by Daryl Banner
His head dives deeper.
Pleasure washes over me as I howl out, clasping the headboard with so much strength, I worry I could break it.
He grips my thighs firmly, encouraging me.
Then he thrusts his tongue in even deeper, breaching me.
My thighs tighten more.
His name’s the last word I can manage before his tongue slides so deep inside me that I discover a whole new vocabulary of squirming rapture.
He continues his relentless tongue-lashing, grabbing my ass with his big hands while lifting his head off the bed to push himself as deep into me as he can. He alternates between fucking me with his tongue and sucking on my clit. The tighter I seem to squeeze his head, the stronger he pushes his face into me, consuming me.
I can’t stop him if I wanted to. I’m as trapped as his head is. Holy fuck, I’m at the edge already.
Unexpectedly, he stops, grabbing my hips and sliding me off of his face as he comes up for air, which causes me to groan in frustration. I was so fucking close. He chuckles at my distress. I glare back.
I guess that was the appetizer. Now I’m ready for the main course.
And from the look in his eyes, so’s he. Clayton’s eager hand slaps the nightstand and, with a quick maneuver of fingers, a condom’s freed from its tight wrapper only to be made prisoner to his huge, hard-as-fuck cock.
Then, just when he thinks he’s the one calling the shots again, it’s me grabbing hold of the reins. I grip his chest and position myself on top of him. Your meek little Dessie’s grown up, I tell him with my sharp, hungry eyes. My hips dance, smooth as silk as I squirm cruelly, rubbing myself against the tip of his bobbing, furious cock.
This must be really fucking maddening for him. I can drive a man insane in the space of seconds just with my hips.
“Mmm, Dessie …”
My name vibrates down his chest, ending with a growl.
I lean forward. All my hair comes with me, curtaining our view and providing me a tunnel of deep brown that ends at Clayton’s beautiful face. He’s looking straight up into my eyes, as if cursing what my evil little movements are doing to him.
“Let me inside you,” he begs me, gnashing his teeth.
I bite my lip, then gently lower myself just one, cruel inch.
The tip of his cock slips in.
Agony and heaven in one tiny gesture.
But it seems he thinks two can play, for he starts to move his hips slowly. The tip slides in and out, in and out, and soon it’s me who’s throwing my head back, tortured by his movements.
He slips in some more.
“Fuck,” I breathe.
I can’t help it. I reach up and grab my own breasts, fingers pinching the nipples.
In one powerful movement, he sits up and catches the small of my back, lifting me. I squirm as Clayton’s dick slides another inch into me during the maneuver. God, I’ve never wanted to be fucked so badly. He holds me in his lap, one hand bracing my back and guiding my hips as he works to open me up for him.
Then his mouth replaces my fingers, biting that nipple I was so determined to torture myself.
I shudder in his grasp.
He slips even further inside.
Then he trades his teeth for tongue, bathing my nipple and earning himself an even deeper convulsion of pleasure from within me that I cannot control.
He reaches around and takes a handful of my hair, then pulls my whole body down, slipping completely inside.
An earthquake of flesh, sweat, and heat runs down our bodies as his hot breath dances over my breasts. He moves his hips now, pumping me slowly at first as his mouth hungrily works that nipple he’s made his prisoner.
I grab hold of his hair so tightly, I don’t know if I mean to keep him on my nipple or pull him away. It hurts so much. It feels so good.
“Fuck, Clayton. Fuck!”
Pain and pleasure are such close, fickle neighbors.
He moves on to my other breast, desperate for its taste. Hungry for something else too, he greedily pumps me deeper, harder, faster.
I feel myself tightening around him.
Our fingers grip tightly onto anything they’re touching—my ass, his back, my hair, his neck.
Our bodies become a unified machine of rapture pumping in rhythm.
Each breath brings another.
Each thrust inspires the next.
