On gin, tarts, and stained beds.

Red came over for dinner. She stayed for dessert and fucked me until I bit my lip.

She’s getting in my head, resting and reclining as we sprawl in post-coital bliss.

I sigh and snuggle into her breasts.

I hate you,” she snarls, her words biting as her teeth move toward my cheek. I am shivering, but I am not cold. I twist inward violently, I coil in on myself. I gnash my teeth to stop from thinking too hard.

“You can’t,” I say, to the inside of my palm. “You can’t hate me.”

“I hate you,” she says, and she kisses me ruby-red on my jaw.

I kiss Red in the middle of her chest and place my ear to her heart. She breathes small gusts of wind, a winter storm brewing in her ribs, and my eyes flutter shut, calmed for a moment.

She uncaps the marker and I close my eyes, inhale the scent. I can feel her writing across my skin. Moments after she has belted me, flat and sharp atop my shoulders, the raised welts meet the cool ink and absorb it, seeping underneath my skin. I shiver. I dip. I can’t read what she writes without seeing it, but the shutter of the camera does that for me.

“What does it say?”

I read it aloud and I feel my face redden, my eyes blink rapidly in succession.

“Blow queen,” I say, the words stiff and alien and she grabs the back of my head and shoves me down on her cock.

“That’s right.”

I flip through the camera and snap a photo of her. We are eating our leftovers with our hands, strewing through the empty wine glasses and dregs of gin and ice and are smiling. The fervor in the air is good, the mood clear, the weather hazy and inviting in the still of the night. We gorge ourselves on pleasure, we smile with the implicit knowledge of hedonism. The world is satisfying. The world is asleep.

“I’ll cut you a deal,” and she leans languidly over me and whispers into my brain. She waits for me to condemn myself. I pause, but it is too late and the leather crackles around my spine, electric, frenetic.

We know it’s late, but I don’t want to know what time it is.

“Twenty lashes, and I’ll fist you. You can  do that.” I nod silently, ringing after the first lash. She counts for me before I collapse, spidered on the bed and she unfurls inside my body. She slices through me until I cry out into the dark.

We slice into the meat and watch each other through the wine glasses. I kiss her and exhale into her,

“Thank you for coming.”

She comes so hard I can barely hold tight.  She ejaculates with a beautiful, brute force, all over my hand and the bed as I gently palm her clitoris. Even in orgasm, Red has control, but when she lets go, her eyes flutter shut and she breathes with a controlled regularity despite the sheer energy behind what has transpired. Her thighs are slick, the bed is stained. I inhale as she exhales and her scent is exquisite, molecules of aleatory beauty.

“We have such different personalities,” I tell her. I am dripped over her body, lain across her in the hazy dusky light of the oven. “But they complement each other, how calm you are.”

She moves her hand further down my thigh and we sip the last of our gin. I am restless, unlocked.

Mere moments after I come, I yelp. Something has happened that has never happened before. My calves have locked and pain pulses through my body. I have come so hard my body has stopped me, decided to remain in the perpetual paroxysms of bliss and pain. I look at them in wonder, throbbing with pain by the second. I’m shaking. 

I kiss her on tiptoes as she leaves, we make plans for dinner.

My calves are twitching gently of their own accord, the agony is written across my smiling face.


On magical realism…

“Miss me?”

Her voice, low and disembodied, is a welcome respite. She’s inside, she’s unseen, bouncing off the mirror, hot on my flesh. From that gesture alone, I almost break down and cry.

For the last twenty minutes, I have been lying naked on the bed, my ass up and my legs splayed, my head down on the bed, eyes covered by a blindfold. I am laid out like a science experiment, like a newborn animal, like a religious figure. Take your pick. The front door is unlocked. There is a cold gin and tonic on the table. These were her instructions.

The fear sets in as the cold seeps into my extremities. It started at my feet, a hollow numbness in my toes and brain. The door is open. Anyone could come in and expose me, take advantage of the situation. When the spring breeze reached the inside of my thighs, I was shivering, cowering when the door unlocked, but she brings her scent of mint and spice, salt and air, and I know. I know so little, but I know what this feels like.

