or Wicked Game
I did a bad thing, and I felt bad about it. But I didn’t do it with bad intentions.
I was honest with the First Sister when we sat in my car late at night making out half drunk, and she knew exactly who I was.
I was honest with the Second Sister when the First One left to travel the world. She knew about me and her sister, and I told her we should just be friends. I don’t remember how that changed. Somewhere in between the piano and the sketchbook, our clothes found themselves forgotten on the floor, and our hands found themselves intertwined in each other’s hair. We bonded over everything, the lyrics, the music, the movement, and the moments, and then we drifted apart. She also knew exactly who I was.
I was honest with the Third Sister when the Second One fell in love, got pregnant, and got married to a beautiful man. She knew about me and her sister, and about me and her other sister, and I told her that I wouldn’t touch her because it might hurt the Second Sister or the First One.
She knew exactly who I was when she tackled me on a lazy afternoon, held me down and forced her tongue between my lips and my hand between her thighs. She knew exactly who I was when she took it upon herself to deliberately seduce me, then go straight back to her sister and inform her. And she knew exactly what she was doing when she showed up to my house a third time, pitch black and soaking wet, to seduce me again then go back to her sister, her own sister, and rub it in her face again.
I did a bad thing, and I felt bad about it for a long time. But then it occurred to me: Whereas that bad thing just makes me a horny dude who can’t say no to the tall, hot blondes in my life, what the fuck does it make her? What kind of a rotten, horrible, hateful, abusive person does something like that deliberately, premeditatedly, and repeatedly… to her own flesh and blood?
I did a bad thing, but I feel less bad about it.
or How I Meth Your Mother
The tiny ziploc bag of meth was sitting on the desk in the open, as it probably shouldn’t have been. It was thrown together with the art supplies, reading glasses, and a guitar pick – the muse and the music reunited in neglect.
I’m not much of a drug person, and this may or may not be a fictional account. A friend came over, and we couldn’t keep our hands off each other. After, as we lay side by side catching our breath, the topic of the little white ziploc bag came up.
One of the housemates had moved on, and I had found it among the things he had left behind. I asked him if it was cocaine or salt or dandruff, and he said no, it was meth, purchased on some ill-advised night at an ill-advised place and never used. He did not want it back. Neither did I.
But she did.
She liked to try things, she said, from crack to heroin to one-night stands in Cancun. Nothing really ruffled her. Meth fell somewhere on the adventure scale between not as edgy as heroin, but not as timid as cocaine. I wasn’t sure what she meant, but I didn’t have to drive anywhere for at least 14 hours, which is usually my biggest fear when experimenting with unfamiliar human pastimes.
Also, one gram of the stuff, split two ways, would probably not stop traffic.
It tasted sour and salty and a little bit soapy, like some kind of crushed medication on my fingertip. I sat back and took her in as my body digested the drug and my brain the experience. She was semi-clothed and smiling mysteriously, seductively and needily. Suddenly I wanted her again.
She grabbed me and gulped me into her again in a whirlwind of wet, lips, hands, and pussy. There was a kind of urgency scratching at the back of my brain this time, a frantic sort of necessity, like the most sensual of tasks had been assigned to us and must be completed punctually. Her sugary screams harmonized with the hive of honeybees buzzing in my head, and soon we collapsed again.
The lights went out, and we said good night.
And laid there. And laid and laid and laid there, laid awake staring at the boring insides of my eyelids while my fingertips caught fire and silently burned.
I laid awake as the universe seduced me with its molecules; Mother Earth undressed and sat on my face, rubbing her clitoris raw and rosy on my tongue until she exploded in a waterfall of Amazon lightning dripping down my face and neck. Then Mars took a turn, thrusting herself over me, grinding, pounding my body into ruby red dust.
Hours passed, or maybe minutes, of consensual cosmic copulation, and then suddenly I felt warm human hands on me. The goddesses dissipated, making respectful room for the mortal, fragile bodies that they could never be. She, flesh and blood by my side, grabbed my waist and said, “Are you awake?”
She climbed onto me and stuffed me into her greedy mouth again. The sun showed no signs of rising.
or The Dark Side of Sex
The last thing I see is the lamplight glinting yellow off her bronze body as the blindfold falls over my eyes.
