Cameron was in Syd's room again, studying his posters and letting his fingers dip and swish in Syd's laundry. Two tickets to the Bloc Party show, stapled right into his lathe and plaster. Cam had watched him do it, still sweaty and hoarse from the show, and wiping his nose with his sleeve, Syd climbing his single bed and bouncing before he threw his weight on the stapler, legs apart, shins bulging through his jeans. They exhaled together when he threw himself off the wall and the bed in one push, and Cam, finding nothing to add and pulling his t-shirt down in the front begged off for the night. He hid in his room and listened to Syd on his laptop, straight porn as always, and tried as best he could to hear the swick swick noise. He never could, but imagined it as clear as if it were at his lips in the dark.
And Syd was at work, stocking shelves in a coop grocery store. He never told anyone that he eats Slim Jims all day. They'd never guess. He's got the body of a pure grass juice drinker. Cam felt his fingers catch on the elastic strip of a blue-grey pair of boxed briefs, and he told himself to stop, before he reminded himself that he wouldn't think that anymore. He felt the letters of the designer pass his fingerprints and pulled at them, plucked them out of the pile of laundry. They came to his nose in a loose bundle, and he smelled Syd's cock for the first time. What was left of it, anyway, resonating in this shell that once touched him.
Cam was painfully erect, swollen and frustrated in the middle of the room, though he was unencumbered by clothes, his skin seemed to press into him oppressively. He dropped the underwear from his nose to his cock and rubbed the material against it. His face flushed with fantasy and friction, the soft cotton across his skin, the force of his hand behind it. As if Syd were there, dry humping him, struggling for his own satisfaction in his own cage.
Cam switched underwear to bare hand on his cock, back and forth, the underpants too subtle, his cock too familiar, his body riding the sensations like a skier on moguls. He almost dropped them several times, his other hand going limp in the concentrated ecstasy, then had to break out of it to grip. He finally dropped one end to his knees and stepped into them, pulled them up. He was embraced at last, surrounded by Syd, tight and affectionate. Cam's hand, shaking more, entered the underwear and stroked slowly. His other hand wandered the stretch of cotton, pulling at the leg to feel the tightness across his balls, at the waistband to pinch the tip of his cock.
"Syd," he said, "fuck you. Fuck you, Syd."
He held some of the material across the edges of his fingers and began to stroke faster, his knees apart, faster, faster. Syd. Do it. His other hand leaned back and found the edge of Syd's desk, the laptop shut on top of it. He almost knocked over his bottle of lube. He rolled it into his hand and clutched tight. He thought of Syd there, the swick swick sound, imagined his lips. The whole room smelled of sex, then. Cam twisted the cotton around the tip of his cock and came into the wad, into his roommate's underwear, and they were his and him, belonged to Cam. When Syd wore them in the future, Cam would be in them, with him.
Showing posts with label gay. Show all posts
Showing posts with label gay. Show all posts
Sunday, March 16, 2008
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Blue Air
Patrick and I had been eyeing the smoke machines all night. It was a large stage, but it seemed like they might have been just a little overkill. Most of them sat idle all night, just one or two giving out controlled blasts during the more atmospheric songs of each band. They hissed, and a few seconds later, like the lightest water, smoke would flood out onto the stage. It would be kicked around until it stubbornly blended with the air, giving definition to the stage lights.
We hung around stage right, finding ourselves restless back at the ropes, done with poker and the other roadies. It was crowded here too, but we found a space with a limited view behind an upstage scrim, free of techs, producers, hangers-on and bands. Just us, a row of smoke machines and the languid drummer of Reel and Rout, his efficient, complicated but slow percussion work hypnotizing the crowd. It was their third song, had gone on at least five minutes already, but showed no signs of revving up or halting. It just traveled, back and forth across the stage, like the smoke, until it blended with the air.
Then they all went off, eight smoke machines let out a long blast, like the coming of a dust storm, you didn’t know how thick it was until you were in it. Eight horizontal mushroom clouds flew out, engulfing the drummer, flowing down the stage. We lost sight of the ground, then the air above it, then anything at all. Patrick put his hand on my shoulder so we knew which way was up. I heard two more hissing bursts and the world disappeared into blue-grey, highlighted only occasionally by the purple, red or green beam of a Fresnel. We’d be in the cloud for a while, the plastic, dry smell of the smoke, the disorientation and the song getting louder under it, all of it mixing with the air.
“This is really weird,” I said to Patrick, but the words were sucked into the music and never heard from again. I felt him pull my shoulder and just made out his features as he pulled me toward him, my face down to him, the smoke dissipating and escaping between our mouths. I felt his breath and then his lips, the sweet tickle of his mouth on mine, then the muscles behind it, moving in my mouth. The music and the smoke blended into this sex, and it was all just his body moving into me. All part of the same conspiracy. We twisted into each other, the warmth of his skin under his shirt and his smell, the taste of salt on him and meat and lemon sour.
I opened my eyes and saw a halo of light around him, reflected off of him into the cloud, you could just make out his fuzzy body glowing in the lights. He opened his too and smiled at me, before his lashes flopped down again and he pulled me tighter, a strong bundle of a man in my arms, his back muscles in my fingers and his slow, delicious dance over my lips. His tongue swept back and forth around my mouth now, vibrating its tastebuds across my teeth and against my own. His breaths throbbed in my mouth, each one a call down, down into him. And I fell as I was asked to.
My arms swirled around his back and finally one dropped, per the suggestion of his back muscle, to the gentle rise of his ass, and I pushed his pelvis into me, as if I knew that the music would swirl up just then. It was there, the steel in his pants against my groin and we rubbed into each other, this suddenly all that mattered, a few pointless cries escaping my throat. His hand came up the side of my face into my hair and he pulled my head sideways, pushing deeper into my mouth. When would the smoke begin to clear? When would we have to stop? When would that drumbeat, the light cymbal crash in 7/4 time simplify itself and end the song?
The machines blasted again, the blur of the world reinforced. A blue light descended on his face and I saw beads of sweat forming, reflecting like opals across his face and in his hair. He looked around and saw that there was nothing to see, took me down to the floor by the shirt, sitting up, our legs intertwined. We pulled each other close again and knelt up partway, our cocks into each other’s hips, grinding, his mouth on my neck. A bite and a nibble and the fog entered my head. It brought sting and heat and a low humming sound. The music, all blending into itself and passing through my body as one wave.
Patrick’s arm came down between us, his tongue staying in my mouth as he backed up a little. There were some sharp movements and pants and his hand, holding me tight on the back of the neck. He pulled his body back all together and shoved my head down, just enough time to get my mouth open before he guided his cock into my mouth and shuddered. He continued to hold my neck, the music building again only to fall into chaos, he fucked my mouth, my fingers dug into the folds behind his knees. Another hiss and another blast, the oily blue dust filled the space between us again and all I could see was his cock. All I could feel was the strain of my jaw and his hand sternly holding me in place. The taste of musty precome and the smell of dirt. My right hand slipped out and he took it, placed it onto the floor.
He began pacing himself, each movement into my throat a little smoother, though he punctuated it at the end, a fierce shiver and twitch. The song continued forever, rising and breaking, rising and breaking. I took his hips up to me and sped him up. We fought each other for a while, my hands on his pelvis, his hand on my neck, and he gave in. I deep-throated him tightly and he fell apart a little. I left him that way for a second and redoubled on him. His back went to the ground, his body pulled up into an arch culminating at my lips.
There were timpani then, and the voice of the singer returned in the distance. I held Patrick up by the ass and he quaked, his body at a halt under me, though it held the slightest vibration. I took his hand and his fingers wrapped under themselves. He came, the choking, numbing shots in my mouth. I drained him slowly, not letting up until he took my face by the cheeks and forced me off of him. I picked him up by the shoulders and kept him in place on his knees. I stood up, unzipped my pants, spit in my hand and opened his mouth with my thumb. I let the tip of my cock rub his lips as I jerked myself off. He tried to get on it, but I held him back. He let his tongue dart out and my head drew back. “Aw fuck!” I yelled, though it was gone as soon as I let it out. “Goddammit, OH!” I let go of his shoulder and could just make out through the cloud my come squirting onto his tongue, under his teeth, blue in the light. I knelt down myself, my hand on his face, our noses together, the smoke dissipating just as I got my pants zipped up. We sat next to each other, cross legged behind the scrim, leaning our shoulders together as the song crashed into entropy, and ended randomly, just as the drummer appeared back through the air.
We hung around stage right, finding ourselves restless back at the ropes, done with poker and the other roadies. It was crowded here too, but we found a space with a limited view behind an upstage scrim, free of techs, producers, hangers-on and bands. Just us, a row of smoke machines and the languid drummer of Reel and Rout, his efficient, complicated but slow percussion work hypnotizing the crowd. It was their third song, had gone on at least five minutes already, but showed no signs of revving up or halting. It just traveled, back and forth across the stage, like the smoke, until it blended with the air.
Then they all went off, eight smoke machines let out a long blast, like the coming of a dust storm, you didn’t know how thick it was until you were in it. Eight horizontal mushroom clouds flew out, engulfing the drummer, flowing down the stage. We lost sight of the ground, then the air above it, then anything at all. Patrick put his hand on my shoulder so we knew which way was up. I heard two more hissing bursts and the world disappeared into blue-grey, highlighted only occasionally by the purple, red or green beam of a Fresnel. We’d be in the cloud for a while, the plastic, dry smell of the smoke, the disorientation and the song getting louder under it, all of it mixing with the air.
“This is really weird,” I said to Patrick, but the words were sucked into the music and never heard from again. I felt him pull my shoulder and just made out his features as he pulled me toward him, my face down to him, the smoke dissipating and escaping between our mouths. I felt his breath and then his lips, the sweet tickle of his mouth on mine, then the muscles behind it, moving in my mouth. The music and the smoke blended into this sex, and it was all just his body moving into me. All part of the same conspiracy. We twisted into each other, the warmth of his skin under his shirt and his smell, the taste of salt on him and meat and lemon sour.
I opened my eyes and saw a halo of light around him, reflected off of him into the cloud, you could just make out his fuzzy body glowing in the lights. He opened his too and smiled at me, before his lashes flopped down again and he pulled me tighter, a strong bundle of a man in my arms, his back muscles in my fingers and his slow, delicious dance over my lips. His tongue swept back and forth around my mouth now, vibrating its tastebuds across my teeth and against my own. His breaths throbbed in my mouth, each one a call down, down into him. And I fell as I was asked to.
My arms swirled around his back and finally one dropped, per the suggestion of his back muscle, to the gentle rise of his ass, and I pushed his pelvis into me, as if I knew that the music would swirl up just then. It was there, the steel in his pants against my groin and we rubbed into each other, this suddenly all that mattered, a few pointless cries escaping my throat. His hand came up the side of my face into my hair and he pulled my head sideways, pushing deeper into my mouth. When would the smoke begin to clear? When would we have to stop? When would that drumbeat, the light cymbal crash in 7/4 time simplify itself and end the song?
The machines blasted again, the blur of the world reinforced. A blue light descended on his face and I saw beads of sweat forming, reflecting like opals across his face and in his hair. He looked around and saw that there was nothing to see, took me down to the floor by the shirt, sitting up, our legs intertwined. We pulled each other close again and knelt up partway, our cocks into each other’s hips, grinding, his mouth on my neck. A bite and a nibble and the fog entered my head. It brought sting and heat and a low humming sound. The music, all blending into itself and passing through my body as one wave.
Patrick’s arm came down between us, his tongue staying in my mouth as he backed up a little. There were some sharp movements and pants and his hand, holding me tight on the back of the neck. He pulled his body back all together and shoved my head down, just enough time to get my mouth open before he guided his cock into my mouth and shuddered. He continued to hold my neck, the music building again only to fall into chaos, he fucked my mouth, my fingers dug into the folds behind his knees. Another hiss and another blast, the oily blue dust filled the space between us again and all I could see was his cock. All I could feel was the strain of my jaw and his hand sternly holding me in place. The taste of musty precome and the smell of dirt. My right hand slipped out and he took it, placed it onto the floor.
He began pacing himself, each movement into my throat a little smoother, though he punctuated it at the end, a fierce shiver and twitch. The song continued forever, rising and breaking, rising and breaking. I took his hips up to me and sped him up. We fought each other for a while, my hands on his pelvis, his hand on my neck, and he gave in. I deep-throated him tightly and he fell apart a little. I left him that way for a second and redoubled on him. His back went to the ground, his body pulled up into an arch culminating at my lips.
There were timpani then, and the voice of the singer returned in the distance. I held Patrick up by the ass and he quaked, his body at a halt under me, though it held the slightest vibration. I took his hand and his fingers wrapped under themselves. He came, the choking, numbing shots in my mouth. I drained him slowly, not letting up until he took my face by the cheeks and forced me off of him. I picked him up by the shoulders and kept him in place on his knees. I stood up, unzipped my pants, spit in my hand and opened his mouth with my thumb. I let the tip of my cock rub his lips as I jerked myself off. He tried to get on it, but I held him back. He let his tongue dart out and my head drew back. “Aw fuck!” I yelled, though it was gone as soon as I let it out. “Goddammit, OH!” I let go of his shoulder and could just make out through the cloud my come squirting onto his tongue, under his teeth, blue in the light. I knelt down myself, my hand on his face, our noses together, the smoke dissipating just as I got my pants zipped up. We sat next to each other, cross legged behind the scrim, leaning our shoulders together as the song crashed into entropy, and ended randomly, just as the drummer appeared back through the air.
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.
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?"
Sunday, January 13, 2008
On Time
I'm late. I'm not so late that I can give it up, sacrifice my job, potential, good standing, but I'm late enough to put it in serious jeopardy. Late again. Four years on time and then I met him. When he's not stealing my time and body, he's stealing my thoughts and ambition, and I give them to him gladly, like flicking away a winning lottery ticket. Every minute with him is better than all that. I've got to be at work on time today, even though I can feel him back in bed, pulling me to him like a stray hair to staticky wool.
I keep my back to Nicolas, who lies in bed with a thin sheet covering him, his skin creating a shadow through it. I can't look at him and he knows why. I pick out my last pair of work pants without a come stain on them. The button on the inside is missing, but they'll hold up. The others lie in a pile in front of the dresser, waxy stain remover reflecting light on them. My mind is arguing again, that I can stay, that they won't fire me, that I deserve just a few more minutes. I show it the clock, 9:50 and I'm supposed to be there at 11:00, and let this argument go on unheeded. I'm here, Nicolas doesn't need to say, but radiates instead from a few feet behind me. I search for my belt, or rather, let my arms do it while my mind fends off this man in my bed.
Belt, I think, then tuck shirt in, find socks, put on shoes, they're under the table in the dining room, and then get the hell out of here.
Hand on my back, I trip on flat floor. Pants undone and thumb and forefinger on the zipper. I inhale deeply, looking for conviction under all this.
"I've got to go."
"You can stay for a little bit. Take a cab."
I can take a cab! Nicolas is a genius!
I don't have cash for a cab.
The hands enter my pants, just as warm as me, but exotic, a puzzle piece that fits perfectly, though it's from another puzzle. My hand grips the door jamb to keep steady. I've done the math. Getting money and then a cab will take just as long as taking the train. I could take him with me! Wrap him around me in the back seat, nourish myself before I face the day without him.
Falling in love is madness. He's not a teddy bear, for fuck's sake.
I turn to the dresser, ready to reach for the socks as soon as the belt is on, but my pants have dropped. Nicolas is on the floor, fingers hooked into my underwear and dropping that too. My cock enters his mouth, my eyes roll back and my hands struggle for a hold on the dresser. If he's fast enough, if I'm fast enough, I can have this and my job.
