“You know,” she says. “When I was in Ibiza, Pedro one evening when we were chilling, smoking pot, touched me on the arm, and I knew he wanted to fuck me. And I wanted him to fuck me too. I needed it. That’s why I’d let him see me naked on the beach that afternoon. But his hand on my skin just felt wrong, you see, not like yours. So I brushed him away and took another puff on the joint. It was a crazy evening.”
Hearing the name of another, he felt a wave of anger and bitterness sweep through him and thrust into her as hard as he could and, entwined as they were, they almost slipped. Fucking in showers looked easier in movies, to be sure.
He withdraws from her.
“This is too awkward,” he points out. “One of us is going to slip and we’ll injure ourselves. Let’s go to bed.”
They retreat to the room, swathed in white towels. He hurries to the bed and slides in between the sheets.
“I have to dry my hair first,” she said. And stands in the bedroom, facing the mirror, massaging the soft material into the jungle of her hair. The other large bathroom towel tightened around her body slips to the ground.
He watches, his heart beating wildly, his breath taken away yet again by the sheer innocence of her nudity. Walks out of bed and embraces her as he is overtaken by tenderness. Her hair is now less damp and she throws the towel she had been using aside. Both facing the mirror, his face peering across her naked shoulders. An image he would treasure forever, indelibly printed into the back screen of his brain.
On their final evening in New York, she wanted go out. Properly.
She insisted he shave his chin and cheek stubble, wear his black suit, and a clean shirt which she selected from his pack. She foraged inside her untidy suitcase and pulled out a backless evening dress, and shoes with heels. This was the first occasion in all the time he had known her she had ever worn heels. At an open-all-night Korean convenience store on the corner of Third and Sullivan Street, he bought a red rose she planted amongst the thicket of her curls.
They walked down to the restaurant on Bleecker Street they had chosen earlier and Giulia floated on air and heels like a royal gypsy queen proudly taking ownership of the cold night. The lights of Greenwich Village flickered. Pride swelled in his heart. Combined with a sense of impending loss because it was to be their final night here. And he never knew on each trip together whether it would be their last.
“I feel sad,” he said to her, picking at his pine nut and asparagus risotto.
“You musn’t.”
“I know,” he replied.
The restaurant was almost empty and the food disappointing.
The evening before he had bought takeaway sushi from a downmarket Japanese on the corner of Sixth and Greenwich Avenue and fed her individual morsels by hand while they both sat upright in bed, drops of soya sauce pearling down across the Antarctica of her small breasts, which he then obediently licked clean, savouring the taste of food and the musky, natural smell of her own skin.
“Yesterday was better,” he pointed out.
“Yes,” Giulia said, with a hint of a satisfied smile.
“Oh well . . .”
They walked back to their room taking a detour by Washington Square, a crescent moon laced the shadows falling across the facades of the massive apartment blocks on the southernmost side of Fifth Avenue. Under the arch they kissed briefly, but the temperature was falling fast and she had no coat to shelter her naked back from the growing cold. He draped his jacket around her shoulders.
The night porter watched them impassively as they trooped across the lobby towards the main elevator.
They stripped quickly and sought warmth between the cold sheets. The silence that divided them now was deafening. Their hands fumbled in the darkness, seeking each other, their bodies suddenly uncomfortable and self-conscious. His hand grazed one breast. Her fingers grasped his cock and felt it grow under her contact.
On Waverly Place, they made love and wept.
Her limousine arrived a quarter of an hour early the next day to take her to the airport, where her flight back to Barcelona was waiting. They didn’t have much time to talk.
He just stood in the lobby watching her walk to the swinging doors of the hotel, dragging her metal case alongside on its small wheels. He was searching for the right words to say, but they just wouldn’t come. They never did, did they?
Out in Queens, past Jamaica Boulevard, travelling down Van Wyck Expressway, separated from the Arab driver by the glass partition, Giulia pulled her notebook from her bag, and began drafting him a letter. She would continue writing it in the airport’s departure lounge where she had a couple of hours to spare until she boarded the flight. She’d had no wish to have a coffee this time around or spend time in the duty-free shops. The letter spread over nine pages, her handwriting all over the place, sometimes shaken by the tears rolling down her cheeks or that terrible feeling of despair that so often lurked in the pit of her stomach. She used both sides of the paper. During the long flight back to Europe, she made changes, crossing out lines, adding words, erasing others.
It was a love letter. Thanking him for the wonderful time they had spent together by Washington Square. Attempting in bursts of savage hunger to tell him, explain to him how much she loved him, even though the whole essence of their relationship was wrong, could just not sustain itself. She made promises she knew she could not keep. Tried to understand, as she wrote, why love could also contain so much pain.
By the time she landed, she had already decided she would never send him the letter. It remained at the bottom of her bag for the next six months. Accusing her. Chiding her. But wasn’t it him who had one day explained to her that words weren’t enough. That they couldn’t change the course of things?
