onto her toes, her naked pussy out here in the air and light.
Shh, she thinks, and moves onto the other foot.
Cicely lies awake in her three-bedroom apartment half a mile down the road. She's been dissecting everything that Angel said to her the day before, trying to remember what was promised, how the phone numbers were exchanged and what the reason was. Her roommate, Vince, snores soothingly from his room, her other roommate, Jacob, already on the phone with his girlfriend. She can hear him talk in vibrations in the walls, so close to real words, but without consonants, like the adults in Peanuts cartoons. Cicely's hand lays between her thighs absently, a comforting press in every once in a while, Angel's face under her in the snow, pink lips and blonde hair against the white. She's never liked blondes before, thinks of them cliché and stupid. She makes the executive decision not to change her mind on this just yet. Angel will chicken out, she knows it, the minute Cicely puts her hand on her cheek. Why is it always up to her to make the first move? Her mind drifts for a moment to the social politics of straight girls, before she fishes it out of that green pond and puts her eyes back on the prize, imagines Angel's breasts cupped in her hands, warm and light and sensitive.
God, it's early. Cicely stares at her cell phone and imagines what it's like when it rings, so she can prepare herself for it. The phone seems to swell in anticipation of it, the rounded plastic like a fresh bar of soap, ready to clatter on her dresser, if cell phones would only do that, unexpectedly loud.
Cicely decides to get breakfast. She needs to be out on the street, in the real world, where the phone is simply the thing that her mom calls. She throws a sweater over her shoulders, no need to wear a bra, then dark blue jeans and her boots.
The slush is frozen, the thick, flattened ice sheets much easier to walk on this morning. Angel can keep her head up, imagine Cicely's fingers on the nape of her neck, basic contact. Her hair stands up as if it's happening.
The diner looks bright against the grey sky and streets, as if it's nighttime. Inside, the waitress seats her next to a table with a girl with spiky boy-hair. The girl turns. Angel drops her newspaper and picks it right back up again. She sits down across from Cicely and they stare at each other, their fingers fondling the silverware.
"Did you order?" Angel asks finally.
"No."
"Let's go."
Angel leaves a couple of dollars on the table, looking at Angel the whole time, and they escape together, out into the snow and the sidewalk, parking meters and cars coated with white. When they're out of the sightlines of the diner windows, Angel presses Cicely into a lamp post, turns her head and kisses her. Cicely's lips are soft, without the sharp points of a man's stubble or the aggression behind them. Cicely's hand touches Angel's neck, not to grab her or manipulate her, but just to feel the instant high of her skin on her fingertips, the fine blonde hair between them. Angel wants to tell her about thinking about her this morning, about sitting on her dusty floor naked, about her failed relationships, her first period, her love of office supplies, her father and his new wife, but she simply opens her lips and presses them into Cicely, and swells inside, all this information passing just now between them in this energy, and the sweat on their upper lips.
"You want this?" Cicely says. Angel says she does and almost claps her hand over her mouth afterward. She's been feeling that swollen spread in her jeans, the seams of her underwear at once becoming oppressive and meaningless. She sees a ponytailed woman with two kids approaching on the sidewalk and pulls her hands away. Cicely looks hurt, sliding into pissed off, and Angel says, "Come home with me."
Cicely kisses her again anyway, though she noticed the woman and the children too. She toys with each of Angel's lips individually and sighs. A girl sigh. Angel notices the difference. Her underwear passes from oppressive to an offense. She pulls Angel's waist around a building, presses her into the lacquered brick and wraps herself around her. Cicely sighs some more, little gasps and coos. Angel's mind turns to hands and buttons, the satin of Cicely's skin, the mystery of her panties. Her eyes have been closed, so she hasn't noticed that Cicely has stopped and has been looking at her face, and cupping her cheek, wondering that she hasn't run away.
Cicely takes Angel's left wrist in her hand and kisses the inside of it, the heat of the blood below the skin, and puts it under her sweater, both of them blushing. Angel's hand touches thumb to nipple first, and flinches, but exhales her last giggle. She presses her forearm flat inside so that she can be closer and presses in. She holds her breast between thumb and forefinger and weighs it. This is it, she thinks, this is what all those boys have wanted.
"Come home with me," Angel says again, this time less of a beg and more of a mantra.
"Yes," Cicely says.
Angel's hand slides to Cicely's upper thigh and pulls her as she turns back to the sidewalk. It's awkward and Cicely slips away. Angel regains once more and again and finally picks her up behind her, throws her on her back and carries her laughing toward her apartment. Cicely's lips bury themselves in Angel's neck. It's only half a block anyway.
In Angel's apartment, her keys missing their hook, Cicely steps shyly into the messy living room. Angel takes a moment in the hallway and looks at her, imagines what she'd only really begun to imagine the day before, what Cicely's thighs looks like, how they'd feel shaking against the sides of her head. She approaches her and holds her hand out to her back, close, but not touching. She doesn't know what to do, but won't admit it. She mimics Cicely's curves with her hand and finally settles on the edge of her sweater, falling over her sides. She takes both ends and lifts, Cicely just lifting her arms, letting her do it. Her back is stunning, a French curve from shoulders to ass. A crevice in the middle, for what? Angel runs her hands along it, turning them as she goes, the fingertips at the point of the shoulderblade, the heel of her hand over the dip beyond them, the back of her hands nestling at the crook.
Cicely bends slightly to take off her jeans. She slides them down, steps out of them and returns to a full stand. Now there is everything before Angel, the curve of the back completed by the suspension of her ass, the fat at the inside of her thighs, the line from the back of the thigh to the back of the knee. Angel wraps her arms around her, this breathing living sculpture in her tiny apartment. Snow starts to fall outside, fat, cottonball flakes that take forever to fall.
"I'm glad I'm here," Cicely says.
Angel's right hand drops down Cicely's skin and slips into her pussy. Cicely gasps, but doesn't flinch. Cicely is wet, and this flatters Angel to pieces. Her other hand takes her breast. She simply holds it. Cicely smells like warm bread and butter. Angel rubs, her fingertips wrinkling in the moisture. Cicely simply shivers and bucks, her ass bending into Angel's front.
Angel is bowled over by the power, the sensual suffering and peace she is causing. She has lost herself completely in the mix, become Cicely, and breaks and shivers with her, the way she tears up watching others cry. The snowfall hypnotizes her too, brings her deeper, pulls her away. When Cicely comes, her stomach muscles and legs convulsing, Angel moans with her too, and holds until she's sure that she, Angel, is done.
"Stay," she says to Cicely, almost biting into her shoulder. Cicely nods and walks over to the window, looks out into the snow and the wind, smiles and throws it open.
For those who are curious, I'm due in late May or early June. Love from me and my big belly. Now, onto the smut.
The bristles of the brush fan and curve, spreading Coca-Cola red across Angel's toenail. Her arm stretches lengthwise against the skin of her thigh, her knee up in her chin. She's glad she lives alone, finally, her father married off to a sweet enough legal secretary down in Connecticut. Her apartment is small, just one large main room, one large closet, a tiny bathroom and a kitchen against one wall. To her left, about two blocks away, snow is falling into the tracks that she and Cicely had made, her pink rubber boots slipping chevrons into the white. Angel smiles and finishes her big toe. Her hand is shaking a little, but she keeps the brush steady with her forearm pressed against her shin.
When Angel closes her eyes, she sees Cicely every time, her black hair in a spiky but poised boy-haircut, her chin like a weight in a wide sling, her eyes bending over her lips, dark blue with a darker blue ring at the edges of the iris. Cicely smiles at her when Angel closes her eyes, her face just above hers, pressing her hand down on the frisbee in the snow. She smells the ice now, wet but dry. Angel had fallen, her sneakers soaked through and slippery. Cicely had grabbed her arm to stop her, but fell too, tripped on Angel's legs on the way down, and landed between them.
Angel had one thought when Cicely fell between her thighs, a tongue she must have in there, and what she'd done with it with girls.
Angel blushes and pecks a few more brushes against her little toes, aware, faintly, of a swelling between her legs, more aware of the ATM receipt on the coffee table on her left, the phone number on it, and her cell phone next to that. It's very early in the morning. She's not supposed to call Cicely for hours, to awkwardly make some sort of date with her, or try to figure out if it is one. She's pacing herself with her toes. They take time, their busy work distracting enough to keep her from scooping up the phone, punching the tiny keys with her left thumb and asking Cicely if she wants to come over for breakfast. Angel's heart pumps at the thought of Cicely in here, her physical body sitting on the sofa at Angel's back, while Angel licks this nail polish onto her toes, her naked pussy out here in the air and light.
Shh, she thinks, and moves onto the other foot.
Cicely lies awake in her three-bedroom apartment half a mile down the road. She's been dissecting everything that Angel said to her the day before, trying to remember what was promised, how the phone numbers were exchanged and what the reason was. Her roommate, Vince, snores soothingly from his room, her other roommate, Jacob, already on the phone with his girlfriend. She can hear him talk in vibrations in the walls, so close to real words, but without consonants, like the adults in Peanuts cartoons. Cicely's hand lays between her thighs absently, a comforting press in every once in a while, Angel's face under her in the snow, pink lips and blonde hair against the white. She's never liked blondes before, thinks of them cliché and stupid. She makes the executive decision not to change her mind on this just yet. Angel will chicken out, she knows it, the minute Cicely puts her hand on her cheek. Why is it always up to her to make the first move? Her mind drifts for a moment to the social politics of straight girls, before she fishes it out of that green pond and puts her eyes back on the prize, imagines Angel's breasts cupped in her hands, warm and light and sensitive.
God, it's early. Cicely stares at her cell phone and imagines what it's like when it rings, so she can prepare herself for it. The phone seems to swell in anticipation of it, the rounded plastic like a fresh bar of soap, ready to clatter on her dresser, if cell phones would only do that, unexpectedly loud.
Cicely decides to get breakfast. She needs to be out on the street, in the real world, where the phone is simply the thing that her mom calls. She throws a sweater over her shoulders, no need to wear a bra, then dark blue jeans and her boots.
The slush is frozen, the thick, flattened ice sheets much easier to walk on this morning. Angel can keep her head up, imagine Cicely's fingers on the nape of her neck, basic contact. Her hair stands up as if it's happening.
The diner looks bright against the grey sky and streets, as if it's nighttime. Inside, the waitress seats her next to a table with a girl with spiky boy-hair. The girl turns. Angel drops her newspaper and picks it right back up again. She sits down across from Cicely and they stare at each other, their fingers fondling the silverware.
"Did you order?" Angel asks finally.
"No."
"Let's go."
Angel leaves a couple of dollars on the table, looking at Angel the whole time, and they escape together, out into the snow and the sidewalk, parking meters and cars coated with white. When they're out of the sightlines of the diner windows, Angel presses Cicely into a lamp post, turns her head and kisses her. Cicely's lips are soft, without the sharp points of a man's stubble or the aggression behind them. Cicely's hand touches Angel's neck, not to grab her or manipulate her, but just to feel the instant high of her skin on her fingertips, the fine blonde hair between them. Angel wants to tell her about thinking about her this morning, about sitting on her dusty floor naked, about her failed relationships, her first period, her love of office supplies, her father and his new wife, but she simply opens her lips and presses them into Cicely, and swells inside, all this information passing just now between them in this energy, and the sweat on their upper lips.
"You want this?" Cicely says. Angel says she does and almost claps her hand over her mouth afterward. She's been feeling that swollen spread in her jeans, the seams of her underwear at once becoming oppressive and meaningless. She sees a ponytailed woman with two kids approaching on the sidewalk and pulls her hands away. Cicely looks hurt, sliding into pissed off, and Angel says, "Come home with me."
Cicely kisses her again anyway, though she noticed the woman and the children too. She toys with each of Angel's lips individually and sighs. A girl sigh. Angel notices the difference. Her underwear passes from oppressive to an offense. She pulls Angel's waist around a building, presses her into the lacquered brick and wraps herself around her. Cicely sighs some more, little gasps and coos. Angel's mind turns to hands and buttons, the satin of Cicely's skin, the mystery of her panties. Her eyes have been closed, so she hasn't noticed that Cicely has stopped and has been looking at her face, and cupping her cheek, wondering that she hasn't run away.
Cicely takes Angel's left wrist in her hand and kisses the inside of it, the heat of the blood below the skin, and puts it under her sweater, both of them blushing. Angel's hand touches thumb to nipple first, and flinches, but exhales her last giggle. She presses her forearm flat inside so that she can be closer and presses in. She holds her breast between thumb and forefinger and weighs it. This is it, she thinks, this is what all those boys have wanted.
"Come home with me," Angel says again, this time less of a beg and more of a mantra.
"Yes," Cicely says.
Angel's hand slides to Cicely's upper thigh and pulls her as she turns back to the sidewalk. It's awkward and Cicely slips away. Angel regains once more and again and finally picks her up behind her, throws her on her back and carries her laughing toward her apartment. Cicely's lips bury themselves in Angel's neck. It's only half a block anyway.
In Angel's apartment, her keys missing their hook, Cicely steps shyly into the messy living room. Angel takes a moment in the hallway and looks at her, imagines what she'd only really begun to imagine the day before, what Cicely's thighs looks like, how they'd feel shaking against the sides of her head. She approaches her and holds her hand out to her back, close, but not touching. She doesn't know what to do, but won't admit it. She mimics Cicely's curves with her hand and finally settles on the edge of her sweater, falling over her sides. She takes both ends and lifts, Cicely just lifting her arms, letting her do it. Her back is stunning, a French curve from shoulders to ass. A crevice in the middle, for what? Angel runs her hands along it, turning them as she goes, the fingertips at the point of the shoulderblade, the heel of her hand over the dip beyond them, the back of her hands nestling at the crook.
Cicely bends slightly to take off her jeans. She slides them down, steps out of them and returns to a full stand. Now there is everything before Angel, the curve of the back completed by the suspension of her ass, the fat at the inside of her thighs, the line from the back of the thigh to the back of the knee. Angel wraps her arms around her, this breathing living sculpture in her tiny apartment. Snow starts to fall outside, fat, cottonball flakes that take forever to fall.
"I'm glad I'm here," Cicely says.
Angel's right hand drops down Cicely's skin and slips into her pussy. Cicely gasps, but doesn't flinch. Cicely is wet, and this flatters Angel to pieces. Her other hand takes her breast. She simply holds it. Cicely smells like warm bread and butter. Angel rubs, her fingertips wrinkling in the moisture. Cicely simply shivers and bucks, her ass bending into Angel's front.
Angel is bowled over by the power, the sensual suffering and peace she is causing. She has lost herself completely in the mix, become Cicely, and breaks and shivers with her, the way she tears up watching others cry. The snowfall hypnotizes her too, brings her deeper, pulls her away. When Cicely comes, her stomach muscles and legs convulsing, Angel moans with her too, and holds until she's sure that she, Angel, is done.
"Stay," she says to Cicely, almost biting into her shoulder. Cicely nods and walks over to the window, looks out into the snow and the wind, smiles and throws it open.
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Feedback
There was the camera at the top of the screen, centered and patient, a green light next to it. I could look at it askance, but not straight on. I couldn't face the strangers, even if I wanted to. Below were three simple boxes on a white background. One: What I looked like. Two: What they looked like, because precious few were ready to turn on their cameras. There were 442 people watching at first, a faceless and incomprehensible number. Were they enough to fill the seats in a small theater? A large restaurant? How many people work in my company? How many work under me? When I watched, I didn't turn my camera on either, though I'd imagined they could see me, or just the parts of me I wanted them to see. A finger and a clit.
Finally, there was the third box, the one I wanted to see the most, though I knew that if we were successful, no one would be able to type. This one was a stream of thoughts, stupid and flattering, or childish and painful. I would imagine that they wouldn't be able to agree, that some would demand that I play with my tits while other would ask me to press up on my arms.
It turns out that people are used to a leader, and let one person do the talking for them, a man named dirtyhands. It was a leader's name, I gave them that.
dirtyhands
massage her tits
And Ryan's hands, thick and callused, came around my sides and kneaded my nipples. I watched our backward reflection on the screen and waited for the next order. My skin looked alien in the picture, spotless and blurry, the navel barely discernable, the large, dark nipples not much more than shadows between Ryan's fingers. I tried to pull one of his hands down between my legs, but he wouldn't budge. This wasn't about me. I went myself, so distracted that I hadn't noticed how wet I'd become, how sensitive and shaken. Ryan's hands seemed to dwarf me, as if we were in a fisheye. I leaned back so they could see me rub.
