I grab his head and rub myself against his lips, his tongue, against his chin. He stops moving his mouth for a minute. Maybe he’s surprised. Maybe he’s just letting me use his head like a cat uses a scratching post. Paul’s my whore for the next few minutes, and he’s even paying for it. He begins to lick me again, following my motions. He grips my thighs, then wraps his arms around my hips with a moan and does everything he knows I like, for both of us, and something about being held like that, something about his face smashed up against me in this little room, something about him being my whore, for – I look at the clock – just under a minute, makes it start. I take his wrist and move his hand between my legs so I can feel him inside me as I start to contract around his fingers, as I start to whimper and sound kind of stupid and feel really fucking amazing. I come like a circus, whirling lights and flying through the air, bucking my body shamelessly on his fingers and mouth, hard, rapid, painful. I grab his hair in my hands, hold his head and give him all of it. The clock clicks down to zero and I’m still finishing.
“Oh, my God,” I say, panting hard. Paul looks up, his lips and chin wet, a grin of “look what I just did to you” on his face.
“Oh, my God, Paul. Should we get out of here?”
“Let’s not find out,” he says, stands up and lets me fall back into place. He opens the door and peers out, reaches back for me with his hand, takes it when I give it to him. He leads me out the way we came.
“What was all that for?” I ask him, laughing. We’re in the lobby, having made our escape from the cubicle of love. A few men, different types, mill around aimlessly, probably heading up to where we just were. We walk past the newest addition, a bizarre storefront on the first floor that must have sold videos or peepshows before. Two stock boys are pushing a cart full of “I Love New York” paraphernalia through the doorway.
“I don’t know. I always wanted to do that. You always wanted to do that. So now we’ve done it,” Paul says. He checks inside the shopping bags to make sure everything is still there.
“There’s my problem,” I say.
“That’s a problem?”
“Yeah. When I like something I usually want to do it again.”
Paul stands and looks at me underneath a fake circus bear wearing a clown hat, balanced on a tightrope. We hear all kinds of soft, pre-recorded moans coming from the rows of video booths.
“Well,” Paul says brightly, “let’s have lots of one-night stands.”
“That could be hard.”
“I know,” he says, looking happy in a conversation with me for the first time in weeks, looking like he used to. “But, I mean, I’m crazy about you. That was fun. We’re a lousy couple and we don’t want to break up. I want to see other people but I don’t want you to,” he adds.
“Same here.”
“That’s very male of you, Ann,” he says.
“Ooh,” I say. “We could pay each other. $20 for 10 minutes of whatever we want. Pass it back and forth.”
“And you won’t feel cheap?”
“Well. Maybe. Won’t you?”
“Yeah. I kind of like that.”
“I know. Wow. This is nuts.”
We walk back out into a city that is so lit up it looks like a summer day. We’ve lit the night up so well that there’s no more night.
“Where can we go now?”
“Where do you want to go?”
The unspoken options perch on our shoulders and glare at us, just as our shopping bags and fears weigh us down. Part company or keep going. Call in sick to work tonight, the one thing that is certain for me. Go talk some more or find a place to fuck. An hourly motel, the park, home. I don’t know what to pick, so I kiss him, just, boom, my tongue down his throat, tasting myself in his mouth right out here on the street. There’s so much to deconstruct and discuss, but after all this I just want to kiss him, just want to do whatever can make us both happy, whether it’s OK or not. So I close my eyes and move forward, turning off all these damn lights. We wrap our arms around each other and go back into the darkness.
Progressive Party by Alison Tyler
I
Max and I stood outside the old Victorian, shivering together in the chilly December air. The house was lit with candles and holiday lights, every window sill festooned with festive decorations.
“What’s this called again?” Max asked.
“A progressive party.”
“And what precisely does that mean?”
“Each apartment has a different theme. You progress from room to room -”
“And from state of arousal to state of arousal?”
From inside the building, we could hear sounds of laughter and the steady beat of rock ‘n roll coming from the converted apartments.
“Ready?” I smiled.
“Almost ready -” he said, nodding up toward the sprig of mistletoe dangling right overhead. “Just one more thing.” His strong arms came around my body, pulling me close. I could feel his warmth, the heat emanating from the core of his body, and I could feel something else, too -
2
Max’s hard cock wanted instant attention. As soon as we entered the front hall of the converted building, I looked around for a quiet space. “Over there -”
We made our way to the dark corner below a coat rack, where I immediately dropped to my knees and undid Max’s fly.
“Pretty baby,” Max sighed as I introduced his erection to the warm, wet heat of my mouth. He twisted his fingers in my glossy curls as I bobbed my head up and down. “That’s perfect,” he groaned, as I kept up the rhythm. I’d have brought him over the brink if a couple hadn’t made their way down the stairs right then, reaching over us to grab their coats from the rack. As I quickly stood up, Max fumbled for explanations and for a way to slyly tuck himself back into his pants.
“New strand of mistletoe,” Max said, pointing toward the greenery nearby.
“There’s a lot of that going around,” the lady grinned, nodding towards the open door of the first apartment. “You’re going to enjoy yourselves,” she assured us -
3
Jasmine’s apartment was the first door on the left. Her theme was Retro Hawaiian, and the guests within were drinking from glasses decorated with tiny paper umbrellas. Jasmine and her girlfriend Diva were both clad in grass skirts and bikini tops. Diva’s dark skin shimmered with body glitter and Jasmine’s plentiful tattoos were on full display.
“Aloha,” Diva grinned at me, reaching for my coat. She nuzzled her lips against the back of my neck in a sweet, sultry greeting. Max caught my eye as he gave Jasmine a similar sort of hello kiss.
On one of Jasmine’s blue velvet couches, I noticed two feline women in a slinky embrace. The blonde had her hand up under her lover’s dress, and her partner moaned and shifted her hips in a restless beat.
“The party’s already started,” Diva said, “make yourselves comfortable.”
“I want to say hello to Sylvan first,” Max told me, grabbing me by the wrist and pulling me after him into -
4
Disco Inferno.
That’s what Sylvan’s party theme was. A mirrored ball spun overhead and the music was straight out of the 70s. Grooving on the dance floor were couples clad in various stages of undress. And right in the centre, were two lovers entirely naked and deeply entwined.