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From: mmtwassel@aol.com (mat twassel)
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Subject: {ASSM} Mat Twassel and Lorrin Murray -- Calendar
Date: Thu, 28 Feb 2002 23:10:05 -0500
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calendar
by Mat Twassel and Lorrin Murray
================================

Feb 16

Flow Gently, Sweet Afton

Late afternoon, shadows of tall trees cross the 
stream.  On the near shore a dead limb stretches 
over the water, its bark worn away, its wood 
weathered smooth.  Straddling this thick branch, 
the boy and the girl face one another.  They have 
just kissed for the first time.  In a moment they 
will kiss again. For now they are breathing the 
moment between. Beneath them, caught in the strong 
current, a small dog, maybe a dachshund, glides 
forward, his nose up, his leash trailing behind. On 
the dirt path which runs alongside the stream, an 
old man hurries.


Feb 17

Elevator Music

He is kissing her hard. She is in the back corner, 
her throat exposed, her legs around his, the near 
one in the air, straining to get higher. The shoe 
has fallen off.  A pear-shaped breast is free of 
her red gown, and the man's hand wants more. In the 
center of the compartment the well-dressed woman 
stares straight ahead.


Feb 18

Just About Bedtime

The flicker and flare of a long kitchen match shows 
her bent forward, creamy shadows between her bare 
breasts. The candle is fat and red and upright as 
an erect cock. 


Feb 19

Nothing to Do but Fish and Fuck

Dawn. Beneath a layer of sun-burnished mist, the 
rowboat glides upon water smooth as ice. Where the 
oar has touched, the water creases and begins to 
spread.  Shafts of wan sunlight, thin as fishing 
line, pierce the gauzy haze, dusting the boy's body 
with gold.  Already the burn-off has begun. It's 
going to be a hot one.  Arms crossed, the girl has 
gripped the bottom of her tee shirt with both hands 
and is about to lift it over her head.


Feb 20

At the Zoo

It is one of those old-fashioned zoos with iron 
bars thick and heavy.  Pressing against the outer 
rail, the two little girls peer solemnly up into 
the dark cage.  The sign on the front of the cage 
says "Mastodon." The next cage, just a few steps 
away, awaits them. "Masturbation."


Feb 21

Freestyle

The concrete bowl curves orange and steep and 
smooth into sheer blue air and the stark sun which 
backlights her crouched body. Lean and tight and 
supple as the wind, the girl soars upward. We 
wouldn't know she is naked except for the fragile 
wisps of pussy hair silhouetted in the space 
between her slender thighs.  


Feb 22

Strawberries

We see her hands, the firm grip of her slender 
fingers, the pad of her thumb upon the top of the 
paring knife as she cores the strawberries.  The 
blade gleams with juice. 


Feb 23

Hotel Bathroom

We can see him thrusting into her from behind. We 
can see her bent forward over the sink staring into 
her eyes in the mirror.  His eyes are closed. He is 
about to come. It won't be long now. She can feel 
the final fattening.  She prepares to brace herself 
for his weight.  "Oh, baby," she'll say.  That 
should put him over.  Then he'll jerk and quiver 
and empty.  When he pulls out he'll barely be able 
to stand.  And some of the juice will drip. She'll 
sit quickly on the toilet and pee. "Come here," 
she'll say, and she'll kiss the tip of his penis, 
then take him into her mouth briefly, enough to 
taste herself.  Slide her tongue around. Maybe give 
him a playful nip. Then they'll shower and dress 
for the opera. But first he's got to come. "Oh, 
baby."


Feb 24

Rest Stop

Tall pines surround a small sunny clearing. Upon 
the plain green picnic table the pair rest 
lengthwise.  They are on their backs, hands at 
their sides, heads on opposite ends, eyes open, 
staring up at the sky.  She is naked.  He is 
wearing but a pair of red nylon running shorts. 
There is an inch or two of clear space between 
them. But if he were to roll over on top of her he 
could fuck her face, or if she were to roll over on 
top of him she could suck his cock, though in 
either case someone would first have to remove 
those running shorts. Or she could mouth him 
through the fabric, making him stiff, and then slip 
the material aside.  Either way, her pussy would be 
eaten. It is so quiet that we'd easily hear his 
tongue sluicing the juicy furrow of her sex.  But 
for now they are resting, and the small wedge of 
winged shadow coasting across her tummy is the only 
hint of motion.  It might be a hawk circling.  It 
might be a private plane coming down from 
Marquette.  Wave.


