PAINTING STARS ON CARDBOARD
Paragraphs for Grownups
by Mark Aster
"So while we were sitting there soaked to the skin and freezing our buns off, all you could think about was getting under my shirt and sucking on my nipples?"
"Ah, just thought it'd be nice to warm them up. Probably wouldn't have been practical, though, my hair was all wet."
"Brr... Still, it was sweet."
As she was saying this, she was slipping out from under the warm sheets and crouching on her knees and elbows on the bed. She arched her back and circled her hips, waving the solid globes of her buttocks in the air. Dark hairs curled out between her thighs, from the warm curved mound.
"Gahh, we're soaked."
"It's drier here."
"A little. As long as the awning doesn't blow away."
"It's all down my neck, in under my shirt."
"Are your breasts wet?"
"You! Yes, and chilly, and my nipples are frozen little stones."
So he kissed her, and squirmed in under her coat, under her shirt, and took her cold nipples into his warm mouth, and kissed and licked and sucked them until they were warm and soft and happy.
She followed me down to the river.
We watched the water flowing past, and she held my hand.
> have her suck my cock > have her stirp > have her strip > kiss her > again > eat her pussy > agin > AGAIN > fuck her > come on her tits
She looks you in the eyes with a sated feral joy,
and you collapse onto her, sliding your tongue
one more time between her crimson lips.
> have her stirp
> have her strip
> kiss her
> eat her pussy
> fuck her
> come on her tits
She looks you in the eyes with a sated feral joy, and you collapse onto her, sliding your tongue one more time between her crimson lips.
Most mornings we will wake up together, in the big bed, between the fragrant sheets, and smile at each other, and touch each other's bodies in the early light.
But some morning I will wake up a few minutes before she does, and watch the smooth innocence of her face and feel the breath moving in and out of her, until she blinks and comes slowly out of sleep, her face for a few moments still innocent and unknowing, gently confused, tousle-haired, and I will watch her go from sleep to waking in the same way she went from girl to woman, from innocence to knowledge, and I will envy her brothers, her parents, her father. I will want to have been them, watching her grow up; or perhaps I will want to have been her, coming into herself from herself, coming out of some clean white innocence into the woman she is now, the woman she will be that quiet morning, sleeping beside me.
It was hot. I changed into my trunks in the guest room and walked across the back yard to the pool. Irene, my brother's wife, was sitting there in a lounge chair, reading a magazine. She looked up, then down again, as I walked by.
My brother was in town for the day.
The water in the pool was warm from the sun, with unpredictable streaks of cold running through it. I did laps, getting my muscles working. I wondered if Irene was planning to come into the pool, if she'd been in at all that day, or if she'd just been sitting on the side in the sun. I thought that her skin had looked hot and dry in the halter and beige bikini-bottoms, maybe slightly burned, when I'd walked past her.
I found myself thinking, stroking back and forth across the pool with the water swirling warm and cold against me, of her feet and her bottom on the chair, her legs slightly parted, her shoulders and the outer slopes of her breasts bare as she'd looked up and met my eyes for an instant. Her hands holding the book, the veins under her skin, the weight of her body on the straps of the chair.
I stopped swimming and pulled myself to the edge of the pool. Irene was still sitting in the chair, reading, but her clothes were in a pile at the bottom of the chair, and the sun shone on her skin.
I pulled myself out of the water and walked over to her. She looked up at me, and spread her thighs an inch farther apart.
Come here to win a new Cadillac!!
Click here for wealth
Punch the monkey to win my heart
How would you like to create a six figure income
every four months?
This program never fails!!
What would you pay to look and feel ten years younger?
Turn Back The Clock and Turn Up the Energy Now!
Don't Miss Out!!!
Hit me, Baby.
The nurse was pretty and blonde, with her hair in a ponytail and a loose candystriped smock over her whites. When she smiled she looked (but couldn't have been) young enough to be his daughter. Her fingers were cool and confident, taking his pulse and his blood pressure.
"The doctor will be with you in a minute," she said, and then just before she turned and went out the door she leaned over and kissed him on the corner of his mouth with her soft pink lips.
When Henry gets home at night, the most succulent of the woman drivers that he's passed in his car during the day is waiting for him, bound on the carpet and ready to be kissed, and stripped, and taken.
