by Kris Ripper
“Hannah!” Zane looked horrified. “How can you say that?”
“Because I can be more objective than you are. Hon, I’m not saying Tom did it. I’m saying I can see why it looks as if he could have.”
“I can’t. It’s too awful to think about.”
Jaq nudged her. “This is why we didn’t become cops. How’s it coming on your side, Ed?”
I shook my head. “It’s not my story, but it’s not really coming. As far as the Times-Record is concerned, Tom was arrested for a string of possibly related murders. Actually, I might have a question for you, Jaq. Did you ever teach Steven Costello?”
“Steven Costello?” She considered it. “The name’s familiar.”
This time Zane nudged Jaq. “He’s the kid I bought a drink for on his birthday, who died. You know. On the night you—” She waved a hand toward Hannah.
“Ohhh. Oh god.” Jaq reached for Hannah’s hand. “That was a horrible night, and I tried to repress most of it. I don’t remember him. Sorry, Ed.”
I shrugged. “It was a shot in the dark anyway. He would have graduated three years ago.”
“You know, let me ask around. That would have been when my current group of seniors were freshmen, so it’s possible one of them knew him.”
“Thanks. Anything you can find out would be helpful.”
“Sure thing, kid.”
Alisha tugged my arm. “Dancing?”
“Hell yes.”
Club Fred’s was starting to exhaust me and we’d only been there a couple of minutes. We left the three of them and hit the floor.
Whatever control usually held people’s behavior in place was slipping. A couple had their hands down each other’s pants, another couple was kissing and rubbing against each other in a way that had to be sex. A guy with a cane hanging off his hand was draped over his boyfriend, and the two of them were just swaying in a circle of their own while everyone else moved around them.
The dance floor filled slowly, but by the time Alisha and I got out there, the crush of bodies made it hard to do much more than press against each other. Not that I was complaining.
“You feel so good!” I called into her ear, blushing a little even as I said it.
“Are you coming on to me, mister?”
Oh god. Mister. I pressed into her more firmly. “How ’bout you come back to my place, dollface?”
She mimed slapping me. “How dare you insult my virtue!”
“Don’t be like that, baby! I only want to talk to you!”
She laughed and grabbed my head. “You better do more than talk, you goon!”
“You let me know if you want to do a thirties roleplay sometime!” I said. “I’ll call you my dame.”
“And I’ll call you my man. Take me home, baby.”
I took her home.
For a long time I shied away from dildos, as if using a toy was some kind of slight on my cock, like I was betraying it. Once I started T—and after the first wave of depression eased off—I slept with this girl who had, like, seven different dildos. Different sizes and shapes, which she used in different ways. We literally only spent one night together, but she changed my relationship to insertables forever.
Now I had a few basic dildos and one strap-on, with a harness I’d researched for like a month and a half. I didn’t know why I’d never shown Alisha any of it before, or why that night, after such a screwed-up week, seemed like the time to do it. But when we got to my house (and ascertained the roommates were either upstairs or out), I flipped open the little box where I kept it all and put it on the bed.
“Oh my god.” She stretched out on her stomach, picking each toy up so she could hold it, look at it carefully.
I couldn’t keep standing there watching like an idiot, so I started fumbling with stuff, half-assed cleaning, anything to keep from watching Alisha poke through my small collection of sex toys.
The only thing in my collection that I’d used with other people was the strap-on. The dildos I’d kept for myself. I know some guys don’t like playing with their pussy, but I don’t mind it. I mean, whatever makes you hot, right? Having one of the dildos in while I stroked my cock made me hot, so I did it. Alone. With the door locked.
Alisha touching toy dongs I’d actually had inside my body was a bum rush of embarrassing and arousing. I was getting hard just thinking about the things we could do.
She looked up, holding out the strap-on. “This looks like fun.”
“I haven’t used it enough to be good at it.”
