Tommy was delighted. “You have no idea, honey!” she gushed. “You’ll have a lot of fun. Really. And Lulu—” she seemed suddenly shy “—I’m so glad I met you.”
The vague idea that had been tugging at Louanne’s mind was taking shape. Tommy wanted the bitch in Louanne, and this was not necessarily an obedient pet. The woman, now restored to herself, realized that animals have strength and acute senses, they have teeth for hunting and claws for defense, they have their own ways. They can be intimidating. The humans who seek them out wouldn’t really want them to be otherwise. Louanne smiled to herself, wondering why she had ever found it hard to see herself as tough and feminine at the same time.
Louanne rubbed herself against the shorter woman. “Oh yes,” she assured her. “I’m sure we’ll both get what we want.” She vaguely remembered an animal character named Thomasina in a book from her childhood, and the memory tickled her. “You can trust me, honey.” Louanne’s smile was feral, and Tommy realized that she had finally found the right animal familiar.
Learning the Present Perfect
Andrea Miller
The woman who would substitute for me was already in the classroom waiting to observe my lesson. Hoping to be able to speak to her before the students arrived, I walked quickly down the hallway, my heels clicking on the linoleum. When I entered, the room was in twilight and she was silhouetted against the window. I snapped on the light and she whirled around. Surprise jammed my greetings in my throat. She had long, loose hair, a tight waist, and eyes that flicked from my face to my cleavage. She was a memory on the tip of my tongue, but until she smiled I couldn’t quite place her. Then I hurtled back twenty years—to the first day of third grade.
Holly, the new girl, kept turning around in her desk to offer me sweaty pieces of chocolate and toothless grins. Her copper braid was a snake, a tail, a whip. And I thought she was prettier than any of the Mini Pops singers. That day we spent recess jumping rope together, beating a rhythm into the concrete right to pepper. Then a week later we were at my house, with Barbie clothes strewn everywhere.
Unlike many budding dykes I didn’t cry when I found Barbie under the tree. I didn’t hack her hair off and shove her into my toy box—to the very bottom, crushed beneath trucks and action figures. Instead I was the other kind of budding dyke; I wanted two Barbies. Holly and I were simple addition—one plus one equals two. Our Barbies could play together.
First we took their clothes off and snickered at their boobies. Then, deciding one of the dolls was a man, we laid them down, plastic on plastic, and ground their smiles together, making the sounds of pleasure for them. The sound of the letter M. The sound of lips smacking.
Autumn wore on and our Barbies rocked faster and faster until spent, then fell away like dead leaves and a new game was born. Of course, one of us pretended to be the man, a bad man who would touch the other in a very good way while she slept. I remember being the woman: lying motionless, my eyes closed as Holly circled my nipples, traced my slit. And I remember being the man: the softness of Holly’s corduroys. The smell of her—of clean laundry and apple juice.
In the beginning we didn’t remove any clothing and, instead of touching each other with our fingers, we used my rock collection. Small stones, smooth and rough, raked over fabric. But in time we discarded the rocks, our corduroys, and even the pretence of one of us being the man. And then it was just the two of us, trying not to get caught. I knew, almost instinctively, that we weren’t allowed to play these games—we weren’t allowed, yet I was unable to stop until one night in the spring.
Holly and I were having a sleepover—at my house, because my mother let me shut my door. We finished our licorice and soda, brushed our teeth, and, like good children, went to bed without asking permission to watch one more show. Then in the darkness Holly suggested we do something new, that we grind like the Barbies. Remembering that was the way the Barbies had had sex, I hesitated. One of the Barbies had been playing the part of Ken, but Holly wasn’t suggesting one of us pretend to be a man. I didn’t want to have sex with a girl and hadn’t, until that moment, realized it was possible. Nonetheless, Holly’s idea was irresistible and so I reasoned that if we just stood up and left our panties on then it would be all right—that it wouldn’t really be sex.
We hiked up our nightgowns, gripped each other’s hips and began to move like two dogs I’d seen at a playground. Her crotch pressing against mine felt good—soft and hard and hot. Yet each thrust reminded me of the Barbies and I began to suspect that even the touching games we played were wrong—a wrong that went beyond Mom getting mad if we got caught.
