1000 Gears » M/F

Elves, by Ten-Chan

Adrian Mailenna — Wed, 27 Jan 2010 10:08:14 +0000

Back near the beginning of the month, I asked Ten-Chan to illustrate her pick of the four Elves versions, leaving most of the specifics open to her best artistic judgment. Yesterday morning (I suppose I should say “Monday morning”, by now), I opened my laptop to find her finished art waiting for me, and I think I can safely say that it’s been well worth the wait. Click through the thumbnail to see for yourself.

At the moment, I plan to commission a different artist for each version of Elves, but I’m not sure. Either way I’m sure I’ll have Ten-chan return in the future. What do you think?

A Last Fiery Gasp of Summer

Adrian Mailenna — Sun, 20 Sep 2009 10:06:04 +0000

It is the last fiery gasp of summer 2009, and it is too hot to move. I am a child of the desert, of the dry Bakersfield heat, and ninety-five degrees is almost comfortable, but humidity makes me sweat; it makes me sticky; it makes me miserable. I throw my shirt across the room and sprawl in bed, over the covers. The fan beside my bed sweeps its meager breeze up my chest, across my face, and I close my eyes.

It is the last fiery gasp of summer 2003, and it is too hot to move. I am a child of the desert, of the dry Bakersfield heat, and ninety-five degrees is almost comfortable, but humidity makes me sweat; it makes me sticky; it makes me miserable. I throw my shirt across the room. It almost hits Jen, but she catches it, laughs, and throws it back. I let it knock me over and lie in bed, over the covers. The fan on her nightstand sweeps its meager breeze up my chest, across my face, and I close my eyes.

Seventeen days ago, she asked me if I was going to ask her out, or if I was only planning on thinking about it. In seventeen hours she will pass through security at San Francisco International, on her way to graduate school, and our time together will come to an end.

Jen is, I joke, the prettiest boy that I have ever met. She likes that. Barefoot she stands six feet tall, fine and strong, and she wears her hair buzzed shorter than mine. Once she picked me up over her shoulder, and she said that it was easy. She doesn’t need a bra.

I am, she says, a boy who will clean up nicely, once he decides what he wishes to become. I take no offense. I am experimenting with identity, with style and culture and ideas, trying to find a skin that feels like my own. For now I make her laugh, and that is good enough.

She flips through books, picking out a few to pack into one last box. I roll over onto my side and run my fingers up a seam in her quilt. It’s stitched together out of her old black jeans, worn soft and grey, and I tuck my hand into a Levi’s back pocket, imagining for a moment the way it used to curve. Ray Davies sings about his sister staying out late at the Palais, but Jen cuts him off mid-track, yanking the plug out of the wall so she can pack the CD player away as well.

Jen folds the box closed and reaches for the tape gun. I close my eyes tighter, bracing myself, not wanting to hear her finish packing… and she doesn’t. The gun clatters to the table, unused. She pulls something from the box and walks over. “Time to be a bad influence,” she says, dropping something into the pillow, a few inches from my head. It clinks like hard-chromed steel. Before I can react, before I can even open my eyes, she catches my wrist, holding me still as she sits behind me.

I open my eyes and find myself staring into a mess of leather straps. Even in the heat, I shiver. Maybe it’s the promise; maybe it’s the way I feel her stretching out behind me, running her fingernails down the naked groove of my spine.

“Say the word and you can spend the night,” Jen whispers, inches from my ear. It’s as much a challenge as an invitation. “But I’m leaving tomorrow and nothing’s going to change either way. You’re still going to have to say goodbye.”

I mewl despite myself, squirming in her arms as she pulls me close. She doesn’t need the straps, really. I can barely struggle as is; I can’t break loose, not against the hardness of her muscles or their millimeter sheath of soft, girly skin, not against the weight of her body rolling me into the bed or the lightness of her voice as she teases me about it. I still try, of course; she’d be disappointed if I didn’t.

“I’ll even take you to GoodVibes if you want. They’re open a while longer. I can make you pick something out. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” She laughs, squeezing me tighter before I can protest. She savors the next sentence, her favorite little taunt, drawn out one syllable at a time. “It’d be hot, and you know it, uke.”

It would be, and I do.

The warmth of her body saps the rest of my strength, and I surrender to the heat, snuggling into her arms. I take her hand and lace her fingers up with mine; she squeezes back, bringing them up so I can kiss her knuckles. She knows she hasn’t asked a simple thing; I can’t even kiss a girl unless I mean it. Spending the night with Jen? I think I would mean it. I want to mean it.

