Livia sipped her chai, and I watched its spicy warmth affect her features. I had chosen the Casbah for its sensuality and those floor cushions. I stretched my legs out and "accidentally" grazed her knee. The merest hint of a shudder pa.s.sed through her, and I watched her extinguish it instantly, as one might stifle an involuntary cry that they feared could lead to their detection-say, if they had seen someone approaching on a dark night and wished to pa.s.s back into the shadows unseen.

I knew it was time to act.

I looked directly into her eyes again. "I have a confession to make," I said. She looked at me, and I read the shock in her eyes at my inappropriate words. But her body remained perfectly composed, and she gave me no prompt. "I wasn't really lost," I continued. "I wanted to meet you."

I watched her lose it then. To a less discerning observer, she would still appear put-together. Her back remained erect, her breathing even. But I could read her small signs. She was stunned. The tiny evidence of her conflicted emotions could be read in her eyes, traced in the subtle flare of her nostrils, the almost imperceptible movement of the small muscles under her cheekbones.

"I-" she began slowly. "I have lived my life in such a way that this sort of thing simply does not happen to me." I smiled then, because I knew I had her.

"Until now," I said simply. "Yes, until now," she agreed. I had unmade her ident.i.ty in three sentences. "What do you want?" she asked. There was a pliability to her tone that I was sure had never been there before. Her voice cracked on the unfamiliar cadence. I took her hand again, and this time continued to hold it. "I want to watch you explode," I said. "I want to see you in the grip of something that, for once in your life, you can't control. I want to see you grieve the futility of your past, and hunger for things you put away with your first words."

She looked directly into my eyes then, and for the first time her eyes were completely unveiled. I watched her see me seeing her.

I knew if she had been standing, her knees would have buckled. That perfect posture would have slipped into something fluid and lost. As it was, she shifted. She raised herself up on her knees for a moment, then settled back down directly on top of her feet, placing the hand I wasn't holding palm-up on her knee. Unconsciously, she had a.s.sumed a posture of supplication. She waited attentively for whatever I would say or do next.

"Clear your calendar for the day," I commanded. I squeezed her hand gently, kissed her on the cheek, then rose. While getting her another chai and a peanut b.u.t.ter cookie, I watched her fumble with her cell phone and make several brief calls. I returned with the tray. "You will need to stay hydrated and fueled," I said. She took my offerings, and when she had finished, I rose wordlessly, again taking her by the hand. She followed pliantly, and I felt an arching pleasure at her transformation, which I knew was only the beginning.

This time I strolled at an easy pace, and the sway remained in her hips. Her eyes had softened at the edges yet a new intensity burned at their core. As we walked, she began more and more to inhabit her body. She did not ask where we were going.

As we drew closer to my lair, my mouth began to water. My shins and heels vibrated with the urge to pounce. My teeth ached, antic.i.p.ating her newly pliant flesh.

I will not harm her. It is my gift to know how to tightrope a woman across her edges. I will let her fall ... yes. I will let her fall again and again. Into the hidden nets that will keep her whole.

I will start with her outer trappings and work my way in. I will take her apart cell by cell until she is unrecognizable to herself. But I will know her.

The first thing I will do once we are inside is kneel before her. I will take out a knife. Hold it up so she can see its length and sharpness. She will stand perfectly still then. I will reach down slowly, and cut the bow off her shoe. Just one. I will pocket my trophy while she watches. Then I will undress her and roll on those perfectly-pressed clothes. My musk will infuse so deeply into their folds that she will never get it out. Should she ever want to.

I notice everything about my prey, because in the details of who they are lies the secret to how to take them down.

I do it for the joy of it. The joy of using everything I have-eyes, wits, teeth, fists-in service to her unmaking. Her reshaping. To see her reduced to her essence and thus made huge.

"There's no safety in writing well. There is no way to be naked, which is what you have to be to be a good writer ... and still be safe ... I think one of the things that's happened in s.e.xual writing is we've gotten the notion that nakedness is about being explicit about details and techniques. I find that really tedious. What is truly naked is emotional exposure. And for every writer that's different. The place where you're pushing yourself the most emotionally is going to be different. It's way different ... depending on your age and the world you were brought up in, depending on who you're most afraid of .... Every person has a fear. And fear is your best friend."

- Dorothy Allison (in E. Benedict's The Joy of Writing s.e.x) Lilycat Bio Lilycat is a DJ for FCCFree Radio, where she forces people to tell her their life stories, and she also writes. She has stories in Chemical l.u.s.t, Whipped, More 5 Minute Erotica, Surprise and Hos, Hookers, Call Girls, and Rent Boys and another book ....She'd like to thank her biker daddy-Mr. O-for the inspiration.

