Disclaimer: SM owns Twilight. I just play in her sandbox. No copyright infringement intended.

A/N: Originally posted to the For the Love of Women contest and winner of the Host's Award for Best Erotic Scene. Special thanks to my pre-readers winterstale and housesittingrobin. It wouldn't be what it is without you both.

This story deals with the emotional fallout of sexual harassment in the workplace and explores themes of BDSM and power exchange. This is fiction and is no substitute for research, personal inquiry, and above all communication with your partner. Be safe, sane and consensual.



I balance my motorcycle helmet, guitar case, and house keys as I wipe my feet on the mat outside the door of our flat. It's been a long day. I pulled ten hours at my legit job at the newsstand, then another two changing tires on motorcycles for Demetri for cash under the table. I didn't get the gig I wanted, and the black electrical tape over the holes in my army surplus boots is leaking again. I roll my shoulders trying to shake off the weight of the day. It doesn't move, but the least I can do is wipe off the street grime instead of tracking it in.

Alice is already at the little table in the kitchen with her drawing pad and a handful of pens when I let myself inside. Our flat's so small I can see her there from the doorway as I set my guitar case in the corner and hang up my helmet and leather jacket. She closes the tablet, and her short black hair swings back from her heart-shaped face as she tilts it up to me in greeting. "Hello, you."

"Hey, baby." I lean down to kiss her cheek and she squirms away from the cold of my nose, but her smile leaves no doubt she's happy to see me. The London sky is gray and rainy this time of year, not so different than the one I'd be under if I'd never made it out of Forks, but that smile is a slice of sunshine that seems like it was made just to warm me up from the inside out, like it was meant just for me. Like maybe everything I've been through – every hard choice, every lucky break – led me right to that smile and the woman who wears it.

"Just toasted cheese and a tin of soup tonight, Bells. Rent due, and all." She points at the table where a plate and bowl are waiting for me, still hot. How she knows exactly when I'll be home I'll never know, but she just loves to have hot food waiting on the table for me on days like this when the weather's crap and she gets home first.

"Looks great. And probably better you didn't splurge. I didn't get that gig." I rub my hands on my jeans trying to warm them a little. "Maybe Demetri will give me some more work."

"Not to worry, heard today there might be a few more shifts on offer down the pub."

More hours?

I raise an eyebrow at her. "Who quit this time?"

What I really mean is what did that ass Paul do now? Turnover is high down at Three Feathers since Maggie got diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and her son got the run of the joint. My teeth grind as I think of the reasons why all the staff he hires – always young and attractive women – keep quitting. Reasons like I'm just giving you a compliment and it was an accident and there wasn't enough room to get by without brushing past you.

Alice shoots me the look, the one that says don't start, and hands me a napkin with an arched eyebrow of her own. "Go on then. Tuck in."

It's the bossy tone she takes with rowdy customers and my mouth twists in a smirk.

"Yes, mum," I tease, mimicking her clipped accent. Her hazel eyes flash with amusement and the mock outrage on her face makes me laugh. She looks like she'd snap my ass with a tea towel right now if one was handy. I wouldn't mind actually. I like it when she starts something that I get to finish.

I pick up my spoon and begin to eat. Ali takes my unoccupied left hand and pulls it across the table towards her, pushing the sleeve of my thermal shirt out of her way. She snaps the cap off a black pen with her teeth and starts drawing on my wrist just past the spot where it bends when I play the guitar.

The food isn't fancy, but it's hot and filling and made with love. Home less than five minutes and already my day's looking up. I glance down to see what she's scribbling on me. There are two flowers side-by-side, outlined in black, filled in with pink, and each with a few spiky green leaves peeking out from behind the petals.

I wrinkle my nose. "Pink roses? Really, Alice?"

"I've not finished yet, have I?" she defends primly, but the pen cap in her mouth ruins her scolding tone. Amused, I watch patiently as she deftly adds curves and lines in both black and color and by the time she switches to a different pen with a finer tip to hash in some shading, I'm totally digging the design.

"There." She pops the cap back onto her pen with a flourish and sits back in her chair, clearly pleased with herself.

The roses on my wrist adorn the eye sockets of an Ed Hardy style skull sitting atop a rendition of my electric guitar. It's positioned perfectly so I can see it out of the corner of my eye if I look down at my left hand when changing chords.

"You'll get the next gig. I can feel it."

A piece of that immovable weight on my shoulders seems to melt and slide away. Ali's quiet confidence in me never wavers. It shouldn't surprise me because that willingness to see the best in people, to give and nurture, is just so her. But sometimes the way she loves me catches me off guard, reminds me how much it means to me, reminds me to be worth it. She is my rock. And I'm hers. I squeeze her hand and rub my thumb over her fingers when she's done blowing gently on my wrist to help dry the wet ink.

"What's this?" I nudge her drawing pad.

She shrugs. "Just doodles."

Her voice is light but something's off. I put my spoon down and open the tablet to the page she used today.

It's a landscape, done in black and white. To call this just doodles is completely inadequate. In the foreground is a single fallen tree limb full of bare-but-reaching branches. It's lying on ground that is absolutely flat in every direction, dry and cracked, lifeless, deserted. The lines of the drawing are fine and detailed in the foreground but thicken and blur at the horizon giving the sense that there is life there at the edge, but it's so very far away. The sky is thick with clouds that seem at once to be both permanent and moving away. The clouds will reach that horizon long before the viewer.

It's beautiful, but desolate.

I begin to notice small streaks of red and brown, so closely woven into the detailed textures that you don't see them at first glance. Subtle touches of green at the horizon. It's a neat trick of the eye. So… not a black and white then, but… drained of color. The difference seems significant.

I look down at the bold and lively skull on my wrist, think about the smile on her face when I came home. Definitely significant.

"Something else happen at work today, babe?"

She sighs. "Not really." Shrugs again.

"Paul. That–" I shake my head, biting back the string of profanity on the tip of my tongue.

"You know how unwell Maggie's been," she says, as if that accounts for it all. I hear what she isn't saying, what we've been over again and again.

Ali's known Maggie for a long, long time. She and my mum were thick as thieves she'd call it, and when Ali's mum died in a car accident leaving her on her own at nineteen, Mags was there. She's been a substitute mother of sorts for the last three years. With the way Paul mismanages the business, Ali can't even imagine walking away from this job and leaving Maggie in the lurch.

"If she were well enough to run the pub, Paul wouldn't dare pull that bollocks with the girls. When she gets back…" Ali trails off, tilting her head down and away from me, letting her hair fall in front of her face. I think the excuse sounds as flimsy to her as it does to me. The chemo isn't going well. There's no guarantee Maggie will ever be well enough to run the pub again, and even if she does… how long does Ali think she should endure Paul's shit?

I try to catch her eye. "Come on, Ali. You don't have to let him treat you like that."

"I don't let him, Bells!" Her voice rises in pitch and volume.

I can feel the constriction in my throat as I react and my tone matches hers. "Then tell him to keep his fucking mouth shut and his hands to himself."

She's silent but the empty dishes clatter angrily as she stacks them and takes them to the sink.

I stay at the table trying to chill. We're not quite fighting, but it could tip over to that any minute. There's cold lead in my chest at the thought. If I follow her now I'll say something rash. Well, something more rash.

Why can't she just knock him on his ass, like I did with Jake?

I twirl one of Ali's pens on the tabletop as I remember hanging with Jake and Quil, following them around, getting into all the same trouble they did, keeping my dark brown hair long and braiding it just like I was one of the Rez boys. Jake always teasing me and calling me a tomboy. I did everything they did – rode crappy old dirt bikes when we were younger, graduated to fixing up rusty old motorcycles nobody else wanted, cliff-diving, everything – right down to ogling the Rez girls. Jake and I were inseparable, best friends. How could he have missed it? For that matter how could I?

I even looked at the porno mags they passed around, ragging on each other about pages getting wrinkled or sticky. "That's disgusting!" I'd say, but I couldn't look away, couldn't help but remember those pictures late at night in the dark under the covers with my hands between my legs and my breath hitching in my throat. Breasts and hair and shiny red lips, long painted fingernails, thighs spread wide and shiny pink in between. That was supposed to be me someday, right? On my back for some guy? So how come I always pictured the girl on her back as if I was the guy on top of her?

Broke my hand on Jake's jaw figuring it out when he kissed me by surprise that first warm spring day sophomore year. I caught him off-guard and put him flat on his butt but he barely had even a bruise to show for it, and I ended up in a cast with no cliff-diving or motorcycling for six weeks. Funny thing though, that's when I wrote my first song.

Ali stands in the kitchen still facing away from me. She runs the tap to fill the sink with hot water for the washing up. I study the tense line of her back.

I get it. Really, I do. Ali feels guilty, like it's somehow disloyal to Maggie to despise her son even though Paul is a sexist pig, a lazy ass and a bad manager. She's angry at Paul for running his mother's business into the ground while Maggie's too ill to do anything to stop it and probably doesn't even know. And because Ali cares so damn much, she feels responsible for not saying or doing more to stop it. But how do you tell someone that their grown son is a disgrace and squandering everything they ever worked for?

