A D Jameson is the author of the prose collection Amazing Adult Fantasy (Mutable Sound, 2011) and the novel Giant
Slugs (Lawrence and Gibson, 2011). His stories have appeared in Caketrain, Denver Quarterly, elimae, Fiction International, PANK, and dozens of other journals; more is forthcoming in Lady Churchill’s Rosebud Wristlet and
Conjunctions. He contributes regularly to Big Other and HTMLGIANT. He is a PhD candidate in UIC’s Creative Writing program.
Having little else to capture her attention, she amused herself by inventing different nicknames for his cock, dozens of descriptive, private pet names:
le banc de sable (“the sandbar”), when she first saw that she had given him an erection;
la taupinière (“the molehill”), when she first rubbed it through his trousers;
la bosse (“the bump”), when he first thrust it against her pelvis;
le chaud (“the warm one”), when she first put her fingers on it;
la caché (“the hidden”), when he first slid it inside her, without her getting all that good a look at it;
la croissance (“the growth”), when she first saw it in early morning, while he still slept;
la paille (“the straw”), when she first sucked it;
le têtu (“the obstinate one”), when she first tried to jerk him off;
la saisie (“the seizure”), when she, persistent, finally succeeded;
la délicatesse (“the treat”), when she first realized her craving for it;
la mélasse (“the treacle”), when she at last realized her boredom with it;
les disparus (“the missing”), when they had first broken up;
la réapparition (“the returned”), when they had gotten back together;
la bon-délivrance (“good riddance”), when they had broken up for real.
...And there were many more names besides that, monikers flirted with in passing, twice or three times, here and there, but that fell quickly away, and that didn’t stick, idle fantasies instantly forgotten.
She never told him any of them. The names were hers, both then and now. Her souvenirs. She kept them entirely, one and all, for herself.