by Alison Tyler
I let the water out, tingling all over as I hurriedly toweled off with a clean, blue, terry-cloth bath sheet I’d found in a cubby of linens next to the shower. I threw it into the laundry hamper, donned my clothes, and lifted the appliance from the tub edge.
I sauntered back outside, trying to look nonchalant.There were fewer people at the sale, and I wondered how long I’d been.The sun was starting to sink.
The woman was making change for a man holding a lamp.
“I’ve decided to take it,” I announced to her back. She turned, smiling, then furrowed her brows. I followed her expression. She was studying my hair, I touched it unthinkingly; it was wet up to my ears. Under her scrutiny, my already tell-tale pink cheeks and nose were turning red.Then she glanced at the house. I looked, too. The bathroom window was completely fogged up. I hadn’t thought to towel it dry.
“Right,” she said. “That’ll be fifty dollars, please.”
“Sure thing,” I nodded, reaching into my purse.
I headed for my car. I had just the gift for Dana’s arthritic knee: a gift certificate for a few sessions with a competent physical therapist. I’d start asking around on Monday.
As for romance, it was overrated. I decided that it was important for me to stop seeking fulfillment from others. My gift to myself was going to be to love myself more—and very often. Oh yes, it was going to be a very Merry Hanukkah for me.
Caught Watching
Saskia Walker
I nearly didn’t go to the party. The seasonal celebrations had been rocking on for two weeks already, with office parties, and family and friends to see. I was ready to sidestep this one. Then I reminded myself that my New Year’s resolution was to see and do even more. Besides, Natalie insisted I had to go and meet her latest playmate.
Natalie and I worked for the same London media corporation, and her roller-coaster romantic life never failed to capture the attention of her friends. She loved that attention. I didn’t quiz her about the new playmate over the phone. Part of the fun was finding out whether the playmate was a playgirl or a playboy.
“Okay, I’ll be there.” I glanced at my wardrobe dubiously. The party season had severely depleted it, but I managed to find my leather miniskirt and a crop top in the pile of abandoned gear.
The event was being held at a music studio in Camden, and the party was in full swing by the time I got there, the lobby a crush of guests high on seasonal goodwill. A Christmas tree blinked lights in one corner; the framed photographs and discs on the walls were adorned with decorations. Natalie rushed through the crowd when she spotted me, all tumbling dark hair and luscious curves in a PVC bodice and skirt. Around her neck she wore a froth of silver tinsel, boa-like. She hugged me and led me into the main room, where people were dancing. She grabbed me a glass of wine and then took me over to a lean punk with a crown of bleached hair.
“This is Idol,” she announced. “Well, that’s the name she goes by and I think it suits her, don’t you?”
It did suit her. The woman’s combination of power and wariness made her both distant and desirable. I nodded and smiled, eyeing her body, perfectly outlined in a simple white T-shirt and jeans. Heavy work boots completed her look.
“Don’t ask her real name,” Natalie added. “She won’t tell anyone, not even me.”
Idol draped herself against Natalie, possessively. She gave me a wicked smile and then drew Natalie away onto the crowded dance floor. Natalie wrapped her tinsel boa around Idol’s neck, shimmying it as they danced. That was cute. And sexy. Natalie waved and winked at me. She was simmering, visibly. I watched Idol’s hand moving around Natalie’s hips and smiled back, inspired by their flagrant sexuality.
I drank my wine and edged round the party, chatting with people I knew from the office.When I remembered to check my lipstick, I couldn’t find any obvious signs to the bathroom. Gloomy corridors and storerooms branched off from the studios in all directions. I investigated cautiously, the noise of the party receding as a door closed behind me. At the end of the corridor an oblong of light drew my attention.As I got closer, I heard laughter.
“No, I want to wear it.” It sounded like Natalie.
I paused when I could see into the room. It wasn’t the ladies’ at all, it was an office, and the two inhabitants obviously weren’t expecting company. Idol was sitting on a high-backed chair, entirely naked. Natalie was standing in front of her, holding a strap-on cock in one hand.
I stepped back, hiding in the darkness.
