Sex Still Spoken Here: An Anthology

by Carol Queen

  “And just who the fuck do you think you are?” She flung at me, and my embarrassment was a hot contrast to my lust, that ache she just kept kindling in my hips and thighs and cunt. I opened my lips, though I didn’t know what I was going to say, but she wasn’t finished. “Don’t you know who I am? How are they going to honor us if we don’t honor each other, Althea?”

  Oh shit. She was pulling out all the goddamn stops. But I knew this train of thought, its hazards and views, and, oh yes, its tunnels—having long argued against my own longings, over and over again, ‘til the path was a well worn rut and I’d had to just go ahead and put on a pair of tall heels just to climb out to ground level, which was where I’d stayed. ‘Til now.

  “Come on, Zora. Don’t give me that shit. We are wise enough to lay it all out for each other: Even the toppiest top has gotta get a break sometimes, and if a girl can’t take care of her sister when she’s in need, well, then what the fuck is a femme sisterhood for?”

  “I’m not talking about taking anything away from you,” I continued as I stepped closer to her. “and I’m not suggesting anyone else could recognize the heat flare up in your pretty golden eyes when you took in my shoes, then my calves, then my thighs, and then my hips—then what you were hoping came next under here. Like recognizes like sometimes, you know that.”

  I had no idea where this patter was coming from; I hadn’t seen any goddamn such thing as what I was describing, but I needed an excuse to move closer, and she let me. Who knew it was so goddamn much work getting a girl to let you fuck her? All anyone ever had to say to me was “Hey there—got the time?” and I was flung open like a midnight refrigerator door.

  But then she let me kiss her, let me lean in, put a hand on the back of her head (careful not to pull at her ‘do just yet) and fit my lips onto hers. Her breath was musk-spicy and oh, shit, that hot pink tongue traced some holy new dirty alphabet in my mouth. I gripped her neck tighter, wanting to bruise her but not sure if she’d let me, and though she didn’t exactly soften, she did open and let me push all the way into and between those lips, those teeth, the teeth that had left brittle bronzing bruises on three-quarters of the bottoms in the county.

  I said, into her throat, “Now you be gentle with me, and I’ll give you just what you need, Z.” She growled at me, tensed her jaw. Her hand dug into my hair, through the product all the way down to the scalp. She pulled hard down and in, tried to split my lip in three places. Now, I’ll tell you: I am not a pain slut, and I nearly came right there.

  Zora broke the kiss just as I felt myself nearly ready to forget the whole thing, about to reach for her infamous fist and shove it into me. She strong-armed me back away from her, and lifted my bag, which she still clutched in her right hand. She did not say, “Let’s see what we have here,” but it was clearly conveyed in that sharply drawn raised eyebrow—which then fell flat when she snapped open the clasp and found just lipstick, some quarters and my money clip. Zora lifted her face, as wide open as a top’s can get with surprise and confusion, but she didn’t get any words out before I had my two hands under my tulle, freeing Ms. Red from her confines. Then I met Zora’s eyes with mine and put a hand on her shoulder, just a hand, just a hint of pressure.

  And my good god, she went down. Not to her knees but into a squat, legs bent and spread wide, resting on those tall heels. I’ll just let you imagine that for a minute. And then she swallowed that cock, swallowed, and then I realized that this was certainly a part of her repertoire. So, before she could set the pace, I put my two hands to her cheeks, and did not move my own hips, Instead, I moved her head, those lips spread just wide enough that she was clearly having to strain, back and forth on me. And yes, boys, I could feel every stroke of her tongue and lips and throat, her teeth dragging for friction. How does that happen? I fucked her mouth with deep thrusts, short and quick, coming only a little way out before I sunk clear back in. Her hands inched slow up my thighs but I stopped her, not to be distracted. “Put your hands under your skirt, Zora. Feel how wet you are.”

  Zora moaned around and through her full mouth—no one ever told her not to talk while her mouth was full, I guess—and there was cool on my legs where her palms had been. I pulled half way out so she could gasp, then slid back down her throat while the scent of her cunt swelled up and around us, mixing with the dusty air and, all right, my own pussy’s stink, too.

  When she started really groaning, I pulled my cock up out of her throat with, “Not yet you’re not coming—get up, Z.” And she rose unsteady, thighs obviously over-exerted. I helped her up and let her stumble, first onto me so I could taste her again, get all that lust, god, taste my own cock, let her easy cries between my lips and tongue and feed them back to her, and then I folded her over on the horse. She caught the soft leather between her palms and let her head drop as I moved around behind her.

  That’s when I noticed that Zora didn’t close the door all the way behind her, and, my good god, didn’t we have an audience again, a hot- eyed bunch of queers so sick of waiting for the fucking contest (‘cause you know the show never can start til an hour or five after they said it’d be OVER) that they were thrilled to have another battle to watch.

  I’m not going to lie to you—I had a hard time deciding what to do. I flushed with power, suddenly desperate to be publicly witnessed deflowering top-of-the-tops Pristine. I wanted them to see how messy it was about to get, with bits of public persona shattered all around us. I wanted the boys to get a little quivery seeing how pillow-biter Althea could work the other side of the cock.

