This month: galactic kitchen sex, a golden shower gone awry
and a waterbed big enough for four. Rate each entry below in
three categories: literary merit, heat and originality.
I want you. Earley tried out the words silently, feeling the roof of his mouth go dry. There would be no turning back this time, no second step on the brakes. Did he mean it, or was he just horny, stoned, lonely? I
want you, he thought again, feeling the room pulsate. Jesus.
Reed turned, just as if he had heard Earley say it out loud. He reached out for Earley's hand, and when Earley didn't withdraw it, Reed bent down and kissed his fingertips, one by one, the same way that Zan had kissed his in the waterfall gorge. Earley remembered the desolation he'd felt as he watched from the edge of the cliff. Why
the fuck not? he thought, feeling the warmth of Reed's breath on his skin.
He gathered Reed into a clumsy hug, drawing him closer. He was so much taller that Reed's face nestled into the base of his throat. Earley rested his lips on top of Reed's head, inhaling the thick musk of cedar dust, woodsmoke, and work sweat that both of them shared. He could hear his own heartbeat. He hadn't felt like this since he was thirteen, when touching a girl was charged with equal parts peril and thrill, like a skydive. If Reed were a girl, Earley thought, I'd be on him like gravy on beef. ...read more
I want you. Earley tried out the words silently, feeling the roof of his mouth go dry. There would be no turning back this time, no second step on the brakes. Did he mean it, or was he just horny, stoned, lonely? I
want you, he thought again, feeling the room pulsate. Jesus.
Reed turned, just as if he had heard Earley say it out loud. He reached out for Earley's hand, and when Earley didn't withdraw it, Reed bent down and kissed his fingertips, one by one, the same way that Zan had kissed his in the waterfall gorge. Earley remembered the desolation he'd felt as he watched from the edge of the cliff. Why
the fuck not? he thought, feeling the warmth of Reed's breath on his skin.
He gathered Reed into a clumsy hug, drawing him closer. He was so much taller that Reed's face nestled into the base of his throat. Earley rested his lips on top of Reed's head, inhaling the thick musk of cedar dust, woodsmoke, and work sweat that both of them shared. He could hear his own heartbeat. He hadn't felt like this since he was thirteen, when touching a girl was charged with equal parts peril and thrill, like a skydive. If Reed were a girl, Earley thought, I'd be on him like gravy on beef.
He slid his hand down Reed's back. "How's your leg?" he said.
"What leg?" said Reed.
"Want to go and lie down?"
Reed didn't hesitate. "Yeah," he said shakily. "Yes, I do." He swung his hurt leg off the couch. Earley helped him get up. Reed leaned up against him, hobbling towards the orange curtain. Earley drew it back.
There was his futon, sheets twisted as usual, bathed in blue moonlight. They stood for a beat staring down at it. Then they turned towards each other, madly unbuttoning and yanking off layers until they stood barechested in their jeans.
Reed twined his arms around Earley. There was no airspace between their two chests, no breasts to cushion the contact. Their skins seemed to generate heat. Earley could feel himself sweating. His blood seemed to pulse with the flickering glow of the hurricane lamp. I'm
getting a hard-on, he realized, and then, with a jolt: so is Reed. He took a step back. "Should I put on some music?" he asked.
"I don't need a damn thing," said Reed. "Except maybe your knife." Earley must have looked startled; Reed actually smiled.
"I don't think my jeans will fit over this cast," he said. Earley nodded, his heart pounding too fast. He imagined sliding his knife up the leg of Reed's blue jeans and slitting the fabric off him like opening an oyster. It turned him on.
He wrapped his arms around Reed's back, lowering him to the mattress. He'd meant to get up and go back for his knife, but Reed wouldn't let go. He pulled Earley on top of his body, angling his cast to one side so that Earley was straddling his unbroken leg. Their mouths found each other, tongues twining like lovers. Earley could feel his body responding, some primitive part of his brain taking hold. And then he felt Reed's hand unzipping his jeans.
"Okay?" Reed whispered. Earley didn't answer. His breath caught as Reed's fingers took hold of his cock.
