- I worked on this story for a while. Wanted to write something fun and a little special for all of you. Hope you enjoy. ~ Will
A gust of sunlight floods the kitchen’s floor. I can’t decide whether I like the mixed metaphor. But why not? That’s a mid-winter’s sun that’s not really winter’s at all, but early spring’s. The winter is wearied in its cold crouch.
I’ve hardly begun my this story when she invites herself in. The reader. You. Already looking over my shoulder. I’ll refer to you as ‘she’ because, you know, I like to think there is always a woman reading over my shoulder.
“Why?” she asks.
“Because it’s like flirting.”
But then she’s already moved elsewhere seeing that I’ve just started. The kitchen. She’s like a cat. Her finger’s tip moves from counter top to chair. “What kind of story are you writing?”
“Do you want to be in it?”
She smiles. She’s always in the story. But she answers coyly, “Maybe. Maybe not.”
“Should I care?”
“No you shouldn’t.”
She’s already turned her back. I know what she wants. She’s wearing a sundress with a low square neck cut by the line of her breasts.
“I like that,” she says.
“Me too. Sundresses. Summer evenings.”
It’s hard not to watch her hips in the dress—the way the dress sways above her calves, the floor sighing under her steps. The woman’s form, the hem above the knees, the dress’s suggestion that the dress will slide, the knees part, and that the dress will fall again, over the hips and knees to secret what he’s left inside. Leave to other men the low-slung jeans and tights. A man my slip his hand beneath a woman’s dress in a theater or coffeehouse, then afterward restore her dress while her knees are still open and tremble. A woman may straddle her lover in a dress. She may do so in the grass, her knees in the puzzled leaves, in a park with passers-by. A man is blunt and specific. A woman’s hips contain, cajole, persuade until she hides under her dress his moistening of her thighs.
“Sexy,” she says. She moves into the adjacent space of the living room. “Tell me about the room.”
The house feels like a Frank Lloyd Wright, modern back in the sixties. I write that the tall windows on the south side overlook a long sloping yard ending at a dirt road. The walls are bead board, fir, the floor is black slate and the lights are craftsman. A hallway goes to bedrooms.
“You know what I like about erotic stories?”
“You know there’s going to be sex. If I went back to those bedrooms, what would happen to me?”
“Have you read Bluebeard?”
“No.” she says dismissively. Then, resignedly, “Maybe.” She moves to another thought. She sits, knees together, on the long Adirondack couch. She curls her ankles under her. There’s an equally long coffee table with two candles and art books, poetry, and one large architectural book.
“Like the couch?”
“Thank you,” she says, running a finger along the cushions. “I’m between relationships—” She pauses. Now her finger runs up her own leg. “And my friend with benefits is out of town. I’m horny.”
“To my last boyfriend?”
“Something was missing.”
“There always is.”
“Sexually,” she corrected.
“What was missing?”
“I miss—” she paused thoughtfully, “brutality. The good kind. The deep cock-fucking that satisfies a pussy. Funny,” she added. “I don’t want anything until I can’t have it. When I’m with a good boy, I want the other one. You know? The bad boy who bends me over the sink, yanks my hair, fucks me from behind, comes in my cunt and tells me I’m late to work.”
“And then what?”
“I break up with the good boy.”
“Get bored with the bad boy.”
“Give me both. A girl wants variety. She wants her good boys bad and her bad boys good. But you know who I really want?”
“Myself,” she says, “with a penis.”
“What could possibly go wrong?”
“Isn’t it what all women want?” She stretches. I can’t take my eyes from her arms, breasts the curl of her back. She says: “I want a redo.”
“Not a bad thing.” She looks out the window. “Something to keep between the pages of a story—or maybe not.”