Mini-Interview How did you start writing about s.e.x? How does it differ from non-erotic writing? All the cool kids were doing it-so I did it, too. Erotica has s.e.x in it.

Do you write in multiple genres and, if so, why? I tweet ... People make me do it.

How is the Erotic Reading Circle part of your writing process? I get the best feedback from ERC and it encourages me to write. I get to hear great stories, too.

Do you write under your own name? Why or why not? Do you have any concerns about publishing erotic work? I write under a fake name because that was my Christmas gift to my mother ... I'm cheap and she is hard to shop for.

What's the inside scoop on your story? What inspired it? Any caveats or unusual tidbits you'd like to share with your readers? Someone told me there is nothing more beautiful than the sight of a woman giving you a b.l.o.w.j.o.b .... That is all.

Just Another Dirty Bathroom s.e.x Love Story Lilycat I almost break out in hysterical laughter when she tells me she's giving up dope. How many times have people told me they were quitting, only to come back to me a few weeks later begging for just one more hit, just a little taste? But the sweet sadness in her brown eyes made me try to fake a belief that she was the one who would make it away.

"Well, since I won't be seeing you again, I guess we should settle up on the money you owe me," I say, as I try to stop a snicker from escaping.

I watch her pretty little mouth quickly trying to explain a payment plan idea or maybe I could just forget about the $100 ... just this time ... her last time ... please? She continues on about how she is completely broke, and actually came to The Sinner's Den-a nightclub in West Hollywood-to borrow money from a friend for a bus ticket. She is trying to get to a small town outside of Palm Springs, where a waitress job and a room in her cousin's house waited for her. She goes on about a new location ... a new life ... a real chance to stay clean.

I run my hand through her hair to the back of her head, and explain how there was other ways to pay than in cash.

Seconds later she is kneeling on the scattered, used paper towels and wet toilet paper that decorate the Men's Room floor, her eyes a bit sad but resigned as she looks up at me. I unzip my pants.

I take my c.o.c.k out of my pants and bring it toward her opening mouth; her hands, soft and warm, wrap around it. Her mouth is even warmer than her hands. She sucks my c.o.c.k in whole, quite a feat for such a small mouth. There is something great about a woman with a little mouth that can take a lot of d.i.c.k.

The urinal gives off a pungent smell that fills the Men's Room. The music and the loud talk in the club sounds like it is try to break through the locked door, but I am more focused on the subtle sounds that are coming out of her mouth. It sounds like a cross between a sigh and moan, which she makes as my c.o.c.k glides in and out of her.

I nestle my hand in her hair, a dysfunctional design of various fading colors, a sign of the search for style and individuality imprinted on her head. I start to guide her head to and from the base of my c.o.c.k to the tip.

I look down at the hot tableau of this woman in a skin-tight, low- cut dress sucking my d.i.c.k. The dress, a regular of hers, used to be not be as tight; she's gained some weight, which has left nice curves on her once drug-wasted body. She obviously has been clean for a little while.

I notice her arms, which have track marks now fading and scaring up. She also has a tattoo of a heart with a poorly-done vine around it to cover up some guy's name ... starting with an "M." I wonder if this mister "M" was the one who first tied her arm off and showed her where to put the needle in. I wonder if he truly got forgotten as the ink vines grew over his name.

Further down her arm, among the chain metal and bondage bracelets, I see a friendship bracelet, like the ones children make and share. I try to figure out if she kept this from her own childhood, or if there is a little girl in her life-child ... sister ... niece-who stupidly looked up to this drug fiend.

Though as far as the drug fiends, who I make my money off, go-she was always the sweetest. The only one who used "Please" and "Thank you" as more than just a beg. I would often see her comforting her overly-messed-up and jonsing fellow addicts.

I guess she notices me staring at her, 'cause she looks up at me with her big, beautiful eyes-so soulful, with a little spark of something that makes me believe she may actually be able to get away from the pull of the drugs.

She runs her tongue down the side of my d.i.c.k and nibbles on my b.a.l.l.s like the desire is real, though I know she is just trying quickly to get the job done. Just like I know my other blow buddies' only really hunger is for the needle. But this girl looks so beautiful sucking my c.o.c.k.

I c.u.m in an o.r.g.a.s.mic burst, and for the first time in a long time, it isn't just driven by the physical sensation.

