Jack Canon's American Destiny

Broken Pieces

Monday, September 9, 2013

Excerpt: Sex and Death in the American Novel by Sarah Martinez

I opened my eyes really wide, taking in all the colors and shapes of the place, wiping the previous vision from my mind, replacing it with bland speaker, wooden podium, pathetic brother, evil mother.

I watched Jasper's mouth again; he licked his lips after every few words, and at one point he picked up his glass of water and took a long sip, then went back to his talk. I imagined a scene where Eric still wanted him, but I got him. Eric, as in all my fantasies, started in a tight tank top, like one of those Abercrombie models; no matter which way he turned there was another delicious landscape of muscles for my eyes to linger on. The hunger in his eyes, the darkness and longing no longer focused on me, but instead Jasper. Up at the podium he stood like he was afraid a sniper would get him. What if he needed protection and Eric and I were the ones assigned to protect him?

“Someone is after the Author,” Eric says to me from several feet away in my fantasy. He speaks into a hidden microphone at his shoulder. We are on a protection detail like the cops on TV.

“Copy that,” I say speaking into a microphone at my wrist. I stand close to Jasper in my dream: stern, watchful.

Jasper flipped another page, ran one extended finger over the top portion of the page, gave the audience an apologetic smile and went on reading. Poor thing lost his place. What if at that minute a shot were to ring out, and right then with sure catlike movements I tackle him and roll to a crouch with my gun hand sweeping the air. Once Jasper hits the ground I drag him to safety while Eric exchanges fire with the sniper, ultimately killing him. Eric stands, looking down, chest heaving, deciding between going to Jasper's side and checking the sniper to make sure he is no longer a threat.

“Go. Go. I'll stay with him,” I say.

Jasper is in my lap, I run my hand along the side of his face, brushing his inner ear, and he closes his eyes in gratitude and takes my hand. In this fantasy my own shoulder and biceps are rock hard, stronger than his puny ones. I am superior and in charge and he knows it.

The soft texture of the area around his eyes gives me a protective pang in my stomach, longing, or something else, a stirring deep inside my womb; I want to take him into me and hold him safely there. Where the fuck did that come from? Sometimes my fantasies strayed into the most bizarre territory, but since no one was looking, I let it go. If this were on paper I would be crossing it out, and cranking my music louder.

In the rich, velvet-lined theater of my mind, I study the face of the man in my arms; so much younger and more vulnerable without his glasses, though the stubble itching the heel of my hand reminds me he is indeed a man. I might linger over this, enjoying the sound the short hairs make when I run my palm over them. There is a gratifying feeling of power and superiority to hold him like this. Jasper's gaze will suggest gratitude, and after a short space of time I lean in and graze his lips with mine—taking that full lower lip between my own, exerting a light pressure, and he melts into me, like a woman would, with a sigh.

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Genre – Literary Erotica

Rating – X

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Website http://www.mywildskies.com/

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