I find her in the darkness. My fingertips whisper to me the softness of skin but they can’t tell me where they’ve landed. Lost in a jungle of skin on a foreign planet of skin. The only thing to do is to explore.
It’s a neck. Her neck. My fingers trace her jaw line up to her ear and then along her cheekbone where they tell me that her blindfold is also firmly in place. Eyes have been extinguished for the night.
Her hands on both sides of my head are pulling me to her. Her tongue searches for mine in the dark planet and my lips welcome it inside, speaking to me of its red strawberry wetness. Until now, I’d never known that the underbelly of her tongue was a riverbed of four distinct seams and that the corners of her lips tasted like rain. When you can’t memorize sights, you are more prone to memorizing tastes. And textures.
Her back turns to me and every ridge in the tips of my fingers embrace its smoothness and the elegant curve of her spine – curving into me, not away. An electric hum of gratification from her lips, like a teardrop of sound in an ocean of silence, invades the heightened awareness of my ears as I descend into her.
In the land of the blind, the one-eyed monster is king.
The entire length of my body feasts on the entire length of hers. My neck is Frenching her neck, my shoulders plant a fluttery Eskimo kiss on her shoulders, my chest tastes her back, and our hips are locked in a sloppy embrace. When the sense of sight is taken away from a species and a language that relies principally on it, mixed metaphors may result.
The threads of the sheets and the sinews of her skin begin to blur together as the velvet violence of our bodies sets the room on fire. I am clutching one or the other in my fists as pleasure creeps over me like chocolate over a cherry. Sparkles of purple and gold waltz through the black behind my eyelids.
The tide of war changes and her armies rush forward in a relentless assault on mine. Her sugary battlecries drip over my ears, and she invades me again and again. Or I invade her. Or she invades me to invade her. Over and over, black and dark like a soft, pounding warmth around me, immersing me unrelentingly in the punishment of pleasure.
I think I might have scratched her harder than I meant to.
or That Moment When You’re Driving around Naked and Your Heart Jumps into Your Throat Because You Didn’t See the Police Car behind You
She always wanted to drive.
Leaving aside the fact that she’d never driven automatic, much less manual, and that it was the dead of night and unfamiliar road, Victory had definitely had more to drink than was probably wise. Even for an experienced driver.
I hurtled down the pockmarked highway, chasing down the beams of my own headlights, and said to her sideways, “Okay, but only if you’re naked.”
She didn’t say anything, but before I could put the playful punctuation at the end of the sentence, her dress was over her head and tossed in the backseat. She was wearing nothing underneath.
I grabbed for the stick shift as she clambered impulsively on top of me, her skin pressed against my jacket. The steering wheel remained mine as she stretched out the painted tips of her toes to reach the pedals. She was small but I stretched slightly as well to see over the frizz of her lemon-scented hair.
She put her hands on top of mine in a steering wheel sandwich, and we played hide and go seek with the road as quickly as I dared. There was a car behind us, yellow brights shining too closely into my rear window, and I wished that it would pass.
The yellow changed to red and blue, and spelled out T-R-O-U-B-L-E in my rearview in bursts of flashing colored light.
Singing to me the shrill, plaintive cry of a whale in heat.
I tried to buy time, slowly signalling right and drifting to the shoulder. As quickly as it had been pulled off, her dress was now back on, and she was seated daintily in place, chaste hands folded primly in her lap. As the cops signaled us to get out of the car and come over to chat with them, I noticed the tag on her dress was on the outside.
One cop grilled me by his car and the other her by mine. We were just two kids driving home after a small weekend celebration. Yes, license and registration were all in order. No, I had not had too much to drink.
He had been following us ever since the bridge a few “kilometers” back, he subtly jabbed with a knowing twinkle in his eyes. “She’s very beautiful,” and I knew he had the upper hand.
Fortunately, he wanted to fix things in an anticlimactic manner to the tune of a few pesos. The other one extorted a similar amount from her, and we were back on our fully-dressed way.
Well, fully-dressed for a few more miles anyway. And I kept one eye on the mirrors.
or Unto the Rapey All Things Are Rapey
Okay, now he was close, tried to domesticate you
But you’re an animal, baby, it’s in your nature
I wrote a song about a free and spirited woman chained to a chauvinist and over-possessive madman.