“I don’t want to do this anymore,” I said, pulling my nightie down. “We’re going to do it with boys soon.” Holly whined and I wavered, still feeling a warm throb between my legs. Then, a heartbeat away from my giving in, she used the wrong word. “Can’t we just screw one more time?” she said, sounding so dirty and grown-up that the blood rushed to my face and I answered with a firm no.
That summer I played sick the afternoon of Holly’s birthday party and I didn’t once invite her over for lunch. Then in the fall we were in different classes and I looked away when I passed her in the halls. Yet, secretly, shamefully, I thought of her on nights I couldn’t sleep, and those nights became more frequent as fourth grade melted into fifth and sixth. Tiny hairs sprouted between my legs and it felt as if my swelling hips would split me open. I wanted Holly to stroke my new little fur and I wanted to see what changes had happened under her clothes. But Holly had long since stopped trying to catch my eye and she linked arms with other girls.
“Holly,” I finally breathed as students started to file in. “You look different.”
“So do you,” she grinned. “You look good.”
I colored and realized for the first time that all my students were sitting, watching, perhaps noticing that Holly and I were standing too close together. My students—eight in this class—were from across the globe and were here to learn English. “We should start,” I said. “Sit wherever you like, Holly.”
I hadn’t planned the lesson well; I’d been thinking too much about my vacation, about cocktails rimmed with salt and the feel of white sand between my toes. Nonetheless, Holly appeared riveted—her gaze followed me everywhere as she rolled a pen in her mouth, biting and sucking it. She had perfect, glinting teeth and full lips. Nervous, I crossed and recrossed my legs, my thighs slippery with stockings and a surprising wetness.
“Have you ever eaten raw fish? Have you ever stayed up all night?” the students asked me, asked each other. And everything they asked took on another meaning, one thick with secrets. Finally, my hands shaking, I couldn’t teach the present perfect anymore. I gave the students instructions for playing a game and I divided them into pairs.
At nine o’clock the class finished and the students trailed out. I picked up the teachers’ book and sat down at the long table beside Holly, ready both to catch up and to explain what she should teach for the next week. Holly leaned forward and asked, “So what have you been doing with yourself?” Her expression was serious except for a trace of amusement in the corners of her eyes, and I took that as a sign; it was Holly, after all, who had taught me to recognize flirtation’s pretty face. Until that moment I didn’t know, however, that I’d ever learned to be so bold.
Instead of answering Holly, I leaned in hard and fast and she followed me—fell into me. Our mouths met with twenty years of urgency, and my tongue, rolling against hers, spoke a kind of apology, an explanation. The boys I thought we should wait for didn’t touch me like you did. I’m sorry I wasn’t brave enough. I did desire you. I do desire you.
Sliding off my chair, I knelt down in front of Holly and explored her thighs. Her fingers raked over my throat, nipples, and spine, and her cunt strained forward, filling the cup of my hand. And even through the layers of her clothes, I could feel a moist heat rising, urging me on. But when I reached for her belt buckle, she pulled back, glancing at the door.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “The school is closed. Nobody else is here.”
Holly relaxed and let me undo her. She wriggled free of her pants and top and then slowly I rolled her sheer panties down her thighs, exposing the full and complicated folds of a grown woman. I ran a finger over her slick pink and made little teasing circles around her hole before plunging in. Her pussy gripped me and in my ear she whispered more. I drove a second finger in and pressed my thumb to her clit, rubbed it, rolled it. Felt that it was swollen. Hard like a pebble.
I moved in and out of Holly, rocking her into a rhythm. And when she started to pant, I buried my tongue in her center. She felt like a fish—slippery and strong—and she tasted like sea salt, like apples and onions. I lapped at her, her juices smearing my face, until suddenly she gripped my hair and shuddered, making quick tiny movements against my mouth, leaving my own pussy dripping.
Her head still thrown back, I pulled Holly off the chair and laid her down on the table. She watched me as I undressed—her eyes glazed, her legs parted. And then, naked, I climbed on top of her. Our bodies locked together, yet we slid against each other like seals. I could feel the roughness of her fur and the perfect pressure of her bones. I was moving faster, getting closer.
Opening my eyes, I looked straight ahead—out the window to a murky sky, a yellow moon and a city of windows facing ours. I realized then that we were on display, framed perfectly in the rectangle of our window. But I couldn’t stop. Not until, grinding into Holly, my whole body shook and glistened.
