Fingerstains Vic Winter “Mommy, what’s wrong with that man’s hands?” “Hush, Jimmy.” “But Mom-” “Shh!” I smile wryly as the young mother drags her little boy off. I suppose she figures he was being rude. The truth is, my fingers are all stained a deep, dark purple. And it isn’t any sort of disease. There’s nothing wrong with them aside from a little arthritis, and it’s not like you can see that. My fingers are simply stained from all the fruit I’ve picked through the years. Strawberries, raspberries, blueberries, blackberries. Plums and cherries. Grapes. They all stain a man’s hands temporarily, and if he does it for long enough, they’ll stain them permanently, the color leeched deep into the cells.
how long the fireworks display lasted. Most years it was twenty minutes or so, but I can remember one year it went on for over half an hour, one huge explosion after another. And another year it had barely lasted five minutes. The year I was twenty two was a pretty good year. I can remember the heat that summer, making the fields shimmer with it, making the fruit squish up right under your fingers if you weren’t careful. We had a lot of outsiders at the festivities that year, rowdy boys who were eying up our girls, making the mamas shout and the papas growl. Everyone was having a good time, though, and it turned out there was a boy eyeing me up, too.
The orchards sat at the far end of the farm, row upon row of trees that were full of fruit not yet ripe enough to pick. There were peaches and oranges, lemons and limes, the sharp acid scent of them not nearly as strong as the berries we passed. There were pairs hidden in the grasses there – it was where everyone went when they didn’t want to be seen, when they wanted to touch and kiss and make out. Seth and I walked to the very end of the orchard – we knew better than to chance someone noticing our grass rustling wasn’t being done by a boy and a girl. We sat with our backs against a lemon tree, looking out over the rocky terrain the bordered the orchard and drinking our beer.
No, really. I had never done anything like that before. There was no one to do it with, and I knew better than to tell anyone that I liked boys instead of girls. So the touch, the sucking, that having my fingers inside someone else’s mouth while they worked them with their lips and teeth and tongue. that was something different, special. And my body loved it.
He collapsed down half on top of me, and he was heavier than he looked, but I didn’t care, I liked the way he felt. I liked that he was real and there and sticky and lying on me. I discovered that kisses didn’t have to be hard and wild – they could be soft and lazy, too.
Explosive Distractions BA Tortuga "Wait." Sonny lifted his head, feeling the bridge of his nose cut through the thick, humid July air like a dull knife through cake. Fucking Florida in July. He could be under a palm tree in Aruba. "We're in Florida for fireworks? How patriotic of you, Precious." "Yep. There's a warehouse over there full of them. You'll have to dock for a couple hours and then I'll be back." Oh. Someone was getting bored.
"Gonna give you everything." His tongue moved those balls back and forth and he could feel the skin shiver and draw up, could feel MJ shudder. Then he went for that tight little hole, pushing his tongue right in.