I don’t think we should be doing this, I’m whiskey fueled and guilt ridden but she’s leaving tomorrow; I’m going to miss her so much.
My gaze hardens and my jaw gets tight. Her fingers slip to my belt buckle; she slides it from my jeans and I push close to her; I press her body against the bed. Her hooded eyes flutter.
I rake my fingers down her neck, across the smooth skin of her chest, across the perfect orbs of her full breasts. She sighs and pulls my hair tighter, my face closer to her. I kiss her and she drags her teeth across my lower lip. I glide my hands up the satin of her thighs and press my fingertips hard into the gentle softness of her flesh.
Her tongue probes my mouth and she grabs me by the collar; I reach up her shirt. I am so dangerously close to her heart.
“Frankie,” she breathes.
“Please don’t say anything,” I tell her, sliding off the mattress, my face between her legs. I push her skirt up; her panties match her bra, red lace on gold skin, a perfect frame for her hip bones and the slope of her abdomen. My arm under her hips, I feel like I could take her to the moon. I adore her; I want to rip her apart. I bite into her thighs, carefully at first, then harder and she cries out. I lick my way up, push her panties aside. Slowly, slowly, I trace her with my tongue; her breathing quickens; I paint figure eights on her most delicate parts. I spread her legs farther and slide two fingers inside her. We fall into rhythm; my hand slips into the heat of her wetness, she opens to me, her body bucks. She shakes, I give her more and she pulls at my hair and gasps. Her thighs clench and I wrestle her onto her stomach, press her face into the thin blankets. She is taking my whole fist and I’m wondering how we got here, why she’s leaving, but I don’t have time, tonight won’t last forever, this is it. She digs her nails deep into the mattress.
“Frankie,” she is almost screaming but I can’t listen, “I—”
“Don’t talk!” I hurt inside; I want her to hurt; I want her to hurt good. I lift her up to her knees with my hand buried inside her. The light from the kitchen is streaming in and she’s glowing lunar. Her skirt is hiked around her waist and I smack the ethereal curve of her ass. My palm makes contact with a blaze of sound, flesh echoing in my pounding head. Again. Again. It’s almost cathartic.
She grinds back on me, open to my invasion, to my anger, to my ferocious worship of her body. I see her in slow motion: her shock of dark hair, her flawless skin, the cycling swing of her rounded hips, the tops of her thigh-highs that are starting to slip down her sleek legs.
She slams herself harder onto my fist.
Her breathing is choked out between moans. I grab one of her breasts as I push inside her, then I hold her around the waist; my hand rushes down to give her pleasure; I push my hips toward her. I want her to feel what I feel; I want her to be lost in the throes of ecstasy; I want her to be ravaged by this heartbreak. This is our first night, our last night, our only night. I want her to explode.
She puts her hands against the wall, lifts her hips higher, crying out with every thrust. Her muscles are tightening around my hand, her body falling into frenzy. I’m blind with desire. I run my tongue along her spine; I fuck her in a burst of fury and force her over the edge; she sounds panicked as she comes.
Her aftershocks are like electric tremors. She collapses beneath me and I spread my limbs across hers like I’m hiding her from the world.
“Will you miss me, Frankie?” she murmurs.
“I don’t know,” I lie.
We don’t talk anymore. She falls asleep. I kiss the back of her neck and stare around my room in the dark. I’m awake for what feels like hours, holding her close to me, breathing in the smell of her body, the smell of her perfume, trying to steal every last second with her and lock the moments away for safekeeping. Inevitably, my time runs out and I am lost and dreaming.
When I wake up, she’s gone. There’s a letter where she’d been sleeping. I don’t read it. I won’t ever read it.
Christy, je t’aime.
AMATEUR NIGHT
Maggie Morton
Was I really going to do this? Was I really going to dance in front of almost a hundred complete strangers? Yes, they were all queer, so it wasn’t like I was adding fuel to the patriarchy machine, or having straight, male eyes leer at me, something I never liked. But I was nervous enough stripping down in front of girlfriends. Not that I had one right now, because I doubt too many women want their partners to strip down to nothing in front of so many people, to dance, to shimmy up and down a pole, and then to give a lap dance to the highest bidder.
Yes, I told myself, I was going to do this. Because it was for charity, and because really, what was a little nudity among strangers? It wasn’t like hundreds—or thousands—of women didn’t do the same thing every day. It’s for charity, it’s for charity would be my mantra.
So I waited backstage, waited my turn, wearing a well-tailored vest and slacks and the sluttiest shoes I could find: Lucite and with much higher heels than I was used to. I’d practiced walking in them at home, noticing how they made my hips wiggle back and forth, how they made me stick out my ass, and especially, how they made me look girly as fuck. And fuck, now it was my turn, the femmy DJ calling out, “Next up, we have a lovely lady who goes by the name of Jasmine. Let’s give her a warm welcoming. Here’s Jasmine!”
That was my cue. I had chosen Marilyn Manson’s “I Put a Spell On You” as my song, and as the deep, thudding notes began, I slowly, timidly, walked onstage. The lights were brighter than I had expected, and I could barely make out the crowd, though I could certainly hear them, whooping and catcalling as I began to dance.
I started with a few hip thrusts in time to the music, and then I made my way over to the pole, the music seeming to lead me along, guiding my way, which I hadn’t expected to happen. Fuck, I thought as I reached the pole. This is easy!
Then, as I had planned, practicing in my bedroom, came the part where I’d begin stripping down. That came surprisingly easily, too, because instead of undoing my vest, button by button, I ripped it open as the song grew louder, the buttons flying off, my breasts now completely bare. And I grinned as I heard the crowd’s reaction, a loud, boisterous, incredibly positive reaction. Apparently, they approved.
Just before the song got to its loudest part, I got ready: all or nothing now. Yes, I had just shown a bunch of strangers my tits—and loved it. But would I love showing them everything else, too?
Yes, came the answer, as I dropped my pants and strutted out of them, now clad only in a lacy black G-string, my bare, often-complimented ass now revealed. And then a further shock came as I hooked my leg around the pole and spun—once, then twice—arching my back as I did. If the crowd had gone wild before, that sealed the deal. And then, all too soon, the song was over.
Now came the bidding. And then the lap dance, the part I’d been dreading most. Now the only worry I had—no worries about the lap dance, not anymore—was that I wouldn’t earn the marriage equality organization enough. Yeah, the crowd had seemed to approve, but still, people could be fickle, couldn’t they?
I had no reason to worry, though—two women in the crowd got in a fierce bidding war over me. Me! The girl who could barely take off her clothes in front of just one person; the girl who had just stripped down to practically nothing in front of so many people; the girl who had just enjoyed stripping in front of so many people! By the time the bidding ended, my lap dance was going to cost the winner seven hundred and fifty dollars. Wow. All that? For me?