We’re both close. I feel his tightness and he must feel mine, because his breaths are coming quicker. He sucks that nipple, giving it his teeth as he dares to bring me even closer to the edge.
I’m spilling over.
I pull his hair hard, craning his neck. He releases my breast and looks up into my face.
“Clayton.”
“Dessie.”
And then he lets loose inside me, wave after wave after wave of pent-up passion spilling out. My mouth drops as I feel myself climax too, crying out with him.
His eyes never leave mine.
Then our lips lock, sealing the heat between us as we collapse onto the bed, the sweaty sheets embracing us as we gently descend from the unfathomable high we reached together.
His eyes on me. My eyes on him.
Breath after breath.
- Six Months Later -
The spring musical opens tonight.
I have my first lighting design credit in the program.
I have an opening night good-show gift in my pocket for Dessie.
I’m nervous and I’m excited and I’m debating whether it was a good idea to eat lunch at all, because it might end up all over the lobby floor.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I pace in front of the glass windows as the audience slowly gathers, pulling up in their cars, dropped off by taxis, students walking in. I see their smiling faces, couples holding hands, some dressed down, some dressed up.
I wipe a sheen of sweat off my forehead and breathe deep, just like Dessie taught me.
It’s hilarious, how shockingly calm Dessie is. She was calm during all the rehearsals, singing her heart out on that stage. Everyone knew she was going to get the lead this time, and it had nothing to do with her dad, or with her name, or with anything other than the fact that she had a voice that could touch every corner of the room and make everyone fall in love with her.
I think back to when she took me home with her for Christmas. Fuck, I could not keep my jaw closed when I saw Times Square for the first time in my life. It was so bright that even after the sun fell, it was like high noon. I had also severely underestimated how cold it’d be. Holy shit. She even warned me. Hell, she learned ten different ways to sign to me how frigid, freezing, chilly, bitter, icy, shivery, and otherwise horribly cold it would be that time of year.
I met her parents for the first time. Well, second time for her dad, but really, a chance meeting in a restroom pales in comparison to my getting to meet him officially at Dessie’s New York City home. The lights were drawn across the room like a fucking dream, and the tree in the living room spanned to the ceiling. It was enormous. I must’ve stood there for a full minute staring up at its awesome height. Dessie made some joke, asking with her hands if I was figuring out in my head how I’d light the tree differently.
It was in a warm, fire-lit gazebo on Christmas Eve that we had exchanged presents. She gifted me with a hot designer leather jacket that fit so perfectly, I’d swear it was handmade for me. Well, actually it kind of was. Dessie was sneaky about it. Swearing it was to practice for some costumes thing that Victoria was doing, she took all my measurements and, unbeknownst to me, sent them to a contact of her sister’s in New York—some up-and-coming fashion designer who spent eleven years in France after graduating from NYU—detailing precisely how she wanted this jacket to fit. And she got the style just right; I look like the perfect mix of up-to-no-good and sophisticated-as-fuck.
My gift to her was a charm bracelet I got for a steal at a pawn shop. It had the exact balance of beauty, fragility, and strength that I felt fit Dessie so
perfectly. I’d adorned it with three charms: a musical note to represent her beautiful voice, a little light bulb to represent my visual voice, and a linked “C” and “D” that … well, they speak for themselves. I left room for more charms to be added on special occasions.
When I kissed her that New Year’s Eve, I’d never felt more complete. I was frigid as fuck and couldn’t feel my dick, but I watched that ball drop, I had Dessie in my arms, and I was the happiest man alive.
And then she dropped the L word on me.
For some reason, I didn’t return it. I felt it. I had it. I still have it, but couldn’t get that word past my frozen lips. What the fuck was wrong with me? The moment was perfect and I let it slip away.
Now, Dessie will be leaving to go back home when this semester’s over. And that’s just in six weeks. Six weeks I know will fly right the fuck by. Then, she’ll have an amazing summer in New York. She told me her sister’s latest “gorgeous boyfriend” also happens to be the owner of a chain of popular piano bars, and he was looking for a regular act to rotate through them over the summer. Of course, Dessie was Cece’s first—and perhaps only—recommendation.
