 Lana Gail Taylor has published erotica in Playgirl, Dare for Women, Brilliant Smut, Clean Sheets, and Best Bisexual Women's Erotica. She also has stories scheduled to appear in 2002 in Bedroom Eyes: Lesbians in the Boudoir and Girl Play. E-mail Lana Gail Taylor.
Rise to The Top Mica is standing at the bottom of the stairwell wanting to know if he can come up. I'm wearing jeans ripped in the ass and a tee shirt. My bare feet curl over the threshold to my apartment. The arches are sweating. The nails are red. This is the house I inherited from my parents. Entire first floor is mine: lots of space and wood floors, vaulted ceiling, plants, windows, the fireplace and throw rugs, candles, no doors. I rent out the rest of the house. There are three mail slots: Tab Kidman, Carrie Willis, and Mica Elton. Carrie is the middle, although she would never refer to herself as that, and Mica is renting "the cellar." Dark carpets and small spaces suit him. I nod for him to come up. Mica has green eyes behind wire glasses; a childish face he doesn't always shave. He's thin. Light skinned. Wears dark clothes that hang off him. He jogs up the steps, bringing with him a scent of an ashtray overflowing with cigarettes and hours spent contemplating his narrative. At night, while I’m sitting at the computer with writer’s block, I suddenly smell Mica coming in through the windows, up through the vents and I covet his energy, pilfer his youthful exuberance and begin to type. I end up with a poem that I’ll later slide into a manila envelope while I try to guess which shoe box the editor’s response will end up in? The one with a not so shabby but modest pile of acceptance letters, or the rejection box, which is spilling over with paper vomit? Mica comes upstairs to brag. Exactly the way it was the first time. He called up from the bottom of the stairwell. "Miss Kidman? You up?" It was one a.m. I was beating worthless poetry into the keyboard and drinking a whiskey sour. I opened the door, figured the dark, light slip of a young man down the stairs for a hallucination. Then he spoke again. "You busy?" "You mean have I got company?” A tiny smile curled my lips. “Carrie’s not here." Carrie called Mica a pretentious brat. My smile spread. Mica held up a manuscript that glowed from the light inside the house. "I have to read this to you." “Have to?” His head pumped up and down. "Yours, I suppose?" More head pumping up and down. "Come on then. Hurry up." Mica settled into one of my armchairs and began to read his narrative -- borderline self-indulgent, but edgy. He gazed at me through his glasses, looking painfully younger than twenty-six. "You like it?" I sat across from him, fascinated by the vein twitching at the base of his neck. "It’s a solid start," I replied. Mica smiled like he knew it, but didn't. I wanted to pat his head. I gave him a glass of scotch. Eventually, he was confessing he would have let the late, great Allen Ginsberg fuck him up the ass. "You like having sex with men?" "I let a guy suck my cock once." A naughty smile. "You wanted him to give you head?" Another naughty smile, what a boy. Shrug. "And?" "The best." "Okay!" "Usually I have sex with girls." Someone once told me that bisexuals are confused. I would say Mica, like many of us, crossed boundaries, blurred lines, and became consumed by his own passions. When writers write, we're all knowing, all doing and it spills over sometimes. We find that we like what we’ve imagined a lot. * * * Tonight, Mica wants to talk about his cock. I'd attribute that to his age, but then I'd have to attribute wanting to hear about it to mine. On a good day, I'm still thirty. On a bad day, thirty-nine. What's the difference? Fuck if I know. Women's magazines swear I'm in the prime of my life: when I can give the most, and take the most, too. Mica draws me a picture. The cock is huge. So I ask about that. Mica grins like a bashful, prideful child. "People who know call me Magnum." "Is that so?” "Yeah." He adds to his sketch. I feel thirsty. I pour us both a drink. Sheets of my poetry are strewn all over the room. The vomiting shoebox vomited again this morning. What I need is a distraction. Mica raises his glass, grinning goofy but cute and we toast. I look at the sketch, "I’m not sure I’m perfectly clear. Show it to me." "My cock?" Mica looks as if I told him he won the Pulitzer Prize. "Your cock." “Now?" “That’s preferable." Mica's eyes are feverish behind his glasses. He jerks down his zipper, smirking bashfully. I take in the rigid cylinder of phallus flesh. Pointing straight at me. Rock hard. The skin around it is smooth, whitish-red, and lightly lined with blue veins. The shiny mushroom cap is leaking. Magnum, indeed. "Nice cock, Mica." My mouth waters. My cunt aches from emptiness. This baby could fill me up. Mica lands on my chair, clamoring up my body, groping, pushing my tee shirt out of the way so he can latch his mouth on my nipples, sucking noisily and so hard I think he'll draw blood. I moan, telling him, "Easy." Ah, youthful exuberance. I moan again, “More.” He sucks and gropes me. My nipples swell and throb. Mica fumbles with the fly of my jeans. We're both heaving for breath. I help him get me out of these pants. No underwear. He’s going for a condom already and I tell him, “First things first, right?” and I spread my legs and lay his hand