No, I'm late already!
"No."
But I haven't moved. He has, wrapped my knees in his arms and started to work me. I shake my head violently and hold his chin. "No." With regret like I'm about to jump into a volcano, I slide out of his mouth and look down on him. "I'm really late."
I get the socks and pull my pants and underwear back up. Running now, I make it into a chair at the dining room table. Sock on foot, other sock on other foot. Erection not going down, but will be hidden by coat. Shoe. Shoe. Hands slide down my arms, pull them back. My neck is kissed. My cock presses into my belt buckle and aches there.
"Call in," he says.
"I called in last week."
"You're still sick."
"I really have got to be there today."
"You've got to be here today."
"Shh."
I stand up, feet in shoes, and walk toward the door. He grabs my belt and pulls me back to him. My eyes close and his hands run down my chest, down my thigh, up and over my ass. I'm swaying, but he holds me. He turns to my front, presses his ear to my chest. He's listening to my heart beat. It's for him. He knows that.
"Nicolas, no. I've got to go." I'm whining now, haven't heard that voice since I was fifteen. I hold his head and kiss the top of it, pull away from him with the almost audible rip of velcro. If I leave now, I'll be five minutes late at best. My coat is in the closet. I put it on, make a break for the back door.
"Kiss me goodbye, at least," he says, his lips chapped from our week together. We fall together, and my heart drops into my stomach. The word "no" floats somewhere. Somewhere else.
My belt is undone again. My pants are undone again. They make a figure eight at my ankles. My shirt is twisted in his hand. My cock is in his mouth. I'm home.
He pulls, sucks, lifts me. My mind twists into my body and my knees fall into his chest. A clock ticks with his mouth, in one thousand, out two thousand. My head presses into the wall hard. In. Out.
"Nicolas. I don't want to leave you ever."
Time evaporates. I've been here for hours. I've been here for ten seconds. He holds me up, cupping my ass in his hands. My feet slide and catch on the floor. He pulls off of me.
"What!" I crack out.
"You can go."
I press my cock down and shove it into his mouth, hold him by the ears, fuck his head. I'm coming bigger these days with him. I'm losing whole parts of myself in him. When the drop comes before the orgasm now, it's somewhere underneath the floorboards.
And it is. My arms rip at the air, and I call for gods that I don't even believe in. I empty into him, another piece of myself in him. He pulls it clean from my body, absorbs every drop.
"You hate your job anyway, right?" he says, his mouth pressing into my thigh.
I don't hate anything but leaving.
I keep my back to Nicolas, who lies in bed with a thin sheet covering him, his skin creating a shadow through it. I can't look at him and he knows why. I pick out my last pair of work pants without a come stain on them. The button on the inside is missing, but they'll hold up. The others lie in a pile in front of the dresser, waxy stain remover reflecting light on them. My mind is arguing again, that I can stay, that they won't fire me, that I deserve just a few more minutes. I show it the clock, 9:50 and I'm supposed to be there at 11:00, and let this argument go on unheeded. I'm here, Nicolas doesn't need to say, but radiates instead from a few feet behind me. I search for my belt, or rather, let my arms do it while my mind fends off this man in my bed.
Belt, I think, then tuck shirt in, find socks, put on shoes, they're under the table in the dining room, and then get the hell out of here.
Hand on my back, I trip on flat floor. Pants undone and thumb and forefinger on the zipper. I inhale deeply, looking for conviction under all this.
"I've got to go."
"You can stay for a little bit. Take a cab."
I can take a cab! Nicolas is a genius!
I don't have cash for a cab.
The hands enter my pants, just as warm as me, but exotic, a puzzle piece that fits perfectly, though it's from another puzzle. My hand grips the door jamb to keep steady. I've done the math. Getting money and then a cab will take just as long as taking the train. I could take him with me! Wrap him around me in the back seat, nourish myself before I face the day without him.
Falling in love is madness. He's not a teddy bear, for fuck's sake.
I turn to the dresser, ready to reach for the socks as soon as the belt is on, but my pants have dropped. Nicolas is on the floor, fingers hooked into my underwear and dropping that too. My cock enters his mouth, my eyes roll back and my hands struggle for a hold on the dresser. If he's fast enough, if I'm fast enough, I can have this and my job.
No, I'm late already!
"No."
But I haven't moved. He has, wrapped my knees in his arms and started to work me. I shake my head violently and hold his chin. "No." With regret like I'm about to jump into a volcano, I slide out of his mouth and look down on him. "I'm really late."
I get the socks and pull my pants and underwear back up. Running now, I make it into a chair at the dining room table. Sock on foot, other sock on other foot. Erection not going down, but will be hidden by coat. Shoe. Shoe. Hands slide down my arms, pull them back. My neck is kissed. My cock presses into my belt buckle and aches there.
"Call in," he says.
"I called in last week."
"You're still sick."
"I really have got to be there today."
"You've got to be here today."
"Shh."
I stand up, feet in shoes, and walk toward the door. He grabs my belt and pulls me back to him. My eyes close and his hands run down my chest, down my thigh, up and over my ass. I'm swaying, but he holds me. He turns to my front, presses his ear to my chest. He's listening to my heart beat. It's for him. He knows that.
"Nicolas, no. I've got to go." I'm whining now, haven't heard that voice since I was fifteen. I hold his head and kiss the top of it, pull away from him with the almost audible rip of velcro. If I leave now, I'll be five minutes late at best. My coat is in the closet. I put it on, make a break for the back door.
"Kiss me goodbye, at least," he says, his lips chapped from our week together. We fall together, and my heart drops into my stomach. The word "no" floats somewhere. Somewhere else.
My belt is undone again. My pants are undone again. They make a figure eight at my ankles. My shirt is twisted in his hand. My cock is in his mouth. I'm home.
He pulls, sucks, lifts me. My mind twists into my body and my knees fall into his chest. A clock ticks with his mouth, in one thousand, out two thousand. My head presses into the wall hard. In. Out.
"Nicolas. I don't want to leave you ever."
Time evaporates. I've been here for hours. I've been here for ten seconds. He holds me up, cupping my ass in his hands. My feet slide and catch on the floor. He pulls off of me.
"What!" I crack out.
"You can go."
I press my cock down and shove it into his mouth, hold him by the ears, fuck his head. I'm coming bigger these days with him. I'm losing whole parts of myself in him. When the drop comes before the orgasm now, it's somewhere underneath the floorboards.
And it is. My arms rip at the air, and I call for gods that I don't even believe in. I empty into him, another piece of myself in him. He pulls it clean from my body, absorbs every drop.
"You hate your job anyway, right?" he says, his mouth pressing into my thigh.
I don't hate anything but leaving.
Saturday, December 15, 2007
The Lily Pin and the Train to Denver
Mrs. Kingston must have been the tallest woman that Mrs. Bee had ever seen. Mrs. Bee never thought about her own height. She had come to a halt at fourteen, when Miss Everly, standing with her heels firmly on the tiles, pronounced no deviation from the previous year. Her mark was carved just a little deeper, and left there, at a mysterious fraction somewhat between 5' and 5' 1". Mrs. Kingston, Mrs. Bee estimated, was at least as tall as Mrs. Bee's husband, but the final judgment would have to come when she could compare them.
"I'm six foot one inch tall," Mrs. Kingston declared, squaring her shoulders against any possible rumor. Mrs. Bee was meant to be affronted by this accusation of curiosity, but she found very quickly that she didn't have it in her.
"Ah," she found herself saying, nodding a little, as her mother might if told a terrible secret. "I'm happy that you eased my mind so quickly. I don't often notice the height of others." Mrs. Kingston smiled after a flirtation with incredulousness, and asked Mrs. Bee if she would join her for coffee in the lounge car.
"How long have you been married?" Mrs. Bee asked, arranging one heel behind the other and accidentally kicking the front one out. Mrs. Kingston, with the opposite problem, rotated her knees outside of the table.
"Two years," Mrs. Kingston said, and took a sip of her coffee. She'd burnt the roof of her mouth each time she had one. She hid this particular scorching behind a small grimace that Mrs. Bee interpreted as marriage criticism.
"Any children?" Mrs. Bee asked, more out of habit than interest.
"No," Mrs. Kingston answered quickly, and bounced her spoon on the edge of the saucer until it settled, hooked onto the lip.
"No luck?" said Mrs. Bee. The word "luck" rose and fell in one syllable, a statement or question, depending on what Mrs. Kingston wanted. Mrs. Bee was good at conversation, often found herself the repository of many secrets and asked the right questions in just the right ways to receive them. She'd lost interest in people's secrets recently, found them all banal and depressing, but her conversation went that way regardless. It was the only way that she knew to talk.
"Not quite," said Mrs. Kingston.
The tee sound at the end of Mrs. Kingston's "quite" hung in the air, moved on the momentum of the rest of the train. Mrs. Bee waited for it to disappear, then saw the two days ahead of her, her husband in one euphemistically named car or another, the landscape, some of interest, most not, chugging past, and Mrs. Bee herself, stirring another cup of coffee, wondering when it would be appropriate to request a brandy instead. She decided, and made her approach.
"How do you mean?" she asked, and looked at Mrs. Kingston's face for the first time. Mrs. Kingston, she found, was a handsome woman, not pretty, but distinguished, high in the cheekbone if dark in the eye. She had a curious, but intriguing, hairpin, in the shape of a lily that seemed to draw a line to her jaw. Mrs. Kingston settled her knees again, this time at a distance from the table so that they might stop banging into it.
"Now, Mrs. Kingston," Mrs. Bee continued, her face now quite young, leaning over the brown of the coffee, "I live in Wisconsin. I live in a large home looking over Lake Michigan. It's airy in the summer, cozy in the winter, and I've more than enough company in my circle of friends to keep me there until death."
Mrs. Kingston smiled and took another sip of the cup of brimstone.
"This is my first and last trip to the west. I'm only on this train for my sister-in-law's wedding and I won't do it again. You live in...."
"Portland."
"And I swear now to never run into you there. You may talk to me now, or never tell anyone anything."
Mrs. Kingston massaged the freshly irritated burn at the roof of her mouth with the flattened edge of her tongue. She looked at Mrs. Bee, her small, thin hands, the choker at her neck. Mrs. Bee's body was much like her own on a smaller scale, as if she were looking at a funhouse mirror. She wanted to tell her this, but didn't.
"I hate coffee," Mrs. Kingston said, and placed the coffee to the right of its saucer. She stared at it again and moved it again, all the way to the window, where pollen from the fresh daisy in the vase would surely fall in it.
"What time is it?" Mrs. Bee asked.
"Time for two brandies," Mrs. Kingston said.
"Excellent girl," said Mrs. Bee.
The brandies came, cornfields and crossings flew past, the daisy shook pollen into Mrs. Kingston's coffee cup and the two women's feet were on the floor, leaning into one another over their snifters. Within twenty miles, Mrs. Bee and Mrs. Kingston were aware of the other's bedroom troubles, Mr. Kingston's lack of experience, Mr. Bee's fast dwindling interest. They made several statements of indignation, resignation and pointed misinformation before they made a pact.
In the name of science and the propagation of the species, the two women had each one an assignment. They stood up, gave each other a kiss on the cheek, a warm one, and set off to change for supper.
Mrs. Bee, on Mrs. Kingston's orders, placed an ordinary fountain pen in her purse, taking care that the cap was screwed on tightly. Under her corset and above her stockings, she went bare for the first time since she was a newborn. Fear gathered in her chest, felling dust bunnies and pulverizing gallstones. She could always back out, but she thought for a moment of how she would feel if Mrs. Kingston did the same, and made a new determination to face her risk.
Mrs. Kingston, on Mrs. Bee's orders, changed her clothes with a large handkerchief stuffed into her mouth. She blamed the brandy for the warmth in the base of her body, a poorly placed piece of track for her wayward knees. Saliva soaked the cloth, as Mrs. Bee had said it would, and her jaw got tired, as Mrs. Bee said it would, but she smiled at herself in the mirror, thought that the blush in her cheeks became her. Mrs. Kingston, like Mrs. Bee, had sworn off underpants for the next three days, as good as a blood oath between them.
The Bees and the Kingstons took supper at different times, Mr. Kingston's man, a friend of his father's man and as green as Mr. Kingston himself, slow to make the reservations. Mrs. Kingston supped early and was glad of it, feeling that she'd lose her nerve if she had to wait long. Mr. Kingston made his best stab at conversation, found himself pouring forth, his wife smiling and blushing at everything he said. He'd never seen her like this, so pretty and attentive, so fascinated with his drudgeries. He fell more in love with her instantly, hoped that he could find the courage to ask her to be with him that night. When they stood, her height, only an inch above his, mattered not at all to him for the first time. He squeezed her hand and took their dessert back to the room, two éclairs and two glasses with a small decanter of port.
The Bees supped lightly, Mrs. Bee suggesting that it was the heavy meals that were keeping her husband up at night. He reacted as she'd hoped, humored her, found her in the mood for attention, and gave it to her dutifully. She could feel the loose material, soft, if you went with the grain, across her mound. It pulled at the hair there and brushed it, lovingly, caressed it straight and let it bounce into curls again. She felt quite exposed there, no sensible covering, the air and all free of obstacles to her intimacy. Her toe snapped off of the floor again at the weight of her crossed ankle and it went to her husband's ankle. She left it there until he blushed, snapping an escargots fork to the linen. She did not relent, as her upbringing, fully in control of her muscles most days, would oblige her to. She rubbed his ankle in the thin sole of her dress slippers until he grew accustomed to it, then hooked his heel, looking for all the world as if she were engrossed in her sorbet, the predessert for cleansing the pallet, and pulled his foot to the inside of her thighs.
In the room, Mr. Kingston's face and neck were red from the port and the way Mrs. Kingston looked in her dress. He imagined her in the corset and wondered that they'd been married three years and he'd never seen it. He mused that he might have the bravery to stumble upon her once, at her vanity in the morning or disrobing at night. He smiled, noting that he'd had the decanter in hand for at least a minute without attempting a pour when Mrs. Kingston's hand curled around his fingers, replaced the stopper inside of it, set it down and knelt before him.
The train changed tracks, a steady rhythm to distract him before his trousers were unbuttoned at the fly and the waist and dropped, a thud here at the final selection of tracks, a whistle, his underclothes dismantled, the train speeding up, the touch of his wife's lips, here in the light, a warm, soft sensation, there in his cock, and the friction of tight silk. His cock stole all of the blood from his body. He watched her, both eyebrows raised, watched his wife engulf him. Then he swallowed, face slack, and gripped the washbasin at his back. The train gently swayed, but he rumbled, and spilt his seed into his wife's throat. He winced that she must be repulsed, but a final sucking kiss on the end of his cock contradicted him. Mrs. Kingston stood up and poured the port with a shaking hand.
As the train switched tracks, Mr. Bee took his ankle back and scowled, half meaning it, at his wife. She let some sorbet drip on the side of her mouth from the spoon and licked it in.
"Mrs. Bee," said Mr. Bee, "are you having some trouble with your liquids tonight?"
"I've an idea of how to manage them, Mr. Bee, but you shall have to lend me a bit of license to do so."
Mr. Bee's head cocked a bit and he opened his mouth to speak for a moment. "You sluttish woman," he mouthed, his after-dinner coffee cup blocking intrusive eyes.
Mrs. Bee looked shocked for a moment, and stirred her sorbet until the frozen parts had melted with the solids.