Then there are the other girls to worry about, too. When Ali's on shift, Paul seems to fixate on her and leave them alone more, but it pisses me off that she sacrifices herself like that. It's his fault – the manipulative little shit – and she takes it all on herself.

This is where Alice's sweetness and tendency to nurture sometimes gets her in trouble. This is where her sense of loyalty and obligation, her genuine and caring nature is stomping all over her sense of self-preservation.

I give the pen another forceful spin, watching as its rotation slows and the blur of its motion gradually clears, letting it twirl eventually to a stop.

My Ali is stuck in that blur. She's stuck in a mess of false should's and ought to's and can'ts, and seeing her trapped and feeling helpless just breaks my heart and pisses me off all at the same time. I can't fight her battles for her, but I can't sit here and do nothing either.

She's my rock, and I'm hers.

My chair scrapes roughly along the floor as I push back from the table and stand. Three paces and I can press myself up against her back, sneak one arm around her waist, and rub my warmer-now face into the short hair at the nape of her neck. Her hair is so soft. Even the razor-short bristles here are fine and silky like baby hair. I can smell the exotic sweet-spice-smoke of that girlie lotion she wears and more faintly the scent of her clean hair.

Her posture is stiff, tense in my arms. I massage the muscles in her shoulders on one side and nuzzle her neck on the other. She starts to thaw just a little; her shoulders relax with a little sigh as my hand at her waist creeps up to trace the underside curve of one breast over her clothes. I love this spot – the soft rise of it, the way the flesh gives under my touch – and I wish there wasn't any fabric in the way. My hand creeps higher, fingers tracing circles and spirals, thumb trailing along the V-shaped line where her cami gives way to bare skin. I'm torn between wanting to keep chasing the hint of nipple budding under my fingertips and wanting to dip my thumb into that space between her breasts where the cups of her bra meet in the middle. Now that I've got my hands on her I'm feeling greedy; I want it all at the same time, damn it.

"Maybe you should be helping me with the dishes instead of grabbing my tit."

There's a tease in her voice and a curve to her cheek, but I can tell by the way the soapy water sloshes in the sink that she's trying to will away or just bury all that despair I saw on her drawing pad.

She needs a way out of the blur, the chaos in her head that keeps steering her in circles. She needs clarity and focus and maybe a little kick in the pants to remember what kind of stuff I know she's made of.

She needs a heavier hand tonight.

The knowledge is a tendril of smoke curling up my spine, a stirring of banked embers, and my hand stills on her shoulder. There's a part of her that just needs this sometimes. And there's a part of me that wants it. I slide my fingers up into her hair, get a grip, tip her head back. My words, like my touch, are gentle but undeniably firm. "Leave them."

I tongue a wet line along her throat, my hand tightens with intent in her hair, and my voice is suddenly sooty with the way I need to give this to her, need to take this from her. "I have other plans for you, kitten."

I hear the sharp intake of her breath as she registers the edge to my tone and the pet name we save for a very particular kind of interaction. Her hands still, letting the sponge float away and the tea cup sink to the bottom of the basin.

I take my hand from her breast and yank the straps of her top and her bra down her shoulder. It's unexpected and rough enough to make her gasp at my aggression but not enough to tear them. Money's tight enough as it is. And besides, now I can see that my girl is wearing my favorite bra – the black velvety one with the little embroidered cherries. It looks perfect with her pale skin, her dark hair and especially her cherry red lips.

I would bet money she's wearing the matching panties, too.

It's not real velvet, it's velour or something, but ever since that first time she brought them home and I couldn't stop touching them (and her and her in them) she just calls them her "pet-me" knickers. I don't even give her the chance to brat this time and tease me with her little sing-song voice (Belll-aaahr, won't you pet my kitty?) before I've got my hand up the front of her skirt and down her leggings and fuck, yes she's wearing them.

But not for long.

I toe my boot between her platform maryjanes, nudging her into a wider stance, and now I can get the width of my hand between her legs, flat against her heat. I press my palm against her, trapping her to me, and strum my fingers over her slit. She sags slightly in my arms as her breathing changes, her hands tensed against the counter's edge.

The feel of that texture – a silken, rippling downiness that mats under my caress as her moisture begins to dampen the fabric – is my undoing. I push it aside, and as my middle finger dips into her, my open mouth finds the pliant flesh over her bare shoulder and bites down. Hard.

Another sharp inhale that sounds like a hiss and her exhale is a high-pitched lingering note.

I release the bite slowly as she steadies herself against the counter. Swallowing hard against my rising desire, I take a few deep breaths to collect myself, gain control of my breathing and my voice. It would be easy to get lost in just this rough pleasure of give and take, tempting as it is, but my girl needs more than that from me tonight. Drawing myself up to my full height, I turn Alice by the shoulders to face me.

"You've let me down, kitten."

She winces when the words land. My disappointment stings. But I know it's not half as painful as the choking humiliation she suffers under Paul's thumb or the dull ache of disappointment in herself for allowing the situation to continue on his terms.

"You let that dog mistreat you again today, didn't you?" Her mouth opens, shuts again quickly.

"You've forgotten how strong you are, kitten. I'm going to remind you." Staring down at her, I watch her expression intently, "Go get my hairbrush."

She knows exactly what I'm asking of her. This is the decision point; it's in her hands and I will respect her choice. If she says no then we'll just find another way to reconnect and to get through this issue about Paul. But if my instincts are right…

Her eyes close heavily. She wets her lips with her little pink tongue. My nostrils flare. I know exactly where I want that tongue.

When her eyes open again, the soft set of her features is unguarded, trusting.

"Yes, B."

Not Bells or Beller or even Isabeller Marie! Just B.

Yes, B.

"You need this, don't you kitten? You need me to take care of you and help you get back on track."

There's no doubt in her voice, only relief. "Yes, B."

Two simple words that mean everything – the sound of her consent echoes in my brain. My heart twists with the sweet gift of her trust and with it hot coals in my belly glow. The smoke in my spine curls higher. I feel taller; my chest swells. I have the impulse to grab her by the hair and conquer her mouth.

I want to.

I can.

So I do.

Sleek black hair in my grip and her mouth falls open in surrender. I find her tongue, press my mouth against hers until I feel the biting edge of her teeth, taste her breath, suck on her bottom lip like I'm dying of thirst. Tip her face up and back by my grip in her hair so I can break the kiss and look into her eyes.

"There's my brave girl," I praise her, smoothing the palm of my hand down her breast, pushing cami and bra out of my way. I pinch the protruding nipple just hard enough to make her inhale audibly. "Hairbrush. Now. And come back to me barefoot."

Quietly Alice slips around the corner into our room to fetch the brush and remove her shoes. She's a tiny thing, and though I'm only average height, my boots add an inch or so. Take away her platform shoes and it's a striking difference that works in my favor.

I move towards the sofa while she's gone, pulling off my thermal shirt and quickly braiding my long brown hair, securing it out of the way with the elastic I keep on my wrist. My adrenalin is flowing, and it's getting too warm in such a heavy shirt. The black racerback tank I'm wearing underneath fits snugly over my breasts and waist and shows off my shoulders, arms, and the ink I wear on my skin.

I plant my tough-as-shit boots slightly more than hip-width apart and tuck my thumbs into the front of my jeans on either side of my belt buckle as I wait. The fire is stoked, the smoke rising.

Soft footfalls announce my kitten as she pads into the room, her signature cherry red toenail polish now in view. I watch as she stops a few feet in front of me, hairbrush in hand, face modestly down-turned. Her skirt is askew and the straps of her cami and bra are still hanging off her shoulder. It thrills me to see her hair so disheveled, the skin of her neck still red from my bite, and she hasn't tried to right her clothing. Does she know what that does to me?

I take my time looking at her standing there in still and silent anticipation. Smooth black hair ends at her chin and neatly sets off the sensual contour from earlobe to shoulder to the heavy bow of her breast and the fat juicy cherry nipple on top. She's petite but her curves are all woman.

She's on edge from the tension of the day and alert for my next move, but the measure of her breathing tells me she's getting into the rhythm of this, too. Ali's been suffering and she needs me; she's offering the ultimate trust and I have a serious responsibility here. And sparking through it all is a live-wire of electricity, the high-voltage current of this sexually-charged ritual. I reach up to rub my knuckles over my lower lip, an unconscious habit. Her distinctive scent is on my hand. I suck my middle finger into my mouth, my tongue searching for her taste.

Rich and earthy. A hint of salt. Slightly tart.

When I can't find any more of her on my skin, I step forward and pull the straps down on the other side to match. I want more though, and I tug until bra and cami both slip down to her waist, the straps hanging loosely below her elbows – just a faint impression of restraint.

For now.

