, ,



So, just after I put up my Saturday Submission post about pirates, I see that Alison T. has a new contest: Fuck me on the High Seas. You really, really should write something up and enter. She has damn good prizes, always. (And if you don’t know the “I’m On a Boat” reference, check it out. And laugh until you puke. Just stay away from the sea gulls).

And, as if you need more proof that great minds really do sink (or float) alike, here’s a snippet from the story I just finished yesterday called “Many Waters.”


The Boy is already in the boat, still wet himself, his arms reaching down to grasp me by the elbows, help me up. His head brushes my shoulder as I’m lifted, long wet strands that graze and sting like jellyfish. I feel bruised and battered, exhausted, as though I’ve been beaten back to health by a masseuse with too-big hands and a careful understanding of my weak points. I also feel grateful, and alive. My skin is washed clean, my hunger for new tastes and journeys honed by all that time in the quiet depths.

I nod my thanks and practically flop into the boat. He kneels down, pulling off my flippers for me. “You’ve got a small cut, you know,” he says. When I look down, I see the blood sliding down over my knee. It’s a slow dribble of color. I never even felt it. “Looks like a clean cut, nothing to worry about.”

He grins, those big lips slipping into a slow curl. “Be glad there’s not sharks. They’d have eaten you up.”

A quiet moment of silence rests between us, heavy as a stone. For a moment, I imagine him saying something out of a movie, like “I’d have eaten you up,” and I imagine what I’ll do if he says it. Laugh? Groan and pull his mouth to mine? Lift my hips toward him in a silent plea?

He does none of these things. He dries my legs with a dark towel and then presses the fabric to the cut with a hard press of his palm. “It’ll stop in a second. It tends to bleed a lot, because of the water.”

“Where did you learn that?” I ask.

“I’ve learned a lot of things.” And this is the moment, right here, that could be so fucking cliché, Sam. Like you would have laughed if you were here to see it. But it isn’t that way at all, the way this boy slides his sunglasses back into his wet hair, then drags his gilded gaze right up me, making my skin sizzle and pop. The way he leans in and brushes his lips, very softly, sideways across mine. It isn’t a kiss. It’s something else.

I want him with a sudden fierceness that makes my soaked skin feel too dry. I want him to slide his tongue between my lips. To feel that sharp press that young boys have, the impossible hardness of his cock nudging between my legs. I ache to throw my legs around his thin hips, to drive him back against the floor of this boat, to ride him and the waves and water until we are both coming. Until I can stop talking to my dead husband in my head. Until I cannot hear him answering.

The boy brushes his lips down the length of my neck. In response, my body, such a traitor, such a horrible, horrible wild creature, arcs up off the seat, presses into the downward curve of his hips as he leans against me. He is as I imagined, all hard-on, throbbing and raging inside the cage of his shorts. Groaning against me, rubbing into me like a creature past curiosity, past anything but want, and I’m opening my hips against his desire, the material of my swimsuit doing nothing to hide my want.

“Stop,” I think I say. I mean to say. I’m panting, my tongue and teeth are finding the curve of his ear even as I beg him to go away, and my hand slides down inside the soaked material over his ass, finding the perfect, muscled curve, kneading it.

“Okay,” he says, and I realize with sadness that I have said the word aloud. And that, unlike you Sam, he believes it and will abide by it. And somehow I know this is how it should be.

I touch his unlined cheek with one hand, draw my thumb along the burnt, peeling top of his lip. “Just for now,” I said. And I realize that what I meant to say as comfort is actually true. That if I stay here long enough, I will have this boy. I will teach him the things you taught me, and I will begin, finally, slowly, painfully, to let you go.


Kiss kiss bang bang, s.


“Many waters cannot quench love, neither can floods drown it.” ~Song of Solomon 8:7


PS – Fab image by JBPhotog