Tag Archives: exhibition

Peculiar Personal Performance

“The problem with playing at the club is that I can’t fuck you.”

His breathing is ragged. He speaks in a quiet growl that makes me want to growl back. I grind my hips against his. The tension has us wound impossibly tight. We’re playing hard, even for me. I’ll have bruises for a month, mottled garters around both thighs. My legs are shaking from the effort of staying upright while they swell and I don’t care. I don’t want it to stop.

I know this moment. It’s still violent, always violent, but the topology has changed. We’re so still, after all my twisting and writhing under his blows. He’s feeling along my edges but my surface isn’t orientable. If he wants inside he’ll have to break me. I almost want him to.

The problem with playing at the club is that I can’t fuck you.

Yes, it’s a problem. It wasn’t a problem until he said it; I was giddy with tension before but now it’s insistent, focused. If we were at his place he’d be fucking me now. He’d be pinning me down with a hand on my throat. He’d be telling me how much I want him with that smug look that I can’t even call arrogant even though he’s wrong; I want him so much more. And I’d be arrogant, too, if he teased, sure that he wouldn’t hold back for long.

But we’re not there. This tension has nowhere to go and now that he’s said it it’s the only thing in my mind.

He rakes his fingers across bruised skin, covers my mouth with his when I gasp. This isn’t kissing. I’m being consumed, voice and lips and skin and anything-you-want disappearing into him.

He puts a hand on my cheek, looks me in the eye. “I want to make you come.”

“God yes.” I’m surprised, later, that I didn’t hesitate at all. I’m not an exhibitionist, not really. Orgasm is intimate. It belongs to me, to my partner. It’s ours. I’m greedy for it and jealous of it and no I don’t care who’s watching, not really, but it isn’t for them and I’m not going to share.

I’m on the edge from kissing and from pain. He isn’t gentle. He shoves his fingers into me, rough and hard and perfect. His eyes stay focused on mine. I’m trying not to scream, not to draw attention. Trying to draw this out, if I can.

He whispers. “Come for me.” I turn my head, sink my teeth into the back of my forearm to keep from crying out. I nearly lose my balance. Too many nerves firing all at once in overwhelming contradiction of pain and yes and ohGod.

He pulls my arm away when I regain my footing. “I want to see your face when you come. I want to hear you scream. Can you do that for me?” I nod. I can’t answer aloud. He’s good with his hands, or good with me. I’m moaning again in seconds, low and soft at first, but rising fast. My hand flies up to cover my mouth. I remember not to before it gets there. He smiles. “Not yet.”

Fuck. Hell. Fuck. I exhale slowly. Refocus. Not on the pressure of his fingers inside me, or–oh God. Refocus. Math? I’ve gone past math. Words. Three syllables, beginning with P. Palimpsest. Petrichor. Priory. Pleiades. Please. Please. “Please.”

He shakes his head. He’s hoping I can’t hold back. He’s arrogant enough to think he can make me come when I’m trying not to. I’m contrary enough, proud enough, to refuse. But God, I’m close. Palmetto. Pinniped. Piranha. Predator. Like him, predatory, eyes on mine with all the smug fierceness of a cat staring down cornered prey. “Oh, fuck, please–” Refocus. Preamble. Portentious. Predicament. No, that’s four. Persistent. Pretentious. P– P– P–. I can’t think anymore, can’t see straight, can’t remember enough words to pull away from sensation. “Please.” If he says no, I still have the emergency brakes. I can control this. It may not be worth it. Employ that tactic and I may not be able to orgasm at all for days.

I don’t have to decide. He’s nodding, that smug grin still playing across his face. “Come for me.”

I don’t close my eyes. Don’t look away. Try not to think of how ridiculous my face must look, how ragged my breathing, whether I need to be quieter. His expression has turned gentle. He straightens to pull me into his arms and I let him. In these heels I can rest my chin on the top of his head, but somehow I feel small. Almost dazed. He whispers “thank you” and I smile.

The problem with playing at the club isn’t such a problem, not really.

A Letter Not for Sending

I used to write letters. To family, close friends, occasionally lovers. It’s been a long time since I bothered. The last three went unanswered. It hardly seems worthwhile to pull out the stationary and fill my fountain pen for a long silence.

Some letters aren’t meant to be read. They’re just a place to say the things one can’t or shouldn’t say aloud. Angry letters, frightened ones, letters to the dead. It’s a form of processing, rarely rational, often ugly. It would be mad to send them, and I never have. This one… it wasn’t worthwhile to pull out the stationary, fill my pen, so it may as well end up here. It is not rational. It is ugly. I don’t much care.

I fucked a girl you can’t stand. Told her “don’t touch me” and dared her to think of what I might do if she did. Shoved her back with high heels and delighted in the way she leaned into me and not away. I made her beg, loudly, for the privilege of eating me out. There were ten people watching, maybe more. I asked them to critique her pleas, made her try over and over until she got it right.

I was trying to cleanse the palate, rid my nerves of the want of you. Her hands are small. Her lips–everything about her is soft and round and delicate. Nothing rough. Nothing that can hurt me. Nothing like you at all. I jerked her by the hair, felt her moan, arched my back and closed my eyes.

