Coming Together: With Pride (7 page)

As I return to the couch, I take in the entire form of this naked man. Each portion of his body flows smoothly into the next. He is virtually hairless, I notice, except for a small patch just above his cock, which stands erect and throbbing slightly with each of his heartbeats. It is an impressive size by anyone's standards, and there is a pearl of precum waiting on the tip. I reach out with my finger and retrieve it. A thin thread connects my finger to his cock for a split second before it breaks.

As I taste the tiny amount of nectar on my finger, Ping-Lang lunges forward, and I feel his warm, wet mouth envelope my cock. He takes the entire length into his mouth, and I can feel the back of his throat. He does not gag at all. Slowly, so slowly, he lets it slip out as he raises his head. Only the tip is in his mouth now, and I'm sure he will stop, but he plunges back down to the very base of my shaft. His tongue undulates against the belly of my cock and then finds the groove where the head meets the shaft, tracing back and forth. I can barely take it. I think I'll explode when he stops abruptly.

He stands up and walks over to the mattress rolled up in the corner, unrolls it, and spreads it on the floor. He puts two pillows on it and beckons me. I stand up and move over to him, embracing him and pulling him towards me. Our erections bump against each other, and he takes both into the curve of his fist and holds them flat together. The movement is intoxicating as we kiss. He pulls his lower lip out of my mouth with a pop and kneels down on the mattress. He rests on his hands, presenting himself to me. Even though no word has passed between us, I know exactly what he wants.

I kneel down behind him, reaching up between his legs to gather his balls in my hand. I press the tip of my finger ever so slightly on the rim of his anus. His body stiffens in anticipation. I lean over and place my lips on his lower back as my other hand gently strokes his penis. I trace my tongue down his back to his smooth crack. I kiss one cheek and then the other. I take my hand from his balls and spread his well formed ass cheeks slightly. I use my tongue to gently infiltrate his warm, expectant hole. He moans as I slide my tongue inside him. He presses back against my face and I push further in. I slide my tongue out but am not ready to penetrate him fully, although he obviously wants it.

I urge him over onto his back, sliding down between his legs, taking his cock into my mouth as I slip a finger inside his hole already slick with my own saliva. Slowly I ease up and down the length of his shaft as he rocks against me. I slip a second finger into him so he will be ready for me and he pulls my face up to kiss me. His tongue plunges into my mouth as my fingers plunge into him. Neither of us can hold back any longer.

He reaches over next to the bed and brings back a tiny bottle of lube. He rubs it on me and himself as he kisses me, smiling. I hover outside of his slick pucker only a fraction of a second before I ease the tip of my cock against and then into him. I don't want to hurt him, but he clutches my ass and pulls me hard against him.

I thrust deeper and he sinks his teeth into my shoulder. I can barely contain my orgasm now, and I am thrusting vigorously into him. He's muttering words I can't understand but that excite me even more for that fact. I begin to stroke him, and our bodies move in unison. I feel his slick semen coating my palm and his shaft just before his cock bucks in my hand and his seed shoots out onto his chest and stomach. It is all I can stand, shooting my own seed into his tight hole.

We are both spent but continue to move against one another. He whispers my name, and I answer with his. I ease myself out of him, and he says something else in his language, smiling with his eyes closed. I kiss each one in turn and say softly, "You're an amazing lover, Ping-Lang. I wish I could tell you how wonderful you are."

He rolls to his side and pulls my arm over his body so I spoon up behind him. "Okay. Thank you, Ian," he says dreamily.

"We're going to have to work on your English." It's the last thing either of us says as sleep envelopes us.

©

www.myspace.com/eondebeaumont

The Personal is Political

Jean Roberta

 
The arrival of the Prime Minister of Canada at Heathrow Airport in June 2013 brought out bigger crowds than anyone there could remember.

The shiny black limousine rolled through the London mist, flying a cheerful red-and-white flag like a handkerchief with a maple leaf design. Civilians of all shapes, sizes, and colors jostled members of several armed forces, who were there to keep pedestrians off the road. "We love you, Canada!" yelled a woman with a voice like a foghorn. A crudely handwritten sign saying "Maggie Crapper, yur full of shite" bobbed and fell sideways as the young man who held it was pushed to the back of the crowd.

Since the surprise victory of the Social Democratic Party in the latest Canadian federal election, the Canadian press had wallowed in references to its leader's famous ancestor, English inventor of the flush toilet. Some journalists said that Margaret Crapper was brave to keep her family name, while some implied that it contributed to Canada's status as a joke in the rest of the world. Hardly anyone suggested that her wife Paulette should give up her own name, Frisson, although Conservatives kept dropping hints in the Canadian House of Commons that if Paulette really loved Margaret, let alone her country, she would quietly disappear.

The limousine pulled up to the entrance of Buckingham Palace, where Margaret and Paulette and their entourage were invited to the traditional visiting dignitaries' luncheon in the Bow Room.

