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Story by Ellen Parker (Read author interview) March 15, 2004

I told this new man I would have sex with him only through the fence. His name, I think, was Charlie. Joey. Jamie? He said it while he tongued the roof of my mouth. I slipped two fingers down his jeans waistband and, in his ear, I went, “Kimberly.” When he took his tongue back he told me, sotto voce, “Makes me think of spiny green veggies, wet.” Perhaps he was a poet! This pleased me. Still, I didn’t want to interact with him barrierlessly. I liked the cold truth of his whispering sexy words at me through metal links.

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.

About the Author

Ellen Parker reads and writes. She is editor of the online literary magazine FRiGG.

This story appeared in Issue Three of SmokeLong Quarterly.
SmokeLong Quarterly Issue Three

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