3497 users online
489 users watching
dirtyhands
show her your cock
Ryan came around me so that he was facing the camera. He took the hand in my crotch and wrapped it around his cock. I twisted it, showed it to be flexible as girl hands are, thin, fragile and helpless. My fingers were still wet and I slid up and down lightly, an innocent entering a strange cave, touching the unfamiliar. Ryan said, because our microphone was on too, "Do you like that?"
dirtyhands
tell her to suck it
"No faces," Ryan said.
dirtyhands
have her face you
I wasn't allowed to see their profiles, didn't think that I'd want to, but I began to wonder who dirtyhands was. No matter.
I backed up, straddled the laptop and bent over. Ryan's cock slid into my mouth easily, and I twisted and pulled, licked and tightened my lips around him. Saliva dripped out of the corners and onto the sheets. He smelled the same, felt the same. The sheets were our sheets.
Ryan said, "He wants you to touch yourself. Split yourself good first. Let them see you."
I did as they said, though it was too much rocket fuel. While my hands had been away, my pussy had turned to hard rubber in melted ice cream. I stuck my fingers inside instead.
Ryan said, "He likes it."
I could feel my muscles crush my fingers, suck them in. Ryan pulled out of my mouth.
"Talk to him," Ryan said.
"I want you in my pussy. Stick it in me."
"Turn around," Ryan said.
"No."
"Just keep your face up," he said, holding me by the chin.
I didn't want to do it anymore. I didn't want this liquid pouring out of my pussy. I didn't want to want to come.
"No."
He pushed my knees back on the sheets and placed the laptop in front of my knees. "They can't see your face."
I reached out for the camera, wanted to put my thumb over the lens.
"Do it," Ryan said, putting my fingers back between my legs and rubbing them. I closed my eyes. I'd seen the number. 578. I heard Ryan breathe. He was out of the camera range.
Miles of people were watching me, some just watching, some just starting to play. Some were couples. Some were women. I saw them come, felt their eyes on me, little fiber optic lines through the lens of my camera.
"Are they fucking you?" Ryan said.
I said nothing. Tingles were turning to heat in me.
"Are they fucking you?"
"Yes."
I opened my eyes and faced them. Only five had their cameras on. dirtyhands lay limp. I'd only just noticed.
"What?"
Ryan bent me over the laptop and pushed his thumbs inside me. I came, not there, not in my body, watching myself come like the camera watched me. I writhed and bucked and yelled.
"Goodnight, all," Ryan said, and quit the browser. dirtyhands had logged off.
Finally, there was the third box, the one I wanted to see the most, though I knew that if we were successful, no one would be able to type. This one was a stream of thoughts, stupid and flattering, or childish and painful. I would imagine that they wouldn't be able to agree, that some would demand that I play with my tits while other would ask me to press up on my arms.
It turns out that people are used to a leader, and let one person do the talking for them, a man named dirtyhands. It was a leader's name, I gave them that.
dirtyhands
massage her tits
And Ryan's hands, thick and callused, came around my sides and kneaded my nipples. I watched our backward reflection on the screen and waited for the next order. My skin looked alien in the picture, spotless and blurry, the navel barely discernable, the large, dark nipples not much more than shadows between Ryan's fingers. I tried to pull one of his hands down between my legs, but he wouldn't budge. This wasn't about me. I went myself, so distracted that I hadn't noticed how wet I'd become, how sensitive and shaken. Ryan's hands seemed to dwarf me, as if we were in a fisheye. I leaned back so they could see me rub.
3497 users online
489 users watching
dirtyhands
show her your cock
Ryan came around me so that he was facing the camera. He took the hand in my crotch and wrapped it around his cock. I twisted it, showed it to be flexible as girl hands are, thin, fragile and helpless. My fingers were still wet and I slid up and down lightly, an innocent entering a strange cave, touching the unfamiliar. Ryan said, because our microphone was on too, "Do you like that?"
dirtyhands
tell her to suck it
"No faces," Ryan said.
dirtyhands
have her face you
I wasn't allowed to see their profiles, didn't think that I'd want to, but I began to wonder who dirtyhands was. No matter.
I backed up, straddled the laptop and bent over. Ryan's cock slid into my mouth easily, and I twisted and pulled, licked and tightened my lips around him. Saliva dripped out of the corners and onto the sheets. He smelled the same, felt the same. The sheets were our sheets.
Ryan said, "He wants you to touch yourself. Split yourself good first. Let them see you."
I did as they said, though it was too much rocket fuel. While my hands had been away, my pussy had turned to hard rubber in melted ice cream. I stuck my fingers inside instead.
Ryan said, "He likes it."
I could feel my muscles crush my fingers, suck them in. Ryan pulled out of my mouth.
"Talk to him," Ryan said.
"I want you in my pussy. Stick it in me."
"Turn around," Ryan said.
"No."
"Just keep your face up," he said, holding me by the chin.
I didn't want to do it anymore. I didn't want this liquid pouring out of my pussy. I didn't want to want to come.
"No."
He pushed my knees back on the sheets and placed the laptop in front of my knees. "They can't see your face."
I reached out for the camera, wanted to put my thumb over the lens.
"Do it," Ryan said, putting my fingers back between my legs and rubbing them. I closed my eyes. I'd seen the number. 578. I heard Ryan breathe. He was out of the camera range.
Miles of people were watching me, some just watching, some just starting to play. Some were couples. Some were women. I saw them come, felt their eyes on me, little fiber optic lines through the lens of my camera.
"Are they fucking you?" Ryan said.
I said nothing. Tingles were turning to heat in me.
"Are they fucking you?"
"Yes."
I opened my eyes and faced them. Only five had their cameras on. dirtyhands lay limp. I'd only just noticed.
"What?"
Ryan bent me over the laptop and pushed his thumbs inside me. I came, not there, not in my body, watching myself come like the camera watched me. I writhed and bucked and yelled.
"Goodnight, all," Ryan said, and quit the browser. dirtyhands had logged off.
Friday, January 18, 2008
Tell
There's a fat spider in the corner of the ceiling, a highway robber between the vent and the yellow light. I'm afraid of spiders, terrified of watching them move, the way they seem to glide without legs, zooming then creeping. Between dicks I've watched this thing, at least two inches long, and begged it to keep still. I can't climb up on the toilet seat to kill it, even if I could pull together those kind of guts. I can't put my face over the stalls. I'd get the crap beaten out of me, if I wasn't arrested. I hold this guy, a shorter one, but veiny, trimmed, the young ones are, in my thick glove, hand hidden inside, and hold him steady in my mouth, forever bargaining with the spider. I'm so distracted that I don't notice him coming, miss the sounds and the trembling ankles. I'm ready to ask for one more from the spider, but it could be hours. My fingers stroke, but the spider has made me go dry. I wait for the man to leave, then total silence, then head for my car in the lot.
"I just can't watch that stuff," Debra said. "It's just... blech." She chased two shaved pieces of red cabbage in her salad to a different part of the plastic bowl. All over the room, women in sensible sweaters and huge hair pointed at each other with their forks or finger foods, movement on top of the cropped beige carpet and the beige wallpaper, flat in the fluorescent. Men sat back in their chairs, knees apart, like fathers at PTA meetings.
Casey blinked at me, then turned to Debra. "What, two men kissing? Big deal," she said. "I'm a fag hag," she said proudly, but blushed, and rearranged herself in the chair.
"I read somewhere that fag hags are all lesbians," Debra said. Casey didn't look at her, but put her sandwich down and left her mouth open in case she came up with the gumption to respond. They were waiting for me to say something. I peeled my orange and stacked the strips on top of each other, even little triangles rocking back and forth.
My eyes close and I'm back on my knees in the men's bathroom, one cock or the other slipping through my lips. The man comes again and again, losing everything to his dream. My legs are bent against the floor on the futon couch, the shades closed, the pads of my fingers kneading me.
"What's your name?" the guy asks. I can see his hands buttoning his jeans. I dodge in case he looks. "Dude, what's your name?"
My back arches on the futon and my eyes go crossed and blank. Waaa uh. Uh. UH.
George grips my hand and takes a deep sip of his bottled water. It's a hazy night, people's sweat seeming to cause the halos on the streetlights. Sticky men pass us and size George up. He ignores them. I wonder if I've ever sucked any of these guys off or if George is right, I've only sucked straight men with a fantasy. "Hhhhuuuuhhh!" George says, as if he's just noticed the First Lady making out with a girl. "We've gotta go to Deliveries in Rear tonight!"
"No!" I say, and I mean it.
"Yes! Come on." He takes me tightly by the hand and pulls me up the sidewalk. His hands are smallish, not painfully large to hold like my other ex-boyfriends' or thin and poky like my older sister's. They fit.
The bouncer exhales pointedly when I hand him my ID, shakes the flashlight over it and hands it back to me quickly. He looks deep into the club as if he has a secret tell for the entire staff, like a baseball coach, a noserub and neck twitch indicating "fucking girl in here."
I was sick of swimming and decided to jump from one end of the pool to the other just to keep moving. My toes touched the bottom on the deep end, my face well under and I leapt up and forward, emerging into the cold air, and crunched down again. A boy wouldn't get out of my way and I was forced to tread for awhile. I didn't know him, and the way he smiled at me made me nervous.
"What?" I said.
"You're a boy," he said.
"I'm not! I'm a girl!" I said and swum around him.
I jumped again a few more times, splashing gloriously from the water with each one. The boy was there again. I looked for friends, neighbors, but remembered I'd come alone.
"Don't lie. You're a boy."
"I'm a girl!"
I dove and jumped a few more times, a little too fast. Water bubbled in my loose terrycloth suit and pulled it down too much. He ruined my thing, this boy. He was there again. I tried to swim around him, but he blocked me.
"You're a boy!" he said.
George takes me straight to the back of the club, his one eye lazy from drinking. "You order," he says, and socks a twenty in my hand.
I can't look around. The bar is dark but for sharp beams of light that you only see if you're looking straight at them. I see blurs of men in small groups, the special shine of skin. Others cruise, watching the groups with their backs against load-bearing poles. I want to be a spider, to watch them as anything but a woman, but I'm conspicuous here as Queen Victoria. I decide that going to the bar will keep my eyes busy.
"I'm a girl! God!" I said to the boy. He smiled at me as if I were falling for some sort of bait. "What do you want?" I asked.
The bartender is slim and short with a faux-hawk. He clashes with the leather-men.
"What will this lesbian be ordering this evening?" he asks, repulsed.
"This girl wants two Ketel and cranberries."
"Does the lesbian want a twist?"
The boy almost lost himself in victory. "Prove to me you're a girl," he said.
"No! Go away!" I looked at the lifeguard, but he was busy watching older girls directly under him. They were talking to him and he smiled, holding the whistle in his mouth absentmindedly.
"The girl doesn't, no."
"Good!" the bartender says, and slaps the drinks down on the service mat so that much of the liquid splashes out. He looks at me up and down and rolls his eyes. "That'll be sixteen-fifty for the lesbian."
I would have waved my arms for the lifeguard, but I didn't want to raise them. This boy was waiting to touch me. "Hey!" I yelled instead. "Heeeeey!" He blew his whistle, amazingly. The voiceover came on the loudspeaker.
"Adult swim," it said. "Ten minute rest period."
"Here's twenty dollars for the asshole."
"Thanks, lesbian."
"Anytime, asshole."
I swam as fast as I could to the edge of the pool, pulled myself out, and ran for the girls' locker room.
George had been sitting beside me, but saw none of this. I examine the glasses for cloudy floaties, but find none. I give one to him.
George and I went to separate colleges after graduation and didn't see each other until Thanksgiving. He picked me up in his car but didn't kiss me.
"I've held out for you," I said.
"I know," he said.
"So you're gay?" I said.
"Yeah," he said.
"And I'm an idiot," I said.
"If there were a girl...," he said.
"That you would have sex with it would be me, right?" I said.
"But you're a girl," he said.
"Do you love me?" I said.
"Of course," he said.
"Screw me anyway," I said.
"No," he said.
"Then you can go," I said.
The music, if the rumpy-bumpy beat could be called that, goes loud and then off. George hands me his empty and I put it behind me on the bar.
"It's time," says a voiceover, "for adult swim. You've got ten minutes."
The bare lightbulbs go out and George shoves me forward into what must be the crowd. I try to turn around but find the bare chests of men, their fingers in my hair, a dick in jeans at my ass. Before the one can reach around, I drop too hard to my knees and bury my head in his bulge. He pulls locks of my hair between his fingers and unzips. The music grows louder.
George let me kiss him in the car. The two of our faces were wet with tears. I slid my hand up his thighs and found his cock. It was limp, but I'd gotten it going before. Keep your eyes closed, I whispered. I'm a boy. This is my first time with another boy. He lifted his hips so I could lower his jeans. I'm careful to keep my voicebox out of my speech. I'm scared, but I want to touch you.
The man's cock is thin and long. It goes hard right away and I suck to the music. I can feel him trembling and go faster. His fingers pull through my hair tighter and tighter. My pussy swells, needs this. Three minutes pass, four, five. "Yes," he says, "that's a good boy."
I'd been ready for almost a year, ready to lose my virginity to George, would close my eyes in movies and will him to fuck me later. I'd imagined him staring me in the eyes, blinking slowly as he pumped, declaring his love before he came. He lay inert in the car seat as I straddled him, one of my legs forward into the backseat the other twisted and shaking in the well. I'll let you fuck me, I whisper. I'm so scared, but I'll let you do it. I held his cock between my fingers, found the wet spot that I'd tested with hot dogs and Barbie dolls, and put him inside me. It didn't hurt. I thought it would hurt.
Another set of hands moves up and down my shoulders. The man in my mouth's knees shiver. The hands dip down and pull at my ass in my jeans. I want them to slide under me. I want them to press into me. A little bit of friction is all I need. They roll up my hips for a moment, then cross to the front.
It wasn't what I thought it would be, but I grasped the back of George's seat and concentrated. I've got a huge erection, but I don't want you to touch it. I just want to give you this. He was sweating, his shoulders tense and his stomach cranking with his breaths. You feel so good inside me.
The man in my mouth is coming. He holds my head in place and dives into my throat. The taste is there, the swim of salt and lemon and savory. I forget about the arms around me until I notice that one is at my breast and the other is feeling the front of my neck.
George's mouth opened and he grunted just a little, an mmmm-guh, then quickly got a pained look on his face.
"Am I done?" I said.
"Yes," he said.
"I love you," I said.
"I love you too," he said.
"You don't have to speak to me again," I said.
His eyes opened and he looked at me, considering it.
He's checking for an Adam's apple. The hands are thin and the arms are too. I stand up quickly, but he's got me in a hold.
"It's little bitch cunts like you that fuck us all up," he says in my ear.
"Get the fuck away from me!"
The voice of a girl on the floor gets the lights turned on. A bouncer heads toward us from the back. The man lets me go and heads for the exit. I push him. He turns around and grabs my face, runs me back to the bar. I punch him. I've never thrown a punch before and don't even know if I've made contact. I punch again and keep on punching. His face. His chest. He looks furious with me and dodges some of them, trying to catch my arms. My knuckles are bloody and sore. My cheeks sting. He pushes his fingertips into them. The bouncer is a few feet away. I twist my face out of the guy's hands and head for the exit. My cel phone begins to ring. People look at me and someone behind me. Must be the bouncer.
The air is fresh now and I climb into a cab. The phone call was George. The stings were tears in wounds.
The cab takes me to my car and I drive for two hours to the edge of the suburbs. A different forest preserve. Another hour passes before I have my first visitor. He approaches slowly. I watch and close my eyes. His hand touches my cheek through the hole instead. I stare at the hair on his knuckles.
"You got a little beat up there," he says. "What's your name?"
"I just can't watch that stuff," Debra said. "It's just... blech." She chased two shaved pieces of red cabbage in her salad to a different part of the plastic bowl. All over the room, women in sensible sweaters and huge hair pointed at each other with their forks or finger foods, movement on top of the cropped beige carpet and the beige wallpaper, flat in the fluorescent. Men sat back in their chairs, knees apart, like fathers at PTA meetings.