Mr. Bee mocked leading his wife down the hallway after dinner, his hand on the back of her arm, but she'd gone in another direction from their berth, swinging through car after car until she'd found one locked. At this, she pulled her fountain pen out. Mrs. Kingston had taken note that all of the "locks" on the train were opened by the porters using the backside of fountain pens, and had made this part of her dare. She pushed the fountain pen into the lock and slid the door open, the first luggage car. Mr. Bee waited for the door to shut behind him, tested it for fastness, and lifted his wife's skirts above her waist.
"You are a sluttish little bitch, aren't you, Mrs. Bee?"
He searched the room, a lit match before him, until he found a spare coal shovel, flat and black from soot. He returned to his wife, bent her over a large crate, handed her the box of matches and told her to keep one lit until he was finished. Mrs. Bee lit one. She received a slap on the bottom for her troubles. There were three more, each of more stinging intensity, until the flame came down to her fingers. Her husband waited and blew it out. She lit another. It distracted her from the pain. There was another spank.
"You are a filthy, sluttish woman."
Another spank.
"Your backside is black and filthy now, like you."
Another spank. The second match burned down to her fingers, but her husband did not blow it out. It burned her instead.
"Light another."
She dropped the second, watching the dull red as it fell to the floor, and lit another. Mr. Bee pulled her arm behind her back so her hand, the match in the air, lay over her waist, illuminating her small, smooth body, all filthy like an ill-behaved child. He unbuttoned his trousers, bent his knees, though her legs dangled above the floor, and screwed her, fucked her. He watched this match too go out at her fingertips and watched the red coal fall on her skin. She trembled and clenched his cock inside her. He pumped his seed inside of her, clenched so hard as he was, as the coal on the match went out on her skin, and smelled the smoke.
The women met for luncheon the next day, as they had planned, and shared their stories, watching the satisfying shock and blush rise in the other's face. Though they felt sure that much of what they said couldn't be heard by others above the clacks and clicks of the wheels on the tracks and the crashing of plates, Mrs. Kingston asked a porter for a pencil and stationery so that they might pass it in notes.
"It tasted awfully strange," wrote Mrs. Kingston. "I thought it would be sweet, but there was an odd taste, some bitter chemical."
Mrs. Bee nodded and shrugged. She wrote, "Yes, that's what Mr. Bee tastes of too, but I don't find it off-putting, really."
Mrs. Kingston read this and shrugged as well. She wrote, "What did Mr. Bee call you?"
Mrs. Bee wrote it down and passed it on. Mrs. Kingston hid a laugh behind her hand and clasped Mrs. Bee's hand. The two of them sat and laughed for a few moments, and Mrs. Bee's hand curled up to enclose the other. "I'm glad we've met," she said.
"I'm very pleased myself. I don't normally talk to strange women on trains."
"I'm not strange anymore, am I, Mrs. Kingston?" said Mrs. Bee, warmly.
"No," said Mrs. Kingston, "you're a...." Mrs. Kingston folded the paper and pointed at what Mr. Bee had called her the previous evening.
The two women finished their luncheon, Mrs. Kingston asking that it be put on Mr. Kingston's bill, and they walked arm in arm through the train, silently, and comfortably so, until Mrs. Bee mentioned that this was their last day on the train. Mr. Bee and herself would be alighting in Denver. Mrs. Kingston drew Mrs. Bee's arm in tighter and kissed her on the cheek, then briefly on the mouth. The two women stood for a moment and contemplated this, then Mrs. Bee drew Mrs. Kingston down along the hallway a car more.
"This is our compartment," Mrs. Bee said, and opened the door, "though I daresay Mr. Bee won't be back from his card game for quite some time. Would you care to come in?"
Mrs. Kingston didn't answer, but leaned into Mrs. Bee's mouth again. She kissed swiftly and deeply, catching Mrs. Bee in a wave of heat, before she could find her senses and open her door. Upon its closure, with the two women inside, Mrs. Bee pulled her bunk down and placed Mrs. Kingston at its edge. She sat. Mrs. Bee leaned and Kissed Mrs. Kingston for a few more minutes, affection and sadness within it, and broke it off to speak.
"You have reminded me of spontaneity and fearlessness. I have one more lesson, this one for you to pass to your husband. Lift your skirts for me?"
Mrs. Bee and Mrs. Kingston marveled at her legs revealing themselves, the flesh of them, the curves and the organic intimacy. Mrs. Bee parted Mrs. Kingston's legs, dropped her hand between them and found the place, the secret one.
Mrs. Bee had found this place when her mother's maidservant, under orders to punish her for the slight of showing for supper ten minutes late, had bent her over her knee. She cried as the maidservant paddled her with the back of a mirror and her mother, satisfied with listening to the sounds of the slaps, left the room. The maid pulled her skirts up higher, her underpants down lower, for the girl was seventeen at the time, and rubbed the younger Mrs. Bee with her thumb in the secret place, all the while paddling away at her backside. Mrs. Bee was married and moved out within six months, but she never forgot the secret place, nor the kind maidservant, who would never have spanked her without orders to do so.
Mrs. Bee put her thumb on Mrs. Kingston's secret place and kissed her gently. She found it warm and then wet, and soon enough found Mrs. Kingston's breathing heavy, her mouth distracted. "There," Mrs. Bee said, and pushed some fingers inside as she rubbed. "There now." Mrs. Kingston's face came to rapture, then exhaustion, her body in convulsions before she grew still.
"Teach that to your husband," said Mrs. Bee, "and I will remember you."
Mrs. Kingston took a few moments, unable to form words for crying, laughter and shock. Instead, she stood, removed the jeweled hairpin, the one in the shape of a lily, and put it in the hair of her funhouse mirror self, exactly as it was on her.
"Let your husband find you when her returns tonight, doing what you just did to me," Mrs. Kingston said.
"Mr. Kingston should take you from behind tonight," Mrs. Bee said.
The two women regarded each other, nodded and parted.
"I'm six foot one inch tall," Mrs. Kingston declared, squaring her shoulders against any possible rumor. Mrs. Bee was meant to be affronted by this accusation of curiosity, but she found very quickly that she didn't have it in her.
"Ah," she found herself saying, nodding a little, as her mother might if told a terrible secret. "I'm happy that you eased my mind so quickly. I don't often notice the height of others." Mrs. Kingston smiled after a flirtation with incredulousness, and asked Mrs. Bee if she would join her for coffee in the lounge car.
"How long have you been married?" Mrs. Bee asked, arranging one heel behind the other and accidentally kicking the front one out. Mrs. Kingston, with the opposite problem, rotated her knees outside of the table.
"Two years," Mrs. Kingston said, and took a sip of her coffee. She'd burnt the roof of her mouth each time she had one. She hid this particular scorching behind a small grimace that Mrs. Bee interpreted as marriage criticism.
"Any children?" Mrs. Bee asked, more out of habit than interest.
"No," Mrs. Kingston answered quickly, and bounced her spoon on the edge of the saucer until it settled, hooked onto the lip.
"No luck?" said Mrs. Bee. The word "luck" rose and fell in one syllable, a statement or question, depending on what Mrs. Kingston wanted. Mrs. Bee was good at conversation, often found herself the repository of many secrets and asked the right questions in just the right ways to receive them. She'd lost interest in people's secrets recently, found them all banal and depressing, but her conversation went that way regardless. It was the only way that she knew to talk.
"Not quite," said Mrs. Kingston.
The tee sound at the end of Mrs. Kingston's "quite" hung in the air, moved on the momentum of the rest of the train. Mrs. Bee waited for it to disappear, then saw the two days ahead of her, her husband in one euphemistically named car or another, the landscape, some of interest, most not, chugging past, and Mrs. Bee herself, stirring another cup of coffee, wondering when it would be appropriate to request a brandy instead. She decided, and made her approach.
"How do you mean?" she asked, and looked at Mrs. Kingston's face for the first time. Mrs. Kingston, she found, was a handsome woman, not pretty, but distinguished, high in the cheekbone if dark in the eye. She had a curious, but intriguing, hairpin, in the shape of a lily that seemed to draw a line to her jaw. Mrs. Kingston settled her knees again, this time at a distance from the table so that they might stop banging into it.
"Now, Mrs. Kingston," Mrs. Bee continued, her face now quite young, leaning over the brown of the coffee, "I live in Wisconsin. I live in a large home looking over Lake Michigan. It's airy in the summer, cozy in the winter, and I've more than enough company in my circle of friends to keep me there until death."
Mrs. Kingston smiled and took another sip of the cup of brimstone.
"This is my first and last trip to the west. I'm only on this train for my sister-in-law's wedding and I won't do it again. You live in...."
"Portland."
"And I swear now to never run into you there. You may talk to me now, or never tell anyone anything."
Mrs. Kingston massaged the freshly irritated burn at the roof of her mouth with the flattened edge of her tongue. She looked at Mrs. Bee, her small, thin hands, the choker at her neck. Mrs. Bee's body was much like her own on a smaller scale, as if she were looking at a funhouse mirror. She wanted to tell her this, but didn't.
"I hate coffee," Mrs. Kingston said, and placed the coffee to the right of its saucer. She stared at it again and moved it again, all the way to the window, where pollen from the fresh daisy in the vase would surely fall in it.
"What time is it?" Mrs. Bee asked.
"Time for two brandies," Mrs. Kingston said.
"Excellent girl," said Mrs. Bee.
The brandies came, cornfields and crossings flew past, the daisy shook pollen into Mrs. Kingston's coffee cup and the two women's feet were on the floor, leaning into one another over their snifters. Within twenty miles, Mrs. Bee and Mrs. Kingston were aware of the other's bedroom troubles, Mr. Kingston's lack of experience, Mr. Bee's fast dwindling interest. They made several statements of indignation, resignation and pointed misinformation before they made a pact.
In the name of science and the propagation of the species, the two women had each one an assignment. They stood up, gave each other a kiss on the cheek, a warm one, and set off to change for supper.
Mrs. Bee, on Mrs. Kingston's orders, placed an ordinary fountain pen in her purse, taking care that the cap was screwed on tightly. Under her corset and above her stockings, she went bare for the first time since she was a newborn. Fear gathered in her chest, felling dust bunnies and pulverizing gallstones. She could always back out, but she thought for a moment of how she would feel if Mrs. Kingston did the same, and made a new determination to face her risk.
Mrs. Kingston, on Mrs. Bee's orders, changed her clothes with a large handkerchief stuffed into her mouth. She blamed the brandy for the warmth in the base of her body, a poorly placed piece of track for her wayward knees. Saliva soaked the cloth, as Mrs. Bee had said it would, and her jaw got tired, as Mrs. Bee said it would, but she smiled at herself in the mirror, thought that the blush in her cheeks became her. Mrs. Kingston, like Mrs. Bee, had sworn off underpants for the next three days, as good as a blood oath between them.
The Bees and the Kingstons took supper at different times, Mr. Kingston's man, a friend of his father's man and as green as Mr. Kingston himself, slow to make the reservations. Mrs. Kingston supped early and was glad of it, feeling that she'd lose her nerve if she had to wait long. Mr. Kingston made his best stab at conversation, found himself pouring forth, his wife smiling and blushing at everything he said. He'd never seen her like this, so pretty and attentive, so fascinated with his drudgeries. He fell more in love with her instantly, hoped that he could find the courage to ask her to be with him that night. When they stood, her height, only an inch above his, mattered not at all to him for the first time. He squeezed her hand and took their dessert back to the room, two éclairs and two glasses with a small decanter of port.
The Bees supped lightly, Mrs. Bee suggesting that it was the heavy meals that were keeping her husband up at night. He reacted as she'd hoped, humored her, found her in the mood for attention, and gave it to her dutifully. She could feel the loose material, soft, if you went with the grain, across her mound. It pulled at the hair there and brushed it, lovingly, caressed it straight and let it bounce into curls again. She felt quite exposed there, no sensible covering, the air and all free of obstacles to her intimacy. Her toe snapped off of the floor again at the weight of her crossed ankle and it went to her husband's ankle. She left it there until he blushed, snapping an escargots fork to the linen. She did not relent, as her upbringing, fully in control of her muscles most days, would oblige her to. She rubbed his ankle in the thin sole of her dress slippers until he grew accustomed to it, then hooked his heel, looking for all the world as if she were engrossed in her sorbet, the predessert for cleansing the pallet, and pulled his foot to the inside of her thighs.
In the room, Mr. Kingston's face and neck were red from the port and the way Mrs. Kingston looked in her dress. He imagined her in the corset and wondered that they'd been married three years and he'd never seen it. He mused that he might have the bravery to stumble upon her once, at her vanity in the morning or disrobing at night. He smiled, noting that he'd had the decanter in hand for at least a minute without attempting a pour when Mrs. Kingston's hand curled around his fingers, replaced the stopper inside of it, set it down and knelt before him.
The train changed tracks, a steady rhythm to distract him before his trousers were unbuttoned at the fly and the waist and dropped, a thud here at the final selection of tracks, a whistle, his underclothes dismantled, the train speeding up, the touch of his wife's lips, here in the light, a warm, soft sensation, there in his cock, and the friction of tight silk. His cock stole all of the blood from his body. He watched her, both eyebrows raised, watched his wife engulf him. Then he swallowed, face slack, and gripped the washbasin at his back. The train gently swayed, but he rumbled, and spilt his seed into his wife's throat. He winced that she must be repulsed, but a final sucking kiss on the end of his cock contradicted him. Mrs. Kingston stood up and poured the port with a shaking hand.
As the train switched tracks, Mr. Bee took his ankle back and scowled, half meaning it, at his wife. She let some sorbet drip on the side of her mouth from the spoon and licked it in.
"Mrs. Bee," said Mr. Bee, "are you having some trouble with your liquids tonight?"
"I've an idea of how to manage them, Mr. Bee, but you shall have to lend me a bit of license to do so."
Mr. Bee's head cocked a bit and he opened his mouth to speak for a moment. "You sluttish woman," he mouthed, his after-dinner coffee cup blocking intrusive eyes.
Mrs. Bee looked shocked for a moment, and stirred her sorbet until the frozen parts had melted with the solids.
Mr. Bee mocked leading his wife down the hallway after dinner, his hand on the back of her arm, but she'd gone in another direction from their berth, swinging through car after car until she'd found one locked. At this, she pulled her fountain pen out. Mrs. Kingston had taken note that all of the "locks" on the train were opened by the porters using the backside of fountain pens, and had made this part of her dare. She pushed the fountain pen into the lock and slid the door open, the first luggage car. Mr. Bee waited for the door to shut behind him, tested it for fastness, and lifted his wife's skirts above her waist.
"You are a sluttish little bitch, aren't you, Mrs. Bee?"
He searched the room, a lit match before him, until he found a spare coal shovel, flat and black from soot. He returned to his wife, bent her over a large crate, handed her the box of matches and told her to keep one lit until he was finished. Mrs. Bee lit one. She received a slap on the bottom for her troubles. There were three more, each of more stinging intensity, until the flame came down to her fingers. Her husband waited and blew it out. She lit another. It distracted her from the pain. There was another spank.
"You are a filthy, sluttish woman."
Another spank.
"Your backside is black and filthy now, like you."
Another spank. The second match burned down to her fingers, but her husband did not blow it out. It burned her instead.
"Light another."
She dropped the second, watching the dull red as it fell to the floor, and lit another. Mr. Bee pulled her arm behind her back so her hand, the match in the air, lay over her waist, illuminating her small, smooth body, all filthy like an ill-behaved child. He unbuttoned his trousers, bent his knees, though her legs dangled above the floor, and screwed her, fucked her. He watched this match too go out at her fingertips and watched the red coal fall on her skin. She trembled and clenched his cock inside her. He pumped his seed inside of her, clenched so hard as he was, as the coal on the match went out on her skin, and smelled the smoke.
