Valentine's Day

Okay so this is my Max-esque piece, really really overdue. I tried my best to work with the constraints of both sexualness and "working relationships", the latter of which proving to be the most difficult. Tried to capture the specificity of language that Max uses, as well as the block paragraphs without separation for dialogue. It's unedited save for searching for spelling and grammatical errors, although Max did say that he doesn't edit either so I guess that holds true to the spirit of his writing as well :P I dunno. Tell me what you think.



His hands were sweaty and he rubbed them on his pants. He felt a strange texture in the give of the material, and for one second thought it was dried cum before noticing with relief that it was only an old food stain. A second more and he thought, Damn. I don’t want to get laid on Valentine’s Day with a food stain on my jeans.

He wiped his hands one more time and pulled the yellow-gray cord to make the bus stop. It veered to the corner and hurled fellow commuters onto each other. The carnations he was holding fell and were crushed between his knees and a three or four year old kid whose sex was indistinguishable due to ripples of snowsuit fat. The kid started crying. He snatched the flowers from the ground and jumped off the bus before an angry mother could glare at him and make him feel guilty for both the facts that he had detonated her child and that some girl was going to get that bouquet while she hadn’t even gotten a good fuck since said child was born.

Outside, he started walking the six frigid blocks to her house. His fingers slid on the plastic wrap of the bouquet, like lubricant on a condom, and he tried to arrange it so it looked less flattened. He only managed to decapitate a few stems by the time he reached her door, and decided to throw the broken pieces among the ferns fanning around the flowers and ring her doorbell instead of doing any more damage.

In the brief seconds that it took for her to respond, he was able to hear some muffled shouts from inside the house without him processing what it meant. Then she’d opened the door and squeezed outside so quickly that he only heard the furious “ – AND STICK SHIT UNDER YOUR SKIN – !” before she was pulling it shut and kissing him hello.

“Sister got a tattoo,” she said breathlessly, pulling a few strands of hair out of her mouth that had got caught in the saliva crossfire of their kiss. “Let’s not go inside.”

He kissed her again, unable to resist the warmth of her hot lips in the February air. “Fine by me,” he said, although secretly he wished that her parents weren’t so anal that they’d have a shit fit about tattooing. It was freezing outside.

“Those for me?” She was looking at the flowers with the grin that made her chin stick out and her nose wrinkle. He held out the battered bouquet to her. “Happy Valentine’s Day, mon amour.” She took them and pushed her face into the petals to smell.

They walked for a while to a nearby industrial park that was more like an industrial patch, but still big enough that they were walking in a semi-wooded and entirely deserted area. No one would be outside today in their right minds. He pulled her closer to him as they passed out of view completely from the world.

“Fuck it’s cold,” she said. She stuck the flowers stem-first into a tall snow bank. “Mind if I put these here?” “Unacceptable,” he told her and pushed her into the snow bank too. “Jerk!” she giggled and reached out and grabbed his pants pocket, pulling him on top of her. Their jackets crunched against each other and he pressed his mouth to the tip of her nose, to her cheeks, to her mouth, to her neck. “I bet I can make you warmer,” he said. “You think you’re such hot shit,” she laughed, but slipped her hands into his back pockets and pulled his ass so he pressed close and hard against her body. She curled one of her legs around his and his hand unzipped her jacket to feel her breast. He loved her breasts, and he would tell her so – earning him either a good smack or a good fuck. He told her often.

“Mmmmcold,” she mumbled around his tongue, and he unzipped his own jacket so they could share the warmth of his rapidly heating body.

She moved her mouth across his face to the side of his head where she proceeded to play with his ear with her tongue. Despite the freezing weather and the snow bank they were sinking deeper and deeper into, he felt his penis hardening and he knew that she felt it pressing against her thigh. His hand traveled from her breast to her pants, which he unbuttoned so that his fingers could slide along her vulva and into her vagina. She shuddered immediately and screeched, “Holy fuck your fingers are freezing! Just fuck me don’t touch me!” She shivered again and they laughed. She undid his belt and the zipper of his jeans and wrapped her fingers around his cock. “FUCK YOUR HANDS ARE EVEN COLDER!!” he yelled, and she kissed his cheek. “Now we’re even. Now hurry up my ass is numb!” “Well now I don’t know if I want to give you that satisfaction.” “Oh please,” she sighed, “you may as well have put a card on those flowers that said ‘Happy Valentine’s Day, from the guy who’s desperate to get laid’.” “I’ll have you know that I picked those flowers individually and especially for you!” “I can see that. You picked the tops right off the stems.” “I thought they looked better that way.” “You’re weird.” “You’re weird too. That’s why I thought you’d like decapitated flowers.”

She laughed and he penetrated her, forcing her to gasp a cloud of moist condensation into the air. She wrapped her other leg around him and slid her hands into his back pockets again so she could pull him even closer to her during each of his thrusts. Ten minutes of pelvic pushing left them panting great white misty breaths while their respective muscles contracted in orgasm. He slid out of her and they quickly did up their pants so their sex fluids wouldn’t freeze.

“My ass is still numb,” she told him. “And now I can’t feel my legs either.” “You complain too much,” he said, and kissed her forehead. She smiled and looked down, holding his hand and making him walk briskly back to civilization.

“You have ice cream on your pants,” she observed. “What?” “Ice cream.” She pointed. “We had ice cream last summer and I spilled some on your leg because it was over thirty degrees and it melted in like five seconds.” “Oh yeah,” he said, although he didn’t actually remember and knew for a fact that he’d (probably) washed those pants ages ago. But it was Valentine’s Day. She could be sentimental if she wanted.

They headed out of the trees, not noticing that the carnations had been left behind in the snow bank next to the impression of their bodies.