After the reading and dinner with an old college friend, she retired, as had become the custom, to the hotel bar. Here her company was a boyish bartender who seemed to be desperately trying to think up something witty every time he passed by her but was never quite able to get it out. He’d pause, concentrate really hard, and then move on. Men and woman of various ages were scattered at tables behind her, one guy on the phone, sighing and giving an angry “all right” every few minutes.
The bar proper was otherwise hers. She seemed destined to never achieve the kind of fame where she’d be recognized without a signpost. At a reading—at this afternoon’s, in fact—fans could be effusive, even obsessive. They’d tell you how they’d been changed, how grateful they were. Odder things, too, like the woman this evening who told her a story about an aunt who had created recipes using hamster meat in the years after her husband died. Eloise patiently took note, in that vampiric way writers do, unable after years of practice to summon up true sympathy, always on the hunt for details that could fill out a future character, hang a plot device on.
She favored martinis, vodka, twist, but with the Pacific air this seemed a liquid faux-pas, so she was immersed in a passable margarita. It had come with a twee umbrella—the bartender trying to get into her good graces, and perhaps elsewhere—which she had promptly removed, but not after favoring him with a smile. He gave her a thumbs-up, a rather bizarre gesture. Or maybe it made sense among the youth today. Kids do weird things.
She continued her sketching, which was, at this point in life, as vital as any other toilet procedure. Beneath a few fleshings of the hamster lady written in her always calligraphic cursive, she added some lines about a dream she’d had on the flight this morning, then a couplet that would serve as the nucleus to something undetermined. The bartender brought her another drink without being requested, and asked what she was writing.
“Trying to sort the day’s ideas. Sift out the 5% that are worthwhile.” She smiled. “I’m a writer.”
“What’s your name? Maybe I’ve read something of yours.”
She laughed, a surprisingly deep and buttery sound she developed at puberty. “You’re not a sexually-repressed housewife, and you’re not a teenage girl who’s yet to be fucked properly, so decidedly unlikely.”
He didn’t know what to say, so she added, “Eloise,” and shook his hand. Not that Southern Belle limp at the wrist offering, but a break-my-wrist or I’ll-break-yours exchange.
“Do you have another name?” he managed, miming soothing his hand.
“You don’t like the one I gave you?”
“No, I meant, do you have a… writing…”
“A pen name?”
“That! Yes.”
“No.”
An agent had once suggested “E. N. Henderson” to tactfully hide her sex. For flexibility in genre. As if one could only write a spy novel by dipping one’s bell-end in ink. Her Montblanc would do.
She brazenly scanned the bartender’s entire body. Long, swimmer’s build, probably surfs. She had one use for young men, never had had any other. It was possible to overlook the clumsiness and the neediness when you could spider your hands down a ripple of abs, or you had them revved up to a good jack-hammering. Otherwise, they were simply silly.
Still, to be perfectly honest, it did feel good to have someone’s glance still drifting towards her cleavage. It felt better with every passing year, in fact.
“How long they keep you here?” she said.
He looked up. “Another hour.”
She cradled her chin in her palms and tiptoed her fingernails up his chest. “You never know. Maybe you keep the drinks coming, leave me alone so I can work until then… maybe my room number will show up on a napkin somehow. Could happen.”
He didn’t quite take the hint, so she gently waved him away.
It’s nice to be wanted. It’ll always be nice to be wanted. Her thoughts drifted to a familiar place, the nugget of memory behind a story in her most recent book, one that had benignly agitated for the last twenty odd years, like the princess and the pea. There her attention perched for a few moments as she sipped her drink. The great wheels of time creaked.
You take the joys you can reach. Someone had taught her that long ago, and for the sake of karma, she’d tried to teach it to who she could.
She returned to her notebook, the familiar waters of the life she’d made.
Someone sat down next to her, but she didn’t notice.
“It’s a waste of time to state the obvious, but nonetheless, you are still every bit as beautiful.”
The pen stopped. She stared at the page for a minute, then carefully closed the book and placed it on the bar. She looked straight ahead as she reached for her drink.
“Hi, Joe,” she finally said. She took a deep breath, and a deep swig, and put her hand on her chest.
“Hi, Eloise. Glenlivet neat.” The bartender obliged, again seeming like he had something to say, but withdrew as he sensed the magnitude of his intrusion.
“You always had good taste, Joe,” she said.
“Rather self-serving comment, don’t you think?”
“I was never one for false modesty. Come to think of it, all modesty is false modesty.”
“You haven’t changed.”
“Oh please, cliches are so fucking easy, and besides, that one’s simply ridiculous. Everyone’s changing, always. Some things are the same, of course. Some aren’t. For example, the girls ain’t what they used to be.” She looked down at her chest.
He laughed. “It’s the blight man was born for.”
“You and your fucking Hopkins, man. Do you remember making me memorize the Windhover?”
“I think if there was any evidence of the efficacy of my teaching style, it’s you. And apropos of nothing, your tits look amazing.”
She turned. The picture she had in her mind of him softly merged with what she saw. Reality pushed and bled through the memory. So the old photograph’s hair grayed, whitened. The face developed a few wrinkles. The eyes were still powerful, but they started to sink. All in all, he’d aged well.
“What are you doing here?”
“You know damn well what I’m doing here.” He laced his fingers with hers. Same big hands, same sense of her own elegance as their digits folded.
“You read the book.”
“I read the book.”
“You recognized the story?”
“Which one was that? Oh, the one about the student who turned eighteen and then begged her English teacher to fuck her? Yes, I did read that. I found it scandalous, I have to say.”
“‘Begged’? If ever there was a self-serving comment… I made a polite offer, which you accepted. Without complaint as a I recall.”
“You were, at the very least, somewhat insistent. But I didn’t complain then and I’m not doing it now.”
“Was it too close to life?”
He laughed. “How could it be? You changed my name to John. Brilliant. Anyway, who would even care at this point? It’s been twenty-five… well, it’s been a while. I’m retired. Alice has passed.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
A warm and strong hand squeeze. “Thank you. No, actually, I enjoyed it. Probably for the same reason you wrote it. It is, if nothing else, a nice memory. Sometimes it pops into my mind and I have to remind myself that that actually happened to me. That I was that kind of guy.”
“And I was that kind of girl.”
He looked her full in the eyes. That was the most familiar thing about him, the way he had of locking up her attention like a bird in the hands. “Eloise,” he said, “you’re not any kind of anything. I thought you were, but you were something else entirely, and I’m sure you still are. You had the whole world wrapped round your finger before most people even realized there was a world worth wrapping.”
“Well, as with everything, a lot of it was a bluff.”
“Of course. I knew that then. Still, a lot wasn’t. You terrified me.”
“I scared you?” She laughed full-heartedly, and slumped against him. He responded by throwing out an arm and pulling her in. “I thought I’d never walk again. When you came in with that look in your eye, and later… I was lucky to get out in one piece.”
“Just trying to make it memorable, which, as I recall, was the entire idea. I succeeded.”
“We succeeded, no?”
“It was a joint effort, to be sure. Everyone contributed. No sleeping partners. Hell, let’s be honest; I was holding on for dear life. That doesn’t exactly come through in your story… much as I enjoy my portrayal as Hercules.”
“I can only write through my eyes. The eyes of an eighteen-year-old ingenue, rather. I was more than a little impressed. Smitten. Well, I hope you didn’t find any of it insulting.”
“No, but I must say, there may be a legal issue. I assume you have a very expensive lawyer.”
“Of course. She’s great. Just great. She could always use the chargeable time. What crime have I committed?”
“Well, you see, it turns out your story bears an awful lot of resemblance to one written twenty-five years ago. The point of view, granted, does differ. But even so: an eerie amount of resemblance, even if the names are—slightly—different. There could be a plagiarism charge.” And he opened a leather bag and pulled out a stack of papers, then laid them gingerly in front of her.
“Really?” Her smile was radiant. “Joe, really?”
He nodded.
“May I?”
He nodded again.
She began to read, just like some months ago, he had read a story called First and Last. Not his preferred genre of fiction, but he had known the author at one point, and tried to keep an eye on her work.
