Am I Your Top Sex Blogger?

Kinkly is running a Top Sex Blogger contest (http://www.kinkly.com/top-sex-bloggers) and I’m in the running along with a lot of amazing sex blogs - I didn’t realize I was on the list until just today!

If you enjoy reading my blog, I’d appreciate your vote which is as simple as clicking the vote button on my page: http://www.kinkly.com/top-sex-bloggers/learning-how-to-tell-you

I’d love to be your top… 

Not Fade Away

My back was slicked with sweat in an instant. My soft undershirt stuck to my ribs as I twisted to look over my right shoulder. ”Shit,” I muttered under my breath, the word stretching out long. I steadied myself and eased the clutch in again. The stick shift moved a few centimeters and stuck fast. I heard my own voice in my head, sweet soothing tones telling me to just relax. Take it easy. I can do this. I depressed the clutch twice, let it settle, and eased the car smoothly into reverse. “Finally,” I breathed, “Fuck.” I parked on this busy little block and looked around furtively hoping no one was watching. But of course someone was.

I smiled and blushed hard. I saw her eyes trace the sizeable distance between my wheels and the curb. She flashed me an okay sign with her hand and laughed. “Not bad really,” she said, laughing, as I climbed out. “Hey,” I said, “She’s new to me, this car.” She stopped laughing and smiled, asking “What the hell is it?” I grinned at my little car, patting the hood. “It’s mine. That’s what it is.” I stared at her. The day had been warm but it was starting to cool off a little in the afternoon. She was wearing a simple green cotton shirt with a wide scoop neck, nearly off her shoulders and a thin black skirt that hugged her hips, hitting a few inches above her knees. I smiled at her boots. Thick, tall motorcycle boots. She looked sexy without seeming like she cared about it that much. She looked good. I got hot looking at her muscled thighs as she leaned over to look through the back window. I saw the dimpled backs of her knees and felt a rush that made me clench and unclench my fingers. “Let’s go,” I thought, “Let’s see what happens.”

Listen, I need to tell you something. It’s part of the story. Cars are sexy. I mean, they’re supposed to be sexy. But these modern cars? They’re boring as hell. Plastic bumpers you can poke with your finger that pop back out at you. Dull looking things with room for kids. Safe and relatively quiet with stereos and bluetooth and compartments everywhere including the ceiling. Electric everything. A million ways for something to break. Push button ignitions. A front seat so wide you have to lean way over to grab your date’s thigh, a giant box for storing more shit sits there like a fucking wall between the two of you. It’s no good. Comfortable maybe, but no good. I had one of these comfortable cars but I threw it over for something that feels real. Something I can get my hands dirty with. I’d only had it a few weeks and I was still learning its quirks. Learning how to close the driver’s door just right. Learning how to adjust the choke when I start it up. How I have to feel for it based on how cold the morning is. Learning how a car like this changes everything.

I can’t say I knew what I was doing when I bought it. I didn’t. Honestly, I had no idea what I was getting into. Well, that’s not exactly true. I’d dreamed about it. Fantasized. I stared at every vintage car I passed on the streets. Craning my neck to get a better look. I peered in their windows. Beautiful or beat up, I didn’t care. I’d thought about buying my own but it seemed like a crazy idea. Something stupid stuck in my head but not real. The idea felt completely impotent even as I crawled through the for sale ads every week.

It was dumb luck that I found this car. My car. This crazy, little car. It’s a good foot shorter than me and I’m not a tall butch. It wasn’t one of those stylish muscle cars I always drooled over. It wasn’t that beautiful Detroit design, American steel. This car is small. The smallest car in town with an air cooled 600cc engine like a motorcycle and wheels that would look about right on a go-cart. It’s not beautiful but it’s sexy. And I get to talk to a lot of strangers, even if they start out laughing.

She laughed. I don’t blame her. I was stuck in the road trying to parallel park with the gear refusing to slip into reverse. She’d watched the whole messy job. I explained the problem to her as I opened the passenger door to let her take a look inside. “I’ve been figuring it out,” I said, “Reading about it. There’s something different with reverse. Sometimes you have to push the clutch in a couple times before the gears line up right. I’ve only had it a couple weeks so I’m still getting the feel of it.” She reached one arm out to the driver’s side and ran her fingers over the wooden steering wheel. “I like this,” she said, “The wood.” “Yeah,” I nodded, “It’s real smooth.”

