As yet unnamed foot fetish story.

    You’d think, working in a strip club one of two things would happen to a guy.  Either he would spend as much of his life as possible fucking all the coworkers he could or he would be so sick of naked women he would lose any sex drive he ever hoped to have.  Either way, you would not expect a bartender at a strip club to have a girlfriend. But Dan has a girlfriend.  And he swears to that girlfriend that the girls he sees naked every day never really catch his attention.  And if it wasn’t for Darla that would be true.
    Darla dances barefoot on the bar.  It should disgust him.  The bar is filthy.  Her feet are wet and sticky and pick up grime from god knows what.  Her soles are darkened, the arch rising up white out of the dirt.  It shouldn’t turn him on but it does.  A lot of things turn him on that shouldn’t.  The fact that she’s not his girlfriend being one of them. 

  He can’t cheat with her.  There’s something dangerous about her.  Something he can’t quite place.  He knows almost nothing about her.  He doesn’t know where she grew up, what her parents are like, what moments changed her life.  But he knows that if he fucked her, it wouldn’t be once.  He knows that if her fucked her he would love her.  It wouldn’t be fucking.  It would be possession, obsession, maybe even love. 

   Because the way she dances betrays her.  It shows her for the sensual, romantic creature that she is. Her rhythm is fluid;  incapable, almost, of  masculine staccato.  Her dance is vulnerable yet forceful and full of rampant sexuality that she gives herself to so fully you know that it’s only the tip of the iceberg.  Her dance is intelligent.  Her body is intelligent and the few times she speaks to him prove that her intelligence extends beyond her body.  The vocab words she drops like so much clothing stun him every time.  No hooker with a heart of gold, no “I don’t talk so good” shyness for her.  This girl is smart in a way that comes to her like breathing. 

  All this shows in her feet.  Her weight stays on the balls of her feet.  It keeps her movements unpredictable and lithe.   Her contracted toes, her tiptoed dance let her spin, twirl and kick with total ease and without warning.  Her hips are the heart of her dance, its rhythm, its sex.  But her feet are the brains.  They keep her dance fresh, revealing, capricious.  He loves her feet.  He loves her feet and every inch the unbroken line of her legs leads up to.
    She slides to her knees, crawls to him, and asks for a glass of water.  He quickly pours it for her, eyes darting from the exposed pads of her feet to her high arched ass to her rosepetal lips wrapping around the straw and greedily sucking up his water.  She caps the straw with her fingertip and leans back on her knees.  Pulling the straw to her throat she removes her finger and gasps as the cool water drips a path down her torso from the tendon of her neck to the bony plane of her chest and the soft crevice between her breasts.  It’s all he can do to not use his tongue to stop the droplets on their journey to her pussy, just slightly visible through her g-string.  
    Christ how he wants her.  He wants her so much he can’t help but wonder if it would really be cheating to take hold of one of those dainty feet, like Cinderella’s prince, one hand wrapped around her ankle the other holding her calf, and reverently kiss her foot.  That, itself, would not be cheating.  Most definitely not.  No one could fault him for that.  But he knows it wouldn’t stop there. 

  His lips, once touching the bony plane of her foot would seek more, hungrily covering each inch of skin with ardent kisses.  He would press the foot into a flex and press the sole to his face, breathing in deep.  His tongue would trace a slow and cautious path along that proud white arch, along the firm fleshy ball of her foot and slide into the deep crevices of her toes.  At the touch of his tongue she would gasp in delight and the curtain of her hair would fall around to flank her face as she smiled down at him.  
    She has an honest smile that animates her whole body.  She would smile at him and her toes would curl slightly against his face.  His eyes locked on hers he would suck her toes and watch her revel in the sensation.  His hand would make its automatic way to the bulge in his jeans and she would laugh slightly, the way she reacts to a sudden compliment.  Or maybe she would just enjoy her effect on him.  She loves to tease him.  The way she did with the water.  The way she does dancing barefoot on the bar.  He would look up as her, eyes long lashed and swollen pupiled, glistening in the half light of the bar, then look down at her foot, eyes lustily dimmed.  He would suck her foot deep into his mouth, her polished skin running across his teeth and tongue.  He would suck and rub till desire overtook him and he joined her on that bar.  He would kneel at her feet, pants open, hand held firmly around her ankle, pressing her foot against his exposed cock.  The sole of her foot would be smooth and hard like a stone in a river, but warm to the touch.  He would press her foot fast against his cock, moving it urgently up and down his shaft, the insistence of friction moving his hand at breakneck speed.  He would drink her in.  Her honest smile and regal breasts, the smooth curved hollow of her stomach and her impossibly long  graceful legs tapering gently to the perfect curve of her ankle.
    Her toes would be curled slightly, creating more contact with the head of his cock and he would beg her as he’s been wanting to for a year now
    “Please.”  He would choke out.  “Please let me come for you.”  
    Her smiled would widen and her lips would form the most perfect word she has ever said.
    “Yes.”  And his come would gush between her toes, sticky and satisfying.

    But he realizes that somewhere in there he would be crossing the line over into cheating.  So he adjusts himself behind the bar, sticks a dollar between her toes, and goes back to work.

Wedded Bliss part II: The Reception

Nathan. Oh my Nathan. With his pierced tongue and purple hair he still looks absolutely at home in formal wear.
Nathan is the Orgymaker. We started calling him that when his going away party became an orgy and then, on the other side of the country, his housewarming party became an orgy.
He has a charm that seems to touch everyone in the room, soon to be followed by the rest of him. Nathan would be invited to my wedding. Writers call this Foreshadowing.

Booze would flow freely at my wedding reception. Dinner would be fantastic. Several kinds of meat would be served and a rainbow of ice cream flavors served in martini glasses. There would be music and dancing and a chocolate fountain. Flowers and candles would be ubiquitous, along with a feeling of love and goodwill. My best friend would recite the speech from Frida about how marriage is a bourgeois sham but that to know this and get married anyway, with eyes wide open, is revolutionary and romantic.  My reception would be romantic.  My family would be so proud and my friends would be so happy that love would burst forth uncontrollably from every corner of the room strengthening bonds between old lovers and forming new alliances between shared glances over champagne toasts.
And the whole night, through dinner and speeches and dancing Nathan would work the room. He would flirt with every eligible and amenable female, along with several males and couples as well.  Nathan flirts like breathing.  Without moving he charms half the room. My best friend would flirt with all the available straight males. And I would dance with all my old flames. The ones I didn’t hate. The ones I still sleep with on occasion. You know, those ones.
The night would wear on and the relations would filter out till we found our group to be solely comprised of open minded attractive people.  No drunk uncles, no stuffy grand aunts or prudish siblings.
Truly it would be a magical evening.

I’d be dancing with Will, a habit I was never really able to kick (the boy, not the dancing.) I would press my body against his tall, solid frame and feel the desire in his body. He would want me desperately but never tell me so. He always was such a southern gentleman. I would smile at my husband, dancing with my best friend.
“Darlin,” Will would say “I must say you look damn fine.”
“Thank you Paul,” I’d say. “Would you like to kiss the bride?” He would and he would try to keep it chaste. Not that I’d let him.
“Darlin!” He’d exclaim. “It’s your…” And I would jerk my head in the direction of my husband, now making out with my best friend.
“Oh hell” Would escape Will’s lips before I pulled them back to my own. I would revel in the warmth of his mouth, the dexterity of his tongue, till I felt the familiar hand of my husband in the small of my back. I would pull back slowly and in a smooth motion switch to kissing my husband, while my best friend took over with Will, neither of them really minding.
From the corner of my eye I would see Nathan beginning to draw a crowd.

And so would begin an orgy of epic proportions.

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Wedded Bliss Part I: I Wanna Get Married

I don’t really want to get married. I just want to have a wedding. Marriages are about taxes and compromise, a sleepy march towards death or divorce.

Weddings, on the other hand, are parties so huge that other, smaller, parties orbit them.  Think about it; Theengagement party, bridal shower, bachelor party, bachelorette party, and rehearsal dinner.  Around the wedding sun there are five party planets, each of them centered on sex, and smaller event moons; dress fittings, cake tasting,  flower choosing, present buying, present opening, getting dressed for the wedding, getting undressed after the wedding, making toasts, hooking up.  Every moment a small celebration of love and life, friendship and family, beauty of all kinds, rejoicing in the senses.  The look and feel of the dress, the scent and color of the flowers, the lush taste of food and drinks, a reason to see friends and family you haven’t seen for ages.  Why should this amount of joy and sensual delight be tied to such an outdated bummer of a concept  like marriage?  How can one think of knitting their life to just one person while experiencing this much of life?  Shouldn’t everyone be able to have a party this massive?  Even people who don’t want to get married?

