“Once you start to speak, people will yell at you. They will interrupt you, put you down and suggest it’s personal. And the world won’t end. And the speaking will get easier and easier. And you will find you have fallen in love with your own vision, which you may never have realized you had. And you will lose some friends and lovers, and realize you don’t miss them. And new ones will find you and cherish you. And you will still flirt and paint your nails, dress up and party, because, as I think Emma Goldman said, “If I can’t dance, I don’t want to be part of your revolution.” And at last you’ll know with surpassing certainty that only one thing is more frightening than speaking your truth. And that is not speaking.”—
Nobody else’s rules are my rules. Remember this. You remember. I’ll remember. Nobody else.
Judge me. I don’t give a fuck. I hold myself to a higher standard than any person or society could dare.
When I forget this, everything turns to shit. I need a reminder. A string around my finger. A collar around my neck.
As punishment, I wandered around the hot streets with a backpack full of rocks. My back and shoulders soaked with sweat after only a few minutes. My feet aching after an hour. I kept walking. I kept my pace. I told myself stories. I dug up the ancient scrolls that told of my resurrection.
My back is bruised. I can feel the sore spots where the jagged rocks dug into my skin. This pain is my reminder for now. Trust myself. Trust my instincts. Fuck everyone else. Fuck that thing that creeps in to tell me right and wrong, good and bad. I am my own compass.
You are under me. I am up on my arms. I am sweating in the heat. My tank top sticks to my back. My boxers are wet. You are naked and sweating. The mattress under you shows a dark stain where our sweat has seeped onto the sheet. You pull my hips into you. I stare down. I let you pull me.
I realize, in a moment, that I’m a prick. That I’ve set myself on high and let you suffer. This is the moment when everything changes. I abandon myself and let everything go. I move to lie next to you on my back and I stare at you. You crawl on top of me. You brush the hair off your face but some strands stick to your cheek. You press your palms on my chest and ride me. I ask if you want a cock and you nod and lick your lips. You look sexy, your tongue, but you’re not trying to be; it’s the sweat, the salt. I lick my own lips. I taste it.
Yes, you want my cock. I move to go get it. You kneel on the bed. You’re still fucking some imaginary woman underneath you. I strap on my cock and adjust it, watching you. This becomes a moment, a big part of what is between us right now. You, on the bed, fucking the ghost of me, or someone, while I watch. My hand wanders to my cock and I pull, I push, I twist. You hear me start to pant behind you. A dog with its tongue hanging low. Panting for you. Your ass rocking in the hot air in front of me.
I reach one hand long and let my fingers brush against you. I scratch at you. Your cunt glistens. I lean back and watch your pussy swing back against my cock over and over. I stay just out of reach. The heat is stifling. The tops of my thighs are shiny with sweat. I can smell us both. I like the stink of us in my nose. Animal. We smell dirty now. We need to bathe. This makes me lick you.
My tongue on the back of your thigh. I lick behind each knee. Under the curve of your ass. I slide my face under your pussy; the taste of sex and your sweat all together. I am gluttonous, forgetting about my cock. I hear you moaning a low “No.” I wonder why. Then you almost jump off my mouth and grab me under my shoulders, pulling me up to you. You shove my cock inside you. Now it’s “Yes.” A stream of words from your mouth curses me. I love your curses. You don’t scare me. Curse me now. Forever. Damn me. Banish my soul.
You look down, still fucking me hard, a huge smile on your face. You are two people. The beast fucking me and the woman who sees my shining, wet face and smiles and touches my sticky chin with her fingers. How you do this? I don’t know. You look so innocent at the moment you get off. Then you look up and hold it inside, deep inside yourself for a moment. I get to watch you disappear into that depth. I get to witness the beauty of this private shuddering pleasure. And then you return and laugh at my messy, wet face. You stick your tongue out above me and lean down slowly to lick me clean. You pull on my ears to hold me still.
No rules. How could there be rules? Nobody’s but mine. Not yours. Not theirs. Mine. We each have our own. Remember. Do what you need to do. Find your own reminder.
I thought you were sober. Your tongue, soft and sloppy in my mouth, gave you away. You were too far gone. I don’t want you that way. Not tonight.
I let you suck on my neck. I let you unbutton my shirt at the bar. I smiled at you and you asked, “What?” but giggled at yourself, knowing. “Fuck me,” you whispered. You were good, your hand on my thigh, sliding down between my knees, “Fuck me.” You said it all serious. You couldn’t sit still.
"I don’t take advantage," I said. You tried your best. Telling me I should know. Telling me it was okay. But it wasn’t okay for me. It’s not okay. "I want you sober," I reminded you. You pouted.
I took you home. I helped you to bed. I sat in the chair in your bedroom and watched you sleep. You snored. I knelt next to you and kissed your forehead. You kept snoring. It made me love you, watching you sleep. I let my head rest on the mattress next to you. So sleepy.
I woke up with your fingers tracing my ear. It tickled and I brushed you away with my hand, then saw you. You. “What time is it?” I asked. My legs were cramped under me. I ached. You grabbed my head and pulled my mouth to yours. We kissed. You were awake. Here we were together.
You tried to pull me onto the bed but I pulled you to the floor instead and grabbed the blanket. You sat in my lap, your arms and legs wrapped around me. We kissed and pulled the blanket tight around us both. It was four in the morning. I felt so tired and you seemed entirely too awake. I groaned.
You slid my shirt up my back and curled it around and off of me. You pulled us down, rolling backwards to the floor so that I landed on top of you. “Fuck me,” you whispered and bit the flesh on my breasts. And that is it. The fuse in me is lit.
I find your hands. I seem crazed, desperate. I grab your wrists. No, not your wrists. I push you against the floor with the weight of my body. I put one hand on your neck and the other jerked at your panties. “Wait,” you said but I didn’t listen. “Make me stop if you want me to wait. And I’ll walk away.” You closed your eyes. You turned your head. “No,” you said and let me.
There are times when it flashes in my head that all you want is this fuck, right now. That you don’t care who it is fucking you. The thought frees me. I fuck you without caring and let my beautiful, dark demon devour you. In one swift move you are down my throat. I choke on my greedy appetite.
We sat there. I was silent. My words were stuck somewhere, inaccessible. I struggled and looked out the window hoping to see something that would unstick me. Desperately searching the sidewalk for it, whatever it was.
