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?"
Friday, January 18, 2008
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.
Monday, January 7, 2008
The Views
The buildings, though they didn't seem to be tall enough, blinked for very low and confused-flying aircraft. She'd meant to do it in the car, waiting for the sun to go down, showing herself off to drivers in taller vehicles. He liked her to do that. He wanted men to want her, projected himself into their shoes, out at a restaurant with a peek at her pussy across the room, wanderers in a public park finding them fucking against a tree. It would make his night to be one of them, a lucky stumbler-upon in the middle of a dreary day, suddenly struck by sex, a favor of a glance or a stare. He'd lifted her skirt in the car, but she didn't care for it in the daylight, and forced her book down to her panties.
And now he slept, the television and the sheets of a hotel room like Mickey Finns to him. She looked out onto this miniature city, the one skyscraper, put up by some local enterprise to justify a skyline, and squinted the curtains shut across it. A butter knife, the handle pleasingly round and bent at the tip, the cheap hotel hand and body lotion, enough for her. She took a long look back at him, his face slack and neck bent against the pillows, and sat on the edge of the bed. The lotion popped a few air bubbles, but produced a liquidy cream full of too much alcohol. She maneuvered it to her clit on careful fingers, losing some of it on the outer lips, but enough to start. It was cold. The alcohol evaporated and took her heat with it, but then it seemed to burn, and she held herself open. She glanced at him again and leaned back, flat on the bed, pulling the butter knife from under her shoulderblade. She swiped across her clit a few times with it, cold too like the lotion, and plunged the handle inside of her, the bent part pointing up, the blade dull enough to grip tightly when it came to that.
The pads of her fingers slipped and flickered. Her back began to tense. Sugar entered her veins and she breathed faster and deeper, though she was just as quiet. The world around her lost importance and she fell away, her body walking her on all fours through its jungle.
The sound of nylon cord zipping through a pulley startled her, followed by the scrape of small metal wheels in a track. She swore inside and dropped her hands to her sides out of habit, one taking the lotion under her back. The butter knife fell to the carpet. His lips were above hers, but they would not touch. He held her hands down to the bed.
"Sorry to interrupt," he said, and his lips pulled the way they sometimes did, the half smile that showed just the tips of his teeth and rounded his eyes, "but I'm curious."
She'd been two-thirds of the way there and buzzed under it. She wanted to beg him to let her finish, but she kept silent. Please, she thought anyway, don't drag this out, finish it or go away. He knew this, of course, and breathed on her neck for a moment before continuing. Her hairs raised everywhere.
"What were you thinking about?" he said.
She said nothing. He continued to hold her still.
"How many men?" he asked.
Nothing.
"How many women?"
His mouth didn't touch her, but scaled and dropped along her body.
"Were you in diapers?"
She was meant to scoff and deny, but she managed a frown of disbelief instead.
"You were in diapers!"
"What? No!"
"Now we're getting somewhere." He kissed the inside of her thigh. She had to stop herself from slapping them shut. She froze and waited, but he stopped. "Tell me more. Tell me about the baseball team and the locker room."
"Please just touch me."
"Not until you tell me."
"I was on a table...."
He kissed her ear, "In a meat packing plant?"
"No," she said. She tried to push her thighs together for the friction, but he clamped them open with his own.
"Go on," he said, and licked the very tip of her nipple. "Was I there at the table?"
"Yes."
He moved into the space between her thighs. His cock made contact with her through her sleeping shorts.
"And what was I doing?"
"You were watching."
He thrust against her hard. It wasn't enough.
She continued. "I'd been plugged," she said. He ran his fingers along her skin, skirting her pussy. "Oh, please touch me."
"Plugged?"
"Food," she said. His head cocked. "Cucumbers, carrots, sauces. Don't make me tell you anymore."
"Go on." His fingers held her open and he pressed into her clit. He straddled her thigh and humped it slowly.
"A man was eating it off of me."
He began to stroke her and she clenched frozen again. Her whole body throbbed. He moved slowly, though, teasing her.
"And I was watching."
"The man, mmm, the man fucked me with the cucumber as he bit things off of my skin. He... he.... Oh God."
"He what?"
Her eyes had been closed but she was curious. She glanced at him and found him stroking himself with his other hand.
"He was getting me off with two baby carrots."
He laughed.
"Shut up!"
"Come on," he said, and turned her legs to the window. "I just wanted to know what you think about. This is what I think about."
The whole city lay before her and she closed her eyes again, despite herself, thinking of the baby carrots and the man.
His breaths got shorter, darker. He shivered and fell into her shoulders, stroking her. She felt his come cool slowly on her breasts. Her knees rose up and with a howl, new pleasure scooped out of her, he slowly made her come, shaking the bed, her whoops bending down to the streets.
"There," he said, and kissed her. She crawled up under the covers and listened the return of the metal wheels and the nylon through the pulleys.
And now he slept, the television and the sheets of a hotel room like Mickey Finns to him. She looked out onto this miniature city, the one skyscraper, put up by some local enterprise to justify a skyline, and squinted the curtains shut across it. A butter knife, the handle pleasingly round and bent at the tip, the cheap hotel hand and body lotion, enough for her. She took a long look back at him, his face slack and neck bent against the pillows, and sat on the edge of the bed. The lotion popped a few air bubbles, but produced a liquidy cream full of too much alcohol. She maneuvered it to her clit on careful fingers, losing some of it on the outer lips, but enough to start. It was cold. The alcohol evaporated and took her heat with it, but then it seemed to burn, and she held herself open. She glanced at him again and leaned back, flat on the bed, pulling the butter knife from under her shoulderblade. She swiped across her clit a few times with it, cold too like the lotion, and plunged the handle inside of her, the bent part pointing up, the blade dull enough to grip tightly when it came to that.
The pads of her fingers slipped and flickered. Her back began to tense. Sugar entered her veins and she breathed faster and deeper, though she was just as quiet. The world around her lost importance and she fell away, her body walking her on all fours through its jungle.
The sound of nylon cord zipping through a pulley startled her, followed by the scrape of small metal wheels in a track. She swore inside and dropped her hands to her sides out of habit, one taking the lotion under her back. The butter knife fell to the carpet. His lips were above hers, but they would not touch. He held her hands down to the bed.