I understand, in a way, how and why weddings have been linked with marriages historically.  But in a world where marriage is, at best, a fifty fifty shot at lifelong companionship and tax breaks why would that be linked with a once in a lifetime party of epic proportions?
Marriages are about compromise weddings are about perfection. The perfect spouse, the perfect day, the perfect dress.  Marriages are about the dead end of your sex life.  Weddings are nothing but sex and burgeoning potential.  It’s normally considered uncouth to reach up your girlfriend’s dress, remove her undergarment and throw it into a crowd, but at a wedding it’s required!  And throwing it makes some kind of prediction about who else is going to get laid that night.
We should all be able to run through a corridor of our friends holding sparklers on our way to go have sex. There is never another time in your life when people will be that celebratory about the fact that someone else is having sex.
And Formal wear! There are men in formal wear! There’s a reason men’s formal wear hasn’t changed for the past hundred years and that’s because they’ve simply got it right.  The tux squares out the shoulders and brings the torso into a V.  It’s black and white, which looks good on everyone and it forces men to wear pants that actually fit.

I’m convinced that women pre-plan their weddings because they feel it’s rude to discuss their sexual fantasies in public.

My wedding would begin with the Chris Cornell cover of Ave Maria; a religious song I find intensely sexy.
I would walk down the aisle in a white silk corset with crystal and pearl beading, yards of tulle trailing behind me, glistening like the morning dew. And all over my dress, a spray across my skirt and clinging here and there to my bodice, would be blood red silk rose petals. As I walked down the aisle women would gasp and men would be speechless. My bridesmaids would follow behind me like minions of sex. Bright red satin, sweetheart necklines, short skirts and maybe a little 50’s hat with a veil. The obligatory bridesmaid ass bow would look inviting and succulent, like a present just daring you to unwrap it.
My husband, whoever the fuck he is, the instantly erect man to whom I am affianced would stand tall and proud, a slight sheen on his black tuxedo.  The red rose on his lapel would match the red on my dress.  His eyes would shine and his lips would be slightly parted in wonder.  His eyes would be beautiful, that’s all I know about him.  And odds are good he’d be a brunette.
He would take my hand and we would vow our love. And I would honestly believe that our love would last forever.
The ceremony would end and I would be kissed (with just enough passion to not make my family uncomfortable) and we would run through a corridor of our smiling, rice throwing, bubble blowing loved ones.
Then we’d double back to the now empty church.

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The Poolboy

Life as a pizza guy wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.  Nor was the life of a plumber, a cable guy, or UPS worker.  Tom had tried all of these professions with varying success in regards to finance and competence, but absolutely no success in regards to pornyness.

The odds of an attractive woman answering the door were disappointingly low.  And the odds of said attractive woman being scantily clad for some flimsy reason were astronomically low.  It had happened to him exactly three times in his life; once because the woman had been sleeping when he arrived, once because she’d been taking a shower and a third time because her air conditioning was broken.  In all three incidences the woman had been in particularly irritable moods for the very same reasons.  Not one of them had thrown so much as a smile his way, much less a flash of boob.

And they always, always, always, had enough cash for a tip on them.  Even just the fully clothed, marginally attractive women he called on tipped him only monetarily and, on the off chance she had only an extra handful of change, she’d give it to him, shrug apologetically and gently slam the door on his all too eager face.

Once a woman who’d paid over the phone with her credit card because she had no cash gave him a beer, but that was about as interesting as it ever got.

Tom didn’t understand it.  He wasn’t a bad looking guy.  He wasn’t a great looking guy and he wasn’t what you might call smooth but he was still better looking than most of the guys in those porno movies.  He may not have been as terrifyingly endowed as the men on screen but he was young, he had all his hair.  He was not, like, in shape exactly but he wasn’t fat really.  Hot chicks went for worse looking guys all the time.  Yet here he was in the porn world’s most wanted professions and striking out completely.

This time was going to be different, though.  This time, he was a pool boy.

Pools are the ultimate in excuses for porn to happen.  Being scantily clad is pretty much required for pool usage and, unlike delivering pizza, one can be assured that one is servicing people who get some exercise now and then.

It was his first day on the job and he had hit the jack pot.

The door was opened by a large breasted blond in a bikini.  Her lipglossed lips spread into a wide smile when she saw him.

“Thank god you’re here.”  Her valley girl voice popped.  “The pool is totally dirty.”

Thanking every god he had ever heard of Tom followed her nubile body through the ranch style bungalow out to the concrete back patio.  She hadn’t been kidding, the pool was filthy.  In fact the whole back yard looked like the destroyed ending of a kegger in a teen sex comedy.  Trash littered the lawn, bottles and cans of all kinds littered the pool and most of the plastic beach loungers were toppled or stacked in sculptures only a drunk could see the logic in.  Two of the loungers had been righted to serve as pedestals for the two most beautiful bodies he had ever seen.  Miss Bikini was not alone, you see, she had a friend.  A friend that Tom would forever remember as “White Onepiece.”

White Onepiece raised her sunglasses as he and Bikini approached.

“Ohmygod it’s so good that you’re here,” her breasts heaved.  “We’ve been SO bad.”

“I can see that.”  Tom replied, tearing his eyes away to survey the pool.  “What happened here exactly?”

“We just had our 18th birthday,” said Miss Bikini.  “It totally rocked.”

“Both of you?”  Asked Tom, incredulous.

“Yeah, our birthdays are in the same week.  That’s probably why we’re such good friends.  We’re practically twins.”  Tom could see a certain resemblance in their tan skin and blond hair.  Not to mention their brand spanking new barely legal age.  Miss Bikini’s hair was a lighter blond, bleached probably, while White Onepiece was more of a highlighted honey blond.  This was good because he’d need some way to tell them apart once their clothing was off.

“Of course, now the house is totally trashed,”  Continued Bikini “And my parents are totally gonna kill me if we don’t get it cleaned by the time they get back tomorrow.”

“Oh, uh, would you like me to help you?”  He offered, standing to his white knight stance.

“Wul, duh.  You’re the pool boy.”

“Right,” He deflated a touch. “But, uh, with the rest of the house.”

“No, it’s cool.  The maid and the gardener will be here tomorrow morning.”  Bikini dismissed him by laying face down on her lounger and untying the strings of her top.

“Right.  Awesome.  Cool.  I’ll, just, uh, work on the pool then.”

Tom did his best to look sexy while he skimmed the pool but he wasn’t sure what it was exactly that men did to look sexy.  For women it was easy; just pick an asset and display it, usually by bending over in some direction, very slowly and just subtle enough that everyone involved could safely pretend that she didn’t know what she was doing was sexy.

But what did men do?  He wondered to himself.  Did they bend, too?  He tried, while skimming, to bend in such a way that his ass might be enticing.  But should he be displaying his ass?  What makes a guy ass hot to a girl?  Was there something else he should be sexy with?  His biceps weren’t exactly rippling and his shorts weren’t tight enough to show off his package.  It was hard to do his job while facing them and attempting to brood.  Maybe he should have read some romance novels or something so he’d know what women thought was hot.  He stuck with the bending as it was most conducive to doing his actual job.  Of course, it meant that he nearly fell into the pool when he overheard the girl’s conversation.

“I can’t believe I’m still so horny!”  Complained one of them.

“I know!”  Exclaimed the other.  “I mean last night was practically, like, an orgy and I’m still not satisfied.”

“It’s totally Tyler’s fault.  I mean, aren’t guys supposed to, like, rise to the occasion when they’re in a threesome?”

Oh God!  Tom almost dropped his pool skimmer.

“Seriously.  Only Tyler could have sex with two girls at once and not satisfy either of them.”

“I know!”  She sighed “We need a real man.”

As Tom eagerly spun around to volunteer, he lost his footing and actually did fall into the pool.

“Oh my god” Marveled White Onepiece between giggles “Are you ok?”  She left her lounger to crouch by him as Miss Bikini clutched her top to her breasts, racked by paroxysms of laughter.

“Yeah.  I’m, uh, I think I slipped on something.”

“Do you need help?”  Onepiece bent over to him, breasts dipping into the pool and causing Tom to nearly drown.