Blowing Across America
Peggy Munson
The Panhandle Straddle
Talking isn’t my favorite way to talk. I’d rather be a horse whisperer for cocks, cajoling them out of their downy slumber into ice sculptures of air. I’m not speaking about cocks hiding in nocturnal nests, but those that are as hard as signposts, posting on bare backs through the happily saddled hours. Give me a cock for each lonely plain, each motherless and fatherless maw. I want to feel my jaw ripping wider for the traffic of soundless talk. I want the distillation of sentences crammed back in my throat. So fuck back my words and make them come out right, as screams and primal sounds. I want to suck out the marrow of this silicone shape, and make a body of this bone.
I hear the cowboys riding in, the sharp pinwheels of their spurs rolling toward the pattern of my flesh. I’m crouched doggie-style in a Day-Glo pink tent. One flap opens in front of my gaping mouth. One flap fans a draft on my ass. “Best l’il cocksucker in Texas,” brags Daddy Spade. Rubber-dicked cowboys shuffle a seven-card stud and stroke their bulges, trying to win a turn. I watch the sidewinder curve of one cowboy’s hand as he fans out his cards like he’s rubbing cum from a girl’s mouth, then undoes his lone-star buckle to claim my cactus flower lips. “Let’s see whut yew got, cowgirl,” he says, standing just far enough away for me to strain for him with my mouth. An oligarchy of Daddies regulates my holes. Daddy Heart slides two stubby fingers in my pussy as the cowboy’s hips twitch. Daddy Diamond rubs a dime of lube up my ass. Even if I’m not the best cocksucker in Texas, I am as hollow as a cheap wood flute. I give the guy a tiny hole rimmed with lipstick so that he’ll push into my mouth. Boots strain forward, his hand yanks his dick, and he turns my mouth into a day at the bank.
Like cattle, the other cowboys move around me in a slow hunched dance, gathering the way sticks collect in a choked stream. I see the pressure building, dammed heat, the cowboys’ sharp longhorns moving to stampede. It’s the threat that makes me wet, the thought that I’ll be crushed beneath this much iconic suede, flogged like hide until I’m soft enough to wear. My ostrich-skin boots hide their tips beneath me. Somewhere in my pussy is a lineage of old saloons, fringed vests and frilly petticoats, fertile ground where two rivers intersect after a buzzard stretch of dusty plain. I’m every cowboy’s American dream—able to stand when I’m bruised: red-white-and-blue all over.
“Blackjack,” says the second john in a cowboy hat. Daddy Club takes his wadded handkerchief out of my mouth—the one he stuffed in there as if I’d swallow my own tongue. Daddy Diamond mounts my ass, easing his cock in while the john takes his stance. “Such a good Wild West slut,” says Daddy Spade, flicking his nail at my nipple and pushing my head onto the john’s rod. This one’s rougher. “Yew didn’t know yew bargained for sumthin’ this gamey in yer purdy mouth, didya missy?” he says. His cock scrapes the back of my throat. I can’t breathe until Daddy Diamond rams his cock into my ass, pushing so hard the john’s cock falls out of my mouth. Then they work me like a couple of lumberjacks with a bucksaw.
“Yeehaw! Got me a flush,” screams another cowboy. He yanks at his belt and shoves the other john aside, barely giving me time to breathe before my mouth is stuffed with an even larger cock. Daddy Club has found my vacant pussy and he rubs the lip of his beer bottle against my dripping hole. He’s singing, “Ninety-nine cock-wielding queers on the wall, ninety-nine cock-wielding queers,” as another john steps up. The hard bottle goads its way inside of me, slipping in and out while I moan. The room clanks with rodeo buckles falling away. Their cocks rub my throat into rope burn.
These cowboys hold new railroad ties, silicone and rubber, cyberskin and glass, chasing fleeting parallels to the edges of law. They are nouveau outlaws, reinventing the gold rush, looking for a sweet glint wherever they can find a secret mine. They trace their rough hands on my crude map of nerves. They like to prospect and explore, especially when they’ve got a free and eager whore. I’m their favorite novelty since the invention of the mechanical bull.