“I had a cousin, Daniel. I liked him—two years older than me. We didn’t see each other very often, but I was attracted to him. I must have been in 5th or 6th grade. It was awful. I thought there was something wrong with me. Who falls in love with their cousin? Later I figured out he was a distant cousin, but still had incredible orgasms fantasizing about him. I’d see stars. I’d never been fucked, let alone fucked from behind. It was the secrecy—the forbiddeness. The last summer still living with my parents we shared a condo. We got to hang out for a week. It wasn’t hard to tell he liked me. I caught him gazing at me in my bikini. Then we’d hang out in the evenings. We’d watch TV together. I’d lean on him—shoulder to shoulder.” She sighs. “But there was only one bathroom in the condo. It was the second to last day. My hair was a disaster. I was sunburned. I could barely wear a T-Shirt. He was taking a bath. So fuck it, I decide I’m going in. Even if I have to wait to take a shower, there’s aloe in the sink cabinet. So I go in.” She momentarily closes her eyes and smiles. “He’s naked, of course, in the tub. He says something like—Jesus!—and tries to yank the shower curtain over. Of course, he pulls it down. I laugh. I tell him I won’t look, but of course I do. I’m terrible. I lean against the sink, bend at the waist as if I had to look very closely at sand in the corner of my eye. I can see him in the mirror staring at my ass. And his cock is getting hard, is standing up, and, oh fuck, I’m turned on.
‘Do you mind?’ he says.
‘I’ll be done in a minute,’ I say, arching my back, making my T-Shirt ride up the back of my legs.
‘Seriously?’ he says again.
Fuck it, I say to myself. I turn and kneel next to the tub. I lean over the edge and kiss him. One of the hottest kisses I’ve ever had. We kiss and kiss. Our lips part, then our tongues, then we’re staring into each other’s eyes. I know, it’s a cliché right? Right at that moment I want to suck him off, but I also love the way we’re looking into each other’s eyes. I grab his cock and start stroking him. I don’t think he lasted twenty seconds. I’d never felt a man’s orgasm before, and the way he gushed, over his stomach, in the bathwater, over my hand, more and more of it. I loved it. I loved the smell of it. I loved the way he sounded—how I’d made him squirm.”
She sits in her revelry for a moment.
“Was that it?” I ask.
“You just left?”
“You could say that. We were both—speechless.”
“Did you ever meet again?”
“Tell me,” she finally turns. “I’m here for the fantasy.”
“You both went off the college. You lost touch. And then, in the summer of your junior year, you get a call from him. He says he’s passing through. He’s spending a couple days close by and wonders if he can see you at your new place. Starting to remember?”
“But you’re working shifts at the hotel and you’ve just met someone. Nobody you’ve slept with, but then your cousin brings back all the old feelings—the taboo, the forbidden.
“Luckily, he arrives late in the day. You meet him between work and classes. His appearance startles you. He’s taller. His hair is longer and curly. His shoulders are broader and more powerful. He’s quieter and more confident. And he has the complexion of an outdoorsman—tan and smile lines. You catch up. Neither of you mention what happened years ago, but you can’t stop remembering the heft of his cock, the warmth of his orgasm spilling over your fingers, the smell, the helplessness of his eyes. When you part, he stands. You hug each other. His hand rests on your hip and slides over your buttocks almost too casually.
“He’s going to stop by in the morning—maybe you’ll go out and have coffee. After a late night, though, you’ve fallen asleep on the couch, face down, in a shirt and underpants. The flatscreen is still on when his knocking wakes you. You tell him to let himself in.
‘Sorry,’ he says. when he sees you.
‘For what,’ you mumble, a little drool under your cheek.
‘For being late,’ he smiles. He tosses his coat over a chair and spots the kitchen. ‘I’ll make you some tea. Do you have tea?’
‘First cabinet on the left,’ you mumble.
“Five minutes later he’s sitting on the chair next to the couch. He puts your cup on the coffee table next to you. Your still face down, but stretching, meaning to roll over and sit up. He turns off the flat screen with the remote.
‘Thanks,’ you mumble, then feel his hand on your thigh. Your stomach is light as a slip of paper. But you should move. You should turn over. His hand moves upward. The old memories—the taboo the forbidden—are like a drug taking root at the small of your back. Your hands move to your sides, palms down, elbows up. You mean to push yourself up, but he pushes you back down, palm firmly between your shoulder blades. His other hand roughly pulls aside your underpants—and you? He presses you firmly into the couch. Your thighs part. Just a little. But they do.
“The first touch shocks your spine—the finger on your clit.
