To call him handsome was a misnomer; he was pretty. A delicate face, a somewhat chiseled chin, warm brown eyes, always clean shaven and looking slightly younger than his twenty-something years. He had the grace of an old time actor. Cary Grant in leather pants.
The room was large, low ceilinged, all black and red in some budget approximation of chinoiserie. Black lacquered chairs and overstuffed embroidered couches. Gold dragons on the walls and paper lantern hanging from the ceiling.
The crowd was riding the line between a kink party and sex party. As I walked around and eyed the pretty boy it struck me that we’d all become disconnected from the vanilla world. As I watched friends kiss and play kinky games and fuck out in the open, I thought how normal it all seemed to me and how shocking it might be to someone else.
Continue reading The Boy
Somewhere in between dreams I heard the shower start.
Opening my eyes some time later I found myself bathed in gray light coming through white linen curtains. Then I watched the naked legs of a woman in a towel walking back and forth in front of me as I laid on my side trying to decide whether I was awake or not. Occasionally those legs were followed by a nervous black cat who batted at the towel.
There were the distant smells of soap, shampoo, perfume, and all those sweet feminine scents I associated with her.
For a few moments sleep took me again, like an undertow dragging me into the waves.
Seconds or minutes or hours later I awoke with a start and sensed her near. She was far less nervous than the cat. Continue reading Wake Up
She came to me during the Transit of Venus.
The world was blue gray at dusk. I went to the beach to dry out, to forget, to find some peace.
I’d been a reporter when the war started. Which war? One of them; they weren’t numbered anymore. Some reaction to some act of horror and we send a thousand boys to a desert somewhere. It wasn’t important anymore.
I was working for the AP, I’d traveled to Kuwait first, then Kutar. During one of the endless rides across the barren plains the world exploded into fire. I saw three kids melt in front of me. Three others were torn apart. I only lost my arm.
A few years later my parents died and left me enough money that I didn’t have to try and act whole enough to fit in with other reporters. I didn’t have to sit on planes and watch as the people next to me tried not to stare at my hook or my plastic hand.
I sold their houses and their cars and their stocks and even my father’s damn horses. I bought a place by the beach. I found solace in the sea. I found comfort in the silence. I found peace under the stars.
Continue reading Tentacle Pr0n
Monsieur Desrosiers was, frankly, a curmudgeon. Around fifty, salt and pepper hair, a strong jaw, nearly six feet tall and roguishly handsome, I think he was getting fed up with America very quickly.
I could only imagine what he thought of me and my horrible pronunciation.
Continue reading Passing
It was one of those coincidences that happened a lot in the city. A friend of a friend. I’d met him at a party, on a rooftop, one a day much lovelier than the one of which I speak. We’d had too much wine, or I had wine and he had whiskey. We talked about art and the death of certain media. Somehow a conversation about Marina Abramović turned into something about kink and I made some vague comment about my own twisted predilections. He picked it up and and we danced around the subjects of bondage, S&M, roleplay.
Eventually I leaned back against a wall and wanted him to lean into me and he did. He was slightly unshaven and handsome in his glasses and he was very taken with me and it made me feel a little powerful and a little tipsy and I thought it would be nice to kiss him, but he didn’t work up the courage or maybe he just didn’t want to kiss me.
Continue reading Umbrella, Rain, Public Transit
We were going out for drinks. That was all. Just to see if we were both alright. This was after our break up and after the crying.
We eyed the subway signs as they passed the window. All the numbers going up. Our hands found each others, but she wouldn’t look me in the eye. Somehow we didn’t stand when the stop that would take us to drinks came. Somehow we were back at my apartment again.
The kissing was furious, contagious, biting, hungry. My hands on her, noticing the changes, how she was thinner, how she was a little more aggressive now, like she was showing off. Trying to prove she wasn’t that little girl anymore.
I needed a lot of things all at once and sitting next to her on the couch I wasn’t getting any of them fast enough. I pushed her down, pulled at the buttons of her jeans and slapped her hands away, though I wasn’t sure if she was trying to stop me or help me. I pulled her denim, along with her panties, down to her knees and held her down as my mouth found her cunt.
She tasted the same. It made me hard the same way.
Continue reading Want
When I’m not exactly in the mood, all she has to do is say “no.”
It makes so little sense. I mean, it’s actually silly. I’m not touching her, I’m tired and sore and grumpy and she takes my hand and puts it on her breast which is a reasonable form of seduction. When I squeeze said breasts she pushes my hand away.
“No,” she says in that slightly too serious way.
It’s not even remotely plausible. She just put my hand on her breast! No?
She’s aware. She holds the magnet opposite disire. She may have even thought she came up with this game.
Still, I’m hard. Not from the breast, but from the “no.”
There are other words that with do that. Weighty words. A variety of them, actually. The common denominator is that they are all forbidden.
I write dirty stories here, but the stories in my head are far dirtier. The fetish I seem to have is that it doesn’t matter what we are doing, what I’m writing about, what plot or gimmick, it just has to be “bad.”
Now, I’m a forward thinking fellow. To say my friends and lovers are liberal is a serious understatement. We accept so much as long as it is consensual and safe (or at least all parties are aware of the risk.) Still this “wrongness” this “dirtiness” is like a drug. There doesn’t need to be any reality to this forbiddenness, in fact I don’t want anything that’s really wrong. Cheating repulses me, consent is paramount to my arousal in many ways, for all the little girl games I’ve played the idea of anyone underage is horrifying, hell I don’t even flirt with co-workers, still that need for the forbidden is so strong even the lightest hint of it is enough to drive me mad.
And so it goes.
She came to the park every day with sad eyes and a notebook. Violet with the smooth chocolate hair held back with a pink barrette and the huge liquid eyes that were almost cartoonish in size. Violet who was barely five feet tall and, in her own opinion, was built far too much like a young boy to be found beautiful by anyone. Violet who longed to be a curvy starlet like Sophia Loren, but would never be more than a flat chested mouse of a girl, and desperately tried to hide herself under sweaters and long dresses.
The accordion player came to the park every day as well and played songs of love and longing. When Violet listened to the sound and the way it echoed in the nearby stone underpass she felt like she was by the Seine.
Continue reading In the Park
Her lips were far too full for such a fragile bird-like girl. She had no right to have lips like that. It was, among other things, unfair.
There was an aesthetic there, in her dress, which was layers of diaphanous sepia silk and gauzy cotton. The way her hair was timeless, retro, modern, all at once. The softness around the edges of her pale and thin body. Like she was captured by an old camera.
If she were a picture I could keep her under my bed, in a secret box, to finger her edges when alone.
Instead I took her for drinks and nervously edged around her silence and her eyes. And longed for her lips. Her lips on a glass, her lips on a cigarette, her lips on a straw, her lips on everything but mine.
Her notebook was absurd in its delicacy. A fountain pen, mahogany ink, a script so fine it could be another language. Surely English was far too clumsy a choice for words so precise.
If her lips were unfair then her words were cruelly beautiful. Melancholy and full of longing. One of those stories that is at once sad and yet so lovely you can’t help but smile.
The hesitation bloomed into tension, then my chance (if I had one) was gone.
So it goes.
I’ll give him credit, he was damn respectful. I mean, we’d been there for a week and a half and we’d been pushed and pulled together over and over again and he never made a move. Every hour my body grew more hungry, though my days were full of songs and chants and raised signs.
I saw him go from a clean cut college kid in a cardigan and jeans into a scruffy looking anarchist, red faced from screaming and garbed in the mishmash of sweaters and coats we’d all gotten from donations.
Continue reading Occupied