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fic: "101 (and not Dalmatians)" 1/1, Cyclops [adult] S/J

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  • Minisinoo
    101 (AND NOT DALMATIANS) Minisinoo http://www.greymalkinlane.com/min/101.html (w/ pretty picture) Summary: Scott, on sex, and men, and relationships. And
    Message 1 of 1 , Oct 9, 2001
      (w/ pretty picture)

      Summary: Scott, on sex, and men, and relationships. And Romance
      novels. c. 4950 words

      Warning: Given that summary, do I *really* need to say "adult"?

      Notes: This story was lost in my fanfic file for months; I
      completely forgot that I'd written 3/4s of it and never finished. In
      the meantime, I wrote "Sleepy Dragon" which has similar themes,
      albeit from Jean's POV. I'm actually rather glad that I ran across
      this, as I've written too much unhappy Scott fiction lately. It's
      for all the S/J fans out there. See, I CAN make Scott and Jean

      That said, please don't read this if you're easily offended. It
      isn't � to my mind � crude (I detest crude), but it is blunt and one
      person's idea of blunt may constitute 'crude' to another. And if it
      bothers you to think the Fearless Leader would discuss his sex drive,
      bail now. Don't read this, either, if you're a great fan of genre
      Romance � unless you have a sense of humor about it all. Last, I owe
      a debt of gratitude to some close male friends who've been open and
      honest about men and sex down through the years. Everything
      male-gender related that Scott says, I've heard come out of the mouth
      of at least one male of the species � if not necessarily with the
      same biting humor. ;> [Movieverse, yeah]

      Dedicated to my best friend . . . my husband of 15 years. :-)


      The way I learned about women -� really learned something useful �-
      was from my mother's Romance novels. Genre Romance, capital-R, as
      in Harlequin, Silhouette, and all the other publishing lines � books
      that authors turn out four a year to a particular formula for big
      paychecks because the things sell like mad. Some of them are even
      penned by men writing under a female pseudonym *because* they sell,
      and they're so damn predictable that anyone can do it. I should
      probably be ashamed to admit that I ever touched one, much less that
      I learned anything useful from one, but it's true. What I learned,
      though, isn't what you'd think.

      Romance novels come in flavors like ice cream. We have the
      strawberry romantic with purple-pink prose. Everything is described
      in sugarcoated allusion, some of which is damn funny �- lots of
      heaving breasts and throbbing manhoods. I always thought my
      'manhood' was my gender identity, not what hung between my legs.
      What hangs between my legs is a cock, dick, or penis, depending on
      how polite I'm feeling and what state of arousal I'm in. But it's
      not only what these novels call certain anatomical parts, but *how*
      they describe actions that cracks me up. "He devoured her mouth,"
      for instance. That always makes me want to ask, "Does he have
      ketchup or mustard with that?"

      Okay, so I'm an iconoclast. Sue me.

      Strawberry-gag flavors aside, we also have the Romance variety that
      gets a bit more daring: chocolate vanilla swirl. "He withdrew his
      shaft and thrust into her again ... " A descriptive euphemism
      instead of an allusive one. And last, we have the mocha-espresso
      graphic novels (and why is chocolate always associated with sin,
      anyway?), which amounts to a woman's version of Penthouse Letters.
      And here, at last, we find plain Anglo-Saxon English: cock. Not
      that the man who has one acts any more like a real guy, but (as I
      learned later) that's not really the point. Of course male porn has
      its own set of sex clich�s, too, they just tend to be different
      clich�s. You do not 'eat someone out.' That also makes me think of
      ketchup and mustard, but women smell more like day-old tuna (sorry,
      it's true), which requires mayonnaise and pickles. And it's *come*,
      dammit, not cum. Misspelling isn't erotic -� it's misspelling.

      That's my problem, of course. The clich�s make me laugh; they don't
      turn me on. I'm like any other guy; I have a direct connection
      between my eyes and my penis. Visual cues turn me on far more than
      verbal ones, even if I don't necessarily want them to: one of my
      female students in a tight blouse can be as distracting as hell.
      Blame my wiring.