“Next he’s got your hair. Next two fingers penetrate. Another circles your clit. You rise to your hands and knees. He draws back your head. He bends you like a drawn bow. He lifts your hair to the tips of your fingers. He makes you grunt and spread on the hook of his fingers. The orgasm is sudden. He knows. His feels the contractions. He hears you—smells sweetness like broken fruit.
“Then his hands are gentle.
“He keeps you on your hands knees, but now with kisses at the nape of your neck; now gently weighing your nipples in the palm of his hands. Then he’s sitting while you sit, disheveled, panties pushed aside, knees open, your lips swollen, wet and parted. He smiles at you, he sips from the tea, a knowing and sly smile.”
She withdraws her hand from between her thighs. She rubs a thumb over her fingers, resting her cheek on the slant of the couch’s pillow-backs, and dreamily watches me type.
“No comment?” I ask.
“You’re like all the other readers.”
“Why should I comment?” she asks. “Then everybody knows my business.”
“Everybody knows mine.”
“But you lie.”
“All I want—” she complains, then reconsiders. “My heart’s cockles need a little warming.”
“Only your heart’s cockles?”
“But how did you know he grew a beard?”
“It didn’t happen that way.” Now she lies on the coach, idly lifts a foot in the air. “You know why I like being in stories? I can do anything. I can be anybody. I can live a whole life in a handful of pages. I can go anywhere.”
“What’s this?” she picks up another book from the coffee table.”
She holds the book up and over herself, pages spread like the wings of a seagull. “Oh! What a funny title.”
after the nor’easter
The poet refuses to resort to the erotic cliché of lust that is hot, burning, or like an unquenchable fire.
to see you naked,
your hills and valleys stripped of foliage;
valleys bristling with yellow grass,
brings me licking with ice
the inlet of your thighs and ankles;
tempts me to pique
the reddening foliage of your nipples. My
desire is cold
as sheets of snow that bed
the barred shadows of your limbs;
attentive as the frost
that flourishes in your window—
that dapples the panes with winter’s leaves.
my lust is icy;
my visitation bends the birch;
and the fir tree’s supple limbs bear my weight;
afterward? after the nor-easter’s
come? your eyes
are bristling like the evergreens
in the new-washed sun;
a little melting
afterward slips down the thighs;
and by the snowfall’s thousandth kiss
your torso is adrift;
the boundary between what’s yours and mine—
the fence line—
buried and forgotten.
“Who wrote that?” she asked.
“You misspelled ‘bared’.”
“I didn’t. It’s ‘barred’ because the shadows are like bars.”
“You like it?”
“Makes me feel—minty.” She lays the book on the table, already distracted by another thought. “Describe me like I was your Lolita.”
“Like a twelve year old girl?”
“Well,” she smiled to herself. “is it such a secret? Don’t some girls like their men to be ‘Daddy’? Especially when ‘Daddy’s’ fucking them good and hard from behind? But that’s not what I mean. Describe me like you were Nabokov.”
“You mean Humbert.”
“No,” she stretches her hands above her. “People think Nabokov was writing about a twelve year old girl; but the book was his love affair with language. Language is Nobokov’s Lolita: fickle, petulant, seductive, beautiful. He knows he can’t keep her. She’ll tire of his games, his possessiveness, his ministrations and manipulations, and then she’ll leave Nabokov just like Lolita left Humbert—” She holds a finger to her temple. “Gone. Just like that. ”
“But Humbert was a monster.”
“And Nabokov wasn’t?”
“How?” I asked.
“To use language that way—to make sport of raping a twelve year old—
“Not so different from Richard the Third, don’t you think?”
“Think of the beautiful novels he could have written, the beautiful poetry, only to spend his genius on that depravity.”
“Depravity? I’m not sure you know what literature is for…”
“You know why people love it? Some of them think the story’s about an affair between a middle-aged man and preadolescent girl, but if you ask why mostly so-and-so reads the book, he will say because it’s brilliant, because it’s technically perfect, because the writing is beautiful. Reading Henry Miller, you have to go beyond the obscenity to see the beauty. Reading Nabokov? He tricks you—you have to get beyond the beauty to see the obscenity. Many readers only see the beauty. That’s the trick Nabokov plays. He makes his readers just like Humbert. They ask themselves: How could Nabokov condemn Humbert when Humbert speaks so eloquently? Nabokov must have liked Humbert, they say. Nabokov understood Humbert, they say. How eloquent are the tiger’s stripes.” She paused. “I think language is your Lolita, too.”