“Really?” She raised an eyebrow. “I’ve used them a bit. I would have shown you, but I thought it might be insulting. I mean, you know it isn’t really like I’m looking at this dick and thinking it’s bigger and better than yours, right? This is just a toy.”
I grabbed my crotch, a parody of confidence. “This ain’t a toy, doll.”
“I’m needing a little bit of that right now. Get your ass over here.”
She stripped off my jeans and pulled me over her, not bothering with my shirt. I went where she guided, straddling her face, looking down while she licked her lips.
The first touch of her tongue made me shake, and I leaned back a little, trying to stay upright. She played with my cock, teasing it, making it pulse, rubbing her lips across and around it until my toes curled.
I wanted her to suck me, but I held back, trying not to beg.
Alisha licked her lips again. “Do you want me inside you, baby? Do you want me to get you off like that?”
Yes, and no, and I didn’t know, because part of me didn’t think it was manly to let my girlfriend fuck my pussy, but a larger part of me thought it was stupid to care. If I got off by myself like that, how was this different? Sex acts weren’t gendered, damn it. Body parts didn’t feel any obligation to conform to cultural expectations. And Alisha wasn’t just any woman; she’d known me for years and she never slipped. I never saw that look in her eyes like she was trying to remember that I was a man.
“Yeah.” I reached for the dildo I liked best. And the lube. “Sorry, I don’t get as wet as I used to.”
“I love lube. Give me that.”
Her sure fingers lubed the thin black toy, and I had to force myself to breathe waiting for her to use it. This was so far beyond my usual comfort zone I’d never even considered fantasizing about it.
Then her fingers slid down, parting my lips, finding their goal. I braced on the headboard and closed my eyes, lifting up enough so she could press the tip of the dildo against me.
“Oh god, Ed, this is so fucking hot right now.” She was breathless. “Baby.”
Fingers guiding it into me, the slightly uncomfortable pressure of a strange angle, and then—this. It slipped inside and I arched into it, opening myself for her.
She moaned. “Ohhh fuck. I need another hand. I need to get off while I get you off.”
“No—no.” I gathered my brain cells, or the ones that weren’t preoccupied with the length of that dong and how it grazed across my nerve endings. “No. Don’t touch yourself. Get me off. Then I’ll fuck you with the strap-on. Deal?”
“Fuck yes. Baby, you’re so fucking hard right now. Deeper? Too deep?”
“Deeper. All the way. Oh god.”
Some mental sleight of hand overtook me. I shut my eyes again and thrust forward, as if seeking her mouth, and in my head I had the kind of penis other men had. In my mind she fucked my pussy and I fucked her mouth and absolutely everything about that was right.
Then I felt her lips on me, small movements on my small cock, and a circuit connected between my cock and my pussy, lighting up everything in my body.
I moaned, way too loudly, but I couldn’t stop and I couldn’t care. My hips jolted, and she pressed the dildo deeper, holding it hard against me, its shifting presence inescapable while she licked and sucked and fucked my cock.
The orgasm hit like a freight train going a hundred miles an hour, drilling into my body, rolling over my skin. I thrashed and bucked, b
ut Alisha held me to her mouth, tongue never stopping its teasing little licks until I quit shaking.
“Oh my god,” I whispered. “Holy shit.” I needed the dildo gone now. Never do dildos annoy me as much as when I’ve just come. That’s when they feel intrusive.
I gently released her fingers and pulled it out, setting it on my nightstand to clean later before flopping beside her. “I think you fucked me senseless.”
She laughed and curled against my side, hooking a leg around both of mine. I could feel her heat, her wetness, against my thigh. “Are you humping my leg right now?”
“I have needs, boyfriend.”
I pretended to sigh. “You should have thought about that before you did . . . whatever the hell you just did that made me come so hard I couldn’t hear for a minute.”
“So you meant literally senseless.” She giggled. “I’m so powerful. I’m like some kind of sex goddess right now, aren’t I?”
“You really are.” I captured her lips, sucking in the lower one, nipping lightly with my teeth. “Thank you.”