“No, I’m cool.”  Protested Tom, kicking back from the side of the pool.  “I’m cool.”

He swam to the ladder, pushing beer cans out of his way and hoping the cold would shrink his chub enough that it wouldn’t be quite so obvious through his drenched shorts.

“Come inside.”  Miss Binkini lead him to the bathroom, shoulders still jiggling with laughter, strings still swinging free.  “I’ll put your clothes in the dryer.”  She explained, leaving him to undress and handing him a towel.  As he took the towel he tried to hide the hope in his eyes as her top hung loose from the single arm pinning it to her nipples.  If only she would let that arm go, the porno could begin.  But she didn’t.  And she barely noticed when he took his shirt off.  She merely closed the door most of the way, holding her hand out through the small opening to receive his clothes.

The bathroom window was open while he showered and it faced directly onto the patio so he could still hear their conversation in bits and pieces.

“God, I’m so horny!”  Was the repeated refrain and then he heard the phrase he always dreamed of but never thought he’d hear.  It was too ludicrous, too absurd, there was no way a teenage girl would actually say to her friend,

“I found my mom’s vibrator.”

“Ew, no way!”

“Totally.  Do you want to see it?”


No!  Not really!  It wasn’t possible!  It certainly could NOT be this easy.  It really couldn’t.  But he heard them, giggling, enter the house.  About 10 minutes later they drifted past the bathroom and he heard Onepiece say

“Oh my god, we should NOT be doing this.”

“You’re gonna LOVE it.”  Assured Bikini.

Tom was frozen behind the bathroom door, hand on the knob, too flabbergasted to move.  What should he do?  Dear GOD what could he do?  He had chased this moment, hoped for it, prayed for it, begged for it, done everything but paid for it, to happen and now that this ridiculous opportunity had fallen into this increasingly angular lap, he had no idea how to proceed.

This was insane.  He was being ridiculous.  His imagination had run away with him.  Nothing was going on.  He would put this towel round his waist, walk back out to the patio, and there they would be doing nothing more pornographic than their mere existence always was.

He walked to the patio and found no one there.  He walked around the yard, searching for some sign of them.  The yard progressed around to the side of the house and as he walked past another open window he heard White Onepiece exclaim

“Oh my GOD!”

“Isn’t it amazing?”  Asked Bikini.

“I can’t believe you didn’t bring this out last night.”

“I guess I wanted it to be just for us.”

“You bad girl.” Chastised Onepiece.

It was true!  It was all true.  Tom’s towel could barely contain him as his heart leapt for joy.  But the window was too high, he couldn’t see anything.

“Mmmm” moaned Onepiece.  “Oh my god!”

But they had left the curtain open, they wanted him to see, why else would they be doing this while he was here, while he was naked, why else would they be so loud about it, so shameless?

He went back into the house, still debating what to do.  But when he walked inside and saw that they had left the door just slightly open his mind was made up.  If they didn’t want him to come in why didn’t they close the door?  They couldn’t leave it open all the way, of course, they couldn’t be slutty about it.  They had to be coy but there was no way they would leave the door even  the tiniest inch open if they didn’t want him to join in or at least watch.

He stood in front of the door for an extra moment, steeling his nerve and savoring the moment.

“Oh JESUS!”  One of them exclaimed.  “This is so fucking good!”

At that he tossed his towel to the side and opened the door, his erection brazenly leading the way into the room.

White Onepiece dropped her fork in shock.  Her lips were smeared with the shining streak of rich chocolate icing.


The girls were frozen for a moment in horror.  Miss Bikini was bent halfway over her plate of cake, mouth agape, arrested in the act of taking a bite.

Time stopped for a moment as all of Tom’s dreams crashed in a heap around his naked body.  There was a second in which he thought he might lose all consciousness or simply die on the spot.  But the second passed and he was still alive and still naked in a stranger’s house for no explainable reason.

He grabbed the towel and bolted for the door.  He did not care if the girls laughed or cried or called the police, he would not wait around to find out.

In a blind panic he grabbed his keys from the bathroom counter, stuck his wallet in his mouth and dove for his car.

As he drove away he dimly realized that they could still call the pool cleaning agency and have him fired.  Though he prayed that they would never know his name, he didn’t care about getting fired.  Fired or not he would never go back to that job.  This porno bullshit was a stupid idea anyway.  He was done with it.  It was ridiculous.  Tomorrow he would grow up, he would straighten out, he would become a real man.  He would figure out how to get laid the way other guys, real guys, figured out how to get laid.  Maybe he would take a class.  Maybe he would go to art school.  Maybe he’d become an actor.  Those guys got laid all the time.

The next day he enrolled in art school.  Because everyone knows that art students, and presumably artists as well, get to see tons of naked vagina.

En Viscus Veritas

Longing eats him like a cancer.  A longing that sometimes wears her face.

He’s dreamt of her since childhood.  Like Heathcliff or Gatsby or that schmuck from Great Expectations.  He’d left her though and when he saw her, 17 and faintly pressing the edge of adulthood, he’d seen her from a distance.  He clutched his distance like a coat against bitter wind, fearing her.  Fearing the death of his dream.  How could she, all flesh and blood and fiery human will be the boyhood fantasy he’d treasured for years?

The Ghost of his fantasy beckoned from within her.

She had the same deep little girl eyes.  The same slender, nail tipped, hands.  The same sharp boots and heartbreaker viciousness that had busted the shins and hearts of the school yard boys.

The second time he’d seen her, when she was a woman of 22, he couldn’t stay away.  She’d caught him completely by surprise, though he was pretty sure the feeling was mutual.  He sat in a dive bar waiting for his roommate, Sam, to show up.  His roommate was bringing a friend of his, a one time fuck buddy who’d moved to New York.  She’d walked in on Sam’s arm, faintly familiar and undeniably hot.  Her red hair fell past her shoulders, her darkly painted lips shined against her pale skin.  She wore a summer dress and wholly impractical shoes, their high heels made of clear plastic so she seemed to always hover on tiptoe.

He’d bounced in enough clubs to know he’d have to keep a close watch on her.  A girl like that couldn’t help but be hit on by all manner of unsavories.  She’d seen him slumped at the bar in black leather jacket, somehow managing to make a beret look hot.  She’d caught his name when Sam mentioned it and couldn’t help but wonder if it was him.  The boy she’d never forgotten.  When he turned on his barstool to meet her eyes, she knew.

“Veronica,”  Sam began.  “This is Brogan.”  She shook his hand and leaned in close, fighting the noise of the bar, she fairly shouted.

“Is your last name Stern?”  His ice blue eyes widened and he pulled her into an embrace.  It was her.  Not just a girl named Veronica, but the Veronica.  His Veronica.  And she was here to share the bed of his roommate.

Veronica was in a singularly untenable position.  She was here to spend the night with Sam but Brogan had blind sided her and she found that 12 years had done nothing to abate her desire for him.

In fact the beauty she’d seen in him as a boy had sprawled and curled into luxurious manhood.  His lithe body had the taught energy of a caged panther.  His hair had grown from strawberry blond to a spun gold.

His eyes were a shade of blue that set off a flutter beneath her ribcage.  Not to mention the boy could dress.

It simply wasn’t fair.

After Sam and Veronica had retired to the same bed, Brogan stayed up late into the night, smoking and typing, listening for the sounds of fucking.  He half dreaded it, knowing the bile of jealousy that would well up in him.  But a part of him, a part he tried to ignore, wanted nothing more than to hear her moans.

They never came.

In the broad light of day she was still beautiful.

He listened to jazz and tried not to be aware of her padding from Sam’s bedroom to the shower and back again.

It wasn’t too late, some part of him whispered, Sam has already gone to work.  You could catch her in the shower, on the way back to the bedroom, while she’s dressing.  Throw aside the plastic curtain, drop the towel from her curves, take her naked from behind as she leans over to pull on her panties.

He remained in his chair.

She’d not forgotten him in his long absence.  He could take solace in that.  Some small part of him he even allowed to hope that the mark she’d left on his heart had a match on hers.  But the cost of asking was too high.

But he e-mailed her a few months later, a respectable amount of distance between their meeting and his contact.  They got reacquainted.

Through phone calls and e-mail she flirted with him shamelessly, all but saying “When are you going to come to New York and fuck me silly?”

And why should he be surprised?  She’d always been forward.

