Now you could not stop smiling if you tried.
Four of them peep in the window at you, pressing against it. They pretend to poke your dimples. “So cute!” Real smiles from them. You want to duck and you are blushing so hard but there’s nowhere to go, the window’s open, and your money is in there ticking away relentlessly.
They move to other open windows and you are left with little Uma Thurman. “I like your boots,” you say.
You hear the click as she rests one high heel on the window ledge and bends over so you look up the spike heel and vinyl boot to her incredible round ass. She peeks at you from above her delicate pussy lips and asshole, smiling because, you think to yourself, now she knows. She knows how to get you. You feel tormented with need to be licking those boots.
She turns to face herself in the mirror and lowers herself below your window. She writhes back and forth. You realize with delight that she is fucking your imaginary cock. She’s smiling sweet and wicked, as if she knows exactly how hard this gets your clit.
The black square of window lowers. She bends down to grin underneath, waving. You see the shiny toe of her boot, and are left in darkness.
You feel wired and keyed up, you’ve been here a long time and are likely to stay longer, not willing to jerk off like the others. You told yourself to come here for the experience but you will get yourself turned on until you want to climb the booths, kiss and claw at the glass, so near to those girls. Wanting to please them all.
The next booth smells salty and familiar. You realize it’s freshly pumped semen that glitters on the floor. You feel a sense of solidarity. You put twenty into the slot. You are in for the full ride.
The window rises. You lock eyes with a new dancer, across the carpeted, mirrored stage. This one has a cute black bob with little ponytails and bangs. She has little Cupid’s-bow pouty lips and huge dark eyes with long lashes. She wears white thigh-high fishnets with bits of lace at the top and high-heeled sandals.
But most of all she has a body that is so lush and curvy, it looks familiar. It could be your own. She has a rounded tummy and her hips and thighs are buttery and luscious. With her black hair and sexy tummy, she reminds you of your first girlfriend. She is innocent and powerfully sexual. It is like the glass is gone.
She looks unimaginably soft and delicious. You want to roll around on top of her and feel her up, lick up and down her luxurious hips and belly.
She comes up and licks her lips, pouting and sexy, thrusting her heavy breasts, writhing her hips against the window. Her lips are trembling. You realize it’s an effort for her to keep from cracking up. Soon she cannot stop smiling. Her eyes are half-lidded. She is everything lush and full, and you want to take her around the waist and wrap her legs around you. But she’s behind the glass.
You ponder what to say. Poetry? Blank verse? “You are so cute,” you say at last.
She smiles for real, her eyes lingering on you. “So are you!”
Her name is Persephone and that is not, she informs you, her real hair. She leans over to pull the wig a little. Her hair is blonde and cropped short, recently shaved.
The window closes and opens again, slowly revealing her white fishnets and finally the lace trim and her ass. She’s talking to the other dancers. It’s late now, and the catlike Uma Thurman dancer from earlier is stretched out against one wall, naked except for her boots, a lazy smile on her face. You are one of two people still watching. The dancers lounge around naked and hot under the lights, beautiful and untouched. It looks humid. You want to fan them with palm leaves. Suck on ice cubes and breathe mist into their lips. Wear your own outfit of gold sandals, and be their altar boy or temple acolyte….
Persephone does a silly dance, climbs up the pole, and twists her way back down, does handstands for you. She comes back to your window and her eyes focus on you, serious, thinking. She undulates and smiles, showing you her ass, her tits, her shoes, her pussy, right at eye level. You cannot look away, you are enchanted. She is pink and luscious, sparkling, red-gold from the lights. She licks and bites her own nipple and you finally feel your clit so warm and hard the feeling has spread throughout your lower body, the urgency of this is unfuckingbearable. You feel overwhelmed. You do not know what to do. How do guys deal with this? You look at the pools of semen with new understanding, but you’re not about to do that here. Instead you feel wild, panicked, worshipful, at a standstill, spending more and more to keep seeing the girls deliciously naked and close enough to touch but you can’t, and your breath is steaming up this little stinky booth.
