mirror at the end of the bed. If you’d had your purple hair, we’d have been punk rock bookends.
We made quite the impression at the party. The managing editor at the magazine sidled up to me while you were getting our drinks.
“Very old-school,” he said, looking pleased with himself with his use of modern slang. The man is seventy-five if he’s a day. “But who is that young thing? She’s not your usual type, Alex.”
I turned to watch you, poised and elegant as you moved through the crowd of expensively costumed drunks. “You’ve met Sylvia, haven’t you, Robert?” I asked, laying on the innocent surprise.
I had to tap his chin to remind him to close his mouth. He looked properly chastised and he was discomfited enough that the tips of his ears went pink.
When you arrived with our drinks, I’d never been so relieved—in another moment I would have laughed at poor Robert, and then where would I be? That man without his dignity would be a shell of himself, and I’d never get another job from him.
I spent the rest of the party itching to leave, to take you home and get you naked. And now that we’re here, I’m going to stop writing, and go wake you up.
* * *
You did find this earlier than I wanted, but it’s worked out better than I thought. Maybe I have some talent as an erotica writer, since you came to bed so ready. I wish you could wake me up every night with your tongue flicking my clit. Even better that you held my hips so I couldn’t move. And afterwards, falling asleep together, tangled in the sheets—I couldn’t ask for anything more.
And now I’ll stop. The coffee’s perking and you’ll be awake soon. I love bringing you coffee in bed, seeing your tousled hair and drowsy eyes, the beautiful disarray. If I didn’t love you already, I’d love you just from seeing you like that.
But I forgot to tell you… my hair dye is temporary, but yours isn’t. I double-checked the label on the purple. So in another week, we will be punk bookends after all. If I find you a silver dress like Debbie Harry’s in “Heart of Glass”, will you model it for me?
Love, Vee.
Safer Places
Ariel Graham
She’s got muscle the way other people—the analogy fails me every time. I find myself wanting to say something ridiculous and absurd, something that’s not a compliment but a confusion. She has muscles the way old houses have mice. She has muscles the way smart people have ideas.
She is muscle. That’s what defines Sadie. No, not muscle. Strength. The muscle is there, those toned, bronzed forearms, a little darker than the rest of her arms because she rolls her uniform sleeves up when she’s on patrol. Not officially against protocol—Northern Nevada gets hot in the summer and rural county sheriff deputies can go a good long while without seeing anyone. And frankly, ranchers and truck drivers don’t care. They’re either in need of assistance or too pissed off at being confronted by a woman in uniform.
“Fuck ‘em,” Sadie says, and then she fucks me instead.
Sometimes I think the uniform is Sadie, and everything else is a mask. Close as we’ve become over the years together, there’s still a distance. I think that I know Sadie, that Sadie is defined by her job, her muscle. But there’s more to her than that muscle. Something hidden under the toned, sleek flesh, the biceps I love to run my tongue over, the hamstrings and quads that trap my head in place so all I can do is struggle, giggle and lick.
There’s more. It’s in her dark eyes and her ferocious dedication.
And the way some nights, she wakes up crying.
* * *
“So, what’d you do today while I was off saving the world?” Sadie asks and I choke on my lemonade and sputter.
Saving the world is meant to make me laugh. We live in a county that’s all of two hundred and sixty four square miles and houses more deer, wild horses and grazing cows than humans.
Just after six p.m. The sun’s still nearly overhead.
We made quite the impression at the party. The managing editor at the magazine sidled up to me while you were getting our drinks.
“Very old-school,” he said, looking pleased with himself with his use of modern slang. The man is seventy-five if he’s a day. “But who is that young thing? She’s not your usual type, Alex.”
I turned to watch you, poised and elegant as you moved through the crowd of expensively costumed drunks. “You’ve met Sylvia, haven’t you, Robert?” I asked, laying on the innocent surprise.
I had to tap his chin to remind him to close his mouth. He looked properly chastised and he was discomfited enough that the tips of his ears went pink.
When you arrived with our drinks, I’d never been so relieved—in another moment I would have laughed at poor Robert, and then where would I be? That man without his dignity would be a shell of himself, and I’d never get another job from him.
I spent the rest of the party itching to leave, to take you home and get you naked. And now that we’re here, I’m going to stop writing, and go wake you up.
* * *
You did find this earlier than I wanted, but it’s worked out better than I thought. Maybe I have some talent as an erotica writer, since you came to bed so ready. I wish you could wake me up every night with your tongue flicking my clit. Even better that you held my hips so I couldn’t move. And afterwards, falling asleep together, tangled in the sheets—I couldn’t ask for anything more.
And now I’ll stop. The coffee’s perking and you’ll be awake soon. I love bringing you coffee in bed, seeing your tousled hair and drowsy eyes, the beautiful disarray. If I didn’t love you already, I’d love you just from seeing you like that.
But I forgot to tell you… my hair dye is temporary, but yours isn’t. I double-checked the label on the purple. So in another week, we will be punk bookends after all. If I find you a silver dress like Debbie Harry’s in “Heart of Glass”, will you model it for me?
Love, Vee.
Safer Places
Ariel Graham
She’s got muscle the way other people—the analogy fails me every time. I find myself wanting to say something ridiculous and absurd, something that’s not a compliment but a confusion. She has muscles the way old houses have mice. She has muscles the way smart people have ideas.
She is muscle. That’s what defines Sadie. No, not muscle. Strength. The muscle is there, those toned, bronzed forearms, a little darker than the rest of her arms because she rolls her uniform sleeves up when she’s on patrol. Not officially against protocol—Northern Nevada gets hot in the summer and rural county sheriff deputies can go a good long while without seeing anyone. And frankly, ranchers and truck drivers don’t care. They’re either in need of assistance or too pissed off at being confronted by a woman in uniform.
“Fuck ‘em,” Sadie says, and then she fucks me instead.
Sometimes I think the uniform is Sadie, and everything else is a mask. Close as we’ve become over the years together, there’s still a distance. I think that I know Sadie, that Sadie is defined by her job, her muscle. But there’s more to her than that muscle. Something hidden under the toned, sleek flesh, the biceps I love to run my tongue over, the hamstrings and quads that trap my head in place so all I can do is struggle, giggle and lick.
There’s more. It’s in her dark eyes and her ferocious dedication.
And the way some nights, she wakes up crying.
* * *
“So, what’d you do today while I was off saving the world?” Sadie asks and I choke on my lemonade and sputter.
Saving the world is meant to make me laugh. We live in a county that’s all of two hundred and sixty four square miles and houses more deer, wild horses and grazing cows than humans.
Just after six p.m. The sun’s still nearly overhead.
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