The Blackboard

It was a thunder crack when he smacked her, then a still moment as the world went silent, then lightning behind her eyes. Everything vibrating and swimming. Blood rushing in her ears, her face heating and turning red, her vision blurring, and then finally his face coming back into focus.

He was right in front of her, filling her line of sight, his hand closing back around her neck.

Rope made her strong. Her muscles stayed tense, always fighting against her bonds, never resting, never giving up, even when she knew how good his knots were and how well he knew her wiggling ways. She would show him.

They sat on the blond parquet floor, both cross legged, her back against the cool eggshell wall. He sat in front of her, just as straight backed as she was, facing her, their knees touching.

Next to them was a thick metal radiator and above it the window, with a splash of blue sky visible from their vantage. A little late summer breeze tickled her sweaty naked skin.

She wore nothing, except for the little blackboard. It was about the size of a composition notebook, smooth wood framing a rectangle of dark gray slate. On the surface were two short stark white lines.

Her feet were tingling from the position she was in. Her arms were behind her back, wrists tied together. The little blackboard hung from a coarse piece of twine that she felt cut into the tender skin of her nape.

She was confused and wanton. Her head spinning, her body nothing but the begging need to get fucked, her brain nothing but the compulsion to get his questions and rules and instructions right.

"And so why did you think it was okay to come this morning before work?" he asked, one hand on her throat and the other holding a piece of chalk.

She blushed, on top of the blush that was already there. There were so many rules in place, rules she had requested, about when and where it was okay to come. She tried to remember the email he had sent about what to do the mornings before she saw him.

"I don’t, I-" she started to answer but he cut her off, taking his hand off her throat just long enough to smack her hard across the face again.

He marked the chalkboard with one more short white line.

She didn’t know what the lines represented. He’d just tied her down when she got to his apartment and started asking her questions and slapping her and it was all so much. So many feeling. She felt like she was going to burst, but she couldn’t because he wouldn’t let her. She could even wipe away the tears because her hands were tied.

The chalk marks could mean hits with the cane or orgasms or something horrible she couldn’t imagine. He might opened that closet of his and take out anything.

He took his hand off her neck and stood up in front of her. His knowing fingers on his thick black leather belt. His zipper meant his cock would be in her mouth soon. She swallowed quickly, trying to wet her dry lips.

There was a rush when she was going to suck his pretty cock. It was like nothing she had felt for a cock before. When he finally pulled it out, she smiled because it was hard. That meant, even if she didn’t know what she had done right, she was making him hard and that was a little victory.

He held her by the hair, cock millimeters from her lips. She whined and tried to connect. She pulled against the fist holding her hair and her scalp burned, but she just wanted it. She wanted it more then his rules at that moment. She pulled and cursed under her breath.

"Just-please-fuck-just let me-" she pleaded.

Then the lightning and thunder again. Two quick slaps. Vague recognition of two more marks on the chalk board.

"For language," he remarked coolly.

But more than the fear of what the marks meant was the sadness that his cock was gone, never touching her lips.

"Let’s start again," he said, sitting.

She didn’t even know what game they were playing anymore. The questions were all nonsense. Her whole body was on fire with need and shame. She rocked back and forth on the floor and let out a long wail of frustration.

Which lead to another slap and another mark on the board.

I Can’t Wait All Day

A fat ripe plum, with a white sticker on it, sat on the table like an eight ball.

The girl with the curly hair was standing still, looking down at her warped reflection in her shiny black shoes. Her hands were behind her back.

The man with the expensive watch sat at the other end of the table, watching her. One elbow was on the table, his hand on his chin, his fingers tracing the bottom of his lip contemplatively.

The expensive watch was there, on his somewhat hairy wrist. Thick heavy silver and a broad face with nimble hands moving with imperceptive accuracy. Just before the watch, further along his arm, the line of his dress shirt’s crisp cuff, which sparkled with a small silver cufflink, lead to the line of his suit. The shirt was white with fine blue pinstripes. The suit was a dark charcoal gray.