He likes to take them roughly, to fuck them from behind, bending them over the arm of a chair or the back of the couch, with his hands on their hips or curled around their fronts kneading their tits. Sometimes he feels romantic, kisses the evening's woman, licks her, takes her while looking deeply into her eyes. But over the months that's become rarer, and he's stopped apologizing to himself about it.
Today, in traffic at noon, he's been overtaken. Sliding into the middle lane, trying to tempt a sweet-faced woman in a Lexus to slow down enough that he can swerve out and take her, someone came out of nowhere, a smooth red blur, flashing past him before he can even think. He doesn't know if it means anything.
And then he does, because he is wearing a leather jockstrap and a collar, and he is bound on someone else's carpet, in a room with brown walls and very subtle lighting.
She comes in and smiles at him, walks around him while slowly taking off her business clothes. She steps very close to him in her bra and her panties, and touches his face.
Then she leads him by the collar into the bathroom, and shows him where the toilet brushes are.
Slowing down for the light, we passed at a reasonable speed one of a dozen neat suburban yards with their hedges, their bushes, their trees and polite mailboxes, houses close to the street so the back yards (unseen, private) were larger than the frontyards (where the garbage men and mail carriers come).
In this particular yard a large woman, in a loose green dress that flowed down from her shoulders, that billowed between and around large pendulous breasts, a woman with a cheerful lined face and frizzy graying hair, a wide woman, a woman with thighs, was standing on the walk on the way to the mailbox. She looked up at us.
"Ooooh," said Julie, her chin on her hand looking back out the window, "a goddess!"
Silence. Will you make me use my last, my sweetest, resource?
It is dark, but a diffuse glow comes in from somewhere. Peotr is on his back on the bed next to mine, wearing only his yellow (dusky grey in this light) muscle shirt, his eyes closed, his hand wrapped loosely around his erect penis which he strokes slowly and sleepily up and down. Tender Peotr.
Janet, on her bed, has raised herself up on one elbow, her breasts hanging heavy in her nightgown, her face watching Peotr, his hand, his strong thighs, the swell and twitch of his staff.
I want to watch her raise herself over him, lift her gown, spread apart her heavy thighs, and replace Peotr's lonely hand with the full rich fleshiness of her body. I want to dream while they fuck in the humid room, in the bed next to me.
But we are tired. She will just watch him until he comes, cleans himself spottily off, and sleeps. Tomorrow she will be genial, maternal.
And we will wash all the cars until they gleam.
We're all standing in the parking lot, holding our hopeful balloons, waiting for the doors of the bus to open.
Sitting on the flattest part of the roof, Drew looks down into the courtyard, and writes in his notebook.
She walks like an angel on the grass.
There were already a man and a woman naked in the shower, but they heard him when he opened the bathroom door, and they called brightly for him to join them. It was a big shower stall, almost a little room within the bathroom. He stacked his clothes on the toilet lid and slipped through the curtain.
The woman was tall, big-breasted, heavy-thighed, lush of body with a wide face and large features. The man was standing behind her with his hands wrapped around her hips; he was big and dark, with sharply defined muscles that the water drops slid down smoothly, like oil.
"Good morning," said the woman, and she stepped forward and pressed herself against him, her breasts against his chest and her mouth against his. Her tongue pushed between his lips, its underside slick and warm. He felt his penis swelling where it touched her wet body, just below the navel. Should we be doing this, he wondered? What if she is my mother, or I am her father?
But then she stepped back and knelt on the wet floor of the shower, caressing his erection in her hands and licking at his balls with her tongue. It felt very good. The man, still behind her, reached forward and gently tweaked his nipples, one after the other, over and over, as the woman slowly took his penis into the heat of her mouth. He felt his eyes rolling up, his lids closing, the pleasure in his flesh overwhelming him. The woman began humming softly as she sucked him, and the man leaned forward and took his lower lip between his teeth, kissing him roughly and running his hands over his chest.
My brother, he thought as their mouths brought him slowly to orgasm, my brother.
She lay on the ceiling with her eyes closed, doing the classic levitation party-trick. Her body pressed up into the soft fabric, but her hair hung down around her face. The others in the big room talked and laughed and drank and spun to the music and didn't bother her.
I was never very good at that particular trick, but I had my own. I crossed my legs and let go, drifting slowly upward until my head just brushed the ceiling. I willed myself across the few feet between us; the incident with Roger had given me, in the minds of all of us in the room, some right to approach her.
