Since he’s so short, so overdressed, and almost as young as his baby face makes him look like he is, I always joke—not that he laughs—that he must be wearing his father’s shirt.
Since I blanch and bite my lip when he takes it off and tells me I’m going to get what I have coming, he always jokes—not that I laugh—that he must be wearing my father’s belt.

Since he’s so short, so overdressed, and almost as young as his baby face makes him look like he is, I always joke—not that he laughs—that he must be wearing his father’s shirt.

Since I blanch and bite my lip when he takes it off and tells me I’m going to get what I have coming, he always jokes—not that I laugh—that he must be wearing my father’s belt.

(via youthfuldominance)

deepernow:

"You know I hate playing this game."
"I know," he answers. There’s a ghost of a smile on the edge of his lips and it’s enough to keep me going. I make my second move: Knight to C3. Not because there’s a strategy, but because it mirrors where I put the other one and if I squint really hard it makes my pieces look like a crab. 
"So why do you keep making me play?"
”I don’t make you do anything.” It isn’t a protest. It’s a statement of fact, like “Elizabeth is the queen,” and “Hobbesian paradigms underpin modern geopolitical thought.” I’ll leave it to you to decide which of us said which. 
His pawn moves forward to join its brother. 
"Why do you do that?"
He looks to me, eyes soft, patient, expectant. I’m reminded of a teacher who used to let me prattle on, assuming that I would eventually run out of things to say and be left only with the answer. “Why do I do what?” he asks.
"Always start with the pawns."
"Ah," he says, utterly unsurprised. I’m annoyed. I pick up my bishop and move it, stamping its base into the board. "I like the pawns," he answers. 
He moves his bishop to claim my knight like he was clearing toys. I frown. “Why?” I ask. “They barely move.”
"There’s also more of them."
"They’re not versatile," I challenge, and excitement fills me. I see an opening, and I move my piece into position. 
"Only pawns get promoted," he answers, and my advance ends up right next to my knight at the side of the board. 
"You’ve got to get there first," I huff. 
"If you’ll forgive me the indulgence," he begins, and I don’t like that his smile makes me want to adopt one of my own, "that isn’t a terribly large concern."
He moves a piece, and before he lets go his fingers run along it’s edges. I follow the curve of his arm up to stop at his lips. They’re still a smile; they’re still patient; but there’s a turn to them know that doesn’t belong in a study. 
"So if you had to be a piece-"
"Would I be a king?" he intrudes, and I look to him, waiting. He sits, thinks, sighs. "I would, though I’ve not got much choice in the matter."
I snort. “Bit arrogant?”
"As much arrogance as the osprey feels when it claims the fish."
I blink. 
He smiles and tilts his head. “Coriolanus?”
"Gesundheit."
"Very well. But yes, I suppose I would be the king."
"Or Queen."
"Pardon?
I snicker. “Never mind.” I move my piece and with all but a wave of his hand and the soft tick of his next move, it’s gone. I can’t find victory on the chessboard. I’m better outside it. “If you’re the king, all someone’s got to is get you in position.”
"If you’ll forgive me the indulgence," he says as I move a castle - rook, I hear his past self reminding me - “that isn’t a terribly large concern.”
My castle - rook - joins the ruins of its kin on the side of the board. “How come you don’t play with other kings, then?” I swat above the board and he sits back, legs crossed, finger pressed to his temple. I feel bare before him, childish. But his other fingers curl around the arm of his chair. I can almost feel their ghost on my thigh. 
"I told you," he says, and the cool breeze of his tone starts to give way to summer winds. "I like pawns."
( captionstojerkby ) 

Hrrmphednduhdenjkftrhujffftjfirjk.

deepernow:

"You know I hate playing this game."

"I know," he answers. There’s a ghost of a smile on the edge of his lips and it’s enough to keep me going. I make my second move: Knight to C3. Not because there’s a strategy, but because it mirrors where I put the other one and if I squint really hard it makes my pieces look like a crab. 

"So why do you keep making me play?"

”I don’t make you do anything.” It isn’t a protest. It’s a statement of fact, like “Elizabeth is the queen,” and “Hobbesian paradigms underpin modern geopolitical thought.” I’ll leave it to you to decide which of us said which. 