The women met for luncheon the next day, as they had planned, and shared their stories, watching the satisfying shock and blush rise in the other's face. Though they felt sure that much of what they said couldn't be heard by others above the clacks and clicks of the wheels on the tracks and the crashing of plates, Mrs. Kingston asked a porter for a pencil and stationery so that they might pass it in notes.
"It tasted awfully strange," wrote Mrs. Kingston. "I thought it would be sweet, but there was an odd taste, some bitter chemical."
Mrs. Bee nodded and shrugged. She wrote, "Yes, that's what Mr. Bee tastes of too, but I don't find it off-putting, really."
Mrs. Kingston read this and shrugged as well. She wrote, "What did Mr. Bee call you?"
Mrs. Bee wrote it down and passed it on. Mrs. Kingston hid a laugh behind her hand and clasped Mrs. Bee's hand. The two of them sat and laughed for a few moments, and Mrs. Bee's hand curled up to enclose the other. "I'm glad we've met," she said.
"I'm very pleased myself. I don't normally talk to strange women on trains."
"I'm not strange anymore, am I, Mrs. Kingston?" said Mrs. Bee, warmly.
"No," said Mrs. Kingston, "you're a...." Mrs. Kingston folded the paper and pointed at what Mr. Bee had called her the previous evening.
The two women finished their luncheon, Mrs. Kingston asking that it be put on Mr. Kingston's bill, and they walked arm in arm through the train, silently, and comfortably so, until Mrs. Bee mentioned that this was their last day on the train. Mr. Bee and herself would be alighting in Denver. Mrs. Kingston drew Mrs. Bee's arm in tighter and kissed her on the cheek, then briefly on the mouth. The two women stood for a moment and contemplated this, then Mrs. Bee drew Mrs. Kingston down along the hallway a car more.
"This is our compartment," Mrs. Bee said, and opened the door, "though I daresay Mr. Bee won't be back from his card game for quite some time. Would you care to come in?"
Mrs. Kingston didn't answer, but leaned into Mrs. Bee's mouth again. She kissed swiftly and deeply, catching Mrs. Bee in a wave of heat, before she could find her senses and open her door. Upon its closure, with the two women inside, Mrs. Bee pulled her bunk down and placed Mrs. Kingston at its edge. She sat. Mrs. Bee leaned and Kissed Mrs. Kingston for a few more minutes, affection and sadness within it, and broke it off to speak.
"You have reminded me of spontaneity and fearlessness. I have one more lesson, this one for you to pass to your husband. Lift your skirts for me?"
Mrs. Bee and Mrs. Kingston marveled at her legs revealing themselves, the flesh of them, the curves and the organic intimacy. Mrs. Bee parted Mrs. Kingston's legs, dropped her hand between them and found the place, the secret one.
Mrs. Bee had found this place when her mother's maidservant, under orders to punish her for the slight of showing for supper ten minutes late, had bent her over her knee. She cried as the maidservant paddled her with the back of a mirror and her mother, satisfied with listening to the sounds of the slaps, left the room. The maid pulled her skirts up higher, her underpants down lower, for the girl was seventeen at the time, and rubbed the younger Mrs. Bee with her thumb in the secret place, all the while paddling away at her backside. Mrs. Bee was married and moved out within six months, but she never forgot the secret place, nor the kind maidservant, who would never have spanked her without orders to do so.
Mrs. Bee put her thumb on Mrs. Kingston's secret place and kissed her gently. She found it warm and then wet, and soon enough found Mrs. Kingston's breathing heavy, her mouth distracted. "There," Mrs. Bee said, and pushed some fingers inside as she rubbed. "There now." Mrs. Kingston's face came to rapture, then exhaustion, her body in convulsions before she grew still.
"Teach that to your husband," said Mrs. Bee, "and I will remember you."
Mrs. Kingston took a few moments, unable to form words for crying, laughter and shock. Instead, she stood, removed the jeweled hairpin, the one in the shape of a lily, and put it in the hair of her funhouse mirror self, exactly as it was on her.
"Let your husband find you when her returns tonight, doing what you just did to me," Mrs. Kingston said.
"Mr. Kingston should take you from behind tonight," Mrs. Bee said.
The two women regarded each other, nodded and parted.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Flirt
“Come on. Let’s go see some skanks!” I yell in Jerry’s ear.
“Mitch, I’m just not really into strip clubs.”
“That’s because you’ve never been in one.”
“I’ve been in a strip club!”
“Skanks! Skanks! Skanks! Skanks!”
Jerry’s been really flirty with me lately, more than with the other guys. It took us all by surprise when they first sent him to us. We tore him up for weeks, little comments here and there, a few limp wrists in his direction, but then I guess he just charmed us to death, all of us. And our first real job, a three-alarm five kids on the west side, he was the strongest guy there, the smartest, the bravest. We saw him carry a little girl to her mother, and even though their house was gone, and they were petrified, he had them all laughing. The mom kissed him on the cheek and cried about something he said, squeezed his hand and looked at the rest of us the same way. After that, he was one of us, the most popular guy at the station, really. And something I thought I’d never see? When he flirts, we flirt back. Fucking insane.
I don’t think he’s, well I know he’s not completely gay. I’ve never seen a man flirt so efficiently and so effortlessly with a woman. All he has to do is ask them one question about themselves, anything, listen to the answer, make one little joke about it, preferably insinuating that they’re secretly naughty, and they’re hooked. Maybe this is just how he relates to people. Maybe all he knows is flirting. This morning, I woke up to him kissing me on the forehead again. It’s a little uncomfortable, especially with morning wood.
“Fine, whatever, but if you try to pay for something for me, I mean anything, that’s it. I’ll leave.”
“Fine, let’s go.”
“No lap dances.”
“No.”
“No private dances.”
“No.”
“No coochie in my face.”
“No.”
“’Cause those girls gross me out. They’re really just mean and just… gross.”
I hold the blackened out door open for him. He enters in front of me, strutting, to prove he can, and takes a table near the front, the end of the catwalk stopping at only a respectable distance from us. A girl is there, spinning around a pole in the bottom half of a bathing suit. The music, a techno remix of “I See You Baby” by Groove Armada. She’s taking a literal interpretation of the song, shaking her ass each and every time it’s suggested, from various angles, one of which is completely spread eagled face down on the floor.
Jerry watches her and bites his lip.
“You doing alright?” I ask him.
“Yeah, fine.”
“I mean really, you should be taking notes.”
“What?”
“What you should be doing at the firehouse.”
“I knew you all were watching me slide down that pole,” he says, and delivers it perfectly, not a wince or a grin. I’m happy he’s relaxing anyway. What I don’t acknowledge, but what does pop up in my mind at this moment, is an image of Jerry slipping down the pole, his shirt raising against the brass. Unaccountably, it stirs me a little, and I look back up at the girl, who looks right back at me.
The waitress comes by.
“Hi,” I say, “I’ll have a Seven and Seven and Jerry will have a….” I turn to get his order, but almost whack him in the face with my chin. He’s leaning over me, holding my armrest.
“What kind of beer do you have?”
She goes over the list, Jerry nodding in front of my face the whole time. I sit up in my chair, as far back in the seat as I can get. “I’ll have a Corona,” he says, and puts on that wide smile that he reserves for children, management and service employees. The waitress melts to my left, an involuntary smile crawling up her beautiful neck to her cheeks. Going back to his seat, Jerry pushes against my right thigh for balance.
“And two shots of Jack Daniels,” I say to her when he’s out of earshot.
She nods and walks away.
What’s there to say about a strip club? You’re there, looking at women doing things they wouldn’t normally do, you keep up a banter with the guys you’re with about anything but the stripper, you drink, and before you realize it’s happening, you’re staring at a girl, moving in slow motion, incredibly turned on, a hard on in your pants like red steel, and the only thing to do then is leave.
It can’t be like this with Jerry, though I thought it would be. I thought if I could see the guy in him, see him down a beer and make a joke about the difference between a circus and a sorority house, the flirting would seem to stop. Even if it went on, I would know that it was okay. It was a bonehead, macho bullshit idea that I would expect out of anyone but me, but here I was trying it, and it wasn’t working. We’re such good friends, but somehow, the idea of talking about sex with him has been put off so long, it seems unnatural. Like talking to your great-aunt Lucy about who’s hotter, Katherine Heigl or Angelina Jolie.
The shots and drinks come, along with some hope. He looks at them and smiles at me, apprehensive, but picks his up anyway.
“To coochie!” I announce, only loud enough for him to hear.
“To keeping it out of my face!” he answers, just as loud.
We drink, and the burn and warm nausea is offset by the Seven and Seven. After the first drink is downed, he loses his ability to ignore the show altogether. After the second, and another shot, he’s looking at me as much as the girls. After another round, I don’t care. I order a lapdance for myself, though she offers one for Jerry at half-price, I jump in with a no, just me, thanks. He watches it like a movie, looking at me, looking at her, looking down, then at my face and hers. He might as well be shoving popcorn in his mouth.
The truth is, I don’t mind it at all. I should have the willies, but I don’t. It’s like we’re finally getting somewhere, Jerry and me, like we’re finally going to know each other. I pay her by hand when she’s done, exhale and turn to Jerry.
“So, you can’t touch them, right?” he asks.
“Right, but they can touch you.”
“And do they, I mean, usually?”
“They would touch you, I guarantee it.” I smile at him, to see if the compliment hit. It did. He smiles back, and toasts me, the round of shots that had been forgotten on the table.
“To lapdances,” he says, and lets a cackle out into his whiskey. He finishes it, pops it down and kisses me on the cheek while I’m still swallowing. I’m blushing. The hard, simple notion of kissing him back rises in my mind. I slap it away, but a drunk slap, no follow-through and no idea whether I made contact or not. Nope, it’s still there.
Another round and another girl asks Jerry if he’d care for a lapdance. He says no, but he’ll pay for one for his friend Mitch right here. You don’t mind, do you, Mitch? It’s kind of fun, right?
She’s a very cute girl with very fake tits and a silent kind of motherliness about her. She looks over at Jerry a couple of times as she moves above me. His chair is right up against mine now. She reaches over to stroke his cheek. He looks at me when she does, not flinching, but letting his mouth open. I put my right hand on his thigh.
“Do you want to kiss him?” she asks in my left ear.
“Yes.”
As soon as I say it, I know it’s true. Probably had been for a while. The strippers were for my distraction, not his. She moves my hand up to his crotch and I feel it, hot and loose and hard in his pants. My hand flinches, but she holds it there. Jerry inhales deeply and looks ahead of him, shaken, then at her, scared, finally at me, petrified. I look back at him and let my eyes coast down his body and back up at his face. His eyes, his velvet eyes falling into mine. The girl lets go of my hand and smiles at me, kisses me quickly but deeply on the mouth and slides off of my knees. Jerry goes for his wallet and I take my hand off of him, but I see it as he leans back for an angle in his pocket, a thick bulge that no longer fits in his pants.
He gives her a few bills of some kind, leaves forty for the waitress and says, “Let’s go.”
In New Orleans, in The French Quarter at least, there are no alleys, no inlets, no doorways, nothing that isn’t closed off by a thick iron gate, nowhere for a man to kiss a man, to feel a man’s cock against him. He looks around after a couple of blocks of wandering and kisses me anyway, up against a wall under a fire escape, Jerry’s tongue and lips, his hand on my chin, arm holding mine down, those things that it never occurred to me to want, though I did. I have. I do. We hail a cab and get in, apart from each other above our chests, below, my hand around him through his pants, my thumb pressed into the tip. Crossing Canal Street, into downtown, through a traffic circle with a statue of a man on a horse, under an underpass to St. Charles, trolley tracks and trees, restaurants, liquor stores, beautiful houses, ugly new buildings, our driver silent as we are, Jerry’s hand pulling at my thigh. We stop. He pays the driver. We stumble out. His apartment, a third of an old house. He opens the door to his place, lets me in and pushes me to the floor.
We’re breathing through a little space formed between the ends of our lips, the sides of our noses pressed against each other, a numb feeling building in my legs.
“Have you ever fucked a man before, Mitch?” he asks, quickly unbuttoning his shirt and going to mine.
“No.”
“But it’s everything you hoped so far, right?”
He’s done it, hooked me just like the girls. I laugh, and he goes in on my neck. Just where it meets the shoulder, he bites, and I unbuckle his belt. He turns onto his back and takes his pants off, his cock hitting his stomach with a flopping noise.
“In my bag, under the sink and fucking hurry.”
I get it, put it next to him and go down on him, shoving him into my mouth, his hand smacking the bag repeatedly. “No, shit, I’ll come, I’ll fucking come…. I want you up here, come on, Mitch, put this on and fuck me.” He hands me the condom and I put it on, never completely taking my mouth off of him. He hands me the lube and I kneel up, over him, my fingers wet and in him now, never thought it would be so easy, his back arching and his thighs back in his hands. Little squeaks out of him.
“I’m ready. Come on, I need you.”
I press my cock down, pushing his knees to my chest and enter him slowly.
“That’s it,” he says, “more.” I go in further, slippery but squeezed. “Yes,” he says. “Good good good good, oh fuck!” I’m pumping a little now. The muscles in his neck pull against themselves. Me, I’ve never felt anything even close, just trying really hard to keep going, to feel this, to see this man I’ve spent so much time with bent against the floor, teeth clenched. I’m grinding into him, watching his dumbfoundingly pretty face change, feeling him change. “Oh shit,” he says. “I can’t stop it, it’s… it’s… oh fucking MITCH!” He slowly rises and shakes against me, a few pops of come out of him, his knees digging into me, his eyes closing.
I come into him like a concrete block hitting the ground and bouncing, then kiss him on the cheek, charmed like a man who’s just been dragged into a fire and carried out.
“Mitch, I’m just not really into strip clubs.”
“That’s because you’ve never been in one.”
“I’ve been in a strip club!”
“Skanks! Skanks! Skanks! Skanks!”
Jerry’s been really flirty with me lately, more than with the other guys. It took us all by surprise when they first sent him to us. We tore him up for weeks, little comments here and there, a few limp wrists in his direction, but then I guess he just charmed us to death, all of us. And our first real job, a three-alarm five kids on the west side, he was the strongest guy there, the smartest, the bravest. We saw him carry a little girl to her mother, and even though their house was gone, and they were petrified, he had them all laughing. The mom kissed him on the cheek and cried about something he said, squeezed his hand and looked at the rest of us the same way. After that, he was one of us, the most popular guy at the station, really. And something I thought I’d never see? When he flirts, we flirt back. Fucking insane.
I don’t think he’s, well I know he’s not completely gay. I’ve never seen a man flirt so efficiently and so effortlessly with a woman. All he has to do is ask them one question about themselves, anything, listen to the answer, make one little joke about it, preferably insinuating that they’re secretly naughty, and they’re hooked. Maybe this is just how he relates to people. Maybe all he knows is flirting. This morning, I woke up to him kissing me on the forehead again. It’s a little uncomfortable, especially with morning wood.
“Fine, whatever, but if you try to pay for something for me, I mean anything, that’s it. I’ll leave.”
“Fine, let’s go.”
“No lap dances.”
“No.”
“No private dances.”
“No.”
“No coochie in my face.”
“No.”
“’Cause those girls gross me out. They’re really just mean and just… gross.”