…
Dappled things (Joseph)
He would like to have plumply declared that yes, he knew just what he was doing, but for all his prized logic he was finding it hard to decipher this sitch. The variables were not only imprecise, their values seemed to shift when he wasn’t looking. For instance, an hour after he had read the note tucked in the poetry book, that thoughtful one she’d given him the week before graduation, he had everything properly dissected. Young mouth-waterer. Of legal age. One’s quondam student, no longer. Powerful, well aware of it, smart enough to use it, and therefore, virtually untrustable and very, very, dangerous. Desires, per note, to lose her maidenhood to “experienced practitioner.” Meet me at X, at X if interested. “Discretion guaranteed.”
This would set the bounds of the decision rather precisely, one would think. Not a crossroads one sees coming, and so perhaps it does take one some time to properly evaluate all the possibilities, but still one of the simplest versions of temptation. The risks were obvious—and the potential downsides were bads that would endure. The rewards were obvious, and just as obviously fleeting. There was the carnal gratification. Other potential benefits were… it seems there were none. So one weighs a fleeting joy with a chronic indisposition.
If in a properly logical state—say waist deep in the Arctic ocean—the path forward was clear. Burn gift. Shred note. Perhaps change email and telephone number.
Wait. Let’s assay that benefit column again. Fleeting carnal pleasure, but carnality is comprised of the virtues of the purveyor. We need to dissect that particular benefit and see what it’s made of. So said girl had mesmerizing dark-brown eyes that were frugal with blinks, always seemed a bit bored, and hovered over regal cheek bones. Said girl’s coffee skin was the result of the great American mixing pot, and was a glorious testament thereto. Said girl’s lips were full and enclosed lightning white teeth of assembly line perfection. Said girl accented her already commanding height with heels, and walked a perfected gait that shifted her taut jeans from side to side in a lazy rhythm, all producing an effect that could start world wars or drive a man as mad as any Lovecraftian horror. Said girl had chosen shirts of such perfect length that one could not complain of skimpiness, but then again, in a rare moment, one could almost swear they had had a glimpse of a divinely level abdomen—but you couldn’t be sure.
Said girl’s tits were sizeable.
And might I just point out, playing devil’s advocate, said girl’s quick wit. Spending time with her was, by all indications, probably delightful, even sans coetus. So, you know, why not just meet her?
This was, he realized, rationalization. But let’s also consider this. Yes, the fornicative act is fleeting. But are not all the best pleasures? And has not the entire history of sexual reproduction, that old bitch, groomed us for moments just such as these, for these pursuits and these delights? And had not the old bitch made the delights that much more delightful than all others? Ignoring such inducements, ruling them out too quickly, would be a betrayal of our very substance. Of billions of years of humping, tupping, rutting. Who are we to stand in the way of this perverted parade?
Still, our genes are looking out for themselves, certainly not us, and he wasn’t much fond of having someone pulling his strings. No nubile mixed-race seductress, nor sequence of uracil would cause him to override what his intelligence deemed right.
That’s what he was thinking when she walked into the bar. She’d proposed a quite distant place, in a quiet part of the city, but nonetheless she’d disguised herself enough, surely to make him feel safer. Glasses, which he’d never seen her wear before. A smart and adult skirt and top, even to the point of dullness, with a series of thin metal bracelets down her right arm and a necklace with a golden eye of Horus tapping against her left breast. With her stature, and the heels she was never without, she looked quite a bit older, but it fit her, as if this were the real Eloise, and the high school senior had been a costume she’d finally gotten sick of.
He was in the back, watching her deliberately make her way in. He watched her smile at the bartender and waiter who couldn’t help but gawk. He waved a hand and she waved back, like old friends reuniting. He was rather dressed up himself, sharkskin and a tie; a bit of effort he’d seldom put in since his single years.
“You’re here,” she said. “I really didn’t know what to expect.”
“Sit down,” he said. It was not a request or question, but he did get the chair for her. They stared at each other for a bit, evaluating the ramparts, seeing if any weak points were evident. The remnants of the teacher-student relationship were prominent, and it left a little sparkle of awkwardness on every moment. Something insisted that it felt off.
But one couldn’t deny that beneath it all there was some other relationship waiting to swallow the former at an opportune moment.
“Do you have any idea how foolish that note was? What kind of trouble you could get me into?” he said.
“I’m not an idiot, Mr. Cattelan.” He was always impressed by her eyes, how they never evaded, never faltered. With anyone else, it could have been lack of social skills. With her, it was pure force of will.
“No. You’ve quite destroyed that relationship with your little note. Joe will do.”
“Joe. I apologize for any hardship I may cause or may have caused you. My intentions were…”
“Pure?”
“Not pure,” she said, with a smile. “They were… honest. Buy me a drink?”
“Diet coke for the lady,” he yelled.
“Shithead,” she said.
He smiled.
“Can I assume,” she said, “that your presence here indicates acceptance of my terms?”
He looked at her for a while. “I wasn’t entirely sure of the terms as you described them. Perhaps you could elucidate.”
She crossed her hands across her chest, making it pop, but his eyes didn’t drift. He thought, perhaps, if he could make her describe it, make her blush, then all her childness would come out and the wrongness of this situation would be clear. And the decision would be made as easily as that. But she quite matter of factly responded, after sipping from her straw.
“I’d like you to fuck me.”
She didn’t blush. She didn’t even change expressions. “This is a delicate time in a girl’s life,” she continued. “Lots of fussing about in the back of cars, bathrooms at parties. Brutes locking horns so they can spend a minute or two inside you and brag to their friends. The first time I let a guy get to second base, the entire school knew in an hour. And I wouldn’t have minded, really, had it actually been at all fun. And the stupidest rise to the top: those are the ones asking you to prom. If you actually do the readings in, say, English class, and what’s more, enjoy them—you’re incomprehensible.”
“Well,” he said, “For what it’s worth, it gets easier. You have to go through the awkwardness—that’s how you learn.”
“I’m sure,” she said. “But I’ve found a way to at least remove some of the awkwardness. See, I have a condition. Congenital. Some call it a gift. More of a status. I’d like to cure this condition. And if you want to have surgery done, you certainly don’t go to the guy on his first day holding the scalpel wrong-way up. You want a learned, steady hand. I don’t see why this should be any different. You fuck me the way a woman should be fucked—voila, no awkwardness. Condition cured.”
“Just like that, huh? And will there be follow up visits required?”
“With a procedure like this, they’re optional, depending on the judgment of the presiding physician.”
She really was fun to talk to. Some guy would be very lucky. “May I ask why I was selected for this honor? I assume you didn’t go around giving notes to all your teachers.”
“Not all.” She beamed. “Ok, well, just you. And there’s a very good reason for that. I want to fuck you, and you want to fuck me.”
“Is that so?”
“Of course. I’ve actually been dreaming of your cock for months now. I like to picture how it might look. Length, girth. Cut or not. How that little bit of precum that sometimes sticks at the head of it would taste on the very tip of my tongue. Which of your balls hangs lower. How far down your shaft I could get my lips before gagging.”
Like any man, he had the overpowering urge right now to shift in his seat, but that seemed like it’d be a surrendering of power; so he simply smiled. “Quite graphic, Eloise. What if I’m gay?”
“You have a wife,” she said.
“So did Oscar Wilde.”
“There’s also this,” she said.
“Please take your hand off my penis.”
She looked up, but her hand was quite comfortable where it was.
“Now, Eloise.” A slight anger in his voice.
She obeyed with reluctance.
“Are you even capable of embarrassment?” he said.
“Of course,” she said, “I just don’t think we’re doing anything embarrassing. And neither do you. You know what would be embarrassing? If some guy puts on a condom inside out and upside down and it slips off, and that’s your first time. Or he comes as soon as you take off your top. The ways it could go wrong are endless.”
“The ways it could fuck up my life are endless. What makes you think this is appetizing in the first place? Yes, you’re a fairly attractive young woman. But have you ever fucked a virgin? You get a lay out of it, but she ends up crying halfway through, and you don’t even get to cum. Or worse, she falls in love, stalks you afterwards, kills a house pet. I’m sure this all seems like it would never happen to you, but you’re a woman.”
