The brat can’t hide her pleasure. “Cool,” she grins. “I mean, yes, Doctor C.”
The Word Nebraska
Tennessee Jones
The men in Vermont usually thought we were boys when they picked us up. A stone mason stopped for us on Route 5, a two-ton slab of marble in the back of his truck, the big wheels almost as tall as my chest. He was thin and dark, his torso covered by a bulky stained jacket, his hands so huge the steering wheel seemed to disappear between them. His eyes were dark brown, half hidden by heavy brows. I smelled tobacco and sweat when Jake opened the passenger door, but when we climbed into the cab of the truck he yelled, “Jesus fuck! You guys smell like shit; roll down the window!” as I extended my hand to him. The introduction froze on my lips. As the truck accelerated he said, “It’s all right. I know what it’s like. I started hitchhiking when I was fifteen. I didn’t like riding the bus so that’s how I got to school. I grew up around here and after a while people start to get to know you and they don’t mind picking you up. Then when I got out of school I didn’t stop for a while. I went all the way to the West Coast.” He stopped for a moment. “What are you guys doing?”
“We’re going out west too,” Jake said to him.
“There’s nothing much out there. That’s why I came back here. I was tired of being broke, tired of having long hair, tired of being nobody. I guess I was still nobody for a few months even after I came back. I used to terrorize the cops here, come around the curves at seventy miles an hour and then when one of them would get behind me and flash his lights I’d speed up even more. I’d race the fucker until I was in New Hampshire and there was nothing he could do to me.
“I came back here because I knew someone who could teach me a trade and I knew I could make a lot of money at it. I apprenticed for a few months laying brick and restoring old buildings and then I went off on my own.”
He talked about rocks for the next half hour like he was almost crazy. He talked about them like he was in love with them, pointing at old brick farmhouses as we passed by them, telling us how much money each would be worth. “You can charge a dollar apiece for vintage bricks and people will pay it,” he said. “That old house over there’s got at least a hundred thousand on it.” I closed my eyes briefly and saw the building demolished, the burnt orange of the trees rising around nothing.
I noticed him looking at me closely as he talked as if he was starting to sense that I wasn’t a man. Did he notice the absence of a beard or Adam’s apple? Was it something in the scent my body gave off, not as spicy and dark as his own? “I wanna pull over for a second and show you part of a wall I restored. I don’t want you all getting nervous, it’s just off the side of the road here.” He pointed to a gravel parking lot and an old brick building. We got out of the truck and walked over to it, close enough so that he could lay his hands on the rough surface of the bricks. “I matched up bricks over here,” he said. “Pulled out the old crumbling ones and replaced them. You can hardly tell, can you?” I noticed his fingers were long and thin, the knuckles brushed with hair. He touched the wall gingerly, as if feeling for the pulse of the person who had originally laid the brick.
After the stone mason dropped us off on the side of the road in Massachusetts, Jake and I talked about dragging him off into the woods, looking into his big brown eyes, and forcing him to suck both of our cocks, feeling his white teeth brush up against our pubic hair. It’s funny how queerness seems to spread as our lovers take on other genders, how behaviors like sucking cock become desirable and transgressive. We talked about fucking his ass and leaving him in the dry leaves with his pants down around his boots. Maybe we thought about these things because we were terrified of being discovered, terrified of being beaten by small-town boys because we had pussies instead of dicks.
Jake collars me for the first time in a basement in Louisville, Kentucky. I am skeptical. “After I put this on you,” he says to me, “I don’t want you to make another sound.” I face the gray basement wall and he steps behind me, so close that I can feel his broad chest pressing against my shoulder blades. He places the piece of leather across my throat, drawing it so tight against my trachea that it is a little difficult for me to breathe. I close my eyes as he puts it on, trying to process how I feel about it and what I think it means. He grabs my shoulders and turns me around to face him. “I’m going to tie you up now, darlin’,” he breathes in my ear. He has a long length of white rope in his hand. He pulls my wrists behind my back and wraps rope around each of them separately, so that my forearms are tightly encased almost to my elbows. He ties a knot to draw my wrists together and with the same piece of rope ties my feet. “I want to make sure you don’t talk,” he says, drawing a leather gag through my teeth. “Stand here and wait for me.”
