Sex Still Spoken Here: An Anthology (11 page)

Tina smiled. I smiled back. She went into her bag of tricks one last time. Tina pulled out a vibrator, placed a condom on it and penetrated me with it. She worked the vibe in and out as she tenderly sucked on my clit. The vibrator was set on low. In and out. Barely in. All the way in. She used it to rub all the walls of my pussy. She then turned the vibrator on high. She penetrated me faster and harder. It vibrated as she penetrated me with it. My legs started to shake and go weak as she sucked harder on my clit. The vibrator in me at full speed, her making sure it was in as deep as it could be and her mouth loving my clit, I felt a rush run from my breasts to my cunt. My toes curled. Tina pulled the vibrator out.

She put her face deep into my pussy. Penetrating me with her tongue over and over as I came on her face. Her tongue penetrating me. My pussy lips around her mouth. It seemed like she wanted to crawl up into me, like she wanted my juices to drip into her pores. I let out a tremendous moan, the dam broke, my cunt gushed out warm wetness. My pussy and body convulsed. I only came like that when I was fully able to be myself sexually.

Tina licked up the juices out of my cunt as I squirmed. She licked up all the wetness around my pussy. She sat up. I sat up. We passionately kissed one last time before she walked out. My desire for women had left me a pleased victim of Tina’s bag of tricks!

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“Fundamentally, I started writing to save my life. Yes, my own life first. I see the same impulse in my students—the queer, the mixed blood, the violated—turning to the written page with a relentless passion, a drive to avenge their own silence, invisibility and erasure as living, innately expressive human beings.”

-
Cherríe
Moraga

Avery Cassell

Bio

Avery Cassell has been creating written and visual art about sex for over 30 years. He is currently working on a memoir, an illustrated children’s book, and an erotic novella.

Min-Interview

How did you start writing about sex
?
How
does
it
differ
from
non
-
erotic
writing?
I started writing about sex to amuse myself. Most of my writing includes sexuality or gender. My memoir includes a lot of my sexual history, and my children’s picture book’s focus is on being differently gendered. I tend to write lushly, so even my non-erotic writing contains much in the way of sensuous details.

Do
you
write
in
multiple
genres
and
,
if
so
,
why?
I am working on poetry, erotica, memoir, comics, and children’s picture books. Each medium has a specific set of tools that propels the narrative, so I try to pick the best tool to suit the job. Besides, variety is fun.

Do
you
write
under
your
own
name?
Why
or
why
not?
Do
you
have
any
concerns
about
publishing
erotic
work?
I write under my own name and have done so since my 20s. I’ve been out for decades as an artist who works with uncomfortable subjects and sexuality. It has placed limitations upon me, but it keeps me honest.

What’s
the
inside
scoop
on
your
story?
I really did date my mother’s ex, a composer of Turkish avant-garde music. I have a soft spot for both trains and tough butch dykes, and secretly want to have a liaison on the Orient Express with a dark stranger. Call me if you want to take a train trip!

The
Train Trip

Avery Cassell

I ended up traveling from Ohio to New York City with my mother’s ex- boyfriend. We called him the Turk; he was from Istanbul and composed discordant, meaningful, modern music. She had dumped him for writing bad poetry and leaving it under the windshield wiper of her VW in the Indiana State University student parking lot, and he had driven to my house in Ohio in an effort to understand my mom’s motivations. I couldn’t tell him a lot, but did let him know that he wasn’t alone and that she had dumped plenty of men. I don’t know if that reassured him of his virility, but he decided that he wanted to be my boyfriend instead. He took to lying on my living room floor, listening to the Sex Pistols, and keeping me in cheap wine. I was alright with this, and when he suggested that we take a train trip to New York City, I agreed. He bought tickets, I turned a trick for spending money, copped a handful of Talwin in case I got bored, and we met at the downtown Amtrak station.

Let me be totally clear: I was not nice. I was 24, belligerent, and beautiful in a kind of faggy punk way. I had dropped out of art school and was working in a pornographic bookstore. I spent my days handing out quarters and hooking businessmen up with each other during their lunch hour, drinking take-out white Russians from a styrofoam cup, sealing dirty magazines, and reading
Crime
and
Punishment
. I liked to slip on a Dolly Parton wig and pretend I was a man saving up my pennies to get a sex change. It got me an amazing number of drinks in the local gay dive. I would hint demurely that I couldn’t wait to get that big ole thing chopped off, my new friend’s eyes would get enormous, and another drink would slide over the bar’s battered wooden counter. Other times I was a skinny nelly fag with my short red hair slicked to one side and in a suit and vintage tie.