The girl with the curly hair looked up at the man with the expensive watch. Her eyelashes caught the light, a dark auburn. Her face was an explosion of freckles, nearly so many that they overtook the tan of her skin. Equally, her hair was an explosion of dark brownish red curls.

She wore a simple white cotton summer dress, which set off the dark tan of her skin. Her freckled legs were muscular. She wore long white socks that came perfectly to her knees. The white of the dress matched the white of her socks and the black of her patent leather Mary Jane’s matched the short string of black Tahitian pearls around her neck.

In the distant hallway, the grandfather clock ticked away.

Poly

I originally wanted to write a rebuttal of Guy New York’s post on polyamory. After re-reading it though, I don’t know how to use his piece as a jumping off point. He made a beautiful mess and there is a rawness that I can’t touch. I see his points and they all make sense, for him. There is also no reason to rebut what he wrote.

Despite the fact that people sometimes confuse us, Guy and I are pretty different people. We are in very different relationships. That being said I certainly consider him poly. He may not like the term, but it is useful to describe his lifestyle, and mine.

Through my teens and twenties it seemed like my heart and my head were constantly at war. Honesty, curiosity, hedonism, adventure, the things that I tried to base my life on, always seemed at odds with falling in love. And falling in love was the goal, obviously.

Falling in love has always been a cataclysmic, life changing event for me. It still is, to be certain, but I guess what being poly has let me figure out is that I’ve looked at love as a binary instead of an emotion or a connection. All in or all out.

Somehow, somewhere around when I turned 30, after a long and complicated and fucked up breakup, I decided that there was some other way to do it. It was hard. I didn’t do it right at first. I fucked up a bunch. Now? Now I feel like I’m living the way I have supposed to be living all of my life but didn’t know it.

I mean, I’m certainly in love right now. It is a love that has changed my life. It has changed me. But there are also crushes and flirtations and intellectual dalliances. There are certain people, for whom certain times mean certain furniture will be broken. There are silly flings and May-December romances. There is a circle of friends who are on and off lovers and it’s all complicated and lovely and despite the fancy new words, I’m sure none of it is new.

Maybe the new part is the communication. The hypercommunication. The biggest realization that poly has brought me is that honesty destroys guilt. Which is good, because I don’t do guilt.

So I try and be brave and ask for what I want. If I get it, that is awesome. If I don’t get it, I deal with it. You don’t have to be happy about it, but you do have to deal with it. Sometimes asking for what you want means people will not like you anymore. Be honest with those around you and respect their choices and expect respect for yours.

Anyhow, that’s all what poly means to me. It isn’t about how many people you are dating or how many people you love or fuck. If I were single I would certainly still be poly. To me it means that I am open to being attracted to multiple people at the same time and acting on those attractions in a honest and overt manner. It means that monogamy would be difficult for me. That’s about all.

And I like the word, even if it does have its own cache of cliche. Then again I’m probably more of a geek than Guy and I’ve even admitted to being a blogger in public without cringing. I don’t so much see things like polyamory as being labels as much as they are tags for easy searchability. Poly, kinky, skeptic, writer, so on. There are a few more that I am not sure I am and struggle with, like queer, artist, ally, but that’s a whole different post, which I’m sure will also be too long.

Preview: The Revenge of BatCatGirl

I’m super excited about this new short story I’ve been working on! It has the rather ridiculous title of “The Revenge of BatCatGirl.” The first draft is just about done, so it will be a little while until the final edited product is ready for public consumption, but I can’t help but post a tidbit.

It’s silly and pretty real and gets really fucking hot. So here is a bit of the first part. Let me know what you think.

Part 1: The Negotiation

Kay stood in front of the full length mirror and slowly slipped the Batgirl Underoos up her freshly shaven legs until they were half way up her thighs. She paused, looking at her reflection. She was naked except for the purple and gray fabric suspended between her open legs. Her fingers moved over her dark brown skin, pausing to touch at a tiny stretch mark on her hip.

What the fuck was she doing?

She pulled the comic book themed underpants the rest of the way up, watching the very naked looking triangle of her recently hairless pussy get replaced by a little yellow bat symbol on a swath of boy-cut whimsy.

