blackshivers
“Pain is the sublime sanctuary of the soul.”
— Julia de Burgos, from Song of the Simple Truth: “I Want to Give Myself to You,”
The Phone Booth at Robert’s Pub
She stood in the corner with her face to the wall. Checking her phone every minute until it was time, she was shaking by the time it turned six.
She lifted her skirt and held her breath, the anticipation as exciting as the fear.
Her eyes were closed, but that didn’t mean a bar patron wouldn’t happen to walk by. It didn’t mean someone might not see her even if she didn’t see them. It didn’t mean someone else might not arrive first and make the same decision.
Her hand shot to her mouth as she felt him. The time it took for him to push her against the wall, spread her legs, and fuck her was nonexistent. One moment she was alone and waiting and the next he was there, fucking her as he gripped her hips with one clear goal. In less than three minutes she bit her hand as he started to come, filling her as she struggled to stand.
When he left, she could feel the come running down her thigh, but it was nothing compared to the sudden emptiness she felt. And it was nothing compared to the terrible peace that filled her mind.
A half-hour later she met him at the restaurant. He was just as handsome as his pictures even if an inch or two shorter. But he smiled and took her hand gently in his own and she felt her legs weaken once more.
“Shall we eat?” he asked, ignoring the burning question in her mind. She leaned in closer wondering if she could smell him. Wondering if his hair or his hands might give him away. But as pleasing as it all was, there was no hint of the familiar.
“Food sounds good,” she said quietly. “And I think a very strong drink is in order.”
“I like you already,” he said, holding her chair for her.
She sat, and squeezed her thighs tightly together. One, two, three, breaths she counted as she toyed with her napkin on her lap. And then, with a well-practiced smile, she looked up into his unfamiliar eyes.
“Wherever should we start?”
-gny
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Let’s Fuck
I’m feeling sweet and tired and nostalgic today all wrapped in an allergy infused daze. The rain is gentle but the damp air feels cold as it creeps through the windows.
The rest of me, the parts we don’t speak of, are moving between wanting to fuck a stranger and wondering if I’d have the energy to even kiss a friend. The screen flashes through memories, half of them naked ones and the other half unfilled desires, and I wish I hard so I’d feel something new.
I’m going out tonight and maybe the noise and the crowds will clear my head and maybe my lust will find an outlet and maybe I’ll stay up there, fuzzy and at peace as the world rushes by me.
It’s Friday in New York and I want everyone and no one.
Let’s fuck without meeting. Or touching. Or fucking at all.
Let’s fuck without knowing a damn thing.
Wanting and Going
“I want to fuck you,” is high on my list of favorite phrases. It’s right up there next to “I’m going to fuck you,” although I use them in very different ways.
The first is something I put off as long as I can just to savor the flavor of the words in my mouth, and it works best when we have never so much as kissed. It lingers in the back of my throat as we talk and drink or dance so closely that you already know. I open my mouth a hundred times, but always hold back, not out of fear or doubt, but simply because the waiting is so delicious. My lips against your ear, my fingers through your hair, and my hands on your hips as we stand in the same space all speak it before I do.
And then I pull back, letting the temperature drop for just a moment because it’s a phrase that needs space. It needs a hint of distance before it can be closed in an instance, my mouth against your neck, as the words come out as if on their own. Unruly and wanting.
“I want to fuck you,” I finally whisper, and then we’re out on the street, frantic for any hint of privacy so we might accomplish our task.
With the other, it’s nearly the reverse. The statement comes first and the waiting comes after. When we met in the park on a Sunday, they were the first words whispered in your ear as we embraced.
“I’m going to fuck you,” I said, before stepping back with a smile.
I could feel your knees tremble for just a moment, and in an instant, our afternoon became something else. Our walk through the rose garden and our break for a drink at the Boathouse were laden with expectation. I whispered it over and over again until it was no longer a plan but an inevitability.
By the time we found an arch, so quiet and dark right at dusk, we couldn’t wait a moment longer. Your legs around me, my hands grabbing your hips and ass as I thrust into you, and our wordless fuck beneath the stone bridge were the rewards for our hours of anticipation.
Either way, we wait, and either way, I feel the weight of the words in my chest and my gut. I try them silently to myself, I hold them in my mouth, rolling them over on my tongue, and then, when there is simply no other choice, I let them go.
I want to fuck you.
I am going to fuck you.
-gny
There’s Nothing
“Show me what’s under your dress,” I said, as she lay down on my bed with a shy smile.
“There’s nothing,” she whispered, her knees touching as she sat up on her elbows. Her cotton dress was pretty and old, and it sat on her thighs completely aware that it was in the way.
“I’m sure that’s not true,” I said. “Show me.”
She bit her lip and reached one hand down to grab the frayed hem. Just hours earlier she had confessed that she would do anything, and as my requests grew more and more insistent her hesitation came with a quickening breath and a flushing of her cheeks.
I leaned in closer and grabbed one knee, pushing her legs open as I watched. She whimpered ever so slightly as she lifted the dress up, sliding it over her thighs until it finally rested on her belly.
“Open your legs,” I said, my voice no longer sounding like my own.
This time she leaned back and closed her eyes, doing just what I told her. I slid a hand up one thigh and down the other, listening to her sigh as I quickly passed her over. When I kissed her stomach she moaned my name, and when my fingers touched her lips she nearly jumped off the bed.
Her pussy tasted like summer.
She was coconut and salt water; she was hot sun and bare skin. I licked her and kissed her, my fingers pushing inside her as she lifted her hips off the bed and pulled me to her. My tongue found every inch it could, and I tasted her until she was inside me.
By the time I moved up to her mouth, her hands were around me pulling me in. I tore her dress off her shoulders, aching to feel her body against mine, and I kissed her hard as I thrust inside her. She screamed out as I worked my way in, and when she had taken all of me we paused and kissed until there were tears in our eyes.
We fucked slowly, all the energy of reaching that moment held tightly in. I gripped her hands, she clenched her thighs, and we held our breaths as we moved within one another. When my fingers touched her chin they were firm and unshaking. When her hands touched my face they were strong and determined.
As our fucking moved in one direction, the tension built until both our bodies were springs ready to snap. I leaned up on my hands, watching the mechanics of our sex before kissing her once more and giving her her final task.
“Come for me,” I demanded, as I thrust all the way inside her. She reached a hand between our bodies, her fingers frantic against her skin, and we climbed the final peak together. We moaned and screamed and made faces that were full of nothing but need.
When she finally shouted her release I was right behind her, letting go within her as we kissed between ragged breaths. We came for hours and days. We came for months and for seconds. We came without end, and I stayed within her even when I collapsed against her and kissed her lips with tenderness.
“I knew there was something beneath this,” I whispered, toying with the cotton that still clung to her hips. “Something perfect.”
-gny
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“I love what is human, what gives softness,”
— Anaïs Nin, from a letter to Henry Miller written c. December 1933