As she wipes the c.u.m from her mouth and slowly begins to rise off the floor, I say, "That was so good, I think I should give you something extra."

"Really, I'm not using anymore," she replies quickly and with a bit of fear.

"No, I was thinking about $250 for your new life," I explain, as I fish the money out of my pocket.

"Thank you," she says, bewildered. She takes the money; her soft, warm fingers brush across my hand.

Part of me wants to grab her hand and hold it forever, and another part of me wants to never see her again.

h.o.r.ehound Stillpoint Bio h.o.r.ehound Stillpoint is working for the Golden Gate National Park Conservancy these days, while still writing for pervert-loving poetry fans, still living for shows from Queens of the Stone Age to Rigoletto, and still needing and wanting to thank all his kind mothers, basically, everyone he ever came across.

Mini-Interview How did you start writing about s.e.x? How does it differ from non-erotic writing? I started noticing-mostly at Poetry above Paradise, on Sunday nights-that people in the audience perked up if c.o.c.ks, nipples, b.u.t.tf.u.c.king, watersports, etc., made an appearance in the poem and the sooner the better. But maybe that's because it galvanizes my energy so intensely. I mean, it's my thing, isn't it.

Do you write in multiple genres and, if so, why? Sure, I write in multiple genres; it's fun, it's educational, and it widens my horizons. After about 5 years of writing poetry-or rather, doing my spoken word pieces-my voice became pretty tightly honed and even started to feel like a cage. Writing short stories or micro-memoirs helped open up new possibilities.

How is the Erotic Reading Circle part of your writing process? I write with a reading event in mind. I believe "I've Seen the Future" was written for K'Vetch, and "Life Is Good" was written for the ERC. I don't think the Erotic Reading Circle is very different from a 'regular' writing group for me, but then I live in San Francisco.

Do you write under your own name? Why or why not? Umm, yeah, h.o.r.ehound Stillpoint is a pen name. Greg Taylor was just too boring and already taken by numberless other people.

Life Is Good When You're Getting f.u.c.ked h.o.r.ehound Stillpoint It occurs to me that I am in the running for the guy who got to have the most fun in a single lifetime Remembering bike rides along the Embarcadero on San Francisco nights, following b.l.o.w.j.o.bs on the beach It's hard to believe all the men I've touched and been touched by Even the most recent Folsom Street Fair was just the best ever you wouldn't believe the men I got busy with in public As cops pretended not to watch, I grabbed a.s.s and sucked d.i.c.k on a sidewalk in broad daylight and one guy was a long tall drink of water Not to mention the bands I rocknf.u.c.kinrolled with on the 12th St. stage Speaking of which, Slash unleashed some great licks last month at the Warfield that s.h.i.t is still sticking to my ribs Sleep was a revelation at the Regency cla.s.sic, crushing, stonier-than-thou rock A new Neil Young CD-I've been loving him for 40 years Fireworks, light shows, starry nights smuggled in through fog Reading great books written by friends: astonishing!

The hardest laughs and the sweetest tears with the best of best friends Movies on acid, swimming in Aquatic Park Discovering yoga at age 50 Getting this old body back in shape for the umpteenth time So that men still ask if they can f.u.c.k me Better yet, I've been saying Yes more and more Life is good when I'm getting f.u.c.ked And n.o.body, n.o.body, n.o.body ever f.u.c.ked me better than Armand did last Monday At least I think his name was Armand he pounded my a.s.s so hard, a lot of s.h.i.t fell outa my head He laid down the law I mean the first laws ... the spiritual stuff like: Thou shalt not deny my d.i.c.k He knew he was hurting me, but neither of us wanted to stop When I finally called time out, to catch my breath his rushed apology-Sorry, sorry- only seemed to cover the fact that I couldn't take it When I reminded him I just started getting f.u.c.ked at the end of last year and I'm still not like some guys who go at it every other night He said, Even the guys who do this every night have trouble with me Fifteen minutes later, we were well into Round Two He plowed into me at a different angle, so he could go deep There was no s.p.a.ce for mercy and he didn't worry about nothing When he got on top of me, burying my face in the pillow he issued a warning: This is my favorite position I can't hold back when you're giving it up like this He put his mouth right up against my ear and said Can you feel that?

Can you feel my d.i.c.k getting harder and harder inside you?

It's growing, it's talking to your a.s.s ...

