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

Bound for Mexico

I’m like a teenage boy tonight. If she touches it, I’ll explode. Come all over her fingers. In my pants. I can’t keep still. My thighs shifting. Opening. Lifting my ass off this folding chair and sitting back down, adjusted. 

Keep an eye on her fingers. Let her see you blush. Let her catch you looking. Looking at her. Her mouth. Her neck. Her tits. The hem of her skirt. Her boots. Your thighs. The buttons of your shirt. Your belt. Your own crawling, clawing fingers.

"Baby," I want to say, but she’s not my baby. "Hey," I say, thinking that maybe I can keep her talking a minute or two longer. Maybe there’s something more to say. Something more she wants to hear. Something that will make her smile a little and look down. Make her think about it.

My ass is sore from sitting on this metal chair. People were yawning and nodding off all around us. I was nervous. Picking at the stitching on my jeans. Scratching the back of my head. Craning my neck a little lower just to see how her shirt pulled between the buttons across her tits. “Jesus,” I thought, this woman looks so fucking good. She caught me staring at her all night. I saw her smile and blush. I felt the energy of it jump around inside me. Boost my swagger. 

"Hey," I said, "Come on, let’s get out of here." She looked over her shoulder like there was someone who needed to give permission, then turned around with a smile that looked good on her and said, "Sure." We nodded at each other, scraping our chairs loudly against the linoleum as we stood up. 

Outside, I smoked a cigarette and she wrinkled up her nose at the drifting smoke. Not what I expected. The night was cool. She talked about Mexico. Wanted to know if I’d been. I hadn’t. Wanted to tell me about it. Why she loves it. We talked about all the people who go but never see Mexico. People who go and stay at some fancy spa with salt water pools and breezy drapes and generically fancy meals. “Why the fuck do I want to travel all that way to stay in some nondescript hotel?” I shook my head. “People are stupid,” she said. “Fucking idiots,” I agreed.

We didn’t have much to say after Mexico. My fingers were fumbling for a place to land. In and out of my pockets. Touching my lighter. Feeling the wadded up bits of paper and change. We looked in every window that we passed, indiscriminately. The cleaners. The eyeglass place. An empty shell of what was a decent bar once. The coffee shop was still open. Two americanos. She sat with me outside on a bench, leaning a little against my shoulder as we watched people walk by. It felt okay. Quiet and peaceful. Like we knew each other better than we did. 

I slid my arm over her shoulder and she gave me a funny look. “I don’t know,” I said, smiling shrugging, like I was trying to figure something out, “I like you.” She smiled at me, “Yeah,” she said, “Me too.” I kissed her then. I kissed her soft. I rested my fingers lightly on her knee, letting them slip just between her legs a little. She touched my cheek. She ran her fingers from my neck up the back of my head, through my hair, and gripped my head. Electric. The fuzzed out thick cords of energy shot through my arms and legs. I needed her hand on me. 

I grabbed her wrist and pulled her off the bench. “We gotta go,” I said and led the way to my little apartment a few blocks away. I had to battle with my bike inside the door - shoving it halfway into my closet to give us room to move. “Damn,” I said and squeezed her knuckles. I kissed her up against the bathroom door and tugged at her hand. “I want it so bad,” I whispered. 

We weren’t drunk. Not even tipsy. Buzzed a little, I guess, from meeting someone new, the night air, the coffee. But it’s not as easy like this. It’s not sloppy like when your drunk and just slip into it, wondering later who started something. This was clear. I started it. And she was right there with me.

She tensed against my grabbing hands. Her arm jerking upwards as I tried to push her hand between my legs, my eyes pleading with her. She smiled with a playful look, her tongue on her teeth, as she jerked her hand out of my grip. I circled her waist with a quick grip and slapped her forearm, seeing the sting of it in her scowl for a split second. We struggled for a minute. She slapped my hands away several times before I had her wrist tight in my fingers again. She laughed from deep in her throat. “I want it,” I said, and felt my muscles strain to shove her hand between my legs. I had to hold it there, rubbing her closed fist against me. I felt myself twitch and throb. 

I had to hold on tight. She bucked. I felt my neck get hot and wet with sweat. My chest, my back, my thighs burning with a stiff tension. I held her tight around her middle and flipped the both of us around so her back was up against the door. Now I could lean into her. Get the heels of my boots up off the ground and drive myself hard against her. I held onto the closed doorknob to keep from being pushed away. I felt her heart pound. I smashed my mouth against hers and let go long enough to move my hands around to her ass, pulling her harder against me. “Come on,” I groaned, my spit hitting her lips.

I pulled us harder against each other. I gripped her thigh between mine and dragged myself up and down. “Feel me,” I said, “I want you to touch it.” My voice shook. I gave myself away. She touched me, lightly, on the small of my back. “I like this,” she said and grabbed my hips, “Come on.” She pulled me harder up and down against her thigh. She moaned and coo’d her encouragement. I tensed up, sweating through my clothes, breathing hot and hard. “Damn it,” I said, jerking my head and slapped the palms of my hands against the door. The boom shook us. I grabbed her face and pulled her over to the bed. I sat down and patted the mattress beside me, “Sit.”

Leaning back on my arms, I let my knees fall wide and looked at her. I looked at her hands. Looked at my jeans. “I want you to touch it,” I said, shifting my hips. 

She leaned against me and started slow with her hand just above my knee. She pet me, squeezed my leg, rubbed her hand harder and harder up and down my thigh. She stroked me with her fingers, just inside my thighs, until I thought I was going to pass out. “Please,” I whimpered and her fingers traced the seam of my jeans right up and over my clit. The ripples shot through me as her nails dragged between my legs, catching on the thick denim. She teased me like this until I felt dizzy and closed my eyes, breathing deep.

She slid my belt buckle open and pulled my belt off slowly, making the leather hiss through the loops. Her hand slid under my jeans after she took her time unbuttoning my fly. Her fingers rested for a moment on my soaked briefs before pushing them aside and running her fingers on either side of my stiffening cock. Wet and hard. I felt it grow between her knuckles. She tugged and pulled. “You’re getting so big,” she whispered and stroked me in a slow, lazy fashion. 

I sat leaning back on my arms and watched her wrist bend with each pull. I stared as the base of her thumb circled and slid in and out of my pants. Up and down. Teasing me bigger. So swollen. So hot.

She heard my breath change. She heard where I was and put her head against my chest. “I want you to come in my hand like this,” she said, “Let me see it.” Her head bent further down, resting against my stomach. “Come right here,” she said, “Come in my face like this,” and moved herself between my legs, letting me see her cheek, the hair falling over her eyes, her parted lips. My hips jerked up again and again. She pulled so hard on my clit. I lifted my ass for a second to pull my pants down to my thighs and crashed back down, jerking hard into her hand. Watching her stroke me. Feeling that rush.

I came so hard. I came in slow, lengthy, shuddering waves. Coming and coming in a way I didn’t recognize. She kept stroking me and it felt so damn good. I held her hand against me until I stilled. She kissed my wet inner thigh. We flopped back on the bed and I tried to roll over on top of her but she hushed me with a “There there now, sweet boy.” “Save it for next time,” she said and kissed my neck with her fingers on my shirt buttons. I lay there feeling her scratch at my chest, taking her in.

“Hey,” I said, “We should go to Mexico.” She looked up at me. She laughed and bit my rib, “What?” “Yeah, I don’t know,” I said, “It sounds like fun though.”

What I Want

She likes to see what comes over me. How it hits me. I can do anything. “I can do whatever I want to you,” I say. She nods.

This isn’t my thought. It’s hers. She tells me all the time. She whispers it when I grab her hips, “You can do whatever you want to me, you know.” She says it when she grabs my thighs and lowers herself between my knees to the floor, her fingers moving to my belt. “What do you want me to do?” she asks, “I’ll do whatever you want.” 

I’m silent. Mostly silent. I stare at her. My mouth hangs open. I caress her face, running my fingers along her jaw. I pull her towards me. 

I loop the rope around her wrists. I want her arms above her head. I want her on her back with her knees bent. I want her to watch me. I straddle her chest and unbutton my pants. My belt hangs open next to her cheek. She watches my hand. I start to sweat. My cunt tightens and relaxes. I’m thinking about her. I’m thinking how wet she’s getting. Thinking about what her pussy will feel like when I reach back between her legs and rub her panties. I feel my fingers on my own swollen clit. One hand reaches behind me between her legs. I ride her, leaned back against her thighs, and get myself off, listening to her whimper and moan underneath me.

