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Here’s my first story for Literotica, and the first piece of fiction I’ve written in years. It’s a first-person, semi-autobiographical vignette, and I’ve got a few more of these planned, along with some longer pieces that are percolating.

This is a story about queer sex between two penis owners and one vagina owner, and everyone gets involved in the action. If that’s not your bag, please skip this one. I know the category isn’t perfect, but I didn’t want to put it somewhere where the heteros might get upsetero.

Huge thanks to my beta readers, who are all talented writers themselves — GoldenCompulsion, Kumquatqueen, and SiteNonSite. You should definitely go read their work if you haven’t already.

Thanks also to my partner A for feedback. She’s an amazing erotica writer and editor, but she’s not on Lit.

All errors are my own

CW for drug and alcohol use, and a very brief allusion to self-harm.

All characters are 18+.


He was so fucking pretty.

There were tattered old couches in the yard, which usually lived in the basement, except for when we needed to clear the space for a show. He sat across from me, bathed in clashing light from either side — warm gold coming through the windows of the house, starker and whiter coming from the streetlight in the alley.

The duality suited him. Sensual on one side, austere on the other. Half of his face was obscured by what was once a purple mohawk. The dye had faded, and the sides were growing out into dishwater blond scruff.

His jawline was defined without being severe. His cheeks were smooth and pale. I wondered how often he needed to shave. Probably not very. High cheekbones, hazel eyes outlined in thick black eyeliner. Small mouth, slightly plump pink lips. His aquiline nose was just a little too long and too pronounced for his face. His neck was long as well. I liked watching it move when he swallowed some of his Mad Dog 20/20, or took a drag from a cigarette.

He was lithe. Or maybe he was skinny, with just enough muscle definition and understated grace in his long limbs to make it seem like his natural state and not because he’d probably been eating maybe one meal a day most days for the past three weeks on tour.

His torn up jeans did seem a little loose, as did his Discharge t-shirt, although that tends to happen when you cut out the sleeves and neck. Black fishnet sleeves came out from under the faded band shirt. His chipped purple nail polish probably matched his hair once upon a time.

His smoldering androgyne presence was everything that I wasn’t. Everything that I sometimes wished I could be. I was too masculine. The four day growth on my face was too full, too rough. My chest was too hairy. My belly too soft. Legs too thick. Voice too low, laugh too deep. I could never pull off eyeliner, or a fishnet bodysuit, or rock a dress or a skirt like the skinny, graceful, striking boys with a goth streak. To this day I’m still not sure how much of my attraction was wired the way it was because that’s what I liked, or because that’s what I envied.


Seth and the rest of his band had pulled up right as I was getting home from work, in an Econoline that looked like it should have been off the road years ago. It had rust spots, was missing three hubcaps, and the exhaust looked and smelled worrisome. The fact that they’d already made it from Pennsylvania to LA and then halfway back was a miracle.

I could lie and say that I played it cool. Maybe I did, more than I thought at least. But I wanted Seth from the minute I saw him. I was almost positive he was queer when we were hauling their gear into the basement — his bass amp had Outpunk and Pansy Divsion stickers alongside a bunch of others. Throughout the afternoon, I did everything I did to stay near to him. Carrying their equipment together, walking with him down to the supermarket to pick up cigarettes, booze and supplies for a communal pot of pasta (cheap, plentiful, vegan), setting up our cheap little vocal PA while the band set themselves up, dragging the couches outside. I was smitten, watching him move, how he flipped his hair out of his face, the pouty little frown he gave whenever he had to think about something. There were a few passing touches as well, as we were moving around in the kitchen and setting up for the gig. There probably didn’t need to be, but he didn’t shy away, and returned a few himself. Eventually, other people started showing up — the other bands, some of my roommates, and then people who were there for the show. I sat by the basement door collecting everyone’s $5 “donations” and stamping people’s wrists, and lost track of him for the next couple of hours. Whenever he came outside for a smoke, though, I noticed that he’d stand near me and chat some. I tried to tell myself that it was just because I was the first person he’d met after arriving at William Street Manor, which was what everyone called our place.

It wasn’t a manor.

