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