Well, you get the picture, except, oh yeah, Armand himself He's a 33 year old black guy, not too flash in a rough approximation of handsome built like a college wrestler who hasn't wrestled in 8 or 9 years If he were a woman, I'd describe him as voluptuous All those smooth curves and bulging payloads We could not have had more fun Of course, I thought it was more than fun, too When I told him my a.s.shole was falling in love with his d.i.c.k he said, Already? That was fast ...

He hasn't called and I'm neither surprised nor disappointed We did what we did there is no other story We'll do it again if I have any say in the matter But I'm not jumping to conclusions I've been dropping opinions/beliefs, left and right and not picking them back up either I don't know who I am and none of this seems the least bit probable I doubt any of this would be happening if I didn't meditate so much Meditation is a whole other world of fun if you stick to it long enough it can make blessings and tortures drop out of nowhere to dazzle your senses till you don't know which is which and who is who Walking a spiritual path is a b.u.mpy ride and a total blast Having Jon Bernie as my guru on Monday nights is a regular riot he tames egos and turns on the untroubled light within Hearing wisdom talks on Tuesday nights at the Saraha Buddhist Center those teachers make a good case for the way to happiness being the exact opposite of what people usually think Years ago and for years thereafter, I wanted to kill my father Then I wanted to strangle my bosses Slap my co-workers into oblivion Throw my lover down the stairs Get those G.o.dd.a.m.n guys over there to give me what I crave All the while, wanting to hang my head in shame on top of shame Well, sha la la, man b.a.l.l.s out no matter where we are in the story Being who I am, brother It's a lot easier to see the reasons to be grateful when someone is taking care of my a.s.s So I gotta count my blessings now and then 'Cause when the s.h.i.t of h.e.l.lfire rains down I sure do count every scratch and sc.r.a.pe My litany of woes can make the butchest of men roll their eyes and throw their hands in the air Oh, I can clearly be a monster yet I come from Heaven and to Heaven I belong I am a s.l.u.tty, joyful, greedy, piggy, b.u.t.t-boy bottom And I will not stop till I have drunk every drop I Have Seen The Future And It Is Full Of Big d.i.c.ks h.o.r.ehound Stillpoint Tennessee Williams never choked to death on a stray bottle cap No matter how insistently the media reported this at the time According to my new buddy, Bill Who was friend and neighbor to the author of Streetcar Named Desire Gla.s.s Menagerie and Suddenly, Last Summer Tennessee choked on a big d.i.c.k and died When I gently protest, having had my share of monster c.o.c.k and not being able to imagine one of them so stuck in my throat I could die Bill proclaims it happens and he knows it happens because another friend of his also died choking on a big d.i.c.k I only met Bill a few hours ago but already I am learning so much He met me on the stairs to his apartment and asked: "Are you the new volunteer from New Life?"

It's New Leaf but I don't have the heart to correct such a clever mistake "I'm 97 years old," he throws out there. "No, 91."

When he settles on 94, I don't know if it's the truth or just a nice compromise "Are you gay?" is his third or forth question, and thank G.o.d I am His conversational skills center-squarely-on the topic of big d.i.c.ks Though he also announces that Marlon Brando had a micro-d.i.c.k It's only in pa.s.sing, a throwaway line, before getting back to business Humphrey Bogart couldn't get a star-making role on Broadway even though he did have a big d.i.c.k Bogart was short and not cla.s.sically handsome So he went out to Hollywood where "they know what to do with big d.i.c.ks"

says Bill, adding, by the by, "He was gay, too"

Come on, Bill, I objected, what about him and Lauren Bacall "Lauren Bacall," he harumphed, "married gay men with great regularity "She was straight, though, unlike Katherine Hepburn "Of course, Kate made a big show of being with that other guy with a big d.i.c.k who was also gay"

You mean Spencer Tracy?

You should see Bill smile when I come up with the name of the star he's trying to talk about We're getting on like gangbusters I mean, this is the best conversation I've had in ten years At some point I do interrupt to ask him can we get back to Marlon Brando for a second I mean, how do you know he had a small d.i.c.k "I told you, I was great friends with Tennessee and he knew everything about everyone "Besides that, my best friend was Maynard Morrison who was a casting director on Broadway and he sucked everyone off "AND besides that, Marlon Brando was totally gay, not bis.e.xual, GAY and he used to cruise the bushes in Central Park like we all did and no one would play with him, because [raises little finger & wags]

"Oh, you know who else had a little d.i.c.k?

