Free Best Bondage Erotica 2 by Alison Tyler

balloons and stuff.
    It might scare her. It might piss her off. You’ve run into those types before, the ones who want to screw but don’t want to go catch a movie. Maybe you’re even one of them, but you just can’t be sure.
    So now you look back to the television and LeeLee’s got some poor bastard cornered in her cage. She’s typing furiously at the weeping keeper, and you try to imagine what kind of love letters she might be composing.
    You grab the pad and start writing your own, hoping you can compare.

See Dick Deconstruct
    Ian Philips
     
     
     
     
     
     
    I’m thinking of an image. It’s from one of those stories where Our Father throws Lucifer out of the house for good. I can’t remember which.
    Maybe Faust .
    Maybe Paradise Lost . It doesn’t matter. All I remember really is the image.
    It’s of the future Satan sitting among us and forever looking back toward the one place to which he would never be able to return. And this, of course, leads to more stories. Ones where, to soften the pain of remembrance, The Fallen One tries to stick it to The Man by sticking it to one of The Man’s favorites.
    Think Job. Think Jesus.
    In a way, this is one of those stories.
    Sort of.
    I have no idea what The Man or any other god thinks about my little boy. But I do know that before we met he was fast becoming a darling of the Academe. Not any just any old university. The Academe—site of all discourse and inquiry located in that great metanarrative in the sky.

    I’d seen his name several times before he told it to me that night. He’d been a contributor to various anthologies. Ones with glossy covers in garish colors drawn on a computer. Covers that promise a mondo-pomo-homo-a-go-go world within. Then you turn the page. Instead it is only a book filled with straggling bands of menacing, jibbering words from the clans Tion or Ize. Words that must wander those pages forever at war—sometimes even with their own in the same sentence. Leaving behind a field of white, strewn with participles dangling, dying.
    To be honest, I don’t know if it was just dumb luck or synchronicity that led me to answer his personal. And, after what I did to him our first night, he’s the one who’ll want to dig up Jung and ask him whom or what to thank. I merely made the most of a moment.
    His personal? Something about a Queer, White Dork, this weight and that height, goatee and glasses. Has a hard spot for hairy, horny daddies. Grooves on the transgressive in theory and praxis. Then the standard blah, blah, blah.
    I had no plans for what we’d do if things clicked. Not even after I recognized QWD’s name. My inspiration came only after he offered me a cigarette.
    I smiled and shook my head. His brand, not his offer, had surprised me. American Spirit. This boy had spent a lot of his time and someone’s money redecorating his mind in early ’70s French cultural critique. I’d expected Gitanes. Or maybe, in the down-and-dirty spirit of Genet, that he’d have rolled his own. But no, he smoked American Spirit — filtered. He’d been out here on our brittle bit of the Rim of Fire longer than I’d thought.
    He lit up. A real feat since we were sitting outside this café on Market Street. That shouldn’t mean anything to you unless you’ve been to San Francisco in the summer. It was late afternoon when we put our first pints on the table. And a late
summer afternoon in San Francisco means that the fog flying in over Twin Peaks uses Market Street as its landing strip.
    So as gust after gust touched down, he lit up. On the third try. And, by then, he was curled so tightly around the cigarette he looked like a fetus hugging its heart.
    He sucked a few times on the burning paper and then spoke. I had the masculine signifiers he wanted—bulk, a beard—or so he said. But, he added, I was smaller than the men he’d been with before. And I thought, Yes, I am small; beware the small .
    I know. I know. You probably don’t give a shit