Every day after class she’d spent at least 15 minutes hugging and cuddling and enormous teddy bear the class had creatively named “Mr. Bear.”  The little sensualist.  She would revel in his softness and fur with a joy known only in adults when they’re doing ecstasy.

One day he joined her, indulging in the fur of Mr. Bear’s right side, while she enjoyed the left.  As they sat there, arms unable to fully encompass Mr. Bear’s plush body, Brogan felt the slick warm touch of her hand.  His head cocked slightly, he waited to see if the brush of skin had been a mistake.  It was not.

She grasped his hand and held it firmly.  He looked at her both shocked and intrigued, his look was the 4th grade version of “You insatiable minx! Here?!? In front of Mr. Bear?!?!”

She smiled at him, knowing she’d found the perfect place and excuse to hold hands as much as they wanted.  No one would question their time cuddling Mr. Bear and no one could see what went on behind him.  She tilted her head down in mock shyness belied by the devilish glint in her eyes as they met his gaze unflinching.  Her crooked smile widened, the 4th grade version of  “If holding hands behind Mr. Bear is wrong, I don’t wanna be right!”

Back then she had loved only him.

Thirteen years later he isn’t so sure.

Her heart and another organ had grown sizably since then and now could no longer hold just the love of a single boy.  It demands more and perhaps that’s what scares him most.

What could he do to hold a place in heart so full?

What would save him from being the cast off remnants of “Just a fuck?”

Still, when she says she’ll come visit him, he sees her.  He couldn’t help but see her.

Meeting someone at the airport is the ultimate anticlimax.  It’s anticlimactic because movies lie.  There are no joyous embraces and longed long for kisses.  You can’t do these things at an airport.  You can’t park at an airport.  You can’t be in an airport if you own or have thought about anything sharp.

Collective paranoia has turned the airport meeting experience into premature ejaculation; over before you know it, leaving you both unsatisfied and a little sticky.

Any joy is rushed aside in an always frantic and awkward push to to find the right car and get the bags in the trunk and “No, really, I’ll drive.” and “Are you sure you’ve got everything? I have to get away from the airport before this asshole behind me honks his horn one more fucking time.”  There is only a stolen moment for an apologetic hug and guilty brush of lips before you fling yourself to opposite ends of a hulking mass of glass, metal and plastic hoping for a conversation to present itself.

It does but only in the form of the weather and vague allusions to work and other awkward banalities that make Brogan want to vomit because all he wants, all he wants in the world, is to say

“You exist, oh my god you exist.  I thought you lived in another dimension.  I thought I only dreamed you.”

He doesn’t want to be strapped to a giant piece of metal hurtling itself through space.

He wants to kiss her.  He wants to touch.  He wants to see if there’s any way he can get his body and hers to actually merge and take up the same space.

The awkwardness doesn’t fully wear off once they’ve left the car.  It lingers because no treatise has been written on how to politely say “Hi.  I came here with the express purpose of fucking you and, while I value you as a person and care about what you have to say, for the time being let’s just shut the fuck up and bone like crazed weasels.”

“I’m sorry this place is such a mess.”  He mutters.

“It’s fine.”  She replies, trying not to say ‘I don’t care if the bed’s on fire, fuck me, fuck me now!’

She’s on his bed now lounging in the corner of his vision as he paces the room abstractly cleaning.  He’s not ready or she’s not ready or something.  He doesn’t feel well.  He hasn’t felt well all week and he wanted this to be perfect but now it’s ruined.  She’s rumpled from the airplane and she probably wants to sleep or eat or shower and maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all.

After all, she was past.  She was a fairy tale.  A story you told yourself on long lonely nights but made yourself forget in daylight hours.  She was a memory.  A beautiful honeysweet girl long since lost in the curves and cream of the woman now curled on his bed.

He wants her.  Dear christ how he wants her.  But the tremor in his hand makes him clench it at his side.  The want in his body keeps him away from her.  The desire he feels, the pure unadulterated need, it tugs at his body, like a horse straining at it’s reigns a wolf snarling through it’s muzzle.

“Were you planning on kissing me anytime soon?”

She’s calling him a pussy now.  He can’t back out.  He can do this.  He’ll just hold back.  Keep it skin to skin, nothing more.  Desire can be slaked, if not ever fulfilled.  So he kisses her.  He rolls her to her back and kisses her.  She’s sweet as he imagined but real, fleshy, warm.  Her skin presses against his fingers.  He half expected her to melt beneath his touch but her skin, her muscle, guts and bone all stand firm against his body.  The bones of her pelvis rock gently against his.  Her taught breasts smooth against his chest.  Every inch of her body explores him, lithe and lively beneath his touch.  She feels every inch of him, hoping to remember it all.  Her flesh is soft her scent sweet.  Much like he’d imagined but firmer somehow, earthier.  Her sugary memory with a hint of sweat to it, her skin the moistness of rich soil.  He’s touching her.  He can’t believe he’s touching her.  He can’t believe she’s real.  She’s real and she’s here.  He can’t believe she’s real and she’s here.  Here in his bed.  In his bed.  He can’t believe she’s here in his bed.  And real.  Here in his bed and real.  Real as real can possibly be and here and real and here and

“Are you ok?”  She asks.

“Yeah.”  He answers.  “Fine.”  Fine.  Of course he’s fine.  Why wouldn’t he be fine?  There’s a beautiful girl, a beautiful girl he’s wanted his whole life, and she’s real and she’s here and she’s very very very much in his bed and what on earth couldn’t be fine about that?  Nothing.  Nothing could be not fine about that but if it’s so fine should he really be sitting here thinking about how very fine everything is should it just be so fine that it goes without saying and why oh fucking why won’t his brain shut us just fucking shutthefuckingfuck up.

“It seems like there’s something on your mind.”  She knows!  She can tell what he’s thinking, feel it on his skin, sense the terseness of his muscles their strain against his skin.  She hears them calling for her, fighting against themselves, at once advancing and retreating both towards and away from her.

“No.  I’m fine.”  She’s not buying it.  “I just… things have been weird… at work and all.”  Work. Work will stop any inquiry or complaint.  The puritan work ethic is the only religion he’s maintained.  It’s irrefutable.  It ends every conversation.

Her nails slick up his sides, making him jerk away to avoid the tickle.  She smiles and attacks again.  He catches her wrist and she slips away.  As his arms dive at her wrist she blindsides him with her other hand.  He loses his thoughts in the struggle to get hold of her, in the playful friction of their bodies, in the tangled mass of limbs and jerks, giggles and sensation in the giddy, lively, squirming girl in his arms.  He pins her wrist to her back pushing her torso against his.  They breath in rhythm as she succumbs to being caught muscles relaxing against each other.  She breaths against him for a moment then begins to writhe again.  He holds her with just enough force to keep her place.  He holds her like something precious. Precious but not delicate.  She squirms again.

“Oh.”  He says sarcastically.  “You want me to break your wrist.”

“No.”  She pants, looking rebellious and playful, into his eyes.  “You won’t break me.”  Her trust in him is fearless and founded on nothing.  In that trust he sees her there.  The soft brown hair and sugar pink lips of the girls he loved.

“No,”  He says, a tender huskiness to his voice.  “No, I won’t break you.”

He kisses her deeply and feels himself melt into her.  He rolls hem to the side so he’s on top of her now.  With a warm sigh he rests his head on her breast.

“I missed you.”  He whispers.  And she feels his body stop fighting.  She feels him let go.  She feels him come home.  He says “I missed you.”  And she knows just what he means.

“I missed you, too.”  She whispers back.

“After I left marin,” He sighs. “life got hard.  Really fucking hard. Seems like since then I never stopped fighting. I thought, coming back, things might change but it’s all same shit different day, you know?”

“No.” She answers truthfully.  “I work pretty hard to ensure it’s never the same shit. But I do know what it’s like to have to keep fighting.”

She wishes he’d stayed.  He could have been her first kiss, her first love, her first…  everything.  Would he have hurt her the way those other boys had?  Would he have left the same scars?

The truthful answer is “probably.”  But she tries not to think of that now.  She imagines him in her adolescent life.  Every slow dance that left her stranded alone in the middle school gym he would have seen her.  He would have drunk in her coltish beauty and, in his nervous adolescent way, taken her hand to dance.  He’d found her beautiful when she was all grass stains and crooked smiles.  He should have seen her flower.  She wishes he had been there.

Or maybe she doesn’t.  She likes who she is these days and knows those experiences shaped her.