I like her in my hands. Under my fingers. When I jack off on top of her, I like to feel her tits smashed underneath my chest. I like to feel her belly, soft and slick with sweat. I reach my arm up to her hands. My fingers scratch at the rope around her wrists. “Stay put,” I whisper, “I like it when you stay put.” I pull my pants down lower and lift her skirt. I push my thighs between hers and smile at how slippery we are. Wet with sweat. I slide inside her open hips and let her feel the back of my hand between her legs. “Baby,” I whisper. I can’t come again. I know it’s useless. But I ride her hard. Trying. Desperate. 

When I give up, eventually, I sit up and stare at her. One hand feeling around the edges of her panties. One hand crawling over her chin. I push my fingers inside her. Fingers everywhere I can fit them. Fingers in her mouth. Fingers under the elastic that circles her hip. I’m inside her pussy. Wet. Dragging the wetness between her lips. Finding her clit. Feeling it swell.  Watching her belly quiver as she sucks in her breath. Pulling spit covered fingers out of her mouth and across her neck. 

My lips touch her knee. My teeth pull against her skin. I can do anything and I choose this, my fingers, everywhere.


Someone’s singing. Somewhere in the background there is singing. Do you hear it? Sometimes I hear it. Like now.

I’m walking down the sidewalk. Stepped off the bus maybe ten minutes ago. Walking hard. My heels ache. My boots feel tight. My jeans grip my ass just right. My thighs feel hard and clenched. I beat my fist on my hip bone as I walk. I feel my joints, my bones. I cut through these city streets, hard and sharp.

Earlier, in my apartment, I opened all the windows. My hands shook. There are nights when you are so fucking close to losing everything. When you know it. You see how you nearly blew it. There are nights when you look back and know that you were lost. Nights when you thank god she’s been through enough to tell you the truth. 


Shaking, I splashed cold water on my face.

Shaking, I poured myself a drink.

Shaking, I stood at the window and felt the breeze on my skin. 

Where does this story begin?

I mouth the words to a song playing in the background. I run my fingers over my chest. I touch the wiry hairs on my upper lip. I slide my fingers over my mouth and turn around to open my dresser.

I feel broken. I feel so wrong.

What I need is to walk.

I get dressed. Slowly. Articulating each infinitessimal moment and breaking it apart. The tight waistband on my underwear biting into my soft belly. The lift and sag of my jeans on my hips. Here’s the tight, ribbed tank top that rubs my nipples when I shift to look over my shoulder. Here’s the soft cotton shirt.

Run my fingers through my hair. Walk to the bus. Anonymous. Shoot through the veins of the city. Put my hand against the cold window. See my reflection scratched with graffiti. Listen to the whispers, the laughter, the drunken mumbling.

I spread my knees wide in the curved plastic seat. I look down at the bulge in my pants. The balled up pair of socks I shoved into place. Like old times. I’m standing in my childhood bedroom in front of the mirror staring at myself, rubbing my cock. I rest my hand loosely against the bulge between my legs. I crook my index finger and press against it. I feel the blood rush into my face and down my neck. My red cheeks betray me. Where am I? When will I get to her?

Out on the sidewalk, walking to her place, my mind is blank. This is what I need. Energy. A rush of lust. Get me inside the door, inside her shirt, behind her teeth. I use my key. I back her up against the wall. My tongue in her mouth. My hand on her neck. I search her body with my fingers. I bend my knees and press my thighs into her. I find her ass and pull her to me. We’ve already fucked. When it feels like this - it’s over before it starts. We’ve fucked and I need more. Always more.

Tie me to the kitchen chair and still I’ll fuck you. I’ll fuck you with my hands tied behind my back. I’ll fuck you with my hips thrust high and my tongue reaching deep inside you. Draw me out.

This is my hymn. I hear it softly in the background. Muddled words with the clearest meaning. This is what I need. This is what I walk towards. What I desire. What I will break down for. This is where I’m stripped bare. 

I have her pressed against the mirror on the back of her bathroom door. I pull her dress down over her shoulders. I pull her bra down, exposing her tits. I am angry. Full of spit. “This is how you like me best,” I say and grab her face to nod her head for her, “This is how I like me, too.” I pull her hand down my chest, down to the bulge in my pants, “Here,” I say, “Feel me.”

I pull her to me. Smashing my body against her. “Do you need proof?” I asked, biting into her ear, “Do I?”

I push the palms of my hands against her shoulders and drag them, burning, to her tits. “I need to hurt you, maybe,” I whisper, starting to cry a little. I feel her hair brush against my forehead as she nods her head. The room spins. Gravity shifts for me, as if pressing her against this door is really pressing her flat against the floor. I slide one leg out a few inches behind me and press my knee between her legs. I spread the fingers of my left hand wide and shove her face to the side. I slap her tits. Hard. 

"Is someone singing?" I hear myself ask. She doesn’t answer. I hear the sweet voice reverberating in the room around us. Big. Grand. Shaking the furniture. I clench my teeth against it. Sweating. Still swinging my arm and hitting her. Red welts. Wondering how black her tits will be later and for how long. I feel her lips under my hand. Drool on my wrist. I need her down. Down on the ground. 

We fall on our knees to the cool, tiled floor. Ripping her tights. Lifting her skirt. Pushing her face into the damp towel that fell off the hook. “Feel this,” I say and climb on top of her, rubbing the sock in my pants. My cock. Rubbing. Humping her like a runaway. Dirty with sweat and tears. Clean with anger. Balled up and combustible. “Fuck,” I hear myself say. My voice echoes off the porcelain tub. I hold her down. One hand still covering her face, one above her elbow. I need to come like this. Hard and desperate. Rubbing against her. 

I’m shaking when I feel her free hand wrap around my head, her fingers digging into my scalp. I feel her lips against my ear. “You know what I like, baby,” she says, pulling everything out of me, “You know I like it dirty like this.”

"Yes," I say. "Yes," I repeat. Again and again. "Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes."


Someone’s singing it. Somewhere. Someone’s praying - however they do it. Someone’s lost. Someone’s taking the bus. That ride. Walking that walk. Someone’s figuring it all out. Seeing everything so clearly. Feeling like they know what to do now. Where to go. Who they are. 

Shove your hand into your pants, boy. Pull on that cock. Smell what happens to you. Dig your nose into the soured sheets. Open your mouth. Squeeze your eyes tight before you come and then open them new. It’s cold and it’s broken. It’s yours. It’s right here. 

Rub It Harder

We fucked a lot. Especially in the early days. We fucked every day we saw each other. Sometimes more than once a day. “I like to fuck,” I told her. She just smiled. We were a good match. She challenged everything I’d known up to that point. Everything I’d known about myself, thought I’d known. Turns out I hadn’t figured out as much as I thought I had.

I was stone. Or nearly stone. Very rarely could I let some girl touch me down there. I didn’t quite know what to call it. I hated the word pussy for myself. I couldn’t say cunt. Dick sounded too much like pretending. Cock had the same problem. And the moment some girl said one of those words, I closed up. I left the building emotionally, physically. Everything broke down. I wasn’t one or the other. I was a little lost. This is me. Not you. Everyone goes through there own thing.

With her, somehow, I opened. 

I remember the first time she fucked me. We hadn’t been together for that long. A few weeks maybe. I was in her bed. We were making out. My hand was under her shirt. The kiss felt so incredible, I didn’t want anything else. We kissed for a long time, my fingers rubbing her tits and my leg resting lightly between her thighs. She pushed me onto my back and started to unbutton my shirt. I opened my mouth to say something but she gave me this look that burned my cheeks. She looked me up and down, her mouth hanging open. I felt everything shift even before she spoke. 

"Are you getting hard?" she asked, taunting me, "Don’t worry, I know you can’t help it." I nodded. I grabbed at my jeans and felt between my legs for it. She followed my hand with her eyes, nodding. "That’s right," she said, "You want to show me what you’ve got?" I grunted, unable to speak. She sat up on her knees and stared down at my hand on my fly. She pet my knuckles, smiling, before knocking my hand away. "Let’s see," she said and started rubbing my jeans. Her hand moved in long strokes. Her fingers grabbed and kneaded me. She pulled. "Are you a big boy?" she laughed, "I won’t suck you off until you’re as big as you can get." 

I pulled myself up on my elbows, mesmerized by the motions of her hand on my prick. I saw us. Teenagers in a corner. In a school hallway on prom night. An abandoned chemistry lab in the dark. Behind the bleachers. The back seat of a car. I pawed through different scenarios in my mind. Where am I? Where are we? I flipped through the images like I was selecting the next song on a jukebox. A couch. My childhood home. Late at night. “We need to be quiet,” I said and she cocked her head, tuning in to me. “Okay, sweetheart,” she said, “Whatever you say.” She paused, staring at me, and then stopped rubbing me. She looked hard at my hand and nodded her head. I slowly dragged my hand down and took over rubbing myself. “Yeah, baby,” she said and started to undo my belt, “Show me how big you can get.”

