Sex and Death in the American Novel

by Martinez, Sarah

  Laura dipped her head in at last, and, as I'd been in such a constant state of excitement for so long, her efforts soon resulted in my own ragged breathing and the sense of urgency that came with it. Her lips, full and soft as they were brushing against the insides of my lips, made me want more, scooting down inches so I could be closer to her. She wrapped her arms under me, around my hips, and let her fingers dance over my sides and stomach in soft movements, which matched the pressure of her tongue and lips. Just as she had done before, I turned my head to one side, felt my body grown taut, and raised my hips to get closer to her.

  A soft chuckle came from her and she looked up, eyes moving from me, a slow smile, then to Jasper who was beside me. Jasper leaned toward my ear and said, “She's close.” The memory of what that looked like when Laura lay before me, sent me over. Liquid hot pools of pleasure swirled first where she licked me, burst through my legs, making them heavy and full, to my stomach, then my arms until I saw stars. Jasper pressed his moist lips to the spot behind my ear, holding me close to his head, the rustling of his hair in my ear filled me with a deep longing and different need separate from the pleasure that was already draining away. Laura moved up my body and kissed me gently on the mouth, before moving off. I lay pinned to the bed, like Caligula after a wedding, too weak and sated to move.

  Jasper placed his hands under my arms, lifting me farther onto the bed, then he lay down beside me, warming me entirely with his slender form. I reached out to Laura, who turned to me and placed her hand on my face, slid her hand down my cheek, then rolled over and hopped out of bed. Her barely lit form moved through the room, all hard angles and firm lines. She bent over to root through a pile of clothes on the floor before sticking her finger in the air and heading to the bathroom. She came back in her robe, opened a drawer, pulled out a pair of panties and worked these on underneath.

  With a flourish, leaning over and circling her hand in the air she turned, moved the chair away from the door, unlocked it, and opening the door only enough to let herself out, she closed it again. The floor to ceiling windows in the bedroom shone through with twinkling lights. I could make out the buildings as separate distinct darker shapes from the deep indigo of the night sky. In between the buildings on one side poked the dark hulk of Mount Rainier under the moon.

  Jasper's shape molded beside me, warm, slick with sweat. I'd had other arms around me before, thicker arms, shorter arms, but none held the same all-encompassing warmth that his did. We dozed for some time when I woke to feel his hands exploring again, his palm flat against my skin, moving down the side of my leg, across my ass, stopping to grip and squeeze lightly.

  He must have sensed that I was awake, because he moved me onto my back, and continued to stroke my front, avoiding the area between my thighs. Images of all the ways this could go flashed through my mind while his eyes, two glimmering points, shone in the dim light. I pushed up on my elbows, leaned over the bed and felt around for his pants. I was relieved to find Laura had slipped two into his pocket.

  I pushed him back, and moved one leg over him so that I was on top. His hands reached out to stroke the flesh of my thighs and hold me by the waist. His eyes landed on my nipples, moved to the hollow of my neck. So he could examine everything, I swept my hair over one shoulder and turned my attention to where his enormous new limb stood inches from its goal.

  “Your cock is a goddam work of art.” I stroked him with light fingers, lingering over the silky folds circling the bulb at the end.

  He answered with a desperate look and thumped it against my hand.

  I moved to put it right up to the opening of my lips and then sat back. “See these veins here?” He nodded. I ran my finger over a long trailing purple one that went all along the underside and snaked around to pulse at the top. “And this one, the way it goes from here, to here?” I stopped stroking. “Have you ever measured it? You should have it measured… definitely.”

  He stared with wide eyes and gave an uncertain laugh.

  I worked the thin latex over him, wrinkling my nose at the harsh scent.

  I slipped him inside with one smooth movement. When I rose up again he said, “Don't stop doing that.”

  I planted my hands on his chest, thrilling at the flexed muscles beneath my hands. His face changed from tension to softness every time I slid down as if he thought I would move away every time I rose up too high.

  His grip tightened around my waist, his face changed to one of sincere concentration, his mouth turned down, tight, his nostrils flaring. At one point he closed his eyes, breathing through his nose, letting breath out his partly opened lips. I reached out and ran my forefinger over his lower lip, pulling it down, opening his mouth wider, to an oval. The dark stubble that had grown since earlier in the night set off his mouth. Perfection.

  I placed my hands on his hips and lifted myself up, easing down onto him again, slowing down my own pleasure, making him wait with me. I squeezed the tip of him with the muscles inside, loving the way his eyes popped open when I did that.

  I stroked the hair at his temple and he said, “Do that again?”

  “If you say it like that I'll do it all night.” I rose up, squeezed him and slid down, inciting a satisfactory noise from deep in his throat. “I'd do anything, just don't stop using that tone.”

  “No problem.” A soft genuine smile took over his whole face. His eyes locked on the area where our bodies joined, and the look of fascination on his face made me giddy. Moments later, he got quiet, and his face showed a vulnerable open patience. I simply wanted to hold him inside. I lowered my chest to him until we were skin to skin, and worked my hips back and forth, moving my face farther into the damp space behind his ear. I imagined working myself into the cave of his secret place, a wonderful place where things didn't have to be light or loud to be happy. His arms came around me, tight, so that it was work to leverage my hips against him, but the struggle made it all the more exciting.