They stuff my mouth all night. Outside of the saloon, the roads play a slow Pong match of tumbleweed. I hear the clatter of hooves, the creak of boots on the old wood floor, the snapping of belts, and then I suck the cowboys off. They have never seen a pair of lips this willing, or a girl who lives to suck Americana cock. They ram me as hard as planks, as simple as loading a gun. “Ain’t she a pistol?” says the latest cowboy, stepping up to his claim. His rubber gun sprays its rubber bullets in my mouth.
The Cleveland Cleave
I am stuck on a repeating word that’s like a gaping camera shutter. The word is hole and she has said it three times. The word hole is caught in the weir of my crazy muzzled mouth. She pours booze into the word. She says, “I’m going to fuck each (word) you have.” The wretched ache of the word is so obvious. “I’ve got a boner from here to Columbus,” she says. “And you’d better believe this state starts with O.” The word is the noose she made to hang the piñata full of cheap candy she bought at a party goods store. The word is a lavatory in a vortex in a cheap motel. The word is resting on the other side of the Bible in the drawer, over the horizon where Revelations ends.
“Open your fucking hole,” she says. She shoves the motel table out of the way and hangs the piñata by its noose from the dim chandelier. She opens up a plastic packet and pulls out a bootlace and wraps it around my wrists behind my back. “Kneel down and spread your hole,” she says. I tilt my tipsy heels and then her hand pushes my shoulder down. She squats to position me, spreads my knees apart so that my skirt fans out around my knees and lifts my tits up so that my back arches. She raises my chin toward the light. She grabs the wooden paddle that is oblong like a cricket bat, and says, “Close your eyes.” I hear an awful smack, but not on my ass. Once the candy beats me in the face I realize what she’s doing. The pieces fall into my mouth, or bounce off my teeth, and they are not hard candy, but chocolate kisses, unwrapped.
She picks up strays and begins feeding them to me as I let the chocolate liquefy. The candy is so sweet, and when she shoves in her cock I start to gag and my eyes snap open. “No you don’t,” she says, roughing up my hair as she rams her cock into my throat. “Open your greedhole because I’m going to fuck every bit of hole you got.” The bar in Cleveland where I met her was wall-to-wall carpet-munchers, but I felt her bulge against my ass when I slid through a pack of butches to get a beer. She lit one cigarette end to the next in the Chevy
cab, but that was the only fragment of intimacy as the radio bent us slowly around a steel guitar. I thought we’d do it like a businessman and a mid-list whore, but I didn’t think she’d fuck my mouth. I didn’t think she’d do it like she didn’t care if it was blood or spit running down my chin. My wrists were too tethered to fight, my provincial tongue learning French on the baguette. “Your lips are pretty around my cock,” she said, as I started learning her groove, licking the tiny rut at the tip until her cock was shamed by my lipstick. Then she came so jerking hard and rough in my mouth that I almost fell backwards onto carpet as defeated as a pressed corsage. “Holy Toledo,” she said, her cock slamming my sounds back to their harmonicas.
I didn’t know women could come like that. I didn’t know cum tasted like Pennsylvania chocolate, driven down a turnpike to the crosshairs of a rain-tamped field that ended in a door with a number full of beckoning hole. “Sweet mercy,” she said, pulling her cock from the muted space. My pussy was dripping on the sandpaper carpet. When one hole closed, a new wind tunnel welcomed resistance. Her fingers grabbed at my cunt and fumbled for my clit. She looked at me fiercely as she shoved three fingers in. Her lips formed a beatific grin. “When there’s a hole in the clouds it’s always heaven,” she said.
The Ivy League Incantation
Two people were trying to blow up something they really wanted, and I was one of them. The air was strangling bagpipes. The professor gambled with the buttons on my shirt. She wore pretentious glasses that made her seem serious and cagey. I couldn’t believe how lucky I was to find a professor to fuck. She dropped heuristic and epistemology in pedestrian lines. When she led me back to her office and plowed me, her urban words were ground to stutter, and the masala that resulted was at once sweet and bitter. Broken of sentence structure, her skin became weak tea, eyes hidden in grass. When she stripped me to my threadbare cotton, we became the same quilted layers. She walked through East Texas fields, plucking the stars from their prickers. With flat palms, she crushed night mosquitoes into prayers, hoping for a woman as peaceful and unknowing as a deer.
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