Nate's mind spun. Sarah and Justin had warned him that things could get wild out here, and his imagination had gone crazy places with that, but never had he imagined something like this. His dream hedonists ... well, they didn't seem to know each other, he realized. Which was why they were imaginary, and this was real.

"I like you Nate. I chose you, because I want to give you something special. You understand?"

He took a deep breath and nodded. "I won't be a puppy dog." "Good. Now come on and show me what you got, champ."

He was so nervous he was soft, but she knelt before him, sucked him into her warm wet mouth, and he stiffened almost immediately. He'd been with girls back in school, but they were nearly as awkward and unsure as he was. This was different.

"Relax," she said. "Just pay attention to what we're doing and how it feels, so you can remember it all later."

She shrugged herself out of the bodystocking, peeling it down her lean body. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s were small and round, with a silver ring in her left nipple. He'd never seen one up close before-he'd always a.s.sociated that kind of thing with biker chicks. He reached out a hand, stopped.

"It's okay," she said. "It feels good to play with it, just be gentle." "Did it hurt?"

She smiled. "Oh, yes. But I was on E, so it was a good hurt."

She pushed him onto his back and straddled him, then walked her knees up his body until her p.u.s.s.y was right over his face. He finally got a good look at what he'd been too shy to look directly at before: her pubic hair was dyed the same magenta as her hair streak and shaved into the shape of a heart.

He licked, he stroked, he listened. Every gentle direction came with a compliment.

He remembered a crucial mantra hammered into his head during s.e.x ed cla.s.s, braced himself for an awkward intermission. "So, uh, I have condoms in my bag somewhere ..."

She rolled off of him, produced a condom from thin air, unwrapped it with her teeth, and then took his c.o.c.k in her hands, gave it another long suck, then stroked it gently with both hands as she worked the sheer condom down over his whole length. She shot him a rea.s.suring smile. It was the s.e.xiest thing he'd ever seen.

She crouched over him again, reached between her legs, then leaned forward, and he could see a flash of white teeth and the dark halo of hair around her head as she guided him into her. He felt pressure on the head of his c.o.c.k, a moment of resistance, and then the pressure became a tightness around the head, soft and firm at the same time.

She sat back, driving herself down on him, and he felt a shiver of disbelief in his lower belly as he saw his shaft disappear inside her and then she was f.u.c.king him, rising up above before thrusting back down over him, riding his c.o.c.k, her face bobbing before him. Slowly at first, all the way up and all the way back down, a delicious all-encompa.s.sing squeeze of her body as it embraced his c.o.c.k, the tickle of her pubic hair as she pressed herself all the way to the base of him. A low guttural moan building to a ragged rhythmic gasp as she accelerated slowly, leaning forward to put weight on her arms, her hips rising and falling, faster and then faster. He concentrated on matching her rhythm, rocking his hips along with hers, thrusting up into her.

He could smell her sweat, feel her hips grow damp under his hands, the muscles of her a.s.s clenching and relaxing as she rode him. He reached up, found the ring in her nipple, thumbed it, let it brush back and forth against his knuckles.

She found her groove and f.u.c.ked him in a rapid steady cadence, breath choppy, muscles taut, head low in the s.p.a.ce over his right shoulder, damp hair brushing his face. The air was rich with f.u.c.k sweat, p.u.s.s.y juice, and the unmistakable funk of latex.

He could feel the fire gathering in his belly, somehow hot and cold at the same time, felt his legs clench in antic.i.p.ation, his b.a.l.l.s tighten, and then: he grunted as the white fire shot down his c.o.c.k and up his spine and out the top of his head, but she kept going, almost anxious now, a whimper, and then she tightened, went rigid, clamped him between her knees and dug her fingers deep into his arms as she groaned in his ear, shuddering to a halt. She held perfectly still for a long moment, frozen in place.

He felt himself softening inside her, and then her whole body seemed to turned liquid and she let out her breath and collapsed next to him.

"Thank you," she murmured in his ear and a moment later he managed to reply, "No, thank you. That was ..."

That was as far as his brain could take him, and he lay there, sweat cooling on his skin, limbs still entangled, and he squeezed her hand tightly, felt her squeezing back, heard her giggle as she relaxed.

Outside he heard the percussive shout of a propane flamethrower, saw the momentary orange glow light up the rainfly before the dragon or firetruck or apocalyptic war machine drove on. Somewhere a conductor or ship's mate was chanting the last call for the Lahontan Limited, bound for destiny, Pike's Peak and points beyond.