She sighs and kisses him.

“I missed you, too.”  She whispers.

And suddenly they’re kissing.  Kissing the way storybooks tell you to.  Hearts and souls just a hair’s breath from each other.  Kissing that creates something indefinable.  Something that feels like a shared soul that passes between them wafting on each new breath.

She marvels at his body.  It seems to her that she can see the fingerprints of God in the clay of his flesh, see the way he was formed, feel the give of the clay molding into just   the right shape, and knows how perfect it makes him.

There’s a poetry to his body.  Beat poetry.  Tough, and sinewy, long and lean.  His body’s all stream lined sentences.  Only meat, muscle and bone.  No excess.

Her lips graze his shoulder and she notices for the first time that across the bulge of his deltoid is tattooed the word “Veritas,” the latin word for truth.  Also a translation of her name.  She doesn’t think he knows this and doesn’t bother to mention it.

But it brings a secret smile to her lips.

There is honesty in fucking, unabashed and open.  The body cannot lie because it’s never been studied, never been classified, categorized, polarized into positive and negative.

The conscious mind has no jurisdiction over the voice of the body so the body cannot lie.  The purely physical is inherently honest.  His actions are unthought and so, finally, uncensored.  His body doesn’t know her.  Not really, not fully.  But it wishes to God that it did because it finally feels at home.

He forgets, finally, his problems and fears, bathing himself in the lethe of her flesh.  She smells faintly like fresh cut grass and summer rain on broken pavement.  Her taste is faintly sweet like strawberry lemonade and all he can think of is her flesh, her hair, her scent, his teeth.  Her ass against him.  The feeling inside her.  The feel of his hand in the small of her back and the curve of her spine a she arches back toward him.  His fist in her hair and earlobe quivering as he whispers into it.  The smell of her hair so soft and warm like the day he first smelled it sunstroked brown and resting on his shoulder.  She was here.  That beautiful girl, this beautiful woman, breast resting in the palm of his hand, body surrounding him as he always dreamed it would

“I’m going to come inside you.”  He whispers not as a warning really, almost to convince himself more than anything else.  It’s the only sound he makes while inside her. But she feels him come. His rhythm loses it’s regularity to intensity. He grips her hair and bends her back. Harder. Farther. Till he collapses into her.

They breathe collectively.

For a moment he scans himself, takes stock of his thoughts and feelings and finds no hint of regret.

Not the smallest morsel.

She slips in his shower. She’s never slipped in a shower her whole life but she slips in his. There’s nothing to hold on to, only a slippery curtain rod suspended by springs and occlusion.

She falls for a moment knowing pain, injury, and possibly death will come in a moment and there’s precious little she can do about it. But he catches her, falls, catches her, till she’s bent over backwards, outstretched arms holding her bridge like over the rim of the tub that could have snapped her spine. His arm is in the small of her back, his knee braced against her, other hand against the bathroom floor, not far from hers. They hold this pose for a moment, making sure they’re not dead. Then he regains his footing and helps her to her feet.

The bathroom is cold and he holds her close under the heat of the shower. They look at each other like they’re in love. Hell maybe they are. The world seems to have stopped around them. A total absence of background noise.  He looks into her eyes and sees the end of the world, a death he would welcome, a final, wearied rest. The rise and fall of mankind are in those eyes. The Alpha and Omega. He looks into her eyes and sees, fleetingly, something that would heal him, sate him, make him whole.

But he doesn’t know what she sees and can’t bring himself to ask.

She looks at him and sees a beauty so vast there’s a pain in looking at it.  She grew up surrounded by natural beauty, but somewhere in childhood she’d lost her reverence for it.

All the sunsets, the redwoods, the craggy coastal vistas couldn’t hold the smallest candle to the sight of this boy’s eyes and the way the water drips off him in diamonds.  She looks into his eyes and sees that he’s happy.  She can’t remember the last time she’s seen that.

It’s not a revelation.  No problems have been solved. But for the moment they’re forgotten.  And though a nagging corner at the edge of his mind can’t help but whisper this is only a moment and a short one at that, he can’t help but feel content  and whole.

As perfect as he seems to her.  In her eyes he sees the endless horizon and the barely comprehensible word “eternity.”

The water grows cold around them and their flesh begins to cool.

“I guess it’s time for bed.”  He says, and twists the water off.

“I wish you could stay longer.”  He says, while they slide beneath the sheets.  “Just tonight and tomorrow?  That’s hardly any time at all.”

“I know.”  She says.  “But it’s all the time I could afford to take off.  I almost don’t want to go to sleep, but I’m so exhausted.”

He doesn’t know how hard she worked to get here. He doesn’t know he got her through it. That she kept his photo posted at her work station the way World War II fighter pilots kept a pinup in their cockpit. A glance now and then at his sensuous mouth and golden hair had steeled her nerves and kept her at work.

“I can fuck that.” She thought like the fighter pilot. “If I only live through this, I can fuck that.”

Beauty drives us to absurdities.

Why did she come? Why did she come just to spend so little time with him?

She curves against his body, feels his arms around her and knows, This. This is why she did it.

She did it because after the initial catch up e-mails she knew that Brogan was a man you couldn’t talk to while fully clothed. He had to be stripped of layers and defenses before he could say something really true.  There was honesty beneath his skin but it took work to get to. She had come to touch his honesty. She had come to feel his arms around her. And she had, quite simply, come to have sex with a beautiful man she’d been wanting for 13 years.

In his arms it seems worth it and so she stays there, settles into him. He holds her for a moment, hesitant, then with a sigh pulls her into him and commits his body to hers. They sleep this way. Comfortable in the way one imagines comfort to feel. The platonic ideal of comfort. And, in the night, as one turns, so turns the other. So as long as this night is, as long as it can possibly last, they stay in each other’s arms.  Embracing till the cold light of dawn.

The next morning she goes to the shower hesitantly, hoping he’ll join her.  He doesn’t.  Her absence from his bed reminds him how cold the room is.  He steels himself to it, reminds himself that that’s how it was before she came and that it’s how it’ll be after she leaves.

He pulls on a pair of pants, cursing the cold.  He doesn’t want her to go.  He can feel something in her, something he lost and maybe… given time…  He pulls on a sweater.  But there had been no time.  She was here and gone and had given him nothing to hold.  All he had was more memories of her.  She hasn’t even gone and already she’s a ghost to him.  A faint smell on his pillow that he may have just imagined.  In a day or two even that would be gone.

Pulling on a jacket he sits at his desk striving for distraction.  He loses himself in the internet, in a video game, in anything that will give road to his wandering mind, use to his jittery hands.  She returns to his room and slowly dresses herself.  He keeps her at his periphery, out of his eye line.

“I’ve got some work to do.”  He mentions.  “Do you have any plans for today?”

“No.  I just… wanted to relax today.”  She says lamely.  She’d wanted to spend the day with him.  Her only day with him.

“The tv’s in the living room.”  He suggests.

“No it’s ok.  I’ve got a book.  And my journal.  And my sketchbook.  I know how to entertain myself.”  It was true.  The daughter of two very hardworking parents she’d learned early and well how to keep herself occupied.  “It’s only a few hours anyway.  Till I have to leave.”

“Mmm.”  Is his only response.

She reclines on his bed, facing him, hoping his vague business will end, or at least break for an hour or two.  She reads.  She writes.  She sketches the back of his head.  They both check the clock compulsively.

When the time comes he reaches for the phone.

“I’ll call you a cab.”  He offers automatically.

“I’ve got it.”  She assures him.  “Is something wrong?”

“No.  It’s just…” He has no idea what to say.

“Things are weird right now.  With work.  I’m sorry I’ve been so busy.  I just wish your visit was…”

Longer?  Nonexistent?  Indefinite?  “Better timed.”

“Right.”  She sighs.  Her jaw clenches at the familiarity of the situation.  She knows her visit couldn’t have come at a better time.  He was always this busy and he would always be this busy and fuck him, fuck him, fuck him, for having time for video games and not her.  She’d been dating versions of him since she was 16 and she’d be damned if she thought he would change.

She calls a cab.

When the cab comes she waits, briefly, for him to stand, to move, to say anything at all.