I smiled and leaned over her with one hand on the passenger door and the other on the hot metal roof, trapping her there inside the car with my arms outstretched. My chest hovered above her face. I ducked my head down to look at her, “You want a ride? You want to feel it?” I saw her blush at the words. It’s magic the way a car lets you talk to a girl like you’re asking if she wants to fuck. Or let’s be honest, the way a car let’s you ask a girl if she wants to fuck without being explicit. She nodded, her mouth held open but not saying anything. “Let’s go!” I laughed and tossed the keys into the air, catching them again in the palm of my hand as I walked around the front of the car. That bounce in my step. Queer. Butch. Loaded dice.

I rapped my knuckle on the driver’s side, pointing her to the door handle. “Driver’s door sticks,” I yelled through the glass. She leaned over, aware of her body and the angle this put her in, shifting her neck so I could see her tits cupping over the edge of her bra as she opened the door from the inside. “Thanks,” I said, grinning as I slid behind the wheel. Starting up, the car enveloped us with its sweet, low rumble. We shook in the low, vinyl seats. It’s a four speed manual - a dash shifter - beautiful. I take the spindly stick shift in my hand. Gentle. I touch the knob with just the tips of my fingers, guiding it into gear with a light touch. You don’t ever force it.

I love knowing how it all works. Knowing that I push in the clutch to separate the gears, still spinning. Knowing how to glide the gear shift quickly into place, bringing the gears back together, everything still moving. Easing smoothly off the clutch with my left foot while my right lightly touches the throttle. The engine revs up and you’re off. 

You don’t drive this car fast. You can, but it’s unnecessary. I reach my left hand low and crank my window down. She giggles next to me, “Oh my god, you crank the windows!” Everyone who’s ridden with me has a moment where they remember their childhood. Sitting next to their dad, rolling down the window, feeling the hot air outside blow by and stir a breeze that felt almost cool on their face. She savored the lever in her hand. Rolled the window all the way down and ran her hand slowly over the frame, her fingers touching the outside of the door, her thumb on the interior. 

She’s looking around. We’re not talking. We’d have to shout over the noise anyway. She grins at the people staring. Waves back at little kids on the sidewalk. I feel her eyes on me. I feel cocky. I know I look sharp today. My hair freshly cut. A thick wave in my hair slicked back with pomade, sides tight. I’ve got on a crisp white short-sleeved button down with my jeans. The tattoos on my forearms look a deep black, almost shiny. I let her stare at me and then smile knowingly before I turn my head to look at her and nod. An acknowledgement. I look her slowly up and down and then nod towards her lap. “Your seat belt,” I shout over the engine, “You might want to put it on.” She’s reaches around trying to figure out where the belt is and then struggles to get it on right. “It’s like an airplane belt,” I explain. She figures it out. Cinching it tight across her lap. Adjusting it. She runs her fingers across the dash. Pulls out the lighter. Flips open the ashtray. Cranes her neck to look into the back seat. “I love it,” she says. I just nod and keep driving.

I drive her down the wide streets in the industrial part of town. I wind my way down towards the water, the shipping yards. We pass the idling trucks. At a stop sign, one of the truck drivers yells down to tell us he likes the car. She nods and waves up at him. Looks over at me. Happy. I drive us to an old abandoned park I know. The parking lot is bigger than it ever needed to be by far. It’s a terrible place for a park, out in the middle of nowhere with too many diesel fumes from the trucks that sit idling all along this stretch.

I turn to her, my head tilted down, looking at her from under my lashes. This is how I ask. My eyebrows raised, inquiring. I think we can have some fun. I’m grinning at her, waiting. She looks at the park ahead and gives me a look like she’s the kind of girl who always takes a dare. We’re both grinning now. “Well, alright,” I laughed and she eased back into her seat, reaching her hand across to my shoulder and turned her head to look out the window. I flick the right turn signal on and slow a little as I turn into the lot. This is when it feels real to me. Not the flirting. Not the asking. But the point where you’re looking to land. Finding that place to park, walking into an apartment, easing out the back door somewhere. That’s when my cheeks burn and my hands feel thicker. 

