by Alison Tyler
“Love the blonde hair,” he told her, and she just smiled, knowingly, and didn’t say anything. They screwed each other senseless that night.
He thought it was a joke at first, given that it was April Fool’s Day, after all. He thought it was Mandy’s idea of a practical joke to show him the little test strip with its oddly elliptical plus sign. But the rich blush of her face, and the broad smile she was trying, and failing utterly, to suppress, told him that it wasn’t a joke.
“And that’s not all,” she whispered into his ear as if telling him a great, illicit secret. “I can’t be one-hundred-percent sure, but I’m almost positive it happened that night….”
“You’re kidding,” he said.
She nodded, and kissed him, hard. He held her and smiled—just smiled, ear to ear.
Years later, when Harry Julian Cruz had to explain the derivation of his first name—“Harrison”—to casual acquaintances, he always claimed to be named after Harrison Ford and Julian Sands, which is what his parents had told him. The details would doubtless have been too weird for an adolescent to accept about his parents—but once he was old enough, he did start to wonder what possessed his folks to leave him at Grandma’s and visit Chicago every year for a single night in the dead of winter, the night before Valentine’s Day. He decided he’d probably figure it out when he was older.
JOLENE HUI
PARKER’S MUSTACHE
A LOOFNESS WAS ONE OF MARK’S strongest qualities. But it hadn’t always bothered me. We used to say that we’d always be hand in hand—walking along the beach, eating sushi, watching horror movies at night, and enjoying long sessions of lazy sex on weekend mornings. But somehow that all got out of hand when spring came. We were both thirty, and had been through our crazy twenties and five years of obsessive love with each other. Mark had become distant lately, often closing himself up in his study and not coming out for days. He was working intensely on his book, convinced he had to finish it in the next two weeks. I was lonely and longed for the days when we actually spent time together.
I missed his love.
When Mark’s brother Parker showed up on our doorstep on a day in May, I wasn’t sure exactly how to handle the situation. He had Mark’s dark cocoa complexion, but his hair was darker, his skin rough, and, unlike Mark, he had facial hair. His mustache and sideburns were rugged and long. I had never liked that sort of thing before, but on Parker, it was the sexiest thing I’d ever seen. My heart almost stopped when I opened the door and saw him standing there. I could barely utter “Can I help you?” as we locked eyes. His eyes were a glimmering and breathtaking blue. “I’m Helen,” I said, and stuck my hand out to have it grabbed by Parker’s large and strong one.
“Nice to meet you, Helen.” He gently kissed the top of my hand, his mustache tickling my delicate knuckles.
I wandered around in a blur the rest of the day. As Mark and Parker reminisced about old times, I took it all in.
“Could you grow sideburns and a mustache like Parker’s?” I asked Mark in bed that night, trying to speak quietly as Parker was in the next room.
“No,” said Mark. “He always had better facial hair. Mine is horrible. That’s why I shave every day.”
Parker was just passing through on his way to visit some friends in Baja. He had made this stop in San Diego specifically to see his brother.
“What’s the deal with you and Parker?”
“What do you mean?” Mark rolled away from me.
“Well, we’ve been together five years and I’ve hardly heard about him.”
“I talk about him all the time.”
“Yeah, I know, but I’ve never met him ’til now. I was beginning to wonder if he was just an imaginary figure.”
“Nope. He’s real and apparently still crazy—he kept talking about some jet he is going to buy.”
“What’s wrong with having dreams, Mark?”
And with those idealistic words, we both fell asleep. I dreamt of Parker’s sideburns, mustache, and lips.
The next day was a Sunday. I walked downstairs in the morning to find Parker in the kitchen scrambling eggs.
I poured myself a cup of coffee from the pot he brewed. It smelled fabulous.
“This definitely isn’t my coffee. What kind is it?” I yawned and held the mug under my nose.
“Just something from Hawaii I’ve had for a while.” He scooped the eggs onto the plate and put cheese on them. I couldn’t help but scoot closer to him. I seemed to be magnetically drawn to his side. He was freshly showered; his skin smelled clean.