That German guy who starred in Marlene Dietrich's last movie the one in which she wore that big hat all the time"

We don't come up with his name, and Bill is almost in tears He can't talk anymore, he says He can't write He used to write, under a pseudonym, oh lord, he can't remember the t.i.tle of either of the two books he wrote All his friends are dead All his family members, not just parents, brothers and sisters but cousins, and nieces and nephews, all dead After an hour, he says that besides Richard, the other volunteer from New Leaf I'm the only friend he's got I've already seen evidence to the contrary, because his neighbors love him Richard, he complains, "only comes to look through my book of big d.i.c.ks"

while he lets Bill watch some old opera on his DVD player Okay, so Bill plays fast and loose with the truth, I think We laugh all afternoon He doesn't want to have s.e.x anymore He can't read, his mind is fading, and his body is falling apart He does like to watch opera but his real joy is talking about big d.i.c.ks We'll get along just fine, I tell him We have so much in common Two old broken down writers who never made a dime living in tiny cluttered dusty apartments We both sucked off Scott O'Hara and I can attest to his having a big d.i.c.k It's another laugh, another misty twinkle in his eye We're bonding like mad, but really, he's showing me my future He's teaching me to love many things because you never know The one thing with which you will be left *

Jen Cross Bio Jen Cross, co-editor of s.e.x Still Spoken Here, is a writer, workshop facilitator, and performer whose work has appeared in a plethora of anthologies, including The Healing Art of Writing 2010, Best s.e.x Writing 2008, and n.o.body Pa.s.ses. The founder of Writing Ourselves Whole, Jen's facilitated s.e.xuality and survivors writing workshops in the SF Bay area and at across the country. She's more honored to get to co-facilitate the Erotic Reading Circle with Dr. Carol Queen than she can say. www.writingourselveswhole.org.

Mini-Interview How did you start writing about s.e.x? How does it differ from non-erotic writing? I can't remember exactly how it started: whether I wrote about s.e.x and my stepfather found out and attempted to occupy that part of my s.e.xuality the way he attempted to occupy every other part of my life, or whether he was the one who originally demanded that I write about s.e.x for him. In any case, trauma was intricately interwoven through this part of my erotic life, as it has been through every other part of my life. As I'm writing this, I think about Scheherazade, who spun stories for her Master so as to keep herself alive. My situation wasn't as dire as that-though I did use the stories as a way to displace his abusive attentions (at least momentarily) from my body onto the words. Then he went to jail, and I kept the words. Later, after I got away from him, I continued writing s.e.x as a way to discover and uncover my queer surviving self, and as a way to try on a free and radical s.e.xuality that I lacked access to in an embodied way for many years. s.e.x writing has become intertwined with all writing for me: in my experience and practice, erotic writing may or may not be s.e.xual in content, but is writing that is deeply embodied, rising out of the empowered erotic self and therefore often slippery, messy, genre-defying, disturbing, and free.

pink and devastating Jen Cross I know what you've heard: gossip thronged around the edges of the community, s.n.a.t.c.hes here and there. You heard that Zora took me down, that I let her shove her hand up in my aching, pearly pink. But, baby, before we go any further tonight, I gotta set the record straight. If we're gonna do this, you're gonna need to know the whole story.

We met at the corner of pink and devastating, each of us trying to high highest femme the whole room, me in flouncey, spangled, peppermint-stripe tutu, stacked platform lace-up ballet shoes, a ruffled top split wide down the front (tied at the midriff), and hair sprayed within an inch of its life with Aqua Net and Pink Neon Manic Panic. Oh, and no panties. And her, with that fat fluffy rose boa, first of all, which was so long that it trailed on the ground behind her even as she made her way through the tight throng of the dressed (both over- and under-) at this year's Drag King contest, plus 5-inch spike heel Lucite pink puma peep toes, a matching long skirt that flung itself from her waist down to just above her ankles and cleaved along one thigh to reveal her too G.o.dd.a.m.n perfect plump (and glitter-sheened!) calves, the rose-paisley bustier, the thick dark hair in a cloisonne upsweep held together by cherry blossom chopsticks, a couple of combs, and, yes, spit and prayers-oh, and no panties-well. There was no keeping from setting it off. I dropped my butch escort's arm as soon as Miz Pristine made her entrance, needing all of my energy to lance through the fauxhawks and thrift store finery, plumage and socks stuffed in varying nether regions, in order to-um-make her acquaintance. I meant to demand some sort of t.i.the from her, this new-come-to-town trying to defame my own throne of highest femme in the land.