She took her time unbuttoning my jeans. I rubbed. I pulled. Watching her fingers move. My jeans hung open. Her fingers scratched at the elastic band on my briefs. She smiled. Paused. Her fingers crawled up under my shirt, clawing at my skin. Buttons under her fingers again. My shirt. She started at the last button and worked her way up. One finger traced the edges of my tank top. I sucked in my breath and arched my back, realizing that the look on my face was probably more shocked than turned on. She stayed with me. My eyes were locked on her. I rubbed at my jeans, pulling on my cock. Quiet breathing. Her whispers, “I want you as stiff as you can get.” I rubbed harder. “That’s right,” she said with her lips against my ear, “That’s so good.”

I started to slide my hand into my jeans but she grabbed my wrist. “No, baby,” she signed, “You don’t understand. That’s mine.” I felt tears well up in my eyes. There was no stopping. I felt my cock so hard in my jeans it made me wince. “I need you to take it out,” I said, my voice barely audible, a hoarse whisper, “I need you to rub it harder.” She smiled at me. Smiled down at my wet, red face. “Oh, you’re so good,” she squealed and lay down beside me before sliding her hand between my jeans and my briefs. She slid her fingers on either side of my clit with the cotton of my shorts between her fingers and me. I felt hard. So hard. I gasped to feel the pressure of her fingers against me. Someone other than me making me feel it. Everything undone. I felt big. Giant. “Oh, baby,” she said, “You feel so good.”

She whispered into my ear as she stroked me. “Do you shake just before you get off? Do you quiver? I feel something. Wet. Did you come a little in your pants? I want you to come in my hand like this. I want you to come all over my fingers.” She slid her hand inside my underwear. I held my breath as her fingers slid over my clit and pushed inside me. I felt my cunt open up for her. And then everything shifted. “I want to be inside you,” I said. She slid one leg over me and straddled my hips, her fingers still thrusting into me. “Like this?” she said, lifting her skirt. I put my hands on her thighs and pushed my hips up against her. My chest flushed. My breath tightened and then I let go, relaxed, and closed my eyes. I felt myself inside her. Fucking her. My cock hard, straining. Her pussy gripping me. “Let me in deep,” I said. We rocked against each other like this while I stared at her. Quiet. Somehow furious. I felt myself inside her. Filling her. I nearly came but she pulled away and put a finger on my lips. “Wait,” she said.

She slid off of my hips. Slid down and leaned forward until her face was between my thighs. She pulled my jeans and shorts down and started fucking me harder. “You’re so good to me,” she said, “Giving me what I want like this.” I pulled a pillow under my head so I could look at her. “You like this?” I asked, my voice came out cracked and halting. She just nodded and stared at me. I watched her arm move. I felt the pounding feeling. I listened to the sound of us fucking. Her fucking me. Me fucking her. Everything spun and smashed together. “I want you to come in my face,” she said and left her mouth hanging open. My hips jerked towards her over and over again. I heard myself yelling. I heard her reminding me to be quiet. I left the fantasy. The couch. The boy. The girl. The quiet house. I was right there on her bed. Legs spread. Getting fucked. About to come in her face. “FUCK,” I yelled. Surprising myself. Making her laugh. “Fuck,” I breathed, spent, buckled over.

She kissed my clit. I jerked in surprise. She kissed my thighs, my hip bones. She kissed her way up my chest, stopping to suck on my neck. I looked at her. Dismayed. Dismantled. I kissed her mouth. Soft at first, then sucking hard on her lips. I held her face in my hands. I held her tight and told her everything.


[Femme on femme for a reader request. I started this story a long time ago for a friend who requested it and finally finished it after a reader requested an ‘ode to femme sexuality’.]

I’m a girl who likes a good butch. I like the dark, oiled looking jeans. The wide cuff. Freshly shined boots. A crisp button down over her softest t-shirt. I like her cap pulled low. Her muscled arms. I like that darting look behind her eyes and the grin that she mostly tries to hide. I like her strut. How she opens my car door and leans in for a kiss. These are the girls that make me swoon. Most of the time. Maybe it’s because they’re so visible. I see them. Even when they pass as boys, I see them. Always. Even though almost never see me. I have to fall into their laps before they see me. I have to stare and flutter and let my lower lip fall open. I have to look them up and down. I have to make them blush. And even then, they never make the first move. These butches. So hard, they can’t crack. So hard, they’re scared. I love them all. Most of the time.

I was having one of those days where I wake up and just roll over to fall back asleep again. The room gets too warm as the sun comes up and still I’m in bed. Hot. Getting a headache because I need my coffee. Pulling the covers up over my head. I need to move. I’m feeling slow. I stare at the orchid on my bookshelf and slide my toes out from under the covers. My hands run over my breasts, my belly, between my thighs. So wet under the hot blanket, I’m so hot and wet and sleepy. It feels good. I feel good. My fingers frenzied, following my thoughts wherever they lead.

I don’t seek anyone’s approval. Not yours. Not anyone’s. This has taken me a long time. I seek myself. I dig my heels into the mattress when I come, lifted up on shaking thighs. I cry out to the air around me, my room, my books, my dresses hanging crookedly in the closet, the piles of shoes. I fuck myself and yell out to the plastered walls of my tiny room.

I finally got up and decided to go shopping. A day away by myself. I wanted to finger rows of clothes on the rack, a blur of colors, texture. Flip them one by one. I’m not even looking. I know why I’m here. I know why I came. I keep my eye on the makeup counter. The makeup artists always catch my breath. Beautiful women leaning in close, holding other women’s faces. I watch this woman working, gripping a customer’s shoulder and running a thumb against her cheek. It looks so intimate. I stare at them long enough to feel my pussy get wet and heavy with an overwhelming want. My heart races. I close my eyes and feel the brush on my own skin. I smell the powder with the names that make me quiver deep down low. The sexy, absurd names of make up. Sin. Torrid. Gilda. Deep Throat. I like to wear these colors and turn the name over in my mind as my date stares at me, compliments me. “Deep Throat,” I think, “that’s what I’m wearing.” It gets me wet. I want to suck her cock. This powder on my cheeks, the bulge in her pants, the dirty appeal.

My head feels dizzy. I wander through rack after rack of clothes. I touch everything. I grab selection of things to take to the dressing room, but I don’t try anything on. I rub my fingers on the fabric. I circle buttons with my thumb. Holding a stiff pair of jeans, I run my fingernail across the zipper and pinch the thick seam running down the inner thigh between my thumb and forefinger, pulling it slowly, feeling its rough tug on my fingertips. I take off my top and bra and pull a thick, cotton shirt across my nipples. My reflection in the mirror catches me off guard and I blush, staring into my own eyes. I watch myself get turned on and it makes me feel dirty. Perfect. I smile and see the look that always made my ex blush. She told me how I get this look and she knows to pay the bill, get to the car, or meet me in the bathroom. This look on my face that told her to rub her cock up against my ass, reach around and inch my skirt up, bury her face in my neck, my tits, press her open mouth against mine. I’m seeing it now. I’m rubbing my thighs and leaning back against the door when the sales girl suddenly checks on me, “How’s it going in there? Can I bring you anything?” I try to sound calm when I send her away, but I’m out of breath, burning inside on this day that I started so lazy and warm under the covers. This day when I stayed in bed too long. This day. This day, I want to feel my own softness.

I touch all the clothes. I shut my eyes and feel the thin, ribbed cotton of a sweater on the softest flesh of my breasts. I lift one arm and let the fabric fall over my shoulder. I do this with each piece. Different textures pulled across my skin. I want to explode. In a rush, I put all the clothes back on their hangers, turn to face myself in the mirror, and unzip my skirt. I slip my hand under the seam of my panties and shudder at how soft and wet my pussy feels. I stand there with my legs open. My fingers slide against my wet lips and push inside my pussy. I look at my open mouth and my heavy eyes. I watch my cheeks blush red. I squeeze my nipples and rub my tits. Everything feels heavy and swollen. My tongue, thick in my mouth, feels lonely. I can smell the sex of this solo fuck in the dressing room. I smell my own pussy. I bring my wet fingers up to my face and inhale. I lick the tip of my finger. I want to fuck someone. I want someone to fuck.