His hands were massive, and looked like they’d worked hard, the joints slightly swollen and the skin reddened by weather. I pictured them reaching around my waist pushing me against the wall, his mouth on mine; sliding all over my body. I could almost feel his hard torso pressing against the hot skin under my flannel pajamas. The long stubble on his cheeks rubbed against my soft skin. I let his hands push down my pajama bottoms, the air hitting my pussy—making me gasp. His knuckles grazed my pubic hair. The taste of coffee was on his lips as they reached mine. When he inserted a finger into me I dug my teeth into his shoulder to keep from exclaiming.
The sound of footsteps jolted me from my fantasy.
It was Mark, his hair mussed and his robe tied nicely around his waist.
“Good morning, honey,” I said, my coffee mug still in my hands, my pussy wet from my fantasy of having Parker’s knuckle buried inside it.
“Hi.” Mark poured himself a mug of coffee, took a bagel from the counter and walked straight into his office.
“He has to finish a project in the next couple of weeks,” I explained to Parker. I looked down at the beautiful plates of eggs on the counter.
“I know. He told me,” he said, grabbing a fork. “Why do you think I chose to visit this weekend? Did you think I really wanted to spend time with my brother?”
I smiled, watching his eyes crinkle up.
“Well, there’s a lot to do here. You can enjoy the beach, relax, work out; we have a full setup out in the guesthouse.”
When Mark got stressed out, he’d spend hours in the gym in the guesthouse to cool off.
“I think I might just go sit in the sand. Take it all in.” He washed his plate, and promptly set about cleaning up the mess in the kitchen.
He was a fucking dream come true.
“If you want to go for a run, I’m going for one in an hour,” I said as I rinsed my dish and put it in the sink. I could feel Parker hovering around me in our small kitchen. When I turned around he was right behind me. “Excuse me,” I said, stumbling by him, feeling his breath on my cheek.
“I’ll be ready for the run in time. I’ll be outside waiting.”
I watched him walk outside and wanted to go after him, lure him into the guesthouse and straddle him. Instead I went into my bedroom to change clothes.
Mark was still in his study when I finished my stretching. I’d hardly heard a word from him. He and I used to go for runs together all the time. I wasn’t sure if I could live with this much longer. Isolation did not suit our relationship, but I was still too much in love with him. At night in bed I could feel the electricity between us and when he kissed me while placing his fingers softly on my cheek, I’d melt. The moistness of his tongue was perfect and the flavor of his skin was still my favorite. Yet, he wasn’t interested in sex much anymore and, as a result, I was out of my head and unsatisfied. This phase would pass. I knew it would. These sexual hiatuses always passed after he completed stressful projects. Sometimes, though, I worried that his drive and focus on work wouldn’t pass and that he would become so involved in it that memories of me would fade away completely and I’d sleep alone at night while he passed out at his desk in his robe.
When I went outside, I saw that Parker was shirtless, and his chiseled abs and dark skin sent my heart into rapid hummingbird mode.
On our run, we chatted briefly about our lives. Parker had been married and divorced twice and did not think he would ever
marry again. He spent most of his life traveling. He had invested really well in his early twenties and had quite a lot of money to play with. He was a real estate broker who spent most of his time working out, being with his friends and enjoying fine wine. His smile wrinkles proved his happiness. I wanted in on his world, if only for a second—or maybe a half hour or so.
We stretched, the sweat shining on our bodies. Mark was still inside, buried in his work.
“Do you want to see the weight room?” I asked, my head between my stretched-out legs.
“Isn’t it in the guesthouse?” Parker was doing a tricep stretch, the sweat pouring down his arms.
I stood up and nodded.
“Yeah, I’d like to try it out.”
“So would I,” I said, leading him to the door.
As soon as I clicked the door shut behind us, my hands were all over his body. I was hungry for him and wanted to feel his facial hair on my slick body. He quickly responded, pushing his tongue into my mouth and moaning. His hands went straight to my breasts and massaged them through the material of my damp sports bra. I ran my hands up and down his chest and licked his lips. His facial hair tickled my face; it was just long enough to be soft. His mouth was everywhere—licking, scratching, tickling, tasting. Soon, we were on the floor, the hard carpet bristling against us. Parker grabbed my sports bra and rolled the tight fabric up my body and over my head, freeing my breasts. Only briefly did it occur to me that Mark could walk through the door at any second and find his brother and wife sucking each other’s body parts in a fury of passion. But the thought soon ended and by that time, we were both naked and entwined. I was on my back, ankles in the air, Parker’s face buried in my pussy: his facial hair was rubbing against my inner thighs, his luscious tongue tasting every part of me.