“I’m leaving.”  She tells him for a final time.  His eyes flicker up to hers and back down again.  He stands, stiffly, to hug her.  When she in his arms he holds her tight.  As if his muscles believe if they can just touch every curve of her body, they’ll remember it and mold her form in his empty arms whenever he needs her.  He breaths the soft warm scent of her hair and prays to a God he doesn’t believe in that this time, lord, this time, he’ll remember that scent and recall her warmth in the lonely hours of his life.  She feels this in his skin, his muscles, his breath and hopes against hope that he says something, one tiny sentence to show that he loves her, he wants her, will miss her.  One voiced exhalation formed correctly and she’d forgive the hours he’d spent treating her like she was nothing.

“Have a safe trip.”  He says.

He never sees her again.  And he feels the lack of her in everything he touches.

I Fucked Andy Warhol

My friends say I’m a star fucker and I guess I am, kinda.  I mean you’re gonna brag about it anyway, why not brag about someone people can picture?  And it’s not like you haven’t wondered.  Everyone wonders “What’s he like in bed?”  Everyone wonders that about everyone but they especially want to know that about celebrities.  It doesn’t matter what they look like even, if they’re famous everyone wants to know.

You don’t give a damn about what Joe Ugly’s like in bed but Andy Warhol…  Andy Warhol’s fucking somebody and suddenly you’re interested.

They said I was just his type.  There’s a joke in there somewhere; Andy Warhol, type, graphic artist…  It’ll come to me.  Anyway I was at some party and his friends were there.  I know everyone, everyone cool, says they’re friends with Andy Warhol but this time it was true ‘cause they said I was his type and then they introduced me.

“Andy,” they said, “This is Chad and he loves your work.”  Though really I could care less about painting.  And he shakes my hand and he says,

“Oh, wow, a fan.”

He always says “wow.”  Everyone says that Andy says “wow” about everything and he said it about me.  But it was the way he said “wow.”  He could have said “wow” a thousand different ways and each one would have it’s own nuance, say it’s own thing.  And the way he said, “wow” about me showed that he was playing it cool but secretly he wanted me.  Besides, who cares what he said about me?  He was Andy Warhol.

“You should come to my factory.”  He said  “I’ve got some paintings I want you to help me with.”

Well I don’t know a thing about painting but I do know a thing or two about men and THAT was a come on in true artist style.  So, believe me honey, I was there.

It’s not like his art takes talent anyway.

So the next day he shows me his studio and asks me to pee on something, these sheets of metal.  He just wants me to pee on these things, says they’re his latest work and everyone can be an artist blah blah.  And I just say

“Whatever does it for you, Andy.” And whip it out.  It’s not like I haven’t peed in weirder places…  I think.  Anyway

“I want to film you.”  He says and I say

“Ok.  No one’s ever filmed me before.” And he just told me to stand there.  So I stand there.  And I look at him.  And I keep looking at him.  I’m looking at him like I wanna eat him, which… you know…  And I take my shirt off maybe get the ball rolling.

I think he was used to that camera making people self-conscious.  I think, instead, I made him self-conscious.  Like I could see him through that camera.  And I liked what I saw.

So he turns the camera off and he says

“So, you’re gay, right?”  And I’m thinking ‘finally’ but I just say

“Yeah, you?”  And he walks up to me and gets real close and he says, I swear to god, he says

“I think labels are for soup cans.”  And he kisses me.  But he doesn’t kiss me the way you would kiss me.  He kisses me like we’re still on camera.  Like it’s all a show.  And I’m thinking ‘Great. He’s one of THOSE boys.  Those fashionable fags who always end up married and couldn’t suck a cock if his life depended on it.’  But he does suck my cock and he does a pretty good job of it.  But it’s technical, performative, like his personality’s wearing a prophylactic.  His mouth is on my cock and he’s licking and sucking but it’s like he’s not actually touching me.  And I suck him off but he’s, like, static.  He doesn’t moan, he doesn’t move, he just thrusts his dick in my mouth.  And I really didn’t think he’d be bad in bed, you know?  Like, aren’t artists supposed to be great lovers because of, like, passion or insanity or something?

So he tells me to bend over and I am NOT a bottom.  So I tell him that.  I mean I’ve had my dick sucked by Andy Warhol, that’s good enough.  But he just says

“Oh, ok.”  And walks into his room.  So I follow him in and he closes the door and there’s this painting hanging on the back of the wall.  But it’s not like his other paintings.  It’s actually, you know, good, like a real painting.  The colors are rich and the paint is thick and sexy and it’s this painting of a fucking hot man.  I mean the whole painting is just dirty, raw, sex.

And I say

“Who did this?” and he looks all embarrassed and suddenly painfully shy and he says

“Oh.  Um, me.  I did it a long time ago but… nobody liked it.”

“I like it.”  I say and he says

“You’re the first.”

And we go to an actual bed and he lies on his back.  He hasn’t bottomed in a long time.  And I mean a long time.  It seemed like ages before I can actually get my dick in him, let alone move.

“Wait.”  He says “Oh, god, please wait just a second while I get used to it.”  And for the first time in the short time I’ve known him he doesn’t sound bored.  He doesn’t sound far away, he sounds like he’s here and very focused on one thing and one thing alone, which is my cock in his ass.

After a few minutes I start to move and he lets out this moan.  You wouldn’t believe this moan.  Like he’d had a gag in his mouth for thirty years and he’s making sound for the first time.  I thought he’d come already.  But he hadn’t and I kept going.  And he’s moaning and thrashing so hard that his wig comes off. And he just keeps begging me to fuck him harder and deeper and harder and deeper.  Till his cock explodes and he comes all over everything like a fucking Pollock painting.

So I finish off and I clean up and he’s still lying on the bed in, like, ecstasy.  And I say to him

“Wow, Andy, you really are a true blue faggot aren’t you?”

And he just looks at me.  For a long time he just looks at me.  Till I felt sort of self-conscious.  And he just pulled on his wig and told me to go.  He wasn’t angry or anything he just said it was time for me to go.  So I left and that was that.

That was my fifteen minutes of fame.

The Only Intimacy They Shared

“Opposites were created; a hierarchy was created; intercourse expressed both the opposition and the hierarchy. Intercourse became the “natural” expression of the different “natures” of men and women, each pushed away from having a common human nature by laws that prohibited any recognition of sameness; each pushed into a sexual antagonism created by the dominance and submission that was the only intimacy they shared.”
— Andrea Dworkin, Intercourse.

“What are you doing here?” He dropped the book as she stormed up to him.  Her skirt was long but tight, flaring out at the knee. Her blouse was long sleeved, high collared and ever so slightly see through. Her eyes burned behind her black rimmed glasses and her crimson lips were set in a hard line of rage.

She looked so amazing he almost swallowed his tongue. She was everything he had dreamed of seeing when he snuck into the female supremacist library.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” She had a dirty mouth for a librarian.

“I-I-I” He stuttered.

“Y-y-you what?” She mocked. “Shut the fuck up you pasty ass white boy.”

“Y-y-yes Mistress.” She slapped duct tape over his mouth.

“You think I care what you have to say? Your sex has said enough, thank you very much. It’s your turn to be silenced. What makes you think you can come here? Everyone knows there are no men allowed here but still you walk in here like you own the place. What makes you so special, hmm? What makes you so goddamned entitled?”

Her eyes traveled downward and she raised a sardonic eyebrow.  “Oh. Right. That.”

She ripped his pants open, letting them fall to the floor.  From the desk she grabbed a pair of scissors and knelt. She thrust her hand through the legs of his boxers yanking at the bunched fabric and cutting his underwear off. He shrieked as best he could when the scissors brushed his manhood, but she left him blessedly intact. She laughed, low and haughty grabbing his not quite flaccid penis.

“This?” She scoffed. “This sad little flap of skin entitles you to do and say anything you want?” He tried to protest, to praise her superiority, but could only make sad little noises.

“This makes you a leader, does it?”  She dug her lacquered nails into his soft flesh and began to pull.   “I think it just allows you to be lead.” She kept hold of his cock and began to walk through the stacks. She lead him, his manhood a leash, his pants hobbling him, to her office. She pushed him to his knees before the desk.

“Look how it leads you.” She hissed while unzipping her skirt. She slowly slid her skirt down past her garter belt, her lace panties, her knee high boots. His cock stood at attention, straining towards her like an excited puppy. “Your body cries out for me even as I treat you like dirt.”

She spit in his face. His cock got harder.

She sat on the desk, spreading her legs so the crotch of her panties was level with his dripping face. He realized with shame that he could not tear his eyes away from her body, the leather of her boots, the lace of her stockings, her garter straps, taught against her skin. And… Of course… Her…

“Is this what you came for?” She asked, voice cloying, then snapping like a trap  “Some gash?” Some slit? A little crack?” She ripped the tape from his mouth.