“I’m actually rather offended. You always acted so woke in class. We did that feminist unit. Kate Chopin. You don’t think I can just fuck and be done with it because I have a cunt?”
“You could, but I’m talking about probabilities. Women’s first time does something to them. Dopamine flows, you get addicted.”
“Fine. Then let me down easy. Better you than some jerk. As for crying in the middle of it… well, let me put it this way. I promise, swear on my scholarship, that you will cum. I’m positive I can get that done. Past that, just think of it as a mentoring relationship. I’m just looking for some knowledge and experience. During the process, of course I’ll be yours to mold as you want.”
…
First and Last (Eloise)
… as you wish.”
She could barely hear her own voice over the thump of her heart, but she hoped she was selling it. She had folded her hands primly in her lap to hide the shaking. Touching his cock was not anything she had planned or even considered, but it seemed the most mature action at the time and so she took it. But now, one wrong step and he might realize how nervous she was and ruin this whole thing.
“Whatever I want?” he said. He was enjoying himself, at least that much she could tell. Maybe even in spite of himself. It was the gentle confidence of his voice, the slight teasing aspect. She knew what he was doing. He thought he could get her to crack if he just treated her like a girl. He might be right—but, well, she wasn’t entirely helpless.
“Yes, of course,” she said. “I trust you, John. Unreservedly. That’s why I chose you.” It was weird, through all the flirtation, to just have a few words of truth scoot out.
“Elena,” he finally said, and his hand gripped hers. The first touch of skin between them: her eyebrows lifted to say, “You realize what you’ve done?” while his mirrored the motion to reply, “What of it?”
“Elena, listen,” he said. God, she hoped he didn’t notice how sweaty her palms were. Oh, for fuck’s sake, of course he did. He could always see right through her, could see through to what she was trying to say—the way he marked up her papers, it could make her titter or cry, and regardless, feel naked. Only natural to wonder what it would be like to not just feel naked with him.
“You are a lovely girl. You are, and I’m not bullshitting, because I think we both feel all the boundaries falling already and there’s no point in putting up more. Do I find you attractive? Obviously. Would I like to fuck your brains out right now in a bathroom stall, spank your ass, bang my dick against both your cheeks and come all over your tits? It’s tempting.”
She had started with the profanity but now he was diving into it. She kept a bratty smile on, but she knew things were starting to flow inside her. All the lovely moist machinery of love. A variety of pornographic images were flashing through her head, and she had to believe he’d put them there quite deliberately.
“But it’s not that simple. There are trust issues. Maybe you’re not my student anymore, but when you were, there was a certain power balance that still exists. Believe it or not, I don’t want to take advantage. Maybe I shouldn’t have come here. You brought me here, because you know you have a power, and I’m not as strong as I’d like. I’m a man. I think, and then later I realize it wasn’t my brain that was doing the thinking. But regardless, it doesn’t mean I have to go through with it. I do have concerns about what would happen if this got out, of course, but believe it or not, my real concern is, whether any of this is going to hurt you.”
He knew where to hit—a little bit of sexual flirtation, but then in with a hook, some truly genuine concern, then a jab of honesty. Was she being silly by being so affected? Was she younger than she thought? Just a little girl after all, playing the vamp? Or did this son of bitch just know his game? Because handsome as he was, he had to know exactly what he did to women. And he had to have had plenty of practice.
But she knew—always suspected, now knew—that her sex weren’t as powerless as they seemed in Victoriana.
The first thing to do was get away from this concern shit. That’s where he had the power, and he knew it. If she let him go on like this, she’d end up crying and he’d send her home. Maybe that’d be for the best. But she saw something she wanted, something that she’d wanted for half a year and now was within arm’s reach, and she certainly wasn’t going to just let it be plucked away without venturing a pounce.
“John,” she said, rubbing the pad of her thumb along his palm, “I appreciate that, I really do. You probably do know best, as to whether or not this is good for me. You’re older and wiser—that’s the fucking attraction. But let me tell you something. There’s a reason you want me. There’s a reason you’re imagining what it would be like to splash your cum all over my tits. There’s a reason why you want to know what sound I make when you’re fucking me. You want to know if I’ll beg for more. You want to know if I’ll scream or moan or just gasp for breath. You’re pondering just how tight I’d be around your cock. Maybe that attraction isn’t just foolishness. Maybe it’s a good attraction—maybe you could be good for me and we could be good for each other.
“And, like I said, I’m giving you carte blanche. You want to pull my hair, pull it. You want to stick a finger up my ass, put two. Put me on top, put me on bottom, put me against the wall, put me over your lap if you want. Maybe not all of our attractions are wise—I was as much a Bieber fan as anybody—but I’m trusting in this one. And if it’s foolish, then, fuck it, I’m allowed a little foolishness. So are you.”
She pulled a folded piece of paper from her wallet and slid it into his hand. “That’s my case; that’s the best I’ve got. Take it or leave it. Here’s the hotel room. I’ll be there all night, and if I’ll be there alone—well, I’m working my way through Clarissa, and it’s so fucking good it may be better if you don’t show up.”
She gave him a wink. As she stood up every man at the bar glanced over—one pretended to be scanning for the waitress. John was watching her too. She looked back at him. No smile. Just his crisp blue eyes tracking every movement she made. It felt proprietorial. Judging.
She didn’t turn back—she was blushing hard and that was a secret she’d rather keep.
…
(Joseph)
As he said, the values shifted when he wasn’t looking. He thought he had pinned everything at its proper mix of utility and disutility. Then he’d seen her. It had been one month since school, but everything had happened. You’re with someone day in day out, amongst a bunch of kids who spend half their time dreaming up excuses for homework that they could have done in half that time, you see that person as a thankless child, who didn’t want to be taught and who he didn’t want to teach. Sure, she was a smart girl, and he’d noticed that. Sure, she was an attractive girl, and he’d noticed that. No sense in denying biology. But he had her cabined off into the box where she belonged—a platonic jail in his brain, unable to inspire any sort of interest. Messmates with Ayn Rand and H. G. Wells.
But then she walked in, with her skinny legs and round hips and that skirt and that top and that square of ebony flesh displayed below her neck and makeup subtle but done to the point of perfection. It was when the other men at the bar craned their necks that the box simply broke. She wouldn’t fit it in it any longer. This woman—do whatever you like with her—was not a nameless jug to be filled with knowledge, but an agent in her own right. A creature of reproductive worth that would not be dismissed, but that had to be, whether pursued or shunned, evaluated. It may not be fair, but now she was in the game, a prize to be won and a contestant at the same time.
That was the moment he’d gone hard. Before she even sat down, before she’d said a word. The rest of her seduction, artful as it had been, if a tad gauche, was just icing. He knew before she’d alit that the decision had to be completely redone.
And that’s where she left him, with his Scotch going warm in his fist and a piece of folded paper in the middle of the table, his name on the top in her frostwork calligraphy.
First, he poured the drink in a nearby plant and got a coffee: alcohol has never once improved a decision.
Second, the obvious: tumescence is even worse than alcohol. He waited for fifteen minutes for his erection to subside, and then, with no relief in sight, hobbled awkwardly to the bathroom, locked the door, and rectified the situation manually.
He watched the football game for a while, got invested, slammed the table in disappointment at a humiliating interception, and that was as long as he was distractable. Then he just sipped his coffee, lining up the variables, examining the contingencies, musing on philosophical questions that arose as the heuristic superstructure was cemented into place.
So he decided. It was his decision, not society’s, and not his dick’s. And it was a relief to have made it, such that afterwards he sat there contentedly drinking his coffee, thinking of things with not the slightest relevance: yard projects that needed to be done, books he’d like to read this summer.
He leisurely called for the check.
…
(Eloise)
It had been three hours. Which meant it was time to first, recognize that her brilliant plan had been a bust, and second, order room service. Third would be a long bath. Also, don’t tell the concierge, but somebody’s suitcase is full of wine.
