Every Rose Has a Porn - or "Fancy Meeting You Here!" (Closed for Talon)

[Apollo Wilde]

“That’s a lot,” He was as nonchalant sounding as ever. “Some people have way too much time on their hands. I dunno if it’s worth quitting all together, though-”

“No, I’m completely serious, Barton. I don’t think you understand. He found out where I was by the reflection of the shop sign in my sunglasses. My. Sunglasses.” She was doing her best to keep her voice calm and even, but it was a losing battle. She’d already had a panic attack once - she wasn’t trying to tip back into it. “I’m quitting.”

“…You said this guy found you through your shades? Fuck.” Something about the way he pressed his tongue into the consonants, dropping them hard into the air made her stop. He was taking it serious. “You get his screen name? Anything like that?”

“Yeah; I emailed it to you.” She sat down, ran a shaking hand through her mass of unkempt hair. “I…” she sucked in a deep breath, held it. She had to keep it together long enough for something to be done. “I dunno how helpful it’s going to be-”

“Look; don’t panic. I know a guy. He’ll be by in a bit; he’ll take your laptop.”

“Will I get it back?”

“Yeah, in a day or so. I take this sort of shit seriously. It doesn’t happen often - but yeah, take the time off. You need some cash for a bit?”

Her mouth wavered into a smile. It was sweet. Almost. “No; I’m good. But I’m serious, Barton - I’m done. I don’t ever want to feel like this again. It’s not worth it.”











It’d started off simple enough - a series of nudes she’d produced for “Ovar-IT: an exhibition of the Powerful Feminine” down at the Vortex Theater. It was far from her first show, but the first that she’d decided to do something different: an interactive exhibit. She knew the woman hosting the exhibit (and the owners of the Vortex) to begin with, and it’d felt like a safe space. Welcoming enough to do something fun. To be someone else but herself at the same time. To bring humor that she felt was missing from the show (and her life in general).

“This fine specimen,” she beamed, hosting up a large cerulean dildo that was shaped vaguely like an undersea creature, all undulating curves and suggestive nubs, “Is the ‘Nudibranch,’ - appropriately named, totally.” Pause for laughter from the audience - then the next part, a little scripted, a little ad-libbed. “It was crafted by the fine folks at Enjoytoy - I think they might be here - our friendly local adult shop and purveyors of perversity.”

Laughter. Pause. Smile big; have fun with it. That was the point - fun and reclamation and the ending of stigmas.

So who knew that giving tongue-in-cheek dildo reviews would be so attention catching? She knew she wasn’t doing anything particularly new or inventive; hell, she’d stopped short of giving an actual demonstration. But it’d caught the attention of one Ryan Barton - someone she knew of, but hadn’t worked with - and that’s how they’d started talking. He was a big fan of her work - loved the Wait series, by the way -, and hadn’t had the chance to work with her because he was on the erotica side and though she did nudes, she hadn’t done erotica -

“Although to be honest with you, this is a pretty racey shoot for you. I mean, there’s your labia right there,” he gestured with a free hand (the other holding a small champagne flute), “I don’t care how Georgia O'Keeffe you tried to take it.”

She wrinkled her nose, more in amusement than in distaste. “There’s a line in Alice Walker’s The Color Purple where she describes her sex as looking like the ‘petals of a wet rose’, and I loved that so much that I wanted to recapture it. Even with the hair and everything. We all know that the labia, mons pubis, all of that looks completely different from woman to woman, but we’re only used to seeing it hyper polished and carved up and injected and puffed up in porn. White, Asian, black cunts - they’re all stretched and molded and pushed into something that all looks alike. I got tired of it.”

“So what you’re actually telling me is that you watch enough porn to notice trends. Interesting.”

Laughter.

Ryan was easy to talk to; the kind of nondescript milquetoast white guy that would start a friendly conversation while in line at Subway. Average height, average build with dirty blonde hair and brown eyes that looked like they belonged more to a basset hound than a human being, he gave the impression of those sad-eyed stuffed puppies holding a heart that said 'I Ruff U" on them.

“Tell you what, Cass, you take my card - see, I can be professional - give me a call, and we’ll set something up. I’d seriously love to shoot you, using this as a jumping off point-”

“Wouldn’t it be considerably less feminist if I turned it into straight porn with you?”

“Ooof,” he held up his hands defensively. “Who said anything about porn? Look, let’s just shoot; see what happens. No expectations; just fun.”







True to his word, the shoot with Ryan was fun. His studio was professional with wide, airy windows, but had the same oddly comfortable vibe that he exuded as a human being. One shoot lead to another, one conversation led to more. Like any of her other collaborative works, Ryan and her seemed to be on the same wavelength - even when it’d come to pushing boundaries.

“You know,” she’d said at one of their last shoots, “I was thinking about making the Review series more interactive. Like those white-coater films from the 1960s. Not self-aware at all that it’s turning into something sexual, but on the same hand, comfortable enough for women to want to watch. Specifically for the female gaze.”

“How do you mean?” He was looking down at his camera, going through the photos.

“This is going to be TMI - but seriously, no one taught me how to masturbate. Do you know how frustrating that is as a girl? Like what do you even do?”

Snuffled laughter from him. “Okay, but there’s a ton of places where girls can find that out now.”

“Yeah but it’s gross and exploitative and again, from a male perspective. I want this to be sort of autobiographical, sort of art, sort of film, sort of older sister best friend. And easy for women to find.”

“Okay, so, if people are looking for that, they’re going to be looking for a name - not ‘Cassandra Henry.’ Not knocking you as an artist; I know you travel for shows and people know you, but there’s not a lot of interaction between those worlds. At least, not how you’re going now."

“Yeah, I know: so introducing ‘Sister Sunshine’!” She’d handed her phone over to him. Sister Sunshine had a curated Instagram, full of fun photos of food, parks, animals, clothes, make up tutorials. And at the top, a subtle link tree. More moments of silence as he scrolled through one after another, setting down his camera to rub at his chin as he went through it, nodding here, murmuring something under his breath there.

“You know,” he handed her phone back to her, “I like this. You run all of this yourself?”

“Oh yeah,” she tugged her hair down from the sloppy bun she’d worn it in, “It’s way more time consuming than I thought, but it’s been an interesting learning process. I’m making way more money than I thought I’d be, you know, but there’s only so much I can do on my own. There’s more money in doing it with a partner, and, well-”

Ryan raised his eyebrows, the drowsy droop of his eyes widening a bit at the corners.

“You’re asking me to find you male talent?”

“For a percentage. I trust you - and we run in the same circles. Somewhat. You know me well enough-”

“Not that well. Give me a few weeks; we’ll do a few more shoots; we’ll go from there. If you’re going in the direction that I think you might, I think we should do a few static shoots. See how you two work in photos before we move to something more interactive. Don’t want a silent to talkie problem.”

“Fair.”

 

[Apollo Wilde]

“Sister Sunshine” turned out to be way more than Cassandra had ever anticipated. She had fan accounts, fan art (so cool), brand deals, and best of all, the notes from people she actually helped. Performance art flowed into porn into interactive storytelling into porn into performance art again, and, well, every video she made meant more money in her pocket. The last few months had been fruitful enough for her to actually start socking money away - in the black instead of breaking even. Her new partner - or occasional partner - she had to admit, played a certain role. He was game for just about anything: very nice, very personable. It wasn’t hard to fake chemistry with him; he was a cinnamon roll - as the kids said - but could switch at the drop of a hat.

And didn’t seem to mind the variety of wigs and the ever-present elf-ears she wore.

But…It was getting old. Boring, almost - impossible to suggest that sex would be boring -, but the nuts and bolts and process of it all. The endless emails. The requests that were getting to be more intrusive, the lewd comments about her pubic hair, her armpit hair - why do people complain when I marketed myself specifically as ‘That hippie bitch with the good pussy’ and they can go literally anywhere else for what they want? that…she knew she was inviting comments for, just by the nature of the work, but she was still a human and had feelings at the end of the day.

If anything…if she was going to admit to herself, it was feeling less empowering and more like a grind. There was only so much that could’ve been said, explained, and now, she felt, it was running its course. There was only so much she was comfortable with, only so many lifestyles that she knew about. She had never intended for this to be her entire life. She’d met so many new people, seen so many new things (some were great; others made her cringe into a different dimension), and had expanded her circle of friends. It was as successful as it could’ve been -

“Always best to get out when you’re on top,” Helene had told her. Helene was an old pro - literally and figuratively. She had been a go-go dancer, then a Mafia kept woman (true story!), and now the owner of a successful hair salon, “And when it stops being fun. They know when it starts being a drag.” Helene had been a guardian angel through some of the rougher spots, Helene and her group of eccentrics - none of which would’ve been out of place in a John Waters film.

So it was getting to be about that time. But what was next? She had no idea. Nothing was coming to her from the bottom of her teacups, from the stack of bills. From the piles and piles of art books and magazines and photos that littered her studio apartment. No amount of wandering through those imagined lives would get her closer to…whatever was next.

“I don’t want to retire from art, but I don’t know what else to do; this has been so extreme, and I’ve done it as art and as memoir and as performance, so what’s next?”

“What’s after each birthday? Another year, God willing, until it’s the last. Sit and let the work sit with you,” Helene had rasped, tapping cigarette ash into a lop-sided ceramic ashtray. A gift from one of her grandkids, undoubtedly. “Unless you wanna go more private?” A raise of her brows, a knitting of her carefully drawn on pink lips.

“No; not like that,” though, for a moment, Cassandra had thought about being a ‘kept woman’ - if nothing more than for a new experience. But no; she valued her freedom too much, the ability to pick and go wherever. That’s why she had a studio apartment - though she’d been thinking about downsizing to a trailer. “But you’re right.”








SunshineLVR was the thing that put a definite end to it.

“Oh, I love that ice cream shop! The one right there on 5th, right? I’ll keep my eyes peeled for you.”

“Hey; I waited at Godi’s all day for you; I thought you came by regularly. You didn’t lie to me, right?”

“I thought I saw you; is this you?”

A photo of her from behind, out of the wigs, out of the ears. Causal, without a care in the world.

“It was, wasn’t it? I thought about following you, but I thought that would’ve been too weird. But if you don’t answer me, I’m going to have to, next time. I’d love to see where you live!”

“Okay; I tried being nice, you stupid cunt. You fucking whore; you think you’re better than me? I gave you all of my time and attention and my love and you’re ignoring me? You better answer me this time, or I’m going to let the whole world know who you are and where you live! Fucking thot.”











It’d been weeks. She had her laptop back, and her time as Sister Sunshine was done. That part of her life had been scrubbed as clean as possible from the endless maw of the Internet. Apparently Ryan did know someone; several someones, as it was. Her laptop was returned by a man that was less of a man and more of a refrigerator with human features; he was that big. Deceptively delicate, though, and had given her her computer back with the daintiness of a dancer. Was wonderfully soft spoken with enough surfer slang that she found herself staring at the door long after she’d closed it.

She never heard back from SunshineLVR. And, truthfully, he could’ve been in the bay with cement shoes for all she knew - or cared. It had been enough for her to seal herself in her studio for days, only leaving at odd hours. Her close friends knew, of course, but overall…it hadn’t been enough.

Counting her money backwards and forwards, then backwards again. She’d saved a lot, but she’d need a lot to move. Fuck. All of that work - and right back into smoke. Right back to where she started. Did she still have comfy shoes to wait tables in? Ugh.

How’s that song go? All that work and what did it get me?

Same, girl. Same.








Hometown blues.

A city, but not a city - not dense like New York; not rural enough to be a dot town. A place with an urban sprawl, but drive 40 minutes one way or the other, and you’re into empty fields with empty eyed cows watching the world go by. There were still some friends there, chances to make old connections new again and brand new connections all together. Sometimes “home” was the best place.

And it was okay, for a while. Enough for her to start finding her feet again. Odd jobs in odd places - bread making, retail, makeup artist, posing for art classes. Getting into the art scene here, scraping up enough money and credit to start a ceramics class, then to become a ceramics teacher. Not perfect, but hey, it was steady money, and at least enough to pay the bills. Anything extra added back to that Dream Fund, the one she’d partially depleted in her hurried move (quick enough to impress even Steinbeck’s Joads). She kept in contact with Ryan, Helene, opened her doors when they rarely came through. And at every mention there was of this exhibit or that or of this imitator or that, she couldn’t help the cold chill that came up her spine. She was done; said it firmly over and over.

She could come back, she could make more money. And those were the strings that wrapped themselves tighter and tighter around her throat, her wrists, making her want to consider it again. But no - not again. She couldn’t.

But…

Every once in a while, kneading dough or at the potter’s wheel, she found herself thinking about that guy. The one that played the vampire to her maiden, the orc to her elf. Nice guy with the long hair. Wasn’t he in a band? How was he doing?


Ah, well. Another life.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

“Okay, so, I know you’re new-ish here-”

“Hometown. I spent the first 17 years of my life here.”

“Not SO new, but you never come out with us. Come on; we’re going to Goth Night at Letters.”

Cassandra snorted, before laughing. “Oh my God; Letters is still around? I thought they went bankrupt.”

“Omg, no - the last owner, the one that was a total mess? Yeah, well, turns out he’d been embezzling and used it as a front for like, drugs and some people even said human trafficking, but whatever - so he went to jail and then a bunch of the regulars got together and did a fundraiser and bought it, so it’s like a co-opt now. At least in the day; they’ve got a really good menu.”

Cassandra blinked, attempting to process the waterfall of information tumbling from the brunette’s mouth. That was perfectly Meegan; a fellow adjunct professor at the college. She taught painting; specialized in watercolors. Sweet but talked so much that it didn’t seem like she breathed.

“Okay, so the former human trafficker shitstain of a human being owner no longer owns it so it’s still in business and they still have a ‘Goth Night’ and you guys are going to it tonight - sound about right?”

“What?” Meegan was furiously typing on her phone, “I totally just said all of that. And dress up!”

“…Uh-huh.”








Letters was as she remembered it; the funk of sweat and old wooden floors, stained with immeasurable drink spills. Dank greasy smoke of fog machines, clove cigarettes and black lipstick and vinyl and leather and fishnets. Bodies mingling in and out of one another with Depeche Mode, and hell, it didn’t even take Cassandra an entire drink to feel back into the swing of it. Her locs were pulled up into space buns, held closed with spiked bracelets, every single piercing in her ears filled - silver studs, snakes, spiders, present moons, rough cut gemstones. She’d picked a septum ring, silver set with an opal in the center, figuring to channel some of her personal moon-witch vibes into it all. The black corset she’d initially thought on was too small - so she’d gone with a black mesh long sleeved shirt over a black bra. It worked well enough with the ankle length layered black skirt she wore - would also help disguise the black Converse she had on. The days of dancing all night in stilettos and platform boots were behind her. Not after That One Thursday Night.

So she’d danced, gotten one of her shoes soaked by a spilled drink - she hoped it was vodka-, danced some more, got a few more drinks - danced until she could feel the bass in her teeth and every line of the floor through the thin soles of her shoes.

By the time the houselights flickered on, ending dance floor born romances, she was limping, and there was no sign of Meegan or the others. Oh, whatever, she thought. Even if she had been ditched, she hadn’t danced like that, trusted herself to let loose like that, in ages. And she was a big girl; she could take care of herself. She was tired, but not ready to go home. She was sober, her feet hurt, and now her stomach was growling.









It didn’t take a genius to know that the 24 hour diner down the street from one of the town’s oldest clubs was going to do gangbusters business wise. It wasn’t a surprise that the place was crowded when she pulled up - not the worst she’d seen it; school was still in session, after all -, but it wasn’t so oppressively full that she couldn’t find a spot. And being by herself made it that much easier. Settling into her booth, she sighed, feeling content for the first time in like…forever.

Nursing her hot chocolate as she waited for her pancakes, she looked around the interior of the diner. Dulled yellow lights, partially faded carpet. Everything dated back to the 1970s, but kept as clean and was as loved as a grandmother’s house. Old photos of passing through celebrities marked the walls; a chalkboard with the specials drawn in colorful and looping chalk above the counter. The clank and shouts of the cooks to waitresses, the hum of low conversation and the perpetual easy listening music that knit it all together.

Oh, and the night just got better. As she took a lick of the whipped cream on the top of her chocolate, the soft notes of “What A Fool Believes” kicked on, and she had to stop herself from stomping her feet in excitement. “Fuck. Yes,” hissed into her cocoa. “I love this fucking song.”

 

[Talon]

Thumbs drumming out the beat of ‘Radar Love’ on the steering wheel of his truck along with the track as it played over his stereo, humming along around a half-smoked cigarette dangling between pursed lips, Rustin Daniels pulled into the driveway of his sister’s home. It could hardly be called dawn out, half-past five in the morning, only a tease of a hint of color showing along the horizon as he glanced up into his rearview. He sat there with the engine idling, pausing to take one last drag from his cig before stabbing it into the red dixie cup-turned-butt graveyard that permanently occupied one of the drink holders in the center dash. The jangle of keys as he killed the ignition, a squeaky hinge on the door, the drone of him still humming beneath his breath as he strolled up the concrete path that adjoined the drive to the front of the house accompanying the clack of thick-heeled work boots.