Casey blinked at me, then turned to Debra. "What, two men kissing? Big deal," she said. "I'm a fag hag," she said proudly, but blushed, and rearranged herself in the chair.
"I read somewhere that fag hags are all lesbians," Debra said. Casey didn't look at her, but put her sandwich down and left her mouth open in case she came up with the gumption to respond. They were waiting for me to say something. I peeled my orange and stacked the strips on top of each other, even little triangles rocking back and forth.
My eyes close and I'm back on my knees in the men's bathroom, one cock or the other slipping through my lips. The man comes again and again, losing everything to his dream. My legs are bent against the floor on the futon couch, the shades closed, the pads of my fingers kneading me.
"What's your name?" the guy asks. I can see his hands buttoning his jeans. I dodge in case he looks. "Dude, what's your name?"
My back arches on the futon and my eyes go crossed and blank. Waaa uh. Uh. UH.
George grips my hand and takes a deep sip of his bottled water. It's a hazy night, people's sweat seeming to cause the halos on the streetlights. Sticky men pass us and size George up. He ignores them. I wonder if I've ever sucked any of these guys off or if George is right, I've only sucked straight men with a fantasy. "Hhhhuuuuhhh!" George says, as if he's just noticed the First Lady making out with a girl. "We've gotta go to Deliveries in Rear tonight!"
"No!" I say, and I mean it.
"Yes! Come on." He takes me tightly by the hand and pulls me up the sidewalk. His hands are smallish, not painfully large to hold like my other ex-boyfriends' or thin and poky like my older sister's. They fit.
The bouncer exhales pointedly when I hand him my ID, shakes the flashlight over it and hands it back to me quickly. He looks deep into the club as if he has a secret tell for the entire staff, like a baseball coach, a noserub and neck twitch indicating "fucking girl in here."
I was sick of swimming and decided to jump from one end of the pool to the other just to keep moving. My toes touched the bottom on the deep end, my face well under and I leapt up and forward, emerging into the cold air, and crunched down again. A boy wouldn't get out of my way and I was forced to tread for awhile. I didn't know him, and the way he smiled at me made me nervous.
"What?" I said.
"You're a boy," he said.
"I'm not! I'm a girl!" I said and swum around him.
I jumped again a few more times, splashing gloriously from the water with each one. The boy was there again. I looked for friends, neighbors, but remembered I'd come alone.
"Don't lie. You're a boy."
"I'm a girl!"
I dove and jumped a few more times, a little too fast. Water bubbled in my loose terrycloth suit and pulled it down too much. He ruined my thing, this boy. He was there again. I tried to swim around him, but he blocked me.
"You're a boy!" he said.
George takes me straight to the back of the club, his one eye lazy from drinking. "You order," he says, and socks a twenty in my hand.
I can't look around. The bar is dark but for sharp beams of light that you only see if you're looking straight at them. I see blurs of men in small groups, the special shine of skin. Others cruise, watching the groups with their backs against load-bearing poles. I want to be a spider, to watch them as anything but a woman, but I'm conspicuous here as Queen Victoria. I decide that going to the bar will keep my eyes busy.
"I'm a girl! God!" I said to the boy. He smiled at me as if I were falling for some sort of bait. "What do you want?" I asked.
The bartender is slim and short with a faux-hawk. He clashes with the leather-men.
"What will this lesbian be ordering this evening?" he asks, repulsed.
"This girl wants two Ketel and cranberries."
"Does the lesbian want a twist?"
The boy almost lost himself in victory. "Prove to me you're a girl," he said.
"No! Go away!" I looked at the lifeguard, but he was busy watching older girls directly under him. They were talking to him and he smiled, holding the whistle in his mouth absentmindedly.
"The girl doesn't, no."
"Good!" the bartender says, and slaps the drinks down on the service mat so that much of the liquid splashes out. He looks at me up and down and rolls his eyes. "That'll be sixteen-fifty for the lesbian."
I would have waved my arms for the lifeguard, but I didn't want to raise them. This boy was waiting to touch me. "Hey!" I yelled instead. "Heeeeey!" He blew his whistle, amazingly. The voiceover came on the loudspeaker.
"Adult swim," it said. "Ten minute rest period."
"Here's twenty dollars for the asshole."
"Thanks, lesbian."
"Anytime, asshole."
I swam as fast as I could to the edge of the pool, pulled myself out, and ran for the girls' locker room.
George had been sitting beside me, but saw none of this. I examine the glasses for cloudy floaties, but find none. I give one to him.
George and I went to separate colleges after graduation and didn't see each other until Thanksgiving. He picked me up in his car but didn't kiss me.
"I've held out for you," I said.
"I know," he said.
"So you're gay?" I said.
"Yeah," he said.
"And I'm an idiot," I said.
"If there were a girl...," he said.
"That you would have sex with it would be me, right?" I said.
"But you're a girl," he said.
"Do you love me?" I said.
"Of course," he said.
"Screw me anyway," I said.
"No," he said.
"Then you can go," I said.
The music, if the rumpy-bumpy beat could be called that, goes loud and then off. George hands me his empty and I put it behind me on the bar.
"It's time," says a voiceover, "for adult swim. You've got ten minutes."
The bare lightbulbs go out and George shoves me forward into what must be the crowd. I try to turn around but find the bare chests of men, their fingers in my hair, a dick in jeans at my ass. Before the one can reach around, I drop too hard to my knees and bury my head in his bulge. He pulls locks of my hair between his fingers and unzips. The music grows louder.
George let me kiss him in the car. The two of our faces were wet with tears. I slid my hand up his thighs and found his cock. It was limp, but I'd gotten it going before. Keep your eyes closed, I whispered. I'm a boy. This is my first time with another boy. He lifted his hips so I could lower his jeans. I'm careful to keep my voicebox out of my speech. I'm scared, but I want to touch you.
The man's cock is thin and long. It goes hard right away and I suck to the music. I can feel him trembling and go faster. His fingers pull through my hair tighter and tighter. My pussy swells, needs this. Three minutes pass, four, five. "Yes," he says, "that's a good boy."
I'd been ready for almost a year, ready to lose my virginity to George, would close my eyes in movies and will him to fuck me later. I'd imagined him staring me in the eyes, blinking slowly as he pumped, declaring his love before he came. He lay inert in the car seat as I straddled him, one of my legs forward into the backseat the other twisted and shaking in the well. I'll let you fuck me, I whisper. I'm so scared, but I'll let you do it. I held his cock between my fingers, found the wet spot that I'd tested with hot dogs and Barbie dolls, and put him inside me. It didn't hurt. I thought it would hurt.
Another set of hands moves up and down my shoulders. The man in my mouth's knees shiver. The hands dip down and pull at my ass in my jeans. I want them to slide under me. I want them to press into me. A little bit of friction is all I need. They roll up my hips for a moment, then cross to the front.
It wasn't what I thought it would be, but I grasped the back of George's seat and concentrated. I've got a huge erection, but I don't want you to touch it. I just want to give you this. He was sweating, his shoulders tense and his stomach cranking with his breaths. You feel so good inside me.
The man in my mouth is coming. He holds my head in place and dives into my throat. The taste is there, the swim of salt and lemon and savory. I forget about the arms around me until I notice that one is at my breast and the other is feeling the front of my neck.
George's mouth opened and he grunted just a little, an mmmm-guh, then quickly got a pained look on his face.
"Am I done?" I said.
"Yes," he said.
"I love you," I said.
"I love you too," he said.
"You don't have to speak to me again," I said.
His eyes opened and he looked at me, considering it.
He's checking for an Adam's apple. The hands are thin and the arms are too. I stand up quickly, but he's got me in a hold.
"It's little bitch cunts like you that fuck us all up," he says in my ear.
"Get the fuck away from me!"
The voice of a girl on the floor gets the lights turned on. A bouncer heads toward us from the back. The man lets me go and heads for the exit. I push him. He turns around and grabs my face, runs me back to the bar. I punch him. I've never thrown a punch before and don't even know if I've made contact. I punch again and keep on punching. His face. His chest. He looks furious with me and dodges some of them, trying to catch my arms. My knuckles are bloody and sore. My cheeks sting. He pushes his fingertips into them. The bouncer is a few feet away. I twist my face out of the guy's hands and head for the exit. My cel phone begins to ring. People look at me and someone behind me. Must be the bouncer.
The air is fresh now and I climb into a cab. The phone call was George. The stings were tears in wounds.
The cab takes me to my car and I drive for two hours to the edge of the suburbs. A different forest preserve. Another hour passes before I have my first visitor. He approaches slowly. I watch and close my eyes. His hand touches my cheek through the hole instead. I stare at the hair on his knuckles.
"You got a little beat up there," he says. "What's your name?"
Monday, January 7, 2008
The Views
The buildings, though they didn't seem to be tall enough, blinked for very low and confused-flying aircraft. She'd meant to do it in the car, waiting for the sun to go down, showing herself off to drivers in taller vehicles. He liked her to do that. He wanted men to want her, projected himself into their shoes, out at a restaurant with a peek at her pussy across the room, wanderers in a public park finding them fucking against a tree. It would make his night to be one of them, a lucky stumbler-upon in the middle of a dreary day, suddenly struck by sex, a favor of a glance or a stare. He'd lifted her skirt in the car, but she didn't care for it in the daylight, and forced her book down to her panties.
And now he slept, the television and the sheets of a hotel room like Mickey Finns to him. She looked out onto this miniature city, the one skyscraper, put up by some local enterprise to justify a skyline, and squinted the curtains shut across it. A butter knife, the handle pleasingly round and bent at the tip, the cheap hotel hand and body lotion, enough for her. She took a long look back at him, his face slack and neck bent against the pillows, and sat on the edge of the bed. The lotion popped a few air bubbles, but produced a liquidy cream full of too much alcohol. She maneuvered it to her clit on careful fingers, losing some of it on the outer lips, but enough to start. It was cold. The alcohol evaporated and took her heat with it, but then it seemed to burn, and she held herself open. She glanced at him again and leaned back, flat on the bed, pulling the butter knife from under her shoulderblade. She swiped across her clit a few times with it, cold too like the lotion, and plunged the handle inside of her, the bent part pointing up, the blade dull enough to grip tightly when it came to that.
The pads of her fingers slipped and flickered. Her back began to tense. Sugar entered her veins and she breathed faster and deeper, though she was just as quiet. The world around her lost importance and she fell away, her body walking her on all fours through its jungle.
The sound of nylon cord zipping through a pulley startled her, followed by the scrape of small metal wheels in a track. She swore inside and dropped her hands to her sides out of habit, one taking the lotion under her back. The butter knife fell to the carpet. His lips were above hers, but they would not touch. He held her hands down to the bed.
"Sorry to interrupt," he said, and his lips pulled the way they sometimes did, the half smile that showed just the tips of his teeth and rounded his eyes, "but I'm curious."
She'd been two-thirds of the way there and buzzed under it. She wanted to beg him to let her finish, but she kept silent. Please, she thought anyway, don't drag this out, finish it or go away. He knew this, of course, and breathed on her neck for a moment before continuing. Her hairs raised everywhere.
"What were you thinking about?" he said.
She said nothing. He continued to hold her still.
"How many men?" he asked.
Nothing.
"How many women?"
His mouth didn't touch her, but scaled and dropped along her body.
"Were you in diapers?"
She was meant to scoff and deny, but she managed a frown of disbelief instead.
"You were in diapers!"
"What? No!"
"Now we're getting somewhere." He kissed the inside of her thigh. She had to stop herself from slapping them shut. She froze and waited, but he stopped. "Tell me more. Tell me about the baseball team and the locker room."
"Please just touch me."
"Not until you tell me."
"I was on a table...."
He kissed her ear, "In a meat packing plant?"
"No," she said. She tried to push her thighs together for the friction, but he clamped them open with his own.
"Go on," he said, and licked the very tip of her nipple. "Was I there at the table?"
"Yes."
He moved into the space between her thighs. His cock made contact with her through her sleeping shorts.
"And what was I doing?"
"You were watching."
He thrust against her hard. It wasn't enough.
She continued. "I'd been plugged," she said. He ran his fingers along her skin, skirting her pussy. "Oh, please touch me."
"Plugged?"
"Food," she said. His head cocked. "Cucumbers, carrots, sauces. Don't make me tell you anymore."
"Go on." His fingers held her open and he pressed into her clit. He straddled her thigh and humped it slowly.
"A man was eating it off of me."
He began to stroke her and she clenched frozen again. Her whole body throbbed. He moved slowly, though, teasing her.
"And I was watching."
"The man, mmm, the man fucked me with the cucumber as he bit things off of my skin. He... he.... Oh God."
"He what?"
Her eyes had been closed but she was curious. She glanced at him and found him stroking himself with his other hand.
"He was getting me off with two baby carrots."
He laughed.
"Shut up!"
"Come on," he said, and turned her legs to the window. "I just wanted to know what you think about. This is what I think about."
The whole city lay before her and she closed her eyes again, despite herself, thinking of the baby carrots and the man.
His breaths got shorter, darker. He shivered and fell into her shoulders, stroking her. She felt his come cool slowly on her breasts. Her knees rose up and with a howl, new pleasure scooped out of her, he slowly made her come, shaking the bed, her whoops bending down to the streets.
"There," he said, and kissed her. She crawled up under the covers and listened the return of the metal wheels and the nylon through the pulleys.
And now he slept, the television and the sheets of a hotel room like Mickey Finns to him. She looked out onto this miniature city, the one skyscraper, put up by some local enterprise to justify a skyline, and squinted the curtains shut across it. A butter knife, the handle pleasingly round and bent at the tip, the cheap hotel hand and body lotion, enough for her. She took a long look back at him, his face slack and neck bent against the pillows, and sat on the edge of the bed. The lotion popped a few air bubbles, but produced a liquidy cream full of too much alcohol. She maneuvered it to her clit on careful fingers, losing some of it on the outer lips, but enough to start. It was cold. The alcohol evaporated and took her heat with it, but then it seemed to burn, and she held herself open. She glanced at him again and leaned back, flat on the bed, pulling the butter knife from under her shoulderblade. She swiped across her clit a few times with it, cold too like the lotion, and plunged the handle inside of her, the bent part pointing up, the blade dull enough to grip tightly when it came to that.
The pads of her fingers slipped and flickered. Her back began to tense. Sugar entered her veins and she breathed faster and deeper, though she was just as quiet. The world around her lost importance and she fell away, her body walking her on all fours through its jungle.
The sound of nylon cord zipping through a pulley startled her, followed by the scrape of small metal wheels in a track. She swore inside and dropped her hands to her sides out of habit, one taking the lotion under her back. The butter knife fell to the carpet. His lips were above hers, but they would not touch. He held her hands down to the bed.
"Sorry to interrupt," he said, and his lips pulled the way they sometimes did, the half smile that showed just the tips of his teeth and rounded his eyes, "but I'm curious."
She'd been two-thirds of the way there and buzzed under it. She wanted to beg him to let her finish, but she kept silent. Please, she thought anyway, don't drag this out, finish it or go away. He knew this, of course, and breathed on her neck for a moment before continuing. Her hairs raised everywhere.
"What were you thinking about?" he said.
She said nothing. He continued to hold her still.
"How many men?" he asked.
Nothing.
"How many women?"
His mouth didn't touch her, but scaled and dropped along her body.
"Were you in diapers?"
She was meant to scoff and deny, but she managed a frown of disbelief instead.
"You were in diapers!"
"What? No!"
"Now we're getting somewhere." He kissed the inside of her thigh. She had to stop herself from slapping them shut. She froze and waited, but he stopped. "Tell me more. Tell me about the baseball team and the locker room."
"Please just touch me."
"Not until you tell me."
"I was on a table...."
He kissed her ear, "In a meat packing plant?"
"No," she said. She tried to push her thighs together for the friction, but he clamped them open with his own.
"Go on," he said, and licked the very tip of her nipple. "Was I there at the table?"
"Yes."
He moved into the space between her thighs. His cock made contact with her through her sleeping shorts.
"And what was I doing?"
"You were watching."
He thrust against her hard. It wasn't enough.
She continued. "I'd been plugged," she said. He ran his fingers along her skin, skirting her pussy. "Oh, please touch me."
"Plugged?"