She held her hand to her mouth and let the damp mist of her breath paint her palm. “That is the pace of my life,” she said, “When I can no longer feel my breath…” She let her words die as if to cement the thought.
My life is slow. So so slow. The pace would be excruciating to anyone else. I am slow with many things. I enjoy the slow burn of the glowing ember.
Last night I dreamed that I was swimming with an orca whale and her calf. The water was crystal clear. The baby was tiny, smaller than the length of my arm. We were swimming back and forth, playing. Suddenly we were in the shadow of a cloud. The water was much colder. I rolled my body in the water, looking behind me, and saw a great white shark. At first I felt excited, lucky. I was getting to swim with killer whales and a great white. And then I saw the shark as the predator it is. And the calf as the easy meal. And my body between them.
I wrapped my arms around the shark and found an open round door. I led the shark into it and it disappeared. I saw it surface far away across the water. But it knew how to return and soon swam back through the doorway and to us. I knew that I couldn’t save the baby. I knew that the mother could but that I would likely drown or otherwise die in this fight. I didn’t try to swim away. I wanted to see this. I wasn’t afraid.
I dreamed of dangerous animals all night. A woman on a picnic blanket lifting a basket and finding a coiled venomous snake. Staring at it, unwilling to move, not fearing it.
Nothing turned me on. Not the water. Not the danger. I stared. I observed. I took it in. Slowly. Calmly. Coldly.
When I breathe onto my palm, I feel it for a long time. I stare at my hand. I see the lines. I feel the warmth and it stays longer than you’d think possible. Maybe it’s just the memory of the sensation and my mind playing tricks on me. But I feel it longer.
I am struggling with truths. I am struggling with want. The shark knows how to get back. I am not afraid of the danger to myself. But I’m sad about the struggle I’m about to witness. And I can’t help.
I wore tight jeans this week. Sometimes I prefer that. Tight jeans. Thin. I rub my legs and feel my hamstrings pull down the back of my thighs. I spread my legs wide when I sit. I sit like a boxer in a corner. Or I lean far back and stretch my legs long, crossing them at the ankle. Kicking out my boots.
I am a dangerous animal. Slow in my movements. I am cold, sensing the heat around me.
I go out. I am coiled. I buy her a drink. I show my teeth. There’s a bulge in my pants. She feels it. We sit along the wall, the table is our blanket, covering us. She strokes me. I feel her touch vibrate through my cock against my thigh. I imagine her sucking me off. I sip my bourbon and look at my lap.
I suck on the ice in my glass. My tongue is numb. I take her outside to my car. The backseat. I sit behind her. I suck on the back of her neck. She shivers. My mouth is so cold against her hot neck. I circle each vertebrae with the tip of my tongue. I feel her hairs stiffen. I undo my belt and jeans. I position my cock and pull her hips back. I grab her wrists and wrap her arms around herself while I squeeze her to me. I bite down on the web of skin between her neck and shoulder. I suck.
"Slide your panties off," I tell her. She backs herself up on my lap and guides my cock into her. She leans forward and grips the car door. I have one leg long on the seat and one leg in the wheel well. I hold her hips and fuck her using my arms to lift and lower her. My biceps strain. My hips rise and fall. Her back arches and curves. I feel the heat rise off of us. Our breath warms the air. The pressure against my clit gets me off quickly and fucking her becomes painful. I start to growl, pushing myself through the pain. I imagine my jaw snapping at her. I imagine myself a true wolf.
She moves off of me quickly when she’s done. And that’s how this feels. She is done. This is no date. This is a quick fuck with a stranger in the back of a car. This is the waiting. This is the slow in between time. Filled with experiences. Filled with desire. I am not cruel. This has been fun. This was nice. See you around. Let me get your coat.
We go back into the bar. I buy her another drink. We can talk now. We laugh about it. She tells me why she was looking. I tell her. We tell each other everything. Her story is so sad. I put my arm around her and she cries against my shoulder. My shirt is wet from her tears. This is intimate. Human.
We leave together. I drive her home in silence. She looks at me as she gets out of the car. She has that look that comes just before someone says their goodbyes, but she closes her mouth again and smiles. She waves her hand then closes the door. I watch her at the door before I drive off. She’s safe.
Write it down. Put it down. Pin it down. Look at it. Rub it away. Crumple it up. Destroy.
She writes and erases. She writes and reads it over and over. She writes and reads and removes. She burns it into the wood. She carves it deep. She closes her eyes and feels the grooves around the shapes of all the words inside her brain. Trace them.
She’s afraid of them. They have power. Too much power. Remove. Erase. Wipe clean. Destroy. The words are gone. They are gone. She stays. Strays. Stays.
Once upon a time long, long ago in a far away dream before there was any knowledge, before Eve bit the apple, before there was an apple, before there was the seed, before hands dug in the dirt, before it rained… Where was I?
A girl met a girl. Two girls. They met. There was a girl alone and another lonely girl and they saw each other. They were in town at the store. They met at the DMV. They saw each other at the taqueria. One of them brought flowers. One of them had a car. One of them was a knife thrower. One of them didn’t know any recipes. One of them had no voice. One of them was charred.
People said, “It will never.” People said, “That’s the way it goes.” People said, “I would never.” People stuck their heads into the bushes and scratched their faces trying to get a better look. This was the human zoo. Come look. Watch them fret. Watch them know and unknow. Watch how they double over and clutch their bellies. Watch them fall asleep and suddenly wind themselves around each other. See their peace. Long ago and far away in a dream. There is no evil before the apple.
Bright red and shiny. Little red corvette. Her sunburned knees. The red windbreaker, iconic and true. Her red, red lips. Her ruby slippers. Our sacramental wine. The red queen. Red. Riding. Hood. The shaft. The covering. The swollen clitoris… Where was I?
She said, “Fuck me.” And the wolf fucked her and then ate her for supper and burned her entrails in the smoldering coals as an offering to her pagan gods. Little and red. Shiny and bright. Evil and good. Written and erased. Gone.
When I walk down the street, I see right through your skin all the way to the core. I see your heart pump and your arteries shimmer with every rush of blood. I see the sleepwalkers with their slow, clogged hearts. Usually I’m drawn to the drones, wanting to slap them awake. I used to be that sleepwalker. Tonight, I have no use for them.
Tonight, I am a motherfucking monster. Hungry for something I can already taste. Tonight I am crazy and brave enough to be magnetic. I feel it in every rush of air I suck deep into my lungs.
