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April 13 2012

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April 11 2012

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April 04 2012

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March 29 2012

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March 21 2012

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We had a party one night in college, at our house that had already begun to devolve into a bit of a hippy free-for-all. People in and out, all the time. The doors were rarely locked and there always seemed to be someone plucking a guitar on the front porch or taking a nap on the couch. Sometimes we knew them, sometimes we didn’t.

That night, the son of one of my profs came to the house and brought with him two friends from his childhood. One with a sweat-slicked mop of brown hair, and the other with this expansive, unruly tangle of blonde hair and a wide and sweet smile. My professor’s kid brought a sack of home-brewed beer, and we threw it in a sink with our own and a bucket of ice. 

All night, I chatted intermittently with this blonde kid. He was so damned cute. He spoke Spanish, he built Habitat houses. He tried to explain what Unitarianism was to me but I think I got too drunk to catch on. Touchy and physical as I am, it didn’t bother me that we sat back to back for a drinking game despite the sweat and the heat. 

We were drunk and at some point, he reached behind him and tried to put a chip into my mouth (like a new pal should), but instead ended up dropping the chip and briefly inserting the tips of two of his fingers in my mouth.  Being the slut that I am, I sucked on them for a second anyway. 

Everyone got hot and went back to the porch to catch a breath in the muggy June night, which hung thick in Indiana despite the fact that we were steps from its windy, highest point. Down the street in the ghetto we just barely lived outside of, a gun went off and a car tire screeched, but we were too drunk and too happy and too young to be scared. 

I went inside alone to get myself another beer. The blonde boy with big teeth and a devious smile was quietly on my trail. He was standing in the doorway when I turned around. 

“Hi. Beer?” I asked, holding out the opener.

“No thanks. I just feel like… I just want to say that, I’ve been thinking about kissing you pretty much since I got here. I just, I just want to so bad…” He walked up close but didn’t touch me.

After dicking around with three years of private college morons who take hours to quietly hint at the fact that they might want to, maybe, if their Bro’s thought it was cool, makeout and fuck you, a big, sweet dose of that kind of honesty was like getting drunk all over again. 

I grabbed him and kissed him, and something in the purity of a kind-hearted 19-year-old’s kiss unlatched me from my guarded self. He took me to bed—as in, he held my hand and we walked slowly to my bedroom a few feet away. He pulled back the covers for me with such purpose.  He kissed me as if he was trying to taste something different on my mouth every time. 

It was obvious to me that I was the first girl he’s been with who ever enjoyed sucking his cock, the way his head lolled around and he had to grip the covers as if to hold on. From his gasp, I had a feeling that no one had ever licked his balls before. It was a sublime collection of minutes for both of us, in a symbiosis of his moans and my aiming to get even more out of him.

When he flipped me onto my back and paused as I felt his cock playing in the slick wetness, he pushed a few matted curls out of his eyes with his big hand and smiled wide. I could’ve cum right then, right there in that moment of collected boyishness. He pressed his mouth against mine as he pushed into me for the first time, breathing in my moan. 

Heavy midsummer darkness poured in through my open windows, with the cricket chirps and a few lingering voices on the porch. He took his time, and I didn’t care about the sweat or the heat, and I didn’t notice the sheets getting damp. I just wanted to have him hard, inside me, rocking against my spot all night. Maybe every night. Maybe just the summer. He picked up my leg and put it up to his shoulder, but turned and kissed the inside of my ankle first. I could feel tendrils of blonde curly hair tickling my toes. 

When we came, we came hard—like we were fighting the temperature to get off, until we finally won. He laid down beside me and I felt him suck something off of my back—a droplet of sweat. Sweet as he was blonde and tan, he pushed my hair off of my neck and blew a cooling breeze over the skin there, and was finally scuppered by the sex and the beer and the deadly but feather-light touch of tenderness.

Anyway, sometimes I see that boy around town now and then. He still smiles at me, but he keeps his big hair pulled back. Whenever I see him, I wonder if he’d let me take his hair down—just to see him push it back with his big hand, just to see if he can still smile and make me weak all over again.  Some Junes, though, are meant to stay as sensory memories. 

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Xquisit Magazine by Emily Soto

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