It all started when I turned into a girl to save the world.
Or, no, actually, it started the first time I accidentally tripped and my lips landed on John Marcone’s in the back seat of his limo at three in the morning.
Except that isn’t right, either. It goes back further. Really far, actually.
I had this – it’s not a fantasy, is the thing. Sexual fantasies are usually more personal, and the whole point of this one was that it wasn’t. It’s just something that was in my head as far back as I can remember, like it had grown there. I’m not really a big fan of masturbation, but on those occasions I was desperate enough, it didn’t matter what I started thinking about, eventually I would come back to that one little thought. And it would get me off like that.
It was impersonal. It wasn’t about Elaine or Susan or Luccio. No one I’d ever slept with or even thought about sleeping with. And it wasn’t about me.
It was just two people, having sex. A man and a woman, I mean, obviously. And they were sort of – well, actually, it’s more that he was, you know, kind of rough. He’d pound into her until she screamed, pull her hair, smack her ass. And he’d say things to her, call her names. Not nice names.
None of it was nice. None of it was the sort of thing good guys do to their girlfriends.
It freaked me out. It was like a little landmine of shame, waiting there to catch me if I wasn’t careful. I mean, I didn’t want to do those things. I really didn’t. I used to check myself sometimes when I was in bed with someone. Susan and I would be kissing, working each other up nice and slow, and I’d think, okay, Harry, do you want to push her face into the pillows and spank her? And I didn’t. Which was good, because aside from anything else, I’m sure Susan wouldn’t have wanted me to. I mean, who would?
Except for the woman in my head. She wanted it. She begged for it. She loved it.
I didn’t understand it, but it got me off. So it freaked me out, yeah.
Fast forward to Marcone. Speaking of things that get me off even though I don’t understand them.
To shorthand, let’s just say I had a temporary psychotic break and made out with him in a three a.m. post adrenaline haze of exhaustion. Once! Or so I thought. I got out of there as soon as I regained my senses enough to remember whose tongue was in my mouth and whose hands were sliding up the back of my shirt. The whole thing was a shock, let me tell you, but I chalked it up to nerves and sleep deprivation and wrote the whole thing off.
Except then it happened again. This time against his office door, with my traitorous body sliding down to just the right height to oblige him, and his thigh pressing between mine. And then again outside of Mac’s, right up against a streetlight like a couple of teenagers. It was like we got within ten feet of each other and I went insane. It was not okay.
Also, he started following me around like a lost puppy. A creepy, well-armed puppy. I went out for a beer, he just happened to be driving by when I wanted to go home again. I had lunch with Ivy, he showed up ten minutes in with an urgent question for her, and why yes, he’d love to stay, thank you, how lucky we hadn’t ordered yet.
When I spotted him at my regular Safeway, glaring disapprovingly at a stand of wilted greens, I lost it.
“Okay!” I said, stomping over. “This has got to stop.”
“I agree,” Marcone said. “This level of pesticide use is not acceptable in a long-term, sustainable agricultural food production system.”
He was wearing jeans and a leather jacket; I resisted the urge to grab him by the collar and shake him until he rang like a bell. “Tell me this,” I said, fed up and sarcastic. “If I actually put out, will you drop me and start going out with the cheer captain? Because I’ve tried everything else here.”
He considered this. “I don’t know,” he said. “But I promise not to write any limericks about you on any bathroom walls, if that’s a concern.”
I don’t know how it happened. I swear to God I was going to punch him. Instead, I did him in the back seat of his car in the alley behind the store. We rubbed off against each other just like that, neither of us even getting our zippers down. It . . . really didn’t seem to send the message I’d intended.
He didn’t move on to someone shinier. Or write about me on any bathroom walls, so at least there was that.
Instead, we did it again. And again. And suddenly it was a regular thing. Have a bad day? No problem, just go find Marcone and we would jerk each other off. Have a great day? Even better. Go find Marcone and we would jerk each other off.
I didn’t understand why his hands were so much better than mine, but they were. He seemed to be enjoying himself, too. And sometimes, when he had me braced up against a wall and he was jerking me tight and slow, I’d squeeze my eyes shut and I’d get a flash, a memo from the swamps of my subconscious: the woman on her hands and knees, the man behind her giving it to her so hard, so inconsiderate and careless that she couldn’t hold herself up anymore. And then I’d come in Marcone’s hands with a bullet.
Talk about getting some freaky with your freaky. But it wasn’t . . . we weren’t . . . what we were doing wasn’t about us. It was just stress relief, something like that.
So then Mother Summer and Mother Winter disappeared, Mab and Titania lost what little remained of their sanity, the world tried to shake itself apart, and I got turned into a girl. So did Fix, at least. Me and him – well, her – and Lily and Maeve teamed up to stop the apocalypse, and wasn’t that a barrel of laughs. We had to go deep into faerie, deeper than the courts, deeper than anyone had gone in recorded memory. Down into the old faerie magic, which was apparently so alien and weird that it didn’t recognize any sort of male power.