The window lowers. The darkness is comforting after such staring at the light.
You walk outside into the San Francisco night. You turn and the lights of the Golden Gate Bridge stretch across the bay. They are shimmering in the fog. You think of the shimmering girls in their mirrored fishbowl dancing late into the night. The bridge and the girls: glittering, remote, and comforting all at once.
Lessons
S. Bear Bergman
She slid her cock out of me slowly, so slowly, then pumped it back in once, hard, to watch me gasp and laugh and grab for it; she knows I can’t take that after I’ve just come but she likes to do it anyhow. It’s how she tests to make sure I’m really, thoroughly fucked out, I think. I reached back, grabbed her wrist, and pulled her up and onto my back like so many covers, like I do, snuggling down under her warmth, the weight of her keeping me safe and grounded. She murmured fond and ridiculous things in my ear, calling me sweet and delicious, handsome and beautiful, licking away the sweat on my neck and sliding a hand under my sweaty chest to hug me a bit. We snuggled and rolled with the afterglow, being silly. I sucked gently on the tips of her fingers, lazing along by my cheeks, kissed the palm of her hand, nuzzled and burrowed into it, lapping like a pup. She giggled. I made a noise, a warm one, low in my throat, something between a growl and a groan, and curled myself against her.
Every time we do this, I like it a little better, and I liked it a whole fuck of a lot to begin with. We don’t get a lot of chances, living so far apart and not being Rockefellers, either one of us, but between conferences, relatives, and the occasional frequent flyer ticket, we get just enough to never feel too horribly deprived. Still—this particular meeting had been after an especially long hiatus, and I was glad for the three days, glad for the king-sized bed in the anonymous hotel room on the eighth floor, glad for the weight of her on my back and the way that it never seemed like it had been months since we’d seen each other, even though we don’t really talk on the phone much.
We email, though. It’s the best part about messing around with writers. The email is so, so good.
Recovering slowly, I disengaged myself long enough to dislodge the head of her dick from a tender spot just above my knee, and tugged on it, experimentally, looking to see if she were ready to take it off, to let me touch her, but also ready to let my touch modulate into a jack-off motion at any minute if she wasn’t. She has a harder time with it than I do; I was brought up as a butch by sex–positive, radical perverts who thought that any bullshit about butches not liking to get fucked was so much retrograde nonsense, but she grew up someplace outside of Philly and ten years earlier, where the local lesbo culture was strictly a butch top/femme bottom arrangement, where all the butches were presumed stone until proven guilty, and butch-on-butch pairings were as taboo a thing as could be imagined. Good thing that times change.
I cruised her hard when we first met a couple of years ago at a writers’ conference: She made several very smart comments during a panel we were on together, and she had a steel-gray brush cut. Sold. I invited her to have dinner with my friends and me, my dear friends who set me up with ample conversational opportunity to both mention my wife at home and discuss being poly, so this hot thing would know the score. That, plus my outrageous flirting, did the trick, and after dessert I was in her room on my knees, being called a delicious assortment of very dirty things while I struggled to get her buttonfly jeans off and a c
ondom on using only my mouth.
I love writers’ conferences.
Since then, she’s let me talk her out of her boxer briefs and into all kinds of hot and nasty fun, and has even developed quite a liking for getting fucked with my biggest dick, one that makes her crack jokes about getting to be a size queen in her old age. But I always have to wait until she’s fucked me at least once, first, like she needs to reground herself in the idea whenever we meet again, as if her gentleman butch sense of the rightness and order of the world can’t allow her to experience her own desire until everyone else has been squared away first. Not to suggest that fucking me isn’t one of her desires. It seems clear to me at this stage that it is. But.… You know what I mean.
I slide my body up until my mouth is right against her ear. I say, “Oh. Oh, you fucking hot thing, so good to me, I want to make you feel so good, man, I want to do you so right….” I brush my lips against her ear, buck my crotch against her hip, start to move next to her. My hands find her nipples and start to rub, gently, just how she likes. She groans, quietly. I go on: “Mmmm. AJ, I want something. I want something from you, so bad.”