The vulnerability strips me further, from clothing peeled to skin scrubbed to splinters and thoughts, it leaves my joints aching and my mind raw. Every noise and shift in movement evokes a reaction of pathetic defense, however paltry in my nudity. She hits me before we speak, her fist is inside of me before I see her eyes. The mental desire, the sheer ache of two weeks of such a delicate crescendo makes each touch exquisite and agonizing. How open I am for her, how easily she can twist her fist inside of me and shift, pause, devour.

Like she’s said before, she’s still a stranger.

I know so little, but I know what this feels like.

She tells me she has a surprise for me and I ask her, too eagerly, what it is. Her fingers invade my mouth and she tells me not to ask questions. Her calm renders my frenzy insane, I can tell how deliberate the pads of her fingertips can be, how pristine her expression, and it only causes my breaths to deepen. I curve into her scratches, and with each slap of her belt across the backs of my thighs, my ass, I cry out, but I can only move closer. The yearning outweighs the pain. The pain shadows the desperation.

She knows.

The first I see of her is her cock, mahogany, suspended in front of my face and she grabs me by the jaw and fucks my face, hard, gasping strokes with ropy saliva at the end and I cough but keep my eyes averted. I am in a space far, deep away, closed off inside of me. In this moment, I am more than content, blissful to exist only to take her inside of my mouth. I move beyond words and into a rhythm.

She pulls out of me and plunges deep inside my ass. Red’s catlike nature makes this animalistic, her nails down my back turns hunger into a hunt, her breath hot at my ear. I am quivering softly, I am cradling my arms underneath me, defending myself from inevitability, and she sinks her entirety inside of me. She holds me in places that are rarely touched – the scruff of my neck, her wrist circling around my forearm, the creamy backs of my knees, the tissue-paper pulp of my eyelids and in this delicacy and deliberation consumes me from the inside out, the outside in.

Her silence is a cloak around me. I do not expel, only receive, I inhale her sweet, musky scent, I gulp down air. Finally, I look at her. She is smiling and I am, too. I ache with want, with the sensation of invasion and conquer. She maps my body with her hands, I bruise and spill for her with pure need. The heat falling from her body meets the pallid chill of my skin, and she presses her warmth into me from the palms of her hands and weight of her breasts. I am so greedy for her touch. She pulls out of me with a sigh and replaces the cock with her fingers. Low and enunciated in my ear so I do not miss a thing—

“I know you can take my fist.”

For now, I can’t, not yet, but I shudder beneath her weakly and I feel brave and shattered simultaneously and fiercely pleased that we have reached this conclusion and juncture and are now hurtling down it in pursuit of beauty and cruelty entwined. I ask for things that make no sense, my words are meaningless but radiant, petite erotic prayers to no god whispered into the pillow. I explode and she moves inside of me with a sense of conquest and we collapse on the bed. The floorboards creak above us, and briefly, we are still. She holds me closer than before, holds me underwater in this murky beautiful deep and breathes air in the form of kisses down my bruised throat. Glancing at the door makes me wonder how I’ll leave the confines of this room and face the outside world when the sun comes up again.

We entwine sleeplessly, we chat in whispers and our laughter reverberates off the walls. She leaves before dawn, she is restless, she is kind. I watch her slip her belt buckle on and recall the fractal patterns her necklace traced along my back as she puts the chain around her neck. Long after she leaves the air is still steeped with cold, as if she has taken the warmth with her. It renders my voice husky, sleep-tinged when she leaves the comfort of my arms. “Take me to your alternate reality,” I tell her after tangents and trips, to which she replies,

“You’re already there.” Now she has slipped away with the morning and night and I smell metallic, my inhalations are ozonic and sensitive, filled with blood. I fall into something dreamless, I curl my fingers out for her in the night and wake up wanting, fervent. And it’s too dark to read the tea leaves in the sink, so I flush the message down the drain.


On queries.

She has left my lips beestung and fragrant. I am suffused with nostalgia, with bliss, with desire. I like being friends with the people that I have sex with, and having sex with the people I call my friends. The Query is gorgeous because I have known her for so long – there are things we can say to each other with abandon, and there are silences that remain perfectly unsaid simply because there is a pre-established comfort, a ritual, a knowledge in knowing first and second and third-hand secrets about the world and sharing them with gusto. And there is gossip, and so, so much of it, the indulgence knocks me flat.