Taking the hairbrush from her hand, I stroke the flexible plastic bristles. Outside the ordinary sounds of city life ticks along – tires on pavement, a buzzy motorbike engine, the creak and rumble of a lorry – but in the silence of our flat there is only the sound of her breathing and mine and the low crackle as the filaments bend and spring back under my thumb.

Ali's eyes dart just once from the floor to the brush in my hands and to the floor again. I circle behind her, lightly trailing the bristles across the bare skin of her back. At this pressure it's a barely-there rasp that's almost as much tickle as scratch, and I watch the downy hairs on her skin rise in its wake. The brush glides gently down the slope of her spine and the curve of her skirt as it follows her tail. I let it drift away from her skin and then with a flick of my wrist I bring the back of the brush down hard against the palm of my other hand–

CRACK!

The sound makes her jump. I gauge the sting in my hand and how long it lingers. The blow feels much harder here so close to the bone than it will against the flesh and muscle of kitten's backside, but it's a practical way to calibrate how much force to use and where to draw the line. Though I don't think I'll actually need to use the brush tonight. My hand is usually more than enough, but the brush is a symbol – the potential for its use is part of setting the scene.

I give her a quick little pat on the butt. It's light and over her skirt; there's not much to the physical feeling. It's all mental at the moment. And that's really the point, isn't it? It's my job to push the right physical buttons, to pluck the right mental strings, and to help Ali drop out of the chaos in her brain and into clarity of her body.

With one finger I slip the straps of her clothing down one forearm, wrist, hand, and then the other. She's going to need the mobility.

"Knees, kitten."

She sinks gracefully to the floor – not rushing but not hesitating either. She's right here with me. I sit in the middle seat of the sofa and pat my lap. Her eyes are lowered but she can see the motion of my hand in her peripheral vision.

It's not far to crawl – our flat just isn't that big – but there is a certain thrill to seeing her come to me on hands and knees, not just because I said so, but also because I know she wants to. There's a delightful pale pink on the apples of her cheeks that spells out the embarrassment of being caught at something one "shouldn't" enjoy. It's different than the splotchy red of her anger or the way she goes terribly pale when someone shames her. There's no shame for her here. There is only acceptance: our love, our rules.

The flush on her face is also an echo of the excitement, the freedom of being let loose in her body – I can see it in the sultry sway of her hips, the glitter in her eye as she looks up at me from under her long lashes, and the slow, sensual, heavy-pawed movements of a cat on the prowl.

Kitten crawls up and lays herself out across my lap just the way we both like it. I put the hairbrush on the cushion just in front of her. Whether I use it or not I need to warm her up by hand first. Being able to see it, knowing that it's there within my reach...

She's soft and warm in my lap, yielding. My heartbeat is quickening.

I smooth both hands under her skirt and over her rear, squeezing and kneading for a moment before flipping her skirt up. Just yank them down or…? I let my blunt fingernails bite slightly into her skin and so, so slowly I build the suspense of the reveal, peeling her leggings and pet-me knickers down over the full curve of her luscious ass.

Elbows out and hands tucked under her cheek so I can see her turned face, her bare breasts are flush with the scratchy fabric of our old sofa. Her cami and bra are twisted wantonly around her waist with her pushed-up skirt, and her ass and her kitty are on shocking display.

"Ohhh, kitten," I breathe, and it's almost a moan. "You look so deliciously lewd like this."

My praise makes her shiver. With a wicked grin I bring my hand down against her skin with a quick snap. "Hold still!"

She mews in surprise, and then freezes. I give her bum a pinch. I heard that.

This time she stays quiet, and I pause until I can hear the smooth cadence of carefully measured breathing that says ready and more.

No leggings or panties in the way this time – just smooth, soft skin that warms under my hands as I knead and squeeze her flesh. Rake my fingertips from the small of her back to the back of her thighs. Tease her slick pink bits with a light brush of my knuckles.

I reach my left hand underneath her, feeling for her little button. I find it with two fingers and press. It's hot under the pads of my fingers and oh Christ I can't help but remember the way it feels under my tongue. Almost without conscious thought my hand lifts and then drops, landing with a smack against the sweet fleshy swell of her ass and my body responds like I'm plugged directly into that sound and the sting in my hand that made it. The way my pulse races, the wet I feel between my legs, the slight bounce in my knee. The rising smoke that curls up my spine.

She shifts slightly, trying to widen the space between her legs despite the limitations of the leggings bunched around her knees.

"You like this, too, don't you kitten. You don't just need it, you want it."

"Yes, B," she sighs.

Swinging again, fingers landing first and followed by palm, more stinging slaps bring notes of rosy blush to her skin. The blows are light but the color remains even after the sting fades. The slight acceleration of her breathing is more from the circle and press of my touch on her clit and the thrilling snap that breaks the silence each time my hand makes contact than from any real pain.

The palm of my hand warms too. The sensation lingers, fading less quickly and building with slap after slap. My fingers slip more fluidly over her clit as her body reacts. It would be so easy to get swept away in this piece – to spank and finger her to climax just for the pure unadulterated pleasure of watching my girl get off in my hands.

I pause to pull off my tank and drop it over the arm of the sofa before I rub down her sensitized skin, kneading the now-warm muscles. There's a reason she needs a heavy hand today. I shake my head and marshal my thoughts, making sure my anger at her dog of a boss doesn't show up in my touch. My Ali does not need to put up with his abuse. No woman does.

And we both know she can stick up for herself better than that. Just because she's laid out over my lap, ass and kitty under my hands and on display, doesn't mean she's weak or a victim. She just needs to feel her power again.

I can help her with that.

Raising my arm a little higher this time, I aim for the fullest curve of her backside. There's a quiet but satisfying thud that sets the muscle quivering and really gets her attention.

"You know why I'm disappointed, don't you, kitten?" She closes her eyes and bites her lip, her shoulders tensing.

"You forgot something, something important." I punctuate my words with more thudding smacks.

"You forgot that you belong to me." I pause, let my words land on their own, let the weight of them sink in and linger.

"Don't you." It's a question but the authoritative tone in my voice makes it clear what answer I'm expecting.

"Yes, B." I swallow hard at the plaintive note in her voice. I hate to add to the guilt she already feels but Alice has placed her trust in me, given me the control, now it's time for me to take her where she needs to go.

"You're mine, kitten. Mine." I make every word count with the weight of my hand landing on her skin. At the same time, the force of the smack jolts her body so that her clit gets more pressure from my fingers. "Aren't you."

"Yes, B," she answers with a little more volume.

"And my kitten is a fighter, an alley cat."

"Yes, B."

My palm lays down a syncopated pattern of light slaps and heavier blows, covering her ass and making it bloom brighter red under the short but intense burst of my words. "You belong to me. I'm the queen bitch around here. If that dog comes sniffing around you again you hand him his ass, 'cause he's not allowed to treat my alley cat like that. You're my strong girl. You're stronger than that and you know it."

I rub her burning backside roughly as she struggles to catch her breath. When she takes too long to respond, my hand lands quickly again with a ringing slap. "Answer me."

"Yes, B," she gasps.

This isn't about raw unfiltered pain – she could get that anywhere. This is about intense sensation and suspense mingled with pleasure and guidance and trust.

"He thinks you're weak. Not my kitten. You're stronger than that manipulative little shit, aren't you. So, so much stronger."

"Yes, B," and her voice is getting stronger, more clear.

"You forgot but you'll remember it this time, won't you kitten."

"Yes, B." It's like a mantra, a mediation of sorts as she sinks into the experience – the sting, the pleasure, the sound of my voice and the message in my words, her repetitive, positive response. I watch her body – watch her find her power, watch her shed the tension layer by layer, cutting her way out of the threads that trap her.

Indecision.

Snip.

Self-criticism.

Snip.

Guilt. Shame. Fear.

Snip. Snip. Snip.

Until she's resilient again – until her spine is no longer one single rigid rod but the series of supple joints meant to pulse and undulate with life, energy, fire.

"Look how strong you are. Can't you see how brave and fierce you are?"

The sting builds with each slap, intensifies, until the whole sensation reverses and the sharp electric connection as my hand lands brings more relief than the slow burn that remains when my hand drifts away, until she's backing up into it, looking for my hand to land earlier, harder, faster, and fucking herself on my fingers.

Her breathing gets quicker, shallower, until it spikes as a gasp and the only way to take the pain in and break it apart is that long slow inhale… pause… exhale… pause… repeat.

There it is.

And for Alice – because I know her so well, know how deep she loves, know how much she takes on – I know there's one string left to cut. This one is the least rational, the most emotional, and runs the deepest.

"It's not your fault, kitten." Smack.

Silence.

"It's not your fault, kitten." Smack.

She nods tightly this time. I'm not fooled. We're not done with this yet.

"It's not your fault, kitten." Smack.

Deep inhale, loud exhale. Nods again. "Yes, B."

Almost there but not quite.

"Kitten, it's not…" smack... "your…" smack… "fault." smack.

She's holding her breath through it this time and holds it still in the silence after the last time my hand lands. I'm holding my own breath, frozen in anticipation, waiting, waiting, the seconds tick by and suddenly Alice's shaking sob of an exhale explodes the quiet and I can breathe again. Speak again.