I want her to push back with her own magnetic field. I want her to know, deep down that she is the one powerful enough to draw me to her. We both feel sure of that from our opposite perspectives. We are each confident and relaxed in our corners before we come out blazing at the bell.
She’s the girl who grabs me by the wrist the moment I grab her. She slaps my forearm away when I bring my hand up to her neck. Her fight makes me grin. My determination makes her bare her teeth.
Wait a minute, hold on. This is not about fucking. You know that, right? This is not just sex. This is universal. This is deep down. Something I’ve scratched open is scratched open in you too.
We lunge at one another. We tumble and fall. The coffee table flips and the lamp crashes to the floor. Who will win? She wants to win. I know it’s me. One of us has to be bigger and succumb. One of us has to give up
I won’t let anyone know me tonight. No one gets to know me for awhile. Today I learned a lesson. And tonight she will learn it from me.
I’m a monster tonight but I’m only out to hurt myself. I stop struggling. I’m panting. She stares at me and laughs. She saunters up slowly. I grab her ribs and throw her to the floor on her stomach. I pounce. I grab her hair, pull her head up off the floor. “I saw you,” I seethe through a clenched jaw, “I saw how alive you are. The way you walked. I knew.”
"Fuck you," she spat back, as if she didn’t want to be seen or didn’t want to be alive.
There are moments when you feel crazy. People see you more clearly when you feel that. It can be an uncomfortable awareness on both sides. We were in that moment together. Both of us crazy and alive and highly visible.
We fucked each other. Back and forth. Like pouring a thick mixture back and forth between two glasses. It gets messy. It drips over the edges and spills. We licked it up.
She bit down. It was sudden, a surprise. I felt jerked open. A jolt of pain unzipped me down to my cunt. I thought I was going to get off right in that moment. Fuck. She had been kissing my chest. I had just pushed her hair behind her ear to watch her mouth hover over my nipple. Her tongue flicked me. My skin burned. My thighs fell open. I was ready and wanting.
And then, a bite. It sent me into ecstasy. My back lifted off the floor and I grabbed her head, but not to pull her away. Stay there. Stay right there. Jesus.
She crawled up me, sucking on my neck along the way and staring into my eyes. She rested against me. “I marked you,” she said and kissed me. She marked me. She didn’t ask permission first. She touched it. A small red bruise like red wine staining my skin.
I stared at it. I watched her fingers trace the edges. I laughed at the pleased, mischievous glint in her eye. I was hers. Anyone I fucked would know. I was someone’s. Or I had been someone’s. I was marked.
She wanted to hide it. Wanted it to be invisible unless I undressed. I wanted her marks all over me. “More,” I whispered. She told me to turn over. I lay flat on my stomach and she straddled my ass. I craned my neck to see her bend over me like a greedy vulture, nibbling on my flesh. “Yes,” I groaned. I didn’t want this to end.
I wanted a trail of marks all down my belly. I wanted to take off my shirt the next day and follow the line disappearing beneath my jeans. I needed this. She bit me. Again and again, she bit me. She sat on me, moved across my body, bent down with her mouth on me, steadied herself with her hands, and bit me all over. “More,” I whispered each time she stopped, “More.”
I was in real pain by the time she fucked me. I was sore and jumpy when she pressed against me. I lay face down, my chest and shoulders against the floor with my ass in the air for her. She knelt behind me and fucked me with her hand. My skin was tender and wet with sweat. She was careful and slow, fucking me for a long time, tenderly. After I came, she lifted me, turned me over, and put a pillow under my back. She sat between my legs rubbing my wet pussy, her fingers circling in the mass of damp hair. The room smelled like sweat and cum. It was warm. I looked down at my belly and saw my body covered in small, purple and red shapes. I closed my eyes and smiled. She kissed me and laughed low under her breath.
Now I’m standing naked in front of my mirror pointing out each small bruise to myself, unbelieving. There and there and there. The little broken dots show the blood under my skin. The marks are small. Little nibbles. But connect me, cover me. My belly. My thighs. Inside my arms.
I get dressed and each bruise is fully covered under my clothes. I feel bolder. I look people in the eye as I pass them and they look away. The tattooed suit of the Yakuza perfectly hidden when I walk down the street. “You can’t have me,” I think, “You don’t know me. You can’t see the dark secrets hidden away. Those are for her.”
Welcome to e[lust]- The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at e[lust]. Want to be included in e[lust] #39? Start with the newly updated rules, come back August 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!
~ Top 3 ~
Wrong On Every Level - “If you wouldn’t ask them to borrow $20 bucks, how the fuck is it ok for you to ask them to fuck you? Oh right, it’s not.”
Good Girl - “She nearly melted into me. When I finally released her, she exhaled–she had been holding her breath.”
The Three Minute Game - “The timer went off and I breathed out, both a sigh of relief and disappointment that it was over.”
~ Featured Post (Picked by Lilly) ~
Bitch- “I don’t let her run the show…but she’s always around. She’s in the background saying: Bullshit”
Hi, I've been reading your stories for a while, and I love them. I have to tell you that your story 'Pieces of Me' was just beautiful. It actually brought me to tears. lol It hit a spot that my FTM boyfriend and I have been and are going through. I just really needed to show how much that story means to me. Thank you for writing it. :) <3
This means so much to me. Thank you for letting me know. Thank you.
I went out looking for someone big and strong. First I walked. I felt the rough cement through my shoes. I walked a long time. I stared down at my feet and watched the sidewalk slide under them like I was standing in one place and it was the ground that moved.
I knew who I was looking for. I knew her type. Her jeans would be tight to show off her ass. I’d see the outlines of her boots under the denim. She’d be tall with big, meaty hands. She’d try to hide her tits under a large button down shirt with a tank top underneath. She’s older than I am. She’s strong. She’s a show off. I’m not sure I like her.
I want to be in Nashville. I want to be in a hidden place, where the windows are blacked out and you go in the back door. I want to be in that bar where the stripper is shaking from nerves, but her butch girlfriend is shoving dollars at her with tears of pride welling up in her eyes. That’s where I’d find what I’m looking for.
I want the butch who feels just right tonight because 5 days a week she wears a hint of lipstick and a feminine cut shirt even though it makes her sick. That’s the one that will make me know who she is over and over again.