His pawn moves forward to join its brother. 

"Why do you do that?"

He looks to me, eyes soft, patient, expectant. I’m reminded of a teacher who used to let me prattle on, assuming that I would eventually run out of things to say and be left only with the answer. “Why do I do what?” he asks.

"Always start with the pawns."

"Ah," he says, utterly unsurprised. I’m annoyed. I pick up my bishop and move it, stamping its base into the board. "I like the pawns," he answers. 

He moves his bishop to claim my knight like he was clearing toys. I frown. “Why?” I ask. “They barely move.”

"There’s also more of them."

"They’re not versatile," I challenge, and excitement fills me. I see an opening, and I move my piece into position. 

"Only pawns get promoted," he answers, and my advance ends up right next to my knight at the side of the board. 

"You’ve got to get there first," I huff. 

"If you’ll forgive me the indulgence," he begins, and I don’t like that his smile makes me want to adopt one of my own, "that isn’t a terribly large concern."

He moves a piece, and before he lets go his fingers run along it’s edges. I follow the curve of his arm up to stop at his lips. They’re still a smile; they’re still patient; but there’s a turn to them know that doesn’t belong in a study. 

"So if you had to be a piece-"

"Would I be a king?" he intrudes, and I look to him, waiting. He sits, thinks, sighs. "I would, though I’ve not got much choice in the matter."

I snort. “Bit arrogant?”

"As much arrogance as the osprey feels when it claims the fish."

I blink. 

He smiles and tilts his head. “Coriolanus?

"Gesundheit."

"Very well. But yes, I suppose I would be the king."

"Or Queen."

"Pardon?

I snicker. “Never mind.” I move my piece and with all but a wave of his hand and the soft tick of his next move, it’s gone. I can’t find victory on the chessboard. I’m better outside it. “If you’re the king, all someone’s got to is get you in position.”

"If you’ll forgive me the indulgence," he says as I move a castle - rook, I hear his past self reminding me - “that isn’t a terribly large concern.”

My castle - rook - joins the ruins of its kin on the side of the board. “How come you don’t play with other kings, then?” I swat above the board and he sits back, legs crossed, finger pressed to his temple. I feel bare before him, childish. But his other fingers curl around the arm of his chair. I can almost feel their ghost on my thigh. 

"I told you," he says, and the cool breeze of his tone starts to give way to summer winds. "I like pawns."

( captionstojerkby

Hrrmphednduhdenjkftrhujffftjfirjk.

In the strictest sense—if we consider other forms of exchange, of value, of barter, of non-monetary compensation—the hours he spent away from the firm working Legal Aid cases were not entirely pro bono.

In the strictest sense—if we consider other forms of exchange, of value, of barter, of non-monetary compensation—the hours he spent away from the firm working Legal Aid cases were not entirely pro bono.

(via theyoungdomfltop)

asker

granosdegranada asked: I love your stories, I absolutely adore them, but then you tell us about that pen, and I love you even more! Keep them coming. Keep them coming.

Yeah.

I’ve written before about how many selfies I take (a ton), and I’ve also written about why I don’t post them. Another reason, though: why would I need to, when I get such lovely feedback about the bits of myself—the psychological selfies, to both coin and simultaneously hate a phrase—I do share here?

Which is to say: thanks!

asker

Anonymous asked: Good god of wealth, the stories you write!!! Thanks for indulging my broker fantasy! You're going to get me fired by being caught with lovely porn on a business trip, but oh, who the fuck cares. (I just wanted to add that men in suits are absolutely hot, aren't they? Suits are way better than nakedness. Suits make corporate slavery [another prompt for you?] absolutely worth it.) Corporate slavery ftw!!! P.S. I love you

Awwww, I’m so, so glad you like my stories!

But also: Broker Anon, it is you!

I’m glad you liked the two thus far. There’s another one lying around waiting for me to write it—well, no, there are two, now, actually, since you’ve given me that whole lovely corporate slavery thing, and I have just the picture. And now you have me thinking about suits vs. nakedness, and there’s another idea I’m going to have to write now…

I should make an evenhanded comment about how suits are necessary for nakedness to be a state, and that without nakedness suits wouldn’t be nearly as hot, but fuck that shit: suits, man.