      Women really have no clue what a bitch testosterone is.

      But every guy has to decide, preferably sooner rather than later,
      which head he's going to think with, and I decided a long time ago
      that it wouldn't be the one in my pants. I am not my hormones even
      if, at sixteen, it sure felt that way.

      In any case, I certainly didn't learn about sex from my mother's
      Romance novels. I had better sources for that, ranging from my
      father's terse and antiseptic explanations, to the surprisingly frank
      priest who'd directed our parish youth group (and where he'd gotten
      the experience, he never confessed), to furtive fumblings under the
      bleachers at football games or in the choir loft on Sunday nights
      after youth group. I still remember the first time I discovered that
      breasts are soft and squishy. Don't laugh; it's not self-evident. I
      didn't have a sister, certainly didn't remember nursing, and sure as
      hell don't have a pair of my own. How was I to know?

      I was fourteen, a freshman, and had been going with the same girl for
      about three months -� Teresa Diaz. She had beautiful black hair and
      skin like cinnamon. Holding hands was exciting. Kissing was heaven.
      But I'd only just worked up nerve to try sticking my tongue in her
      mouth. Neither of us knew what on earth we were doing, and it was
      more shocking than erotic the first time. I recall thinking, "Okay,
      my tongue's in here; now what? And am I supposed to swallow her

      See, I was never meant to write Romance. There's nothing romantic
      about slobber.

      In any case, by my Night of Discovery, I'd figured out (more or less)
      what to do with my tongue, and I was ready to try my luck with my
      hands. It was homecoming and I'd taken Teresa to the game; she wore
      a tight sweater and I spent half the night looking at her chest when
      she wasn't looking at me -� and was really glad that I had on loose
      pants. I finally got her to go walking around the track that circled
      the football field. "Parading," we called it. Parading usually
      ended under the bleachers, if you were lucky -� which I was. She
      liked me. And I liked her �- and not just because I was fourteen,
      horny, and curious. Being around her initiated the whole butterfly
      thing in my stomach, and she made me laugh, too. But it's way too
      easy for men (or boys) to separate love and sex, and that night, I
      was more interested in the latter, or as close as I could get. Which
      meant groping in the shadows under the bleachers and pretending there
      wasn't another couple thirty feet away, doing the same damn thing.

      So that's how I found out that breasts are soft, and she found out
      that erections are hard, and we never got much further than that.
      She was a good Catholic girl. But it was a revelation.

      So what *did* I learn from Romance novels? Three very important
      things. But before I continue, I suppose I should explain how I
      wound up reading them. I don't remember now why I picked up the
      first. Probably, I was bored, out of library books and looking for
      something I could laugh at -� and a little curious to see if there
      were any Naughty Bits. Which there were. (My mother tended to the
      mocha-espresso flavor, which might bother me if I stopped to think
      about it, but I steadfastly refuse to go there. She's my *mother*.)
      So I found the Naughty Bits by select skimming, read them, and about
      died laughing. But I confess I was young and ignorant and more
      inclined to be turned on, too, than I would be now. So I went
      looking for more. And I discovered that the Naughty Bits were
      usually in about the same place (making them easier to find if you
      just wanted to get down to business?), and I also found myself
      reading a little of the narrative around the Naught Bits, and then a
      little more . . . .