"Food," she said. His head cocked. "Cucumbers, carrots, sauces. Don't make me tell you anymore."
"Go on." His fingers held her open and he pressed into her clit. He straddled her thigh and humped it slowly.
"A man was eating it off of me."
He began to stroke her and she clenched frozen again. Her whole body throbbed. He moved slowly, though, teasing her.
"And I was watching."
"The man, mmm, the man fucked me with the cucumber as he bit things off of my skin. He... he.... Oh God."
"He what?"
Her eyes had been closed but she was curious. She glanced at him and found him stroking himself with his other hand.
"He was getting me off with two baby carrots."
He laughed.
"Shut up!"
"Come on," he said, and turned her legs to the window. "I just wanted to know what you think about. This is what I think about."
The whole city lay before her and she closed her eyes again, despite herself, thinking of the baby carrots and the man.
His breaths got shorter, darker. He shivered and fell into her shoulders, stroking her. She felt his come cool slowly on her breasts. Her knees rose up and with a howl, new pleasure scooped out of her, he slowly made her come, shaking the bed, her whoops bending down to the streets.
"There," he said, and kissed her. She crawled up under the covers and listened the return of the metal wheels and the nylon through the pulleys.
Monday, November 26, 2007
Landscape
Petrovich wanted me to call him Peter. He wasn't Russian, he said, any more than he was American, so I might as well call him something I could fit in my teeth. That's the way he said it, "fit in my teeth," as if even his name was something that had to be gripped in the jaw and ripped off.
to: angelica@un.org
from:petro@sakhalinuniversitet.ru
Angelica,
The sun hasn't come up in days. We live through this time of year on large fires and quiet stories. Time doesn't seem to pass, like you're in jet lag forever, or still on the plane, following the darkness and hiding from the sun. We wait to land, squirming in our seats, looking for joy in the salt at the bottom of our bag of peanuts. Or that's how I would explain it, if I could, to my people here. My life has cleaved since I met you, and you're the only one I could talk to about peanuts.
It's quiet too. I want to yell.
Some of us think about the light of the sun on the ocean, see it when we blink, or imagine fresh berries, feel ourselves picking them as fast as we can put them in our mouths, but I think about a parking garage in New York City, the curls of your hair in the wind and across your cheek, the sounds of the street below as if they were pumped through the speakers of your car, and the odd silence when we closed the windows and the squeak of my knees on the seats.
The windows are good and rolled up, the sounds of the street caught between the glass and its seal on the door. I pause the recording and place the laptop in the other seat. He was there just a few weeks ago, and now I've got nothing but the slowly trailing cursor of a media player, his voice, at once Russian and not Russian, but if I close my eyes, he's there. He lives in the folds of my shirt in my arms, the grip of my feet in my shoes, the seam of my underpants, under my skirt and over my clit. I breathe, holding my throat in its knot, and press the space bar again.
When I can't bear to think of you, I think about the parking garage itself. I think of the spiraling floors and dizzy views, that merge of street and building. My mind scales the concrete and circles up faster and faster, and the red cars blend in with the blue and I see only the buildings swirl past. I open my eyes and see only the orange of a fire reflected in the snow or the stars that move so slowly you have to crawl to see them shift. Nothing moves here like it does in New York. Nothing blurs like cars in a parking garage.
Peter was born to a Nivkh tribe on Sakhalin in the northwest Pacific. No one has ever been able to decide who owns the thing. It's been passed between the Japanese, the Manchurians, the Russians and even the Koreans for as long as anyone's memory. It's full of blood and treaties and dubious claims and petty grudges. For now, it seems that it's part of Russia, which is at least stability, if not quite justice. Peter, like every other child, was removed from the care of his tribe and his parents as an infant, raised Russified, and hadn't given his real home more than a few battered thoughts since. It was only when the last, least suspicious invaders came into the Nivkh settlement without knocking, that Peter, Petrovich, returned. These invaders were the NGOs, non-governmental-organizations, culprits like the Sierra Club and the World Wildlife Fund.
Nothing smells like anything in the cold. That's what I miss the most out here. We can smell each other, and cooking, but other smells, grass and fruit and leaves rotting, dead animals and fresh flowers, all of that is frozen, and smells like nothing but the water that it's crusted within. Ice is sterile. It smells nothing like you.
You smelled like almonds and cinnamon and salt and lemon. I buried my face between your breasts and took it in like I could scar you into my nose, as if I could tattoo your scent within me. I'd never smelled a woman like you before. The Russian women and girls were taught that we were dirty. The women of the tribe smell of fish and wet animal. I hadn't gotten near them yet anyway. I was helpless there, in that parking garage. Maybe I would have had some wits about me if you smelled like ice, which is to say, nothing.
The Russian government is compensated by the NGOs for the amount of land that they cordon off from humanity. This was an all-around good idea to anyone with any sense until I met Peter. Humanity includes indigenous tribes, apparently, and people who have lived on nothing but the vast expanse of land around them are now being locked out of their homes, forced into cities without so much as a public park, and made to live on money and utilities instead. Peter came to New York, to the United Nations, to me, to put up a case in favor of thousands of people he'd never met, but who looked more than a little like him.
I was clumsy, but you were sure. I was rigid in fear and excitement for you. You found me inside. That I needed you, that I was scared, that my insides were calling for you, that my muscles wouldn't respond to the simplest commands was something that I tried to hide, but you knew of course. You kissed me, a touching of lips that I hadn't experienced before, nor am likely to have again. You opened my trousers, burned the skin of my chest in your fingers, took my hand to the inside of your thighs.
My voice is strained now. I know it. My English falls apart when I think of you, though my thoughts don't sit well in Russian either.
In the parking garage, 13b, fifth space from the door to the right and bent over my steering wheel, I'm there with Peter. His body is there, and it faces the brown bricks of the back of some old skyscraper again, locked into his seat. His hand is buried under his thigh, but I reach to it and slide my index finger into his palm.
They'd chosen me because my grandmother was Aleut, and I looked just a little bit like him.
I want to turn this recording off now, because my English is about to get worse and my words are about to fall away from each other. I leave it to you, Angelica, because I can't seem to do it, and won't be able to make myself edit this last part out before I find a way to email this to you. You may shut this off now. Do it now, if you want to.
Peter's eyes were pooled black shine in his face, his lips trembling, as I took him into the back seat of the my car, this car. He looked down on me the way that no man ever had before, or will again, with his guts up in his face, his whole life exposed, and even I wasn't too cynical to see it. I wrapped my body around him as if he were the still in the arctic, as if I'd seen him shivering on the ice, thrown out of his tribe without his clothes. I made love to him until I couldn't see the blue anymore on his lips.
Angelica, I'm going to say this and then I'm going to yell. I'm going to scream and howl and yell some more, and then I'm going to stop the recording and I won't send another.
Here it is. You were the only one. You still are the only one. You and that parking garage are all I think about. I love you. Now listen to the ice crack as I scream. That is your goodbye.
We yelled at once, me, windows rolled down, the echo and descent of my howl across the concrete, knocking into the brown brick building, the crushed and broken voice of Peter, Russian and not Russian in a little media player on my laptop, cracking the ice thousands of miles away. We yelled and screamed and crushed our throats in the vibration. Tears ran down my face and plopped down onto thighs in quiet splashes, but we yelled and yelled and stopped at last, listening to the last of it dissipate into our landscapes, these vast things that were never our homes. And then I sat and listened to him breathe, forty-five seconds of quiet in a media player, before the cursor stopped at the end.
to: angelica@un.org
from:petro@sakhalinuniversitet.ru
Angelica,
The sun hasn't come up in days. We live through this time of year on large fires and quiet stories. Time doesn't seem to pass, like you're in jet lag forever, or still on the plane, following the darkness and hiding from the sun. We wait to land, squirming in our seats, looking for joy in the salt at the bottom of our bag of peanuts. Or that's how I would explain it, if I could, to my people here. My life has cleaved since I met you, and you're the only one I could talk to about peanuts.
It's quiet too. I want to yell.
Some of us think about the light of the sun on the ocean, see it when we blink, or imagine fresh berries, feel ourselves picking them as fast as we can put them in our mouths, but I think about a parking garage in New York City, the curls of your hair in the wind and across your cheek, the sounds of the street below as if they were pumped through the speakers of your car, and the odd silence when we closed the windows and the squeak of my knees on the seats.
The windows are good and rolled up, the sounds of the street caught between the glass and its seal on the door. I pause the recording and place the laptop in the other seat. He was there just a few weeks ago, and now I've got nothing but the slowly trailing cursor of a media player, his voice, at once Russian and not Russian, but if I close my eyes, he's there. He lives in the folds of my shirt in my arms, the grip of my feet in my shoes, the seam of my underpants, under my skirt and over my clit. I breathe, holding my throat in its knot, and press the space bar again.
When I can't bear to think of you, I think about the parking garage itself. I think of the spiraling floors and dizzy views, that merge of street and building. My mind scales the concrete and circles up faster and faster, and the red cars blend in with the blue and I see only the buildings swirl past. I open my eyes and see only the orange of a fire reflected in the snow or the stars that move so slowly you have to crawl to see them shift. Nothing moves here like it does in New York. Nothing blurs like cars in a parking garage.
Peter was born to a Nivkh tribe on Sakhalin in the northwest Pacific. No one has ever been able to decide who owns the thing. It's been passed between the Japanese, the Manchurians, the Russians and even the Koreans for as long as anyone's memory. It's full of blood and treaties and dubious claims and petty grudges. For now, it seems that it's part of Russia, which is at least stability, if not quite justice. Peter, like every other child, was removed from the care of his tribe and his parents as an infant, raised Russified, and hadn't given his real home more than a few battered thoughts since. It was only when the last, least suspicious invaders came into the Nivkh settlement without knocking, that Peter, Petrovich, returned. These invaders were the NGOs, non-governmental-organizations, culprits like the Sierra Club and the World Wildlife Fund.
Nothing smells like anything in the cold. That's what I miss the most out here. We can smell each other, and cooking, but other smells, grass and fruit and leaves rotting, dead animals and fresh flowers, all of that is frozen, and smells like nothing but the water that it's crusted within. Ice is sterile. It smells nothing like you.
You smelled like almonds and cinnamon and salt and lemon. I buried my face between your breasts and took it in like I could scar you into my nose, as if I could tattoo your scent within me. I'd never smelled a woman like you before. The Russian women and girls were taught that we were dirty. The women of the tribe smell of fish and wet animal. I hadn't gotten near them yet anyway. I was helpless there, in that parking garage. Maybe I would have had some wits about me if you smelled like ice, which is to say, nothing.
The Russian government is compensated by the NGOs for the amount of land that they cordon off from humanity. This was an all-around good idea to anyone with any sense until I met Peter. Humanity includes indigenous tribes, apparently, and people who have lived on nothing but the vast expanse of land around them are now being locked out of their homes, forced into cities without so much as a public park, and made to live on money and utilities instead. Peter came to New York, to the United Nations, to me, to put up a case in favor of thousands of people he'd never met, but who looked more than a little like him.
I was clumsy, but you were sure. I was rigid in fear and excitement for you. You found me inside. That I needed you, that I was scared, that my insides were calling for you, that my muscles wouldn't respond to the simplest commands was something that I tried to hide, but you knew of course. You kissed me, a touching of lips that I hadn't experienced before, nor am likely to have again. You opened my trousers, burned the skin of my chest in your fingers, took my hand to the inside of your thighs.
My voice is strained now. I know it. My English falls apart when I think of you, though my thoughts don't sit well in Russian either.
In the parking garage, 13b, fifth space from the door to the right and bent over my steering wheel, I'm there with Peter. His body is there, and it faces the brown bricks of the back of some old skyscraper again, locked into his seat. His hand is buried under his thigh, but I reach to it and slide my index finger into his palm.
They'd chosen me because my grandmother was Aleut, and I looked just a little bit like him.
I want to turn this recording off now, because my English is about to get worse and my words are about to fall away from each other. I leave it to you, Angelica, because I can't seem to do it, and won't be able to make myself edit this last part out before I find a way to email this to you. You may shut this off now. Do it now, if you want to.
Peter's eyes were pooled black shine in his face, his lips trembling, as I took him into the back seat of the my car, this car. He looked down on me the way that no man ever had before, or will again, with his guts up in his face, his whole life exposed, and even I wasn't too cynical to see it. I wrapped my body around him as if he were the still in the arctic, as if I'd seen him shivering on the ice, thrown out of his tribe without his clothes. I made love to him until I couldn't see the blue anymore on his lips.
Angelica, I'm going to say this and then I'm going to yell. I'm going to scream and howl and yell some more, and then I'm going to stop the recording and I won't send another.
Here it is. You were the only one. You still are the only one. You and that parking garage are all I think about. I love you. Now listen to the ice crack as I scream. That is your goodbye.
We yelled at once, me, windows rolled down, the echo and descent of my howl across the concrete, knocking into the brown brick building, the crushed and broken voice of Peter, Russian and not Russian in a little media player on my laptop, cracking the ice thousands of miles away. We yelled and screamed and crushed our throats in the vibration. Tears ran down my face and plopped down onto thighs in quiet splashes, but we yelled and yelled and stopped at last, listening to the last of it dissipate into our landscapes, these vast things that were never our homes. And then I sat and listened to him breathe, forty-five seconds of quiet in a media player, before the cursor stopped at the end.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Like Me
There was a time when you were my roommate, when the door across the hall was warm with your mystery, and the bang of a hanger on the doorknob would make me sit up straight, arrange my clothes, bury my big toe under the little ones so you couldn’t see that it was curved wrong. You’d walk into the living room, rubbing your eyes, your blonde hair always straight up from the pillow, and you’d light a cigarette and regard me through the blur of morning. As it was, we’d usually been out just a few hours before.
When you sat like that in a pair of loose boxers, always blue striped, I’d try not to let you see me look, would pretend to stare at your cigarette as you leaned forward. Always down the left leg, all the way to the break where your groin muscle dipped in between the front and the back of the thigh. I wondered sometimes if you saw me looking.
I saw it in action that one time, do you remember? Of course you do. That time I came in and found you at your computer when I said I’d be out and forgot my I.D. I didn’t make a sound, but watched you for a long time, watched the bend in your neck, the pull inward of your shoulders. I was there long enough to feel a part of it, as if it were suddenly natural enough for me to drop my own pants, kick them to my room and come back, fingers deep inside of my wet pussy, and if you noticed, I felt you’d do nothing but smile. I didn’t tell you how long I watched. I don’t know how long I watched. I remember backing down the hallway until I hit that creaky patch and heard a rumble in your room.
I’d dream at night that you would come to my bed, the old twin I used to have that made the bedroom seem so small. It squeaked when I moved, bounced enough to throw me off if you jumped on it, and I’d lay there and wait for you, bracing the edge in my fingers I was so sure it would happen. I believed you’d come to me, tears in your eyes, telling me that you’d noticed that I was the one, that I could never accept it, you know, but that you had to tell me anyway. I’d wrap your arm around me and you’d kiss my neck and I’d feel that wet on my neck from your eyes. And it was the kiss. It was all about that kiss you’d give me. In my bouncy bed, waiting for you, I’d lift a thigh and find myself streaming, wet enough to lubricate the entrance of a magnum of Champagne. I didn’t even think of sex until the end, before that, it was only a kiss.
We never dated anyone, you or me. We never talked to anyone. We’d screen calls like an SS officer and with as much respect. One night, drunk and driving home from the clubs, you were chatty, and told me how much you wanted to find someone just like me. I sat there, just like me, and kept my hands at 10:00 and 2:00 on the steering wheel.
When you sat like that in a pair of loose boxers, always blue striped, I’d try not to let you see me look, would pretend to stare at your cigarette as you leaned forward. Always down the left leg, all the way to the break where your groin muscle dipped in between the front and the back of the thigh. I wondered sometimes if you saw me looking.
I saw it in action that one time, do you remember? Of course you do. That time I came in and found you at your computer when I said I’d be out and forgot my I.D. I didn’t make a sound, but watched you for a long time, watched the bend in your neck, the pull inward of your shoulders. I was there long enough to feel a part of it, as if it were suddenly natural enough for me to drop my own pants, kick them to my room and come back, fingers deep inside of my wet pussy, and if you noticed, I felt you’d do nothing but smile. I didn’t tell you how long I watched. I don’t know how long I watched. I remember backing down the hallway until I hit that creaky patch and heard a rumble in your room.
