December 26, 2007
Orlando, Bloom…


Listen.

I’m telling you stories.

I met Orlando not in Orlando but in New York City, which has three islands, really, so maybe it is appropriate. Islands aren’t attached to anything; neither, it turns out, is/was/will be Orlando. Like the string of beads that is Venice, New York too is a series of islands. Fluid bits of lands attached to other lands by bridges, by tunnels, by boats.

We met in Manhattan. We met at a bus stop. It was raining. I offered Orlando my umbrella. It seemed like the thing to do. We weren’t, either of us, waiting for the bus. Orlando was waiting for something. (Orlando was/is/will always be waiting for something.)

It turned out that the thing I was waiting for was Orlando.

It was raining. I saw Orlando standing there, though of course I did not yet know it was Orlando. I just saw this body hunched and unprotected, rain besotting the masses of dark hair that hung in limpworm strands snaking down the trenchcoated back.

So the offering of the umbrella.

“I thought you’d be taller,” Orlando said.

Which, you must agree, is an odd greeting in any society.

The short story is this: Orlando had been waiting for a person never met. A date had been made. An assignation had been decided upon. Contact had been initialized.

Misunderstandings had been made. Orlando had mistaken me.

I had been mistaken.

It turns out that is a common occurrence for Orlando.

So the short story: wet bus stop; wet island; wet Orlando; a wet umbrella; an identity mistaken; an offering to tea; a long discussion about seahorses over a pot of Ceylon; a quick trip under shared umbrella to my walk-up; Orlando a hot flower under my hotter hands.

I don’t need to give you the greedy details of the seduction, do I?

I do not. Suffice to say, this is my story I am telling you. And my story is this: Orlando was/is/will be easy. Dead easy. Easy as pie, as cream, as ice. Easy as daisies. Orlando flowed into my hot and aching hands with a superfluidity of abandon. The trenchcoat was barely tossed to the open arms of a waiting chair before these words passed Orlando’s corpusculent lips.

“Fucking me isn’t like fucking anyone else,” Orlando said.

No, of course not, I said, fingers nimbly unbuttoning the buttons of the shirt, opening the shirt to expose a sternum as commensurately pale as the throat above it. Only Orlando’s passionfruit mouth and flushed cheeks were not an ethereal shade of pale. The dark hair, dry now, mostly, curling in intimate tendrils made the skin glow paler.

Smooth, pale skin, and easy, easy as ice, as vanilla, as cream. Easy as posies.

The shirt pooling a limpid puddle on the floor, I began to shuck Orlando’s jeans, unfastening a heavy and forbidding belt buckle. Tawny it gleamed in the gloaming of the raining afternoon, the velvety metal oddly warm in my hot hands. One of Orlando’s legs and then the other emerged from the jeans and they fell, buckle clanking, to the floor.

You may have noticed, you astute reader, that this story I am telling you has been neuter. Neuters thus far have been both Orlando and I, neutered as a pitbull in a dogshelter. Neutered as a lady’s horse. Neutered as the English language.

No baroque turns of pronouns, no effeminate “e”s or masculine consonants have alerted you to who, exactly, was what.

Does this make you anxious? Do you feel anxiety? Perhaps you should. But not yet. Just now in my story, I shall reassure you. I shall tell you who, exactly, was what.

The easy Orlando, stepping out of the puddling, clanking jeans, naked as Venus on the halfshell was female. I, with my hot hands and claxon libido, was male. Her genitals curved inward, the single line down their center led ever, ever inward, down, inward and up.

My genitals curved outward, hot as my hands, heavy as her belt buckle, yet defying gravity, downheavy were my genitals, yet curving outward and upward.

We had bodies built to interlock gently as easy as puzzle pieces and soon they would.

Orlando’s passionfruit lips orchid-opened under mine. Her stamen tongue flickered in and out of my mouth, searching and tasting, smelling like a snake. (Forgive me, if you will, my protean metaphors. They shapeshift without my cognizance.)

Here is syntax with no figurative language: Her hands were almost hot as mine as they grasped my back with surprising strength. (Do you feel more stable now? I do. I think I do. I think; therefore I am.)