The t-shirt went on next. It was purple and gray like the panties, with very short sleeves. It was far too tight over her bra-less chest and it didn’t quite cover her torso completely. A thin embarrassing line of belly shown between the shirt and the panties and she pulled at both to cover it. In the center of the shirt, right between her breasts, was another bat symbol, this one slightly stretched.

She felt like an idiot.

Was she really trying to be a little girl? She was thirty years old. She had five gray hairs and big tits and little wrinkles starting to form at the corners of her eyes. She wasn’t a little girl. She had thick hips and a big ass and a career. She was a full grown woman who was stuffing herself into silly little kid clothes and the most confusing part was that it was making her wetter than anything she could remember.

She picked up her phone for the hundredth time that morning and looked up his list again. How could a bullet list make her blush?

The worst part was that she had asked for all of it.

His

He takes her fingers out of her own mouth when she sucks on her fingers. He will not let her pull on her own hair or bite her own wrist or the dozen other things she does to cope or process the pain and the pleasure.

He puts her in leather mitts when she makes fists so tight she leaves four little crescent moons on each of her palms. He slaps her hard across the face when she drifts too far away into sub space.

She is starting to learn that when she is in his bed she is his. Her reactions are his. Her orgasms and her tears are his.

The thought makes her knees weak and her thighs clench.

She finds herself playing his games even when she is alone, chiding herself when she goes back to her old ways of doing things. She sits up straight. She doesn’t curse. She meets people’s eyes when she speaks to them. She cleans up her messes.

She keeps herself smooth and waxed even though she hasn’t seen him in weeks. She keeps herself up at night wondering if it would be okay to text him to ask permission to come.

She fucks herself too hard, pretending her thin fingers are his thick ones. She wishes she could make herself sore the way he does.

She feels guilty when she breaks his rules. She gets red in the face when she imagines confessing.

Every buzz of her phone brings delight or disappointment. She saves his emails like the best part of dessert; a thing to savor last.

She is his. She is his. She wants to write it in notebooks in math class and on bathroom walls and across the sky.

End

Tips accepted here.

The Orgy on 8th Ave

They come in one at a time.

They are well dressed, usually larger gentlemen, portly, all black. Their suits are colorful, Sunday best, just come from church. Vivid purples and blues, sherbet orange, pastel green. Matching hats, everything perfectly pressed.

They have the stance of addicts, milling about with clenched fists and occasional ticks.

They know each other, if not personally than as members of the same club. People with the same shame. They eye the door for wives or children or anyone else who could rat them out, or worse stop them.

I’m the only white boy in there, but that doesn’t get a second glance. I’m safe and their secret is safe with me.

The man in front is up and he stands at attention as he is called.

"You know what you want, baby?" she asks.

She is a wonderfully large woman. Both maternal and sexy. Buxom to overflowing, hair covered in a cloth, lips glossy, skin shining with the slightest patina of sweat. Her words are honeyed and slow and weighted.

And he knows what he wants. He knows with a specificity and hunger that makes other in the line reconsider what they want.

"The smothered pork chops, over rice. But," he stops her before she scoops form the mountain of snowy white rice, "put the turkey gravy over the rice and then some black eyed peas and a side of yams!"

There are nods from the others in the line. It’s a good order. It’s a solid choice.

The next gentleman’s order is equally detailed.

"One chicken breasts-in fact that one there," he points through the steam fogged glass. "No, next to it, the well done one. Right. And a large macaroni and cheese."

The word large is emphasized.

The shame in the room is complicated. Men getting away with something they promised their wives they wouldn’t do. Or promised themselves.

I’m in the second camp. I have a good enough list of justifications though. I had a long week at a new job. I walked a mile and a half this morning. I had a low fat yogurt for breakfast.

The woman behind the counter gives me a slow and sultry smile. A little growl in her voice before she asks, “what do you want, baby?”

"Two thighs," I start and she smiles wider and her eyebrows raise.

"Collared greens, no rice."

It’s an easy concession.

She nodes and fixes my Styrofoam plate. She looked up at me through thick lashes and adds a drumstick and a wink.

As I leave I see many of the men wolfing down their food wearing napkin bibs. More are in the alley nearby, hurriedly eating before rejoining their family.

