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This month: addictions, mispronunciations and a bit of schizophrenia.
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From The Virgin of Flames
by Chris Abani
(Penguin) |
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OVERALL RATING: 6.256
 
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Buy The Virgin of Flames here
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Sweet Girl glanced around as though to make sure they were deep enough in shadow. Reaching down, between them, between their heat, she ran a hand down his pants.
In the background, Barry White crooned, "You turn my whole world around . . . "
Black shifted under her palm. He was trying to move his penis out from its cave, the shaft lying between balls stretching for comfort. Sweet Girl's hand slipped under the band of his pants and under the band of his boxers and traced the full length of him.
And Barry: "Never have I met a girl like you . . . "
Black winced as Sweet Girl pushed against his balls. Excruciating, but he loved it too. Felt the rush of new blood, felt the rush of old memories.
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Buy The Virgin of Flames here
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Sweet Girl glanced around as though to make sure they were deep enough in shadow. Reaching down, between them, between their heat, she ran a hand down his pants.
In the background, Barry White crooned, "You turn my whole world around . . . "
Black shifted under her palm. He was trying to move his penis out from its cave, the shaft lying between balls stretching for comfort. Sweet Girl's hand slipped under the band of his pants and under the band of his boxers and traced the full length of him.
And Barry: "Never have I met a girl like you . . . "
Black winced as Sweet Girl pushed against his balls. Excruciating, but he loved it too. Felt the rush of new blood, felt the rush of old memories.
Pain.
Kneeling on the shards of broken glass from the tumbler he knocked over in that long ago. Kneeling for the penance of his mother's devotion.
Pleasure.
Yes, my Jesus of the Heart of Flame, yes, I love you and renounce the world and my pleasure for sin, Black intoned that long ago.
Pain.
A finger held too long over the flame of a votive candle, while the other hand counted out the slope of the spell in the hard of wood, stroking, Hail Mary full of grace.
Pleasure.
His hands working himself in the dark when his mother had gone to bed. Stroking himself and seeing the Virgin in his mind's eye. Pearl-white plaster face. Stroking himself as he imagined her red lips whispering his name, her blue robe pulled up around her waist. Stroking himself as his other hand dug a bit of glass into his thigh. Stroking himself as he heard her whisper, yes, m'ijo, for pleasure, for pain, yes.
"Yes, baby, yes," Sweet Girl breathed into his ear, bringing him back. Her forefinger and middle finger, wet from her mouth, were rubbing faster and faster on the shaft of his penis, the shaft bent away, into itself, like a vagina. Black was thrusting, thrusting, but he couldn't come. Frustrated, he pulled Sweet Girl's still wet fingers out. She looked him straight in the eye and sucked on them.
"Was that good?" she asked.
He swallowed. He didn't know how many songs had elapsed in the time she had spent with him. Reaching for his drink, he downed the whiskey in a gulp. Sweet Girl laughed and curled up in his lap, her face nuzzling his neck. He felt revulsion. He felt elation. He thought he might be in love.
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From The Weight of Numbers
by Simon Ings
(Black Cat) |
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OVERALL RATING: 4.250
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Buy The Weight of Numbers here
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"Shhh," the prostitute soothes, hot hands working him.
It is not the tension of the moment that will spoil his first day's shore leave here, in infamous Lourenco Marques. Nor even the anxiety he feels about the delivery he must make, a couple of hours from now. What scuppers him is, oddly enough, the tale he decides to tell, his favorite ice-breaker, a tale of derring do on the high seas.
"It's proppant," he says, his voice muffled by the pillow. "Proppant. I'm telling you."
It's little china beads with a coating, a resin, they use it in drilling, in the offshore industry, on drilling rigs, and he is getting dizzy, all the ways there are to explain this thing, this material, which is frankly the least of his story.
"Not 'propellant.' I'm telling you. What's propellant? What kind of propellant do you know comes in sacks?"
"Proppant." The girl tries it on her tongue. Her fingers dig his shoulders, like there are gold coins between his muscles, dubloons between the muscle and the bone, and she is rifling these secret pockets in his flesh, not so much a back rub, more an intimate mugging. The trouble with asking for a massage is you occasionally end up with a real masseuse, whatever else she is, with frightening thumbs, really strong, like her day job is screwing on the lids of jars you can't undo . . .
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Buy The Weight of Numbers here
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"Shhh," the prostitute soothes, hot hands working him.
It is not the tension of the moment that will spoil his first day's shore leave here, in infamous Lourenco Marques. Nor even the anxiety he feels about the delivery he must make, a couple of hours from now. What scuppers him is, oddly enough, the tale he decides to tell, his favorite ice-breaker, a tale of derring do on the high seas.
"It's proppant," he says, his voice muffled by the pillow. "Proppant. I'm telling you."
It's little china beads with a coating, a resin, they use it in drilling, in the offshore industry, on drilling rigs, and he is getting dizzy, all the ways there are to explain this thing, this material, which is frankly the least of his story.
"Not 'propellant.' I'm telling you. What's propellant? What kind of propellant do you know comes in sacks?"
