Tag Archives: Christmas Erotica meme

Fiction: Fairy Tale of New York

Washington Square Park covered in fairy tale snow

Washington Square by David Carrales

New York is rarely quiet. The city’s a living thing, with subcutaneous systems and concrete skin. But New York in winter is different. In January, the city drifts in and out of sleep in the hours before dawn, when snow and ice muffle its pulse.

She is new to the city. It’s her first winter here. Fresh out of high school, she’s a fragile thing with hollow eyes and delicate wrists. Her father calls her a ghost. She hates it when he does.

Her fragility scares and angers her. She bristles into mirrors that reveal her sensitive bones. They are the sort of bones that get broken by wind and circumstance. She doesn’t want to get broken. She’s afraid she already is.

She leaves her dorm just before dawn – she has rehearsal before class. She pads through the lobby of the old brownstone that the University gutted and made a dorm. It’s charming from the outside, but it looks like an asylum above the ground floor. She breathes better whenever she leaves, even on mornings when the wind singes her face as it whips down 5th.

She usually goes around the park, rather than cut through Washington Square, but it’s 6am and the snow is fresh and no one is around. Besides, the smell of snow is comforting – it reminds her of mountains and home. The mountains are clean and simple. For all that she likes the city, nothing is simple here. Nothing, really, is clean….

She walks carefully down the icy street, watching her feet in their shearling boots and dreaming restless dreams. She thinks about boys she wants to fuck, and girls she wants to kiss. She has never had sex and she has never kissed a girl. She’s not the girl who gets kissed. She’s best friends with that girl.

She reaches the arch that frames Washington Square and looks up as she passes through. The city sounds hush and stop. Everything is still. Even her breath hangs, suspended, perfect and round, like a drawing of a cloud. The world within the arch is pure and white, relieved by slashes of black wrought iron and even blacker trees.

She takes a step back, afraid to ruin the snow. She’s a girl in the beast’s garden, but there is no father and no rose.


She jumps at the sound of her name. The syllables break the spell. She turns around, annoyed, until she sees who it is.

“Lana, it’s freezing! Why are you out?”

“You forgot this when you left. You can’t rehearse without a script.”

Her roommate hands her a binder. She looks like a Russian princess with her long blond hair and snow leopard eyes. Normally, they’re lined, gothic and black, but it’s early morning and her face is as clean and untouched as the snow. For a moment, Sasha imagines an old-fashioned sled taking them both away.

“Thanks, Lana,” she says, feeling awkward and cold. She’s stood in one place for too long.

“No worries, Sash. I was up anyway.”

Neither girl moves.

“I should… I should get going. I shouldn’t be late.”

Sasha turns away. She’s blushing and she doesn’t know why. She lives with Lana. There are no secrets in their room. But something in Lana’s measured gaze makes her feel like something’s changed.

“Mind if I walk with you?”

“You’re barely wearing a coat! Look – your hands are blue!”

Sasha reaches for Lana’s naked hand, but Lana pivots and links their arms.

“So snuggle and keep me warm.”

Sasha doesn’t argue. Lana is like that. She makes decisions on impulse and rarely changes her mind, but disaster never touches her. Disaster wouldn’t dare.

Together, Lana and Sasha step onto the snow, creating deep deliberate prints and moving like Siamese twins. Suddenly, Lana shivers.

“Maybe I should have worn a better coat.”

“And gloves,” Sasha says, stopping beside a bench. “Come here….”

She takes Lana’s hand in hers, intending to give her her gloves. But the park is a frozen garden again, and they are princesses in snow…. Following an impulse so old she can’t stop, Sasha slips Lana’s fingertips into her mouth, holding the other girl’s ice cold skin against the liquid heat of her tongue.

Her heart hammers but she can’t stop, and Lana doesn’t pull away. Their breath combines like a fractal bloom, warming the space between them. Sasha begins to suck, running her tongue over Lana’s skin in tiny, liquid strokes. Lana sighs.

“Don’t stop.”