I don’t think she had two feet over the threshold before I kissed her. A month had been too long to wait, a year had been torturous. Even now I kick myself thinking about the lost, hot sex we’d have been having in high school. She comes with the unique perspective of seeing me at an unfiltered, constantly changing juncture. She has seen it all (a brief stint into Libertarianism the most notable) and still wanted more.

We were fucking within minutes. She is all present, and no bullshit. I don’t often top but there’s something about the unadulterated purity of our contrast that invokes my snide side, that she knows I am all pomp and no circumstance makes my moves bolder, my sneers grander. I push her onto the bed and fuck her with deliberation, with a month’s worth of tension stuffed into my fingers and dripping down her thighs.

With each thrust, she responds with every iota of her body, a curl in the toes and a flutter of the eyelids, her noises are both vulnerable and intoxicating and I want to hear them and have them breathed into my mouth so I mold myself closer to her, deeper, and I hold her at the roots of her mind.

Behind this want is a sweetness steeped in familiarity, a connection that has intensified and unfolded in a variety of fashions. There is The Query I courted, The Query alone, The Query who dated others, Query in the area, Query in my arms, Query lapping at my clitoris, Query on my lips. It is due to these paper-thin, worded layers sealed with a kiss that I am okay pushing her, pushing myself and my boundaries. She plunges into me and I hold her elusivity in my arms, fast to my breast.

She cares for cleverness and leaves me a necklace of lipstick kisses to compliment the notes she has been sending, she presses her earring into my palm as she leaves, and Molly Ringwald leaves with the sun. Her lingerie lays draped over my Levis.


On timing (poor or otherwise)

The Query’s letter came a few hours before I picked up The Painter from the train station. Karmic intervention? The fallacy of timing? Or just the sword of Damocles crashing down on my perpetually thick, gorgeously-shaped skull with impeccable bone structure and expressive eyes? Likely all three, but breezy lies the head that wears the crown, so off I went, the letter beating against my heart as I met the headlights of the night.

The Painter and I haven’t seen each other in over a month, ample time for us to see if we still enjoyed each other’s company. We do, but the dynamic has softened. She has started seeing a man she feels affectionate toward and I wonder if that has caused her to reevaluate our interactions. From what I understand, I am a fun dalliance in her busy San Francisco life but I believe she seeks more than what your ardent Casanova is willing to provide. And still, I am fond of her. She is warm, soft company and witty to boot.

Still, a pleasant evening bracketed by doughnuts and poached eggs in the morning, with gin and showers in between it all. My period comes and my fastidious modesty limits our intimacy to the shower. In the steam, I am separated into three planes- myself, The Painter, and my body, cleaved by sheets of relentless water in fragile artifices. The droplets buffet me in thousands, they pool into the open, soft places I cannot shield and balance atop my eyelashes until I must close my eyes.

I can’t hear her, but her touch tells me she’s there, almost. Against the perpetual downfall, she almost feels miniscule and dulled atop my skin. She delves between me and I breathe in. Between her firm hand and the water, I’m suspended between the water and the air, thick with breath and heat, wrapped as if I am neither human nor earth. We are supposedly 66% water, our organs large and jellied, our fingers bulbous with liquid inside, and as she presses and I open with a pop like a jar, I am surprised my body water does not increase. The rain is hot, the tightness in my head leaks out the loosened blood vessels and I redden. I, too, can burn myself.

The drips crane up my nostrils, flared and burning, dizzying my head with each sniff like I am snorting the purest of elemental cocaine. I shield my face and she thinks I am doing it for her, as she is behind the downpour, away from it all save a few errant drops. I am assuming the bulk of the brunt, wrapped in the endlessness, and still, I cannot escape it.

I’m drowning from above, I’m adrift in a flurry inside and outside my mind, the cloud attacking the most vulnerable, volatile part of my body. My own personal thunderstorm. It doesn’t stop until I sputter and tighten around her, my skin freshly scrubbed and clean but discomfort teeming beyond the surface. I’m glowing in more ways than one and still, my eyes move rapidly, a saccade to dance to in the back of my itchy brain.