Running Through the Jungle

Author: RJKIII
Author Contact: feedback@sexualdiversity.org
Published: 26th Jul 2024
Peer-Reviewed Publication: N/A
Additional References: Erotic Stories Publications

Summary: Running Through the Jungle is an erotic story written by RJKIII.

Main Document

They had met almost a decade earlier, not particularly memorable other than by mutual intrigue in each other. She found him curious, a seeming endless reservoir of tangentially related facts spewed from a mouth placed on a severe face. He found her engaging, his assigned editor for op-eds in a collegiate publication, with a lower registry than he had expected. She did not sound like she was from the West Coast or, at least, as much as he failed to sound Southern. Their initial relationship was exclusively professional; he would submit literary reviews; she would tell me how to edit his work. This cycle continued until she graduated later during his first year as a transfer student to their brief alma mater. Romance, let alone something more corporeal, was not at the forefront of either person's mind; she had a boyfriend and a demon host of private neurosis, he was adjusting to a new city and had little ambition for dating. Yet the occasional fantasy popped to mind, her wondering how his hands tracing her inner thigh might feel, him pondering the exact cadence of her moans as he gently grazed her neck with his teeth.

Tonight was to be their first meeting since both had been in undergrad, after several apocalypses both personal and communal. Both had been in a long string of relationships, mostly positive but concluded one way or the other. Both suffered similar traumas brought on by scholastic and domestic environments, developing into uncomfortably idiosyncratic individuals. The kind who if afforded wealth would have become leading figures within modern American art movements. She a fierce and independent dancer, him a sharp and sardonic satirist. Yet both were sabotaged early on, her by predatory teachers who saw her body and envied it, him by parents unprepared for a special needs child who resented his existence. From those foundational traumas erupted new issues. She destroyed her body in the pursuit of perfection, left with metal in both legs connecting her bones. He was plagiarized by a colleague who, while caught eventually, taught him to trust no one. Yet somehow, despite their only tenuous relationship in person, they had remained in each other's imaginations as proverbial what-ifs they had kept returning to.

She reached out to him wanting advice; she had an idea of a piece, like Jerome Robbins' "The Cage," adapting John Donne's "The Flea" into something comic yet erotically fulfilling. Her uncle, a poetry scholar, had taught an entire class on Donne's earliest works, noting them containing elements of satire. Two dancers, a man and a woman, flirting with each other as they pantomime the dialogue of Donne's poem, of a flea intermingling their blood, a melding of their essences so that conjugal relations were not that far of an extreme for either. When the woman kills the flea, he reacts in horror, believing in part that the intermingled blood as strong a union as marriage, the death of such something worse than a divorce. She felt the poem neglected the woman's perspective, and she wanted the woman to respond to the poem through dance, condemning him for his entitlement to her blood. She knew as much but did not know where to go from there. Should the flea be an abstract or a literal presence? Would it be too absurd? Was she engaging in poetic blasphemy critiquing Donne? What started as an exercise in hypothetical choreography had become a Gordian knot of intent and ambition.

He could not help but be perplexed. "The Cage" is as close to horror as ballet gets, an avant-garde piece where movement was angular and attitudes aggressive, of gendered warfare and cannibalism. How she had looked at Donne's poem of linguistic foreplay and found parallels was beyond him, but nevertheless he wanted to help. His father aspired to own a ballet company yet settled for a ma-and-pa school caught between a salon and military surplus. He replied that he would not employ a literal flea but keep its presence via gesture; perhaps even begin with the man following it until it landed on the woman. He argued that her idea was absurd, but that was the point, the original poem was a thinly veiled excuse for Donne to show off and attempt seduction, it was meant to be comical. He suggested rather than "The Cage" as an inspiration, something more jovial like "Coppélia."

She thought his aid was wonderful, especially because she had somehow forgotten about Coppélia and had long needed an excuse to revisit it. He had a link to a performance from some European company he sent her way, and they continued from there, one providing insight to the other within their own projects. She read his short stories about men acting poorly amongst the company of other men, and he would read her notes about the varying shows she was tethered to. Through these interactions, biographical details dripped through. His mother's spanking when he got disciplinary notes in elementary school, her shattered knees that stopped her from dancing, his attempts to win over his older brother by playing baseball, her relationship from graduate school being her first and only experience with a career skater, the uncomfortable racial fantasies placed on them by partners both masculine and feminine, and of how both longed to be caressed in only the way that lovers perform upon their other.

She suggested a meet-up; she was coming up to their alma mater for a homecoming reunion, the first after the pandemic. He had been stuck in the town since he had moved there, so he was certainly going to be around to see her. He was beside himself with joy, an excuse to get outside of his partially subterranean apartment, and with someone he could have a real conversation with. It had not occurred to him to think of it beyond a few drinks, so he left his home without condoms. She was not expecting much either, but she had long since known she was infertile, so there were no concerns there. She wondered if he even desired women in that way, his last few loves being men who looked nothing like her. Still, she anticipated a good evening.