So she didn’t look in the peephole, because she thought it was just her fudge sundae.
Just him. No one else in the hallway. Not a sound. He didn’t wait for an invitation. Even an acknowledgement. Just her surprised face and he kissed her, and that stopped, so she kissed him, and then that stopped, and then they fell inside while he kicked the door closed.
“I was expecting dessert,” she said, but he wasn’t in the mood to flirt. He took two handfuls of her ass and hoisted her, and god if that was as good as a little groping felt she wanted a thorough manhandling, maybe even outright abuse. He poised her on the edge of the desk. She was playful; her tongue darted around his, and his wrestled hers back.
It was too fast. She wanted to show him every part of her. But slow. He’d come back; he’d earned everything; the contract was fulfilled. And she had so much to show. But it was happening so fast, spiraling.
While their tongues were in full melee, her ass slid back along the desk, knocking over a lamp and a few complimentary waters. She was reaching for the buttons of his Oxford when she found herself being turned around and bent over the worktop. Not exactly how she had pictured it in all her schoolgirl fantasies, so only natural that she would try to turn back—but he held her fast with one hand while the other was skillfully making preparations under her skirt. Her belt was ripped off with a whistle and sent flying across the room. Her carefully chosen white thong, its diaphanous cutwork cupping her buttocks, unappreciated and jerked down while one of his fingers slid in the muggy crevice from her clit around to her anus (which, in retrospect, was just a gentleman making sure she was ready). She heard a tear and a spit and saw part of a condom wrapper go flying past her, and just when she was about to suggest slowing down his cock was introduced in full into her cunt and the sense of fullness went radiating out from some deep dark cavern she’d never suspected, rose at the speed of electricity, burst like champagne bubbles against the inside of her skin.
She gazed over her shoulder, and their lips met again, but there was no chance he’d wait. She had opened her gates, she had shown him where the treasure was kept, she had given the guards the day off. He grabbed her hand and placed it on her vulva with his over top, and their two hands moved in unison on her, with a precision like he had owned and tended her genitalia for decades. As if through careful study he had come to learn each freckle, each sensitivity. There was a bit of pain in her below, and she knew he knew, but he didn’t want to stop, and he knew she didn’t want him to. And even if they both wanted to stop, neither one could now. This was choreographed long, long ago. The steps were perfected when the phyla of life were still young.
“All yours,” she said and fell forward onto the desk, bi-lobed brown heart of her ass in the air as his hands locked around her hips. “Tear it up.”
Not the words she had planned on. Maybe she had planned too much anyway.
She could feel her heart beating in every joint of her body as the full fucking started. She had dreamed about his cock, but that was only visual. Never suspected the muchness of it inside her, the tactile torment. Never suspected it had its own power, its own intentions. Seeking out new vacancies in her. She was a little afraid, the way the first man who tried to tame a lion must have felt. What had she gotten into? What had she released? If he wouldn’t take a no, what would he take?
She heard a loud moaning, a feverish breathing; it was her own. The rhythmic slap she realized that was his crotch against her thighs. She could hear her own wetness, her own contribution. And the sound was wonderful. Fuck strings, fuck flutes, life was always percussion. Flashes of images: some spear-wielding racist caricature of all Africa, Heart of Darkness extra, taking his fine-ass full-bodied topless woman with the firelight on their skin, not knowing nothing about all them empires looking hungrily at this darkest continent. That was part of her mix. And Bronte heroines in four-posters in habitats of propriety and lace. That too.
She had thought, stupidly it seems now, she could control him like every other man she’d ever met. The reins were a well-timed smile, a bit of giggling, a flash of a bra strap. She thought that she could give out each piece of herself in her own good time. Maybe in an hour or so all of it, but not now. But the invaders had crossed dead man’s land, they were wild and howling and setting their flags in this virgin country. And she could only try to contain them.
And then he sped up, and she felt her heart starting to fill again. The sweat up and down her whole body, falling from her eyelashes in droplets onto the tabletop. She must have had a fever. Random syllables came out of her mouth—she didn’t know even what she was failing to say.
“Can’t take it…” she finally managed. “Too much…”
“You’re fine.” The syntax of an order, the connotation of an encouragement.
Regardless, he was right. Once more, he knew her better. She was melting under the onslaught, but she was fine. She couldn’t imagine what life had been like or would be like without having this man fucking her. She just knew—so did the rest of the world—that something was coming for her. And she wanted it.
And with a growl and a final furious minute of complete bruising thrusts he had come. She was a shivering mass on the desk, big-ass ass up in the air, still in her top, skirt around her ankles with the curled-up loop of thong. One stiletto on, one somehow ten feet away. Panting in a way she had thought only dogs did.
Whatever she had pictured, whatever anyone had pictured as a first time—this wasn’t it. But after all, that had been the point. She’d won.
He stood there and watched her as he slid the condom off his slumping cock. Dropped it in the trash then methodically unbuttoned his shirt. She could feel his eyes drifting up and down her body, examining his kill. He pushed his pants the rest of the way off, and loomed over her, naked, quite blessed in the chest hair department, absent mindedly stroking his gleaming member with his left hand. Like a hunter sharpening a knife.
And she realized he wanted to show her things too.
“Come on,” he said and disappeared into the bathroom. The sound of a bathtub being filled.
He knew it. She was precocious, so she knew it too.
It wasn’t over. Some heathen god wasn’t yet sated.
…
(Joseph)
He heard the cork pop. “No, no, no,” he said, lazily rolling over in the bath. “Put it away.”
“Why not? I need to celebrate. Cherry popped! Mission accomplished! Put up the fucking banner!”
“I’m not procuring alcohol for a minor.”
“I ain’t asking you to procure shit, motherfucker. I brought my own props. Fuck, I ain’t even letting you have any.”
She was in her underwear in the doorway of the bath, white spider webs of lace trying to restrain her breasts, thong like a bit of cloud borrowed for modesty, waist cocked to the right. She sashayed towards him, bottle in her hand. He watched her in that numb post-coital way of examining something once thought sexual, as if some dark veil had finally been ripped away, and he could appreciate the artistry of every curve, could almost see the Renaissance craftsman who had spent a century plotting her out with a straight edge and compass. Without hesitation she let her breasts spill out, slid her underwear to the floor, and slipped into the hot water, her back against his chest.
“What the fuck,” she said, and poured some champagne sloppily in the general area of his mouth. “No rule says I can’t give it to you.”
“Good champagne.”
“Acceptable sex.”
“Shut up. What do you have to compare it against?”
He could taste the little bubbles of wine on her lips. His hand weighed her breast, squeezed tenderly.
“I don’t know. I’m not sure that was your A-game. I think you holding out on me.”
“Maybe. So how does it feel?”
“Being a woman?”
“Yeah, that.”
“I understand the appeal. I’ll probably spend a fair amount of my life having that or looking for it. But, at the end of the day… it’s just textbook mutilation right? Like when they chopped off that part of your dick.”
“Observant. Is that how you pictured it?”
“I pictured eleven inches! So, you know, another let down.”
He laughed, as he clumsily tried to unwrap the complementary soap with his left hand. “You’ve been watching too much pornography, Eloise.”
“Would you just be like everyone else and call me Elle. It’s French for ‘she.'”
“I like ‘Eloise.’ It’s something you’d hear in a nursing home.”
“You fucking asshole. Enough champagne for you. Maybe enough cooch too.”
“I’m not done with you, Elle,” he said. He was softly massaging her sex. “And you’re not done with me.” He kissed up and down the curve of her neck, the unblemished skin, tight and smooth was it would ever claim to be. Salty and sweet.
She guzzled from the bottle. “Never liked porn actually. The acting is abysmal.”
“People aren’t watching for the acting.”
“Neither am I, but what’s the appeal of two people fucking if you don’t know who they are? What they want. Like take a Dickens book. Take Great Expectations.”
“I’ve heard of that one.”
“Cut out every part of it that deals with motivation. You’d have twenty pages. Twenty shitty pages. That’s what porn is.”
