“Yes, sir. Enough to last me for some time.”
“When you dance with me, you stay danced with,” he said.
I certainly felt danced with. But I needed to put him to bed and get out of this place. He started humming along with the record and tapping his foot, and I knew we were in for more fox-trotting if I didn’t short-circuit his choreography. I was losing patience as he got to his feet and pulled me into his arms again.
“That’s enough, sir!” I said, more firmly than I should have, perhaps. It stopped him cold. I suspect he hadn’t been scolded in years.
“What?”
“It’s time for bed, sir.”
“Says who?”
“Aren’t you tired, sir?”
“No,” he replied. “I want to finish off that champagne before it goes flat. Uncork it, please, and pour two glasses. One for me, and one for yourself.”
“Are you sure you want more of that, sir?” I said, dubious.
That stopped him again. “Damn it, Corkscrew. Will you quit trying to be my mother? A glass of champagne now!”
The best choice at the moment was to humor him. I figured another glass or two would make him docile, if it didn’t knock him out cold, and then I could deposit him in bed and go. I’d still have a two-mile walk in the rain back to the club to retrieve my own car, and I wasn’t looking forward to the trek. I retrieved the bottle from the backseat of the car.
Meanwhile, he’d set two glasses on the counter in the kitchen. He had also dropped his suspenders, though they were still attached to his trousers, and unbuttoned his shirt halfway as I poured. He polished off his glass quickly and emptied the bottle into his glass. I wasn’t alarmed yet, just a bit concerned about putting the general to bed and getting myself as far away from his house as possible. He would have the whole weekend to recover, and I could relax miles away from him. I took a sip of champagne.
“Drink up like a man,” he said, stern.
Reluctantly, I emptied my glass, and he followed suit.
“That’s more like it,” he said. He unbuttoned his dangling suspenders and draped them across my shoulders. “What now, Snowplow?”
What indeed? “I think it’s time for bed, sir.”
He grinned. “All right, but remember it was your idea.”
Even if he was drunk, I didn’t want him to talk like that. I didn’t want him talking like that at all.
Chapter Nine
“Shall we go up then, sir?”
He agreed. I followed him up the stairs and into the bedroom. He turned on the bedside light, and I pulled down the spread as he looked on. He emptied his pockets onto the nightstand: a white handkerchief, some coins, his pipe, a peppermint, the watch.
“That’s quite a timepiece, sir.”
He handed it to me, and I examined it up close, an elegant thing, spring-wound, weighty as a pendulum, in an engraved nickel case with a snap cover. “My granddad’s,” he said. I set it down on the wooden nightstand and its ticking resonated throughout the room, the only sound for a moment.
“I like the rhythm,” he said at last. “Good company for a lonely man.”
I didn’t want to know he was a lonely man. I would want to change all that, and I couldn’t. I couldn’t do a single thing. When he made no move to undress, I initiated the process, helping him out of his shirt. Underneath it, he wore a sleeveless undershirt that barely managed to contain a generous carpet of black fur.
Next, I helped extract him from the undershirt. He got tangled in it and we both laughed again. The lamp on the nightstand cast a warm, friendly glow, extremely generous with its soft luminescence, spreading intriguing, enticing shadows across the wall.
As the general weaved in and out of the light, I watched the dark hair on his chest. It was the first time I had seen him this undressed, and I had to stop and catch my breath in wonder. He was almost gaunt, and as tense as the coiled spring inside his watch. He breathed in and out as if our dancing had either exhausted or energized him. I could count his ribs, under their furry blanket, with every breath he took in. And I could detect the faint scent of his aftershave, that suited him so perfectly.
“What’s the matter?” he said. I was, I guess, staring, mesmerized. He looked down at himself as if he were surprised to discover that the terrain was densely populated with thick, coarse hair, spreading in a neat pattern against the hard, dinner-plate concavity of his belly. “Pretty crowded down there, isn’t it?” he said.
I had to admit he was pretty crowded down there.