I hold the blackened out door open for him. He enters in front of me, strutting, to prove he can, and takes a table near the front, the end of the catwalk stopping at only a respectable distance from us. A girl is there, spinning around a pole in the bottom half of a bathing suit. The music, a techno remix of “I See You Baby” by Groove Armada. She’s taking a literal interpretation of the song, shaking her ass each and every time it’s suggested, from various angles, one of which is completely spread eagled face down on the floor.
Jerry watches her and bites his lip.
“You doing alright?” I ask him.
“Yeah, fine.”
“I mean really, you should be taking notes.”
“What?”
“What you should be doing at the firehouse.”
“I knew you all were watching me slide down that pole,” he says, and delivers it perfectly, not a wince or a grin. I’m happy he’s relaxing anyway. What I don’t acknowledge, but what does pop up in my mind at this moment, is an image of Jerry slipping down the pole, his shirt raising against the brass. Unaccountably, it stirs me a little, and I look back up at the girl, who looks right back at me.
The waitress comes by.
“Hi,” I say, “I’ll have a Seven and Seven and Jerry will have a….” I turn to get his order, but almost whack him in the face with my chin. He’s leaning over me, holding my armrest.
“What kind of beer do you have?”
She goes over the list, Jerry nodding in front of my face the whole time. I sit up in my chair, as far back in the seat as I can get. “I’ll have a Corona,” he says, and puts on that wide smile that he reserves for children, management and service employees. The waitress melts to my left, an involuntary smile crawling up her beautiful neck to her cheeks. Going back to his seat, Jerry pushes against my right thigh for balance.
“And two shots of Jack Daniels,” I say to her when he’s out of earshot.
She nods and walks away.
What’s there to say about a strip club? You’re there, looking at women doing things they wouldn’t normally do, you keep up a banter with the guys you’re with about anything but the stripper, you drink, and before you realize it’s happening, you’re staring at a girl, moving in slow motion, incredibly turned on, a hard on in your pants like red steel, and the only thing to do then is leave.
It can’t be like this with Jerry, though I thought it would be. I thought if I could see the guy in him, see him down a beer and make a joke about the difference between a circus and a sorority house, the flirting would seem to stop. Even if it went on, I would know that it was okay. It was a bonehead, macho bullshit idea that I would expect out of anyone but me, but here I was trying it, and it wasn’t working. We’re such good friends, but somehow, the idea of talking about sex with him has been put off so long, it seems unnatural. Like talking to your great-aunt Lucy about who’s hotter, Katherine Heigl or Angelina Jolie.
The shots and drinks come, along with some hope. He looks at them and smiles at me, apprehensive, but picks his up anyway.
“To coochie!” I announce, only loud enough for him to hear.
“To keeping it out of my face!” he answers, just as loud.
We drink, and the burn and warm nausea is offset by the Seven and Seven. After the first drink is downed, he loses his ability to ignore the show altogether. After the second, and another shot, he’s looking at me as much as the girls. After another round, I don’t care. I order a lapdance for myself, though she offers one for Jerry at half-price, I jump in with a no, just me, thanks. He watches it like a movie, looking at me, looking at her, looking down, then at my face and hers. He might as well be shoving popcorn in his mouth.
The truth is, I don’t mind it at all. I should have the willies, but I don’t. It’s like we’re finally getting somewhere, Jerry and me, like we’re finally going to know each other. I pay her by hand when she’s done, exhale and turn to Jerry.
“So, you can’t touch them, right?” he asks.
“Right, but they can touch you.”
“And do they, I mean, usually?”
“They would touch you, I guarantee it.” I smile at him, to see if the compliment hit. It did. He smiles back, and toasts me, the round of shots that had been forgotten on the table.
“To lapdances,” he says, and lets a cackle out into his whiskey. He finishes it, pops it down and kisses me on the cheek while I’m still swallowing. I’m blushing. The hard, simple notion of kissing him back rises in my mind. I slap it away, but a drunk slap, no follow-through and no idea whether I made contact or not. Nope, it’s still there.
Another round and another girl asks Jerry if he’d care for a lapdance. He says no, but he’ll pay for one for his friend Mitch right here. You don’t mind, do you, Mitch? It’s kind of fun, right?
She’s a very cute girl with very fake tits and a silent kind of motherliness about her. She looks over at Jerry a couple of times as she moves above me. His chair is right up against mine now. She reaches over to stroke his cheek. He looks at me when she does, not flinching, but letting his mouth open. I put my right hand on his thigh.
“Do you want to kiss him?” she asks in my left ear.
“Yes.”
As soon as I say it, I know it’s true. Probably had been for a while. The strippers were for my distraction, not his. She moves my hand up to his crotch and I feel it, hot and loose and hard in his pants. My hand flinches, but she holds it there. Jerry inhales deeply and looks ahead of him, shaken, then at her, scared, finally at me, petrified. I look back at him and let my eyes coast down his body and back up at his face. His eyes, his velvet eyes falling into mine. The girl lets go of my hand and smiles at me, kisses me quickly but deeply on the mouth and slides off of my knees. Jerry goes for his wallet and I take my hand off of him, but I see it as he leans back for an angle in his pocket, a thick bulge that no longer fits in his pants.
He gives her a few bills of some kind, leaves forty for the waitress and says, “Let’s go.”
In New Orleans, in The French Quarter at least, there are no alleys, no inlets, no doorways, nothing that isn’t closed off by a thick iron gate, nowhere for a man to kiss a man, to feel a man’s cock against him. He looks around after a couple of blocks of wandering and kisses me anyway, up against a wall under a fire escape, Jerry’s tongue and lips, his hand on my chin, arm holding mine down, those things that it never occurred to me to want, though I did. I have. I do. We hail a cab and get in, apart from each other above our chests, below, my hand around him through his pants, my thumb pressed into the tip. Crossing Canal Street, into downtown, through a traffic circle with a statue of a man on a horse, under an underpass to St. Charles, trolley tracks and trees, restaurants, liquor stores, beautiful houses, ugly new buildings, our driver silent as we are, Jerry’s hand pulling at my thigh. We stop. He pays the driver. We stumble out. His apartment, a third of an old house. He opens the door to his place, lets me in and pushes me to the floor.
We’re breathing through a little space formed between the ends of our lips, the sides of our noses pressed against each other, a numb feeling building in my legs.
“Have you ever fucked a man before, Mitch?” he asks, quickly unbuttoning his shirt and going to mine.
“No.”
“But it’s everything you hoped so far, right?”
He’s done it, hooked me just like the girls. I laugh, and he goes in on my neck. Just where it meets the shoulder, he bites, and I unbuckle his belt. He turns onto his back and takes his pants off, his cock hitting his stomach with a flopping noise.
“In my bag, under the sink and fucking hurry.”
I get it, put it next to him and go down on him, shoving him into my mouth, his hand smacking the bag repeatedly. “No, shit, I’ll come, I’ll fucking come…. I want you up here, come on, Mitch, put this on and fuck me.” He hands me the condom and I put it on, never completely taking my mouth off of him. He hands me the lube and I kneel up, over him, my fingers wet and in him now, never thought it would be so easy, his back arching and his thighs back in his hands. Little squeaks out of him.
“I’m ready. Come on, I need you.”
I press my cock down, pushing his knees to my chest and enter him slowly.
“That’s it,” he says, “more.” I go in further, slippery but squeezed. “Yes,” he says. “Good good good good, oh fuck!” I’m pumping a little now. The muscles in his neck pull against themselves. Me, I’ve never felt anything even close, just trying really hard to keep going, to feel this, to see this man I’ve spent so much time with bent against the floor, teeth clenched. I’m grinding into him, watching his dumbfoundingly pretty face change, feeling him change. “Oh shit,” he says. “I can’t stop it, it’s… it’s… oh fucking MITCH!” He slowly rises and shakes against me, a few pops of come out of him, his knees digging into me, his eyes closing.
I come into him like a concrete block hitting the ground and bouncing, then kiss him on the cheek, charmed like a man who’s just been dragged into a fire and carried out.
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
Splick
He sits in a fog that matches his towel. I make out two brown nipples over what looks, from here, a good fifteen feet of mist in between us, like perfect, unmottled skin. A gift to the world in his own packaging, a box of goodies wrapped in a flat stomach and strong thighs. I've been trying to make eye contact with him, unseizing, unblinking. Though he's caught me twice, I haven't looked away, and his smile, the slightest turn of lip in the steam, hasn't shaken my confidence.
My bag rings. My stare turns into a pout, a distant intruder to make me look hard to get. I make eye contact again and cock my head apologetically before getting the phone. He looks unimpressed, ready to wave a hand in dismissal at me, but I smile fully before he can.
"Hello."
"Hey, sweetie. Just calling to see how your meeting went today."
"I don't know, really," I mumble into the fog and the distant techno thump. The phone, noise-cancelling, only passes on my voice. "I thought it went alright. Everything worked, anyway." My conquest now faces me dead on and taps his foot impatiently, looking at the phone, then my eyes, then my towel. "I'll find out tomorrow, I guess."
"Well, it's a relief your fucking PowerPoint didn't blow up, then," she said. "How's the hotel?"
"Typical hotel room, I guess. Two beds. One desk. One movie channel. WiFi."
There's a long pause in the conversation. The conquest digs his knuckles into his bench, looks at me for confirmation, then stands up.
"I've been missing you," she says.
"I miss you too. Been awhile since we were apart like this, huh?"
The conquest walks, all casual and confidence, to me, his feet spreading across the floor. I can do nothing but watch.
"It's been awhile, yeah," she says. The conquest, now less of a conquest and more like my winnings, leans into me and breathes into the non-phone ear.
"Who is that on the phone?" he says.
"My bed is all cold and empty, honey," I say, loud enough.
"The boyfriend," he says. His mouth is hot. He follows with his teeth and nibbles my ear.
"I've been thinking about you all night. I want to do it by phone, okay?"
My gasp answers her. "Put on that babydoll I bought you."
"Oooh. Your man's a dress-up boy, huh?" he says, then runs the back of his fingers down my sides and up my chest.
"Do you have it on?" I ask.
"Yes," she says, panting a little. I can just hear it, the two of them in either ear. He pulls back and straddles my lap, looking over my body and ending at my eyes.
"That's a good girl," I say, pointing my chin at "girl."
He leans in again. "The wife!" he says.
"Now," I continue, "raise that thing for me. I want to see that pussy."
The man looks affronted in a joking way and unknots his towel at the hip. His cock is half up, slightly curved at his thigh. I stare at it.
It really had been a long time.
"Can you see it?" she asks.
"Yes. Now touch yourself. Start slow." The man takes my free hand and puts it on his cock. I'm hypnotized, distracted and falling. I pull it absently, but not from lack of interest, from fascination, as if I'd never seen one before. "Are you wet?"
"Yes. I'm soaking. I want you."
I begin to stroke him earnestly, as if his were mine. Mine is strapped down under terrycloth, edging between thigh and hip. He hasn't looked yet.
"Play with your tits for me."
The man's head is bent back, his neck strong and smooth but for an arête of an Adam's Apple. His lips are open, swollen, as if I'd been sucking on them. His fingers on his left hand sweep his stomach and pinch his nipple. I let go of him for a moment, take his right hand and place it on my towel's knot.
"Do you have it in your hand?" she asks. "Are you stroking it?"
"Yes baby. I want to be inside you."
He unknots my towel with fumbling fingers and finds my cock. My head slams back.
"You are," she says. "I'm fucking myself."
She's got a dildo, a rubbery, translucent one, slightly smaller than me. I imagine it plunging inside of her and stroke the guy faster. He opens my bag. I shoot him a serious look until he fishes a bottle of lube from it. I'm so dizzy I never would've remembered. He flips open the cap, pours a generous amount on him and my open hand, then me, and returns to me, full duty.
"God, that's good," I gasp.
"I want to hear it," she says. "Put the phone next to it."
I exhale, lower the phone to my cock and lean into the man. He kisses me deep, darting a tongue and rubbing my lips with it. I listen for the sound of our hands on each other and hear it in the haze. Splick splick splick. I bring the phone up, the man's mouth leaving mine in steam. My wife is breathing quickly, catching and releasing each breath. "Did you hear it?" I ask her. My body is starting to rumble. So is my captor's.
"Yes baby. You're fucking me so... good."
"You're so ready. You're so beautiful." I look at him as I say this. He smiles, then returns to shaky pleasure.
"Just keep fucking me. My clit is on fire."
The man leans forward and puts one hand on the wall behind me. He's humping my legs.
"Are you ready to come?" I ask.
"Yes."
He humps faster, his stomach curling hard. I slip down his cock and hold for a moment, then up again, a little more with each stroke. I feel a tickle deep inside. "I'm ready," I say.
He fucks my hand and strokes me with the same hard rhythm.
"Ohhh, God," she says. "Ohhhhh, God. Oh! Oh fuck! OH!"
He comes, grasping tight on my cock, trembling, shooting out one, two, three on my stomach. His arm gives and he falls into my lips, breathing my exhales. I don't mean to, but I bite his lip and jerk forward, coming hard, pulling something deeper than usual, coating his stomach, moaning. Moaning loud.
My bag rings. My stare turns into a pout, a distant intruder to make me look hard to get. I make eye contact again and cock my head apologetically before getting the phone. He looks unimpressed, ready to wave a hand in dismissal at me, but I smile fully before he can.
"Hello."
"Hey, sweetie. Just calling to see how your meeting went today."
"I don't know, really," I mumble into the fog and the distant techno thump. The phone, noise-cancelling, only passes on my voice. "I thought it went alright. Everything worked, anyway." My conquest now faces me dead on and taps his foot impatiently, looking at the phone, then my eyes, then my towel. "I'll find out tomorrow, I guess."
"Well, it's a relief your fucking PowerPoint didn't blow up, then," she said. "How's the hotel?"
"Typical hotel room, I guess. Two beds. One desk. One movie channel. WiFi."
There's a long pause in the conversation. The conquest digs his knuckles into his bench, looks at me for confirmation, then stands up.
"I've been missing you," she says.
"I miss you too. Been awhile since we were apart like this, huh?"
The conquest walks, all casual and confidence, to me, his feet spreading across the floor. I can do nothing but watch.
"It's been awhile, yeah," she says. The conquest, now less of a conquest and more like my winnings, leans into me and breathes into the non-phone ear.
"Who is that on the phone?" he says.
"My bed is all cold and empty, honey," I say, loud enough.
"The boyfriend," he says. His mouth is hot. He follows with his teeth and nibbles my ear.
"I've been thinking about you all night. I want to do it by phone, okay?"
My gasp answers her. "Put on that babydoll I bought you."
"Oooh. Your man's a dress-up boy, huh?" he says, then runs the back of his fingers down my sides and up my chest.
"Do you have it on?" I ask.
"Yes," she says, panting a little. I can just hear it, the two of them in either ear. He pulls back and straddles my lap, looking over my body and ending at my eyes.
"That's a good girl," I say, pointing my chin at "girl."
He leans in again. "The wife!" he says.
"Now," I continue, "raise that thing for me. I want to see that pussy."
The man looks affronted in a joking way and unknots his towel at the hip. His cock is half up, slightly curved at his thigh. I stare at it.
It really had been a long time.
"Can you see it?" she asks.
"Yes. Now touch yourself. Start slow." The man takes my free hand and puts it on his cock. I'm hypnotized, distracted and falling. I pull it absently, but not from lack of interest, from fascination, as if I'd never seen one before. "Are you wet?"
"Yes. I'm soaking. I want you."
I begin to stroke him earnestly, as if his were mine. Mine is strapped down under terrycloth, edging between thigh and hip. He hasn't looked yet.
"Play with your tits for me."