Sasha freezes. The impulse that got them there leaves her and she feels too shy to move. Lana gives her a measured look. She looks ancient and wise, like the keeper of secrets Sasha wants to know. There’s so much she wants to know…

Lana strokes her cheek. Then her mouth moves over Sasha’s, like every boy she’s ever kissed. But Lana’s lips are soft and her skin is even softer, softer than a boy’s, and she cups Sasha’s neck like a dream – the dream of a restless girl who’s been brought up to look for a prince.

Their tongues touch and Sasha imagines Lana’s mouth between her legs. Sasha clenches her thighs. She’s strong. Not fragile. She’s feeling so much that she’s melting the trampled path.

They move closer, ignoring the cold as they pull at zippers and fumble with scarves. The bench feels like a bed. They’ve left the mundane world and bloom, surrounded by black and white.

Crunches in the snow.

Sasha looks up. A man goes by with a funny, little dog. He smiles and nods and keeps walking, making careful, deliberate prints. Sasha watches him go.

“When do you have to be at rehearsal, Sash?”

Lana bites her lip. It’s plump and pink and freshly kissed, and Sasha wants to keep it that way.

“I’m skipping rehearsal today.”

It may be several days after Christmas, but Exhibit A has been kind enough to leave all the prompts from his Awesome Christmas Erotica meme open until midnight on December 31st.

This story has very little to do with The Pogues EXCELLENT song, “Fairy tale of New York” (which ranks near the top on my favorites list). While the song is a glorious, semi-drunken duet that *always* makes me smile, this story is rooted in something that actually happened to me – a frigid walk through Washington Square Park one dawn in early January. The sight of Washington Square, quiet and covered in untouched snow, has stayed with me for many years. It seemed the perfect setting for this. 

To read more seasonal erotica and nonfiction, head on over to Exhibit A’s site. Click here to catch the prompts and participate (there’s still time!). And click here to see who else has made merry this December.

In the Bleak Midwinter

A wrought iron gate set against a frozen, snowy landscape

I’ve been thinking about “In the Bleak Midwinter” since Exhibit A named it as a prompt a few days ago. This carol has always resonated with me, particularly the first paragraph. Predictably, the resonance of this song made me want to write about it. But unlike other times when I have almost relished the chance to probe my own discomforts, I’ve balked every time I sat down.

I began three different stories but stopped them all. I started two different essays, but stopped those as well. At first, I didn’t know why. This prompt is clearly sparking a lot, but I’ve stopped myself every time I’ve started something. And there’s a reason for that. I usually write to understand. I rarely write something if I already know how it ends, or understand the mechanisms behind the feeling or thought. In this case, I do understand why this piece resonates with me, and the reason for it feels intensely personal in ways that are hard to communicate.

A while ago, I posted the image above. This snowy gate resonates, for me, in the same way Christina Rossetti’s lyrics do. To me, it is a perfect visual metaphor – not of frigidity, as someone reasonably suggested, but of me.

Just to be clear, I’m definitely not frigid. I take great joy in my sexuality and in sharing it with my partners. I’m also not emotionally frigid. While I am, admittedly, guarded and very cautious, I love deeply and without reservation. Once I love you, I love you and I always will. But there is a part of me, very deep in the landscape of my upbringing and experience, that feels like this:

In the bleak mid-winter

Frosty wind made moan,

Earth stood hard as iron,

Water like a stone;

Snow had fallen, snow on snow,

Snow on snow,

In the bleak mid-winter

Long ago.

This isn’t a mournful thing to me. It’s actually quite beautiful and quiet and serene. Going back to the image, it’s as if there is a gate, but the gate can be gotten around. The landscape is cold, but it’s varied and thriving and full beneath the snow. But it is silent. And contemplative. And the gate is there for a reason. This isn’t meant to sound self-indulgent, and I’m certainly not glamorizing the fact that, very deep inside me, tender, fragile things are frozen, resting beneath a protective layer of snow.