She felt me coming and opened her eyes. Her smile was very small and utterly lovely. Her lipstick, pale pink, almost brown, covered the red of her lips but made them shine in the light. The tiny ring in her right eyelid glittered.
"Hi," I said. Her eyes looked past me, into some far internal space.
"You can't be my boyfriend." she said. "Because I'm thinking about Chris."
I touched her dangling hair, moving it aside to better see her face, and just to be touching her hair. "That's OK," I said, "I'm not the jealous type." She bent her arm so that her hand rested on the ceiling just over my head, and her fingers brushed against my hair.
"For my birthday," she said, still looking into the distance, "I'm giving everyone a bottle of Maison Sec Haut." She twined a strand of my hair around my finger. "Two hundred dollars a bottle."
"That's a lot," I said.
"I'm going to be twenty-one." Her eyes focused back into the world, looking at my hand.
"That is a big one," I said. Her hair was fine and light against my skin. In the room below us, light and music flared, and people danced.
"Then you went out there in the middle of the floor, half naked, and shouted 'alright, who's man enough to make me come!'"
"How could you?"
"Well, I got some really good sex out of it! If that's not being empowered, what is?"
"Don't you see? It's just male sex, it's just buying into the whole male thing, zipless fucks, quickie meaningless sex."
"Really! If we're going to save the world, and I think it really does come down to that, it's going to be because women and sex is about connection, about nurturing, about preserving."
"Oh, right, so we should stay home in our aprons and like massage hubby's feet when he gets home, and lie back with our legs open and think of the flag? I'm sorry!"
"No, that's not what I'm saying --"
"I just think we ought to do what we want to do!"
"But I'm saying that what you think you want to do is conditioned by the patriarchy! We ought to act from our own real natures!"
"And I'm saying that your idea of our 'real natures' is conditioned by the patriarchy!"
"Just can't get away from them, can we?"
There was this young woman in a string bikini dancing, or at least whirling, around in the shower area in the men's locker room, maybe drunk, with a sort of manic giggling expression on her face. No one knew what to do; the men huddled on the other side of the wall, by the lockers, whispering.
I looked out from my shower stall, where I'd just been soaping up my hair, and in a sudden fit of responsibility I reached my hand out around the curtain and beaconed to her. She smiled and flounced over, tits bobbing, and slipped in with me behind the curtain. This solved the crisis; the girl out of sight, the men, sweaty from the track or the exercise bikes, came in one at a time and entered their accustomed stalls.
I tried to finish my own shower as though the silly woman wasn't there, but she was unexpectedly distracting. Standing under the stream of water, she tilted her head back and let it flow down her body. The tiny top accented the graceful curves of her breasts, and clung to her wide soft nipples. Despite myself, I developed a large, really an enormous and somewhat aching, erection that, mindlessly swinging as I tried to reach past her for the soap, poked the woman in the stomach, just below the navel.
"Oh!" she said, reaching out one red-nailed finger and stroking the side of my bobbing penis, "Good heavens!"
Not the sound of your voice
Not the fine hairs at the nape of your neck
Not the look on your face the first time you told me you loved me
Not your ankles crossed on the edge of the coffee table, loud vibraphone music on the stereo, the pizza coming any minute
Not even the shine of sweat on your shoulders in the morning
Not your mouth
Not your ears
Only the taste of your tears
"So I was lying there, stark naked, with just the towel around my head and my nipples like completely on fire, and then she slid down my stomach and put her hands under my ass, and like sealed her lips around the base of my mons and sucked. It was incredible, I felt like my whole body was being pulled into her mouth. Then she started stroking over my clit with her tongue, and I thought I was going to die!
Is this turning you on?"
"Um, yeah. Yeah, it's turning me on."
"That's good. Because I want to pull down your pants and do the same thing to you that she did to me."
In the crowd that surges along the streets, there is one man walking naked. He is visible only now and then, by glimpses, between the interleaving ranks, the knotted disorderly strands of other walkers in suits and dresses and jeans and torn t-shirts and clown suits and gowns of stitched-together avocado skins. The naked man causes no commotion, not even a single perturbed glance; he has it seems some immunity.