The man's head is bent back, his neck strong and smooth but for an arête of an Adam's Apple. His lips are open, swollen, as if I'd been sucking on them. His fingers on his left hand sweep his stomach and pinch his nipple. I let go of him for a moment, take his right hand and place it on my towel's knot.
"Do you have it in your hand?" she asks. "Are you stroking it?"
"Yes baby. I want to be inside you."
He unknots my towel with fumbling fingers and finds my cock. My head slams back.
"You are," she says. "I'm fucking myself."
She's got a dildo, a rubbery, translucent one, slightly smaller than me. I imagine it plunging inside of her and stroke the guy faster. He opens my bag. I shoot him a serious look until he fishes a bottle of lube from it. I'm so dizzy I never would've remembered. He flips open the cap, pours a generous amount on him and my open hand, then me, and returns to me, full duty.
"God, that's good," I gasp.
"I want to hear it," she says. "Put the phone next to it."
I exhale, lower the phone to my cock and lean into the man. He kisses me deep, darting a tongue and rubbing my lips with it. I listen for the sound of our hands on each other and hear it in the haze. Splick splick splick. I bring the phone up, the man's mouth leaving mine in steam. My wife is breathing quickly, catching and releasing each breath. "Did you hear it?" I ask her. My body is starting to rumble. So is my captor's.
"Yes baby. You're fucking me so... good."
"You're so ready. You're so beautiful." I look at him as I say this. He smiles, then returns to shaky pleasure.
"Just keep fucking me. My clit is on fire."
The man leans forward and puts one hand on the wall behind me. He's humping my legs.
"Are you ready to come?" I ask.
"Yes."
He humps faster, his stomach curling hard. I slip down his cock and hold for a moment, then up again, a little more with each stroke. I feel a tickle deep inside. "I'm ready," I say.
He fucks my hand and strokes me with the same hard rhythm.
"Ohhh, God," she says. "Ohhhhh, God. Oh! Oh fuck! OH!"
He comes, grasping tight on my cock, trembling, shooting out one, two, three on my stomach. His arm gives and he falls into my lips, breathing my exhales. I don't mean to, but I bite his lip and jerk forward, coming hard, pulling something deeper than usual, coating his stomach, moaning. Moaning loud.
Sunday, November 4, 2007
Daring Young Men
Demetrios hung onto the trapeze, timed his breathing and lost himself in his exhale. He became concentration, the look in his eyes too far away for any audience to see. Otherwise, one might accuse him of faking. He tested the slip of his hand, a small cloud of chalk billowing between calluses and the bar, and reset them. There was silence in the tent. I wanted to scratch my toes in the dust to break it, but he began. Tight, formed like a boomerang and just as rigid, Demetrios and the trapeze descended a curve, a perfect one, unbroken by weakness in the arms. He turned into back-end splits, his feet pointed east and west, his arms slightly bent, taking his weight easily, the trap close to the bulge of his cock in his practice sweats. Your average father, distracted by the cotton candy left on his pants by his jaded six-year-old, or the six-year-old himself, would never notice the form in Demetrios’s swing, wouldn’t take note of his hands as they switched him out of the splits into a pike and back into a catcher’s lock, waiting for me, if I were to be there then, the trap caught tight in the triangle of his knees.
I didn’t actually have to be there then, and neither did Demetrios. We could spend our night separate from each other, seeing whatever town we were in, but we were here instead, because this is where our lives were, the whistle of the air in our ears, the familiar shape of the bar, the ever-changing pull of gravity our only homes. And with each other, the excuse that we’ve got to remember everything about our moves before they happen paralleling so easily with the way we finish each other’s sentences, communicate only in our shoulders, leave words out of our mouths, the lips more about our bodies than our minds. We knew each other very well, though our pasts were never examined, our motives never investigated. We simply knew what was going to happen next because we knew it.
He pulled out of the catcher’s lock and swung himself back into an arc. My subconscious, playing on the same trigonometry that would have taught me how to calculate an arrow into the breast of a wild turkey, counted the right time for launch. I flew, purely on muscle memory, with a few swings, into a backend plange and knew that he would be ready to catch again, knew his thumb and the thick muscle that runs the other side of his palm would be enough to hold and hook me. The air battered my eardrums as I flew free to him, my hands twisting, and I was stopped without breaking the swing. We used to laugh when we’d do this, surprised that we’d never dropped each other, but now I simply pulled myself up to him, with the help of his biceps, and kissed him upside down, the toast we always made to each other. Job well done. Even when we were performing it happened in our minds.
I swung us into larger dips and heights, enough room to play around a little. He swung me up and I held onto the rope in my ankles, then down with a flip to grasp the launching board in my fingers. I tuned us around a few times, twisting the trapeze hand over hand, and let us go, my hands out, rolling like a vertical wheel at the air. We laughed and swung some more, seeing tent, light, tower, ladder, floor, net, ladder, seats, tower. I closed my eyes sometimes, though it made me a little seasick, just to prove to myself that this had nothing to do with sight.
Twenty minutes passed, thirty, and it was time to head for the ground, like two kids who had to give up playing when the street lights came on. I let go of Demetrios and fell into a suicide landing on the net, jumping up in time to get out of his way, and walked, walked instead of flew, in the bulges of the net to the ground, firm and disappointing, though my head was still in the air. I waited for him and he walked right past me, to the little practice rig on the side. In a prestidigitatious move, he was upside down on this one too while I blinked. He hung and crossed his arms, the slight squeak in the rig the only sound, his head about five feet above the mat. I moved to him and examined his face. The air turned to gravity between us and I pushed his shoulder. He swung, the slightest squeak, and came back. I pushed again and he swung some more, silent and stoic. I let him keep time like that for a while and watched him, until his hands moved up to his sweatpants, untied the cord, let his shirt drop over his shoulders. I approached slowly, looking at the ripples of his body, the balance of muscles, my appreciation growing in my own sweatpants. He pulled his knees closer to each other, the material falling on the corner of the muscles in his thighs, and reached out when I was in range, grabbed me by the cock, though I whined, and pulled his own sweats up under the bar.
His cock pointed at his chin, mine at the same. I winched the bar lower so that his was in reach of my mouth, his head now just a few feet above the ground. I made adjustments until I had the right angle and turned my head, sucking the tip of him into me now, sucking the sweet part of the shaft and then forward onto the veins. He reached for me, but I wouldn’t let him touch, letting go of his cock when it was necessary, trying to distract him with my mouth when it wasn’t. My fingers played at his thighs, turned the hair wrong and slipped between them. I twisted him inside of my mouth as if he had to be screwed in, then set myself, my feet where they needed to be with his cock at the back of my throat. He tried to caress my thigh, but I wouldn’t let him. I waited for him to settle, put one hand on his pelvis, another on his chest and pushed.
His cock pushed air and saliva in and out of my mouth with the momentum, making squishing sounds that seemed to echo against the canvas. Then came his moans, little popping exhales in his nose. I met the rhythm of his pendulum with my jaw and pumped him hard and deep. He gave up trying to touch me and simply watched. I untied my own drawstring, pulled the sweatpants down and let my cock hang free in his sightlines, occasionally touching his nose or chin. He kissed when he could, but I pushed him harder when he did, swinging him out of reach. I held for a moment, let him drop out and spit in my hand. I combined it with the pre-come and cupped the underside of my cock for a moment, the warm enclosure of it, and finally wrapped my hand around it, my thumb at the ridge, squeezing for his view.
My mouth went back to him and the tent seemed to collapse upon us, the air itself the pressure of canvas walls and ceiling, the two of us closed into each other. I sucked him into my mouth again and swung him only slightly now, just enough to bring tension, friction, the back of my tongue swinging itself on the tip of him. My hand quickly made me ready, but I studied his body, Demetrios’s familiar shakes and gestures, the buzz of his cock that I knew better than he did. I felt us both at the bottom of the arc and pulled us up, gasping, groaning to the peak. I pulled two fingers out of my grip and opened his lips with them. His teeth gaped into a gasp, his orgasm, I could feel it in a drop in his pelvis. I put the tip of my cock against the roof of his mouth and we went rigid for a moment, a high note in my chest, and then broke, released, drawing each other’s come in, an exchange of joy and salt and love for each other, our arms around each other’s backs, holding and jolting. My eyes had been closed here too, forever, it seemed, and I had the world mapped in the gestures of one other man, my guide and my source of gravity.
I didn’t actually have to be there then, and neither did Demetrios. We could spend our night separate from each other, seeing whatever town we were in, but we were here instead, because this is where our lives were, the whistle of the air in our ears, the familiar shape of the bar, the ever-changing pull of gravity our only homes. And with each other, the excuse that we’ve got to remember everything about our moves before they happen paralleling so easily with the way we finish each other’s sentences, communicate only in our shoulders, leave words out of our mouths, the lips more about our bodies than our minds. We knew each other very well, though our pasts were never examined, our motives never investigated. We simply knew what was going to happen next because we knew it.
He pulled out of the catcher’s lock and swung himself back into an arc. My subconscious, playing on the same trigonometry that would have taught me how to calculate an arrow into the breast of a wild turkey, counted the right time for launch. I flew, purely on muscle memory, with a few swings, into a backend plange and knew that he would be ready to catch again, knew his thumb and the thick muscle that runs the other side of his palm would be enough to hold and hook me. The air battered my eardrums as I flew free to him, my hands twisting, and I was stopped without breaking the swing. We used to laugh when we’d do this, surprised that we’d never dropped each other, but now I simply pulled myself up to him, with the help of his biceps, and kissed him upside down, the toast we always made to each other. Job well done. Even when we were performing it happened in our minds.
I swung us into larger dips and heights, enough room to play around a little. He swung me up and I held onto the rope in my ankles, then down with a flip to grasp the launching board in my fingers. I tuned us around a few times, twisting the trapeze hand over hand, and let us go, my hands out, rolling like a vertical wheel at the air. We laughed and swung some more, seeing tent, light, tower, ladder, floor, net, ladder, seats, tower. I closed my eyes sometimes, though it made me a little seasick, just to prove to myself that this had nothing to do with sight.
Twenty minutes passed, thirty, and it was time to head for the ground, like two kids who had to give up playing when the street lights came on. I let go of Demetrios and fell into a suicide landing on the net, jumping up in time to get out of his way, and walked, walked instead of flew, in the bulges of the net to the ground, firm and disappointing, though my head was still in the air. I waited for him and he walked right past me, to the little practice rig on the side. In a prestidigitatious move, he was upside down on this one too while I blinked. He hung and crossed his arms, the slight squeak in the rig the only sound, his head about five feet above the mat. I moved to him and examined his face. The air turned to gravity between us and I pushed his shoulder. He swung, the slightest squeak, and came back. I pushed again and he swung some more, silent and stoic. I let him keep time like that for a while and watched him, until his hands moved up to his sweatpants, untied the cord, let his shirt drop over his shoulders. I approached slowly, looking at the ripples of his body, the balance of muscles, my appreciation growing in my own sweatpants. He pulled his knees closer to each other, the material falling on the corner of the muscles in his thighs, and reached out when I was in range, grabbed me by the cock, though I whined, and pulled his own sweats up under the bar.
His cock pointed at his chin, mine at the same. I winched the bar lower so that his was in reach of my mouth, his head now just a few feet above the ground. I made adjustments until I had the right angle and turned my head, sucking the tip of him into me now, sucking the sweet part of the shaft and then forward onto the veins. He reached for me, but I wouldn’t let him touch, letting go of his cock when it was necessary, trying to distract him with my mouth when it wasn’t. My fingers played at his thighs, turned the hair wrong and slipped between them. I twisted him inside of my mouth as if he had to be screwed in, then set myself, my feet where they needed to be with his cock at the back of my throat. He tried to caress my thigh, but I wouldn’t let him. I waited for him to settle, put one hand on his pelvis, another on his chest and pushed.
His cock pushed air and saliva in and out of my mouth with the momentum, making squishing sounds that seemed to echo against the canvas. Then came his moans, little popping exhales in his nose. I met the rhythm of his pendulum with my jaw and pumped him hard and deep. He gave up trying to touch me and simply watched. I untied my own drawstring, pulled the sweatpants down and let my cock hang free in his sightlines, occasionally touching his nose or chin. He kissed when he could, but I pushed him harder when he did, swinging him out of reach. I held for a moment, let him drop out and spit in my hand. I combined it with the pre-come and cupped the underside of my cock for a moment, the warm enclosure of it, and finally wrapped my hand around it, my thumb at the ridge, squeezing for his view.
My mouth went back to him and the tent seemed to collapse upon us, the air itself the pressure of canvas walls and ceiling, the two of us closed into each other. I sucked him into my mouth again and swung him only slightly now, just enough to bring tension, friction, the back of my tongue swinging itself on the tip of him. My hand quickly made me ready, but I studied his body, Demetrios’s familiar shakes and gestures, the buzz of his cock that I knew better than he did. I felt us both at the bottom of the arc and pulled us up, gasping, groaning to the peak. I pulled two fingers out of my grip and opened his lips with them. His teeth gaped into a gasp, his orgasm, I could feel it in a drop in his pelvis. I put the tip of my cock against the roof of his mouth and we went rigid for a moment, a high note in my chest, and then broke, released, drawing each other’s come in, an exchange of joy and salt and love for each other, our arms around each other’s backs, holding and jolting. My eyes had been closed here too, forever, it seemed, and I had the world mapped in the gestures of one other man, my guide and my source of gravity.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Lizzie and Jenny
Note: Holy cow, this was ridden with typos. I think I got them all. Sorry for the cringe factor.
“You guys just want to stay on the boat?” asks Lisa’s old roommate, her hand on the button of the voiceover microphone.
We look to the left, across the shoulder-level floor that revolves with the boats. There’s no line or anything. “Yeah!”
“Then just stay there,” she says, rotating just out of our neck angle.
The completely tweaked out recorded voice plays again and again as we rotate in the moat, rubber squeaking against rubber. The voice reminds us, “Please keep your hands and feet inside the boat at all times. As you enjoy the ride’s sixty foot drop, keep your belongings close to you. Hold onto children, and enjoy the rest of your day at Marriot’s Great America! Please keep your hands and feet inside the boat….”
Jenny’s soaking wet, sitting in front of me, she takes all the big water and I get only what I can’t easily avoid. The seats are like a lengthwise bench with one divider in the middle. They can hold about six kids or something like that, but we’re four adults, Lisa and her boyfriend Ted, all wrapped up into each other on the front side of the divider, and Jenny and me, our boyfriends off to wait in the three-hour line for The Demon. They’re all excited because they get to go upside down, but the fucking ride only lasts around two minutes. We could stay on the water rides all night, us four, and we do.
It’s a warm night, but wet like this, Jenny and I shiver a little, looking over the side of the long up-ramp on the boat. Across the park, rides flit all over, screaming and the whoosh of rails and hard brakes. Jenny keeps trying to get me to look straight down, but I won’t. I don’t know if I’m still scared like I used to be when I was a kid, but I don’t want to check. She’s having such a good time teasing me anyway.
“I’m looking down, I’m looking down, I’m looking downnnn,” she says, leaning just a little too far over the edge.
“Stop!”
I hold her tight to me, but she just laughs and pulls harder. “Oh, look over there! It’s your body! All flat and bloody!”
“Jenny!”
I call for Ted and Lisa, but they’re occupied. Jenny takes this as a more interesting course of overexcitement and leans back onto me. “Do you think they’re doing it?” she asks. “Do you think they’re doing it right now in front of us?”
“Please.”
“I don’t know where Ted’s right hand is, but his left hand is on her booby.”
“Her booby?”
“Yeah, like the one of yours that I’m squishing right now! Do you think they’d throw us out if we smoked up here?”