But for all that, I am not cold. I am not a cold person. I struggle with passions and feelings that sometimes feel too heated to be entirely healthy. The curious thing, to me anyway, is that this landscape co-exists with that heat. It’s my foundation, in a way.

I have never known it not to be midwinter, and for midwinter not to be just a part of who I am. Unlike the song though, it isn’t a bleak thing. It’s the quiet that I sometimes need and the solitude I sometimes crave. At this point, the idea of the season changing and thawing the frosty wind and the hard iron earth is slightly terrifying. I have no idea if this gate and the snowy landscape will always remain. I don’t know if part of me will always rest in a midwinter from long ago.

What I do know is that I love and feel in spite of the coldness and, in some ways, because of it. I feel every day, how easy it would be to detach and stay in that quiet, safe, frozen place, and every day I choose to engage and love and laugh and find joy in everything I possibly can, and I’m grateful for anything and everyone who gives me an opportunity to do so. Without that landscape inside of me, I wouldn’t know how very lucky and alive I am.

My response to this carol is super rough and underdeveloped. It’s also not erotic, hot or even the tiniest bit sexy. There’s a great deal more I would like to write, but I’m afraid that, if I started working on it, I’d edit myself out of what I’ve just said. So I’m leaving it alone, which is almost comically hard for a compulsive editor like me. You should see me squirming on the hook 🙂

But, since you can’t, I’m going to suggest you check out the other entries in Exhibit A’s Awesome Christmas Erotica Meme. (How’s that for a segue way?!).  A new song title goes up every day between now and Christmas so click here to catch the prompts and participate (you should!). And click here to see who else is making merry this December.

Flash Fiction: The Holly & The Ivy

A portrait of a young Tudor era woman

Portrait of a Young Woman thought to be Catherine Howard, Met Museum, NYC








It will be different with me, she thinks as he presses her down to her knees. Silk rustles as she bends like a young rose on a fragile stem. He smiles, and she takes heart. He is gentle with her now, this great man, larger than life, with hands like paws and a mind like jagged trap. He will be different with me.

Green groweth the holly,
So doth the ivy.
Though winter blasts blow never so high,
Green groweth the holly.

He removes her wedding gown and she bows before him. He is already undressed. His vast, bear-like body, once wrapped in velvet and fur, fills her vision like the sun. She shivers. His fingers, so gentle with the outer casing of her gown, bite into her skin. He wants her, she knows. He has told her as much. He has written and told her so.

As the holly groweth green
And never changeth hue,
So I am, ever hath been,
Unto my lady true.

He is impatient and entitled as he grips her head. She opens her mouth and complies. She is no prudish Catholic, but neither is she a whore. Her cousin was a whore, an incestuous whore. She betrayed him and lost her head, spilled her blood all over the block, red as the holly he wrote about. Red blood on a dark green dress.

As the holly groweth green
With ivy all alone
When flowers cannot be seen
And greenwood leaves be gone,

There will be no blood with me, she thinks. I will keep his love. I will keep it evergreen. He grips her head harder, guiding her mouth as she sucks his cock with a skill that she learned as a girl. That skill would not betray her. That skill, and the gift of a pliant throat and an equally pliant nature, will keep me queen, she thinks.

Now unto my lady
Promise to her I make,
From all other only
To her I me betake.

Her eyes stream as his cock batters the back of her throat. She feels the bulk of his body tense. He’s getting close. She wills herself slack and feels the drool dripping down her chin onto her pretty white breasts. When he comes, he comes like an animal, grunting and thrusting into her mouth as if she were a thing. I will be his cherished thing, she thinks, gagging on his spend.

Adieu, mine own lady,
Adieu, my special
Who hath my heart truly
Be sure, and ever shall.

He tastes overly sweet, and beneath that a bitterness that makes her gag again, but she swallows and swallows and swallows. Then she smiles as she knows he wants her too, and lavishly licks her lips. I will do what I must do, she thinks. I will survive the love of this man.

