4 Hour Hard On

Of Snow And Fucking
(c) '05, by Tristesse


The day had not been one of my best. The gallery I part-owned had picked the one week of heavy snowfall to open a show of a fine young artist's work. We had pulled out all the stops-- laid on wine and cheeses, even caviar.

The attendance was abysmal; only a very few people showed up, and we had only one sale. As the day drew to a close I became more and more depressed. We were struggling financially as it was. This could mean curtains for the gallery.

I was the last to leave the gallery and, locking the doors, I realized I would not make it to my home north of London that night. All trains had been halted and a taxi was prohibitively expensive. My only recourse was to make a temporary bed in the gallery-- something all of the owners had done at one time or another, for one reason or another.

To soften the pain of the stressful day I decided to drown my sorrows at our local pub. I wasn't driving, after all, and had only the road to cross to get to my "bed" that night.

The pub was packed with fellow commuters stuck for a place to sleep. I ordered a scotch at the bar and wove my way between the groups to find one of the few vacant easy chairs. As I sat down and started to take in my surroundings, I looked for any regulars whose shoulder I might use to cry on. Then I noticed someone. He had his back to me, and was talking on the pay phone.

You may think it odd, but I find the backs of certain men attractive, where the hair meets the neck, the shape of the ears and the jaw line. Most times I’m disappointed, when the owner of the head turns to reveal his face. I watched, and listened as this man talked with increasing annoyance on the phone.

'Aha!' I thought 'Someone else is having a rotten day.'

I started to idly fantasize about kissing his attractive, tanned neck and ruffling his all-too-groomed hair. He abruptly hung up the phone and turned to face the room.

A small thrill went through me as I saw that he lived up to what his back had promised, and then some. He was extremely attractive, with strikingly blue eyes in a strongly handsome and tanned face. His expression was angry after the phone call, and I speculated as to what it may have been about.

Then I realized I’d been staring, and that he was looking straight at me, as well. I hastily lowered my eyes, but when I dared to raise them again he was still regarding me-- with a small smile on his lips.

He picked up the pint he had placed on the shelf by the phone, as well as a small overnight bag from the floor by his feet. Walking slowly through the crowd, he never lost sight of me, and kept his eyes locked on mine. I became very uncomfortable, conscious of the feelings this man was stirring in me. He was a complete stranger, and yet something had, silently and undeniably, happened between us.

He came and stood beside me, looking down expectantly.

"Please." I said, and gestured to the seat now vacant beside mine.

He put his beer and case down and sank into the cushions with a world-weary sigh. When he spoke it was yet another pleasant surprise. He had a deep voice and an American accent.

"Thanks, I really need to sit down. I am exhausted. I've been traveling for 17 hours straight and now I’m stranded."

He stretched out his long legs and, momentarily, our feet touched. We both pulled our feet back, apologizing and laughing. At first we just introduced ourselves and made small talk: "What do you do?" -- "Where do you live?" -- "Will you have another drink?" etc.

Then, after a pause, he said:

"I really don't look forward to spending a night in Heathrow airport. Not a single hotel room available for miles around and the other problem is, how do I get to Heathrow in this weather anyway?"

"It is exceptionally bad," I replied. "We don't usually get this much snow, so when we do, we're not prepared and everything grinds to a halt."

"Hmmm, that doesn't make me feel any better," he said with a rueful smile-- (God, I thought, this man is attractive).

The mood became more and more relaxed as we sipped our drinks and the conversation became easier. It felt as if we had known each other for a long time. We shared so much in common-- even to the extent of being happily married. We laughed at the same things; he was funny, witty and made me laugh often.

Soon I forgot how depressed I’d been when I originally came to the pub. On a whim-- and after a pause in the conversation-- I was surprised when I suddenly heard myself saying:

"I can offer you a camp-cot at the gallery?" I was starting to blush. "We have room and you're welcome if you could put up with a little discomfort."

He looked at me for several seconds and I thought: ‘Oh no; he thinks it's a pick-up line.’ After a slight hesitation he said:

"I'd be very grateful, if you're sure. But what about you?"

"Oh there's room for us both, we have a couple of cots-- and it will all be very proper," I said, hoping this would put to rest any idea of a pick-up. For a second he actually seemed to look disappointed, then quickly composed himself.

The landlord was calling:

"Time! Ladies and gents-- please!"

Grumbling customers started to gather themselves and wander out into the snowy night. Still we sat, warm and engrossed until, once again, the impatient call came:

"Time please everyone!"

"Well," I said, standing up and smoothing my dress down, "I think the landlord wants to go home too."