Idol smiled up at Natalie and put down her wine glass. Lifting her legs she hung them over the arms of the chair. In that one swift move, she exposed the thatch of fair hair over her pubic bone and the glistening slit beneath. She ran one finger over her clit.
I glanced back down the passageway. Could I risk going back, or would they hear me? I realized I had inadvertently become a spectator to a private show. And now Natalie had unzipped her skirt and was stepping out of it.
She was wearing high-heeled boots, stockings and garters, no panties. The pale globes of her ass contrasted starkly with the black garters and stockings. The abandoned tinsel boa trailed on the floor. Somewhere nearby people were singing Christmas songs in drunken, laughter-filled voices. It was like a debauched Christmas-card vision of sex and celebration. I couldn’t look away; the scene transfixed me.
Natalie bent over, the strap-on hanging loosely in one hand, like a loaded gun. She tongued Idol’s clit, and Idol was wired. “Put it on,” she demanded, impatiently.
Natalie climbed into the strap-on, pulling the holster tight against her pussy and between her ass cheeks. She knelt down, one hand on the rigid cock, the other cupping one of Idol’s pert breasts. She captured the swollen nipple between her thumb and forefinger, her mouth on the other nipple, sucking heavily.
Idol’s head began to roll from side to side against the back of the chair. “Hurry,” she pleaded. Natalie began to ease the head of the cock into her slippery hole, spreading Idol’s juices over it as she went. “Oh, God,” Idol moaned. “It’s huge.”
Natalie chuckled.“I know, but you’re going to have to take it, honey.” She worked her hips slowly, edging it deeper inside, her hands going to the arms of the chair to brace herself.
Idol began to rock, her eyes wide. “Fuck, it’s right there,” she whimpered, her hips moving.
My breathing tripped. I’d heard a sound behind me. Before I had time to turn around, an arm grabbed me around the waist and a hand fell over my mouth. My heart missed a beat. I was hauled back against a body that enveloped mine.
“Well, well, what have we here, a naughty little voyeur?” The question was breathed low against my ear, followed by a dark chuckle. I reacted, my fingers pulling at the hand over my mouth. The man seized me tighter still, drawing me back and deeper into the shadows, a warning note in his voice. “Stay quiet.You wouldn’t want to interrupt them, would you, not when she is so close to coming?”
Even if I could speak, what could I say?
I shook my head. After a moment, the hand slipped away from my mouth. I breathed deeply, glancing back. In the gloom, I saw a flash of high cheekbones and hooded eyes, watchful and sparkling with humor. My face flamed at the idea of being caught watching by this man, this stranger. A rather attractive stranger, I noticed. He put one finger to his lips and then pointed me back toward the scene. I obeyed, my attention torn between the women and the dominating presence of the man standing so close behind me.
“Stay quiet...”
I started, but smiled, when his hands found their way around me. The scent of his musk, like warm nectar, seduced me. While he watched over my shoulder, he ran his fingers against my throat, the other hand drawing my body tight against his. He caressed the outline of my breasts through my top. I fought the urge to moan aloud. His fingers tightening on my nipples wired them into the heat between my thighs, creating a molten loop of tension through my body.
In front of us, Idol began to groan, loudly. Her hips plunged
on the glistening cock.
I was on fire with arousal. I thrust my hips back against him. He was rock hard. His hands moved to my skirt, shifting the leather on my hips. A pang of deviance deep in my core roared its approval.Yes, I wanted him to lift my skirt, to touch me. I reached down and shimmied the leather up.
He reacted—turned me in his arms, backing me to the wall, his fingers pressing my G-string into my damp slit. He bent to kiss me, his mouth opening me up, making me melt. I lifted one leg along his flank, letting him in. His hips ground against my pussy, lifting me bodily. Hot need welled inside me, my clit sparking.
“You’re on fire,” he whispered against my lips.
“Do it. Quickly,” I urged.
I heard his fly, the rasp of a condom wrapper. Pushing my G-string aside, he lifted me, his hands warm and sure on my buttocks. Easing me down, I was filled—inch-by-inch—with hot, hard cock.