I drive deep into the lot. Back towards an old abandoned cement platform with generic looking Greek columns in a half circle. There is no shady spot. There is no clump of trees. There’s stiff looking grass covered in goose shit, the smelly edge of the bay, a few unwelcoming stone benches, and the two of us in my car. I lean over to kiss her at the same time my hand touches the key in the ignition to turn it off. My mouth is on hers before the sudden silence hits us. This old car is so loud. My ears ring a little when the motor shuts off. She’s still leaning back, quietly at ease. I curve my palm around the back of her neck and squeeze, kissing her hard. Her tongue feels lazy in my mouth. That seems right.

We kiss like this. I touch her. I hold my hands up to her cheeks and slowly trace my fingers down her neck, across her shoulders, down her arms, past her elbows and right past the tips of her fingers to her thighs, stopping to unbuckle her seatbelt. I pushed my hands between her knees and pulled her legs a little more open. She slid down in her seat, pushing her pussy towards me. I can see the light color of her panties beneath her skirt but stop before I get ahead of myself and move my hands over her skirt and around to her ass. My hands moved to the small of her back. I gripped her with the tips of my fingers, dragging them back up to her shoulder blades and moving my mouth to her jaw. I opened my mouth wide and pressed into her with my teeth until I felt bone push back against me. Not too hard a bite, just a firm squeeze. Sucking my way down her neck to her collarbone. Slow and lazy. Making out as the car heated up in the sun. She licked beads of sweat off her upper lip and I kissed her mouth again.

"Touch me," I whispered and pulled her hands to my chest, dragging her fingers across my tits. The feel of her through my shirt cut into me with a sharp pain of desire. I felt my cunt open for this and it made me grab her wrists. "Push up your skirt," I said and my throat caught on the words. "Fuck," I said and pushed her hands to her lap, "Let me see you," I groaned. I was up on my knees by now and curved over her, trying to find a way to fuck her. The seats don’t lean back. It’s not a cramped space, but it’s tight. I could get my hand between her legs but my elbow would smack into the glove box if I really wanted to fuck her. And I wanted to really fuck.

She pulled on my hands, pushing my fingers against her pussy and pulling aside her thin cotton panties. She dragged my fingers through her wet lips. Her face looked angry. Her eyes were closed, screwed up tight. She growled low in her throat. “Fuck me,” she said, spitting the words through clenched teeth. “God damn it,” I yelled and opened my door. I grabbed her thighs and swung her around, pulling at her so she laid down across the front seat before I crawled back into the car, hovering over her. I pushed her knees wider apart, kneeling between them and squeezed her thighs before moving my fingers to her pussy. I wanted to be deep inside her. She was on her back, her arms raised up above her head and draped out the open window behind her. I stared down at her hips and watched, entranced, as she humped the air below me. I watched her stomach clench with each thrust. I held my shaking hand just above her pussy. Watching her rise in waves to find me. “I’m right here,” I whispered, not to comfort her but to tease.

"Fuck me," she yelled and reached over to hit my chest with a balled up fist. I stared down at her. Spit hanging off my lower lip. Sweat stinging my eyes. I stared and smiled while I pushed the heel of my hand against her clit. Smashing into her. "Fuck me," she yelled again, hitting me harder. She hit me a few more times. I was grinding my hand against her clit, the meatiest part of my palm, barely feeling her. When she swung again for my chest, I whipped my left hand forward and caught her wrist. "No," I said, "I’m taking it slow." I bent over her and sucked her lower lip into my mouth. She gave me her tongue, deep in my mouth and I sucked and sucked. I kept my palm cupped over her. Kept grinding against her clit and sliding my whole hand down between her legs. Her hole opened up for me. I felt it against my palm. I wanted her like that. I wanted her pussy to grab at me and pull my fingers inside her. I wanted to feel her pussy open and then tightly grip around my knuckles. 

I steadied myself with a hand on the dash and pushed three fingers inside her. She swung her hands down to meet me and tugged at my wrist, pulling me deeper in and holding me there. I let my weight sink on top of her. My thighs fell on hers. She pushed up against me, my fingers still inside her. “Take it from me,” I said, “I want to feel you come and take it.” She wrapped her arms around my shoulders and pulled her knees up. I heard her leg knock against the steering wheel behind me. She pulled us tight together. My forearm burned, strained in an awkward position but I stayed put and felt her rub hard up against me. We fell into a strong rhythm. I could smell my own sweat. My shirt stuck to my back. My jeans stuck to my thighs. I stopped moving much at all and let her find me. Let her rub and burn her clit against the fly of my jeans. I had to shift once when I thought my fingers were about to break, moving myself lower to stay inside her.