The man stood as well and, reaching down for his raincoat, he shucked it on in one smooth movement. He helped me with my jacket, gathered up his bag, and we made our way out into the snowy street.

***

The slush lay inches thick and my heels were certainly not suitable footwear. His shoes were also quickly soaked. We slipped and stumbled across the rutted road. As I made one particularly precarious step, slipping and losing my balance, he grabbed my arm to steady me. When we reached the other side of the road he slipped his arm around me protectively, as we walked the short distance to the gallery.

The display window of the store was lit but the interior beyond it dark. My cold fingers fumbled with the keys and I started to shiver. The lock clicked, I swung the door open and we walked into the dim warmth. I de-activated the alarm and we closed the door on the awful weather outside. We stood, looking at one another in the half-light. I felt excited and breathless like a child about to do something wicked.

For a moment there was an embarrassed silence. Finally he looked down at my ruined shoes and said, "You'd better get out of those wet things."

I slipped them off and he took my damp jacket.

With his shoes off and his mackintosh hanging on the nearby coat-rack we took stock of the gallery. In the gloom the pictures I thought were so lovely were hardly visible. The food and wine from the opening were still spread on a low table covered by tea towels.

I realized that I was ravenous. "Are you hungry?" I asked, uncovering the snacks.

"The last food I ate was on the flight from Hong Kong this morning," he said, looking doubtfully at the wilting food.

"There’s a good Italian restaurant a few doors down; we could go there."

He laughed out loud. "I'm not putting on those shoes again until they're bone dry. Would they deliver?"

"Oh yes, I know they do." I said "I'll call them… what do you fancy? There's a menu somewhere on my desk." I turned on the desk lamp and rifled through some papers until I found the list of dishes.

"I really want something pretty light." he said, taking the menu from me. "How about we share an order of pasta and a green salad?"

"Sounds perfect." I said, picking up the 'phone.

While we waited for the Italian food to arrive we sat on the thick carpet at the table with the snacks on it. We nibbled on this and that, talking and laughing. His eyes, so full of humor and intensely blue, continued to startle me.

We were on opposite sides of the low table, I dropped a chunk of cheddar I was about to eat and with a lightning reaction he caught it. He leaned across and held it to my lips. I opened my mouth and he pulled the cheese away-- teasing me.

"Close your eyes." He said "and tell me what I’m feeding you."

I complied and waited, my lips parted in an uncertain smile.

"Brie!" I cried triumphantly, tasting the creamy cheese he put in my lips.

"Wrong!" he laughed, "that was Reblechon." I made several other blunders that obviously amused and pleased him-- more ammunition for teasing. "Now! What's this?" he asked and, once more, I opened my lips ready for the next bite.

"OH, that's awful," I said chewing and swallowing hastily. "You're disgusting! That was a grape dipped in Caviar!"

He laughed at my reaction but took the cloth that had covered the food to gently wipe the juice from my chin and lips. It was such an intimate moment that we were both startled by the knock on the door. The pasta had arrived.

We sat on the upholstered chaise set out for prospective buyers to rest on as they contemplated their choice of art. We ate with our plates on our knees, our elbows clashing from time to time. As he chewed he looked around at the art on display.

"I am not a connoisseur but I do like some of these." He said, indicating a series of pencil sketches of nude women in various poses.

"Good choice." I laughed, "Each one is only 5,000 pound."

"I like the sensitivity in those drawings. The artist obviously loves the female form." he said wistfully. Then, with a sigh, he put his paper plate aside and took a long drink of wine.

I collected the debris from our meal and brewed some coffee. As we sat companionably side by side, our coffee finished, he slumped down to a sprawl with his long legs stretched out in front of him.

"I’m exhausted," he said, "would you mind if I crashed right now?"

"Oh no, of course not" I said. "It’s nearly 2 am, you've been up almost 36 hrs!"

We set about making up the cots with the assorted bedding collected over the years-- an old army blanket, scratchy but warm for him and a threadbare Hudson's Bay blanket for me. We improvised pillows using our clothing, which we removed with a lack of awkwardness that pleased and surprised me. I, in my bra and panties, he in his boxer shorts and undershirt. We snuggled down into our cots.

"'Night" he murmured, hunkering down under the blanket. As I lay across the room, wide-eyed and tense, I heard him start to snore quietly.

****

I lay back, listening to his breathing and the occasional traffic passing outside, replaying in my mind the extraordinary events of the day: The disastrous show, my depression, and then meeting this amazing man. I decided to free the desire I’d been denying all evening. I moved my hand stealthily under the blanket and touched myself at the crotch of my panties.

I had to satisfy myself or I knew I wouldn't sleep. I slid the leg of the panties aside and started to gently stroke. I was quite wet already and easily aroused. It wasn't long before I was arching and straining, a powerful orgasm building in me.