I’d dream at night that you would come to my bed, the old twin I used to have that made the bedroom seem so small. It squeaked when I moved, bounced enough to throw me off if you jumped on it, and I’d lay there and wait for you, bracing the edge in my fingers I was so sure it would happen. I believed you’d come to me, tears in your eyes, telling me that you’d noticed that I was the one, that I could never accept it, you know, but that you had to tell me anyway. I’d wrap your arm around me and you’d kiss my neck and I’d feel that wet on my neck from your eyes. And it was the kiss. It was all about that kiss you’d give me. In my bouncy bed, waiting for you, I’d lift a thigh and find myself streaming, wet enough to lubricate the entrance of a magnum of Champagne. I didn’t even think of sex until the end, before that, it was only a kiss.
We never dated anyone, you or me. We never talked to anyone. We’d screen calls like an SS officer and with as much respect. One night, drunk and driving home from the clubs, you were chatty, and told me how much you wanted to find someone just like me. I sat there, just like me, and kept my hands at 10:00 and 2:00 on the steering wheel.
Tuesday, October 2, 2007
Hubb and Spoeker
"Where do you work, again?" Rita asked on the phone.
"I'm at this dive on Hubb and Spoeker."
"I knew you were around here somewhere. I'm at...." her voice trailed off. A girl appeared on the corner out the window, looking at the street signs. "I'm at Hubb and Spoeker."
"I'm right behind you, hon."
"This place? Oh, there you are!"
Rita's one of those girls who screams when she sees you and runs across the room for a hug. I'd forgotten about this. Luckily, it was dead. Otherwise my clientele would never let me forget it.
"Aaaaaaahhhhhhh! Rose!" Rita wailed and ran the length of the bar to meet me at the end. I'd forgotten her smell, but, of course, it brings you right back. We were immediately seated on the floor of her apartment, watching ER. Making fun of it. A good show, a great show, but Mystery Science Theater did it to us all.
"Come on, I'll get you a drink," I said.
"Oh, I can't believe you work right across the street from me. I'm going to become an alcoholic."
"Good," I said, smiling genuinely. I had really missed her, though I couldn't imagine what we would talk about anymore. "What should I push you down the slippery slope with?"
"Oh, um. Rum and Coke? Rum and diet."
I stared at her.
"Peach Martini?"
I continued to stare. She gave up.
"Whatever you want to give me."
"Ah," I said, and started to put together a Maker's Old Fashioned. She watched me for a while, then when she saw the length of the bourbon pour, raised an eyebrow and changed the subject.
"Have you been here long?"
"Couple of hours."
"No," she said, "have you been working here long?"
"Oh, about three years."
"Seeing anyone?"
"I've got my outlets. You?"
"Just broken up."
"I'm sorry," I said.
"Oh, God, don't be. He was good for show and good in bed, but an asshole in the real world."
We both reached for cigarettes at the same time.
"When did you start smoking?" we asked at once.
"About five years ago," I answered.
"Me too."
"And when did you start enjoying sex?" I asked.
She blushed. "I always enjoyed it. I just didn't talk about it."
"Right."
"No, right! I was just. I felt like if I talked about it, it would ruin it. Like it's better sacred. But that was dumb, huh?"
"No, I see your point." I pushed the drink by the tips of my fingers, as if it were dangerous, to her. "I just love talking about it."
The door opened and that guy came in. I'd been hoping. I straightened my shirt, wiped under my eyes in case there was any spare makeup and walked to him. "Hey, Rose."
"Usual?"
"Yeah."
His eyes, green in some lights, grey in others, sparkled in a grin. My balance, my state of cool, my mojo, was torn out from me and his eyes played keep away with it. I gave him a Fat Tire Ale and walked back to Rita, who had the same look in her eye.
"He comes in here?" Rita said.
"Yeah, you know him?"
"We used to work together." She leaned over the bar. "We used to flirt like mad, but I was still with Billy."
"That's the asshole, Billy?"
"Yeah. Haven't seen him in like a year...." She looked the guy up and down.
I leaned forward. "What's his name? He told me the first time I met him, and I didn't catch it, but now he comes in every day and I have no idea what it is."
"Robin."
"Why don't you call him over?" I asked, because Robin and I had been flirting too.
"Later," she said, carefully lifting the birdbath glass. "I need this first." She took a sip. "God, talk about talking about sex. That's all we ever did."
"Really?"
"Yeah, I used to call him the Twisted Ass Freak."
I choked on my cigarette. Hearing this from Rita was absolutely the last thing I could take.
"Why?"
"He was just obssessed."
"Taking or giving?"
"Both."
"Hmm," I said. The contents of my bag rattled in my head.
"Yeah, he was the guy who talked me into it."
"You said you were with asshole Billy."
"I was," she said, taking another cautious sip before balancing her glass back down. "I didn't say I did it with him. He just kept talking about it all the time until I felt like I was some sort of freak for not wanting it. I never even considered it before him."
"He just charmed you into it, then?"
"No, more like bullied me."
"Ah."
"So," she looked at me finally, as if just noticing that I'd known her as a completely different person, smiling in a blush, "Billy had been asking me to, so I thought what the hell. Robin told me what to do."
"Um, bend over."
"No, like what to think and what to try first and how I'm going to react. It took like six months, but I finally got really into it." The contents of my bag screamed. "Now, it's everything."
"Bad girl."
"Well, Billy liked it."
"But you say he took too?"
"Yeah, he had this girl with a strap-on that he saw all the time. I want to say her name was Alice? Doesn't matter. Twisted Ass Freak Robin, bent over his chair at work, showing me the angle. How we weren't fired, I'll never know. Oh wait, he was."
I laughed. "For that?"
"Probably. Never found out why."
Rita sipped her drink and stared intermittently between Robin and me. I waited for her to ask me something, anything, but she didn't. I took the initiative.
"I'm going to show you something in my bag," I said.
She didn't react. An image of Robin and me, alone late in the evening, nothing to talk about, appeared in my head. The perfect icebreaker, this. I unzipped the backpack and showed Rita.
"Oh my God! It wasn't you?"
"No. I told you I didn't even know his name. This guy I'm kind of messing around with, Harold? He gave this to me last night. I haven't been home."
"First time?"
"Yeah."
"What'd you think?"
I didn't answer, but raised an eyebrow and inhaled meaningfully.
Rita fell back in her chair and laughed. "Look at us," she said. "Three Twisted Ass Freaks."
"Who knew?" I said, carefully zipping up the strap-on.
"Robin!" Rita yelped. I noticed that she had drained her drink somehow when I wasn't looking.
Robin turned around and squinted at her. "Rita? Wow! I was just thinking about you today!"
Robin, apparently used to Rita's ways, leapt out of his chair and ran to her, thankfully not yelling. They hugged a little bit longer than I was comfortable with, but I held fast.
"I missed you!" Rita said. "And this is my old friend Rose."
"No I know Rose," he said, batting his eyelashes at me. I batted back. "No way you two are friends! Wait, let me get my drink."
He got it and ran back. I picked up his drink mat and placed it next to Rita.
"Yeah, Rose and I used to hang out all the time and then... then what happened?"
"You got a boyfriend."
"Oh. Yeah. Sorry about that."
Robin, Rita and I lit cigarettes at the same time. Marlboro Lights. "We should have a shot," I recommended.
"Maker's," Robin said.
"Maker's for me," I said.
"Sure," Rita said.
Robin smiled disgustingly wide, flirting with both of us. We both smiled back, smitten.
"What a coincidence, huh?" Robin said. "I wasn't even going to come in tonight."
"I just moved in across the street!" Rita said.
"So, it was only a matter of time, then?"
"No, I was never going to come in here!" Rita looked at me and winced apologetically. "It's a little scary on the outside, hon," she nodded at me.
"It is."
"But then some part of me remembered Rose and I looked to see if I still had her number and I did. And she still lives here. So I asked her where she works and here we are."
"And I wasn't even going to come in, but then I saw Rose was working, and I've been trying to get into her pants for ages." Melt. But he turned to Rita. "You still with Asshole?"
"No, finally dropped that bastard."
They shared some silent time for a while, taking this in. I raised my shot glass.
"Ready?"
"To what?" Robin asked.
"Timing," I said, forgivingly.
"Coincidence," Robin corrected.
"Okay, coincidence!"
We clinked and drank.
Robin and I drank and dropped the glasses with ease. Rita grasped her throat. "How weird it is to see you!" she said to Robin and not me. "Robin Davids, Twisted Ass Freak."
Robin grinned proudly, owning it. "Wait, your last name is Davids?" I said to him.
"Yeah, why?"
"All three of us have got the same initials. Rose Dawes," I started, fingers on my chest.
"Rita Driehaus," said Rita, doing the same.
"Robin Davids. Hmm."
"Hmm," said Rita and I.
"So, Mr. Davids, you're a Twisted Ass Freak, huh?" I said, and bit my bottom lip.
"Um hum."
"Rose!" Rita said. "You've gotta show him what's in your bag!"
"What? No!"
"Why, what's in your bag?" Robin said, slowly and sweetly, as if asking for my ear to lick.
"Nothing!" I insisted.
"She's got something you wanna see," Rita said. So much for timing.
"Really?" I unzipped the bag slowly, opening it just as Robin said, "What, you got a strap-on in there or something?"
We sat for a moment and took this in.
"You're making this very difficult for me," Robin said finally, exhaling hard and twisting his cigarette out.
"What's difficult?" Rita said.
"Let's have another shot," I said.
Maker's. Maker's. Maker's. Meaningful looks Robin to me, Robin to Rita. Clink. Sunk. Rita clutching her throat, her face in a wince.
"You still corrupted?" Robin asked Rita.
"What? Oh, yeah. Though it's been a while."
"And you?" He looked at me.
"Just at the lip of the slippery slope."
Robin coughed.
"You want another one, hon?" I asked Rita. Robin seemed to have forgotten his entirely.
"Just a Coke, I think," she said. "Diet."
The gun was on the other end of the bar. I let them talk, scooped ice into a glass, shot diet into it. Their conversation stopped. I turned around and brought the diet back, placed it in front of them. They were staring at each other. As I leaned over to empty the ashtray, I saw Robin's hand high on Rita's thigh. The thumb moved. I shouldn't have looked, but I did.
"Look, it's 11:30 and no one's coming in. I'm going to close, okay?"
"That's weird, I was just going to ask you when you close," Rita said.
"I was just going to mention no one's here," Robin said.
"I was just going to kiss you," Rita said, staring at him.
"I was just going to kiss both of you," Robin said. He laughed a little. No one else did. My head went back. I still thought of Rita as squeamish. How could I not?
Rita leaned into Robin and spread his lips slowly with hers. I came around the bar to start putting up chairs. Rita and Robin took my arm at the same time. Somehow, I'd been suddenly sure they would. Rita turned Robin's chin and we met there, the steam and sweet of his lips, unimaginable, in mine. My stomach dropped, the slopes, slippery enough, had been in my head all day. Howard's back under my hips. I'd dreamt of Robin before I came. His face had been in my mind for months now. Strangely too, I realized that I'd been wondering about Rita. Rita turned my chin then and kissed me, something clicking into place, the spokes all into the hub. Hubb and Spoeker. Never knew it. Robin took one of my hands to his jeans. Rita took the other to hers.
"Holy shit," Robin said.
Rita kissed him again, her hand moving mine in the heat between her legs. She stopped and pecked me again. "I missed you two so much."
"This is just weird," we all said. Then they said, "Lock the door," as I said, "I'm going to lock the door."
"I didn't want to say anything," Robin said as their heat radiated away from me in the air between them and the door, "but I'd been thinking about you, Rita, all day. You just kept coming up. And someone smelled like you too."
"Someone smelled like you!" she said, pointing at him.
"And Rose, this was weird, me thinking about Rita, because normally," and we both said together, "I'm thinking about you."
"Guys," Rita said, "I was working up some design for a non-profit today and their logo is a robin carrying a rose. They didn't have a good digital version, so I had to redraw it. It's all I did today."
I wanted to run screaming along the bar, but I simply walked hastily to the two of them, fell into them, and we were suddenly the same limbs, the same steam breath and the same skin. Robin's hands were swift, but we all seemed to know how each other's clothes worked, where the hidden buttons were, which was the easiest way to unhook Rita's bra, on what part of her neck she liked to be kissed. Robin's fingers trailed up and down my spine, nestled in just the right spots. I somehow knew that he needed to be touched just above his hip. He exhaled hard when I did. Rita and I kissed deeply before we moved Robin between us, my fingers finding her pussy around him, freshly shaved and sweet with wet. I admired Robin's back for a few moments, the points of his muscles around his shoulderblades. I kissed them. He gasped, then turned around. His lips sucked mine to him, fit them perfectly, locked them inside each other. Each little bit of friction was another thing that was right. His cock pressed into my stomach. My fingers turned around Rita, flipped and rubbed and teased. I could feel her skin, softer and yet the same as Robin's, at the ends of my arms.
"Get the thing," Robin said. "Go."
My body grinned, but once again cooled as I stepped away from them, strange to feel the wood floor of the bar barefoot. I leaned over and cinched up my bag, catching it on the lip of the bar, but finally releasing it. I turned to see them both standing on the pool table, staring at me.
"We're not in charge, are we?" I said.
"No," they said, and for the first time, no one laughed at the coincidence.
I pulled the gear out of the bag. "I don't know how to-" I started.
"I'll do it," Robin said. Of course.
They leaned over and hoisted me up. Robin strapped me in quickly, a quick once-over to know which kind he was dealing with. All lips were kissed, the lube bottle passed, a few tense moments, our skin vibrating on top of the pool table, and we each went to our knees, the clinking of my harness, the straps pulling and sliding into place under my buttocks. Rita turned and held Robin's head to her chest as I sorted things out. I'd only done this once before. He patiently took it, the dildo, and slid onto it. Rita and I watched it descend inside of him, watched his back make adjustments, and his knees on the felt and slate of the table. He was set and I tried moving a few times, to his quakes, to make sure the angle was right. Then Rita, with a kiss for me and a kiss for him, stood and turned around, dropped her knees to the outsides of Robin's and slid back slowly. I could feel it, could feel the response in Robin's ass to what was happening to his cock. I felt it pull on the dildo, on me. Robin's quakes were bigger, more definite under me.
"Okay?" Rita and I said at once.
"Go," Robin said.
Like a band that had been practicing for years, Rita and I knew how to start and at what rhythm. We see-sawed on and off of Robin, back and forth, back and forth. I thought I'd have trouble, as I did the night before, but this was seamless, perfect, a natural tone in space. My hands went to Robin's thighs, then Rita's, then mine. It was all the same anyway. We were all the same, even if just this moment, the same, a river of each other. Our cheeks bent into necks, our bodies lost our minds and we pumped, manual labor dissolving time and meaning, we pumped into each other.
A single glow grew between us, light and joy in the friction. Rita and I both knew, and she straightened one arm in front of her to lift the other. I found a small space between my thighs. We left us, our separate skin, and joined somewhere between us, only what mattered now, this build of unity in the world.
The three of us came together and melded together, on the pool table and not, and blurred the world of boundaries and difference, cell walls and the bounce of electron to electron. All of it is energy in the end. And when we were done, we knew better than to talk about it, simply fell apart and went back to Rita's apartment to sleep.
"I'm at this dive on Hubb and Spoeker."
"I knew you were around here somewhere. I'm at...." her voice trailed off. A girl appeared on the corner out the window, looking at the street signs. "I'm at Hubb and Spoeker."
"I'm right behind you, hon."
"This place? Oh, there you are!"
Rita's one of those girls who screams when she sees you and runs across the room for a hug. I'd forgotten about this. Luckily, it was dead. Otherwise my clientele would never let me forget it.
"Aaaaaaahhhhhhh! Rose!" Rita wailed and ran the length of the bar to meet me at the end. I'd forgotten her smell, but, of course, it brings you right back. We were immediately seated on the floor of her apartment, watching ER. Making fun of it. A good show, a great show, but Mystery Science Theater did it to us all.
"Come on, I'll get you a drink," I said.
"Oh, I can't believe you work right across the street from me. I'm going to become an alcoholic."