"What are you going to do the next time he says something? What are you going to do the next time he touches you without your permission, without my permission? What are you going to do, kitten?"

"I'm going to kick his bloody arse!"

There's my fighter. There's my hissing spitting alley cat. I gather her into my arms, stroke her face and kiss her deeply as she comes down.

"You've been so strong, kitten. Worked so hard, haven't you?"

"Yes, B." Now the words are a sigh so relaxed – so effortless and complete, so devoid of any struggle of conscience or negative thought. I feel a clench inside my ribs and my eyes start to sting. I'm so full of love for my strong, brave girl it almost overwhelms me.

Underneath that though my brain is a buzzy euphoric jumble and my body is humming.

"Kitten," I coo and she opens her eyes to look at me. She is so exquisitely open right in this moment, so raw, so trusting. "Don't I take good care of my girl? Don't I always give you exactly what you need?"

Her face shines with reverence as she whispers, "Yes, B."

"Don't you want to thank me now?"

"Oh yes, B," she entreats. I tap her flank and she slides off my lap, waiting for my instruction.

"Unlace my boots."

She makes quick work of my laces, slipping my boots and socks off my feet. She places each one carefully to the side and folds the socks together as well. I wouldn't actually care if she threw them over her shoulder after getting them off me. This need for neatness and order is all Alice. I let her have what she needs now so that I have her full attention after.

When she is done, I stand. "Undress me."

She loves this part and so do I.

Kitten leans up onto her knees and reaches for my belt buckle, her slender fingers unclasp it and then slide into my pants to undo the buttons one by one – the tiny enticing touches make the muscles in my belly flutter. Her fingertips are so soft as she gently pulls down my jeans and skull and crossbones girl-boxers together, helping me to step out of them. I sit, curb my impatience, and wait as she folds these too, even my damn underwear.

Deep breath in. Slow exhale. She wants to serve me.

I mean to let her.

Hands on thighs and down-turned face serene, she lets me know that she's finished. Ready. I scoot to the edge of the sofa and lean back against the cushions, legs spread wide and one knee hooked over the arm. Then I crook my finger at her and point to my pussy. I'm done with waiting. I want her mouth on me.

She puts one soft hand on the top of each of my feet and smoothes them up my legs, her touch slow and light and almost ticklish along the insides of my thighs until she reaches that sensitive crease where limb meets hip.

My breathing deepens and I sink more heavily into the cushions behind me, watching in heavy-lidded fascination as she finally leans in. The sight of her little pink kitten tongue darting out to lap me up is almost too much already and I give up the struggle to keep my eyes open. Long, slow licks start soft and shallow and my entire focus is drawn to the sensation. Each drag of her tongue over dip and valley registers twice – once at the nerve endings in my skin directly under her touch and again as flames of hot and cold fire licking at the base of my skull.

I cover her hands with my own. She reads me just right and grasps my thighs more firmly, little kitten claws biting into my skin, the strokes of her tongue getting stronger, deeper. The heat and wet between my legs is growing, growing and the purring hum of satisfaction she makes as she drinks me up goes straight to head.

I open my eyes to watch. I have to see her face. My chest is heaving, my pulse is racing, and my kitten is devouring me like I'm her last meal – lips and tongue, sucking my flesh into her mouth, the slow even pressure or teasing scrape of her teeth. I let it build, build, build as long as I can stand it, and when I can't ride that edge any longer I put one hand in her hair and direct her mouth to my clit.

She gives me exactly what I need to take.

When I let myself go, let myself shatter with my thighs shuddering on either side of her head as her kitten tongue flicks over my clit, it's that grip I have on her hair, holding her tight to my center that anchors me, keeps me from getting lost in the storm.

I'm boneless, immobile as I float down, and for many moments the only part of me that can move is the barest brush of my fingertips through the straight silky strands of kitten's hair. She moves up so her head rests on my left breast. Arms wrapped warmly around my waist, her own soft full breasts press against my belly as she listens to my thundering heart. She holds me together until my body comes back under my control. Sometimes I wonder if she even understands how completely she owns me.

I let the ends of her hair slip through my fingertips and slip one hand between us and down to find her. She is still wet, still wanting. Bites her lip and squirms minutely under my touch, then covers a yawn with her delicate hand. My sweet kitten is exhausted. After all she's been through tonight already, the huge physical and emotional peaks she's already climbed, if I tucked her into bed with her head on my shoulder she would probably drop off quite easily into a heavy sleep. But after all that, I can't let her go without giving her some sweetness first.

One finger under her chin tips her face up to mine for a kiss and my reaching hand slides around to her bum. "Bedroom. Now," I speak quietly against her lips and punctuate the order with a tiny swat to her still tender ass.

My hands are on her hips and my lips on her shoulder as I follow her down the short hall, urging her to step out of her remaining clothes and leave them in a trail behind us. Once in our room I pull back the covers and lay her down gently in our bed. Her eyes are soft, her smile is soft, and her body is relaxed as I hover over her, dropping kisses on any spot that calls to me. Cheek. Belly button. Knee.

Ali raises her arms over her head, crossing her wrists over each other as they rest on the pillow. She's still my kitten just a little while longer.

Leaning back on my knees, I run my fingertips from wrist to elbow, down arm, over ribcage, teasing collar bones, sternum, the side of her breasts, enthralled by the way her skin responds, the way her nipples tighten and darken. The flames in my spine had died down a little – cooling somewhat in the wake of my satisfaction against her mouth – but the living, breathing, touchable fantasy come-to-life under my hands rekindles the fire.

I think of the black vinyl bondage tape and safety scissors in the drawer of our bedside table, chew my lip as I weigh possibilities and desire against needs.

Another night I can tie her up and push her to orgasm after orgasm just to see her fall apart on my tongue and my fingers and our toys until she can't take any more. But tonight I just need to cherish her, to lavish her with kisses and soft touches just like this.

Instead of opening the drawer, I pull the elastic out of my hair and run my fingers through it to loosen the braid. The soft smile on kitten's face changes when I let the long strands drape onto her naked body. Her mouth goes lax as I make the soft ends drag and tease.

It's time to remind her how soft and gentle these same hands can be, stroking and touching every part of her from the shell of her ear to the tender spaces between each of her toes. I use my hands, my hair, let my calves and thighs slide against hers, and drink up her breathy gasps and little hums of pleasure.

I shift myself over her, holding some of my weight up on my hands planted next to her ribs and letting some of my weight press against her. One of my legs is hitched over her thigh, her opposite thigh hitched up over my hip, opening and lining us up together. A slow roll of my hips makes me glide wetly over her kitty and pulls a soft cry from her lips.

"Feel good, kitten?"

"Mmmm," she purrs, "Yes, B." She laughs softly, the sound pure happiness as her eyes blink heavily and open again to meet mine. I lean down to capture her lips and Ali reaches up to smooth my hair out of our faces and run her fingers through it. Sometimes the only reason I keep this long mess of hair is because Alice loves it so much.

We continue to kiss as I slide and roll rhythmically against her – languidly at first, then increasingly more desperately as heat and sensation builds between us. My breasts brush over hers with every pass and Ali uses one hand to palm me and the other hand to tease her own nipple to a hard peak. My calves tense and my toes dig into the mattress for leverage as I work us toward our pleasure.

I buck against her harder, slapping our bodies together on every thrust and dragging clit over clit on every retreat, driving her towards her orgasm and chasing my own. Ali breathes heavily through her open mouth, little sighs and cries on every exhale. My mouth is open over hers, tasting her song on my tongue and drinking her breath. I want to consume her but not in a use her up kind of way because Alice is the light that can't be put out. She is warm sun breaking through a cloudy day, and her eyes are shining so brightly, and I love her so fucking much.

I choke back an unexpected sob as we go over that edge together with a timing to our crescendo that I couldn't have written if I'd tried. We shudder and pulse against each other, clutching and crying out and gasping for air. This moment, God or the Goddess or the infinite or whatever the fuck is out there is right here, right now because this is the infinite. This, this, this.

I flop down on my back and start to pull the sheets up to cover us, but a wiggly fingertip nudges me between the ribs. "Better set the clock, Isabeller Marie. You've got dish duty in the morning." Her voice is sleepy, completely sated, and slightly amused.

Isabella Marie Swan. I swear, isn't that the girliest name ever saddled on a dyke in all of human history? But that accent kills me – I love the way my name sounds coming out of Ali's mouth. I reach for the alarm clock and set it without complaint. Dish duty was worth it.

Rolling back towards Alice, she's already curled up and ready to spoon. I scoot right up behind her until there is no space between us. My sweet girl takes my hand and tucks it between her legs. She sighs and the sound is pure contentment, just like a kitten's purr. "I do, you know… belong to you."

I press kisses to her neck and also the spot on her shoulder where I bit so hard earlier. She reaches back and finds a section of my hair, wrapping it around her wrist like it's rope and she's tying herself to me.

