Sex Still Spoken Here: An Anthology

by Carol Queen

  I wrote back “Pckrhed” without thinking. We use the word “peckerhead” to mean lots of things:

  1. A replacement for each other’s names,

  2. “What a dick!” and,

  3. “Yes,” “Hell yes,” or “Fuck yeah, dude!”

  I meant Number Three when I sent my reply, which was fine, except that I had forgotten he wasn’t my friend anymore.

  “B ovr soon,” Ricky replied.

  Now I sit in my room, not knowing what to pack for the trip, and mad all over again at Ricky Lame Ass. What the hell does he want?

  We’d been sort of friends for a long time. No one else liked us, so it wasn’t so much that we sought each other out as we just ended up together, like the last two crumbs in a bag of cookies.

  People didn’t like him because he was poor and lived in a trailer. People didn’t like me because of the one or two (okay, maybe three) times I had gone to the psych ward.

  I don’t even know if you could say we were friends, but we watched movies together and smoked a lot of pot (he could get it, I could bankroll it) and were slightly less mean to each other than we were to everybody else.

  Lately, though, the barbs we’d been throwing at each other had started to sting. Maybe they’d always stung, but not as much as the shit other people threw our way. I thought of it as target practice; we nailed each other first so that when it happened with everyone else, it wasn’t so bad.

  But something had changed. Maybe it was because I’d been in college for a year. Maybe it was because he wasn’t ever going to college. I’d made too many below-the-belt comments about the fake green grass near his mom’s trailer home, his dead dad, his job. He’d said one too many things about lobotomies and shock therapy.

  One day a few weeks ago I’d gotten tired of the whole thing and told him to fuck off. I’ll never forget how quiet it was after I’d said it, how great it felt to see the effect of my words register on someone’s face, to see them sink in like hooks

  Ricky stopped coming by after that. It’s kinda weird when your best not-friend, the only person who you ever hang out with, doesn’t like you anymore, and you don’t like him anymore, and when the last person who even tolerates you doesn’t want to see you anymore, what do you do?

  Now he was coming over, and I swear to God if he gives me shit about bringing ten new pairs of socks on the camping trip I’ll kick him in the balls.

  We’re both sitting on my bed. I’m biting my fingernails because it’s more fun than trying to figure out what not to bring camping. He’s bouncing his leg on the bed and it’s making me seasick. Or mattress sick.

  “Stop!” I yell. He does.

  I cringe. The word floats in the air for a long time, sounding mean.

  I wish I hadn’t said it.

  I turn to look at him, which ends up being the same time he decides to look at me, and I didn’t know how close we were sitting together, so close that I worry I have dragon breath, so close I can smell his, which isn’t exactly the mintiest freshest either, and then the weirdest thing happens:

  We start making out.

  Holy shit mother of God, we do.

  His lips wrap around mine. His mouth is hot and wet. Lines of electric shock shoot down to my gut and my dick gets instantly hard.

  What the fuck are we doing? Any time we ever see anything even close to two men doing it on TV we yell, “Faggot!” and throw things at the screen. Needless to say, I have never kissed any other guy in all my nineteen years of life.

  Except that now our heads are tilted and I am shoving his face into mine with my hands, he is digging at my teeth with his tongue, we’re making these noises that are totally embarrassing except that maybe for the first time ever I almost don’t care how I sound or look.

  The pads of my fingers can feel the acne scars on his jawline as he pushes me down on the bed and gets on top of me. He is taller than me; I have to scoot down so his head won’t hit the wall. He keeps kissing me like we’ve done this off and on our whole lives.

  “Jason,” he whispers, and instead of sounding stupid or faggoty it undoes me. The muscles in my back sort of liquefy, and I worry for a moment that I will drip down into the mattress and drain out the floor. I can’t remember when he’d called me anything other than Peckerhead before.

