Stolentelling

(Unrated Version)

Who hurt who. It all centered around the greatest loss of my life, so it’s hard to empathize with either of their pains, and hard to not feel I was imagining it to feel myself a hawk, an iron warrior, worthy of making a man hurt for me. A throbbing heartache for a broken cock. I had been introduced to Morris and Jack both on the same night, and knew Jack to be a deviant moments before he arrived with Mo, the boy from the desert just barely out of his teens.


Two years later. Sitting in a cheap, checkered cotton dress in premature Spring, just over a week after holding my father’s clammy hand, warming me for the last time and catapulting me into adulthood in an excruciating blink. I sat with the one who made me forget, in my shell-shocked, drunken bare feet, dirtier on his floor than on my own. Mo had called, he had been sick that morning and wanted to get a drink. But I had not said where I was. That, not less than 8 hours after my first return to the city the night before, I was naked beneath Jack’s Chinese robe, its sanctity brought down to scale down the rickety side of a bar stool due to the fact that it sat amongst long un-laundered clothes on his apartment floor all winter. That I had spent what felt like glorious black night hours with his perfect tongue in my wanting, giddy pussy. I was in mourning; I wasn’t all there. But she took over in those times, and watched every show. Danced every step, downed every shot – all the sunsets and family albums alive in a brand new way. One I didn’t show to most people.

Somehow, though, I got to showing him. Days, nights of his hands finding the blood in me, my lips curled around the diligence of his cock, his body, just fitting in with mine, even when he didn’t want it to. My secret enjoyment of his choking me, hugging my neck when I felt him coming hard, barely uttering a low moan as he pulled out and spread himself onto my belly, one day to carry a child. It’s hard to imagine your mother’s lips in a filthy kiss, the hands of a baby afloat deep inside the same place where the hardest of men’s manhoods aim to go. Compartmentalization can get you through, or ruin you. Accept that the hand you shake was up its own nose or ass – all the fluids of our grounded universe are something the angels never see, or taste. The birthing bed is the death chair is the graveyard or the office cubicle, as the lipstick, tear and spit stains of a whore’s sheets. Jesus was born in the shit and the straw, and so saves the world and we enter the Kingdom as it enters us, in the blackness of night, in the dim light of a star, wet between the edges of light. After we melt away from whiskey ice cubes and old rotted shoelaces, ruined from the rain.

Mo’s voice changed. I didn’t know then that he had met himself a perfectly plain little girl to help him forget. About all those contradictions, those evil desires that he couldn’t intermingle in his own, mine-field mind. To this day I still don’t know if he was aching to get away from me or aching to love me. I hope one day, somewhere else, in different clothes and lifetimes, I might know for sure.

“You’re at Jack’s”?

My response was feeble, so afraid of confrontation it doesn’t bear mentioning.

“I’ll come out, but…..I’m not going to get tanked with you guys”.

Jack was his friend too, more like a laid back, older brother whose freedom caused Mo jealousy. That Jack did not suffer the same. But he did, just not in the same way. Regardless of either, waves of misplaced guilt ran over me. I had first spent the night with Mo in the room next door. Again, the places change, the stains remain. Back then he couldn’t kiss me properly. We weren’t much more than strangers and his constant heavy biting on my lip electrified every Christmas tree light down my spine, so much so that my lips looked puffy and pouty as a washed up starlet the next day. But that was a long time ago.

In this room with Jack’s long hair down and his economic strength at play, I was removed from the world. It was about to be my second night there, again, and this was about to become a joining of worlds that I wasn’t at all sure about. Milling the corn with the dollar bills, stirring orange juice into the cake- it was just Off. I sighed, without the foresight of lack of grief to focus on any real decision making. Right brain fell asleep, left brain was drowning in the shallow waters. So, I looked straight at Jack in his soft, amber stare. He was never afraid to bring the undertow to the surface.

“Do you still want to stay, I know it would be strange with Mo…and I don’t want to cause any problems”.

I looked sideways at the dark, shaded cloth hung up on the windows. One of the reasons I loved this place. No light, no life, safe. A good aim at the hip kids on the street below if you could fix a shot.

“I mean, I wouldn’t feel comfortable with Mo going home at the end of the night, and me not going back to the neighborhood with him”.

Jack nodded, sensible almost always, but slightly downtrodden in the timing of his lower lip.

“Well…”, I stated simply, followed by a pause. I didn’t even gun what I uttered next through my intellectual drain pipe for a second. A ventriloquism act on behalf of my lascivious id. “We could just fool around now”. Matter of fact.

Before the next breath was taken, he seemed to move his entire body over the few hot inches to mine and our lips met our tongues and went to work. Nothing like a time deadline to force some hearty, violent lust onto a situation. The G train between Carroll Street and Lorimer & Metropolitan in Brooklyn takes 20 minutes. Mo was already walking to the train (10 minutes). It was Mo who told me about that time frame, in one of our forays there, when he would encircle me with compulsive mathematics like numbered fireflies bouncing in and out of a greedy child’s hand, wishing to capture it for a second, usually without air. I never had a problem listening, thereby letting him know I was happy as his north star. I had wanted him to know that all of his chatter, fears and sprints through the brambles was ok, since I would always be there, still. I didn’t think on this long, as Jack’s veins popped in his arms while trying to rip apart my tightly tied dress from my body. He jerked the fabric up, lifting me up as I leaned back over his desk, where his art, therapy, loneliness and late night phone calls took place, and he ran his tongue’s tip in and out of my pussy, who wasn’t surprised. She had been expecting an evening show, and always fared better early on, when the excess of drink didn’t render her mute, dizzy and a little unsure of herself. The drunker and more relaxed I would get, the stupider my pussy would become. Tonight she was strong, and proper. As Jack carried me into the bedroom, we passed the threshold and I couldn’t help some minor sarcasm.

“Does this mean we’re married now”?

He was always dependable for a retort, which I loved.

“And I’m already sick of you”.

As he pitched me down, I left it with a final statement. “Good. Now we’re divorced”.

And we spent the next 16 and a half minutes at the dance. I hadn’t showered and he grew harder at that fact. I loved his smell on my mouth and on my skin, like rolling around in the fresh mud to a pig. And I’ll never think myself too lofty to separate myself from that sort of joy. I bit his neck, hoping to swallow his skin, and climbed on top of him, as I sucked his cock, just so I could hear him bellow, watch his stomach tighten and release, and feel the taste of his cum just popping in for a split second, then back again. He pulled my hair back (we looked like a couple of gypsy-bum-visionaries, pagan extras with our split ends, covering each other like a funeral shroud) and held me down. We fucked vicious, soft and slow, then fast, sensing everything inside and out of ourselves that we could. We ate up the dust in the air, swallowed the bed sheets, snorted the grime from our feet and devoured the whole damn place, turning on even the stars that watched from behind the window. At that point, I never had sex with a boy or a man for that matter where it could move steadily from diving into each other’s pupils to the dirtiest explorations of our asses only to converge in ritualistic fucking like this. Jack and I, our fucking had Soul. He came loud, and relentless, onto my stomach and my limbs. Seconds after, I straddled him, as we embraced in our loud breaths so he could run his fingers up and down the curve of my back, light as a seagull. I buried my face in his neck and kissed it, smelling even more sugary than before. After about four low-lit minutes of this, the phone rang. It was Mo.  He was downstairs.

~ M. Lucia