Paulette sighed. Her scalp itched under her thick, dark shoulder-length hair and black straw hat. She was a 45-year-old professor of history in a small Canadian university. She had never planned to become the Consort (a title chosen in preference to First Lady) when her first political argument with Margaret had turned into an all-night filibuster that segued into passionate sex.

Paulette reminded herself that the sacrifices she was making were nothing compared to those of the Feminist Martyr whose death a century before would be honored by the whole world, starting at dawn the next day. A skipping-rope rhyme from Paulette's childhood bounced into her head:

Emily Davison ran on the track,

Grabbed the horsey's bridle and tack.

Horsey trampled over her back.

How many tramples did she get?

One (whack of the rope on the ground), two (whack), three (whack)…

What a sadistic little ditty
, thought Paulette. She remembered the sepia-toned photos of a small, pitiful shape in a rumpled white gown, curled into various positions on the ground as horses reared nearby, bewildered and panicky as domesticated animals tend to be when their routine is disrupted.

Paulette had spent her whole adult life trying to understand the motives of dead people, including Emily Wilding Davison, devout worker for the Women's Social and Political Union, which eventually won English women the right to vote. Emily had been carrying the purple, green, and white flag of the WSPU when she threw herself—or tripped and fell—in front of the King's racehorse at Epsom racetrack in 1913.

A thought jumped into Paulette's mind:
What if Margaret gets killed in the same place?
What would the photographers capture if she were attacked by the force of bullets or the rage of a man?

 
"Smile, honey." Margaret nudged Paulette, who immediately remembered where she was. She reached up to hold her hat in place for the cameras as she reached down to make sure her blue geometric-print silk dress covered her knees. She felt too fleshy to look dignified on TV, but she thought it better to show cleavage than a flash of bulging knees, given the choice. Paulette had chosen her ensemble to compliment the ivory raw-silk pantsuit that skimmed Margaret's elegantly tall, slim body and her matching three-cornered hat.

Paulette thought Margaret's look was too suggestive of the reign of mad King George and the rebellious American colonies, but all the fashion magazines were touting three-cornered hats as the latest in retro-chic, and Margaret did not want to seem out of the loop.

Paulette hoped that her own look wouldn't attract sarcasm from the British tabloid press. Margaret loved to see Paulette's curves spilling out of her black satin merry widow or lacy red set of bra, thong and garter belt, and Paulette loved to wear the slutty lingerie that Margaret liked.
Who else,
thought Paulette
, would grin at me like that, instead of laughing?

Paulette believed that she had to keep all her sheer, shiny, or lacy underthings well covered-up in public. There were no role-models for her to follow as first lesbian Consort, so she made up her own style, intended to fend off ridicule. She wondered whether any self-respecting member of the left wing of the Social Democratic Party could play that role well.

Margaret smiled blandly at Prime Minister Reginald Peek, leader of the British Conservative Party, the female friend who usually appeared with him in public, King Charles and Queen Camilla. Margaret almost ignored the stiff man in a suit who gripped her hand to help her rise out of the limousine. Paulette was trying to emerge as gracefully as Venus from the waves when the whirr of a helicopter distracted the audience.

 
Shouts rose as eggs fell like messy little bombs from the helicopter, followed by dozens of flyers which instantly dampened in the humid air. "Wildings!" yelled several onlookers, sounding more impressed than alarmed. Paulette was grateful that no one in a uniform opened fire.

Margaret snatched a whirling flyer while dropping a brief curtsy to the King and Queen. She had spent her youth playing basketball, and it showed. "Men have rights too," she read aloud then smiled into the nearest television camera.

"Of course!" laughed Margaret. "The government of Canada supports the rights of all people. We follow the tradition of British Common Law." She implied that egg slime on her clothes was a small price to pay for universal rights.

Clever all around
, thought Paulette.
No one here could take offense at that little speech. But the Wildings want to be known as the voice of martyred
men, while reminding the public that they can strike anyone, anywhere, at any time
. She knew that their choice of Emily Davison's middle name was not a coincidence.

Paulette was familiar with their philosophy. It was no different from that of the Free Men who were wildly popular on university campuses in Canada and the U.S. "Why can't men be men?" male students would ask her, shifting or pacing like caged animals. "If you really believe in equal rights, how can you expect guys to take a back seat to girls?"

Most of them were sheltered middle-class boys who believed that they were less likely to get scholarships or prestigious jobs than their female classmates. Some of the male rebels in Paulette's classes were young refugees from poor neighborhoods who were determined to move out of there at any cost and not to accept sexual rejection or disrespect in any other form.

Most of the young men in her life blamed their own disappointments, all current wars, and the destruction of the natural world on the unnatural rise of women since their grandfathers' time. They yearned for a general return to common sense, and they expected Paulette to agree with them until they decided that she was ruled by her female hormones rather than her brain.

Paulette watched the helicopter speeding toward the horizon like a rogue dragonfly dodging a predator. The short, balding Prime Minister welcomed Margaret without acknowledging her spouse or the Wilding raid.

King Charles welcomed Margaret with a smile, and gamely added, "We must all beware of helicopters bearing gifts."