I came thinking of you growling “come for me” in my ear. I didn’t tell her that was why I pushed her away.

I want to say “fuck you,” but I can’t.

I want to fuck you. I can’t do that either.

There’s so much that I can’t do, or say, or believe. You said you were afraid so many times. Of fucking this up, of saying the wrong thing, of being wrong. I understood. I was afraid too. You said you didn’t want me to go. I believed you. You never did say you wanted me to stay. I thought this was caution. I never said I wanted to stay, either. You were important. Are important. Enough so that I was willing to wait.

You fucked up. You didn’t make a mistake. You made a choice. Over and over you chose secrets and lies and I don’t know why. I wasn’t afraid when I was with you, of anything but myself. Now I’m afraid that all your lies were somehow my fault. I’m afraid that I’d let you do it again. All the fear I should have had, would have had with anyone else, is crashing through the levees and I can’t do anything but let it come.

I wish you could tell me why. It doesn’t matter and I won’t ask again, but God, it’s killing me not knowing. I’m wounded. That’s fine. It’s happened before, more severely and more often than I care to admit. It makes one adept at closing wounds. This one is held open. I’m digging through muscle and gore as if you might have left some hint of your motive there. You didn’t. Of course you didn’t. Some horrible parody of faith is telling me to keep looking anyway.

I forgive you. For all of it. You don’t deserve it.

Scream

I want to make her scream.

I’ve only known her a few hours, the length of a brutal scene and a conversation broken into pieces across this party. I know how we got here. It’s easy to point to the moment attraction is affirmed, the phrase that drew a sudden sense of of intimacy. Still, that first kiss is as thrilling and surreal as all first kisses are. I know how we got here, but it hardly seems to matter.

I’m gentle at first, kissing softly, sliding fingers over her back lightly enough to catch on the texture of her skin. Both of us are marked: she has a welt for every bruise of mine, burning under my fingertips. I’m trying to be careful, to move slowly. I don’t know her body, whether she can balance pain on top of pain or if she needs this time to recover. She makes a sound like a dove and arches her whole body into me when my fingernails brush the length of a weal across her side. I want to claw her open. I want to turn her soft noises to shrieks and her shy caresses to thrashing limbs. I force my hands to relax. I whisper in her ear (I don’t remember what, only that it made her shiver and try to pull my hips against her). I’m holding back a laugh, teasing her with my teeth, grinding hard against her thigh.

It doesn’t last long, the gentleness. My mouth wants all of her, from lips to skin to sinews. My fingers curl around the shape of bones. We are ill-balanced on this unfamiliar couch. I half-fall, land with one knee on cold tile and the other between her thighs. She’s talking, asking where she should move, filling the air with apologies I don’t want to hear. I scramble up, climb her with lips and teeth and too-clumsy hands. I bite her collarbone hard, harder, until she gasps.

“Stop. Saying. Sorry.” I don’t lift my teeth from her skin. The words come out half-growl, half-lisp. I sound ridiculous. She nods anyway, biting her lip, eyes cast down. There’s a low laugh behind me. Her boyfriend (dominant. Master. Something. I don’t care.) leans over in his creaking chair. His voice is too low for words to carry. The Techie’s answer is just as quiet, just as distracting. I try to push them out of my head.

She makes it easy to refocus. I slide my teeth over her breast, my hand up her thigh. When I look up, her eyes are closed and she’s still biting her lip. “Okay?” I ask. She nods. “Can I..?” I move my fingers farther up her leg, watching her face. “‘Course you can,” says her boyfriend from behind me. Annoyance flares up. I have to close my eyes and exhale slowly before speaking. “I am not asking you.” I tap her on the collarbone with the knuckles of my left hand. “I’m asking you.” For a moment I think she’s gone somewhere past words. I’m starting to sit back, pulling away from her when her eyes flutter open. “Yes. Please.”

I can’t help grinning. I’m being rough with her, watch her face to see how she responds. I’m trying to hold back. I worry even holding back might be too much. Frankly, I’m surprised she can lie on her back at all tonight. “If I’m hurting you, or this is too intense, tell me, yeah?” She mumbles something, too quiet to hear. “Sorry?” “I said I want too intense.” She buries her face in her hands.

I wondered if she would still pull me closer if she knew what I was thinking, that I wanted to crumble her to bits between my hands and eat the pieces. I held her down, fucked her with my fingers while her hands clenched and unclenched on either side of my hips.
She’s so quiet underneath me. All I hear is the faintest ragged breathing, whisper-soft moans. I want to make her scream.

We’ve twisted. I don’t know when it happened and I don’t care. I’m underneath her, my cunt pressed against the muscle of her thigh. We’re kissing, teeth clattering. She moans into my mouth and I drink it in. I’m not so quiet as she is. I come screaming, eyes locked on hers. After that it’s a blur. I heard the Techie and her boyfriend talking at one point, gasped at them to be quiet or go away. We exhausted ourselves and came back for more for I don’t know how long. She said it was after dawn, when she got home.

We exchanged numbers. Been texting, most days. It’s been a while. I feel hesitant, shy. It’s not the sort of encounter one can leave with any expectations, but we rather get along.

She’s heading back to town this weekend, for another party. I am unexpectedly, delightfully giddy.