She started out madly in love with him. And because of the depths of that desire, she might have misled him a little at the beginning. Promised him things that she couldn’t give. Might have led him to believe things about her nature that weren’t entirely true. Time passed and eventually she had to be herself again. And who she was was a wild woman. An animal.
She began putting out feelers to other men, the sensual, ravenous kind of feelers. A sane man picked up on these late one night, maybe at a party, maybe over drinks.
You’re far from plastic
Talk about getting blasted
She was an honest woman. She told him right out that she had someone else in her life. Had a lover. Had a boyfriend. He was nonplussed. She was obviously a wild creature. A free spirit that a madman was attempting to cage. Boyfriend or no boyfriend, she wanted it.
I know you want it
(I know you want it)
Maybe she didn’t want to make the break with her first man entirely, just break up with his chains. Have her cake, then eat it, then go back for another piece of cake. And no matter how staunchly feminist you are, you can’t fornicate with yourself. There has to be another participant.
You’re an animal, baby it’s in your nature
Just let me liberate you
She couldn’t liberate herself. It wouldn’t be liberating and she would be no freer from her madman’s imaginary hold if the liberating act involved only her. It had to involve someone else. The sane man begged her to let it be him. To let him be the one with whom she sought her liberation. The one with whom she would, after being shackled to a madman for so long, commit her first liberating act.
The way you grab me
Must wanna get nasty
Go ahead, get at me
He knew she wanted it by the way she was grabbing at him. If there is any rapey in my song, it is the raping of him by her grabby fingers. Fortunately, they were both adults, and believe me, they were very much consenting.
You’re the hottest bitch in this place
I feel so lucky
She was the hottest bitch in the place. It wasn’t a dis, it was a fact – a filthy, dirty, sensual fact. If you have a problem with dirty talk, maybe you would be perfect for the other man in this scenario. He is also old-fashioned.
I hate these blurred lines
And then there were the blurred lines. These involved two people’s very different definitions of what did and didn’t count. Sex, to him, was a very broad, openly-defined scenario. Sex, to her, was one very specific, narrowly-defined act. Did a little open-ended flirting count as cheating? what about a kiss, just a little peck on the corner of his mouth? What about a little grabbing, a little clutching at belt buckles, a few buttons? Did it count as cheating if there were still layers of fabric between the two sets of skin? What about his neck? What about her collarbone?
Where was the right place to draw the line? It was all looking a bit fuzzy.
What about her bra? You know how loose it always seemed to be. It was always slipping out of place at the most awkward and the most fortuitous of times. What about a bit of harmless skinny dipping in the electric-blue glow of the warm pool? It was all in good fun anyway. Did it count if there were still layers of water between their two naked bodies? What about his fingers creeping her up leg? What about her fingers creeping down his stomach?
You see, if it counted for him but not for her, well let’s blur up those lines a little and take us one tiny step closer toward being free from our would-be zookeeper. Who was to say what did and didn’t count?
And anyway, who’s counting?
or Asking for It
I am walking down a narrow alley shortly after dusk. I know I shouldn’t be out this late, but the time flew.
A scruffy-looking woman entered the neurotically-thin passageway just a few terrifying steps ago and is slowly walking toward me.
At first my fingers tightened into an anxious fist and began to shake, but I knew what to do. I pulled out my phone, all the right emergency numbers on speed dial, and am writing this.
The dirt-red buildings rise on either side of me like steep cliff walls sprouting from the deep echoes of a windy canyon. A perfect place for an ambush.
My heartbeat quickens with my pace. I could turn around and walk the other way, but it might only encourage her. Besides, I doubt I could outrun her anyway. Not with these Martin Dingman crocodile moccasins.
I can barely see her in the dim yellow light as she staggers toward me, but I can tell that she is leering at me with a salacious sneer that means she has only one thing on her mind. And I can see the outline of something in her hand. Maybe a weapon. Maybe nothing at all. It wouldn’t matter anyway. She looks strong.
I begin to perspire lightly, which probably only eggs her on. I know she can hear my hurried, butterfly-thin breathing.
An old paper bag rustles by me in a dusty draft and a siren weeps somewhere in the distance, but I know that there is no one around to save me. For better or (probably) worse, I am on my own. Dave, a good buddy, had offered to come with me. Why didn’t I bring him along? Would she still have attacked if there were two of us guys? Would this story have ended much differently? My eyes dart furtively around, but there are only the swallowing mouths of the disapproving shadows to cry out to for help.