He felt two very different things at the same time: the glow of grat.i.tude, an electric sizzle that lingered in his skin; and the ache of knowledge that the party was over, the magic was gone, the color already fading away.

When he awoke, he was alone in the dark tent.

"How can I repay you, sir?"

Treasure had completed the telling of her encounter with Nate and knelt at the foot of the bed, head bowed.

Doctor Awesome smiled. "I will entertain ... suggestions."

"Well ... I've seen you talking to that cute blonde girl from the Camp of the Roger Jollies."

"She is cute."

"She is very cute. I was thinking I could offer to wash her hair and give her a sponge bath-she must be very dusty now. So I'd undress her slowly while you watched, and wipe her down with baby wipes, all over."

She crawled atop him on the bed.

"And then I'd kiss her, and bite her lip, and work my way down her neck, and I'd suck on those beautiful b.r.e.a.s.t.s ..." She pulled one of his nipples into her mouth, released it with a pop. "They're very ... pert. And then I'd lick her p.u.s.s.y, I know how much you like that." She ran the tip of her tongue over her upper lip and flashed an eyebrow at him.

"I know how much you like that." She grinned.

"And then," she slid down his body, "I'd suck your c.o.c.k until you were hard enough to f.u.c.k her." She paused to demonstrate, eyes on his. "Does that sound like something you'd like to do?"

"Yes ... but it also sounds like something you'd really like to do.

What I'd like to do is ..."

Much later, curled into him, she murmured, "Now that you've let the tiger out of the cage, are you sure you can handle her?" "I only let you out to let you know I control the gate."

She turned to put a cool palm to his cheek, searched his eyes. The Game was over now.

"You're sure it was okay?"

"You did great." He smiled. "I'm glad you told me everything."

She inhaled deeply, pulling herself against him fiercely, face pressed into his chest, then looked up at him with her big dark eyes glittering.

"I'm your Treasure."

Nate saw Treasure the next day, wearing nothing but six-inch platform boots and a leather collar around her neck with a big ring dangling from the front of it. A leather leash was clipped to the ring, the other end around her wrist. She waved and walked away across the playa, long strides with her platform heels. He watched her shadow chase her, the natural sway of her a.s.s teasing him as she departed. Desire and futility burned inside him. He knew that he would not touch her again, and yet he clung to the bittersweet sting of memory.

He knew he didn't need to avoid Doctor Awesome, but he did it anyway, not trusting himself.

But something had changed. It was as if he had broken through some kind of membrane, and on the other side ... something that felt almost, but not quite, like home. One afternoon he found himself lost in conversation with a girl in a field of pillows, both of them discovering they were theater nerds, trading stories of narrowly averted disasters and epic shows. Here it was.

Then Nate looked up from his map one morning just as Doctor Awesome was carrying a plate of eggs and three cups back to his van and found himself locking eyes with the man.

The b.a.s.t.a.r.d smiled and winked at him.

"Asking why someone would write about s.e.x is rather like asking why anyone would eat at a five-star French restaurant. The inherent pleasure of the activity in question seems rather obvious to me. As a p.o.r.nographer, I am in the same position as the restaurant critic. I get to do something I love while being paid for it. Why would I ever stop writing about s.e.x?"

- Patrick Califia Jeff Jacobson Bio Jeff Jacobson is a professional coach, novelist, and an occasional writer of erotica. Whenever he tries to write really hot p.o.r.n, it becomes humorous. He's okay with that. He lives in Shanghai and Los Angeles. www.theboywhocouldntflystraight.com Mini-Interview How did you start writing about s.e.x? I wrote my very first erotic anything in the late nineties, a poem about how my sperm smelled sweet. Then I went to a local artists' group where I read it, even though I was terrified. When I finished reading, the audience responded with laughter and applause. I was hooked.

When I write erotica, I have to fight a constant inner Catholic voice that says, "You shouldn't write about that. It's dirty!" When I write non-fiction, I have to fight a constant inner grammarian voice that says, "That was the worst use of a comma in the history of the alphabet!" The same war, but a different battle.

How is the Erotic Reading Circle part of your writing process? In 2006 I saw an ad for the Erotic Reading Circle at the Center for s.e.x and Culture. I threw together a fictional tryst with too much backstory and not enough s.e.x, gathered my courage, went, and read it. I became a regular, because I couldn't get enough of the support and encouragement from Jen, Carol, and the other writers there, people who had the guts to write stories about putting hoo-hoos and wee-wees and whatnots together in a frictional way. If you've never read at, or at least gone to, an erotic writing group, just go, for G.o.d's sake. It'll rock your world.