But that means, tomorrow, a sadder goodbye. Already I know that I will miss her. Spending the night means, tomorrow, standing in the airport, trying not to cry; it means trusting myself not to choke as I hug her one last time.

I shake my head clear, taking off my glasses, turning in Jen’s arms to nuzzle at her jaw. She smells like plain Dove soap, and I press my cheek to her warm, soft skin. Suddenly I don’t mind the heat. A hint of fresh, clean sweat beads on her neck, and I taste her, lapping it away. That doesn’t help. I already know my answer, and I think that she does, too.

Jen holds me tight, sinking her teeth into my shoulder, and I cry out, once.

It is the last fiery gasp of summer 2009, and I shake my head clear, staggering to my feet. I stumble to the fridge and grab the first beer I see, pressing my cheek to the cool, hard glass, a tiny escape from the heat. A hint of fresh, clear water forms on the bottle, and I suck a little bit away. That doesn’t help. I turn the bottle in my hand. It’s Newcastle Brown, like Jen drinks, and it hurts to remember.

I put the bottle back and close the door.

Elves

Adrian Mailenna — Mon, 29 Dec 2008 09:05:56 +0000

Love is blind and knows no gender. There are four versions of this story.

Carefully he folds his clothes, murmuring a prayer to the darkness as it chills his milky skin. The water beckons, insistent, impatient, lapping at his toes. How many times, he wonders, how many times has he heard its call? It doesn’t matter. Once was once too many, but now a thousand times could never be enough.

A breeze whipers across the points of his ears, singing praises of sins he already knows too well. The stars glitter on the cool, dark water, watching him try to ignore the hot, empty tension he feels growing inside. He swallows hard. His House would kill him if they knew. They would strike every honor from his name and scourge his life from history. None of them would keep his memory.

. . .

Some things are worth the risk.

Dressed only in the moonlight, he slips into the lake, wading deeper, until it licks up around his thighs. He flushes hot at his memories and the thrill of distant, latent shame. Silently he begins to swim, as he’s done so many times, and his doubts wash away in the inky-black ecstasy of water over skin. His House is wrong, he decides, as he has decided so many times before; nothing so good could ever be wrong.

Across the lake the shadows stir, and with them a fire in his heart. He swims faster at their silent promise: knowing turns to wanting, and wanting turns to need.

A spirit meets him in the water, blacker than the night. Every time it’s hard to believe his eyes, and to drown beneath his second look the echo of deep, ancestral fear. They float together, silent, circling, watching, breathing. She looks almost too much like his twin, like a sister reflected across the light.

A thousand thoughts race through his mind, a thousand questions, a thousand dreams, but he has no words. He never does. He fears he never will.

Perhaps it doesn’t matter; perhaps the kiss is all he needs to know.

They touch. A moment’s hesitation melts into embrace, into the warm and nervous softness of skin on skin. He nuzzles against his lover’s cheek, nibbling on the line of silver rings that glitter up her ear. Her scent is sweet and dark, intoxicating, like lavender and myrrh.

His lover’s arm slips around his waist, insistently demure, a moonless autumn night made fine, strong flesh. With every visit he needs that touch a little more. Their lips brush, just the barest touch, a quiet sharing of breath and the lingering invitation to more. He knows that, one night soon, he will give himself over to those charms. One night soon he will swim with his lover back to her distant, alien shore; one night soon, they will lie together on that black, forbidden sand; one night soon she will break his silence with the sounds of passion too long denied.

When that night comes, he knows, he will surrender forever to the pure and elemental blackness that has haunted all his dreams. It will be a worship far, far overdue.

By touch he shares his loneliness, letting his hands wander, the way they do in the nights he spends alone. Closing his eyes, he follows the long curves of his lover’s sides, smooth, unbroken strokes from ribs to hips; he feels her warm and slender softness, and the muscles firm beneath. Telling the same, solitary tale, his lover’s fingers caress his thighs, and he whimpers.

When he can bear to look again, his reflection watches back, mirrored darkly in eyes the color of pomegranate wine. This time he almost finds his words, his simple declaration of his unrepentant need, but they catch in his throat and the still night air.

His courage falters, his mouth half-open, and he pulls himself closer, trying desperately to lose himself in a deeper, harder kiss, in the black-chocolate luxury of his lover’s lips and teeth and tongue. The words are precious, but they slip away, and he looks to the side, trying to fight back his welling tears.