Post Script: 

The italicized poem is called “Green Groweth the Holly” by Henry VIII. The lady whom it addresses is unknown but, for the sake of this piece, I imagined it to be his ill-fated 5th wife, Catherine Howard, cousin to Anne Boleyn and the second of his six wives to be accused of treason and beheaded.

The story was inspired by “The Holly and the Ivy” – a traditional Christmas carol and one of the prompts in Exhibit A‘s Awesome Christmas Erotica Meme. A new song title goes up every day between now and Christmas so click here to catch the prompts and participate (you should!). And click here to see who else is making merry this December.

Erotic Fiction: 2000 Miles

Photograph of author's back in front of a fireThey don’t live that far away from each other – just across town. But the relationship is young and there are families to consider. His children. Her child. He’s only twenty miles away, but circumstance has drawn the distance out, unraveling it to immeasurable lengths. It might as well be two thousand.

Two thousand would almost be easier. Two thousand is distance on a grand scale. I would get in the car and drive for days, just to feel his mouth, she thinks…his warm lips and clever tongue; those sweet, slow licks….. She would drive two thousand miles to feel his mouth between her legs.

Two thousand gives the gesture a rosy, cinematic glow…but twenty is not two thousand. Even without her baby asleep down the hall, she can’t travel twenty miles – not on Christmas Eve. Not when their lives have only just begun to nudge into one another. Twenty or two thousand, seeing him is a fantasy on the grandest of grand scales. Reality is reality. You can’t always get what you want.

She lights a fire in the grate, and turns off the lights – all, except for the pretty ones on the tree. The last time she saw him, she’d only just put it up. She lets her mind wander as her robe slips off her shoulders. She’ll wake up to Christmas carols getting yodeled at dawn, but for now the flat is quiet and the night is young. She can kneel in front of the fire and think of him.

The last time they’d seen each other he’d undressed her in front of the fire, unwrapping her slowly as if she were a gift. Her breasts tighten as she remembers his hungry, slanted look and his fingers grazing over her dips and hollows. There is nothing like needing to fuck a man who needs to fuck you back….

She kneels before the fire and imagines him behind her. She smells his scent in the wool of his sweater and feels denim against her skin. A shiver runs up her spine. She feels everything – her thick pulse and aching breasts. Her slick, wet cunt. She’s so wet she looks at the fire and imagines melting into herself.

She spreads her legs a little. The carpet rubs her knees as she spreads them a little more. Then she leans back on her heels and dips her hand between her legs, all the while imagining that her hand is his. In her mind, thick fingers find her plump, sensitive clit. She thinks of his hands before letting her mind drift. She imagines his breath on her shoulders and sweat pooling between them as he sinks his fingers into her warm, wet cunt.

She spreads her legs even more and pinches her nipples, thinking of his mouth. Oh, that mouth, that mouth…. Parts of him and all of him fill her mind as slides two fingers into herself, followed by a third. She knows how to play herself, and she plays herself right to the edge. Then she holds herself there for as long as she can while the fire pops and glows.

She lets the heat lick her skin until her long dark hair sticks to the back of her neck. She lets her mind stretch and retrieve him, heedless of distance and circumstance. She reels in mile after unraveled mile until he is with her in the warm, little room, cocooned in quiet night. She feels his cock inside her. A perfect, easy fit. Then she lets herself come.

She cants her hips and bows her back, riding out the long, slow tumble and release. Everything in her expands and for a moment she isn’t there at all. She is the shape of how good it feels.  Then draws her robe over her shoulders and reaches for her phone.

“Hey, you. Are you busy?”

“No – I was just going to call. I can’t stop thinking of you.”

She smiles and looks into the fire. Maybe next year….

The story was inspired by “2000 miles” by The Pretenders – one of my favorite modern Christmas songs and the first prompt of Exhibit A‘s Awesome Christmas Erotica Meme. A new song title goes up every day between now and Christmas so click here to catch the prompts and participate (you should!). And click here to see who else is making merry this December.