At the same time, she does have me by the hair.

"I know, Ali." I kiss the mark I made one more time before we succumb to sleep. "We belong to each other."

My fic Shooting Stars took the Best Fluff in the Slash Backslash 2.0 contest.

Summary: The meadow, a meteor shower, two men in love and the family they made. Edward makes a wish on a falling star and decides it's time to take what he wants.

I really loved writing this story. Watching the video re-enactments of the Prop 8 trial testimony hosted by equalityontrial.org had a really strong impact on me and definitely inspired me to attempt to portray a piece of what this injustice means to the families it denies. I wrote it the night Judge Walker announced the stay on his decision on Prop 8, which was also the night the annual Perseid meteor showers peaked and my family stayed up late to watch it. You could say the stars aligned to bring this story together in my head.

Frenchbeanz wrote a lovely little blurb:



Huge thanks to the hosts and judges and massive hugs to the writers and readers who participated. Thank you! ~love~

It's immensely gratifying to see a story like this get attention in a contest. It wasn't about scorchingly hot guys getting it on in the wild. It wasn't filled with high-tension drama or action and adventure or angsty heartfail. In fact there wouldn't be any drama at all in this slice of life piece if the two parents in this story were simply allowed the same rights as a heterosexual couple. I have to say I was surprised at first to see the the story classified as "Fluff" at first, but yeah... I guess I get it. We should all be so lucky to have that kind of fluff if we want it. Right?



Lovely banner made by Moonlit Wishes.

Rated: MA / NC-17 for language, slash & sex.

A/N: Thanks to Mac214, annetteskitty, and winterstale.

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

Warning: Fictional characters may use hateful or debasing speech in this and subsequent chapters which does not reflect the views of the author.



I groaned as I noticed my hands starting to shake and the feel of bile rising in my throat. It was a familiar feeling, one I experienced regularly before meets. I lurched out of bed and across the hall to the bathroom, lifting the toilet seat just in time to empty my stomach contents into the bowl. Harsh acid burned my throat just like the morning I decided to come out to my folks.


I told my mama first. Anyone who knew Caroline McCarty would tell you she’s a soft touch; she’s got the sweetest, most forgiving heart of any woman I’ve ever met. I remember her standing at the sink. She’d just come in from the yard and was trimming flower stems under a couple inches of cool water in the basin. Mama liked her flowers in blues and purples and whites. She always said it made her feel cooler on hot days, and besides, there’d be red enough in the garden come June when the tomatoes started to peak.

I opened the cabinet to the right of the sink and reached easily to the top shelf where she kept the vases. “You want the cut crystal, Mama? Or the china?” I never did understand why she kept anything on the top shelf since she couldn’t reach it without her step stool. At fifteen years old I had already towered over her for two summers even though I was far from hitting my last growth spurt. I was tall and broad, though not yet as big as Dad; he looked like a giant next to her. Even Nessie was coming to Mama’s shoulder by then, and she was only ten at the time.

“I was thinking the china today, Emmett.” Mama dried her hands on a dish towel while I gingerly took down the white china pitcher. It had belonged to Great-granny Caroline, for whom Mama had been named. “Thank you, honey.” Mama patted my arm and began to fill the pitcher partway with water. When it was half-full she turned to the fridge and took out the 7-Up.

“The sugar makes the flowers last,” she said when she saw my puzzled look.

“Can you use regular sugar?”

“You can,” she nodded, “but 7-Up works better.” She smirked up at me, anticipating my question. “I don’t know why, so don’t bother to ask me,” she said with a laugh.

Her blue eyes sparkled up at me as she brushed a bit of hair off her brow with the tips of her fingers. Usually I would have had a bit of fun razzing her, but the weight of my secret had taken all the teasing out of me that day. Fear clutched at my chest and warred with the heavy pressure resting there. Suddenly I felt like I couldn’t wait another moment to throw them both off.

“I’ve got something to tell you, Mama.” She glanced up at me, her smile gentle. I wanted to return it, and I did try. “I’m gay.”

Her smile turned into a frown of confusion. “What?”

I just nodded at her and then leaned my head against the cupboard door. The confusion melted, but the frown stayed. I saw tears form in her eyes, and I steeled myself as she stepped closer.

“Does your daddy know?” she almost whispered. I swallowed thickly and shook my head minutely, watching her face. She blinked once and saltwater clung to her lashes when she opened her eyes to me again.

“Come here, honey.” Mama reached her arms up around my neck, dragged me down to her and started rocking. My stomach flip-flopped, and all the air rushed out of me in a whoosh. “We can figure this out. You’ll always be my baby." She was sobbing in earnest now. "I love you exactly the way God made you. It’s gonna be okay.”


When I was done puking I felt a lot better. I was less anxious and more resigned to the ordeal ahead. I rinsed my mouth out with a cupped-handful of water from the sink before brushing my teeth with extra tooth paste and gargling with mouthwash.

I wet my comb and pulled it through my hair a few times before crossing the hall to my room and looking for clothes. I was still naked from sleep so I dug through drawers for some clean trunks and a pair of shorts. I pulled a long sleeve tee from a hanger in my closet. Even though the sun was peeking out this morning, I knew the air would still be cool for a few hours yet, though biking always assured my legs would be warm enough on the ride over to practice.

In the kitchen, I went straight for more water. It was important to pre-hydrate, and I already had fluids to replace after puking. A quick look at the time told me I didn’t have enough of it left to digest anything much heavier than whole grains, so I whipped up a papa-bear portion of old-fashioned oatmeal with a spoonful of almond butter, sliced banana, and a sprinkle of coconut. Besides, oats were soothing for body and mind and were one of mama’s home remedies for anxiety. The milk tasted nasty after mint toothpaste though. So did my glass of OJ.

I chewed slowly, sitting at the breakfast bar, and thought about the day I was facing. The team practiced Mondays, Thursdays, and non-meet Saturdays to train in technique, with off days spent on weights and resistance training or endurance runs. Hurdles, discus, and pole vault were the core technique events and how I’d be spending most of today’s practice. Every other event benefitted from mastering those three because they took it all: posture, stride, strength, balance, dexterity, power, coordination, and patience.

There was a certain similarity between the skills and attributes I needed on the track and those I would need today as I came out to my teammates. As a Q Center volunteer mentor, most of my job was to be a good listener and help people find the resources they needed if they were being harassed, or were depressed or turning to destructive behaviors to cope. A smaller part of my job was to share my own experiences with people, to let them know they weren’t alone, and to counsel them on effective strategies for telling their families if and when they were ready.

Those strategies were part of my volunteer training, and they boiled down to something I called the confidence effect: project a positive attitude, keep your tone matter-of-fact, cultivate a demeanor that is unashamed and beyond intimidation, and lastly, set up the listener for a positive response. Eric Anderson, the man who had been my own volunteer mentor through the Q Center, was the one who first helped me to see the way that aspects of my athletic training had shaped other areas of my life. He helped me see how I could tap into those attributes – focus, body language, inner strength, emotional balance, personal power, coordination, and patience – and translate them to fit other situations.

I made a mental note to get on the computer later and let him know what I was doing now. Since he’d graduated last year and moved to California for grad school I hadn’t seen him in quite a while, but we’d exchanged a few emails here and there.

Eric had been my mentor first and later had trained me to become a volunteer mentor myself. There was a sound bite from the training that had stuck with me: ‘People often receive messages according to the way they are delivered, and they often respond to messages according to how they are expected.’

I wish I’d had that advice before I came out to my dad.


The light cover of clouds obscured the robin-egg blue of the sky, but at least it wasn’t drizzling at the moment. I figured it was just a tad over fifty degrees Fahrenheit outside when I got to the bottom of the stairs of my apartment building, my mountain bike fitted with street tires hefted over my shoulder. It was a typical chilly mid-March morning, and I was grateful yet again that UW had an indoor track facility. I set the gears high and stood up in the saddle to get my blood pumping.

I spent the ride focused on my breathing, the feel of my muscles shifting under my skin, the sensation of slicing through the misty air, and not getting run over. I had to admit, though, drivers out here were more accommodating to bikes on the road than back home.

Eight city blocks later, my muscles were warm while my skin was cool. My clothes were damp from humidity when I locked my bike in a rack on the sidewalk outside the Dempsey Indoor arena.

Three years I’d been training and competing here, and it never failed to send a little thrill through me when I stepped inside. There was 80,000 square feet of indoor competition space, a permanent six-lane regulation-size oval track, and a full 100-yard infield for the vaulting, jumping, and throwing events. Dempsey had the reputation for being one of America’s fastest indoor venues, and it was definitely one of the reasons I crossed the country to come to school here.


