He swung by my house to pick me up like he always does on Fridays after work. He's was my best friend. I was his confidante. I was his angel and he was my wings. Our friendship meant everything. Long ago we made one promise: To accept each other unconditionally. That had been the easy part. The hard part, as you know all too well by now, were the times when we wanted to be more than just friends. The desire was there from the very beginning. It was the silent, knowing moments, when my gaze rested too long on his lips, or when his hand brushed against the small of my back. But we just smiled and laughed. It was a delicious time then. We reveled in it. Lust is the fuel of life. Did I mention that he's married? Well, something like that, for many years now. Naturally, she never liked me much, but for a long time he didn't seem to notice. Or he simply didn't care. Sure, we used to toy with the idea of relinquishing our resolve and giving in. Like two intellectuals in rhetorical discourse, we weighed the options. We measured the risks. Inevitably we decided to keep it clean. It's not that he's a saint. He was simply the poetic type. So instead we teased each other relentlessly. I wore abbreviated dresses. He stood too close to me. We would stay up on Saturday nights doing blow and talking sex. We speculated about how good it might have been. All the things that good friends can do in secret. To release some of the pressure we expressed our feelings in more innocent ways. But we could feel the undertow. And so our gateway to that weekend began as usual. He needed his ludes and I wanted my coke. He picked me up on our weekly run down to the city to meet with our dealer. This was our little secret and we made certain he always made it home in time for supper. We parked and walked hand in hand up the flight of stairs to the dealer's apartment. He answered the door wearing only Levi's. He was a big man in his mid to late thirties. He might have been beautiful once; now unshaven, slovenly. With a nod he invited us in. Of course, his place was a barren, dark, and dingy hole. I was sure his life couldn't have been much better. The cable TV shouted out wrestling matches. An ashtray overflowed on the dark tiled coffee table. Old copies of Playboy and Car & Driver were piled up underneath. Creepy but predictable. Everything just as you'd imagine on a Friday like any other Friday. The dealer shuffled off to the back room. He never had our stuff ready when we arrived. My friend took a seat on the couch and I sat on the floor at his feet to wait. I couldn't wait to just get our stuff and leave. We didn't speak. We stared at the TV. Almost out of instinct he began to play with my long hair, twisting and pulling it gently. He rubbed my neck, his fingertips pressing firmly into my skin. It was the most delightful sort of torment whenever his flesh touched mine. A few moments passed and I began to relax a little. He ran his fingers through my hair again. With a handful of my hair, suddenly he pulled a little harder. Too hard. The slight jerk of his movement was unfamiliar and caused me to jump a little. Then his knees closed in on my arms and he yanked my hair even harder, pulling my head back. Before I could protest, he leaned down and whispered into my ear. You're such a precious little whore. What? Instantly my mind began to search frantically for the meaning of this. My cheeks felt feverish. He grabbed my hair and pulled it back so that my face was pointed toward the ceiling. He leaned over and kissed my forehead. His lips were gentle. He whispered to me again. You delicious little slut. Tell me to stop. I didn't. He knew I wouldn't. My desires were no mystery to him. He knew how I liked it. My heart pounded and I closed my eyes. He reached down with both hands and pulled my arms tightly behind my me, causing me to arch. I couldn't move. The sound of my anticipation was like rushing water in my ears. Was this what I had dreamed of, in the endless nights of our confessions, in those moments when friendship wasn't enough to contain what we meant to one another? I wanted to touch him. The sound of footsteps brought me back to the room. I opened my eyes and tilted my head forward to see our dealer standing directly in front of us. He was leering down at me like a ten cent peep show. The voice in my ear whispered to me. This is as close as we'll ever get. Please do it for me. Suddenly I understood. I felt his mouth on the crook of my neck, resting there, breathing against my skin. I would do anything for those lips. The dealer took two steps forward, hovering above me. He dropped our stuff on the coffee table. The smell of his dark blue denim was close to my face. C'mon sugar. Say no if you mean it. I opened my mouth, but said nothing.

i don't get it.

i think it's about atmosphere and erotica. sexual tension resolved through snap fiction. or getting so turned on and strung out you're willing to suck off big fat shirtless slobs for free drugs. \ i dunno. maybe i don't get it either. i'm going back to sleep.

