by Alison Tyler
A gust of wind blasts across the room. Lights go out like firecrackers. Whoosh bang. Music echoes into silence. Fireboy jumps offstage laughing. Pale smoke follows her breath. She grabs my hand and pulls me hard toward the door, through the sudden noise of a hundred people running, voices rising in a wave that washes over me. Like the rain slamming through the door.
Out into the crazy mix of the city. They say a hurricane is blowing in. Yet the music floods out most every gaudy, shining door. Out into the street and through it all I’m dragged pulled under by fireboy. She is her own force of nature. Larger than her tiny body. A comet blasting through everything, carrying me in her wake.
Bricks crack under our feet. Whole damn city’s coming down in the smoke as lights fade and fireboy burns brighter. Screaming to shake the world loose to go spinning off into heaven or hell. Raging on ’cause it can’t go back. Sirens and fire and cars careening past through air trying to drown us. All shot through with redemption missed.
She turns her head as we stumble through the river washing over the road. Eyes flash and she smirks, sparks lighting off. “Greasy black clouds piss off the sun so he hides his light now. Stars don’t come round here no more neither. Everything gettin’ all hot ’n’ close ’n’ all I can see ’n’ smell ’n’ taste is you, baby.”
Breath like kerosene and lit cigarette. Righteous desperation. “Breathe deep, baby. You won’t never get used to it.” Her eyes shine back at me and everything else just kinda slips past and away till none of it matters. Nihilistic epiphany, all incandescent and numb. “Don’t think you ever want to. ’Cause you have no idea. Not a fuckin’ clue.”
I try to answer. Wind whips up, stealing thoughts. Can’t feel the rain for all the flames. Blazing fire tornadoes we whirl under the spinning clouds. A boarded window crashes as we fly through, engulfing someone else’s life, their artifacts, with our smoldering steps. Slam onto a bed, sheets smoking as we fall, pulling off soaked clothes. I unwind the bandage from her chest. This woman…no, girl. This girl trying to be a boy. Becoming more than either. I look at her and see red and orange and golds that god wouldn’t believe. But I feel her. Heat outlines sinewy muscles. I trace her ribs as sweat crackles, throwing up a steaming aura. The rings piercing her nipples burn moon scars into my fingers. Lips meet and the roof ignites, flying off into the storm.
Naked, exposed, and glorious beneath screaming angels and boiling clouds.
“Burn me, baby.” Her voice is quiet, hiding under the roar of wind. “Catch me up and consume me…. I’ll be the kerosene, you the match. Burn with me, baby-o.” She looks down at me, stroking and caressing as all around the world ends. Tattoos glow fluorescent under her skin. Blacklit swirls and jagged lines that dance and gyrate as she moves over me. My hands burn, lighting off flames across her hips, her breasts as I pull her hard onto me. My skin is ash devoured by her kerosene tongue. Eyes blaze like the Fourth of July and I take her in. That part of her that’s stronger than me. I let it have me as I take her body with mine. Sit up and break her against me. Tongue and lips blister with her heat. Mouths hunger, biting and feral. The pearl breaks. Cracks against the heat in my mouth. I am a fire-eater.
Tingle across my skin. Shiver. Pale heat builds and spreads. A spark, like a switch. Engulfing. Tension breaks and the world explodes in Technicolor bliss. Scalded. We swirl all neon, angle up into the dark sky. Kerosene slips through to musk and sweat and the singed smell of her. Like vanilla and burned almonds. Bitter and enticing.
Sound concusses a pounding rhythm that drags me round and round till I lose the ground, body combusting and I hang on to her, bury myself as I burn from the inside out ’cause I’m made of kindling. Those little bits and pieces of life that lie forgotten till the match is struck. Fireboy laughs and prays and burns bright as me. Scream out hallelujah as the hurricane tries to touch us through the flames. I burn and burn and let her smother me so I don’t blow away as everything goes. I gather her ashes to mine and swallow them into myself.
Fall back into her and open an eye.
She smirks, flames dancing in those green eyes, burnishing them gold. “Got a light, baby-o?”