"Sorry to interrupt," he said, and his lips pulled the way they sometimes did, the half smile that showed just the tips of his teeth and rounded his eyes, "but I'm curious."
She'd been two-thirds of the way there and buzzed under it. She wanted to beg him to let her finish, but she kept silent. Please, she thought anyway, don't drag this out, finish it or go away. He knew this, of course, and breathed on her neck for a moment before continuing. Her hairs raised everywhere.
"What were you thinking about?" he said.
She said nothing. He continued to hold her still.
"How many men?" he asked.
Nothing.
"How many women?"
His mouth didn't touch her, but scaled and dropped along her body.
"Were you in diapers?"
She was meant to scoff and deny, but she managed a frown of disbelief instead.
"You were in diapers!"
"What? No!"
"Now we're getting somewhere." He kissed the inside of her thigh. She had to stop herself from slapping them shut. She froze and waited, but he stopped. "Tell me more. Tell me about the baseball team and the locker room."
"Please just touch me."
"Not until you tell me."
"I was on a table...."
He kissed her ear, "In a meat packing plant?"
"No," she said. She tried to push her thighs together for the friction, but he clamped them open with his own.
"Go on," he said, and licked the very tip of her nipple. "Was I there at the table?"
"Yes."
He moved into the space between her thighs. His cock made contact with her through her sleeping shorts.
"And what was I doing?"
"You were watching."
He thrust against her hard. It wasn't enough.
She continued. "I'd been plugged," she said. He ran his fingers along her skin, skirting her pussy. "Oh, please touch me."
"Plugged?"
"Food," she said. His head cocked. "Cucumbers, carrots, sauces. Don't make me tell you anymore."
"Go on." His fingers held her open and he pressed into her clit. He straddled her thigh and humped it slowly.
"A man was eating it off of me."
He began to stroke her and she clenched frozen again. Her whole body throbbed. He moved slowly, though, teasing her.
"And I was watching."
"The man, mmm, the man fucked me with the cucumber as he bit things off of my skin. He... he.... Oh God."
"He what?"
Her eyes had been closed but she was curious. She glanced at him and found him stroking himself with his other hand.
"He was getting me off with two baby carrots."
He laughed.
"Shut up!"
"Come on," he said, and turned her legs to the window. "I just wanted to know what you think about. This is what I think about."
The whole city lay before her and she closed her eyes again, despite herself, thinking of the baby carrots and the man.
His breaths got shorter, darker. He shivered and fell into her shoulders, stroking her. She felt his come cool slowly on her breasts. Her knees rose up and with a howl, new pleasure scooped out of her, he slowly made her come, shaking the bed, her whoops bending down to the streets.
"There," he said, and kissed her. She crawled up under the covers and listened the return of the metal wheels and the nylon through the pulleys.
Sunday, December 30, 2007
On the Chair
The smell of you, the citrus salt of your body as I come to focus, and know that now I can, now I can touch you, and I make sense. The sharp blue of your eyes as they blur, still blue in the blur, hints now instead of jabs, blurring because you're too close to see. Don't need to see you when you're this close, I guess. Just bodies and savory now. The heat of you in the magnet, over the barrier, into the wet. And there I need every part of you to flatten out and surround me, untouched parts bitter and indignant. Pull your hips closer, your arms tighter, your shins bent into my thighs.
The feel of the string in your sweatpants, the worm loosened and the soft cotton lowered over your ass. You say you want to wear dresses more, that being around these girls makes you feel like a lesbian, sitting on a chair with your legs apart, knots in your hair untangled in your fingers, but then I wouldn't have this loose softness to contrast your skin, and find your skin better, and feel it make contact with that on my thighs. It's soft before it's sticky, a glue between us, natural as the one in my mind.
I enter you awkward and bent, a pop of straightening inside. There. Your hands on my shoulders. There. Home. What do we do when we're not doing this? What's out there that's so fucking important? I don't even want to move, don't want to arch, don't want to feel myself leave you ever again.
You've put a picture of us on your radiator, to mingle with your oldest friends and your dead relatives. I balked when I saw it, ready to comment on it, but it's true that you've put my old friends and dead relatives in your shadow. My shoulders fell and I got a shot of that drug in my diaphragm. I can see it now, pressed into this chair by the weight of you. It opens like origami in my chest.
I didn't notice that you've started to move on me, your teeth in my shoulder, slippery and sharp. Sex jumps in me like a dog invited for a walk. In and you groan tight around me, out and you take it away. Fuck me. My neck bends back over the back of the chair, and I inhale quick, oxygen to red the blood. It pumps around me, curling my toes and shuddering the back of my shins against the crosspieces between the chair legs. The ball rolls uphill, spiky and suction-cupped. Fuck me.
My hands hold you to me by the backs of the neck and hips. I'm drawing my drug out of you, the wine of sex and mourning. It's meeting, its parts jigsawing together between us and the ball jumps the ramp, suicides off the other side of the hill. My eyes fill with stars and air and we meet, our bodies flattened and surrounding each other. No parts of us left untouched.
The feel of the string in your sweatpants, the worm loosened and the soft cotton lowered over your ass. You say you want to wear dresses more, that being around these girls makes you feel like a lesbian, sitting on a chair with your legs apart, knots in your hair untangled in your fingers, but then I wouldn't have this loose softness to contrast your skin, and find your skin better, and feel it make contact with that on my thighs. It's soft before it's sticky, a glue between us, natural as the one in my mind.
I enter you awkward and bent, a pop of straightening inside. There. Your hands on my shoulders. There. Home. What do we do when we're not doing this? What's out there that's so fucking important? I don't even want to move, don't want to arch, don't want to feel myself leave you ever again.
You've put a picture of us on your radiator, to mingle with your oldest friends and your dead relatives. I balked when I saw it, ready to comment on it, but it's true that you've put my old friends and dead relatives in your shadow. My shoulders fell and I got a shot of that drug in my diaphragm. I can see it now, pressed into this chair by the weight of you. It opens like origami in my chest.