I turned my head to muffle the cries I couldn't help. Then I laid back, feeling the tension drain from my mind and body. Soon after I must have slept, lulled by the sound of this exhausted man's rhythmic breathing and my own body's sweet release.

I was dreaming that soft hands were caressing my face and a voice was murmuring something I couldn't understand. I woke with a start; something moist was crawling on my neck. I roughly tried to brush it away and hit something solid and warm.

"Oh no!" a voice in the darkness said, "It's only me. I didn't mean to frighten you."

It took me a few seconds to work out where I was and who was with me. Then I was able to remember that it was a now familiar voice I’d heard.. His hand was on my face, brushing my hair aside.

"I'm so sorry. I had no intention of startling you."

"I thought an animal was crawling on my neck!" I said, shaken and feeling foolish.

"That "animal" was my tongue!" he laughed sitting back on his haunches.

"What time is it?" I said trying to recover my composure and sit up.

"4 a.m. I must be on Hong Kong time. I woke up after an hour of sleep and couldn't get back again."

"And so you decided to scare the living daylights out of me.... thank you!" I laughed, but shakily.

"No, I have been sitting here watching you sleep." his hand was still caressing my hair. "It has made me crazy with desire."

A heavy feeling came over me, and I knew I was lost.

I reached out to touch his face; a couple of days beard had made it rough. He grasped my hand and pressed it to his heart which was racing.

"We’ll never see each other again," he whispered, "I need to hold you tonight."

"Oh yes, I’ve been fighting my feelings all night."

He started to stand but I held him down and he sank back to his knees. Our faces were inches apart; I closed my eyes as his mouth touched mine. My lips opened and our tongues met. Still kissing, we moved to the floor and lay together feeling each other's bodies, mine still warm from the bed, his cool and hard.

I pulled off his shirt, and he undid my bra clasp and expertly removed it. My breasts rose against his arm, the nipples dark and erect. I stood over him and he reached up to roll my panties down. He eased them slowly over my hips, down past my pubic hair to the barely-visible cleft, ending at my ankles.

I stepped out of my shucked panties - totally naked.

He lay looking up at me above him in the gloom and I thought of the sketches he’d admired earlier that evening. I knelt down and slid a hand into the waistband of his shorts, sliding them down to reveal a swelling member, which stirred further as I watched. He kicked off his shorts, and put a hand ‘round my neck, pulling me to him.

Our kisses were urgent. We explored one another's mouths with our tongues, one another's bodies with our hands. His were gentle and yet firm, I yielded to his directions-- moving an arm to allow him to kiss my breast, opening my legs as his hand stroked the fuzz of my pubic hair. All the while I took in the sensation of his toned body and the pressure of his erect penis on my leg.

He raised himself, and took my hand.

Lifting me to my feet, he led me to the chaise where we’d been sitting so primly, earlier in the evening. He laid me back with my feet still on the floor and knelt before me. Then he gently parted my legs. He started to kiss and lick the inside of my thighs; I cradled his head in my hands and closed my eyes.

Sliding his tongue over my mons, he teasingly bypassed the white hot spot that was crying out for him. He drew his tongue over my belly and up to my breasts leaving a cool trail behind. Taking each nipple in his teeth he gently bit and teased them. He placed a hand on each of my breasts and I could feel my erect nipples press into the palms of his hands.

He buried his face in my crotch and I felt his hot breath burning there. His tongue found the top of my cleft and worked its way in until it touched my clitoris with an awesome jolt. I knew I would come almost immediately, so I gently raised his head and eased myself out from under him.

I sat him where I had been lying and knelt between his knees.

His member was fully erect and I took it in my hands. So warm and firm, so wonderful. I leaned over and placed several small kisses on his belly and chest-- ringing his nipples with my tongue.

Drawing a jagged line with my tongue from his chest to his pubis, I touched my tongue to the very tip of his penis and it leapt to meet me. Then I took it between my lips. He moved his hips and I sensed the urgency of his desire. Firmly he pushed himself into my mouth and I allowed him to go deeper.

After several thrusts I concentrated and opened my throat to take him even deeper. Once his penis had passed my gagging spot I could swallow and he groaned with the massaging effect on his cock.

I felt his heartbeat in my mouth as his penis moved in and out and I became aware of the salty-sweet taste of pre-cum. He withdrew from my mouth and we stood.

He held me at arms length and gazed in my eyes.

"I want to remember you like this," he whispered.

He led me to a huge sculpture in the centre of the gallery. It was a contemporary piece meant for an exterior location. Heavy and solid-- it awaited a buyer.