  His mouth is incredibly spacious, and it seems like I can’t get in it enough, can’t taste it enough, can’t get my tongue inside deep enough and find out what’s going on in there. My hands are all over his back, pushing on the bony nobs of his spine, then sliding down and grabbing his ass. I’m so far beyond recognition that I just let myself feel his ass, even though it’s the gayest thing anybody could ever do. His ass muscles are bunching and squeezing as he pushes his hips against mine, and I hear grunting noises coming out of my mouth.

  I don’t think I’m kissing him as much as eating at his face. I want to put his eyes and nose in my mouth, to suck on the strands of hair that slide over his forehead, to swallow his chin whole.

  I try to swallow his chin whole and he moans. I watch his face as my jaw opens up snake-like to get more of his chin in my mouth. His eyes are closed and I feel him shudder on top of me. He moans again, and I swear to God, his moan rushes right through me, from my scalp down to the ends of my toes, and I can’t think straight anymore. It’s like the logical part of my brain stands up, goes into a back room somewhere and closes the door, leaving me alone here with Ricky and all the things I suddenly want us to do to each other. I decide I had better act soon before that part comes back and starts bitching me out, so I push him on his side and scoot down even farther.

  He is wearing the jeans he always does. I unzip his pants and try to slide them over his hips. He has to herky-jerky to get them down past his knees. He smells kind of poor, kind of trashy, but like fabric softener, too. I like how he smells right now. A lot. He’s wearing clean white underwear, which you wouldn’t necessarily expect from him. His dick is pointing straight out, like a pole holding up a tent. I don’t want to think about tents or camping so I throw the image out of my brain.

  I pull his underwear down and his skinny-long dick sticks out from a bush of dark brown pubic hair. He smells warm down here, like bread, and I want to look at his dick, to get a really good look, because I’ve never seen a real one up close (except my own, which I don’t think counts). It’s longer and thinner than mine and bends forward a little at the top.

  But I don’t stare at it too long, because what if he sees me and says, “What are you looking at, dickhead?”

  Instead, I open my mouth and let the first part of it go inside. His dick is really warm on my tongue, and I lick it so that it pushes up against the roof of my mouth. Ricky makes an “oomph” sound so I close my lips and suck on it. I figure that’s what I’m supposed to do. Plus I kind of want to. I can hear breath whooshing out of my nose.

  Everyone talks about dicks being rock hard and stuff, and his is, but I didn’t know it would be soft, too.

  “Ooh yeah, baby,” he whispers, which totally freaks me out so I push him out of my mouth and sit up. It just totally ruined the moment, you know? Why did he have to go and say such a cheesy thing? Ricky Dumb Ass.

  “What?” he asks. Before I can rip in to him he shoves me back down on the bed.

  We both know that he is stronger than me. I used to hate that, but now I’m glad, because I try to push him off me but can’t. He lays himself over me and covers my mouth with his and we make an airlock sound together. Then I forget why I was mad at him, because his face is so big, and he tastes so good, like butter and a boy and a total surprise.

  He finds my crotch and starts squeezing my dick through my sweatpants. More electric bolts start shooting again, this time from between my legs up into my chest, and before I can ask him to, he shoves his hands down past the waistband and grabs at me.

  My arms throw themselves around his neck. It feels so good to have his hands squeezing my dick that I start thrusting myself in and out, in and out. He
doesn’t seem to care that I am basically fucking his hand so I decide not to care either.

  Ricky lets go of my dick and pulls my sweatpants and boxers down, and his mouth starts sucking on my dick and now I know why everybody talks about how great blowjobs are, because really, I think it’s probably the best thing I’ve ever felt.

  His mouth is like this tight, wet tube, pulling and pushing and sucking on me all at the same time. I grab on to his hair with my hands and yank hard. He doesn’t seem to notice.

  It starts to feel so good that I think I’m gonna …

  “UNGH!” I yell. My dick is this one big gushing spasm, and even though I jack off a lot, this is like a brand new category of dick goodness, like I singlehandedly discovered a new planet, just right there on the other side of the moon, one big pulsating planet of dickness.

