Sugar Whore High

by Liz Maher

I fell in love with a man made entirely out of candy. It made perfect sense because I had a real sweet tooth and he had it all. He had golden hair spun from the finest whips of sugar, so fine it would blow with the wind. The hair was the first part of him I tasted--and after it happened I wished I had left him alone. A single strand of the sweetest whisper of sugar fell onto the pages of an open book he was reading. He rose to get a glass of water and I was left alone at the library table staring at it, a c curve. It stuck to my forefinger when I touched it and held it up to my eyes. I bit my lip and swallowed the saliva that was gathering and pooling in my mouth. My breath quickened and I hesitated realizing what a strange thing it was to want to put a strand of someone's hair on your tongue so badly. And before I thought better of it the taste of lemon honey was a memory.

All the girls at my high school had tasted different parts of him and reported back their findings. Sandra Gray had licked his teeth and said they tasted like marshmallow; Katie Fitzsimmons had torn off his aluminum foil tuxedo on prom night and licked a bubble gum nipple. Carla McEnroe had stuck her tongue up his nostril and tasted green apple. I wanted to contribute what I knew about the strand of hair but I didn't think it would count since I discovered it on the sly. His skin was made out of the softest warm caramel. One time he absentmindedly touched my shoulder and I got a cramp in my neck from trying to get a lick of the sticky fingerprint. His lips were made from watermelon licorice, ears from peanut butter taffy, fingernails from something that looked like it might be ...pineapple.

I could barely speak when in his presence, so intense was my craving and prospecting. I thought about what it would be like to taste his tongue made of strawberry jelly and run my own tongue along the roof of his mouth and drink root beer. We all knew the catalogue of his different tastes by heart. He was a consistent topic around lunch tables and study groups. After the hair incident, I am ashamed to say, I fell instantly and terribly in love with him. Something about the intimacy and the strangeness of ingesting someone's hair.

The candyman usually kept his distance from women. Most of his friends were other guys and usually he sat by himself and read. He knew that most of the girls were only interested in him out of freakish curiosity. Detecting a new flavor and reporting back became a bizarre game of gourmet cartography. But he never got close to any one of us and was finally very particular about his sexual escapades. No one knew what would happen if an overzealous lover took a chunk out him. No one knew if he was regenerative. He remained guarded and abstained from such blinding passion.

Over our senior year my love and desire for him became painful and incomprehensible. I found him virtually unapproachable because I didn't want him to think that I was like the others, I didn't want him to lump me in with those sugar whores and assume that I was no more than a thrill seeker or a gossip hound. I wanted him to know that mine was a longing for him as an individual and--yes of course the mind blowing taste of him too, I'm not denying it--but that he and his flavor, his sweetness, were one in my mind.

He caught me staring at him wide-eyed one afternoon in the quad area and motioned for me to come over to him. My heart pumped overtime and my mouth watered in rivers down my throat. With eyes popping out of my head and nostrils flaring to imbibe his sweet aroma I must have looked like a fucking spazed out underfed baby someone left in a dumpster somewhere. Our eyes locked and I looked deep into his blue raspberry sours.

How I hungered for him in every way deep deep in my groin and each taste bud demanding to know his every portion. I found my self dreaming, daydreaming about the gooey texture of his internal organs. I couldn't stop myself! Peppermint patty pancreas, cinnamon gumdrop colon and a heart Éwhat dizzying substance makes up the heart of a candyman? I resolved never to know.

He told me he had become lonely and heard rumors that I was a diabetic. I had craftily spread this gossip hoping it might get back to him. But he was crafty too. He tamed me like I was his child. Giving me just enough here, a bit more there. Whetting my appetite sufficiently to keep me salivating and then pulling away before things got too dangerous for him. We would lie in his wax paper bed at night and he would show me the nicks and tiny bites that different women had stolen from him. Most noticeably an ex had become too voracious and bitten off a peanut butter earlobe. I fawned over his injuries and cooed at him with admiration. He let me smooth out the scratches on his golden caramel skin by tenderly moving my tongue over his long taunt body.