“I’m a predator?”
“Look at what you do,” she said; and now she toyed with me like a cat, “Look at the things you write.”
“Yet here you are, my little mouse.”
“Write about me like I was your Lolita.”
“Because what good’s an erotic story if it have a sense of shame?”
She finally sat up, stood and stretched. Her haunches tightened. The hem of the sundress cagily slipped above the backs of her knees. I suppose I should prefer to see her naked when she stretches, but the incongruous disarray of a woman’s dress rewards the attentive observer. There at the small of her back, where fabric expresses bafflement, the eye is invited to imagine the inturning of her spine, perhaps an as yet undiscovered mole, and there the ecstatic nipples lifted heavenward, and there, dear reader, topmost, her fingers that stretch beyond straightening. Her body opens to the numinous air. Her motion like the slow diffusion of a genie materializing from rubbed bronze. Why should a woman’s stretching transfix a man’s gaze? For no other reason than that a woman’s stretching is a simulacrum of that agony, that apex of her penetration, when her pleasure is most unbearable, most poised to cascade into a cataract of cries and exhalations. I have been told by women—who at a certain age became aware of the male gaze—that they no longer allow themselves the pleasure of stretching in mixed company. I mourn.
“You are the devil incarnate.”
“The one that writes erotica.”
“Never heard of that one.”
“But do you know what’s in those other rooms?”
“Well, you know, what would you expect in the devil’s closet?”
The writer pushes himself back from the typewriter. Sits up. (He wants you to think that he’s not, at this very moment, typing this paragraph.) Instead, he stretches, then crosses his arms. “You’re not allowed to go in.”
“But I want to.”
“I have no other but a woman’s reason.”
The author smiles, recognizing Shakespeare, and Shakespeare is the devil’s favorite. How can the author say no? Well, so, he pulls his typewriter back to the desk’s edge and wants you to think he hasn’t been writing all this while.
“Go ahead and look.”
She glances at me skeptically, but with her fingers lightly at her hips, she steps into the hall, with it’s tongue and groove cedar and—
“The door on the left,” I say.
And, of course, she picks the door to the right. She gives it a little push. She peeks and then? She knocks. The room looks empty. She pulls the housekeeping cart into the room behind her. There are damp towels on the entry’s floor. She picks them up and tosses them into the cart’s hopper. She opens the bathroom door. “Jesus!”
“‘Do you mind?’ he says.
“Jesus Christ,” she giggles, leaning with a hand on the bathroom countertop. “You scared the hell out of me!”
“I was hoping it would be you,” says Daniel, sitting in the steaming bathtub.
“How did you know?”
“Only two hotels in town.”
“Well,” she straightens with a wary glance, “I’ll be done in a minute.”
‘Seriously?’ he says.
“Oh yeah,” she answers. “I’ve got work to do.”
She brings fresh towels from the cart, hangs them, wipes the sink and counter. She spritzes the mirror and sees him in the mirror, his cock, sees that he’s hard and watching. She turns, hand on her hip. “So what kind of a creep are you? You think because I’m the cleaning maid I’m here for sex too?”
“I know you’re a whore.”
“Yeah?” She bites her lip. “Look. Don’t tell the hotel manager.” She disappears just long enough to close the hotel room door. “I could get into a lot of trouble. You know? I’m just trying to work my way through college.”
“Am I right?”
She licks her lips and purses her lips, then lifts the hem of her maid’s uniform as she kneels beside the tub. She touches his cock. Slides her fingers downward to feel the weight of his balls floating in the sudsy water. Then she begins stroke him. He smiles. He clasps his hands behind his neck, elbows wide, and closes his eyes. “Good girl,” he croons. His cock still bent leftward, just as she remembered. The soft uncircumcised hood of skin slid warmly back and forth over the crown of his cock.
“Look,” she said, her heart thrumming in her ears, “are you going to come or not? I’ve a whole floor to finish.”