Earley closed his eyes. The glow of the hurricane lamp seemed to pulsate inside his eyelids. The room swirled to the rhythm of Reed's moving hand. A whirlwind of images flew past him, too fast to grasp: Zan's red dress. Her mouth. Margie's waterbed. Reed and Zan fucking. His brother. Zan's nipples. Zan clutching his back. Zan convulsing in ecstasy, bringing him with her. Zan weeping against his chest.
Zan.
Earley let out a low animal moan. He could feel something pressing against his thigh, hard and insistent. Reed's penis, he realized, straining against the blue denim. Earley's own inner pressure rose with it, volcanic. God help me, he thought as he came. click to close
It suddenly seems funny to Tamara that she and Christopher are both wearing nothing but jewelry. The leather chord with its blue bead around Christopher's neck is the only thing he has on. In the half darkness, he is large and pale with long, strong legs, a boy's round face, but a man's feet, a man's cock and balls. He stands before the stove with his hands out, his little, rounded butt a man's butt while the roll of his belly and the fat on his chest and hips seem much younger. He's like a time-lapse photograph of one person at different ages, including ages when he was, and will be, well.
Tamara wraps herself in the tie-dyed spread, which doesn't smell completely awful. She still feels a little awkward being naked with Christopher. She's not so sure about her breasts sometimes. She's glad that she and he are almost the same height. She used to say that he was like the brother she never had, but she doesn't say that anymore. With the spread around her shoulders, she moves to stand next to him at the stove, which isn't yet throwing that much heat. His body is generating more warmth on its own. Her ass is awfully cold — the draft seems to go directly there. Her head, with its wet hair, is cold, too. She touches her cool, blanketed hip to his warmer, bare one, feeling shy. She's pleased to notice that he gets a little hard and she gets a little wet, their bodies murmuring to each other in their own special language through the thin tie-dyed wall. ...read more
It suddenly seems funny to Tamara that she and Christopher are both wearing nothing but jewelry. The leather chord with its blue bead around Christopher's neck is the only thing he has on. In the half darkness, he is large and pale with long, strong legs, a boy's round face, but a man's feet, a man's cock and balls. He stands before the stove with his hands out, his little, rounded butt a man's butt while the roll of his belly and the fat on his chest and hips seem much younger. He's like a time-lapse photograph of one person at different ages, including ages when he was, and will be, well.
Tamara wraps herself in the tie-dyed spread, which doesn't smell completely awful. She still feels a little awkward being naked with Christopher. She's not so sure about her breasts sometimes. She's glad that she and he are almost the same height. She used to say that he was like the brother she never had, but she doesn't say that anymore. With the spread around her shoulders, she moves to stand next to him at the stove, which isn't yet throwing that much heat. His body is generating more warmth on its own. Her ass is awfully cold — the draft seems to go directly there. Her head, with its wet hair, is cold, too. She touches her cool, blanketed hip to his warmer, bare one, feeling shy. She's pleased to notice that he gets a little hard and she gets a little wet, their bodies murmuring to each other in their own special language through the thin tie-dyed wall.
"How far do you think we've walked?"
He turns his hands over and back again. "Far. To the Andromeda Galaxy, maybe." He smiles. "Psych."
"I think we've gone pretty far."
"Yeah." He shakes his blond head, drying his hair. The stove warms up a fraction. He's a strange boy, and she loves him. She couldn't love a normal one — she tried, but it was dumb. He folds her in his arms from behind, kissing her ear, her wet hair, and his cock is hard against the small of her back. He reaches under the tie-dyed spread to touch her nipples with his thumbs. The draft raises goose bumps on the curve of her waist. It occurs to Tamara that it might not be okay to do it after the worms and everything — should they stop? — but her body has already long since sped past stop, and then he's with her, all of him, his mouth on her mouth, her knees around his hips, the spread in a tangle beneath them, the dust of the floor making her sneeze even as she opens up, opens wider. She can say anything as loud as she wants to and she does.
"Tam." She is half reclining, and he still inside her, still hard, carrying her close against him with one arm. They're both panting, skin to skin, sweating on the mattress. The stove is hot now. The room is theirs. "Tam."