I didn't notice that you've started to move on me, your teeth in my shoulder, slippery and sharp. Sex jumps in me like a dog invited for a walk. In and you groan tight around me, out and you take it away. Fuck me. My neck bends back over the back of the chair, and I inhale quick, oxygen to red the blood. It pumps around me, curling my toes and shuddering the back of my shins against the crosspieces between the chair legs. The ball rolls uphill, spiky and suction-cupped. Fuck me.
My hands hold you to me by the backs of the neck and hips. I'm drawing my drug out of you, the wine of sex and mourning. It's meeting, its parts jigsawing together between us and the ball jumps the ramp, suicides off the other side of the hill. My eyes fill with stars and air and we meet, our bodies flattened and surrounding each other. No parts of us left untouched.
Friday, December 21, 2007
Midwinter Lights Holiday of Your Choice Present-Twelve Missing Sex Scenes
My So-Called Life-
You know how sometimes life is like a chocolate shake? You want to drink the shake right away and you suck real hard on the straw but it hurts so much. So you've gotta wait until it's warmer and wetter and it doesn't hurt so bad, you know? But then you've got this perfect time to drink the shake, when it's not too cold that it won't go through the straw and not so warm it's disgusting and starts seeping through the wax in the paper cup. So you try to get there and it's really hard. This is me, waiting for Jordan Catalano in the hallway. Because like, every day in the boiler room, when I press him into the railing above the furnaces and unzip his pants, I've got to plan just the right time to spit.
Your Lego Brand Toys-
"Bjarke, take me on the train to the police station! There, perhaps we will find an Astronaut or a Knight to make love to in a fabulous tres og ni!"
"I will, Søren, after I finish this game of football and drive the ambulance in circles. To get me in the mood first, take off your trousers."
"As you wish. Ahhhh! AAAAAHHHHH! Oh my God! The HORROR! The HORROR!"
On the Road-
Dean made me an egg sandwich. I told him it tasted like shit. He hit me. I beat him up. Then he let me fuck him in Cleveland.
The Talking Cats Video-
Left hand cat: Im in ur krotch, razin ur temperchur.
Right hand cat: Iz glad iz u.
Left hand cat: M'kay.
Right hand cat: U takes unother life wiz ur wilz!
Left hand cat: M'kay. M'kay.
Right hand cat: I can haz orgazm?
Left hand cat: M'kaaaay.
Right hand cat: Iz dun.
Left hand cat: I likes ur earwax.
Right hand cat: Ew.
The Democratic Debates-
Sen. Obama: I think the European Union as a whole has been a long-standing ally of ours, and through NATO we've been able to make some significant progress. Afghanistan, in particular, is an area where we should be focusing. NATO has made real contributions there.
Gov. Richardson: Take me.
Your shampoo bottle-
Lather, oh God, lather, yeah. Oh shit. Okay. Repeat. Oh just repeat. Repeat repeat REPEAT OH OH OH. Follow with Pantene Pro-V conditioner.
Wargames-
"Joshua seduced me."
The Wizard of Oz-
The Tin Man: Oh, Dorothy, this heart is telling me that I (twang sound of tin uncrumpling) love you.
Dorothy: Did I tell you which body part I asked The Wizard for?
Slaughterhouse Five-
Listen:
Billy Pilgrim has become unstuck in time, and gotten his come stuck all over Bernard O'Hare.
Mystery Science Theatre 3000-
TV's Frank (on the screen): There's no need to tell Joel, Servo. This is just between you, me Dr. Forrester and our... needs.
Servo (also on the screen): Joel will never find out?
Dr. Forrester (also also on the screen): No. Now, just let Frank do what he needs to do with you.
Servo (screen): Okay, mmm, that feels... tingly.
Dr. Forrester (at home in the lab): Um, Frank? Why is A Night at the Crypt in this envelope? What are we showing Joel right now?
Joel: Worst movie ever.
The Mac ads-
PC walked in to find Mac on his iPod, his eyes closed, sitting at his laptop, but bobbing his head to something and hissing out a few jumbled lyrics, his head turning for dramatic effect. PC walked over to him, took the headphone out of his left ear and placed it in his own. It was All I Want is You by U2. Mac pushed his forefinger in his ear and slid the chord between his middle and ring finger until he found it against PC’s cheek. He stood up and swung around dramatically, lipsynching the words with his hand over his heart. PC giggled and started doing the same. Mac pressed into his own chest, mouthing “Yooooooo-ooooou,” kissed his fingers and turned them toward PC. PC kissed his own and pressed them into Mac’s palm. Mac clasped his hand, stretched it out and pushed their chests together. They danced out the rest of the song. Linux watched, a huge grin on his face, from the couch. The two of them swirled before him, breathing out the lyrics with the sound of their soles swishing against the floor.
Later, they shared hard drives. As Mac wasn't running Windows, no viruses were exchanged.
Your Monopoly pieces-
Dog: That's not a condom, Cannon, that's Thimble.
You know how sometimes life is like a chocolate shake? You want to drink the shake right away and you suck real hard on the straw but it hurts so much. So you've gotta wait until it's warmer and wetter and it doesn't hurt so bad, you know? But then you've got this perfect time to drink the shake, when it's not too cold that it won't go through the straw and not so warm it's disgusting and starts seeping through the wax in the paper cup. So you try to get there and it's really hard. This is me, waiting for Jordan Catalano in the hallway. Because like, every day in the boiler room, when I press him into the railing above the furnaces and unzip his pants, I've got to plan just the right time to spit.
Your Lego Brand Toys-
"Bjarke, take me on the train to the police station! There, perhaps we will find an Astronaut or a Knight to make love to in a fabulous tres og ni!"
"I will, Søren, after I finish this game of football and drive the ambulance in circles. To get me in the mood first, take off your trousers."
"As you wish. Ahhhh! AAAAAHHHHH! Oh my God! The HORROR! The HORROR!"
On the Road-
Dean made me an egg sandwich. I told him it tasted like shit. He hit me. I beat him up. Then he let me fuck him in Cleveland.
The Talking Cats Video-
Left hand cat: Im in ur krotch, razin ur temperchur.
Right hand cat: Iz glad iz u.
Left hand cat: M'kay.
Right hand cat: U takes unother life wiz ur wilz!
Left hand cat: M'kay. M'kay.