He placed my hands on the sculpture and moved my feet apart so that I was bent forward slightly. I felt his hands slide up my legs, and then between them, stopping just short of touching the sodden seething hillock there.

Then, the tip of his penis burned at the mouth of my vagina. I arched and opened for it as it slid smoothly home. He thrust it slowly inside, once or twice-- and then, holding my hips firmly, he started to move faster and more roughly. Each thrust struck my G-spot and I cried out.

We were rocking the heavy sculpture and shaking one another as he banged into me and I braced to receive him. He reached ‘round and cupped a breast, then slid his hand down to gently rub my clitoris. I gasped; I was moaning and crying. I felt the frontline swell of a powerful orgasm start, deep within me. Still he thrust harder, calling my name and biting my neck gently.

I knew, as our mutual climaxes grew, that this was going to be an especially strong orgasm for me. It built and built to such an extent that I was breathless and shaking. He rested his face against neck and spoke to me, aware of the power of my impending climax.

"Relax, let it happen..." he murmured, "Come with me."

I started to scream with the sweet pain as I finally peaked and felt my vagina grab his penis and spasm. He shuddered and gave one last, huge thrust and came in me collapsing against my back. We stood like that for a moment, I felt his member begin to lose its rigidity and leave me, our combined juices trickling down my inner thigh. He stepped back, and my legs buckled. He caught me, and with his arm around my waist, guided me back to the chaise.

****

Neither of us spoke for quite some time.

The city was starting to wake up. Never busy on a Sunday morning, the street outside the gallery was quiet. It was still dark apart from the sodium lamps, and the dim glow of the storefronts. We lay beside one another in a post-orgasmic state of bliss. The only sound in the gallery was our breathing punctuated by sighs.

"I suppose we have to find our flight schedules now," I said finally. "If you’re still leaving from Heathrow we can go together on the Piccadilly line as far as Paddington Station... You can change there to the Heathrow Express. Our closest tube station is about two blocks west of here..."

Only at that moment did I realize I was babbling like a 4 year old. I couldn't bear to think about ending this dream. I consoled myself with the knowledge that I would have no problem memorizing the purity of this moment for a lifetime.

"I'll call the airline, find out what's available." he said. "OK to use this phone?"

"Of course it is."

Picking up a train timetable from my desk, I found my route and saw a suitable train, which would be leaving Paddington in about three hours. Perfect. Plenty of time to wash, dress and go for breakfast. It was all so practical.

Finished finalizing his own itinerary on the phone, he turned back to me.

We were still unashamedly naked. Neither of us could meet the other's eyes. Wordlessly we moved in to each other's arms. We held one another for a long moment, knowing this would be the last time our bodies would feel the warmth of the other.

We silently gathered our garments. I insisted he use the small bathroom first, not out of politeness but because I didn't want him to see my sadness. By the time he emerged I had my tears under control, and he was none the wiser.

We stood at the door looking back into the room that had witnessed such passion-- but which held it's secret flawlessly. The food still lay strewn about the table, the chaise properly straightened, and that sculpture, standing by--like an unscathed sentry.

This place would never be the same for me again. It would be months, even years, before the memory of that night stopped exciting me.

AUTUMN IN NEW YORK
© '05, by Shara Faskowitz


October.

Every city wears its history. Some, being newer, have few adornments; others wear the jewels of their years like dowagers. Julia considers this as she hurries with the crowd along Sixty-Seventh Street. She is not a native New Yorker, but from Connecticut--close enough. Her two years in Manhattan, two years of chasing auditions and working part-time as a secretary at Julliard (Lady Julia of Julliard, her friends say), have made her a wiser but no less fervent lover of the city.

She loves New York in the way only those from somewhere else do. She rarely takes it for granted. "Maybe it's because of the acting thing," she thinks; Woody Allen's quote about Manhattan being a stage set really resonates with her.

She feels this everywhere she goes. From a bench in Lower Manhattan, looking across the river and the span of bridge to the fairy-lit trees of Brooklyn Heights, to coffee for one at the Astral Plain in the West Village where a beautiful young redhead and her tall attentive lover brew tea and serve warm blueberry crumb pie, where an old woman dozes in a rocker with a cat at her feet, to the haute mannequins on Fifth Avenue and the Harlem jukes.

But if Julia McGuinn loves all of Manhattan, she adores the Upper West Side. It's exciting culturally, it buzzes her intellect, but it's sedate with dignified old brownstones, almost rural in spots where Central Park meanders away from the avenue or Riverside meets Drive.

Julia sees so many metaphors in the city, but tonight in the bright blink of this cool October Wednesday, the glitz of Lincoln Center seems subsumed by the gargoyles peering from their pre-war perches.