The boat reaches the top of the hill, makes a small drop for speed and begins winding around the course.
“I don’t think you’d be able to light it,” I answer.
She frowns and takes my arms in her hands. “Touch my boobies, Ted!” she says, imitating Lisa, but taking both my hands to her tits and holding them there. She forcibly kneads my fingers, “Oh, Ted! That feels so gooooood!”
I would remove them, but she won’t change the subject until she has her way. Her nipples are rock hard through the shirt. “Mmmm, Lizzie!”
“Cut it out, Jenny!” The drop is straight ahead. Ted and Lisa, about to go over, don’t come up for air in their kiss. “God, you’re such a lesbo!”
“So what?” she says, and turns around as the boat goes over. Her lips touch mine and she sucks them in and we’re falling, falling straight down the chute. Just before we hit bottom, she takes my hand up her dress, her legs wide open, the water flies in and she’s soaked. After the boat settles, she faces forward again and says “You tell anyone, and I’ll just deny it.”
“You guys want to just stay there?” Lisa’s old roommate says.
“Yeah!” the four of us say, and as we go up the ramp, Jenny turns to me again, kisses me, takes my hands and puts them where she wants.
“You guys just want to stay on the boat?” asks Lisa’s old roommate, her hand on the button of the voiceover microphone.
We look to the left, across the shoulder-level floor that revolves with the boats. There’s no line or anything. “Yeah!”
“Then just stay there,” she says, rotating just out of our neck angle.
The completely tweaked out recorded voice plays again and again as we rotate in the moat, rubber squeaking against rubber. The voice reminds us, “Please keep your hands and feet inside the boat at all times. As you enjoy the ride’s sixty foot drop, keep your belongings close to you. Hold onto children, and enjoy the rest of your day at Marriot’s Great America! Please keep your hands and feet inside the boat….”
Jenny’s soaking wet, sitting in front of me, she takes all the big water and I get only what I can’t easily avoid. The seats are like a lengthwise bench with one divider in the middle. They can hold about six kids or something like that, but we’re four adults, Lisa and her boyfriend Ted, all wrapped up into each other on the front side of the divider, and Jenny and me, our boyfriends off to wait in the three-hour line for The Demon. They’re all excited because they get to go upside down, but the fucking ride only lasts around two minutes. We could stay on the water rides all night, us four, and we do.
It’s a warm night, but wet like this, Jenny and I shiver a little, looking over the side of the long up-ramp on the boat. Across the park, rides flit all over, screaming and the whoosh of rails and hard brakes. Jenny keeps trying to get me to look straight down, but I won’t. I don’t know if I’m still scared like I used to be when I was a kid, but I don’t want to check. She’s having such a good time teasing me anyway.
“I’m looking down, I’m looking down, I’m looking downnnn,” she says, leaning just a little too far over the edge.
“Stop!”
I hold her tight to me, but she just laughs and pulls harder. “Oh, look over there! It’s your body! All flat and bloody!”
“Jenny!”
I call for Ted and Lisa, but they’re occupied. Jenny takes this as a more interesting course of overexcitement and leans back onto me. “Do you think they’re doing it?” she asks. “Do you think they’re doing it right now in front of us?”
“Please.”
“I don’t know where Ted’s right hand is, but his left hand is on her booby.”
“Her booby?”
“Yeah, like the one of yours that I’m squishing right now! Do you think they’d throw us out if we smoked up here?”
The boat reaches the top of the hill, makes a small drop for speed and begins winding around the course.
“I don’t think you’d be able to light it,” I answer.
She frowns and takes my arms in her hands. “Touch my boobies, Ted!” she says, imitating Lisa, but taking both my hands to her tits and holding them there. She forcibly kneads my fingers, “Oh, Ted! That feels so gooooood!”
I would remove them, but she won’t change the subject until she has her way. Her nipples are rock hard through the shirt. “Mmmm, Lizzie!”
“Cut it out, Jenny!” The drop is straight ahead. Ted and Lisa, about to go over, don’t come up for air in their kiss. “God, you’re such a lesbo!”
“So what?” she says, and turns around as the boat goes over. Her lips touch mine and she sucks them in and we’re falling, falling straight down the chute. Just before we hit bottom, she takes my hand up her dress, her legs wide open, the water flies in and she’s soaked. After the boat settles, she faces forward again and says “You tell anyone, and I’ll just deny it.”
“You guys want to just stay there?” Lisa’s old roommate says.
“Yeah!” the four of us say, and as we go up the ramp, Jenny turns to me again, kisses me, takes my hands and puts them where she wants.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Peace
Despite what everyone says, those parental amalgams, holding their children tightly against their chests, petting their downy hair in protective hands, it’s quite possible to surf the web without running into any sex at all. When in doubt, I’ve been going to websites specifically for children, smiling at new media for all those memories, the Sesame Street website, Fisher-Price, Nickelodeon. Believe it or not, some of them have got great games, enough to while away hours in wholesome family fun, just me, twenty-six years old, limp in the dick, in bed with my laptop.
The sight of lips, open, a stubbled beard barely holding my come around his mouth.
I’m in terrible pain, you see, and mysterious pain at that. Every day I wake up to a new and different joint wracked with soreness. One day, my right wrist, the next, my left knee. Never two. Never the same as yesterday. But the pain is what I imagine thumbscrews must feel like, or knee screws, or elbow screws, or whatever. The helpless, throbbing, inescapable cry, and I’ve cried on its behalf, begging, first thing in the morning, when I’ve realized that I’ve got to crawl to the bathroom again, begging invisible Conquistadores to stop! Stop! I confess!
I don’t have health insurance, so I let the doctors charge me for as much sickness as I can afford, and take their word for it. Their word, so far, has been a shrug. Take this drug. Take this one, but not that, and when you can’t walk, stay home. They don’t have any idea what’s wrong, and I’m sure at least one of them thinks I’m making it up. Self-diagnosis is all the rage, and if carefully navigated, also sex-free and on the internet. I’ve decided it’s an allergy, so I’ve been giving single things up for a couple of weeks. In the end, all that becomes is spiritual fasting. Soft drinks for fourteen days (caffeine), cigarettes another (crazy chemical additives), cleaning products (use boiling water and baking soda instead), plastic, alcohol, household plants. So far, nothing. My hopeful fasting has turned to atonement, some guilt left behind from my Jewish upbringing. I’ve given up masturbation for two weeks, and sit alone in my bed, the best sex toy I’ve ever had showing me only fart jokes and old, public domain movies.
The feel of my forearm straining against his waistband, the heat inside.
It’s my ankle today, so I’m staying home. No crying on the way to my hands and knees this morning, just a confused dog, nuzzling my face and barking, my toes high in the air. Later, a phone call to work, and much later, a phone call to Clement, the third time I’ve cancelled on him this month.
“I’m just going to go over there,” he says, all argument-proof and about to hang up before I can protest. There are no spaces in between his words now. “I’mcomingoverataroundseventhirtysoputsomepantsonandanswerthedoor.” Click. Pants? How am I going to get pants on?
It takes about five minutes to put pants on, but I time it so I’ll get them on with plenty of time to look normal if it brings on a crying fit, or yet another inappropriate erection, which have descended upon me like beestings during news broadcasts, tooth brushing, hanging a towel on a hook. I calculate the probability of the seam of my pants touching my balls and causing an erection at about sixty-five percent, and these hard ons take mental effort on the level of three of those spoon-bending kids from The Matrix to hose down.
Fingers, just the tips, testing my balls in soft underwear. He pushes them up and they separate, letting the weight of his hand rise to the base of my cock.
Aching. It aches. My entire body is swollen, the center of gravity is my dick, its borders stretching to my hips, my thighs, my shaking knees. I fall back on the bed and touch, just touch, in a moment of weakness. Pfffffffffffff. Noooooo.
I play Bejeweled until it subsides, my head truly empty except in strategy of making astounding, seven-gem matches. Even the ankle seems to take the argument. When the door buzzer rings I’m grey, sexless, subdued, hopping to the button on one leg.
Clement is pure buzz, though, his stout little body, slightly shorter than me, is lean and muscular, potent, though I’ve never really looked before. I think he said he was a diver or something in college. He offers his shoulder to me and hops me back to the couch while he talks.
“It’s the ankle, huh? Well, I brought booze. You’re drinking again, right? Good. Jesus, you were boring. This car outside? This guy? I think it was a guy, I didn’t look. This guy just about tore my nuts off with his bumper. I don’t think he ever saw me. Probably on the phone. I need six tickets to Tokyo. There you go. You’re having a drink now. I’ll make it. What’s with this wallpaper? I thought you swore it off?”
And so on. The contact with his shoulder was a little dicey, my skin found it unbelievable and nearly crawled off to the kitchen with him. He hands me the drink and I put it down, foot out and limp, on the floor. Clement has some trouble deciding where to sit and finally settles, sympathy for the sickie, on the chair right next to me. We both face the dark grey screen of the T.V.
“What are you giving up this week?”
“Television,” I lie.
He looks right into my pupils. I have no idea why he would suspect that I’m lying, but maybe that’s just part of his intensity, that stare, as if he expects me to expound. He turns his chair so he can face me, and I feel exposed.
“That’s fine. You’ve got the internet. How many times have you come today?”
Clement’s mouth, the way his bottom lip pushes out, open and wet, dropping into my lap, the drag of them across the skin of my cock.
I pick up the glass quickly and cover myself with it. The cold helps too. “Um, a bunch.”
He cocks his head, looks back at the blank T.V., back to me and says, “Hang on, you hate T.V.”
He leans in a little more, his glass perspiring, his lips, I don’t think I’d ever noticed them before, did he have a beard or something, just a little closer to me. They part. He says, “What did you really give up?”
“Orgasms.”
“Joel. That’s not healthy.”
“They’re not necessary to sustain life. They don’t send vibrators and fleshlights to impoverished war zones.”
“That’s alright. Your body’s probably doing it anyway.”
“Only one wet dream.”
“Joel, that’s ridiculous. Do it. My God, it’ll smell like mold or something, but do it.”
“I’m trying to work!”
“You’re feeling guilty, aren’t you? You’ve been out for half a decade and you still feel bad, right?”
“On the same level as soda.”
“There’s nothing wrong with it!”
“I know that consciously, but….”
“Did I ever tell you about my first time? It was my swim coach.”
“Oh, Jesus.”
“Oh no. It was fantastic.” He stops and waits for me to try to argue. I let him get it out. “I’m nineteen, slower than all the other swimmers, but he doesn’t want me to quit. He’s worked me into this slick new body, all the fat gone, burned away in the pool. Strong shoulders. I can’t believe it.” He shrugs his shoulders forward so I can see what he means. “But he talks about my body like a product, like I’m not in it, so I start to think of it that way. And then he asks me if I’m getting laid, if I’ve got a girlfriend. I tell him I don’t. He says I should get one. Well I don’t say anything, figuring he’s not gonna pursue it, right? But of course he knows why I’m not saying anything. This is his test.” He leans forward a little, as if he has to whisper. The glass covers nothing anymore. “So he starts checking things, takes the robe down over my shoulders and starts to give me a massage as he’s talking to me.” He takes my glass away, gives a piteous look at my self-evident predicament, returns to my eyes.
“Well, by this time I’ve got the biggest hard on of my little life, and I can’t hide it,” he looks briefly at mine and points his chin at my face, “because my arms have got to hang loose while he’s massaging them. I’m kind of waiting for him to see it and throw me off the team, but he’s gotten all the way down to my hands,” Clement takes mine and puts them down on my sides, “and he hasn’t said anything. And it’s not like those little Speedos hide anything. ‘You’re so tense,’ he says. ‘You can’t concentrate.’” My eyes close. It’s my only defense against his lips. “And before you know it, there are his fingers.” Clement’s hands remain on mine. I feel like bucking against the seam of my pants. Anything. “And I kinda just fell into him. The whole world, all this fighting I’d been doing, just went click! It was actually the first time I’d ever really been at peace.”
He pauses longer, so I open my eyes for a moment. “Peace, Joel. That’s sex for me, peace. Before I knew it, he had me on all fours on his desk, teaching me what it feels like to get my asshole licked. That’s how I came the first time. I didn’t even touch. And then I started staying late after every swim practice. That guy taught me everything.” He lets my hands go. “I’d let you give up food before I let you give up coming. Do it now.”
“No, that’s weird.”
He lets his fingers slide slowly across my cock through the pants. I’ve only got time to cringe before I come, my mind lost, my body flooded with liquid joy, its own medicine. My ankle feels fine. When my eyes open, he smiles, kisses the wet spot, and changes the subject to Dancing With the Stars.
The sight of lips, open, a stubbled beard barely holding my come around his mouth.
I’m in terrible pain, you see, and mysterious pain at that. Every day I wake up to a new and different joint wracked with soreness. One day, my right wrist, the next, my left knee. Never two. Never the same as yesterday. But the pain is what I imagine thumbscrews must feel like, or knee screws, or elbow screws, or whatever. The helpless, throbbing, inescapable cry, and I’ve cried on its behalf, begging, first thing in the morning, when I’ve realized that I’ve got to crawl to the bathroom again, begging invisible Conquistadores to stop! Stop! I confess!
I don’t have health insurance, so I let the doctors charge me for as much sickness as I can afford, and take their word for it. Their word, so far, has been a shrug. Take this drug. Take this one, but not that, and when you can’t walk, stay home. They don’t have any idea what’s wrong, and I’m sure at least one of them thinks I’m making it up. Self-diagnosis is all the rage, and if carefully navigated, also sex-free and on the internet. I’ve decided it’s an allergy, so I’ve been giving single things up for a couple of weeks. In the end, all that becomes is spiritual fasting. Soft drinks for fourteen days (caffeine), cigarettes another (crazy chemical additives), cleaning products (use boiling water and baking soda instead), plastic, alcohol, household plants. So far, nothing. My hopeful fasting has turned to atonement, some guilt left behind from my Jewish upbringing. I’ve given up masturbation for two weeks, and sit alone in my bed, the best sex toy I’ve ever had showing me only fart jokes and old, public domain movies.
The feel of my forearm straining against his waistband, the heat inside.
It’s my ankle today, so I’m staying home. No crying on the way to my hands and knees this morning, just a confused dog, nuzzling my face and barking, my toes high in the air. Later, a phone call to work, and much later, a phone call to Clement, the third time I’ve cancelled on him this month.
“I’m just going to go over there,” he says, all argument-proof and about to hang up before I can protest. There are no spaces in between his words now. “I’mcomingoverataroundseventhirtysoputsomepantsonandanswerthedoor.” Click. Pants? How am I going to get pants on?
It takes about five minutes to put pants on, but I time it so I’ll get them on with plenty of time to look normal if it brings on a crying fit, or yet another inappropriate erection, which have descended upon me like beestings during news broadcasts, tooth brushing, hanging a towel on a hook. I calculate the probability of the seam of my pants touching my balls and causing an erection at about sixty-five percent, and these hard ons take mental effort on the level of three of those spoon-bending kids from The Matrix to hose down.
Fingers, just the tips, testing my balls in soft underwear. He pushes them up and they separate, letting the weight of his hand rise to the base of my cock.
Aching. It aches. My entire body is swollen, the center of gravity is my dick, its borders stretching to my hips, my thighs, my shaking knees. I fall back on the bed and touch, just touch, in a moment of weakness. Pfffffffffffff. Noooooo.
I play Bejeweled until it subsides, my head truly empty except in strategy of making astounding, seven-gem matches. Even the ankle seems to take the argument. When the door buzzer rings I’m grey, sexless, subdued, hopping to the button on one leg.
