In tonight’s dream, Boy kneels on the floor while D sits in a metal chair. A bare light bulb shines above them like a lynched moon. (Boy takes note of this.)
Boy’s heart is a grenade in his chest. Boy rakes D’s body with his eyes. D is all muscle and blood. D has on a dirty, white shirt, faded jeans, and a black hood over his head.
The light bulb turns red and Boy does what he came here to do. His hand trembles as he reaches for the fly of D’s jeans. He pulls down the zipper slowly and reaches in.
Under his black hood, D moans. Boy holds onto him a moment longer—so much heat, Boy notes—then pulls out what he thinks will be a dick, hard with blood. Instead, the long end of a rifle juts out of D’s open fly.
Boy does not stop. Boy opens his mouth, leans forward and flicks his tongue along the barrel.
Jimmy long ago decided his hands were the bane of his existence. Women like Marissa coo and fuss over them; they yearn for Jimmy’s lovely hands to toy with their tender bits. Marissa’s favorite thing was for Jimmy to lie next to her in bed, gently sucking one nipple while he stroked her clit with his middle finger in small, fast circles until the pleasure was so sharp and intense that it hurt. She couldn’t get enough of Jimmy’s middle finger until, of course, she met someone who was happy to take Jimmy’s place.
Roxane Gray prepares us for the “EROTICA” issue tomorrow: Jimmy Nolan would like to think he is the kind of guy broads go for…His problem, however, is that he models himself after caricatures of who he thinks broads like. And, unfortunately for Jimmy, he’s a nice guy.
When the priest told him to kiss the bride, he’d slipped her the tongue. She bit down then, hard enough that the beer he had at the reception burned in the marks.
To put you in the mood for Guernica’s upcoming Erotica issue, read our fall installment of erotic fiction: Roxane Gay chose Brad Green’s “The Weight of Rose Petals,” in which Frank has suffered a nearly insurmountable loss, and is waiting out his infirm and bitter wife, while longing for the woman he truly loves.
Every minute or so, he’d squeeze it and hold the squeeze, like he was trying to send some secret code through our hands, his pulses reminding me of just a few minutes before, when I’d felt that same kind of throb up in me—that sudden fullness meaning I needed, quick, to slide off and get out of the way. I thought I could sense what Omar was thinking. I worry now that he somehow knew that would be the last time it would be easy between us.
The only pictures my family owned were those taken during holidays, birthdays, or family vacations. Moments worth saving were photographed. But I’d never imagined anyone would want their picture taken for strangers to see.
Six feet tall and arms like bundled wire. He go strutting the length of the house. Bottle cap pried up with his long bad teeth, spitting tin and blood in the trashcan and turning to put that sweet mouth on me, saying, Heart, come closer. Come here. Loving in your wolfish, in your wicked.
Winona eyed Frank down the long black barrels of the shotgun. She complained again about that whore he’d visited every Wednesday for fourteen years, before he lost his manhood in the accident at the rebar factory. She prattled on about the woman who sweetened her privates with rose petals and brought shame to the house of the properly wed while her breath leaked from her throat like a slow eel.
Jimmy Nolan has a thing for broads—loud, brassy women who sit with their legs open and drink beer straight from the bottle—women who always say exactly what they’re thinking and, for better or worse, mean what they say.
I can admit this, though: In between those squeezes, the weird smell of bleach and musk surrounding us, a balled up baby wipe in each of our free hands, I really thought that we’d stay together. That we wouldn’t break up the way my school counselor, a sad woman I’d only talked to twice who otherwise never weighed in on anything, told me we inevitably would.