Pillow Talk, by Mike Whitney
Corky, by Stan Long
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Pillow Talk
Mike Whitney
"What are you thinking about?"
"Oh, just staring off and zoning out," he lied, because repeated bad experiences over decades with various people had finally hammered away his penchant for answering fully any question about himself, blurting truths better left moldering in the past. So he lied, and smiled, having also learned the best lies are simple, infrequent and should always end with a smile into the eyes of the trusting inquirer.
In fact, he had been reliving what had been the best sex of his life. Thirty years ago, and never repeated with that two-year partner, in his mind the fecund moment took on sweaty, panting life once more. He remembered their sex smell, their loopy grins as he pushed through to the new place, and she had let him. Her deep sigh rang with an inflection entirely new and pleased. Bliss blocked out the street sounds completely. Transported, the small apartment bedroom was a magic carpet over the city, lights below and above.
When he lifted his face from her pillow, with strands of her wet hair sticking to his chin, they smiled wordlessly. New, yes. this was more than a climax, thrashing and crying out to themselves as god and goddess. Neither had come, but both felt the change. She lifted him, arching her back again, and he simply slipped into the new place. She laughed softly, her smile happy and excited. More, let's do more. Can we ride again, please, please please. Let's hold onto this, make it last. It is knowing the bar has been reset, and for that moment, it stops the dull pain, the stupid fucking pain, until tomorrow.
"Zoning out, huh? Well, from the look on your face, the zone is good tonight."
"Yes. Nice place to visit but I wouldn't want to live there."
"I'm going to read to the next chapter."
"That's it for me, love you, 'night. See you in the morning."
He rolled onto his side, turned off his reading light, and smiled into the darkness.
Corky
Stan Long
The first time sixteen-year old Corky finger-fucked his aunt - though he got more than he bargained for - was also the first time he had actually known a woman. Waking one night with a bone in his hand, the house empty except for his aunt and himself, he became fiercely excited at the thought of her lying there in the next room. Overcoming the fear of a violent rebuff, naked, he gently, gently opened her door and stealthily slipped under her covers.
Soon his hand found that woman’s secret place he had so often dreamed of, which, when touched, stirred her slightly. Encouraged that she still slept, he began to massage her with his middle finger, until with a soft moan she relaxed, turned over, and lay on her back. Half-awake now but caught in the throes of a rising excitement, yet fully aware that it was Corky at her door, she pretended to sleep. He was aware of her pretence, knowing instinctively that it was both guilt and pleasure that possessed her, her body responding more and more to the pressure of his finger.
At last there was no denying its insistence and reaching out, she gripped him. This pleased him greatly but then she surprised him by climbing aboard, straddling him while at the same time directing his entry.
From then on she was in command, and he knew it, his will now compelling him to stay the course, the tremendous excitement of having her breast in his mouth while her lovely, soft, rounded bottom, bounced under his hands, giving him unimaginable pleasure. But she further surprised him with a move that was even more unexpected.
Awkwardly pulling him from her breast, she fixed her mouth on his, which intimacy was beyond belief, she giving tongue in a hard, demanding kiss and imprinting him forever with her womanhood..
She could never be plain auntie again.
Suddenly finished, she was out of bed and quickly into the bathroom.
At the sound of water running, he headed downstairs in a frenzy of fear and delight to the other bathroom where he cleaned himself. Returning upstairs a few minutes later, he found all quiet. Foolishly confident now, he tried her door and was greatly annoyed to find it locked.
Next morning he found his breakfast on the table as usual, the sounds of her angrily rattling pans and dishes in the sink, the only signs of what she must be thinking. It was also the only acknowledgement he ever got that something had happened between them. Nothing was ever said, she behaved as she always had, which he took to mean he was to act normal as well.
After that, no matter how many times he tried her door when they were alone in the house, it was always locked against him.
With the episode behind them, and even after she died many years later, he was never to know it was not just the fact of a taboo being broken that had come between them, nor that she distrusted him - it was because of herself, in her spinsterhood - that brief taste of forbidden fruit, too hard for her to bear thinking of.
