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When I was 17 and a virgin, I was in love with a beautiful punk boy who was living on my friend's couch. Stitch towered over me with his long legs and tall blue-black mohawk, a grifter Ichabod Crane with eyes so aqueous blue I couldn't meet them without promptly melting into waves of panic. Every day after school that spring, I would drive over to my friend's house and chain smoke with a shaking hand as Stitch watched the trashy afternoon TV shows. I would have to stop my car on her street, sweating and ill to my stomach at the thought of seeing him. We hardly spoke, really, even when he came over to get fed by my bemused parents and watch Harold and Maude in my bedroom, his feet hanging off the edge of my girlish bed. He was quiet, a blank canvas upon which I threw my stories of changelings and angels. I almost believed his body ended at the waist. I knew he fucked. I knew it. But I couldn't even begin to think how. The punk house, as it came to be known, was a servant's house behind my friend's mother's house. It inevitably smelled of cigarette smoke, cheap beer, and boot rot. Stitch has found his way there from the Midwest, and his accent was sweet and quiet. "Let's go out, Stitch," I’d say. "No, thanks, I'm on vacation," he'd murmur. Or, "Saved by the Bell is on. Maybe later." He was so beautiful, I can't tell you. He had this strange energy around him that attracted people in ways I felt, at seventeen, I never would. He was free of parents, of high school, of applying to colleges, of everything that made my life overprivileged and embarrassing. I wanted to not care about anything; I wanted to be him. If I couldn't be him, then perhaps I could fuck him. That was good enough for me. One night we were alone in the punk house, silent as usual. He had shown me the picture album he carried with him everywhere in his travels; he showed me pictures of tripping teenagers brushing their teeth, smiling boys with studded jackets knee-deep in snow, Mardi Gras pictures blurry with Hurricanes, and a black and white picture of a cat, heavy with fur and licking between her toes. This was his cat, he told me. He'd had her since he was a little boy, and when she died, he took her ashes and made them into a tea and drank them. How Zen, I said. He nodded. I wanted to ask him more, about his family, his travels, what he was trying to find or get away from, but I was afraid to, as if polite interest would let slip all my secrets - the panic attacks, my constant eyeing of his elegant fingers, the things I dreamed up during my required senior government class. He sat there on the punk house couch, picking his nails with a knife. I sat next to him, my body curled in on itself facing the other direction - legs askew in an Indian style, arms knotted up across my chest, smoking cigarette after cigarette. I could feel the saliva building up in my throat, threatening to gag me, to escape into words I didn't know how to begin saying. I knew that it would be as easy as my body shifting towards him, that one second spent leaning and he would meet it. Or he wouldn't. I wasn't sure which terrified me more. The dirty zebra-striped couch shifted under me as I put my combat boots on the floor, my knees toward him, and then he was there kissing me with his wide pink mouth, his square white teeth rolling my lower lip. I was trapped inside this dark wetness in his head, this licking honey. He was kissing me like a girl, I thought, like a girl! All those years I had thought I was dry and wrong for not liking the teenage tongue-first makeout sessions; here he was kissing me like I would kiss myself. I moved farther into his kiss, his bony arms around me, those long narrow fingers crawling up my back and percolating the prickly swell, the rush of wetness. He smelled like cigarettes and unwashed hair, and his skin, as I licked along his harsh jaw-line, was salty. I moved onto his lap and held onto those bony wrists, bit his sly collarbones and his feline ears. His scalp was just beginning to grow baby fuzz, and his mouth was so strong and hungry, it was going to eat me like fruit unless I did something first. I was afraid his kiss would undo all my secrets, that I would spill words into him with my breath, all my fears that he wouldn't remember me in six months, in a year, in another city or state, that I was another dot on his map, but I never had the chance because his mouth was attached to me, his skeletal hands everywhere, cupping my too-full breasts and my ass and suddenly growing nails to scratch me with. And he was no longer a strange angel, a sexless creature. The faded black jeans he wore, soft around the knees, did nothing to hide his erection. The chain connecting his wallet to his belt loop chinked together and pinched my inner thigh. When I put my hand down to move it, his was already there on me, gentle, moving the chain, stroking the ripped tights still covering me, and instead my hand was on his dick. He pushed his hips right up into my hand, and I thought I would fucking come right there. This boy, this unreal beauty, was underneath me and wanting me? I reached behind me and caught his hard wrists in my hands, put one on each side of his head behind him on the creaky black wicker of the couch. He allowed this for a minute or two, and then I found myself under him, flipped