I’ve said this before and I’ll say it again, Sinclair Sexsmith is one of the few people I know of who can both write succinct political and educational essays and with the same aplomb write raw hot erotica that makes you both think and pull your pants down at your screen or bookshelf.
The first few stories in Sinclair’s newest release, Sweet & Rough: Sixteen Stories of Queer Smut, were familiar.…
She said she had a crush on a boy.
She didn’t look at me as she explained that he had a girlfriend and “they weren’t like us.” He was just a boy and he didn’t know any better, but he was tall and charming and had a crooked smile and a she liked him.
"I see him all the time at work and sometimes we have drinks," she said as she pulled her underwear up her long legs.
Sometimes when we got dressed after sex it felt like an affair. It felt like we were in a hotel room and we had to gather all of our things and get out before checkout, with husbands and wives somewhere worried and waiting. It was one of those feelings that was both wonderful and horrible, because it reminded me of the wonderful and horrible fact that she was not mine. At least not all mine.
"He comes to my apartment sometimes," she admitted, gauging my reaction from the corner of her eye.
I raised an eyebrow.
"Nothing like that, we just watch movies and lay on the couch," she explained, slapping me on the arm for my look.
I could imagine them on the couch, innocently cuddling. He was her age, not my age. They were similar heights and similar builds and he was perhaps more her type than I was. Perhaps. Though she had scoffed at this and said in no uncertain terms that she “liked older men.”
She sat in her panties and a bra, slipping on her socks. As she bent over to pull them up, her ass was right in front of me, plump and perfect in pink boy cut glory. I wanted her again and wondered if my body was capable.
I wondered if I was capable of laying in bed with a woman completely innocently anymore. I felt very old and very jaded and for a moment very broken. I worked to keep up my masks.
"What goes on, on this couch, I wonder."
She shrugged. She didn’t seem playful anymore. She had a crush. She had a crush on a boy she couldn’t have.
I let myself be jealous. It felt good to feel heat in my veins. It was nothing, but still, I wanted to be her crush again. I wanted to be desired and forbidden. I wanted to be worth breaking rules for.
"We just lay there for hours, like cats. We watch stupid things on YouTube. Sometimes he brushes his fingers along the inside of my arm," she said, her eyes closing and her chipped nails slipping against the vulnerably soft skin inside her arm.
My teeth gritted.
"Nothing more?" I said, trying to keep my voice steady.
"I told you, he’s not like us."
In trying to write both elevated erotic fiction and fetish forward prose, I realize I’m basically writing a love story between a girl’s ass and a guy’s face.