The Change you Missed

by | August 15, 2012 | General | 6 comments

Chances are, if you ever drank to get drunk, once or twice you’ve drank to the point of regret.  I certainly have.  It’s a terrible feeling to awaken to the knowledge that you’re not where you usually expect to be, then wonder what transpired.

The little story that follows tells of such a situation, and a surprising outcome, and through it all, a change in a life, or at least the possibility of one.

Stop, Slow, Stop, Slow

©  Craig J. Sorensen

You promised yourself it would never happen again.  Promised that you’d soothe your restless mind
in another way.  Promised you never again
wake up in . . . well

It looks like a doublewide, at least a quarter century old.  Neat as a pin, but showing its wear.  A train comes by so close, you can feel it in
your ass.

She’s turned away, a sheet over her jackhammer frame, and
you work to recall her face, but the dryness in the mouth and mammoth need to
piss are the only indication of what went on last night.  You remember, bit by bit, the bar you
migrated to starting at a classy pub downtown, just a stone’s throw from work.

You recall the bars, descending strata.  Never happy where you are, move on.  You lose count.  You wish you could remember.

You check the floor, expecting underwear next to the bed,
socks half way across the room, t shirt in the door, the rest an ant crumb
train to the front door, you do it like this. 
Impatience and passion, yes, but also it makes for an orderly retreat.  Step, clothe, step, clothe, step, clothe
until the door closes gently in your wake.

So unlike you, the neat stack of clothes on the Samsonite
chair, a suit and tie, t-shirt, underwear, socks, and her threadbare jeans and
tank top over the back.  What a pair you
two must have been when you left that last bar.

Birds’ songs ascend as the train rumbles its last.

She stirs. 

You freeze, knowing that she’s at that state where your
jostling the old bed will probably wake her. 
You lay still as a worm thrust from the ground by a sudden rain, the
caught in a cymbal crash of sun.  She
turns in profile, still sleeping.

A little more haze lifts, and you recall later last night, pool
played in a dive bar.  A girl who said
she held up construction signs on road repairs. 
Stop, slow, stop slow.  She beat
you at nine ball again and again.  Not a
thing about her was your kind of woman, and you wonder how you got here, no
matter how much you drank, no matter how deep your need.  And that need was deep last night.

That much you remember clearly.

She sighs, and you start to get hard.  Surprise at how you respond after what must
have passed last night.  Your desire is
deep, like it was before you left the office, maybe even more.  It is not the predictable drained sensation
steeped in regret that takes form when reason and cottonmouth set in.

You are harder. 
Harder.  It actually starts to
hurt.  Piss boner.  That’s it.

But you want her, want her bad.  You shouldn’t, especially when you already
had her.  Especially when she’s so . . .
so . . . so wrong.

She casts the sheet aside and shows off her muscular body.  You try not to look at the golden pubic hair
and note the way her knurled knuckles rub there.  Her eyes are on you, her lips are smiling as
her gaze drains down to the tent between your legs.  “Mornin’.”


Her fingers slide under the covers, up your thigh, and
cradle your balls.  The cool of her hands
is perfect, both soothing and exciting. 
“I’m glad you suggested we wait until the morning.”

Probably couldn’t get it up. 
As much as you drank . . .

Those cool hands join forces, one on your balls, the other
stroking your rod.  “Seem’s you’re glad
we waited too, but I must say, I never had so much fun just hanging out and
talking.  Especially when I was as horny
as I was last night.  And falling asleep
with that hard cock against my back?  Amazing!  Don’t know how you could stand it, but it
made me hot.”

“Uh, yeah, uh, that was great.”  You’re pretty sure you mean it.  You do know, that, as morning after regrets
go, not remembering what you talked about is a first.

She smooths the pre come that has drooled
into her hand up and down your shaft. 
Licks it, with a smile, from her palm like a cat cleaning herself.  She opens her body.  “God, I can’t wait to feel you in me.”  Her fingers feel perfect as she rolls a
rubber down your shaft.