      I finally read one from cover to cover. It didn't take long, maybe
      one Saturday afternoon hiding in my room lest anyone discover what I
      was doing. My little brother Alex would never have let me live it
      down. But what fascinated me about it was the feeling of having
      turned a corner on a familiar street and wound up somewhere I had
      never traveled. Girls had been a rather nebulous category for me -�
      fascinating, but elusive to my comprehension. Not having a sister,
      and being raised in a staunchly Catholic and conservative family, I'd
      been force-fed the traditional male programming since the day I'd
      been born the eldest son and heir apparent to my father's Air Force
      career. Blue clothes, baseballs, Matchbox accessories, and
      action-figure-of-the-week. And I was happy with that. I enjoyed
      then, and still enjoy, fairly predictable male activities. I just no
      longer limit myself to them. But in any case, all that had
      translated to a lack of contact with girls beyond a few of the
      androgynous ones who liked dinosaurs, science class, and racing
      bicycles -� which was fine at nine, but when we all hit puberty,
      things got complicated. I couldn't look at them as 'just playmates'
      anymore, and I can still recall being fascinated when I first spotted
      the tell-tale outline of a bra strap under Alice Jensen's white
      Tyrannosaurus Rex t-shirt. I'd suddenly found myself wishing I could
      switch places with the dinosaur. And it was around the same age that
      I also found out my penis had an apparent life of its own. My father
      had once given me the cryptic advice of not wearing pants that were
      too tight, and not sitting with my legs crossed 'like a girl.' At
      twelve, I'd assumed he just didn't want me looking like a sissy. At
      fourteen, I understood. The less pressure on the nether regions, the
      less likely one was to have an awkward situation in public. Years
      later, Jean confessed to me that when she'd been fourteen (with only
      an elder sister about), she wouldn't have been able to tell if a guy
      had an erection . . . and probably wouldn't have thought to look in
      the first place. Yet in the grips of the
      embarrassing-but-inevitable, you're certain that everyone notices.

      In any case, at fourteen, fifteen, and sixteen, I wasn't the only boy
      confused by the romantic opposition (which is how girls felt to us at
      that point), but I must have been born a strategist. The first step
      to winning a battle is to out-think your opponent, and that means you
      must understand her. Which is, I know now, a very male way of
      thinking about it. But that was part of what I learned. And Romance
      novels became my chief sources of information. I *studied* them.
      Very logically. I made outlines of the plot patterns, and character
      sketches of the various hero and heroine types, and even dissected
      how the heroes wooed and won the heroines in the hopes that I could
      figure out what to say, in order to get girls into bed.

      And the conclusion I finally came to was that I was going about it
      all the wrong way. But I didn't reach that conclusion from my
      outlines. I came to it by the simple expedient of asking a classmate
      in the lunchroom why she read the damn things. Of course, I didn't
      admit that *I'd* read any. "They're not realistic," I told her.
      "The guys in there are not real guys!"

      She'd looked at me, blinked, and replied, "Of course they're not. I
      read �em to get *away* from real guys."

      Sometimes revelation sneaks up and taps you on the shoulder,
      sometimes it curls around your feet -� and sometimes it just wacks
      you over the head.

      After that, I went back and read some of the books again and tried to
      look *through* the portrayals of the heroes (or the heroines for that
      matter) to understand the mind on the other side. I stopped looking
      for a series of tips and clues and paint-by-number instructions for
      getting some. Despite my ostensible goal, my initial foray into the
      study of Romance novels hadn't been to understand girls, but to
      figure out how to get what I wanted out of them. Now, I began to
      see them as books that revealed what they wanted out of *me*. More
      or less. Which meant that I stopped looking at it all as potential
      battle strategy. And *that* was the first thing that Romance novels
      taught me: that I was trying to learn about women in all the wrong
      ways, and for all the wrong reasons. Did I want to be the kind of
      guy who girls read Romance novels to get away from? I know I still
      wind up filling that bill some days, but hopefully it's only a
      temporary loss of my mind.

      The second thing that Romance novels taught me was that women aren't
      so alien as I sometimes thought. We're all human, and at the root of
      things, the differences one notices depend on where one draws the
      lines. I have more in common with Jean than I have with Logan, but
      what I share with Jean is very different from what I share with
      Ororo. And Jean and Ororo have little in common beyond their
      commitment to the team and to our kids. So categories are what you
      choose to make them, and gender is just one arbitrary division. That
      doesn't mean it's not based on very real, and biologically-motivated,
      differences, but it is only one way of looking at people.