"Good," I said, smiling genuinely. I had really missed her, though I couldn't imagine what we would talk about anymore. "What should I push you down the slippery slope with?"
"Oh, um. Rum and Coke? Rum and diet."
I stared at her.
"Peach Martini?"
I continued to stare. She gave up.
"Whatever you want to give me."
"Ah," I said, and started to put together a Maker's Old Fashioned. She watched me for a while, then when she saw the length of the bourbon pour, raised an eyebrow and changed the subject.
"Have you been here long?"
"Couple of hours."
"No," she said, "have you been working here long?"
"Oh, about three years."
"Seeing anyone?"
"I've got my outlets. You?"
"Just broken up."
"I'm sorry," I said.
"Oh, God, don't be. He was good for show and good in bed, but an asshole in the real world."
We both reached for cigarettes at the same time.
"When did you start smoking?" we asked at once.
"About five years ago," I answered.
"Me too."
"And when did you start enjoying sex?" I asked.
She blushed. "I always enjoyed it. I just didn't talk about it."
"Right."
"No, right! I was just. I felt like if I talked about it, it would ruin it. Like it's better sacred. But that was dumb, huh?"
"No, I see your point." I pushed the drink by the tips of my fingers, as if it were dangerous, to her. "I just love talking about it."
The door opened and that guy came in. I'd been hoping. I straightened my shirt, wiped under my eyes in case there was any spare makeup and walked to him. "Hey, Rose."
"Usual?"
"Yeah."
His eyes, green in some lights, grey in others, sparkled in a grin. My balance, my state of cool, my mojo, was torn out from me and his eyes played keep away with it. I gave him a Fat Tire Ale and walked back to Rita, who had the same look in her eye.
"He comes in here?" Rita said.
"Yeah, you know him?"
"We used to work together." She leaned over the bar. "We used to flirt like mad, but I was still with Billy."
"That's the asshole, Billy?"
"Yeah. Haven't seen him in like a year...." She looked the guy up and down.
I leaned forward. "What's his name? He told me the first time I met him, and I didn't catch it, but now he comes in every day and I have no idea what it is."
"Robin."
"Why don't you call him over?" I asked, because Robin and I had been flirting too.
"Later," she said, carefully lifting the birdbath glass. "I need this first." She took a sip. "God, talk about talking about sex. That's all we ever did."
"Really?"
"Yeah, I used to call him the Twisted Ass Freak."
I choked on my cigarette. Hearing this from Rita was absolutely the last thing I could take.
"Why?"
"He was just obssessed."
"Taking or giving?"
"Both."
"Hmm," I said. The contents of my bag rattled in my head.
"Yeah, he was the guy who talked me into it."
"You said you were with asshole Billy."
"I was," she said, taking another cautious sip before balancing her glass back down. "I didn't say I did it with him. He just kept talking about it all the time until I felt like I was some sort of freak for not wanting it. I never even considered it before him."
"He just charmed you into it, then?"
"No, more like bullied me."
"Ah."
"So," she looked at me finally, as if just noticing that I'd known her as a completely different person, smiling in a blush, "Billy had been asking me to, so I thought what the hell. Robin told me what to do."
"Um, bend over."
"No, like what to think and what to try first and how I'm going to react. It took like six months, but I finally got really into it." The contents of my bag screamed. "Now, it's everything."
"Bad girl."
"Well, Billy liked it."
"But you say he took too?"
"Yeah, he had this girl with a strap-on that he saw all the time. I want to say her name was Alice? Doesn't matter. Twisted Ass Freak Robin, bent over his chair at work, showing me the angle. How we weren't fired, I'll never know. Oh wait, he was."
I laughed. "For that?"
"Probably. Never found out why."
Rita sipped her drink and stared intermittently between Robin and me. I waited for her to ask me something, anything, but she didn't. I took the initiative.
"I'm going to show you something in my bag," I said.
She didn't react. An image of Robin and me, alone late in the evening, nothing to talk about, appeared in my head. The perfect icebreaker, this. I unzipped the backpack and showed Rita.
"Oh my God! It wasn't you?"
"No. I told you I didn't even know his name. This guy I'm kind of messing around with, Harold? He gave this to me last night. I haven't been home."
"First time?"
"Yeah."
"What'd you think?"
I didn't answer, but raised an eyebrow and inhaled meaningfully.
Rita fell back in her chair and laughed. "Look at us," she said. "Three Twisted Ass Freaks."
"Who knew?" I said, carefully zipping up the strap-on.
"Robin!" Rita yelped. I noticed that she had drained her drink somehow when I wasn't looking.
Robin turned around and squinted at her. "Rita? Wow! I was just thinking about you today!"
Robin, apparently used to Rita's ways, leapt out of his chair and ran to her, thankfully not yelling. They hugged a little bit longer than I was comfortable with, but I held fast.
"I missed you!" Rita said. "And this is my old friend Rose."
"No I know Rose," he said, batting his eyelashes at me. I batted back. "No way you two are friends! Wait, let me get my drink."
He got it and ran back. I picked up his drink mat and placed it next to Rita.
"Yeah, Rose and I used to hang out all the time and then... then what happened?"
"You got a boyfriend."
"Oh. Yeah. Sorry about that."
Robin, Rita and I lit cigarettes at the same time. Marlboro Lights. "We should have a shot," I recommended.
"Maker's," Robin said.
"Maker's for me," I said.
"Sure," Rita said.
Robin smiled disgustingly wide, flirting with both of us. We both smiled back, smitten.
"What a coincidence, huh?" Robin said. "I wasn't even going to come in tonight."
"I just moved in across the street!" Rita said.
"So, it was only a matter of time, then?"
"No, I was never going to come in here!" Rita looked at me and winced apologetically. "It's a little scary on the outside, hon," she nodded at me.
"It is."
"But then some part of me remembered Rose and I looked to see if I still had her number and I did. And she still lives here. So I asked her where she works and here we are."
"And I wasn't even going to come in, but then I saw Rose was working, and I've been trying to get into her pants for ages." Melt. But he turned to Rita. "You still with Asshole?"
"No, finally dropped that bastard."
They shared some silent time for a while, taking this in. I raised my shot glass.
"Ready?"
"To what?" Robin asked.
"Timing," I said, forgivingly.
"Coincidence," Robin corrected.
"Okay, coincidence!"
We clinked and drank.
Robin and I drank and dropped the glasses with ease. Rita grasped her throat. "How weird it is to see you!" she said to Robin and not me. "Robin Davids, Twisted Ass Freak."
Robin grinned proudly, owning it. "Wait, your last name is Davids?" I said to him.
"Yeah, why?"
"All three of us have got the same initials. Rose Dawes," I started, fingers on my chest.
"Rita Driehaus," said Rita, doing the same.
"Robin Davids. Hmm."
"Hmm," said Rita and I.
"So, Mr. Davids, you're a Twisted Ass Freak, huh?" I said, and bit my bottom lip.
"Um hum."
"Rose!" Rita said. "You've gotta show him what's in your bag!"
"What? No!"
"Why, what's in your bag?" Robin said, slowly and sweetly, as if asking for my ear to lick.
"Nothing!" I insisted.
"She's got something you wanna see," Rita said. So much for timing.
"Really?" I unzipped the bag slowly, opening it just as Robin said, "What, you got a strap-on in there or something?"
We sat for a moment and took this in.
"You're making this very difficult for me," Robin said finally, exhaling hard and twisting his cigarette out.
"What's difficult?" Rita said.
"Let's have another shot," I said.
Maker's. Maker's. Maker's. Meaningful looks Robin to me, Robin to Rita. Clink. Sunk. Rita clutching her throat, her face in a wince.
"You still corrupted?" Robin asked Rita.
"What? Oh, yeah. Though it's been a while."
"And you?" He looked at me.
"Just at the lip of the slippery slope."
Robin coughed.
"You want another one, hon?" I asked Rita. Robin seemed to have forgotten his entirely.
"Just a Coke, I think," she said. "Diet."
The gun was on the other end of the bar. I let them talk, scooped ice into a glass, shot diet into it. Their conversation stopped. I turned around and brought the diet back, placed it in front of them. They were staring at each other. As I leaned over to empty the ashtray, I saw Robin's hand high on Rita's thigh. The thumb moved. I shouldn't have looked, but I did.
"Look, it's 11:30 and no one's coming in. I'm going to close, okay?"
"That's weird, I was just going to ask you when you close," Rita said.
"I was just going to mention no one's here," Robin said.
"I was just going to kiss you," Rita said, staring at him.
"I was just going to kiss both of you," Robin said. He laughed a little. No one else did. My head went back. I still thought of Rita as squeamish. How could I not?
Rita leaned into Robin and spread his lips slowly with hers. I came around the bar to start putting up chairs. Rita and Robin took my arm at the same time. Somehow, I'd been suddenly sure they would. Rita turned Robin's chin and we met there, the steam and sweet of his lips, unimaginable, in mine. My stomach dropped, the slopes, slippery enough, had been in my head all day. Howard's back under my hips. I'd dreamt of Robin before I came. His face had been in my mind for months now. Strangely too, I realized that I'd been wondering about Rita. Rita turned my chin then and kissed me, something clicking into place, the spokes all into the hub. Hubb and Spoeker. Never knew it. Robin took one of my hands to his jeans. Rita took the other to hers.
"Holy shit," Robin said.
Rita kissed him again, her hand moving mine in the heat between her legs. She stopped and pecked me again. "I missed you two so much."
"This is just weird," we all said. Then they said, "Lock the door," as I said, "I'm going to lock the door."
"I didn't want to say anything," Robin said as their heat radiated away from me in the air between them and the door, "but I'd been thinking about you, Rita, all day. You just kept coming up. And someone smelled like you too."
"Someone smelled like you!" she said, pointing at him.
"And Rose, this was weird, me thinking about Rita, because normally," and we both said together, "I'm thinking about you."
"Guys," Rita said, "I was working up some design for a non-profit today and their logo is a robin carrying a rose. They didn't have a good digital version, so I had to redraw it. It's all I did today."
I wanted to run screaming along the bar, but I simply walked hastily to the two of them, fell into them, and we were suddenly the same limbs, the same steam breath and the same skin. Robin's hands were swift, but we all seemed to know how each other's clothes worked, where the hidden buttons were, which was the easiest way to unhook Rita's bra, on what part of her neck she liked to be kissed. Robin's fingers trailed up and down my spine, nestled in just the right spots. I somehow knew that he needed to be touched just above his hip. He exhaled hard when I did. Rita and I kissed deeply before we moved Robin between us, my fingers finding her pussy around him, freshly shaved and sweet with wet. I admired Robin's back for a few moments, the points of his muscles around his shoulderblades. I kissed them. He gasped, then turned around. His lips sucked mine to him, fit them perfectly, locked them inside each other. Each little bit of friction was another thing that was right. His cock pressed into my stomach. My fingers turned around Rita, flipped and rubbed and teased. I could feel her skin, softer and yet the same as Robin's, at the ends of my arms.
"Get the thing," Robin said. "Go."
My body grinned, but once again cooled as I stepped away from them, strange to feel the wood floor of the bar barefoot. I leaned over and cinched up my bag, catching it on the lip of the bar, but finally releasing it. I turned to see them both standing on the pool table, staring at me.
"We're not in charge, are we?" I said.
"No," they said, and for the first time, no one laughed at the coincidence.
I pulled the gear out of the bag. "I don't know how to-" I started.
"I'll do it," Robin said. Of course.
They leaned over and hoisted me up. Robin strapped me in quickly, a quick once-over to know which kind he was dealing with. All lips were kissed, the lube bottle passed, a few tense moments, our skin vibrating on top of the pool table, and we each went to our knees, the clinking of my harness, the straps pulling and sliding into place under my buttocks. Rita turned and held Robin's head to her chest as I sorted things out. I'd only done this once before. He patiently took it, the dildo, and slid onto it. Rita and I watched it descend inside of him, watched his back make adjustments, and his knees on the felt and slate of the table. He was set and I tried moving a few times, to his quakes, to make sure the angle was right. Then Rita, with a kiss for me and a kiss for him, stood and turned around, dropped her knees to the outsides of Robin's and slid back slowly. I could feel it, could feel the response in Robin's ass to what was happening to his cock. I felt it pull on the dildo, on me. Robin's quakes were bigger, more definite under me.
"Okay?" Rita and I said at once.
"Go," Robin said.
Like a band that had been practicing for years, Rita and I knew how to start and at what rhythm. We see-sawed on and off of Robin, back and forth, back and forth. I thought I'd have trouble, as I did the night before, but this was seamless, perfect, a natural tone in space. My hands went to Robin's thighs, then Rita's, then mine. It was all the same anyway. We were all the same, even if just this moment, the same, a river of each other. Our cheeks bent into necks, our bodies lost our minds and we pumped, manual labor dissolving time and meaning, we pumped into each other.
A single glow grew between us, light and joy in the friction. Rita and I both knew, and she straightened one arm in front of her to lift the other. I found a small space between my thighs. We left us, our separate skin, and joined somewhere between us, only what mattered now, this build of unity in the world.
The three of us came together and melded together, on the pool table and not, and blurred the world of boundaries and difference, cell walls and the bounce of electron to electron. All of it is energy in the end. And when we were done, we knew better than to talk about it, simply fell apart and went back to Rita's apartment to sleep.
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Selfish
My cell phone rings. It’s Christopher.
“Would you meet me in my office, please?”
The office is exactly two doors away. I swing out of bed and go to the hallway. The door to the office is closed. I’m compelled to knock.
“Enter,” he says.
The doorknob twists and it occurs to me that I’ve never turned it. Never had this door closed before. Christopher is at his desk, facing the other way.
“Yes?” I ask, trying to quell a laugh.
“What did you do with your vacation day yesterday?”
“I relaxed.”
“I can see that,” he says.
“Well, I suppose I should have done the dishes or something, but I just wanted to take a day and do nothing.”
“Why don’t you come over here?” he asks, getting out of his chair. I’m about to take it, but he kicks it to the side. “Bend over the desk, please,” he says, with a less polite hand on the back of my neck. I’m confused, but do it anyway. He reaches around my front, unties my sweatpants and drops them. He reaches around me, takes the mouse and double clicks on what I now notice is a folder full of .mov files. The silver window pops up and begins to play. It’s me in the bedroom, legs spread, fingers inside.
A teenager voice appears in my twenty-five-year-old throat. “You’ve got a camera in there?”
My ass is spanked, open handed and hard. In the video, the cat jumps on the bed, but I don’t notice her. I’m about to come, my head throwing back, my breasts cresting. The cat sits in the window and stares at me. Here, my ass is spanked again.
“Yes, I’ve got a camera in there. For good reason, it seems. This is what you do all day while I’m off” [spank] “earning money for us?”
There is no answer, so I don’t give one. He spanks me again, and I’m trembling. The pain, from its three centers, begins to join into one stinging, itching sore. In the video, I’m done, my chest heaving, my hand on my thigh, the cat looking out the window. He clicks that one shut and then picks another one. At first, he seems to look randomly, but then finds a specific file, one that seems to bother him the most. Double click and it’s me again, at this desk, my feet spread on either end of it. On the screen is a video. It’s too bright to make out, but I know what it was.
“All day long,” he says. He opens his lower left hand drawer, pulls out a paddle. I see this out of the corner of my eye, but try to turn anyway, to see one of these cameras. He doesn’t let me, takes my head and points it forward. “Yes, you have to look,” he grumbles. The exposure of my ass has become palpable to me. It suddenly feels cold, vulnerable. I didn’t know about the paddle. I dread it. “Look at yourself, you selfish little girl. This was about when I was working through lunch. I’m bent over my desk….” The paddle comes down. My knees bend, my face twists, my pussy, shockingly, swells. It’s the video, I tell myself, and feel the polished wood make gentle contact back where it hit, resting there. “And you’re straddling the one at home. Selfish!” he yells, and the paddle comes down again. “Selfish,” [smack], “selfish,” [smack] “selfish!” My eyes are tearing up. He leaves this video going and opens another, drags it to another corner of the screen. It’s me again, in the bathroom this time. Over the toilet, a bottle of baby oil to my right, a rabbit vibe in the other. My toes curl over the doorknob. I’m spanked again, again, again. My pussy is somehow lit, straining, dripping. He kicks my legs apart, opens yet another video. Me in bed again, a different part of the day, the sun higher across the comforter. The cat is at the foot, resting on my toes as if nothing is happening.
