by Gina Marie
When a worker bee emerges into the light for the first time she memorizes
landmarks to enable her to recognize the nest entrance. She does this by making a zig-zag
flight over and around the nest entrance. She also navigates by the sun and has an inbuilt clock to compensate for the rotation of the earth.
As a cock flies, the distance from Texas to Oregon is only a few thousand miles.
As the bumblebee (Bombus Hymenoptera) flies, it's several lifetimes away, several solar systems, a trip of a journey and worth every zig-zag and nectar stop along the spiraled route that, when mapped, appears eerily similar to all roads leading to Rome.
My sweet Texan likes to say he smelled his way toward me eons ago, sniffed out my scent-marked flower, all musk and sunshine and wanting. The incense between my legs signaled him like smoke on the mountain. And he came flying, following my scent markings, zig-zagging his way across the universe. His incessant buzzing had all the other girls swarming towards him, drooling honey at his feet. But what they didn't realize -- what they may never realize -- is that it is not his wings but the vibrations of his flight muscles that puts the wildness in his stride, gives him that balls-out rock opera of buzzing that puts the other bees to shame. In fact, he was just warming up. Crazed though he was, he is even more so now. Buzzzzzz.
He is bumbling down drunk on my nectar and so laden with pollen that his long, athletic legs are liquid, pooling into shimmering puddles of molten lead upon the burning sheets. His electric charge draws my pollen to him, whirls of it swirling around his head and falling like yellow rain, clumps of it clinging to his damp skin. His face buzzes wildly upon the center of my flower, his tongue and chin wet with sugar and fingertips hardening my clit from soft sun-kissed petal to a slick, hard, glassy outcropping of ancient obsidian.
The bees suck up the nectar using their tongues. The tongue is long and feathery at the end. It is contained in a sheath formed by a pair each of palps and maxilla (these are just mouthparts). Together the palps and maxillae act a little like a straw, so the bee sucks the nectar up this and into her honeystomach. The honeystomach is just a storage bag, and when she gets back to the nest the bee empties the honeystomach into a honeypot.
The pheromone-infused flower tissue, all honey and salted caramel and crepe paper tenderness crinkles about his lips. His nostrils flare and his cock jumps and twitches, growing fat with each inhale, hardened by the overwhelming scent of legs spread wide, of honey. The heady burst of smell and sensation blossoms as I spread myself wide. Sustenance. Pleasure. My legs are twitching around his sweaty back, hips lifting and grinding against his face. He takes over my body and mind, inhaling me, feeding on me like an animal.
The bumblebee queen can lay two types of eggs; fertilized eggs with chromosomes from the queen and a male whether or not to fertilize it with sperm. The fertilized eggs develop into workers (females), and the unfertilized eggs develop into males she mated with the previous year, and unfertilized eggs which contain chromosomes from the queen alone. The sperm from the mating is stored in a small container called a spermatheca located in the queen's vagina (pussy).
The queen's pussy, my dark nest cavity, is warm against the rain. I am shivering with need as he strokes every inch of my nectar-sweetened folds, juice pooling just below my ass until I am literally drenched with desire. The sky opens up. The queen's clit, my lightning rod, is shiny with fluid and hardened by his vibrations and sunlight and electricity. The pillowed pink surfaces of my petals are softened by the tenderness of his tongue and by moonlight. My flesh tingles and quivers and swells, rising into the endless blue for this singular moment -- to mate.
Males do not return to the nest once they have left it, so spend their nights either inside or hanging under flower heads. In the morning they are often very lethargic and may appear to be ill, but this is normal. They just need to get up heat by drinking nectar or being warmed by the sun or both.
I lap at the drop of honeydew at the end of his hard cock with my lips as he strokes me urgently with the delicate, feathery tip of his tongue. He does not hover at my edges. He is gentle only to crawl deeper. He leans over the edge towards the ripe, heady scent, towards the wet, sugared center. I can see myself in the mirror as he dances and whirls against me, spinning my crystals into cotton candy. Pink. Wet. Hard. Soft, curved flesh. Sweat beading on my stomach, throat and breasts. I look into his eyes and melt. His eyes are lit up by hope, desire, the promise of relief. His hands grip my thighs. His buzzing now feels like the whole hive. He is awake, flight muscles fully warmed after shivering in the morning sun. He knows he will never return to the hive.
Once released, he belongs to the queen, feeding incessantly and searching for nothing more, but to return, again and again to the center of the flower, to fuck and eat and fuck and drink. He leans in, the scent of the purest nectar deep inside tugging at his instincts, lighting him on fire from the inside out. I open myself wider, legs twisted and jerking against him. His buzzing is the song of songs vibrating through my whole body, twisting my existence, dancing my filaments and stripping my anthers. He is buzzing, leaning, spinning. Then he goes, slips over the edge, the satin of my petals closing in around him, disappearing him, as he free-falls into the technicolor pheromone tunnel, landing, at last, in the shimmering pool of pure nectar.