Clement is pure buzz, though, his stout little body, slightly shorter than me, is lean and muscular, potent, though I’ve never really looked before. I think he said he was a diver or something in college. He offers his shoulder to me and hops me back to the couch while he talks.
“It’s the ankle, huh? Well, I brought booze. You’re drinking again, right? Good. Jesus, you were boring. This car outside? This guy? I think it was a guy, I didn’t look. This guy just about tore my nuts off with his bumper. I don’t think he ever saw me. Probably on the phone. I need six tickets to Tokyo. There you go. You’re having a drink now. I’ll make it. What’s with this wallpaper? I thought you swore it off?”
And so on. The contact with his shoulder was a little dicey, my skin found it unbelievable and nearly crawled off to the kitchen with him. He hands me the drink and I put it down, foot out and limp, on the floor. Clement has some trouble deciding where to sit and finally settles, sympathy for the sickie, on the chair right next to me. We both face the dark grey screen of the T.V.
“What are you giving up this week?”
“Television,” I lie.
He looks right into my pupils. I have no idea why he would suspect that I’m lying, but maybe that’s just part of his intensity, that stare, as if he expects me to expound. He turns his chair so he can face me, and I feel exposed.
“That’s fine. You’ve got the internet. How many times have you come today?”
Clement’s mouth, the way his bottom lip pushes out, open and wet, dropping into my lap, the drag of them across the skin of my cock.
I pick up the glass quickly and cover myself with it. The cold helps too. “Um, a bunch.”
He cocks his head, looks back at the blank T.V., back to me and says, “Hang on, you hate T.V.”
He leans in a little more, his glass perspiring, his lips, I don’t think I’d ever noticed them before, did he have a beard or something, just a little closer to me. They part. He says, “What did you really give up?”
“Orgasms.”
“Joel. That’s not healthy.”
“They’re not necessary to sustain life. They don’t send vibrators and fleshlights to impoverished war zones.”
“That’s alright. Your body’s probably doing it anyway.”
“Only one wet dream.”
“Joel, that’s ridiculous. Do it. My God, it’ll smell like mold or something, but do it.”
“I’m trying to work!”
“You’re feeling guilty, aren’t you? You’ve been out for half a decade and you still feel bad, right?”
“On the same level as soda.”
“There’s nothing wrong with it!”
“I know that consciously, but….”
“Did I ever tell you about my first time? It was my swim coach.”
“Oh, Jesus.”
“Oh no. It was fantastic.” He stops and waits for me to try to argue. I let him get it out. “I’m nineteen, slower than all the other swimmers, but he doesn’t want me to quit. He’s worked me into this slick new body, all the fat gone, burned away in the pool. Strong shoulders. I can’t believe it.” He shrugs his shoulders forward so I can see what he means. “But he talks about my body like a product, like I’m not in it, so I start to think of it that way. And then he asks me if I’m getting laid, if I’ve got a girlfriend. I tell him I don’t. He says I should get one. Well I don’t say anything, figuring he’s not gonna pursue it, right? But of course he knows why I’m not saying anything. This is his test.” He leans forward a little, as if he has to whisper. The glass covers nothing anymore. “So he starts checking things, takes the robe down over my shoulders and starts to give me a massage as he’s talking to me.” He takes my glass away, gives a piteous look at my self-evident predicament, returns to my eyes.
“Well, by this time I’ve got the biggest hard on of my little life, and I can’t hide it,” he looks briefly at mine and points his chin at my face, “because my arms have got to hang loose while he’s massaging them. I’m kind of waiting for him to see it and throw me off the team, but he’s gotten all the way down to my hands,” Clement takes mine and puts them down on my sides, “and he hasn’t said anything. And it’s not like those little Speedos hide anything. ‘You’re so tense,’ he says. ‘You can’t concentrate.’” My eyes close. It’s my only defense against his lips. “And before you know it, there are his fingers.” Clement’s hands remain on mine. I feel like bucking against the seam of my pants. Anything. “And I kinda just fell into him. The whole world, all this fighting I’d been doing, just went click! It was actually the first time I’d ever really been at peace.”
He pauses longer, so I open my eyes for a moment. “Peace, Joel. That’s sex for me, peace. Before I knew it, he had me on all fours on his desk, teaching me what it feels like to get my asshole licked. That’s how I came the first time. I didn’t even touch. And then I started staying late after every swim practice. That guy taught me everything.” He lets my hands go. “I’d let you give up food before I let you give up coming. Do it now.”
“No, that’s weird.”
He lets his fingers slide slowly across my cock through the pants. I’ve only got time to cringe before I come, my mind lost, my body flooded with liquid joy, its own medicine. My ankle feels fine. When my eyes open, he smiles, kisses the wet spot, and changes the subject to Dancing With the Stars.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Enough
Note: This one's pure whimpering moosh. If you're not into mooshy, don't read it.
I can’t do anything until we get in. Rushing through the airport, the baggage in the car, people looking at us, but no one saying anything, just rushing down moving sidewalks and through automatic doors until the last one opens and there’s the car, rushing into it. For however long it will last, the last piece of him for a while.
I’d looked forward to it for months, though I never said anything, or even thought about it directly. But it was there and we both knew it, a room outside of our lives, away from our homes, the old routine, if only for one night it was something. And the day was fine. We were just beaming, like children, like we’d just met, like it was all in front of us. There would be nights in front of us and I lied to myself, just in case it didn’t happen. I lied and told myself we were together again. Because I didn’t want to think about the next day, today, when we take the limo home and there are more months ahead of us before we can be alone again. Alone without a lying phone call or a time limit, when we would have hours together away from ourselves, the pillow fort that we hide in, a sheet over it, reading stories to each other with our flashlights.
Corey’s room was right next to mine so I didn’t have to wait long. I answered the door and he was there, an expression of something in him, his face vexed and hopeful, like mine. Exhausted with want and worry and dread and happiness. I let him in and he hugged me tightly to him, finally time for affection. Finally enough time to feel each other, not a quick fuck in the back seat or a drunk dial early in the morning. We stood for a long time like that in the hallway of my room and I felt like I was falling apart, but I swallowed it down, like pushing ice through a hose. I finally broke it off and made us a couple of drinks. He sat on the bed and wiped his mouth back and forth in his hand.
“Are you happy?” he asked, his voice split in two.
I didn’t answer him, but swallowed again, chasing it with the vodka and cranberry I’d made for myself. I gave him his drink and he drank it fast. We sat next to each other, our shoulders pressed in harshly to one another. His hand, cold from the drink, trailed up my beard and I kissed it.
He backed up to the headboard and I followed him. He turned to his side, pulled me into him and kissed me. We took our time. And it hurt. It hurt like hell. Every millimeter between us stung.
The first thing we do in the limo is raise the barrier. He pushes me down into the seat and takes his jeans off. I take off my own. He falls onto me and sinks his tongue into my mouth. I sit up and push him down instead, lube from my bag drizzled on his asshole and the look in his eyes that I’m avoiding. In the room, we took each other’s clothes off slowly. I felt his skin against mine and I almost lost it again. We lay there, our mouths moving into each other, our legs wrapped into each other, all the things I wanted to say getting packed down deeper into my gut. “I love you,” I said, finally, this little admission sent up to explain everything below. And that hurt enough, letting that pass through.
I unzip my bag in the footwell and put the tips of my fingers over his bottom teeth. Don’t say anything. Just don’t. I don’t want any of that. There’s just no fucking time. We put it off and this is it. When I’m coated and my dick, my sullen brain not affecting it at all, pulses in the air, I concentrate on that. I raise his knees onto my chest and slam into him, he whimpers three little jittery inhales over his teeth like he stepped on something sharp. I add more lube and press on, stanching the pain in my chest that I’m ignoring. I’ll deal with you later.
“I. Shit, Alec, I love you too,” he said, breaking the kiss. He put his fingers in my hair and pressed his cheek into mine. “I love you too. I can’t live without you. I can’t do anything at the work. Can’t do anything at home. I’m faking everything. I’m a fucking wreck and I can’t, shit, dammit, shit, no, I just. I don’t want to do this. I can’t talk to you about this. I just want to lay here with you, okay? I just want to lay here.” And I didn’t know what to do. So I crushed him to me and I closed my eyes and tried to be happy for him. And they came anyway, branding my fucking cheeks they were so hot.
He’s getting into it and I’m looking down at him, my arms wrapped tight around his thighs and I’ve never gone so hard, so reckless, so desperate and angry at him. I feel like slapping him I’m so mad. But it’s not him I’m mad at. It’s that tomorrow he’ll be next to me again. And I’ll have to lie. And I’ll have to get into my car and go home. I’m sweating and thinking about how I’m going to explain it. And I’m mad about that too. And I just want to fuck him forever. And I just want to come. And I want to hate him. The feel of his body on mine, I want to hate that. He grasps his cock, but I slap it away and take it myself, quick and cold.
We spent the entire night awake and quiet like that, broken up only occasionally by a quaking shoulder and a word or two. In the morning, late for the airport and rushing to pack everything, I patted my jacket from the night before.
“I have something to show you,” I said. I opened up my wallet and pulled out my stack of I.D.s, credit cards and such. Between the Nieman’s and the Blockbuster, I pulled out a lunch receipt. “It’s from the day we met. It’s been in here ever since.”
He looked at it and bit his lip. I put it all back.
“Come, dammit,” I say to him. “Come, Corey. Come.” I feel my fingernails graze him a couple of times, but I don’t care. Sweat drips through my eyebrows and into my eyes and I take that sting too.
“Alec, I… Alec. Alec.”
“Shut up. Just fucking come.” My body is pulsing. I’m burning, but it doesn’t matter. And I’m fighting everything. I just want to fight. I hate all of it. His shoulders lift off of the seat and I feel his ass twist and lock on me and he shoots out all over my hand and I’m seething and trying not to think of anything but that. When I stop thinking, my whole body explodes and it’s not enough. It’s not enough to feel his knees in my chest and call his name out. It’s not enough to stanch anything. Because I want last night back. I pull out of him and pick him up and hold him so close to me and he pulls out of it with a squeeze on my knee. We get to my neighborhood. We put our clothes on silently and I kiss him hard before I get out of the car, a squeeze on the hand that’s nowhere near enough.
I can’t do anything until we get in. Rushing through the airport, the baggage in the car, people looking at us, but no one saying anything, just rushing down moving sidewalks and through automatic doors until the last one opens and there’s the car, rushing into it. For however long it will last, the last piece of him for a while.
I’d looked forward to it for months, though I never said anything, or even thought about it directly. But it was there and we both knew it, a room outside of our lives, away from our homes, the old routine, if only for one night it was something. And the day was fine. We were just beaming, like children, like we’d just met, like it was all in front of us. There would be nights in front of us and I lied to myself, just in case it didn’t happen. I lied and told myself we were together again. Because I didn’t want to think about the next day, today, when we take the limo home and there are more months ahead of us before we can be alone again. Alone without a lying phone call or a time limit, when we would have hours together away from ourselves, the pillow fort that we hide in, a sheet over it, reading stories to each other with our flashlights.
Corey’s room was right next to mine so I didn’t have to wait long. I answered the door and he was there, an expression of something in him, his face vexed and hopeful, like mine. Exhausted with want and worry and dread and happiness. I let him in and he hugged me tightly to him, finally time for affection. Finally enough time to feel each other, not a quick fuck in the back seat or a drunk dial early in the morning. We stood for a long time like that in the hallway of my room and I felt like I was falling apart, but I swallowed it down, like pushing ice through a hose. I finally broke it off and made us a couple of drinks. He sat on the bed and wiped his mouth back and forth in his hand.
“Are you happy?” he asked, his voice split in two.
I didn’t answer him, but swallowed again, chasing it with the vodka and cranberry I’d made for myself. I gave him his drink and he drank it fast. We sat next to each other, our shoulders pressed in harshly to one another. His hand, cold from the drink, trailed up my beard and I kissed it.
He backed up to the headboard and I followed him. He turned to his side, pulled me into him and kissed me. We took our time. And it hurt. It hurt like hell. Every millimeter between us stung.
The first thing we do in the limo is raise the barrier. He pushes me down into the seat and takes his jeans off. I take off my own. He falls onto me and sinks his tongue into my mouth. I sit up and push him down instead, lube from my bag drizzled on his asshole and the look in his eyes that I’m avoiding. In the room, we took each other’s clothes off slowly. I felt his skin against mine and I almost lost it again. We lay there, our mouths moving into each other, our legs wrapped into each other, all the things I wanted to say getting packed down deeper into my gut. “I love you,” I said, finally, this little admission sent up to explain everything below. And that hurt enough, letting that pass through.
I unzip my bag in the footwell and put the tips of my fingers over his bottom teeth. Don’t say anything. Just don’t. I don’t want any of that. There’s just no fucking time. We put it off and this is it. When I’m coated and my dick, my sullen brain not affecting it at all, pulses in the air, I concentrate on that. I raise his knees onto my chest and slam into him, he whimpers three little jittery inhales over his teeth like he stepped on something sharp. I add more lube and press on, stanching the pain in my chest that I’m ignoring. I’ll deal with you later.
“I. Shit, Alec, I love you too,” he said, breaking the kiss. He put his fingers in my hair and pressed his cheek into mine. “I love you too. I can’t live without you. I can’t do anything at the work. Can’t do anything at home. I’m faking everything. I’m a fucking wreck and I can’t, shit, dammit, shit, no, I just. I don’t want to do this. I can’t talk to you about this. I just want to lay here with you, okay? I just want to lay here.” And I didn’t know what to do. So I crushed him to me and I closed my eyes and tried to be happy for him. And they came anyway, branding my fucking cheeks they were so hot.
He’s getting into it and I’m looking down at him, my arms wrapped tight around his thighs and I’ve never gone so hard, so reckless, so desperate and angry at him. I feel like slapping him I’m so mad. But it’s not him I’m mad at. It’s that tomorrow he’ll be next to me again. And I’ll have to lie. And I’ll have to get into my car and go home. I’m sweating and thinking about how I’m going to explain it. And I’m mad about that too. And I just want to fuck him forever. And I just want to come. And I want to hate him. The feel of his body on mine, I want to hate that. He grasps his cock, but I slap it away and take it myself, quick and cold.
We spent the entire night awake and quiet like that, broken up only occasionally by a quaking shoulder and a word or two. In the morning, late for the airport and rushing to pack everything, I patted my jacket from the night before.
“I have something to show you,” I said. I opened up my wallet and pulled out my stack of I.D.s, credit cards and such. Between the Nieman’s and the Blockbuster, I pulled out a lunch receipt. “It’s from the day we met. It’s been in here ever since.”
He looked at it and bit his lip. I put it all back.
“Come, dammit,” I say to him. “Come, Corey. Come.” I feel my fingernails graze him a couple of times, but I don’t care. Sweat drips through my eyebrows and into my eyes and I take that sting too.
“Alec, I… Alec. Alec.”
“Shut up. Just fucking come.” My body is pulsing. I’m burning, but it doesn’t matter. And I’m fighting everything. I just want to fight. I hate all of it. His shoulders lift off of the seat and I feel his ass twist and lock on me and he shoots out all over my hand and I’m seething and trying not to think of anything but that. When I stop thinking, my whole body explodes and it’s not enough. It’s not enough to feel his knees in my chest and call his name out. It’s not enough to stanch anything. Because I want last night back. I pull out of him and pick him up and hold him so close to me and he pulls out of it with a squeeze on my knee. We get to my neighborhood. We put our clothes on silently and I kiss him hard before I get out of the car, a squeeze on the hand that’s nowhere near enough.
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