“Bah, bah-da bah-dum baaaa…” The spring of the screen door screeched as he pulled it open, Rus leaning in towards the interior door to wrap his knuckles against it in the universal signal of ‘don’t worry, it’s just me’

Rat tata tat-tat, tat-tat

Jingling again as he worked his copy of her house key into the lock, opening the door to step inside, greeted by the warning chirp of her alarm system informing him of its impending alert. Pushing the door shut behind him, he moved to the panel against the wall a few paces inside, flipping down the plastic hinge cover over the keypad… 3696*... to the sound of two satisfied beeps in response. He paused, turning his ring of keys over in his hands, listening, before leaning over to cast his gaze up the staircase just beyond the tile of the entranceway that led to the second level. Dark and silent above, but there was the telltale rustling of someone foraging about from the kitchen down the main corridor that led back to the living room. Clearing his throat, he moved off in that direction, stuffing his keys into his jacket pocket.

It was an older house, originally built in the ‘60s, renovated in the early ’00s, with perhaps the layout of the kitchen showing most distinctly the signs of its age. It was galley-style; stove, double in-cabinet ovens, and refrigerator to one side with the sink, dishwasher, and pantry sharing the counter space along the other. Linoleum flooring and wood grain cabinets, though the fridge and dishwasher were of a more modern make, steel appliances that clashed with the ’90s white of the oven and stoves. The dining room adjoined the kitchen, where sat a large, oblong wooden table surrounded by quaint wooden chairs with spoked backs and tied-on frilly seat cushions. His fifteen-year-old niece, Olivia, occupied the seat at the head. Seemingly oblivious to the world around her, a pair of hot pink headphones wrapped over her head, complete with a set of cat ears perched atop the band, her attention focused on the smartphone that sat propped up against her bookbag laid upon the table in front of her

He stopped a few feet away, watching as she nicked a fresh handful of chips from a bag concealed inside her bookbag with all the grace of a teenager used to sneaking snacks in class. He cleared his throat… tilted his head… leaned in closer toward her…nothing. No response. Borderline catatonic. With an annoyed grunt, he stepped closer, his hand moving to cover the screen of her phone as he looked down at her expectantly.

She gave an eye roll in response, exasperated, as if his actions were the height of dramatism, followed closely by a huff, though she did reach up to pull the right ear of her headphones away as she looked up at him beneath her eyebrows.

“Chips for breakfast? I mean, I get it, who doesn’t like Cool Ranch?.. but come on, squirt…” He bowled right over her as she shot an angry “Don’t call me that!” up at him in retort. “... how’s your mother doin’ this morning?”

“Alive… I think.” She returned her attention to her phone, letting the headphone cup snap back in place over her ear.

Her flippant remark drew a growl from him as he leaned in closer, brow furrowing before he caught himself, head turning away, blinking a few times before he turned back. Deep breaths…she’s hurting, too. “... it’s too early in the day for all that...” He sighed, pulling back as his teeth gnawed at his lip, biting back the harsh remark that sat on the tip of his tongue. Pick your battles, Rus. Now ain’t the time. “...be ready in five. I’m gonna go up and check on your mother, but we need to be early in line for drop-off. Got a big day at the shop.”

Her lack of concern over his issue of timeliness was palpable. She didn’t even bother to look back up at him. “Whatever you say, Uncle Rus.” Her tone was sing-songy in its mockery.

Long gone were the days when she would cling to his back with her arms clutched around his neck, cargo to be carried along to wherever he was going, content just to be with him, be near him, to exist in his shadow. He had doted on her, without a doubt. She had been the most loving kid he’d ever been around, a sweet little girl who once wore her naturally blonde hair up in two pigtails, one to each side of her head. One who loved to hula-hoop, play Barbie, and host tea parties. That was all before the double dose of puberty and her mother falling sick hit her like a Mac truck. It was all darkness now; bottle-black hair and ratty clothes, Teen Dream posters replaced with album covers from obscure metal bands, and her own, original, often darkly twisted and morbid, art. The kid had a gift, for sure, but at the moment her method of showcasing her natural talent unnerved him. It was one thing to deal with the volatile emotionality of a teenager in the way they talked and acted around you, but to see it displayed in visual form, the hurt, the pain, particularly in someone so young and so closely connected to him… it broke his heart. He felt powerless, like he couldn't stop her from spiraling further down that abyss no matter how hard he tried. It was all he could do to keep her fed and push her to keep performing well enough academically that she wouldn’t be expelled… hell, it was nearly more than he could handle just making sure she attended school every morning. He was pretty sure she had grown to hate him over it. His only hope was that one day she wouldn’t.

“Be ready in five…” He reiterated, turning away from her just as she began to roll her eyes again. Better not to see her response, as he wasn’t sure he could hold back his anger a second go 'round.

 

[Talon]

His sister’s room was dark, illuminated only by the intrusion of the light from the hallway as he eased the door open. Quiet, with only the constant, gentle droning of the air purifier sat on the table beside her bed for ambiance. He could make out the shape of her body beneath the covers as she lay on her side, with him perching beside her to gently rest a hand upon the swell of her hip. Just noting that detail brought on a sharp twinge of pain deep in his gut; his sister Jessica had always been on the larger side. Not obese, mind, or anywhere close to it, but naturally ‘voluptuous’, he’d say, if he was to be particularly kind with his description. And proud of it. She was a comforter, the kind to hug anyone who came across her path. He remembered her being strong enough to hold him in place should he resist, even as he grew large enough that the top of her head barely reached his chin. She was five years his senior, and as protective an older sibling as they came.

Her hip was all bone now, though, the shape of her body beneath the soft comforter concealing it barely recognizable as belonging to her. With a few rounds of chemo behind her, there was little left there beyond skin and bones. Her eyes, though, were still hers; glowing, brown, full of mirth, certainly more than they had any right to be after all she had been through. He couldn’t see them now, shielded as they were by a forearm against the intrusion of light upon her sanctuary of darkness.

“Rus?” Her voice was a croak.

“Yeah, sis…” He rubbed her side reassuringly. “I’m here.”

“Rus…” A comforted sigh. “Rus, Olivia has a paper due…”

His voice was gentle, but firm. “I know, Jess… we took care of it last night. She’s gonna ace it, don’t worry.”

“Thank you…”

“Of course, sweetheart…” That’s what she used to call me as she comforted me. The thought put a lump in his throat. “Don’t worry about it. Rosita…” Her day nurse, one of the few luxuries he could afford to provide her after the cost of paying off her house and buying the shop had nearly done in his savings. “... will be along in a few hours. She asked for a late start today, remember?” Jessica groaned her assent. “Right… I better get. Busy day at the shop. Maggie asked if I could stop by this afternoon to help her with inventory…” Though he knew she hardly had the bandwidth to be concerned about such things, Rus felt it helped to keep her in the know, to keep her feeling like a vital link in the chain of the shop’s daily operations.

“And you’re starting the Valentine's Day prep, right?” Jessica shifted her arm enough that she could peer up at him hopefully.

“Of course. I still have the list from the year before that you made, adjusted for our increase in business since then… we’ll be fine. It’s going to be a good season this year, I can feel it.”

Jessica nodded wordlessly, her lips pursing as if she were fighting back tears. Her free hand snaked out from under the covers, reaching down to grasp at his, bony, cold, but with a warmth conveyed through the strength of her touch. Rus leaned over her, pressing his lips to her cheek in a kiss before whispering in her ear. “You’re going to be there for Valentine's Day. You’re doing so well. You’re putting on weight… you’ll be there even if I have to strap you to my back and carry you there by foot.”

She laughed at the thought, even as a singular tear rolled off the side of her cheek.

“I love you, sis… now get some rest, Rosita will wake you when she gets in.”

Jessica nodded, leaning up to press a half-kiss against Rus’ cheek before he pulled away, adjusted her covers around her, and turned to creep back towards the door, leaving her with a warm, misty-eyed smile as he gently shut the door behind him.




Rus watched from the cab of his truck, parked at the curb abutting the sidewalk in front of the school, as Olivia mingled with a gaggle of girls, lingering there a moment before they all began a reluctant migration towards the entrance. He pressed the switch on his door to lower the driver-side window, letting it down by half before he shifted in his seat, fishing around in his pocket for his half-empty pack of cigs.

She hadn’t looked back at him once, leaving him with hardly more than a grunt of acknowledgment as she slammed the door of his truck shut before walking off.

Lifting the pack to his mouth he took the butt of a fresh cig between his lips, pulling it free as he set the pack down against his thigh to open the little pocket-sized box of matches he carried. He’d always preferred matches to a lighter, though not the flimsy, paper kind, but rather the proper stick matches you could light a campfire or a barbecue with. Something about the tactile feel of striking it, holding this little burning torch, had always felt satisfying to him. There was something of an old-school charm to it, perhaps.

He struck a match and held it up to his cigarette, shaking it extinguished before flicking the little charred stick out the open window beside him. He settled back in his seat to watch Olivia as she drew nearer the big wooden double doors at the front while taking his first deep drag. Hoping somewhere in the back of his mind that perhaps she would be compelled to look back, or that he might catch a glimpse of her smile, if not in the presence of him or her mother, then at least with her friends. No such luck this morning, as it would have it, as he watched her disappear into the throng of kids queueing up to enter.

A knock at the passenger side window startled him.

Dean Phillips, the school's principal. Tall, pale, skinny, bespectacled, and perpetually clad in a long-sleeved v-neck sweater or vest if in the depths of summer, over which he currently wore a neon green safety vest that marked him as a school official. A sufferer of male pattern baldness at the crown of his head, he compensated for his lack above with an excess below, his upper lip hidden beneath a bushy but well-trimmed mustache that was perpetually waxed and curled up at each end. Also not Rus’ biggest fan, judging by the scowl he wore plainly, clutching a tablet to his chest with both arms protectively.

Rus gave an upward nod in his direction as if to say ‘what’s up?’ annoyedly as he recovered from the sudden surprise of the other man’s appearance. Dean tapped again on the glass urgently, motioning with a finger downward as if to request the lowering of the window. With a frustrated groan, Rus popped the release of his lap belt so he could lean over the center console far enough to reach the passenger door handle. The passenger window wouldn’t lower mechanically, something about a blown fuse or somethin’, one thing among many he hadn’t had the time to address. As soon as Rus had popped the door, Dean yanked it open far enough to stick his head in, his nose wrinkling in disgust.

“Mr. Daniels… we’ve talked about this before. Two-hundred and fifty yards from the entrance…” He pointed accusingly at the cigarette dangling between Rus’ lips. “...I don’t make the rules Mr. Daniels…”

“...you just enforce them.” Rus chimed in, nodding along as if he had heard the same phrase repeated many times before. “I’ll do my best to remember next time, Mr. Peters…”

The other man frowned as if he thought it unlikely that this particular reminder would do the trick when all the others had failed to. “Very good, sir… you see, it’s about the example you’re setting for the kids…”

“Of course, the kids… Mr. Phillips, I’m in a terrible rush here, would you mind kindly shutting the door, please?” Rus nodded towards the door as he reached to turn the key in the ignition. “Long day at work ahead, you know…”

Mr. Phillips, still scowling, vexed to have been cut short mid-sermon, swung the door shut with a curt “Good day, Mr. Daniels…” before turning to chide a few tardy students who still lingered in the courtyard at the school's front.

“Fuckin’ smarmy little prick…” Rus grumbled around his still-smoldering cigarette as he shifted his truck into drive and turned to look over his shoulder to check for oncoming traffic.

 

[Talon]

Rus peeked his head up over the door of the open fridge he had been peering into, calling out. “Hey Mags, you got any sparkling water back here?”

Maggie, currently elbow-deep in a ball of dough, cast an exasperated look over her shoulder. “No, fruitcake, we don’t have any sparkling water…” She slapped the dough down on the counter hard, as if she were imagining it were his head. “...just like the last ten times you asked.”

Rus, smirking, was twisting the top off a bottle of regular water as he made his way up from the back of the shop, moving to lean his back against the counter beside her but well out of arm's reach. “You think you’d catch the fuckin’ hint already…”

She stopped, straightening up to stand her full all of five-foot-two, scowling over at him. “Catch the hint?… motherfucker, who the hell drinks sparkling water, anyways? You think you’re too fancy for the regular shit?”

Rus shrugged, grinning around a mouthful of water as he swished it around his mouth a few times before swallowing. “Maybe.”

Maggie grumbled, smacking the dough with her hands in the action of kneading it. “This guy cuts some big-shot ‘dildo’ deal, all of a sudden he thinks he’s too good for us regular folks. You should feel fortunate that I’m not making you drink tap water…” She looked up from her work to consider him for a moment. “…from a bowl!” She stuck her tongue out at him, a stud with a multichromatic pattern on the head prominently displayed near the tip.

Rus scoffed, shaking his head as he twisted the little plastic cap back atop the bottle. “You would.”

“Goddamn right I would!” She barked, winking playfully at him before she returned the full of her attention back towards her work. ”How’s that work, anyway…” she cast a glance up at him. “…the thing with the dildos. What, do you get residuals or somethin’, or a bonus for every ‘x’ amount of units sold? They pay you by the inch?”

Rus groaned, pushing himself up off the counter to walk back around to the front of the counters where the displays were. “Not this again… I never should have told you, clearly.”

Maggie smirked, straightening as she reached over to grab her rolling pin. “What, have you gone and developed sudden onset shyness or somethin’? I don’t care about the dildo part of it, you nerd. I’m just curious about the business end of things, that’s all.”

Rus smirked, crossing his arms over his chest defensively. “Why? Thinking of putting out your own line?”

Maggie threw her head back with a loud guffaw. “Riiiiight. Like there’d be guys lined up around the block just itchin’ for a chance to have a go at the clone-a-cunt of a dumpy, middle-aged bull dyke who hasn’t shaved down there since Bush was in office…” She giggled, the tip of her tongue poking out the side of her mouth as she worked her pin across the dough. “…gonna write that one down, have it put on my tombstone.”

Rus laughed along with her at her unintentional pun, shaking his head with a shrug. “I dunno, Mags… you’d be surprised at what some guys are into.”

Maggie had been his friend for the better part of a decade, a remnant from his past career. They’d modeled together before, well, not together together, but been present at some of the same shoots. Besides in front of the camera work, she’d also done some photography, though she never ended up branching out into the more hardcore side of things, sticking to mostly artistic shoots or some of the more obscure fetish scenes. While she wasn’t as physically unappealing as she made out, she had gained a good twenty, or forty, pounds since opening her bakery, though given the natural shape of her body, she carried it well. ‘Rubenesque’ was how she had billed herself in the early days, by now she was all thigh and butt, with curly hair that tended to frizz, a cute upturned nose, and chubby cheeks spattered with a dusting of freckles. Half-Korean on her mother’s side, German on her father‘s, her features more heavily favored her mother‘s side.

“The fuck I would…” Maggie snapped. “…this pussy doesn’t play for the other team even in imitation form...” She paused her rolling, scrunching up her nose as if she had caught a hint of something foul. “…I can’t stand the thought of some loser fuck savaging his sad little pud with the assistance of something molded after me, you know? Fuckin’ gross…”

Rus nodded, scratching at his chin sheepishly. “I guess I just don’t think about it much…”

“Of course you don’t!” She barked. “Typical fuckin’ man, just completely unbothered. Besides, your toy is the fuck-er, not the fuck-ee…dig? If it was a clone of your little brown eye, I bet you’d feel different.”

Rus frowned, contemplating the thought for a moment. “I mean… to be completely honest, I hadn’t thought of it that way. You’ve got a point.”

“Of course I fuckin’ do! What do you keep me around for, if not to deliver unto thee little pearls of feminine wisdom?” She smirked, peering up at him from beneath her brow.

Rus shrugged, moving to walk back around the counter and head into the back of the shop. “Sure… I mean, it’s always been more about the free cupcakes to me, but if you want to think it’s for your sage wisdom, well, go right ahead. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

Maggie paused in her work, turning to consider him a moment as he walked past, hands perched on her substantial hips. “Why don’t you go back there and lift something heavy, pretty boy? Grunt and scratch and fart a bit, whatever it is you manly types do when you’re alone.”

Rus scoffed, raising his hand to his brow in an exaggerated mock salute. “Aye-aye, Captain McCunty.”

Maggie watched as he left, shaking her head, before resuming her rolling. “…men.”


