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my space, right where it belongs. I love him—with my eyes, my heart, my hands. I touch the decadent dents in his abs. I touch the sculpted silhouette of his legs, and the thighs that could squeeze the juice out of lemons. I touch the contours of his cock, that hefty bump tucked inside his briefs, which are bright yellow and terribly tacky.
    â€œI hate it when you wear those. It looks like Pac-Man is eating your package.”
    â€œEveryone’s a critic,” Lou grumbles. “And that includes me, by the way. Blaire, my love, your underwear is an obscene shade of blue. You look like a tropical fish.”
    I glance down. “They are all wet, aren’t they?”
    Lou nods. He rids himself of his dreadful drawers and then rids me of mine.
    I take a moment to marvel at my unclad lad. His cock is rather…spirited, with its stiff stem and rosy hue. “I can see why they cast you in the show.”
    â€œBecause I’ve got spunk?” he speculates.
    â€œYes, although technically it’s your Mary Tyler Moornament that’s got spunk.”
    A slight spout emerges when I tap the shaft. Ah, wood that I could. And I can. So I shall.
    We exchange positions and now he’s seated on the bed and I’m seated on his lap. Our lips unite, stick together for a while.
    Lou’s cock knocks at the entrance.
    â€œCome on in.”
    There’s a snug tug and he’s inside, feeling right at home. His hands scale my breasts and his lips caress my ear, sharing wishes and kisses and words like Blaire and love and beautiful and others that I can’t decipher.
    â€œI never understood why they call them sweet nothings,” Lou ponders. “I think they should be called sweet somethings.”
    You got to love a man who wears his hard-on his sleeve.
    Our hips move in harmony, my body thriving on the driving force of his cock. But it isn’t frantic. Bodies bumping, blood pumping, hearts thumping, we make love, not haste.
    His eyes meet mine, and I notice the way he blinks in time with his thrusts, which are restrained yet restless.
    I grind my groin against his—mildly at first, wildly at last.
    He bursts inside me, a hot shot of spunk that causes my body to twist and turn, like the funnel of a tornado.
    I let Lou slip out, but not away. A part of him stays with me—it is thick and clingy and makes me think of maple syrup.
    In its pursuit of sappiness, my hand wanders between my thighs, then to his midsection, where my digits loop and dip and draw Lou’s initial.
    Lou laughs, admiring my amorous artwork. “It’s beautiful, beautiful.”
    â€œThanks, Lou.” My smile stretches all the way from my soul to his, where they mate, just like we did. “Coming from you, that’s one L of a compliment.”

ROCKET FUEL
    Jacqueline Applebee
    I t’s simple really: I can’t get enough of cock. I love blow jobs, hand jobs, taking it up my arse or my cunt. I love the feel, the look and the smell of cock. But I absolutely, positively, adore everything about cum. Precum is a shiny, salty drop of promise. Spurts of cum feel like a champagne explosion. The rarest ejaculate of them all, postcum is like a precious essence that has to be treasured on the tip of my tongue.
    People like to call me easy, like there’s some merit in being difficult. I’m a friend, a lover and a good time all in one. I know what I want. I don’t hurt anybody. When I get with a guy, everyone’s a winner. And I do love getting with guys. My fuckbuddies included Steve, a cabdriver who worked erratic hours. There was Lester, a hospital orderly who liked to dress as his favourite comic-book characters at the weekend. And then there was Mukesh Singh, a librarian who hated his job, but refused to leave because it kept his parents from making him work in his uncle’s restaurant.
    I’d started to notice that my obsession with cock resulted in some strange side effects.