Valentine Brandon

A – Aftercare

It’s mostly just smoke signals. He’ll blow perfect, lavender-scented rings in your face while muttering about “reality chafing.” If you’re lucky, he might offer you a sip of tea from a hookah that’s roughly the size of your torso. If you’re unlucky, he’ll forget you exist because he’s too busy having a philosophical debate with a caterpillar about the socioeconomic impact of pollen.

B – Body Part (Favorite)

Yours? Your eyes. He likes looking at them to see if they’re dilating. Or if you still have them. Sometimes he forgets and asks, “Are you still using those?”

His? His tongue. It’s prehensile. It’s blue. It’s unsettlingly long. He uses it for things that would make a contortionist file a union grievance.

C – Cum

Honey-thick. Blueberry-scented. Probably glows in the dark. It’s sticky and refuses to come out of sheets, hair, or moral fiber. You’ll be finding it in your pockets three weeks later. “It’s not a mess,” he’ll insist, “it’s a reminder of the transience of pleasure.”

D – Dirty Talk

Incoherent. Riddle-based.

“Why is a climax like a writing desk? Because it has no legs and I’m going to make you scream until you lose your head.” He thinks he’s being profound. You’re just trying not to choke on a mushroom spore while he quotes poetry at your genitals.

E – Experience

Ancient. Timeless. He’s been hooking up with things that don’t even have names since before your great-great-grandmother was a twinkle in a pharmacist’s eye. He has technically slept with the concept of “Tuesday.” He has terrible technique but excellent stamina.

F – Favorite Position

“The Languid Coil.” It involves him draping over you like a wet blanket, smoking, and occasionally moving a hip. He calls it “Tantric Surrender.” You call it “suffocation.” He also enjoys hanging upside down from a branch while you do the work. Gravity is merely a suggestion, darling.

G – Groaning

It sounds like a cello being played by a depressed ghost. Low, mournful strings of “oh, woe” and “alas” mixed with the wet noises of a very enthusiastic mouth. It’s disturbingly musical. You could probably dance a waltz to his orgasm tempo.

H – Hair

He doesn’t have body hair. He has fuzz. Like a peach. Or a moldy velvet sofa. It’s soft, it’s blue, and if you stroke it the wrong way, he might hiss at you. He keeps a tuft of hair on his chin specifically to tickle your inner thigh in a way that is both arousing and infuriating.

I – Intimacy

He treats your soul like a library book he’s overdue on returning. He stares into your eyes with an intensity that suggests he’s trying to read the fine print of your existence. Then he’ll ask if you want to see a magic trick that involves removing his own head. It’s a mood killer, usually.

J – Jacking Off

He calls it “pollinating the flower of solitude.” He uses his hookah hose for things the manufacturer definitely did not intend. He claims it’s “multitasking.” You try not to touch the hose after.

K – Kinks

- Size play. Sometimes he’s tall, sometimes he’s small. He likes it when you’re confused about which end goes where.

- Smoke enemas. Do not ask.

- Calling you “Alice” even though your name is Steve. It’s a power thing.

- Edging. He’ll edge you for three days. Time works differently here; it’s actually only twenty minutes, but it feels like a stint in the purgatory of sexual frustration.

L – Location

The mushroom cap. It’s bouncy. It’s dangerous. One slip and you’re falling into a rabbit hole of regret. He also enjoys the insides of teapots. Cramped. Hot. Wet. “Cozy,” he says. “Like a womb made of ceramic.”

M – Marking

Hickeys in the shape of question marks. If he bites you, the bite mark whispers riddles for a week. He also leaves literal soot stains everywhere. You look like you’ve been chimney sweeping in a brothel.

N – Nudes

He sends you smoke signals. Sometimes he sends a single, floating eyeball. “A peek-a-boo,” he calls it. You have stopped opening envelopes from him because they’re usually empty, or contain a single, damp live moth.

O – Oral

Receiving? He expects you to be able to breathe through his smoke while you’re down there. If you cough, he gets offended. “Manners, darling. Don’t choke on the ambiance.”

Giving? It’s a sensory overload. Flickering tongue, changing textures, he tastes like licorice and bad life choices. You’ll have hallucinogenic orgasms where you see numbers floating in mid-air.

P – Pace

Glacial. Then frantic. Then he stops to tell a story about a turtle he knew in 1842. You’ll be on the edge, begging, and he’ll just be… droning on about the price of treacle. “Are we fucking or are you filibustering?” you’ll scream. “Yes,” he replies.

Q – Quickies

Non-existent. He doesn’t do “quick.” He does “elaborate rituals involving incense and three hours of foreplay consisting of him asking who you are.” By the time he’s ready, you’re usually late for work or dead of old age.

R – Risk

He will fuck you while balancing on a precarious branch over a bottomless pit. “Adds to the thrill, the drop, the plunge!” If you fall, you just land in a pile of leaves. It’s anti-climactic. He’s very disappointed if you don’t scream.

S – Stamina

He’s an insect. He has exoskeleton durability. He can go for hours, days, centuries. He doesn’t sleep; he just vibrates. You’ll tap out after forty minutes; he’ll look at you, puff his hookah, and say, “We were just getting to the good bit. The bit where we dissolve.”

T – Toys

Mushrooms that make your clit grow three sizes larger. Bottles marked “Drink Me” that act as the galaxy’s most effective lubricant. He once tried to use a playing card with a sharp edge as a vibrator. You filed a restraining order against the suit of clubs.

U – Unfair

He changes the rules of engagement mid-thrust. “Oh, I’m sorry, were you enjoying that? The new rule is you’re not allowed to move until you can recite the alphabet backwards in Latin.” He loves obstacles. He thinks hurdles are foreplay.

V – Volume

Quiet. Wheezing. A lot of heavy breathing through the nose. But when he comes, he shouts, “WHO ARE YOU?” at the top of his lungs. It’s terrifying. It’s an existential crisis every time he busts a nut.

W – Wildest Fantasy

A foursome with the Queen of Hearts, a spoon, and his own detached head. He wants to be watched by a jury of playing cards. He wants the verdict to be “Guilty of feeling too good.” He is weirdly into the judicial system as a kink.

X – X-Ray

You don’t know. It’s… confusing. Anatomy isn’t his strong suit. Some days it’s human, some days it’s insectoid, sometimes it’s just a swirling vortex of blue smoke that enters you and claims your chakras. It doesn’t matter. It gets the job done, whatever the job is.

Y – Yearning

He claims he doesn’t yearn. He “waits.” He “languishes.” But he keeps a locket with your picture inside it, except the picture changes to a skull if you open it, and then back to your face if you close it. It’s romantic, in a gothic nightmare fuel kind of way.

Z – ZZZ (Sleep)