In honor of the most gorgeous Dirty Girls anthology (edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel, published by Seal Press), Alison Tyler and I are doing a bit of a tete-a-tete on what dirty means to us, over at her blog. Of course, it’s not really a tete-a-tete, because it’s not private, but just pretend that it’s just her and I sitting in the bathroom, talking to each other. You can hide in the hall and press your ear to the door. Trust me, it will be worth a listen.
Also, here’s a bit of a (I hope) mouth-watering excerpt from my Dirty Girls story, “Until It’s Gone.”
He didn’t take her to a restaurant, but to his house, where he made dinner while she sat at the table. It was kind of nice that he didn’t talk, or even look at her. The food held his attention as though it were the only thing in the kitchen. She wasn’t used to it, playing second fiddle, but it let her lean back and watch him. His body was big in the room, shoulders and belly. As he cooked, she could see how he’d come to be as big as he was, the dark skin stretched so tight over his body. Salad with homemade dressing, mashed potatoes with butter, pork chops that he rubbed all over with garlic and olive oil. His big hands made indents in the meat.
She had a drink—red wine, although she didn’t know enough to know what kind—and she tried not to chug it. Nervous habit. She wished she could smoke, but could see his face if she asked to light up around this food he was making. After dinner, maybe.
David bent down to the stove, his ass wide in jeans, his back wider. There was something graceful in his movements, a man who knew his own country. It lit some pilot light in her stomach, the flame hot and blue. She let it simmer there for a few minutes, and then tried to put it out. But watching him set the table around her, gorgeous blue plates and her napkin just so, she couldn’t quench it.
And then he was putting steaming plates and bowls all around, smelling of garlic and cream and oil. She wanted to tell him this wasn’t the way to win her, that she was sex and sex. Food was good, but just sustaining. There was no way she could look at those mushrooms the way he had looked at them when he’d dug his fingers in, peeled out their insides, stuffed them with something new. But she wasn’t sure it was the truth anymore. Maybe she didn’t need to love the food, maybe it was enough to watch the way he loved it.
She took another gulp of her wine—he’d been refilling her glass in a constant, subtle way that was practiced.
He sat across from her. His face was shiny in the heat and work. “Shall we eat?” he asked. “Or did you have something else in mind?”
The way he said it, leaning in just a little. Something about his voice, how sure it was of what she really truly wanted. His hand around her wrist in a way that she thought would be scary, but which was not.
“Both,” she said. And he let go of her wrist and picked up his fork. Somehow she had given the right answer, even though she didn’t mean to.
And that’s how it began. Sex after dinner, a slow languid affair that left her more relaxed than aroused. His big hands everywhere on her body, feeling her like a topographical map of a place he’d never been. Then stretching her, outsides and in, until her muscles ached in that good way, like yoga or running.
Lying on his big bed, after, watching him sleep, she knew she would leave him early. He was too big for her, too dark. Too sweet and perfect and kind. She already imagined what it would be like if he kept coming in the bar after, or if he didn’t come and there was just his chair, empty.
But then he woke her in the morning by pushing those big fingers inside her. He hadn’t even waited to see if she was wet, or even awake. By the time he had two fingers in to the knuckles, she was both, and bucking against his hand in a way that shamed her. She didn’t come, but there was a new pulse in her clit that gave her hope…
p.s.–Gorgeous and haunting image by girltripped.