It wasn’t as glamorous as Maggie had made out, his deal with the adult toy company. Residuals? Hah. He had the best-selling model out of the whole company line for three years running, and still, when they asked him to come in for a re-mold, something about a new molding method that captured more detail, they’d only offered him a 10k lump sum. Which was pretty generous, as far as such deals go. Still, it was hardly enough for a down payment on a new car, let alone anything resembling a sum of money that could keep him living comfortably for any substantial amount of time.

It had been kind of fun, though, he had to admit. Not the molding process itself, mind… you try maintaining an erection in a room full of dudes trying to coax you to stick it in a tube filled with goop and tell me how you like it. It was the whole extravaganza around it. The company had pioneered some new silicone tech that resulted in the most lifelike product on the market. The quality of the hair, the material used… it was kind of freaky when they had brought out a sample to show him, looking at his disembodied dick being passed around the room. But they had made a big show of the new launch at that year’s Adult Exxxpo, they had a booth setup, and wall-length banners in the hall… surreal, even to someone who had become accustomed to being nude on camera.

With the rise in ‘amateur’ content on the internet came the influencers too, and his model had been the one sent out to them to be used in their reviews. He’d watched a few, even, out of a sense of morbid curiosity. ‘The Goldilocks Zone of cocks’, his toy had been dubbed in one of the more memorable ones. ‘Not too big, not too small, but juuuust right!’ The company had even quoted that blurb on the box for marketing purposes.

An interesting experience, to say the least.

 

[Talon]

By the time they had finished with her daily orders, taking inventory, and packing away deliveries it was well into the wee hours of the morning. Standing outside as she locked up, Rus lit two cigarettes, one for each of them, and passed one to her as she approached.

Maggie tucked the cig into the corner of her mouth and puffed around it as she slipped on her jacket. “I’m fuckin’ starvin’. What about you, pretty boy?”

Rus pursed his lips, considering a moment before he answered. “Yeah, I mean, I could eat.”

Maggie slapped the back of her hand into his gut. “Could or would, big guy?” She looked down one side of the street and then the other. “What about that old diner down the block? They serve a decent apple pie…” she scoffed. “… I mean, mine’s better, but I ain’t waiting for my ovens to heat up. Not much we’re gonna find at this time a night, anyway. What ‘chu think?”

Rus’ eyebrows perked up at the promise of pie, though his state of tiredness kept his response reserved. “Sounds good…”

Maggie turned to look up at him, frowning. “‘Sounds good’”, she mocked, with an exaggerated deep tone. “Well don’t sound so fuckin’ excited about it.” She moved closer, slipping an arm around his waist. “Let’s go then, before I freeze my tits off out here.”

Rus chuckled, draping his arm across the back of her shoulders. “Not like there’s much to lose there, anyhow…”

Maggie giggled. “Good one…” The arm around his waist squeezed tighter. “...but still… fuck you, man.”



The walk to the diner was so short that they hadn’t bothered taking either of their cars. Besides, after being cooped up all day in the shop, a nice stroll in the crisp January air felt good, with light jackets and body proximity enough to keep what little chill there was in the air at bay.

Turning the corner around the block where the diner was located, Rus was surprised to see it busier than usual. Not packed to the gills, but several groups were milling about outside, around the entrance, or huddled together at the back of the cars parked in the lot. Must have been a show at one of the nearby venues that just let out.

Maggie frowned, her arm still clutched around him as they walked. “Shit… fuckin’ scene kids.”

Rus snickered, pulling her into him with the hand clutched on her shoulder. “Riiight, like you’re not the definition of a scene kid…”

Maggie’s style was… eclectic, to say the least. Hard to pin down, chaotic, bell-bottoms and tye-dye one day, goth adjacent the next. Her hair, typically worn loose and bouncy, maybe roughly shoulder length if you straightened each curl fully out, was rarely any color that resembled something occurring in nature, currently black at the roots, platinum blonde for the rest, with nearly-neon baby blue streaks throughout. She had an assortment of tattoos she had acquired over the years, piercings on her tongue, her right eyebrow at the outside corner, and a tiny little stud in the left nostril.

In stark contrast to Rus, at least the modern-day incarnation, who at any given time looked like he’d just walked off the set of Smallville. Jeans, plaid shirts, light brown workboots… his wardrobe was more utilitarian than stylish. Back in the day, he’d been more of a rocker type, with a phase or two of greaser or grunge mixed in. He’d always kept his hair some version of long, down to the middle of his back at its longest, though typically he wore it shoulder length in something resembling an ‘80s Kurt Russel cosplay. Straight dirty blonde hair, blue-eyed, the shape of his face and jawline blended well with the long hair look. He only cut it short when compelled to by Jessica’s first cancer diagnosis. Maggie had too, in fact, with the three of them taking turns running clippers through each other’s prized, flowing ‘locs at a friend of Maggie’s salon. He already loved Maggie like a sister before that, but her display of solidarity had locked them in as buds for life.

Rus had kept it short since, again, more out of practicality than anything else. Nothing about the modern version of him spoke to any sort of self-expression. He was doing what he could to keep him and his family afloat, ending each day with his head barely above water. That left him with little time for concerns about anything else.

Maggie growled, turning her head and snapping her teeth at him in a move that threatened to take off a nipple if he hadn’t recoiled in time. “Fuck you, man! I’ve never even set foot in a Hot Topic…”

Rus laughed, nudging her with his shoulder as they stepped off the curb to cross the street. “Show’s how old you are, thinkin’ ‘Hot Topic’ is still a place these kids would shop…”


The interior of the diner was less packed than the presence outside would leave one to believe, with Rus and Maggie having little trouble securing two neighboring seats at the counter immediately upon walking in. Maggie scanned the room as she sat on her stool, Rus standing at her shoulder as he shucked off his jacket. Smiling, he leaned down to speak something for her ears only. “Trying to decide which corner of the room to piss in, or what? Settle down, I don’t think any of them will bite…”

Maggie shot a look at him, her faux-sternness given away by the grin that tugged at the right corner of her mouth. Her gaze moved back to scanning the crowd. “Bet a few of these cats would pay to see somethin’ like that…shame I went right before we walked over.”

“Settle down, there, tiger… who knows, maybe tonight is the night you finally get some action.” Rus settled onto the stool next to her, placing his jacket over his lap before picking up the laminated menu and giving it a once-over.

“Psssshhhh…” Despite her outward display of denial, she hadn’t stopped her scanning. “...as if any of these little girlies could handle me. Speaking of, Mr. Stones-in-glass-houses… when’s the last time you got laid? You run a fuckin’ flower shop, for god's sake… you should be drowning in soccer mom muff, swimmin’ in it like Scrooge motherfuckin’ McDuck.”

Rus chuckled under his breath, tapping the edge of the menu against the top of the counter as he leaned his elbows against it. “As lovely as all that sounds, I’m not, as you well know…”

Satisfied, Maggie turned to pick up her menu to peruse. “...not because of a lack of options. Do you know how many of my regulars have asked for your number?”

Just then their waitress appeared before them, fishing a small pad and pencil out of her apron as she fixed them with a tired look, her voice droning. “...what can I get you two?”

Rus took his opportunity to change subjects. “Cup of decaf, please…” he leaned over to Maggie, nudging her with an elbow. She didn’t even look up from her menu. “...you know what I like. Surprise me. I’ve gotta hit the head.” She nodded as Rus stood, chewing on her bottom lip with a frown as if the task of choosing what she wanted was an arduous one.

Rus maneuvered through the light crowd as he made his way toward the bathrooms, idly scanning the faces of those sitting in the old-fashioned booths along the outside wall as he passed. He was in no great hurry to get back to Maggie, hoping by the time he did, her memory of the topic of discussion would have passed.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

This time of morning (it was morning, after all) always felt a bit melancholic to Cassandra. Light was starting, but it was no longer the purity of the sun breaking through the dawn. The light show of pinks and purples had gone, leaving behind a crisp watery blue with stretched thin wisps of clouds. It was going to be a cold one - and she could curse herself for leaving her jacket in the car. It’d been warm enough in the club to not need it, especially after the dancing she’d done.

Not like she’d expected to be here that long, though, really. Lulled to the window by the rough velvet of Michael McDonald’s voice, she’d found herself staring into nothing. Not that there was “nothing” - the parking lot, the hum of the main street towards the front. The flickering street lights that finally gave up the ghost to the morning. The distant city skyline, sharpening into focus, each glass line a knife against the gentle morning. Her hometown - strange and familiar, constantly changing. It’d changed without her there, without caring, and there was something comforting, if not sorrowful, in that too. Here, time had stopped for a moment, for the length of the song, and the years rolled back. Almost like she was watching herself in those groups of kids; high schoolers high on the exhilaration of being out so late, but too cool to openly admit it.

Here, in the center of a new morning, a new day, she sighed. Friday. No classes, no money. That’s what made this time of morning sad. It used to represent new opportunities - now it was a reminder of reality; the thing that never seemed to change no matter where she went. If she kept staring out the window, she could tell herself that her eyes weren’t actually burning and there wasn’t really a lump in her throat and that everything was fine, and that she wasn’t torn up on the inside.

Allowing herself the quickest of sniffles, she fished inside of her purse for some napkins. Better that the paper ones from McDonald’s or wherever bear the brunt of her makeup. You’d think at her ‘advanced’ age she’d know to use waterproof, but she’d always hated how good it was at staying on. Seeing makeup smudged, worn, lived in; there was sex in that. Erotic without being blatant. Looking up to the ceiling as she dabbed under her eyes, she checked with a small pocket mirror - just to make sure she didn’t have Tammy Faye Baker streaks happening. Good enough.

Her mascara was clumped in spots, her eyeliner smudged into that perfect slept in haze that she was always unable to apply just like that. Her lipstick had faded, though - black looking more gray on the top lip, like she’d been kissing ashes. That alone was enough to make her chuckle, white teeth a flash in the slip of mirror as she put it back into her purse. Resting her chin in her palm, she sighed again. It wasn’t much of a cry, but it was enough to ‘knock the ghosts off’, as her mom would’ve put it. Enough to scratch through the patina of sadness to the promise of newness. Yes, her reality sort of sucked right now, but she was still here. She still had pancakes on her plate (the portions were beyond ‘generous’), she had a moderately full cup of hot chocolate left, and the spill on her shoes (it had been beer - gross) didn’t look like it’d stain. Not like she could tell right now; she’d taken off her socks and shoes and ditched ‘em in the car. Couldn’t be thrown out for being barefoot if they couldn’t tell - and that had been fixed by pulling her skirt lower, more resting on the tops of her hips than at her navel.

With Celine Dion’s voice winding up for the belt of the chorus, she slipped her feet from under her, standing - lifting herself onto her tiptoes to give her sore calves a stretch. Then arms overhead, stretching the line of her stomach taunt. Despite the apparel, there were no piercings on her torso to break the smooth line of brown skin. In the same eye as all of the bare flesh, her face seemed sparse, even with the remnants of heavy black makeup. The ears, pierced from lobe to cartilage, even the lone septum piercing, were underdone in comparison to others in the diner. She did have the expected tattoos, however - as subtle as they were. Bars across her wrists, flanked by two thinner lines, and the same pattern repeated on her upper arms, close to the shoulder. Geometrical, clean, hyper-modern and ancient all at once. Less of a human look, more of an idle character design from a video game.

Opening her eyes after her little stretch, she used it to turn her attention inward - into the diner rather than out of it. The crowds were thinning - as to be suspected - the ‘night creatures’ slinking back home to be replaced by regulars. Construction vests, the occasional business suit. Regular enough for kind exchanges to pass between the club goers and those holding newspapers. That pulled another smile from her; why couldn’t the world be more like this diner? Chill, accepting, quiet. Here, there was no place for ‘Sister Sunshine’; she never existed for these people. There was no art gallery chatter; the faux intellectuals and weird flexes and as much as she loved some of them, people that were just too damaged and strange and unnatural to live in society, eyes scarred by god knows what traumas. Here, she was just Cassandra, no one with a checkered past, but a pseudo-goth kid that tipped well and had a big smile for those she made eye contact with and was loving the easy-listening radio station.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

Wait.

She narrowed her eyes. That guy. The one that was walking towards her. Well, probably not at her specifically, but in her direction. He seemed…familiar. And not familiar in a bad way, the kind that made her want it to be who she thought it might’ve been. A familiar face in a city this large, in this part of town: now, that was something to be celebrated. Like running into an old classmate at the mall.

Am I staring? I feel like I’m staring.

“Staring” would be putting it mildly. To the unaware, it would appear that she was actually glaring, infuriated that he would dare enter the same space as her. The intensity of her frown would deepen: not out of anger, but out of concentration. It wasn’t his face that was familiar, but the lines of his body. How he moved - Goddamn it, who was it that this guy reminded her of?

C’mon, speak! Or move closer. Or whatever! This is gonna drive me crazy.

He was getting closer, and she was leaning forward a bit, those eyes still narrowed, brows furrowed. But as he moved closer, that nagging part of her memory was growing more certain.

No. Fucking. Way.

Her eyes instantly widened, and before she could stop herself, she laughed out loud, short, sharp. Crow caw in the mild quiet of the diner. “PEEEEEGGGGG!’ It was loud, atonal (clearly she was not meant to be a singer), then, realizing the error, she quickly fumbled out, “Dan Steele! 'I’ve seen your picture!'” It was stupid, she knew it, but talk about much needed sunshine. It wasn’t uncommon to have music playing during sets - and his name had reminded her so much of the band that it’d become a running joke that at some point, Peg would come up on the song rotation.

Shuffling from behind her booth, nearly tangled in her skirts, she darted out and grabbed him in a big bear hug. “I totally never thought I’d see you here! I mean, not just here, as in you know, this diner, but you know, here, as in this city,” she held him out at arm’s length. Maybe a little too exuberant for past coworkers, especially those in which they hadn’t talked more than polite conversation, but the sheer coincidence of it all was enough to send electricity through her. Was she going to laugh, was she going to cry? Even she didn’t know. “Oh, uh, yeah, awkward,” a shuttered laugh then as she let go of him, stepping back a few inches to take him all in. She was shorter than him by about a foot, but he could’ve been an inch taller than her and still felt like a giant; there was that air about him.

He looks good! Like he’s been keeping himself well. Oh my god that hair - “Oh nooo, when did you cut your hair?!” Part lament, part whine as she stepped closer to him again. With her came the remnants of the club; ozone from the fog machine, sweat, incense perfume clinging for dear life. Figured; incense had been a part of her whole thing. Still was. “I used to love your hair. I always wanted to brush it. Wait. Did I say that out loud? I don’t think I ever told you that. But, you know, awkkkwwwarrrdddd,” she drew out the syllables, begging him to laugh at the absurdity of the situation. Sure, he’d been, in not so delicate language, balls deep in her and at every angle, no doubt, but it had been art. Art. That meant that between scenes, she was as professional as could be; no unwarranted touching, comments on personal life, anything like that.

Speaking of professional….

She quickly put space between the two of them again, clearing her throat as she shuffled back into her booth. She couldn’t just hang onto the guy as if they’d been besties. They’d been coworkers - and in those few moments, she’d shown him more physical affection than she had in the time that they’d worked together. Okay. Time to bring it back down. “Anyway…it’s been nice seeing you. Really.” There was that smile, the one that poked through all of the bolster. Genuine that made her eyes curve up at the corners. Showed the hint of dimples poked deep into each cheek.

 

[Talon]

Rus had been surprised for sure, given her sudden outburst, but pleasantly so once he’d recognized its source. He’d merely grinned at her as she referenced his alias, and was a little impressed that she had remembered their little private in-joke referencing it. “Cas…” was all he’d managed to get out before she shot out of her booth to envelop him in a full-body hug. “Hello to you too…” he teased as arms trapped at his side by hers did their best to reciprocate, wrapping around her waist to give her a gentle squeeze.

Sister Sunshine. Maybe not THE last person he could have imagined ever bumping into in some little cozy diner at the asscrack of dawn, but in the top five, easily.

Pleasant memories of his time working with her came flooding back to him. As he recalled, he’d found her to be the sort of person who was easy to get along with, and they’d hit it off right from the jump. They’d started with a few photo sessions together… come to think of it, he still had a few shots from their first in his portfolio. The photographer she had working with her was great, and it was one of those times when everything clicked. The lighting, the set…

One shot, in particular, stood out in his memory; both of them in the nude, lit from above and shot at a slight downward angle, her standing in front, back to him, him towering head and shoulders above her, facial features obscured in shadow, arms draped over her shoulders, right hand cupped over her right breast, the barest hint of aureola showing between the gaps in his fingers, her left hand gripped to his left wrist, pulling his hand down as if to brazenly expose her bare left breast to the camera, her head cocked to the right, chin up, eyes glaring defiantly into the camera, a river of her dark locs flowing down his left arm… it invited the viewer to develop their own interpretation; was he in the act of protecting her, or attempting to oppress? Was she in the act of pulling his hand away, or in towards her? It was an ace fucking shot, one in a million, the sort of thing that even an uncultured normie like Rus would consider art.