He scratched the deep pile. “Looks like I could use a good mowing, doesn’t it?”
Well, there is no answer for such a question.
“Itches like hell sometimes,” he said. “Don’t know why. You’d think I’d be used to it by now, but it still itches like hell sometimes. I might have to keep you on standby to scratch in case of emergency.”
He could add that to my job description any time. I would not complain. I wondered, briefly, about the consequences of seducing a slightly soused general. If such a thing were even possible. I doubted it. But here was this clueless, fuzzy general saying he’d let me scratch his itch, and surely he must be kidding. But I stood three feet and six ranks away from him wishing he weren’t kidding.
Nothing will feed that hunger.
“Sit down, sir.”
He did, heavily. I suspected he would not be long awake. I untied his shoes and removed them and started on his socks, but he stood up.
“I am perfectly capable of undressing myself.” Belligerent.
“Yes, sir. You just finish up and climb into bed, and I’ll be on my way.”
He sat down again. “So soon?” he said, penitent.
“It’s late, sir. Don’t you think it’s time for bed?”
He grinned again, the spark glowing to life. “You keep saying that, Kingsize. Just what do you have in mind?”
Would he just stop? My frustration was growing in proportion to something in my pants. “Nothing at all, sir. You must be tired. It’s been a long day, and you were quite active tonight,” I said. “Where are your pajamas, sir?”
He snorted. “Pajamas are for sissies.”
Okay, no pajamas. I wondered if he might want a shower after his exertion earlier in the evening, but it would complicate things even more, so I didn’t even make the suggestion. He managed his socks, and then he stood, a little unsteady.
“Help me with my trousers, will you?”
I knew I stood at the edge of a mined field, dangerous ground I’d never hike if I were smart. But there was himself, bidding me forward. He asked again. I took a deep breath and reached for the buttons. As our fingers fumbled with the buttons, his eyes, quizzical, locked onto mine, and we were caught suspended for a moment, as if we were strapped into the front car of a rollercoaster at the top of the steepest grade, after all the clattering and clanking of this carnival night, poised for the eternal second before hurtling down into the thrilling fear.
To my surprise, he wore no undershorts. Perhaps he also felt they too were only for sissies. And as I wrestled him loose from his pants, I was even more startled to find evidence that he had grown aroused.
Quite clearly. And quite aroused.
I was momentarily puzzled. Was it merely his excitement after the triumph this night? Just some reflex? Had his proximity to me brought him to this state? He stood in front of me, trousers heaped at his feet, breathing hard as if he’d just run a marathon, his furry chest rising and falling as he gulped in air. And neither of us could ignore the glorious, obvious reality of his erection, full and proud, pointing directly at me.
For a moment, he was speechless. I was, too, though cacophony filled my head, a thousand voices hollering like a stadium full of riled fans after a spectacular play. I couldn’t sort out any of it; the noise deafened me. The general’s eyes found mine again, and he wondered for a moment, I think, how to proceed. Should he be embarrassed, should he make a joke, ignore it? A thousand years or a second
could have passed before he spoke. I don’t know. And when he finally did speak, he was guarded. Even uncertain.
“I believe, Harris,” the general said, flat, “you are being saluted.”
“Yes, sir?” My answer was its own question, barely whispered. I couldn’t remember the last time he’d used my name. Possibly never. His use of it now made me cold and hot all at once, and his analogy to the salute was certainly apt. I had already snapped to full attention inside my trousers, returning the greeting in kind.
“Tell me, Harris,” he said, still as evenly as if he were dictating a memo, “what does your military training tell you to do when you receive such a greeting?”
A pause. I had more at stake here than I cared to think about at the moment, but my heart won over my head. Perspiring freely, I swallowed and took a deep breath before answering: “Salute back, sir. Proudly, the way you taught me.”
His brow furrowed, as if he needed concentration to process my reply. He requested clarification, I think, and registered utter disbelief when I merely repeated myself.