I step up to the bar and order a beer. I stick my ass out just a little bit more than usual. I drink my beer slowly. I tip it back and stretch my neck, pulling my shoulders back. I am letting them know. I keep my eyes down or straight ahead looking behind the bar. I don’t look around. I’m letting them stare if they want to. They need to figure me out and I give them time.
It’s crowded. I love a crowded bar. I feel someone press against me and a long arm pushes close by me and leans a wrist on the bar with her thick fingers sticking up in the air. “Hey bartender,” she yells next to my ear. I don’t move except to turn my head a little so she can see the look on my face. My lips are slightly opened and I’m imagining her pushing hard on my back and pressing me forward onto the bar. She’s wearing a spicy cologne. I don’t even need to see her face. I want her to fuck me.
Maybe she saw my look. I don’t know. But she presses up hard against my ass while she waits for her drink. I feel her arm on me. She puts her hand on my waist and then slides it down to the back of my thigh. “Holy shit,” I think. I didn’t expect this to really happen. There’s no mistaking this now. She whispers in my ear, “Yes?” and I nod.
She moves her hand up to my ass and rubs me. I adjust my stance to open my legs up wider for her. She can’t reach my clit from behind, she’s rubbing my ass and it’s making me crazy. I press harder back against her. I can feel her belt buckle against the small of my back. The bartender hands her a vodka on the rocks and she digs with one hand into her pocket for a wadded up $20 while she slides her hand down the back of one thigh, up, and down the other.
"Get her what she wants," she says to the bartender. I smile. She’s good. I order a shot of tequila. I want something fast that will hit me. We stay pressed against each other like this while we drink. I don’t bother talking to her because she couldn’t hear me with my head facing away from her. But she talks to me. "We’re going to stay here like this and finish our drinks," she tells me. "I like your ass in these thin jeans," she tells me. "I want to get you out of here and bend you down to the ground," she tells me.
Sometimes lust builds up like anger and burns. I could hear it in her voice. Sometimes you can’t tell if you scared or turned on. I didn’t care. The bartender poured my shot and let it flow right over the rim until it puddles on the shiny wood. Then she held out a lime. My girl took it. She held it in front of my face and bent it between her finger and thumb. “Rest your head on my chest,” she said and then watched me suck the juice while she squeezed the lime into my mouth. I felt her shiver behind me and it made me smile. I tossed back my shot. She finished her vodka soon after. “We need to go,” she told me and gripped me above both elbows.
She led me outside. “Do you live near here?” she asked. I shook my head no. “Shit,” she said and looked around, “This way.” We walked and she looked all around. I stared down at my feet again. It was dark now. She turned the corner. There was a carpet store, closed, with a driveway. I followed her up the driveway and we found a small cement slab tucked away behind the building. I got down on my hands and knees. “That’s right,” she said. I put my face and shoulders down against the cement. My palms were flat and my fingers spread wide. “Damn,” I heard her whisper.
She got on her knees behind me. She reached under me and undid my belt and tugged at my jeans. She was gentle with my clothes, more than I expected. I felt her fingers curl under the waist of my shorts. I was wearing tight, white shorts which were about as girly as I had. She rubbed inside the seam at first. The skin on her fingers was rough. “I need something to fuck you with,” she said. She slid her belt off and rubbed it between my legs, over my shorts. She pulled it slowly back and forth. She draped it over my back and then pulled my shorts down to my knees. She squeezed me in her hands. She spread my ass and spit. I felt her warm saliva dripping between down my ass and thigh. She rubbed it into me. “Jesus,” she said.
I hadn’t seen her face. She’s only seen half of mine. We hadn’t really looked at each other at all. I guess she was staring now. I guess she’d been looking at me. The cement snagged against my cheek. The little pebbles, some of them sharp. It hurt my palms. I felt her finger in my ass. “I need something to fuck you with,” she said again.
She stopped fingering my ass for a minute and I heard her digging in her pocket. She spat again and then something hard and skinny was in my cunt. It was so fucking hard and so small. It felt good, the pressure. She placed one hand on the small of my back and her fingers gripped me. She was fucking me powerfully but not fast and my body barely moved. I felt held in place. When I came, I heard the clatter of whatever she was fucking me with as it fell to the ground. She held my hips and leaned over me, her jeans shoved against my ass. “I want to rub against you,” she whispered, “Pull your jeans up.”
I stood up and pulled my jeans back on. She took off her shirt and folded it. “Here,” she said, “for your head.” I got on my back on the pavement with her shirt under my head and she spread herself on top of me. Her palms were next to my head and she straddled my thigh. She rested her lips against my neck and slowly rolled her hips. Her weight was barely on me. She held herself just slightly above me. But her cunt pressed hard into my thigh, rocking against me.
I lifted my knee up a little to grind it against her. I felt her teeth on my neck, her lips were parted, she wasn’t biting me, not even aware that she had her teeth on me. She grunted in a rhythm. It didn’t take her long. Her ass lifted high off of me a few times and hard back down with a long pull against my thigh and then her weight was on me and I knew she’d gotten off. “Thank you,” she said and I nearly laughed at it but she was serious. That was a genuine thank you, not to be teased.
She was off of me in a second. Standing up and adjusting her jeans. I stood up and handed her shirt back to her. She brushed it off and shook it a few times before putting it back on. She held my elbow and walked me down the driveway to the sidewalk and back to the bar. She dropped me off at the bar like she was taking me home. “This is yours now,” she said and slipped something into my pocket before she walked away.
I watched her walk. She kept her head high and strutted a little. She knew I was watching. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a pocket knife. It looked old. I could see the shiny places where she had rubbed it in her fingers. I knew what it probably meant to her and felt a rush of emotion in my chest. To give this to me without knowing my name, something she worried in her hands for comfort, I’ll never understand it. Not the gift. Not the night.
I went to the bar and ordered another beer. I held the cold, wet glass against my cheek and it burned where the cement had rubbed me raw.
just thought I'd drop you a bit more fan mail; me and my girlfriend love your stuff, and since we're long distance at the moment it's helping us get through [and spicing up skype, so thank you ;) ]. I love your writing, it's such a change of pace and allows me to slow down and get into the scene. I keep scrounging the internet for more like you, but you remain my favorite jumping off place. Keep trucking, chica. We love it.
Thank you! I am glad to be of service for such a worthy cause.
I find your writing incredibly beautiful. Haunting at times. Sick at times. But always offering a glimpse into our sexual humanity and it's varied colors that we tend to repress and mute. Thank you for reminding me of the possibilities. Anon.