Every shitty, medium-sized kaçak iddaa Midwestern city has at least one punk house. Other places do too, but other places also have bigger scenes, more options, places to play. Punk houses aren’t in great neighborhoods, because cheap, and because respectable neighbors wouldn’t take well to five band bills in the basement with forty or fifty people randomly descending on the street a few times a month, and smaller numbers coming and going pretty much all the time. Part crash pad, part community center, party house, rehearsal space, HQ for six fanzines, four bands, and two record labels. And a complete and utter shitbox. But it was home.

I’d been living there for eight months after dropping out of college halfway through my second year. Numbers tended to be a bit fluid but I think there were about ten of us living there at the time — five in the three upstairs bedrooms, three in what used to be a dining room, and me and Lisa in corners of the basement, walled off into “rooms” behind some makeshift curtains which were mostly just sheets and blankets tied to bars hanging from the ceiling. There were always a few more, though, crashing on couches, the floor, sharing beds. Seth and the rest of his band were staying after the show before heading to their next gig in Louisville the following night.

Even in this neighborhood, we didn’t want to be too obnoxious. The bands all finished by eleven, and by one the party was starting to wind down. Gradually, people started migrating inside. Seth wasn’t quiet, exactly, but he didn’t talk just for the sake of getting his voice into every conversation.

His calm understatement was in vivid contrast to how he was when he was playing, wrenching his bass through the air, throwing his long-limbed frame around as much as he could within the confines of our narrow basement, attacking the microphone and screaming from his core like he was trying to breathe a maelstrom into existence through sheer force of will.

The night had cooled just a bit, but the air was still heavy and thick, dripping with August humidity even after midnight. I stayed outside because I knew it would still be hotter inside, even with the box fans going hard in the windows. Or that’s what I told myself. Seth was still outside. I tried to stay focused on the conversation and put aside questions about my own motives for not moving.


We were the only ones left when the thunder cracked hard then rumbled.

Moving as quickly and with as much coordination as possible given the booze, we managed to get two couches back inside before the sky opened up when we were halfway down the short stairs with the last one. And then I darted back out for our half empty bottles of MD. Waste not, want not. Walking back towards my little alcove, I pulled the curtain aside then grabbed my towel off a hook on the wall. I let Seth use it first, changing out of my rain soaked t-shirt and into an old thrift store button down while he dried his hair. He’d been in front and almost inside for the last couch, so his clothes were mostly fine. He watched me as I changed. He wasn’t even subtle.

Instead of heading back upstairs where we could hear a few voices, we sat down on my battered old futon. There wasn’t any discussion, it just happened. I grabbed my pipe from the milk crate I was using as a nightstand and tilted my head. He gave an affirmative nod, so I loaded us a bowl while he went through the stacks of CDs on my shelves. He put on the first Godspeed You! Black Emperor album, which had come out the year before.

Great choice. I said so.

We passed the bowl and talked. The weed wasn’t great but it was cheap and there was plenty. One bowl turned into two. He told me about the other bands he was in, I told him about the one I had just left and the one I wanted to start. He was a few years older than me. He’d finished at art school in ’96, and had some ideas for multimedia projects, but was focusing on music for the time being. I told him about the shitty little state school in the middle of nowhere, how I couldn’t take it anymore, not that it mattered, because what the fuck would I do with a philosophy degree anyway? I didn’t want to end up an academic, living in some college town like the one I’d escaped, spending years writing shit that maybe a handful of other people would ever read. I didn’t know what I was going to do. Maybe move to Chicago and see if I could find people to get the band going there. I had friends I could crash with, at least short term.

He talked about the tour, and how things may be getting better, but it was still scary as fuck in a lot of places for queer people. There had been a few run ins with meathead hardcore bros, and one gig where some fucking skinheads had shown up, in LA of all places, specifically to start shit because the whole bill was queer bands. Thankfully, a bunch of the local Dykes on Bikes chapter had shown up for one of the bands, and there were a couple of drag queens in the crowd kaçak bahis who owned a boxing gym. The skins were told forcefully to get the fuck out, and seeing the odds, they did, but people were encouraged to leave in groups just in case they’d still been hanging around.

