Kissing Pixels

Once again, we're thrilled serve you up a hot slice of erotic reading! This excerpt is from Kissing Pixels by Louise Lagris. Still Hungry? The full story in all it's digital glory is available online through Fleshbot Fiction.


It was snowing out, and I was almost out of wine.
The noise next door interrupted me just as I was about to doze off with my headphones on and my hand down my panties. One of my many secret indulgences was to put on an eye mask and listen to dreamy old electro while I was slightly drunk and horny late at night, but my new next door neighbors were really putting a damper on this ritual lately.
They had what must have been an expensive, finely wrought iron bed frame, the kind that you dig up at an estate sale at some picturesque town upstate or pay a fortune for at a chic store in Manhattan. That's what I liked to picture, anyway, as they began banging so hard that a flake of plaster fell off my wall and landed in my hair.
"Jesus fucking Christ!" I yelled, and halfheartedly smacked the wall behind my bed. The squeaking paused, and I imagined them giggling to themselves, maybe covering each other's mouths, shhh, let's play the quiet game so we don't disturb our cranky and most obviously rarely-laid neighbor.
I grumbled to myself as I turned off the music and got up for more wine. "Fuck it," I thought, and brought the bottle back to bed with me. There was more snow coming, besides the peaceful piles settling on my windowsill, and my wood floors were cold. The mayor had warned us there might be a blackout headed our way, and I was stocked up on batteries, water, non-perishables, prescription medication, flashlights, books, and wine. So far there hadn't been even a flicker.
Now I was awake and bored and getting drunker, which, in the privacy of my bedroom, was an entirely different sort of dangerous than what I might have found any other night at my local dive bar. I lit some candles, lay down on my bed on my stomach, and turned on my computer, thinking I'd peruse the underbelly of the Internet for a while before drifting off to sleep, images of slick-fisted androgynes dancing in my head. The Skype icon beckoned me, though.
Damn you, Skype.
I clicked it on, and there he was. What was he doing loitering online at this time of night? My math was never good, but it was at least 5 AM in London. The thumping resumed with a murmuring just beneath it, like the sounds of a creek. I willed him to message me. I fingered myself while staring at the screen, believing somehow he had to sense my presence in the ether, hanging there and wanting him so hard, my desire transmittable through the ether.
It always blows my mind to touch the inside of my own body. It makes me feel like Carl Sagan or something. I want to wax rhapsodic about my own cunt and how unlikely and bizarre it is that our cells came together to create such elegant and complicated organs that swell with blood and feel like hot velvet, the eccentric grooves and bumps and softer spots of the inner walls, the way my lips look pillowy and sleepy-looking when I'm most aroused. Knowing that the people I have sex with feel the same kind of awe at touching this thing I have between my legs makes me understand myself as a sexual, desirable being. Then I understand why wars are fought over desire and power.
A window popped up with a message from him.
"What are you doing up?" he wrote.
"Me? What about you? It's like 5 AM there!" I typed with slick fingertips. (What? It's my laptop.)
"Yeah, late night out…" I waited. I was still hot and wet and wanted to attend to myself before my orgasm disappeared back into the recesses of my body, which is sometimes what happens when I've drunk too much red wine and the horny giggles turn to sappy tears. Which it threatened to do, because, dammit, I wanted to be out with him late at night in the mushy London weather, in the little black cabs that looked like Bobby hats, our mouths sweet with cider. I don't even like London that much, I thought to myself. (But I'd like it with him, something inside me whispered.)
We spent a weekend together a few months ago when he was in town for business. A dumb meet cute in a bookstore Friday afternoon led to dinner, which slipped into drinks, which eased us up to his room like the start of either a softcore cable flick or a toothless romcom. I won't be coy, though; we fucked all weekend. With teeth.
The weekend was a microcosm of a relationship, if you count him flying home as a breakup, which I kinda didn't. The die was cast the first time I smelled him. He was leaning near me at the bookstore to ask me some bullshit question about the book I was looking at, and the warmth of his body emanated from the collar of his button-down shirt, and a few errant chest hairs made their way to freedom. I imperceptibly shuddered from the back of my neck down my spine. I wanted to put my nose directly into the soft fur under his arms.
Dinner progressed to awkward limb nudging -- a knee here, a touch on the forearm there -- but by dessert, I had a tipsy little smirk on my face that said it all.