“That’s the thing with men. They only need those twenty pages. They read the rest of the novel to get to those twenty pages. And then take a nap. By the way…” He feigned snoring.
“Bullshit. I know damn well you enjoy the whole book.After all, you made me read the damn thing.”
“How’s your cunt?” he gently inquired.
“It’s ok. It hurt a bit. Still does. Was it—did it feel all right for you?”
“Don’t ask stupid questions.”
“Sorry. Thanks for using the condom by the way.”
“Of course. I don’t know where the hell you’ve been.”
“Nowhere exciting, I assure you. Or scandalous.”
“You’re young. I’m sure this is just the beginning of your escapades. There’ll be rough shit, there’ll be multiple partners, some experimentation with the same sex—you’ll probably end up hosting orgies.”
“Maybe I’ll end up an English teacher in the suburbs with a fucking gorgeous bod.”
“My crystal ball says otherwise. Lean forward, I’ll do your back.”
She pulled her hair to the side. “Do I feel what I think I feel?”
“I guess it’s been fifteen minutes.”
“Is that typical?”
“Different guys, different refractory periods. I’ve even heard unverified tall tales about men who don’t even need them at all.”
“I’ll have to find one of those.”
“Best of luck: citation needed.”
“You will be ready to go again before too long right? Because if not I’ve really backed the wrong horse.”
“I’m not waiting for my benefit, love. Elle. You need to rest.”
There was a knock; her whole body tensed and water splashed out of the tub. “Who’s that? Oh! It’s my fudge sundae!”
“If that’s a euphemism, it’s disgusting.”
She was laying on her belly on the bed in the hotel robe, legs swaying back and forth in the air as she dismantled the dessert. He was propped up on a pillow with his reading glasses on, flipping pages.
“You’re right, this is good,” he said.
“How have you never read Clarissa?”
“It’s the longest novel in the goddamn English language. Nobody’s read it. Like Infinite Jest.”
“I’ve read Infinite Jest.”
“Nerd,” he said.
She licked fudge off of her finger thoughtfully. “Can I ask you something?”
“See this?” He held up the novel. “That’s me.”
“I don’t get it.”
“I’m an open book.”
“Ah. Cute. No, what’s that other word? Lame, that’s it. So you mentioned porn before. Why is it every scene ends with a facial?”
“Men enjoy the visual.”
“Yeah, but why? What kind of sense does that make, from a Darwin viewpoint? Cum all over a face, or tits, or the small of a back, that’s just wasted. It’s not going to spread your genes. That don’t spread shit. And why do guys want you to swallow? Do they not understand basic biology? Because no one ever got pregnant that way.”
“I don’t know all of Greek mythology, so I can’t guarantee that, but your point’s a valid one.”
“You, for example, Mr. Cattelan. You’re a man. And an open book. So little survey: would you enjoy cumming on my tits?”
“Yes,” he offered, clinically.
“My back?”
“Probably.”
“My face.”
He made a show of examining her features. She smiled, modeled the profile from both sides.
“Hard to tell without actually performing the experiment.”
“Awfully convenient,” she said. “So what’s the point of that?”
“Maybe it’s marking your property. Facial, and bam, you smell of me. Other guys stay away: I’ve claimed exclusive access to this vagina.”
“Really? So tell me…” She lifted her head and a view of her tits rose up like two supermoons over a barren landscape. “Have I been marked? Has someone claimed this particular vajajay?”
“Hmm,” he said, and sniffed. “Can’t tell. All right, new theory then. Maybe it’s gay panic. If any man likes semen, then he must be gay. And that puts him in a bind, you see, because he produces the stuff. It comes out of him on the regular, but if he shows the slightest interest in it, then he’s queer, right?”
“‘Queer’ has a different meaning nowadays. I’ll send you some links to read up on it.”
“My point is, he is obsessed, absolutely obsessed with ways to get this stuff out of him, and the second it comes out he’s got to get rid of it, lest it look like he’s anything but a full-blooded heterosexual. Anywhere will do. In a tissue, in a sock, in a carefully prepared cantaloupe.”
“Joe, fucking ick.”
He shrugged. “So the heterosexual male’s lot is implicit self-hatred.”
“And a woman is just a place to get rid of cum?”
“Not so fast. Yes, but it’s more than that. Because it’s not just a facial that sells. What really sells is a facial with a smile. Or with eye contact. Anything that indicates that it’s something she wants. Because then she’s communicating that this horrible, gay-inducing batter you produce isn’t terrible after all. This thing that you make non-stop that you’ve been taught to loathe; someone out there actually likes it. Appreciates it. Wants all she—or he—can get. What a relief.”
“You’ve put a lot of thought into this.”
“I find Freudian bullshit very easy to manufacture. But if you end up needing a college thesis topic… you’re welcome to it.”
“And I suppose this all applies to swallowing as well?”
“Doubly so. Have you ever done that?”
“Joe, my word, you’re giving me the vapors with these personal queries.”
“I believe you started it, Miss.”
“To answer your quite rude question: no, I have not. Have you? And by the way, refusing to answer means you think it’s something to be ashamed of, which is… so regressive.”
He ran his hand through her curls, grasping, releasing, grasping a little tighter. “Much of your twenties is figuring out your own sexual map. Sometimes you’re in the boring midlands. Sometimes you’ve found you’ve crossed a boundary, and you’re in an alien country and you need to retreat.”
“You’re avoiding the question.”
“No, but I am choosing not to answer it.”
“Coward.”
“Never claimed to be perfect. Never claimed to be eleven inches for that matter.”
She rolled onto her back and gazed up at him and they moved casually into a petting session. He had hit a homerun and only now was bothering with second base. Which was actually nice because now there was no rush, nowhere to go, and he took his time enjoying the landscape.
“You felt like eleven,” she said.
“The way you try to take control is fascinating. How did you achieve this expertise in manipulating men?”
“You act like it’s some grand mystery to figure out what men want. It ain’t. It’s like a puzzle with two pieces.”
He laughed and gave her ass a slap ‘n’ squeeze. “That’s fair. Women are convoluted. But there’re heuristics—you can figure them out if you want.”
“Could you teach me? I’m not opposed to branching out.”
“It’s tough to lecture on, better to learn through trial and error.”
“And have you got me figured out?”
“Well, you’re not exactly a closed book. But yeah, I know you.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. For instance, I know you want me to cum on your face.”
“Because I was curious about it?”
“Among other signals.”
“And will you?”
…
(Eloise)
Sometimes he looked at her in a certain way and it no longer seemed possible to speak. There were words right in her throat at the moment, climbing up her tongue and then slipping back down again and again like Sisyphus’ boulder.
He led her to the wall, pushed her gently to the floor, then stood in front of her. The robe was fuzzy and warm on her, but she could feel the air conditioning on her breasts and sex.
He crouched down to one knee, like a coach giving a pep talk. “Ever touched yourself?”
Dumb question. She wanted to say that. She couldn’t. She just nodded.
“In front of someone else?”
She shook her head.
He moved even closer, whispering now. He had a certain smell, an aftershave or something. She recognized it from class. “Elena, I want your eyes on mine. You’re good at that. You’ll look away when I say it’s all right.”
She fucking loved a challenge. She bit her lip eagerly and looked deep into those Caribbean blues of his. He was unfazed.
“Start,” he said, and she did.
Not without a flair for the dramatic though. Her hand made a weekend trip out of it, fingertips through the cleft of her breasts, nails along the dusky skin on her inside thigh, one then the other, then dipping into the rapidly filling lake between her labia. Surprisingly wet… something about the way he talked to her, made the cogs turn and the pipes open. Would have been scary with anyone else, to know someone else can work your insides. Was even a little scary with him.
Their eyes held. “Good girl. Are you wet?”
“Yes,” she said.
“You’re wet for me?”
“Oh god yes,” she said.
“You look so beautiful now. Show me how beautiful you can be.”
She rubbed herself for him. She imagined parts of him going into her as she played with her slit.
“I’m going to touch my cock now. But you’re not going to look at it. Are you?”
“No.” Jesus, it came out as a shameful whimper.
“You’re going to look in my eyes.”