*this is undiluted and not filtered through an erotic lens - if you’re looking for smut, this isn’t it, but it is queer and it is honest*
I am learning to accept all the pieces of me. All the people I can be. All the different states. Sometimes I am the scared little girl who had to raise herself, her true self, because she couldn’t show that to anyone.
So many of us did this. Who we were deep down inside came out one day and somebody shut it down. Was it mom? Was it a friend? Was it someone on TV? Shut it down. Put that away. You can’t be that.
We buried it deep down inside. So deep that sometimes we even forgot it was there. We were raised by people who didn’t see us. We grew up with friends who never knew us. We had to find our own way by listening to all the stories around us and weighing for ourselves which ones to trust and which to abandon. We found our own moral codes. We taught ourselves right and wrong. We punished ourselves and soothed ourselves after.
Up in our bedrooms, we fed and cared for those lost little hidden children inside us.
I used to stare into the mirror and not recognize myself. I put on wigs. I made fake mustaches from cuttings of my own hair. I took pictures to stare at myself and still I couldn’t see me in them. I was buried somewhere inside. So deep.
In my fantasies, I fucked women. I got on top of them and rode off into the sunset like a cowboy. I pointed to groupies in the crowd and took them backstage. I was a football player taking my cheerleader girlfriend back behind the bleachers to get a blow job and finger her.
None of that ever felt wrong. In my head I never felt wrong, I only felt angry. Angry at everyone who turned on me. Angry that I was a cute little tomboy until I was a dyke. Angry that the girls who wanted to chase me around the playground now looked at me sideways as they walked by whispering. Angry at the boys who called me names. Angry at the waiters who always, always, always called me a boy. I would scream at them, the waiters. “I’m a girl,” I’d tell them. And everyone would laugh. It’s funny to get someone so wrong. To not see us.
This is why we act tougher than we are sometimes. This is why when we break down it’s a huge fucking mess. This is why we need to find that kid and hold her sometimes and let her cry. Tell her, “Shhh, it’s going to be okay.” Remind her how strong she is. Because she is so fucking strong. She raised herself. She taught herself how to treat women right. She taught herself how to survive. She was the only one who knew you.
She’s a puzzle. I’m a puzzle. All of us are pieces that go together just right somehow. And we can’t pretend that some of the pieces aren’t needed. They are. They all fit. If we try to deny any of them we’ll just fall apart.
Tell me I’m a creep. Because I am one. I am the Pied Piper strolling down the alleyways blowing sweet tunes. Come out, come out wherever you are tonight.
I will draw you out. Follow me. There’s a girl slumped against the bar, her whiskey glass still in her grip, her forehead flat on the wood. Come. There’s a girl in tight jeans sitting in the corner feeling itchy and shy. Come.
Where is the girl I’m looking for? My eyes search every shadow. My sight flies like bats around the room. She is not there. Where? She must be in disguise. She must be hiding.
I will bring you all to me and and I will find her somewhere in you. I play my tune. A head turns. Come. Follow. She is stumbling and hazy. She leans against me. The street outside is wet. Follow. She is laughing. I am dangerous. I fuck her on the small twin bed without a sheet. The metal springs under the thin cotton ticking creak beneath her back. I grip her ass, hold her up in the air, and pull her onto my cock. I already know it’s not her. But I fuck her anyway.
Go away. She needs help before she will go. I put her in the bath. I tell her to wash and rest here, I’ll be back. I’m out in the night again. Playing my soft tune.
Another set of steps going down under the sidewalk. Another bar. There she is. No, there. Let me look. Let me find her. I get angry. More and more anger builds every time I don’t find her. So I play. I play to calm my nerves. I play to soothe myself. But they like it. They all like it.
A crying girl in the corner. Yes, her. That one. What will she do? What does she want? “Be careful,” I want to tell her, “I’m a fucking creep. Don’t look at me.” But instead I stare and pull on my pipe. I play the sweetest tune I can imagine. She smiles. She wipes her tears. Follow.
Outside her arm slips through mine. Come with me. I am sweet and kind. Upstairs. She sucks my dick. She lets me fuck her in the ass. She wants more. She’s a dirty girl. Or desperate. I want to ask her about her childhood pet, her favorite toy. I want to see that look when she sees herself as her child self would see her now. I am a creep. Tell me I am.
She goes into the bathroom and finds a girl in the tub. She screams. The girl in the tub screams. “Let yourselves out,” I say, “I have to go back.” And I’m out in the night again. Where is she? Come. Follow. I will find her.
The girl in the sad coat. The girl with the photo of her dead cat. The girl who only wants to kiss me. The girl with the split lip. The girl with a copy of Moby Dick. The girl under the bridge. The girl missing an earring. The girl wearing too many layers of clothes. The girl who climbed three trees on the way. The girl who craves Thai food after. The girl who wants me to put pennies on her.
When I dream of her something’s always missing. A finger or a toe. Sometimes there’s a limp and I know a piece of her is not there even if I can’t see it. I can’t dream of her whole, complete.
Last night half her arm was missing from the elbow down. She could only wrap one arm around me, the other would press into my side but nothing curved around my back. One hand rubbed against me and ran down from my shoulders to my hips while her upper arm stiffly pressed down on my shoulder. I rested my head against the stump at her elbow and kissed her flesh.
I took off my shirt and leaned back on the bed. She held herself up on her full arm and touched me with the other. I could see the invisible forearm, wrist and hand as if it was there, stroking me. I had a clear thought in my mind that it was growing back. I called her my starfish and she smiled at me knowingly but her eyes looked sad.
She undid my belt with her one hand. Her other arm waved a bit in the air as she balanced. She’s trying to fly, I thought, watching her arm flap up and down. The image made me smile. Then I saw her as a penguin with a useless wing, useless for flying and I felt my heart ache for her. She would hate that. She would punch me for that thought. And she should. “Punch me,” I said to her and she hit me hard with a balled up fist right in the chest. “That’s better,” I said, thanking her. She doesn’t need that fucking arm, I thought.
I eased my jeans off. I slid my shorts down as well. When I was naked, she straddled me again. She easily slipped off her own clothes with one hand. I reached above me to hold her shoulders. She leaned all her weight onto my hands and let me lower her slowly until she was kissing me. My arms shook to hold her weight.