They've gone very far, way past another galaxy, she knows that, but she doesn't care. Even the fat on his chest is sex to her. She touches the blue bead at his throat, licks the warm hollow beneath it. He moves more deeply into her; she holds onto him with her entire being. The little silver heart rests against his shoulder blade. This is it, this is the place, she was always supposed to be exactly here. He's like a bird from some other dimension that has flown inside her, its wings beating. She kisses his beautiful mouth. He holds her so tightly, more tightly than she's ever been held. And even though he's spent, he doesn't leave her, he stays inside her, he pulls the thin tie-dyed spread around them both and buries his face in her dusty, damp hair, carrying her against his chest with no sign of tiring at all, as if he could fly right away with her, holding her like that, to the next universe. click to close
Joan peeked around the closet door. "Ready?" She wore only a silk bodice now — aged nineteen, she told me, bashful at the sheer presence of her new woman's body and meeting a nice boy on a train, wearing for him her first piece of sexy clothing. Joan's costume filled the space before my frustrated eyes, and I let Joan hold my hand to her mouth and kiss my fingers, and I tried to see clearly the bodice's handiwork, an ancient human art forgotten only in my childlike outpost of a frontier culture. Where had I been all these centuries, I wondered, as Joan drew that hand of mine between her legs, set my fingertips on the small snap buttons. "See?" she asked. "See how it works?" The snaps popped and the tautness of the cloth loosened over Joan's open brown navel and I felt a welling confusion. Such a civilized power, that outfit bespoke, flattering and presenting the timeless miracle. Looking from stitch to stitch to the muscle line of Joan's infuriatingly smooth shoulder, her sinewy singer's neck, I looked also around the room...The closet door hung open, the light was still on, and I saw a lingerie treasure trove overflowing from a wire basket, fit for Restoration drama or the secret life of a corporate vixen. ...read more
Joan peeked around the closet door. "Ready?" She wore only a silk bodice now — aged nineteen, she told me, bashful at the sheer presence of her new woman's body and meeting a nice boy on a train, wearing for him her first piece of sexy clothing. Joan's costume filled the space before my frustrated eyes, and I let Joan hold my hand to her mouth and kiss my fingers, and I tried to see clearly the bodice's handiwork, an ancient human art forgotten only in my childlike outpost of a frontier culture. Where had I been all these centuries, I wondered, as Joan drew that hand of mine between her legs, set my fingertips on the small snap buttons. "See?" she asked. "See how it works?" The snaps popped and the tautness of the cloth loosened over Joan's open brown navel and I felt a welling confusion. Such a civilized power, that outfit bespoke, flattering and presenting the timeless miracle. Looking from stitch to stitch to the muscle line of Joan's infuriatingly smooth shoulder, her sinewy singer's neck, I looked also around the room...The closet door hung open, the light was still on, and I saw a lingerie treasure trove overflowing from a wire basket, fit for Restoration drama or the secret life of a corporate vixen. And bought when? For and by whom? Just by Joan, in a lifelong indulgence? Worn alone on that luscious couch with a solo martini and a Verdi CD? Or, as was far more likely, carrying the peculiar specificity and unshakable memory of other boys like me. "My goodness," Joan was saying, all arch amusement, "my boy-from-train, you really are the quintessential virile young man, aren't you? And wow, okay, because whatever boy-from-train says, there is no way that was love. Not that. God, boy is brutal. I knew it. I could tell. Heavens, somebody must have hurt boy's feelings! No, no, no, don't slow down because I said that! Don't be such a momma's boy! It's okay to be mad in life! You're a fucking angry guy, and you should be! It's written all over your face." Rolling away, she said, "Jeezaloweeza, Opie, you can put me on my back and make me come. It's a whole new missionary."
I nodded.
"Okay, what else should I wear?"
"I don't care."
"Come on, really. What should I wear? What's your fantasy?"
"You don't want to know my fantasy."
"Oh, but I do. And you're a genuine pervert, by the way."
"Is that true?"
"You were holding out on me all that time." She pulled a floor-length mink over nothing at all, and then she asked, "What are you doing?"
"Putting on jeans."
"Why?"
"Hell, I don't know. To be wearing clothes, like you."
This was intensely upsetting to her: "Off."