I am not one of those kind of guys – a woman-hater. A bachelor. I was out buying something special for a girl I like. It should have been simple. I like her. She likes Snoopy. I couldn’t find one that was just right. And Time flapped its tiny wings as it lifted into the air and soared away, but I didn’t notice the gathering darkness until I stepped into it.
Why had I worn this provocative V-neck and these skinny jeans? Did I always have to look so attractive when I went out? Why didn’t I wear something dumpier, something that would’ve turned me into a nameless, shapeless blob instead of this slutty, muscular hunk who is obviously asking for it?
My chest muscles heave under the too-low V-neck that barely covers my pecs. My ass strains at the back pockets of the skinny jeans, struggling, threatening to bust out, while I try, unsuccessfully, to tuck it back into my torso. My huge biceps bulge out of my come-hither shirtsleeves, curving in all the right places, drawing her to me like a hyena to a wounded animal.
She is close now – close enough to touch. Close enough to wrap her delicate, pale fingers around my tanned, hulking neck or bludgeon me to death with her porcelain fists. Close enough so I can see that she isn’t looking at me at all; she is looking straight, unblinkingly ahead, her head tilted slightly down and her lips pursed. In her hand is her cell phone, connected to a number that says Mom. I exhale deeply, slowly, and, I hope, imperceptibly. My eyelids close tightly – and briefly – in relief. Surely a woman who talks to her mother wouldn’t prey on a lone, exposed man, a stranger to her.
She disappears from view behind me, the clicking of her chilling heels fading with the adrenaline in my thick veins, as I press the dial button on my phone. “Hey Dave,” I whisper deeply into it. “Oh. My. God. You’ll never guess what just almost happened.”
I pause. Where did the clicking go? Why were the hairs on my arm…
There is a dull crack, and a savage bite of pain flickers like a lightning bolt from the base of my neck to a spot deep inside my head, between my eyeballs. A blood-spattered high heel is the last thing I see.
or The Coffee Bean Solution
Heads turned as the stunning blonde in the bright red dress pressed her bronzed body against mine and kissed me full on the lips. I pushed her away and said, “Honey, I’m trying to focus here.”
It was hard enough being a man (bull) in a ladies perfume boutique (china shop), and besides, she only did that in public when she wanted attention.
The beauty industry was a predominantly ladies’ game, but it seemed like she was always dragging me to one cosmetic stadium after another in the name of doing things together. I was a good sport so I played along, although I won’t say cheerfully (I wasn’t an all-star, just a good sport). Sometimes too much is just too much, you know? Even of a good thing.
She bent provocatively over a low display case, her dress stretching sensuous and round behind her. A damn good thing. Now she had the attention of everyone in the store. I looked away and rolled my eyes.
The task at hand was an olfactory one. I unbuttoned my sleeve and pulled it back because I was running out of space on my wrists for new scents. Okay, the first one had been some kind of lemon tang mixed with something spicy that reminded me of black pepper. The second one had smelled like vanilla, but the clerk had called it ambergis or something. But it smelled like vanilla to me.
The clerk shyly sprayed something into the crook of my elbow and said something that sounded like woody. As if wood had a smell. I sniffed at my elbow like a dog meeting a stranger. I guess he was right – it smelled faintly like a cedar tree, but it mostly smelled like Option D, all of the above.
Shy Clerk seemed to notice the confusion in my eyes, something she (I glanced over at the blonde who was twirling a strand of hair in her fingers and laughing at someone else’s joke) never did anymore. A damp towelette appeared out of nowhere and quickly wiped down the length of my exposed forearm as Shy Clerk meticulously capped up all the open bottles of perfume. He mouthed the word fatigue , and pushed a small tray of coffee beans toward me.
I wasn’t here to buy coffee, and I would never dream of spraying it all over anyone, but the chocolate flood in my nostrils was like a salty wave of relief washing over me.
I closed my eyes for a second. I was deep in the Amazonian jungle, riding on the back of a capybara, harvesting raw cacao from the mouth of a jaguar. The rainforest washed over my face, and it was good to be alive.