He starts walking up the stairs and I feel panic spread in my chest, tightening the ventricles of my heart, shrinking my lungs. My breath turns hot, as if I’ve inhaled glass. When he reaches the top of the stairs, he flicks off the light switch and I am left in darkness. My feet turn cold and then my shins. I discover that boredom is my greatest fear. I can hear him pacing upstairs and then I hear the electric pop of the TV being turned on. White-hot anger flares up in me. The cold spreads to my hands and then stops. I try to move and I cannot. This is a curious feeling. I strain against the ropes and they remain tight. I try to expel the gag from my mouth. I stand for a few moments, long enough to forget that I cannot walk, and almost fall over when I try. I discover I am terrified of falling, terrified of what he would do to me if he found me lying on the dirty concrete of the floor instead of standing.
After a while I feel myself becoming someone else. I am no longer angry. I want him to come back. That desire shuts everything else up. I stop thinking about getting to the interstate the next morning and the novel I’m writing. I stop thinking about myself. I think only about whether or not I will be able to do the things he will demand of me.
Relief mixes with terror when I hear the heavy clunk of his boots on the stairs again. The light flickers on and I discover I cannot look at him. He is tender when he comes to me, holding my cheeks, whispering “honey” again and again softly. He removes the gag and wipes away the drool that is running down my chin. He kisses me slowly, his tongue filling up my mouth completely, my face in his hands, his thumbs digging into my cheeks.
He breaks the kiss and sits down in a gray folding chair. He says, “Come over here, honey.” Ashamed, I hop clumsily to where he sits. “Get down on your knees,” he says in the same sweet voice. He spreads his legs wide and I see the outline of his cock underneath the thick fabric of his work pants. I press my face into his crotch, the spit from my open mouth staining his pants darker. He grabs my hair and jerks my head back. “Don’t fucking touch me until I say you’re allowed to.” He slaps my face hard, the sting of it spreading to my neck and lips. His gray eyes spark. “You fucking bitch. If you want my cock so much, I’m gonna make you swallow it.” He unzips his pants and the big black dick he won in a drag king contest spills out.
I turn into a faggot when I’m sucking his cock. I can envision my eyes closed, my cheeks hollowed out, the perfect curls of my lashes almost disappearing. I look sixteen, dark-haired, some young boy he’s picked up off the street. I gag when he puts his dick in my mouth. This makes him impatient. He grabs my head in his big hands and thrusts his hips so that his cock is hitting the back of my throat. It slams into my throat until I finally open up and let it slide in toward my gut. He has his hands squeeze tighter at my temples to let me know I’m not getting away, that I’m not allowed to breathe until he’s done. It becomes a meditation: sneaking in bits of air, finding a way to adjust to the thing that is filling up my mouth completely. I suck him off as hard and fast as I can, the muscles in my jaws and neck aching, the ligaments screaming. I lose who I am while I am doing this.
I come back to earth after he has pulled my head away. He zips his pants and stares at me. I’m still on my knees, the collar tight around
my throat. “You’re so fucking pretty,” he says to me and takes out his knife. He bends down and cuts the rope off my ankles. “Get up,” he says and leads me closer to one of the cinder block walls. He unbuttons my shirt, the knife clenched in his teeth. He pushes the cloth down to my tied wrists. They tingle with the motion. He rubs his dick against my ass and pushes my naked torso against the wall. My nipples and cheek grind against the rough block. He puts the knife against my throat and whispers again, “Don’t make a sound.” I feel his other hand loosening my belt and then my jeans drop down to my ankles. He touches my ass and his hand is slippery with grease. The knife presses tighter against my throat so that I am sure there must be a thin line of blood trickling down my throat and across my collarbone.