She came with her body clenched and jerking but so quiet. There was a soft whispering sound in my ear. The tiniest whistle of a note on her breath. I held so still. Waiting. Rewarded after a moment by her hands on either side of my head, her fingers teasing the close cut hair just behind my ears. I pulled myself up on my knees. My head curved low in the tight space. “Unbuckle my belt,” I told her. She reached up and moved her fingers fast on the metal. She slid the leather out of the loops, pulled the button on my jeans, and teased the zipper down, leaving my pants hanging open. “Watch me,” I said, spreading my fingers wide and dragging them up my sweat covered belly to disappear under my shirt before pointing my hand down and sliding it into my briefs.

My cunt was so wet, my clit already hard, pushing out to meet my fingers. I stared at her hands. Her fingers still hovered in the air near my zipper. She moved as if she was touching me and stared at the bulge of my hand buried in my boy briefs. She watched me. My hips shoved forward. I imagined her up on her knees, peeling down my pants. Imagined her mouth opening, her eyes looking up at me. I closed my eyes and let my head hang with my chin on my chest. I was so turned on, so close to coming. “I want you to come all over my stomach,” she said suddenly, jerking me right into the moment. Seeing it clearly. I looked down and watched her slide her body lower between my thighs. I groaned loudly. My hips jerked hard. I came for a long time with an intense, deep release. 

Her eyes were on me, low. It was so good. So good. I pulled my wet fingers out of my pants and traced her lips with them. She sucked at me gently at first and then harder. “Fuck my mouth with your sticky fingers,” she said to me and I nearly came again watching her mouth say the words and feeling her tongue tease my fingers. I leaned over her, serious, taking her in all over again. “Who are you?” I said, stunned, feeling dumb-struck by this dirty girl laid across my front seat. I pushed my fingers softly over her tongue and snaked my free hand behind her head, lifting her face closer. “That’s it,” I said, fucking her mouth more intensely. Watching her suck in her cheeks. Feeling her tongue tease the tight ridge between my fingers. I stared at her mouth and felt a tugging on my clit. “I can feel you sucking my dick,” I whispered, reverential, “I feel it.” She nodded, keeping her lips wrapped around my fingers. I jerked forward. My hips believing that my cock was seizing, shuddering in her mouth. It felt so real. I didn’t really come or maybe I did. A ghostly shadow of my earlier orgasm, something surged deep inside me. I might describe it as imagined if it hadn’t felt so fucking real. 

I hid my face in her neck and opened my mouth against her. “God damn,” I said, “You’re so good.” She laughed, sinking her fingers into my hair. “Start it up again,” she whispered, “Let’s get out of here.” I adjusted myself outside the car for a moment, wiping my hand on my thigh, catching my breath. When I climbed back in, I saw her with her seatbelt on. She was waiting. “C’mon, let’s go,” she said and I turned the key in the ignition, adjusting the choke and letting it warm up before starting the ritual - left foot down on the clutch, right foot hovering over the gas, right hand on the stick. The easing out and off and right into gear. I drove away with a grin on my face that would take a long time to fade away.

Mr. Sexsmith - Sweet and Rough: Sixteen Stories of Queer Smut

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Sinclair Sexsmith has a new book for you Sweet and Rough: Sixteen Stories of Queer Smut

In the preface to this collection, Mr. Sexsmith writes, “I deeply believe that the personal is political and that being transparent about one’s life is a spiritual path.” It’s this belief that, in my mind, makes Sinclair’s smut some of the absolute best I’ve ever read. It takes a writer who knows themself to take you here, to the place I find myself after reading these stories. This is a real life introduction to there person behind the stories, a firm handshake from the confident butch who ends one story with the beautiful and simple statement, “My name’s Sinclair.”

Yes. You’re pleased to meet them. Sinclair Sexsmith has a dirty mind and a cocksure grip on their pen, taking you deep inside these sixteen fantasies. This collection is not a quick fix. These are slow stories that burn like booze in the back of your throat and make you just as dizzy.