"Where is your arm?" I asked. She nodded towards my dresser. "In there?" I asked, "I have it?" She shook her head and laughed at me, "No," she said, "I don’t know. But what do you have for me?" I looked at the dresser. I had forgotten. Yes, I had something for her, but I couldn’t remember what it was. I stood up and went to the dresser, pulling open the drawer. There was a dark green dress, low cut, spaghetti straps, folded neatly on top of my socks. I held it up for her and she stood to let me slip it over her head. She walked across the room and the skirt flowed beautifully.
It fit her so well. The color suited her. She looked fantastic. She raised her half arm up in the air, slowly lowered her other arm, then pushed her hand between her legs. She pressed the fabric into her. I saw it grow dark with wetness. She gathered the fabric in her fingers. The skirt slowly lifted from her knees, exposing more and more thigh until I saw the dark curls of her hair and her lips hanging full and blushed. I stood and moved behind her. I kissed her shoulders. I wrapped my hands around her. I dragged one hand up her side and under her armpit, creeping up the stump of an arm, gripping it and sliding my fingers around and back, stroking her bicep up and down.
I slid my other hand down her soft belly, my fingers carved four thin paths through the thick hair below. My long index finger dipped between her lips and rubbed her slowly, softly, almost carelessly. I blew my breath softly against the hairs on the back of her neck to watch them flutter.
"Do you miss my arm?" she asked. I didn’t answer her. My mouth was open and moving up and down her neck. I moved my hand off her arm to her lips. I slid one finger in her mouth and one in her pussy. I moved them in concert. Her pussy was wetter than her mouth. I noticed the differences, the cavern of her mouth and the tight grip of her cunt. I pushed two fingers in. I held her tightly. Her back pressed up against my chest. My feet were apart and I felt her legs inside my own. "This is how I want to fuck you tonight," I said, "Just like this." I realized as I said it that with only one hand, she couldn’t do what I was doing to her. But she didn’t tense or hesitate.
Three fingers now inside her mouth and cunt. My thumb rubbed the side of her clit, the other thumb pressed under her jawbone. Her one arm curled behind me. Her hand gripped the back of my neck and I bit into the muscle of her shoulder. I bit harder than I meant to and she yelled out.
I held her tight against me and took my fingers out of her mouth. I focused on her pussy and her breathing. I felt her weight shift deeper against me as she let go. I gripped her tightly around her chest, just under her breasts, to hold her up and let her relax. I held her as she came. She pushed her hips forward and humped the air before jamming her ass into me and bringing her hand to my cheek.
I pushed her onto the bed. Her beautiful new dress was streaked with sweat, mine and hers both. A thick bar of dampness under her breasts where I’d held her. I slipped my palms under her thighs. I needed to taste her. I needed to bury my mouth in her. Disappear, dissolve, blend into her. So soft, my tongue. So soft, her cunt. Soft, wet, swollen.
I felt both her hands in my hair. Both. I jerked my head up to see. There was just the one long arm reaching down to me. The other pulled towards me but was missing. “I felt your hand,” I said. She smiled at me. “I felt it,” I insisted. “I don’t need that hand, you know,” she was chiding me. She seemed hurt, self-protective. I kissed her thigh. I grabbed her ass and lifted her up to my mouth.
I fucked her with a soft mouth and a stiff tongue, holding her ass high. I stared down the slope of her belly to her chin. After she came I dropped her down on the sheets and flipped her onto her stomach. I pulled at her hips, lifting her ass to me, just to see her like that. I stretched myself over her and held her. “How can I miss your arm,” I asked her, “I never knew it.”
She rolled around to face me and propped herself up on her stump. She pressed her other hand between my legs, moving her fingers so slowly, it made me burn. I let my knees fall open and I stared at her. Her face was just above mine. She stayed there, staring at me, breathing on me while she rubbed me with a painful slowness. I felt my cunt drip down onto my ass. My body ached for her to fuck me hard, but she kept her slow pace, teasing me. When I came, she slammed her fingers hard inside me and thrust quickly, deeply in and out. “Fuck,” I yelled at her but she just stared at me and fucked me until I came again.
She dragged her fingers up my chest and gently shoved two fingers inside my mouth. I tasted bitter. Then she kissed my lips. I felt her tongue kiss my mouth like she was going down on me. She was imagining it. She could taste me. I wanted to keep going. I wanted another round. But I woke up.
I always wake up wanting. I remembered my dream and played it back in my mind. I wondered what piece of her would be missing next time and how it would feel.
I like it when we’re ugly girls. Beautiful ugly. Punk girl ugly doesn’t give a shit. Shake up my bottle of beer, tilt my head back, open my mouth, and let it spew all over my face and shirt. Squeeze up against me and open your mouth for a taste.
The electric shock of raw power. Don’t be afraid to touch it. Hold tight and let it flow right through you. Yell and growl and kick and let it all out. Write with a scrawl in the bathroom with a sharpie and put it to a few chords. Scream off key with bloody fingers. Feel the words force their way painfully out of your throat, knowing you won’t be able to speak the next day.
Fuck them. Fuck you. Fuck me. Fuck off.
Fuck in the van. Fuck backstage on the shitty beat up couch that’s covered in more duct tape than pleather. Fuck in the filthy bathroom down the hall. Fuck in the cheap hotel room that smells like bleach.
Make it ugly. I can smell my own spit. That girl who swung her head too fast and split her lip on the headboard. My nose bled when she jerked up suddenly and clocked me with the back of her head. Blood all over her back. I was laughing, curled up on the floor with my hand cupped to catch the blood.
She grabbed a washcloth and soaked it, shoved it under my lip and told me to squeeze it tight. Suddenly she was someone’s little girl. A girl who knew how to deal with nose bleeds. I stared at her, in awe, amazed. Who the fuck are you? You had a home. Someone took care of you.
She ran her thumb on my upper lip, smearing my blood onto my cheek. She sucked her bloody thumb and smiled at me. She’s far from home now. She knows how to bite.
This is the apple in the garden. The truth. Religion. It’s ugly and beautiful. It’s what we need.
It doesn’t happen often, but sometimes I just take. I want her. I can have her. I take her.
Fuck the goddamn politics of it all. Everything and nothing is absolved. There is no wrong. There is no right. There’s only driving fast on the highway at night and realizing your headlights aren’t on. Roll down the windows and let the car rattle. The wind makes your eyes squint. Bare your teeth.
Park far away and run the rest of the distance. Lean down and touch the pavement with your palm. The heat from the day is long gone. You are long gone. And right there.