Back in the store, I wander near the makeup counter again. I circle, getting closer. Thinking about how it will be. She’ll lean in close to look at my skin in a way I never experience anywhere else. The way a lover might stare at me when I’m sleeping. No one stares like this. It’s impersonal but so intimate, so close. I walk over and touch the lipsticks in their plastic display. One, two, three. Counting as I tap them. Waiting. Patient. She’s behind me, watching. “Do you know what you’re looking for?” she asks me. I smile. I do. I know. I turn to her with a puzzled look on my face. I’m a pouting girl. “I can’t decide,” I answer, “What do you think?” I pick up a hideous orange color. She frowns, “Let me show you.”

I sit down in her chair. I’m ready for this. I smell her minty gum as she leans over me, her face so close to mine. I catch my breath and force myself to stare right at her instead of demurely lowering my eyes like I normally do. She talks to me about color, foundation, powder. She talks about my skin, my eyes. She’s smiling as she talks, as she works. She’s working. Just working. I sit there squirming in my chair while she her fingers glide across my skin, massaging my brow, brushing color onto my cheeks, tinting my lips. She smiles at me. “So beautiful,” she says, “a timeless beauty.” It comes out canned, but somehow I still feel desired. I’m lost in my own idea of what this is between us. She didn’t know what I was taking from her. This false energy. The buzz. All afternoon, the intoxicating closeness of her beautiful face and her clean smell and soft fingers will swirl around me. 

When she’s done, I look at myself. I’m glowing. I’m beautiful. I walk away with my hips swaying, my ass calling out to anyone who wants to see. I decide to take myself out for an afternoon glass of wine at one of my favorite little spots. A dark place with shiny caramel colored wood and leather chairs. Everything glows in a reddish, golden light.

Inside, in the dark warmth, I ordered a heavy red cabernet with a velvety finish. I squeezed my thighs together under the table as I sit there. I drank in gulps to feel the dizzy warm glow come fast and spread inside me. I smiled at my hands. My fingers on the thin glass. I rubbed the worn wood on the table top. Everything felt sensuous. I felt like a woman on fire. The dirty nymphomaniac in an old black and white movie whose fingers crawl, searching out sex. I wanted to scream. I needed fresh air.

I stepped out into the bright sun, forgetting it was still daylight. Wanting to be shaded and cooled by the late afternoon but feeling the sweat between my breasts before I’d gone half a block. My mood was just about to sour when I saw her. I yelled and waved. Undignified. A little drunk. Laughing. 

We were old friends from our days in Portland. We used to run into each other all the time in vintage shops and bonded over our lamentably small closets that simply weren’t able to hold all our dresses respectfully. Eventually we shared an apartment, compounding the problem. We’d always been fond of the same things. Vintage dresses, butch girls in glasses, booze, books, blow jobs. I loved living with her. We’d sit on the couch with a decent bottle of wine and let it grow dark around us. We shared our techniques for giving blow jobs. “Slutty cocksucker,” we called each other, laughing, enjoying each other’s stories. We would talk about the last time or the first time or that time in the back of a club or that time I don’t like to remember or those times she wishes she could forget. She talked about how she twists her palm and brings the heel of her hand to the underside of the shaft and presses in and up. Silicone cock only. I don’t suck real dicks. Or plastic. I loved talking with her about sucking butches off. And getting fucked. It was almost as much fun as sucking cock and getting fucked itself. There were times when I was in the middle of a really great fuck and I’d smile to think how I’d tell her about it later. That’s just how it is sometimes. Some fuck you’ll never see again, but a great story you’ll have forever. We each had our epic stories, the ones we told more than once, the ones we liked to remember. Sometimes I’ll remember one of our stories and for a minute I don’t know if it’s hers or mine. 

I was so happy to see her. We went back to the bar and ordered wine, drinking too quickly. She was in a hurry, she told me. I hadn’t eaten enough and felt my drunk buzz shift to something more sloppy. My apartment was a brief walk away so we headed there after one drink. She went straight to the kitchen to make us something simple to eat. She always cooked for us. It had been too long since we’d been together. I got sentimental, almost teary. “I’ve missed you,” I lamented. She turned around and smiled, “You’re drunk.” “It doesn’t matter,” I said, laughing, “It’s still true.”

I watched her bend over to get a pot for the stove and felt my clit suddenly hot and swollen. I wanted to fuck her and didn’t even stop to think. I surprised her at the stove, grabbing her thighs. She laughed and gasped in this silly, dramatic way and slapped my hands away but I turned her around to face me and slowly kissed her. She didn’t pull away. We stood there making out by the stove. She still had the small pot in her hand. I smiled and took it from her, setting it on the stove. She had a surprised look on her face. A half smile. I’m pretty sure I had the same look.

"I love your dress," I said, sliding my hand under the hem, pushing it up to her waist. “What are you doing?" she asked me, shaking her head and laughing. “I just want to fuck you right here in my kitchen," I said and she shut up, letting me kiss her again. “I’ve got plans," she whined. I grabbed the kitchen timer and handed it to her, “Set it." She set the alarm for 20 minutes, placed it back on the counter, and then leaned forward onto the butcher block and held on. I lifted her dress and slip, exposing her ass to me. She was wearing butter yellow cotton panties with sweet red cherries printed on them. I knelt down and kissed her ass through the fabric. I tugged her panties slowly down her thighs with my teeth and pushed two fingers against her pussy. I felt my way. Her clit was new to me, swollen, sensitive. She reached one hand down and showed me what felt good. I pulled her hips back, making her bend lower. I stared at the curve of her foot, how it sloped in her high heels. I caressed her ankle with one hand and let it slide casually up her calf and then let the backs of my nails drag up her thigh. I thought of her stories.

"I want to taste you," I whispered, “Turn around." She moved to face me and let her arms fall behind her. Her hands reached back to grip the counter. I lifted her dress and held it in one hand while I nuzzled my face into her pussy. The hair around her pussy was slick and wet. She smelled spicy and I could feel the heat rising off of her. “I want you," I said and opened my mouth around her clit. My tongue slowly snaked between her lips, lapping at her pussy, gliding up and around her clit and back again. I was slow. I wanted to feel her clit swell in my mouth. She ran her fingers through my curls and pulled my face harder against her pussy. My fingers moved inside her, feeling her arousal, everything swelling and expanding. I sucked on her clit and her lips while I fucked her. I heard the pots and dishes rattle behind her. When she came, she slapped her hand on the door of the cupboard making a loud, hollow thump that startled us both. Laughing, I stood up and grabbed her face. We smiled at each other. There was nothing to say, but it felt easy.

She looked at the timer and quickly grabbed me, bending me over and lifting my skirt. She had my panties down around my ankles before I could do anything about it and she was spanking me with one of my wooden spoons. She spanked my ass and the backs of my thighs. I wriggled and cooed beneath her. I stared at the soaring birds that flew on the hem of my skirt and the delicate little flowers surrounding them. I traced my finger across the stitching while she smacked me until I was dripping wet. She pressed her body up against me and reached around, lifted my skirt, and found my pussy with her fingers. She fucked me hard and fast and I came quickly, panting, a little dizzy from bending over. The rush of blood whirred inside me. I could hear my own heartbeat.

"I’ve got to run," she shrieked when the alarm rattled us. She pulled her panties back on and smoothed her dress before she turned to look at me. I hadn’t moved. I saw her look at my panties still down around my feet. “Jesus," she said and came back to me. She grabbed my face and gave me a kiss. The passion felt simple and friendly. She stared at me. “You look good," she said, “Is that a new powder?" I smiled at her. “You’ve got to run," I told her and she turned to go. 

It was over so fast. She was here. We fucked. She left. My clit was still buzzing. My ass stung a little. I looked around the kitchen  The bag of flour on the counter had been open and a thin white film dusted the wood surrounding it. My wooden spoon sat half on and half off the edge of the stove. I picked it up and slid the wood through my sticky fingers. I traced my own name into the flour on the counter. I thought about the day. Perfect. Just what I wanted. 

The Last Last Time

It was the sound of her boots on the sidewalk that buckled me. God damn her. Coffee. Seemed innocent. “Let’s talk,” she said, as if we could manage that without the sudden swerve and crash. Big fucking joke. Every time I saw her face, I thought, “Too much damage,” and then fell right into the middle of it all again. Over and over. The swerve. The crash. All that damage.

We sat there. She stared at her coffee. Poured too much milk and too much sugar in. “Candy coffee,” I said, like I always said, and kicked my own goddamn shin under the table for saying something I always said. I drank my tea. Fuck her and her coffee. She mumbled. I had to ask her to repeat herself. She’d stare up at me, sad eyed, and mumble something about how things were good with her and her new girlfriend. And I’d think, “Fuck you and your fucking girlfriend,” and say, “That’s cool. I’m good too.” And then she’d stare back down at her coffee and maybe stir it and sip it a little and wipe her mouth. She wiped her mouth after every sip. Every bite. I used to think it was adorable. Now I wondered what the fuck was wrong with her.