He began to grind—shallow moves, deep inside. I was powerless to do anything but clutch at his shoulders and ride it out, sensation exploding through me each time he hit home. I reached down to feel his girth where we were joined, and he groaned. I rubbed my clit with the heel of my hand, my fingers crooked around the base of his cock. He inhaled sharply, his cock pounding inside me. I was about to explode. Over his shoulder I saw Idol grasp feebly at Natalie’s arms, where they were braced on the chair. Her hips bucked wildly, out of control.
I was right there and he knew it. He rammed up inside me. I closed my eyes, crushed my clit and bit my lip, hot spasms rolling out from my core. His cock jerked inside me, making me shudder, boneless with pleasure.
As the heat ebbed away, I realized Idol was getting dressed. We had split seconds before we were discovered.
He noticed, too. “I want to see that deviant look in your eyes under brighter lights,” he whispered, and nodded toward the party. He lowered me to the floor, raising an eyebrow suggestively.
I nodded, smiling. Well, my New Year’s resolution had been to see and do even more, hadn’t it?
Hollywood Christmas
Thomas S. Roche
It’s not exactly our first date; we already went out for coffee once. But that was during the day, and this is at night—a hot night right before Christmas, pulsing with all the energy of West Hollywood when it’s 80 degrees here and snowing in the rest of the world.There’s a Christmas party up on Mulholland, at the big house of a friend you met when you were dancing, some closeted movie-industry semi-big shot. Jacob is his name, but you won’t tell me his last name because you’re quite sure I’d recognize it. “He’s very secretive,” you tell me conspiratorially. “You have to be, when you work in Hollywood.”
I dread the thought of going to the movies right before Christmas, and a dinner out wouldn’t quite be celebratory enough for us, so I’m relieved you suggest the party.
From the moment we park the car I can see the house is packed with young queer guys. As I get out of the car, three of them come up to you, their eyes lazing over me.They shriek your name, hug you, kiss you, let their eyes linger on me.
You introduce one as Aaron, tell Aaron my name as the other guys kiss you and drift away.
“Who’s the hunk?” Aaron asks. “Does he play for our team? We can always use another pitcher with perfect biceps.” He reaches out and squeezes mine.
“He’s mine,” you say with mock testiness, and you and Aaron kiss again, this time on the lips. He says something in French to me and drifts off with his friends.
“You don’t mind, do you?” you say as we mount the stairs toward the throbbing music.
“Looked like a platonic kiss to me,” I say.
“No, no,” you tell me. “I mean you don’t have a problem with guys flirting with you, do you?”
I shrug. “Did David have a problem with Michelangelo?”
You giggle. “Not a great metaphor, isn’t that what your last review said?”
I jab you in the stomach and you giggle more. I go on tickling you all the way up the stairs, a convenient excuse for us to press our bodies together. I wonder if it seems like I’m trying to look straight. I don’t care, because the feeling of your body against mine is making my dick hard in my jeans, and I’m more afraid you’ll notice that than that my attempts to surreptitiously grope you will seem like conspicuous heterosexuality. By the time we make it in the door, my hand is around your waist and my fingertips tucked just under your waistband on that magnificent curve of your hip.You’ve got one finger hooked in my belt loop.
We walk past some guys barbecuing on the front porch. Big, thick sausages sizzle on the grill, phallic delights that look pasty-gray and smell vegan. One of the guys, a bald, goateed guy, looks at me, then the sausages, then me again. He winks.
“Hungry?” he asks.
“Not yet,” I deadpan. “Maybe later.”
You introduce me around, subjecting me to a whirlwind of faces and names I don’t take note of and won’t remember. There are a few women, two of them in the dozen people you introduce me to. At least one of them clearly didn’t start her life that way, and the other makes it quite clear that she’s at least as interested in you as I am.You can’t find your friend to say hello, so “I’m parched,” you say, and drag me toward the punch bowl.
The punch bowls are marked: “Magic” and “Not Magic.” You pour us each a cup of the mundane kind. From the saucered eyes shimmering wildly in the sweating press of male bodies in the enormous living room, which has been cleared of furniture to better facilitate the surge and seethe of flesh to the loud house music, the other kind is dangerously magical.