Fucking fireboy. Strike a match and laugh.
JUST ADD WATER
M. Murphy
Jason came home to find me installing a brand-new shower curtain.
“What are you doing, Naomi?” he asked. I’m generally not a domestic goddess. The only screwdriver that ever finds it’s way to my hand is the one made with vodka and tonic. So I could tell from the tone of his voice that he was a bit confused, although I didn’t turn around to check out his expression.
“What does it look like?” I asked coyly as I slipped another hook into place.
“I mean, why are you doing that? What was wrong with the old curtain?”
“The old one was black,” I said, sighing with relief as I fastened the last of the silver hooks onto the shower bar, and then pushed a strand of my long dark hair out of my face.
“And black is out?” he asked, sounding more muddled than before. I work in fashion, and I’m often spouting phrases like that to him: Brown is the new black. High heels are the new little black dress. But this particular change in scenery had nothing to do with the whims of the decorating gods. This was all about sex.
I turned to look at him now, smiling as I walked to his side. Without a word, I began unbuttoning his shirt.
“Are you taking this off because this is black?” he asked next, his blue-gray eyes bright. Clearly, he could tell something was up—I was undressing him after all—he simply had no idea what that something was.
“I changed the shower curtain because I wanted one I could see through,” I explained without pausing in my mission to make him naked. “I’m taking off your shirt because I want you to try out the shower.”
“The shower’s the same,” he said smugly. “It’s only the curtain that’s changed.”
“That’s true,” I nodded, now working on the button fly of his faded jeans. “But I want you to take a shower anyway. Because now I can watch.”
I had gotten his fly undone, and at my words, I could feel his cock hardening through the fabric of his boxers. Jason knows full well that watching turns me on like nothing else. Early on in our relationship, I confessed exactly how much of a voyeur I am: how my heart beats faster when I see a couple kissing, how even the mere sight of a man slipping a hand down a woman’s arm can make me wet.
“Tell me more,” he had said softly when I first told him. We were sitting at a little sidewalk café, and he’d leaned in over the table to whisper, “I want to know why watching makes you wet.”
“It’s just so sexy,” I’d replied, speaking in an equally low voice, embarrassment at my confession turning my cheeks the color of the raspberry sorbet in my bowl. “You know, witnessing even the most subtle erotic connections. It makes me feel as if I’m part of the action.”
“But how can you be part of the action?” Jason had asked. “You’re just watching.”
“Yeah,” I’d agreed. “But I imagine.”
“You mean you fantasize.”
“Except, it’s not just fantasizing,” I had tried to explain. “Because I’ve seen part of it. With my own eyes. I just extend the vision.”
“With that dirty imagination of yours.” Jason had grinned, suddenly understanding. My filthy mind is one of the things that he loves best about me.
What I’d never told him was that watching him take a shower was my number one voyeuristic fantasy. Every morning, when he disappeared behind that black shower curtain, I would stay in the bed, wrapped in our warm sheets, thinking about him under the shower spray. It was all I could do not to rush into the bathroom and fling back the curtain to watch. The thought of my strong, muscular man lathering himself up, running the bar of soap across his broad chest, then down his flat stomach, and lower to his…
“Watch?” he asked now, interrupting me from my decadent daydreams. “You’re going to watch me take a s
hower?”
“Oh, yes,” I told him, the plan continuing in my head, although I didn’t speak the words aloud: I’m going to watch you take a shower. And I’m going to pretend you don’t know I’m here. And I’m going to touch myself.
I wouldn’t have to fantasize any longer. As long as he left the door open, I could gaze directly from our bed to the shower, because the curtain I’d bought was entirely sheer, like Saran Wrap. When I’d first spied the curtain at the store, I had started to tremble, knowing instantly what I was going to do, what this shower curtain would mean to me, to Jason, to our sex lives. How funny that something purchased from the hardware department could manage to turn me on more than any sex toy ever could.