He suggested a place downtown, across the street from the library and courthouse, a small bar called Plato's Cinema. The owner, a mutual acquaintance of both, only too eager to show off, hosted nightly short film festivals that would play on the big screen silently while the patrons enjoyed their drinks. They had been so clever by first showing the works of Lotte Reiniger, her paper dolls looking like projected shadows from paper puppets and a lantern. Tonight, however, they showed the works of Suzan Pitt, hoping to entice carnal relations amongst patrons, as the tail end of November surged forward. Likewise, they knew that he and she would be here tonight and that both wanted the other. What better way to subliminally signal that than by showing "Asparagus?"

He arrived first, wearing gray aside from a light blue floral tie. He could notice the specks of white in his beard and hair as he glimpsed himself in glass lining the walls, and he hoped they would not notice. She arrived shortly after, wearing a black dress and thick fishnets that obscured the scars from her numerous surgeries. She paused mid-sentence looking at him, having forgotten how handsome he could be in person, the severe expression she knew easily shifting into one of unapologetic warmth with a smile and laugh that charmed so many others. He had to catch himself from staring, she had only become more lovely in the interim absence. Both had put on weight during the pandemic, but neither noticed, too caught up in the euphoria of a shared space in each other's presence at last. They found a booth to sit at and began to reconnect in a way unthought of since she graduated.

Conversation was easy, flowing freely as the night went on. She talked about how her sister had been stuck with her then-boyfriend, now-husband during lockdown and how she made trite jokes about how you can take the lesbian out of the U-Haul, but not the U-Haul from the lesbian. He talked about how his brother had learned something close to humility when forced to be by himself in a new city he could not explore, and that they had reconnected as a result. The talk was personal, but nothing truly intimate. Both could not help but lose themselves in the other's features, her eyes glancing towards his smiling mouth with a thick tongue, him trying haphazardly to count her freckles without giving away the game. The fatal combination of alcohol made an end to that. Soon discussions of bodies and preferences flew, he with a weakness towards curves and wavy hair, her to chest hair, and strong arms. She noted that his hands had cuts on them, he remarked that he had been attempting carpentry in his spare time. Without thinking of the implications, she cupped his more scared hand and kissed it, saying that she would make them better. Her nose crinkled, her freckles folding into her wrinkles as her eyes tightened as she laughed. He moved his hand from hers and stroked her cheek rhythmically with his thumb, saying that was an act of kindness unto itself.

Both felt some level of instability leading up to the meeting. She had been ruminating on her experiences with her art professor in high school and how she was conditioned to expect physical touch in all relationships. He could not help but wonder if his last lover had left because he was not emotionally there for him like he needed. Both craved something more from others recently, of their time and energy and at times those demands had become too much for those who abandoned them. However, they consistently found each other as relief from that, so long as they kept certain attitudes at bay. The alcohol had withered those self-preserving instincts into nothing.

As a Southern bar, it was inevitable that Creedence Clearwater Revival would play, yet the selection was conspicuous. Run Through the Jungle squealed in its opening wall of sound into the air just as he and she began to consider that the other might desire the other sexually. She suggested dancing, he followed suit. Fogherty's voice bellowed throughout, narrating the fear of incoming violence, as they moved their feet closer to each other. Initially swaying and keeping their distance they came closer and closer until there was no room between them. Their eyes locked on each other, her staring into his oaky rich brown, him her mercurial grayish green. "Don't look back to see, '' opined Fogherty as they kissed, the taste of their drinks mingling into a sublime honey that only furthered their apparent lusts.

They were back in her hotel, walking down the cavernous hallway. She giggled, noting how every hotel she had ever been in had absurdly large halls, and she could not figure out why. He might have answered something about preparing for numerous bodies, but his mind was preoccupied with the shapes hers made as she walked. He had always noticed how curvy she was, but never to such an explicit degree. She had found her room and asked him to open it with her key. He obliged, unaware that this was an excuse for her to see his forearm, covered in black hair with defined musculature. As soon as he had opened the door, she lunged at him, her tongue searching for his while giddy at the prospect of what was about to happen.

The door closed behind them, and they went about their new work. His tongue matched hers, while his hands searched her waist for her underwear. Her hands kept his face closer to hers, their lips connected as much as she could maintain considering their height difference. He found the constricting article and removed it, leaning down just enough where his face never left the vicinity of hers, but inevitably getting on one knee so she could step over the underwear. On his way up, he could not help but lock her in his arms, her legs dangling in the air, as he positioned them both towards the bed. He let gravity do the work of putting them on the bed, his body too busy to account for that task. They continued to kiss as his hands began to resume their search for something. Her breasts? Not quite, though the surprise metal bar in her left nipple certainly would come as a treat for later. Her torso? Not quite, although he noted the smoothness of her skin, and she the firm but delicate touch of his textured hands. Finally, they found their mark, her cunt, as his fingers began to stroke her lower lips. She moved one of her hands away from keeping his face to hers to guide his hand to her preferred motions. She guided his thumb to her clit and began to insert his middle and ring fingers into her. She let out audible moans as he rubbed her clit and progressively inserted his fingers deeper into her with each retraction and insertion.