Suddenly it doesn’t matter; his slim, dark lover clutches back, just as hard, making silent, tender promises of kisses yet to come.

Tonight, that’s all he needs to know.

Carefully she sheds her armor, murmuring a prayer to the moonlight as it warms her inky skin. The water beckons, insistent, impatient, lapping at her toes. How many times, she wonders, how many times has she heard its call? It doesn’t matter. Once was once too many, but now a thousand times could never be enough.

A breeze whispers across the points of her ears, praising the betrayal she already knows too well. The darkness swirls beneath the cool, bright water, watching her try to ignore the hot, empty tension she feels growing inside. She swallows hard. Her House would kill her if they knew. They would strike every honor from her name and peel the flesh from her bones. Forever they would curse her memory.

. . .

Some things are worth the risk.

Dressed only in the darkness, she slips into the lake, wading deeper, until it licks up around her thighs. She flushes hot at her memories and the thrill of distant, latent shame. Silently she begins to swim, as she’s done so many times, and her doubts wash away in the starry-white ecstasy of water over skin. Her House is wrong, she decides, as she has decided so many times before; nothing so good could ever be wrong.

Across the lake the moonlight stirs, and with it a fire in her heart. She swims faster at its silent promise: knowing turns to wanting, and wanting turns to need.

A spirit meets her in the water, paler than the light. Every time it’s hard to believe her eyes, and to drown beneath her second look the echo of deep, ancestral rage. They float together, silent, circling, watching, breathing. He looks almost too much like her twin, like a brother reflected across the night.

A single thought races through her mind, a single question, a single dream, but she has no words. She never does. She fears she never will.

Perhaps it doesn’t matter; perhaps the kiss is all she needs to know.

They touch. A moment’s hesitation melts into embrace, into the warm and nervous softness of skin on skin. She nuzzles against her provocateur’s cheek, nibbling on the line of onyx studs that glitter up his ear. His scent is crisp and warm, intoxicating, like oranges and pine.

Her provocateur’s arm slips around her waist, insistently demure, a moonlit summer night made fine, strong flesh. With every visit she needs that touch a little more. Their lips brush, just the barest touch, a quiet sharing of breath and the lingering invitation to more. She knows that, one night soon, she will give herself over to those charms. One night soon she will swim with her provocateur back to her distant, alien shore; one night soon, he will lie submissive on that white, forbidden sand; one night soon she will break his silence with the sounds of his spirit binding to her will.

When that night comes, she knows, she will surrender forever to the pure and elemental moonlight that has haunted all her dreams. It will be an addiction too long in the making.

By touch she offers her desire, letting her hands wander, the way they do in the nights she spends alone. Closing her eyes, she follows the long curves of her provocateur’s sides, smooth, unbroken strokes from ribs to hips; she feels his warm and slender softness, and the muscles firm beneath. Telling the same, solitary tale, her provocateur’s fingers caress her thighs, and she whimpers.

When she can bear to look again, her reflection watches back, mirrored brightly in eyes the color of dandelion wine. This time she almost finds her words, her simple declaration of her unrepentant need, but they catch in her throat and the still night air.

Her courage falters, her mouth half-open, and she pulls herself closer, trying desperately to lose herself in a deeper, harder kiss, in the pink-candy luxury of those enchanting lips and teeth and tongue. The words could end her torment, but they slip away, and she looks to the side, trying to fight back her welling tears.

Suddenly it doesn’t matter; her slim, pale lover clutches back, just as hard, making silent, tender promises of kisses yet to come.

Tonight, that’s all she needs to know.

Elves

Adrian Mailenna — Sat, 27 Dec 2008 19:32:26 +0000

Love is blind and knows no gender. There are four versions of this story.

Carefully she folds her clothes, murmuring a prayer to the darkness as it chills her milky skin. The water beckons, insistent, impatient, lapping at her toes. How many times, she wonders, how many times has she heard its call? It doesn’t matter. Once was once too many, but now a thousand times could never be enough.

A breeze whipers across the points of her ears, singing praises of sins she already knows too well. The stars glitter on the cool, dark water, watching her try to ignore the hot, empty tension she feels growing inside. She swallows hard. Her House would kill her if they knew. They would strike every honor from her name and scourge her life from history. None of them would keep her memory.

. . .

