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Strange Relationship explicit scenes by Ray Printer Friendly

It isn't something we want, it's something we need. She's muttering, it's hard to understand what she's saying, with her tongue in my mouth, with her lips pressed against mine. Seems like I can hear words like “asshole” and jerk,” though. Seems like the phrase “I hate you,” can be made out while she rips down the zipper on the back of her skirt, while she attacks the zipper on my jeans.

You might not know it, but we’re broken up.

This? This is just fuck residue. We couldn’t talk to each other for more than five minutes without getting into a screaming match, we couldn’t agree on anything, and frankly, I don’t think we ever really liked each other that much. But we were perfect in bed together. In bed or wherever. Perfect.

She shoves my face down to her crotch, I can’t tell if she said “taste me,” or “take me,” and I’m guessing it doesn’t matter. She leans back against a tombstone, her hands resting on the top, her crotch pushing out towards my face, her skirt rising above her hips.

A cemetery. No idea why. This is where she said she wanted to meet, though, and she had that edge to her voice, that tone. That need. I wasn’t about to pass up the opportunity. Sure, it’s weird, but she was always into weird shit, which is probably half the fun. Maybe more than half.

I slide my tongue into her, wondering if she had panties on when she was sitting on the headstone earlier, wondering what the odds are that I’m licking tiny pieces of tombstone. Eh, I’ve done worse.

She pulls me back up, I don’t know how long it’s been—with her, time never seems to function right. You think it’s ten minutes, it’s two hours. What feels like an hour could be a couple minutes or all night. My tongue’s sore, though, so I’ve been down there a while.

My throat in her hand, she yanks me up, slams her face into mine in what could maybe be called a kiss. More like a battle of tongues, aggressive, angry, lustful. Her hands around my cock, one pumping it up and down, the other smearing pre-cum all over the tip.

I’ve got one hand on the back of her neck, pulling her into me, the other under her shirt, under her skirt, wanting to be everywhere. Familiar ground, but so lovely that exploring it is always as exciting as discovering it for the first time.

I’m already close to busting when she pulls me down to the ground, pulls me on top of her, inside of her.

Muttered everythings into my ear, moans, grunts, promises, threats. A familiar song, but I’ll never know the words. Fingernails down my back as I squeeze her tit, as I wrap my arm around her and pull her body into mine. Whatever strange language she’s speaking, I’m speaking it back, we are lost in each other.

And then I’m exploding, and a part of me hates myself for it, because I don’t want this feeling to ever end, this pleasure. Even though I know we’ll be doing it again as soon as we’re able, it still feels like it’s gone forever.

But she’s exploding right along with me, and whatever strange togetherness this is, it’s enough.

I collapse onto her, we’re panting into each other’s ears like prank callers without phones. I roll over, bringing her with me, my arms wrapped around her, holding her tight. Not happy, but as close as I ever get.

This is the part where I always have to keep my mouth closed. This is the part where I have to make sure I don’t tell her I love her. It’s the part where I start wondering if I really do love her.

This is the part where my dick tells me lies, and my soul goes along. This is the part where it gets dangerous.

She says something. Her mouth pressed against my chest, I can’t make out the words. Either “That was awesome,” or “You’re an asshole.”

She reaches above my head, her face still against my chest, and her hand fumbles until it finds the puddle of my jeans. Cigarettes out of the pocket, lighter. I feel the heat against my belly as she lights a cigarette. The exhaled smoke tickles as she blows it out against my skin.

She passes the cigarette up to me and I take deep drag. I feel my semen leak out of her, run down my balls. She moans softly.

I pass the cigarette back. She sits up, the cigarette dangling from her lips, and rakes her fingernails down my chest. I feel myself grow hard inside of her. Moonlight reflecting off of her nipple rings, her tits bouncing as she begins riding me.

I take a deep breath, readying myself for round two.


How long has it been, I don’t even know. I haven’t been sleeping, exactly. Not quite dozing, but almost. Time means nothing.

I realize my chest is cold. She must’ve moved—it’s an old habit for us to doze off together, her on top. The heat of her body, the weight, I’d know it anywhere. I open my eyes, wondering where she went.

She’s still right there, her face against my chest. I jump a little, because that’s how much I didn’t think she was there. She looks up. “You’re okay. Go back to sleep.”

This is the second part. I have to be extra careful here, because I’m fucked out of my wits, and we seem like we could get along forever. This is where I have to make sure to keep my mouth closed.

I’ve messed up before, told her I loved her. She just looked at me all sad, and then I didn’t hear from her for almost a year. So I don’t do that anymore.