Maybe they're benevolent spirits protecting the old architecture, Julia imagines. Maybe they'll give her luck.

She worked until four today, then sat in a cattle call for an Ain't Misbehavin' revival . She sang eight bars of "Mean to Me" and, who knows, she might even get a callback. She's pretty sure she looks good in cashmere and a fitted skirt, her thick black hair brushing her waist. And she thinks she can sing--her voice is husky but on tune. Years of private lessons have taught her to breathe right and sing out. The song lingers in her like fog:


You're mean to me... Why must you be mean to me?

Gee, honey, it seems to me You love to see me cryin'...

I don't know why

I stay home each night when you say you'll phone...
You don't and I'm left alone. Singin' the blues and sighin'....


Julia remembers how the piano player smiled at her. Nodded his encouragement.

She pauses in front of One West Sixty-Seventh: the Café des Artistes. She can't really afford it, but what a night for a drink in the venerable haunt of Marcel Duchamp, Fiorello LaGuardia, Isadora Duncan. She enters the warmth and clink, marveling at the murals, and, amazingly, is seated at an empty window table near the bar.

Nineteen dollars and a half glass of tawny port later, Julia is relaxed, half-listening to half conversations around her--a film revival, someone's flagrante delicto , the playoffs--when her waiter walks to the table. He's handsome and disarming. An actor, she thinks. Look. He's watching himself approach. He smiles perfectly.

"The gentleman would like to offer you another glass of port."

He nods toward the bar at a man half in shadow who looks older, no not older, experienced? No, not that so much either, but supremely confident, secure. He's wearing a short wool cape over his suit. Oh God, how affected, but it has slid partway off one shoulder, which looks a bit silly and somehow makes him seem safe.

His hair is full black like hers. It's combed straight back and curls over the cape's collar. She sees he is pale and his features are thin though he has a sensual mouth. He looks at her then, across the room, and his eyes stop her cold. They're large and dark brown, knowing, perhaps sad, but she always reads too much into everything. He's hitting on her, of course, but she's a pretty confident soul herself, so she smiles at him and nods to the waiter that, yes, she'll take the drink.

More amazement. Capeman does not get up and try to join her, only gives her a faint smile, a brief lift of a glass of something dark before turning back to the bar.

Julia is miffed. She wasn't going to do anything, after all, maybe some harmless flirting. He seems eccentric and interesting, a dangerous combination in a man and she'd probably regret...

He's leaving!

He passes her table and smiles again, slightly, a beautiful small smile, says "You're as lovely as the night," which would be trite if he stayed, but he leaves. He doesn't look back.

****

The port warms her. It's a sophisticated taste, delicious. She's not much of a drinker and walks home a little tipsy to her studio on Eighty-Fourth Street, and her ordinary tabby cat, Miss Otis. They share tuna salad, Miss Otis delicately nosing aside the celery and onion.

The moon is large above the buildings. Not full, but big and silvery, an almost November moon.

Julia awakens. It's almost three in the morning, and her nightgown is bunched around the curve of her hips. She's touching herself and flushed. She remembers a hazily sexual dream. She's excited. She rubs, touches her breast and soon is arching up, crying out before she turns and sleeps again.

The next two days are busy. No callback on Misbehavin' yet, but a lead on auditions for A Christmas Carol. Work is hectic. Still, Julia finds herself wandering by the Café des Artistes both days, once at the lunch rush, the next day as evening falls, but no sign of him.

She remembers his eyes, how they were at once vain and sad.

And she keeps having the dreams. She thinks he plays some role in them--maybe he's the lover who makes her wake trembling. Her last "whatevership" ended abruptly about three months ago. She has convinced herself she enjoys this aesthetic solo flight.

Hell, she's probably just horny, and he was an interesting man who paid her a compliment. She's walking home down her street, lost in these thoughts, a few dark blocks from home, when she sees him looking into an antique shop window.

He turns and smiles at her. How did he know she was there? Did he see her coming, reflected in the glass? No, too dark--she can't see him in there. What was he even looking at?

His smile is engaging. She returns it.

"I never got a chance to thank you for the port. It was very kind of you."

Another smile. "We all want to be warm on a cold night, and the Colheita is excellent, I'm told. And you really did look beautiful framed in the window. I wanted you to stay a while longer. I was watching you."

Julia watches him. His words are provocative but he is reserved.

"I'm Julia McGuinn." She puts her hand out and he takes it. His is smooth but cold, his grip gentle but strong. He lets go of her small warm hand reluctantly. He seems hesitant, struggling with himself momentarily.

"My name is Theo. Theo Thantapoulis." He laughs. "A mouthful, I know."