So the queens that were . . . weren’t’, the queens that are were having nervous breakdowns, and it was left to the queens that will be to deal. And the queens that just fucking shouldn’t have, as Fix and I decided to call ourselves.
Cue a lot of intercourt bitching, more walking than in the entire Lord of the Rings trilogy, and about fifteen minutes of crazy adrenaline action, and it was all over.
I slept for sixteen hours when I got home. Only when I woke up did it occur to me that hey, I’d never asked Lily exactly how I was supposed to turn back into a man again. There were other things on my mind at the time, okay?
“You’ll have to wait it out,” she said when I finally got a hold of her.
“Of course I will,” I said, groaning. “How long? Couple days?”
“Weeks, probably,” Lily said. “Think of it as a character-building experience.” She paused. “Or you could do what Fix is doing and go act out a live action lesbian fantasy.”
I hung up on her, sulked for an hour, then got on with life. Being a woman wasn’t all that inconvenient, once I got some clothes that fit. I didn’t have any open cases, and my next new client just assumed Harry was short for Harriet. That was weird; I wanted to explain how I was a man, no really, wait come back I’m not crazy. Obviously I didn’t try that.
Murphy thought it was a great learning experience for me. That was close enough to what Lily had said to make me wonder what exactly they meant by it. I never figured that out. Thomas thought it was funny, Molly thought it was cool, Mouse and Mister didn’t care since I could still operate a can opener.
Marcone never even crossed my mind. At least, not until he slipped quietly into line behind me at Starbucks one afternoon.
Have a bad day? No problem, just go find Marcone and we would jerk each other off. Have a great day? Even better. Go find Marcone and we would jerk each other off.
:laughs self sick:
Oh, I love the idea that older earth magic only recognizes women. That's kind of genius!
Not that this entire thing is not insanely hot and perfectly characterized, but my favourite part may actually be the perfect banter of:
“Okay!” I said, stomping over. “This has got to stop.”
“I agree,” Marcone said. “This level of pesticide use is not acceptable in a long-term, sustainable agricultural food production system.”
He was wearing jeans and a leather jacket; I resisted the urge to grab him by the collar and shake him until he rang like a bell. “Tell me this,” I said, fed up and sarcastic. “If I actually put out, will you drop me and start going out with the cheer captain? Because I’ve tried everything else here.”
He considered this. “I don’t know,” he said. “But I promise not to write any limericks about you on any bathroom walls, if that’s a concern.”
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Fille: That Kind of Girl (1/?)
It all started when I turned into a girl to save the world.
Or, no, actually, it started the first time I accidentally tripped and my lips landed on John Marcone’s in the back seat of his limo at three in the morning.
Except that isn’t right, either. It goes back further. Really far, actually.
I had this – it’s not a fantasy, is the thing. Sexual fantasies are usually more personal, and the whole point of this one was that it wasn’t. It’s just something that was in my head as far back as I can remember, like it had grown there. I’m not really a big fan of masturbation, but on those occasions I was desperate enough, it didn’t matter what I started thinking about, eventually I would come back to that one little thought. And it would get me off like that.
It was impersonal. It wasn’t about Elaine or Susan or Luccio. No one I’d ever slept with or even thought about sleeping with. And it wasn’t about me.
It was just two people, having sex. A man and a woman, I mean, obviously. And they were sort of – well, actually, it’s more that he was, you know, kind of rough. He’d pound into her until she screamed, pull her hair, smack her ass. And he’d say things to her, call her names. Not nice names.
None of it was nice. None of it was the sort of thing good guys do to their girlfriends.
It freaked me out. It was like a little landmine of shame, waiting there to catch me if I wasn’t careful. I mean, I didn’t want to do those things. I really didn’t. I used to check myself sometimes when I was in bed with someone. Susan and I would be kissing, working each other up nice and slow, and I’d think, okay, Harry, do you want to push her face into the pillows and spank her? And I didn’t. Which was good, because aside from anything else, I’m sure Susan wouldn’t have wanted me to. I mean, who would?
Except for the woman in my head. She wanted it. She begged for it. She loved it.
I didn’t understand it, but it got me off. So it freaked me out, yeah.
Fast forward to Marcone. Speaking of things that get me off even though I don’t understand them.
To shorthand, let’s just say I had a temporary psychotic break and made out with him in a three a.m. post adrenaline haze of exhaustion. Once! Or so I thought. I got out of there as soon as I regained my senses enough to remember whose tongue was in my mouth and whose hands were sliding up the back of my shirt. The whole thing was a shock, let me tell you, but I chalked it up to nerves and sleep deprivation and wrote the whole thing off.
Except then it happened again. This time against his office door, with my traitorous body sliding down to just the right height to oblige him, and his thigh pressing between mine. And then again outside of Mac’s, right up against a streetlight like a couple of teenagers. It was like we got within ten feet of each other and I went insane. It was not okay.
Also, he started following me around like a lost puppy. A creepy, well-armed puppy. I went out for a beer, he just happened to be driving by when I wanted to go home again. I had lunch with Ivy, he showed up ten minutes in with an urgent question for her, and why yes, he’d love to stay, thank you, how lucky we hadn’t ordered yet.
