Then she rolled over and I pulled off her shirt and she let me touch them. They are secrets she holds separate from me, their roundness flattened against her chest all day. She does not like them, but I do. And sometimes, when she lets me, I fall between them and I breathe in. The tip of my nose measures their softness and the fine, white hair rises and she gets goose bumps.
I took one of them in my mouth last night and the dark snail of her nipple grew under my tongue. Her pelvis moved beneath me, moved up toward mine when she let me. The moon was gone and the river lights outside her window reflected like stars, as if the sky moved beneath us and she lay on her back for me.
Her hipbones cut the air in thin circles and she tightened under me. She let me unbutton her boxer shorts. She let me take her in my mouth, press my face into her. I cupped her ass in my palms and she got hard for me. She dug her hands into my hair and shivered in the heat-soaked room and I watched her through the keyhole of her thighs.
Sometimes she lets me and when she does she talks to herself. In a low voice, she talks the fear away. Like last night when her ass was cupped in my hands and she was in my mouth and she whispered and her hips circled faster and her voice began to rise.
The dog woke, his pink tongue curling. He yawned. He circled once, twice, spread out beside us again and he watched his master’s face change. He watched her call out to the ceiling, watched her back arch, watched her reach over her head, her fisted hands knocking the headboard until her long body tightened and her voice grew hoarse.
Then she begged me. She said don’t stop don’t stop don’t stop don’t stop and she trembled under me and her hips pitched and I almost lost her and I pressed my hands into her ass to steady her until she came in my mouth.
Afterward, she pulled the covers up around her. She curled into their soft protection and rolled away from me. She hid. The dog burrowed under the comforter, panting into the darkness. After she let me and she fell asleep on her sore back, the sound of her voice stayed in my ears. I watched her as she kicked the covers off in the night’s long heat. First her shoulders appeared, then her breasts, then the damp stain on her boxers where I had put my mouth. And I wanted to put my hands on her again, but I didn’t. I just watched. The old radiator cracked and pinged in the corner and light from a street lamp bled in through the tall window and she slept and I watched and she let me.
Grand Jeté
Toni Amato
You ask for a kiss and I refuse. You ask for a kiss and I say no for all the right reasons, and come morning I wait for your sleep-soft face and a chance to say yes, oh god yes please. That evening, the thick smell of paint and a worn mattress in your studio and as your hand leads mine toward your breasts, I become harder than ever before. I become a drowning man as your hand urges mine into a salt-slick sea, and I come harder than ever before.
The first time I dress for you, I am a teenage boy on his first date and I want to be a man for you, I want to be a man who can hold your arm there at the elbow and make you feel safe and cherished and adored. You reach out to straighten my tie and although you don’t know all of what you are doing, I am undone.
You reach out to straighten my tie, there, in the hallway, and you have no idea what you have done. And neither, despite my butch-dyke cool, do I. The music is playing softly and you think I am leading as you clap out a rhythm I ache to move my hips to as I watch your woman’s hands.
“Can I see it?” you ask, and I am twelve, thirteen, maybe, and suddenly embarrassed and unsure like I have not been in decades. Yes, decades, and for all my boyish ways, for all my teenage charm, I feel as though I may be falling in love again for the very first time, I feel like a baby-faced virgin boy, and I want to disappear as you handle what I have never shown outside my pants, what I have worshipped with and delivered with and sang hallelujahs with, but always from my trousers, always strapped and bound and covered by cotton and darkness.
You sit blindfolded and bound in a plush chair, a woman who has seen more of me than I knew I wanted to show. You sit willing and open for me and I begin the dance that I have mastered, and I watch. I watch the flush and the sheen and the motions of desire. I have become accustomed to knowing that I am wanted, but this time, this time I beg with hands and tongue, and everything I am and yes I pray, I pray to you and what I pray is please, please want this. Oh please want me. And you do. And here begins the dance. A dance interrupted by too many miles and too little time.
I tell myself stories, at night. I tell myself stories, now, to help me get to sleep.
It’s hotter than hell here. Can’t stand my own skin touching itself, can’t stand the weight of even a thin sheet. I’m sweating and twisting and searching for a cool spot on the pillow and there isn’t any and the truth is I’m getting restless and cranky and it’s too hot even to jerk off.
The truth is, I’m desperate to fuck you. No. That’s not the truth, either. The truth is, I need your body. Need your shoulders and your thighs and your belly and your back. Truth is it’s very difficult for an animal to talk and what I am right now is a lust-maddened beast and I am trying to make this make sense, to make this something more than guttural noises and deep-throated grunts, trying to be a civilized human being despite the unconscious baring of my teeth. And you think it a lopsided grin, this hungry thing you bring out in me.
I have told you. I have tried to tell you that the veins beneath the skin of your breasts, the blue pulsing of your wrists and neck are a torment to me. But what I can find words to say is only a phantom of what lies down hot and heavy in my own veins and all I can do is show you and there is not space, in this configuration of our lives, there is not time for a complete showing and so the caged animal paces and occasionally growls and so here I am, working words and grinding my teeth and maybe I’ll catch it this time.