I hung a left into the locker room and passed a few aisles of lockers until I reached the row with mine. James Bruckner, our best pole-vaulter, was already there. He was replacing the spikes on his vaulting shoes and dressed in matching Husky gold tank and shorts. The almost champagne-color suited his icy-blue eyes, close-cropped sandy brown hair, and boy-next door looks. Appropriate, too, since he was absolutely one of the golden boys here at UW – an accomplished athlete who made high marks in his classes and donated his time as a math tutor. James was a shoe-in for the Caius Student-Athlete post-grad scholarship. It was awarded each year to a few elite athletes heading to grad school that met the stringent GPA requirements and demonstrated leadership or were notably involved in community service. I knew he wanted it badly.

He looked up, and I nodded my head at him before tugging my bag of gear off my back and dropping it on the bench beside me. I took my cue from him and didn’t say or do anything more in greeting, opting instead to open my locker and start sorting my gear.

James was an alright guy and definitely a popular one, but he had a bit of a chip on his shoulder. He was in the top slot for vault on the team, and it was all due to hard work and some admirable determination. He ran a bit hot and cold with his teammates though. He was ultra competitive and had quite the temper when something got under his skin. Some people say we have to be a little bit crazy to pole vault; for James it seemed more like a philosophy of survival of the fittest or what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.

I wondered not-so-idly what his reaction to my announcement would be.

I was checking the condition of my own cleats when Mitchell ‘The Arrow’ Aro rounded the corner from the other end and dialed his combination into the locker next to James. Aro was of average height with a wiry upper body and a powerhouse lower body, a fitting build for a sprinter. He’d given himself that ridiculous nickname, but honestly, the guy was incredibly fast and had a knack for being first off the blocks.

“S’up, Emmett.” He nodded his head at me with a smile, and I returned the gesture, “Hey Mitch.”

“Jaaaaaames,” he dragged the name out in playful greeting, receiving a smirk and a fist bump for his efforts. “You going to the party at the Pike house tonight?” In my periphery I saw James shrug noncommittally and begin to lace up his shoes.

I faced my locker, drawing my long-sleeve tee over my head and hanging it on the hook inside. Wallet, keys, and phone went on the shelf inside the locker.

Aro either didn’t notice James was in one of his moods or it just didn’t faze him. He barreled on ahead. “You’ve got to come, man. You’re like a pussy magnet. I always get laid when you’re my wingman.” Of all the sexist crap guys would fling around the locker room, Mitch and James were some of the worst. Mitch talked big like he got a lot of action, but apparently James actually did.

I heard James snort in derision, but there was definite amusement in his voice when he spoke. “When I’m your wingman? Right.”

I taped a Band-aid over each nipple to guard against chafing and then changed into my Husky purple muscle tank and my performance boxer jock. I took a second to adjust the goods before layering a pair of running shorts over top of them- more Husky purple of course.

Mitch laughed. “Come on, man. You know the Pike parties always have the easiest girls.”

“Yeah – no fucking challenge. Besides, I’ve got Rini on the hook tonight.”

The rest of my street clothes went in; my vault cleats, sprint spikes, and spinning shoes came out. Javelin cleats, high jump shoes, and distance spikes stayed in the locker today. It was kind of amazing how many different pairs of shoes I had to have, but I guess it went hand-in-hand with tackling ten events when most guys focused on only one or two.

“Mmm, Irina…” There was a sound of smacking lips. “Damn, man, she is one fine piece. Why don’t you bring her with you? I can always keep her company if you get bored.” Mitch is one of those guys I would think was pretty hot if he wasn’t such a confirmed skirt-chaser and didn’t talk so much trash about women. He was often funny though, a real clown, and remarkably friendly to everyone.

Vault cleats and spinning shoes went in the duffle for later. I was lacing up my sprint spikes when Mitch turned to me. “McCarty, man, you’ve seen Irina, right?”

I slammed my locker shut. I hated being pulled into these conversations.

“God, I’d love to bend her over– ow!”

James punched Aro in the bicep, not hard enough to bruise but definitely hard enough to get his point across. “One of these days you’re going to have to learn how to score your own trim, Aro.”


I left the lockers behind and entered the training room. Amun Shenouda was on the padded bench nearest the door, and Benjamin Busiri was next to him getting taped by Jared, one of the team trainers. I took a seat on the third bench down and greeted the guys. Benjamin had been having some trouble with his left ankle, and Jared was wrapping it for stability.

“Hey man, how’s Tia?” I smiled at him.

I always enjoyed listening to Benjamin speak; sometimes I struck up a conversation with him just to hear the way he spoke English with that fascinating blend of Egyptian and British accents. “Ah Tia,” he said with a grin. “She is beautiful as always, my friend.”

“She still puts up with you then?” Jared had finished taping, and he had Benjamin flex and point his foot to test the fit.

Amun frowned a little at my teasing, but Benjamin’s laughter was loud and deep. “It is my hope she will put up with me for a very long time.”

Since I’d first joined Huskies track, the training room had been a place where the guys could be themselves and feel at ease. There was no fooling the trainers, so it did no good to hide behind typical guy stoicism. That made the training room a place we could talk about what was going well without it sounding like bragging and talk about what ached without getting called out for looking weak.

There with the same guys nearly every day, it was a familiar and welcome transition between the pressures of the field and the machismo of the locker room. These soft yellow walls had seen a lot, I was sure. It was in this room that Benjamin announced he’d proposed to Tia over Christmas break. Last year, Liam told us his father was diagnosed with lung cancer while getting his knee taped after he wrenched it during a hammer throw. Even Alec showed some emotion in here when his twin Jane set the women’s team record for high jump this year.

I continued to chat with Benjamin as Jared moved on to check that Amun’s knee wasn’t swelling. He’d had to miss the last meet because of an injury and seemed anxious to get back on the field before he had to miss any more.

When the trainer okayed Amun for practice, Benjamin bumped my shoulder with his fist. “See you at the starting blocks, Emmett. I must warn you, I am feeling very fast today.”

“Yeah, yeah, I hear you talking…” I winked. Amun scowled at me again, but I laughed it off. I swear that guy was jealous, though not just of me. You’ve never seen a smile so smug as the one on his face when he has Benjamin’s complete attention.

Coach Banner walked in just as Benjamin and Amun were leaving. “Jared, can you give us a minute? I’ll take care of Emmett’s tape today.”

Jared excused himself, and Coach stepped up to take a look at me. “How are you feeling this morning, Emmett?” I knew he wasn’t just asking me about my shoulder.

“Honestly, I’m a little nervous.”

“I think that’s pretty natural.” He smiled, and the skin around his eyes crinkled kindly. “Still want to go through with it?”

I raised one eyebrow, matching his expression, until he chuckled and clapped me on the back.

“Alrighty then.” Coach had me rotate and flex my wrist while he felt the tendons move under the skin. “Any pain or tension?”

“No, sir.”

“I’ve called the mandatory team meeting for one o’clock, at the stands by the infield. All the disciplines on both men’s and women’s teams should be done with practice and cool down by then. I’ll make a few announcements and then give you floor, okay?”

I nodded. “Coach?” He looked up and gave me his attention. “I was thinking I’d like to tell a few of the guys in private before standing in front of everybody this afternoon. Maybe in here? It’d be kind of a warm-up.”

“I think we can make that happen. You want me to pull you and a few of your teammates off the field a few minutes before everyone else?”

“Yes sir. Maybe just the guys I train with regularly?”

There really aren’t very many decathletes around. Only three of us – Garrett, Benjamin, and me – do all ten events, despite how big the UW track team is. We don’t have our own assistant coach but train part-time with each of the major disciplines and spend time with almost all the different sections of the team. That means I know a lot of the guys by name and they know me, though they don’t really know me. But there are guys in each area I consider friends and spend most of my time with in training and at meets.

Coach nodded his agreement as he taped my wrist. “Garrett went home this weekend,” he observed.

“Yes, sir. His brother’s eighteenth birthday.”

I wished Garrett could be here for me to lean on today, but I knew how close he and his kid brother Connor were, especially since their dad died a few months after Garrett left for college. He’d been a good buddy to me from the very first day we met on the track freshmen year, and I’d been out to him longer than anyone else since leaving home for school – except Coach of course, and maybe Rose. I knew how hard he tried to be a good older brother to Connor, despite being a four hour drive away from him.

Coach Banner moved his hand up to my forearm just below my elbow and had me rotate my wrist again.

“Any pain or tension?”

“A little tension in this position.” I showed him.

He taped my forearm and moved up to my shoulder, having me rotate it through its full range of motion. “Any pain or tension?”

“No, sir.”

“None?”

“Nope,” I grinned. “The shoulder’s feeling great actually.”

“Well, that’s some good news, isn’t it?”


Several of the guys had already started their warm-up laps when I reached the track, including my buddy Seth. He was a Clearwater and from the same reservation on the Olympic peninsula as Leah. They were second cousins, if I understood correctly. At first glance you might think they were siblings because they both had the perfectly straight, glossy black hair, dark almond-shaped eyes, and strong high cheekbones of their shared ancestry. Once you knew them, though, it was easy to see that Leah’s face was heart-shaped with a small and delicate mouth while Seth’s face was more angular and nearly always sported a huge, happy grin.