Soon she felt his kisses descend, each kiss a gentle yet pertinent reminder of what he was about to do. Soon, he was looking directly at her from below her waist, her arms pushing her to follow his disappearing head along her body until his head was level with her pelvis. His face glowed with a mischievous smile, puckish charm glowing from his eyes as they looked away from her eyes to her cunt. It was as beautiful as any he had seen, with her inner labia slightly past her outer one, giving the impression of tulip petals about to blossom from their leaves. He asked her to tell him what she wanted. As a response, she moved her hand from his cheek to the back of his hair, grabbing as much hair as she could, and pressing his head into her. He immediately set to work with his tongue and lips, one hand rubbing the top of her thigh, the other groping her breast, rubbing her piercing and nipple in the same motion as he did her clit.

His kisses became increasingly forceful and wild, his tongue lapping and licking inside her walls further and further into her. She played with his hair while she arched her back at each kiss, each lick another in a long overdue list of wants she had imagined. Between the kissing, the fingering, and the cunnilingus, it had been well over thirty minutes, and he was certain they were both ready for what was next. He kissed her cunt one last time before gliding across her body towards her face, kissing her with her juices still on his tongue. She tasted savory, like honey, she thought to herself but did not say for fear of spoiling the mood. He stood up and released his cock from his pants, a handsome prick with a prominent head and smooth shaft. As he positioned himself to guide it inside her, she moved forward unto her stomach and took the cock into her mouth. She sucked on it briefly, masturbating as she went along before she felt his strong hands on either side of her head, a low-toned command emanating from him to swallow it before he pushed it into her throat. She could feel it grow larger and harder in her mouth, which made both her orifices moist at the thought of its presence inside them. Soon it was larger than her mouth could handle, so she told him it was time to fuck her. She told him to fuck her until she had cum, and he said, "As you wish."

He entered her gently, slowly at first, not plunging too deeply into her, hesitation born out of wanting to make sure she had been fully opened before he would truly thrust into her. Soon she could feel herself loosen, so ushered him to pump further, which he obliged. Soon, she could feel his head plunge into her furthest chasm, just shy of her cervix wall, as his thumb speedily stroked her clit, his other hand placed so his other thumb was in her mouth. As they progressed, they began to lose themselves to the motions, speech becoming impossible beyond grunts and moans, giggled squeals, and hushed profanities. This proceeded in rhythmic animalistic fashion until they both felt close when she declared that she was about to cum. He should not stop; he would not stop if he loved her. He was of service in this moment, a deeply seeded need of his from his Southern rearing. He obeyed as best he could, and he felt her quivering from the release he had helped her experience. Her moans turned into gasps of rapture, her raspy voice echoing through the room, as he continued to fill her, even as he could feel new juices mingle with what had been there before. She had long since wrapped her legs around his waist, and only now did she loosen that grip. He was nearing his finish, and he was about to pull out when he said his climax was coming. That is when she tightened her calves around him and repeated her kegels, glaring up at him as an order to finish inside her. He did, a shuddering sensation hit both as his muscles rippled from the impact, and she could feel his pent-up energies expel into her. For that moment, Heaven was on earth.

He immediately began to worry, as she had failed to mention her infertility. She assured him he was fine, as neither were in the position to pursue parenthood at this stage in their lives. Once he had calmed down, he lay next to her, both dripping in sweat, leaking ejaculate from their genitals, and vulnerable in a way they had long since desired for the other to be. Yet they both felt suddenly timid like the act had somehow made them less connected. They were less honest with each other about how they were feeling, both becoming neurotic towards how they responded to the other. They were aware of what was happening but could not do anything to stop it. After a sleepless night, they both went their separate ways, him back to his apartment, her into the hotel shower, both cleaned up for the reunion where they would awkwardly encounter each other amongst peers, many of whom stated they would have made a wonderful couple back in undergrad, the irony not lost on them.

She still contacts him when she wants a second opinion, and he is more than happy to oblige, but there is no more sharing of personal histories. As much as it could be, the relationship became professional, as two colleagues who respected each other's work but did not think of each other outside of the office. Shortly after, she would pursue another woman who reminded her of Sofia Coppola, chic and distant but so tempting, whereas he met a woman who had enjoyed his paper on the literary merits of Jacques Tati's films as "gentle satires." They would never mention how they had slept with their correspondent for fear of paranoia in their partner, and beyond vague sense memories they functionally did. To this day, no one can quite understand the strange dynamic between these two, who were only in school for one year together, but seemingly carried some form of friendship over a decade's time. Still, in their weaker moments, they remember the perfect moment, each staring into the other's eyes, mid-climax, finding the divine briefly in each other, in an unforgettable moment of bliss.

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