  “Amazing,” he whispered in my ear, and flipped my hair back, running the tip of his nose and lips along my neck. “How totally,” he paused, our bodies working together, “unexpected.”

  I continued to nuzzle and grind. After a few more moments, I pulled back; he ran his hand over my face, and pulled me down so that our foreheads touched and our breath came together. He quickened his pace and I felt the core of heavy sensation unwinding where I held him. I let myself go, opening myself to take all of him, and I became full in the space between my stomach and heart, my chest tightening as it filled, stretched—changing me. I took a deep breath, he smiled and his eyes got soft and he moved his hands to hold me by the shoulders.

  In one moment we were working together, filling each other up; the next moment, he was holding my head with his hands, gasping, and I felt my lower half go thick with pleasure. From my position I felt every throbbing pulse as he came, my own involuntary spasms locking us tightly together. I continued to grind and tighten my grip, his gasps as I did giving me short thrilling bursts of satisfaction.

  After a time, he stirred beneath me, and I reluctantly allowed him to slip from my body. I moved under the comforter and crawled inside. He slipped in beside me and we slept as before, tightly bound together, until I heard the door close twice out in the other room and saw that the light outside was turning from gray to pink, the deep darkness behind the buildings receding before the arrival of the new day.

  Jasper lay with his arms stretched out. I must have moved to the edge and curled into a tight ball. I eased myself out of bed, careful to keep the comforter held down so the cold air wouldn't wake him. This wasn't something I was especially eager to slip away from, but my head throbbed and my stomach threatened to act on its own, so it seemed like the thing to do to move and take stock alone.

  As I padded to the bathroom, I stopped in the doorway and watched him sleep from the same place he'd hovered from earlier. Usually a night like this filled me with an urgent need to leave. In the morning they never measured up to the hope
s I had for them just hours before. This time the hollow regret wasn't there, only a fearful longing. He moved one hand to his chest and I could make out the bones of his collar.

  In less than two days I'd pulled my brother's idol down from his tower and dragged him through the brightly colored hallways of my debauched life, and had a grand time doing it. Now what was I going to do with him? I remembered how his face looked so close, his eyes held an intense understanding, curiosity and trust. What would I see when I saw him next?

  PART II.

  It may be us they wish to meet but it's themselves they want to talk about.

  —Cyril Connolly

  Chapter 8

  After Jasper, I found myself watching people in a different way. I was at the corner of Broadway and Pike on Capitol Hill, not far from Neighbours, though the place felt completely different in the daytime. A tall black guy and a tiny brunette chatted as they crossed the street. One of his long arms reached out in the air as if to shield her from the oncoming traffic. She spoke in short bursts, taking quick peeks up at his face whenever she stopped to take a breath, like she was gauging whether or not he was really paying attention. His eyes never wandered from her. My heart thumped, and I felt this whole woozy feeling in my stomach where usually there was a knot of nervous dread. Then the commentary in my head started up… I give it two weeks before he starts cheating on her, or she gets clingy and he has to break it off. Still the knot of dread hadn't settled in. Odd. The next thought was really wonderful…who cares? There was nothing, absolutely nothing like the rush of meeting, liking, and getting to know a new person. Nothing. That moment for those two kids was something they will likely remember in some way forever.

  This was a miracle. For well over a year, almost every thought I had led to a worse thought, and any sort of thinking, unless I was focused on work, left me more depressed than if I'd just stayed in front of the television. Until that moment, I hadn't considered there would ever be an end to the alternating anxiety and numbness I'd been living with since my brother's suicide.

  A week later I opened my email to find this.

  Vivianna,

  The flight to LA was quick though waking after only an hour put me in a bad mood. Out of curiosity I looked up your blog. I expected to find your content limited to areas of homosexual interest, found myself instead laughing out loud.

  Business-class passengers have no sense of humor. They all looked at me like I was hatching a plot to kill the president. Shit. Now I'm probably on a watch list. You bring out the deviant in me.

  Fondly,

  Jasper

  P.S. Glad to hear men won't be replaced by appliances any time soon.

  My face reddened at the reference to my latest blog post. Inspired partly by Jasper's performance, and sparked by a discussion I'd had with a sappy straight guy at a club in Belltown a few nights before. This poor guy was literally crying in his neon-green cocktail when I sidled up to the bar. I gave him my best smile, batted my eyelashes and said, “Dude, you're killing my buzz.”

  “Sorry.” He sniffed. “My friends thought taking me out would cheer me up.”

  I waved the bartender over while I said, “Not working.”

  That got a weak laugh from him.

  He bought me a very sweet, very expensive lemon drop, and I listened to the whole story.

  “My girlfriend Karen says,” he cleared his throat, “my performance in the sack is what's wrong.”

  I gave my best wide-eyed look of encouragement.

  “She says all the guys she knew before me could go for like a half hour at least.”

  “Ah, and what's your best time?”

  “Ten minutes. That was only once.”