You will love this because it gets you off. You will love it because it’s sure of itself. These stories were written to suck you inside of each and everyone. Sinclair knows exactly how good they are at doing just that.

You will love the cocky swagger. The control. The quick pull and thrust. But it’s the poetry woven throughout this smoking hot smut that will leave you breathless.  “She tastes like the night air in summer when it’s about to turn fall and the trees are beginning to shiver their leaves. I still taste like whiskey.”

Are you fucking kidding me?

Several perfectly crafted moments make me want to see the dirtiest, uncensored, queer film noir movie that I always wish existed. The collection kicks off with sweetness. Milkshakes. Fedoras. Garters. The movies. The swinging barstools at the counter. The warm slice of pie. A pretty lady and a cocky butch. And moves confidently into the roughness of calloused fingers, bruising grips, and filthy dumpsters. I wanted to watch a young Humphrey Bogart, or better yet, Lauren Bacall, lean into a dirty doorway and say, “You know how to get fucked, don’t you?” The stories are visceral. Filled with urgent desire and dark wants.

I found myself jotting down quotes as I devoured these stories. I wanted to share so many with you, but I resisted the urge. You have to find these moments on your own. You need to. It’s the way they unfold within the stories. These little moments that pause in exactly the right spot.

It’s silly to try to call out a favorite, but I was incredibly struck by the story “Her Mouth on My Cock.” I felt like I knew what this story was going to be after reading that title. I was wrong. This is a beautiful stream of consciousness work of prose filled with lust and the need to release. Not just sexual release, but a need to be released from your body, the present, everything. This is a story we’ve all lived in one way or another. I read it in a very personal way. I felt myself inside what, to me, was a deep sadness. The rush of thoughts. The clenched desire. So sweet, this story. Incredibly beautiful. A gift.

This is a writer who loves to fuck. You feel it because these stories are sex. The way they build, rush, slow down, observe, swerve off in a new direction, spin out beyond the edges of your fingertips. You will find your mouth hanging open. Your fingers primed. You will want to fuck. You will feel fucked. You will know something intimate about the writer. You will. 

Buy it from Mr. Sexsmith and support them directly (and most effectively): http://www.sugarbutch.net/sweet-and-rough.

The book is also available at Amazon: http://bitly.com/sweetandrough.

BD

A butch and her car. I’ll have some new stories to tell you.

retrogasm:

Robo-Cigarette Lighter… in case you are too damn lazy to strike a match…

I’m floored.

retrogasm:

Robo-Cigarette Lighter… in case you are too damn lazy to strike a match…

I’m floored.

Tags: devices

I Liked Her Stories

Sometimes you just fuck. You meet. You talk for a bit. You like her accent.

It was late for supper. I sat at the bar. She was nearly done eating. I smiled at her. We struck up a conversation. That accent. I love an accent. It doesn’t matter from where. Hers was clearly southern, but from where? A little backwater. Creole. Raspy. She looked like she had always been wild and always gotten away with it. I got her talking about back home. Her father. Her crazy mother. An aunt somewhere in the picture. Fishing. What the sunsets were like and how she’d lay on her belly in the wet grass and watch the sky light up. We smiled at each other. This fit.

Easy. Straightforward. This is about fucking. Yes or no. I finished my burger and she grabbed my thigh and ducked her head down to look me right in the eye, close. “I can’t read you,” she said, “Are we getting a drink?” I nodded, “Sure,” I said, “That seems about right.” She slapped me hard on the back and spoke a little too loudly, “Good! But not here. I know a great little bar a few blocks towards the water.”

We walked side by side. The energy buzzing. A fast pace. Loud laughs. She grabbed my neck and squeezed it. “You’re good,” she said, “This feels good.” I laughed. I wasn’t talking much. Usually, I’m the one telling stories but she had plenty. I wasn’t used to her level of energy. I’d been out with a lot of shy girls, reserved girls, the girls who wait for a kiss. She was not one of those. Tall and lanky. A shadow of a mustache. Eyes the color of ice water.