What do I have to look forward to this summer? Cleaning pools. Landscaping work. Construction too, if I can work something out with Pete like I did last year. Anything to build up the funds for my fourth and final year. Normally, that sounds like bliss to me.
But the thought of staying here without Dessie … I feel so guilty, to be so fucking happy for her, yet torn apart inside.
I grip my good-show gift so tightly in my pocket, it hurts.
Brant busts through the glass doors, pulling me from my thoughts, and the first thing I notice is a red hand-shaped mark across his cheek. I squint at him, making the universal sign for “what the fuck, dude?” which doesn’t take a sign-language-inclined person to understand. He tells me that, just now, his girl from last week ran into his girl from this week, a slap or two ensued from one or both girls upon his sputtering face, and now he may or may not have an extra ticket to the show.
I shake my head and laugh, pulling Brant in for a hug and saying, “You’re one fucking mess, that’s for sure.” With a slap to his chest, I add, “I taught you how to talk to girls. Maybe I should have taught you how to keep it in your pants sometimes, too. Moderation and shit.”
He smirks at me, points to his red-as-a-tomato cheek, and says, “With this pretty face?”
Just before the audience is given the five-minute get-your-asses-to-your-seats warning, Dmitri pops in and snatches Brant’s extra ticket. Together, they disappear into the theater, chatting away.
Oh, fuck. The five-minute warning.
My good-show gift.
She can’t start her show without my fucking gift.
Before I realize what I’m doing, I shove through the double doors leading down the back hallways to the dressing room. My feet carry me faster than I can keep up with them, stumbling twice as I make my way. My heart’s thrashing against the bone bars of my ribcage like an angry prisoner determined to break free.
My eyes blink when I reach the dressing room. Where is she?
I spot the backside of Victoria dressed in her costume for the show. I rush up to her and spin her around, her startled eyes meeting mine.
“Where’s Dessie?” I ask at once.
She mouths back: “Onstage already.”
Fuck. They must’ve already called places.
“Thanks,” I say, then smile tightly. “You look great. Break a leg.”
The next instant finds me at the stage door. I pull it open, ignoring the waving hands of someone behind me who may or may not be the stage manager as I fly into the wing, my eyes searching for my woman. I hunt through the darkness, pushing forth. Eyes and faces turn, the actors in the wings who are waiting for the show to start.
I want to cherish every moment I have with her. I ache at the idea that this is our last show together before the semester ends. My insides burn at the mere thought that when summer comes, Dessie goes, and I’ll have to spend three fucking months without her.
Every moment matters.
This is the opening of our show together—her as the voice to this show, and me as the bringer of light to her dark stage.
And I need to speak my piece. And I need to speak it now.
And she needs my good-show gift.
To badly misquote Emily-freakin’-Webb from Our Town, don’t us stupid living people know how precious each moment of our lives is? Even a lazy moment in my apartment, lounging on the couch with Dessie in my arms while we watch some dumb thing on TV? Even another everyday lunch we share in the UC cafeteria? Even a walk to class that we’ve walked a billion times before? Did I truly appreciate each of those seemingly insignificant moments before they slipped by?
Even now, tripping through the darkness backstage searching for my Desdemona. Even now as the final minutes tick away …
The final seconds …
I stand behind the curtain—breathe in, breathe out—as I fiddle with my bare wrist. My charm bracelet. I can’t fucking find it.
That beautiful bracelet he got me for Christmas.
I wear it for good luck every show—much to my costumers’ chagrin. Then yesterday before I left for rehearsal, I couldn’t find it.
I am so furious with myself.
But I have to focus right now. There’s an audience out there, a show to do, and a cast I can’t let down.