“Tell me you don’t want a cock in your mouth.”
“Look, I’ve got—”
“Okay, but—” And then she does. She leans over the bathtub’s edge, firmly draws back the hood of his cock, and takes him in her mouth. She tastes water and the faint acridness of soap. She wants him to come, but not like this. She lets him go and slaps the water between his thighs, splashing his eyes wide open.
“I bet you were quicker when you were a teenager.” She dries off her hands at the sink and dabs her lips.
“You’re not done yet.”
“Got a complaint? Tell it to management.”
He climbs out of the bathtub. Water splashes. She turns but he forcefully turns her back to the mirror. He pushes over the sink. He takes a fistful of hair in one hand and with the other half unbuttons, half tears the pin-striped light blue bodice of her uniform. Her tits burst free over the sink. He kisses her neck. He lifts the back of her uniform. She braces, hands on the mirror, then rises to her toes as he penetrates her from behind. Each thrust is deeper than the last. Her spine curls with the length of him.
“This,” he snarls, “is what I always wished I’d done.”
“You have no idea.” She spreads her legs. She straightens as his thrusts continue. She reaches behind, but then he’s out of her. He forcefully guides her out of the bathroom and throws her face onto the motel room bed. Before she can roll over he’s stuffed a pillow under her hips. She cries out when he spanks her ass hard. Her fingers twist the sheets under her parted lips. She curses when he spanks her again, but she lifts her ass and her thighs widen. His palm leaves welts. He calls his little cousin a whore when she humps the pillow. He’s known it all along.
And when he pulls her off the bed, onto her knees, she sucks him again.
Her ass burns. Her uniform is bunched around her waist and her tits hang out. Salive slips down her chin and throat. She looks up at him. He holds a fistful of hair, half guiding his cock into and out of her mouth. When this is almost too much, he throws her back onto the bed, this time on her back. He yanks her to the edge, forces her open with her knees bent back and wide. Her back lifts from the mattress with the force and depth of his thrust.
This time there won’t be any stopping.
Her breathy exhalations turn to cries. The knot of her womb unravels, slips the tight tendons of her thighs, frays at her nipples. So firmly opened, she comes. The small of her back lifts like a drawn bow though the thrusts continue. The first orgasm tumbles into a second just as the pulse of his own flows into her. And she clings to him, not letting him go, until her womb is filled.
“You—” He catches his breath. “Is room service always like this?”
She pulls him down and kisses him.
His cock slips slowly out of her, glistening, both of their orgasms flowing out of her like a spilled cup. He straightens and pulls her upright. She reluctantly lets him pull her uniform down and over her hips. Two buttons from the front of the uniform are missing. “Hey,” he says, “what are you doing after work?”
“Your flat is a wreck.”
She stands back. Tugs sharply at the hem of her uniform. “Really?”
“Yeah,” he says. “Give me the keys and maybe there’s a guy willing to do some house cleaning.”
She cocks a smile. “Seriously?”
“Yeah,” he says. “And I hear he’s not a bad cook.”
“What does a girl do to deserve that,” she asks, straightening her hair.
“She sucks cock.”
She pushes him backward with a testy shove. “I’ve got a room to clean, asshole.” Then she gestures dismissively to the hamper. “The keys are in my purse.”
And that, funny enough, is what really happened.
My lovely reader steps out of the room, a little flustered, a little red in the cheek, a little wet at the thighs, a little slippery at the fingers’ tip. A woman’s orgasm is a discrete affair. She straightens her sun dress and returns to the living room with a languorous sway in her hips.
“How did you know?” she asks.
“Love is stranger than fiction.”
“I never know when you’re telling the truth.”
“That’s the best erotica.”
I push the typewriter away. The author once again wants you to think he’s not, at this very moment, writing. He stands. He steps round the table and guides you—but I don’t mean to write ‘you’, dear reader. I mean—‘her’. I turn her and guide her backwards to the back of the couch. I gently lift the hem of her sun dress. I seat her on the couch back and spread her knees.
“Now I know you’re lying,” she says, kissing me.
“Oh,” I say, “I’m not so sure. I make love to you with every story I write; but it can be our little secret.”
William Crimson | March 26th 2018