“What do you have to say for yourself?” he asks.
“I…” [spank] “ouch.”
“That’s right, you greedy, selfish bitch.” [spank] “No consideration for me. No thought of my cock.” [spank} “Stupidly going to work while you diddle away all day.” In the video, my eyes stare vapidly at the ceiling. I can’t imagine what I was thinking about. Probably Christopher’s cock, actually. That I didn’t look forward and find a camera is a mystery. [spank] My ass is a giant, burning sting now, the desire in my pussy put into vivid contrast. I would do anything to have him in me right now.
Three movies open now. I’m coming in the one at the desk, my back bent over the chair, my legs trembling. It’s a strange picture. You never see a woman come in porn. I’ve never, actually, seen this before, my knees shut, my whole body rolling in the air. He distracts me with another spank and suddenly I’m impaled on him, his cock reaching for my liver.
“You do the work,” he says. I grasp the sides of the desk and begin to move, to service him. He spanks and I go tighter on him, trying to strangle him in my muscles. The desk video freezes, out of information. In the bathroom, my mouth hangs open, my foot slipping and catching on the door. I’m suddenly intensely envious of myself in these videos. My clit is screaming for contact with anything at all right now. I’m sweating from the effort, grinding Christopher, fucking him at this impossible angle. In the bed video, I’m screaming out “God, God, God, that’s it!” The cat is kicked off the bed with an indignant yelp. “Selfish bitch,” Christopher simply states. I can see his point now. There is rise deep in his nose, a gruff, sinister groan. He’s coming, and I slow on him until he freezes my hips in his hands. He pulls out and spanks me again.
“Close the videos, put something I like on your body and meet me downstairs. You’ve got a long day ahead of you.”
He leaves me bent over the desk. I know I shouldn’t, but I put my hands between my legs and slip the handle of the paddle inside. It’s still warm from his fist. A few hard swipes on my clit and I come, squirming over the desk, falling to my knees. My ankles hit my ass and I can feel the red hot in the cheeks. After a few moments, I pull myself up, control q the videos away, and go to my bedroom dresser to find something to wear.
“Would you meet me in my office, please?”
The office is exactly two doors away. I swing out of bed and go to the hallway. The door to the office is closed. I’m compelled to knock.
“Enter,” he says.
The doorknob twists and it occurs to me that I’ve never turned it. Never had this door closed before. Christopher is at his desk, facing the other way.
“Yes?” I ask, trying to quell a laugh.
“What did you do with your vacation day yesterday?”
“I relaxed.”
“I can see that,” he says.
“Well, I suppose I should have done the dishes or something, but I just wanted to take a day and do nothing.”
“Why don’t you come over here?” he asks, getting out of his chair. I’m about to take it, but he kicks it to the side. “Bend over the desk, please,” he says, with a less polite hand on the back of my neck. I’m confused, but do it anyway. He reaches around my front, unties my sweatpants and drops them. He reaches around me, takes the mouse and double clicks on what I now notice is a folder full of .mov files. The silver window pops up and begins to play. It’s me in the bedroom, legs spread, fingers inside.
A teenager voice appears in my twenty-five-year-old throat. “You’ve got a camera in there?”
My ass is spanked, open handed and hard. In the video, the cat jumps on the bed, but I don’t notice her. I’m about to come, my head throwing back, my breasts cresting. The cat sits in the window and stares at me. Here, my ass is spanked again.
“Yes, I’ve got a camera in there. For good reason, it seems. This is what you do all day while I’m off” [spank] “earning money for us?”
There is no answer, so I don’t give one. He spanks me again, and I’m trembling. The pain, from its three centers, begins to join into one stinging, itching sore. In the video, I’m done, my chest heaving, my hand on my thigh, the cat looking out the window. He clicks that one shut and then picks another one. At first, he seems to look randomly, but then finds a specific file, one that seems to bother him the most. Double click and it’s me again, at this desk, my feet spread on either end of it. On the screen is a video. It’s too bright to make out, but I know what it was.
“All day long,” he says. He opens his lower left hand drawer, pulls out a paddle. I see this out of the corner of my eye, but try to turn anyway, to see one of these cameras. He doesn’t let me, takes my head and points it forward. “Yes, you have to look,” he grumbles. The exposure of my ass has become palpable to me. It suddenly feels cold, vulnerable. I didn’t know about the paddle. I dread it. “Look at yourself, you selfish little girl. This was about when I was working through lunch. I’m bent over my desk….” The paddle comes down. My knees bend, my face twists, my pussy, shockingly, swells. It’s the video, I tell myself, and feel the polished wood make gentle contact back where it hit, resting there. “And you’re straddling the one at home. Selfish!” he yells, and the paddle comes down again. “Selfish,” [smack], “selfish,” [smack] “selfish!” My eyes are tearing up. He leaves this video going and opens another, drags it to another corner of the screen. It’s me again, in the bathroom this time. Over the toilet, a bottle of baby oil to my right, a rabbit vibe in the other. My toes curl over the doorknob. I’m spanked again, again, again. My pussy is somehow lit, straining, dripping. He kicks my legs apart, opens yet another video. Me in bed again, a different part of the day, the sun higher across the comforter. The cat is at the foot, resting on my toes as if nothing is happening.
“What do you have to say for yourself?” he asks.
“I…” [spank] “ouch.”
“That’s right, you greedy, selfish bitch.” [spank] “No consideration for me. No thought of my cock.” [spank} “Stupidly going to work while you diddle away all day.” In the video, my eyes stare vapidly at the ceiling. I can’t imagine what I was thinking about. Probably Christopher’s cock, actually. That I didn’t look forward and find a camera is a mystery. [spank] My ass is a giant, burning sting now, the desire in my pussy put into vivid contrast. I would do anything to have him in me right now.
Three movies open now. I’m coming in the one at the desk, my back bent over the chair, my legs trembling. It’s a strange picture. You never see a woman come in porn. I’ve never, actually, seen this before, my knees shut, my whole body rolling in the air. He distracts me with another spank and suddenly I’m impaled on him, his cock reaching for my liver.
“You do the work,” he says. I grasp the sides of the desk and begin to move, to service him. He spanks and I go tighter on him, trying to strangle him in my muscles. The desk video freezes, out of information. In the bathroom, my mouth hangs open, my foot slipping and catching on the door. I’m suddenly intensely envious of myself in these videos. My clit is screaming for contact with anything at all right now. I’m sweating from the effort, grinding Christopher, fucking him at this impossible angle. In the bed video, I’m screaming out “God, God, God, that’s it!” The cat is kicked off the bed with an indignant yelp. “Selfish bitch,” Christopher simply states. I can see his point now. There is rise deep in his nose, a gruff, sinister groan. He’s coming, and I slow on him until he freezes my hips in his hands. He pulls out and spanks me again.
“Close the videos, put something I like on your body and meet me downstairs. You’ve got a long day ahead of you.”
He leaves me bent over the desk. I know I shouldn’t, but I put my hands between my legs and slip the handle of the paddle inside. It’s still warm from his fist. A few hard swipes on my clit and I come, squirming over the desk, falling to my knees. My ankles hit my ass and I can feel the red hot in the cheeks. After a few moments, I pull myself up, control q the videos away, and go to my bedroom dresser to find something to wear.
Sunday, September 23, 2007
Eponymous
We lounge on your couch, grape-eating style, our legs intertwined, your cock lazy and curled on your stomach, one of your balls hanging between your thighs, the other stuck against your left thigh. Your stomach is hairy, soft, reddish brown. It’s flat, the result of years of agonizing denial and a certain Siddhartha masochism. Mine isn’t. It’s round and pudgy, jovial, the result of years of lazing around on couches. Doctors could cut me open and count the rings, “Ah,” they’d say to each other, “that was 2002, the year she found out she liked mayonnaise.” “It was a good year,” the other would say. You poke me in the stomach with your big toe and look me in the eye. I smile.
“Why aren’t there any good words for female masturbation?” you ask, as if it’s been my responsibility all along to create one.
“The only good one I ever heard was ‘petting the old man in the rowboat,’ but we need something shorter.”
“Yes. Flicking?” you suggest.
“Hmm. That’s good. Nub rubbing?”
“Nah.” Your toe slides up my stomach and absently toys with my nipple. It’s turning me on, but I don’t betray it. “Tender tapping?”
“Tapping?”
“Well, I don’t really ‘jerk’ either.”
My nipple is hard now, could tickle the bottom of your feet if you’d let it. My mouth has been opening slowly. I close it.
“Flicking’s good,” I say, because I can’t think with you doing that.
“How often do you flick, then?” you ask, releasing my nipple. You drop your foot between my side and the couch, supporting my back with it. Your toenails scratch an itch.
“It varies. About three times a week on average, but I’ve been known to let it drop to once a week.”
“My God, how do you live like that?” you ask, a twitch in your cock. I pretend not to notice.
“But I have many weeks where I must at least once a day, and some days are completely lost in self-ravaging.”
“Flicking, darling.”
“Flicking. Mostly it varies on time and opportunity. You?”
“Twice a day.”
“Standard.”
“Is it, do you think?”
“Uh-huh. But this morning…. Have you today?”
“Saving it up,” you say, casually. I smile though. You risk a glance and see it. The compliment hit. “You?”
“Saving it up.”
“Why?”
“It’s better if I haven’t in a while.”
“I’m saving because I want to coat that pretty face of yours, though.”
“Aw, that’s sweet.”
“Hopeless romantic, that’s me,” you joke, but the twitch has become something of a half-erection. “How do you do it?” you ask. We’re going down that road now.
I blush. I buy time. “Do what?”
“Flick,” you say, simply, the K sound emphasized and precise.
“I open the lips, check for wetness….”
“Show me.”
I knew this was coming, but I’m still blushing madly. This conversation is a lot like being tied down. I stare at you, all faux-shock, but you continue to calmly watch, all seriousness and scientific curiosity. My hand slides down and I throw a leg, as elegantly as I can, over the back of your couch. Your eyes drop. My finger goes in, separates the lips so you can see, so I’m exposed to you. I dip a finger, wet, and work back up. And there, less of a flick and more like a rub, I begin.
I’m watching your cock, the arc it makes over your lower abdomen as it raises, unfurls, solidifies. It’s a perfect fit for my mouth and I think about that as I rub myself, what that tastes like, what it feels like to flatten your veins under my lips, making you lose yourself finally, making you unleash, grasping my shoulder as you explode. It works well, my hand coated now. My eyes open again and you’re breathing deeply, an open look in your face and your cock hovering over your lower body, finding no friction in the air. Your hands, however, lay calmly on your chest and between the couch and its cushions. I’m going in then. You can’t expect me to stay here.
I draw my legs back, lean forward, roll onto my knees, and handless, pull your cock into my mouth with a hooked tongue. The rounded tip, the nose of a rocket, all swollen and spongy in the skin. Farther, my lips sliding over the tip, like making my way over the points of an arrow, headed for the shaft, and the skin here is softer, looser. It’s been years since I’ve had an uncut one in my mouth. I play with it for awhile, move the skin around with the tip of my tongue, then try to hold the slack with it, moving back and forth along the skin with my lips. My fingers slip easily over my clit, the angle allowing a free flow of slick wetness to my fingers. Now, farther down on your cock, the lips scouting before they pull you in, my tongue welcoming you, warming you, teasing you and tasting you. And my fingers find a new high, and my back arches for a moment. I snap them off of me for a moment, grab your balls instead, cradle them, pull them a little in their tight suede bag. Then, my fingers still a little wet, now receiving a bit of the saliva that drips from my mouth, I go behind your balls, massage you there firmly.
You jump a little as I find a rhythm, matching the swing of my fingers to the one in my neck. I want to ask you what you want, but my mouth is full.
“Go back to yourself,” you say. “Get flicking, girl.”
So I let your cock down slowly, push off your knees and sit back, my legs splaying even less elegantly than before. And there, the fingers of my left hand spread my lips in a V shape, my clit left out there, a helpless little thing to be battered, hard like a cherry and soaking in its own brandy. The other hand reaches and batters it, pushes harder into the side, and I can feel it throb, my mind singularizing on this spot, clit, clit, clit. You’ve started to stroke yourself, and your lips pull. Your eyes close for a moment and you have a half swoon. So do I. You sit up, crawl to me on your knees, and whimper. Come squirts before you’re ready, swipes my breasts, my stomach, my clit. I rub it in there and lose you and the world for a moment, crash inside, lose thought and self. There is you and there is peace and there is joy and then, then, then, there is breath again.
“You know,” you say, falling back to your side of the couch, “when I was watching you….”
“Yeah?”
“I think ‘petting the old man in the rowboat’ might be better.”
I roll some of your come in my index finger and flick it in your face.
“Why aren’t there any good words for female masturbation?” you ask, as if it’s been my responsibility all along to create one.
“The only good one I ever heard was ‘petting the old man in the rowboat,’ but we need something shorter.”
“Yes. Flicking?” you suggest.
“Hmm. That’s good. Nub rubbing?”
“Nah.” Your toe slides up my stomach and absently toys with my nipple. It’s turning me on, but I don’t betray it. “Tender tapping?”
“Tapping?”
“Well, I don’t really ‘jerk’ either.”
My nipple is hard now, could tickle the bottom of your feet if you’d let it. My mouth has been opening slowly. I close it.
“Flicking’s good,” I say, because I can’t think with you doing that.
“How often do you flick, then?” you ask, releasing my nipple. You drop your foot between my side and the couch, supporting my back with it. Your toenails scratch an itch.
“It varies. About three times a week on average, but I’ve been known to let it drop to once a week.”
“My God, how do you live like that?” you ask, a twitch in your cock. I pretend not to notice.
“But I have many weeks where I must at least once a day, and some days are completely lost in self-ravaging.”
“Flicking, darling.”
“Flicking. Mostly it varies on time and opportunity. You?”
“Twice a day.”
“Standard.”
“Is it, do you think?”
“Uh-huh. But this morning…. Have you today?”
“Saving it up,” you say, casually. I smile though. You risk a glance and see it. The compliment hit. “You?”
“Saving it up.”
“Why?”
“It’s better if I haven’t in a while.”
“I’m saving because I want to coat that pretty face of yours, though.”
“Aw, that’s sweet.”
“Hopeless romantic, that’s me,” you joke, but the twitch has become something of a half-erection. “How do you do it?” you ask. We’re going down that road now.
I blush. I buy time. “Do what?”
“Flick,” you say, simply, the K sound emphasized and precise.
“I open the lips, check for wetness….”
“Show me.”
I knew this was coming, but I’m still blushing madly. This conversation is a lot like being tied down. I stare at you, all faux-shock, but you continue to calmly watch, all seriousness and scientific curiosity. My hand slides down and I throw a leg, as elegantly as I can, over the back of your couch. Your eyes drop. My finger goes in, separates the lips so you can see, so I’m exposed to you. I dip a finger, wet, and work back up. And there, less of a flick and more like a rub, I begin.
I’m watching your cock, the arc it makes over your lower abdomen as it raises, unfurls, solidifies. It’s a perfect fit for my mouth and I think about that as I rub myself, what that tastes like, what it feels like to flatten your veins under my lips, making you lose yourself finally, making you unleash, grasping my shoulder as you explode. It works well, my hand coated now. My eyes open again and you’re breathing deeply, an open look in your face and your cock hovering over your lower body, finding no friction in the air. Your hands, however, lay calmly on your chest and between the couch and its cushions. I’m going in then. You can’t expect me to stay here.
I draw my legs back, lean forward, roll onto my knees, and handless, pull your cock into my mouth with a hooked tongue. The rounded tip, the nose of a rocket, all swollen and spongy in the skin. Farther, my lips sliding over the tip, like making my way over the points of an arrow, headed for the shaft, and the skin here is softer, looser. It’s been years since I’ve had an uncut one in my mouth. I play with it for awhile, move the skin around with the tip of my tongue, then try to hold the slack with it, moving back and forth along the skin with my lips. My fingers slip easily over my clit, the angle allowing a free flow of slick wetness to my fingers. Now, farther down on your cock, the lips scouting before they pull you in, my tongue welcoming you, warming you, teasing you and tasting you. And my fingers find a new high, and my back arches for a moment. I snap them off of me for a moment, grab your balls instead, cradle them, pull them a little in their tight suede bag. Then, my fingers still a little wet, now receiving a bit of the saliva that drips from my mouth, I go behind your balls, massage you there firmly.