“Are you serious?” he asked next, his voice hoarse, and I nodded hungrily. But because I couldn’t resist seeing my man in need, I dropped to my knees and nuzzled his cock through his boxers. He groaned and became momentarily silent, as if afraid that saying a single word would break the magic spell—the spell that had potentially won him a postwork blow job. But then, when he saw I wasn’t getting up from my position, he helped me, sliding down his boxers and jeans, releasing his hard-on.
I took a second to admire his stunning cock—because it is a thing of beauty—and then I parted my lips and drew the head into my mouth. Jason sighed and thrust forward, but I put my hands on his thighs, keeping him in position, wanting to set the pace myself. Gently, I bobbed my head up and down, slicking him up, getting him wet.
From this position, I could glance to the left and see the two of us reflected in the mirrors that line one wall of the bathroom. Even watching myself turns me on, so I kept my eyes open as I worked Jason, reveling in the taste of his skin, in the way he moved his body, craving the connection of my mouth on his rod.
I was wearing my version of Ms. Fix-It clothes, shorty overalls over a tight-fitting white tank top, my long dark hair up in a ponytail. Jason had his head back, his longish red hair falling away from his face. I liked the way I looked sucking Jason’s cock while he stood there with his shirt off and his jeans opened, liked the way his expression was one of total ecstasy.
Jason, who doesn’t share my fixation for watching, had his eyes closed. He groaned and arched his hips, lost for a moment in the pleasure before apparently remembering that I had just told him something he found confusing, something completely unexpected. He opened his eyes and looked down at me, then ran his fingers through my hair, unclipping the silver barrette that held my ponytail in place so that my hair fell long and free down my back. Then he drew in his breath and asked, “That’s the only reason why you got a new curtain? So you could watch me?”
“You’re quick,” I said, wrapping my fist around his rod and jacking him for several strokes. He had to lean back against the lip of the sink to steady himself, and I could tell that if I changed my fantasies, if I told him I just wanted him to fuck me, right then, right there, he wouldn’t have said no. He would have taken me on all fours on our fluffy black-and-white bath mat, or maybe bent me over the edge of the porcelain sink and fucked me from behind. But I’d spent hours in preparation for this moment. I’d bought the curtain, fiddled with those damn hooks, set the whole scenario into motion. Now, with the help of a little hot water, Jason was going to make my desires come true.
“You don’t mind, do you?” I asked, suddenly feeling nervous. What if he said he didn’t want to be watched? Or worse, what if he made fun of my fantasy?
“No,” he shook his head quickly. “I don’t mind at all.” I could tell what he was thinking. If I’d been ready to blow him just at the thought of watching him shower, what might I be willing to do for him if he did what I asked?
“But what’s your part in all this?” he wondered. “Are you going to be naked, Naomi? Are you going to join me?” He seemed to like that thought. His cock throbbed in my fist.
“You’ll see when the time is ready,” I told him mysteriously. And then I left him alone, stepping into our bedroom and sprawling out on the bed. My legs were shaking, and my heart was pounding so loud I was sure Jason could hear the steady throbbing beat. I’d been waiting for this moment for so long, and now, finally, everything was in place.
Hungrily, I faced the bathroom and watched—watched Jason. He seemed to be extremely aware of my eyes on him. He added a little something extra to every action: a little bump and grind as he kicked out of his jeans, a little extra move to his hips. I laughed out loud as I watched him turn on the water and adjust the temperature, moving with such exaggerated gestures, waggling his hips in a sexy little shimmy. He was even singing that old Rockwell song, “Somebody’s Watching Me.” But then I stopped laughing and just stared as he slid his blue-and-gold boxers down his sturdy thighs and then stepped out of them.
Jesus, now I could see his ass. His beautiful taut ass, made luscious from hours cycling on the weekends. It was all I could do not to hurry back to his side, to offer to help him with the soap. Oh, lord, I could picture that so easily: running the soap down his back, over his buttocks, down his thighs…
Wait, I told myself. Just wait. You’ve been daydreaming about this for so long. Don’t rush.
Waiting may be the hardest part, but I was sure this time it would be worth it.
