er rennt

got bored the other night and this is what came out. not edited or anything, but i like the rough sketch. --k.a.p.

Every morning he ran: down Grosvenor Road and across the Thames. He ran until he forgot the year or the day, until he forgot the aching in his bones and the whine in his mind, the You’re too old for this nonsense. He ran for himself. For the god he had almost lost. But this morning, he ran to forget the sin in his bed. This morning he ran to quiet his mind.

He ran to the Eye, where the tourists would gather in a few hours time; pass their savings away for a glimpse at the legend that was this town. It was too early now for anyone but him, the pavement, his squeaking soles. The city called to him: the rushing water and squaking birds. This place wasn’t like home. It wasn’t the quiet northern streets that raged only on Sundays when the football fans crowded the streets and pubs and brawled. Here every day was a battle, in some way or another. And the only solace one could find lived in a world between the last drunken straggler and the first breakfast pan.
And still he ran. And still the lust ravaged his mind.

There were sins he had read of in old, tattered books: sins whose committers burned in synagogues of their forefathers. There were countless laws that he had broken--all destroyed--in a single night. Was he a criminal now? Would he, too, be abandoned, destroyed? Or was it just another story his father had told to make him pray at night? He told so many, it was hard to keep track of them all. It was hard to remember, in that landscape of perfect skin, that this very moment could be his last in the fold.

And still
And still
And still he ran.
The city swallowed him and he was lost.

He arrived on his street without knowing he was there. The baker on the corner had just turned over his sign. His skin was dripping. Surely it would slide off. A bell rang in the back of the shop and the owner smiled at him.

‘The same, my friend?’
‘The same.’
Wasn’t it always the same?

Every morning he ran: down Grosvenor Road and across the Thames. Every morning he found himself in this same little shop with this same little man. Every morning he awoke alone. But this morning wasn’t so.

‘Make it two?’

The steps are long and looming today: his door stares down at him with a sinister grin. There are trembling things in the pit of his gut. Is this what it was always like? Were the stairs always so long; his palms always so sweaty? Or is it the run and the chill and the exhaustion in his bones? He’s forgotten to feel. He’s forgotten so much…

Stove. Kettle. Plates tray cups. It’s all so different but it’s all the same. The writhing the wringing the wait wait wait. Breakfast in bed. Who thought of that? Screeeeeeeam.

Tossled curls peek out from beneath his duvet; tan toes teasing at the other end. He smiles: old muscles shifting to their home. When did he last smile like this? Last night is a blur, but he remembers the laughter, the smiles, the grins. He remembers the aching shift in his jaw and cheeks. He remembers the triumph in the boy’s eyes.

I got you, he said.
Got me where?
Got your smile. It’s mine.
It’s mine.
You’re mine.

‘Emile…?’ It’s groggy and fogged, but his voice still rings: sending shivers down his spine. He stretches and shifts: brown skin for miles and miles and dishevelled hair and warmth and muscles and I was never this young, he thinks. I was never this vibrant, this new. ‘Emile? Is that you?’

‘Yes, love.’

‘I smell tea. Is that tea?’

‘It’s tea.’

‘You’re perfect.’ A flush. When was the last time he flushed? But the boy is smiling now and, suddenly, London isn’t as cold as it was a moment ago. He holds out his arms and beckons him in and the sweat and the smells and the aching of his bones is gone gone gone it’s gone. He sets down the tray and settles in.

‘I’m old enough to be your father, you know.’

‘And I’m old enough to be your son.’ A kiss in his hair. ‘Which is worse, do you think?’

Every morning he ran. But not anymore.

first night with

i've been on the fence about putting this up for a long time because it's so close to home, but after consulting the second party, i decided that i would. i hope you enjoy it as much as i do. --k.a.p.

He has the softest hair I have ever felt in my entire life: like down and puppy fur and clouds and I swear this sounded sensible in my head and so damn literary right up until the point where he kissed me and then I lost the plot a bit. …A lot. I can feel my fingers tearing at his roots but they’re strong and they hold and I’m so glad because it really is wonderful hair. The stereo is blaring acoustic guitar and concert strings, something light and ethereal, something we can sort of dance to: hips swaying as our hands roam. He’s suddenly so tall and I have to stand on my toes to reach him. I’ve never felt something this passionate: mouths pressed so hard together our teeth crash and it might hurt if I cared but I don’t right now, I just don’t. The ardour hasn’t died once since this started, since he pulled me towards him with mischief in his eyes, and we’re christening every nook of his flat with this wonderful, wild fury. But I’m not in love with him, I think. Is this wrong of me? Is this cruel? But his eyes are this wonderful colour I’ve never seen before and he wants something to happen and I do too! That can’t be wrong, can it? And it feels so nice to have that want, have someone look into you and undress you with their eyes. I’m laying on the floor spread-eagled for him and I damn well know it. Writers.

