Mind Caviar Fiction

Jamie Joy Gatto  has never met a Goth boy who wasn't as vapid as he was pretentious. She secretly wishes she could date a boy as bi and as pretty as a Goth, who masquerades weekdays as a grown-up, employed, college-educated man, and who happens to be as smart as a super-nerd. She'd fuck his brains out, decorate him on weekends, and laze about watching sci-fi, horror, porn, animation and art flicks with him and her husband on week nights in between writing and promoting her webzines and books, Unveiling Venus, Suddenly Sexy and her forthcoming collection from Circlet, Sex Noir. Her love of insane, genius bad boys has also led to working on Villians & Vixens: an erotic celebration of the scoundrel, which she is co-editing with M. Christian due out in 2002. She's also founder, designer and Editor-in-Chief of Mind Caviar, Ophelia's Muse and A Bi-Friendly Place.

E-mail Jamie Joy pictures of hot Goth boys. It's the least you can do. Visit her writing site if you want to see how busy she really is.

silver clit awards

The following story has won the the honor of "Best Short Story" March 2002 Silver Clitorides Award, which supports superior erotica writing. Thank you for your votes of support!

A Garden Called You

"What's in a name? ... lots," I mutter to no one, peeling off, then tossing my wet towel across the wood floor, spooking the cat, as I lie sprawled across my big queen bed, wet and naked, skin still sunburn-warm from the bath. "Chaka is just the wrong name for a white chick," I think for the millionth time, damning my mother for naming me after a pop star. "Especially for a skinny white chick, with small breasts. I should have been named Anne or Mary." 

I grab a little handful of my pale flesh, holding a tiny tit in my hand and I wonder what it would feel like to wrap my fingers around a meaty, black breast, full and creamy, dark brown nipples... maybe nipples the color of burgundy wine. I start to play with my own nipple, watching it grow tighter, pulling away from the areola into a tight, little pearly nubbin. I think of my hands touching a myriad of black women's bodies: pert tits with perky nipples, ripe like raisins, ready to pop into my mouth; a large pair of pendulous beauties attached to a mammoth woman who'd smother me, and my lips, with soft, seductive flesh. 

I think of all the black women I've known. Not too many, actually, but I've almost always been attracted to each one, in a different way. I knew a girl in college, Martha. She was a rocker, and I thought she was the coolest chick I'd ever met. She worked in a record store, and knew everything about anything that had to do with hip music. Martha was dark brown, chunky, pointy breasted, and big bellied. She still managed to squeeze into skin-tight jeans, and apparently didn't mind the curves she showed off, regardless of her weight. I think of one particular night, after we'd had drinks at The Club, something she'd said made me laugh, and we were both just roaring, and then giggling, and finally chuckling all over again at the silliness of our private joke. In one brief moment our eyes locked, and I just knew we were so happy to be together, drunk and stupidly laughing. Oh, how I wanted to unsnap her jeans and bury myself in that beautiful belly of hers! 

Martha was definitely special. Martha was definitely hot. I wonder now why I'd never had the courage to reach over and kiss her, or to touch her, or to do anything suggestive at all. I guess I was just too young, too shy. Today things would be different, I think. I'm older, and definitely sexually wiser, at least mentally, although I've yet to taste a brown girl's flesh. I wonder if there will ever be another Martha for me.

My hand winds its way down my flat, little, concave belly, and across my bony mons, where it lingers in the damp, tousled fur between my legs. I wonder what a black girl's pubis would feel like, covered in kinky, downy curls. I spread my legs; I open my lips with a straying finger, and I picture myself opening the brown lips of a brown girl, exposing the hot-pinkish flesh underneath. I peel open my own nether-lips, and I let my fingers wander into, and dance within my slippery furrows, feeling their way to my pleasure zone, making me wetter with each stroke. I can see my brown girl writhing with her own pleasure as I put one finger into her, then two... I do it to myself, as I picture her gasping for air, wanting me to go deeper. And so I do, I push my two fingers deep within myself, and in my mind, I also push them more deeply into her. I groan, she moans, we both shudder in little spasms around my fingertips. I touch my clit, and we both explode, the black and white falling away like shattered shards of glass. In my head: the faint smell of chlorine in a summer pool; the taste of chocolate kisses.