It’s not all sweet romance, it’s not all soft and you play with fire when you tell me you remember being dragged into that bathroom.
You play with fire that I want you to swallow, entire and whole, so that I can watch the flush of flame creep across your ribs, along your collarbones. So I can see you burn the way my fingers scorch and sear at the touch of you.
It’s not all tender words and longing glances, and the place you have never been to before is a place I have prowled for years but never, not once, has there been a creature like you here. You say you want to have jungle sex with me and oh yes, the jungle, and there I wait, slinking yellow-eyed through vines full of exotic birds and I will hear you coming, yes I will hear you coming again and again.
Nocturnal beast. I am losing sleep over this. Losing sleep and losing rest because when my eyes shut the dreams come and it is difficult to translate dreams into waking words but I will try because you have asked and sometimes, indeed, the hunter gets captured by the prey.
“You have no idea what you do to me,” I say, later and from a distance. Wide-eyed wonder across the telephone lines. “What? Tell me what. Go on, give me words.”
I am a poor poet deprived of words, a tongue-tied Romeo—I am a woman struck speechless by desire and all the words I know to describe this loosening of muscle, this rhythmic tremolo—all these words are not enough. And these words are all I have.
“Tell me.”
All my years of pursuing the one who could take my defiant self and create a safe place for the bended knee I am desperate to offer—all those years of dark and mysterious places, actors so sure of their lines, carefully orchestrated scripts and now, here, this. Your voice. All right. I’ll try to tell you.
What would I use to say the unspeakable, to tell you the things that lay heavy on my tongue? The things that I wish had not ever been said before and I want to make a new language, then. A language all ours, a set of sighs and murmurs and exultant shouts. Soft groans of deep surprise and loud, loud earsplitting shrieks of hearts torn wide open. I want a series of clicks and tooth chatters and gusts of breath that will tell you the particulars that are so particular. The peculiar and the
personal and I do indeed believe that this can only be said by speaking in tongues. Strange language and insane gesticulation.
In my dreams we have days and nights. Yes, long nights, hot like these I suffer through. In my dreams there are as many hours to the darkness as passion can create, and there is enough of it, of passion and all its attendant desire and hunger and need, enough to make for an eternity.
You lie on a bed of fur, soft and caressing, dark beneath you. You lie on the skin of an animal and this reminds me of what I become for you. More than that—helps me remember what you need from me. Soft despite the hard wanting, the way my muscles tense and flex with needing you. You lie on a bed of fur and look at me, and there are myriad women gazing through eyes I watch go large and dark with the same fierce need that moves me. You are a playful, impetuous child, a young woman discovering what your body can do for you, a temptress who knows quite well what she does to me. That one, the one who taunts and provokes and most certainly dares me. And I am desperate to please them all.
I can smell you from across the room. It’s the scent of metal and blood and deep, secret places. Salt of the ocean and tang of pine needles on an ancient forest floor. My teeth ache with it, my mouth waters, and something old behind my eyes drops down. I can smell you and the memory of everything pleasurable lies just beneath that scent. I close my eyes and pull molecules of you deeply into me, the way I long to be pulled into you. Let the capillaries in my chest pass this on to every blood cell and so to the very fibers of my body. This is the first sweet step toward losing track of the boundary between us, toward forgetting where I let off and you begin.
Flooded, saturated, I open my eyes. The arch of your foot. The long curve of calf. The most succulent of all tender places resting beneath a gathering of your own fur. I need to see your belly rise and arch, need to feel your muscles tense and release. Already I can see your pulse lifting the intricacies of your veins closer to that skin, that smooth and supple skin I burn with the heat of, even here across the room.
I need this more than you can possibly imagine. Like a starved thing, too long alone and unfed, and no matter how much you give me, I know this hunger will not be abated.
I need this and I pray for self-control, for the presence of mind to treat you like a precious thing even as I lose my mind in animal ecstasy. Pray for strength and pray in thanksgiving and the words of the prayer fade away into gibberish when I reach you, when I reach down to you, kneel down before you and begin a long night of supplication and speaking in tongues.
Where to begin? A kiss, just one kiss and the fullness of your lips, the taste of your breath are enough to make me shudder. I want to kiss you until your lips bleed, until you come up gasping for air—and even this only once I’ve had enough. There is danger in this wanting. The continually present danger of the bottomless hungers I suffer in your absence. The hungers that are only sharpened by your physical presence.
A kiss, then. Or more like a thousand kisses in one extreme lingering. I want to feel you move for me. Feel the tip of your tongue and the smooth coolness of your teeth. I want to eat your mouth as though it were a fine, sweet fruit. Crush it and let the juices run down my chin. So easy to slip from mouth to cheek and follow that first downy caress to your ear. To that place which brings from you the shy turning of your head, the quick intake of breath.
And once my lips have made that journey, once I have mouthed a trail of desire across the delicate bones and bitten more gently than is imaginable, then I exhale. Allow the deepest of sighs to escape my lips and enter the echo chamber of your ear. Imagine the hot, wet wind before a storm, imagine the force of murmured words—“Jesus god I want you”—able to course the distance to a place I long to be but will not go for a long, long while.