Sitting nude and denatured and more or less alone, I met a precocious girl in a one-piece Speedo swimsuit and plastic flip-flops, fresh from an hour of practicing her double gainers on the country club high dive — following the buff lifeguard into the pool house.
Joan lit a cigarette, sat on the floor.
I asked, "How exactly am I a pervert?"
"'Suck it hard, bitch, like you want to swallow me whole'?"
Then, miraculously, a woman prisoner, the only thing that really
came to mind for me with Joan: the one who'd been fistfighting too much in the
yard. Here she was asking if once again I might exact my own private punishment
instead of sending her to the horrible warden. But it all felt as if running
away from me again — Joan and my heart and whatever I'd thought I was doing here.
And I found myself trying one more time to give that elusive one hundred percent,
a level of violence I couldn't believe Joan wanted, until my whole lifetime's
objectless hatred was getting shaped and channeled right through her and she
was saying, "Wow, you are finally learning how to fuck me. It's so wonderful." click
to close
I sat up and drank the Perrier. He watched. We waited. "Shall I turn on hotel porn while we wait for this to kick in?"
He shook his head.
"Maybe there's a cooking show."
He tossed me the remote and brought me a can of Cranapple. Just the act of bringing me water and juice, walking back and forth to the minibar, watching me drink, was causing his eyelids to tick.
An hour went by. I depleted the minibar.
"Still nothing?" He brought tap water. We watched the news.
"Does it just build up 'til the dam breaks?" He handed me another glass of water.
"Thinking about it makes it worse," I said.
Another hour passed. He tried distracting me with stories of his life as I drank and drank and drank.
"I think it's time."
"Are you ... what? Oh. That."
I led him into the bathroom. I pulled back the curtain. He knelt in the shower. I placed one foot on the side of the tub and stood over him. He looked up at me in the dearest worship. I put my fingers in his hair. Here
goes. We resumed our position, though now I was stooped from a stabbing sensation in my gut.
But alas, I couldn't. I adjusted my stance. He rearranged himself to take the pressure off his ankles....read more
I sat up and drank the Perrier. He watched. We waited. "Shall I turn on hotel porn while we wait for this to kick in?"
He shook his head.
"Maybe there's a cooking show."
He tossed me the remote and brought me a can of Cranapple. Just the act of bringing me water and juice, walking back and forth to the minibar, watching me drink, was causing his eyelids to tick.
An hour went by. I depleted the minibar.
"Still nothing?" He brought tap water. We watched the news.
"Does it just build up 'til the dam breaks?" He handed me another glass of water.
"Thinking about it makes it worse," I said.
Another hour passed. He tried distracting me with stories of his life as I drank and drank and drank.
"I think it's time."
"Are you ... what? Oh. That."
I led him into the bathroom. I pulled back the curtain. He knelt in the shower. I placed one foot on the side of the tub and stood over him. He looked up at me in the dearest worship. I put my fingers in his hair. Here
goes. We resumed our position, though now I was stooped from a stabbing sensation in my gut.
But alas, I couldn't. I adjusted my stance. He rearranged himself to take the pressure off his ankles. Go.
Go, go, go, go. But still, I couldn't. I pictured the first runoff from a mountain, a melting ice cap, water escaping, a pool in a hollowed rock, rings and ripples, rain dripping from roof tiles, spattering the wet, wet ground.
"Do it, Wendy. Please."
"Yes, I want to." The storm was coming. I lowered my hips over him. He rose to meet me. "Could you wait here for one moment?"
"Certainly."
I got out and turned on the sink. Just a trickle, rain bouncing on a leaf. That always helped when I was at a party and there were people just outside the door. I stepped back into the shower. Nothing happened.
"I'm so excited, Wendy." Water running off soil, soil so dry it can't accept the gift of rain.
"Me too, Ben." Runoff. Water. Irrigation. Get water to the desert and anything will grow. But you've got to have water. The crop report. Calling for rain. Birds fluttering their wings in grandma's birdbath, don't
bring Grandma into this, worms unearthed, washed out from the ground and into the streets.
"Wendy, darling." Again, he rose up on his knees.
I looked down at my stomach, puffed out from my engorged bladder.
