After Midnight by Chelsea James Page B

reached into her pants pocket and took out several metal picks. She put them over her fingers, and her face went back to my cunt. That left hand returned to its previous steady tempo inside my wet hole, while the other scraped and scratched and stabbed at my tits, belly, thighs, and arms with its metal adornments. I looked down to see her licking and fucking me, but what made my heart race faster was the sight of her raising dark welts on me. The liquid ascent that preceded my orgasms was beginning; I felt it rise higher in my belly, but with all that there was jammed inside my hole, there was nowhere for that orgasm to go but out my mouth with a force large enough to summon campus police if I hadn’t thought ahead and jammed the pillow between my lips as I came. Dalia held gently but firmly onto the end of her belt until I stopped thrashing.
    All too soon, Dalia slowly loosened the belt from my neck. I touched my neck where the belt had been, and it felt raised and hot like a halo.
    Dalia yawned and ran her hands hard over her shaved head. She put her pants back on, rethreading her belt in the worn loops, and as she went looking for her shirt, she realized it had been underneath me as she fucked me, and that it was now wet with me. She smiled and picked up the shirt I’d been wearing, a black Sticky Fingers tee from my first time living in Baltimore,
and asked if she could borrow it. I nodded, unaware I’d never see that shirt again and that she’d left the sort of girl-fucking artifacts in my room I’d later come to expect would be left behind: boxer briefs, a thick steel-bead chain, and a signed first edition of The Complete Hothead Paisan .
    I stood to kiss her good-bye, and she once again became the sweet and bouncy rebel nerd I was accustomed to adoring. She pressed the power button on the stereo and silently let herself out. I found her necklace on the floor and put it on so it rubbed against my aching, bruised neck. Beyond the fucking itself, this talisman symbolized that I had been initiated, but into what I was still unsure.
    The phone rang the double ring of an off-campus call. I rolled over and picked up. At this hour it would either be the Whispering Woman or my partner. The odds were slightly in my favor.
    â€œOh, my God. You’ll never guess who I just had sex with.”
    â€œNever, eh?” A low chuckle, and then my partner read me an excerpt of the email ze had sent Dalia, a description of my crush on her and a suggestion that I would be up for a romp if invited.
    Not even when I found my name in the liner notes for Dalia’s first album a few months later did I feel so very loved. “Thank you very much,” it said, using my girlie given name, which of course brought me no end of shame and joy.

THE FLAME
    Tonne Forquer
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    T he autumn trees and earth fill my vision as I stroll across the park. My eyes are heavy and my head swims with last night’s desire. I spot a woman in the distance and I pray it’s Amanda. Just the thought of her makes me wet. With each step I’m a little closer. I have a terrible need for my fix and no one else can quench it. My heartbeat quickens. It’s her.
    Amanda’s standing outside her van, one hand on her hip, the other holding a cigarette. Her blue eyes and full lips against her pale young flesh and dark red hair drive me wild. I flash her a smile and bite my bottom lip.
    â€œI was wondering if you were going to show.” She grins and flicks the cigarette to the ground. Smoke escapes her mouth and floats into the early morning sky.
    I hug her, and she rubs the back of my neck. As I take in her scent, my mind wanders. I want to melt in her arms, to ignore the rest of the world. I plant a gentle kiss on the back of her neck, and she lets out a soft moan.

    She pulls me into the van. The windows are tinted black. We can see out, but the revelers in the park can’t see she’s doing a