They would go on to do several others before branching out into video. She was kind in how she would credit him for his part in her rising success, talking each time they would meet to shoot of how her metrics had improved since the last, but in reality, it was her vision that he was merely helping her to achieve. As far as he was concerned, she was something of a pioneer in terms of the style of content she was making and how it was being marketed. ‘For women, by women’, while not catering to men, at the same time not exclusive of them. A bit niche, perhaps, but at a time when the mainstream industry was grappling with how best to appeal to the female side of its audience, she was offering an authentic alternative.

She seemed excited to see him, and frankly, he was too. They had not exactly been friends, but somehow it felt to Rus that he had been reunited with a long-lost one.

Rus scrubbed his fingers through his hair with a sheepish grin as she referenced how he used to keep it. Not something to elaborate on in the here and now, he simply acknowledged her quasi-compliment with a smile. “Not awkward at all, don’t worry about it.”

He watched as she moved back to sit in her booth, feeling a twinge of regret in his gut…

Speaking of, Mr. Stones-in-glass-houses… when’s the last time you got laid?

Maggie’s voice rang in his ears. When was the last time that he even had a ‘date’, let alone not-for-pay sex? Measurable in months, if not years, at this point.

Rus observed her for an awkward moment, noting her still half-full(or was it half-empty?) plate.

Fuck it… go for it, what’s to lose?

Rus nodded in agreement. “It was great to see you, too…” Rus motioned with his head back over his shoulder in the direction from which he’d came. “I’m actually here with a friend…wouldn’t want to leave her hanging, you know…” She’s just being friendly. Maybe she likes eating alone. Maybe you’re being a big, fat jerk for imposing on her solitude. “... but, you know, if you wouldn’t mind a bit of company, I’d love to sit and catch up a bit more.” His heart was racing for some unknown reason. “Let me just go and let her know that I bumped into an old colleague…” ‘Friend’ felt just a bit too presumptuous. “...and I’ll be right back, yeah? Right on.”


Maggie stood up on the little metal ring around the base of the stool she was perched on, frowning as she looked past him inquisitively. “Which one?”

Rus nudged her with his shoulder, maybe just a little too harshly. “Stop it! Jesus… you fuckin’ dork, could you be any more obvious?”

Maggie slapped the back of her hand against his chest, peering intently over his shoulder at Cassandra with a grin plainly on her face. “The one in the booth back there, with her ‘locs in little ‘Leia’ buns?.. she’s a cutie… I wonder if…”

“She’s into dwarves?”

Maggie shot a glare at him. “Hardy-har-har. No, dickwad, I was going to say I wonder if she’s single…and not for my own sake, before you go making another smartass remark. Though, now that you mention it, I wouldn’t kick her out of bed for eatin’ crackers…”

Rus smiled, poking her gently in the side as he reached over to grab his coat from atop the stool beside her. “I’m sure she’d be relieved to know that…”

“If you’re still over there by the time I’m done eating, I’m just gonna split, alright? I’m about ready to pass out sitting up…” Maggie turned around and settled back onto her seat.

“You sure you’re good?” Rus frowned.

“To walk back alone?” Maggie scoffed. “I’ve got my phone, taser, and a pocket vibe in my purse. Pretty confident I can handle any problem that comes along…” She looked back over her shoulder, fixing him with a serious look. “...you better call me later, though. I want all the juicy details… dig?”

“Yes, mother.” Rus wrapped his arms around her in a hug, kissing her atop her head before turning to walk off.

Maggie leaned up to press a kiss against his cheek as he pulled away. “Wait… let me bum a few cigs before you go…?”

Rus turned back and fished his pack out of his pocket with a smirk, handing it over and allowing her to take a few before she returned it. “Catch you later, Mags…”

Maggie turned back towards the counter, smiling to herself. “Go get’em, tiger…”



Rus flashed his teeth at Cassandra as he walked back over, tossing his jacket into the booth opposite her before sliding in beside it. Just as he cleared his throat to speak, the waitress from before appeared beside them, holding a plate in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other.

“For the birthday boy…” she announced, her delivery monotone, as she set the plate and cup in front of him.

On the plate was a single pancake, covered in red, blue, and green spots like cake sprinkles had been added into the mix, with two blueberries for eyes, a halved strawberry for a nose, and a big whipped cream smile beneath.

Rus burst out laughing, covering his mouth with the back of his hand as he tried to compose himself. The waitress looked on, seemingly unamused, as she fished a napkin-wrapped bundle of silverware out of the front of her apron and set it on the table next to his plate. “Anything else I can get you?”

Rus cleared his throat, drawing in a deep breath through his nose. “No, uh…” He cleared his throat again. “...no, mam, I think I’m good. Thank you…” The waitress turned and moved away without further comment.

Rus took in another deep breath before he looked over the table at Cassandra, his lips pressed tightly together in an effort to hold back laughter. “It’s not, you know. My birthday…” He turned to look back over his shoulder at Maggie, who was turned in their direction with a shit-eating grin on her face, who when she noticed him looking, raised her hand to give an exaggerated wave of wriggling fingers.

Rus cleared his throat again before turning around to look back at Cassandra. “...she just thinks she’s funny.” He looked down at his plate again, which made his face light up with a smile as he reached for his silverware. He stopped suddenly, looking up. “Oh, and, uhm… are you sure I’m not imposing? Maybe you have somewhere to be or somethin'?”

 

[Apollo Wilde]

The minute he mentioned “friend”, her smile crumpled in the middle - with what, even she wasn’t sure. Not like it was easy to date in their line of “work,” and even if it was a date, it was frankly none of her business. She didn’t have any sort of claim to him.

Am I really that lonely?

Like the sun, now more of an off-white disc as it began its inevitable rise, the realization illuminated spots in her mind that she hadn’t considered. Hadn’t allowed herself to. She’d lived a solitary existence for most of her life -only child, after all - and for the most part, had told herself that she was fine with it. She had friends even if she didn’t have strictly what would count as “family.” And they’d been supportive! The few that knew what happened (pretty much just Ryan and Helene) had been nothing but sympathetic in their aloof ways. The one thing she and her friends all had in common was the direct refusal to ask for help, but to offer it offhandedly, if not shove it directly into someone else’s face. Favors without strings attached, gruff “it wasn’t anything; I made extra,” - kindness disguised by the harshness of the world and too many interactions with people who would take advantage of wide open hearts and hands.

“Oh, uh, don’t leave your friend!” The words spilled out as she held up her hands, shaking her head in the negative. Running into him was a nice coincidence in a world all too short of them, but she wasn’t going to take him away from scheduled company. That was just rude. Not like her words seemed to impact on him - so she cut through the middle. “You know, they can come over and sit with us? I mean, you weren’t expecting to run into anyone, and I couldn’t impose. Really.” Her smile returned, bright and shy as it was. It’s okay. If he sits with me, great, but if not, that’s fine. It was good to see a familiar face. To see someone who, in those brief moments, had reminded her of good times and bad.

As he turned away, she let go of the breath she wasn’t sure she was holding. For a while - though she hadn’t hinted so much as of a word to him - she was sure she’d developed a Pavlovian response to whatever cologne or body wash or whatever it was that he used. Over time, it had firmly become entrenched in her mind as ‘Rus’s smell’, bringing with it comfort, security, and arousal. Anything close to it, for a while, would get her cunt to throbbing and her mouth subconsciously watering. And yet, she’d just been basically surrounded in it and nothing happened. That was…good, wasn’t it?

But it always had been the little things about him. His smell, the way his hair felt against her bare body; prompting her to be ticklish in spots she didn’t think were possible. Back then, his hair had been as much as a curtain as hers, and sometimes after shoots, she’d find long strands of dirty blonde in her hair brush, waiting for her on her pillow. His hands; large and deceptively gentle. Those first shoots, he’d seemed scared, if not apologetic, to be touching her. At the time, she hadn’t pushed it. Moments of fragility like that could be picked up by an audience; it sat in their gray matter and created that connection of closeness, the longing of wanting a lover to be truly theirs. And though their shoots had moved from photos to flat out unsimulated sex, that connection between them had stayed. From one shoot having their hair braided together (aided by extensions) so that the mingled braids were chains draped over them, linked together hands and ankles and thighs to the first “interactive” piece between them that consisted of her sitting on his lap, her legs spread, and those broad hands of his locked firmly on her inner thighs, the paleness of his skin against hers a study in contrasts. Even through some of the hardly suppressed laughter as he spread her labia and dutifully pointed out each part of her anatomy as she called it out, he’d been so soft.

She’d turned her attention back to her pancakes, the neat little squares of dough that she pushed around on her plate now. They were cold now, but hardly unappetizing, and served as a decent enough distraction as she tried to wade through all of the thoughts in her head.

It was nice to see him again. Those times weren’t all bad; stupid comments and the like aside. It wasn’t going to last forever, but seriously, it could’ve been a lot worse insofar as talent went.

That much had been true. She’d been lucky; even though she knew ‘smut puddlers’, such as Ryan, they were on the up and up - a rarity, she knew. She also knew she had to give herself some credit: in how she conducted herself, how she spoke (or ‘rambled’) did a lot for her, weeding out the worst. She’d heard enough horror stories (and been close enough to a few of them) that she had been exceptionally cautious when it came to moving forward, no matter how glib she tried to sound about it. And it had taken weeks of shoots with ‘Dan Steele’ before they moved onto more intimate things. Though it had been her idea, it didn’t mean she hadn’t been nervous about it. More than once she talked too much to cover the fact that she was trembling. Ryan’s perception had saved them then; he’d called a five minute break to give her time to breathe, to let them roam the fridge that they collectively kept stocked with whatever they favored at the time.

The sound of someone approaching (even in the midst of the diner) made her look up, and surprise was bright in her dark rimmed eyes. “Oh…what about your friend?” Barely managed out before the waitress had appeared (some would say ‘teleport’) with Rus’s meal - and she glanced down at it. Her full lips pressed down in the center, her desperately trying to mask a laugh.

“Happy…birthday?” A question skipping along laughter - and one she didn’t bother to correct even after he said that it wasn’t. Her eyes followed his, and she noticed the short woman with the electric blue streaks in her hair.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

“You sure she doesn’t want to join us? There’s a lot of room in these booths. And it’s not like I had a line of folks queuing up to sit here.” Hands fiddled with her silverware, before she lightly stabbed a square and lifted it to her mouth. Popped it in, chewed while he spoke, making sure that she made eye contact on occasion to let him know she was listening.

“Does she know that you have the world’s most beautiful cock?” Completely guileless from her as she finished off her mouthful, pausing a moment to wash it down with some of her chocolate, “And no, nowhere to be,” a slyness to the smile now, but it was all playful bluster. One of the things that had made her memorable, if not slightly infamous, was her ability to blurt some of the most…delicate things as if they were as normal as speaking about the weather. To the unaware, it would come off as salacious - the subject far too taboo to miss the slightly clinical way in which she spoke. There was always an interest behind her words, of course, but it was a genuine academic interest, if it could be loosely called that. Objective enough to make it not too personal. And it wouldn’t have been the first time she complimented his cock, obviously.

The first time she’d seen it, she was moved to absolute silence. Silence that had almost become awkward before she tentatively reached out to touch him, as if she were handling an offering to the gods. His flesh was beyond soft, the coloring even, even the faint details of the veins there. Things that no silicone mold could reproduce. A beauty so pure and so…reverent to the possibility of human nature that she’d actually teared up a little - only to actually end up crying as she saw him completely nude. Not out of fear, but sheer awe. Though the reaction had eventually faded as they got to know each other, it was always carried in how she touched him. Even as she had time to note the “imperfections” of the flesh, scars, freckles, moles, her touch erased all of that, became a study in wonder as she traced the lines of his arms, his chest, feeling each muscle, undressing him anatomically to meat and bone and blood and coming away with a better understanding of what was meant by ‘divine.’

….But she hadn’t told him, not to his face. And even now, her words were kind, inviting him to a brief stint in memories. “It’s Friday, right? I don’t have any classes today, hence,” she used her left hand to draw a rectangle around her face and torso, “This. Dress codes at the community college are pretty lax, but I don’t think I could get away with this.” The tattoos, muted as they were, would be somewhat new to him. She’d gotten one or two of them while they worked together, but had always covered them with makeup or creatively placed accessories. Back then, she’d told him, between shoots while she was touching up his makeup, that it was to better protect her identity. Same with the wigs, contacts, elf ears, removal of any extra piercings. Anything to create a fantasy and to seem real, but to keep that glamour as a veil of separation. There was a transition of sorts as well, in that time as they got ready to go their separate ways: her in a giant plush pink bath robe that seemed to be missing bunny ears, one bright violet contact in, the process of working extensions free. It would take her hours to get ready (and to get undressed), but he’d only see a few minutes of it - there was no way she would have him wait on her while she did her prep. That would be rude.

As she re-adjusted herself, she folded her legs underneath her to provide some warmth to her bare feet. “Nothing too fancy; just your lowly ceramics adjunct,” had it always been this easy to smile around him? Yet another thing she’d liked about him. That, and the fact that she could tell him that she was teaching at community college without instantly feeling a wave of pity like she was lesser than. “Though I’m thinking about picking up another art class. I dunno. They’re strangely funky about accreditations. Not that I’m saying that because I think unqualified people should be teaching, but I mean in the way that they can sort of pick and choose what they want. I totally don’t have the academic background to be like, a chemistry teacher, but with art, I have a little more wiggle room. I was thinking maybe art history, if they can overlook the fact that the only credits I have for that were a million years ago. Not like I could tell them what I was doing before, you know,” another sly grin. “You know the ruling on porn, ‘I can’t define it, but I know what it is when I see it.’ And to be fair, I dunno. There’s something a little…weird, I dunno, that might not be the right word, but too soon, maybe, thinking of 18 year olds knowing about porn. That’s on me, though. I was such a late bloomer and you already know how I felt about nudity - I was always being told that I was soooo ‘European’ in how I saw things. Well, whatever,” she finished it with a bit of an eye roll, “What’s been up with you? It’s been a few…years, right?”

Something like that - she’d quit a while ago, clearly, and he’d been the only male talent that she trusted to work with. The whole stalker thing (still felt that ‘stalker’ was putting it mildly) had taken months both to develop and to unwind, and moving added more time to that still. Not that he would know any of that. “You sure your friend doesn’t want to join us? I can talk about the joys of welding for stained glass. Which is actually sort of fun, once you get used to it.”

 

[Talon]

The most beautiful cock in the world.

Rus choked back a laugh that nearly sent a mouthful of coffee spraying in her direction, his eyebrows shooting up as he pressed the back of his hand to his mouth, forcefully swallowing to avoid an embarrassing mishap.

He’d forgotten about that particular aspect of her personality.

Topics in the realm of sex—things most people avoided bringing up, especially in mixed company—were never off-limits for Cassandra. It probably made a lot of people uncomfortable, but not Rus. At least, not after he’d gotten to know her better.

She didn’t say these things to shock or provoke for the sake of it. It wasn’t about being edgy or trying to get a rise out of someone. For her, sex, sexuality, and the human body were simply not taboo. They were part of life, as natural to discuss as food, weather, or politics. That perspective had made her a great teacher—or perhaps mentor was the better word.

Cassandra had a way of guiding and informing, shedding light on topics that others danced around. And when she was being deliberately provocative, it wasn’t frivolous—it was to challenge societal taboos she believed were harmful. Her confidence and openness didn’t just educate; they made you think.

Rus had always found that quality of hers endearing. Sexy, even. Not in a way that made the topics themselves feel naughty, but in how empowered she seemed to speak on them. There was an undeniable allure in the way she navigated those conversations—fearless, unapologetic, and completely authentic.

Still, her compliment hadn’t been the kind of thing he’d expected to receive out of the blue. Certainly not unwelcome—what man tires of hearing positive feedback about that particular part of himself, especially from someone as gorgeous as Cassandra?—but disarming, to say the least.

Luckily, she’d pressed on, sparing him from having to respond in the moment. Not that he had much to offer beyond blushing anyway.

“That kinda sounds right up her alley, to be honest…” Rus said after she’d finished speaking, his tone free of sarcasm despite the half-grin curling at the corner of his mouth. He reached for his mug of coffee, the steam curling lazily in the air. Lifting it to his lips, he gently blew over the surface to cool the hot liquid before taking a sip.

Maggie, as evidenced by the feed on her shop’s social media page, was something of an artist—though of a different flavor than someone like Cassandra. The main appeal of her shop was, of course, the taste of her baked goods. She made a mean Bavarian cream-filled donut. To fuckin’ die for. But she was also handy with icing and confections, and decorating cakes, cupcakes, and cookies for special occasions was a significant portion of her business.

Her love for drawing went beyond frosting, though. It was evident in the little multicolored doodles she left behind on every stray scrap of paper unfortunate enough to find itself within reach of her idle hand.