Some things are worth the risk.

Dressed only in the moonlight, she slips into the lake, wading deeper, until it licks up around her thighs. She flushes hot at her memories and the thrill of distant, latent shame. Silently she begins to swim, as she’s done so many times, and her doubts wash away in the inky-black ecstasy of water over skin. Her House is wrong, she decides, as she has decided so many times before; nothing so good could ever be wrong.

Across the lake the shadows stir, and with them a fire in her heart. She swims faster at their silent promise: knowing turns to wanting, and wanting turns to need.

A spirit meets her in the water, blacker than the night. Every time it’s hard to believe her eyes, and to drown beneath her second look the echo of deep, ancestral fear. They float together, silent, circling, watching, breathing. He looks almost too much like her twin, like a brother reflected across the light.

A thousand thoughts race through her mind, a thousand questions, a thousand dreams, but she has no words. She never does. She fears she never will.

Perhaps it doesn’t matter; perhaps the kiss is all she needs to know.

They touch. A moment’s hesitation melts into embrace, into the warm and nervous softness of skin on skin. She nuzzles against her lover’s cheek, nibbling on the line of silver rings that glitter up his ear. His scent is sweet and dark, intoxicating, like lavender and myrrh.

Her lover’s arm slips around her waist, insistently demure, a moonless autumn night made fine, strong flesh. With every visit she needs that touch a little more. Their lips brush, just the barest touch, a quiet sharing of breath and the lingering invitation to more. She knows that, one night soon, she will give herself over to those charms. One night soon she will swim with her lover back to his distant, alien shore; one night soon, they will lie together on that black, forbidden sand; one night soon he will break her silence with the sounds of passion too long denied.

When that night comes, she knows, she will surrender forever to the pure and elemental blackness that has haunted all her dreams. It will be a worship far, far overdue.

By touch she shares her loneliness, letting her hands wander, the way they do in the nights she spends alone. Closing her eyes, she follows the long curves of her lover’s sides, smooth, unbroken strokes from ribs to hips; she feels his warm and slender softness, and the muscles firm beneath. Telling the same, solitary tale, her lover’s fingers caress her thighs, and she whimpers.

When she can bear to look again, her reflection watches back, mirrored darkly in eyes the color of pomegranate wine. This time she almost finds her words, her simple declaration of her unrepentant need, but they catch in her throat and the still night air.

Her courage falters, her mouth half-open, and she pulls herself closer, trying desperately to lose herself in a deeper, harder kiss, in the black-chocolate luxury of her lover’s lips and teeth and tongue. The words are precious, but they slip away, and she looks to the side, trying to fight back her welling tears.

Suddenly it doesn’t matter; her slim, dark lover clutches back, just as hard, making silent, tender promises of kisses yet to come.

Tonight, that’s all she needs to know.

Carefully he sheds his armor, murmuring a prayer to the moonlight as it warms his inky skin. The water beckons, insistent, impatient, lapping at his toes. How many times, he wonders, how many times has he heard its call? It doesn’t matter. Once was once too many, but now a thousand times could never be enough.

A breeze whipers across the points of his ears, praising the betrayal he already knows too well. The darkness swirls beneath the cool, bright water, watching him try to ignore the hot, insistent tension he feels growing inside. He swallows hard. His House would kill him if they knew. They would strike every honor from his name and peel his flesh from his bones. Forever they would curse his memory.

. . .

Some things are worth the risk.

Dressed only in the darkness, he slips into the lake, wading deeper, until it licks up around his thighs. He flushes hot at his memories and the thrill of distant, latent shame. Silently he begins to swim, as he’s done so many times, and his doubts wash away in the starry-white ecstasy of water over skin. His House is wrong, he decides, as he has decided so many times before; nothing so good could ever be wrong.

Across the lake the moonlight stirs, and with it a fire in his heart. He swims faster at its silent promise: knowing turns to wanting, and wanting turns to need.

A spirit meets him in the water, paler than the light. Every time it’s hard to believe his eyes, and to drown beneath his second look the echo of deep, ancestral rage. They float together, silent, circling, watching, breathing. She looks almost too much like his twin, like a sister reflected across the night.

A single thought races through his mind, a single question, a single dream, but he has no words. He never does. He fears he never will.

Perhaps it doesn’t matter; perhaps the kiss is all he needs to know.