"Proppant." The girl tries it on her tongue. Her fingers dig his shoulders, like there are gold coins between his muscles, dubloons between the muscle and the bone, and she is rifling these secret pockets in his flesh, not so much a back rub, more an intimate mugging. The trouble with asking for a massage is you occasionally end up with a real masseuse, whatever else she is, with frightening thumbs, really strong, like her day job is screwing on the lids of jars you can't undo . . .
"Mmm," the woman says, over him, behind him, and something brushes him, an unmistakable tantalizing point of rubbery contact that is definitely not a finger and this ought to excite him, only that . . .
The thing is, he's pretty sure her capulana was secure before she started this — he expecting her to strip at his word and she instead wanting to tantalize, oh, very European — and both her hands are on him now, either side of his hips, working the handles there. So assuming this is a nipple — well, not that he's ungrateful or anything but O! the mysterious toils of this world — if both her hands have been working the flab above his hips all this time, how in Hell did she get her tits out?
And here's its twin, tracking through the oil spread like engine lubricant over his back. He arches his back, kitty-friendly, feels the nipple snub and turn, the half-moon of her tit against him. "Lie down, now." She pulls away, then tracks again, with both tits now, no hands, just the nipples against his back, angled perfectly like something mechanical come to read his skin. She must be angling them with her hands to maintain such precise and even contact and then it comes to him, a great wave of mystery and unknowing: how come she doesn't fall over? Leaning over him all that way, her tits in her hands, how is she able to balance? Maybe, he thinks, she has climbed up onto the table. Maybe she has hooked her feet around the end of the table. He has lost track of her nipples now, he has completely dropped out the bottom of the whole experience, he is off in the land of levers, the land of weights and measures and GOD DAMN WOMAN WATCH WHERE THE JESUS YOU ARE PUTTING THAT THING — but her hand is deep in the crevice of his freshly washed, sweet-smelling buttocks by now — when in hell did that happen? — fingers questing for his BALLS NOT MY BALLS NOT — AHHHHHHHHHH and she's PULLING THEM now, she is LIFTING HIM OFF THE TABLE BY HIS BALLS and he is kneeling and he thinks, if I hook my feet to the edge of the table I wouldn't need my hands to balance, and really, it is enough to make him despair sometimes how his mind goes wandering off without him and this is really too fucking homosexual she is actually tonguing his balls and where the hell is her nose all this time? Oh CHRIST, there it is, her lips grazing the hair of his balls as her hand reaches round to his prick and she mumbles, "Proppant, then, come on," and she is milking him like a cow so he goes on with his story because this is what you do when some mad bitch has your testicles between her teeth you do exactly what she says.
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From The IHOP Papers
by Ali Liebegott
(Carroll & Graf) |
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OVERALL RATING: 7.917
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"Maybe I should go home," I said nervously.
Jenny was putting the teapot on the stove and turned to me, startled.
"Why, Goaty?"
"I want to enter a first book contest and the deadline is in two days." We stood there saying nothing for a second, both of us knowing I was looking for an out. "Plus, I need a cigarette."
"We can smoke, Goaty. We'll just open the windows and Irene will never find out. You can go home after your clothes are dry. You'll get sick if you stay in wet clothes."
Jenny stepped closer and put her hand into the waistband of my pants, tugging me toward her.
"Let's get in bed and get warm. It's a warm, dry place for goats."
"Maybe I should go home," I said nervously.
Jenny was putting the teapot on the stove and turned to me, startled.
"Why, Goaty?"
"I want to enter a first book contest and the deadline is in two days." We stood there saying nothing for a second, both of us knowing I was looking for an out. "Plus, I need a cigarette."
"We can smoke, Goaty. We'll just open the windows and Irene will never find out. You can go home after your clothes are dry. You'll get sick if you stay in wet clothes."
Jenny stepped closer and put her hand into the waistband of my pants, tugging me toward her.
"Let's get in bed and get warm. It's a warm, dry place for goats."
In the bedroom she tackled me onto the futon. Then she unlaced my boots and pulled them off. The teapot started to whistle in the other room. She ran into the kitchen, yelling over her shoulder, "Take your clothes off, Goaty, and I'll go put them in the dryer."
I tried to rip off my shirt and pants as fast as possible before Jenny came back and saw me naked. My feet were freezing from my dripping socks.
"I found hot chocolate, Goaty! Do you want hot chocolate?"
"I want a cigarette!"
"I'm gonna bring you hot chocolate and an ashtray!"
Everything else is a blur, really. I just remember the house was freezing and then Jenny set two cups of hot chocolate on the floor next to the futon, stripped her wet clothes off, jumped into dry ones, and gathered all the clothes into her arms. She has the skinniest legs — they're so cute. They look abnormal because she has such big breasts. I wasn't looking at them lecherously. I was just huddling under the blanket waiting for her to return from the laundry room.