Now, she stood so you'd think she'd just come to attention (but I saw, didn't you, that she came to be attended to), pursed her MAC bright lips and lowered her impossibly long, impossibly fake, impossibly PERFECT Too Wong Foo Priscilla drag queen lashes just to half mast, shifted so that slit in her skirt shut the door on my wandering eye, focusing my attention, you could say, reminding me that, yes, I had been an adoring young butch once, too. And she put that long tongue out just a little-a shade, you might say-purplish rose lacquered lips split by school-perfect pink eraser muscle, and she lit a new shine to her lips and all of mine then and there, thank you, and she said, "Ooh, girl, look at those shoes."

She grinned wide then, shadowing in and pinpointing her meaning. She said: "So stable."

Then she c.o.c.ked one hip, 'cause it was meant to be c.o.c.ked that way, popping out into and claiming more of the s.p.a.ce that the crowed had cleared for this collision of femme dominion.

Now, some say that plain platforms, a solid chunky fat heel, is cheating when it comes to the way girls do with each other. Some say if it's not spiked it's practically flats. Maybe she was in this category. I can't say as I could tell you. Maybe she was dishing some evil shade. But let me tell you, honey, that place where my panties ought to have covered had my parents raised even a halfway proper lady was running thick with all the-possibilities-and I stood firm, legs spread just enough, and pelvis c.o.c.ked forward, sure, and could not be jostled by the crowd. I said, "I bet you want to find out, don't you?"

Her cheeks went a red that clashed with her outfit and I checked myself a point in the femme register in the sky, 'cause even though I know about the inherent wrong of girl-on-girl compet.i.tion, sometimes you just gotta win one for the home team, don't you? But really, I just wanted to keep the redness coming into those taupe cheeks.

Lord, what was coming over me? I wanted her in that split skirt and split thighs, all right, yes, over my big brawny girl shoulders, all of our t.i.ts at attention while I rocked in and out of her purple pink lower lips, the very hot red rose tootsie roll c.o.c.k that I carried in my bag all ready ready, I came to realize, to be strapped not around some one of these king-y wanna-bes but instead around my meaty thighs.

Now, boys, take a picture of this, 'cause it's never happened before and it's not likely to come again. It is well know that I am not just a pillow queen-I am an empress. After a few years of topping bioboys after I started having s.e.x as a teenager, I met an old school older butch during my first excursion to my small home town's d.y.k.e bar. The first time I laid my eyes on her, I laid down. I mean, when she laid her hands on me, I fell so hard on my back that the sky started crying. The only time I'm not on my back is when I'm on my knees. It's not just do-me, it's do away with any ideas you might have had about getting done. My p.u.s.s.y's so pillowy hard and fine, there are still butches lost down there, exploring and seeking and navigating all that good terrain.

Now Miss Pristine or Zora is how she was called by other people but I liked to call her Pristine 'cause she was always put together like a shiny piece of plastic and she hated any kind of mess. I was shocked as h.e.l.l to see her out at the Drag King contest, which was held at a warehouse s.p.a.ce in the not-yet-completely-gentrified part of way downtown and had a concrete floor already coated with beer drippings, sweat, and mud. It was cl.u.s.tery hot and barely ventilated, so most of the girls start melting immediately after setting one manicured foot into the door (boys, too, if they hadn't put their spirit gum on just right; there were drooping moustaches and sliding soul patches all through the room). The only time Miss P uttered the words "Do me" was after she'd f.u.c.ked some tender butch bottom til ze was wrung all the way out, and she was finally ready to come herself. The way the story went, she'd set herself up into this tall throne, part her legs (high-heeled shoes pushing her calves into a more p.o.r.nographic roundness than anyone might imagine possible), pointed one short-nailed, perfectly-polished index finger at her p.u.s.s.y, and the butch was to get her off with no more than thirty strokes on her c.l.i.t (and this count was well confirmed.) The ones who tried to insert anything whatsoever into Zora's soaking slit were summarily dismissed-they'd hear the buzzing and the "oh! Oh! Oh!"s before they hit the front door. Miss P might get a little mussed while she was f.u.c.king someone (though no one knew her not to use gloves)-a soft sheen of sweat might break across her brow, a cleft of hair might fall lose from her coif-but no one could ever say they'd seen her disheveled.

So it was not an idle thing I said there, insinuating that she might have been complimenting the stability of my footwear because she imagined me in a position compromising in more ways than one.

Zora just wrinkled her long nose at me, barely a sniff, let her eyes fall on the door to the back stage side entrance and then didn't she just turn and part the crowd without a word.

