Queer, punk erotica. Hot as the apocalypse. Deerbone Erotic combines Maya Deerbone’s erotic journals with stories more fantastic still.
- Gretel (excerpted below)
- A Cold Night In New Barcelona (first published on steamypunk.net)
Excerpt from Gretel:
Sometimes it’s really simple, straight from the gut or the groin or whatever it is I think with that thinks faster than my brain. Like when you know it’s time to leave town or when it’s time to break up or when it’s time to fall in love. Sometimes you just see someone and think, I want to taste their cum in my mouth and I’m pretty sure they want that too.
Other times it’s tricky.
It wasn’t tricky when I met Gretel.
It was a fever-hot summer night, too hot for being only midsummer. It was the kind of night where you don’t want to move from the old couch on the screened-in porch. Inside the house, there was no breeze; outside, there were bugs. So the six of us sprawled across the corduroy, drinking sweet tea or cheap beer as we favored. It was too hot for clothes but we wore some of them anyway and between the lot of us, there might have been three full sets of tanktops and short-shorts. Myself, I just had a black bra and underwear, the cotton of both damp with sweat.
There were fireflies in the meadow we called a yard, and some of the bugs were blinking in and out at the distant tree line. It was a simple and wonderful and animal night to be alive and amongst such company. I leaned against Sam, with her heavy breasts and perfect lips, and her partner Jesska was lying across the couch with his head quite familiarly close to my crotch. It had been weeks since I’d be invited into their bed, and there was no promise I would be again, but the pleasures of touch and temptation were almost enough for me just then. Almost.
Then headlights cut through the air, beams lighting the fog like they would in a movie, and tires tossed gravel along the drive. Six punks rolled out of the two-door sedan—punks are like clowns that way—and they started towards the house.
They triggered the motion light, and that’s how I saw her for the first time: surprised to be illuminated. I don’t have a type—I’m lucky that way—but she was short and curvy and the flipped up brim of her hat said “cunt” in permanent marker and if I was going to have a type, it would be her. I swear she saw me looking and put on a swagger, but with the porch light directed at her and not me, I can’t justify that as true. Maybe it was just that I was staring at her hips.