Sex in the First Person

Back in his room, I'm still hearing the thrilling rush of his music as my hands play at his belt. We reel back into his bed, pushing, pulling, his palm to my cheek, my fingertips strumming his spine. When finally we settle into each other, finding an old rhythm, I'm composing a litany of murmurs and moans because it's the only tune I can carry. I don't know how to get inside who he is, maybe I'll never know, but when he slides his palms under my hips, lifting me up, pulling me in, I'm closer than I've ever been to the point where two complex melodies merge into one.

—A.J. McCormick

photo: Shawna Enyart

Looks Can Be Deceiving

Kiki doesn't look like the kind of girl who'll do anything, anywhere, anytime. She doesn't look like the kind of girl who will leave a gushing note for her celebrity crush and receive a call from her within an hour. She doesn't look like the kind of girl who will have sex anywhere—while she's driving, on a plane, in many a bar's bathroom. She doesn't look like the kind of girl who will jump up and follow a woman into the bathroom at Time Café to see if she is, in fact, Natalie Merchant. She doesn't look like the kind of girl who will have a threesome with you and the boy you like, even though she's really into girls. She doesn't look like the kind of girl who will participate in a contest that involves rubbing her breasts up and down along a huge block of ice. She doesn't look like the kind of girl who, at the drop of a hat, will say, Yes, I'll be in your friend's porn movie. She doesn't look like the kind of girl who will ask you to choke her, demand that you spank her, beg you to scratch your nails, hard, down her back. She doesn't look like the kind of girl who will get drunk and press you up against the bathroom wall at your high school reunion, then flirt with your classmates. She doesn't look like the kind of girl who will follow her heart, wherever it leads, no matter how crazy or outrageous or reckless. The best thing about her is that she doesn't look like she will do any of these things, but she will do them all, and always be ready for more.

—Rachel Kramer Bussel

Universe in a Skirt

It's here.

Under ruffled fabric in a solid or flower pattern,

either silk or corduroy,

near the buckle or the zipper,

beneath the layer closest to the skin,

between the softest part of feminine upper thighs.

It nestles itself in pink panties from

Victoria's Secret's semi-annual sale,

waiting to give you the earth.

It's here.

Wanting to give you heaven.

—Monica Levette Clark

photo: Shawna Enyart
Napping With the Ex

I went to see him in Chicago two years later. We had Greek dinner with my family—fleshy overcooked lamb and deep-fried cheese. He wanted pasta. We sat close and uneasy. I looked at him with a fixed grin and glassy eyes. He charmed my little girl cousins but not my Greek uncle. After dinner we dropped the family off and walked to a police bar.

The locals were sauced. A cop danced on the bar. A woman walked toward us with a stutter, tipping her martini glass. He pretended we were married. I went along with it, even slipped my gold ring from my right hand to left. We stayed until the dancing cop was slumped on the bar.

We walked back to my aunt's house, his arm hugging my shoulder. Everyone was asleep. He took off my clunking boots. We lay on the leather sofa cringing from the sound two bodies make against leather. His arm snaked around my waist, his head on my chest. His mouth parted in sleepy gasps, my heart pounding in what-the-fuck. We moved against each other for warmth and for wondering what happened. We lay still. He grew heavy. I grew tired of his weight. I rolled to the floor with my head on his lap.

He brought me closer, lifted my arms to his shoulders, my body to his. Tired and looking for a fit, I moved my legs to his waist. We grazed face to face but thought better of it. We fell back asleep breathing what used to be until 4:30 became too late for napping and too late for us.

I walked him to the door and didn't kiss his cheek, knowing the dinner we talked about having would turn into a phone call of sorry and a mouthful of not mine.

—Jaime Lowe

The Gift

I had been looking forward to this moment for years. Ever since I lost my virginity—at 16, on the floor of a college dorm—this had become my sexual Holy Grail. The calves balanced against my collarbones belonged to a girl I was falling in love with. She was smart, silly, sexy, and loving, with big lips and a perfect ass. For the moment, she was below me, perched on the sofa's edge, asking me to give it to her harder. Her lips were moist and slightly parted in that way of hers. Breasts bounced in syncopation with my every thrust. "So how did it feel?" she asked afterward, during our post-coital recap.

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