Ricky Dumb a.s.s Jeff Jacobson Now that my dad is working with a lame a.s.s executive coach for his job, he keeps making all these stupid announcements: Last week, he told my mom and me that we all needed to lose weight. I don't really know what this means, but I a.s.sume a lot of push-ups and gluten-free diets are headed our way.

This week he told me that he and I were going camping over the weekend.

"For some much needed father/son bonding time," he said, giving me a fake one-two punch in the ribs. "Jason, you just finished your freshman year here at State. We have so much to catch up on."

"The f.u.c.k?" I wanted to say to him. The last thing I wanted to do was share a tent with my ga.s.sy, blabbermouth dad. But he was footing the bill for college; plus, my mom and I had learned long ago that when my dad got an idea, the best we could hope for was that he'd forget about it.

Well, he didn't forget about it, so my mom took me shopping for camping gear.

"You'll have fun," she'd said as she looked for a parking spot at the mall. Since when had my mom's voice turned from sincere to autopilot? Maybe a long time ago.

So I find myself sitting in my bedroom, my parents out on a date together (another development from my dad's coach), new duffel bags strewn about on my floor and packages of white socks unopened in a plastic bag near my feet.

My ex-friend Ricky had texted me twenty minutes ago. "U free?"

I wrote back "Pckrhed" without thinking. We use the word "p.e.c.k.e.rhead" to mean lots of things: 1. A replacement for each other's names, 2. "What a d.i.c.k!" and, 3. "Yes," "h.e.l.l yes," or "f.u.c.k yeah, dude!"

I meant Number Three when I sent my reply, which was fine, except that I had forgotten he wasn't my friend anymore.

"B ovr soon," Ricky replied.

Now I sit in my room, not knowing what to pack for the trip, and mad all over again at Ricky Lame a.s.s. What the h.e.l.l does he want?

We'd been sort of friends for a long time. No one else liked us, so it wasn't so much that we sought each other out as we just ended up together, like the last two crumbs in a bag of cookies.

People didn't like him because he was poor and lived in a trailer. People didn't like me because of the one or two (okay, maybe three) times I had gone to the psych ward.

I don't even know if you could say we were friends, but we watched movies together and smoked a lot of pot (he could get it, I could bankroll it) and were slightly less mean to each other than we were to everybody else.

Lately, though, the barbs we'd been throwing at each other had started to sting. Maybe they'd always stung, but not as much as the s.h.i.t other people threw our way. I thought of it as target practice; we nailed each other first so that when it happened with everyone else, it wasn't so bad.

But something had changed. Maybe it was because I'd been in college for a year. Maybe it was because he wasn't ever going to college. I'd made too many below-the-belt comments about the fake green gra.s.s near his mom's trailer home, his dead dad, his job. He'd said one too many things about lobotomies and shock therapy.

One day a few weeks ago I'd gotten tired of the whole thing and told him to f.u.c.k off. I'll never forget how quiet it was after I'd said it, how great it felt to see the effect of my words register on someone's face, to see them sink in like hooks Ricky stopped coming by after that. It's kinda weird when your best not-friend, the only person who you ever hang out with, doesn't like you anymore, and you don't like him anymore, and when the last person who even tolerates you doesn't want to see you anymore, what do you do?

Now he was coming over, and I swear to G.o.d if he gives me s.h.i.t about bringing ten new pairs of socks on the camping trip I'll kick him in the b.a.l.l.s.

We're both sitting on my bed. I'm biting my fingernails because it's more fun than trying to figure out what not to bring camping. He's bouncing his leg on the bed and it's making me seasick. Or mattress sick.

"Stop!" I yell. He does.

I cringe. The word floats in the air for a long time, sounding mean.

I wish I hadn't said it.

I turn to look at him, which ends up being the same time he decides to look at me, and I didn't know how close we were sitting together, so close that I worry I have dragon breath, so close I can smell his, which isn't exactly the mintiest freshest either, and then the weirdest thing happens: We start making out.

Holy s.h.i.t mother of G.o.d, we do.

His lips wrap around mine. His mouth is hot and wet. Lines of electric shock shoot down to my gut and my d.i.c.k gets instantly hard.

What the f.u.c.k are we doing? Any time we ever see anything even close to two men doing it on TV we yell, "f.a.ggot!" and throw things at the screen. Needless to say, I have never kissed any other guy in all my nineteen years of life.

Except that now our heads are tilted and I am shoving his face into mine with my hands, he is digging at my teeth with his tongue, we're making these noises that are totally embarra.s.sing except that maybe for the first time ever I almost don't care how I sound or look.