He spotted Rimbaud on my bookshelf and we talked about books, artists, outsiders, people whose work landed in the world like a bomb. Even through the smoky haze, I could see how his bloodshot eyes lit up as we bounced back and forth about art, literature, music, personal expression as inherently political. I think he saw the same in mine. Hoped so, at least.


“Goddammit. I left my cigarettes out there,” he said suddenly, patting the pockets of his jeans. I had as well, but I had a fresh pack sitting on top of the bookshelves. As I stood up to grab it, the CD finished. I pulled it out, looked over the messy stacks, and fished out Horses by Patti Smith. He made an approving sound as the first piano chords of “Gloria” rang out through the ancient speakers I’d found at a garage sale.

I opened the pack, pulled out two, handed him one. He grabbed the lighter from where it was sitting between us next to the pipe, and leaned over to light mine first. I brought my hands up around the flame out of habit, even though we weren’t outside. We touched for a moment, and his eyes caught mine.

As he moved the lighter to his own cigarette, I grabbed the ashtray from my milk crate, laid it between us, and leaned back, lying down on the futon with my legs over the edge. I closed my eyes and smoked slowly, letting the buzz from the booze and the pot and the music wash over me. I felt the lumpy mattress shift as he laid back as well. We listened to Patti whip the band into a frenzy, only moving to flick our ashes.

When the song finished I opened my eyes and looked over at him. He was staring into space, a contented half-smile on his lips, chest rising and falling languidly. In that moment, I wished I could draw him, or take a photo. He noticed me looking and turned his face towards me. “What?”

I paused. Stalled, really, using the last drag on my cigarette as an excuse. Stubbing it out, I looked over again and swallowed.

“You’re so fucking pretty.”

It came out halfway between a croak and a whisper.

A noise came from the back of his throat. He turned towards me on his side, a thoughtful look his only response. I mirrored him. He still didn’t speak, but he picked up the pack of smokes, ashtray, lighter, and pipe, and moved them to the floor.

When he laid back down, he may have been just a bit closer. His breath wasn’t right on my lips, but I could feel it as it moved past me.

His hair had fallen across his face, bleached stripes coming through where the purple had faded. Without even thinking about it or making a conscious choice, my hand came up from my side and I tucked it back, lingering to brush my fingers across the soft, fuzzy growth on the sides. I blinked my eyes shut for a moment and took in a deep breath. His fingers came up and worked their way over the buttons on my shirt, not with immediate intent, just pondering, considering. I could feel his callouses scratching over the fabric, and the fabric brushing against the hair on my chest.

“Is this ok?” It was, again, barely above a whisper. I wasn’t even sure if he could hear me over the music. But he nodded and gave another half smile. His tongue darted out over his lips. My fingers and palm moved to the back of his head, playing through the contrasts of long and short hair. We both leaned forward.

My lips brushed over his, and I couldn’t help myself. Before moving fully into the kiss, I quickly and gently sucked at his lower lip. How long had I been wanting to do that? All night? Just now? My brain was foggy, and it wasn’t just from the booze and weed.

He tasted like fruit juice, alcohol, pot, cigarettes. I could smell the dried sweat on his skin, the residue of playing a hard and fast set on a hot night in a concrete and cinderblock basement. His skin was going to taste salty, musky. I groaned a bit against his mouth at the thought. His fingers tightened around the front of my shirt in response, and I squeezed a bit at the back of his neck. Our knees brushed together and he took one of mine between his–

“Hey, I’m back! Work was fucking bullshit. Do you want a– OH FUCK! I’m so sorry, I didn’t know–“

We both sat up. Lisa was there with a bottle of Fireball clutched in one hand, the other on the blanket/curtain she’d just pulled aside.

“I heard the music, thought you were still up…”

“It’s cool.” I didn’t know if it was or not, but I needed to say something. “Lisa, this is Seth, from the band that played tonight, the one from Philly.”

“Oh, hey. Sorry I missed it.”

They both looked briefly to each other, then to me. Patti and Lenny were singing “Free Money” through the scratchy speakers. I opened my mouth, not knowing what I was going to say, but Lisa spoke illegal bahis first.”

“I can– I can go, sorry again. Or if you want a drink…” She tilted the bottle.

Seth shrugged. I shrugged.

“Yeah, sure.”