Right hand cat: I can haz orgazm?
Left hand cat: M'kaaaay.
Right hand cat: Iz dun.
Left hand cat: I likes ur earwax.
Right hand cat: Ew.
The Democratic Debates-
Sen. Obama: I think the European Union as a whole has been a long-standing ally of ours, and through NATO we've been able to make some significant progress. Afghanistan, in particular, is an area where we should be focusing. NATO has made real contributions there.
Gov. Richardson: Take me.
Your shampoo bottle-
Lather, oh God, lather, yeah. Oh shit. Okay. Repeat. Oh just repeat. Repeat repeat REPEAT OH OH OH. Follow with Pantene Pro-V conditioner.
Wargames-
"Joshua seduced me."
The Wizard of Oz-
The Tin Man: Oh, Dorothy, this heart is telling me that I (twang sound of tin uncrumpling) love you.
Dorothy: Did I tell you which body part I asked The Wizard for?
Slaughterhouse Five-
Listen:
Billy Pilgrim has become unstuck in time, and gotten his come stuck all over Bernard O'Hare.
Mystery Science Theatre 3000-
TV's Frank (on the screen): There's no need to tell Joel, Servo. This is just between you, me Dr. Forrester and our... needs.
Servo (also on the screen): Joel will never find out?
Dr. Forrester (also also on the screen): No. Now, just let Frank do what he needs to do with you.
Servo (screen): Okay, mmm, that feels... tingly.
Dr. Forrester (at home in the lab): Um, Frank? Why is A Night at the Crypt in this envelope? What are we showing Joel right now?
Joel: Worst movie ever.
The Mac ads-
PC walked in to find Mac on his iPod, his eyes closed, sitting at his laptop, but bobbing his head to something and hissing out a few jumbled lyrics, his head turning for dramatic effect. PC walked over to him, took the headphone out of his left ear and placed it in his own. It was All I Want is You by U2. Mac pushed his forefinger in his ear and slid the chord between his middle and ring finger until he found it against PC’s cheek. He stood up and swung around dramatically, lipsynching the words with his hand over his heart. PC giggled and started doing the same. Mac pressed into his own chest, mouthing “Yooooooo-ooooou,” kissed his fingers and turned them toward PC. PC kissed his own and pressed them into Mac’s palm. Mac clasped his hand, stretched it out and pushed their chests together. They danced out the rest of the song. Linux watched, a huge grin on his face, from the couch. The two of them swirled before him, breathing out the lyrics with the sound of their soles swishing against the floor.
Later, they shared hard drives. As Mac wasn't running Windows, no viruses were exchanged.
Your Monopoly pieces-
Dog: That's not a condom, Cannon, that's Thimble.
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.
Sunday, December 9, 2007
....
Does it make any sense, the way that some words boil inside of you, and you want more than anything to say them? You eat your breakfast with a smile on your face and you answer an email and you go see a movie and they’re there, those fucking words are there and they just hover at the back of your throat, under your uvula, in that place where that wad of phlegm sits first thing in the morning before you cough it out. M mmmm mmm. There they are under the mound of thickened spit, and you want to cough them out too, like an itch to be scratched or a piece of dust on the side of your nose that you can just make out in your field of vision. Get rid of it, you think, it’s abnormal.
They’re like mosquito bites, really, because when you say them, you feel better right away, sure, but then a few seconds go by and you need to say them worse than before. You can keep on scratching that mosquito bite all day long, you know, those really awful ones you get on your toes, and they’ll only get worse. They’ll only get way itchier and you’ll scratch and scratch, that wide-eyed look on your face that makes you look like some crazy janitor type, ranting about secret chemical dumps in the clouds, and you can’t be very attractive then. She’s gotta look at you and see you putting those damn words out there faster and faster, rocking in your chair and swirling a finger through a lock of your own hair and think, “This guy’s gone to Mars for a picnic!” and you have, for all the good it’s doing for you. You see, you can scratch an itch away by turning it into pain, drawing blood and ripping the skin off, but there’s nothing you can do with those damn words.
I mean, does it make any sense? Did our monkey ancestors press their tongues to the roofs of their mouths and find that they absolutely must go up to one of their baboonettes and screech out just those three screeches? No. It makes no sense at all. It makes sense that we can’t help but say “Look up! Fucking coconut dropping on your head!” or “Big tiger just over that hedge!” but there’s no emergency with those three words. There’s no immediate warning to howl out or dangerous argument to be contradicted. In the big scheme of things, the basic one with the food and water and shelter bit, those words don’t help anyone at all, so why are they so intense? Why do they paralyze you, make you blubbery and soft, unable to aim so much as your own piss into a toilet? They’re a mental illness, is what they are.
She lays in bed in front of me, her skin spotless and soft, curved against the mattress in the lamplight. I’m sure she’s asleep until she turns her palm back to me, her fingers thin and long. Just when I feel like I’m looking at a picture of her, she turns interactive and I take her hand and lay behind her. She cups it, girl-skin and comfort, coming home. She rubs the scar on my palm with her thumb for a while, as if asking me a question. I don’t answer. She takes my hand to her pussy, presses my middle finger into the wet and the red heat. My mouth goes to her ear because that’s where it’s got to go and I hold it open, tongue against my lower front teeth, and I fight.
They’re like mosquito bites, really, because when you say them, you feel better right away, sure, but then a few seconds go by and you need to say them worse than before. You can keep on scratching that mosquito bite all day long, you know, those really awful ones you get on your toes, and they’ll only get worse. They’ll only get way itchier and you’ll scratch and scratch, that wide-eyed look on your face that makes you look like some crazy janitor type, ranting about secret chemical dumps in the clouds, and you can’t be very attractive then. She’s gotta look at you and see you putting those damn words out there faster and faster, rocking in your chair and swirling a finger through a lock of your own hair and think, “This guy’s gone to Mars for a picnic!” and you have, for all the good it’s doing for you. You see, you can scratch an itch away by turning it into pain, drawing blood and ripping the skin off, but there’s nothing you can do with those damn words.