Feb 25

Honey Buns

He has a cup of coffee in his hands.  She is about 
to bite into a cinnamon bun.  They are seated at an 
outdoor caf , and the breeze is blowing.  A 
honeybee is crawling on the pastry.

    "Oh, oh, oh!" she exclaims as the bee flies 
    off into the wind.  "Oh!" and she lets the 
    cinnamon bun fall from her hands.
    
    "What is it?" 
    
    "A bee.  Didn't you see? I almost ate it.  
    Why didn't you warn me?"
    
    "I didn't know." 
    
    "You did! I can tell by the way 
    you look. And my mouth feels so strange."
    
    "Strange how?"
    
    "Funny. Full and tingly.  Like the first 
    time you came in me there."  She shivers.
    
    "But you liked it.  You like it now."
    
    "You should have warned me."
    
    "Do you want me to buy you another roll?"
    
        
Or maybe the bee flies away without her noticing.


Feb 26

Yoga

This is the half-moon.  Earlier was the pigeon, the 
child, the chair. The dog with one leg raised, and 
then the other.  After will be the camel, the 
squat, the squashed bug.  The bridge, the wheel, 
the plow to shoulder stand.  He likes the half-
moon.  The curve of bottom, night sky brushed by 
perfect light.  Her mop of hair wild in its 
stillness. Her pale skin smooth and serene.   He 
likes the half-moon, but he likes them all.  He 
likes her.  He loves her.  Earlier was the 
triangle, the skydive, the stretch. Later will come 
the cobra, the cat, the kiss. He loves her.


Feb 27

Nothing to Do but Fish and Fuck

Except when it rains like this. Sheets. Cats
and dogs. Buckets.  Then there's nothing to
do but fuck. If it keeps up like this they
probably won't even go out, he told her. Then
he stepped into the shower. She finished 
brushing her teeth and then she made coffee
and made the bed and now she watches him shave. 
She likes the way he tilts his chin as he maneuvers
the razor. 'Want some coffee,' she asks him, and
he grunts yes, and she goes to pour it. In the
little kitchen she pours the coffee and watches
the rain rattle the window. She wonders what
it would be like out on the boat in rain like
this.  It might be fun. No way to fish in this
stuff.  Maybe they'd fuck.  That might be fun.

So far they haven't actually fucked on the boat, 
but she'd like to try it sometime. Lots of kisses 
and hugs, lots of touches, sexual touches, once so 
much of it that she came, a breathless gasp of 
coming which made her feel like she was falling 
overboard, but his finger had her hooked, slippery 
though she was, and afterward, after she had calmed 
down from that startlingly quick plunge into 
ecstasy, she thought, if he keeps this up I'll come 
again, and a moment later she felt the wiggle, it 
caught her cunt just right, and she was lost. Wave 
after wave of coming.

Once she tried to suck him.  She had his shorts 
unbuttoned and his cock out, and the bobbing of the 
boat made his cock  bob, or so it seemed, and when 
she tried to kiss it, when she tried to capture it 
in her mouth, she missed, and he laughed and turned 
away and buttoned up, saying let's catch some fish 
first.  They'll be plenty of time for that later.  
But on the way back in they only nuzzled, sipping 
beer and holding each other while he steered.

It wasn't a really big boat, the Jenny II, but it 
was a big sea, and when they were way out they 
often didn't see anyone--not another boat anywhere.  
That's when she got a little scared.  How good was 
this boat?  How good was this guy?  How well did 
she know him?  Better than he knew her, she hoped. 
Way out, that's when she wanted to fuck the most.

'Who was Jenny?' Katherine had asked him on the 
drive down from Minnesota.  She knew his wife's 
name had been Jean and that Jean had died about a 
year ago, a few months before Katherine abandoned 
UM and her graduate degree for tiny Elbow and a 
waitress job at Pete's where he came every night 
for a sandwich and sometimes a single beer.  It was 
in Alabama and there was a bridge out sign, and 
he'd glanced in the mirror and laughed.  'Jenny I 
or Jenny II?' he'd said.  'Either.' 'Neither,' 
he'd said.  'Just the name on the boat when I got 
it.' 'Can't you change it?'  'I kind of like the 
mystery.' 'Okay, who do you think this Jenny was?'  
He'd chuckled at that and confessed that he'd 
thought about it sometimes.  'But now that I'm here 
you don't have to think about it, right?' she'd 
said, poking him in the ribs as he drove the 
detour.  'Right.'  He was smiling, and she'd 
wondered whether he knew she knew more about these 
Jennys than she was letting on.