Fuckin’ suits.

asker

Anonymous asked: What do you think of fisting?

Thanks for the question, Anonymous!

Fisting is one of those things—many of the items I fantasize about are like this—that I can totally get behind in fantasy but would never be able to try in real life.

I’m a pen—well, not chewer, because I hate it when they get that awful raggedy chewed look. But I do like to put them in my mouth while I’m studying. (Shut up.) One day when I was 18, the cap of a pen I was, um, holding in my mouth (I said shut UP) came loose, and I swallowed it. I freaked the fuck out, Anonymous, sure that the pen cap was going to perforate an intestine and send me to my grave far too early. My utter sense of shame and mortification prevented me from seeking (entirely unnecessary, I’ve since found out when discussing this with doctor friends) medical care; I just sat quietly on my couch for a day, not moving and waiting for the end to come.

This story has a point, Anonymous, I swear! It gives some indication of the extent to which in real life I would be irrationally scared to be fisted. But in fantasy—well, yeah, there’s something there, isn’t there? It’s entirely one way, at once a sexual act, and isn’t, in the same way I like handjobs—one person is receiving the sensation while the other provides it; the part of your body that fewest people touch is put in contact with the part of another guy’s body with which he touches everything. Plus, I imagine the psychology of it, of just having another guy’s whole damn forearm (and, ahem, I like forearms) in your body would be—well, it’d be a fucking trip.

But the reason I haven’t ever written a fisting caption has nothing to do with any of that! It’s not a function of not having done it and having no basis to describe what it feels like; that’s taken care of by having your narrator say “I can’t even describe what it feels like.” No, it’s honestly just that the aesthetic of most of the fisting porn you see tends not to be my bag, unfortunately.

He’s working on forgetting. 
I mean, it’s weird to say that that’s something he works on, some action he actively takes, when it’s the opposite. It’s not doing something—it’s trying to go about his daily life and not suddenly being reminded at each turn of the smells, the sounds, the sensations of it. And they say he will forget, eventually. Well, not that he’ll truly forget it—he can still remember (he has, unfortunately, a very good memory) their gentle, sad smiles as they told him he’ll never really be able to forget it—but that he’ll be able to remember it without reliving it. Because that’s his problem: not the remembrance, technically. It’s not that he’s seeing some tableau of that night play out with him as a cool, calm, collected observer; he’s there, on stage, acting it out.
When he steps into the shower, for example, all that cool tile reminds him of—which is to say, makes him relive—being somewhere else. It’s not water that has his hair wet and plastered to his face; it’s not soapsuds sliding white and thick down his back, between the curves of his ass. And he’s not—he’s never, anymore—alone in the room.

He’s working on forgetting.

I mean, it’s weird to say that that’s something he works on, some action he actively takes, when it’s the opposite. It’s not doing something—it’s trying to go about his daily life and not suddenly being reminded at each turn of the smells, the sounds, the sensations of it. And they say he will forget, eventually. Well, not that he’ll truly forget it—he can still remember (he has, unfortunately, a very good memory) their gentle, sad smiles as they told him he’ll never really be able to forget it—but that he’ll be able to remember it without reliving it. Because that’s his problem: not the remembrance, technically. It’s not that he’s seeing some tableau of that night play out with him as a cool, calm, collected observer; he’s there, on stage, acting it out.

When he steps into the shower, for example, all that cool tile reminds him of—which is to say, makes him relive—being somewhere else. It’s not water that has his hair wet and plastered to his face; it’s not soapsuds sliding white and thick down his back, between the curves of his ass. And he’s not—he’s never, anymore—alone in the room.

(via mighty-white-cock)

People always talk about “morning light.” I dunno, I’m not a photographer, so maybe it’s true. Maybe there is some special kind of light in the morning, something weird—but a photon’s a photon, right?—that makes the things you see in it look special or something. Look the most like themselves. And I get the concept. I get the way people say that they always picture their lover by the light of something particular: the coffee shop where they met, the Greek island where they fucked away their honeymoon. 
Me, I think he’s never more attractive than when he’s breaking, than when he’s almost no longer himself. His best light is the one he can’t quite even see anymore.