The things I did, now, I did because of her. Everyone knows that, right? I mean, I saw her look at that side stage door before turning away and forcing me to watch her a.s.s switch switch switch into the congealed crowd, all the faces of our own personal audience turning back to s.n.a.t.c.h their eyes to me, to see what I was going to do now, now that she had just left me and my question hanging here. I mean, still I throbbed like a woofer at a bad '90s d.y.k.e club, still I was beginning to smell my own G.o.dd.a.m.n c.u.n.t over and above the acc.u.mulated aromas of second-hand smoke and cheap-a.s.s cologne. I worked my jaw like I was popping gum, even though my mouth was suddenly too empty and dry, and said, "Figures," then pursed my lips and turned my own self around, pushing between two thrift-store-suit-jacketed tranny boys behind me, wiggling out of any ideas they were forming about putting me in the middle of their T-dance sandwich. I made a beeline for the bathrooms, shoved my way through the clouds of glitter and hairspray into an empty stall, locked the door and sat my shaking self down.

I didn't stop to think-not on your life. I popped open the clasp of my bag and took out the nylon harness that I carry out with me to these sorts of events, so as to foreswear that sad butch song, "Oh/I didn't plan on getting it on tonight/I'm not packing/la la la." You know how it goes-I don't even have to hum any bars. I settled the harness around my thighs and a.s.s, then fitted in my Ms. Big Red, tucked her in place under the tutu ruffles and waistband, and felt something else in me thicken and harden-maybe it was my resolve. I didn't dare touch myself, just p.i.s.sed, patted dry, straightened up and shoved back out into the crowd.

I made a meandering round-about way to the stage door she'd indicated as our rendezvous with her eyes like a parting shot, like the way girls used to say, Back playground after school-you're gonna get it. But the G.o.dd.a.m.n thing was locked when I tried to barge my way in, and it was only the long round toe of my platforms that kept me from knocking my too-urgent forehead on the cheap presswood door.

"Eager much?" came a low curdled-and-spiced voice in my ear, and I did not turn around because my knees were weak and anyway her breath was singeing my bare neck, ice and burn all at the same time. "You got the equipment to back up what you said out there?" Did I mention my case of cotton mouth? All I could do was lift up my handbag and nod. She s.n.a.t.c.hed the bag away from me, and her breath came hotter on my neck.

Zora reached around me, grabbed at the doork.n.o.b, pulled it hard toward her, jamming it in to the frame, pulling herself tight into me for a moment and I felt the feathers of that boa tickling the back of my legs. Then she twisted hard and shoved, pushing the door open and shoving me through. I stumbled into the dimly lit room, trying not to fall over what would have been a strategically placed gymnast's horse had my latest daddy been behind me, ready to bend me over and lift my skirts. What was it doing here? Well, this was a boy's club when the d.y.k.es weren't taking it over once a year. I turned to reach for Zora, see if she meant what she'd insinuated, see if she was ready for this, but she stood stone-faced against the door, arms folded, eyes wide and furious and smoky, still that hip c.o.c.ked out, creating just the line of l.u.s.t that every trucker silhouettes with their hands around the air and I got to draw my eyes around the flesh.

"And just who the f.u.c.k do you think you are?" She flung at me, and my embarra.s.sment was a hot contrast to my l.u.s.t, that ache she just kept kindling in my hips and thighs and c.u.n.t. I opened my lips, though I didn't know what I was going to say, but she wasn't finished. "Don't you know who I am? How are they going to honor us if we don't honor each other, Althea?"

Oh s.h.i.t. She was pulling out all the G.o.dd.a.m.n stops. But I knew this train of thought, its hazards and views, and, oh yes, its tunnels-having long argued against my own longings, over and over again, 'til the path was a well worn rut and I'd had to just go ahead and put on a pair of tall heels just to climb out to ground level, which was where I'd stayed. 'Til now.

"Come on, Zora. Don't give me that s.h.i.t. We are wise enough to lay it all out for each other: Even the toppiest top has gotta get a break sometimes, and if a girl can't take care of her sister when she's in need, well, then what the f.u.c.k is a femme sisterhood for?"

"I'm not talking about taking anything away from you," I continued as I stepped closer to her. "and I'm not suggesting anyone else could recognize the heat flare up in your pretty golden eyes when you took in my shoes, then my calves, then my thighs, and then my hips-then what you were hoping came next under here. Like recognizes like sometimes, you know that."