I mean, does it make any sense? Did our monkey ancestors press their tongues to the roofs of their mouths and find that they absolutely must go up to one of their baboonettes and screech out just those three screeches? No. It makes no sense at all. It makes sense that we can’t help but say “Look up! Fucking coconut dropping on your head!” or “Big tiger just over that hedge!” but there’s no emergency with those three words. There’s no immediate warning to howl out or dangerous argument to be contradicted. In the big scheme of things, the basic one with the food and water and shelter bit, those words don’t help anyone at all, so why are they so intense? Why do they paralyze you, make you blubbery and soft, unable to aim so much as your own piss into a toilet? They’re a mental illness, is what they are.
She lays in bed in front of me, her skin spotless and soft, curved against the mattress in the lamplight. I’m sure she’s asleep until she turns her palm back to me, her fingers thin and long. Just when I feel like I’m looking at a picture of her, she turns interactive and I take her hand and lay behind her. She cups it, girl-skin and comfort, coming home. She rubs the scar on my palm with her thumb for a while, as if asking me a question. I don’t answer. She takes my hand to her pussy, presses my middle finger into the wet and the red heat. My mouth goes to her ear because that’s where it’s got to go and I hold it open, tongue against my lower front teeth, and I fight.
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
All aboard the Sugasm! No really. Just get on top of me.
Who kicks ass? Vixen. And it's her time of year too. Top of the sled, as always, as far as I'm concerned.
The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #109? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.
This Week’s Picks
From virgin cocksucker to blowjob queen
” I love to play and tease with my hand and tongue, lightly licking, sometimes using my panties or another soft fabric to run across the shaft.”
Interlopers
“Oh yes, I’ve seen it all before, I know what you’re here for.”
Old Friends
“His cultured voice warm, approving, promising; it makes me wet every time, an uncontrollable Pavlovian response.”
Mr. Sugasm Himself
The Count
Editor’s Choice
Hot and Cold
See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.
(Sugasm participants should re-post all the links above within a week. The following links may be excluded as long as you include all the above links.)
BDSM & Fetish
Cuffed Off Guard
Dream #10
Mattress Navigation
Metal
More ideas of my own.
Naughty girl confesses
Or just submitting… (Part 3 about S)
PART 2 -She Came In Wearing A Corset, Stockings, And A Smile
Pre Game: Sex Camp, Antici….pation
So Delicious
Sex Poetry
Haiku Festival of Erotic Power and Rope
Sex News & Reviews
5 Naughty Gift Sets to Get for Christmas
Feminists Make Better Mates
Fetish Film - Outpatient (Latex, Bondage, Breathplay, Femdom, Spanking)
Intern Sex Toy Review - The Turbo Stroker
Kama Sutra Bliss
NEW Kinky Designs!
Toying With Pleasure - Jamye Waxman
Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
Emotional Sex is Too Much Work - Who Does She Think She Is?!
More Precious Than Flattery
One way, not the other - why don’t women get eaten out more?
Potential, Real
Sex Advice & Interviews
4 Advanced Cunnilingus Techniques
5 tips to being a sexy ‘cougar’
“Dancing With Werewolves” an Interview with Spanking Superstar Niki Flynn
Erotic Writing and Experiences
The Alley: Man working abroad
Almost a Zipless Fuck
Bathtime
HNT: Rehabilitation IV - The Return of the Cake!
Hooky
In the Laboratory
The list of notches on my bedpost
Lunch
More MILF (Men I’d Like To Fuck)
“She”…
Sugarbutch Star: Jefferson
Touch
A train experience
What it feels like for a girl…who wants to make another girl come
NSFW Pics & Videos & Audio
Audio: Red Wine Seduction
A Busy HNT
Leg Language by Andrew Blake
Peek-a-Boo Map
Pornsaint Kayla Jane Danger
Tiang Fang - White
Veronica (MC Nudes)
Monday, December 3, 2007
The Missing Sex Scene-We Three Kings
This is seriously blasphemous, so if you are sensitive to that sort of thing, don't read this.
Melchior had been traveling from his kingdom, going west, west, west for months when he again found himself rigid as bamboo. “It’s the myrrh,” he mumbled to himself, reassuring, he supposed, to a Confucianist, but getting damned inconvenient. The traveling had been fine, miraculously speedy and strangely weather-free. Even in the Himalayas, the “Abode of Snow,” he was warm, and path of dry and smooth forever opened itself in front of him. Here in the desert, even at night it was warm and comfortable. It seemed that the traveling would only go faster had he not brought the myrrh, had he not found himself seeing mirages of beautiful women, their robes opening to him, the scent of the flower of their flesh drifting over the strangely comfortable desert to his nose.
He walked away from the sleeping Caspar, tucking his erection under the belt of his robes, taking a flask of peanut oil with him. He’d just met Caspar that morning, his story similar, if shorter, of a star and a strange, beautiful creature dropped from the heavens telling them to follow it. The two of them agreed with a nudge to the ribs that they would have crossed the earth on all fours barking like a dog if that fantastic creature would have asked them to. They laughed, but it was a forced laugh. They were completely serious. She’d appeared in visions to them both for ages, her breasts levitating in the air, her golden hair like silk, you could feel it through the atmosphere. She was the atmosphere when she was there, really. Both of them had dropped to their knees because they wouldn’t hold them anymore when she came to them. The angel, for that’s what they’d decided she was, had made them pure desire, made them hump the air, their eyes half-shut, clutching their crotches like young boys late for the emptying of their bladders.
“She’s a great fertility goddess from the West,” they agreed, to end the conversation less awkwardly.
Melchior climbed a rise and took a few steps, sliding on his heels in the sand, down the other side. He tried not to close his eyes for a moment until he was out of sight of the oasis, though he couldn’t hide from the star. He fell into the sand, exhausted from crushed desire, and quickly opened his robe. He cleared his hands of sand, opened the bottle of oil and coated himself with it. He gasped at his own touch, feeling the first shock of satisfaction and more lust, and twisted his cock between forefinger and thumb. He did not use his other fingers, hadn’t used them for all these months. The tease was transcendent. He began to pump himself and at last closed his eyes, letting the vision of the Western fertility goddess enter his mind unabated.