on my naked cunt. He plunges a finger in. I'm wet and open. A second finger falls in. I writhe beneath him, grabbing his head and shoving it down there so he's fucking and sucking in unison. I feel blood rushing to my center, under his mouth, near boiling. My cunt gives. I come so hard I kick him off me. Mica gasps and I see him double over, fist around Magnum, coming, semen dripping off his hand and wrist. Youthful exhuberence, indeed. I doze momentarily, sated, satisfied, and when I open my eyes Mica is hard again. Jesus, that’s what I like. Maybe. I got mine already, but the over excited glaze in his eyes, his trembling mouth and the way he stutters, “G-gotta fuck you n-now,” gets me hot again, thumping. Mica struggles with the condom, gets it on and I tell him, “Sit. I’ll take the top.” I manage to get situated with little trouble and rock on top of him as he sits in the chair. I use my legs to move my cunt up and down his cock, pulling the skin, rubbing my walls, working Magnum, oiling him thick and sticky, and hitting my clit just right. Mica is biting down on his lip. He’s rising to the top, boiling into the condom’s reservoir, flooding. Mica shudders and groans, “Oh shit.” I’m holding his head, feeling thick, sticky-soft hair, some kind of oil that shines my fingers. * * * Like Mica and I, who are nocturnal, Carrie writes at night, not usually even up before two p.m., but when she rises it's epic. She wakes me, bumping around below, talking to herself, or her cat. She then puts on Courtney Love's band, Hole -- contrary to her sunshiny way of rising, but complimentary to her dark, moody prose. Death was a common theme. I’m not sure how many times she has killed her father. All her commotion makes me moan and slap a pillow over my head. Once I knelt on the wood floor and screamed down through the vent. "Carrie! Shut the fuck up!" She came up later with a picnic basket. "Tab. You screamed at me, swore." "Because you’re a loud riser. Drive me fucking crazy.” Meanwhile, I was poking around the picnic basket, seduced by the scent of chicken and pumpkin pie. I liked keeping her around for a few reasons, and this was one of them. Carrie, sweet and seething, happy to curl up to me, bring me presents, cook, read my poetry and say it’s wonderful, but she turned pissy when she discovered one of Mica’s manuscripts on my desk. She read through it and then slapped it down with a snort. “Sucks. Load of self-serving crap!” “It doesn’t suck,” I said. Instantly, her eyes narrowed. “Tell me you’re not fucking that dweeb.” At that point I wasn’t. So I said no. Carrie snuggled in close like a twenty-four year old child. She said, "Tab, I’m in love with you.” She probably believed she was in love with me. Sometimes I thought I loved her, too. Carrie ran her hands down my hair to my neck, fingering the nape, the pulse. She kissed me there, lingered, lips blowing, and then her hands smoothed over my shoulders, across my breasts. I closed my eyes, let her take me. She pressed her palm on my shirt, rubbing, dragging long nails that raked my nipples standing up behind the cotton. Then she put her tongue on the spot, licking my erections through my shirt while down below another erection had begun to blossom, beat, and burn. We fell to the floor, entangled. Quickly I was naked, she was naked, and we slid together like warm marble giving way. I dug her foal-like long limbs, knobby knees, slender hips. Her breasts swayed above me and big, rosy nipples grazed my lips. I caught one, sucking. Carrie moaned. Her dark hair fell forward, hiding her face, covering mine, and then sliding over the pulse in my neck. "Do you love me, Tab?" I held her hair back from her shiny face, her large blue eyes. Carrie had a wide mouth, sharp, crooked teeth like mine. “Not sure.” I tried kissing her neck. Carrie got away from me. She sat pissed and pouting on the floor. I got up and reached for my clothes. I wasn't about to stand there naked and argue about honesty. Carrie stood up, too, leaning into the counter, turning on the sink, wiggling her fingers under the water, playing for several minutes, stalling maybe. Finally she asked in resentful tone, "It’s him, isn’t it? That pretentious brat, Mica?” Carrie made a face and then looked sad. “Is he all that more interesting than me?” “You’re both interesting.” I reached for a strand of her hair. Carrie pulled away. “Only want you, Tab. Just. You.” I spoke to her softly, smiling, trying to get her stoked up, rising and horny again. "I’m flattered by the way you feel, baby. Let’s take it a day at a time and see what happens?” I kissed her. Carrie moaned against my mouth, caved in. * * * Later that night, I'm trying to write. It comes slowly, near forced. I hear something outside and go to the window. Mica and Carrie are standing in the alley. Mica is dropping a bag of trash. His glasses slide down his nose, catch shards of moonlight. Carrie has crept up on him. Her hair is full of electricity. She has the lid of a trashcan in her hand like a weapon. "Shit!" I snap out loud and start to go outside. Then I stop, sigh, shit. Too old for this, Tab. In over your head. I return to the computer, easing into the chair, and suddenly I’m typing fervently, feeling my glow like the pair of fireflies sparring in the alley below. * * * Carrie wants me to come to her reading. She's presenting