like an egg, a crab with my legs scrabbling for air, and him in between them. My hands were above my head, now, mashed against the wicker armrest, the smell of ancient pillows and sticky saliva and his warm hard sternum full in my nostrils. He was pumping his narrow boy hips into me with a surprising energy. Kisses were replaced by panting noises, and then in my ear: "You're a virgin." Not a question, but a statement. I nodded anyway. "Let me give you head," he said, "Please." Even before he said anything I would have had sex with him right there, in someone else's house, on a couch funky with teenage fucking, the windows half-broken and the door to open at any second. I had never allowed any of my previous boyfriends to go down on me for fear of losing control of my body; the frightening release of orgasm eluded me at the hands and mouths of others for years. Who's to say if I really trusted him more than the others, or if I was older and more ready for sex, or if I just wanted him so badly I would have risked anything, even my own humiliation, to be part of him for a second. Kissing my ear and its cheap silver rings I had poked in myself, Stitch teased the skin around my waist, puckered by the elastic of my tights. He helped me take off my tights; they were tossed out of sight, another relic of the punk house. He felt the soft fuzz of my belly and brushed against the tips of my pubic hairs; then it was my turn to thrust my hips at him. I made little impatient noises and dug my fingernails into the space between his shoulder blades. He laughed and skooched down, kissing my stomach and breathing on my panties. Then Stitch was licking the cotton and slipping his tongue slyly into the leg holes. One finger found its way into my panties right by the crease of my pelvis and traveled perilously close to the edge of my labia. I was too deep inside my head to even make a noise by then. One finger trickled between my labia, then two, then three stroked me like a wave. He removed his hand, licked his fingers looking at me intently. The elevator drop of fear and lust and the last seconds before everything changes. Then Stitch began fucking me with his mouth. He was hunched between my legs. He kept looking up at me, smiling with his eyes, sometimes stopping to make little kisses at me that made me giggle. His response would be little bites all over my cunt lips and my inner thighs and finally one last tweak on my clit. I was grabbing his hair by then, the stripe of dyed black hair that remained soft as fur despite his habit of tormenting it into spikes; when I let go, it fell over his left eye, the right bald and strangely vulnerable with one throbbing vein in his temple, which I petted like a child. He dipped his tongue between my labia, kissing my vulva like he had previously kissed my mouth. He sucked one lip into his mouth and rolled it around like sushi, then the other one, then his tongue was inside of me, fucking me hard, his nose rubbing my clit, his fingers pressing on the sensitive muscles in the bridge between front and back. I opened my legs completely and hooked my ankles over his shoulders, locking him into me. He was meticulous, licking me up and down from the place where my labia met my mons to the perineal ridge; then he settled on the clit, the fingers of one hand working my cunt, and the other adding pressure near my asshole. Stitch made a little pocket out of his mouth, sucked my clit into it, and flicked in conjunction with his finger fucking. I was feeling too good to be surprised he knew my secret pulse points, and too young to know about the G-Spot he was working from both sides of the sticky walls inside my body. I thought about how good it felt when I fingered myself, the soft envelope of velvet that suckled at my finger, and I felt beautiful that he was feeling the same thing and that he was giving me this pressure, this heat building that was accompanied by his fingers thrusting in me like a cock, this wild motion I was making that he could barely keep up with. I went deep into myself and came with a low moan and muscle shudders that continued for another minute or so. When I had finished convulsing, Stitch covered my half-naked body with the warm length of him and kissed me. His mouth tasted of my cunt, his tongue was warm from being inside of me. I was still twitching, tiny currents running down my legs just when I thought they'd subsided. His hand was gently resting between my legs, soaking up the shudders he stirred up and soothing me with its weight. "Sleep," he said, "Sleep." |
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12.07.06: Scarlet Letters -- in case it isn't glaringly obvious -- is currently
on an extended hiatus. The web has changed, we've changed, and
we're trying to figure out how we both fit together now, which isn't a process we want to rush. If you're looking for more current SL-related content, you can
have check out upcoming books from editor Heather Corinna and previous co-editor Hanne Blank, check out Heather's current sexuality sites, or explore sites through the femmerotic network. We hope to be back with you soon, as fresh, challenging and
unexpected as ever.
In the meantime, by all means, enjoy our years of past content,
all of which still remain in the public and subscription areas.
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