We held our dialogue close to the script.

"How’s your job?"

"It’s stupid. It’s not my real job."

"Are you quitting?"

"Yeah, I need to quit."

"But are you looking?"

Silence. She looked out the window pretending that she recognized someone which I knew was just a bullshit way of avoiding the question.

"Fuck it. Find something else."

Silence. A sip of coffee and her napkin across her mouth.

"I’m serious. You hate that job. You should find something else." I kicked myself again. What the fuck do I care? I’m not her goddamn mother. I’m not her girlfriend.

"I’ll work it out."

It went like this. On and on. Pointless. Irritating. Me saying shit I didn’t really want to say. Her avoiding my stupid questions.  Rubbing our raw wounds up against one another. Stupid. I got another cup of tea. We sat there mostly silent. I tried to remind myself why I was sitting here. “Let’s stay close,” we decided, “Let’s not be stupid and ignore each other and pretend this never happened or feel like we have to hate each other.” I was so sick of that bullshit. The scene was too small for that crap. So many people you had to call up before a party and tell them, “So and so, your ex, will be there,” and blah blah blah and then phone call after phone call about what a shit this or that person was and how they can’t stand her anymore and won’t be in the same room and fuck that fucking crap. Fuck it.

Right. Okay. That’s why I agreed to go sit down over coffee and watch her stare silently and mumble about her new girlfriend and pretend that we’re all casual with each other and it’s cool. I blew out my breath and ran my fingers through my hair. I leaned way back in my chair and spread my knees wide. Butch to butch. Here we are. We can be buddies, right?

I cleared our glasses and we headed out for a cigarette. I hate smoking but I always smoked with her. It seemed sexy. Still does. I liked the way we walked down the sidewalk together. Side by side. Boots hitting the pavement hard. Jeans slouched down resting on the curve of our asses. Her vintage shirts. Her perfect cuffed sleeves. I usually had my jacket on. Zipped up tight. Shoulders hunched. We walked in silence. Smoking. I crushed my cigarette out under my heel while she lit up another. I jammed my hands deep in my jeans pockets and nudged her with my hip. She laughed. I looked at her. “C’mon,” she said and jerked her head towards one of the dozens of bars open in the morning in the city. Our city. The city that felt like ours, together, because we met the first week we both lived here. 

It felt so good, so right, to drink those beers together. It wasn’t 10 in the morning yet and I felt the buzz hit me half way into the bottle. We didn’t say anything. We drank and read all the words on the coasters, the labels on the bottles, the signs behind the bar. She turned around and leaned her back against the bar and looked at the empty tables and the one old man sitting there with his drink. She stared at him when she talked to me, saying, “Listen. I’m glad we’re going to do this. Stay friends, I mean. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” That felt like bullshit. She started fucking some other girl and dropped me without warning weeks ago. I’m pretty sure what she’d do without me is exactly what she was doing already. But I didn’t want to lose her either. “Yeah,” I said, “Me too.”

"You’re my best friend, you know," she said and I shoved her hard enough that she fell off the barstool and had to grab the spinning seat to keep from landing on her ass. "Fucking jerk," she said and we laughed. I ordered us two more beers and two whiskeys. Fuck it. We were going to get drunk enough, I guess. We deserved it. I didn’t think we’d fall out like we did. But we did. Fall out of line, I mean. Fall out of our senses. Maybe I should have known. I just didn’t think she was still into me in that way. So I didn’t look for it. Or maybe I did. Maybe it’s what I had planned the whole time. Sitting there with my knees wide and my hand resting between my legs. Sucking on the bottle good and hard. Looking stoned. Looking dead to everything. Hard and stiff. Just like she always liked me. Just like I wasn’t.

"I need to piss," I said and slid off the barstool, walking slow towards the bathroom, knowing my ass looked great in these jeans. I had a drunk smile on my face when I pushed the door open. I stood there to take it in. I love dirty bathrooms in bars. I love them. The sticky floor with wadded up toilet paper jammed into corners. The tiny porcelein sink that would pull right off of the wall any day now. The floor was tiled with square inch black and white tiles. Filthy. The toilet bowl permanently stained with a rust colored ring. I wanted to stand to pee but I’ve never been good at that and especially not when I’m drunk. I squatted over the toilet with my jeans held at my knees. "Maybe we’ll fuck in here before we go," I thought. Stupid idea. I shook my head to rattle the thought out of there. The water in the tap was hot. Really hot. I cupped my hands and splashed my face over and over again. I ran wet hands through my hair until it was all slicked down. I combed through it with my fingers and wiped my face on my shirt tails. I looked at my teeth. "I’m stalling," I said out loud and turned to go back. 

"Rudolph Valentino," she whistled at me. I slicked my hair with a smile. "Errol Flynn," I answered. I never liked Valentino. She never remembered anything. Why was I sitting here strutting for her. Preening. Fuck her. Nothing was right between us when we were going out. Nothing. The fucking was great. It was everything else that was a total disaster. But when the fucking is great. When you hook up the way we did. Lost little puppies in a big new world. Well, the fucking can get you pretty far. The fucking was unlike anything I’d ever known before. Jerk my pants down, bend me over, spit covered fingers shoved into my holes. That kind of fucking. Nothing about sweet kisses and polite little pets. No more fawning about how soft each other’s cheeks were. This was fucking. Like boys. Our tiny little cocks. Ramrod stiff. Stiff jeans. Shiny boots. Thick belts. Slicked hair. Fall in line, little boy, because this is how you show it here. I fell in line for her. Or she fell in line for me. Or we both fell in line because that’s what you fucking do. 

The fucking. The way we fucked. Tossing back and forth. You fuck me. No, you fuck me. We both wanted to be fucked. We both wanted someone stronger than either of us. Or weaker. We both wanted something that was more opposite. Maybe. I don’t know. I don’t think she knew. How could we know anything? How can you figure anything out when the fucking is so good and you’re both new? I remember the time she grabbed my stiff, black comb out of my back pocket and held it against my neck. It hurt like a knife. It felt dangerous. I didn’t feel like a kid playing dress up. I felt tough. Dangerous. How I wanted to feel. She cut my back with that comb. Raking it across my shoulders, she let it bite into me. Jagged red lines.

I felt the booze swirl around in my brain. The warm rush in my belly. I stared at her with my wet lower lip hanging open. A dog. She was telling me some story. Something dumb. She was shaking her head and laughing and telling me about some asshole on the bus. Something about makeup. Or maybe a pregnant lady. I wasn’t listening to her. “I want you to fuck me,” I said, too loud, in the middle of her story. She looked at her knees for a second and then grabbed my arm and we headed out the door.

She walked ahead of me, still gripping my arm, and led me to her place. She stumbled off the curb once and nearly took us both down, but she never looked at me. Not until we got inside her apartment. When the door closed she turned around and shoved me up against it. She grabbed my crotch and spat her words at me. “You want me to fuck you? You don’t hate me yet?” she hissed. The words stung. Prophetic. I am going to hate her after this, I knew. It didn’t matter. Or maybe it did. Maybe that’s why I wanted it.

I moved slowly as I turned around and put my palms flat on the door. My boots slid apart as I stuck my ass out for her. I closed my eyes and opened my throat when her arm snaked around me, her hand grabbed my belt. All the anger left me. All the frustration and hurt melted. I had her. Now. Right now. She wanted me and I was right here. Any thought of how she didn’t love me disappeared. All my tortured images of her fucking someone else vanished. Whatever pain I had would be made physical.

She punched at my clit through my jeans. Her head pushed into my back between my shoulder blades. I could hear her crying. “Shut up and fuck me,” I said. I needed her angry or desperate, not sad. She shoved my head against the door. Pain shot through my head. We were both suddenly struck as if by lightning. She unbuckled my belt but left my jeans buttoned as she scraped them down and off over my thighs. My underwear was pulled down too. She left them just below my ass. The elastic bit into my thighs. One hand held my head against the door and the other jerked my ass back against her. She slammed her hips against me. Slamming her jeans, her cunt up against my bared bottom. Without warning, her fingers jammed into me. Her other arm gripped me tight around my middle. Her head sunk against my back. I heard her boots scraping the wood. I heard her grunt. “Fuck me,” I spat out anytime I wanted to say something else.