The ones who have finished have smiles on their faces and loud laughs. Children who got away with cutting school or stealing a piece of candy.

I go home with my grease stained parcel. To wash it down with iced coffee and silly television shows I pirated.

It’s a lovely Sunday.

The Worst Thing That Has Ever Happened to My Penis

The Worst Thing That Has Ever Happened to My Penis

After thirty-some-odd years on this planet I’ve seen a lot of bad things happen to people. I’ve seen the after affects of someone’s body consumed by fire. I’ve seen people die of various deceases. I’ve witnessed at least two people get hit by cars, I’ve seen a stabbing, I’ve seen a lot of fist fights. That’s not even getting into the consensual shit I’ve seen, which would include things like…

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She is known as “the Catalyst.”

In the moments before 2am, when the party is made up of nothing but whiskey fumes and nervous energy, she wiggles out of her little black dress, tight as a snake’s skin, and with a bright smile and bubbly laughter invites the party to follow suit.

You can see the invitation ripple through the crowd. Ties loosen, blouses open, breasts spill out of the dangerously precarious grasp of bras they had been fighting all night. Then the hysterical image of boxers and blazers. Half dressed playboys are pulled onto couches to make out with strangers and old friends. Greedy hands closing around bodies red from corseted bondage.

The shy debate, making eyes with those they hoped might convince them. Those on the fence throw their knickers to the four winds with resolve. The ones who have been waiting all nights for a sign, strip naked and hurl themselves into the fray with abandon.

The Catalyst does not gloat over her effect. She is in the thick of it, bent over a table, possessed by the woman behind her who is pulling her hair and her strings beautifully.

And the party has only just begun.

Miller

Today I decided to forgive Henry Miller.

I can hold a bit of a grudge.

You see there was this time, once, when I almost married a Henry Miller scholar (I hear she switched to Buk, which speaks volumes to both her loyalty and taste.)

I’ve told the rather spectacular story of the end of that relationship to friends, which often prompted stunned silence, but admittedly I probably had a lot more fault that I let on, consciously or unconsciously. Plus, it makes a better story the way I tell it. The novel about it will come. I already have the acknowledgment.

That was about ten years ago. Every year I feel like a little more of me heals. Some years I feel like I am fully healed and it is all behind me, but if I dwell the little scar can twitch and ache. More for lost time than lost love, perhaps. But that might be my ego talking.

But I feel like it’s time to take Henry off my shit list. I wonder if it has been hard for her to read Anaïs. God, I hope so.

So I crack open Tropic, because where else does one start. Where the words came off ugly and petulant, they now seem inspired again. Well, still ugly, but inspired none the less. Being filled to the brim with words and dead broke, I also once again see the appeal of his days in Montmartre.

I look to the future and out my window to New York, the city she couldn’t cut it in.

His Hall

She missed his wall; his hall. That place he always threw her against when she came into his apartment.

She missed feeling small and afraid. She’d grown up too much, become too jaded, too brave to feel so little.

She missed the anxiety and hunger she felt walking down his block. She missed his pretty cock. She missed the fear that was particular to being in his elevator.

The fear wasn’t about what he’d do to her, she knew he would hurt her and fuck her and use her like a doll. The fear was that she wouldn’t be good enough, tough enough, pretty enough.

All those fears went away when she was against his wall.

She didn’t cover her scars or chubby parts because he would only slap her hands away. She didn’t have time to be embarrassed about her razor burn or that her roots were showing, because she was too busy blushing about the dirty names he called her. She would fall into the whirlpool of humiliation and pleasure and dizzy confusion.

She didn’t have time to apologize because his cock was in her mouth.

She longed for all of it all.

And more than that she knew some other girl was in that hall, against that wall. His thick cock was inside of someone new and his hand was around someone else’s throat.

Perhaps it was strange that the longing could make her come so easily. Remembering that wall in that hall was almost as potent as thinking of another girls face, mascara running down her cheek, pressed against the wall as he fucked her. The humiliation and the jealousy and the heartbreak were poisons and aphrodisiacs.

The sadness kept her wet all day.