I had no idea where this patter was coming from; I hadn't seen any G.o.dd.a.m.n such thing as what I was describing, but I needed an excuse to move closer, and she let me. Who knew it was so G.o.dd.a.m.n much work getting a girl to let you f.u.c.k her? All anyone ever had to say to me was "Hey there-got the time?" and I was flung open like a midnight refrigerator door.

But then she let me kiss her, let me lean in, put a hand on the back of her head (careful not to pull at her 'do just yet) and fit my lips onto hers. Her breath was musk-spicy and oh, s.h.i.t, that hot pink tongue traced some holy new dirty alphabet in my mouth. I gripped her neck tighter, wanting to bruise her but not sure if she'd let me, and though she didn't exactly soften, she did open and let me push all the way into and between those lips, those teeth, the teeth that had left brittle bronzing bruises on three-quarters of the bottoms in the county.

I said, into her throat, "Now you be gentle with me, and I'll give you just what you need, Z." She growled at me, tensed her jaw. Her hand dug into my hair, through the product all the way down to the scalp. She pulled hard down and in, tried to split my lip in three places. Now, I'll tell you: I am not a pain s.l.u.t, and I nearly came right there.

Zora broke the kiss just as I felt myself nearly ready to forget the whole thing, about to reach for her infamous fist and shove it into me. She strong-armed me back away from her, and lifted my bag, which she still clutched in her right hand. She did not say, "Let's see what we have here," but it was clearly conveyed in that sharply drawn raised eyebrow-which then fell flat when she snapped open the clasp and found just lipstick, some quarters and my money clip. Zora lifted her face, as wide open as a top's can get with surprise and confusion, but she didn't get any words out before I had my two hands under my tulle, freeing Ms. Red from her confines. Then I met Zora's eyes with mine and put a hand on her shoulder, just a hand, just a hint of pressure.

And my good G.o.d, she went down. Not to her knees but into a squat, legs bent and spread wide, resting on those tall heels. I'll just let you imagine that for a minute. And then she swallowed that c.o.c.k, swallowed, and then I realized that this was certainly a part of her repertoire. So, before she could set the pace, I put my two hands to her cheeks, and did not move my own hips, Instead, I moved her head, those lips spread just wide enough that she was clearly having to strain, back and forth on me. And yes, boys, I could feel every stroke of her tongue and lips and throat, her teeth dragging for friction. How does that happen? I f.u.c.ked her mouth with deep thrusts, short and quick, coming only a little way out before I sunk clear back in. Her hands inched slow up my thighs but I stopped her, not to be distracted. "Put your hands under your skirt, Zora. Feel how wet you are."

Zora moaned around and through her full mouth-no one ever told her not to talk while her mouth was full, I guess-and there was cool on my legs where her palms had been. I pulled half way out so she could gasp, then slid back down her throat while the scent of her c.u.n.t swelled up and around us, mixing with the dusty air and, all right, my own p.u.s.s.y's stink, too.

When she started really groaning, I pulled my c.o.c.k up out of her throat with, "Not yet you're not coming-get up, Z." And she rose unsteady, thighs obviously over-exerted. I helped her up and let her stumble, first onto me so I could taste her again, get all that l.u.s.t, G.o.d, taste my own c.o.c.k, let her easy cries between my lips and tongue and feed them back to her, and then I folded her over on the horse. She caught the soft leather between her palms and let her head drop as I moved around behind her.

That's when I noticed that Zora didn't close the door all the way behind her, and, my good G.o.d, didn't we have an audience again, a hot- eyed bunch of queers so sick of waiting for the f.u.c.king contest ('cause you know the show never can start til an hour or five after they said it'd be OVER) that they were thrilled to have another battle to watch.

I'm not going to lie to you-I had a hard time deciding what to do. I flushed with power, suddenly desperate to be publicly witnessed deflowering top-of-the-tops Pristine. I wanted them to see how messy it was about to get, with bits of public persona shattered all around us. I wanted the boys to get a little quivery seeing how pillow-biter Althea could work the other side of the c.o.c.k.

Then Zora made a sound. Oh s.h.i.t, it was a whimper, it was almost a please, and I knew I had a higher allegiance. I made a sad-clown face at our watchers, then, hoping to mask the noise, shoved a gogo box out of the way with my hand while I kicked the door shut with my fat flat heels. Platforms: they're just so good for so many things.

"Turn your skirt around for me, Zora," and she did it so the slit let the material part over her round full a.s.s, those good plump thighs, and all the dark fur around her p.u.s.s.y fluffed out right for me. She glistened, all her inner lips and folds slicked out from where she'd been playing with herself before.