Caspar woke as he had every night for these two weeks, feeling prickles from the stars above, as if they were far-off suns, each of them with their with their own gods and powers. It was as if they each wanted to touch him, caress him, land on his skin and mate with him in some dance that they’d all memorized through the ages. It was a strange and chaste fantasy, but he chose it over the vision of the angel descending to his cock, her own light and wonder too powerful to be conceived by his addled mind. It had been two weeks since he’d been visited by her and his life had become transformed. Since that indescribable dream, as palpable as any of his other memories but many times their effect, he’d been uprooted from his home, taken from his bed and his many wives, to chase this one goddess’s suggestion. He’d tried to give it more importance in his mind, credit it with something more substantial than a beautiful woman landing at the foot of his couch as he quietly ate supper, but that’s all it was. That he’d rolled to the floor, blinded by her and in paroxysms of pleasure and helplessness, was too unexplainable to be acknowledged, even to himself.
Yet, here Caspar was, on his back, titillated by the very stars again, an erection full and vigorous as the moon itself not so much paralyzing his body as imperiously filling it with vigor. The erection wasn’t of the standard kind that he’d felt in other weeks, before he’d met her. It was all-encompassing, his cock like a boulder and just as deniable. He left the oasis with a small bottle of cooking oil and climbed a hill to be alone, his knees tingling under the heavy-but-light of his body, his cock, too hard to have more than slightest bob in his walk, fighting his robes for relief.
Melchior heard the zip-zip of two feet in the sand and wrote it off as the friction of his own elbow. Though he’d had no reason to notice before, he saw now that sound didn’t carry in the sand the way that it did across normal soil or with the surprising accuracy of water. He allowed himself some noises, some small moans and yips, settling in for the long ride.
That was the other matter. These erections took ages to wear away. Melchior and Caspar had both noticed that they could ride the ecstasy just before the culmination for what seemed like hours, bodies rigid and arms light in the haze, their mouths drooping with dumb joy, joy to the world.
Caspar’s head was muddled, and he knew it. He’d climbed the ridge at the top of a small dune and found Melchior, grey in the moonlight, his robe open and his back arched, his hand pleasuring himself and didn’t balk, didn’t rush away, didn’t so much as quietly save them both the embarrassment and climb back down to the oasis. He lay down instead at Melchior’s side, pushed his hand off of him and replaced it with his own.
Melchior trembled hard at his ministrations, nearly choking at his bodily shock and the lack of mental shock. He reached inside Caspar’s robe and found him too, wracked with his own massive need, and stroked it furiously, just the thumb and forefinger as he had on himself. Caspar looked upon this strange king with the almond-shaped eyes and suddenly adored him, under some spell of the fertility goddess, he fell in his mind onto Melchior’s body, pressed his lips to his own and shared this bliss with him. He knew then that he was meant to, that this journey was not sacred alone.
“It’s the myrrh,” mumbled the Confucianist through his quivering lips. “It’s an aphrodisiac.”
The Muslim shook his head. “It’s the goddess,” he said, “Aphrodite herself.”
Balthasar had seen the oasis reflecting in the moonlight from a mile or so behind him. He’d been traveling at night, though the sun had not been bothering him. At night, he could keep better track of the star that the strange, translucently white woman had planted in his mind. She’d told him that he would be meeting two other kings and that they would seem as strange and wonderful to him as herself. He did not see how this was possible, bent over in the dust of his own hut, the shaft in his robes mimicking the one he held in his right hand, that of his reign. She was ugly, he’d thought at first, insubstantial and blinding white, but his body had reacted, transgressed his mind, with a sandstorm of lust. He fell before her and clutched his cock as if it were magnetized to his hand. He didn’t like doing this in front of a strange woman, but she only smiled at him. Another wave of the storm crossed his body at her smile and his head swirled in the wind. Her words skipped his ears altogether and landed directly in his soul. Star, kings, savior, north.
When she left, he called for his wife. When she entered the hut, wiping some dust off of her nose and confused, he brought her to the floor, pushed her knees apart and mounted her like an antelope. He thrust into her for what seemed like an hour, without soreness or dissipating energy, he fucked her, good and hard and primal, his face drawn and slack, his head swarmed with stinging need and joy. Joy to the world.
In the morning, not sated, but recharged, he made plans to head out, filled his sacks with gold and food, saddled his ass and waited until sundown before he set out.
The terrible rush was hitting Balthasar again as he arrived at the oasis. He dismounted his ass and found himself hunched over, as he had been too many times over the past forty days, not becoming for a king. His heels made zip-zip sounds in the sand. He saw a fire and two blankets, two more beasts tied to a tree and knew that he was about to meet the other kings. He didn’t want to disturb them, not in his condition, and tied his ass to a tree just over the ridge from the camp. He opened a saddlebag, retrieved a small bottle of oil for his skin and followed the crest of the ridge, descending when he would find privacy.
The two men looked like ghosts to him in the moonlight, though not as shockingly as the angel had. He saw them twist in the sand and thought that they might have been bitten by a snake or were in the pains of thirst. He began to rush to them, his mind full of the prayers taught to him by his shaman, when he approached close enough to see their hands. They were pleasuring each other.
His mind reeled at the selfishness of the two men, wasting their seed on the desert floor and each other, until he remembered that there were no women around, that they were as guiltless as he, who’d dropped enough seed in the desert behind him to make it grow lush as a jungle. He fell, as he had so many times in forty days, to his knees and poured the skin oil into his palm. He watched the men, the voice of the angel whispering more lust into his mind. “They will seem as wondrous and strange as myself,” she said. When his hand made contact with his cock, he crushed a long groan in his mouth. It escaped his nose instead as a whine, a single, drawn whistle of ecstatic love.
“Go to them,” the angel whispered. “They know the way too, and will share their journey with you.”
He shuffled through the sand on his knees, the structure of his very bones pulling his body to them. He could hear them now, their strained breaths and wet kisses, the flapping skin of their hands on each other. The smaller one with the straight hair bent forward then and pushed the bearded one flat on his back. He crawled between the bearded one’s knees and took his cock in his mouth, suckling it with concentration and deep need.
“Ah!” Balthasar let out before he could help it. The two men looked up at him and found his shape in the sand. They did not look shocked, embarrassed or even unprepared for him. The bearded one reached out for him, and Balthasar’s knees zip-zipped to his side. He felt a small culmination in destiny, felt his cock descend Caspar’s mouth as if he were a key all these forty days, dangling for a lock.
