THE SWEETNESS
An excerpt from The Devil, now available for purchase
Happy Full Moon! Today, we’re publishing an excerpt from “THE SWEETNESS,” a very NSFW erotic short story by Shelly Jay Shore, available to read in its entirety in The Devil issue.
Shelly is a writer of queer and trans stories, a digital strategist, and a nonprofit fundraiser. The bestselling author of "Rules for Ghosting," Shelly writes for anxious queer millennials, sufferers of Eldest Daughter Syndrome, and anyone struggling with the enormity of being a person trying to make the world kinder, softer, and more tender.
“To me, The Devil is an invitation to put aside our instinctive fear of our shadow selves and instead welcome the opportunity to explore the parts of our hearts and minds and desires that we normally force ourselves to ignore,” Shelly shared with The Rebis.
“It’s about leaning into the possibilities available through (over)indulgence, defiance, rule- and norm-breaking—and to see what kinds of healing open up to us when we’re willing to dip our toes into the darker, deeper waters of our souls. I see it as a card that reminds us that there’s no such thing as reward without risk, and no way to experience true freedom, healing, or pleasure without taking the chance that we just might go too far. I’ve always loved shadow work, and so what I love about The Devil is the way it dares us to push boundaries, to find what feels good, to get that sweet little shiver of doing something we feel like we shouldn’t in order to understand what it is that makes us want whatever it is so badly that we’ll risk taking a fall to get it. It’s a card that teases, ‘but if it’s so wrong, why would it feel so right?’ It dares you to find the safety that only emerges when we embrace our shadow selves—but reminds us that while The Devil will open the door and welcome us inside, it’s up to us to find our own way back out of the dark.”
Thank you to everyone who’s supported The Devil anthology! This print issue features more than 38 writers and artists. It’s a beautiful full-color book with 120 pages of essays (like Charlie’s!), fiction, poetry, interviews, and original artwork. We redistribute all profits to social justice orgs. Read more about our mission.
THE SWEETNESS
In your city, there is a house, and in its basement, there are mirrors.
You hear about it only in rumors, whispered legends, until it’s confirmed by your ex-with-benefits after another ill-advised tryst. It’s like a genderfucking speakeasy, she says when she’s done eating you out and you’re sprawled, boneless and well-fucked, across her bed. She says, It’s like VR, but you can feel it. She says, It’s the coolest fucking thing. She says, you should go.
She says, dangling your strap above your head like a lure, Don’t you want to know what it’s like?
(This is how it’s always been between you and Faye: she knows every place you bruise, and presses down because she knows you like the way it hurts—until you don’t.)
You take your strap back and don’t even hit her with it, though it’s tempting. You ask her for the address. She smiles, Cheshire Cat-sharp, and says, I’ll do you one better.
The house, when you get there, arm-in-arm with the woman you keep telling yourself to stop fucking, is unassuming. Brick siding, a neat little porch. An eclectic mix of flowers in the window boxes you catalogue with a gardener’s eye: monkshood, narcissus, poppy, thyme, calla lily, tulip. Those flowers are hitting on me, you say, and she laughs her silver-bell laugh, and draws you around the corner, where an ivy-covered path leads to the back of the house.
At the end of the path, there is a door. You look for a secret window, a hideaway knocker, somewhere to give a password. But there’s only a doorknob, brass worn golden from age and touch, and she reaches for it when you don’t.
It turns under her hand. You say, Some speakeasy.
Just wait, she says, and guides you in.
The dark inside is absolute. She guides you with a hand on the small of your back, familiar, steady, hot. The air around you is heavy, pressing in like a lover. Faye’s touch blends with the thickness of the warmth that follows you down the long, winding staircase. You breathe in, and there’s sweetness: jasmine, sandalwood, rose. She has a candle like that in her bedroom, you remember. She lit it the first time you took each other to bed.
The stairs end and Faye catches you when you stumble. She takes your hand and draws you forward, and you go, dreamlike, in a trance. You feel lured and heady and utterly safe. She takes you three steps further, four, five, and stops.
Wait, she says, and lets you go. You stand there in darkness.
There is the snap of a match, a flare of light, and you see the mirrors. Gilt-framed and ornate, stretching the full height of the walls. The room is paneled with them, and as your vision adjusts, you see yourself in endless reflections, eyes crossing as you try and fail to count.
In the mirrors, Faye’s reflection is lighting candles, set in niches in the walls. She blows out her match and returns to you. Without speaking, she undresses, baring skin you know as well as your own: floral tattoos, narrow hips, the swell of her breasts, the sway of her soft penis.
Messy breakup or not, you still find her beautiful. You always will.
Naked, reflected into infinity, she steps before you, and cups your face in her hands. You’re too entranced to be confused, too aroused to be afraid. You say, What now?
She smiles. She tilts your chin away from her, so you’re looking at the nearest mirror instead of into her eyes, and says, Watch.
And in the mirrors around you, she changes.
You watch, entranced. Her breasts grow fuller, visibly heavy; her waist slims as her hips broaden. When you look between her legs there’s only dark hair, glistening at its lowest point, suggestion or invitation or both.
On a sharp inhale, you start to turn back to her, to see the changes reflected in her flesh, but she stops you. No, she says. Only in the mirrors.
How?
Her reflection smiles, shrugs, the movement echoed by a dozen more. Does it matter? Her fingers pluck your sleeve. Now you.
Read the rest of the essay by ordering your copy of The Devil.
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