I rolled my ass higher for her. I wanted her to see how I craved her fingers deep inside me. “Don’t you want to fuck this ass?” I snapped. She pulled her fingers out of my pussy and grabbed my neck, starting to drag me down the hall. I straightened up and stumbled toward her bedroom. Shuffling with my pants still around my knees. I crawled onto her bed without being led and pulled my jeans down to my ankles for her. “This,” I said and wagged my ass at her on all fours, rolling my back. I heard her open the closet. Her box. The glove snapping onto her hand. The wheezing sound of her nearly empty bottle of lube. “This?” she said hoarsely and I felt her in my ass. “Yes,” I said and now my own big fat tears rolled down my face. I buried my hot, shameful face in her blanket and brought my fists to my chin. I pounded my ass against her as much as she slammed into me. “Harder,” I spat through my teeth, “Harder. Harder. Harder.” 

I wanted her to hurt me until I couldn’t feel anymore. None of the pleasure was there. Nothing left of the way it feels when you’re in love or think you’re in love or at least aren’t in that category of ex, lost, already used. That’s how I felt. Already used. The empty wrapper of something that tasted good a long time ago. I was crying. She was yelling. No words, but something animal. Something hurt. 

This is what I needed. This last fuck where everything felt desperate and wrong. The one that would remind me not to do it again. This is what I wanted. I don’t know about her. I didn’t care.

She fucked me hard in the ass for a long time. I finally reached down between my legs and jerked my aching clit off for an orgasm that hurt like a pulled muscle, a deep cramp. I doubled over on my side and held my knees to my chest. I felt the snot dripping on my upper lip. I didn’t care. She was on her back in front of me. Her chest heaving up and down. I saw her smile. Her wide grin. Her eyes open and darting around. That clean look she gets after she fucks me. 

I fucked her too. Her knees thrown up by her shoulders. All of my fingers and nearly my whole hand inside her. I leaned my weight onto her shins. She held her knees. I fucked her hard and fast. Nothing mattered but her feeling the ghost of me in her cunt after I left. The raw places on her skin.

She holds her breath just before she comes. The veins bulge in her neck. I watched her. I waited. It was time. She jerked her whole body and nearly knocked me off the bed. I slid off the mattress onto my feet, pulling up my pants. I didn’t say anything as I turned to go. “Wait,” she started to say but the word cut off halfway, “Yeah, nevermind,” she ended. 

Walking home, I lit a cigarette and took a deep drag and very suddenly felt more drunk than I thought I was. My stomach pulled back into a tight ball and I knew what was coming. “Just get home,” I said to myself. A mantra I chanted block by block until I turned the key in my door and ran to the toilet to throw up. “Fuck,” I said to myself, my head in my hands, and let the tears cleanse my sweet face. I was okay. I really was. I knew it.

That Teenage Feeling

"Meet me in the girl’s weight room after 6th period," she said.

This was a long time ago. Back when no high school had a proper girl’s weight room. Maybe you’re old enough to remember this fact. Maybe not. But when I was in high school, the girls got shit. My gym teacher installed a soda machine and saved up the quarters to buy us equipment. I hope it’s better now. Jesus.

The girl’s weight room was a large sized closet crammed with a bench and a rack of free weights and a chair squat and a leg press. That was it. No mirror. No window. No nothing.

We’d been paired up in gym class that day for the president’s fitness test. She’d been a senior last year too. She always had this look on her face with a slack jaw and half smile that made us all assume she was high. I’d heard she was, mostly. I’d never really talked to her and we didn’t talk now. We held each other’s ankles for sit ups. We worked the stop watch and watched each other shake as we tried to hold our chin above the bar. We were the only ones to push ourselves. The only ones breaking a sweat. Her name was April. She didn’t look like an April. I told her that. It was at lunch that she came up and told me to meet her. I managed a nod and she was gone. My palms started sweating.

I had a 7th period class. I’d never cut class in my life, but I was going to meet her, no doubt. I walked up to my biology teacher and told her I didn’t feel well. It was that easy. I headed down the hall and walked right by the nurse’s office to the stairwell and down to the gym. Empty. Echoing. All the basketballs lined up in a cage. My gym locker gave off a loud rattle as I grabbed my shorts and t-shirt. I got changed. I thought we were going to work out. Or that’s what I told myself.

She sat on the bench press in her jeans. I looked down at my shorts. “Good,” she said and stood up, motioning for me to get settled. I nodded, mute, and sat down, my knees straddling the end of the bench. My hands hung between my thighs. I looked up at her. I knew what this was, and then again, I didn’t. “Lean back,” she said, “Go ahead.” I leaned back, my elbows guiding me down until I was flat against the bench. I put my hands up on the bar above me. “Yeah,” she said, “That’s not what I want. I want to touch your dick.”

Time stopped. I couldn’t hear anything but the blood rushing in my head. Her words echoed inside me, “Your dick.” My face was hot. My cunt was heavy, flushed. “My dick,” I thought. I wasn’t confused. I knew what she meant. It’s just that no one had ever seen me that way. Like I saw me. “Yeah,” I said, “Okay.”

I stared at her hand moving towards my shorts. She leaned over me and slid her fingers under the elastic band around my waist and into my underwear. No set up. No pretense. Just her hand suddenly on my clit, rubbing me. I felt dry. Her fingers dragged across me with a jagged pull. I was wet, but she wasn’t interested in my pussy. I felt it, my dick, growing hard between her fingers.

My fingers were still wrapped around the bar above my shoulders. I gripped the cold metal and focused on my breathing. In. Out. “Fuck,” I heard myself say. April smiled at me. “I want to see your pretty little cock,” she said and tugged my shorts down to my knees in one quick movement. She spread my lips and held my clit between her fingers, stroking me. I felt it. Oh god, I felt it. I felt my cock grow between her thumb and forefinger. I felt her eyes on me. Everything changed. My quads tensed. My hips moved. “Stay quiet,” she said and pulled on my clit.

My shirt stuck to me. My chest was sweating. My low back. The bench was biting into my ass as my flesh stuck to it. I was grinding my cunt against her hand. “Look at you,” she said, smiling. I could see a white ball of gum in her teeth. “So sweet,” she said. I felt new. A shiny new girl. Wet and sweating on this bench below her. She was about to make me come. “I’m so hard,” I whispered, wondering if this was the right thing to say. “You are,” she smiled, “so hard, girl. Come for me now.”

I bucked and yelled out once before she clapped a hand over my mouth, looking around. I came. My stomach tightened. My leg muscles stiffened and lifted my ass up off the bench. My arms straightened and I lifted the bar a little before realizing what I was doing and set it back down. My hands fell off to the sides. My knuckles hit the floor.

"Next time, I’ll suck you off," she said and got up, wiping her fingers on a small towel that she threw into the laundry bag hanging on a hook by the door. It took me a few minutes after she left before I pulled my shorts up. 

I wondered who did this to her? That was the first thing I thought as I stood up on shaky legs and made my way back to the locker room to change. I put my fingers to my lips, “April,” I whispered, feeling the shape of her name on my mouth. 

Everything and nothing felt epic when I was in high school. It’s only years later, telling this story, that it catches in my chest. The first girl who reached into my pants and touch my dick. The first girl to jack me off. 

Watch Me

And then there she was on the floor in front of me. Her ass slightly lifted. Her hands covering her face. I had walked in the room and a sudden need to fuck her rushed through me. “Get on the floor,” was all I said.

I dropped to my knees. My hand pushing between her thigh and belly. Holding her. I lifted her dress up over her ass. I pet her bottom. I grabbed at her panties. Something ripped. A small tear in the elastic. I left her dress on but pulled the shoulders down to her elbows. Trapped. First one breast and then the other. In my mouth. My fingers slid through the spit on her nipples. Rubbed the slick saliva until it disappeared. Her nipples blushed a darker red, then nearly purple. Her quick breath. Oh god, is she shaking?

I needed her shoulders against the rough carpet. I kept her down on the floor, sometimes pulling her a few inches in one direction or another so it would burn. I wanted to see red marks on her skin. I wanted the heat of it.

I stared. Her dress pulled off her shoulders. The skirt lifted to expose her pussy. Panties pulled down but left to loosely shackle her left ankle. I stroked her pussy and slapped at her tits. Slapping lightly. Starting soft. I needed her to feel me. “Do you feel me?” I asked, “I need you to feel me.”

My fingers pushed inside her now. I held myself deep inside her. I pulsed deep within her. “Roll her over,” I told myself. I rocked her hip. I pushed her into the carpet and slowly rocked her on to her side. Her legs curled around me. Her ass exposed. Smacking. Redness. My tongue on her heated flesh. More fingers. Pinching. Slapping. The sting of it. Her upper thighs.