His nakedness is not entirely unattractive; his muscles move appealingly as he walks, his buttocks alternately tensing, his calves hardening and softening in rhythm, his penis, slightly erect, bobbing confidently between lightly-haired thighs. His face is one that someone might want to kiss, if they looked away from their thronging long enough to notice it. But this crowd, in the manner of busy and mostly well-fed crowds, precesses oblivious.
There is a café on the corner of the street, with a covey of tables by the sidewalk, each table with a round red-and-white umbrella against the sun. At the corner table, closest to the foaming of the crowd, sits a woman, also naked, reading the newspaper and sipping at her coffee. Her nakedness is also appealing, her breasts ripe and distinct, her legs generously fleshed, her face in some vague manner sensual, a sensuality with no hint of decadence. Also a face one might want to kiss.
Looking up from her paper, the naked woman notices, gradually making his way in her direction through the masses of the clothed crowd, the naked man. Her eyes widen just perceptibly, in surprise or recognition, and she watches him over the rim of her cup.
She has the most valuable thing in the world. Right now, she's got it in her right front pants pocket.
I don't begrudge her having it; she deserves it if anyone does. But I wish she'd take better care of it. It pains me to watch her, sometimes, casually showing it to her friends, juggling it idly between her palms as she stands in the bus station talking into the payphone. Once she almost left it behind on a table in some bar. A guy sitting at the next table noticed it, picked it up, handed it to her. "Oh, thanks," she said. How could she even let him touch it?
The worst was last night, big party at Jamison's, and at the height of it I saw her, probably drunk, hilarity burning around her, writhing through the crowd and clapping to the music with her hands over her head. Then she took it out of her pocket and started to break off little pieces of it! It was awful. She handed one to the boy who'd brought her to the party, pressing it into his palm. She gave another one to some sweaty stranger dancing next to her, needing a shave, probably smelly and illiterate, maybe homicidal. Just gave him a piece of it, like it was a nacho. Another piece she slipped between her lips and shifted around with her tongue. I thought my heart would break.
I sat down next to her later on, in a lull, determined finally to say something to her.
"Shouldn't you be more careful with that?" I said, unable to think of any way to make my case more subtly, "It's the most precious thing in the world."
She looked at me, her eyes a little red, her face a little sweaty, shiny, so alive. She started to say something, stopped, shook her head. "You can really be a jerk," she said. But she smiled.
For a very long time he'd lived alternately on one peak or the other, drinking the sweet milk that gathered in the shallow pool at the top of one round pink nipple until it was gone, then making the long trek down the fleshy slope, over the brief flat stretch of breastbone, then toiling up the other hill, collapsing out of breath onto the welcoming softness of the areola there, and later pulling himself to his feet, to bathe his hands and face in the fresh white pool.
After a very long time, growing stronger and heartier from the warm frangrant milk, the trips between the peaks shorter and easier, he realized that that time was over. Slowly, feeling both happy and sad, elated and excited, he took a last long drink from each pool, bent to kiss the warm yielding skin of each hill, and then, standing tall and stretching himself, began to walk south.
As he walked, the land changed subtly in character, the eternal gentle rise and fall becoming more pronounced, the tiny hairs that had always tickled his toes becoming longer and thicker, though still delicate. He detoured around the omphalos, that mysterious pit that had been just visible from the peaks. He knew his way did not lie there, not yet.
He was tired on reaching the Mons, and he rested among the curled fur there. Then he started down carefully, carefully, into the steepness and heat of the cleft below. His heart pounded with an excitement he could not put into words. The warm infolded complexity of the vulva, the dark nuturing scent of the air, was utterly unlike the clear breeze and simple slopes of his youth, but it drew him undeniably on. Spying the hood of the clitoris, he could only stand, mouth agape, for long minutes. Then he stepped reverently forward, took the thin warm skin in his hands and slipped under it, surprised and delighted by the softness of the place, the firm smoothness of the clitoral glans.
Firmly nestled within the welcoming hood, he wrapped his arms gently around the button itself, and softly and slowly he began to suck.
For the times she is lonely, or horny, or in need of contact or connection or reinforcement, she keeps a variety of men in round single-use capsules in a box on her dresser. At night, those times, she will take one out, warm it between her palms, and drop it into a shallow pool of hot water in the bottom of the bathtub. When the man emerges, somewhat shaky on his feet and blinking his eyes, she gives him a cup of sugar-water, and cradles his head against her chest.