Instead, I caress the delicate contours with my tongue, the ridges and folds and the astounding contradiction of soft skin over cartilage. Between my teeth a fragile thing. Instead I burrow into a small indentation, an almost secret tender place, and drink deeply.
There is a shift, then. The last vestiges of control shatter, and my hands are creatures unto themselves. My hands that knew their way across your body from the very beginning. I want to cup the weight of your head in my palm, push my fingers through the fineness of your hair. Want to place the full grip of my desire on either of your strong and freckled shoul- ders, pushing into you all my want and need. Here I can feel the first soft surrendering, the first relaxation of your muscles. The giving in and letting go. If I close my eyes, I see you naked in the cool reflection of water, see the way you could float on the surface, with your body this loose, and I will myself to be the ocean, to be the steady beat of waves on a roundly pebbled shore.
Trace your collarbones with trembling fingers, run my palms over the plane of your chest, the mound of your belly, the long smooth glide of your sides and across the curve of your breasts. Undone, I am undone and there is no restraint, now. I am beyond lingering, beyond savoring, and the time has come for abandon, for high winds and torrential downpour.
Monica and Me
Rachel Kramer Bussel
I think I’ve found a way to convince the ever-luscious Monica Lewinsky to come back to my hotel room with me—at least, I’m counting on it.
I’ve been fascinated with her ever since the news of her affair with Clinton first broke. I mean, he’s the president—it’s not just the everyday person who can get access to being in the same building as him, let alone down-and-dirty under his desk.
In all the hubbub over the legal maneuverings and the moral outcry, it seemed like everyone had forgotten that Monica is indeed, despite it all, just a young woman, and one who obviously has a very sensual side. But that’s obvious, not only from her actions with Clinton and whoever else, but by looking at her and hearing her talk. Her lust extends to life— she’s lively and excited, girlish and sweet.
I’d followed all the drama and the minor tabloid stories, collecting Monica facts in my head, trying to piece them all together to create a whole person. But I needed more—I needed to see for myself what she and I had in common, whether the sparks I envisioned in my head would truly explode when we met.
I booked a room at the Paradise Hotel as soon as I knew that she would be coming to town for a book-signing. The only really fancy hotel in town, this will provide me with extra chances to casually “bump” into her. Of course this will require lots of preparation and a bit of luck, because I’m sure, with her looks and fame, she has people trying to get close to her every day.
The day of the book-signing, I go to the store as soon as it opens and browse for a little while, thinking I would look too much like a stalker if I were the first person seated in the audience, but also wanting to get a seat up front. I’ve primped myself into a sexy but not overpowering outfit: a low-cut blouse with a tight silver jacket over it, short black skirt, and sexy black stockings with glittery silver lines sparkling here and there. I also added some shiny silver eye shadow and applied enough black eyeliner and mascara so it actually looks like I have eyelashes.
Completing the outfit is my recent indulgence purchase: open-toed maroon high heels with a patterned design. I don’t want to scare her away, but I need her to notice me.
She reads briefly from her autobiography, tearing up once or twice, but more often looking coyly at her audience, knowing that most of them are here because she has captivated their libidos even more than their need to gossip. She licks her carefully painted lips, every action carefully constructed to make us pay nonstop attention to her body. She’s flirting en masse, and I’m ready to seduce her right then, but I bide my time.
As she finishes and people line up for autographs, I graciously allow the other attendees to go ahead of me. After all, I’m not really here to get my book signed. She looks up and I pierce her with my gaze, brown eyes on brown, not letting her look away until she must turn to the man in front of me.
“Miss Lewinsky, I have great faith in you and am behind you all the
way,” he says as she smiles and asks his name.
I bet he’d like to be right behind her, but that will be my position later tonight. He steps away and she gazes up at me, looking around for my book.
“Hi. I left my book back at the hotel, but it’s very important that I get it autographed.”
She looks at me, not saying anything, but a slight smile hovers around her lips. “So, are you going to go back and get it?” she asks with a bit of a smirk.
I stare right back at her, letting her know that I’m open to whatever lascivious scenario she’s concocting. “Well, I can’t go get it right now, I have a few appointments, but, well—I just need to get it signed,” I end up whining, desperation making my voice climb. All my acting lessons have been distilled into this moment.
She tells me that she’ll be signing for a little while longer, and that if I come back in half an hour maybe she can arrange to meet me later. I have no choice but to trust her. I wink at her and head out the door.
I breathe a large sigh of relief at having actually made contact, and stroll around the block, frantically trying to come up with a plan B to get her up to my room. I walk a few blocks and then head back, realizing that my half hour is almost up.
Despite twinges of uncertainty, I have a feeling she’ll still be there and will talk to me.
I see how starved she is not just for good sex but for some real attention to Monica the person, not just Monica the intern. Yes, like everyone else I follow the stories on her in the tabloids, but I’m more than just a groupie. I sense in Monica a kinship, a kind of sisterhood, if you will, that will make our union tonight special beyond either of our dreams.
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