When I spotted him at my regular Safeway, glaring disapprovingly at a stand of wilted greens, I lost it.
“Okay!” I said, stomping over. “This has got to stop.”
“I agree,” Marcone said. “This level of pesticide use is not acceptable in a long-term, sustainable agricultural food production system.”
He was wearing jeans and a leather jacket; I resisted the urge to grab him by the collar and shake him until he rang like a bell. “Tell me this,” I said, fed up and sarcastic. “If I actually put out, will you drop me and start going out with the cheer captain? Because I’ve tried everything else here.”
He considered this. “I don’t know,” he said. “But I promise not to write any limericks about you on any bathroom walls, if that’s a concern.”
I don’t know how it happened. I swear to God I was going to punch him. Instead, I did him in the back seat of his car in the alley behind the store. We rubbed off against each other just like that, neither of us even getting our zippers down. It . . . really didn’t seem to send the message I’d intended.
He didn’t move on to someone shinier. Or write about me on any bathroom walls, so at least there was that.
Instead, we did it again. And again. And suddenly it was a regular thing. Have a bad day? No problem, just go find Marcone and we would jerk each other off. Have a great day? Even better. Go find Marcone and we would jerk each other off.
I didn’t understand why his hands were so much better than mine, but they were. He seemed to be enjoying himself, too. And sometimes, when he had me braced up against a wall and he was jerking me tight and slow, I’d squeeze my eyes shut and I’d get a flash, a memo from the swamps of my subconscious: the woman on her hands and knees, the man behind her giving it to her so hard, so inconsiderate and careless that she couldn’t hold herself up anymore. And then I’d come in Marcone’s hands with a bullet.
Talk about getting some freaky with your freaky. But it wasn’t . . . we weren’t . . . what we were doing wasn’t about us. It was just stress relief, something like that.
So then Mother Summer and Mother Winter disappeared, Mab and Titania lost what little remained of their sanity, the world tried to shake itself apart, and I got turned into a girl. So did Fix, at least. Me and him – well, her – and Lily and Maeve teamed up to stop the apocalypse, and wasn’t that a barrel of laughs. We had to go deep into faerie, deeper than the courts, deeper than anyone had gone in recorded memory. Down into the old faerie magic, which was apparently so alien and weird that it didn’t recognize any sort of male power.
So the queens that were . . . weren’t’, the queens that are were having nervous breakdowns, and it was left to the queens that will be to deal. And the queens that just fucking shouldn’t have, as Fix and I decided to call ourselves.
Cue a lot of intercourt bitching, more walking than in the entire Lord of the Rings trilogy, and about fifteen minutes of crazy adrenaline action, and it was all over.
I slept for sixteen hours when I got home. Only when I woke up did it occur to me that hey, I’d never asked Lily exactly how I was supposed to turn back into a man again. There were other things on my mind at the time, okay?
“You’ll have to wait it out,” she said when I finally got a hold of her.
“Of course I will,” I said, groaning. “How long? Couple days?”
“Weeks, probably,” Lily said. “Think of it as a character-building experience.” She paused. “Or you could do what Fix is doing and go act out a live action lesbian fantasy.”
I hung up on her, sulked for an hour, then got on with life. Being a woman wasn’t all that inconvenient, once I got some clothes that fit. I didn’t have any open cases, and my next new client just assumed Harry was short for Harriet. That was weird; I wanted to explain how I was a man, no really, wait come back I’m not crazy. Obviously I didn’t try that.
Murphy thought it was a great learning experience for me. That was close enough to what Lily had said to make me wonder what exactly they meant by it. I never figured that out. Thomas thought it was funny, Molly thought it was cool, Mouse and Mister didn’t care since I could still operate a can opener.
Marcone never even crossed my mind. At least, not until he slipped quietly into line behind me at Starbucks one afternoon.
Re: Fille: That Kind of Girl (1/?)
(Anonymous) 2011-02-11 04:01 am (UTC)(link)Re: Fille: That Kind of Girl (1/?)
(Anonymous) 2011-02-11 04:59 am (UTC)(link):D! I love all of your Marcone dialogue. And also this fic so far. If I didn't need to go to sleep, I would be restlessly refreshing all night.
Re: Fille: That Kind of Girl (1/?)
:laughs self sick:
Oh, I love the idea that older earth magic only recognizes women. That's kind of genius!
Re: Fille: That Kind of Girl (1/?)
Re: Fille: That Kind of Girl (1/?)
“Okay!” I said, stomping over. “This has got to stop.”
“I agree,” Marcone said. “This level of pesticide use is not acceptable in a long-term, sustainable agricultural food production system.”
He was wearing jeans and a leather jacket; I resisted the urge to grab him by the collar and shake him until he rang like a bell. “Tell me this,” I said, fed up and sarcastic. “If I actually put out, will you drop me and start going out with the cheer captain? Because I’ve tried everything else here.”
He considered this. “I don’t know,” he said. “But I promise not to write any limericks about you on any bathroom walls, if that’s a concern.”
PESTICIDE USE.