The Turk and I left on a chilly, rainy Wednesday. I had not been on a train in years and was excited. I was dressed jauntily for adventure: a 1940’s olive double-breasted men’s suit, a white Arrow shirt, wide silk tie, and black old lady shoes. I harbored secret fantasies involving the Orient Express, mysterious passengers, and afternoon tea, but was under no illusions about the Turk. I expected tedious monologues about the evils of capitalism, and the ability of modern music to overthrow the dominant political paradigm, but was willing to shove drugs down my throat if he became unbearable.

We settled into our seats. They were covered in maroon tweed, and I happily sat next to the window so that I could watch the scenery. I have always loved looking out of windows when traveling, watching phone poles, trees, and towns pass by. I liked being a voyeur, especially when the object of my intent could not see me looking.

The Turk begin to talk about his latest composition; a lengthy thematic piece about the suffering of men due to their inability to experience the spiritually transformative ritual of childbirth, and the subsequent wound formed because of that lack of power of creation in their lives. He finished the explanation of his piece by smashing two hardboiled eggs together in a grand gesture involving flying egg debris. I had finally had enough. I narrowed my eyes in contempt while smiling; not the easiest facial maneuver to pull off in the best of circumstances, and made more difficult by the clashing of the of the Talwin and coffee in my system. I was pissed off that we were only in Pennsylvania, I’d already needed to take drugs, and that the Turk seemed to have endless vocal energy. I wondered if I could get away with slipping some Talwin in his beverage just to knock him out, but thought better of it. Knowing my luck, it would just make him barf and talk more slowly, and then I’d be stuck with a vomitous, smelly, and even more ponderous Turk.

I stood up, announced that I needed to go to the restroom, and walked down the narrow train aisle to the end of the car. The train swayed gently, making me conscious of my hips. Standing opposite the restroom door was a woman. She leaned nonchalantly against the wall, smoking a cigar, her black boots spread just far enough apart to make me aware of the line of her thighs as they met at her crotch. She was wearing a worn black leather jacket, tight black jeans, and a white tee-shirt; a butch Marlon Brando, one of my favorite jerk-off types. Her salt and pepper hair was cut close, and she had sensuous curly lips, a square jaw line, and blue eyes. She looked directly at my mouth, and then her gaze traveled down from my neck over my chest, hips, and down my legs. She then looked up unswervingly into my eyes, winked, and vigorously ground out her cigar with her boot heel. Her eyes sparkled with electricity. I gasped. She leaned into the wall, hitching her hip up into a swagger, and then pushed forward to where I stood, one of my hands on the restroom door. We stared at one another. She was incredibly hot, and I’d never fucked in a train restroom. I smiled, bit my lip in anticipation, opened the restroom door, and nodded at her to follow me. We walked into the restroom and locked the door with the metal slide-latch with a smooth click.

I turned to her to make one of my typical somewhat snarky come-ons, but she was on to me. She quickly shoved me over to the sink, keeping her leather clad hands on me until my ass was resting against the faux pink marble. The sink was stained and there was a faint odor of cheap pine disinfectant in the air. The room was small and felt kind of hollow, like a cave. It would probably be a great place to practice yodeling, if that was what you needed to do during a long train trip with a boring Turk. It was beginning to look like a great place to fuck, too. I was finding it hard to breathe. I had come to think of this woman as “Marlon,” and Marlon had me firmly by the upper arms, with her knee jammed between mine, spreading my thighs apart. She loosened her grip with one hand, unknotted my tie and started to unbutton my shirt. I was getting wet and squirmy, but every time I wiggled, the hard edge of the sink reminded me of my precarious perch. She gave a little whistle when she saw the dog tag engraved with “Sir” hanging on a chain between my breasts. She growled and nipped at my shoulder, pulling my Boy Scout belt out of my pant’s belt loops in one long swing. I love the sound of a belt being quickly removed, and the whoosh of the belt made my knees buckle just a little. Reaching around, Marlon tied my wrists together
behind my back in an impromptu knot, the brass buckle dangling against the sink counter.