  “Please tell me you took care of her after that…”

  You'd think I'd asked him if he'd ever swum the English Channel. “You think that's what she wants?”

  I took a breath and let it out slowly. It might not be a bad thing if this one didn't reproduce.

  He looked into his drink as if the answer to his problems might appear from the bottom of the glass.

  “Have you tried jerking off before you fuck?”

  He had.

  “Have you tried pills…thinking about your grandmother? Pain?”

  The last got a raised eyebrow. I was actually serious, but then I am used to people misunderstanding me.

  I thought of Jasper and how truly stellar his performance had been. I almost spewed lemon goo all over him in a fit of laughter when he said, “She tells me she has more fun with her vibrator than with me!”

  He looked so miserable I had to offer something. “Can I be honest? I think I know what the problem is.”

  He looked uncertain.

  “You're not there. You're not really tuned in to her. Are you feeling me?”

  He wrinkled his forehead, but continued listening. “I bet you're going at it like you could be anywhere, banging away like she's a blow-up doll or something. I can definitely understand her saying she can have a much better time and avoid a lot of mess and hassle by employing a small machine.” He slid toward the edge of his seat as if he were about to split. I locked my eyes on his. “It is amazing how often guys think that distracted pawing passes for a good time. Are you all late for something that only takes place after you shoot your load?”

  I leaned back, closed my arms over my chest. “Like we can't tell you're not really there.” I remembered several of my more disappointing encounters while I was trying to drown my grief. His face hardened until I said, “But if you are one hundred percent engaged, really focused on her and a real exchange of energy is taking place…there is nothing—and I don't care if you're thimble sized—nothing can replicate that.”

  “Really?” he said, moving back into the seat.

  I nodded. The guy and I chatted a bit more, he counted off on a barely opened fist the other ways she didn't appreciate him. In the end it looked like he was probably better off anyway.

  The conversation stuck in my head. A few days later I felt compelled to address the issue for my readers. Surely this wasn't the first guy who had been told that three inches of plastic and an Energizer could take his place. How unfortunate that Jasper had landed on that post as opposed to one of the ones I'd written that had taken me much longer—my feelings about Alice for instance.

  I started and deleted a few responses to Jasper's email, growing more and more annoyed with myself. I finally responded with a quick note thanking him for checking out the blog, noting that he surely had many other more worthwhile, more serious things to do, and added a line with my phone number under my signature. Until then I had been avoiding the fact that I really did want to hear the sound of his voice again. I thought of the couple crossing the street and felt a strange sadness that I hadn't talked to Jasper more when he was physically in front of me, but then you can only do so much with a person in a few hours. I had to prioritize.

  He called two days later. I had my face stuffed with a quick lunch of apples and cheese. A rerun of Dexter played on the TV. When I heard his voice I switched the TV off.

  “Oh. Hey,” I said, already pissing myself off with this fake nonchalance. I do not do uncertainty in social exchanges well—and I really don't do relationships well.

  His breath on the other end. “Is it okay that I am calling?”

  “Yes! I mean, of course it is. I like talking to you.”

  “Good.”

  Silence.

  Wake up!

  I set my plate on the table and curled my legs under me, hoping to relax by changing position. “So what are you up to today?”

  “Calling you.”

  “And what else?”

  “That's it. Took me all day to work up the nerve, couldn't tell if it would be a good idea…I mean, if you would want me to.”

  Silence again. I had no idea what to make of this big show of insecurity, and right when I opened my mouth to speak, he interrupted me.

  “Just kidding. Woke up. Worked. Then I spent
about a half hour working myself up to this.”

  “You're funny.”

  He cleared his throat.

  “I worked this morning too, now I'm having lunch, filling my head with garbage. Talk to me about something important and literary.”

  “I can do that. How much time do you have?” He used that tone again. The tone that stuck my attention to his words like cement, super glue…a million similes went through my head. So fucking smooth. You would never know it to look at him.

  “You know, I was curious and we never got around to it…why do you write romances for gay men?” When I was silent, forming my thoughts, he added, “It's just not intuitive…when you obviously understand straight sex…”

  “I love men, their smell, the way they walk, the extra hair, the way they can be so no nonsense about some things and such babies about others. I like that writing about men is different, at least the way I try to do it…I think it started with Anne Rice's erotica. There were no labels and there was this implicit freedom in that. People in those books could think or feel and do whatever they wanted.” I was about to start babbling so I stopped and changed topic, hoping to pick up my brain on the way. “I adore Marco Vassi. My brother first had me read him when we started talking about books that involved large amounts of drug intake.”

  Jasper's tone was light. “And you liked that.”

  “I don't know that the drug part mattered as much, but he presented one more way to be alive in a physical body. What was really wonderful about that book was how liberated he was. He fucked everyone and everything and didn't apologize. It was all this great experience for him. I loved that. There was so much to explore and understand about the experience of being human. He got it all. Just like Henry Miller, but different. He was clearly his own man, he has been compared in some ways, but I think Marco Vassi was on a much more all-encompassing trip. He didn't seem to be out to middle finger the establishment so much as to not be a part of it, to find his own way.”