Rus recalled when the two of them had waited at the DMV to renew his license, sitting side by side in the lobby. They’d shared his pair of wired earphones, him with the left bud and her the right, listening to music in a half-hearted attempt to make the wait bearable. Eventually, he’d nodded off, lulled by the monotony of the numbers being called, only to wake with her stifling a giggle, a set of intricate geometric patterns scrawled across the backs of his hands. She’d even shaded them in with highlighters that had been kept hidden away in her ‘purse’.

That bag of hers was part practical accessory, part window to her soul. It was a crossbody bag with a flap that closed over it, adorned with a motley assortment of buttons and pins fastened along its canvas strap. Rus could recall some of his favorites: ‘Eat Me’ in bold black letters on a pin shaped like a slice of cake, ‘Save a stamp, lick a lesbian’ in pink over a purple background, and ‘Vagitarian’ written in ornate, golden script.

On the side of the bag that would face her body when worn, she had stitched on a Guns’ n’ Roses patch she’d found among his things when she helped him move into his current apartment. He’d been annoyed at first—he’d been saving that patch for something specific—but when he saw what she’d done with it, he decided to drop the issue. It felt like she’d done something for the sake of sentiment, though he’d never asked her about it, and she’d never explained.

Rus liked to call it her “crazy cat lady bag.”

Maggie, in turn, liked to whack him with it whenever he did.

His half-grin softened as the memory played out in his head. “...but she’s wrecked. Probably headin’ home to pass out as soon as she’s done stuffin’ her face,” he added, his tone tinged with amusement, before taking another noisy sip of coffee and setting the mug back down on the table.

“Her name’s Maggie, by the way. She, uh…” he said, clearing his throat. “...she runs a little bakery just up the street there...” He motioned vaguely with his chin. “...a couple of shops down from my sister’s place, actually. “The Cake is a Pie.”...not sure if you’ve seen it.” He paused, watching Cassandra’s face for any flicker of recognition.

“But she’s a hell of a baker…” Rus frowned slightly, his expression almost self-conscious. “...sounds weird to say it like that, for some reason. Cook, chef, baker... baker’s dozen… I mean, I know it’s the right word, but it sounds awkward, y’know what I mean?”

He let out a closed-mouth staccato chuckle, tilting his head to the side as his eyes met hers from beneath his eyebrows. “You’ll have to excuse me… I’d use the excuse of not having had my morning coffee yet, but I think that applies more to morning grogginess than, uh, y’know, general airheadedness. Heh…”

Rus wriggled his eyebrows at her a few times as he lifted his coffee to take another sip, maintaining eye contact with her over the rim.

He was slightly amazed by how comfortable he still felt around her. It had been several years since they last talked, and even then, they’d never been what he would describe as “close.” Technically, he’d worked for her, not with her.

But he’d always found her… charming. That was the best word for it. She had charisma in abundance, an almost old-soul quality wrapped in a modern aesthetic. A little quirky in the best way and utterly unafraid to speak her mind. Very liberated, sexually, almost a throwback to the ‘flower power’ era of the ‘sixties. There was an interesting juxtaposition between her sense of style and demeanor, a modern aesthetic with a retro attitude.

What stood out most to him, though, was her raw sexual energy. While he’d never been what he would consider a ‘pussy hound’, as one might crudely call it- the kind of guy who just wants notches on his belt, who thinks of nothing but sex and his next conquest constantly- he could remember being enamored with her, sexually. She oozed sensuality without effort, as though it lingered in the air around her.

Not because of how she looked- though she was what he would call ‘classically beautiful’- or because of some specific attribute or technique she performed. She was an empathetic lover, she wanted to please you and wanted you to please her. And she wasn’t shy about showing you how, about where to touch, to kiss, to lick, and in turn was sensitive to your needs, able to pick up on subtle cues. Nothing was taboo, too dirty(within reason), or shameful.

He remembered their first explicitly penetrative scene together. Both had been nervous at first, but once they found their rhythm, it felt like magic. The presence of the camera faded, leaving just the two of them there, together. It seemed like the scene went on for hours, or even days… at one point the cameraman excused himself and stopped shooting to go and fiddle with something to do with the lighting, and they just kept going as if they’d not heard him leave. He came back and resumed, splicing things together after with a clever edit.

He remembered thinking it was the best scene he’d ever shot. Maybe he was just exceptionally horny that day, or perhaps she’d slipped him a bit of ‘Spanish fly’ or the ‘little blue pill’ before the scene started. Or maybe it was her—her chemistry, her energy. She must have felt the same because she reached out to shoot with him again not long after.

For a time, they worked together regularly. She brought creativity to their scenes, introducing costumes and playful storylines. It was the most fun Rus had ever had in the industry.

 

[Talon]

Still, despite the connection he felt, he kept things professional. It was his best asset, beyond his looks or his body. He didn’t know if she had a romantic partner or if she even saw him as more than a costar. He never probed too deeply—unspoken boundaries were murky in the industry, and he erred always on the side of caution.

Yet he couldn’t deny the spark.

Rus could recall once showering at her place after they’d spent the afternoon shooting together, and being aroused by the scent of her body wash as it clung to his skin. Like, full-on hair standing up on the back of his neck, hot flash, up-and-ready-for-action turned on, so much so that he’d been compelled to masturbate in the shower the sensation was so powerful.

She teased him afterward about using up all her hot water, but if she suspected anything, she never let on.

And then one day her communications suddenly stopped. He couldn’t be sure the cause- Had she found another ‘actor’? Had her audience expressed a desire to see her diversify her choice of costars? - but that was just the way things sometimes went. Besides, it had happened around the same time Jessica was first diagnosed. Those days had been a blur, consumed by hospital visits, medications, and doing everything he could to ensure she got better. He’d been so busy he’d barely had time to think about anything—or anyone—else.

The clinking of silverware against plates as the busboy swept the table of the booth behind them brought him fully back to the present, nodding as he set down his coffee to pick up his bundle of silverware and work open the slip of paper that kept it wrapped together.

“Sounds like you’re keeping busy, though, with school and all that…” Rus smiled as he began dividing his pancake into bite-sized portions with the edge of his fork. “... and I could totally see you as a professor. It fits your whole, uh… y’know, vibe.” He chuckled. “Sister Sunshine kinda had that goin’ on, the whole ‘educator’ thing. Like a hot version of Dr. Ruth from back in the day.”

He speared a square of pancake on his fork, popping it into his mouth and chewing thoughtfully for a moment before continuing. “Believe it or not, hmmph… I, uh…” He chewed his bottom lip, his eyebrows lifting slightly, almost in self-consciousness “huh…I, uh… I’ve been helping my sister run her floral business for the past few years.”

Rus cleared his throat, setting down his fork to pick up his mug of coffee and raise it to his lips. “An odd change of careers, right?” He took a sip, setting it back down, swallowing forcefully. “But, you know, it’s always been her dream. She worked hard for it, and now that-”

The muffled but urgent claxon of the default iPhone alarm interrupted him.

He frowned, realizing it was his phone. “Shit…” He wriggled awkwardly in the booth, fishing it out as the alarm blared louder, drawing glances from nearby diners. After a few fumbling swipes, he silenced it with a muttered, “Completely lost track of time…” as he locked his phone and slid it back into his pocket.

Rus took one last sip of his coffee and ran a hand down his face.

I’m not ready to say goodbye yet. He thought. Is it too soon to ask? Too forward? She said she didn’t have anything to do… why the hell not? What’s the worst that could happen? She says no? ‘Fuck off, you nutter?’

He paused, mentally wincing. Why the hell does my internal version of her sound British all of a sudden?

“Listen… uh… this is probably going to sound crazy…” Rus cleared his throat, propping his elbows on the table and leaning in closer. “...but I have to go pick up my niece to take her to school. You said you didn’t have anything goin’ on, so, uh…” He looked away briefly, sucking in a deep breath through his nose before meeting her eyes again. “...would you wanna come with?”

 

[Apollo Wilde]

The return of that shy grin, brighter this time. She smiled as if she wanted to hide her face away, a mark of childish bashfulness that she hadn’t been able to truly wipe away with time. It was, however, a perfect indicator of how she was actually feeling. Funny how her wider smiles always had a tinge of performer; the kind of smile that would be at place on the red carpet, but not between friends. He’d always managed to coax her real smile out, no matter how many times she’d tried to stop it. Always he cut her open to the most vulnerable parts without even trying, and she couldn’t remember a single time that she refused him.

“Maybe next time, then,” said neatly as she finished up the last of her pancakes. “It really can be interesting. But hardly something to start up if you’re tired.” That last bit could be applicable to her as well. Maybe “Goth Night” didn’t necessarily conjure up frantic dancing in his mind, but hadn’t spent the night still, that was for sure. And with food settling in her stomach, her eyes were also becoming heavy. Before she’d run into him (again, not complaining), the idea would’ve been to eat and then crash, makeup and all - then wake up to a small existential crisis and begin the process of de-Gothing.

Normal things.

At the name of the bakery, her eyes sparkled. “ ‘The Cake is a Pie’? Your friend makes the best Bavarian cream I’ve ever had! And I’m not even a filled doughnut type of girl - if I were friends with her, I swear I’d be as wide as this booth!” Smiles gave way to light laughter then. “What a stupidly small world. I pick up some on the way to school as a treat for the kids. Typically on Mondays, actually,” she finished off the last of her cocoa. “It’s a good way to start the week. The art teachers; we all take turns buying the week’s round, since, you know, not a lot of kids are following traditional or studio art anymore. So it’s not like it’s breaking the bank, and there’s more than enough to go around. I keep threatening to go by when I’m not rushing in the morning, but I never get around to it. I guess I don’t need the extra temptation.”

By the way she was looking at him, it could’ve been a loaded statement; a caress of words invoking the past again. Could’ve, but not really. “Wow. I can’t believe that. I’m totally going to mention it the next time I’m in-“

Oh, yeah - great idea. Mention to his friend that you knew him because you used to fuck him on camera. That’ll go over like a lead zeppelin.

“Er, on second thought, maybe not,” the wattage of her smile, at least, hadn’t faltered. “But a small world, really…And it’s early. I’m not sure if I’m making much sense myself. I mean, I did yell at you,” a soft chuckle then. “Although in my defense, I’ve been sober since…” She pursed her lips thoughtfully, making an exaggerated show of counting on her fingers, “Since like 10 last night? I dunno. I’ve never been much of a drinker and drinking at bars is a quick way to not only ask for trouble, but bankrupt you. Plus dancing while drunk makes me totally queasy. Must be getting old. I swear, I used to be able to chug like, half a bottle of Hypnotic and god knows what else with my girlfriends and not even pass out - dance until my eyeliner sweated off."

She hadn’t talked to anyone this easily in ages. Warmth filled her, curled in her stomach and threatened to move lower. He’d always been handsome - not pretty boy, but not rugged enough to be a full on lumberjack. Handsome enough to not be usual, but not so handsome as to be out of reach. A guy you’d do a subtle double-take for; that had been part of his appeal. But seeing him like this, in the most causal conversation they’d had in years, the way his smile reached his eyes, the way he’d blushed…ugh. She shifted on her legs. What she wouldn’t give to have him rest his head in her lap and to run her fingers through his hair. They’d done it before as a part of their scenes, but it had always felt much more than just ‘acting.’ Soothing for her, hopefully for him. The idea that she was giving him a safe place, that he felt comfortable enough to do so. She’d wanted to lean down and kiss him, but that would’ve been too intimate; too presumptuous.

His was the kind of body, energy, that made her want to cuddle him. Not bundle him up away from the world, but wrap him in what could be called that primal feminine energy. She’d talked about it, had been open with how she never felt she could tap into it herself; that sometimes she felt less than. But that was the point of this art; to bear open her soul and work through things. Not to glamorize sex, but to gently talk people down from the ledge about it, including herself. The thing was…it was something that she felt that she was cheated out of. If people had written about it (women as well), then that primal vein, that deep pulsing, had to be there. But how could she reach it? Was it due to a partner, was it a mindset, was it a sort of meditation? And yet…being close to him, in one of the few moments of intimacy between them, when she cradled his face between her hands…

She was brought coldly out of her daydreams when he mentioned “Sister Sunshine.” The smile faded - a reaction she couldn’t try to play her way out of. “Ah…er, well…maybe a little different this go-round. I keep my clothes on, for the most part.” A meager attempt at a smile - though her hands would give her away. Without silverware to distract her, she had picked up a napkin and was twisting it round and round, tighter and tighter, with each word. “I..yeah. I couldn’t do that forever; it’s the quickest way to stagnate as an artist. I had to move on.”

Wrapped too tight, the napkin popped into two jagged pieces into each hand. Without looking at them, she dumped them onto her plate, ignoring that her palms were damp as well.

It’s okay. I’m in a safe place. It’s been addressed; it’s been years. Sister Sunshine is in the past. I’m Cassandra Henry. I’ve always been Cassandra Henry. Sunshine was performance; self exploration. And I’m over it.

I think.

Looking at him like this was enough to stir those embers. Had she been on the cusp of something deeper with him?

Now. Is. Not. The. Time.

Swallowing, she dusted her hands over her plate, ridding them of the little bits of paper still stuck there. “But way to almost distract me from that - a flower shop? How lovely!” Her eyes lit up again. “That’s something you don’t see a lot of men into. Is she a florist, or is she a gardener? Flowers are always so nice. You know,” she leaned back a bit, “Flowers really are a miracle of the modern world. The fact that we can walk into a shop and pick up a dozen roses, regardless of the season, or get peonies or tulips…Those used to be for the uber-rich, you know? Status symbols.” Her smile grew a bit wistful. “Sort of a shame, too, that we take them for granted or that they seem common.”

The alarm between them shook her out of her next thought. She glanced over at his phone, then to him.

“Taking your niece to school? Yes, absolutely positively insane,” he’d mentioned helping his sister with her shop; him helping with any nieces or nephews tracked. What she hadn’t expected was the invitation. Now it was her turn to blink at him, eyes slightly agog. “Oh, no, I couldn’t.” It was said quickly, shortly - not out of modesty, but an absolute shut down of the suggestion. “I dunno how you’d be able to explain my presence to a kid anyway,” a slight hand wave. “Even if I wasn’t dressed like this. Though I-“

I can’t say that I appreciate the invite; that would be weird. Like, way weird.

“Yeah, not so much, but,” she stood up, leaning across the table. Face to face with him, their noses almost touching. One hand on the table, the other on his denim covered thigh. Her touch was light, but insistent. A wordless reminder that she could go further if she so desired, and he’d let her, because that was the kind of unspoken power that she had; the confident presumption that he wouldn’t dare turn down any further touch from her. It was too direct to be called ‘causal’, but not authoritarian enough to be considered threatening. “Give me your phone; I’ll put my number in it. Or you can tell me your number and I can text you - you do get text messages, right?”

 

[Apollo Wilde]

When she woke up, it was late afternoon, and she was delightfully warm beneath her sheets. Curling up under a pool of deepening sunlight, she tried to remember the tendrils of her last dream. It’d been nice. Familiar. Maybe a little sexy? Those were rare; usually mixed in with something odd - like watching herself fucking an actor on screen. Sex was in it, yes, but it was her and it wasn’t. The dream was far too faded, and slipping away all the quicker, for her to really spend a lot of time figuring it out. That was fine. She had things to do, after all.

Still under the bundle of her sheets and blanket, she reached outside of them to fumble for her phone. Even though it was perpetually on ‘silent’, she still kept it close by. Slipping back into the covers, the sheets and blankets forming a near impenetrable fortress above her, she began her message.

Hey, it’s Cassandra (Cass).

She paused, thinking of her next words carefully. It was really good to see you - talk about a surprise! But the best kind.

That wasn’t too forward; and it was how she felt. That’s fine. It’s fine. Everything’s fine.

So, about catching up…

Yes, what about catching up?

She wriggled out of her fort for a breath of fresh air, then flopped down onto her back, holding her phone straight overhead. They could meet up at the diner again? Maybe a movie? No, you couldn’t talk during a movie. And that was too date like. And she needed to do something cheap - without giving him the impression that she was okay with him paying for anything, because absolutely the fuck not.

Hm.

I dunno if you had any plans this evening, but you maybe wanna meet up?

That’s fine. It’s causal enough.

…I make a pretty mean grilled cheese sandwich.

There. That kept it casual. He could come over; they could have the privacy of her home to discuss, and really discuss, what they’d missed. And…even if he was a bit of a stranger, she felt safe enough in her own place to be able to…

“I’m not going to think like that,” she said out loud. Firmly. “I can’t spend my entire life in fear. I’m Cassandra Henry; not Sister Sunshine. I’m in a new city. The Asshole Who Doesn’t Get the Honor of a Real Name has been taken care of. It’s been years. It’s okay.”

Therapy had to count for something, right?

That is, if you don’t mind coming over to my place?

Okay. Now it was definitely on him.

But if you do decide to come over, you don’t need to bring anything. Really! But you also don’t get to make fun of my place.