You jump a little as I find a rhythm, matching the swing of my fingers to the one in my neck. I want to ask you what you want, but my mouth is full.
“Go back to yourself,” you say. “Get flicking, girl.”
So I let your cock down slowly, push off your knees and sit back, my legs splaying even less elegantly than before. And there, the fingers of my left hand spread my lips in a V shape, my clit left out there, a helpless little thing to be battered, hard like a cherry and soaking in its own brandy. The other hand reaches and batters it, pushes harder into the side, and I can feel it throb, my mind singularizing on this spot, clit, clit, clit. You’ve started to stroke yourself, and your lips pull. Your eyes close for a moment and you have a half swoon. So do I. You sit up, crawl to me on your knees, and whimper. Come squirts before you’re ready, swipes my breasts, my stomach, my clit. I rub it in there and lose you and the world for a moment, crash inside, lose thought and self. There is you and there is peace and there is joy and then, then, then, there is breath again.
“You know,” you say, falling back to your side of the couch, “when I was watching you….”
“Yeah?”
“I think ‘petting the old man in the rowboat’ might be better.”
I roll some of your come in my index finger and flick it in your face.
Monday, September 10, 2007
Oil, Water and Skin
The bathtub was one of those old kinds, yet not old enough to have those claws around those orbs. Oh well. The fixture was old too, brass and tin plate that hung from the iron behind it like a flaccid penis. The handles, the cocks, were satisfying to hold and turn. They occupied her hand like they were holding it. She put the stopper in and turned the handle marked C, chaud and steam-flanked water came forth, pummeling the stopper. She let the room steam as she prepared for the bath.
The bath pillow had been exchanged for one of those water worm kids’ toys, the better to hold her arms and shoulders out of the tub. It was now permanently bent in a U shape, to accommodate the tub. There was oil now instead of the bubble bath, which had always dried her skin. The oil let that part of her body survive the winter, stopped the islands of crust that would appear on her upper arms before they had a chance to become permanently settled. There was the shower attachment, rounded at the female end like the tail of a condom to perfectly circle the bathtub spout. She hung this from the rounded end of the tub, its shower end twisted off, now a headless tube, beige like her skin in the summer or the faux generic color of Band-Aids.
The room properly steamed, she shut the door tightly. The lock had long ago ceased to work, but the house had settled enough for the door to hold fast. It would take three good shoves to open, give her enough time to prepare for visitors. No one ever knocked in her house. She turned the other cock, marked F, froid, and the water, a little tamed now in temperature, came down in a cataract, causing Niagara-style chaos below. She put a washcloth down, tested the water, made adjustments and slipped a toe inside. Always toe-first in the water, the land always hands first. Imagine the first fish stepping out onto dry land with its rear fins. She returned to the pond and found it body temperature, warm oil slicks floating cheerfully on top, waiting to coat her in citrus-scented softness. A single candle on the toilet seat coloured the room in orange-yellow, her eyes adjusted to it now, she pulled the other leg in and lowered herself, gracefully, to the iron floor.
A hot bath is cruelty, she thought, a forced sweat and skin on your toes shriveling fast like overcooked hot dogs. A cold bath is nice in the summer for a while, but eventually turns cloying, wishy-washy, boring. A thirty-seven point zero Celsius bath is like floating in nothing. In the dark, it’s easier to imagine. She could close her eyes in the candlelight and feel as though she were suspended in the air, could take up flight if she felt like it. She didn’t feel like it, preferred to hover in the ether. It strangely made movement harder, but her weight less consequential. She put her legs up on either side of the spigot and waited until she was covered.
She watched the water crawl up her skin, the curl of its surface tension up her stomach. Her breasts began to float, the nipples hard and pointing up, too stubborn to drown. She hooked a toe in the ring of the stopper and pulled it out. The drain, choked with the influx, fought before it gave in to a steady flow. It matched the incoming flood from the faucet. She attached the condom end to the spigot and waited, her thumb at the other end, the headless tube between her thighs. And then, the stream, the pressure, which played in her public hair and blew the lips of her pussy apart.
It was manageable, almost imperceptible at this strength. She could see only a minor dent in the skin of her thigh if she pressed it in. It was almost silent too, just a dull swish under the water. Years ago, an old boyfriend used to clean her asshole this way, would press the headed shower extension between the cheeks of her ass until it was power-washed. He’d then lift it out of the water for a good suck, a good lick and kiss. She moved this softer, subtler stream down to it now first thing, closing her eyes and remembering his lips, the euphoria of it, the intimacy. She then put her thumb over the open end, just a little bit at a time, until the force was almost unbearable and she had to stop.
Then up, slowly, a forceful beating at her hole, then slowly, teasingly, further up, the thumb released again, up, and there, just there, the soft, continuous stream of pleasure, twisting into elation.
She could leave it like this, often thought of trying it, seeing how long it took to bring her up and then down, the slowest growing orgasm in her life, but she’d never made it. Her thumb did what it had to, and dropped over the end of the tube, sending the slow, oxbow-forming, wide river into crashing rapids, the kind that wrap around her clit like whitewater grudgingly wearing away at a stubborn rock.
She wasn’t thinking of this, had perfected this dance ages ago. Her mind was full of skin and hard cock. It was at her face and in her mouth. It was in her pussy or in her hands. She was watching men masturbate, or watching them get sucked. Their heads lolled behind them, their hands clenched at the air. She was tied down sometimes and used or whipped or spanked. Sometimes there were no men at all but machines or dildos on walls. Sometimes there were women suckling her nipples. Sometimes there was nothing but her and the shower extender, her clit, the little, helpless pearl, out there to be battered.
Sometimes soon, sometimes later, her mind would rise and her back would tense. Her mouth would open and she would only have the weakest sense of herself in the world. She would suffer and she would whine quietly and she would lose the crank in the cogs in her head. She would burst with it, a supernova in miniature, and slowly, over the period of the remainder of her bath, shrink back to herself, a little better than before.
The bath pillow had been exchanged for one of those water worm kids’ toys, the better to hold her arms and shoulders out of the tub. It was now permanently bent in a U shape, to accommodate the tub. There was oil now instead of the bubble bath, which had always dried her skin. The oil let that part of her body survive the winter, stopped the islands of crust that would appear on her upper arms before they had a chance to become permanently settled. There was the shower attachment, rounded at the female end like the tail of a condom to perfectly circle the bathtub spout. She hung this from the rounded end of the tub, its shower end twisted off, now a headless tube, beige like her skin in the summer or the faux generic color of Band-Aids.
The room properly steamed, she shut the door tightly. The lock had long ago ceased to work, but the house had settled enough for the door to hold fast. It would take three good shoves to open, give her enough time to prepare for visitors. No one ever knocked in her house. She turned the other cock, marked F, froid, and the water, a little tamed now in temperature, came down in a cataract, causing Niagara-style chaos below. She put a washcloth down, tested the water, made adjustments and slipped a toe inside. Always toe-first in the water, the land always hands first. Imagine the first fish stepping out onto dry land with its rear fins. She returned to the pond and found it body temperature, warm oil slicks floating cheerfully on top, waiting to coat her in citrus-scented softness. A single candle on the toilet seat coloured the room in orange-yellow, her eyes adjusted to it now, she pulled the other leg in and lowered herself, gracefully, to the iron floor.
A hot bath is cruelty, she thought, a forced sweat and skin on your toes shriveling fast like overcooked hot dogs. A cold bath is nice in the summer for a while, but eventually turns cloying, wishy-washy, boring. A thirty-seven point zero Celsius bath is like floating in nothing. In the dark, it’s easier to imagine. She could close her eyes in the candlelight and feel as though she were suspended in the air, could take up flight if she felt like it. She didn’t feel like it, preferred to hover in the ether. It strangely made movement harder, but her weight less consequential. She put her legs up on either side of the spigot and waited until she was covered.
She watched the water crawl up her skin, the curl of its surface tension up her stomach. Her breasts began to float, the nipples hard and pointing up, too stubborn to drown. She hooked a toe in the ring of the stopper and pulled it out. The drain, choked with the influx, fought before it gave in to a steady flow. It matched the incoming flood from the faucet. She attached the condom end to the spigot and waited, her thumb at the other end, the headless tube between her thighs. And then, the stream, the pressure, which played in her public hair and blew the lips of her pussy apart.
It was manageable, almost imperceptible at this strength. She could see only a minor dent in the skin of her thigh if she pressed it in. It was almost silent too, just a dull swish under the water. Years ago, an old boyfriend used to clean her asshole this way, would press the headed shower extension between the cheeks of her ass until it was power-washed. He’d then lift it out of the water for a good suck, a good lick and kiss. She moved this softer, subtler stream down to it now first thing, closing her eyes and remembering his lips, the euphoria of it, the intimacy. She then put her thumb over the open end, just a little bit at a time, until the force was almost unbearable and she had to stop.
Then up, slowly, a forceful beating at her hole, then slowly, teasingly, further up, the thumb released again, up, and there, just there, the soft, continuous stream of pleasure, twisting into elation.
She could leave it like this, often thought of trying it, seeing how long it took to bring her up and then down, the slowest growing orgasm in her life, but she’d never made it. Her thumb did what it had to, and dropped over the end of the tube, sending the slow, oxbow-forming, wide river into crashing rapids, the kind that wrap around her clit like whitewater grudgingly wearing away at a stubborn rock.
She wasn’t thinking of this, had perfected this dance ages ago. Her mind was full of skin and hard cock. It was at her face and in her mouth. It was in her pussy or in her hands. She was watching men masturbate, or watching them get sucked. Their heads lolled behind them, their hands clenched at the air. She was tied down sometimes and used or whipped or spanked. Sometimes there were no men at all but machines or dildos on walls. Sometimes there were women suckling her nipples. Sometimes there was nothing but her and the shower extender, her clit, the little, helpless pearl, out there to be battered.
Sometimes soon, sometimes later, her mind would rise and her back would tense. Her mouth would open and she would only have the weakest sense of herself in the world. She would suffer and she would whine quietly and she would lose the crank in the cogs in her head. She would burst with it, a supernova in miniature, and slowly, over the period of the remainder of her bath, shrink back to herself, a little better than before.
Friday, August 24, 2007
The Party-Part Five, Listen
I’m told to just lay there, so I do. There are three others, all sort of stuck on benches just big enough to take our weight and balance us. My legs are apart on either side of the bench and my toes, stretched as long as I can get them, just make contact with the floor. I pretended to be in it for the money, but the money was really just there to justify this indulgence, to take away the fear of being sprawled naked in front of strangers, my breasts fallen to the sides, my pussy open to the touch of whomever wants to touch it. My lips, my nipples, even my freaking knees are available and I lay there, because they told me to, because I want to, with my hands frozen in place on the legs of a bench.
Often, a man will approach me, make eye contact with me, and lay a trembling hand on the breast nearest him. They exhale visibly, as if they were sure they’d never feel one again, and respectfully let it drop again. Some kiss me on the forehead like a child after they do. Some kiss me on the lips. My pussy lays open and waits. The first to have the guts, or maybe to take on the responsibility, is a woman.
By this time, my mind has been filled with fingers, smooth ones and callused ones, manicured and shaped ones, others with rough nails that scratch their signature into me. A fondue pot boils chocolate for strawberries and melons nearby. I imagine the tips of the strawberries, dripping with the chocolate, rubbing against me, outlining my curves and dips. I imagine it toying my clit, dipping into me, twisted and popped into someone’s mouth.
But the lower half of my body is entirely ignored for an hour. All around me, people are in mixed states of stimulation, some just buzzing and watching others, some in drowsy, post-coital bliss, some exploring, some showing off, some laughing, some howling, and my body just swells more with each tease, needs more, is ready to make summit just on its own. And then a woman, an aging hippy who fell into money somewhere along the way, bends over me curiously, slides her hand up my inner thigh and makes contact. I listen to the sound of a man coming somewhere, the held and broken breaths.
“You need this, baby,” she says, and I’m sure she’s stoned out of her mind. But she splits me, plunges three fingers into me and curves right into my g-spot. She kisses me tightly, holding my face in, then licks a line from the finial of my breastbone, down to my navel and along the sides of my hips. She rubs the g-spot nimbly, a prayer forming in my lips. Suddenly, my back arches, the sea parts and crashes back into itself and I float just off the beach, warm, wet and blissed. When I open my eyes, my back still arched, I make eye contact with the man behind me, also on a bench. My face still has the serious, worried look of the orgasm and he smiles deeply at me.
The woman who made me come laughs, takes a fingerful of my wet, brings it to him and slides it into his mouth.
“So you will know if she’s right for you,” she says. She walks to the other side of him, throws a leg over him, pulls his cock back to her and begins to ride. His eyes, imprinted on my brain at the moment of climax, become desperate and sweet. A small crowd forms to watch, some with hands down each other’s pants, but he watches only me. His face twitches and he comes too, the only blink in his stares, his shoulders turning and rattling on his bench. “Fuck her!” the hippy says, “You’re fucking her!” She comes just out of my sightlines. The only way I know is the slight cringe in his lips and the relaxed tension of the audience.
When they part, gone back to their individual fantasies, the man behind me whispers in shiny lips, “I’m Aaron. 773-555-2731.”
“Aaron. 773-555-2731. Aaron. 773-555-2731. Aaron. 773-555-2731. Aaron. 773-555-2731.” He lifts his hand and places it on my cheek before dropping it back to his bench and putting his head down.
Often, a man will approach me, make eye contact with me, and lay a trembling hand on the breast nearest him. They exhale visibly, as if they were sure they’d never feel one again, and respectfully let it drop again. Some kiss me on the forehead like a child after they do. Some kiss me on the lips. My pussy lays open and waits. The first to have the guts, or maybe to take on the responsibility, is a woman.
By this time, my mind has been filled with fingers, smooth ones and callused ones, manicured and shaped ones, others with rough nails that scratch their signature into me. A fondue pot boils chocolate for strawberries and melons nearby. I imagine the tips of the strawberries, dripping with the chocolate, rubbing against me, outlining my curves and dips. I imagine it toying my clit, dipping into me, twisted and popped into someone’s mouth.
But the lower half of my body is entirely ignored for an hour. All around me, people are in mixed states of stimulation, some just buzzing and watching others, some in drowsy, post-coital bliss, some exploring, some showing off, some laughing, some howling, and my body just swells more with each tease, needs more, is ready to make summit just on its own. And then a woman, an aging hippy who fell into money somewhere along the way, bends over me curiously, slides her hand up my inner thigh and makes contact. I listen to the sound of a man coming somewhere, the held and broken breaths.
“You need this, baby,” she says, and I’m sure she’s stoned out of her mind. But she splits me, plunges three fingers into me and curves right into my g-spot. She kisses me tightly, holding my face in, then licks a line from the finial of my breastbone, down to my navel and along the sides of my hips. She rubs the g-spot nimbly, a prayer forming in my lips. Suddenly, my back arches, the sea parts and crashes back into itself and I float just off the beach, warm, wet and blissed. When I open my eyes, my back still arched, I make eye contact with the man behind me, also on a bench. My face still has the serious, worried look of the orgasm and he smiles deeply at me.
The woman who made me come laughs, takes a fingerful of my wet, brings it to him and slides it into his mouth.
“So you will know if she’s right for you,” she says. She walks to the other side of him, throws a leg over him, pulls his cock back to her and begins to ride. His eyes, imprinted on my brain at the moment of climax, become desperate and sweet. A small crowd forms to watch, some with hands down each other’s pants, but he watches only me. His face twitches and he comes too, the only blink in his stares, his shoulders turning and rattling on his bench. “Fuck her!” the hippy says, “You’re fucking her!” She comes just out of my sightlines. The only way I know is the slight cringe in his lips and the relaxed tension of the audience.
When they part, gone back to their individual fantasies, the man behind me whispers in shiny lips, “I’m Aaron. 773-555-2731.”
“Aaron. 773-555-2731. Aaron. 773-555-2731. Aaron. 773-555-2731. Aaron. 773-555-2731.” He lifts his hand and places it on my cheek before dropping it back to his bench and putting his head down.
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