“Oh Parker,” I moaned, placing my feet on his shoulders. “Your face.”
He continued to lick and suck my cunt, until I couldn’t take it anymore and came. I bit my hand to keep from screaming. My thighs twitched with pleasure. When he kissed me, I almost came again— I tasted myself all over his mustache. I pushed him onto his back and straddled his face. I wanted his mustache on me.
He didn’t object, but merely put his thumbs on my inner thighs and continued to lick and suck. It felt as if my hips were meant to move on top of his face this way. A scream escaped my throat and Parker used his rough hands to lay me out on the floor. With his right hand over my mouth, he balanced on his left arm and shoved his hard cock inside me. His hand muffled my scream. He fucked me hard and quickly. I spread my legs farther apart so that he could move easily. Underneath his hand I moaned and panted. His hand held a mixture of our scents. I licked his palm as he finished inside me.
Later that afternoon, Mark decided to come out of his study to take a shower. Parker was outside talking on his phone and I was inside reading.
“Have you gotten anything done today?” I asked curiously, as Mark walked around with a towel on.
“A little. What have you done today?”
Visions of fucking Parker in the guesthouse filled my mind. I could feel myself getting wet thinking about it. “Parker and I went for a run. Then I stretched and showered.”
“Hmmm.” Mark toweled off his hair. “I think I want to grill some steaks tonight. Parker said he had some kind of marinade recipe he wanted to make for us.”
“Are you going to spend any time with your brother?” I asked, even though I really hoped he would keep himself locked up, leaving Parker to me.
“You know I’m busy with this, honey,” Mark said, leaving the living room where I lounged.
I pretended to be reading when Parker came inside. “Is Mark out of his cave?”
I thought my face might be getting hot. “Yeah, and he said you guys were going to grill tonight.”
“Actually, I’ve invited my friend Shelby over for dinner, too. I hope you don’t mind.” A huge bullet of jealousy shot through me. Well, of course Parker had friends. Female ones.
“The more the merrier.” I buried my face in my book.
We ate dinner on the backyard deck that night. Shelby was smoking a cigarette and talking about the meaning of life. She seemed to be the type of chick Parker might want to hook up with—short hair, little makeup, outdoorsy, tough, someone he could bang anywhere, who wouldn’t get pissed off if her hair or makeup got messed up.
I sipped a glass of red wine and stared at the stars above our shed. The shed used to be a workshop, but hadn’t been used as that in years. Instead we just shoved our storage in it and decorated the outside. There was a ladder leading up to the top for a secret getaway spot. If you were on the far side of the shed, no one in the backyard could see you. It was a special hiding place, surrounded by trees.
I’d been making eye contact with Parker all night, thinking about what had happened earlier. I wanted so much to reenact the scene at least once before he had to leave.
“I could use some vodka,” said Shelby, stamping out her cigarette.
“Oh,” I said, “I’m sorry. We don’t usually have hard liquor on hand.” We were more the wine-drinking type.
“I could go pick some up, if you want,” Mark offered.
“It’s not a big deal. I was just thinking that I wanted a little after-dinner drink.” Shelby lit another cigarette.
“Why don’t we take a drive and pick some up,” Mark said. “I’m in the mood for some dessert, too.”
Mark was helping me fulfill my fantasy and he didn’t even know it. “That sounds like a good idea. Parker and I can stay here. I’d like to show him the view from the shed anyway.”
Shelby said, “You know Parker, you should really shave. I love you clean shaven. I’m getting sick of this mountain-man look.” She and Mark left.
Parker’s hand was warm as I tugged on it and led him toward the shed.
“Helen…”
“No one can see us up here. Trust me.”
