by Ellen Parker
We’d see each other sometimes while putting out the trash. "Just give me a whistle," I called, once. He did and I trotted over, like a pug. Immediately we pushed our mouths against each other. He put his tongue-tip up my nostril. We got creative in wetting each other’s faces. He licked off my mascara and made like it was yummy, licorice-thick, gritty as sugar. You’re thinking I liked him. I liked the toothy feel of his hard cock beneath his zipper. Each time we met we grew bolder. "Next time," he said, one time, "we’ll remove something."
To be cute I wore a bobby pin lined with rhinestones. I plucked it off and dropped it down his shirt. He unbuttoned all the way. He showed me his reticulated chest. Through one opening, I bit his nipple. Through another, I bit the other. Were people passing? Sure. I sensed their shadows at the back of my neck. But this was nobody’s business but his and mine. The way he ran his fingernails up my inner thigh was purely private.
The catch to spontaneity is it’s short. Our meetings, soon, grew ritualized. Trashcans and kisses. Sunrays and asphalt. A chain-link fence is, after all, not beautiful. I told him I’d meet him one last time, that night, at midnight. Wouldn’t it be lovely to have a moon? Wouldn’t it be nice to fuck through a fence in the dark? All day long I considered the challenges.
The moon at midnight was blind. Perfect, no? A box of blackness. Fuck, the fence was cold. I pressed my breasts against it, transferring heat. The wind, though, was reaching up my skirt. I’ll give him fifteen minutes, I thought, after giving him forty-five. Firm, I jammed my face on the fence—two squares framed my eyes, which made me feel wise. Through my mouth link, I whistled. After a while, after twenty minutes or perhaps two hundred forty, I began licking the metal. Soon enough I began sucking on it. I won’t tell you I liked it. I sucked enough hard shapes to fill a child’s toy chest. I never grew used to the taste. When the sun showed itself, I felt so full of grief that I stopped. What if a person saw me? I cowered. I wrapped my skirt around my legs. I went upstairs to bed. I dreamed I was lunching on a plate of mortified silver worms, making them squirm, making them bleed.
All content in SmokeLong Quarterly copyright 2003-2013 by its authors.
Ellen Parker's fiction has been published in many fine e-zines including Pindeldyboz, Opium, Outsider Ink, and Lit Pot, among others. She is editor of the e-zine FRiGG—A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry.
Read the interview.
|Issue Three (March 15, 2004): The Lunchbox by Rebecca Marshall-Courtois «» Does It Please You? by Ellen Meister «» The Last Summer by John Mantooth «» Black Mollies by Jayne Pupek «» Mille Fleur by Bunny Goodjohn «» Holy Water by Rhonda Belt «» Jewel by Gary Cadwallader «» Fog by Maryanne Stahl «» The Floating by Brandon Hobson «» Metallic by Ellen Parker «» The Beekman Hill Window Box Contest by Patti Weisgerber «» Raptus Brisk by Brian Gaolor «» Salinger Pays Caulfield a Visit by Terry DeHart «» The Circle of His Arms by Wayne Scheer «» Streetlights in Rome by Aaron McQuiston «» Tea and Biscuits by Louise Jackson «» Mere Oblivion by Jane Sales «» Thirty-Nine Years of Carrie Wallace by Jeff Landon «» The Old Man Who Made Whistles by Tom Sheehan «» For Rent by DJ McDougle «» Interviews: Rebecca Marshall-Courtois «» Ellen Meister «» John Mantooth «» Jayne Pupek «» Bunny Goodjohn «» Rhonda Belt «» Gary Cadwallader «» Maryanne Stahl «» Brandon Hobson «» Ellen Parker «» Patti Weisgerber «» Brian Gaolor «» Terry DeHart «» Wayne Scheer «» Aaron McQuiston «» Louise Jackson «» Jane Sales «» Jeff Landon «» Tom Sheehan «» DJ McDougle «» Cover Art "Lady Considers" by Robert Dornberg «» Letter From the Editor|