      The third and last thing I learned from Romance novels is that they
      tend to describe sexual firsts, or at least something unusual. I
      guess that makes sense -� you describe the significant, not the
      ordinary. But that's misleading, leaving us with warped notions of
      what sex is like most of the time. I had some
      bordering-on-disastrous sexual experiences in high school and, later,
      in college, and they happened because of unreasonable expectations.
      Sex is rarely apocalyptic, even -� maybe *especially* -� the first
      time. You don't know each other's preferences and you're as
      self-conscious as hell, worried about everything. If it weren't for
      the infamous fire-of-desire, I don't think I'd have tried for two
      with most of the women I've slept with. My first times were all
      either unmemorable (aside from it being the first) or an hysterical
      muddle for some reason -� and that includes the first time with Jean.
      I fell off the backseat of the car on my ass, for pete's sake. We
      were able to laugh about it at the time . . . because we were friends
      already. And it ended up being pretty good sex, but the situation
      had still been as funny as hell and it was almost a year before we
      had anything approaching *great* sex.

      You can't have great sex without trust �- and that takes time to
      build, even if you're friends going in. You can't worry about how
      you look in the throes of passion, or about of what's coming out of
      your mouth when you're a feather's breath from orgasm, or whether
      something you try might offend your partner to the point of driving
      her off. I've only had two relationships that got to that level of
      trust, and but one that was open enough to yield a sexual experience
      I might truly call apocalyptic.

      And it wasn't a 'first' of anything.

      It was one hundred and one, in fact -� the hundred and first time
      that Jean and I had sex. Yes, I'd actually kept track. Not for any
      particular reason, just as one of those weird things you do like
      count ceiling tiles or paperclips. I started counting at eleven by
      putting a penny in a jar for every time we had sex. Of course, I had
      to decide if I'd count every time literally -� as in every orgasm -�
      or simply each encounter, and settled on each encounter. Honestly,
      though, once was typically enough and I think I can count on one hand
      the number of times we've had sex more than once in a day, and then
      it was usually once in the morning and once at night. At first, I
      worried that maybe I wasn't fully satisfying Jean and would push her
      for two, until she got pissed at me one night and kicked me off the
      bed. She told me that she was *not* multi-orgasmic, didn't feel a
      need to *be* multi-orgasmic -� regardless of what COSMO would have us
      believe -� and trying to make her come twice in as many hours just
      annoyed her. Her nipples tickled afterwards and she didn't want them

      The first of many lessons in honesty. And it's honesty that builds

      Lesson number two in honesty surprised me, and fundamentally altered
      my definition of 'sex.' Penetration hurt Jean. Of course I knew the
      first time usually hurt a woman, and even the second or third � but
      the fifteenth? The thirtieth? Jean wasn't a virgin when we first
      had sex, but she wasn't far off because she hadn't found it terribly
      pleasant. She might be tall -� taller than me, in fact, by half an
      inch -� but her vagina was narrow, and I was prone to premature
      ejaculation from too many rushed adolescent experiences . . . which a
      tight fit didn't help. By the time I got inside with all the stops
      and starts (it felt more like parking a car than anything juicy in
      those Romance novels), I was already too close to coming. Two or
      three thrusts and that was the end of that. So penetration continued
      to hurt her for months until it got to the point that I couldn't
      enjoy intercourse either. It's just not a turn-on to watch your
      lover wince. She'd clench her muscles in anticipation of pain, which
      just made it worse. We wound up doing everything but penetration for
      much of the time for our first nine months until she confided to me
      at one point that it might take having a baby to widen her passage
      before sex stopped being painful. That was not encouraging. But I
      loved her. I wasn't about to leave her for what, in the end, was
      really a small thing (no pun intended). So I enlarged my definition
      of 'sex,' and we worked at relaxing her enough until entering her no
      longer hurt. I still remember the night she eased herself down on me
      with a startled smile because there was no pain, and I didn't come as
      soon as I was inside. After that, things began to click.

      But that took *nine months*. That's the reality, not the fantasy.
      Not the Romance novel. Yet in the end, I don't think apocalyptic sex
      would have been possible without the honesty and trust that those
      nine months taught us.

      Number one hundred and one came at just over a year. We'd been
      engaged a while, and I'd been keeping track with my pennies � though
      I never told Jean that. She'd have hit me because she'd have thought
      I was objectifying her, or sex, or both. But I wasn't. I was just
      counting because I'm anal sometimes. And because I had been
      counting, and we'd passed the magic one hundred, it seemed like I
      ought to do something to make the next time special. She wouldn't
      have to know why. It was just for me, a marker of sorts. I'd never
      been with any woman long enough to reach fifty times, much less one
      hundred. I'd never wanted to be.