We scooted across to make room on the futon. There was nowhere else to sit in the room. Lisa leaned against my pillow along what would have been the head, if it was an actual bed. Seth and I sat with our backs against the wall down the long side. Lisa grabbed my cigarettes and the ashtray without asking, then passed them along. We sat, smoked, and took swigs straight from the bottle.

Seth was, surprisingly, the first to speak, given how he’d avoided initiating conversations until we were alone and he became more comfortable.

“So, um, are you two…”

Lisa and I looked at each other and laughed. Seth tilted his head. That didn’t answer his question. Both Lisa and I went to speak, then stopped for the other, then started again at the same time, laughing again. I bowed out and let her go.”

“No. Not really. We mess around sometimes. But I don’t really date men, like, romantically. Girlfriends only, for a few years. Neither of us has been seeing anyone, though, so…” She trailed off, taking another sip from the bottle, pinching her eyes shut at the burn of the awful cinnamon whiskey.

“I get it.” His face didn’t give any indication as to whether he actually got it, or was just saying so to ease the tension. “I just didn’t want to get between anything.”

“Oh fuck no, not at all” Lisa replied immediately. “Actually…” She trailed off again. We both looked at her, waiting.

“What?” I asked as she chewed on her bottom lip, something on her mind, not sure if she should continue.

“Nothing. Just… that was kinda hot, seeing you both when I came in. Nevermind.”

Given some of what we got up to, her admission shouldn’t have surprised me. I guess the fact that she made it at all, coupled with the embarrassed and vulnerable look on her face, was what threw me. Lisa was 26, brash, took no shit from anyone, could swear like a sailor in both English and Spanish with equal proficiency. She may have been on the short side, but she was built like the proverbial brick shithouse. Her giant brown eyes could tear through you, even when they were half obscured by her short, asymmetrical black hair falling in her face, either accidentally or by design. That night she was wearing a camo tank top under a sleeveless, patched denim jacket, a black leather skirt that clung to her formidable ass and ended halfway up her thighs, and battered old combat boots that she’d kicked off before sitting down with us. This was pretty standard for her, smashing together butch and femme looks however she wanted to, which generally meant a devastating, intimidating combination.

Fucking her often felt like being a mouse with its tail pinned underneath a cat’s paw as the other one batted me about playfully. Getting devoured was a matter of when, not if. She was the last person I submitted to before I found that my proclivities ran in the opposite direction. That said, I learned a hell of a lot from her about being a top. So yeah, I was stunned to see her tongue-tied and unsure.


“I mean yeah. Really hot. Seth is so pale and gorgeous, you’re so dark and scruffy, seeing you pressed against each other… it was like walking in on a gay porno, except with no dudes who look like Ken dolls.”

I lost it, collapsing into laughter, followed quickly by Seth, then Lisa. We passed the bottle around again. Lit fresh cigarettes. Seth and I were sitting shoulder-to-shoulder. Every time one of us moved I felt a jolt through my arm, all the way down to my cock. In spite of everything I was still amped up. I wanted to look over and see if I could tell where Seth was at, but it would have been way too obvious.

Lisa peeled off the tattered denim vest. Her dark bra straps poked out from beneath her tank. Horses had just finished. Everyone upstairs must have gone to bed, because there weren’t any murmurs coming down through the ceiling. Even the rain had stopped. She dropped her voice a bit in the still quiet.

“You could keep going if you want to.”


Neither of us spoke at first. Lisa leaned forward on her knees, looking at us like a kid who had asked to go to Disneyworld and not gotten an immediate no, afraid to speak further lest she say the wrong thing.

“Keep going? Kissing?” He looked unsure.

“Well, yeah, but I’m guessing there was going to be more than that if I hadn’t walked in?”

He looked over at me, swallowed, started blushing again. “I mean, probably.” It sounded meek, but hopeful.

“So you really want to watch us?” I was asking for his benefit. I knew the answer. This is exactly the kind of situation that Lisa would get off on. I already saw lust darkening her eyes.

“Yeah, absolutely. Whatever you’re comfortable with, but yeah.” Her eyes were darting back and forth between us again.

“I… I’m up for it if you are.” I finally found the courage to stake out a position. “But it’s totally cool if you don’t want to. But I want you. I’ve wanted you all fucking day since you got here”

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