“Ugh,” you say as you take a drink. “I hate vodka.” Then you finish the punch in one gulp like you were slamming down shots. Over the punch bowl, you press your lips to mine like my tongue’s a lime to complement your tequila. I taste $30-a-bottle vodka and $1-a-gallon fruit punch. Your tongue has a post through it. You’re a damn good kisser.
You pour yourself another cup of punch, and I daintily sip mine as I realize with puzzlement that the pulsating music is a techno version of “The Little Drummer Boy.” It bleeds into a grinding happy-hardcore “Carol of the Bells” with the sounds of men orgasming mingled conspicuously with about 180 beats per minute.
“Fuck the fruit punch. Let’s dance,” you say.
I shoot my punch and wince, then follow you obediently out to the dance floor, your finger still hooked in my belt loop, this time one right in front, dangerously close to my zipper. I feel my cock swell at your touch.We have to practically wedge ourselves in among the dancers, bodies pressing us so tight that we’re almost in full contact as we grind and squirm. I reach back and move my wallet to my front pocket.You put your arms around my neck and pull my face close to yours. I kiss you and let my hands curve around your waist.You’re wearing one of those trendy, slutty shirts that shows off your belly, and as I let my hands creep back I feel the top of your thong showing over your low-slung jeans, which I noticed a long time ago. It makes me want to slide your pants off of you. Instead, I just tuck my fingers into your waistband, letting them squeeze between the very top of your buttocks and the stretched fabric of your jeans. If I still had any doubt about whether you were going to fuck me, which I didn’t, it would be dispelled by the way you react to my touch on your ass. Pushing back, squirming against my hands, the jaunty angle of your body bringing your tits into contact with my upper body while you kiss me deeply, your pierced tongue working into my mouth as your nipples harden against my chest and your ass grinds into my hands. I’m so hard I know you can feel it, smell it, taste it, even though your body isn’t pressing against me that low. But a moment later, your hands are, your fingers working the bulge in my pants as you pull back and look into my eyes.
I lean over, speaking into your ear.“You call this dancing?” I ask.
Your lips brush my ear, and you say it low, husky, a hungry invitation.
“No. I call this foreplay.”
Then you kiss me on the lips again and massa
ge my cock, grinding your ass back into my hands.Your pants are so tight that as I wedge my hands in, I feel one button of your fly go popping open. That only makes you kiss me harder, stroke my cock harder. I don’t even bother looking around to see if guys are watching us. I can feel their bodies pressed against us, smell their arousal. I can feel the whole dancing mass grinding together in a way that spells sex, and I’m sure more hands than just ours are wandering. If the guys aren’t watching, it’s because most of them are too blasted or too busy. But the tightly pressed bodies do provide a perfect cover.
Everything goes black in an instant.
A disappointed sound goes up from the crowd, mingled with shrieks and laughing. It’s just a blown circuit breaker, but you take your cue and in a single fluid motion, you’ve slid your glorious ass out of my grasp. You’re down on your knees in front of me.
I’ve never had a woman get my pants open so fast, but then, you hang out with fags, so perhaps you get pointers. Before I know what’s happening, your mouth is around my cock, gliding up and down, the back of your throat embracing my cockhead. The bodies keep grinding even though there’s no music, and my hands rest gently on the top of your head as you bob up and down on my cock.
When the lights go on a moment later, you’re not the only one down on your knees. A few of the guys right around us see you and start to applaud and cheer.You come up for air and daintily shove my cock back into my pants. You don’t bother to zip; instead, you just button the top button and put your arms around me.
“I’m sorry,” you say. “When the lights went out, I just couldn’t resist.”
“No wonder the circuit breakers blew.”
“Come upstairs with me,” you say. “I know where there’s an empty bedroom.”
Half of me wants to button my pants, but the rest of me doesn’t care.You lead me by the hand up a winding staircase to a long hall with hardwood floors. Guys are lip-locked in line for the bathroom.You push past them, fish in your skin-tight jeans and take out a key. You open one of the doors and a guy in line—one of the few without another guy feeling him up—says bitchily “Is there another bathroom in there?”