They touch. A moment’s hesitation melts into embrace, into the warm and nervous softness of skin on skin. He nuzzles against his lover’s cheek, nibbling on the line of onyx studs that glitter up her ear. Her scent is crisp and warm, intoxicating, like oranges and pine.

His temptress’s arm slips around his waist, insistently demure, a moonlit summer night made fine, strong flesh. With every visit he needs that touch a little more. Their lips brush, just the barest touch, a quiet sharing of breath and the lingering invitation to more. He knows that, one night soon, he will give himself over to that seduction. One night soon he will swim with his temptress back to her distant, alien shore; one night soon, they will lie together on that white, forbidden sand; one night soon she will break his silence with the sounds of his spirit binding to her will.

When that night comes, he knows, he will surrender forever to the pure and elemental moonlight that has haunted all his dreams. It will be an addiction too long in the making.

By touch he offers his desire, letting his hands wander, the way they do in the nights he spends alone. Closing his eyes, he follows the long curves of his temptress’s sides, smooth, unbroken strokes from ribs to hips; he feels her warm and slender softness, and the muscles firm beneath. Telling the same, solitary tale, his lover’s fingers caress his thighs, and he whimpers.

When he can bear to look again, his reflection watches back, mirrored brightly in eyes the color of dandelion wine. This time he almost finds his words, his simple declaration of his unrepentant need, but they catch in his throat and the still night air.

His courage falters, his mouth half-open, and he pulls himself closer, trying desperately to lose himself in a deeper, harder kiss, in the pink-candy luxury of those enchanting lips and teeth and tongue. The words are precious, but they slip away, and he looks to the side, trying to fight back his welling tears.

Suddenly it doesn’t matter; his slim, pale lover clutches back, just as hard, making silent, tender promises of kisses yet to come.

Tonight, that’s all he needs to know.

Real People, Real Life, Real Sex, Real Rights

Adrian Mailenna — Tue, 28 Oct 2008 23:12:39 +0000

Here in California we have an proposition on the ballot that would constitutionally revoke the right of homosexual marriage. I’ve given up arguing with the scaremongering that’s going on to promote it. Other writers have dissected it, but I’ve found that people who believe it usually are not playing with the same deck of cards that I am. The legal construct of marriage and its “protection” don’t matter, except on the surface; the Proposition 8 crowd is selling fear and morality, and it’s hard for people – on any side of any political fence – to change their perceptions of morality, especially when they’re afraid. People want to believe in an Enemy.

In this case, it seems important to remind them that there is no Enemy. Nobody wishes them harm. There are only real people, real lives, real concerns, and real relationships, seeking legal recognition. That’s all.

On a tangentially related note (you’ll see how in a moment), I’ve been meaning to check out Comstock Films for a while now. When they created the “Real People, Real Life, Real Sex” series, they named their company after the historical Anthony Comstock, which has to be one of the smarter up-yours gestures I’ve seen out of the industry. From their trailers and the reviews, it looks like they go out of their way to show off the emotional chemistry and relationships behind the couples in their films. Naturally I approve of this.

Today, though, I especially approve of them, because they’re running a pre-election home-stretch special:

It’s going to be from Tuesday, Oct. 28, 12AM Eastern to Oct. 29 3AM Eastern. For 27 hours, 100% of the purchase price on our erotic documentary DVDs (excluding S&H) is going to the No On Proposition 8 Campaign to preserve marriage equality in California.

So get your blog on. Get your Twitter and your Facebook and your MySpace on. Text a friend, e-mail a loved one. Tell them that if they buy any Comstock Films DVD on October 28, 100% of the purchase price will go helping stop Ballot Measure 8 in California.

That’s not “100% of the profits“; that’s 100% of the sales. It’s a totally selfless gesture. If you’re interested in checking out the Comstock films, or just want to pitch a few dollars into the campaign against Proposition 8, now’s your chance to do both.

You Should Post Some More

Adrian Mailenna — Wed, 20 Aug 2008 17:10:33 +0000

“You should post some more,” she tells me, running her fingers through my hair. “People’ll start thinking you’re dead.” Y’should post s’more. People’ll staht thinkin’ ya dead. She lilts the words, just a little, her light Georgia accent not nearly strong enough to drawl.

I’m sleeping. I know it. She is the girl in my dreams, for a long time the only one and even now the only one who stayed. Not a muse, she is my friend and I suppose my sometime lover, a private blessing born somewhere deep in my subconscious mind. It’s been eight years since I last heard her voice aloud. Really it belongs to Evette, to the girl I loved in high-school, to the girl who taught me to love myself, but my girl-dream kept it for me and made it her own.

