Fiction

Our Secret

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 FICTION









Our Secret by Victor LaValle  


Have you ever really seen beautiful people? The women start at six feet tall. Their hair, long or short, afros or braids, is something you’d like to touch, but you know you should be afraid to. And you are.


    

Take Dave Anderson, whose name is vague and unassuming because if it had been lovely too maybe even his parents would have murdered him out of envy.


    

His eyes, if they grabbed you, were rough as you secretly wanted them to be and then rougher because you wanted to be pushed. Then he said, Hey, and his voice was only a little deep, so almost-ideal.


    

Hello, you replied. Then, How can I help you?


    

He needed something so you got it; he put out his hand and the skin was the brown of rich, sugared things that you eat in your bed when you’re sure you are no good. And you bet his skin would taste like that.


    

Is there anything else? you asked and he shook his head real easy because he knew you’d watch quietly until he stopped. He took his time so you’d enjoy it.


    

Then he left a note for someone and that’s how you got his name; after he left you realized your dick was hard. You repeated his name at home that night, maybe in disbelief because you swore before Tuesday that only pussy could be beautiful.


For more Victor LaValle, read:

Anniversary — Eleven Years
Our Secret
Big Time





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