She picks her head up and looks at me. She loves when I say what I want, she likes it that I trust her, and that I’m so hot for her. She says low, into my ear, “What’s that, hm? Tell me. Tell me what you want, greedy.”
Pressing myself against her, selling it with my entire body, lacing my fingers through her hair, I let a rush of hot breath out across her ear, and say, “Please. Please, teach me how to make you come.”
She draws back, shocked, looks at my face. She travels with a Magic Wand and uses it, buzzing herself off while I fuck her and having noisy good times about it. But I have a secret hunch about her. I think maybe she’s like me, that there’s some other, nonelectric way to get the job done, something that requires the exact right touch and a lot of work, something she never confesses because she doesn’t want to be that much work, or be that exposed, or make someone else work that hard on her behalf, but which is incredibly satisfying in a totally different way. I’ve seen the signs. I want to know what it is. I want to do her like that, want to make her come for me without her having to do anything at all. I want her to trust me like that.
I slide closer, out of her gaze, heart pounding, positioning my lips next to her ear again. “Please, AJ. Tell me what to do. I promise I’ll do a good job for you. I swear I will. Use me to get yourself off. You deserve it, god, you deserve it.”
Her big hands close around two fistfuls of hair, and she drags my head away from hers so she can see my face, mouth slack from panting to catch my breath. I hold her gaze and try to make my eyes communicate exactly what I’m thinking, what she wants to see: Yes, I mean it. Yes, I want this.
She drags my head back, my ear against her mouth, and crushes me tight against her in a hug. I wonder whether she’s crying. I didn’t mean to make her cry, I wanted to make her come, which is wetness at a totally different end, and I’m just about to start apologizing all over myself when she says, “You won’t want to do it.”
The hell I won’t. I’d walk barefoot across a mile of burning sand to watch this butch dry dishes on videotape. “Trust me, I will,” I say.
After a long, long pause, during which I have the good sense to keep quiet, she says in my ear, so quietly I can barely hear her: “Lick my asshole.”
I’m elated. I groan, “Oh, holy shit, yeah,” into her ear, start fumbling the harness off, looking for the plastic wrap, so excited I can’t remember not to do five things at once. I knock over the lube, right it, find the plastic, get her out of the harness and flat on her back on the bed with a pillow under her hips before she can start waffling or change her mind. I tear off a piece of wrap, put it aside, and start kissing her, laying my body back along the warm, furry, delicious length of hers, kissing her soft and slow with little nips of my teeth, running my hands down the sides of her body, stroking her strong arms and her wide hips, working my way down her body, so slowly, rolling her nipples between my lips for a long time, sucking them so, so gently and making her push her cunt up to me, licking at her tattoos. I keep my knees between her legs so she can’t grind. I want her to be hungry when I finally touch her, want her to want it so much. I want this to last. I want to show her what she’s worth—all my attention, all my desire.
Finally, I bend my head and start nuzzling against the crack of her ass, kissing and nipping at her asscheeks, reaching surreptitiously for the Saran Wrap while I squeeze her ass between my hands, pulling her cheeks apart, smoothing the plastic into place, and sliding nose first between her cheeks. Her legs are bent at the knee. I can’t believe she’s so open to me but I am not complaining. I dig in.
I trace my tongue up and down her crack, so gently, full of hot breath. I want her to feel the heat even through the barrier, want her to be able to imagine it isn’t there. I start to work my tongue in a little deeper, wriggling it against the sensitive spots, taking long, long licks from just below the opening of her cunt over and past her asshole, licking a fraction harder with each swipe of my tongue. She sighs, shifts her hips, presses against me. Encouraged, I keep on, starting to vary the pressure and depth of each lick, sometimes using the broad flat of my tongue and sometimes just the very tip, as hard as I can make it; I trace around the opening of her asshole, crinkled tightly shut, tracing my tongue along each of the tiny sunburst furrows of skin that radiate out from it, trying to get it to trust me. On one of the licks, I miscalculate and start pressing just a bit too soon, pushing the tip of my tongue right against the hole.