      So I devised something elaborate and romantic: made reservations for
      dinner, got a bottle of very good wine for afterwards, even had plans
      to seduce her in the Jacuzzi after most of the kids were in bed.
      That Jacuzzi was Jean's one requested indulgence at the mansion, and
      Ororo had backed her up on it. What is it about the X-chromosome and
      hot baths? In any case, we had a Jacuzzi now as common property, and
      even the boys liked it -� but there was a number-coded lock on the
      door because I'd put it there. And if people came to use it when the
      lock was tripped . . . well, they could draw their own conclusions.
      The kids knew all about the birds and the bees, and when you play
      Residence Hall Parents, it's hard to hide your private life. Nor was
      I foolish enough to assume they were abstaining; I sure as hell
      hadn't at that age. We do, in fact, run a sex education weekend once
      a year for new students. It tends to have them giggling at the
      outset, shocked about an hour into it, and talking honestly by Sunday
      afternoon. We'd simply laid down the law that there would be no
      shacking up, that opposite genders couldn't be in the same room with
      the door locked, and that they had to be back inside the mansion by a
      certain hour. But I'd be damned if I'd prowl the halls and check to
      see who was giggling in the closets. There's a point beyond which
      you have to let kids go and trust that they can act with a modicum of
      responsibility. That's my theory anyway. The guys know *precisely*
      what I'd do to anybody who got one of the girls pregnant. They also
      know they can get a condom from me if they need it, and I won't ask
      them questions except to tell them how to put it on if it's the first
      request. Most pregnancies that occur despite a condom are the fault
      of improper use, though the guy usually swears up and down that he
      knew what he was doing because we don't dare admit to a lack of
      knowledge in that department. So I tell the boys, and let them roll
      their eyes at me impatiently. And maybe one or two go away knowing
      more than they had before.

      In any case, and back to my seduction scenario, everything came to
      naught. 'The best laid plans of mice and men . . . .'

      It was in the early days of the X-Men. I think we'd gone on a
      half-dozen missions over the course of eight months, and most of
      those had amounted to collecting new mutants for the school. This
      time, on the very night I'd made all my plans, the professor called
      us together to send us after Sabretooth. We didn't know then who
      Sabretooth was; he hadn't yet joined Magneto. We simply had news of
      a 'Bigfoot' around the Minneapolis-St. Paul region, and the native
      people there, the Menominee and the Ojibway, were calling him a
      cannibal spirit who ate part of his prey and left the rest in various
      states of dismemberment. Native and non-native residents alike were
      terrified. The professor feared it was a mutant, and we could tell
      he was nervous of sending us after someone, or some*thing*, that so
      obviously was not a confused kid. "Be very, very careful," he'd
      warned us when we left.

      I almost lost Jean that night, which made me realize just how damn
      green we all were. If there hadn't been three of us, he'd have
      butchered us. As it was, he scratched me good and came within inches
      of taking off Jean's face. In a panic, I tore into him with an optic
      blast that should have killed him, and that was how we discovered he
      had regenerative capability. I think I'd call that fight a draw. He
      drove us off, tails between our legs, but there were no more reports
      of a Bigfoot in Minnesota after that.

      So we came home with me wounded and feeling like a failure as a
      leader, Jean shaken, and Ororo upset at the violence that we'd
      resorted to, just to get it out of the encounter alive. After
      debriefing, Jean patched me up and we found ourselves in the Jacuzzi
      anyway at three in the morning -� with the bottle of wine but no
      dinner. I'm not sure I could've eaten anything after what I'd seen
      of Sabretooth's victims anyway. I'd never witnessed death up close
      and bloody like that. Jean had taken me to the hot tub to make me
      relax, wounded or not, and between wine on an empty stomach, the hot
      water, and our adrenaline rush, we were lost fast. Sex began as an
      affirmation of life in the face of death �- or whatever psychobabble
      you want to hang on it. The plain fact was that I was as horny as
      hell and drunk. And I needed to fuck her to reassure myself that she
      was still with me. But even more, I needed to hold her in the circle
      of my arms, safe, and to feel myself contained in her body,
      surrounded and alive.