  My hands beat on his back as I shoot into his mouth. I try to stop myself, because that’s so nasty and embarrassing, cumming in a guy’s mouth, I hope I don’t make him puke, but I can’t help it, it feels so good but I should have stopped, I …

  And now the weirdest part is that he has slid back up and he’s kissing me, even though it’s probably like trying to hit a moving target because I’m still flopping and shuddering all over the place. I can’t stop myself from shaking. I finally calm down a bit and taste the sperm in his mouth and we should both be ashamed of ourselves but we’re not, at least I’m not and he doesn’t seem to be. We use our tongues to push the bleachy flavor back and forth in our mouths.

  His shoulder starts bouncing as I suck on his lips, and then I feel his arm banging against my belly and realize he is jerking himself off and I think, ‘Oh my God!’ because isn’t whacking off something you’re supposed to do in private?

  But I don’t stop kissing him and I can tell that something is about to happen because he starts making this whining sound out his nose, like a cross between a snotty little kid and a puppy, and then he pulls his head back hard.

  Right at that moment I happen to be biting his lower lip, so that when his head jerks I taste his blood in my mouth, like sucking on a copper penny, and I feel something warm and wet squirt on my stomach. I watch the brown in his eyes disappear, leaving only the whites behind.

  Now we are lying on my bed. Ricky is trying to catch his breath while I just breathe through my mouth. I look down and see a drop of sperm, about the size of a dime, sitting on one of the packages of socks I’m supposed to take camping with me.

  I get up off the bed and throw the socks into a duffel bag, not really caring anymore what I bring or don’t bring on the stupid camping trip.

  But I swear to God that if my ex-best friend calls me a cum-eating faggot I’ll kick him hard in the balls.

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  Marlene Hoeber

  Bio

  Marlene Hoeber is a long time queer, kink, trans, sex- positive, feminist, social justice activist and a devout pervert. She is currently Director of Collections at the archive of the Center for Sex & Culture. Marlene was a founding member of the world’s first college campus based BDSM organization in 1991. She is also president of the Northern California chapter of the Liberal Gun Club, a member of the board of directors of the Center for Sex & Culture, and also a member of the board of directors of the IMsL Foundation. She also has a day job.

  Mini-Interview

  Do you write under your own name? I do write under my own name. I have been doing sex-related activism of one sort or another for 25 years. I made my first decisions about using my own name in that context both when I was young and fearless, but also when we were all dying and fearlessness was how we did everything. I have decided in the interim that I can stick with those early decisions. I think that they have been good for me. Like everyone, I have done things that I am less proud of than other things, but if I am living (a small) part of my life in public, it is very important to me that I be honest.

  What’s the inside scoop on your story? This story started as a series of emails between my partner, Dorian Katz, and I. She is an artist (see cover illustration drawing) and I am very supportive of her career. I began at one point joking about being the “artwife.” There was, for much of the second half of the 20th century, a myth that the real Lee Krasner scuttled her own career as an artist in deference to the career of her partner, Jackson Pollock. This is not true. Sexism in the art world is what diminished her career. I began writing to Dorian as Lee writing to Jackson, snarkily complaining about that public perception, simultaneously taking about actual things Dorian and I were doing regarding her art career, and also we were writing each other love letters and talking dirty to each other in character. The notion of Lee as the aggressive top when away from the public eye seemed to perfectly skewer the old sexist myth.

  Letter to My Girlfriend

  Marlene Hoeber

  Lee Krasner c/o Guggenheim

  30 W. 57th St.

  New York, New York

  April 4, 1947

  Jackson Pollock

  The Springs, New York

  Dearest Jacks,

  It’s almost as cold today as you can be. It’s almost as wet today as you can get me.

  I know days like this can be hard on your old bones, my darling Jack. Come back into the house to warm up, if your hands get too cold in the studio. I wish I was there to warm them up for you. Put some sugar and hot water in your gin, that’s good for you when it rains.