She nodded, while she fucked herself.
“My hand’s on my cock now. It’s so hard. You’re making it so hard. I can’t control it. You’re the one doing it, making me so hard. Making me want you.”
“Oh god, John.”
“I’m taking off the robe now. Where are your eyes?”
“On yours.”
“My cock is so hard right now. I’m thinking about when I was inside you. You were so tight around me. You loved every fucking moment of it and I know that without even asking. Where are your eyes?”
“On yours.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“How do your fingers feel?”
“They feel good. It’s, actually, never been this good.” She gulped.
“I’m going to stand up now. Are your eyes going to leave mine?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s what you told me.”
“And why does that matter?”
“Because I want to please you.”
He smiled. “I want to please you too. Play with your clit.”
“It’s so sensitive right now. It’s hard to touch.”
“I know. Just a little, then finger yourself for me, then touch it again.”
“Ok.”
“I’m rubbing my cock for you. I’m jerking myself off, cause you look so fucking beautiful fingering your cunt.”
“Can I kiss you?”
“Did I say you could?”
“No.”
“Then no.”
Not only could she feel herself getting closer, she could feel him pulling her up the hill. Fucking Houdini this guy. He knew she’d respond to the authority—well, yes, that was an easy inference. She had pursued her teacher, after all. But how did he know that all she could think of right now was looking at his cock? It wasn’t just an itch she’d been forbidden to scratch. There was a desperation in it. All she wanted was to see it, see what she’d wrought. A glimpse would be fine. He could have anything he wanted from her, if he’d just be a little charitable.
And he knew it.
He smiled. He had started to breathe deeply. He seemed to tower ten feet above her, growing steadily. “Women are more complicated, sure,” he said. “But there are patterns you learn, if you pay attention. Eyes on mine. Tell me about your cunt.”
“It’s incredible. It’s… oh Jesus, it’s so good right now.” The sloppy sounds of her fingers. His occasional grunt. She started to pant. “John.”
“Elena.”
“John… John… I’m going to cum and I want to look at your cock so bad.”
“I’m going to come too, but you can’t look at my cock yet.”
“John, I, I, I…”
“You’re so beautiful.”
“John, I’m close…”
“I know, love. I know.”
“Oh God, John, please, let me look. I can’t stop it.”
“Cum for me.”
“It’s close… it’s… so… so… fucking… Oh God, John.”
“Cum,” he said.
She did. Her mouth gaped and her whole body heaved as she kept his gaze. There were earthquakes in the foundations of the hotel, there were hurricanes at the window, dynamite in her uterus.
“Now look,” he said.
She did. His hand closed on the back of her head and pulled her close. It came out hot along her left cheek in one boiling line. Another jet arched into her hair and dripped down her forehead. A glob onto her lower lip. He just kept pumping and pumping and it seemed to be bottomless, along the side of her nose, down her neck, in her eyebrow. She’d earned all this.
She looked up at him and smiled.
…
(Joseph)
There was the moment of surprise that you expect, but it was the moment afterwards, the demure lifting of her eyes and the posing for the yearbook smile, cheek to cheek, dimple to dimple, that was instantly tattooed into his mind. It was tenebrism… brown eyes, brown eyebrows, brown skin… white teeth, white sclera, white semen.
“So,” she said, afterwards, lying next to him in the bed, “I like to think I’m the last person to slut-shame anyone, least of all myself. But I’ll admit, I’m ashamed to say how much I enjoyed that. Can I wipe it off now?”
“One last look.”
They turned to each other. She smiled again, impish now. He mimed a camera, took an imaginary snapshot.
“That’ll do,” he said.
“So, did it feel like marking your territory?” she said, applying a moist towel. “Have I been branded? Will all the other horny troglodytes keep away from our cave out of fear of you and your giant club?”
She could have taught his class. Hell, she could have taught any class. “You know,” he started, caressing her, “that sounded like bullshit when I said it, but I’m starting to suspect there might be something to it. And you liked it?”
“I did,” she said, without embarrassment.
“Consider a career in porn then?”
“I told you, asshole, I need a plot. Also, I don’t want herpes.”
They recharged by devouring steaks and green beans and mashed potatoes. They watched half of Blue Velvet, which he remembered liking, but she wasn’t impressed, and on a second viewing, neither was he.
“You believe in God?” she said.
“Oh for fuck’s sake,” he said, facepalming, “Save that for college.”
“Do you have any idea how many Hail Mary’s it’s going to take to wipe out this weekend?”
“Of course you’d be Catholic.”
“Thousands. It’ll take thousands. Rosaries will be worn out.”
“The weekend’s not even over yet.”
She curled against his side. There was a miasma of their sex and sweat in the air. “It’s been way more than fifteen minutes, by the way,” she said.
“I’m only human, brat. It’s not just the tools down there. It’s basic endurance. And there’s that other thing.”
“The hormones?”
“Yeah, those,” he said.
“Are you in danger of falling head over heels for me, Mr. Cattelan? Is the dopamine flooding your synapses?”
“Funny girl. Cheeky bitch. You know what I mean.”
“Please don’t be hurt, but I’m not falling for you. I’ve enjoyed this—I’m not ready for it to end, but my cunt remains undomesticated. Wild and free. I’ll remember you as a good fuck if at all.”
“You sure about that?” He sized her up, rocking his head back and forth. Like any successful flirt, she was a liar first and foremost. “All right, O Wild Cunt. You know best.”
Generally, she did. Generally. But he’d been around, he’d done his field work. There was a black box in her—there’s one in everyone. Galactic dark. Impenetrable. Hers probably had most secrets than most. More mysteries and subtle irrationalities. Those were the things he couldn’t figure out, wouldn’t be able to crack. He wouldn’t bother with those. But she was still a woman; and there were subclasses of women and she could, like any other case, be placed in the proper one. She certainly enjoyed being in command, but he had realized pretty quickly that she responded to being controlled, too. The first time, coming through that door—sure, it had been what he wanted. But he wouldn’t have gone through with it, wouldn’t have pushed her in, gripped her tight, tugged down her skirt, none of that if he hadn’t known it was exactly what she wanted.
Maybe she had done it consciously, maybe subconsciously, but regardless, that had been exactly what she was trying to elicit from him. She knew how to drive a man crazy, and she had expertly applied those wiles right to him, and it produced the predictable result.
Sometimes he wondered who was fucking whom. And that uncertainty meant he was in a position much like her. He had to trust her, just as she had trusted him.
Trust her to, among other things, not fall in love.
He tried her in missionary, but the eye contact felt dangerous. He finished quickly, looking down at the soft hinge of their genitals, his pubic hair against her bare engorged vulva, purple like twilight. Cowgirl was dangerously intimate too, more so, but she responded so well he had to teach her the possibilities. That was, on paper at least, the point.
“Give it to me, baby,” she said, impaled on him and riding up and down him, juices draining down his cock. It was amazing how she’d gone from naïvete to sex kitten. “Fuck my wet cunt.”
“Ride it, babe,” he said, bucking against her.
“You feel me? I need you so bad, I need your fucking cock so bad right now in my tight little pussy.”
He started laughing. They paused, and she started laughing too.
“Too much?” she said.
“No,” he said. “It’s actually perfect. I’m just impressed.”
She came first, clasped around him for dear life, but he finished moments later, for the first time on her tits, and damned if he could think of a more incredible sight anywhere else in these contiguous United States.
…
(Eloise)
So sex, as it turns out, is awesome. Yeah, they say it’s awesome, but it’s like trying to describe a painting to someone in words. Language won’t suffice. Language isn’t even the right modality. Sex is good like… like errRRR. A cock ramming into you is!!!!!!!!!!!! The act is the sound of teeth chattering, two epees making contact, jets taking off. There’s just no word for that species of dull moan in your chest. Or that fullness, like flowers in your navel blooming one after another, lifting you, expanding you. The linguistic can’t grasp, won’t understand, the steel alloy in his eye when he wants you. The complete abandon of her lordosis.