* * *

Carl picks me up tonight at eight, and he's always on time. I'm never ready for our dates, probably because my post-bath ritual almost always involves indecent exposure, fingers that wander, a fresh and easy come, and a nice little nap to go along with my blooming afterglow. I cannot forsake my quiet time alone, I cannot give away the time of my dreams, nor the care of my sexual body and sensual psyche. I must engage in a time and simple space for myself. I don't care if it always makes me late. Besides, we're going out to dinner, and a juicy, self-induced orgasm almost always lends itself to increasing my appetite, both for food and for sex.

Carl's looking handsome, wearing a fresh haircut and a blazer which fits nicely over his thin, midnight blue sweater. He's not the snappiest dresser I've ever been out with, but he manages to look neat and pulled together, especially when we go out on a special date. Tonight, he tells me, we're going to go get steaks. "Oooh!" I say, "What's the occasion?" 

"I love it when you're lips turn red from drinking too much Bordeaux, and I know you love red wine with steak," he teases me.

I reach over and kiss him while he's driving, and he smiles, quickly turning his attentions back to the wheel. I think I could love this man, I tell myself for the fortieth time since he's picked me up tonight, especially since he never comments negatively on my lack of readiness, my constant tardiness. He doesn't even tease me about it. He's patient, I think. And I like patience. And I like steak, and I like wine. And I really, really like Carl, too.

Before dinner, Carl orders a bottle of Australian wine-- Blackstone, a Shiraz and something else blended together, I think. It's quite nice-- but not too fancy, a perky wine, with an even, cool finish. I play with the wine bottle at the table, spinning it a little, picking at the label. I wonder if I'll ever be able to tell Carl about my mostly hidden penchant for also loving women, and more specifically, my intense attraction to black girls. I take a full sip of the wine from a sparkling glass and I let it sit on my tongue for a minute, let it roll down my throat, before I open my mouth to speak. When I open it, my lips seem to hang there, open, hovering at the brink of a thought that won't quite come out. I'm not even sure what I want to say, so I stop.

Carl laughs; his eyes wrinkle. He must sense my restlessness; he touches the top of my hand and gets my attention with those warm eyes, "What?" he asks. He seems to know I can't tell him whatever it is I'm trying so hard to say, and then, not to say. He shakes his head, "It's ok," he says, "Tell me later. It can wait." Patience, again. I love this in a man. 

The steaks arrive sizzling in their plates, juicy and buttery, stripe-scorched and steaming. The waiter cracks fresh kernels of black peppercorns over our plates, reaching across our tiny table with a huge, wooden peppermill. Instinctually I sneeze, and Carl offers me a white handkerchief. I didn't think men still carried those. I thought they went out of style along with men's fedoras. I'm impressed. I'm not sure if it's ok to wipe my nose on it, then hand it back, so I tuck it in my purse. Have I just stolen his handkerchief? I start to giggle. Carl makes me feel happy just because he's so-- him.

Back at his place, I find myself wanting to be held, to be wrapped in his strong, masculine arms. I feel a little guilty about not being able to share my sexual secret with him, at least not yet. But that doesn't stop me from wanting him. Too much wine has me feeling liquid. I can feel the pull in my cunt, the magnetic cry toward his body, his scent, to the cock inside his pants. As he dallies with the CD player, choosing a selection of discs for the carousel, I find myself rubbing the stiff outline of the seam in my jeans, wedged tightly between my legs: moisture and heat. I lift my fingers to my nose, delicious. Carl finally turns to me; my eyes are lusty torches for him. 