  I know you hate working when it’s cold. I know the paint drops differently, but you are so much happier when you just keep going. Maybe you’ll find new things with the paint working differently, thicker, slower.

  Oh, it was so horrible last night, Jack. I had to go to this horrible dinner event and all the damn Guggenheims were there. You think we aren’t always that fond of Peggy, well, the rest of them are real barbarians. They know all about oil and silver, but are positively stupid about everything else. They don’t even know what good booze is. I have a headache that screams Courvoisier.

  All is well, no worries. I did my duty as the good art-wife. I put a face to where Peggy sends a trickle of their riches. I was “interesting” for them. I even held my tongue when one of the uncles started going on about splashes of paint that a monkey could make.

  I wanted to ask him if he knew where I could find a monkey that fucks like an angel and pours gin over my tits. I wanted to know if he could really train a monkey to beg for my cunt so sweetly that I can’t resist. I didn’t ask any of these things. I had another drink and smiled something stupid about how everyone has differing taste in art.

  After dinner, the bunch of us staying at Peggy’s place went back there to continue the party. Peggy went on and on about how she has never been with a woman but the prospect seems so in-ter-es-ting. She kept looking at me when she said these things. She is such a hideous bore. I don’t think any amount of money could make it worth her bourgeois obsession with the daring and in-ter-es-ting. I thought one was supposed to be jaded by as much wealth as she has. Didn’t she get this bit of exploration done with at Radcliffe or Sarah Lawrence or wherever it was that she went? You know that I have nothing against women, but she is so horrible!

  I ran into David Smith yesterday. He is planning to come visit you in a day or two. I put two cases of gin in the back of his truck for you. It’s the good stuff. I charged it on Peggy’s account. Make sure you get both cases. You know how David can be.

  This is important—I told David that your black eye and broken nose are from a bar fight. It might spoil your reputation as a tough old drunk for everyone to know that your injuries are from me.

  Would David be able to look either of us in the face if you had to explain that I broke your nose grinding my cunt into it? Let them think you are belligerent. Let them think you rail against the world. I know that all I have to do is lift my skirt and the great fucking genius of the twentieth century begs on his knees to do whatever I want. If you are a genius, Jackson, it is as my toilet.

  I can’t wait to be home.
It’s the only place I don’t have to hear about Jackson Fucking Pollock, the Greatest Fucking American Painter. I can’t wait to be in my own studio. I’m tired of everything always being about you. If there wasn’t a little hate, I suppose the love wouldn’t be so sweet.

  I wish I was waiting for you in the kitchen, by the big wood stove. I’ll be there for drunken sex and lunch soon enough. Just ten more days, my sweet grumpy. We’ll be in each other’s arms soon. I’ll be as rough or as sweet as you want, old man. I’ll give you whatever you want, as long as I can be with you. I touch myself thinking of you when I go to bed. I wonder if Peggy hears me moaning your name in the dark. I hope she doesn’t hear the other names for you I whisper at the ceiling: Worm, Fool, Bastard.

  I miss your rough hands on my skin, even though I always tell you to try the new soap to make them softer. I miss that bump on your nose, too. I miss you in my mouth and in my cunt and in my ass.

  I’ll be on the late train next Friday. Jack, will you fuck me in the car in the train station parking lot?

  Answer me when I am there with you.

  Love L.K.

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  Christine Solano

  Bio

  Christine Solano is the pen name of a poet, writer and photographer who lives in San Francisco. Among her previously published erotica is the story “Walls of Fire,” which appeared in Herotica 5.

  Mini-Interview

  How did you start writing about sex? How does it differ from non-erotic writing? I don’t see a clear boundary between the erotic and the non-erotic in my writing, it’s a continuum. I can only write about my experiences, including my fantasies and fears. Some of it turns out to have sexual content, some of it can be scary, sometimes both.

  Do you write in multiple genres and, if so, why? I wear many hats, including as a writer, but I started as a poet at an early age and will likely end up as one. In between, I continue to write fiction and non-fiction, mostly the latter.