I led him up to the top of the shed—to the part buried in the trees. I had chosen a short black skirt for our dinner and had not worn panties underneath in case I could catch a moment alone with Parker.
“You’re leaving soon, huh?” I asked, as we got settled next to each other on the shed. I could tell he was bored at our place; the reality was that he was just passing through.
“I was going to stay longer, but Mark is so busy.” His eyes were lit up. He reached out and put his hand on my thigh. “It was nice to finally meet you, Helen. Take care of him for me.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” I moved his hand up my thigh.
“Is this a good idea?”
I scooted closer, turned around, and straddled him. He looked amused. “You know, Parker,” I said, “Shelby was incredibly wrong. I fucking love your facial hair. If you shave it off, you’ll be shaving off your entire being.”
“Is that so?” His smile widened.
“I will dream about your facial hair forever. I can honestly say that I am in love with it.”
I unzipped his pants and pulled his cock out, then buried my face in his neck, taking in his smell and tasting it, trying to bury it in my memory. He moaned and put his big hands on my waist. I slid myself onto his hard cock. I’d never forget Parker’s face, his eyes, his hands, his mustache, his sideburns, and the satisfaction they had given me.
When he was coming, Parker whispered in my ear, “I won’t shave them off, Helen. Just so I can fuck you again someday.”
The next morning Mark and I said good-bye to Parker as he and Shelby took off. Then Mark shared some good news with me. “I finished it.”
“You finished your book?”
“Yup. This morning. It’s basically done.”
I screamed, “Oh my God, Mark, that’s so exciting!”
I kissed his cheeks and felt an unexpected stubble. He took in my quizzical look, then ran his hand over his chin and just smiled.
JEREMY EDWARDS
LE PETIT DÉJEUNER
AS MUCH AS WE ENJOY getti
ng it on at night, it is the morning that is our special time. Nighttime sex is torrid and wild. When our evening draws to an end and Lisa lands sprawling on the bed, I sometimes think her panties will evaporate into thin air from the sheer heat of her cunt.
At night, we are fuckers.
In the morning, our passion is quiet, beautiful, and intense. We are lovers.
We fell in love in Paris. Our first kiss was in front of the Eiffel Tower. Perhaps this is why we’ve done our best to make the apartment resemble a little corner of France, within the great city of Cleveland, Ohio. When no one is looking, we refer to the immediate neighborhood as the arrondissement. The bookshelves are sprinkled with Balzac and Asterix. Unassuming Rhône wines haunt the kitchen counter, echoing the mood of the lazy still life that freshens the living room with flowers and peaches.
The bed we share sports Continental linens, which we launder in lavender-scented detergent. The coffee whose aroma permeates our morning atmosphere is, bien sûr, a French Roast. Amazingly, there is an authentic patisserie within walking distance, and I venture there for croissants each day while Lisa bathes. As I return with the croissants she emerges, smelling like olive-oil soap in particular and delicious little French hotels in general. If there should happen to be a dusting of Great Lakes snow on the topmost pastry, I choose to imagine that it transubstantiates into confectioner’s sugar as soon as the croissants and I enter Lisa’s warm sphere of influence.
We always awake hungry for each other, but also just plain hungry. We breakfast from a rustic Provençal tray—at which true Parisian sophisticates would turn up their noses, but whose sunny yellow cheers us on winter days. Keeping the flaky crumbs out of the linens has long since been declared, by mutual assent, a lost cause. By now, I boast a prodigious adroitness with our handheld vacuum cleaner.
After croissants and coffee, our flesh mingles among the crisp linens. The scents of our bodies bond with the coffee and bakery aromas. I start by stroking Lisa’s ass. It is firm and tastefully lewd like the peaches in the still life. She coos and wiggles, communicating the desire for my caresses. I, of course, fulfill this desire toute suite. I alternate between pleasuring her ass and petting her hair, her back, and her thighs, watching her tremble as she enjoys anticipating my return to her bottom. She folds her arms between her head and the pillow, relishing the passivity of being touched, and letting her ecstasy express itself through her legs only. Her muscular limbs kick with exuberant bliss; they squeeze together and release, and her toes curl and flex.