I opened my eyes, pushed the coffee beans away, and sniffed the last bottle of perfume. Shy Clerk was right, it did have a woodsy note to it, but I could also smell a bright floral undertone, possibly violet or jasmine, and I was sure there was a touch of calone in there somewhere too. I loved it.
I told him I would take it and turned to look for her in the crowd of customers, dreading the latest stupid thing she would be doing to attract attention. She was talking (flirting) with a short, bald man whose eyes were not on her eyes.
I grabbed her hand and hurried her out of the store. I was fed up with her, but I had to keep her close to me at all times. Had to saturate myself in her essence at all moments or the world would end. The walls of our relationship squeezed in tight around us, choking us off from everyone else and pressing us so tightly together we couldn’t see the forest for the trees. I loved her and I was sick of her, both to death.
There was a Starbucks at the end of the aisle and to the right. I desperately needed a coffee.
Click here for Part 2
The hum of the aircon kneaded at the ball of stress that had taken up permanent residence in the abyss of her stomach, while its chill worked at melting it ironically away. The gym was a place to let it all go, and stepping beyond the curtain of crisp, conditioned air at the entrance was the first step.
It was a cleansing process that got you ready, physically and mentally, to get dirty.
Ass, Arms, Thighs, Upper Thighs, Obliques, Abs – each had a special sort of excitement, but Abs was her favorite Day. Long, sensuous lines and subtle curves, the abs were like a gateway drug, a cobblestone pathway to something wonderful.
From the sturdy core pillars at the top of the abdomen to the gentle dips at the sides that turned into hollows and slowly curved downward as they converged into another wonderland, abs had a melting, drawing allure that was seldom matched by any other body part in its subtle enticement. Abs were an essential piece of both the fitness and glamour puzzles, and Abs Day was an important staple.
The machine had one generously-cushioned seat and two weighted levers high above head level. The trick was to force your core to do most of the pulling down and leave your arms out of the picture as much as possible. That was what made the machine an ab crunch machine and not just another shoulder exercise.
She straddled the friendly leather cushion and adjusted her tiny gym shorts. The leather pressed against her with a cool sort of confidence as she stretched her arms upward and closed her hands around the levers. The chilled air filled her lungs as her entire body from her chest to her thighs to her tingling little toes coiled and prepared to clench.
The cobblestone pathway turned inward upon itself as her core tightened and the levers slowly came down. She gingerly relaxed, allowing the lacy-thin veil of pain and gain to sweep through her body; drinking it in. Too much arms. More stomach. More crunch. More pelvis.
The levers came down again and the pain veil inched across her body with the delicate and delicious sting of a whip.
And then she felt it.
Beyond the icy pain was a pinpoint of pleasure like a speck of white and sapphire in the velvet black of the wings of a Polynesian butterfly. Just a seed at first, but seeds sprout.
She crunched harder, deep into her middle, and a skein of a gasp trembled from her lips as suddenly a tiny leaf of golden pleasure sprung up from the seed. The harder she clenched, the deeper it took root.
It set her insides on fire and water at the same time.
She must have cried out because her lungs needed air, and somehow the levers were back in place. Her fingertips were glowing with something that wasn’t quite pins or needles, and the droplets of sweat were weaving a prism tapestry through the threads of hair just at her hairline.
No one was looking.
She thought everyone would be whispering about her but the music was loud and athletes at the gym have one-track minds.
Well, most of them.
A capricious smile wandered mischievously over to the corners of her eyes, tipped its hat, and pulled up a chair: “Am I the only one pondering,” it whispered into her ear, “what sort of roguery one can get up to whilst upon this contraption?”
There was something erotic about the way her fingers closed around the thick levers now, and the smell of leather was suddenly an aphrodisiac. Her toes hugged the soft insides of her fresh socks, dancing and tingling with anticipation.
Her arms were strings attaching her core to the machine and she pressed down hard and released. Clench with everything in you till you are about to burst. Then slowly release as the muscles of your abdomen gasp for air. Clench. Release. Clench. Faster and faster.
The seed shot up and grew into a steamy forest of sweet, ripe, crushing feelings. It was a rainforest. The trickle of gasoline she was throwing on the fire became a guzzle and then a roaring wave of gasoline. The fire leapt menacingly out of control, its fingers holding her down and its tongues licking at her furiously.