For months now, I’d thought of this precise moment. Ever since we’d first moved in together. My fantasies had taken over from the second when he pushed the curtain aside, stepped into the bath, and flipped the handle to switch the water from tub to shower. I’d touched myself while lost in this vision, running my fingertips along my pussy lips: pinching my clit, fantasizing about the exact second when I would be able to watch. And that second was finally here.
The shower curtain worked perfectly. It was as if I were looking through a window—nothing to hide Jason from my prying eyes.
Unable to stop myself, I had to unfasten my overalls and slip them off. Once I was down to my tank top and knickers, I reached down and stroked myself through my satiny panties. Simply brushing my fingertips over my clit made me moan.
Jason closed his eyes as soon as the spray hit him. I knew that the water must have felt delicious, caressing his body after his hard day at work. But I didn’t really care how he was feeling. I was consumed instead by my own fantasy—fantasy turned reality—watching my boyfriend as he turned slowly under the shower, as the water beat down on him. Oh, he looked so damn hot with the water cascading over his muscles, his fine abs, his fantastic thighs. He was a wet dream turned real.
But I wanted more.
Use the fucking soap! I wanted to catcall, yet I bit my lip instead and let him go at his own pace. Who was this tramp with the filthy mind and dirty mouth? Who was this girl with her hand inside in her pale pink panties, thrusting two fingers into her own dripping wet pussy? God, it was me. Look at what I’d become. No, that’s not right. This is who I’d always been. Only now, thankfully, I had free rein to let myself revel in my darkest desires. And that’s why the voice in my head was screaming out directions as if I were Martin Scorsese instead of Naomi Rogers.
In truth, Jason didn’t need my help.
He would know what to do, was in tune with my needs. He understood full well that this was more than just your average clean-yourself-quickly shower. This was masturbation fodder. This was foreplay like nobody’s business.
After he’d rotated under the spray for several minutes, he finally reached for the soap.
Yes! I wanted to yell. Yes! Finally. Soap!
But I kept to myself, watching fiercely, drinking in every movement.
I will readily admit that I may be the first woman in the history of the world who got wet installing a shower curtain. But there you go. All afternoon I had been growing more and more aroused. Now, I was on the very cusp of coming with hardly any stimulation at all.
Once more, I tried to tell myself to be patient, to enjoy the masterpiece in front of me. I’d worked for this. I ought to savor every second—god, every sexy second—as Jason continued to lather up h
is amazing physique. It was exactly as good as I’d imagined. In fact, this was better: the way he rubbed his hands over his body, the way he soaped himself, slowly, sensuously.
So that’s how he does it, I thought. He takes his time.
It was as if he were talking to me with the movements of his hands; as if he were telling me to mimic his own motions. I took my hand out of my panties. Then slowly, I touched myself, echoing his gestures. I ran my hands over my breasts through my T-shirt, pausing to tweak my nipples through the thin white fabric. I stroked my fingertips over my ribs. I caressed my own slim thighs.
But when Jason started to touch his cock, I couldn’t handle it.
“Oh, fuck,” I muttered to myself. For one last second, I tried to stave off the need to climax. But I just couldn’t. Watching Jason stroke his cock under that heady spray of water was too much. I pulled my panties off and started to rub my clit in quick circles. When he jerked his cock, I tripped my fingers across my clit. When he started to move his hand faster, so did I. He seemed to have forgotten that I was watching. He was no longer putting on an act, he was taking care of his own needs. This turned me on like nothing else, and a shudder ran through me. As I circled my clit with my fingertips once more, I felt myself start to come.
I was surprised by the intensity of the climax. The power of the pleasure made me moan out loud, but Jason didn’t even look in my direction. I guess that he couldn’t hear me while under the spray of the water. Or maybe he heard me but didn’t think he ought to look my way. Maybe he understood exactly how important it was for him to stay focused simply on bathing; to pretend that I wasn’t there, wasn’t anywhere near him; to be solely consumed by his own needs:
The soap. The water.
My body behind him.
“I was wondering when you were going to join me,” he said, smiling as I pulled back the curtain and stepped inside. I was still trembling from the power of the climax. Watching him wash himself had brought me such intense satisfaction, yet I managed to find my voice, to put a bit of strength behind my words.