"You're Greek?" (Oh how gauche of me. He'll think I'm a nosy dope.)

Theo waves his hand, speaks as if he heard her thought.. "Greek once, yes, but American now. American like you, Julia."

His eyes really are mesmerizing. They have a liquid quality. They're intent on her.

"Will you drink with me this time?" She will. He takes her elbow and steers her to a black Mercedes with a driver waiting. Oh my. And then they're back at the Café, seated in the bar together this time. She sips her drink and says "But you're not touching your port."

"The truth is I never drink wine. Or alcohol. But the glass is a prop for me; it makes me feel I fit in."

Julia fixes her own dark eyes on his and says "Why would you feel you need to fit anywhere? You seem so confident.."

"In many ways I am, in others perhaps not so." He holds up the glass. "My little crutch." And again they smile at each other. They like each other, it's not just friendly. She feels his attraction and her own, mixed with the vague dream memories.

"It's getting late Julia. I need to dine, and I can't do that with you. Yet. Let me drive you home. It's a cold night and a long walk."

(How do I know if I'll see him again?)

"You'll see me again Julia. Yes. Soon." He brushes her hair with his fingertips and the driver opens her door.

And he's gone again.

Two nights later she wakes again, full of sexual pangs. It's him in the dreams, she's sure. She heard him say her name in his soft voice. She stretches, looks at the window, which she doesn't remember opening. The curtains are blowing and she sees an odd-shaped shadow pass over the full moon. She shivers in her white cotton nightgown.

Can't sleep.

She decides to go out to the coffee shop on her corner. Another thing to love about New York. Everything is open. Anything is out there.

The street is mostly quiet but there's some traffic, and she walks past the coffee shop, continues south and west toward the park. Blocks later she stops in front of the Dakota. Lennon gunned down here, ghosts of celebrities, actors and writers and artists, dead and alive in the corridors and the apartments.

"Julia."

It's his voice.

"Lady Julia. Come here."

She walks through the entryway back past the gatekeeper's cottage and around to the back. The service door is open. She walks in, heels echoing, down stairs and through an unbolted wooden door.

Into a sumptuous windowless apartment. The floors are thick with silk carpeting and Persian rugs. There's a soft leather sofa and a club chair. A book open on it. Books everywhere. Records. Not cds. Neat rows of vinyl and Pachebel's Canon playing.

"Can't you sleep, Julia? Would you like a nightcap? Not port this time. A cognac?… Are you cold? You've walked a long way in your gown."

She looks down. Oh my God. She's in her nightgown. Her white cotton nightgown. She stutters, she's at a loss as to how his happened. It occurs to her that she could be dreaming.

"I'm often cold, Julia. The Sun is bad for my skin. It's cold to be always out of the Sun."

He walks to her and puts his hands on her shoulders. They are cold, much colder than her skin, but her shiver is from his lingering touch, not the chilly fingers. Her lips part, and he slides his hands over her breasts, cups them. Her nipples pucker, not from the cold. His touch is like the dreams.

"Why is this happening, Theo? Why am I here?

He's looking in her eyes and stroking her nipples. She wants to gasp.

"I didn't pick you, Julia. I didn't mean to. Sometimes I see someone who draws me." He looks away. "Maybe you remind me of someone I knew long ago." Theo shrugs. "You're a beautiful woman, and I saw you framed against the night. You draw me against my judgment. I want you, but you can leave if you like. I'll call the car, bundle you up."

"No."

One hand has moved to her waist, drops, touches her thigh. She realizes her own warm fingers are caressing his face, running lightly over his lips. His breath is the only warm thing about him. She feels the hard shape of his teeth.

"You may not want what I have to give. A gift. A curse. More curse than gift. Clarity and violence and remorse. Beauty but pain, Julia. Many kinds of pain.

She touches his cold hard chest through the black robe, but can't feel his heartbeat.

She takes his hand from her thigh and slides a cold finger between the hot folds, pushing the cotton in, holds his hand to her.

"Give me what you have. I dreamed about it."

He smiles broadly and she sees the tips of his canines, sharp, gleaming. He touches his mouth to hers and she barely feels the scrape where a drop of blood wells. He licks it and closes his eyes then slides his open mouth down her, his hands pushing the gown to a heap at her feet. He doesn't break the skin again, not yet, but continues to lick, tastes her and sighs at the hot humanity, the beating life. He lowers her to the carpet and licks, licks like a kitten, sucks tastes of her flesh into his mouth, pins her wrists back over her head, makes her scream.