The three kings moved as one under the stars, pushing and pulling into each other, swifter and stronger at the same pace, a swash and a backwash of the waves of the sea here in the sand. Balthasar reached until he found the leg of the straight-haired one, Melchior, wrapped his hand between his thighs and pulled him to his mouth. The light of the desert grew stronger, brighter, whiter, more focused on the triangle that had formed between their bodies. It was the star descending the gap. The three became thoughtless, weightless, focused and filled with holy bliss. Their cocks each smelled of spices, tasted of honey, moved with the ease of a fish in a river.
The angel appeared above them again, though they did not open their eyes to her. She hovered above them and pulsed, the star in her hands, beaming pure bliss from the center of her stomach, where her navel would be. The kings grasped each other’s legs tightly in their fists and felt creation, joyful creation of the death of death. It was here now, they knew, it was come.
“Alleluia!” sang the angel, declared the angel, and the three men, no longer kings, but under the guidance of a greater being, came in torrents, frankincense, myrrh and gold, precious into each other’s bodies. It pumped and pumped and pumped and they drank it, the last food they would eat on their journey, and fell to their backs, each man’s head on another’s thighs.
And the angel led them all to sing, their bodies straining to set off,
“King and God and sacrifice;
Alleluia, Alleluia,
Sounds through the earth and skies.”
Melchior had been traveling from his kingdom, going west, west, west for months when he again found himself rigid as bamboo. “It’s the myrrh,” he mumbled to himself, reassuring, he supposed, to a Confucianist, but getting damned inconvenient. The traveling had been fine, miraculously speedy and strangely weather-free. Even in the Himalayas, the “Abode of Snow,” he was warm, and path of dry and smooth forever opened itself in front of him. Here in the desert, even at night it was warm and comfortable. It seemed that the traveling would only go faster had he not brought the myrrh, had he not found himself seeing mirages of beautiful women, their robes opening to him, the scent of the flower of their flesh drifting over the strangely comfortable desert to his nose.
He walked away from the sleeping Caspar, tucking his erection under the belt of his robes, taking a flask of peanut oil with him. He’d just met Caspar that morning, his story similar, if shorter, of a star and a strange, beautiful creature dropped from the heavens telling them to follow it. The two of them agreed with a nudge to the ribs that they would have crossed the earth on all fours barking like a dog if that fantastic creature would have asked them to. They laughed, but it was a forced laugh. They were completely serious. She’d appeared in visions to them both for ages, her breasts levitating in the air, her golden hair like silk, you could feel it through the atmosphere. She was the atmosphere when she was there, really. Both of them had dropped to their knees because they wouldn’t hold them anymore when she came to them. The angel, for that’s what they’d decided she was, had made them pure desire, made them hump the air, their eyes half-shut, clutching their crotches like young boys late for the emptying of their bladders.
“She’s a great fertility goddess from the West,” they agreed, to end the conversation less awkwardly.
Melchior climbed a rise and took a few steps, sliding on his heels in the sand, down the other side. He tried not to close his eyes for a moment until he was out of sight of the oasis, though he couldn’t hide from the star. He fell into the sand, exhausted from crushed desire, and quickly opened his robe. He cleared his hands of sand, opened the bottle of oil and coated himself with it. He gasped at his own touch, feeling the first shock of satisfaction and more lust, and twisted his cock between forefinger and thumb. He did not use his other fingers, hadn’t used them for all these months. The tease was transcendent. He began to pump himself and at last closed his eyes, letting the vision of the Western fertility goddess enter his mind unabated.
Caspar woke as he had every night for these two weeks, feeling prickles from the stars above, as if they were far-off suns, each of them with their with their own gods and powers. It was as if they each wanted to touch him, caress him, land on his skin and mate with him in some dance that they’d all memorized through the ages. It was a strange and chaste fantasy, but he chose it over the vision of the angel descending to his cock, her own light and wonder too powerful to be conceived by his addled mind. It had been two weeks since he’d been visited by her and his life had become transformed. Since that indescribable dream, as palpable as any of his other memories but many times their effect, he’d been uprooted from his home, taken from his bed and his many wives, to chase this one goddess’s suggestion. He’d tried to give it more importance in his mind, credit it with something more substantial than a beautiful woman landing at the foot of his couch as he quietly ate supper, but that’s all it was. That he’d rolled to the floor, blinded by her and in paroxysms of pleasure and helplessness, was too unexplainable to be acknowledged, even to himself.
Yet, here Caspar was, on his back, titillated by the very stars again, an erection full and vigorous as the moon itself not so much paralyzing his body as imperiously filling it with vigor. The erection wasn’t of the standard kind that he’d felt in other weeks, before he’d met her. It was all-encompassing, his cock like a boulder and just as deniable. He left the oasis with a small bottle of cooking oil and climbed a hill to be alone, his knees tingling under the heavy-but-light of his body, his cock, too hard to have more than slightest bob in his walk, fighting his robes for relief.
Melchior heard the zip-zip of two feet in the sand and wrote it off as the friction of his own elbow. Though he’d had no reason to notice before, he saw now that sound didn’t carry in the sand the way that it did across normal soil or with the surprising accuracy of water. He allowed himself some noises, some small moans and yips, settling in for the long ride.
That was the other matter. These erections took ages to wear away. Melchior and Caspar had both noticed that they could ride the ecstasy just before the culmination for what seemed like hours, bodies rigid and arms light in the haze, their mouths drooping with dumb joy, joy to the world.
Caspar’s head was muddled, and he knew it. He’d climbed the ridge at the top of a small dune and found Melchior, grey in the moonlight, his robe open and his back arched, his hand pleasuring himself and didn’t balk, didn’t rush away, didn’t so much as quietly save them both the embarrassment and climb back down to the oasis. He lay down instead at Melchior’s side, pushed his hand off of him and replaced it with his own.