I’m not a whore! Don’t think that: I’m not! It’s not that I go and find blokes in bars to fuck and leave; I’ve thought about this! I’ve thought about him. And maybe that’s what’s sealing the deal or maybe it’s his eyes, but this isn’t a habit for me. It’s not. It’s just not. He just feels so good, so solid and real, and I’m feeling real for once, too. He keeps pulling me back to smile at me, looking devious and joyful, and that smile is infectious and wonderful and I’m being reckless, I know I am, but I haven’t felt this free in a very, very long time. I’ve missed recklessness. I’ve missed the rush.

His fingernails scrape hard along my exposed arms, setting the hairs on the back of my neck on end. Something crawls up from low in my belly and rumbles past my lips. He captures it with his tongue and laughs. It’s lovely and soft, just like his hair--and then my fingers are locked into that again and life becomes a blur, a haze of significant caresses and crushing mouths. ‘You have beautiful eyes,’ I say, and he does. Beautiful eyes, smile, arms, lips. He’s a beautiful man and I’m flattered when he returns the sentiment, even if I don’t think it’s true. But he’s looking so far into them, I’m sure he can see my soul and maybe that’s what he’s saying is beautiful, I don’t know. I’m not sure I believe that either. But then we’re curled up on his couch and he’s over me and I think I could believe anything right now if he told me it was true. ‘Let’s go upstairs,’ I say and he looks at me with fear. I think he thinks I’m kidding and I’m not sure if I am, he just feels so solid: so warm and real. And I feel real, too!

For once.

He feels so good and I want to feel more, live out this dream if that’s what it is, and wake up tomorrow, sated and spent and wondering if this ever happened at all, if it’s just a dream. Or something more. I hope it’s not a dream. I hope he understands. But then he’s pulling me up his ladder, into his loft, and his mouth is on mine, hands tugging at my clothes. I love the sounds he’s making. He smells like summer rain. Is this wrong, I wonder, is this wrong of me? ‘You have beautiful eyes,’ I tell him: beautiful eyes and beautiful hands. His mouth is on my lips and I’m dizzy from the heat, hands roaming, nails scraping; it’s all very surreal but it’s not. This is something my mother warned me about: dark men who could draw me home with them to have their wicked way. She never mentioned how wonderful it could be, how sometimes a stranger is really a friend. How one can look in someone’s eyes and know, suddenly, the rest of one’s life.

The music swells and so does he: I can feel his heartbeat on my collar and it’s making me shiver inside. Our mouths are growing frantic and sloppy and I’m starting to forget everything: who I am and where we are and all that really matters is that I’m here and so is he. I can feel myself questioning this still and wondering and then he’s inside me and I’m fine it’s fine it’s more than fine it’s summer rain and old movies and Christmas day back when Christmas meant something, back before Da was called evil and Mum lost her mind. He smiles like sunrise and pushes back my hair. I love him, I think--why am I thinking that? I don’t! Do I? But I could. I know I could if I wanted to, if I was ready if it was right. And that scares me a bit. That scares me a lot.

I’ve never felt beautiful in my skin. I’ve never felt beautiful like this: sweating and wheezing, it’s all strange noises and stranger smells, wondering if I look as ridiculous as I feel or if this really is what I’m made for. What God intended for me to be. The way my heart is telling me I’m supposed to be. I’ve never felt beautiful before. But folded up on his bed, looking up into his eyes--so clear and calm and certain--it’s the closest I think I’ll ever get.

This sounded sensible once. Right up to the part where you kissed me. Then I lost the plot a little. I lost the plot a lot.

lunching

not really erotica, but they wish it would be. this is what happens when my roommate's boyfriend walks, pointedly shirtless, into my line of sight with a jar of peanut butter and a devious glint in his eye. haven't even edited it, but i wanted to post something. --k.a.p.

She has peanut butter on her chin. It’s adorable and pathetic at the same time: her eyes lighting up as she licks marmalade and bread crumbs off her fingers, wiggling in her seat at the taste, completely unaware of the mess she’s made of herself. It’s almost sad how oblivious she is. But, then again, she may not be the only one who’s done that.