She liked sucking him.  Usually it happened in the 
shower at the condo after they'd gotten in and he'd 
taken care of the fish.  The shower was small, but 
there was enough room for the two of them, and the 
water stayed hot.  She'd put a towel on the tiles 
and after any number of kisses she'd slip down.  
He'd always be hard.  For guy in his 50's he was in 
good shape, lean and hard, and she'd hold his 
buttocks as she mouthed his cock, and his buns 
would be firm and tight in her hands, just like his 
cock was firm and tight in her mouth.  It was cozy, 
the warm water streaming all around like some 
tropical waterfall.  Sometimes he'd rest his hands 
at the sides of her face, and she could feel the 
care in them, though she knew it was also a signal 
that he was eager to come, or on the verge of it 
but wanting it to last.  Mixed feelings.   
Sometimes she'd tease him then, let him go and look 
up through the streaming water and give him a 
little smile. A mischievous smile.  A lewd smile 
but with a little girl-next-door at the edges.  A 
hint of that "you want to come in my mouth, don't 
you, mister?"  And then she'd take him back in, as 
slow and deep as possible, still looking up at him, 
and those were just about the sweetest sucks, when 
she could tell how thankful he was, when she could 
feel him building against the roof of her mouth, 
the back of her throat.  She probably didn't need 
to do it, but usually she'd carefully work her 
finger into his asshole anyway. It was always 
soapy-slippery back there, and she could ease 
through the tightness without too much trouble. Ah, 
the feel of the throb, the throb back there and the 
throb in his cock.  It never took long after that.

Sometimes she'd let him free while he was spurting.  
She'd look up, but his eyes would be closed, the 
water would be rattling against his face, and she'd 
feel like rain. She'd clasp him to her, making sure 
to catch his cock before the last spurt.  Oh, the 
sweetness of his release.

Then they'd clean up and towel off and dress and 
he'd cook the fish while she made the rice and the 
salad and set the table. After eating and dishes, 
they stroll along the docks and he'd tell her about 
the boats and she'd make up stories about who was 
on them and what kind of dogs and kids they'd left 
back home and where that was.  Then back to the 
condo for bed. While he was fucking her she'd think 
about everything, even the truck tire which had 
killed his wife and daughter, and she'd smile at 
him and squeeze her cunt and say, "Mm, you're so 
good.  You fuck so good."  It was true.  So long 
and slow and sweet he'd do it, fucking her, until 
she couldn't think anymore, she could only moan and 
cry and come. "Oh, sweet," she tried to say, as the 
orgasm threatened to take hold of her body. 
"Swee..." And the orgasm would tug beneath her 
clit, pulling her hard, pulling her under and up 
and inside out. "Oh, swee," she'd say, struggling, 
trying to stay up.   She'd thrash and buck and 
writhe, but she couldn't escape.  The orgasm was 
his weight.  The orgasm was him, working his 
weight, pushing her into it, plunging and 
plundering until her cunt would go crazy. "Fuh," 
she'd say, the "ck" not coming out. "Fuh..." and 
she'd reach for it, she'd reach with her cunt, with 
her whole body, and it wasn't there, and then it 
was. Oh, sweet, sweet fuck.  Still, she'd like to 
do it on the boat sometime. Rain or shine.


Feb 28

Coral

"It's my turn!"

"It is not.  I still haven't done mine yet."

"You kids quit fussing.  That camera is not a toy. 
And the balcony is not a place to play."

"She had her turn.  Those birds."

"I did not.  I aimed at them but I didn't take 
them. They were too far."

"I heard it click."

"Did not."

"Well, hurry up then."

"Okay, okay.  There.  Are you happy?"

"What did you get?"

"I don't know."

    Through the patio window of the condo next 
    door, the photograph will show the woman in 
    a white top and navy sweatpants sitting back 
    on the couch reading a paperback book. 
    Gloria.  Her bare feet are up on the glass- 
    topped coffee table, crossed at the ankles. 
    Her toenails have been painted.  Coral. The 
    man next to her has his head on her shoulder 
    and his hand trapped tight between her legs.  
    Probably his fingertips can feel how hard 
    her clitoris is, but that, of course, 
    doesn't show up on the digital photograph 
    any more than does the hue of the woman's 
    swollen clit. Coral.
    
    
================================
calendar
by Mat Twassel and Lorrin Murray



Mat and Lorrin would be happy to hear your comments.

Write Mat at mmtwassel@aol.com

Write Lorrin at LorrinMurray@aol.com

Earlier calendars at:

http://members.aol.com/mmtwassel/index.html

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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