You position between her thighs and savor her slick
walls.  She gives a huge, deep,
resounding, toe curling, lip stretching, jaw cracking sigh. 

You nearly come instantly. 
You’re glad when she says.  “Just hold
still so I can feel it all.”  You stay
still until the come that threatened to escape eases back.  You need to come, you need to piss, you need water, you need to

You need to breathe.

But you don’t do any of them.  You obey. 
You only obey.  Never your strong
suit, yet you do it well.  Buried to the
balls in her, and yet you push tighter, and are met with an approving grunt.  It’s strangely tender, strangely rough,
painful and yet you don’t want it to end. 
Your arms around her back, your legs entwined in hers.  Still and full of need.

It is Saturday, your day to rush around and get things done at home.  Well, every day is a day to rush around, you’re never stay
still, never patient.  So many reasons to
rush, and really, do you need one?

But your bodies begin to move together.  Slow, stop, slow, stop, she seems to turn
that construction sign, and you obey. 
You are happy, strangely happy.

“God yes, you feel so good in me,” she whispers in your ear.

Slow, stop, slow, stop, you listen to her breaths, her moans
her sighs as they ascend to a strangely gentle orgasm like a refined lady
sneezing.  Bad as your needs are, they are
superseded by the need to bring her another, see if you can make her writhe and
come like a grenade.

And you do, pounding hard in her, but slowly, slowly
ascending, your balls are hard as a wrecking ball.  You don’t want to come, but your body won’t
listen, and you shoot so hard in the rubber you feel you must have burst it.

She unfurls the rubber, and lets you go to the bathroom
first.  While she cleans up, you could
leave.  You look back at the bed.  Looks nice, and you lie down and wait for

Waiting, not your strong suit.  Glad when she comes to bed, and curls up
against you.  “Mind if I stay a little
longer?”  You ask.

“I was kind of hoping you would.”

You wonder how long it might be, and for once, you don’t
worry about it being too long.