“Say ‘cunt’” She demanded.

“Cunt.” He said, too scared to disobey or even stutter.

“Pig.” She slapped him hard across the face. “You came here to get fucked, didn’t you?”

Her fingers trailed briefly between her legs.

“You wouldn’t know what to do with this if you got it.”

She reached behind her desk to produce a truly intimidating dildo.

“Let’s see how you do with this.”

He attempted to protest and she silenced him with a slap.

“The only time a whore should open his mouth is when he’s giving head.” She shoved the dildo in his mouth. He sucked as though his life depended on it, trying to emulate the porn stars he’d seen. She didn’t seem to appreciate the effort. She only shouted “deeper” and forced his head down, gripping his hair till tears came to his eyes.

“You call that sucking dick?” She demanded, throwing him off her cock. She forced him over her desk, which didn’t require much force at this point. She grabbed the scissors, cutting his shirt open at the back and letting it fall in tatters.

“This is what killers do in those pornographic horror movies you like so much isn’t it? Where all the women are helpless little victims who only exist to be saved, raped or killed by men? You love your helpless little whores, don’t you? Well let me ask you something,” Her nails brushed his erection as she reached down to grab his balls. “Do I look fucking helpless to you?”

“No!” He blurted.

“You’re learning.”  She smiled. “Ready to learn more?”


“Shut up.” She threw a book on the desk in front of him.  It was Intercourse by Andrea Dworkin.

“Read.”  She ordered. He did, for a moment, till she slapped his ass.

“Aloud.  Use that pretty little head for once. Either of them.” He read aloud.

“This is nihilism, or this is truth. He has to push in past boundaries. There is the outline of a body, distinct, separate, its integrity an illusion, a tragic deception, because unseen there is a slit between the legs, and he has to push into it.” Behind him he heard leather straps creak against metal fastenings.

“There is never a real privacy of the body that can coexist with intercourse: with being entered. The vagina itself is muscled and the muscles have to be pushed apart. The thrusting is persistent invasion. She is opened up, split down the center. She is occupied–physically, internally, in her privacy. ” He gasped as she filled him but continued to read as she pumped into him, voice stumbling over itself as he found pleasure in the invasion and irony in the words he spoke. He found his arousal building, his cock enjoying the painful friction against the desk.

“There were the great, broad laws; prohibiting sodomy; prescribing fucking in marriage; directing the fuck to the vagina, not the mouth or the rectum of the woman because men have mouths and rectums too; legitimizing the fuck when it produces children; each turn of the screw so to speak heightening gender polarity and increasing male power over women, fucking itself the way of creating and maintaining that power.”

With humiliating complicity he came, body going limp against the hard desk, face resting against the pages of the book, sweat staining the pages.
She pulled out slowly and leaned over to whisper in his ear

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” She smiled

“What?” He asked, and then wished he hadn’t. With a satisfied finality to her voice she said

“Swallow.  Bitch.”

In the time that followed he had only a few moments to wonder whether or not Ms. Dworkin would approve of this… application of her theories before the librarian threw him, naked and shivering, out of the library.

Wuthering Nights

She was always a ghost, even before she died. Even when I held her in my arms, flesh and bone in my tight gripped fingers, she was never really mine.

We were on the moors, always on the moors. She would run ahead of me, always outpace me somehow, her laughter falling back to me as I snatched at her.

I only caught her when nature conspired with me, tripping her up and me swiftly after to send us both tumbling to the ground. Scrubby grass and rocky earth bruising flesh and tearing cloth.

This was how she fell in my arms; with a laugh and a hurt sound and “Oh lord father will kill me.”

Dirt smudged her face and heather clung to her hair.  I knew beyond a doubt that she was the most beautiful thing I would ever see.

I kissed her.  Against my lips she was soft and warm. Cathy.  Hard, heartless, Cathy softened against me.  And though the air around me was frozen, my fierce, fiery, Cathy warmed me, filled me with her heart so hot I boiled for her.

When I finally released her (God how long had I held her?) she laughed at me.  She turned on her gold tipped heel, shook my dirt from her, and returned to him.

I could have killed her then. Sometimes I wish I had.

That satisfaction was taken from me, just like the satisfaction of her love. Everything, it seems, is taken away from me. So I learned to take it back. I took back everything and then some, even her, in a way.

Her husband thought she was gone, everyone thought she was gone. But I kept her here.

“Catherine Ernshaw,” I cursed, “may you not rest as long as I am living! You say I killed you- Haunt me then!  Only do not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you!”

And with that curse I nailed her to the earth forever, her soul knit to mine. Salvation shall not rip her from me. Nor damnation neither until I am damned.

In this earthly hell did our love find eternity.

You may think me mad but there she stands, eighteen years later, unchanged, on the moors. Her dress is the same, mossy green linen dimly shining in the moonlight, hem fluttering in the wind.

“Heathcliff” she calls me, her voice languid and low.  She’s behind the glass of the doors, the howling wind at her back. Somehow that languid voice floats to me from her perfect lips, tinged purple in the moonlight. I don’t bother with a coat.  Who knows how long she’ll stay? She never was one to wait for me.

She’s already started running by the time I’m at the door. I follow the shine off her hair, fluttering beyond me like the wings of a moth.

My shoes are soggy after mere moments of running and I can’t keep up the way I used to. But she pities me now. She waits for me, stares at me, barely moving.

I walk towards her. I’m certain I do. The ground beneath me creeps on apace, it peaks and valleys, dampens and dries beneath my feet but she stays forever, seeming still, just a few paces ahead.

How long have I been out here?

I regret abandoning my coat but it would be madness to turn back now, now that I’m finally gaining ground.

Her wind blown skirts lap at my shins and, though I’m hesitant to try and hold her, her lips are almost close enough to kiss. Her hair blows against me, lightly brushing my shivering skin.

I forget the cold when she finally moves.  She turns to face me, leaning back against an embankment, on a green slope, in the corner of the kirkyard, where the wall is so low that heath and bilberry plants have climbed over it from the moor; and peat mould almost buries it.

A movement of her legs slowly, so slowly, rises the hem of her skirt. I see the creamy skin of her ankle, the soft rising swell of her calf.  My gaze darts from her exposed flesh to her burning eyes. She never takes them off me as she raises her skirts ever higher.

My body is numb and I think I am frozen in place but when the snow white of her thighs is completely exposed she locks eyes with me saying

“Heathcliff, come. Come home to me Heathcliff.” I do. My brittle legs take a final step to her and I bury myself in her body. The numbness in me is forced out by a spreading warmth as I take her in; The feel of her, the smell of her, the sounds she makes soft against my ear. When the wind blows her hair from my face, I snatch it back. When her skin falls away from me, I force it to touch mine. And when her scent escapes me I devour her further. Her fever engulfs me as I drive our souls together.  Every inch of her shall be mine, every last scrap.

And when I have possessed her finally, I realize that I feel nothing.

I have lost myself in the abyss of her and finally died.

Little has changed for us. No damnation finds us, nor salvation neither. I still walk the moors with Cathy laughing just beyond me.

It is in this earthly hell that our love finds eternity.


I’d known Riley for years now, known his name for… Oh months at least.  That’s the thing about being a bar regular, you know people without knowing them.  You recognize them, you talk to them from time to time but it’s very easy to not learn their name.

Riley was a fixture, decoration practically. He never held much conversation with me, never showed much interest except when he was really drunk.  Then he would flirt with me in a vague and fuzzy way.  The flirting of too long looks and blurry smiles, eyes shining that inebriated shine.  He would give me a look, a lick of a smile, perhaps a respectful drink lift.  And that was it.  It’s not that l didn’t notice his Irish good looks, forward blue eyes, biteable lips, they just seemed tangential to me.

Until one night, emboldened by liquor but somehow still in focus he jokingly mentioned Paddles (the place, not the implement.)  And my world seesawed ever so slightly in his direction.

See, Paddles in an SM club.  And no matter what the jaded perverts say, Paddles is the real deal. It’s not a fetish party where prodommes and goth kids come to pose.  Paddles is for perverts.  And when you mention Paddles the way he mentioned Paddles, you’re a pervert no two ways about it.

He kissed me that night.  We were very drunk, but it stuck in my memory.  I called him after that.  I didn’t hear back.