I waited for Seth to get around to me and merged in beside him and his friend Riley, another freshman. We ran in quiet companionship until the assistant coach in charge of sprints and hurdles whistled to call us over for drills.

After drills we raced the 110 meter high hurdles. There were six lanes, but today only five runners lined up at the blocks – Seth, Riley, Aro, Benjamin, and me. Usually Garrett filled the last spot.

“Hey old man, think you can keep up with us today?” Riley got a kick out of calling Mitch ‘old man’ partly because Aro insisted on calling Riley ‘frosh’ and partly because Aro had a strange shock of white hair behind his right ear. Aro kept his black hair buzzed short and the odd dime-sized circle of white stood out distinctly. Whenever anyone asked him about it, he’d make up some crazy story – dropped on his head as a kid, hit by lightning, touched by a ghost – a different story every time.

“Don’t choke on my dust, frosh,” he tossed back good-naturedly.

“Alright fellas, focus!” barked Assistant Coach Larson. “Set!” We took our marks, and the atmosphere changed to all business. Anyone still joking would be left in the dust, and we all knew it. It was pretty unlikely I’d ever beat our pure sprinters off the blocks, but that never stopped me from trying.

When the gun sounded we burst off our marks. Distantly, I registered Benjamin and I were neck and neck at the first hurdle, but the line of runners was already beginning to spread away from us. I kept the bulk of my concentration on my own lane though. Run your own race, Coach Banner always said.

Practice wasn’t nearly as impressive or exciting as a meet. It was a lot of repetitive, sweaty work, and the moment you lost focus was the moment your shoe hit the hurdle instead of clearing it. That was the moment that cost you the lead or maybe even got you injured. Part of being a successful athlete was cultivating an unbreakable focus.

We created our own wind in the indoor track, and the harder we ran, the faster we parted the air, but hurdles were not just about speed. Most importantly they were about timing. I visualized my pumping legs as machine pistons firing by precision timer, pounding out the rhythm of the hurdles.

1, 2, 3, 4, fly…

1, 2, 3, 4, fly…


Assistant Coach Larson sent Benjamin and me to stretch down before releasing us for discus training. We jogged over to the benches alongside the field. My duffle was there next to Benjamin’s, and we both sat to trade our sprint spikes for our spinning shoes. On the ground at the far end of the bench was a cooler piled high with bottled water. I waved a quick greeting to Alec, who was standing in front of the cooler and downing some water. He was James’ biggest competition in the pole vault event, and we occasionally trained together in both vaulting and long jump.

There were about ten guys on the men’s team who competed in throwing events and nearly the same number on the women’s team. Track and field encompassed a wide variety of disciplines, which meant there was a place or event for many body shapes and sizes. At one end of the spectrum were the sprinters who tended towards slim and ranged from tall to petite. At the opposite end were the bulkier guys who competed in the throwing events, like Felix Trask who was barreling this way for a water break.

Occasionally athletes from other Husky teams crossed over to do track in their off-seasons. In the fall Felix was a starter on defense for the football team. At 6’3” we were about the same height, but he easily had 40 to 50 pounds on my 225 pound frame. He was massive.

He elbowed Alec out of his way easily. “Move it, bitch.”

“Who you calling a bitch, Lurch?” They scuffled as Alec tried to muscle Felix back, but he couldn’t budge him. If Felix outweighed me by 40 pounds, he definitely outweighed Alec by another 30 after that. Alec huffed in frustration and settled for knocking Felix’s water bottle out of his hands.

“Oh, you asked for it now, pussy.” Felix chortled as he yanked Alec’s shorts down.

Alec scrabbled for the waistband of his loose running shorts before they made it very far down his rear. “Get off me, you fat-assed fag,” he gasped, laughing.

Felix cuffed Alec on the shoulder one last time before heading back to the field. “Later, ass-wipe.”

“Later, fuck-head.”

Hearing slurs like ‘fag’ and ‘that’s so gay’ were completely commonplace in almost every sport. Occasionally it was actually used to question another guy’s sexual orientation, but more frequently it was simply a way to imply something negative or establish the pack order in a group of highly competitive males. It was so prevalent and pervasive that it just slid by unnoticed by most people most of the time. Lotta time folks don’t even hear it when they’re saying it themselves unless you bring it to their attention.

Felix wasn’t necessarily a bad guy, but he wasn’t my favorite teammate either. He seemed to bring the football team’s hyper-masculine attitudes with him to track in the spring. Coach Banner had a pretty strict ‘no put-downs’ policy. I don’t think the same was true of coaches in some of the contact sports.

I’d been lucky, I guess, that I’d rarely had to endure those words leveled at me directly, and they’d been relatively easy to brush off or ignore. I’d always been tall, bulky, and athletic, and often bigger than most of the guys around me. That had pretty much given me a free pass from most of the macho jockeying for alpha-dog dominance. Most guys found me physically intimidating. Between that and a good sense of humor, I’d side-stepped almost every fight that had ever come looking for me. I’d broken up fights before, and I had to pin a guy once who got too aggressive with me in junior high, but I’d never thrown a punch in my life.

All the coaches and their assistants were busy on the field, so there was no one in any kind of official capacity around to call Felix or Alec out for their talk. Ignoring it and being silent was a defense mechanism I’d put into practice for a very long time. I’d just never been ready to open myself up that way. Until now, I guess. I mean, once I came out to everyone I wouldn’t be able to just let it slide or pretend I didn’t hear it anymore, would I?


Discus practice was more of the usual. Neither Benjamin nor I enjoyed practicing with Felix, and I was glad when he transitioned to training in hammer throw. We both preferred Liam’s quiet company instead. The three of us traded turns in the circle, with fingers splayed around the eight inch disc and torsos twisted in wind-up. We threw repeatedly, each aiming for a purple towel set up as a target 60m down the field.

Executing a discus throw demanded a perfect balance of complex technique and explosive power. Most meets required qualifying throws before you could compete in discus. Not enough power, and the athlete might not get enough distance to qualify. Poor technique, and he might foul. Each attempt we drove with the left leg, landed on the right, pivoted 360 degrees before pushing off again, landed a second time hitting the power position, and pressed through the hip to create a snap that put the power behind the throw.

Thirty throws was about my max on a day when I was also training in pole vaulting. Assistant Coach Wazel knew I wouldn’t get any good vaults if I exhausted my top arm, and honestly I couldn’t wait to get in the air.

I retired my spinning shoes and changed into my cleats, heading out for more warm-up laps. James and Alec were at the vault lane when I finished. They were both vaulting at 5.7m which was a bit higher than my best, so I stepped to the sidelines to stretch as I waited for them to finish their rotation. When they were done, they worked together with the placers to set the crossbar down to 5.1m for me to start.

I chalked my hands and selected my pole from the rack, preparing myself mentally for my vault. There was a particular space reserved in my head especially for vaulting. This was the event that fed my inner adrenalin junkie like no other.

I took my stance at the mark, focused on posture, alignment, and poise as I began my sprint down the track. I started upright, a uniform stride accelerated to max controllable speed and maintained as the box came into view. My heart thudded with anticipation as I approached my target. I planted the pole and felt it curve powerfully under my hands. A flex in ankle, knee, and hip lowered my center of gravity. A slight shift in tempo on the second to last step created lift without sacrificing speed. It was an incomparable thrill to command the potential energy stored in the bowing spring of the pole and ride that power as it released, launching me feet first straight up towards the crossbar. Air born. Elated. I twisted and folded to clear the obstacle, dropped the pole and arched away, plummeted to the mat and bounced.

Yes!


When Coach sent Benjamin, James, and me to the training room, Seth, Liam, and Aro were already there. Jared was moving unobtrusively around the room, checking tape on Seth, securing ice on Liam. Paul was in the corner sorting supplies, and I couldn’t tell if he was listening to our conversation or not. Of course, half an hour from now it wasn’t going to matter whether he heard it in here first or not.

Benches lined both sides of the long, narrow room, and I picked one that put me within conversation range of all the guys. I listened to their easy rapport as I gave myself an internal pep talk, reminding myself of the confidence effect. It wasn’t so very different from psyching myself up before vaulting, and that thought made me smile. I was nervous, yes, but less so about this moment with this small group of guys than standing in front of the large crowd that would be assembled later. I didn’t want my jumbled nerves over that event to drag me down now though. I needed to take things one step at a time. I spent a moment grounding myself, breathing deeply and slowly as I stretched out. I focused on little things I knew and liked about each of the men around me, reassuring myself that we were tight and we respected each other. I couldn’t control their reactions, but I could set the tone. I could deliver this message, confident and unashamed, with the expectation of a positive response. Who knew? I might just get it.

I waited for a lull in the conversation and cleared my throat. “Hey guys, I have some news. I wanted you five to hear it from me first.”

Jared looked up at me and nodded his head in the direction of the door. He was asking if I wanted him to leave so I could talk to the guys in private. I smiled and shook my head. “You and Paul can stay, Jared. I’d like you to hear this too, but you don’t have to stop what you’re doing.”