“What?” he whispered. In that one word, I suspect he questioned his whole life up to that time, putting an entire career, an entire way of thinking, of living, on the line. It hung there for a second before he repeated it, agonized. “What?”
“I think you heard me correctly, sir,” I said, but for a second I wavered. Perhaps I was the one who misunderstood.
“Do you realize what you’re saying?” he whispered.
I listened for any shade of cruelty, of taunt in his voice, but I heard none. In my momentary uncertainty, I half expected him to renege on his offer, to call me names, to admit he had set this trap to poke fun, or to curse me for tempting him and chase me out of the house, but I could not give him time to consider any of these options. “I do. Absolutely, sir.”
He groped for me with clumsy, unpracticed hands, and if he doubted what I’d said, he certainly couldn’t doubt the hard evidence that proved otherwise. The shock in his eyes lasted only a second, and he gave me no time to consider my options, either.
He ripped three buttons from my shirt as he extricated me from it, and he nearly did similar disservice to my trousers. Inside a minute, he was on his back on the bed, and I above him on my hands and knees, staring down at him framed against the sheet, frightened, grateful, awed, curious, and genuinely excited in a way I’d never felt before, with the general’s lanky form stretched out under me. He trembled, perhaps from the coolness of the air in the room, perhaps from anxiety or eagerness himself.
His chest still rose and fell with the heavy breath of exertion and anticipation. Black hair swirled against his chest like some unruly crop grown wild and windblown. In the dark pit of his crotch stood the proof that his own urgency was as undeniable as mine. I couldn’t quite believe I was on hand to testify, convinced I’d never seen anything as magnificent as Seamus Edwards O’Neill in his splendid nakedness. Quite possibly I would still be there, my eyes full of wonder, if he hadn’t interrupted my reverie.
“Harris,” he barked, hoarse. “I’m not some damned national monument. For God’s sake, quit behaving like a tourist, and put your hands on me.”
He didn’t have to ask twice. When my fingers first made contact with his belly, the jolt was electric, like the perfect blue arc of a welder who knows his machine. With his urgent fury finally given release, the general roared as we fused. His mouth, flavored with tobacco and peppermint and champagne, plumbed mine and down we went, diving headfirst into each other. I had never tasted such hunger in a man, and I had never been so hungry myself.
I lowered my mouth to the plane of his chest. There was no time for grace, no time for leisure. Urgently, he pushed himself at me and willingly, I obliged him. He needed no words to pledge his approval. He rose to meet me with every stroke, the perfect counterpoint. From time to time, I came up for air but never stopped exploring. And he was in no way shy about communicating his desires. When he would no longer be denied, I sensed his impatience and concentrated my persuasion where he most needed it.
As we moved together, I became aware that he was muttering to himself, “Oh, damn. Damn. Damn.” But it didn’t sound like swearing. It sounded instead like a prayer. Our passion was the same, and we loped after it urgently. I could almost feel the champagne coursing in his veins, as if someone had shaken up his bottle and popped his cork. He stiffened as he tumbled from the edge, uttering a long, low, lustful animal growl as his satisfaction bubbled over, spurting and fizzing.
Afterward, he pulled me up to him, gently. In the warm light from the night table, he focused his eyes on mine and held me there, close, as if he were looking for the solution to some puzzle. I was uncertain how he would respond, how I should respond. Having come down to earth after his spectacular flight, how he would feel about me? About himself? About us, if I could dare to refer to him and me collectively? My head as well as my heart knew that nothing would ever be the same. Whether this was for better or worse, I did not know then.
“Damn, Shooter,” he murmured.
“Did I do something wrong, sir?” I asked, uncertain. A little scared, I admit. And he stared at me for a moment until, I guess, he decided I expected an answer to my question. He shook his head slowly.
“You couldn’t,” he said. “Ever. Not one wrong thing.” When the shadow of an uncertain smile crossed his mouth, I believed him, but I had other pressing concerns that required attention. I’ve never been shy about expressing my appreciation for a handsome man, and under the thin shelter of the covers, I could not easily hide the effect of his proximity. Upon noticing my condition, he raised his dark eyebrows—a row of exclamation points—and grinned. His mustache was running its own fifty-yard dash as he lifted the sheet.