‘You have peanut butter on your chin.’ Her eyes are kind and smiley, she thinks, wiping off the gooey love and slurping up that as well.

‘And what’s wrong with that? You’ve gotten peanut butter on your chin before!’

‘Yes, but I don’t hum whenever I bite into my sandwich.’

She doesn’t blush. She refuses to blush. Blushing, she resolves, is something for lesser people, people who are ashamed of their peanut-buttery mistakes. Which she is not. Because peanut butter is delicious. ‘Peanut butter is delicious. My peanut butter sandwich is delicious. And it has just the right amount of jelly, thank you very much.’

‘You’re welcome.’ She leans her cheek against her hands and shakes her head slightly. It’s even more pathetic that she can be so touched and enamoured with someone who has such a sorrowful tendency for peanut butter messes. Yet here she is: powerless to the juvenile tendency of the peanut-buttered chin. And, unfortunately, she’s not the only one who’s realised it.

‘My compliments to the chef.’ She winks. Lewdly.

‘You’re cheeky.’

‘You love it.’

‘That,’ she states stoically, ‘is inconsequential. I have done nothing to deserve your impish demeanour and that should be duly noted.’

‘I’ll have my secretary shorthand it!’

‘You’d better not…’ She laughs and decimates her sandwich, leaning across the table to plant a messy kiss on her lips.

‘You’re prettier than her, anyway.’

‘Liars go to hell.’ Her smile is wry, though appreciative.

‘Well, I think you’re prettier.’ She pouts good-naturedly, giving her lips a long-awaited wipe with the cloth napkin beside her plate. ‘And that’s all that matters, isn’t it?’

Her brow furrows. ‘I can’t tell if you’re being egotistical or complimentary.’

‘Neither. I’m being happy and full and the sandwich was delicious.’ Another kiss, this one a little more guided. ‘As always.’ And another, this one threatening to push lunch a little later than the office will allow. ‘Thank you.’ Her voice has turned to a throaty whisper, eyes having darkened suddenly despite the brilliant light streaming through the picture window.

‘You’re going to be late.’

‘Oh, to hell with them!’ She bounces as if to further display her fury. ‘Demon servants of The Man! What do I care what they think?’

‘Because you could lose your position.’ She softens the blow a bit. ‘And I don’t have one to make up for the loss.’

‘Your pragmatism is infuriating.’

‘You love it,’ she retaliates.

‘I do.’ She sighs dramatically and flops back in her chair. ‘Such a cruel woman. I come home to find a most delicious sandwich and you in that frilly apron I like so much--’

‘I don’t have another apron. You set my other apron on fire. There were no other aprons to replace it.’

‘--And you turn me away with not a hint of sexual gratification outside of sloppy, post-sandwich kisses--’

‘You’re going to be late.’

Her sigh is natural this time, eyes surveying her quarry lovingly. ‘I know.’ She returns her smile, tugging her close by the back of her neck and offering her a real kiss: long and lingering, offering all sorts of promise and anticipation. She groans. ‘Tease. Vile temptress. Creature of the night.’

‘Whatever you’d like.’ Perhaps she will push the envelope. Just a tad. ‘Baby.’

‘Your candied words taunt me.’ She smiles nonetheless, standing and stretching, reaching for her briefcase. ‘When I get back,’ she orders from the door, finger pointing threateningly, ‘we’re re-enacting every bad vampire movie we can find on HBO.’

‘This coming from the woman with the briefcase.’

‘It shows that I am powerful.’ She tries to look pointed and meaningful. ‘Powerful.’

‘Until I tie you to the bedposts and you can’t move anymore.’

She groans, high and breathy, face a picture of true pain. ‘I’d hate you if I didn’t love you so much.’ She blows a kiss, lingering perhaps a little longer than is necessary.

And she catches the kiss. And then she is gone. The walls grow up around her, yawning and stretching, wide-mouthed in her loneliness. She is left alone with her edgy anticipation and the remaining peanut butter clinging to her lips.

safety in the afternoon

my first attempt at serious heterosexual erotica. just a random idea i had driving back from a friend's house a week ago. feel free to criticise or share your thoughts. --k.a.p.