I started shaking when we were in bed together. Luckily, sex wasn't out of the question, but it hadn't happened yet and my nervous system was seized by waves of tremor and desire in anticipation. I told the candyman that it was just the diabetes. I told him the shaking was caused by lack of insulin and then he would give an extra long French kiss, allowing me to suck on and run my tongue over his succulent melon lips for over a minute and sticking his strawberry jelly tongue far far down into my throat. When he would pull away I would have tears in my eyes because I never wanted the sweetness of his pity to end. I left him quivering, shaking, crying and licking the inside of my mouth. At night I would go home and take off my underwear and run the wet crotch along my breasts and nipples and across my nose. I wanted my fluids to be sweet like his, but I was all salt and moss and metal. Next, I ritually removed all of my clothing and scanned them for any residue. Sometimes, I found as many as seven lemon hair strands and a shirt collar glazed with strawberry. I lay the strands of hair on my bare belly and run my tongue along the collar of my shirt. I stretched to taste his gorgeous tongue again and brushed my fingers along my thigh and then inserted three of the hairs deep inside my own red jelly. I would twist with the synthesia of his flavor and love of him, heaving in the taste of him on my collar rising all the way up my spine into my heart. At the perfect moment one by one I put the lemon hairs on my palm and licked my entire hand, biting it and devouring the spun sugar like a baited bear.

Life with the candyman was bound to get out of control. He became concerned for my health because I was shaking non-stop now. We would go on long walks and he would rub my shoulders. I kept my compulsive need to fuck him inside. I couldn't tell him. I thought it would make me look whorish and he was really an old-fashioned kind of guy in a lot of ways. I liked that about him. He loved to collect 45 records and we would go to garage sales to look for antiques. Sometimes he wore an old straw hat and a red striped jacket made out of old coke cans. He was charming and sometimes when I wasn't shaking too bad we would dance to old scratchy blues music. He let me lick his eyeball once which made both of us giggle for several minutes. One day on a picnic he confessed to liking my salty flavor, which surprised and confused me. In broad daylight he unbuttoned my jeans and traced a line of strawberry jam all the way down my soft white tummy. He pulled my underwear to the side and wrapped his lips around my wet salty pussy and jabbed me with his fingers and licked me just as I had licked his hair off of my palm. I screamed and began to loose all motor control. My forehead raged with fever and he worked me until I sat up and grabbed him by the shoulders. I looked him directly in the eyes, tears and saliva streaming down my chin. "I want to fuck youÉPlease!" I said and rolled him over onto his back on the plastic picnic blanket. Now he was shaking. "Maybe we should stop--" he squeaked, fearing for the loss of his other earlobe. "Nope," I said with conviction, and tore off his paper pants, ripping them away in one motion. He wore edible underwear, cotton candy, which I tore at with my teeth revealing an astonishingly erect towering penis... made out of actual human flesh!

"Your penis--" I croaked, "It's, it's normal..."

"Yep," he said with a sinister gleam in his blue raspberries.

"But," and before I could ask any more questions he sat up and grabbed me by my hips and set me down on his enormous cock, over and over and over again. He grabbed at my breasts and tore at my fleshy thighs and nipples and dug his teeth into my neck. His penis was so big and hard that it hurt me. When he had ejaculated on my stomach I reached down and put my finger in the semen, just to see, and it tasted just like regular semen, salty and gray. I rolled over on my side and pouted.

"You seem upset," he said.

"No!" I grinned giving his nose a little nip, but I felt deflated and gypped, and childishly disappointed.

We hung out for a few more weeks until I claimed that my diabetes was acting up and I couldn't see him anymore due to sugar shock. He said he understood and started going out with a black girl. I hear they're married now.

Even after we broke up I tried to salvage the remnants of candy fantasy that had turned my world upside down and scraped his remains off my picnic blanket and various items of clothing but now when I put them in my mouth they just tasted like dessert. They had lost all of their erotic charge and I went back to masturbating with thoughts of regular flesh-made boys. But one thing did remain. In my dreams, when I ripped open their jeans and removed their cotton underwear, I would reveal huge cocks made of the most mouthwatering delicious fierce cataclysmic extraordinary rock hard candy sweets you can think of. And then I suck and fuck him all the way down... until he's a woman. And then we go shopping.