I was too drunk to fuck by the time she told me to call her Hermione.

We had stumbled out of the bar a half hour earlier, and I thought the cab ride home might have cleared my sense. I hoped that back at my place—with her shirt lying on the ground and my hand wrapped around her wrists—it would all fall into place. Hope, I realized very quickly, is for the sober.

“I thought you picked me up ‘cause of my scarf. If you don’t want to fuck a Gryffindor then what the hell do you want? Come on, say her name again.”

She was trying to jerk me off as she said it and there was bitterness mixed in with desperation. She tugged and yanked as she touched herself with her other hand, and she whispered something incomprehensible into my ear.

“Look, let’s step back for a second,” I said. The room was spinning and stepping anywhere was out of the question, but if she tugged any harder she was going to hurt me.

“Oh, fuck! I knew those shots were a bad idea.”

She leaned down and whispered directly to my penis.

“Come on big boy. You can do it. Get hard for Hermie. Get nice and big for cute little me so I can bury you so far up my cooch I forget your name.”

“You don’t even know my name,” I mumbled as I watched with an almost smile.

“Shut up. I’m not talking to you.”

“Oh fuck,” I moaned. I grabbed the basket next to my nightstand and I started puking the second it was beneath me. She was off the bed so quickly I nearly fell. I closed my eyes before I realized that was a mistake; the room spun once more as I emptied my stomach into the trash can.

“Oh Christ,” she groaned as she gathered her clothes up. When I finally sat back up she was standing next to me shaking her head. Her gold and red scarf was hanging around her neck, and it was only then I noticed the lion tattoo on her arm.

“Obliviate,” she said, waving her hand at me before walking to the door. “Not that you need any help with that.”

I was holding the basket again seconds later, and I didn’t even hear the door close. I tried to steady myself as I coughed and shook, but it was a long time before I could sit up again.

I looked down at my feet and my unbuttoned jeans around my knees. My dick was rock hard and standing straight up.

“What the fuck is a Hermione?” I mumbled.

Guy New York

His cock reminded her of Paris in the rain.  It reminded her of Machu Picchu at sunset and the blue green lights over the empty snows of the Yukon.  His cock reminded her of everything beautiful in the world, and she came around it like she was impaled on the tower of Babylon. She scratched his chest and slapped his face as her orgasm ripped through her; she called him a name that was almost his.

“Get the fuck out.”  

He was lying in her bed, but she had moved to the window with a cigarette clutched between her trembling fingers. She flicked open her Zippo and said it again. It took three times before he responded, but by the time she was halfway through he was closing the door behind him.

“Why God, why?” she whispered.  “Why does that cock have to be attached to that man?”

Guy New York

I call it “Her List.”

I see her once or twice a year and we go through the same ritual each time. We give ourselves an hour to say hello, have a drink, kiss faces, and remember. We check in about our lives and we try to go slowly, knowing that we’ll fail.

Once we leave the restaurant, we no longer need to say anything until we’re in her room. The first two years required communication, but now?  Now she walks into the room, strips down to her underthings and takes out a blindfold.  She ties it around her eyes and lays down on her back.  I watch from the foot of the bed, and I say one word: Begin.

The list starts the same way each time.  It begins with Marcus, moves to Tasha, Josh, and then Michael.  She says each name clearly as I crawl between her legs and pull off the last bit of her clothing. She slows down when she feels my mouth on her, and she grips my hand as I kiss her.

Years ago our ritual lasted a moment, but now?  She’s added more names to the list than I can remember, despite the number of times I’ve heard it. I push my tongue inside her as she continues, and she says each name with a moan. I slide fingers into her as I hold her thighs wide open; I nibble and pinch, sending her squirming on the bed as she struggles to focus.

When she gets to the last name I’ve heard before I’m always hard.  I have a condom on and my cock against her lips when she pauses, and I wonder how many new names I’ll hear.  Each lover has taught her something.  Each one has shown her something new about herself, and there’s love in her voice as she speaks. I go back and forth between jealousy and gratitude, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t sometimes just marvel at the number of cocks that have been inside her.

I fuck her as she says each new name.  She thanks them out loud as I push deeply inside her, and with her eyes covered, her mind can be anywhere. Five, six, seven new names since I’ve seen her last.  Seven lovers and one night stands.  Seven people―men and women―have kissed her lips and pinched her nipples.  Seven people have shown her something new. 

For me.

She says my name at the end. She whispers it into my ear and by then we’re both coming. I bite her lips and she pulls me to her.  She scratches my shoulders, and I thrust so hard I have to hold her still. Our mouths take each other in, and our bodies shake in fits of release. We sigh and we moan.  We come and we scream. We forget everything.

Guy New York

“Tell me again why I’m special?”

She was nestled in against my shoulder as I ran fingers through her hair. She smelled of cinnamon and red wine, and she fit perfectly.  He soft fingers touched my arm, moving on their own free will. Her voice sounded like water.

“Do you remember the ninth time we had sex?”

“No,” came her soft reply.

I closed my eyes and instantly saw her white summer dress clinging loosely to her skin.  Her golden hair covered one eye before falling over her shoulders and down her back, but she made no effort to move it. She lifted her hips and dropped them down again as I tried to breathe slower and last longer. It was only when I closed my eyes that I could hear her quietly singing.

“We were on your couch in the summer. It was so hot out we missed winter.  Your dress clung to you in all the right places and…”

“Lots of girls have dresses that cling to them in all the right places.”

“And you moved over me so slowly it felt like a dream caused by fever and drought. You barely touched me as we made love, and just before you came you started to sing.”

“I did not.”

“You did too. Something about summer and wine, and you sang it over and over in a whisper before you let out tiny whimpers and moans.”

She slipped her fingers into mine and nuzzled my shoulder once more. I kissed the top of her head.  We both closed our eyes.

“Maybe that means you’re special too,” she said.

Guy New York