      That's where apocalyptic sex begins. It's not what you do or the
      elaborateness of your plans. It's the emotion behind it, the need,
      the ability to completely let go. It's about trust, at least for me.
      Appropriate reciprocal vulnerability. So we had mind-blowing sex on
      the steps of the hot tub and there was absolutely nothing unusual
      about it in terms of what we did, nothing we hadn't done three dozen
      times before except in the full release of our inhibitions. I didn't
      even worry about my eyes because she'd put my visor on me. She sat
      me on the steps, wrapped me up in her arms and settled down on top,
      held me inside her while we said a lot of quiet things about what we
      wanted in life, and needed, and dreamed about. I'd never have
      believed that I could hold a coherent conversation while I was inside
      Jean, but I did. And it felt right. Not rushed. Not strange. I'd
      asked her to marry me half a year before, but on that night, I think
      it finally came home to us both that we were a we *forever*. I
      married her in my soul and mind and heart. The rest is just a
      formality. I'll give her a real ceremony some day because I know she
      wants it, but it's no longer so high on our priority list.

      At some point we did finally shut up, or at least quit trying to be
      coherent. She started to move on me and let me play with her
      breasts, and our words turned into noise. It built very slow, and
      with the kind of relaxed abandon that's extremely hard for me to
      achieve. No performance anxiety, no concerns about hurting her -�
      either from the sex itself or with my eye-blasts. The tension
      residing within me since the battle coalesced in the pit of my belly
      and crawled down into my groin. I bloomed inside her from a content
      pleasure to an almost painful sensation. It didn't take long after
      that, sucking and licking bared, wet skin, making waves in the water,
      hands all over. At one point, I couldn't get enough pressure with
      her on top and pushed her up against the tub wall to rock hard into
      her, full focus of exquisite tension in six inches until my whole
      world shattered. She bit me when she came, the only time she's ever
      done that, and I shouted, which I never do, either. But I also don't
      usually feel like the top of my skull is about to fly off and every
      nerve in my body is burning. Her mind reached out to mine, driven by
      the explosion of orgasm, and we *fused*. Not Jean, not Scott, but
      some conglomerate Jean-Scott creature that had a power of its own,
      and a purpose that went beyond what we could achieve individually. I
      am more because she's with me, and I'd like to think she's more
      because she has me to support her. That mental link has never faded.
      The orgasm was gone in 30 seconds, maybe a minute, but the link
      remained. It's not a link by which I know what she's thinking, or
      can read her mind. It's just a presence, as if her body lies against
      me every second of the day. Unnerving at first, but wonderful.

      That's why I'm no longer in much of a hurry to get married. She
      lives in my head. I don't need a ring, on my hand or hers, to make
      us any more united. She gives me back to myself, makes me whole, and
      I do the same for her. Nothing turns me on more than to watch her
      work -� really work, completely unaware that a world exists outside
      her microscopes and data results. I think it's charming, and I don't
      need to hang on her, or be the center of her attention twenty-four
      hours a day because I'm already the center of her world, and she's
      mine. At day's end, sex or no sex, we curl up in bed together and
      fall asleep butt to butt. I need that. I never sleep well when
      she's gone.

      "And two shall be made one flesh." It's more than words, but there's
      no short cut to get there. Sex alone can't bring intimacy. It's
      just two sets of genitalia rubbing against each other with a slightly
      messy exchange of body fluids -� a little ridiculous when you think
      about it, but fun if there's caring, or frightening and humiliating
      if there isn't. It's almost never apocalyptic. But if the trust is
      there, and the vulnerability, then once in a blue moon, the
      apocalyptic happens, even when not making love to a telepath.

      But you've got to be together long enough to reach one hundred and
      one �- or three hundred and forty-seven, and counting.

      Feedback, PLEASE. I love feedback. :-)

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