When she got back, there was no discussion — I fell into her mouth, her into mine. We didn't even stop to think. My body moved around her body, my cheek rubbed across her belly, hands on her breasts. We made out forever. It was as if I was possessed, drugged, led to this moment my whole life. I couldn't get over how soft she felt, how unbelievably soft her mouth was. I sucked on her nipples and moved my hands all over her warm body. Then I went down on her. I just found myself there, kissing her thighs and nibbling on the skin. She was breathing hard, and her skin grew even hotter.
I didn't know I made her come. I didn't even know how to make her come. I just kept kissing and biting her until she had to push me off, panting, "You're going to kill me, Goaty."
Coming is such an abstract thing. In my head I compare it to coming in pornography, which isn't real coming. Everyone knows real people don't come like porn people. It's like the only definitions for coming exist in health textbooks or porn movies. So how was some dumb lesbo virgin like me supposed to know when I had made Jenny come?
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From Fangland
by John Marks
(Penguin Press) |
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OVERALL RATING: 6.000
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Her eyes gleamed with fear and desire. I got on my knees, put my hands on her shoulders, pressed her back against the bed and kissed her lips. Her breath came faster.
"You don't mind the way I kiss you."
She pressed me back. "Something's wrong, Evangeline. You're changing before my eyes."
A few days before, her words would have alarmed me. But now I saw her for what she truly was, a frightened religious fanatic face to face with her worst nightmare. She had coupled with an agent of the Enemy, or so she thought. She was precious in her error. I pinned her to the side of the bed and kissed her again. She slapped me. I slapped her back. She tried to slip out of my hands, over the bed and away to the door, but I took her by the legs. I had become strong. I took her by the legs and pulled her back to me. I forced her down on the bed and tore the sweater up over her head and ripped away her T-shirt.
Her eyes gleamed with fear and desire. I got on my knees, put my hands on her shoulders, pressed her back against the bed and kissed her lips. Her breath came faster.
"You don't mind the way I kiss you."
She pressed me back. "Something's wrong, Evangeline. You're changing before my eyes."
A few days before, her words would have alarmed me. But now I saw her for what she truly was, a frightened religious fanatic face to face with her worst nightmare. She had coupled with an agent of the Enemy, or so she thought. She was precious in her error. I pinned her to the side of the bed and kissed her again. She slapped me. I slapped her back. She tried to slip out of my hands, over the bed and away to the door, but I took her by the legs. I had become strong. I took her by the legs and pulled her back to me. I forced her down on the bed and tore the sweater up over her head and ripped away her T-shirt.
"Get off me," she said.
"Do you remember Todd?" I asked. "Or have I made you forget him completely?"
She was quivering beneath my hands. I took off my sweater. I saw the blue veins at her temples and in her throat and breasts. I cupped her breasts in my hands and put my lips around them and tasted for the first time the pulse of blood beneath the skin. I wanted to eat her alive. And I knew if I did, I would hear loud and clear the song played on the far horizons of my own consciousness, I would finally hear the words between the words, and things would make sense. This was the answer. I would be inside the visions in my mind in a way I never had before. I held her down and took off the rest of her clothes and put my hands inside of her, in every part of her that could be touched, and her insides had the warmth of blood, and I thought every second about how much deeper I might go, how much farther in, and what that would take, and what I would know after she lay spread out in pieces before me, and in the instant before the depths of this new self resolved to tear her limb from limb, I threw myself back from her body, and shrieked at the top of my lungs for the thing in my mind to get out.
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From FireWife
by Tinling Choong
(Talese/Doubleday) |
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OVERALL RATING: 8.879
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He gave me his hand. We rose together. When we finally stood straight and face-to-face, my back against the cold wall, I was as tall as his chin. Strong chin he has. As he bent down to grab a flannel throw from the bed, the wind his body stirred brushed very slightly the tips of my breasts. I quivered. The familiar numbing joy of my girlish acrobatic fantasy ran through my body. "Please," I said.
He gave me his hand. We rose together. When we finally stood straight and face-to-face, my back against the cold wall, I was as tall as his chin. Strong chin he has. As he bent down to grab a flannel throw from the bed, the wind his body stirred brushed very slightly the tips of my breasts. I quivered. The familiar numbing joy of my girlish acrobatic fantasy ran through my body. "Please," I said. He gently wrapped the soft throw around my back and shoulders and chest. "Touch me," I said. He hesitated. Then he bent down to kiss, very gently, around my mouth, neck. Slowly he kissed. By the time he got to my ear, he whispered, "Don't be scared, once your fruit is touched, your nose is opened." He moved his hand to where the circus man had gone time after time to place a candy in my girlish fantasies. I held his arm with both hands. I moved to the rhythm of his hand. Joy ruptured and spread from where skin touched. But I felt ashamed, acridly ashamed. I couldn't stop my moving and his looking. Shameless woman am I, I thought to myself, as I rubbed more and more violently against the base of his thumb. And I could smell distinctly the subtle sweetness of his skin — a curious mix of cumin, apple, jasmine. There were tears in his kind eyes — they seemed to be saying: It's okay, Nin, it's okay, I understand, you can let go, you are safe here. Inside the black of his parted mouth, I saw Small Me, nineteen years of age, mouth opened, dizzy, legs slightly spread, standing riding his hand, the bull hand of a man.
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