It’s time like this when he’s most happy they stumbled across one another: slow, warm afternoons when the sun is just realising it ought to set and the shadows it sends through the Venetian blinds are as long and lazy as his limbs feel stretched out on their glorious bed. She flops on top of him with a low laugh, one hand rubbing insistently at his chest while the other traces his cheekbone with something sharp and prickling. He cranes his neck to see the culprit: an open safety pin.

‘That’s a little far-out. I mean, even for you.’

‘I wouldn’t say that,’ she shrugs, trailing the instrument down along his jaw line. ‘Doesn’t hurt, does it?’

‘No.’ She smiles and rewards him with a kiss. ‘Just don’t go shoving it places it doesn’t belong.’

‘You’re no fun.’ Her pout is impressively unconvincing, which only proves to make it all the more compelling an expression. He catches the pin—and her hand as the excuse—and kisses her knuckles one by one. ‘Well,’ she relents, ‘Maybe a little fun.’

‘But always an adventure.’ He offers his most winning smile and another kiss to her hand.

‘Of course! Why do you think I’ve kept you around this long?’ He laughs in reply and threads his hand into her hair. Black water slides between his fingers in sheets; she purrs and pushes into his touch. She’s summer starlight and warm grass like this: legs swung over him, smiling mischievous and just waiting for his patience to wear out so she can sink onto him and at last feel complete. He wonders what to say, if there are any words at all. But the moment is so still and light, waiting on the edge for another fraction of a moment. Why disturb something as precious as that?

The hand in her hair is hard as stone, but the lips are soft and willing: pulling her closer to him and deeper into his grasp; convincing her steadily that perhaps it will be she who concedes and begs for further connection. His mouth captures her hum of contentment and traps it deep under his skin and she couldn’t be happier for such a thing. ‘You’re trying to win,’ she whispers. ‘It won’t work.’

‘My dear, it’s all-ready worked.’ His canines look especially sharp today, glittering in the afternoon light. ‘Just say the word: you want me.’

‘This seems a surprise to you. Why is that?’ She pushes back his hair and kisses his eyelids, softening the confusion her action causes from his brow.

‘Don’t be a tease; I’ve won. Admit it.’

‘But I do so love to tease you…’ She laughs at his pout and kisses that too. ‘Very well. I want you. Shall we continue this madness, then?’ And with a triumphant ‘ha!’, she finds herself on her back, laughing at the sandpaper against her neck and the fumbling arms attempting escape from underneath her. ‘You’re insatiable!’ She swats his head with the nearest empty prophylactic box.

‘I’m insatiable? Doth my ears detect hypocrisy of the most sordid kind? You, my dear, have no right or reason to criticise.’

‘Yes, but I, at least, have some semblance of self control.’ The last words are said through a mouthful of earlobe; she wriggles it appropriately.

‘Ah, but it is exactly that: some semblance. Ow, stop that.’ He nips her collar as punishment.

‘Hm, yes.’ She lets go, if only to swat him again. ‘But now, my patience wears thin. Would you please get on?’

‘Never.’ She groans dramatically, legs falling further apart when she flops.

‘Why not?’ she whines.

‘Because then I would have no hope to—surprise you.’ He lets go a breath as the first blessed inch slides flawlessly into the creature below him. Her approval is loudly hummed, lips attaching firmly to his own, hips egging him on. His smile is breathless; it’s always a wonder to him, how she can remain so animated and undeterred by their more physical efforts. Yet there she remains: smiling into his mouth as he slides steadily deeper, fingers entwined deep into his outlandish curls, body arching to meet his own.

She is perfect in her imperfections. As he rocks into her, her fingers pull harder on his hair to the point of actual pain. Her mouth grows careless and sloppy against his own and she must pull back to breathe and regain some composure. His hand smoothes up and over her rounded belly, sliding along her arm to the little scars that span her wrist. From where he’s at, he knows that she has a tiny knick above her left eyebrow, another behind her right ear, juvenile scabs on her knees from too many romps with the dog, massacred nails and too-long toes. But from here, he knows that she is everything he will ever want in a woman, in a human being. She is the summer starlight that he sees in her eyes.

‘Danny?’ It’s barely a whisper but enough for him to realise that the tugging has stopped, that time immeasurable has passed while they’ve rocked heartily against one another. Her eyes are shut tight, yet imploring, and he hikes up her right leg to drive harder and upwards, finding by practise and habit her happiness and sharp cries, smiling down at her when the tightness returns to his scalp and the sharp bite on his shoulder reveals all that he needs to know. It’s only a matter of time. And that time is something he’s looking forward to spending very, very much.