He presses the big dick against my asshole and I shudder; my body bucks against him. The cinder blocks tear at my nipples. He is rough with me, sliding the first half-inch into me viciously. It stops when it hits the tighter ring of muscle inside my ass. He moves his hips in short strokes against me, thrusting a little harder each time. He does this until he stretches out my asshole. I sense the rest of the dick before he puts it inside me, feel him drawing back before he slams into me. I feel like I am losing consciousness when I am being fucked in the ass, the pleasure so great that all I can do is open my throat and howl. I forget about the knife against my throat. He fucks me until my tits are bloody and I cannot speak.
The clouds in Nebraska almost made me believe in God again. Plains wide and endless, the skeletal bodies of electric windmills, the sky tumultuous and silver. The snow had almost stopped, a few dry flakes snaking across the asphalt. It must be wretched to live in the Midwest during the winter, I thought, cut off from the rest of the world, land fallow, crops plowed under. The clouds were as large as the earth.
Jake and I slept not a hundred yards from the interstate in Des Moines the night before in a dry ditch covered with leaves. Tall reedy plants grew all around, stalks brown and thin as paper. We stamped out a place to lie down, hard winter stars sparkling above us. We lay half awake and freezing all night, until the sun began to turn the cloudy sky gray. I felt as if I’d never get warm again as we trudged up the on ramp when a woman driving all the way to Denver pulled over and gave us a ride.
After a while landscape becomes conversation. Landscape becomes impetus and reason. It becomes home. Months before, we stood on a bridge over the Penobscot River in Bangor, Maine, the clear sun creeping up toward noon, the town to the left of us, a conglomeration of church steeples, doorways, and streets. The view from the bridge was enough to justify every step I had taken in my life up to that moment, enough to make up for the hot sun, the highway police, the miles we had walked. New England is mountainous and complicated, Maine filled with people who have gray hands from fishing, from trying to support themselves in small towns with no economy. The silvery timber, Interstate 95 dark and silent but for the occasionally roar of a semi, sea water slamming against beaten faces of rocks so hard that the foam surprised us, wet the lenses of our cameras, the cotton of our shirts— these things are a part of me now.
Cutting across these desolate landscapes, I began to remember the desires I had when I was twelve, I began to dig through the dark earth that existed before I became a teenager, before I turned twenty. I used to dream of being cut, of being beaten. I shoved ice cubes into my cunt on summer nights, tied my feet together and dreamt of being left for dead, made molds of my nipples with hot wax.
It was a surprise when these things began surfacing again, when the touch of him suddenly made me drop to my knees and remember all of the things I used to be. Dreams of stalking through Egyptian tombs, being buried in the hot sand, picking my way through the jagged tops of mountains.
My head is clear when he beats me. Fear supersedes everything else. I sink into myself, dig through layers until I hit bedrock, travel with the rush that is flowing all through me until it emerges, rocket-like, from the side of the mountain. Ancient sediment blasts out over the road and I remember a thousand things I thought I had forgotten. Jake calls me from Texas after we stop traveling together. He calls me around midnight, his voice tremulous. “Hello,” he says to me, half hoarse. The sound hangs in the air between us, passing over hundreds of miles of dark highway. There is no conversation for us to have. I close my eyes and see his body spread across the floor, breath ragged, hands splayed out against the carpet. Standing over him I feel that I am six and a half feet tall, the muscles in my arms and shoulders huge and full of venom, as if parts of me are ready to explode. I grab him by the scruff of his neck and pull him up on his knees, my forearm a thick bar across his chest, pressing against his collarbone. I take my dick out so that he can feel it between his thighs. He moans and arches toward me more. My arm slides up and presses against his neck. His throat caves in slightly and he goes limp against me, his labored breath becoming so loud that it clogs my hearing. We sink into this silence together; memories flash across our field of vision that we have never had before: ships sailing, the fear of falling off the edge of a flat world, discovery of new lands. I touch a space that exists in his chest only in these moments. It is just as wide as the plains in Nebraska.