The bar was perfect. Dark. Sticky. Stiff drinks. No one looking. She held my thigh hard between her fingers and told me more small town stories. I kissed her in the middle of a sentence. I was feeling done with the pretense. I liked her energy. I wanted to fuck. She wanted another drink. I had a bitters and soda and shook my head clean.

She had a small studio down there. Near the water. Everything changes near the water. The air. The smells. The sounds. It’s softer and cleaner but somehow, also, so dirty. Dirty gutters. More piss on the pavement. Broken meters. You can smell rotting things. The fish, the algae, the dumpsters. Brown banana peels and thrown away leftovers strewn in fields of weeds behind chain link fences. Dirty blankets. Tarps. A shoe.

She didn’t live here. Just shared a small studio space with some other artists. We didn’t talk about her art. I don’t know what she did there. Painting maybe. Everything was covered by sheets. There was a broken down couch covered in a brownish red corduroy with wide stripes. The couch was covered in sharp dried bits of things. Paint, clay, ketchup.

We fucked there. I sat on her lap. She opened her knees wide and let her hands fall next to her hips. She guided me gently with the tips of her fingers until I sat close, so close to her. My face above hers. Her head resting on the back of the couch. I touched the buttons of her shirt but she grinned and grabbed me quick, moving my hands to my own clothes. Button by button. I watched her eyes move down my chest. I pulled my shirt off, slowly eased my arms out of the sleeves and listened to it fall. She lifted one arm and tugged at the neck of my undershirt. I grabbed her head and pulled her mouth onto my tit and she sucked on my nipple through the thin cotton, letting her head fall back when the fabric was soaked. I could smell the sweet booze and sour cigarettes in her spit. I pulled my shirt tight against my skin and a small breeze made my nipple flinch cold and wet. Hard. I squeezed it tightly in my fingers and winced.

A slow show. I touched my neck for her. Lifted my shirt over my head but left it on like a harness, holding my shoulders back. I traced the outline of my belt under a finger and reached down to scratch at the seam of her jeans, wanting to feel her clit before I unlatched my belt buckle and slid it off with a hiss. I draped the belt around her shoulders. I scratched at her tits through her shirt with the rough edge of leather. She took my hands in hers and pressed them into my belly, nodding at me. Prodding me to keep going. 

I grabbed the buckle of my belt hanging next to her ribs and tugged on it, pulling the strap off her shoulders until I could slip it into my pants. I had to suck in my belly to make room for my hand, pushing the belt buckle lower until it slid against my cunt. Her mouth fell open for a moment. Her smile lost. Eyes wide as if she was straining to see that buckle pressed against my clit under my clothes. I took the belt in my hands and pulled the tail of it over to me, gripping it low and holding it flat against my belly and between my tits. The thick leather felt so good in my hands. I could move it slowly up and down against my clit. We fell into this together. The slow movement. My ass lifted off of her thighs and pumping up and down with the tiniest sway. I felt her fingers on my hips. 

Her small room was hot but a chilling breeze rushed in from time to time through a crack at the bottom of one window that couldn’t properly close. The metal on my clit felt so good. I was rubbing it so slow, so slow I could feel it swelling. I stared at her face. The way her eyes took me in made me shake. Made me sweat. My armpits were wet, the hair getting slicked against my skin. My pants were starting to stick to the backs of my thighs. “Keep it slow like this,” she whispered with a crack in her voice. I didn’t say a word. I didn’t move my lips or blink or nod. I just stayed in this slow movement and shuddered. 

This is how we fucked. I came against the slow back and forth of warm metal against my clit. My pants still buttoned up tight. My hands holding my belt strap. Her eyes on me. Her legs open wide beneath me. Sweat beading on her upper lip. A few strands of her dark hair sticking to her forehead. I came with a jerk that shoved my chest into her face. She twisted her head away from me right before my sternum hit her hard. I thought about her sharp, thin nose and how I might have bloodied it if she hadn’t turned. I would have liked to see that. The blood on her face. 

She let me open her jeans. She left her hands at her sides as I pushed my fingers inside her pants. The same slow sway in her lap. Her cunt was so wet. Thick and wet. My fingers easily slid against her, into her. Slow. Slow and burning. I got a lump in my throat. She stared into my eyes. This stranger I was fucking. This woman who’s name I wasn’t sure I knew. But I knew something about her childhood. Her dad. The yard she grew up in. Her love of soft grass and warm air and a wide sky. She took my belt and bit into the leather, holding it in her mouth, clamped down on it while the heat in her cunt built. She growled when she came and didn’t jerk or pull like I do. She opened and flattened and clenched her jaw. I saw her teeth sink deeper into the leather strap. I felt her clit throb. And then she sank a little lower and smiled.