There’s a party. She came with someone else. Were you even invited? Maybe not. It doesn’t matter. The door is open. Find her and grab her wrist. Pull her through the crowd. Don’t listen to what she says. When you get outside, she’ll kiss you. She likes this. She likes it when you are hard and demanding.
"You’re coming with me," tell her. She’ll walk behind you to your car. She’ll coo and squirm in her seat. Let it make you angry. Let it make you burn. She doesn’t want you for always and you know this. She just wants you to fuck her. So fuck her.
Stop the car at the underpass. Unbuckle your seat belt and jerk around quickly on top of her. Grab the latch and throw her seat backwards, tilting her nearly flat on her back. You’ve got one leg on your side of the car and one between her knees. Jam your hand between her legs and squeeze her cunt. Squeeze hard. This is a demand and not a call for her pleasure. You are taking her, not asking. This is not pretty.
Push your hand inside her pants, leave her belt buckled, let it cut into your wrist. Pull hard on her panties. Rub them. Feel how wet they are already. Lean up and stare at her. Let her see your face. Let her see what you know. You know. She wants you. She wants you like this. Now.
Sit back in the driver’s seat and take off. Get back on the highway. Take her somewhere but not home. Take her to a quiet neighborhood. Make her nervous. A neighborhood is good. Get out of the car and walk between the houses. Find a brick wall to press her up against.
Shimmy her jeans down just low enough for your fingers. Hold the back of her neck with one hand while the other fucks her. Stare at her but don’t kiss her. Lean your forehead against hers. Hush her when she makes a noise. Keep quiet.
As she gets close to coming, press your cheek against hers. Whisper in her ear. “I wanted to fuck you. All day, I thought about it. Fuck. You. I saw you. I saw you on top of me. I didn’t want to go home. I didn’t want to fuck like that, all nice and private. Not with you. Not tonight. I wanted your ass scratching up against something unexpected. I want you looking over my shoulder worried someone is going to walk by. That’s how you know you want me. When you let me take you and fuck you like this. That’s how we both know.”
Bite her ear. Bite her neck. When she comes, kiss her on the mouth. Kiss her and smash up against her. Make out with her for a long time like this with her pants still pulled awkwardly down on her thighs. Run your hands along her hips. Pull on her just under the curve of her ass and press your cunt hard against her.
When she shivers, hook your thumbs under her panties to ease them up and then tug her pants up. Do this for her. Button and zip her. Buckle her belt. Smooth her shirt. Let her watch you. When you’re done, look into her eyes. Kiss her tenderly. Walk her to your car. Take her back to the party. Watch her walk to the door before you pull away.
Drive on the highway going nowhere. Smell your fingers. Go home and jerk off. Fall asleep sideways on the bed still wearing your jeans. Isn’t this romantic?
Heavy, ripe plums covered the tree in our garden. The branches drooped lower and lower as the hot days continued. It was Sunday afternoon and she’d been trying to figure out how to gather these plums since Saturday morning. The ripe plums were too high for either of us to reach even with a rake. She dragged a chair out to stand on, but it wasn’t working.
I watched her size up her prize. Everything she tried was some form of poking or shaking. “She’s such a girl,” I thought to myself, “I’d throw stuff at them.” I went out in the yard Saturday afternoon to watch but she shooed me away. She didn’t want any help. I liked that about her. Her whole plum obsession, and the way she tackled it, turned me on. I waited for her. I wanted her to get those plums and come back inside. I was wet thinking about it. I had prepared for it.
Eventually she climbed the fucking tree. She came inside, grabbed her sneakers and ran out. She stepped on her wobbly chair and jumped up to grab onto a branch. She held on tight to that branch and somehow ran up the tree with her feet and swung a leg over. It was like watching a cartoon. Sometimes she doesn’t make sense in real life. I saw her do this and yet, I can’t remember it without it seeming impossible.
She shook down a load of plums. She filled our biggest metal bowl with them. They were beautiful. Some of them were so ripe the skin burst open in a thin crack. We washed them all. She set aside half for jam.
I walked up behind her as she placed each remaining plum in her favorite serving bowl. I was waiting. When she put the last one on top, I grabbed the back of her neck and pushed her forward, circling her with one arm to bend her at the waist. She pulled the bowl off to her side and I took it and set it tenderly on the floor.
I pushed her to the floor next to it, onto her knees. I kneeled in front of her, “Undo my shirt,” I said. She slowly unhooked each button without any fuss. At the last button, she put her fingertips on my stomach and slid her hands up my chest, pushing my shirt back on my shouldrers. It hung on me, her fingers smoothing my skin under the fabric and teasing my nipples.
I was the one making demands, but she was the one with the stern look. I was already panting, my chest heaving with anticipation. She slowed me down with her look. I stared at her. I got all the way down on the floor, on my back with my shirt hanging open now and I could feel the cold kitchen tiles on the small of my back. She threw one leg over me and sat on my hips. Her hands went straight to my belt but I grabbed her wrists and looked at the bowl. “Eat one,” I said, “Lean over me.”
She pet the mound of plumbs in the bowl before choosing one. The skin was nearly black and the fruit dimpled where her fingers touched it. She pressed her pussy against my clit as she leaned deep over me and took a bite. I had imagined the visual and the dripping, but not the sound. It was a noisy bite. She sucked on the pulp and the sound skidded towards me just as the juice hit my chest. A sticky, wet drop hit my collar bones.
After a few more bites, the droplets formed a trail and found their way under my armpits, into the mass of hair there. This was what I had pictured. My chest all sticky, the ripe smell, her wet mouth above me, dripping onto me. She finished one plum and I told her to eat another. She lay the first pit low on my belly.
She rolled the next one between her palms before she bit. She softened it up, bruising the ripe flesh under the dark purple skin. It squirted onto my cheek when her teeth sank in. A dark, red line ran down the inside of her wrist and dripped off onto my breast. She paused to run one finger through the darker line of juice. The color of this juice was so much darker than the first plum. She mingled the two different juices together, stirring with her fingertip. I opened my mouth and she stuck her finger in. It was my first taste of plum this season. Delicious. A second pit was set gently on my belly.