One day, by accident, he would read the letter, but by then it was too late. They had both moved apart; only lust kept them together under its heavy cloak of illusions when they took excursions away together from their real lives in other foreign cities or beaches. Ironically, his discovery of the letter coincided with their very last tryst.
Of course, the letter made him cry. Because he now realized that they had both left their hearts behind in Washington Square.
John Updike Made Me Do It
Donna George Storey
Roots of an Obsession
John Updike made me do it.
He definitely deserves a lot of credit anyway.
Because when I think back on that night in Tahoe, it’s almost as if he were right there in the hot tub with us, his lips stretched in a patrician smile as he guided my hand over to caress the rock-hard cock of a man who was not my husband. Of course said husband was too busy sucking the rosy nipples of the German woman, Katharina, to notice or care. And Jürgen and Jill were already kissing as if they’d done it dozens of times, which they hinted they had when Jill spent her junior year in Bonn. None of them seemed to need John Updike’s help, although no doubt they had his blessing.
Updike had been softening me up for this night for years. Sitting in the effervescent spa water with five other horny married people, the Sierras soaring around us into the star-flecked sky, it was just like stepping into the pages of a steamy novel. In fact, it was the same surreal excitement I felt as I devoured Rabbit Is Rich or Couples under the blankets as a teenager. Sneaking them from the bookshelves in my parents’ room, I instinctively knew I could only read them when I heard the soft click of their bedroom lock at night.
While my parents “did it” the customary way – with each other in their marriage bed, their lust invisible to the world – the couples in John Updike’s stories were fearlessly experimental, so they ended up all jumbled together like Halloween candy in a plastic pumpkin. They’d jet off to the Caribbean where the wives would confer to redistribute sex partners for the night. Or they’d fall into affairs, then confess to their spouses who would graciously consent to sleep with their cuckolded counterparts to even the score. Even Updike’s memoirs glittered with shocking transgres
sion. I can’t tell you how many times I masturbated to the scene of Updike fingering a neighbour’s wife through her ski pants as they drove back from Vermont through a starry winter night.
I knew these were just stories, maybe even pure fantasy, but I sensed, too, that John Updike was giving me a glimpse of the hunger and restlessness of the adult world. What were these people looking for in their swaps and affairs? Did they ever find it?
Would I?
The Games Begin
We’d just passed Auburn on our drive up to Tahoe to spend the weekend with Nick’s old friend Jill when the snow started falling hard. Before long, Nick had to pull over and put on the chains. I suppose I started playing the “swinging” game because the poor guy was half-frozen when he got back in the car. With the traffic inching along I-80, we were sure to miss dinner at the cabin. He’d need more than Power Bars and trail mix to warm him up.
I explained the rules to him: we’d take turns naming a couple we knew, then describe what we thought it would be like to swap for the evening. I opened with the most obvious couple in our lives. “How about switching with Grace and Jack?”
Nick’s eyebrows shot up. Grace was one of the most talented programmers he worked with and he once mentioned casually that he found her attractive. With her porcelain skin and hourglass curves, I doubt he was alone in that opinion.
“I could see that as a possibility,” he said cautiously.
“A possibility? Come on, you’d love it. Grace straddling you cowgirl style. Those melon breasts jiggling as she rode you, her pale skin all flushed with arousal. You could grab her nice round butt and knead it while she creamed all over you. Then you’d tickle her ass crack – you’re good at that – and when she came she’d probably give that sweet little laugh, like she did when she was drunk at the Christmas party.” I giggled in what I thought was a decent imitation of his favourite colleague.
“Jeez, you don’t have to get so graphic.” It was already dark, but in the glow of the surrounding headlights, I could see he was blushing.
“What’s the matter? Am I giving you a boner?”
Nick shifted in his seat. “So what about you and Jack?”
“I don’t know. He’s not the worst candidate. But to be honest he’s too good-looking for me.”
“Too good-looking?”
“Yeah, blond muscle boys like him are used to being worshipped by women. They don’t try hard enough. If I’m fucking someone just for the sex, I want a guy who has something to prove.”
“You’re hard to please.” Nick narrowed his eyes at me, but I suspect he liked me that way. “How about Michael and Heather? He strikes me as the ambitious type.”
I shook my head. “He’s so hairy. And he is ambitious, but not in a good way. He’s bound to be selfish in bed. But Heather? With that limber little body of hers you could do it in all kinds of kinky positions. Maybe push her legs to her shoulders until she was practically bent in half? Her vagina would be all stretched and tight like a warm, wet glove, gripping you with every stroke. She’s so light, you could do it standing up, too. You could take her up against the wall, her ass banging against it like you were spanking her. I’d bet you’d make a lot of noise, you two.”
Nick laughed, discomfort mixed with definite arousal. “Well, I’ve always thought Heather was nice. So that makes it two to nothing. Can’t you think of anyone you’d like to be with?”
I paused. To be honest, I was having so much fun turning him on with my dirty words, I hadn’t even thought about it.
“Maybe Jill’s German friend will be right for me. If you believe John Updike, vacations are a good time to do a little swinging. The rules of ordinary life don’t apply. How about you and Jill?”