People always talk about “morning light.” I dunno, I’m not a photographer, so maybe it’s true. Maybe there is some special kind of light in the morning, something weird—but a photon’s a photon, right?—that makes the things you see in it look special or something. Look the most like themselves. And I get the concept. I get the way people say that they always picture their lover by the light of something particular: the coffee shop where they met, the Greek island where they fucked away their honeymoon.

Me, I think he’s never more attractive than when he’s breaking, than when he’s almost no longer himself. His best light is the one he can’t quite even see anymore.

(via frenchsub)

Guard well against making any compromise with such an enemy. Don’t say, “I’ll listen to him, but I won’t do anything he tells me. I’ll give him my ear, but I’ll refuse to give him my heart…” Heart and ear speak to one another. Just as it is impossible to stop a torrent coming down from a mountain peak, so it is also hard to stop love that has entered the ear from sweeping down into the heart. According to Alcmaeon, goats breathe through their ears, although Aristotle denies this, and as for myself I do not know what is the case. But I well know that our heart breathes through the ear. Just as it breathes forth its thought by the tongue, so it breathes in the thoughts of others through the ear.
—St. Francis de Sales, “Advice and Remedies against Evil Friendships,” Introduction to the Devout Life, trans. John Ryan.

Guard well against making any compromise with such an enemy. Don’t say, “I’ll listen to him, but I won’t do anything he tells me. I’ll give him my ear, but I’ll refuse to give him my heart…” Heart and ear speak to one another. Just as it is impossible to stop a torrent coming down from a mountain peak, so it is also hard to stop love that has entered the ear from sweeping down into the heart. According to Alcmaeon, goats breathe through their ears, although Aristotle denies this, and as for myself I do not know what is the case. But I well know that our heart breathes through the ear. Just as it breathes forth its thought by the tongue, so it breathes in the thoughts of others through the ear.

—St. Francis de Sales, “Advice and Remedies against Evil Friendships,” Introduction to the Devout Life, trans. John Ryan.

(via tractanda)

asker

Anonymous asked: "I take advantage of the fact that his lips are already slightly parted in amazement." wow okay just wow wow okay wow that was just wow okay

Oh, am I ever glad you singled that line out, Anonymous, because it was almost very, very different!

Not that—don’t worry—I’m going to make it a regular feature, but that ask of the other day has me thinking a bit about the choices I make when I write, and that line was a very conscious one, so I thought I’d describe it. That paragraph initially ran:

And it will make it seem less amazing when, back in our dorm room, as I whisper and coo and reinforce all those feelings of wonder and amazement, I slide my dick in his mouth.

So, “I slide my dick in his mouth” vs. “I take advantage of the fact that his lips…” etc etc etc. That’s what it was right until about an hour before it was queued to post, in fact, and I hurriedly changed it on my phone at my desk at work—I’d been agonizing over how explicit to make it on my entire bus ride in.

allbecauseoftheboys wrote an interesting piece about explicitness recently. While I agree with most everything there, and while it is difficult to do variations on ‘Tab A, Slot B,’ I really do try—mostly because, well, this is porn, and personally I love descriptions of sex in my porn. (Really. I never get tired of hearing how big a dick is, how full its heft feels in your mouth, etc, etc, etc.)  And when I go to edit my own captions, the major criticism I always level is along the lines of: “Damn it, but will readers realize they’re, you know, gonna fuck? Put more sex in!” So to try for subtle suggestion like that is not my default mode; my instinct is invariably to default to full sexual description, like the initial “I slide my dick in his mouth.”

But instincts, dear Anonymous, are to be mastered (lucky instincts!), and so from time to time I’ll try to show the outline of an act—its causes, its contours, its consequences—rather than spend time describing the act itself. This is something I learned from other caption-writers, actually, many of whom (any of whom, in fact) are better than I at leaving things unsaid; that last line specifically is in fact a shameless, shameless, shameless pastiche of bzork. Many of his captions—although this one sets the bar, to my mind—do that same thing, where it’ll be nonsexual, nonsexual, nonsexual, and then you reach a subtle, easily-missed point where it’s “Wait, does that mean that he—OH MY GOD I THINK HE’S GOING TO PUT HIS DICK IN HIS MOUTH.” 

So thank you, Anonymous—it’s heartening to hear I made the right (or at least an appropriate) choice!