"Another," I said. She looked at the bowl. She stretched her arm long to open the knife drawer and pulled out our little, curved paring knife. This was my favorite knife to use. The blade was a tiny 2 1/2 inches. It had a light wooden handle. And I always thought the blade looked like a crooked finger. She held the plum between my breasts and slid the knife through it. She twisted the plum onto the knife, rolling it in her hands until the cut circled the whole plum. She adjusted the plum and made another cut not far from the first, again, spinning the fruit against the knife.
The juice squeezed out onto me and ran down my neck. She made close cuts like this again and again, more than a dozen times. The pulp disintegrated with all the cuts. The juice covered my neck now and I even felt some stream down behind my ears. She slid the curved, sharp side of the blade next to my nipple and I sucked in my breath. She traced my widest rib with the tip of the blade. I looked at her. I thought she might do more, but she held the blade to my lips. I licked it for her and then she set it down.
"Take off your pants," I told her. She stood up and started to pull off her t-shirt, "Just your pants," I said. She looked over her shoulder at me, a bit startled. I stood up behind her.
I put my hand on her ass just above her hip and guided her towards the kitchen table. She saw the rope sitting on it. I pressed up against her ass and pressed her into the edge of the table. I ran my fingers up her neck, into her hair and applied a slow pressure pushing her down until her cheek was against the table top. She stiffened against my pressure as I pushed, but when her face touched the table, she went limp.
I slid her shirt up her back all the way to her shoulders. I pushed my palms into her shoulder blades and ran them flat down her arms to her wrists before pulling her arms up and out to the side.
"Stay like this," I said and grabbed the rope. I crouched under the table and tied her wrists with the rope running under the table and around the middle post between them. She was pulled against the table and secured. I stood up to look at her. Her ass was naked, facing me. Her legs spread open a little and her knees slightly bent so that her belly touched the table. Her soft pink t-shirt was rolled up and bunched under her armpits and across her shoulders. Her spine sank deep and carved a valley down her back. I loved this back.
I grabbed the cock, it was thick and clear glass and with an especially large head. Glass is unforgiving. This cock is the same size as one of her favorite silicone cocks, but she says it feels nearly twice as big since it’s all hard and smooth.
I sit next to her, in front of her face with the lube in one hand and the cock in the other. First I kiss her. I lay my head sideways on the table in front of her face and kiss her softly. Her lips are juicy and sweet. I lick them. She stares into my eyes. When she closes them, I stand up and slip the cock into the harness under my pants. It’s heavy and pulls down on my open fly. I hold it in one hand and squirt lube on it with the other.
My cock is slicked up and my chest and belly are shiny and wet with red streaks from the plums. I bend over her and rub the cock between her legs. I push my belly onto her low back. Our skin sticks together slightly. I rub my chest on her.
I push my hips, gliding my cock against her pussy a few times before I drop to my knees behind her. I watch my fingers open her lips. I tilt my head back and reach my tongue long to taste her. I poke my tongue along the edges of her hole and feel it open and drip. I want her so wet. I pool the lube in the palm of one hand and rub it into her. She moves against me. I slide my thumb inside her and curl my fingers up around her clit. I watch my thumb move in and out of her. I hook it to press against her, inside.
More lube in my other hand. I slick my cock up again. I just press it up against her over and over again, rubbing it across the back of my thumb that’s moving inside her. I feel her cunt open up around me and it makes me moan before she does. I lean down and nibble her upper arms and ribs. Her back, her ass, my belly, my breasts are all sticky and our skin pulls as I rub against her. My hips are thrusting more steadily but my cock is still waiting to fuck her.
When I pull my thumb out of her pussy she moans loudly. More a howl than a moan; it’s a sharp call. And I stand up to watch as I push my cock quickly into her. And this is this moment when her ass tilts sharply up towards me and she pulls to take me in deep. The way she fucks, it’s like she sucks me inside of her and I’m struggling to pull out. It’s not every time, but when we surprise each other, it always feels this way like the motions are in reverse somehow. Like now. I feel her drawing me in and I focus on pulling out. Over and over. The way it feels when you use a bicycle pump. You feel the suction and the pressure of it.
I grip the sides of the table. Every thrust pushes a grunt, “Unh,” out of her. She’s so relaxed that the rocking motion against table forces air out of her lungs. Her eyes are closed. Her lips are open. She’s let herself drool onto the table. She looks like she’s passed out beneath me except for the tight muscles I see in her forearms, and the bones stretching across the backs of her hands as she grips the table tightly. I love how she can relax her body and let all this take her over.
I reach around and put two fingers on either side of her clit and rub her back and forth between them. I feel a rhythm form between my cock and my fingers. I pulse against her clit. Sometimes the rhythm absorbs my focus and I feel her like music. Her sounds, the beats, the slapping rhythm. I listen to it all so closely and follow it somewhere.
I reach long and hold the back of her neck and feel her skin. I keep my fingers straight and push up against the base of her skull. I rock against her bones lightly with my fingertips mimicking the motion in my hips.
I’m staring down at her. I watch her lift her eyebrows. She gets louder. Her ass is shaking. She is moving it as much as she can pushing and pulling me. This is where time slows. Each moment splits and divides and tricks me into thinking this will never end until she explodes beneath me and time jerks back to normal like when you step off a moving sidewalk with a bump.
I pull out and drop my chest down against her back. I reach low down the back of her thighs. I rest my head low on her back and wrap my arms down around her legs and draw my hands up her inner thighs. But she’s tired now. I want to untie her and kiss her. “Wait just a moment longer,” I say. I go back into the kitchen and come back with the tin of flour. I open it up and sprinkle it on her back and shoulders, I dust her ass with it.
After I untie her, when she stands, I lightly rub my hands across her back letting the flour dust off that’s not stuck in the sticky mess of juice. A pattern emerges. The marks I’ve left. Where I’ve rubbed against her is coated white. I take a picture of it to keep before I pull her to me, belly to belly, chest to chest, and we kiss.
I follow her up the stairs and she draws a bath for us. I watch the flour on her ass dissolve as she sinks into the water with me. “I wanted to mark you,” I said, “I needed to see you were mine.” I cupped my hands to scoop up water and poured it down her back watching the mess wash away. I thought back to my childhood and my grandfather’s farm. The bull with the chalk strapped to its belly, marking the cows as he fucked them. I got a sick feeling in my stomach. That’s not me, I thought. “What?” she said. I don’t think I’d said anything out loud, but maybe I did. “That’s not me,” I said, “I don’t want to mark you like that.”
She looked over her shoulder at me and smiled for a long time. “Yes you do,” she said, “You can want that.”