Lost Days of Summer

It’s a dull warm day. A light breeze through the trees and across my exposed face and forearms. The heat from the sun hits my thighs and you rush through me. You. Your body. I want my fingers in you.

It’s too bright to keep my eyes open. My cat wanders in and out of the house through the open doors off the porch. You are gone. Working. Sliding in and out of cramped rows. Sweating in this heat. Smiling. Being sweet. I miss you.

It’s a hot day. I hear the highway. I dream of the white lines and speeding trees while I doze. I wake with a hot chest. Sweat on my neck and belly. I want my tongue in the salty creases of you. I want slick wet sweat between us. I’ll pour you a drink over ice in a minute but first let me take this in. The heat. Your curves. I bury my hands between your legs.

These are my dog eared memories and panting desires. You are always in my lonely haze. Like now. In this heat. While I miss you.

We Are All Beautiful Animals

I am a drunk and a whore. I will fuck anyone who wants me to fuck them. I am your mother or your father. I’m that boy in the back seat. That girl in the locker room. I’m anyone you want. And you trust me. Maybe you love me. I love you.

This is who I am. This is who we all are. Some of us hide it. Some of us shiver and shake and bury our faces in the corner pretending we don’t know it. But this is who we are. Come on.

I am yours. Right now. My hand in my pants.

Kiss me and grab my ass. I will push you up against the railing. Here. On the balcony. Where are we? My hotel? Yours? A bar? Were we walking home? Kiss me. Let me grab you. Let me pinch your thigh. This meat in my fingers. I want it.

Sex is where we go to be lost. Sex is where we are ancient. Language, no language. The raw root of desire buried in all of us. Every one. We roll our tongues and purse our lips to suckle. We feed. You are mine now. I will be yours. I am. I am yours. Right now.

I will fuck you for asking. I will stick my fingers in your mouth for shaking that ass. Bend over the way I like. Let me see your hands on the backs of your thighs. Hold your legs open for me. Let me see your pussy. Let me see it drip. This is how it has always been. Don’t pretend we’re civilized.

When I’m drunk like this, I don’t care. Buttons fly. Zippers break and scrape my skin. None of it matters. Rip this off of me. Be angry. Impatient. Hit me when I can’t come. Scream at me. Pull your hair and cry. And I will make you take it. I will hit your cheek with my open palm. I will punch your chest and pinch your breasts. I will bite your hips and spank you hard. Open your legs. Now. You want this. I want this. Let it hurt or feel good or who cares right now.

My fingers are inside you and I cannot close my mouth. Not now. Breathing onto your face. Sucking your lips. Your tongue thick in my teeth. This is how I find out who you are. Who you are to me. This is how I show you myself.

Before you come, I grind against your thigh. I spit at you. My cunt hurts inside my jeans. I watch your thigh grow dark red. Streaked purple. Little spots of blood, popped capillaries under your skin. Here we go. I fuck you.

You asked for this when you stared. You asked when you looked down to see how well your tits look in that shirt. You asked when you touched my forearm. You asked. And I answered. I always answer. I’m right here. Right where you want me. Whenever you ask. But you need to ask. I won’t demand this. I won’t take it on my own. Ask me. Go ahead.

One night there was this girl. She burst into my house. I’d left the door open, knowing she was following me home. I told her I’d drive slow. I’m easy to follow. She ran in and fell to her knees, her hands on the bulge in my jeans. She slicked back her hair and sucked my cock through the denim. She tugged at my belt. “Fuck me,” she said and I fucked her on the carpet. Her knees thrown over my shoulders. I shoved her up the stairs and fucked her again on the edge of my bed. She flipped over onto her belly and I fucked her harder, my thighs wet with sweat. She yowled, there in my small room. She reached her long arms behind her and pulled on my hips. She wanted more. We fucked for hours. If either of us came, I didn’t noticed. I fucked her until my eyes were bleary and my legs shook. She left in the thick morning fog. Wet and spent. We fucked until we collapsed. No sleep. She found all her clothes and said goodbye with a kiss that was more tender than either of us wanted and asked if I was free that Wednesday. I was. I told her. I never saw her again. She fell in love. Or back in love. Or pretended she wasn’t this animal. This animal.