He let out a low whistle. “Let me state for the record that I am impressed. You didn’t get that at Officer Training School.”
“No, sir. Standard equipment.”
“Hardly standard.” He ran his fingers up and down the skin of my chest and I shivered. His touch launched me a thousand miles up, and before I had time to collect my thoughts or say a word, I found our positions reversed. I was on my back with him above, his talented mustache exploring my belly first and then brushing the inside of my thighs.
I could tell he enjoyed his task, and he liked what he found. I still wasn’t certain of the protocol, but no propriety could stop me from enjoying myself, too. In the next quarter of an hour, his mustache swept everywhere except where I most wanted him to, and his tongue explored as if he’d never tasted such exotic flavor. He could feel the desperate ache in me, too, and he paused just long enough to tell me to relax.
“Easy, now, Stagecoach. I know where you want to go, and we will get there. But I’m in the pilot seat, and I’ll set the course and fly this jet. Half the pleasure of any trip is the journey. Understood?”
Easy for him to say. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”
Please hurry, sir.
We glided deep into valleys and soared high above sharp peaks, up and up and up, until I touched the sky at its sharpest blue. I didn’t have to tell him when I could stand no more. I guess he could sense it. When he lowered his hungry mouth against my impatience, I simply couldn’t be polite anymore. I lunged against his heat and the bristle of his mustache, and he inched me toward the precipice until I tumbled willingly over the edge, headlong, lost.
I felt wrung out and happier than I’d ever been in my life. The general reached over and turned out the lamp, and then he slid next to me in the dark, wrapping his arms around me, my back against his matted chest. I had never imagined such pleasure, and I couldn’t envision anything outside of this bed.
“Well, Firecracker,” he murmured in my ear as we settled down. I could hear him grin. “Suitable bottle rockets, even if the fourth of July is already past. How was it for you?”
“You did good,” I told him.
“I know,” he said.
“Because you’re a general?”
&nbs
p; “Why not?” He pulled me even closer to him, but I couldn’t relax at all. After a minute, I struggled to free myself from his embrace.
“What’s the matter?” he said.
I couldn’t even begin to answer his question, so I didn’t try. The bedsheets were as tangled as my mixed emotions, and I couldn’t stand the suspense. It had to be a dream, and I made up my mind the first move would have to be mine, much as it would hurt. “I guess you’ll want me to be going now, sir?”
He sat up. “Why?” He seemed honestly mystified.
“Well,” I said, rather doubtful. “Don’t you think I should?” He would hardly want to wake up tomorrow morning, naked, uncertain, possibly hung over but unquestionably next to a second lieutenant twenty-plus years his junior? And his aide, no less? I wasn’t sure I wanted to be there in the morning when he put these pieces together. If he chose to invoke the “I was so drunk last night I don’t remember a thing” cliché, I would be crushed. I’d heard it before and had always considered it the coward’s last ditch.
As I tried to build a suitable response, he said, “Where will you go?”
I’d forgotten that particular detail. “I guess I’ll hike back to the club and get my car and go home,” I said.
“The club is a couple of miles from here,” he said. He glanced at the clock on the night table. “It’s raining, and it’s past two. If the base cops discover you walking around here at this hour of the morning, they’ll stop you.”
He was probably right. And what would I tell them? The truth?
“You’ll stay put, Boxcar,” he said. “I want you to be here in the morning.”
He did? “Why?”
“You think I’m drunk, don’t you?”
I did, but this was probably not the time to accuse. “Well, sir, maybe I wouldn’t go that far. But you might not be at your most clearheaded right now, sir. It’s pretty late.”
“And you think I’ve consumed enough for three,” he said. “All right. I drank more champagne than usual. But believe me. I am stone-cold sober now. I didn’t plan for this to happen. I’m as surprised as you are.”
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