I see him at the bar again.  Not that I’m looking for him.  He just happens to be here every night.  So he’s easy to find.

He sees me, smiles wanly, and gets a drink. 

Does he remember kissing me?  Does he regret it?

He stands near me for once, away from his accustomed corner.  He stands silent, sipping his fast nervous sips.

“How’ve you been?”  I ask him.

“Good.” A few sips go by.

“It’s been a while since I’ve seen you.”


I measure time by the jukebox songs.  I wait I verse and half a chorus before I muster up the joke

“So how drunk do you have to be to talk to me?”  He laughs his shy surprised laugh and seeks an answer in the ice of his drink.  I don’t think he says “gosh” but he may as well.

“Uh… five, six more maybe?”  I don’t think he’s exaggerating.  “A couple more shots and we can talk about the weather maybe.”

“Well drink up then.”

Damn.  I meant to be coquettish.  I’m pretty sure I’ve failed.

But we have a few drinks.  Then we have a few more.  And we talk.

“So we’ve known each other for… how long?”  I ask.

“Years, I think.  Like, four of em.”

“So why’d you wait this long to tell me you’re a pervert?” He laughs again, choking on his drink. F in coquetry.  Absolute fail.  I really am bad at this game.

“Well, I, for part of that I was married.  We just recently divorced.”  He confesses, “and by ‘recently’ I mean ‘two years ago.’”

“Time flies, huh?”

“Yeah I guess.”

“So…” I try to sound casual “Top? Switch? You don’t seem like a bottom.”

“Shots!” He cries out.  I’ve scared him, goddamn, I’ve scared him.  F in casual!  Christ why has flirting these days become more like coaxing a stray cat out of a tree than anything resembling seduction?

The shots make several appearances in the evening.  I find myself making out, not with Riley but, with Ginny the bartender, which is just fine by Riley.

“My dear,” Ginny says between kisses.  She kisses me, slow and deep, lips sticky with lip gloss and tasting of cookie dough and Jack Daniels. “Could you pass that on to Riley?”

I’m not inclined to deny Ginny anything.  I kiss him.

Whisky blurred he presses into me, running his pink tongue through the slit of my lips.

“Give that to Ginny.”  He orders softly and I sure as hell ain’t saying “no.”

Ginny accepts my kiss with her southern comfort smile and says

“Sweetie, you have such beautiful hair.”  Her eyes shift slyly to Riley.   “You should take it down.”

She has the sparkle of champagne bubbles and should be denied nothing.  My hair falls in sweetly scented still damp curls, cascading down my back.  Behind me I hear Riley laugh, almost, like he’s been tricked into losing a bet.  A lusty breathless chuckle leaves him as he leans forward to my ear.

“Ginny happens to know that I have something of a hair fetish.”  He explains.  Then he twines his fingers in my hair and gives it a good, solid, yank.

He pulls my hair and an unexpected wave of bliss crashes through my body.  It knocks me on my ass and makes be grateful for my barstool.  If not for these few sticks of wood I’d be on the floor right now, kissing his boots and begging for more.  My head spins and my cunt pulses and my body screams

“Now!  Now!  For the love of Christ, NOW!  If this man doesn’t pick you up and bend you over this bar right this second then he ain’t no kind of man!”  Because my body doesn’t care about the other people in the bar or what kind of ordinances might be in place.  And in the darkest heart of my desire I truly want him to take me now, because there are people here, because we’d be breaking laws, because this bar is disgustingly filthy and covered with drinks of varying origins.

He takes a slow sip of his whisky, neat.

“It’s spicy,” He whispers. “Not unlike you.”

He kisses the back of my neck and I feel the whisky trickle down my spine. It curves around my side and softly slides down the curve of my breast.  In the heat of the bar, this Tennessee Williams heat, the cool of the liquor is bracing.  It hits my clit with a different shot than the hair pull, like the cool mint in a Mojito.

He unzips my dress, slowly, deviously, then strips me bare.

I am exposed now to the whole of the bar, skin glowing in the dim light.  The room is shadowy, and somehow blurred.  I turn to kiss him and whisky pours into my mouth.  His lips are parted, pressed against mine, and I can’t believe how damn cool the liquor from his lips is.

He lifts me onto the bar and steps between my parted legs.  He pulls my hair again, arching my back and forcing my breasts to face him.  Ginny, behind me now, slips a lime between my teeth before her hands slip down my body to cup my breasts.  He spreads my legs farther apart, forcing his crotch against mine, then bends down to lick the salt sweat of my body in a line from breast bone to pubis and back again.  He sips tequila from Ginny’s mouth and bites the lime juice out of mine.

“That tequila had quite a kick to it, Ginny, maybe it’s time for something a little sweeter.”

“Manhattan, my dear?”  Ginny quickly suggests.  I wonder if they’ve done his before.

“A Manhattan would be perfect.”  I’m not in on the joke.  I think, perhaps, I am part of it.  Ginny’s back in the wink of an eye, bourbon in one hand, sweet vermouth in the other.  She leans against me, the sparkling heat of her body on mine, and placing each bottle just below my collarbone, she begins to pour.  The liquor streams cross between my breasts, mixing as they flow down my torso to Riley’s waiting mouth.  His tongue caresses the cherry of my clit.

He sucks and licks, lapping liquor and pussy in equal parts while Ginny nibbles at my ear lobe.  The room is spinning and not because I’m drunk.  The walls of the bar seem to fade and blur, melting away as I succumb to the oblivion of pleasure.  I don’t care if other people are there; I barely know what people are by the time Riley starts fucking me.

My body is sticky and dripping and my back against the bar is in a puddle of god-knows-what but I couldn’t care less or even do more than register it as another sensation as Ginny’s tongue does delightful things in my mouth and Riley’s cock does downright amazing things in my pussy.

I break away from Ginny’s lips to scream in ecstasy while Riley pounds a rocking fast beat into me.  I can feel him closing in on an orgasm but mine is quickly outpacing his and it hits me with all the quickness and violence of a bar brawl.  I scream and buck against Ginny’s body while Riley hammers himself over the edge.

He pulls out quickly and comes across my body, letting me sink, dripping, to the floor of the bar.  Then he starts in on Ginny.

He climbs onto the bar, taking her head in his hands.  He kisses her deeply, hungrily, then pulls her on top of the bar.  She lies on the bar and he’s on top of her now.  I’m trying to find a way to join in but their fucking is closed somehow, inaccessible.  I run my hands along the soft fuzz of his hair and he looks up at me.  We kiss for a moment and his body rocks with the motion of fucking her.  We only kiss for a moment though, before he turns back to her, tasting her lips, pulling her hair biting her breasts; lush and succulent in his teeth.

He is all moans and color, delirious ecstasy, and I can’t help but wonder if she’s better than me.  I touch Riley for a moment, run my hand slick along his back.  He doesn’t seem to notice.  I back away and watch them, their smooth skin and beautiful bodies locked in a frenzied dance.  She sparkles in his arms and he seeks to lose himself in her, shatter himself into her oblivion.  And at this moment neither of them could possibly know nor care if I still exist.  They don’t even hear the door as I walk out.

This is, of course, all a dream that I have after Riley packs me into a cab and I go home drunk to take advantage of myself.


I text him a couple times, send an e-mail or two, hear nothing back.  I actually send him a text asking if he also has to be drunk in order to text me and he replies, at 3 in the morning,

“Maybe so, however, I’ll try.” 

I ask if he wants to get dinner, wait a few days, and give up on him.

I see him at the bar again and don’t know what to say.  Neither does he, I guess, because he doesn’t talk to me till he’s drunk, drunker than I’ve seen him before.  Which is kind of saying something.  He stumbles to me, a few paces from his corner, and asks if I want to come home with him.  And I say

“Sorry, sweetie.  I don’t mind sharing you but I’ve never thrived on threesomes.”

He is, understandably, confused.

“Nevermind.”  I tell him.  “Call me when you’re sober.”

That’s the thing about being a bar regular.  You know people without knowing them.  You know a side of them, a side you all more or less share.  When you’re a regular a drink is not a beverage, it’s a pastime, a hobby, a friend.  For Riley it’s even more.  I could be his lover but Liquor would be his Mistress.  And she has owned too many of my men before.

  He would never kiss my lips without tasting of whisky.  And he would never call my name without slurring his words.  She is his hobby, his girlfriend, his reason and his courage.

And who am I to compete with that?