Her breasts cupped like Josephine’s champagne glasses, like a can-can dancer’s, like a Parisian whore’s. They tilted improbably upward toward my mouth and I covered them with kisses, suckling her raspberry nipples between my teeth.

It seemed, despite her protestations, a lot like fucking anyone else. So far it did, yes.

Which both surprised and bored me. Delighted and disappointed me. I was, you see, quite the cocksman. Cocksure, I was, cocky, even. I had a cock and I used it frequently.

It was, you see, nothing new to take some unknown and preferably untamed or untaming woman to my bed. I could tell other stories, and perhaps some day I will. I could tell stories of redheads plundered, of blondes unbuckled, of brunettes hung from my rafters by their willing, slender wrists and fucked with reckless abandon.

And perhaps someday I shall, but today I tell of Orlando. This is my story today, this wet thing I and my trusty umbrella had plucked from the storm and taken to my gloaming lair.

Orlando I have said is/was/will be pale, studded with points of fruit ruby redness at lips and nipples. The breasts, I have said, cup like goblets. The pudenda curves in, a fine faint line cleaving the labia. The legs long and smooth. The stomach flat. The hands unusually strong.

We kissed inhaling each other ferally. I cupped my hands between, behind, around her butt and lifted her so that her legs wrapped around my waist, my hips, her heels brushing against the crack of my ass, her ankle, one of them, digging uncomfortably into my coccyx.

My cock pressing not uncomfortably against her pudendum. I lifted her and she was not as light as I thought she would be. Her body belied the lightness her bones foretold. And I pressed her against the cool plaster of my wall, the cool raincooled plaster pressed against her back as I pressed against her front, my mouth on her throat and her breath heavy in my ear. My cock pressed against her belly too, and I could feel its urging to part her shadowpink labia, to nestle into that cleft, to follow that cure inwards and up, up and up and in and I could feel too that she was wet.

Her body was not light and her smell was husky, though her voice was easy and gentle as mead.

“Bed.” Orlando said in my ear, breathed it really, if one can breathe a word and she did.

So I carried her, dodging marauding ottomans and mutinous credenzas, my furniture conspiring against me on this arduous trek to the heights of my bed.

I laid Orlando down on the bed and I looked at the body before me, long and light and lithe as ivory silk is long and light and lithe. Sharp fluid curves undulating in tiny compressed ripples from the intimate tendrils of hair to the delicate upsweep of the arch of her foot. I took it, the arch of her foot—left, right, it doesn’t matter, really—and put it against my mouth. I lifted it to my mouth and I kissed.

The husky smell like wood like cedar like water. Her legs kicked at the touch of my mouth on her foot, so I trapped them against my chest, kissing with insistence up the length of her shin, her knee, her thigh, to the fine faint line cleaving her pudendum.

Her pussy. Her pussy looked like any other pussy and it looked only like her own. It tasted like any other pussy and it tasted only like her own. It smelled like cedar, like wood, like water, like sea. It smelled like the color of pink inside the shell of a snail.

It tasted like the feel of orchid, those uncanny petals that touch like human skin.

Leaning now on the bed, I wrapped one arm around her hip so that I could spread apart her persimmon labia, and I cleaved her with my gentle and husky tongue. I licked and sucked and nibbled her clitoris and I could feel it growing under my wet ministrations, engorging and growing, the blood rushing as much to this tiny pearl as to my cock.

She moaned and grasped my ears with her surprising hands and pulled me up, up and away. She pulled me up and she traced her hands down my chest to the cresting nest of pubic hair. She hasped my cock in her hand and she pulled it to her mouth as she pushed me over to my side and down, down to the bed.

Her lips wrapped around the head of my cock and her tongue circled infinitely licking. Her hand was firm on my cock’s base, and my cock inside her mouth, her tongue swirled hot and wet as the rain was cold and wet outside. Slowly, incrementally, like a snake swallowing its prey, my cock slid in her swallowing mouth as her tongue did things to me I couldn’t even begin to parse in my fading little mind.

Perhaps, I thought, she was right; perhaps fucking her was not like fucking anyone else. And I laid back in some kind of strange sober bacchanal repose as her mouth engulfed me, lascivious warm wet and infinite caresses.