Okay.

So.

Now she just needed to wait.

And to make it easier on herself, she tucked her phone under her pillow and crawled back under the safe darkness of her sheets and blanket. She’d be able to hear the vibration of the phone if he texted her back.

There’s nothing to be ashamed of. This is my home. And I like it.

Her studio apartment was, well, bare bones. Sparse enough to know that the apartment itself didn’t come with a lot of bells and whistles. It’d been fine, if not perfect, for her - since it was always just her. What would she do with a lot of extra space? Nothing, that was for sure. And it’d come with built in bookshelves; always a plus.

From the door, there was a tiny “living room” that lead into a kitchen that was entirely too small to deal with two people in it, but at least had a dishwasher, a fridge, and a deceptively large pantry. To the left of it, still in the “living room”, was the built in bookshelf, serving as a divider between the entrance and the bedroom. She’d hung up a beaded curtain for the cheek of it in the entrance past the bookshelf, giving the further idea that there was a separation between the bedroom and the rest of the apartment. Squeezing past the bedroom, there was a bathroom to the right (with a tub, at least!) and to the left, a walk in closet.

Since the living room was so small - and since it was typically just her - rather than a dining room table and chairs, she had massive bean bags, the kind that were so large that sitting in them ran the risk of being sucked down into their plush fabric. The little CRT TV that she’d had since middle school sat on a repurposed nightstand against the wall, a dusty gaming system and VCR beneath it, bean bags in front of it. Such luxuries as cable were far out of her budget: so public TV and rentals it was.

Not that she minded; it wasn’t the TV she spent a lot of time with, but her sound system - and the masses of CDs, vinyls, and even the odd cassette tape that flanked the set up on the shelves. The hub of it all - record player, CD player, etc., were, at first glance, somewhat precariously placed, but on second glance, were set up confidently in the shelves. The speakers actually hung around her bed on the wall. It was the little bit of tech work she’d allow herself, and nearly once a week she checked to make sure that the speakers weren’t on the verge of actually falling off of the wall. They always looked not quite flush enough with the wall to her. And around them, handfuls of the old glow in the dark stars, carefully ticky-tacked up in various constellations.

Though she could’ve easily set it up in the living room on the opposite wall of the bean bags, that space she kept as her art ‘studio’ - a well worn easel was propped up against the wall when not in use, and the wall itself was covered with figure drawings, paintings (both hers and by friends), and photos so thick that you could hardly see the white paint beneath it all.

All in all, a cozy little spot, if not entirely nondescript from the outside. Not that she minded that, either. The less to draw attention to herself, the better. Besides, whenever she was working on ceramics, she had the college’s studio space and materials available to her, so what she kept at home was stuff that could easily be moved and fiddled with.

Maybe he’d find it all quaint; to see more of the trappings of the artist like this. Not as decadent as her last set up / studio, which had only been designed (over months, at that) to reflect the more intimate setting of a bedroom, or an office, or whatever else the Muse told her to do. This was almost utilitarian in its look, a simplicity in the middle of all of the clutter that actually felt like someone lived and breathed here. The air perpetually smelled of sweet incense, wet clay, paint, and water. Strangely enough, there were no other living things in the apartment: no plants, no pets. Just her, the books that had survived the hustled move, and art supplies.

Okay, maybe one more text wouldn’t hurt.

Not wanting to leave the safety of her blankets again, she fished for her phone, grabbed it, and sent off another quick message:

But I totally understand if you don’t want to. Just lemme know if / when you’re free, and we’ll work something out.

That should do it.

 

[Talon]

The door to Rus’ truck gave a rusty squeal of protest as he pulled it open, tossed the plastic convenience store bag embossed with a bright yellow smiley face and the words ‘HAVE A NICE DAY’ under it over into the passenger’s seat- though it ended up rebounding off the cushion to fall to the floorboard-, and pulled himself up into the driver’s seat.

I need to remember to hit that hinge with some WD40…

Pulling the door shut, he slid the key into the ignition and turned it enough that the electronics switched on. The hiss of radio static was replaced by the pulsating rhythm of a song he recognized, Maniac, Rus humming along as he leaned over the console to retrieve the bag, pulling out a fresh pack of cigarettes and a bottle of water. The water was slid into the cup holder; the bag wadded up and tossed behind the passenger seat.

The silent treatment from Olivia had been something he was grateful for, for once. He had too much on his mind to worry about getting through to a moody teenager.

Smacking the cigarette pack against the heel of his palm a few times, Rus peeled off the plastic seal, cracked it open, and tore away the protective paper. He pulled one cigarette free, flipping it upside down in the pack as part of his usual ritual.

I was a bit too eager back there, in the diner. Put her in a hell of a spot, havin’ to turn me down like that…

Rus pressed a fist to his mouth to stifle a yawn that suddenly crept up on him. He glanced over at the clock on the dash reflexively and shook his head as he noted what time it was. 08:15. “Man, I’m gettin’ too old for this…” he quipped to no one in particular, sliding a cig out from the pack enough to lift it to his mouth to grip between his lips. Closing the little flap after pulling it free, he shifted in his seat to tuck the pack into the front pocket of his jeans, retrieving his little box of matches in the same motion.

I mean, who offers to take someone on a ride-along while you drop off your sister’s kid for school?

He struck a match and used it to light his cigarette before shaking it out. Leaning back into his seat, he reached over to lower the window beside him, flicking the spent match out of it.

Maybe the two of you could stop and guard the crosswalk out front while you’re at it. Bet she looks real good in one of those little neon green reflective vests…

He chuckled to himself, letting the arm holding the cigarette dangle out the window as he pressed his fingers into his eyes with the other.

Ehhhh, fuck it. How’s that old analogy go? ‘You miss a hundred percent of the shots you don’t take’... somethin’ like that.

He took a deep drag off his cigarette as he passively observed the comings and goings of cars on the roadway beyond the lot he was parked in.

Seems like she’s managing to survive out here, though. Good for her…

Too often he’d seen what the adult industry could do to people, women in particular. ‘Chew them up and spit them out’, as they say. Predators on the production side were just waiting to sink their hooks into young wannabe starlets who came along looking for their five minutes of fame. Get them hooked on drugs, pump them full of plastic, and push them to perform things well beyond their comfort zone to improve the studio’s bottom line.

He was glad that she had managed to make it out the other side in one piece.

Flicking his thumb against the butt of his cigarette to dislodge the bit of ash that had formed at the end, Rus turned the key fully, sitting up in his seat and reaching over to engage his seatbelt as the truck rumbled to life.


The morning shift in the shop went by without a hitch. Weekday mornings were generally low traffic, with most of the work fulfilling online orders. He had the assistance of their one employee, Libby, who handled the bulk of the arrangements while Rus focused more on the business side, pitching in where he could along the way. With his work done before lunch, Rus left with instructions to call him should she be overwhelmed by a slew of unexpected orders and headed home for a much-needed nap around noon.


“...can you believe it, folks? A sixty-seven-yard kick to end double overtime, in what will go down as one of the more memorable endings in playoff history…”

Rus jolted awake with a gasp, scrubbing at his eyes. The TV blared on, its harsh light making him squint as he groped for the remote beside him. After a few fumbling stabs at the buttons, the noise mercifully cut out. Tossing the remote aside, he sat up and raked his fingers through his hair, his brain slowly catching up with his body.

A half-eaten burrito wrapped in foil sat abandoned on a paper plate on the coffee table in front of him, evidence he’d passed out before even finishing lunch.

He glanced around the room, Blinking the sleep from his eyes as he took in the familiar sight of his modest apartment. It was “nice-ish”—not tiny, not in a bad part of town, and quiet enough that he wasn’t constantly annoyed by neighbors. His next-door neighbor was a nurse, and he’d seen a few office types in the halls—guys in polos and slacks with corporate badges dangling from their necks. Professionals.

The apartment suited him well enough. He didn’t require much space living alone: a single bedroom, high ceilings giving the illusion of more space, a proper tub in the bathroom, and a decent-sized kitchen. The little balcony where he stepped out to smoke was cozy, enough to be able to pace around as he smoked. It wasn’t cheap, but it was comfortably within his budget—at least until Jessica got sick.

Moving back to be near his sister was supposed to be temporary. He’d planned to stay just long enough to find a house or condo; something more permanent. But with medical bills piling up and his savings almost drained, the house hunt was on hold indefinitely.

The place was sparsely furnished: a couch, coffee table, an old but decent-sized LCD TV on a stand, and a stereo next to it. In the dining area, where a table should have been, he kept his boxed-up guitars and musical equipment, remnants of a life he hadn’t had time to return to. The apartment was tidy but had the feel of someone who was either just moving in or getting ready to leave.

 

[Talon]

Standing into a stretch, Rus shuffled out from behind the coffee table and toward the bathroom, tugging his t-shirt off as he went. Wadding it up, he dropped it into the plastic hamper beside the bathroom door and flipped on the vanity lights.

Feet dragging across the tile, he stopped in front of the mirror, turning his head this way and that, flexing his arms and chest. His physique was still something to be proud of, though it was far from the peak of his twice-a-day workouts and five-mile runs.

Sports had kept him in top shape through high school—track, basketball, soccer in the off-season. He was good. Not NBA or blue-chip recruit good, but enough to earn a handful of college scholarship offers. Tall, naturally slender, and hardworking, he stood out at the high school level. But by freshman year, it was clear his love for the game wasn’t enough to keep up with the intensity of college athletics. A knee injury a few months in sealed the deal, sidelining him for the season—and making it clear his future wasn’t in sports.

Music stepped in to fill the void. He’d taken piano lessons as a kid and occasionally noodled on a guitar through high school, but athletics had always come first. With sports out of the picture, he had time to focus. He’d sit with his guitar for hours, learning songs, developing an ear, and joining a band that covered rock and early metal. They played dive bars and frat parties—small-time gigs, but enough to keep him busy.

Then along came Celeste Davids.

His sophomore-year roommate’s girlfriend was a tall, gym-sculpted blonde who turned heads wherever she went. Celeste wasn’t exactly Rus’s type—too preppy, too much like the kind of girl who’d ask if you were “still driving that old truck” while twirling the keys to her daddy’s BMW. Nice to look at, sure, but not someone he’d want to spend more than five minutes talking to.

She wasn’t just eye candy, though. Celeste had ambition—and, apparently, connections. After popping up in one of those Girls Gone Wild tapes, she was recruited by an adult modeling agency. Not the runway or catalog kind. The other kind. And, as Rus would later find out, they offered referral bonuses to models who brought in new talent.

“Hey,” she’d said one day, casual as could be. “You ever thought about modeling?”

He hadn’t. But Celeste was persuasive, and the agency was offering a few hundred bucks a session. For a broke college kid on a ramen-and-Lone Star budget, the idea of quick cash for what sounded like easy work was too tempting an offer to pass up. His part-time jobs—delivering pizzas and working weekends in a Lowe’s warehouse—barely covered rent, let alone anything extra.


Rus scoffed as he shifted to stand in front of the toilet, leaning down to lift the seat. “Celeste Davids…heh.” Blast from the past. He hadn’t thought of her in years. Working open his belt buckle and fly, Rus tilted his head back to look up at the ceiling as he relieved his bladder.


Wild times.

It turned out that Celeste was something of a mercenary when it came to relationships. Her thing with his roommate didn’t last long—pre-med or not, the guy came from a blue-collar family, and Celeste was the sort who only had time for men with upward mobility. But she’d kept in touch with Rus, inviting him over to study, out for lunch, or in for a few beers.

He’d thought she was into him. After all, he wasn’t bad-looking; the attention he’d gotten growing up—especially after his post-puberty growth spurt—was proof enough of that. Maybe she found him attractive, he thought. In hindsight, though, it was clear: she’d been buttering him up for a big ask.

She wanted him to be the male half of her first onscreen boy/girl scene.


Finished, he shook himself—Not more than twice or you’re playin’ with it—and smirked as he slapped the back of the toilet seat, letting it fall with a sharp clonk before flushing. Back at the sink, he briskly washed his hands, splashing some water on his face.


That first scene had been terrible. Worst sexual experience of his life.

The crew had consisted of two guys. One was Mark—or maybe Mike?—an overweight, middle-aged gruff type who pitched himself as a producer-slash-director. It was his ‘vision’ they were supposedly capturing. The other was Dave, a man of even fewer words who seemingly only ever said “action” or “cut.”

The scene was shot in the ‘gonzo’ style: Dave played the pitchman who supposedly talked random—but suspiciously attractive—women into porn with promises of quick cash. It started with Celeste flashing her breasts, then her ass, then her crotch… slowly escalating into a hardcore scene where she was ‘coerced’ into giving oral sex in the back of a van. That’s where Rus came in. Or was supposed to.

He couldn’t get it up.

Couldn’t keep it up, more like. Stimulation could get him hard, but he couldn’t maintain it under the cold, unblinking, ever-watchful eye of the camera. “Nobody wants to see her sucking a limp dick… don’t you think she’s hot?” - was the feedback Mark/Mike had helpfully offered. Like any good producer, though, M/M had come well prepared, and it had finally taken the ‘little blue pill’ to get the scene rolling along.

To Celeste’s credit, she was surprisingly humane about the whole thing, genuinely trying to be helpful and offering positive affirmations as he struggled to rise to the occasion.

It was funny, though, thinking back on it. He’d eventually come to be known as the guy who could stay hard through hours of a shoot without the need for pharmaceutical aid.

Celeste, meanwhile, hadn’t stayed in touch after that first scene. She’d moved on to bigger things. They’d bumped into each other at an Adult Exxxpo years later, where she’d greeted him with a kiss on the cheek and her usual breezy charm.

“Why haven’t we worked more together? Have your people call my people. Ciao!”

Typical Celeste. He’d laughed it off then, and he laughed now, shaking his head at the memory as he dried his face.

Wild times, indeed.

 

[Talon]

Rus could hear the sharp buzzing alert of his phone as he sauntered back into the living room, still shirtless. Moving towards the couch, he stubbed the big toe of his left foot against the coffee table in his haste.

“Fuck… shit!”

Hobbling, he snatched up his phone from the arm of the couch, unlocking it to open the Message app.

“Sonnuvabitch, that hurt…” Rus grumbled as he noted the unfamiliar number, with the preview blurb of “But I totally understand if you don’t…” beside it. Tapping it to expand the convo, his grimace was slowly replaced by a smile.

Cassandra.

Thankfully, his earlier offer for her to accompany him hadn’t scared her off. Clearing his throat, Rus perched on the edge of the couch, his free hand absently rubbing his still-throbbing toe as he considered his response.

Yes. Of course yes… but not too eager. Be funny. Whimsical. Not douchey.

The first thing that popped into his head? “Dinner? What a coincidence! I eat dinner too, how ever did you know?” Maggie’s sarcastic tone echoed the thought in his mind, and he immediately dismissed it with a smirk.

Shaking his head, he reacted to her grilled cheese comment—No, not the heart. Dudes don’t heart non-romantic stuff. Exceptions allowed for spicy lewds, but not jokes. Get it together, man. He tapped the laughing emoji instead.

Thumbs hovering over the keyboard, he began crafting his reply:

Couldn’t agree more! Was great seeing you, too. And I would love—
No, backspace. Too eager.

I’d reaaly—
No, reaaly? Backspace, backspace.

I’d really dig the chance to properly catch up. Casa del Cassandra, it is. 7 good?

Satisfied, he hit send before he could overthink it again and tossed the phone onto the couch.

A nervous excitement swelled in his chest, his heart skipping a beat as he stood up, careful to favor his stubbed toe. Wandering over to the sliding glass door, he slid it open.

A smoke would calm his nerves.


A smoke, shower, and shave later, and Rus was back in front of the mirror, still fogged along the edges, putting the final touches on his look.

White shirt or black?

He held each shirt up to his chest, switching back and forth. The white one was dressier, almost formal, with a subtle silver paisley pattern. The black one, though, had more personality—a cowboy-esque western shirt with faux-pearl snaps and gold embroidery along the cuffs and shoulders.

After a moment of deliberation, he settled on the black. No undershirt—he left a few buttons undone at the top, just enough to show off the goods. The cuffs stayed open, folded back once to leave his wrists bare. Dark jeans, almost black, hugged his legs—not skinny, but fitted. On his feet? A pair of well-worn, red high-top Chuck Taylors.

A quick spritz of cologne—the expensive stuff, he thought, inspecting the familiar bottle he’d had for years. Birthday gift? Christmas? Didn’t matter. It was dark and crisp, just distinctive enough to stand out.

Rus then ran a bit of product through his hair, coaxing it carefully into a tousled, just-rolled-out-of-bed style that seemed effortless but looked intentional.

Picking up his phone, it woke, displaying the time: 6:07.

Rus nodded, tucking it into his back pocket, smiling into the mirror, and checking to ensure he didn’t have something stuck in his teeth. His reflection wriggled his eyebrows back at him.