I am the one who will fuck you whenever you ask. Wake me up in the middle of the night. Follow me into the bathroom. Touch me just around that corner. Get in my car. Give me your number. It’s that easy. I’m a drunk and a whore. Buy me a drink. Your place or mine?

Let me suck your pussy through those sweet little panties. Do you want bruises? Where. Show me. Point that pretty little finger and my mouth will follow. Hold your thighs wide for me. Suck on your fingers like I like. Turn your head away, my fingers splayed on your cheek. I like to hold you down while we fuck. Just let go. I’m right here.

Be Mine (Too Sweet)

I blame you for everything. My sour mood. My jangled nerves. This chipped button on my shirt. I blame you for the piece of chicken stuck in my teeth. The pinch of my glasses behind my ears. I blame you for the sweat on my back. The fruit flies in the kitchen. The stench of my t-shirt, balled up on the floor. I blame you for this longing. The desire that crawls on its belly inside me. It tells me to shove my fingers inside your holes.

I blame you for everything because you are mine. Mine. I want you. I take you. I fall asleep with your head on my chest, your arm resting on my ribcage. I wake with your body curled next to me, warm in the blankets. I trace your outline with my fingers. I kiss your forehead.

There are nights when I only want to pet you and be soft. When I drag my fingertips lightly across your shoulders, up the back of your neck, down your arms. I slide across every crease where your skin finds itself. Inside your elbows, under your arms, your back when your shoulders pinch together, your twisted neck. I like to trace your sweat on hot nights when the booze and the heat swirl together in our heads and in our bed. Our bed. Ours. Mine and yours. This night. Most nights. Many nights.

Press your hand against the wall above the headboard. I want to imagine it there always. An imprint. A heat map. Your fingers splayed out. Your palm hot and flat on the plaster. Hold it there and let me lick your fingers. Sink my teeth into your knuckles. These are the nights when I want you in my mouth. I suck on your neck and nibble at the base of your skull. My fingers in your hair. My tongue snakes behind your ear. I want you in the middle of the bed, bent over your knees, arms out to the side. I bite the flesh on your ass, over and over again, then watch as my dripping wet finger slides around the puckered rim of your asshole. My eyes take it in, how my teeth have marked your ass, my circling finger. I mark you as mine. My own. I will have you and hold you.

I sleep deeply and wake up wet, imagining us fucking. Your wrists tied behind your back, I bend over and let you watch as my fingers slide in and out of my pussy. My face buried in the blanket, my pants pulled down. I love to fuck like this. Not even touching, or barely so. You sitting there staring. Me on my back with my legs pulled wide. Maybe my foot rests on your thigh. Watch me jerk off. Let me rub my cock against your chest, slicked up with lube. Open your mouth so I can look inside that soft, dark hole. Mine. You are mine. Tonight and tomorrow. I want more. More of you. More of this.

Fuck me with your cock, your fingers, your tongue. Let me climb on top of you and come again and again. I’m your boy. Your good, sweet girl. Call me anything you want. Because you are mine and I’ll give you anything for it. All this. More. I blame you. I’m in love. 

Tags: x queer love

To the anonymous person who commented on my most recent story - 

If you had criticized my writing, I’ll be honest, I wouldn’t have been thrilled. I mean, this isn’t Yelp. But I might have considered what you had to say. Your comment, though, had nothing to do with the writing. You criticized the sexual fantasy itself.

If you’re a reader of mine, I think you’ve missed one of my core beliefs. I wasn’t sure what to say at first, but I’m glad to be able to speak to this. It’s something I’ve said before and it bears repeating.

I don’t judge anyone’s sexual fantasy. I don’t accept judgement of sexual fantasies. There are so many personal queer history lessons about the bad road that can lead you down. 

I hope no one has ever done that to you.

Here’s the thing. And this is so important. It’s damaging to shame someone’s sexual fantasy. It’s damaging and confining. Not just to them but to you as well. I hope you never do that to a lover. I certainly hope you never do that to yourself.


BD Swain