A good scream. A pleasure scream, and somewhere in the midst of that scream, somewhere between the maul of his mouth and his cold thrusting inside her, his head darts to her breast and he bites hard in the underswell and sucks bliss like a baby and pushes himself in and out and sucks and groans, makes her scream, pain and pleasure shrieking together.

They pulse on each other. He lifts his head and smiles, bites his own lower lip, glues his mouth to her, gives her what he has to give. Her throat works.

****

November.

Every city wears its history around and within its inhabitants. The night sky is cloudy, heavy, obscuring the fingernail moon. Light rain falls.

Julia McGuinn sits alone at the bar in the Café des Artistes, half in shadow, holding a glass of something dark. She crosses her long tapered legs and smiles at her waiter.

Tomorrow she'll visit the piano player.



Shara Faskowitz is a tres-talented poet from New Jersey-- who also writes superb fiction. Her work has been featured at such quality zines as "Exquisite Corpse", "Zygote In My Coffee.com", "No-Troy" and "Thieves Jargon."

SCREWING OLIVIA
(c) 2008 by Ainsley Parker


I hang off the bed upside-down with my shirt half-buttoned and eyes half-closed. It's my best friend Olivia’s shirt, and it's Olivia’s new boyfriend Jim, watching me from the couch. I can feel the warm weight of this girl Pam’s leg thrown over my middle.

Olivia's missing today. She is spending the night with a boy she met online. He drove up from Maryland. She says he’s a genius, and that he’s been saving himself for her. She decides she can't sleep with him because he says please and thank you to her parents, even asking for a glass of milk with dinner. My boyfriend's missing too, gone with his parents upstate for the weekend.

Pam doesn’t have a boyfriend. She's 250lbs and has no breasts. She doesn’t wear makeup, and she talks about herself too much. She gets crushes on the popular boys at school and then tells them. She gets indignant when they make fun of her.

It’s their loss if all they see is size, she says.

But I wonder why she likes them with their tight cute asses and wide shoulders and soft pink mouths. Sometimes, I feel bad for Pam, but I don’t get crushes on the popular boys. I know my own limits. I know they want to fuck me, I know how they want to fuck me -- bent over the sink in the Boys' bathroom, or on my knees sucking their dicks in the boiler room. I know they don’t want to sit with me at lunch or take me to the prom. So when they say What’s up, or try to tell me I look hot, or ask me if I have a cigarette, I say, Fuck off.

I win before it begins.

***

Pam is eating and eating while we watch TV.

Eating the M&M’s that smell of the hash Jim hid in the bag before we took it out and smoked it in the back yard while sharing a bottle of Absolut. I feel as if I am on the ceiling, under water, I feel the vodka hot in my stomach. It's nice.

Jim stares at me from the couch, and he looks inhuman with his inverted chin--the eyes where his mouth should be. He's ugly. He's also my boyfriend’s best friend. They grew up together; my boyfriend tells me how much Jim wants to be with Olivia.

Olivia is indecisive about him. She is waiting for someone better.

He is looking at my breasts. They're big, a size bigger than Olivia’s 34-C's. He hasn't seen hers yet. My black bra is see-through, and my shirt unbuttons entirely as I inch further over the side of the bed.

Ainsley, you feeling it?

He has a huge smile on his thick-lipped mouth. His small eyes seem smaller as he squints from the pot. I take his hand and touch his short fingers to my lips. I lick them, biting lightly on the tips with my teeth.

He says, Oh fuck. And closes his upside-down eyes. I smile and slide a finger in my mouth. Pam doesn’t notice. She's paying attention to Independence Day, even though she has seen it before. She has moved on to the Doritos. Her body is wide in the bed; her leg is getting heavy, pressing into my hipbones. I slide out from underneath her and fall onto the floor.

Jim puts his fingers wet with my spit into his own mouth and fixes his dick in his pants with his other hand.

****

I saw Pam naked once. Her breasts looked like triangles with pale blue veins and slight pink nipples. Her belly rolled out past them. Her breasts belong on a tiny girl. My breasts would look better on her; the heavy roundness of them might make her look older, more like a woman than a fat boy. On me they make me look like a slut. I put my hands on my breasts and think about what it must be like to have no one to touch you. Jim is watching me; my nipples are hard underneath the mesh fabric.

I think I need to talk to you about Olivia, he says, and gives me his hand, helping me off the floor.

All right… Pam, we’ll be back, I say.

She looks at me funny and shoves a chip in her mouth. I feel bad leaving her alone in the basement on the pullout couch bed.

****

He's behind me as I take him to my room. He is shorter than I am. His hands are grabbing me around the waist, pushing down the front of my jeans, pulling on my panties. I think of Olivia and all the times she made me cry, all the times she made up lies about me, all the times she stole the guy I liked, and I turn and kiss him, shoving my tongue into his mouth.