So... did she or didn't she? And are they still friends? And what is this business w/chicks who can't get turned on unless some guy is humiliating them/calling them whore & slut & handling them roughly? That sounds like a very adolescent male fantasy to me...

it's fiction, rc. lighten up.

it's sadomasochism, rc. lighten up.

isn't the point that she did. fiction? hoping there's more than poetic integrity

jesus herbie christ, people. get out the May 10 New Yorker and go to page 82 and start reading "The Diamond Mine". As I read it I thought Sarah could have written this. She's that good, and this is about Writing, not Fucking and Sucking or anything else. Grow up. While you're there, scan the pretentious fluff piece on Bob Dylan.

I thought it was abt denim.

Well, damn! I'm ready for the continuation. I just hope they did it in the car away from gross-out man.

Made me remeber back to high school exploits into manipulation of curious egos.

I like to think that sarah's stories are true.

Me to... I wonder is she would go with me on my next run......

so the drug run was what: aborted? inconsequential? a cover for sex (real or desired but unfullfilled)? an excuse to make his SO pissed? or just a rape fantasy 'bout someone you couldn't have?

today i edited and re-published the story i wrote above here.

whoa! that was something. um. geez, you're really good at that. waiting for the turned-onedness to die down, I'll post a better critique later.

for some reason I didn't read it the first time when you posted.

that story makes me edgy. I recall reading it before. there is one simple reason, and that is the detail fo the coke deal. my past with coke, which is not to say i was ever an addict, no, it was more like weekend dependent. the stuff was so god damn available. anyway, just thinking about it makes me kinda jumpy, reading about even more so. another example, last night, we put in our copy of Drugstore Cowboy in teh vcr. I absolutely love this movie, some of the greatest one liners come from this flic. I love it, and i hate, simply because of the descriptive behavior of drug users. When i see "Bob" all edgy and worked up and "Diane" is coming on to him and Bob, twitching his jaw and neck, says "what what are ya doin Diane, are ya crazy or sumptin....hey we could be working right now....that hospital is such an easy target, you know they got coke, all those hospitals hold big time coke" the feeling Matt Dylan is so accurately depticing makes me jumpy, i zone so easily back to those times, waiting to score, nervous, jittery... anyway, thats well written sarah, but my personal experience unfortuantely impedes me from truly enjoying, but then again thats the point, to unnerve....i suppose all prose should reward with something positive.... i dunno

wow. that was good. the last short story i really read was one that i had to type up for a publication, and it was terrible. horrible. i like how you put in the little things, like holding hands and all that.

It worked. There's something about erotica...something I adore..that you know when you've read a good one because you feel it inside you. I'm not talking about puffy coochies or hard weenies. It's deeper than that. Lately I've been paying more attention to the layers of attraction. Some are very surface..some are very straightforward, easy to see the outline. Others, softer, hazier. Less defineable but you know they're there. They all have presence. I read a lot of erotic fiction. I prefer it to pornos. Your story Sarah, works. I can't quite critique more than that except to say it creates one of those softer feelings...one of those layers thats hard to catch with two hands. I like how you ended it too..and don't you dare add a continuation. Mystery is a part of it.

Erotic fiction is excellent stuff. No one writes enough good stuff.

can we talk about puffy coochies?

Sure, Patrick. We sure can. It would be a pleasure. You start.

How about an itchy conitchie?

no *starting* first, is there such a things as too puffy of a coochie? do we people have a preference of the choochie shape? color? scent? what's your ideal coochie?

There is definently a coochie puff limit in my mind. Hard to say what my ideal coochie is. I'm not entirely sure yet.