“What’s up, Emmett?” Seth asked.

“You know The Daily is running a profile piece on me, right? Well, in that article I’m going to announce a new social support group for athletes… that are gay, like me.”

I rolled my shoulders a little and sat up straighter, looking around the group as I waited for their reactions. To my right, Liam looked thoughtful, seemingly focused on a spot on the floor. I wasn’t really surprised that he hadn’t spoken, though across from him Aro was watching me with raised eye-brows, apparently speechless for the first time in history. Directly in front of me was Benjamin, his expression concerned. Next to him James was busy picking at a loose end of some tape on his wrist, but I could tell that he was looking at me out of the corner of his eye.

Seth was on my left, and he spoke up first, reaching his hand out to me. I clasped it gratefully. “That’s cool, man. Good for you.” Good old Seth; I knew I could count on him.

“Thanks. Straight guys like you can come too,” I joked. “There’ll even be free pizza.”

“Free pizza? Oh, I’m there dude. Is Leah coming? You know she plays intramural tennis.” Even though the conversation was perfectly normal, everyone else was so quiet that it felt forced and too loud, as if we were trying to fill the silence. Maybe we were.

I nodded. “I saw her yesterday actually, and she sounded interested. She helped me book a conference room for the meetings.” I needed to get the rest of the guys back in this somehow. I turned back to the group. “A few people already know I’m gay because it’s come up one way or another.” I shrugged, keeping things low-key. “But I know it’s news to some of you, and I wanted you to hear it from me rather than read it in the paper.”

“Like we’d bother reading an article about you, McCarty. We get enough of your ugly ass at practice.” Always the clown, Aro finally found his voice again, but it broke the tension perfectly. James and Seth both snickered, and even Liam cracked a smile. I could’ve kissed Mitch for his big damn mouth at that moment.

“My ass is ugly? I don’t think so,” I quipped. It wasn’t much of a retort, but everyone was laughing now. Teasing and flipping shit at each other was familiar ground.

When the chuckling died down, James asked me the one question where I wasn’t completely sure I knew the answer. “Why didn’t you ever say something before?”

I took a deep breath and let it out slowly, considering my response. “I don’t really know, James. There are a lot of little reasons that added up I guess. It was easy to think to myself that this is my private life and it’s nobody else’s business… or I only need to tell the people I’m really close to… or I can deal with it when it comes up, but I don’t need to go out of my way to bring it up… some people might feel less comfortable around me than they do now… I might get harassed… some people just might not care to know those kinds of details about a teammate…” I trailed off.

“Lot of those things are still true,” James observed.

“I know. I guess the difference now is a change of attitude on my part. The reasons to tell you guys outweigh the reasons not to. I want the freedom to be completely open and honest. I don’t like feeling that I have something to hide or something that I can’t talk about. You’re my team. That doesn’t feel good to me; it doesn’t feel right. And I’m finally getting up the nerve to do something about that.”

I noticed a deep frown of consternation marring the classical planes of Benjamin’s usually smooth and peaceful face. I waited quietly for him to speak.

“Emmett, my friend.” It was a relief to see he hadn’t dropped the familiar term. “How can this be safe for you? What you speak of so freely here is illegal in my country. Egypt is very liberal compared to many of its neighbors, but still in my country these men are sometimes arrested, especially when they become too vocal…" He lowered his voice. "The authorities are not always reasonable with them."

“I get your concern. Believe me, I’ve thought about that possibility. And I do have a ‘hope for the best, prepare for the worst’ kind of mentality.” I chuckled with no real humor. “But I really don’t think that’s going to be a problem here. UW’s inclusion policy is pretty clear. I’ve spent time working with the Q Center and know my rights and what avenues are available to me if there’s harassment – even the NCAA revamped their non-discrimination policy to include sexual orientation.”

“But why? Why put yourself at risk?”

“Benjamin, didn’t it feel good to tell us, here in this room, when Tia said yes?” I paused, giving him a moment for the change of subject to sink in. When he nodded, I took it as my cue to continue. “What if you never felt like you could share that moment with us because someone might judge you or persecute you for who you loved?”

I broadened my attention to include the rest of the people in the room. “I just want the same things you want, guys. I want to be my best on the field, get a good job, find ‘the one’, and share my life with that person. Openly. And I guess, in the end, the risks are worth it to me.”

Liam surprised me by asking the next question. “If it’s no big deal, why put it in the paper?” His tone was disapproving. “Why bring all this negative attention on yourself and the team?” I considered how quiet and reserved he was, trying to remind myself to see things from his perspective.

“I hear you, but I think of it this way, Liam. It’s a completely normal and G-rated topic of conversation for any of you guys to talk about taking your girl out to a movie, right? It should be the same for me to mention that I’m taking my guy to a movie. But it’s not. It’s immediately a controversy, immediately an adult topic of conversation, purely because who I love doesn’t have the same legitimacy in society. And while that’s still the case, people like me still need places and groups and community where we feel safe to be ourselves, where we do feel legitimate. And we’ll never get that legitimacy hiding in the closet.”

“Or hiding in the locker room,” Seth came to my defense.

“Exactly! The locker room is like the largest, dingiest, smelliest closet left in America*,” I said with a laugh.

“You know, there’s never been an openly gay professional player in any of the big three sports. It’s not because there aren’t any gay men playing pro sports, okay? It’s because pro sports culture can’t handle it yet, and guys are afraid – afraid of harassment by other players or fans, afraid of being labeled as a ‘problem player’ and losing their spot on the team, afraid of losing endorsements…

“I found an article about a lacrosse player who was out in college and got signed to a pro team. Who’s ever heard of that guy? No one. But names like Kopay and Amaechi? They didn’t come out until after they’d retired, and they still got shit for it. Until that stops being true, there’s a need for gay athlete groups like the one I’m starting. I mean, I look at how progressive it is here on the left coast and at UW in particular with the Q Center and all the programs it runs… and yet, there’s still no group for gay athletes?”

“Until you came along anyway,” James joked sardonically.

“That’s right,” I agreed, intentionally taking the comment at face value. I was feeling good, really positive, about the way this conversation was going. No one had run screaming from the room at least. Aro seemed to have recovered from his initial shock, and Seth definitely had my back. Benjamin was concerned, but it was more for my safety than out of a disapproval of me. I was less certain of what James and Liam were really thinking, but neither had reacted too harshly to the news. “I have this opportunity with the article to do something more than just talk about myself. I can get the word out about the Queer Athlete’s Alliance, and maybe it’ll do some good.”

I realized I was doing all the talking, and maybe I needed to be doing a little more of the listening.

“So… is there anything you guys wanna know? Anything else you wanna ask me before I go out there and tell the rest of the team?”

“Have you told Coach?” This time Aro piped up.

“Oh, yeah. Actually, I told him back when I toured UW before deciding I was going to attend here. I really wanted to know if he would see me being gay as a problem. I don’t think I could have come here to run track if he’d been prejudiced against me for my sexual orientation.”

A few of the guys looked surprised to hear Coach had known for so long. “Who do you think arranged for the six of us to be here right now so we could have this little chat?” I grinned.

“Huh. Why us?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why did you pick the five of us to be the ones you told first?” Aro clarified.

“Finally, an easy one!” I joked. “Pretty simple, really. I spend more time with you guys than anyone else on the team. I wanted to have a chance to talk privately with you all so you could get comfortable with everything before the news goes public tomorrow. There might be some backlash to the article; you know, people might talk shit about me, and I just wanted you guys to know before it comes out in the paper so it didn’t take you by surprise.”

“Where’s Garrett then? I thought you guys were tight?” Liam asked.

“Oh, he had to go home this weekend. He knows about me. I’ve been out to him since we were freshmen together. He’s cool with it.”

“So what do you want from us?” asked James, straight to the point as ever.

“Acceptance,” I said simply. “Don’t treat me any differently than you do now. There are going to be people on the team who will act differently around me when they find out. I hope you guys won’t.”

“Right. It’s not like we haven’t had Coach Banner’s ‘total tolerance’ speech drilled into us a million times by now.”

“You’d be surprised, Seth.”

I noticed the wall clock out of the corner of my eye. 12:52. It was nearly time.





* Important Notes & Credits

Emmett’s description of “the confidence effect” was adapted from In the Game: Gay Athletes and the Cult of Masculinity by Eric Anderson.

When Emmett says, “The locker room is the largest, dingiest, smelliest closet left in America,” he is quoting Dan Woog who wrote Jocks: True Stories of America’s Gay Male Athletes.

This is an amazing project. Prop 8 is on trial in California and cameras have been banned from the proceedings. The Courage Campaign has gotten transcripts of the testimonies and people are stepping forward to videotape themselves giving voice to these testimonies so that you and I can hear what's going on.

Some of the people stepping forward are celebrities, like actress Patricia Clarkson in the video I've embedded below. If you follow to the website you'll see other videos created by average citizens too - just people like you and me who give a damn.

I don't think there's been a single one that hasn't made me weep.