The pads of my fingers can feel the acne scars on his jawline as he pushes me down on the bed and gets on top of me. He is taller than me; I have to scoot down so his head won't hit the wall. He keeps kissing me like we've done this off and on our whole lives.

"Jason," he whispers, and instead of sounding stupid or f.a.ggoty it undoes me. The muscles in my back sort of liquefy, and I worry for a moment that I will drip down into the mattress and drain out the floor. I can't remember when he'd called me anything other than p.e.c.k.e.rhead before.

His mouth is incredibly s.p.a.cious, and it seems like I can't get in it enough, can't taste it enough, can't get my tongue inside deep enough and find out what's going on in there. My hands are all over his back, pushing on the bony n.o.bs of his spine, then sliding down and grabbing his a.s.s. I'm so far beyond recognition that I just let myself feel his a.s.s, even though it's the gayest thing anybody could ever do. His a.s.s muscles are bunching and squeezing as he pushes his hips against mine, and I hear grunting noises coming out of my mouth.

I don't think I'm kissing him as much as eating at his face. I want to put his eyes and nose in my mouth, to suck on the strands of hair that slide over his forehead, to swallow his chin whole.

I try to swallow his chin whole and he moans. I watch his face as my jaw opens up snake-like to get more of his chin in my mouth. His eyes are closed and I feel him shudder on top of me. He moans again, and I swear to G.o.d, his moan rushes right through me, from my scalp down to the ends of my toes, and I can't think straight anymore. It's like the logical part of my brain stands up, goes into a back room somewhere and closes the door, leaving me alone here with Ricky and all the things I suddenly want us to do to each other. I decide I had better act soon before that part comes back and starts b.i.t.c.hing me out, so I push him on his side and scoot down even farther.

He is wearing the jeans he always does. I unzip his pants and try to slide them over his hips. He has to herky-jerky to get them down past his knees. He smells kind of poor, kind of trashy, but like fabric softener, too. I like how he smells right now. A lot. He's wearing clean white underwear, which you wouldn't necessarily expect from him. His d.i.c.k is pointing straight out, like a pole holding up a tent. I don't want to think about tents or camping so I throw the image out of my brain.

I pull his underwear down and his skinny-long d.i.c.k sticks out from a bush of dark brown pubic hair. He smells warm down here, like bread, and I want to look at his d.i.c.k, to get a really good look, because I've never seen a real one up close (except my own, which I don't think counts). It's longer and thinner than mine and bends forward a little at the top.

But I don't stare at it too long, because what if he sees me and says, "What are you looking at, d.i.c.khead?"

Instead, I open my mouth and let the first part of it go inside. His d.i.c.k is really warm on my tongue, and I lick it so that it pushes up against the roof of my mouth. Ricky makes an "oomph" sound so I close my lips and suck on it. I figure that's what I'm supposed to do. Plus I kind of want to. I can hear breath whooshing out of my nose.

Everyone talks about d.i.c.ks being rock hard and stuff, and his is, but I didn't know it would be soft, too.

"Ooh yeah, baby," he whispers, which totally freaks me out so I push him out of my mouth and sit up. It just totally ruined the moment, you know? Why did he have to go and say such a cheesy thing? Ricky Dumb a.s.s.

"What?" he asks. Before I can rip in to him he shoves me back down on the bed.

We both know that he is stronger than me. I used to hate that, but now I'm glad, because I try to push him off me but can't. He lays himself over me and covers my mouth with his and we make an airlock sound together. Then I forget why I was mad at him, because his face is so big, and he tastes so good, like b.u.t.ter and a boy and a total surprise.

He finds my crotch and starts squeezing my d.i.c.k through my sweatpants. More electric bolts start shooting again, this time from between my legs up into my chest, and before I can ask him to, he shoves his hands down past the waistband and grabs at me.

My arms throw themselves around his neck. It feels so good to have his hands squeezing my d.i.c.k that I start thrusting myself in and out, in and out. He doesn't seem to care that I am basically f.u.c.king his hand so I decide not to care either.

Ricky lets go of my d.i.c.k and pulls my sweatpants and boxers down, and his mouth starts sucking on my d.i.c.k and now I know why everybody talks about how great b.l.o.w.j.o.bs are, because really, I think it's probably the best thing I've ever felt.

His mouth is like this tight, wet tube, pulling and pushing and sucking on me all at the same time. I grab on to his hair with my hands and yank hard. He doesn't seem to notice.

It starts to feel so good that I think I'm gonna ...