My god. How wet she became. I feel the slick warmth even now. So wet. I felt my spit pool on my tongue, useless. She was ready to be fucked. Twice. I fucked her twice. Once on her side like this. Her ass glowing red from my hand. The other on her back. Her legs spread wide.

It was this. Her legs opened in front of me. It was this that made me grab my belt. I needed to rub my own cunt. Pull on it like a hardening cock. Long, slow strokes. I kept one hand on her pussy and one in my pants. She stared, slack jawed, at my disappearing wrist. Stared at my pumping forearm. I felt her eyes on my chest. I stopped to pull my shirt over my head and tossed it aside. “Watch me,” I said, “look what you do to me.”

I stroked the both of us. One hand easy and soft on her pussy. The other rubbing my clit furious and fast. I watched her body convulse with her orgasm. Strong. The intensity visible in waves. I was barely hard. Turned on, but miles away from coming. I needed her ass against me. “Roll over on your belly,” I said. And she rolled over, waving her ass back and forth. I like to watch her move. Calling me.

I pulled her hips back against my cunt, making sure she could feel my hand moving under my jeans. I pulled her into me over and over. I opened up. Stiffened. My arm moving fast and hard. Circling. Pulling. I felt my muscles burn. Too fast. Too hard. I can’t come like this. I knew it. I needed to slow down.

I got up and grunted at her. Moved my desk chair around to face her. “I want to sit down,” I told her, “I want you on your knees in front of me.” I needed her to watch me. I pulled my jeans down to my ankles. I grabbed a fistful of her hair and held her against my thigh, her mouth an inch away from my clit. I wanted her to smell me, nearly taste me. I shifted my hips forward, let my knees drop wide. I jerked off with her so close I could feel her breath. I jerked off watching her open her mouth and push her tongue towards me. I looked at her knees underneath her on the floor. I looked at her shoulders. Her wrinkled dress. Her eyes staring up at me.

I shoved her face between my legs. She sucked me off for a few minutes before I pulled her off of me and made her watch again. “I can see how much you want to suck me,” I said. “I like how much you want it. So dirty,” I laughed. I pictured her name inked in the crevices of my fingers. I pictured her holding my zipper open. I pictured her sucking. Her mouth wrapped around me.

"Crawl up here on my lap," I asked. She climbed me. Towered above me. Her weight on my hips. My arm ran between her thighs. My hand on my own cunt. Pulling. Not close enough to coming. Frustrated. "Give me your fingers," she said and took two, then three of my fingers in her mouth. I stared at the dark hollow behind her lips. I felt her desire. The way she sucked me in. Deep. Knowing. I pictured her sucking on other women. Their fingers. Their cocks. Their clits. Some guy’s prick, deep in her throat. I pictured them all and stared. Loving her. Knowing who I was and what I want. I came so hard, almost knocking her to the floor. She pulled her mouth off my fingers and leaned over to kiss me so deep. So slow. Sucking the breath out of me.

I was high after we fucked. Stumbling. This is intoxication. The dizzy hit.

A few hours later, I closed my eyes and nearly came again remembering my feet on the floor and her cheek against my thigh. My grip in her hair. How I pulled her face against me and held her fast. “Right here, baby. I want you to watch. I want you to see how much I want you.”

Randy’s Little Faggot

It was a month before I graduated college and I hadn’t found a job in the city like I wanted. I’d do anything, I told myself. I was an art major. I hadn’t been a waitress or a bartender. There was no work for me. I’d tried for every single entry level job I could find in St. Louis. Every one. Nothing had hit. Nothing that paid enough for me to live on. I knew I had to go home and save up enough money to come back. I had a job back home. I had work. My granddad owned a lumber yard. My dad worked there. My brother had worked summers but I’d never done it. Dad never wanted me to, but now he’d let me. I needed the work. He’d provide.

My brother always worked in the yard. Loading and unloading lumber. Delivering to job sites. Manual labor. I remember him coming home at the end of the day with his t-shirt thinner on the shoulders from the wood rubbing the cotton away to nothing. I’d worn those tossed out shirts under sweaters and to sleep in. Thin cotton. Holes where his bony shoulders met the two-by-fours. Sweat stained and faded from the hot sun that beat down on that yard all day long every summer. You couldn’t see the images on the front anymore. A yellowing green t-shirt with a faded outline of The Allman Brothers Band. A stretched out, blotched red shirt with Rick’s Cafe Americain barely discernible in chipped paint across the chest. There were six of them. One for each day of the week the place was open. One summer he’d wear them and then they were dead. Mine.

I knew my brother smoked those summers. My parents knew too but never caught him. All the boys in the yard smoked; the “boys” being men. Most of them had started working there as boys but were now easily in their thirties, some of them looked as old as fifty. Gaunt men with rubbed out faces. Deep set eyes as if their faces had adapted to the harsh sun they faced every day. Shoulder blades that stuck out like fins under their t-shirts. Wiry arms looking like braided rope. They smoked generic menthol. Cheap and cooling.

I wanted to work the yard. I wanted to get all muscled and wiry. Deeply tanned. I wanted my t-shirts rubbed raw, nearly threadbare on my chest and shoulders. I wanted to smoke with the boys. Drive the old truck. Drip sweat all day long and suck on those shitty menthols until my lungs burned. But Dad put me in the office. The office. As if there was an office. There was a room with a stained, avocado green percolator and a ready box of donuts. A room with wadded up bbq sandwich wrappers scattered everywhere. It smelled like the worst combination of sweet bbq sauce, sour slaw, melted sugar and burnt coffee in that room. Always. That’s where I worked.

The yard boys coolly ignored me. The customers stared. I looked like a freak here with my shaved head. My tiny frame, always held tight by a button down shirt two sizes too small, squeezing my shoulders and arms. I wore dark, oily looking denim jeans slung low to make my hips look more squared. The jeans hung just on the curve of my ass, the one part of me that curved naturally in a way I never tried to hide. But everything else, I had always hidden. I had never fit in. I grew up here, but never belonged. This wasn’t my place. I never even bothered to learn the street names of my own hometown. I always knew I was leaving. Always. I was still leaving. I just had to save enough money to get out.

Randy came in for something every week. I knew him as the older brother of a high school friend. He inherited a small farm from his family and a broken down house. He fixed it up when he could. I’d seen the house. My senior year in high school there were parties out on that farm. Randy let us haul kegs out and would wander around making sure no one got too drunk or too rowdy. He’d make kids stay until they were sober enough to drive. I heard he had a high school buddy die on the blacktop. Passenger in car with a drunk driver. It seemed to happen every year. Every graduating class had that one memorial page in the yearbook. It shook everybody up, but never enough, I guess.

I’d nod at Randy from behind my ledger. The first day he squinted at me, not placing my face. I looked pretty different from back when he would have seen me in high school. The next day he grinned at me and made me smile wide, caught off guard. “Hi,” I mouthed. He laughed and paid for a tub of spackle and chicken wire, shaking his head. He was a good guy.

He had changed a lot too. Back when I knew him, he was scrawny, just a few years out of high school. Now he had a belly. A fuzzy beard. His hair was cropped short but thick as a pelt. He almost always had on overalls with his work boots and a t-shirt. His arms had thickened. His whole body took on a weight that hadn’t seemed likely a few years ago. We had both changed about as far as we could. 

One week he came in and offered me some weekend work. He could see how bored I was, sitting at that desk doing nothing every day. I worked Saturdays until Noon but I could pick up work at his place for the afternoon and on Sunday. We agreed. I’d drive out that Saturday and he’d show me what needed doing. There was a lot. The farmhouse was up on the hill off the gravel road. A pretty little boxy house, two stories. The whole upstairs was basically gutted to the studs. Broken slats that had once held plaster barely covered the studs. “I’ve been finishing downstairs, but I’m thinking you could do the prep work up here to get it ready for me,” he said. I’d forgotten about his lisp. I smiled hearing it. He looked like such a big, burly guy now but he still sounded like a faggot. I don’t mean that as an insult. I loved it. It warmed me to hear the slight lilt in his voice. Soft. I loved the juxtaposition of it. I’m turned on by queerness itself. I always have been. And he seemed so queer to me now. Something I hadn’t noticed when I was in high school. I guess I didn’t know how to see it then.

I tried to ignore the swelling in my pants as he pointed out the work he needed me to do. I’m a dyke, I was thinking. This is fucked up. I told myself I was just hard up for a good fuck. I’ve only ever been attracted to soft girls, sweet smiles, that teasing blush. Here was a rounded, hairy man with gnarled looking fingers. I could smell the sour tang of his sweat. The cigarettes on his breath. He got down on one knee, showing me the baseboard that needed removing and I stared down at his broad shoulders, his bulging forearms. I felt a little weak. I pressed my confusion and lust down hard and worked even harder. 

