61 Frames Per Second by John Constantine Today in Nerve's videogame blog: Street Fighter. The movie. A new one. With that chick from that Superman show. Don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about!
The Remote Island by Bryan Christian Mad Men's January Jones struts her stuff in Vanity Fair. Plus: Damages returns, the latest Gossip Girl guest star and Donna Martin capitulates.
She pressed herself against him.
She was close.
She was a car empty and waiting
its own arrival. A kiss
in the curve. Of course he was the father
of her fantasy of after school encounters
in a cloakroom. A pleated skirt raised
to expose a petite derriere. A wee test
of the trusty taboo, of hard-
ly said what she wanted and had it. She wanted it
to go on and on and it did.
He was the date on the clock
that clattered in the corner, the sprang alarm
of a dim conscience quieted with a hush and: Here?
Yes, there. And where was his other
beloved? Out overlooking a bay
and a bridge and wouldn't be back
for ever so long. And she? Hers was halfway
round a world that was spun nearly out of control
due to a latebreaky lateral planetary shift
that was occurring right where they lay —
on a sheet of cotton so fine it might melt into day
but it didn't.
Real and slow and so lasting
as long as she wished it.
A bare little cry parsed from the parting of lips.
The barter of a mouth bent to an ear.
She was telling such tales.
She was the night nurse
turning off the low lamp and kissing his neck.
Next the promising doctor, in love
with the intransigent X of his wrists
as she tied them.
A languor of kisses
then a long sip of sex that came
played in the foreground of a film that was framed
by two minds poised at the point of departure.
Here? Yes, there. His hand hard
on and in while she was the patience of skin
becoming the picture of having.