Clench. She fought to keep the rhythm as the fire explored every crevice of her body. Release. The fire lapped at her neck and earlobes as the rest of her body was engulfed in flames. Clench. Her eyes rolled backwards in their sockets as her eyelids skipped around, laughing gleefully. Release. The cords in her throat purred and sighed as the air that rushed by strummed them gently.
Clench. Her arms were beginning to go limp but her thighs were pressed so tightly together they may at any second rupture and let the fire loose to gulp down everyone in the building.
Release. They did rupture, and the fire clawed and devoured its way out of her. Cobblestone abs flew in every direction, and the sinews in her thighs unraveled and tore the trunks of her legs apart. The seams of her body ripped open violently, and her gym shorts were the only things holding her together.
The burning pieces of her crackled and shook with searing hot pleasure.
The levers lurched back into place with a loud clang, and suddenly everything was very peaceful. The hum of the aircon bumbled around the room, buzzing into her ears, and collecting pollen from her warm skin. The ashes of what remained of her were swept away in the freezing air.
Her eyelids snapped open.
She swallowed hard, her body frozen but too-quickly thawing. Timidly, guardedly, she looked around the room, but athletes have one-track minds.
She sat up.
No one was looking. She smiled. She would be back next week for her favorite Day.
or For Him
Mostly, she thought of her body as just a tool to please other people. She “enjoyed” sex, of course, like she “enjoyed” taking a shower or “enjoyed” eating a cupcake, neither of which required some huge climactic moment at the end to make the experience feel complete.
It was fun to fill your senses with the intoxicating and enveloping nearness of a man, his hands everywhere on your body all at once like standing under a waterfall, the incense of his desire so thick you could smell it. The sugar rush and spicy darkness when you closed your eyes as he entered you, and the tingling in your blood as he rammed himself into you again and again.
She enjoyed giving him pleasure, and she liked it being all about him. She felt a smug sense of awesome when his eyes finally rolled back in his head and he made grunting sounds like an animal as the veins in his neck almost burst all over her. All of that was more than enough as far as she was concerned. You could say that she was resigned to the permanent state of giving, although she would say she enjoyed it. She enjoyed it, and who even cared about this curious climax thing that everyone was always going on about.
She never thought it would happen to her. Or maybe eventually, but not now. They had been trying for months, rubbing different thumbnail-sized areas, stroking and licking, too high, too low, too fast, too slow, contorting herself into a million different kinds of pretzels. Some sooner and some later, but all men eventually gave up on her.
Or was there something different this time? She felt a strange sense of pressure building up inside of her, a compelling urge like the irresistible one that makes you close your eyes when someone turns the lights on. Or was that just her imagination? She enjoyed her sex just the way it was, and maybe the urge she felt was another compulsion to make him happy. He did seem to want it pretty damn bad, whatever it was.
He began to sweat as he bent over her body, working his fingers in and out of her. No, there it was again, a clenching of nerve endings in her stomach like a flicker of fire building up inside her. Now the drops of sweat were splashing off him and onto her like a Gatorade bath, but she didn’t notice.
Her body began to move of its own free will, her hips thrusting toward him then shrinking back timidly, then driving forward again in a mad frenzy, but she didn’t notice. The sheets were a deep navy blue and they ran in deep gutters from two corners of the bed to her two fists, which clutched at bunches of them, wrenching at their fabric almost to its breaking point.
Her toes were clenched almost as tightly as her fingers.
And then she could hold it in no longer so she let it go. It gushed out of her in torrents. Her limbs detached from her body and floated around the room like an astronaut’s toothbrush. Her heart punched its way out of her chest and paid a good-natured visit to her throat. Someone screamed on a distant, alien planet, foreign to her, and she realized that it was coming from her own tongue.
She grabbed at his fingers still inside of her because they had to stop now or she would die.
They were drenched in something and slippery to her touch.
Then the pieces of her began to fall back to earth, slicing a fiery path through the sky as they reentered the earth’s atmosphere. She collected them calmly in her mind from the exotic lands upon which they fell and tried to reattach the mesh of veins and nerve endings. But this was only to buy time because she knew that she would be slightly embarrassed by the smile that was waiting for her behind the curtains of her eyelids.
Someone turned the lights on.