Melchior trembled hard at his ministrations, nearly choking at his bodily shock and the lack of mental shock. He reached inside Caspar’s robe and found him too, wracked with his own massive need, and stroked it furiously, just the thumb and forefinger as he had on himself. Caspar looked upon this strange king with the almond-shaped eyes and suddenly adored him, under some spell of the fertility goddess, he fell in his mind onto Melchior’s body, pressed his lips to his own and shared this bliss with him. He knew then that he was meant to, that this journey was not sacred alone.
“It’s the myrrh,” mumbled the Confucianist through his quivering lips. “It’s an aphrodisiac.”
The Muslim shook his head. “It’s the goddess,” he said, “Aphrodite herself.”
Balthasar had seen the oasis reflecting in the moonlight from a mile or so behind him. He’d been traveling at night, though the sun had not been bothering him. At night, he could keep better track of the star that the strange, translucently white woman had planted in his mind. She’d told him that he would be meeting two other kings and that they would seem as strange and wonderful to him as herself. He did not see how this was possible, bent over in the dust of his own hut, the shaft in his robes mimicking the one he held in his right hand, that of his reign. She was ugly, he’d thought at first, insubstantial and blinding white, but his body had reacted, transgressed his mind, with a sandstorm of lust. He fell before her and clutched his cock as if it were magnetized to his hand. He didn’t like doing this in front of a strange woman, but she only smiled at him. Another wave of the storm crossed his body at her smile and his head swirled in the wind. Her words skipped his ears altogether and landed directly in his soul. Star, kings, savior, north.
When she left, he called for his wife. When she entered the hut, wiping some dust off of her nose and confused, he brought her to the floor, pushed her knees apart and mounted her like an antelope. He thrust into her for what seemed like an hour, without soreness or dissipating energy, he fucked her, good and hard and primal, his face drawn and slack, his head swarmed with stinging need and joy. Joy to the world.
In the morning, not sated, but recharged, he made plans to head out, filled his sacks with gold and food, saddled his ass and waited until sundown before he set out.
The terrible rush was hitting Balthasar again as he arrived at the oasis. He dismounted his ass and found himself hunched over, as he had been too many times over the past forty days, not becoming for a king. His heels made zip-zip sounds in the sand. He saw a fire and two blankets, two more beasts tied to a tree and knew that he was about to meet the other kings. He didn’t want to disturb them, not in his condition, and tied his ass to a tree just over the ridge from the camp. He opened a saddlebag, retrieved a small bottle of oil for his skin and followed the crest of the ridge, descending when he would find privacy.
The two men looked like ghosts to him in the moonlight, though not as shockingly as the angel had. He saw them twist in the sand and thought that they might have been bitten by a snake or were in the pains of thirst. He began to rush to them, his mind full of the prayers taught to him by his shaman, when he approached close enough to see their hands. They were pleasuring each other.
His mind reeled at the selfishness of the two men, wasting their seed on the desert floor and each other, until he remembered that there were no women around, that they were as guiltless as he, who’d dropped enough seed in the desert behind him to make it grow lush as a jungle. He fell, as he had so many times in forty days, to his knees and poured the skin oil into his palm. He watched the men, the voice of the angel whispering more lust into his mind. “They will seem as wondrous and strange as myself,” she said. When his hand made contact with his cock, he crushed a long groan in his mouth. It escaped his nose instead as a whine, a single, drawn whistle of ecstatic love.
“Go to them,” the angel whispered. “They know the way too, and will share their journey with you.”
He shuffled through the sand on his knees, the structure of his very bones pulling his body to them. He could hear them now, their strained breaths and wet kisses, the flapping skin of their hands on each other. The smaller one with the straight hair bent forward then and pushed the bearded one flat on his back. He crawled between the bearded one’s knees and took his cock in his mouth, suckling it with concentration and deep need.
“Ah!” Balthasar let out before he could help it. The two men looked up at him and found his shape in the sand. They did not look shocked, embarrassed or even unprepared for him. The bearded one reached out for him, and Balthasar’s knees zip-zipped to his side. He felt a small culmination in destiny, felt his cock descend Caspar’s mouth as if he were a key all these forty days, dangling for a lock.
The three kings moved as one under the stars, pushing and pulling into each other, swifter and stronger at the same pace, a swash and a backwash of the waves of the sea here in the sand. Balthasar reached until he found the leg of the straight-haired one, Melchior, wrapped his hand between his thighs and pulled him to his mouth. The light of the desert grew stronger, brighter, whiter, more focused on the triangle that had formed between their bodies. It was the star descending the gap. The three became thoughtless, weightless, focused and filled with holy bliss. Their cocks each smelled of spices, tasted of honey, moved with the ease of a fish in a river.
The angel appeared above them again, though they did not open their eyes to her. She hovered above them and pulsed, the star in her hands, beaming pure bliss from the center of her stomach, where her navel would be. The kings grasped each other’s legs tightly in their fists and felt creation, joyful creation of the death of death. It was here now, they knew, it was come.
“Alleluia!” sang the angel, declared the angel, and the three men, no longer kings, but under the guidance of a greater being, came in torrents, frankincense, myrrh and gold, precious into each other’s bodies. It pumped and pumped and pumped and they drank it, the last food they would eat on their journey, and fell to their backs, each man’s head on another’s thighs.
And the angel led them all to sing, their bodies straining to set off,
“King and God and sacrifice;
Alleluia, Alleluia,
Sounds through the earth and skies.”
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Hot and Cold
You're not used to seeing your breath in the cold, so when you catch it the first time, you watch it, exhaling hard, seeing the cloud appear and billow, only to disappear immediately. You're distracted by this, though I have my hand in your jeans, making the breaths go faster through direct manipulation. The snow stays a few moments on your jacket too, and you stare at the flakes, stuck into the fabric like crystal grappelling hooks, holding and refracting the colors in the light before they give up and melt. Right before you touch them, you notice, like reaching for fish while snorkeling, right there, but untouchable. They get away. Your exhales get harder and faster now, and your eyes close for a moment, a few flakes landing in your eyelashes. You grab my shoulders for steadiness and open your jacket, take me inside of it. It's warm, humid, breathy in there, like the relief of stepping into a greenhouse in the winter. Your mouth is at my ear before I hear you crack, oh uh ohh, in my ear, the sweet slippery in the heel of my hand. You take a few moments, spots like the snowflakes themselves before your eyes.
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