Craig J. Sorensen

One evening at the close of the 1970’s, I sat on a milk crate at my job du jour and looked over Tenth Avenue in the small Idaho town where I grew up. It may not seem earth shattering now, but to a man not yet twenty years of age, the revelation of that moment was defining: There must be more to life than pumping gas. A strange answer materialized in the cold, dry, Treasure Valley air. I joined the US Army where I learned to work with computers before the introduction of the IBM PC. Armed with a blitzkrieg education in the programming language COBOL, I embarked on a journey to define myself as a programmer/analyst. Perhaps if I had been a better student in school, things might have been different. I loved writing, though I flunked my first semester of ninth grade English. Typing too. And I typed seventy words a minute. But I digress. The bottom line was that I hated school, was unmotivated and disinterested, and had problems staying focused. Had I been born twenty years later, they might have loaded me up with Ritalin. So learning a trade in the Army was my salvation from a life of disjointed jobs, searching for something I’d be satisfied with. Study for a purpose, it seemed, I could manage. Throughout the thirty plus years after leaving Idaho for military service, I honed my skills and learned to enjoy the job I stumbled into. I think that this, “path less chosen,” has something to do with my perspective and my style as an author when I delved deeper into my passion for words. I’ve lived life, not as a student, but in a constant state of trial and error. This is true in most everything I’ve done. The first story I had published was so aggressively edited, that the number of words removed was in a double digit percentile, and rightly so. I resolved that would never happen again. It hasn’t. Determination and self-teaching are a big part of me. Have I ever reached a hurdle I didn’t overcome? Of course. In my early days getting published, I submitted four stories to a particular editor before she accepted my fifth; I’ve had great results with her since. More recently, with another editor, I submitted four that I felt great about, and realized that it just wasn’t going anywhere. Another fact: I’m a lousy poker player, but I do know when to fold. Story telling has been with me my entire life. A desire to share stories is engrained in me, but as a youngster, what did I have to share? I was a boring kid, so I used to make things up. I used to hate that I’d lie. Bear in mind, these lies were limited to boasting of things I had done that I really hadn’t, or telling that the very plain house we lived in when I was young was very ornate. “Little white lies,” some might call them. I couldn’t seem to resist this desire to make people believe the stories I’d tell. When something didn’t wash, well… I suppose it is all part of how I learn things. Writing is truly my first passion as a vocation. If I could make a living at it, I’d love to, but I know what that means. I look at those authors who do this with admiration, and I’m grateful that I have been blessed to find not one, but two vocations that I love. Job one allows me to write when I’m inspired. The luxury of this is not lost on me. When I was young, I was fascinated by sex. I wrote sexual scenarios, drew sexually inspired pictures. My head was full of erotic fantasies long before my voice cracked. But writing the first stories I did after I left high school, I tried to subdue the desire to write sexual themes. Sometimes, I’d let go, but I’d eventually “come to my senses.” I wanted to be respectable, after all. It was after I had gotten some serious consideration by a literary journal, but got the response “you write very well, but your stories lack vibrancy,” that it began to settle in. My wife, partner, and most avid supporter forwarded me a call to a new “edgy” literary journal that included erotica, and suggested that I send a particularly nasty, vibrant story I had recently written when the respectability filter was disengaged. I thought, “why the hell not.” Within 24 hours I had an acceptance. Another lesson learned by example: be true to yourself. In the end, I just want to tell stories about amazing people. I want to go out on a limb. I wrote a poem once:
Only the man who goes To the edge of the branch And does not stop when it cracks Will learn the true nature Of branches
I want to turn you on, then repulse you. I want to surprise you, sometimes make you grimace, share the realities of my life and the lives of those I’ve known, but bend them through the prism of fiction. Tell about people more interesting than me, and speak universal truths, tell little white lies. I want to make you guess which is which. The three stories I am honored to share with you are examples of my testing branches. “One Sunset Stand” from M. Christian’s Sex in San Francisco collection, was written merging humor, sexuality, and romance, allows me to explore from a woman’s POV. “Severence” which appeared at the website Clean Sheets, is drawn from a difficult time in my life, where as a manager I watched members of my team and coworkers slowly, systematically get laid off. It was a hard time, a frustrating time, and I found a way to express that frustration in the words, and the characters of the story. “Two Fronts” is one of my biggest gambles as a writer, and a story I’m very proud of. In it, I not only explore my feminine side, but my lesbian side. The story, set before I was born, explores a woman dealing with her awaking to her attraction to other women is set against the backdrop of ranching in Idaho. I was particularly proud when Sacchi Green and Rakelle Valencia chose it for the collection Lesbian Cowboys. The version I present here is my “Director’s cut,” with the original ending. In the collection, it was made more purely romantic by dropping the last section. This ending is more of what I would call a “Craig ending,” though I’m proud of both versions. Truly, I haven’t planned much in life, just followed the river where it leads. I write the stories that come to mind, and for as long as people will read my work I will write. And if they stop reading? I will write.


  1. Remittance Girl

    What a gorgeous little story. And a lovely twist in the middle. I really enjoyed it!

  2. Paint and Pen

    Fabulous story!!! I really enjoyed the tension and surprise; the pleasure/pain aspect of the physical juxtaposed with the male character's fundamental emotional changes really adds to the sexual tension. A very vivid and strong piece!

  3. Craig Sorensen

    Thanks RG! I'm glad you enjoyed.

  4. Craig Sorensen

    Thank you DeDe. Tension and surprise have played a big role in my life lately, so maybe that has a little to do with it.

    Perhaps you know what I mean.

  5. Lisabet Sarai

    Magnificently original, Craig, not to mention incredibly erotic. Desire is so bloody unpredictable.

    I especially like this line:

    "You do know, that, as morning after regrets go, not remembering what you talked about is a first."

  6. Craig Sorensen

    Thanks Lisabet. The unpredictability of desire is indeed a wonderful thing.

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