“It’s go time, buddy…”

Slapping a hand against the counter, he turned to leave.


After a quick stop by the shop to grab a few things- thankfully she didn’t live too far away- Rus was sitting in his truck in the parking lot of her apartment complex. He wasn’t smoking. Didn’t want the fresh smell of burnt cigarettes to hit her first thing when she opened the door.

Tapping his fingers against the steering wheel to the beat of the song on the radio, Mr. Brownstone, Rus was carefully watching the clock on the dash. The last number ticked over, spurning him into action.

6:58

Walking up to her door, holding in one hand a bottle of red wine- nothing fancy, the ‘top shelf’ of the supermarket, seventeen-bucks-a-bottle variety- and in the other a waxed Amaryllis bulb, the kind you didn’t need to water, currently little more than a few green stalks emerging from a fat bulb covered in red wax. She didn’t seem the roses type, and he wasn’t sure as to her desire to tend to anything that needed consistent watering. Besides, it would bloom over a few weeks, maybe months if she kept up with trimming it, and would serve as a nice reminder of him while it occupied counter space.

Taking a deep breath, and ensuring he was standing up straight, shoulders back, he rapped his knuckles against the door to her apartment.

Rat-tat tat-tat…

 

[Apollo Wilde]

Okay, so -

Maybe she had been joking about the grilled cheese. Not that she didn’t make a good one - because goddamn it, she did - but because…seriously?

But why are you second-guessing this? Seriously. It’s fine. The whole point is to keep it causal; not try to butter him up with some million course meal.

Or so she kept reminding herself as she pursued the cheeses in the chilled case in front of her. It wasn’t that she was trying to impress him; it’s just that the higher end natural food store had the best smoked gouda. None of that faux smoked taste that came from the regular grocery store. And it wasn’t that the cheese would go to waste post sandwich if she got a large wedge. She loved the stuff.

“Okay…smoked gouda, cotswald for zing…Hey, could you give me some of that peppercorn white cheddar?”








Okay, so -

Maybe she had spent a little more than she anticipated; it was rare that she went to this store. And she might as well make the visit count - fancy potato chips (in the ‘plainer’ flavor of cracked pepper and her usual favorite of jalapeño), a few ready-made desserts (creme brûlée; be still her heart) and ice cream (this one was all for her; indulgent rose flavored gelato that always made her mouth water), tea, artisan sourdough, and sparkling water finished it off.

All normal, normal, stuff.

Once the food was put away, that’s when she had the chance to really sit down in front of the mirror.

“Fuck.”

Not that she cared overly much over how much of a crazy bag lady that she looked at the store - but now? Now there was time to go over every inch of her face; the canvas of her body. She had never been one for excessive working out, or for following body trends - if she had, her breasts would’ve been inflated, waist snatched to a ridiculous degree, and an ass that would have its own zip code. No; that was never meant to be her selling point. And it had been easier to get away with it, back when she was posing for art classes, when she was the one in control of the media she produced of herself.

Part of her open influences, she’d said at the time, were the natural beauties of the 1970s porn circuit. Normal people that happened to be more than a little attractive, but who had stretch marks and visible flaws. Mixed that with the causal nudity found in My Summer with Monika (could never go wrong with dropping Ingmar Bergman into conversation - not that it was ever an act. She loved the man’s films), and there was something delightfully archaic in her approach to her modeling, then carried over into her Sister Sunshine persona. Not having to worry about being perfectly plucked and shaven, she’d appear in various states of body hair - even taking one episode to show her sugaring attempts - ending up with the gooey paste damn near everywhere and hysterical laughter.

But that’s what was making content for women, for girls, was supposed to be. A normal person talking about normal things, even talking about the history of body hair in erotica and in art, including the old chestnut about John Ruskin - the art critic that was so used to hairless nudes that on his wedding night, discovering the fact that his wife had pubic hair, was so repulsed that he never consummated the marriage. Of course, she was sure to mention that she was never entirely sure if that story was accurate, but even if it wasn’t, it still said a lot that not only it persisted, but that it could start in the first place.

And she wasn’t about to give up her favorite foods to stress her body into unnatural muscle. She’d been fit, in the way that any active kid had been - she ran around outside, rode her bike, walked - in a way that she tried to carry on in college, supplemented by a few needed electives that taught her weight lifting and yoga. The nature of her work kept her on her feet as it was, and though she wasn’t a tight body by any stretch of the imagination, age had settled onto her frame lightly - like all she’d need was some real discipline to be back into whatever was a smoke show when she was younger. Truth to tell, looking back on it all, she’d been stupidly thin - naturally, thankfully - something that would’ve potentially pushed her into “actual” agency modeling had she been taller. She’d learned, early, through art, to be thankful for what she had, a message that she often had to re-drill into her head over and over. She had all of her senses; she could move easily. Her body, though sometimes she felt divorced from it, responded in “normal” ways, if she just took the time to learn.

Besides - she could always temporarily change herself: wigs, contacts, makeup. It was all an exploration; something she rarely used in “waking” life. And that’s what she was dealing with now. Before she’d crashed too hard, she’d taken the time to take down all of the faux locs from the night before. Hours later and with her hands still cramping a bit, she had to breathe a sigh of relief when her natural curls presented themselves. Cascading airily down mid-back, they still had a hint of the deep red Manic Panic she’d used, making her hair more maroon than its natural dark brown. The good thing about all of that experimenting, though, was that the desire to do overly much with her hair now was less attractive. So much work, and so much strain on her scalp. And to keep vibrant dyes going, the constant upkeep. It was fun for a while, but now? She’d rather tie it back with a colorful scarf, or a cute hair clip, and call it a day.

So I’m going to be cool about this, she reminded herself as she stepped into the shower, pinning her hair up. It’s going to be fine.

But you have to ask yourself, Cass, what is it that you want to have happen?

There was the kernel of it all. Her heart had been beating so fast that she felt it in her throat; her hands shook. Deep, focused breathing had done little to ease it, even as she was shortly surrounded by steam from the shower.

It was good to see him again. I do want to catch up.

But when was the last time you had sex?

It’s been a while, yes - it hasn’t been a priority. And the toys are always nice. Preferable, in most cases.

But if I’m going to be honest, the more I think about this, the more I have to be honest with the fact that I really want to see him. Like I used to. She flexed her fingers under the stream of hot water. I want to see him naked. I want to touch him. I want to see if we join together like we used to, or if it was just a fancy. I have to admit that I’m still drawn into him as a sexual object. That’s a problem. He’s more than that. When I worked with him, it was work, but he was a willing participant, and was nice enough. I never got to know him outside of Dan Steele - that was by design. And it would only be fair to give him that chance now. And to also be up front with all of the other feelings, no matter how messy.

Just be honest.

“Yeah…honest.” Half-way mocking as she turned off the water, her shower done.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

She’d opted to be causal - this was her home, she was welcoming him into it, and she had to welcome him as she would anyone else that would visit. She kept her hair pinned up post-shower, revealing the long lines of her neck, and picked out a simple orange spaghetti strap camisole top, over a sunset colored long layered peasant skirt. She didn’t bother with jewelry, outside of her typical small gold septum piercing and a set of small raw aquamarine studs in her lobes. She didn’t bother with shoes or socks; her skirt was long enough to mask her bare feet - allowing the occasional flash of electric aqua polish as she moved. No makeup, but one of her many perfume oils, spicy and sweet.

Comfortable, she moved out of her small bathroom and went to light a stick of her favorite Japanese sandalwood incense. Its smell was light, but clung without being too obtrusive, or, better put, without smoking out her entire room. She spent a few more moments going through her impressive record collection. The studio had always been her all over the place music - it wasn’t uncommon to hear Doobie Brothers rubbing shoulders with New Order, and her home should be no different. After all, she’d gotten ready to the sultry Paroles..Paroles…Paroles - but, as she sat in front of her music, it might’ve been a bit too slow for getting to know someone. Not to mention deeply untrusting - and maybe a bit too arty / try hard. A shame, really, that arthouse gatekeepers kept songs like this locked up in gilded cages, keeping them from being what they were: pop songs.

Classical? Nah; too formal. Even if it was Orff or Stravinsky; the latter one of her favorites. The radio? Too noisy. Her usual ‘chill out’ mix? Too many love songs, with Time Heals being the first one that came to mind.

Hrm.


“To hell with it,” and she pulled out a vinyl. It’d been gifted to her by one of her students - her kids were always trying to expand her music knowledge. Always trying to add to it - something she absolutely loved. The cover was very much not in English, but when had that bothered her before? So putting it on the turn table, she paused, sucking on her lower lip, until the first song started - huh. Not…bad at all.

It was in the midst of her contemplation of the song - not that she knew a lick of the language - that she heard the tentative knock at her door. Whatever cool remark she could’ve made faded as she saw the wine, the flower, and the black shirt.

Holy hell I am totally underdressed in my own home.

What came out was a high nervous giggle - warm without being mocking. “Wow! All of this for a grilled cheese? I’m so lucky - come in, come in! Here, lemme take some of that,” and she slipped the bottle from his grasp, moving the few feet to the kitchen.

“Welcome to my humble abode,” she said in afflicted stuffy tones, “The butler will be with you shortly. But until then, please make yourself comfortable,” a grandiose wave to the bean bag chairs. “I figured I’d wait until you got here before I started on my world famous grilled cheese - in the mean time, would you like anything to drink? I’ve got iced tea - sweet, of course - all sorts of other teas, some sparkling water - I didn’t think to get any sort of booze, though. I think I might have a few ginger ales in here too?”

How is it that I still feel like I didn’t think any of this through?

She felt the instant urge to want to apologize - for inviting him over on such a whim, on having such a place that wasn’t traditionally meant to host. Squashing those thoughts down with a hard swallow, she stepped out of the kitchen to get a good look at him, her hands on her hips.

And tried to ignore the fact how her nipples tightened, taking him all in. True to her more bohemian nature, she’d gone without a bra (and without panties - another reason for her liking the ankle length skirts), and knew that he wouldn’t be…unfamiliar, per say, with the thought of a woman going braless, but now it felt so much more…open than the practical nature that it’d always felt to her.

“Ya look good, kid!,” it was punctuated with a light punch to his shoulder. “Though I totally feel underdressed in my own home. Which, also, to be fair, it’s not like we really saw each other with clothes on, so you could, within reason, always dress like this. It’s gotta be weird seeing me without all of the glamor, right?” A bright grin. It did look like she’d stepped out of a photo from Woodstock; if not notably cleaner and a lot more sober. “Anyway, that drink? And take the bean bag on the left; it’s so much fluffier."

 

[Talon]

“‘Without all the glamour?’” Rus scoffed. “... I don’t know, Cass–you look pretty damn glamorous to me.”

He twirled a finger in a slow, demonstrative circle. “So, uh…are we sitting for the drum circle now…” The playful smile he was trying to mask peeked through at the seams.“...or we saving that for after dinner?”

Preemptively sidestepping the playful smack potentially heading his way, Rus smirked as he brushed a hand down the front of his shirt as if to smooth it of unseen wrinkles. “Kidding…kidding…” He held his hands up in the universal sign of truce before straightening, giving her a once-over, and nodding affirmatively. He cleared his throat, composing himself to convey his intended genuine sincerity.

"No, I mean, uh... you look good, Cass. Seriously...”

Good was an understatement.

Stunning, more like it. Her ability to look so good even ‘dressed down’ had always amazed him. Hell, in his opinion, she looked her best completely undressed. And not just in a sexual way. She had always seemed so… confident, in her own skin. He wasn’t sure how best to describe it, even coming from a place of experience where he’d worked with dozens of professional models and actors for whom it was in their job description to look natural in the nude. For her it wasn’t something she’d had to grow accustomed to, it was a trait she came by naturally.

And that’s not to say she didn’t look good ‘all dolled up’. He’d seen her that way too, when a scene called for it. When she wanted to, she could transform herself into all sorts of characters, even fantastical ones. Especially fantastical ones; Her elf look, in particular, was iconic.

But tonight, she wore her most memorable look of all: just plain ol' Cassandra.

He had worried, at first, that their past might make casual conversation awkward. As she pointed out, they’d been naked together more often than not—physically intimate in ways that even his closest girlfriends hadn’t been. Mutual masturbation, “anatomy tours” of both his body and hers—

Which reminded him of something.


In the grand mysteries of the female anatomy, one question had plagued men for ages. An enigma wrapped in silence, rarely spoken of, never properly explained in health class; Where does the pee come out?

Rus had been no exception to this confusion. Ever the fan of self-deprecating humor, he had once admitted as much while helping Cass film one of her more educational videos. She’d giggled, in that charming manner of hers, but then—awkwardly, for him at least—offered to help clear things up.

“See there?” she said, parting her thighs, her sex openly displayed with a casual ease that felt almost clinical. And with the helpful addition of a pointed finger for emphasis, Rus was brought fully into the know. “That is the female urethra.”

Rus, brow furrowed in deep contemplation, had stared for a long moment before finally managing:

“…Huh.”

He must’ve looked like she had just asked him to solve for pi.


A quiet chuckle to himself at the memory as his eyes moved from her to drift around the apartment. Modest, sure, but it felt like a place Cassandra would live—cozy, unpretentious, lived-in. The music—something foreign and unfamiliar, but unobtrusive—blended with the faint scent of incense, making it feel like he’d stepped into her world.

Better not to dwell too much longer on how good he thought she looked. He'd hardly stepped inside the door.

“And, uh… sparkling water would be great, actually…” He was amongst his kind, with such dignified hydration sources on offer.

He started toward the beanbag chair she had gestured to but veered slightly off course, drawn in by the section of the living room where a multitude of artwork covered the wall—photos, crude sketch outlines, paintings. Looking back over his shoulder, almost as if to seek her consent for what felt like an act of voyeurism, given the personal feel of such a display, he asked with a note of curiosity in his voice. “Are these all by you?”

 

[Apollo Wilde]

She laughed again - it had a bit of a snort in it. Not of disbelief, but of mirth.

“You and that silver tongue! Though this is the first time I’ve really heard it use words.” Another joke, more dancing around their past. More than once he’d been between her legs, and more than once, the results had left her literally shaking. She’d prided herself on never having to fake a moment of arousal when she was with him. From laying down to straddling his face, his hands an iron grip around her thighs - the man had a gift. One she wished that a toy could mimic.

“ ‘Drum circle’? Psshaw; these are the best seats in the house. And by ‘best seats’, I mean the only seats. Most of the time when I’m trying to get super comfy, I’m either on the bed or on the floor. But I’m trying not to throw you into the deep end of Cassandra Henry’s Counterculture Ways and Failing Homemaking 101, so bean bag chairs it is. Also - there is literally no better set up when I’m playing Sonic the Hedgehog. Have my bowl of chips here,” she pointed to the right of the right bean bag, “drink here,” she pointed to the left, “And I’m good. You know my hands still get sweaty when I’m playing a hard level? I swear I have PTSD whenever I hear the Chemical Plant Zone song. What do the kids say now? ‘Crying, screaming, throwing up’? Something like that.”

As he moved towards the ‘art wall,’ she shook her head, even if he didn’t see her do it. “Nah. I’ve been really lucky to have some incredibly talented friends; some of this is theirs. Most of it, really. I was never much for drawing. Actually, I really suck at it,” another soft laugh. “Even though I tried like hell for a while, you know? I thought that being an artist meant that you had to master everything before you settled into a particular venue. Learning the rules before you could break them. I’m sure the classes I took didn’t help shake that mindset.” An offhanded shrug. “Some of these were gifts from students, too - it’s a little weird to have nudes of myself in my own home, but it’s really cool that some of the students are thoughtful enough to do things like this.” Now that he was closer, he could see that there were indeed some charcoal figure studies of her, varying degrees of professionalism about them - but even the sloppiest had an undeniable heart; a desire to please, to grow.

“When I do bother to use my hands outside of a camera, I like abstract stuff,” she gestured to a painting that was in various shades of blue. “I wanted to do my take on Kim Boem’s ‘Yellow Scream.’ It was so much fucking fun, oh my god. I ended up crashing poor Paul’s painting class and demanded that all of the students do this. We got so many complaints from the other professors - but totally. Fucking. Worth. It.”

She stood next to him, briefly glancing over all of the various pieces. “If any in particular stand out to you, please feel free to ask about it. Every single one of them has a story. Trust me; I’d keep you here for a week if I were to go through them all.”

Making the short trip back to the fridge, she opened it and retrieved two sparkling waters. One was flavored (her preference), the other was not. “Which one? If you don’t have a preference, I’m going to tell you now that these,” she lightly shook the flavored can, “are my preferred. I think the plain ones are gross. I don’t even know why I got them. Probably a two for one sale and they were the only ones left. You know how it is.”