It felt very different, these languorous washings of pleasures overlapping my body. My breathing changed, and I could sense, though not with any kind of true awareness, my orgasm hovering apparitional above me. Lapping sounds filled the room or maybe it was just my pleasure made audible, louder, louder the lapping louder and louder and almost with out warning I cried out as my hips bucked up into Orlando’s mouth, pressing pressing against her, her finger inside of me, slipping gently, insistently in and out of me and pleasurable painful throes wracked my body.

Orlando looked up, and smiled at me, rubbing those strong hands over those glistening passionfruit lips, crawled up the length of the bed, and kissing me, I could taste pussy on that passionfruit mouth.

Orlando positioned her body over me, kissing me intently, the tongue swirling in my mouth as it had on the head of my cock, parting my thighs, she laid her body between mine and I could feel her cock against me.

“Shhh.” He said.

For, you see, he had changed, Orlando had. Orlando is/was/will always be a changeling. And though my body started up against him, though I raised my hand to his chest and tried to scurry away out and under his hard white long body, I couldn’t.

He was too strong. He was too heavy. And his cock felt too good against my pussy.

For I had one now. The pussy I tasted on Orlando’s lips was mine. The orgasm I had was mine and it was hers; it was ours and it was unlike any I had felt before. And this feeling, this hard cock rubbing, rubbing inexorably against my wet pussy this was new too.

And I submitted. I spread and I submitted to Orlando’s cruelkind caresses. Orlando separating my legs, parting them, opening me like a book. He smiled and kissed me, his long dark tendrils curling intimately against my cheek. Leaning on one hand, he grasped his cock with the other, he rubbed the head of that velvet smooth cock up and down the length of my new, wet, cleaved, mermaid wet pussy and he entered me.

I was entered. My body was rent for a moment, though it was owned by Orlando. And he took me, Orlando did, though I gave myself to him freely. There was a flash of pain there was an almost comic book zap! pow! of pain, there was a brief yowl of pain and Orlando paused and kissed me.

“Hush,” he said. “You’re being very good for me.” And he looked at me with such loving lust in his eyes and gently drove his cock deeper into my new and newly waiting newly watering new mermaid’s pussy. I pushed outward toward him, my mouths open and hungry, blooming wide for him, his cock, his loving lust.

He fucked me as silly as I had fucked the redheads the blondes the brunettes who yowled and groaned and moaned and writhed in this bed as I was now doing myself. I writhed under him, I did not lie there and think of England, I did not lie there at all and I did not think.

My hips my pelvis raised, they moved as of their own volition, opening wider, wider, impossibly improbably wide I wanted to open for this Orlando, my hips raised I opened my thighs wide and pressed the flower of my peony pussy against him as though I wanted to crush it (and perhaps I did). I wanted him in me in me deep, deep as the sea, deep as dirt, deeper still and more and faster and harder and slower everything so confused and swirling like water down the drain down and out and another orgasm rang through my body and I felt limp and still

And Orlando came too, came in me like a rush, like a torrent, like a martial wave and I could feel my pussy empathize with each contraction of his cock. For I had had a cock once too, or so I dimly remembered.

And he withdrew. And we kissed. And he laid on top of me and as I stroked Orlando’s hair, feeling the breasts against my chest, I could feel myself getting hard again under her protean pudendum and it all began again, again and again and again like the water cycle

Mouths lips cocks pussies mine his hers asses the wetness and the tumescence and each together and each apart my mouth on her cock his mouth on mine I tasted my his come she tasted hers and like Tyresias all fluid ran as rain as steam as ice

And when I woke up, Orlando was gone. Sun flooded my room. The rain had gone too; the two had left me damp, blossoming wood, hard in my bed.

Listen, I’m telling you stories.

Orlando is/was/will be walking among us.

Listen and the footsteps are/were/will be heard.

Listen. Do you hear them? Do you want to? Or do you, as I did, fear to bloom?


Comments

2 Responses to “Orlando, Bloom…”

  1. Curvaceous Dee on December 26th, 2007 9:40 pm

    This was gorgeous. And the imagery evoked by ‘passionfruit mouth’ will stay with me for quite some time, methinks.

    xx Dee

  2. ~Storm on January 1st, 2008 10:37 pm

    That was truly beautiful. Erotic and haunting.

    I hear those footsteps frequently.

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