  Then Zora made a sound. Oh shit, it was a whimper, it was almost a please, and I knew I had a higher allegiance. I made a sad-clown face at our watchers, then, hoping to mask the noise, shoved a gogo box out of the way with my hand while I kicked the door shut with my fat flat heels. Platforms: they’re just so good for so many things.

  “Turn your skirt around for me, Zora,” and she did it so the slit let the material part over her round full ass, those good plump thighs, and all the dark fur around her pussy fluffed out right for me. She glistened, all her inner lips and folds slicked out from where she’d been playing with herself before.

  “Hold yourself open, now, girl.” She rocked a little back and forth on her heels, demand-y, but reached both hands around and parted that pussy for me. I bent down, bent in, and took one good long lick, smearing my face on her and making her cry out like she was warming up. You know that kind of groan a girl makes when it starts to get sweet, and then the “Un-ooh-ah?” when you stop what was making them groan so good—I invented that shit, so it didn’t phase me. We were gonna get to where she needed to go. I yanked open the fasteners on the back of my tutu and pulled it off, then, slow, balanced myself and got steady on my platforms, just like Shar says in The Femme’s Guide. I pushed my cock into her, a little in, then out, then a little more, wetting it all up.

  You see how we study what you’re doing when you’re working so hard over us? Then we do it better.

  And oh, shit, that bitch, she started screaming—but why was it muffled? I slid all the way in and looked up, saw she had her face pressed into the leather. Oh no. I put one hand on her hip, and grabbed the knot of hair that the chopsticks held together, yanked her head up by it, and started to fuck her for real.

  “Let it go, Zora—come on,” and fuck if she didn’t let loose, bucking back into me like she did this all the goddamn time. And we rode.

  “Wait wait wait stop come out,” Zora rambled after many minutes of this, just as I was dropping down into a zone. She bent around to look at me, face drenched, hair half undone, eyes racooned, and when I pulled out, she shoved off her skirt til it pooled at her feet, stepped out of it, and then she slid down off the horse and laid herself down on the cement.

  Did you hear me? On the cement.

  One of Zora’s breasts had popped free from the top of the bustier and was pinched tight and flat. She spread her legs wide, all the way open, yes, heels still on, every bit as
hot as I have ever wanted to look for a lover. So much longing dripped off her gaze that I felt entirely inadequate. I wanted to open the door, yank in the first butch I saw and set her to work so Z could get the fucking she so clearly deserved.

  But I had made a promise, hadn’t I? I knelt down on the concrete, knees already bruising, thanked some Kali-Ma/Kwan-Yin/Mother- fucking-Mary and every other femme-goddess for the foresight to have started doing Pilates again a few months previously, and slicked my cock back into her.

  Before she could fill my ears entirely with her screams, I said, “You help, Zora. Get your hands back to work. I know how much attention your clit needs.” Zora slid her hands across my shoulders, then pulled open my shirt and cupped my tits, easing them out of my bra so she could yank and pull at my nipples. I fucked her harder, groaning, “Oh, shit, Zora, please, your hands, get them down there—” So she moved one hand, the bitch, and ministering to her clit as I slammed my hips into hers, all the while working slow feathery gentle strokes across my fat nipple.

  Sure enough, her pussy’s grip around Mz Big Red got tight and tighter the closer Zora came to coming. When she went over, she let go of my tit, thank god, grabbing hard at my ass, bruising me, yes, while she bucked and bucked and bucked.

  I slowed when she quieted, heard screaming on the other side of the door and knew the contest had finally started. Zora panted under me, pulling me down to her face with her pussy-slick hands and kissed me again. “What do you want, Althea?” she asked, feeding me her fingers.

  And that was how I got to ride home on Zora’s hot strong fist and forearm, shouting to the high heavens along with everyone else in the place, though my heights had to do with much more than camp and bouffants. Girls have gotta do for each other sometimes, don’t we now. Shit, that’s what solidarity is all about.

  [go to top]

  “We have all been little pitchers with big ears, shooed out of the kitchen when the unspoken is being spoken, and we have probably all been tale-bearers, blurters at the dinner table, unwitting violators of adult rules of censorship. Perhaps this is what writers are: those who never kicked the habit. We remained tale-bearers. We learned to keep our eyes open, but not to keep our mouths shut.”

  - Margaret Atwood

  Norman Armstrong

  Bio

  Norman Armstrong has degrees in writing fields from three California universities but had to put aside his real love to earn a living. He is now a retired civil servant living in Germany, with long forays in San Francisco. He is currently working on an anthology of stories—Do Tell—about U.S Military personnel, of which “God’s Country” is an excerpt.

  Mini-Interview

  How did you start writing about sex? It was a subject I had some familiarity with, and after a career of writing third-person nonfiction government documents where I had to remain completely anonymous and impersonal as a writer, I wanted to inject some personality into my writing. Sex seemed an ideal subject in which to do so.

  How is the Erotic Reading Circle part of your writing process? I love the ERC! It’s full of smart, insightful ladies who are my only audience—and we all write for an audience, no matter what we say. They find things in my writings—especially humor—that I didn’t realize were there. I arrange my visits to SF to get my creative batteries recharged with the ERC.