I don’t blame her—love complicates things. She told me once, when she was drunk out of her mind. She told me she’d never stop loving me, and I told her that was fine, but when she didn’t remember the next day, I was glad.

We used to say it all the time when we were a couple, when we hated each other. And maybe it wasn’t all bullshit, but it certainly made things difficult. When we get together these days, we make some jokes, we fuck, and we part ways.

It’s the best way to do things, and if your heart starts whining about it, that’s what the Jack Daniel’s is for, right?

“You’re okay,” she says again. “Go back to sleep.”

I close my eyes, and when I open them again, she’s up, sitting on that same gravestone. Smoking a cigarette. Dressed. I rub my eyes, grab my pants, and stand up.

“What time is it?” I ask her as I struggle into my pants. I have no idea where my boxer shorts are, so I take extra care in zipping up. You don’t want to end an enjoyable evening by shredding your junk.

“Almost dawn.”

“What’re you, a vampire? Dawn isn’t a time.”

She smiles. “No, I’m not a vampire. I don’t know what time it is—I just know that the sun’s about to come up.”

I take out a cigarette and look around as I light it up. Like she said, the sun’s not quite up yet, but the sky’s gray, and there’s enough light to survey our surroundings. There’s about a million smoked cigarettes, and the ground is all fucked up. At first, I’m amazed that we could do so much damage, but then I realize.

“We spent the night fucking on a fresh grave?” I ask her.

She does that thing, that shrug that means yes. Yes but I won’t admit it, that’s what that shrug says.

“Why the hell did you want to fuck on a brand new grave?” I’m not disgusted, but I know I should be. It’s too early for false indignation, though, so I just sound interested.

“Because I can.” She looks up at the sky. Any second, the sun’s going to be waking up, and waking up others. Just about time to go. “Listen, I don’t have much time. Meet me back here tonight?”

“Yeah?” Usually, she doesn’t like to hook up so soon after. And although we might meet up at her place or mine more than once, when she picks a freaky place like this, it’s usually a one-time deal.

She crushes out her cigarette. “Look, I know we don’t talk about our lives or whatever. I know we’re just supposed to fuck. But…I had some bad stuff happen to me the other day, and I could really use some company. I mean, we can just screw, that’s cool, but…you know, more often.”

I’m blinking a lot. Because my eyes are dry and freaking out, apparently. Because it looks like the sun, which is now climbing up above the cityscape, it looks like it’s shining through her. Like she’s transparent.

“What kind of bad stuff?” I ask her.

“Just…maybe if you want to meet tonight, I c-”

And that’s all I hear, because now there’s only sunlight. The cigarette she was about to light, it patters down on top of the gravestone, the lighter thumps into the fresh dirt.

Shit.

I crawl forward and read the name on the gravestone. I’m not all that surprised to see that it’s hers. What does surprise me is the pang of hurt in my heart. The sense of loss. The sense of regret.

I pick up her cigarette and her lighter. I should be flipping out right now, I know this. But she always was pretty freaky. There was always weird shit happening when she was around. I light the cigarette and take a drag.

I smoke most of the cigarette and then I say, “All right, here’s the deal. No trying to steal my soul or anything creepy like that. I’m not sure how you died, and I’m not going to try to find out. You want me to know, you can tell me. But if this is some sort of weird, take-my-soul-so-you-can-live-again thing, just forget about it. And no giving me some crazy ghost STD. Or getting pregnant. Because that’s too much for my mind. You wanna talk, we can talk. You wanna fuck, we can fuck. But you give me corpse crabs, I think I’ll just have a mental blowout.”

I suddenly realize I’m talking to a tombstone. This is not the kind of mind state in which I have ever wanted to find myself, so I stand up. I look at the grave for a moment, wondering if I’ve lost my shit for good.


I don’t know what kind of flowers they are, but they’re pretty. I think she would’ve liked ‘em.

“I swiped these off of someone else’s grave,” I tell her gravestone. “I hope that doesn’t limit your social networking or whatever. But I thought they were pretty and I thought you would like ‘em. If you’d given me a heads-up about you being dead, I wouldn’t have to steal the flowers off of other peoples graves. Anyway, I’ll see you tonight.”

Just don’t think about it, man. Just don’t think about how you just fucked a ghost, about how awkward it would be to get busted by the cops with your dick stuck out in a cemetery. About how you're planning on doing it again.

Just don’t think about how she can’t run away now. Don’t think about how she’s stuck at her grave for who knows how long. And especially don’t think about saying what you’re thinking about saying.

“I love you,” I say, and head home to take a shower.


posted 11/04/08


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