Nick grimaced. “Don’t even mention Jill, OK? She’s practically my sister.” He turned and studied my face. “I know you like Ben, though.”
“For his mind, darling. He’s a little . . . soft . . . for me.”
“True, he’s not particularly athletic,” Nick agreed. “Hey, what’s with all of this swinging talk anyway?”
“I was just rereading Updike’s Couples and everyone’s screwing around and swapping like crazy.” I closed up the bag of trail mix and leaned back in my seat. “I always wondered how often it happens in real life though.”
Nick glanced over at me again. “Is this something you’d like to try?”
“No, I’m just curious,” I replied rather too quickly. “How about you?”
“I guess if the right opportunity arises, for both of us, I’d be OK with it. Not that there’s much of a chance, being married to Ms Choosy.”
“How could I top perfection?” I said, reaching over to pat his crotch. He was still hard from the fantasy romps with Grace and Heather no doubt. I was pretty damp myself. I knew at least one couple would be having sex at the cabin tonight.
The truth was the idea of trying a swap with another couple did turn me on, but I never thought in a million years it could ever be more than a game.
Aural Orgy
We finally got to the cabin in King’s Beach around eleven. Good old Jill was waiting up for us in the kitchen with a pot of cinnamon tea.
“Sorry about the bad luck with the weather, you guys.”
“No problem,” Nick said, giving Jill a peck on the cheek. “Maria and I had a nice long talk in the car.”
“Actually there’s another little complication tonight. I thought this place had three bedrooms, but the third queen bed is the sleeper sofa in the living room. Katharina and Jürgen took the bedroom on the other side of the house and they’ll be walking through your room to get to the bathroom.”
Nick and I exchanged glances. That could put a damper on the sex part of our holiday weekend – unless we decided to live dangerously.
“And . . . um,” Jill began with an apologetic smile.
“What is it now, Jilly-bean?” Nick said, in not-quite-mock annoyance. In fact, they did act a lot like brother and sister.
“So, you know how Germans are more comfortable with their bodies than Americans?”
Nick shot me a what-the-fuck grin. We were both a bit punchy from the drive.
“Just so you’re prepared, sometimes Katharina and Jürgen walk around the house in the nude.”
We held our laughter until we were snuggled together on the sofa bed, snowflakes still battering the windows.
“Beware the naked Germans,” Nick whispered as I muffled my giggles in his shoulder. His hands slipped under my nightshirt and he slowly, teasingly inched it up over my breasts.
“Hey, are you sure you want to do this? A naked German might walk in on us any minute.”
“We can pull them into bed with us. That’s what you want, isn’t it?” Without waiting for my answer, Nick scooted under the blankets and eased open my thighs. He knew once he got to work with his mouth down there, I’d stop arguing.
Sure enough, the instant his tongue met my clit, jolts of familiar pleasure shot through me. I arched back on the bed, but remembered where we were just in time to swallow down a moan. However, to be honest, the thought of fucking in a semi-public place where a stranger might see us turned me on in a big way. Besides, keeping quiet seemed to increase the sensation, sounds of my pleasure trapped and throbbing in my belly. My mind was teeming with images, too, fragments from the evening all tumbled together like trail mix. Nick fucking Grace, while Heather rode his face, their sweat-slick breasts swaying as they writhed in ecstasy. I watched the lewd scene before me while Jill’s faceless German friend groped my nude body, pinching my nipple, twisting it, just as Nick was doing in real life now.
I bit the corner of the pillow to keep from crying out. Every moist click of his tongue, every creak of the cheap mattress as I rocked my ass up for more, seemed to roar in my ears like a jet engine.
They could hear everything. They all knew exactly what we were doing.
Suddenly I heard a soft knocking filtering down from Jill and Ben’s room in the loft. Tap, tap, s
queak. It took a moment before I realized what it was: a headboard nudging the wall, another mattress protesting under the thrusts of joined bodies.
Ben must have been waiting up for Jill. He had to watch the German woman parade around naked all evening and he was desperate for release. Jill was now paying for her friend’s provocation as she lay beneath her husband’s big body, his dick sliding in and out of her swollen, pink pussy. Tap, tap, squeak.
My thighs began to shake. I was close. Nick pulled away and rose to his knees, guiding his cock into my very wet cunt.
He bent forward and his lips closed over mine. We began to move together in our familiar rhythm, making love as we always did. Except tonight we had company.
Tap, tap, squeak.
Now another voice joined the chorus, a low feminine moan, with a hint of Bach. Jill’s friends from Bonn were fucking, too. On top of the blankets, of course, their nude bodies fully exposed. The heady mix of sex sounds swirled through my head in an aural orgy, dancing down my spine to gather in my cunt.
We’re all fucking. Together. Friends, strangers, fucking, coming.
It was too much.
I climaxed, my teeth biting into the pillow. Nick was right behind me, his face twisted in a mute grimace of pleasure.
A few moments later the knocking above and the moans from the front room subsided. I heard six pairs of lips exhale in a collective sigh of carnal contentment.
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