I turn my head a little in her lap, kissing at the palm of her hand before I open my eyes again. The summer has tanned her since I saw her last, but only just a shade, and the light brings out the dark, ruby fire in her auburn hair. “Tybalt doesn’t want to play today,” I murmur.

“I think you’re just happy right here,” she laughs, slipping her hands away, and her warm, black jeans press against my cheek. I don’t deny it, don’t even try, just make happy meowling noises up at her. Writing something means waking up, at least, leaving her behind again. She comes and goes as it pleases her; it might be months before I see her again. Part of me always worries that, one day, she might not come back.

She knows what I’m thinking, though, and she lifts my head, bending over me to press a kiss against my lips. “How long’ve you known me?”

“Seven years.”

“And I’m always here for you.”

“Not always.”

She looks hurt by the thought, and I regret it right away. “When you need me, I’m here.”

Sitting up, I turn and hold her back. ” . . . yes.” My fingers trace the soft channel of her spine, over and over, in silent apology, until she melts and forgives me, squeezing me tight.

“Kiss me, stupid. It’s been a long time.” she whispers, giggling, and I do, first her cheek, then her lips, then lower, letting her guide me down the long, fine tendons in her neck, to the ridge of her collar and the smeared, ink-black memories of something I wrote on her before. “Write something, okay?” She eases away, two fingers pressed at the edges of my teeth. “For me. I’ll wait right here.”

I nip at her fingertips and make her glare. “Promise?”

The crack of her smile tells me all I need to know.

Two Steps Forward, One Step Back

Adrian Mailenna — Sat, 07 Jun 2008 07:44:15 +0000

Ann Barnett, the County Clerk down in Bakersfield, has decided that, rather than perform civil wedding ceremonies for homosexual couples, she will end civil wedding ceremonies in the county entirely. The Californian is a fine paper, and I admire the way it investigates her claims without editorial.

The whole situation reminds me more than a little bit of the Massive Resistance policy that Virginia implemented for Brown v. Board of Education, and of Prince Edward County’s extreme steps in particular.

I don’t think I need to say much more than that.

Shut Up

Adrian Mailenna — Tue, 03 Jun 2008 20:20:45 +0000

“God. I’m wet just thinking about it. What have you done to me?”

“Nothing you haven’t enjoyed, I hope.”

“Mmmh. But good girls aren’t supposed to like that. Good girls aren’t supposed to want that.”

“Well, good boys don’t do that to their girlfriends, so I guess we’re even.”

“You admit it’s your fault!”

“The woman whom you gave to be with me, she gave me fruit of the tree, and I ate.”

“I must have the only boyfriend in the world who uses Scripture as pillow-talk.”

“Hey, you’re the one who put Aqua on the stereo last night. Do you have any idea how hard it is to maintain an erection when Barbie Girl comes on shuffle three times in fifteen minutes?”

“Fine, we’re even. Hmmph.”

“You’re worth it.”

“Aww, that’s sweet.”

“You’d be worth it even if you put it on loop.”

“Really? Let me get up for a second…”

“You’re not going anywhere.”

“That’s okay. I have the remote here… eeek! Grrr. No fair!”

“You like it and you know it.”

“. . . Shut up.”

“You and your cute little butt are staying right here in bed with me.”

“Are you going to fuck me and my cute little butt tonight, or are you just going to talk about it? I made sure to slick it up before I got into bed, so you’d better make sure it gets some attention.”

“You’ve got a dirty mouth sometimes, you know that? What happened to the sweet, bashful girl I started dating?”

“You did. You know it and you like it.”

“. . . Shut up.”

“I’ll shut up when you make with the fucking! Really, what kind of boy are you? Your girlfriend is naked and ready to go; she wants it up the ass and you are still talking to her? I know you’re hard already. It’s really easy to tell. What’s wrong with you? Make with the funnh!! Oh yes that’s good. Do it again!”

“I thought you said you were going to shut up.”

“That is not my butt, though. I shouldn’t have to tell you that. You said my butt was staying in bed with you, so it wants attention.”

“I’ll get there. You said you were wet, and it’s a shame to let that slippery goodness go to waste. You’re your own best lubricant.”