With a cheeky grin, she placed the plain can on the back of his neck, laughing when he jumped. “Couldn’t help it,” without the slightest hint of remorse. She was standing next to him again, looking up at his face with a sense of glee. Then, her smile dropped, her face turning serious. “Is that you?” Cans forgotten in her hand, she leaned forward, pressing her nose unabashedly into his chest. “Oh my godddddd,” the drawn out words muffled, “You smell so good! What is that? Holy shit.” She pulled back just enough to crane her head up at him, her chin resting on his sternum.

“And your face. Like…wow, dude. How many heads do you turn in the grocery aisle?” Another big smile. She lifted herself onto her tiptoes, still pressing her chin to his chest, as if using her chin as an anchor point. Her arms limply (playfully) by her side, she lightly swung the cans back and forth. Not too much as to majorly disturb their contents, but to move something.

Be honest.

“Hey, so…” She glanced to the side, gathering invisible strength for her next words. “I invited you over because I do want to catch up. Really.” Her throat bobbed against him as she spoke, swallowed. “But I also want to be honest with you. I had other motives as well.” She could smile, she could play it coy, she could try and undercut it all as if it were a big joke.

Taking a deep breath, she decided to shoot straight. “I was also curious to see if I was still attracted to you. And not in the professional sense. To be perfectly fair, I haven’t had sex in, like, forever - pretty much since we stopped shooting together. Not that I haven’t had the opportunity, you know, and please don’t take this to your big head or I’ll throw you out of the window, but I’d get to thinking about it and it didn’t seem worth the effort for something that I was positive wasn’t ever going to be as good. And maybe that’s a testament to that gorgeous cock of yours. I honestly don’t know. I thought, ‘okay, if I have him over, I can actually talk to him, get to know him as more than just a sex object,’ and to see if that…I dunno, electricity, as lame as it sounds, was really lighting in a bottle. I know we kept things professional, and this is super awkward dumping it all on you like this. But seriously, if I kept this on my stomach I was going to puke. My hands have been shaking for the last few hours on how I was gonna deal with it all.”

Her arms stopped swinging, and her dark brown eyes, locked on his, seemed almost black in the muted yellow light of her apartment. “I’d really like to kiss you. I know we didn’t really, not outside of those tutorials, but every time we did, it was like, whoa. So I’d like to try it - no cameras, no teaching opportunities, no nothing. And if you don’t want to, that’s totally fair. You’re a living, breathing human being, and can make up your own mind. Scout’s honor, you could tell me, ‘Wow, you’re a fucking weirdo that’s been dick-matized,’ and walk out that door and I wouldn’t bother you again. I just…well. I didn't think I’d run into you again, not since…” She paused. “Well, I didn’t think I’d run into you again, and seeing you has raked up a bunch of stuff. Like, I would’ve been okay going on with my life without necessarily like, longing for it, but since I saw you, it was like…here’s the universe, giving you a second chance. Take it and figure some shit out.” She was smiling again, underscoring her previous words with the relief that came from getting a long held secret off of her chest.

 

[Talon]

It’s… blue.

I don’t get it.

Frowning, Rus inclined his head a bit to the left, then over to the right, as if the slight change in viewing angle might be the secret to deciphering it.

Maybe it’s one of those optical illusion things, where you have to unfocus your eyes…

To him, it looked like the disorganized cousin of one of those paint color gradient charts from the hardware store. Blue vs slightly less blue vs slightly more less blue-that sort of thing. But she’d said it was one of hers, so if there was a deeper meaning to glean from it, he wanted to.

… I’ll Google it later…

Rus smirked to himself as he allowed his eyes to drift from the mysterious painting he had mentally dubbed ”50 Shades of Blue” across the various others around it.

There were things more familiar to him such as photos and figure studies- he’d sat for a few himself, back in college, back when he was more ‘model’ than ‘porn star’- and a few of them were quite exceptional, in terms of their level of detail. His ‘not getting it’ was more often the case than not when it came to visual art, but even a layman could appreciate an artist’s ability to capture someone’s likeness in charcoal.

He glanced over at her passively as she moved past him towards the kitchen.

It felt weird, being here. Not because of her, anything she’d said or done, nor the apartment in particular. Just that it was ‘different’. He felt like he’d been trapped in a time paradox for the past few years-living his life in a continuous loop- with very few deviations from the norm. Work-home-sleep. Work-home-sleep. Work-home-sleep… it was enough to lull him into a state of autopilot, to live every day just going through the motions.

He’d had a few dates mixed in there-mostly at Maggie’s insistence- though nothing that escalated beyond grabbing coffee for the ‘vibe check’. As they’d been curated by someone with a vested interest in his future happiness, the women were all very ‘nice’. Successful. Attractive. No obvious red flags.

And boring as all hell.

Perhaps it could be classified as one of those ‘good problem to have’ type of scenarios, but truth was, what he craved more than the mere physical stimulation of the act of sex was intimacy. He’d had a decade of what might be called ‘casual’ sex, professional in name only, with such a diverse range of women in terms of their physical attributes that he couldn’t possibly grow bored of it.

Blondes, brunnettes, redheads…
Slender, overweight, ‘thicc’…
Black, white, asian…
Late teen, ‘Milf’ and everywhere inbetween...

Every red-blooded man’s dream… right?

Sure. For the first few years, back when the ‘young, dumb and full of cum’ label fit him like a glove, it was like living out every young man’s fantasy. Rarely was the sex good, but it was never bad. It wasn’t like legitimate acting, where emotions like anger or sadness were wholly manufactured. For a man, an orgasm was an orgasm, straight up. The physical sensation of pleasure in the moment was real.

But then the director yells cut, the PA tosses you a towel, and your costar asks if there’s still craft services available. Ninety-nine percent of the time, that was it. He’d never work with that particular actress again. Never see or speak with them, even if he wanted to.

His time working with Cassandra fell into that rare one percent. With the possible exception of a college girlfriend he’d dated throught his freshman year, she was his most frequent sexual partner.

It was odd to think of it in that context.

His thoughtful frown turned upside down as she approached and offered him the option of his choice of flavored water or not, adding her caveat. “How does that old line go? “If not for bad taste, I would have no taste at all”...” Rus smile brightened further. “... plain is more than fine, thank you.”

Rus shot her a look of playful indignation as he reflexively jumped when she put the cold can against the back of his neck, wagging his finger at her in mock admonishment. “Hey… watch it…” He began, cut off as she closed the distance between them to put her nose up against his chest. The warble in his voice suggested he was on the verge of laughter. “It’s Versace, I think. Glad you like it…”

Too many compliments at once had him on the verge of breaking out in a blush as she commented on his looks. “Probably half as many as you do…”

She was fully in his space now, and getting closer, and he made no move to discourage her. He could feel the warmth of her body, her breath, her aura. It felt… comforting, to tell the truth. Maggie was the touchy-feely type and not shy about lavishing her friends with physical affection, so it’s not like Rus felt unloved or anything, but this was different. Cass was someone he had been sexually intimate with- a connection that fulfilled a need he had almost forgotten existed.

Rus listened as she spoke, compelled to remain silent by the shift in her tone. His eyes searched hers, widening a bit at the revelation that she had harbored this deep-seated desire for him and never acted on it.

No fuckin’ way…

It didn’t make sense to him. At all. Did Cassandra have a ‘crush’ on him? What… how… when…why?

She’s horny. She said it. I mean, that’s it… right?

Anything else simply didn’t compute. She was beautiful, intelligent, witty, talented… women like that don’t fall for guys like Rus. She belongs with some dude who wears tweed blazers with patches on the elbows, bowties, and horn-rim glasses. Big brain types… guys who’d read War and Peace. Guys who were goin’ somewhere in life. Rus was basically a step or two away from being a complete loser in that department. His greatest accomplishment, his claim to fame, the culmination of his life’s work thus far, was having the most popular caucasian dildo on the market having been molded after his junk. The cosmic equivalent of a wet fart.

She’s just horny… right? Super-fuckin’-horny. And she didn’t say anything about a ‘crush’ or anything ‘deeper’... she’s horny, and she trusts you. That’s all this is…

Right?

Even in his moment of self-doubt, she still had a way of using humor to bring him back down to earth and make him smile. As she paused once having fully unburdened herself, he scoffed.

“‘Dick-matized?’” He couldn’t fully choke back the crackle of laughter despite the seriousness of the moment. “You’re a goofball, you know that?”

Rus craned his neck down, enough that their foreheads could touch, his hand gliding gently across her hip, along the line where camisole met skirt, to settle in the small of her back, fingertips brazenly flirting with the top of her asscrack, using the point of leverage to pull her in closer, their bodies melding together in the middle.

While perhaps not as visibly cut and sharply defined as it at one time was, the considerable musculature in his upper body was still there, and harbored strength he had used to pin her arms above her head, strength with which he had lifted her bodily, to be held in the air before him, legs dangling at his sides, as they fucked, savagely, like two animals in rut. The elf and the orc. Captive and captor.

Just Rus now, lost in the dark pools of her eyes, his nose nudging hers affectionately, the signs of amusement fading slowly from his expression. “To be honest... I missed this, Cass… us, together like this. I missed the sound of your laugh…” He lifted his head, looking down at her as if struck by her gaze; mesmerized. “...the smell of your shampoo…” His brow knit in the center. “...the feel of your lips…” His gaze flickered down to her mouth before gliding back up to lock with hers. He pressed his forehead against hers again. “...the tickle of your little cunt hairs against the tip of my nose…” He scoffed into a warm chuckle, his smile turning up the right corner of his mouth.

“So yeah… I fully agree. We should definitely use this opportunity to figure some shit out…” His head tilted slowly towards his left side, voice raspy, his tone betraying his lustful desire. “...starting with if I can still make you cum your fuckin’ brains out…”

His own words sent a flash of heat from his neck shooting down his spine, barely restrained energy felt through where their bodies met as if at any moment he could put his strength to use, pin her up against the wall, or lift her up onto that counter, or throw her down atop her beloved beanbag chair, pin her thighs back and use that gorgeous cock of his to fuck her cunt raw.

But no, not yet, first there was the promised kiss. Long overdue…

His lips against hers… soft, pillowy, wet. First, a peck, break, pull back in the slightest, and then deeper, back, and then again, this time properly, passion fully unrestrained, released, as his mouth worked against hers, his tongue searching, seeking out hers, swirling around it playfully as he pulled her midsection in to press against his tightly.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

“Yeah, ‘dick-matized,’” softly against his own lips, taking it as a green light. His hands, warm weights against her body, settled into place like there hadn’t been a gap in time at all. A little carelessly, she dropped the cans, standing on her tiptoes to give her better leverage. Her arms wound about his neck. There wasn’t much need for her to respond to his ‘sweet nothings’; not when her mind was melting, reforming into one solid thought:

Yes.

More than a passing whim - it had been some cosmic magic spark, something born from the first time she saw him nude, the first time she’d wept over the sheer beauty of a living, breathing human. Flicked her open into the space that flowed invisible between all of them, all of us made of star-dust type of thing, silly if she spent too many words on it -

Unlike the hurried, exaggerated wetness that had come with their scenes, this was far more…subtle. A streak of real fire, the slow smolder that knew it had all of the time in the world. She’d let him deepen the kiss, the familiarity mind-blowing, until she felt that burning deeper - that spot in her stomach that only he had awakened before. The feeling that told her to indulge, to devour instead of nibble. The only hint of it, now, was a soft growl, low enough to be imagined. She was using the slight leverage she had before to full effectiveness, pushing him back, back, back, until he was solidly pressed against the wall in the small space between the living room and bedroom. The multi-colored beads clattered in protest, swinging wildly as she eased one arm free to bat the beads away from their bodies.

He had strength over here; there was no denying that, but her desire gave her equal share. Using her body weight to keep him anchored against the wall, she continued to kiss him, breaking only to inhale. Ferocity there, of course, but still unhurried. She had all the time in the world, him given to her by a strangely sympathetic universe, and she wasn’t going to rush through it.

Opening her mouth, she parted their lips, without once catching his eyes, and merely flicked her tongue against his lower lip, a ‘warning’ before she closed the gap between the two of them to suck on him, ending with the gentlest closing of teeth against him. He’d always been so much fun to bite on - not full on mark, but enough to feel his flesh yield under her, to feel the way his pulse jumped and, when she’d first started, seeing how he flushed, blushing - those were her favorite moments; when she knew she’d gotten in past whatever bluster that he had as a porn actor and was getting a real reaction out of him. The things she did to him felt whispered in her ear -

Her arms came free from his neck - her right sliding down the lines of his chest, savoring his warmth. She could remember it all; memories made it easier for her to slip the right hand under the edge of his shirt, up the bare plane of his stomach, right under the right pectoral, nails and fingers grazing his right nipple, teasing it to firmness. The left hand, unhurried, slipped lower, rubbed against the crotch of his jeans. It was forward; seemed only a moment before she’d start tugging at the buttons. But she didn’t. There was still quiet reverence in that touch, she was in no hurry, but still savoring all the same. He was so warm, his skin so soft, even the coarse hair familiar. The thumb of her left hand caressed the small space of skin under his navel, where the dusty hair of the ‘happy trail’ started - leisurely moving up and down, the pressure light.

The nipple grazing, the lower touch - both secondary to the play her mouth was indulging in. Kisses to the corners of his lips, laughter breaking them up, feathery, before the challenge of her tongue touching the tip of his, her mouth still open in a gesture that was undoubtedly incredibly unphotogentic, but spoke volumes to that desire to devour. Licking his tongue, the front of his teeth, strange, but indulgent for her, drawing in more of his taste, more of him. Mint and more mint, both of their mouths briskly cleaned prior to this, secret knowledge that warmed her heart. Such a small thing, but without the mechanical ‘otherness’, that dull resolve that came with getting ready for blind dates.

This close, the aquatic citrus of her perfume surrounded her, mingled with the more ancient spicy sweetness of her own perfume, mingling together into something new. But beneath even that, the warmth that simply defined him as him - parting again, she drew her left hand to her face, sniffed at her thumb. Clean and crisp skin, musk there, too - tripping nerve endings into further wakefulness before the same tug in her gut told her to put that hand right back where it was, to keep it pressed firm and gently against him, what was that, the root chakra, something like that, whirling male energy to her own female, aching for more, but it wasn’t quite the time, not yet.

“I wonder…” Murmured against his mouth, her head somewhat tilted below his as a result of their height difference. Right hand slipped from his nipple to the bottom of his shirt. Tugged experimentally. “Ah,” the sound of her voice carried the light of realization in her eyes, “I would’ve hated to have ripped this.” Smolder in her words didn’t carry to the tender motion of her hands, the left pulled away now to help the right as she unbuttoned his shirt, snap by snap, inch by inch, until he was bare chested in front of her. Both hands moved up the plane of his chest, pointer fingers caressing the line of each pectoral before settling into small circles on his nipples. They were firm, begging for her mouth in a language she knew all too well. Lowering her head further from his own, she first kissed the right nipple, then the left, before licking the fingers of her left hand. Her mouth closed on his right nipple, her damp fingers working, mimicking the movement of her tongue on his right. Swirling, tracing, tasting - the soft pinch of teeth, of fingers, before the left hand moved again down the expanse of his chest to settle into the comfortable spot above his jeans.

She could feel his heart beat; see it pulse beneath the skin, along the cords of his neck. “You make it easy to want to swallow you whole,” right hand against the middle of his chest, her cheek next to his nipple. It didn’t matter that he was bigger; it was something about him that made her feel…cruel. No, that wasn’t it. It was on the razor’s edge - maybe it was the same impulse that made a little boy pull the pigtails of a girl that he liked. That desire - not to cause pain for pain’s sake, never to hurt, never, but that streak of darkness. She’d recognized it - knew that it only bubbled to the surface with him, but it was never the right time, the right scene, anything, to indulge in it. In what she would do if she had the time.

“You know…” words peppered between kisses against his chest, “Until I saw you again, I never thought that I’d want to see a man tied up, his cock covered in pre-cum, and to hear him plead for me. Fancy that.” When she looked up at him this time, her eyes were so dark as to be bottomless, but still familiar, still warm - trusting. She meant it; she wasn’t going to push him into anything. Never. But he was a safe place to voice those desires. “I think I just like seeing you flustered,” she tasted the words as she spoke them, still thinking, her mind moving faster than her mouth could keep up, “Like the first time. We were both nervous, I know, but you blushed, and it was so cute, so vulnerable…like, finally, here’s a real man. Someone who does’t buy into machismo bullshit. I thought it might’ve been me, that I might’ve been special enough to pull that out of you. I didn’t bother to watch any of your…other work,” the words dried leaves in her throat, “I wanted to keep you, you, as professional as it could’ve been.” He’d almost have to strain to hear her words, shy now, but briefly. The feeling of him beneath her was too real to keep her from being too introspective for too long. Before he could respond, she was on her tiptoes again, kissing him, a princess trying to wake up a prince. Chaste, sweetly so, even as her tongue met his again, slow as honey.