I reach down and grab him and say,

I think Olivia really likes you.

Oh good, I wasn’t sure, he says, as I push him to the bed. He takes off his glasses. I realize I hate Olivia and love Olivia as I kneel over Jim. I tell him to get undressed.

He is naked; his dick is small and hard. It's the smallest one I've seen. It fits easily in my mouth. He grabs my hair and opens his mouth and makes a little noise. He moves his hips as I lick around the head of his dick and push the tip of my tongue into the slit.

Jim smells like sweat, but it doesn’t bother me. I lick his stomach, tonguing the trail of fine hair to his navel. I kiss his nipples, suck them and bite them until he says stop. He is a virgin. He has this look on his face like he can’t believe this is happening, but there's also this look that makes me hate him. I know he wants me, but I know he'll still want Olivia tomorrow. I know he still wants her now.

Bite me, I say and throw my head to the side. I hold my hair back and wait.

What? he says and sits up. His dick bounces against his stomach and a small drip of spit glistens on the head.

Fucking bite me! I grab the back of his head and bring it to my neck. I laugh as I feel his teeth on my skin.

Again, I say and I feel the skin break. I cry out and say Harder, do it harder.

His lips and teeth feel good against my neck, the hot burning of the blood, the bruise I can feel blooming up underneath. I feel myself getting wet, soaking through my underwear into my jeans. I feel a pain between my legs and I shove my hand into my pants and press my palm hard against myself.

I lie down and he tugs off my jeans. He slips his fingers under my thong and takes it off slowly, watching it pull away from where it was caught wet inside me.

He looks at me and licks his lips. He reaches around and unhooks my bra. Kneeling between my legs, he grabs my breasts and pushes them together. He sucks on them -- his tongue is wet and cold against my nipples. I feel his dick on my stomach, his balls resting on my cunt. My thighs are slick with my own wetness and I reach behind him and touch myself, making my hand wet. I grab his dick.

Oh shit, that’s good, he says as I move my hand up and down. The head is wide and feels rubbery. He flinches as I pass my thumb over the top, pressing down. I pull him closer to my mouth and start to blow him.

I can’t get off, he says.

What? I say and wipe my hair from my eyes. I'm getting angry.

I can’t get off, I don’t know why. I can only do it by myself.

That’s fucking weird, I say, and push him off me.

Can I touch you? he asks and takes his hand and pushes it between my thighs. I open them wide and he moves down, resting his head on my stomach to watch himself slide his fingers in. I can’t feel much, I tell him to do it harder.

I meet his finger with my hips as it goes into me. I am not sure what he is doing but I feel full, it feels like it hurts. I don’t care; I want him to do it until it hurts, until I feel broken.

I grab his shoulder as I come tight around his fingers. He moans loudly as he feels the pulse. I am silent.

I want to taste you, he says and lowers his head to me. He licks his hand first, then my thighs. He does it how I like it. He kisses me, moves over me with lips and tongue, pushing his tongue inside, touching his nose to my clit.

You taste so fucking good, he says and swallows. He makes me come again, and I scratch my thighs hard when I do. He looks at me strangely and touches his finger to the bright red lines; his dick is still hard.

He asks if it’s okay if he jerks off. I put Olivia’s shirt back on and sit next to him on the bed as he does it. He grabs himself roughly, and moves it fast. He makes small noises and twists up his face.

He comes quickly, his body shaking, curling up into a sitting position as the come spurts out, hitting his chest and then dribbling down the small shaft of his dick, nestling into his damp pubic hair. I lean over and lick the come off him. I have to know how he tastes.

It is bitter, smells of bleach, but I slide my tongue over him taking in the small spill on his chest, pushing my tongue into the hot crook of his thighs, feeling his hair on my lips. His balls seem tight and small under my mouth.

What are you guys doing? Pam asks from the open doorway.

I can tell by the way she won’t meet my eyes that she's been watching us. Watching my best friend’s ugly boyfriend and me. She turns on the light and looks at the bruises and smear of blood on my neck, the scratches on my thighs. Her face is flushed and she seems out of breath.

We were talking about Olivia, I say holding the shirt closed over my breasts. His dick is limp and tinier than I thought it could get as he fumbles for his glasses on my nightstand.

Oh all right then, she says and wanders away.

Pam does not tell anyone about this.

I'm the one, while playing basketball in gym class, who says to Olivia:

I have to tell you something. Don’t be mad. I got really wasted and fooled around with Jim. He’s weird, you know. Bit me, see? And his dick is really, really small. Like three inches.


By day’s end, everyone knows about Jim's dick, and Olivia and I are in love again.