“Shut up. You’re just in me, not fucking. That doesn’t count. Cuddling, yes, but fucking has motion. Fucking means you making mohh. Ummuh. Uhhm. Mmmhm.”

“You want more?”

“Lots more.”

“Shut up.”

“Unh. Yessir.”

“That’s a good girl. I don’t care what anyone says. Mmmph. You’re very good to me, no matter what dirty things you say or how you like it.”

“Love?”

“Yes?”

“Shut up and do it.”

I Think They Happen By Accident

Adrian Mailenna — Sat, 12 Apr 2008 00:23:18 +0000

Happiness is having a cute boy who kisses and cuddles just as well as he fucks you up the ass. It can’t be just any cute boy. Most of the time a cute girl will be better for you; girls are soft and smooth and civilized, but the right boy is, too, and the right boy is perfect. You want one of those shy, subculture boys, just a little awkward, the kind full of songs that nobody’s heard and foods that nobody’s eaten, dreams that nobody believes and books that nobody reads. Mine is named Rio. It even feels right, Ree-yo, stroking your tongue stroking back along the roof of your mouth, then flicking forward, making your lips purse just a little, like the memory of a kiss. You want a boy like Rio, with an honest, easy smile and sleep-mussed hair, bright, clear eyes and a cute girl’s butt in snug-fit pants, a boy who loves to writhe beneath you as much as he likes to hold you down. There’s nobody better in the world.

I think they happen by accident.

Mine was almost invisible when I met him. Rio likes to sit at the café, curled up like a little china cat in one of those big, plush chairs. He gets to watch that way, undisturbed, taking the moments between sips of chocolate to scribble his thoughts to paper. We didn’t even speak that evening. I just felt him watching me, I think. That’s all, really; I turned for a moment, all it took to catch him watching me over the edge of his notebook. It lasted for a second, maybe a very little more, just long enough to look past his long, dark bangs. He had the bluest eyes, warm, Caribbean blue, and I couldn’t help but stare. In a storybook world it would have been love at first sight, but it wasn’t, not even lust, just curiosity, just wonder at eyes so clear and pure.

He just smiled at me, brushing the hair away from those beautiful eyes. He cocked an eyebrow, amused, and ducked back behind his notebook’s marbled-black covers.

I caught him looking, one more time, his head canted just slightly to one side, but he blushed and hunched down into his book again, looking even smaller than before. When I looked back, later, he was gone.

It Begins With a Kiss

Adrian Mailenna — Thu, 27 Mar 2008 19:23:47 +0000

It begins, of course, with a kiss, with the faintest press of my lips between her eyes, and then another, just below the line of her hair. My hand splays across the small of her back, and I hold her there, hold her closer, wanting the moment to last forever. She’s intoxicating, warm and comforting, and her scent fills my lungs, her soap and shampoo, her skin and her hair, a drug wound up tight around that primitive, pleasurable part of my brain.

The scent is called Jacqueline, and I have missed it for far too long.

I don’t know how long I breathe her, only that she holds me just as close, only that she breathes me, too, only that her short, dark hair feels softer than silk against my cheek when she nuzzles at the edge of my jaw. She stands up on tiptoe, bringing my kisses lower, to her nose, to her lips, and her eyes sparkle in amusement, silent laughter at my gentle touch. It’s a challenge, or maybe an invitation; her body presses against me, light as a dream, daring me to pick her up, daring me to catch her against the wall and kiss her hard, daring me to leave her flushed and gasping for breath.

She’s just a little bit too tempting, and I cradle her in my arms, cupping her pert little rear in my hand. “If you keep doing this, one day you’ll lose more than just your breath,” I whisper, and she purrs her contentment back at me.

I feel her nibble on my ear, tracing her tongue around its the edge. “Some nights, you’re ready to lose it all.”

A knife-edged frisson of arousal races up my spine, splintering into a little burst of excitement beneath her tongue. It has a name, and it is Jacqueline. I whisper it against her neck, unable to say any more.

We cuddle on a mess of pillows, feeding one another. The strawberries I dip into confectioner’s sugar, admiring their crystalline sparkle before pressing them between her lips. She makes tangelos open like flowers, spreading their segments like petals, and we pluck them away, one at a time. They burst into flavor as we bite them, full of juice, wetting our lips and fingers. Jacqueline suckles mine clean, and I nip gently at hers, and then at her lips. At first I’m only barely kissing her, tasting the wetness on her lips with a stroke of my tongue, but each time she melts against me, just a little closer, and each time I kiss her just a little more deeply.