Tonight after a few minutes, when the man is steady and calm, fully-formed, she takes off her clothes and stands before him, stands naked with him in the warmth of the bedroom. She wants him for his body tonight, so there are no complications of language or thought. Spread wide on the bed, impaled on his fresh hard penis, she gasps and sighs and thinks with a sort of glad melancholy that after she comes, after he comes, there will be only an hour or two, and then he, this one, will be gone forever.
The day before on the way home, driving past the long lines of them standing by the road hand in hand, naked, silent, looking calmly at the horizon, she'd pursed her lips in distaste.
"Wouldn't find me doing that," she'd said, and turned her face away. They were almost too familiar to notice by that time, and driving I couldn't turn to look, but the long row of human color was soothing in the corner of my eye, the alternating rhythm (man woman man woman) of the placid faces.
So tonight I was surprised, stopped in rushhour traffic, to see her standing there with the others, nude as the others, her chin high and breasts softly upturned. To her left, holding her left hand, a tall brown man with strong thighs; to her right a compact pale man whose belly curved out over his erect penis. Her eyes were calm and focused, like all those eyes, and her skin was clean.
I imagined her pregnant, her stomach filling out into its own graceful curve, her breasts swelling as she stood at ease in the long common line.
"We're back!" Cena yelled, flinging wide the door and flouncing into the apartment, Geoff coming more slowly in her wake and closing and locking the door behind them.
There was no reply to Cena's call; in the bedroom, Sebastian lay on his back, asleep in the narrow bed. Chastened, she stood looking down at him, his fine blond hair spread over the pillow. She reached out her hand and gently pulled the blanket down his slim nude body, to the tops of his thighs. With the backs of her fingers, she stroked his belly and the flaccid length of his pale penis.
Geoff came up behind her and took her by the shoulders, turning her around and kissing her hard on the mouth. "Leave him," he growled at her, his eyes staring into hers dark as pools of night, "leave him and come with me." She ran her fingers up the back of Geoff's head, under his hair, and pulled his mouth to hers and kissed him back, her tongue between his teeth. Then she turned away from him, back to the sleeper on the bed, leaning down to caress Sebastian's neck and chest with the tips of her fingers.
As she bent over the bed, Geoff's hands stroked the backs of her legs, pushing her skirt up over her hips. Then he stood back and opened his trousers, bringing his cock out into the light. He took it in his fist and stroked it slowly, until it was fully erect, dark purple head gleaming in the light. Cena's hands touched Sebastian's cheeks.
Geoff pulled Cena's panties down and thrust the thick rod of his cock in between her thighs. Her eyes still on the pillowed head, she braced her feet and bent her legs, opening the moist flower of her cunt to Geoff's probing. He entered her quickly and deeply. Her body rocked forward with his thrusts and her eyes closed. She let him fuck her for five long strokes, then she pulled forward, pulled herself off of his cock, turned and sat down on the bottom of the bed, her legs spread and her arms open, and pulled him down on top of her, just below Sebastian's feet. They fucked intensely, her mouth hungrily closed on Geoff's and her cunt sucking at the hardness of his rod. She came almost at once, but he took longer, thrusting into her hot twitching body until he grunted and moaned and came, squeezing her breasts through her shirt as he filled her with semen.
She got to her feet unsteadily and smoothed down her skirt, her back to him. He put his arms around her from behind, pulling her body against him. "You mean nothing to him!" he hissed in her ear.
She shook her head. "He loves me," she whispered.
Geoff tucked his cock, wet and red, back into his pants. He stood looking at her, looking at them, for a moment, then with a sound of disgust left the apartment, slamming the door behind him. Cena slipped out of her clothes and lay in the bed with the sleeper, her head on his chest and one leg over his thighs. She put one finger down between her legs and brought it up, to smear a thick drop of Geoff's semen over Sebastian's nipple. Smiling to herself, she closed her eyes and slept.
Parents Strongly Cautioned was not updated for the first two weeks of July 2000 (we were resting). In the interim, we plugged the previous issues:
and the recently-published Spring/Summer 2000 issue of the Journal of Desire.
Now we're back!
Page design and coding by Pat Allen and Mark Aster, hosting by Pitas. This page is supposed to be in some interesting font like Georgia or Nimrod; if you're seeing it in your default serif font, you can get probably Georgia (both Windows and Mac) here.