I put my back into the work at Randy’s house. After that first weekend, I got permission to leave work around 3 every day and headed over there to keep going. He couldn’t pay me for more than the weekends and even that was more of a token payment, but I didn’t care. I loved the manual labor, the aching muscles, the satisfaction. I just wanted to be around him. I would hear him come inside downstairs and listen for the sound of sanding, the smell of paint. We didn’t see each other much. We didn’t ever talk. But I listened to him work. I strained to hear him moving from room to room. 

I knew there was something making me jittery, but I wasn’t sure what it really meant until one day when I heard his heavy frame hit the floor and I went running down to see what had happened. By the time I got to him, he was laughing, paint at his feet in a mess on the floor. He’d stepped in the pan and his legs slid out from under him. I laughed just to picture it. A vaudeville routine. The big guy in his overalls flying up into the air and landing on his ass. He pushed himself back against the wall, rubbed his ass, and pulled out his pack of cigarettes. He lit one and took one deep inhale, then looked at me, pulling the cigarette out of his mouth and turning it towards me. I grabbed it and everything went into slow motion. I caressed the wet filter, indented from his mouth, between my thumb and finger. I tongued the tip of it that rested against my teeth before deeply inhaling. I held his smoke in my lungs until I felt the nicotine rush through me. “It’s been a long time,” I sighed, exhaling. He laughed a little, but looked at me serious with his head tilted down, eyes up. “Like a bull,” I thought, sucking the cigarette one more time before leaning forward to slip it between his fingers. 

I brushed his rough hand deliberately. Staring hard into his chest. He wasn’t wearing a t-shirt and one nipple was peeking out from behind the bib of his overalls. My mouth opened, wanting to suck it, and I blushed. He lit up two more cigarettes, handing me my own this time. We smoked them silently, staring at the floor. I was crouched, my ankles starting to ache, frozen in a pose for fear of reaching my arm out to stroke his thigh if I dared move. I felt my cunt, heavy between my legs. I wondered if he felt this too. If his dick was getting hard. I tilted my head so my chin was nearly touching my chest, hiding my mouth from him, and mouthed the word, “dick,” to myself. I wanted to suck him off. I finished my cigarette and got up to leave without offering to help him clean up the paint mess. I grabbed my things and went home without another word. 

After only a few weeks, I was done prepping the upstair and we started working side by side. I had more passion to complete the work than he did. Sometimes he’d step into the middle of the room and smoke a cigarette while I worked. I’d shape my back for him. Arching it into a curve of muscle and bone. I’d push my ass up over the heels of my boots, higher than necessary, and reach one arm long up the wall. I wanted him to see me as his boy. I wanted him to come over and grab me. Pick me up and carry me into the hallway already nibbling on my neck and chin. I made my body move in pretty shapes for him. Taught and filled with desire. Filled so he’d see. 

I had hoped we would finish his house that summer, but we’d only just moved upstairs. I knew we couldn’t even finish another full room before I would want to move on, get back to the city. I enjoyed this time and the work and Randy, but it wasn’t my life. I knew that. I needed to tell him that I only had a few more weeks. I worked one more week and then the next Saturday, when I drove over, I brought a case of beer. The work was fast that day, we were dry walling a small bedroom. We finished the walls and the taping and I called it quits. “Let’s crack open the beers,” I suggested and Randy nodded, clomping down the stairs to get them. He came back with two beers in one hand and steadied himself against the doorframe. “You’re leaving, ain’t you?” he said. I nodded. “I kind of liked this,” he said, and handed me a beer. “Yeah,” I said, taking a long pull off the bottle.

We sat in the middle of the floor not saying anything else. He went down for more beers and brought them up in a cooler this time. I bummed a cigarette off of him and hated the taste of it in my mouth for some reason. Acrid and too hot on my tongue. I washed it down with more beer. Already feeling dizzy. Knowing that my legs wouldn’t let me stand as well as I’d need to. The sun was going down and the room was a golden amber with the shadow of the big poplar tree in his yard spreading across the walls. When I reached for another beer, he grabbed me and pulled me down to the floor in a head lock. Neither of us laughed. We both knew what this was and it wasn’t a game. 

I wrestled him with all my strength but even if I hadn’t been drinking, it was absurd. He flipped me around and I twisted my torso to get a hold of him. We were both heaving, hot with sweat, desperate, gripping each other. He was thick. I liked the feel of him in my fingers. His arms were covered in small, wiry hairs, but his beard was softer than I’d expected. He pinned me on my back and breathed heavily over me. He was looking at me but I felt him looking beyond me. I was someone else. It felt right to me. I did feel like someone else. Something else. His boy. He was staring down at me. Serious. Blinking. I smiled up at him and in a flash, grabbed his cock. He roared in my face. Pleasure. Acceptance. This was his, ‘yes.’ I rubbed hard against his cock, feeling it move under his clothes. 

"You want something to suck on, boy?" he asked me. I nodded. I scrambled with my fingers at the straps on his overalls. I nuzzled him with my nose and lips, finding his nipples through the soft cotton. I sucked on his tits through the t shirt. "Suck it like you want something," he growled at me and I felt my head spin. I moved my hand off his cock and ran my fingers under his shirt. His belly felt swollen. My fingers pulled at the coarse hairs on his chest. I pulled on his tiny, hard nipples and he arched his back for me. Mine. I pushed him over onto his back and climbed on top. I sat up, keeping a grip on his chest and rubbed my ass against his bulge. Leaning over him and sucking hard on his nipples, I pressed myself down hard against him. I wanted to please him. 

I pulled at his overalls, tugging them down. He pulled himself out from under me and scrambled over to the wall, leaning back against it and beckoning me. He reached one thick hand between his legs and pulled on his cock. It was darker, redder than the rest of him. His stark white belly and now his exposed thighs pale behind his growing shaft. I stared at him with an open mouth and gave him my hand. He wrapped my fingers around his cock and helped me pump it. My mouth went back to his nipples. My teeth, sucking, I felt his hair scratch my lips and chin. I’m not sure who I was in this moment. Not me. Someone else. Something else. His boy. My own boy. A dream. I felt my cock stir. I felt my pants tighten around it. I felt like I could reach down and grab it, but my hand was on him. 

"Get on it, boy," he said and spat into his hand, slicking up his cock with his spit. I spat again and again and rubbed his cock hard, lathering it up. I bent over him and closed my mouth on his hard-on. His hand rested on the back of my head and I heard him moan with pleasure. He sounded so sweet. I choked on his cock for a minute, then adjusted myself and sucked him hard into my mouth. My hands pulled at his ass, trying to get underneath him. He shifted his weight for me. I turned my head to spit on my fingers and then felt for his ass as my mouth went back to working his cock. He tasted salty. His cock, thick in my mouth. I was in a strange dream. My boyhood. My faggot days. I saw myself a faggy schoolboy, and an even deeper rush of desire coarsed through me, making me shiver. I sucked him like this with one finger pulsing in his ass until we needed more.

I scrambled at my work pants, letting them fall to the floor and turned my ass to him, looking back. I wanted to watch him tug my underwear down. He stared at my round bottom. His eyes looked glazed. We were both so confused. Horny. Drunk. Not giving a fuck. Wanting everything and knowing what it was. And wasn’t. He spread my ass in his fingers and spat on my asshole, touching it lightly with his thumb. Pressing against my hole. “On it,” he said, “Come on, boy.” I stared back at him, lowering my ass. “Ride it like you mean to,” he whispered at me. I heard his voice shake.

I backed my ass onto his cock. He eased himself inside me. I was facing away from him, staring at the crumpled overalls bunched at his calves. Staring at his boots. Staring at the walls we made. Smelling the sawdust and the dry wall and the dirty fields outside. Smelling the stale cigarette smoke and spilled beer. Smelling his sweat. Smelling his spit. Mine. Sex. He held my hips firm but lightly in his hands. “That’s right,” he said with his voice in his throat. His beautiful faggot voice, deep and soft all at once. I wanted to be watching his face. I wanted my fingers in his hair. But this was right. He could watch my flat back, my shoulder blades, my ass and forget who I was right now. He ran one hand over and around my shaved head. My tiny, cropped hairs bristled under his fingers. I pumped my ass up and down on his cock, waiting to feel him come inside me. I wanted him filling me. Dripping out of me. Dirty down my leg as I pulled my underwear and pants back up. I wanted to feel all of it. Just this once. I wanted to be the little faggot for him. For me. For us both.