She looked at me, smiled wolfishly, leaned forward and kissed me once, pulling my lower lip out with her teeth. I leaned into her helplessly, unable to grab her with anything other than my legs and mouth. She yanked at my belt, which dug into my forearms each time I tried to get closer. I wanted to take off her tee-shirt so I could see her breasts, and contemplated trying to rip the shirt off with my teeth. It looked easy enough to do in the movies, but every time I tried to grab at her shirt with my teeth she growled softly and slapped me. The slaps felt like some kind of tropical flower blossoming under my skin; a quick retort and then spreading heat. It was becoming way too easy to forget my intentions to remove her clothing. The cold faux marble was heating up against my ass. I wanted to open up my ass cheeks and rub my asshole against the counter. I tried to move my wet cunt closer to something, anything. Every spot in my body, every bit of skin, felt so tender and needy. I felt like a cat in heat, but couldn’t get any relief. She had my arms tied back, and although she had my legs spread, she was being very careful not to let my cunt touch anything. She started growling and biting my breasts. My legs were shaking in jerky movements by now, but Marlon was determined to prevent me from getting the stimulation that I desperately wanted. Each breath I expelled became a question, and that question was, “When will you fuck me? When will you fill me?” She pulled abruptly at the belt, causing the brass buckle to clang noisily against the counter top, and causing me to moan in anticipation. The sounds bounced around the small room.

Unexpectedly, she fell into me and wrapped both arms around me, warming my back and sides. I could smell her armpits and their sexy odor, so close to the fragrance of an aroused cunt that all I wanted was to wrap my legs around her waist and pull her inside of me. Suddenly we started kissing. Our lips matched exactly, and we threw ourselves into the kiss with our entire bodies. We kissed using our lips, our tongues, and our breath. I could feel the sharp bristles of her faint moustache, and rubbed it against my lip, letting the poky hairs send electric waves of desire to my cunt. I must have groaned especially loudly, because the next thing I knew she had her leather gloved hand cupped over my still-pantied cunt. I groaned, “Please.” She pressed little harder, and smiled devilishly. She was pushing full on against me, but it was impossible for me to move any closer or control her movements. I was extremely frustrated. And I will let you know right now that just because I wear a tag that says “Sir” does not mean that I don’t get what I want, and usually when I want it! OK, sure, she was exceptionally hot, but there are limits, and I was reaching mine. I sighed and wiggled more, trying to tempt her into touching my wet cunt.

Just then, Marlon reached over and pulled my panties to one side. I saw a flash of metal. She had materialized a little pocket knife out of nowhere, and was slicing through the crotch of my underwear. I was having a difficult time deciding whether to rock my hips up towards the blade, or stay as still as possible to avoid any unintended damage to my bits. The choice made me whimper and twitch, but she cut my panties open quickly, leaving the knife to fall to the tiled floor. As the knife fell, Marlon’s fingers parted my labia and she plunged one finger into my dripping cunt. Alternatively slapping my face and twisting my nipples, she added a second finger. I was trying to fuck her back, grunting as I thrust my hips up and grabbing her fingers with my cunt. I wanted her inside, as deeply as she could go. I could feel her adding more fingers, and I bucked up against her hand, begging her to fuck me. She was still growling, and my dog tag dangled between us. By now, she was slapping my breasts, while twisting her hand inside of me. Each slap made me gasp as I opened myself to her. I was opening my chest, my cunt, my mouth, my voice. All I wanted in life, in this moment, was this glorious fuck in this dingy rolling train bathroom; my cunt surrounding her hand, she fucking me and me fucking her. I thought about growly bears and Kathy Acker and the song she sang about the blood of his rose. I fucked Marlon’s hand as if we were on our way to another planet, and we were bears or dogs or some animal, something dangerous and inflamed. Her hand fucked me, and I felt my belly roll, spasms of fuck energy passing up through me as I roared and came. My cunt tightened with a gush of wet spilling up and over.

As soon as I could catch my breath, I started giggling. Marlon was smiling, too. We held one another, slowly becoming re-acclimated to the train bathroom. She untied the belt from my arms, and filled a paper cup with water for me. My throat was sore and rough from so much carrying on, my panties lay in tatters on the spotty floor, and there was a wet spot on my trousers. Her tee-shirt was un-tucked, with a large damp spot in the center. She helped me pull my pants up, I tucked in her shirt for her, and we shared a smoke in the bathroom. We both washed our hands of our sex smell. The mirror was cracked along one side, and there were phone numbers and messages written on the wall next to the toilet. We didn’t say much, but once we were done smoking, we left the restroom together. I waved bye; she turned left and I turned right.

I made my way unsteadily back to the Turk. He picked up his monologue where he’d left off, later demonstrating the subtleties of the modern avant-garde Turkish movement by complicated paper napkin folding and burning. Fucking Marlon got me through to New York City without having to take any more Talwin. You know, not to get all philosophical or anything, but sometimes a fuck is just a fuck, and sometimes a fuck is a reminder of the power of life. This was one of those reminder fucks. I kind of wished that we’d exchanged numbers, or at least left messages for one another on the restroom stall wall, but we didn’t do either. Anyway, every time I see a train, I think of Marlon and I get hot as hell.

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