She moans. My cunt starts to do a slow boil, and I redouble my efforts. I kiss, lick, and nuzzle against her asshole, pushing my nose against it playfully, working against it with my tongue, feeling it start to open, starting to smell how much she likes it—when I pick up my head to say this to her, I see the small, slow stream of milky come easing its way out of her cunt and down the crack of her ass. Holy Christ. I put my head back down, and get back to work.
How do I describe this? It becomes the Zen of asslicking, the whole world gets reduced to about three inches of warm, wet flesh and every sound she makes. Her hand comes down and locks itself in my hair, she pulls me closer into her asscrack, tongue first, finally opening up enough for me to insinuate it into her hole and wriggle, just a tiny bit, but it makes her make a noise I’d never heard before, and I suddenly don’t care how much my neck hurts or how hard it is to get my tongue into her, I just want her to make that noise again. I start fucking her hole with my tongue, slow and steady, the plastic wrap a mess around my face, and she starts grinding back against me, so hard it hurts my nose, but I am on a mission, now.
Suddenly she lets loose my hair, and I’m not sure what she wants, I start to pick my head up but she growls, “Don’t stop, oh, please, don’t, please don’t stop,” and grabs my hand instead, dragging it up and pulling it hard against her clit, which is harder than I have ever felt it, literally standing straight out of the hood like a tiny cock. I work it differently than I normally would, in a two-fingered jack-off motion I learned for transmen with testosterone-enhanced parts, up and down the sides with occasional swipes across the head, and she loves it, starts panting and gasping while I fuck my face further into her now-open, gripping asshole and work her clit at the same time. I can tell she’s going to come, soon. I don’t change a thing, I keep doing exactly what I’m doing, same speed, same pace, if I’m doing it right I want to keep doing it right, I want to do it right for her, want to make her feel as good as she makes me feel, so I keep my hand steady and blink the sweat out of my eyes and take a deep breath for one more long sally, plunging my tongue back into her ass on the downstroke and pulling it out on the up, letting her buck between the two pleasures, until she yells, “Oh, holy motherfucking god!” and comes with a bellow that even the moderately soundproofed hotel room probably doesn’t contain, nearly breaking my neck as she whips her legs together around my face and squeezes them hard, hand clam
ping down over my hands, writhing on the bed in pleasure and riding what I hope like hell are several strong aftershocks, each one announced with a guttural cry.
Soon, she’s still. I tap her on the thigh to remind her that my head is still between her legs and when she opens them, I scramble up, hurrying to cover her naked skin with mine, wrapping her up against me, holding her and whispering, “Thank you. Oh, thank you,” into her ear like a mantra, over and over. She looks at me.
“That was…oh. Wow. Em, that was….” She trails off, nuzzles further into the crook of my neck, rubbing her sweaty skin against mine. We breathe together for a minute. I drag the ugly bedspread over us to keep us warm, being careful to hold her tight the whole time, not wanting to break this moment. I can’t even believe she trusted me with that. It makes me feel something I can’t explain, and while I’m searching for the words, so I can tell her, she picks her head back up, and whispers, so quietly for such a big, confident butch, so shyly, “Did you like it?”
I grin. I take her hand, draw it down to my soaking wet cunt, brushing her fingertips over my hard clit. “What do you think?” I ask, laughing a little into her ear.
She growls hungrily, rolls me over underneath her, and says, “I think you’re a little slut, that’s what I think.”
I nod happily, and spread my legs wider.
Envy
Teresa Lamai
The moment I saw Aracelli, I decided I hated her.
I was nineteen. For a year, I had been scrambling in the back rows of class and rehearsal at American Ballet. She appeared one sweltering May afternoon, a new student, serene, frail, with skin that gleamed like melted caramel and indigo hair so glossy it seemed always wet. A reverent space cleared for her at the head of the class, her very first day. Fresh from the Kirov school, she was flawless, an amber figurine come to life.
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