“Shhhh,” I say as I let the needle penetrate his skin. I distract him by tracing the outline of his mouth with my index finger. His lips are heart shaped; his top fuller than the bottom. He kisses the pad of my index finger and then slips it into his mouth. I feel tongue and teeth as he sucks on me a little.
“Just one more,” I say as I lift myself off his torso, carefully, so I don’t disturb the two needles I’ve inserted, one in his shoulder and one nestled next to his fibula.
“My arms feel all tingly,” he murmurs. I smile. His cock is hard and flat against his stomach. It drools a puddle that fills up his shallow navel.
“You’re cute,” I say, letting my kimono slip open a little bit more so that he gets a flash of dark areola. I lick his jaw line.
James is 23. Five years younger than me. I met him in the park while jogging three weeks ago. “I’m an acupuncturist,” I told him, my nipples clearly poking through my sports bra. He smiled back blankly.
Tonight, plied by a few glasses of Garnacha, he let me slip off his knee length khakis and baby blue polo shirt, revealing the tattoos that covered most of his torso. I was so shocked, as he had seemed so unassuming, so generic.
“I want there to be a part of myself that I only give to pretty girls,” he said.
His tattoos snake from his left pectoral to his crotch and wrap around his right thigh. Koi fish and scenes from Japanese mythology. Now, I use them as my road map, gently licking down his body until I reach his navel. I lift his cock up to expose the skin underneath.
Two inches below the navel is the “stone gate,” a point responsible for conception and sexual health. His “gate” is guarded by a tattoo of a dragon with steam spiraling out of its nose. I swab the patch of skin with my tongue.
“I don’t think I can move my limbs,” James says.
I spear the dragon through his left eye.
James groans as his hips arch and reach for the ceiling while his arms and legs remain passive on the bed. His body forms a triangle.
“The needle I just inserted makes you more sensitive,” I say circling my index finger on his left nipple. I watch him wince with pleasure. As I caress him, his cock pulses in my right hand.
“Fuck,” he gasps. He’s preverbal the way he sputters.
“I’ll make you a deal,” I say, straddling him, letting the lips of my pussy lightly brush against the head of his cock, “If you can last for five minutes while I ride you, I’ll take the needles out and you can fuck me any way you please.” I flick the needle in his “stone gate” and he shudders, “But if you can’t,” I cock my head to the side and let out a Cheshire smile, “well, I’ve got more needles.” His eyes widen. Sweat runs from his forehead into his hair, pasting it down. James is uncertain. Has he wandered into new pleasures or something less enjoyable?
He searches my face for answers; the flecks of yellow in my brown irises, my flat nose, the wide lips that are slightly parted. But before he can decide anything, I sit down. He almost chokes with pleasure, I bite the corner of my mouth and his balls pull tight against his body.
Stephen Moles is a writer based in Harlem and holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Columbia University. His critical nonfiction has been featured on McSweeny's Internet Tendency and in Line Zero Magazine. He thanks you for taking the time to read his work. Photgraphy by Kristie Muller.