  Do you write under your own name? Writing under my own name—certainly not! Having a nom de plume is a long-standing literary tradition—from the Earl of Oxford and “William Shakespeare,” to Amantine-Lucile-Aurore Dupin and “George Sand,” to John Preston and “Mike McCray” and “Preston MacAdam.” I wanted my name to reflect the same clean-cut American attributes I gave to my characters, hence the name of two well-known American heroes—Neil Armstrong and “Jack Armstrong, All-American Boy.”

  What’s the inside scoop on your story? Originally I was going to write a story about a young soldier on leave in SF who winds up shooting a porn movie, like many porn movies that advertise their participants as being fresh off the military base. But first I needed to have a story for the porn movie to be about, and when I wrote the antecedent story, the older sergeant wound up becoming the dominant character, possibly because I knew the perfect actor to play him when “God’s Country” is made into a porn movie: Allen Silver of HotOlderMale.com. Thanks for the inspiration, Allen!

  God’s Country (Excerpt)

  Norman Armstrong

  He hideth my soul in the cleft of the rock, that shelters a dry thirsty land …

  – Old Hymn

  The CO sent out three patrols that morning—one South, one West, and one North. Our orders were simple: recon the area within a 24-hour riding range for a suitable location to set up an Army post here in this new Arizona Territory, which now belonged to the United States of America rather than the Mexicans. Look for water, elevation, protection from the God-awful sun—and Indians. And report back by the next evening, 1800 hours.

  We all left the camp before sunrise to avoid the heat as much as possible; I was assigned to go North with Private Petersen, which was good; we’d seen some purple hills to the Northwest—if they weren’t mirages in the heat. Hills meant water—maybe—and maybe somewhere cooler. As for Private Petersen, he was one of our youngest, and newest, troops (he’d joined the unit just before we took off out of Texas)—although his thick blond beard and moustache made him look older. He was also one of our sharpest recon men; he could tell things just from looking at rocks—and Arizona had a lot of rocks. On the downside, he didn’t talk much. But I could have drawn a worse partner for the patrol—a lot worse.

  Petersen and I rode along at a pretty leisurely pace, generally going North, not saying much, just looking, listening, getting the lay of the land. When I looked at my pocket-watch, it was about nine; we’d been riding for three hours, the landscape hadn’t changed much, the hills didn’t seem to be getting any nearer—and that Arizona sun was already getting pretty hot. Plus, I had on a set of those fuckin’ wool long johns the

  U.S. government issued to all its soldiers, regardless of the climate; I was itching everywhere under my equally-regulation wool uniform. “These long johns are hell, aren’t they?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Let’s stop and take a piss.” “Yes, sir.”

  We pulled the horses up by one of the big cactuses that offered the only shade available, dismounted, unbuttoned, and pissed, facing away from each other. There wasn’t much privacy in the Army, but you at least didn’t have to piss in front of your partner.

  “Sergeant?” “Yes, Petersen?”

  “Do you hear something? Like water running?” “No … can’t say that I do.”

  “I do—off to the West … and the ground is sloping a little here … like it might be leading down to a gully or something … there might be water there.”

  “Well, let’s find out, Private.” We mounted up and turned West—the sun to our backs—and followed the slope of the ground. The slope gradually became more obvious. A wall of sheer rock started rising up on our right, and then the gully turned to the right—and we were in the shade of that wall—and then I heard the sound of running water as well—Petersen was right! The slope got rapidly steeper, so we dismounted and let the horses lead, knowing they would follow the smell of the water; the gully gradually opened up into a full gorge with cliffs of rust-colored rock rising up on both sides of it—and in the distance in front of and below us—if it wasn’t a mirage—was the shimmer of a body of water at the base of the cliff that was now sheltering us. We descended the steep side of the gully slowly for maybe half an hour, until we reached the relatively level floor of the gorge. And within a few minutes we found a little stream—very little; we could wade across it.

  “It’s gotta come from that pool we saw as we were coming down. But I still hear water running—and this little trickle isn’t making that noise.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  We let the horses drink, then knelt at the stream and drank ourselve
s; the water was sweet and cold. When we got up, Private Petersen held his hands together for just a minute, bowed his head and mumbled something. The boy was religious!?! Like I said, he didn’t say much, so I didn’t know much.

  We mounted the horses again and rode upstream, maybe a mile, and then we came to the pool—no mirage!—and saw the water spurting out of the side of the cliff and falling into the pool, the sound we—or more correctly, Private Petersen—had heard back on top of the butte when we had stopped. Suddenly I felt old—even if I had just turned 40 a few months before; Petersen had out-scouted me, no sense denying it! He’d heard the water and I hadn’t!

  But I put the philosophizing aside for the moment. Cool, clear water and all of it I could possibly drink—or bathe in. Bathe! Yeah! We walked the horses out on the flat rock shelf to the edge of the pool and let them drink again. Then we got down on our knees and drank a little more ourselves. Private Petersen went through the same little spiel when we got up—a quick clasping of hands, bowing of head and a mumble, and it was over.