She loved being on top; she loved holding his eyes and warming his cock and setting the tempo. And she also loved when he just lost control; that time she was moaning and she had both arms holding her thighs wide, like a pinned specimen. But in a second he had her flipped over, was pumping into her doggy-style, and had one hand holding her head into the pillow, which was fine because it made her perfectly free to scream. It was fun when he gave it to her; it was funner when she gave it back. It was all just stars and kittens and leather and fireworks.
It was becoming clear that her body liked to please him. Not just in a neighborly way. Not just as gratitude. Not as his friend or even as his lover. She thought about how she looked when he was taking her, and she wanted to look as good as possible for him. She aspired to fuckability. If he enjoyed it more, then, there was something… something good in that, in itself. That was reason enough to do it. Some feminine need to give? Some vagary of her personality that she’d have to learn? Or was it just something about him?
When he went down on her for the first time, she almost felt like she was letting him down, like she was being selfish. And he somehow knew, without her giving any hint, to say, “It’s ok, babe. Lay back. Enjoy it. That’s an order.” And at once, her body completely released itself to him, to his tongue and its preternatural ability to apply just the right amount of pressure, for just the right amount of time, and when she came, it felt like a gift she had given. And he seemed to take it in just the spirit it was handed over.
They napped together, and she wondered about the hormone trap when he had her arms around her. He had spouted that chauvinist bullshit about orgasm releasing dopamine, but an orgasm was over so quick. A neutrino through the planet core. Having someone hold you, that was dangerous territory, when the fit was right, when his smell was familiar and exotic simultaneously, when his heart slowed as he fell asleep, a cage of muscle protecting her from the world. Long-lasting, perilous terrain.
No idyll lasts forever, though. Like when she went down on him, which, really, after everything they’d done—masturbating for him, begging him to fuck her, his finger barely fitting into her asshole while she came—fellatio should have been easy.
…
(Joseph)
“Hey. Hey, can you stop?” he said. This was something every teacher had to deal with. Sometimes eagerness outshines ability. “Elle, promise me you won’t take this as an insult.” He had her by her hair, which he quickly realized she responded to with alacrity.
“Jesus, what?” she said, her eyes getting bigger than he’d ever seen them.
“You are absolutely horrible at this,” he said.
She looked crestfallen, but then slapped his dick aside and laughed. “Yeah, well I’m eighteen, what do you want? You think you could do better?”
“Yeah, I do.”
“Have you?”
“Once,” he said. “And I did a lot better than this.”
She fell back against the pillows. She needed to rest anyway. “I was really close to a perfect game there, wasn’t I?”
He laid alongside her, arms behind his head, bare cock with an eye on the ceiling. “You were. Alas, Miss Henderson, you are human after all.”
“Can you give me some hints?”
“First, it’s a cliché, but careful with your teeth.”
“Should I be writing this down?”
“I’ll text you later.”
“What else?”
“So this is going to sound strange, given your propensity for staring people into submission, but you need to give eye contact. Otherwise, there’s no connection. Might as well be a vacuum cleaner. You just had your eyes closed the whole time.”
“I was concentrating.”
“You also were going really fast.”
“I thought that would feel better.”
“Yeah… at a certain point, sure. But feel my hips, feel what they’re doing, what their rhythm is. Match that. You go too fast it’s like you’re trying to finish dinner so you can go watch TV.”
“I don’t watch TV.”
“Finish dinner so you can go read Remembrance of Things Past.”
They were both staring at the ceiling fan. “This is all good to know. I appreciate this,” she said. “Anything else?”
“Spend some time with your mouth, but then spend some time with your hands. Alternate. And I… or whoever your partner is… they’d like to know you’re enjoying it. Make a sound or two. Moan while he’s in your mouth.”
“What about the gagging?”
“You were overdoing it.”
“That wasn’t on purpose.”
He turned to her. “It’s really all right, Elle. Don’t feel bad.”
“I know,” she whispered, bringing her forehead against his so their noses touched. “I just… I don’t know why. But I really wanted you to cum in me. Not with a condom—although, like I said, I do appreciate that—I just have this primal urge to just have your cum inside me. It sounds bizarre to say it because I can’t even tell you why that appeals to me. Just a combination of “you,” and “hot sperm,” and “inside me” is pulling down my thoughts like lead weights. Sound silly?”
“No,” he said, “No, not at all,” and he gently brushed her hair with his fingers. “Sounds like dopamine.”
She laughed. “Well then, it’s for the best, isn’t it?”
“Yep, think so.” And he carried her for the first time—he had thrown her around before, but this was careful, with her arms around his neck—into the shower, where he had her wash him, and where he took his time, soaping her up, rinsing her off, kissing her frequently and wide-rangingly, as if in approval of her every protrusion and nook, and laughing at each one of her always surprisingly witty jokes.
…
(Eloise)
It’s interesting the rules we live by. The rule governing her right then was that she was no longer allowed to wear clothes. That included the hotel robes, that included the towels, that even included the washcloths. She tried to think how this had come up, and she couldn’t really remember, just like she had no idea what time it was, or really, even the day. But she knew she wasn’t allowed to wear clothes.
Stranger thing was, this wasn’t a blanket rule. It didn’t apply to everyone in the room. He, for instance, had put on pants and his shirt to answer the door for breakfast while she had gone diving for the bedsheets to hide from the bellhop, lying there like a lump as if it weren’t perfectly obvious what was under there. And then he didn’t take them off, sat there full clothed while he fed her the entire meal. Oh, right, should mention that she also wasn’t allowed to touch utensils.
Interesting, right? Something even more interesting is that after an hour the condition became… reified somehow. Like it was the proper default. It actually seemed bizarre to her that she had ever worn clothes before in her life, that there had ever been a moment in his presence when he wasn’t permitted to inspect every part of her. She felt like dancing. She danced.
He smiled at her. And it seemed right that he should be in clothes in front of her. Not that he had to be, but if he wanted to be, if he liked how he looked in that suit—she loved how he looked in that suit, by the way—then why shouldn’t he be, and why shouldn’t she be twirling nude about him? (Except for her eye of Horus necklace. That she would neither explain, nor give up.)
“Too much champagne?” he asked, raising his eyes from the newspaper. He now eye fucked her on the regular. He was always gazing at her nipples, at her mouth, at her cunt, and—she imagined—her ass.
“Just happy,” she said, with a deep kiss. “Just content. Can I do anything for you?”
“Yeah,” he said, reaching over to grab a pillow and placing it in front of his chair. “On your knees. Eyes up.”
…
(Joseph)
Was it great? No. Was it terrible? No, he’d had much worse, but there was a fine line between a blowjob and a throat-fucking. One is driven by the fellator, another by the fellatee. This was technically the latter.
She did keep her eyes on his, although he had to pinch her nipple once when they drifted downwards. She went slower, but again her enthusiasm took over—which was strange, because she had been so capable of patience in everything—everything—else they had done. But apparently, they had found her favorite.
He knew if he just sat back and let her do her thing, she’d have fun, and he’d have fun, but there’d be no conclusion to the proceedings. And she had confided what she wanted. So he grabbed her, the firmest he had yet, and gave her a reassuring look. She nodded, and he started a careful oscillation with her head. Very slow, ponderously slow. He felt her surrender all control to him: she seemed relieved.
Her lips ran over the veins of his cock. He felt the warmth of the tongue underneath his shaft, slipping back and forth. The hardest part of the weekend was going slowly enough for her, to keep her safe and still give her what she craved.
He would stop from time to time to just cradle her head, run fingers through her hair, appreciate the sheer fucking beauty of her smokey eyes, her powerful cheekbones.
“I’m going to finish now, Eloise. You ready?”
She made a warm gurgling sound. Sweat was beading on her forehead.
“I’m going to need you to swallow.”
Now she made a sound more like a needy purr.
She didn’t waste a drop. And he was well and truly spent.
…
(Eloise)
“Better?” she said. She knew it was silly, but she swore she could feel his cum in her belly, like a warm little secret between them.
“C plus,” he said. “Passing.”
“Tough crowd,” she said, and kicked him.
“So, worth it? All you expected? Itch that scratch?”