“You’re so welcome. That was hot.” A few more thrusts against me. “Hint, hint.”
“Baby, I’m tired,” I teased, pretending to go to sleep.
“Hey, if you can’t be bothered, I’ll get myself off.”
I groaned. “That would be fucking incredible. Let’s put that on a list or something. But right now—” I reached into the bedside table, where I kept the harness for ease of use. “Let’s do this.”
“Fuck yes. Will you keep your shirt on? Like you can’t even wait to ravish me, you’re so hot for it?”
“You say that like it’s not true.” I ran my hands up her legs, under her skirt. “Keep this on, too. This is a nasty dirty fuck and we’re afraid of being caught, right?”
“Yeah.” Her lips curled, one hand pulling my neck down. “Yeah. You’re some kind of son of a noble family and I’m a serving girl, but we can’t deny our feelings for each other.”
“I can’t deny my feelings for your body.”
The usual awkward pause to put on the harness, and seat the strap-on, and make sure everything was secure, didn’t happen. I did all those things, but we kept spinning out our story about the nobleman and the serving girl, so it never got awkward. It never felt like waiting, or prep, or anything other than play.
“But what if someone finds us?” Alisha whispered, eyes boring into mine.
I hit the lamp off and climbed on top of her. “They won’t. No one will see us. No one will know.” One of my hands slid along her thigh, pressing it open. “Relax for me, darling. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You never hurt me.”
My other hand adjusted the angle of the dick. I used my fingers to guide it past her lips, and she gasped.
“Oh, Horatio! You feel so big!”
I tried to bite back the laugh, but it was too much. “Horatio!”
“Don’t call me Horatio, my love! You know I find it strange when you call me by your name when Little Horatio is inside me!”
I choked. “Little Horatio, oh my god.”
“Deeper, Horatio! I want to feel your man-meat all the way to my tonsils!”
I collapsed on top of her, burying my laughter in her shoulder. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry, but oh my god, man-meat?”
“Your thick, juicy sausage! Your torch! Your baton! Your magic wand!” Her legs wrapped around me. “Oh, fuck me with your wand, Horatio! Fuck me so hard I can feel it all day while I scrub the floors and make the beds and service your father on my knees—”
“Oh my god, Alisha!”
She threw her head back, laughter almost echoing off the walls, heels rhythmically pulling me in deeper.
“You naughty, naughty girl.” I let my weight come down more heavily. She moaned. “Naughty girls should be spanked, and forced to do all their chores in only their underthings. Would you like that, my naughty lass? Would you like it if everyone could see how depraved you are?”
“Yes, yes, oh yes, please—” Her pretend moans blurred into real ones as I fucked her, and I was glad I’d come already so I could focus on keeping the angle right, so I could enjoy the way she arched up, breasts standing out beneath her shirt. “Oh please, Horatio—”
Just for that I went in deep and held still.
“Horatio, please—”
“Touch yourself. I want to see you impaled on my dick, you wench, thrashing like a hooked fish.”
The light was low, but I could see the gleam in her eyes when she pulled her skirt higher and pressed two fingers into her mouth. “Anything for you, my love.” She began to rub herself.
I imagined I could feel her muscles contracting around me, that I could feel the heat of her on my cock. I gave her little jolts, never withdrawing far enough to lose control of the strap-on, and she moaned, voice going low.
“Oh god— Fuck— Yes—”
Suddenly I heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps on the stairs. At least two pairs.
Alisha grinned.
“Baby, harder, harder! Deeper, fuck me deeper, fuck me so hard I can’t walk—”
I leaned all the way over her, almost laughing, caught up in this moment of ridiculous exhibitionism, kissing her like neither of us could breathe unless we stole breath from the other.
Alisha moaned, loudly, into my mouth, and I could feel her fingers frantically frigging her clit, brushing past my cock where we pressed together. She came with a dramatic cry, and I had to laugh again, muffling myself in the smooth skin of her neck.