Before the second tangelo disappears, I barely even notice the citrus anymore. Something else compels me, something sweeter than any nectar. It is the taste of Jacqueline, Jacqueline and her desire, and even as I taste her, my hunger only grows.

The last bite of fruit is hers, but she shakes her head, smiling as she takes it from the plate. “For you,” she says, squirming beneath me. She bares her neck to me, once she’s comfortable, and bright, golden-orange juice drips from between her fingers. It spatters against her naked skin, pooling against her collarbone, and a single fat droplet begins its long, lonely journey down her body, disappearing beneath her blouse.

“Jacqueline,” I whisper. “Jacqueline. It’s such an honor.”

She answers in her stifled, musical whimpers as I begin to lap the juice away from her throat. Her buttons are clumsy beneath my trembling, excited fingers, but soon I ease away her shirt, and then the bra beneath, enchanted by the milky smooth skin I reveal. I hadn’t dreamed it could be so soft, or her scent so much more feminine. Tiny, pink nipples cap her small, perfect breasts, coming to attention as I circle them with my fingers, coating them in the nectar I’ve stolen from her skin.

In turn I nurse from each one, bathing them with my tongue and slow, suckling kisses. I draw no milk from her, only low, gasping moans, and she curls her fingers into my hair, holding me close. “Jacqueline,” I whisper, teasing her skin with the warm caress of air. “So very perfect.”

I creep downwards, exploring the long, taut muscles of her belly, my sweet, liquid guide fading into the faint, natural taste of her skin. My kisses are careful, barely an inch apart, and long enough to feel her grow hot beneath my lips and hands. A shiver runs up her spine as I come to the low rise of her jeans, lingering there a moment longer.

“Jacqueline?” I look up to her, unsure of how much further she wants to go. My heart pounds against the wall of my chest. She swallows hard and nods, hooking my fingers into her waistband.

The buttons on her fly open as I pull them apart, counting their slow, inevitable pops, counting one… two… three. She gasps as I peel the denim from her hips, twisting away from me in a playful, reflexive tease. A warm, appreciative growl escapes my throat, and I wrestle her back, holding her close, under my weight. Her panties are cotton, boy-cut and snug around her hips, the worn, soft black edged in pink. I hadn’t imagined her wearing these, not under those practical tomboy clothes, but suddenly I can’t think of her any other way.

I can feel her through the fabric, and taste her, too, when I guide her legs apart and lean downwards for the kiss. It makes her blush, exactly the way she did the first time I held her, exactly the same way she did when we slept together, still dressed but closer than we’d ever felt before. A harder kiss makes her blush a little more, but it’s the tentative brush of my tongue that makes her squeal. It’s the tart little hint of dampness I find that shakes my control, that reminds me of how painfully much I’ve wanted her, and for how very long.

The months of waiting come down hard, her scent and her taste and her warm tenderness too close, too much to resist. My world dissolves into Jacqueline. It dissolves into her nails digging into my skin, into the cold night air I feel as she pulls my shirt over my head. It dissolves into the soft rough denim and the smooth muscled thighs, into those impossibly perfect tan legs, writhing against the jeans left around her ankles. Most of all it dissolves into her voice, into her sweet little yelp as I nip her through her panties, her panting, babbling encouragement as I take the fabric in my teeth, and then her low, feral moan as I slide them down her thighs and creep back up, lapping at her warm, newly-naked skin. I’ve never wanted anyone so badly in my life.

I want to enjoy her a little longer, to nuzzle into her neat little delta of soft, dark-chocolate fuzz, but she pulls me up into a kiss, squeezing me closer as she tastes herself on my lips. “I’m ready now,” she purrs.

Suddenly I remember how tiny she feels in my arms, how delicate she seems sometimes. “This is forever, you know.”

“Yes.” She bites at the corner of her lip, considering. For a moment she looks up at me through her lashes, and I almost expect her to stop me. We’ve stopped before. She loves to tease.

This isn’t a tease, though, not this time, not tonight, not after the year we’ve been together. I feel her hands drift down my sides, long-fingered, gently eager as they undo my pants, pushing them down, over my hips.

She leans up, her voice just barely a purr against my ear, a breath of agony, a whisper of release. “That’s why it’s with you.” I feel her squeeze me close again, and she settles back against the pillows, her eyes glittering with silent anticipation.

And so the night begins, of course, with a kiss.