When I let him go he falls back to the floor, his arms wrapped around his head and neck. I loosen my belt and fold the soft leather around my fist three times. The first blow is soft, hardly making a noise against his shoulder blades. I am careful to build the intensity of how I hit him, layering the blows to cover every inch of his wide shoulders. He is whining softly now, begging me to hit him harder. I want to hit him until I am hoarse, until my voice disappears, until there is nothing but sensation between us. I raise the belt high above my head and bring it whistling down. He screams and I hit him again and again. I follow the movements of his body and strike him in the places that sting the most. I watch his jaws clench and unclench, his eyes closed tightly. I can tell that he has reached a place of absolute trust, that he has given me the right to do anything to him that I want to with the faith that I will not ask too much. I hit him until I am exhausted, until his back is covered with splotches, until his shoulders are black and blue. I collapse onto him, unable to move.
I do not come to the sound of his voice and the insistent pressure of my finger on my clit. I am left full of desire for him; the thick timbre of his voice is not enough. I think of the places we passed through together, the valleys of Tennessee, the tenement buildings in Manhattan, how our bodies claimed these places and made them a part of our interior. I traced the contours of who I was becoming out of the negative space of what our bodies did. I think of this when I look at my hands, the blue veins raised under the skin and curving like the line of Route 5 across Vermont.
Anonymous
Amie M. Evans
She grabs a fistful of my hair before the door closes behind us. She locks the bolt and pulls me over to the bed. “I’ll call you Dee and you call me Jimmy. Get on your knees.”
As she unzips her pants, the cock I felt on the ride pops out. She pulls my head toward it and hisses, “Suck it, bitch.” It is almost impossible to find anonymous lesbian sex. Maybe in San Francisco or possibly New York City you can find it at an upscale women’s club or cutting-edge cruising spots, but not in Boston. Not proper New England Boston. The mixture of Puritan values and lesbian ethics deters casual lesbian anything. But I like a challenge, so I was determined to engage in anonymous lesbian sex in Boston. Anonymous sex with real live lesbians. No exchange of numbers or first-date sex; but rough, hard, no-name sex: the stuff of gay boy novels and urban myths.
It is good to have goals.
I considered personal ads for a while. I read through them, studied them for content and form, and ruled out useless information about beaches, smoking, and cats. Then I wrote my own ad:
Hot, femme dyke bottom (should I hyphenate or not?) seeks sexy butch top (again to hyphenate or not?) for anonymous kinky sexual encounter.
She would call and leave her name and number and we would
set up a time and date and I smelled the U-Haul—parked just around the corner.
The second ad I composed reads like this:
Hot femme-dyke-bottom seeks sexy butch-top for anonymous kinky sexual encounter. (At this point I thought hyphens were the way to go. They showed the connection of the identity markers I was using to solicit a sexual partner.) Meet me at the Duck Statue in the Common Gardens on Saturday at 9 p.m. I’ll wear a red silk scarf around my neck; you wear a red bandanna on your wrist.
This ad eliminated the phone calls, the messages, the number exchanges. It created the fantasy of being picked up blindly in the park—something I’ve envied in gay boys since I was first introduced to their culture. But the problem with this ad was that every horny straight guy with a lesbian fantasy who reads the women-seeking-women classifieds would show up with a hard-on. A male gang-bang was not what I had in mind. Not to mention, what if no one showed up? New England dykes— dykes in general, but especially New England dykes—aren’t known for their sexual abandon. How many Saturday nights would I have to spend wearing a red silk scarf and standing by the Make Way for Ducklings Statue waiting for Ms. Butch- Top? The Boston Mounted Police would speculate about what I was doing there. An investigation into possible drug trafficking or prostitution would ensue and countless taxpayer dollars would be wasted before they discovered I was just after a cheap lesbian-sexual thrill. Of course, a whole series of newspaper articles on lesbian sexual habits would appear, and the Boston Pride Committee would have to do more than ban a lesbian float featuring an empty bed to prove to mainstream corporate sponsors and the general public that queers don’t really have sex. No, the classifieds, as always, were a bust.
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