her portfolio to a group of graduate students and professors. I loved teaching, but in academia, a professor is either published or perished. Unfortunately, constant aggravation and paper work, politics, community services, and lip service often hemorrhaged my writing efforts. I needed a vacation. I got one, a one-year sabbatical, and things became quiet, solitary, too. I spent day after day at the computer. Then what was wrong with me? My routine got monotonous, dry. I came up with a bright idea to rent out parts of the house and two little rat writers moved in with exactly what I needed: excitement, energy, worship. Carrie begins to read. It's engrossing, disturbing. I can tell her peers are jealous. Then toward the end of her presentation, Carrie turns sentimental. I'm caught off guard while she reads right at me, words gushing like sugar from the bag all over the podium. I manage to sit still and clap for her. Afterwards, Carrie is juiced up, high on adrenaline. Electricity in the hair again, fire in the eyes and she wants to go. She drags me off campus, going nowhere. She stops and bumps up against me. We embrace like girls, giggling. She pushes me against a tree and the bark scrapes my back through my shirt, tears my skin. She lifts the hem, licking around my navel, my ribs, and then to my breasts, no bra. I hold her head, stroke her hair, which I love, touch her face. I'm turned on, rising, my clit in my pants full and pumping. Carrie drops to her knees, buries her face in my crotch. She makes love to my cunt with her mouth through my jeans. She uses her teeth. I keep her hair in my hands, pulling. She rips off my pants. My naked cunt grins at the moon. Her tongue moves up and down the damp, doughy slit. Her tongue fucks me, then eats me, and then nurses on my clit, trying to get at the thump. I imagine drenching her, not caring, giving in. I open myself as wide as I can, resting a thigh over her shoulder, pressing against the tree for balance and ignoring the bark. "Good, baby. Good. I'm close…" I bleed come on her tongue. After a moment, I steady myself enough to grab her. "Come here." I shove my hand under her skirt, feel her sweating cunt, hot oil that is musk and almond, copper penny smells on my fingers when I suck on them, push them into her mouth to share. She pulls me to the grass with her, cool and almost downy. "Tab. Make. Me. Come." I'm on top, kissing her mouth, her neck pulse, arms, the insides of her hands, her wrists, her funny round elbows, and then her breasts, there for a minute nursing, and then down to her cunt again because she's pushing me that way, gasping, "Hurry!" I bite her just right so her orgasm is there for me in seconds. Her hands beat on my back; foal legs wrapped around me like a wrestler's. Then, "Tab. I won't let you go.” She's crying. I’m crying, too. * * * Carrie is cooking. It's just after ten p.m. I've been writing since noon: poems dripping out the end of my fingers onto the keys until they glow fine and beautiful. There is less paper vomit on the floor lately, a little bit less. I think I have a publisher for my second book of poems. Carrie wants to celebrate. She is wearing her bra and panties and an apron, moving about the kitchen mixing things, adding things, sipping a spoon, setting pots on the stove, removing pans from the oven. Her dark hair is in a loose ponytail swinging behind her back. I hear Mica at the bottom of the stairwell, wanting to know if he can come up. Carrie's clatter ceases. "He's not invited." I sigh, pick up my drink and drain it. "Tab? You there?" Mica is yelling. Pretty soon, he is stomping up the steps and letting himself in. I pour a whiskey for Carrie, and then for him. Mica looks from me to Carrie to himself. And then he looks back at me. I hand him his drink. Carrie is eyeing him warily. I hand her a drink, too. "A toast," I say. “Got one,” Mica is quick. He lifts his glass at me. "Here's to you, Mrs. Robinson." Mica chuckles, pleased with himself, blushing. Carrie thinks it’s funny, too. She actually smiles. Mica's glass chimes with mine. Carrie's glass chimes with mine. Then their arms drop and they eyeball each other. I wait until both of their glasses rise in front of me, clinking. Mica looks adorable in dark pants, a dark tee shirt, and a knit cap. Of course, Carrie is irresistible in her lingerie and apron. I kiss her. She kisses me back. I kiss Mica. He thrusts his tongue inside my mouth, exuberant as always. Not to be outdone, Carrie kisses me again, tongue wriggling and wet. When she lets me go, I run my tongue over my teeth, feel the pang in my gut, my cunt. I play with Carrie's hair, the silk, and Mica's hair, curling sticky-soft. I take a deep whiff of what is bubbling below the surface of their skins, pumping. "Good babies," I whisper. Do they see my bared, crooked teeth? I tell them, “Kiss each other,” and they hesitate long enough that I think it’s not going to happen. Then they kiss, dry and clumsy at first before Mica grabs Carrie’s long heavy hair in his hands and he’s tonguing her mouth, deep and long. God, I’m turned on. Then I see it, a flash of things to come: they’ll leave me and go with each other. I can live with it. Right now, it’s all for me. Copyright
© 2001-2002 Lana Gail Taylor. All rights reserved. Do not copy or
post.
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