When I think about it, Claudio Vergas did a number or two on me. So did the absent Damien Rigby. And the little training-camp-getaway that was Italy, they planted a few seeds that I have come to appreciate. Every mistake I’ve made has strengthened me. Every crushing defeat and red-faced humiliation has served as a necessary stepping stone to reach this place, right here, in front of the curtain.
I don’t regret a single thing. Maybe I’ll even write Claudio a letter to thank him. I’ll send the letter with a package containing a brand new mug to replace the one he threw at my head.
The audience hums with anticipation. Their excitement feeds me, energy racing up and down my body as I wait for the curtain to rise.
“Dessie!”
I spin, my whole backstage universe knocked to the side. I blink through the semidarkness. “Clayton? What—What are you—?”
His hands grasp mine. “I’m so sorry, Dessie. I didn’t give you your good-show gift.”
I gawp, freeing my hands from his. “Are you serious?” I sign and say to him frantically, lit only by the indistinct blue wash of light onstage. “Clayton, the show’s about to begin!”
“They can’t start without me, now can they?” He chuckles, then extends his palm. “Give me your wrist.”
After a brief moment of hesitation, I sigh and surrender my bare wrist to him. He pulls something from his pocket, then gently attaches it to my wrist.
My charm bracelet! But there’s something added to it. I lift my wrist to inspect the new charm. It’s a hand symbol. A fist presented with only the thumb, pinkie, and index fingers extended. It’s the sign for—
“I love you, Dessie,” he whispers.
I bring my eyes up to his, touched. “Clayton.”
“I couldn’t stand letting you go back to New York without telling you that I love you. I’m totally fucking in love with you. Maybe you already knew. I want to stop being a coward and just … fucking say it. And I want you to wear it. I want you to wear my love and … and think of me when … when you’re in those piano bars and you’re singing your beautiful fuckin’ heart out.”
I grab his hands, putting a halt to his frantic signing. He meets my eyes, his own wet with inspiration, with sadness, with several emotions.
Without words, I sign to him: I wanted to tell you tonight after the show, but if you insist on doing this, well, Clayton, I guess we’re doing this right now.
He stares at me, taken aback. The intensity of his eyes sharpens as he awaits my hands’ next movements.
I tell him: I know we ta
lked about moving in together in the fall, but I don’t want to spend the summer without you either. My father wants to offer you an internship at his theater in New York.
Clayton’s eyes shimmer against the dim blue lighting, wide as the eyes of flashlights.
I continue: You’d work alongside some seriously cool professionals up there. And yes, it’s a paid internship. It’s an amazing opportunity and it’s there for you … if you want it.
Clayton’s lips have parted as he stares at my hands in disbelief. I watch the warring thoughts race across his face in a matter of seconds. He doesn’t know what to think. I wonder if maybe I should’ve saved this piece of information for later like I’d planned.
He whispers, “I’m … I’m not a charity case for … for your—”
“No.” I pull his attention to my hands, then sign: Clayton, this is not a handout. My father saw your work. He thinks you’re talented and really likes you. You remind him a lot of himself when he was young and had big ideas.
The stage manager hisses from the side of the stage that they’re ready to start the show. Words squawk at her through her headset, the static carrying to me.
Naturally, I ignore them. I have one more thing to say to my man. And—my hands carry on, bringing his bewildered, wide-eyed attention back to me—for the record …
I present my fist to him with the thumb, pinkie, and index finger extended. It’s the combination of an “I”, an “L”, and a “Y”—I love you.
The next second, he rushes into me for a kiss. My lips crush into his hungry ones as his hands slip around my waist, pulling me against him with all his strength.
I’m pretty sure I hear some sighs of delight by my fellow castmates, who clearly have been watching and witnessing this whole exchange.
Let’s never mind that they have no idea what the fuck I was saying with my hands. That’s between me and this gorgeous man that I love.
When Clayton finally lets me go, he whispers to me, “Show time.”