In bed he is not so patient, no, not tentative at all. Carl is full steam ahead, all mouth, all hands, and a delicious monster cock. He's not huge, but he's hefty: thick and semi-short with ripe, full balls. He plays his tongue along each curve my body offers. He twists me, he turns me, he finds a hole to bite and nibble, sucking my navel as if it were a delicacy of the gods. He pays equal attention to my earlobes, biting, sucking, breathing hotly onto my neck. 

I melt when I'm with Carl, I'm clay. I'm a white stretched canvas waiting to be painted a thousand colors. I'm a big, exposed blooming orchid of a cunt. My mind falls into an array of flowers, and stamens, and liquid kisses, and wispy pieces of dreams. My head drops away to this place, where these fragments of imagery live. Still my body responds to every touch, stroke, lick, kiss. I cannot speak, I can only do what he wills me. Limp from intensity, I can only experience, not guide.

A finger slips in between my legs, lingers at my pussy as it showers erotic rain for him. The same slippery finger finds its way to my asshole, poking tenderly at my puckered hole. Swirling, swirling, one finger pops in, just a touch, and I gasp. Carl lifts me up by my ass cheeks and nudges his head between my legs. His wet, pointed tongue begins to lap at my rosebud, opening my asshole involuntarily. The cool tongue swirls, pokes, prods. I smell roses, maybe jasmine, warm cut grass. Flashes of color, icy pink, palest greens, wash over me.

He reaches under the bed to grab a familiar toy-- a purple ass plug ready to fill me up. He pulls away from me; my cunt and ass throb in response to the sudden neglect. He is rustling around under the bed, fishing for my savior, my filler, what will make me feel whole. My mind cries... paper is rustling, and Carl is missing, and I am ready to scream. Crimson roses bloom pushing themselves open, then ripping apart. Red syrup drips down their stems like blood, dripping in great splashes over wrathful thorns.

He flips me over again, so that I'm belly down on the bed. He pulls my ass up high in the air, and pops the plug firmly into my hole. I scream a tiny scream, high pitched and strange. It's a sound of thanks, of fulfillment. I am satiated for that one moment until my cunt responds in a she-warrior's tone: fill me or die. The smell of vanilla-cinnamon; my childhood home; old newspapers; rain.

Carl enters my cunt in one swift motion, he stabs me with ease as I swallow him whole. I grab on tightly from muscles within, and grip his shaft as he pumps it in and out of me. He bangs me harder and harder, pushing my body toward the edge of the bed. My mouth is open, slack, drooling. I can feel myself dribbling on my own chin. I cannot even swallow, I am stunned into Kingdom Fuck. A daisy petal falls away from it's bright yellow head. He loves me, he loves me not. A child is singing.

Carl is pounding, and I'm on the brink. My body is hovering on the plateau before the mountain. I can feel my rhythm falling into his like we are one: a synergistic machine. My vision blurs, so I close my eyes, but before I get them fully shut, something catches my eye-- something lying on the floor. At first it looks like a garden, so colorful, spots of yellow and red. Then it turns to flesh. Real flesh. Photographs of skin, cocks, man on man. A pile of books on the floor, magazines, colorful g-strings. Men, men, naked men... men fucking men, with huge hard cocks, hard-ons with balls the size of Carl's fist. Men sucking men. 

When I start to come, I have a moment of free fall. I float above my body and then slam back down into it. My head rushes down to moist black earth; ivy, vines. I think I scream out loud. A moment before I spasm again, I realize that Fate has granted me a guy who jerks off to other guys. I blossom into waves, bouquets falling, white petals shower over me. As I realize my boyfriend, my lover, my cock-to-beat-all-cocks is bi... my ego falls away. Hot spasms force their way up my cunt, through my belly and out my throat, and I wail even louder than before. My howling invocation is one of thanksgiving, of love. I am one tiny voice lost in a thousand flowers, and I have finally found someone just like me. 

Copyright © 2001-2002 Jamie Joy Gatto. All rights reserved. Do not copy or post. "A Garden Called You" first appeared at ThreePillows.com.

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