"It's not working, is it?" Ben leaned back on his heels. "You're grimacing."
"I have to go so badly," I said.
"Do it. On me."
"I can't."
He stood next to me in the shower, stroking my hair.
"This is good for you, Wendy. Dominating me like this. Feeling your power."
I'd lose him if I couldn't give him what he wanted.
"Maybe if I tried something other than water or juice," I said.
"I'll call room service immediately." I leaned against the doorframe of the bathroom, my hand on my stomach, panting. click to close
From: Third Girl From the Left by Martha Southgate
(Houghton Mifflin)
Angela saw Wilt get up, extend his hand to Sheila. They left the room, he lowering
his hand to cup her ass briefly. Rafe looked at them speculatively. "You know,
the playroom — where they're going — is just down that hall. Wanna go with?" Angela
had been running her tongue around and around her teeth. She felt the separation
of each one with particular intensity. "Sure. Let's see what they're doing. " She
looked at him, her eyes challenging.
They went down the hall, which was dimly lit every few feet with sconces that gave off a warm purple light. Rafe backed Angela up underneath one of them and started kissing her before they even got to the playroom. She couldn't open her mouth wide enough underneath his. Couldn't pull him close enough to her. He stopped after a minute and pulled her the rest of the way down the hall.
The playroom. What to say about the playroom? There wasn't a pinball machine. The room had five sides, three of them mirrored, and a vast pink circular sofa surrounding a huge open surface that undulated gently from the weight of the bodies already moving on it: the biggest waterbed Angela had ever seen....read more
Angela saw Wilt get up, extend his hand to Sheila. They left the room, he lowering
his hand to cup her ass briefly. Rafe looked at them speculatively. "You know,
the playroom — where they're going — is just down that hall. Wanna go with?" Angela
had been running her tongue around and around her teeth. She felt the separation
of each one with particular intensity. "Sure. Let's see what they're doing. " She
looked at him, her eyes challenging.
They went down the hall, which was dimly lit every few feet with sconces that gave off a warm purple light. Rafe backed Angela up underneath one of them and started kissing her before they even got to the playroom. She couldn't open her mouth wide enough underneath his. Couldn't pull him close enough to her. He stopped after a minute and pulled her the rest of the way down the hall.
The playroom. What to say about the playroom? There wasn't a pinball machine. The room had five sides, three of them mirrored, and a vast pink circular sofa surrounding a huge open surface that undulated gently from the weight of the bodies already moving on it: the biggest waterbed Angela had ever seen. When she and Rafe entered the room, Sheila and Wilt were already there, had already begun. They stood in the doorway a frozen moment, quiet. Angela's high fell away just for a second; she remembered what it was like to crouch in her mama's backyard with her sister, watching a box they had propped up on a stick and waiting for a bird to blunder underneath. They always thought that someday they'd catch a bird that way. But they never did. Where'd that come from? That memory somehow propelled her into the room in front of Rafe, propelled her onto the bed next to her friend. Sheila opened her eyes and looked at Angela steadily. She was so lovely; Angela wanted to kiss her. Wilt was still working away on Sheila's breasts, but Angela knew in that moment that Sheila was thinking of her. Wilt never looked up. Angela swallowed and sank onto the bed, and Rafe came up behind her on his knees, his hands on her breasts before she could even exhale. She could feel his breath hot on the back of her neck. "You done this before?" she murmured.
"Done what?"
"You know — more than one person," she said.
"No." He turned her to face him, started unbuttoning her silky blouse. "But I'm always willing to try new things. I think a person ought to be willing." He had her shirt off now. "To try new things," he said.
"Right."
His mouth closed on her breast. She stopped thinking. Her
favorite part was when her mind went off altogether. The bed moved beneath them.
She was unbearably excited by Sheila's moans, by the bed waving and swirling
beneath them, by the knowledge that this man was a stranger to her, by the mouth
on her breasts, by how far away it was from Tulsa, from anything anybody ever
thought of in Tulsa, by knowing that her mother would never understand this in
a thousand years. She pulled him — what was his name? oh yeah, Rafe — inside
her. She cried out, just after Sheila. Everything seemed very clear. And then
it was over. click to close