We'd begun kissing wetly and wrestling with layers of clothes before the elevator doors even closed; by the time the doors opened on the 35th floor, the front of his neatly pressed woolen slacks were dotted with pre-come and his chin smelled like my cunt. I'd always wanted to fuck in an expensive hotel room on the company's dime, especially a businessman who did unfathomably boring things in endless meetings before jetting off again in business class. He did something with finance and law, a deadly combination of things that I don't and have no desire to truly understand.
He liked verbal foreplay as much as I did; I'd thrust and he'd parry and back again. Being incredibly smart was a turn-on, as was his ability to speak multiple languages. He'd accumulated tales of travels around Europe and Asia in his late teens and early twenties as it seemed most Europeans do; getting violently ill from food in Bangkok, swimming in the hot salt springs of Iceland, sneaking joints on the streets of Barcelona during an futile attempt to photograph every Gaudí in a day.
Yes, he had that accent, which is an almost egregiously obvious turn-on to any American woman, even New Yorkers who considers themselves far superior to such trivialities. But what really got me were his lips, which were almost grotesquely sexy. He'd smile and a canine would poke out, and it made me feel like a goddamn Victorian lady reaching for her smelling salts. I'd spent slow days at work looking up flights to London, subscribing and hastily unsubscribing to all the travel deal newsletters over the months since I'd first met him.
Every email from him made me smile in a sort of guilty way, knowing it was a little bump of the drug I craved -- desire, the knowledge someone else out in the world was desiring me too, despite the long lonely nights of winter -- but I'd think about his thin, finely pointed fingers typing out the words and had to go to the bathroom to jerk off before I could do anything else. We flirted but we didn't get nasty, and we didn't do more than email. No texting, no photos slyly snapped with our phones of a half-covered breast or graceful clavicle, and no video chatting. We were both busy with work, but our emails were nice to have. A tiny beacon that someone in the world might be jerking off and thinking of you is a luxury.
Once we were inside his hotel room that night, he looked at me with clear eyes and made sure I was on board. We quickly negotiated the situation -- both recently tested for all STIs, no history of outbreaks or lesions, no current monogamous significant others, all that super sexy stuff -- and as soon as we were both satisfied, he dropped to his knees and buried his head under my skirt between my legs again, breathing on the thin cotton of my boy shorts. It was still summer, and my body was wild and unruly. It was cool in the hotel room, but sweat poured off of us; I licked it off the side of his neck, and it tasted faintly of salt and scotch. I kissed my way up to his ear and gave the little spot near his hairline a tiny lick, breathed softly, and took his lobe swiftly into my mouth. His shivering sigh swelled in the air, and then it was hard to balance the soft and the sharp, teeth and nails versus tongue and eyelashes.
He was an incredible fuck. It was easy to tell that he loved women, in a real, honest way, that he probably had cool female friends that I would like, that he didn't care if I'd shaved my legs or not, and that he'd probably had at least one older lover who taught him how to be eat pussy. He didn't try to stay at a distance and lick my clit politely; he had his nose buried in me, his tongue fucking me, his fingers everywhere inside and out, teasing my ass and scratching me and rubbing himself on, well, whatever. If we were in the bath or on the floor, he'd rub his cock on my leg; in bed, on the comforter. Sometimes I sat on his face and sucked his cock until I couldn't remember how to keep a rhythm going with my mouth and hands because his tongue was everywhere at once.
We didn't leave all weekend, and we made a huge mess. He managed to leave the room service plates in the hallway to be picked up, but otherwise the room was a wasteland of bed sheets and towels where we'd gone in and out of the giant tub, or to soak up the gushes of fluid my body let loose when I came hard. Half-drunk glasses of wine, condom wrappers, the clothes I'd worn the day we'd met, half of which I'd never find again, and the occasional stain. On the carpet, even. He left a big tip for housekeeping.
"I wish you were here," he wrote me.
"You're the fancy businessman. You should come back here," I replied.
See, this is why I don't do one-night stands. Or one-weekend stands. Because if I find someone who I actually like enough to fuck, I will become dizzy drunk addicted to our fucking or thoughts thereof, when I should be thinking about sensible things like the fact that the snow wasn't letting up and what if there really was a blackout, would I have enough food, and also I should find someone in my own city to sleep with.
"I should. And I will. Or maybe fly your sweet bits out here. Get on webcam," he typed. "I want to see you."

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