The footsteps had paused, and after a few beats of silence resumed, with only one audible whisper that we could hear: “Holy shit.”
We giggled like children, trying to stay quiet, wrapped up in each other. Impenetrable. Everything else disappeared and there was only Alisha and I.
And Little Horatio.
Tom was released on bail late Monday afternoon, which I heard about via text message from Zane.
I was happy for him. Mostly. Only a small voice in the back of my head was worried that he might in fact be a murderer and now he was on the streets again, pissed off and itching to take it out on someone.
It wasn’t Tom. I was nearly certain that it wasn’t Tom. Too much didn’t make sense. Someone would have to be incredibly dumb to hunt for victims where he worked, at the kind of place where people have been going for years, where they have “their” barstool, or “their” corner of the dance floor. But would the cops have arrested him if they had no evidence? Seriously? Maybe if he was black and young and poor, but Tom was a big hulking white guy. Statistically that made him less likely to be unjustly imprisoned.
Then again, he was a hulking white gay guy, which made him statistically more of a target than he would have been otherwise.
Plus, even if he might have killed those other people, Tom had loved Honey. She’d always pretended she was going to steal him away from Carlos, and he’d always pretended she might have a chance. She wasn’t an acquaintance. She was a friend. It made no sense.
Togg posted another totally unemotional fact piece about Tom being released. The commenter tide was beginning to turn. The crew that had rallied around him last week was smaller and quieter now, slowly being drowned out by a larger mob of voices demanding someone pay for these crimes. That Tom might be innocent (that the entire system ostensibly hinged on “innocent until proven guilty”) seemed to have slipped their minds.
Convenient justice, even if it was false, seemed like a much better seller than an honest investigation into events. These were people who’d barely noticed when Honey died except to bitch about gender politics; now they were talking about marches and vigils and protests if the court didn’t convict the killer.
It made me feel sick.
I took a call a little later from Josh down at the drop-in center, reminding me that their open house was Thursday.
“You’ll be there, right? I don’t mean to cover it for the paper—unless you want to—but we’d love your suppo
rt.”
“I’ll definitely be there. And I’ll write it up if I think there’s a chance my editor will publish it.”
“Thanks, man. Appreciated.” He sounded beat.
“You getting any sleep these days?”
“Hell no. I’m running on fumes. But after the open house we’ll shut down for final preparations until we open our doors next week, and Keith’s made me promise we’ll actually go home for at least part of that time, so I’ll sleep then.”
“Is, uh, sleep what he’s talking about?”
Josh laughed. “I think he’ll probably enforce some kind of sleep-before-sex rule, I’m not even kidding. I’ll see you Thursday, Ed.”
“See you then. Thanks for the call.”
“Sure thing. Only forty-three left now.” He disconnected on his own chuckle, but I had the impression he was serious.
Forty-three phone calls. Plus however many people he’d called before me. I was exhausted just thinking about it.
I checked Togg’s site again, but there was no new information and an outbreak of ugly comments had hit since I’d last visited. I shut it down and promised myself I’d knit when I got home, even if it reminded me of Honey and made me cry. It was something to do with my hands, something better than endless web searches and filling more pages in my notebook with disjointed facts and theories.
Alisha wore a red ankle-length dress to the QYP open house, with long sleeves and a high neckline. I staggered when I saw her.
“Dios mio,” I said, exaggerating my reaction in the hopes she wouldn’t notice how totally bowled over I was.
She twirled. “You like?”
“Should you have a coat or something? An umbrella?”
“Darling, look at this dress. As if I’d screw up the lines of it for anything short of snow. Plus it’s not that cold out.”
A summer storm had moved in early Thursday morning and even toward dusk showed no sign of letting up. In the space between her building and my car up the street, both of us got alarmingly wet. Rain dripped off my ears and her hair was darkened with water.
“Oh my god, I’m going to be obscene!” she called, laughing, and grabbed me for a kiss before I opened the door. “You look handsome as hell, you know!”