She looked at him and shrugged. They fell asleep again, for how much time it was impossible to say. Had it been two days? Three? She booked the room for three, which was not easy to explain to her parents, but she was nothing if not resourceful. What had he told his wife? she wondered.
And she knew that that truly was none of her business.
And then she had the stupidest idea she’d ever had. And what’s more, she knew it was the stupidest idea she’d ever had as soon as it popped up behind her eyebrows. She had never really doubted the wisdom of offering her hymen to him on a silver platter. That was foresighted and brilliant. But this idea? This idea was stillborn and idiotic, and somehow still plenty alive, refusing to die. She attacked it with logic. She tried to smother it with distractions. And still there.
She rolled over—it was night again. He was awake. He’d been staring at her for god knows how long.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
He nodded.
“I have to,” she said.
He shook his head.
“John…”
He put his finger on her lips.
“It’s ok,” he said. “I love you too.”
In seconds her cheeks were as damp as any forest in the rain, and he kissed her forehead. He pulled a sheet over both of them, as if that would hold the world back.
…
(Joseph)
The last time was as short as you’d expect. He was surprised he had anything left to give at all. He’d be sore for weeks from this. It was mostly quiet, slow and steady and probably thoroughly boring to any spectators there may be—even if only God.
He lay on top of her, hands on her face, kissing her, taking long moments just to gaze at her as his hips brought him into her entire and back again. There was no rush, and they both knew there wouldn’t be another time.
For the first time, she looked a tad childish. Her armor ever so slightly chipped. But maybe that was an act too.
She didn’t use words, just placed her hand on his chest and slowly pushed her off her. He just watched. It had been, after all, her plan from the beginning. She could complete her masterpiece as she saw fit.
He felt her hand on him, first muffled through the rubber, then, as she removed it, warm against him. Her fingers seemed so small around him. And she guided him back in, into a brand-new country… a virgin country, it seemed to him.
The only time they sped was the very end. In unison, breathing deeply. She gasped, he fell on top of her and listened to her heart. The heathen god accepted the offering and vanished into smoke.
Maybe time passed. Maybe.
…
(Eloise)
For some reason, she couldn’t bring herself to get dressed until he had been gone for a while.
There were no words. That was the good thing about fucking an English teacher. He knew enough about language to know when it would be pointless.
Even on the drunkest or most depressed nights of the next twenty-five years, she never spoiled it by running his name through a search engine. Never sent a text. Never wrote back: “Don’t worry. Took a plan B. Thanks for snatching that V-card, Mr C.” Although she did consider pushing send on that one.
If he had had any interest in her past that weekend, he never betrayed it. No phone call, nor cryptic post card, nor Spartan email.
So she sat on a chair in the room, and pulled on her nylons, threaded her belt, adjusted her top. She spent some time in the mirror trying to tame her hair, then applied lipstick. A dark, and, she thought, quite adult shade. She even spent some time straightening the room, which was post-apocalyptic. She even thought up a word for it: Caligulan.
Let her phone charge, as she read her book, sitting at the little dining table. Parts of her hurt. Her cunt, where she’d given him pleasure. Her ass, where she begged him to mark her. Her heart, which had betrayed her exactly the way he’d warned.
But this would all convalesce in its time.
She walked out in her heels with a spring in her step and a feeling that the world had been torn open as wide as she’d been, and everything was possible for it, and everything was possible for her.
…
Eloise didn’t look up until she’d finished, then carefully put the pages back in order.
“You know,” she said, “I think you may have embellished a few things.”
He swished his Scotch in the glass. “Yeah, well, you took a few liberties yourself. Anyway. Keep it. It’s the only copy. I don’t even know why I wrote it—I haven’t read it since I did. But maybe you can do something with it. Or throw it away. It’s all the same.”
“Of course,” she said.
Maybe time passed. Maybe.
Eventually, she leaned against him. The inconsistencies of time will never be solved. Somehow so much had happened, at once dreamlike and real. They had lived it all together, her triumphs, her failures, from that first night to this one. And here they were, just out for the evening, about to go back to their comfy home, where he’d watch some old movie and she’d read some old book, and they’d kiss and fall asleep like any other night. But that wasn’t true. That was a story. But so was this.
“You’re an odd motherfucker, Mr. Cattelan. You could have taken advantage of me, and you, you chose to just take care of me.”
“It’s a good line, Ms. Henderson. You should write it down.”
“I’m sure it’s been said before.”
“Probably. Not often enough, though.”
“Joe.”
“Eloise.”
“I never said thanks.”
“Neither did I.”
“Wouldn’t be any point, I suppose.”
“Nope,” he said.
“You know, I don’t know what you’re doing tonight. But that one thing… you know the one. I’ve actually gotten a lot better at it.”
“I knew practice’d make perfect.”
“Any interest in experiencing perfection?”
“Once was enough,” he said and smiled at her. She felt a pinch of sadness, a familiar one, as he pulled a few twenties out of his wallet.
“Good to see you,” she said, and she knew there was no way she could make him stay. He was a stubborn bastard. But all the same, she essayed, “Joe, maybe we should… I don’t know. Maybe you should stay this time. Maybe I should ask you to stay.”
They contemplated each other. She batted her eyes.
“I was probably too old for you then,” he said. “I’m certainly too old now.”
“That’s the thing, though. You weren’t.”
He smiled, but she never heard him speak another word. Four years later he passed from an aggressive pancreatic cancer, one that could have never dented him in his prime and so waited twenty-five years in ambush. The eulogies were good, appropriate. When asked, she told fellow mourners that she was one of his students, and that he had inspired her to be a writer. One person recognized her name. Other truths were left unsaid, left in the air, tumbling like autumn leaves.
But that was grist for another story in itself, and care must be taken with the unities.
This story ends with him getting up from the bar stool, slowly but properly, proudly rising to his full height like an antiquated soldier donning his old uniform. He leaned in to kiss her cheek, met her eyes for a full minute, then walked off. The same aftershave.
She watched him go, watched him as he held the door for a pretty young woman, who smiled at him, already smitten. Then gone. If not for the manuscript in front of her, it could’ve been a dream.
So what can be said? Did someone—or both—take advantage of the other, and if so, did it matter now? Could it? Maybe some questions just resign themselves to never finding their answer, and this is one of them. Had an eternity of fitful survival forced them into something foolish? Or had they stolen something back? Who fucked who?
Was that really love, or was it something that could have been love? Should she have run after him then, there, as he left the bar? Or should she have run after him twenty-five years ago? She had left the note, she had birthed all these futureless maybes, and it was only fairthat they were coming to roost. Maybe he should have left his wife, left his family, left everything, shown her even more of the world. Maybe she had copious justification to expect and deserve that. Maybe they’d be damned somewhere for what they’d done. Or celebrated in song.
Maybe the real injury was what neither intends. An awkward first tumble, a fumbling for entry, two people professing love and lying and not knowing they’re lying. Too little foreplay, too much solicitation and still not enough, that pinch or that tear or that rip, sometimes blood among all the secret lubrications of the body, then bemusement after the disappointing fact. Well, after setting that bar, of course it’s going to get better.
But what do you do with the impeccable? When every future lover faces the gauge of one who took from her what she offered, gave her what she desired, taught her what she needed to know? What hope does that leave for improvement?
She thought for a moment.
Let’s be rational here. Set up the equations, solve for X. Two people had once shared sheets, a hotel room, and a few lovely moments, which were incorruptible in the action, which persisted in memory like background radiation (the hair of his chest the weight of her breast her drawn up in sheets answering for room service the smooth pas de deux of their legs while they ecstatically screwed). Memories which will become meaningless noise, indistinguishable from cricket songs and the solar wind, as we die.
Nonetheless, she wrote down, “E. H. + J. C. 4-ever,” before closing her notebook. She gave a come-hither hook with her index finger.
The bartender walked over. What a world, to constantly produce men with powerful chests and shapely backsides, sinewy arms and leg hair. Young and old. A renewable resource improved by the plucking. “Friend of yours?” he asked.
“No,” she said.
“Another margarita?”
“Another time,” she said, and asked for the check.