The Oy of Sex

by Marcie Scheiner

  Jus navel, and it was too embarrassing to stare for long at the soft bulge at the crotch of his jeans. She’d heard of men wearing tiny barbells in the tip of their penis, supposedly to increase their partner’s pleasure.

  The possibility brought the side of her thumb to her teeth.

  “Don’t,” said Pierce, pulling it away. “Biting your nails is a terrible habit.”

  “You ought to know,” she said.

  The words came out sharper than she’d intended, but he laughed and squeezed her hand. He didn’t let go, either, though it was hot and they were both sweating.

  Victoria felt safer almost at once. Pierce was no football player, but he obviously knew his way around. Her neck unkinked and her eyes wandered, and suddenly she noticed how interesting her surroundings were. Mixed among the freaks were brainy-looking college students and foreign people and women so stylish she felt quite the frump in her baggy walking shorts. Her eyes widened at a shop selling nothing but black leather corsets. Pierce stopped to let her look.

  “How old are you, anyway?” he asked.

  Victoria blushed. “Nineteen next week.”

  “Nineteen, huh?” Pierce looked thoughtful, but he didn’t release her hand.

  Victoria didn’t realize she was aroused until they returned to Henry’s air-conditioned apartment, where everything dried but her panties. Then she became aware of the persistent pulsing between her legs. A fresh trickle of moisture slid from her pussy. She was almost afraid to hug her brother for fear he’d smell her lust. She needn’t have worried. Henry hardly ever noticed anything. He pulled her into his stocky chest and stroked her long hair down her back.

  “Look at you,” he said. “All grown up and pretty as a picture.

  Victoria smiled at the old-fashioned compliment. “I see you grew a beard. Very distinguished.” Actually, he looked ten years older, more like thirty-six than twenty-six.

  He patted the bushy growth, then slapped his belly “That’s not all I’ve grown. I’m hoping you’ll drag me running with you while you’re here this summer.”

  “You could have come running with me,” Pierce said.

  Even Henry heard the hurt in his voice. He slapped Pierce’s shoulder. “Forget it, Mr. Speedy. You’re too fast for me.”

  Pierce hung his head and grinned, both mollified and sheepish.

  Oh, dear, she thought. I wonder if he’s gay.

  Pierce wasn’t gay. Pierce had three girlfriends, possibly four. Two of them looked so much alike that Victoria couldn’t decide if they were one woman or two. All the girlfriends wore black and had harsh, multicolored hair. Henry called them the Goths. He teased Pierce about them like a fond uncle. He didn’t notice how being reminded of their existence made his little sister squirm.

  Victoria couldn’t stop thinking about Pierce. She’d bumped into him one morning coming out of the bathroom without his shirt. He did have nipple rings, two gold half-hoops hanging from protruding red nubs. Goodness gracious, she’d thought, was the man always erect?

  “You re gonna catch flies if you don’t close your mouth,” he teased, but he was blushing, and a second later he said, in a strangely husky voice, “Want to touch them?”

  She wasn’t sure he was serious, so she laughed nervously and turned away. She couldn’t resist casting a glance over her shoulder, though. The sight of his naked back tore the breath from her lungs. It was all lean, smooth, fanning muscle: a man’s back, a gorgeous back. His shoulders were broader than she’d expected, and his tight little runner’s butt—oh! Her mouth watered and sensation swelled like steam between her legs. She’d had to finger herself to climax in the shower.

  Ever since, she’d known she had a case for him. She hated those girlfriends. Stupid, gum-cracking, bolt-nosed Goths. Victoria’s room, formerly Henry’s study and still jumbled with papers and blue books, was wedged between the two men’s. Sometimes when the Goths stayed over, she’d hear them moaning with pleasure. Pierce never made a sound. Pierce was a gentleman.

  Pierce was far too good for the likes of them.

  Victoria stopped in her tracks. Pierce’s door was open. He lay on his bed reading, his long, pale body draped in nothing but a pair of black satin running shorts. His room was painted a deep, earthy red. An odd leather harness dangled from his bedpost. No doubt the Goths knew for sure, but those straps looked just the right size for binding a man’s private parts. Victoria’s nipples tightened beneath her tank-style T-shirt. She leaned against the doorjamb to hide them.

  “How on earth did you and Henry meet?” she asked.

  Pierce looked up from The History of the Celts. His butt clenched as his legs shifted on the sheets. Victoria wondered if he might be getting an erection.

  “I answered his ad for a roommate. We’re both Mets fans. And I don’t smoke.”

  Victoria shook her head. Men were the most peculiar creatures.

  They went running together for the first time. Henry had a rare hangover from a faculty party the night before, so Pierce volunteered to keep her company. She could tell he was a serious runner. He set a steady, ground-eating pace, slow for her sake but more challenging than her usual. The morning was misty and muggy: New York in shades of gray.

  She wiped her face on her sleeve as they dodged a garbage truck backing out of an alley. Pierce stripped his shirt off and tucked it in the back of his running shorts. Victoria nearly tripped. A thin gold chain connected his nipple rings.

  “Doesn’t that hurt? she asked, nodding at the bouncing links.

  He grinned. “Nah. It’s light. It feels sexy.”

  Sexy, she thought, the mere word making her pussy swell. She tried to concentrate on not huffing and puffing, but a block farther she couldn’t keep her question inside. “Why did you do it?”

  “You mean get pierced?”

  She nodded.

  Without breaking stride, he swung his arms to loosen his shoulders. “I wanted to claim myself.”

  I’m surprised you needed to. You don’t seem like you could belong to anyone but yourself.”

  “Then I guess it’s working.” With a wink and a grin, he sprinted to the top of the hill. Victoria had a heckuva time keeping up.

  Henry found her a job at the university, tutoring students in English who weren’t quite up to Columbia’s standards. The first day, Victoria was so nervous she threw up, but three out of her four students were eager and friendly, and the one who wasn’t dropped out after the second week.

  One of them, a shy Korean woman who was pursuing a Ph.D. in physics, invited Victoria to her aunt’s house for dinner. There she was served the most amazing twelve-course meal she’d ever eaten. She loved everything, even the weird stuff. Naturally, the relatives, most of whom spoke broken English, loved her. Her only regret was that Pierce wasn’t there to share the experience. Since he wasn’t and since the aunt forced her to admit she didn’t have a boyfriend, one of Sung Kim’s cousins asked her out—her first date in over a year.

  She was nervous, but not too nervous to enjoy herself. When the quiet young man kissed her good night, she enjoyed that, too.

  It just didn’t set off fireworks the way Pierce’s bare chest did.

  Inside, she found him watching TV in the darkened living room, an old Ingrid Bergman film. The sound was barely audible. His head turned toward her. “Have a nice time?”

  “Yes,” she said. “We went to Little Italy.”

  He kept looking at her. The TV flickered on his nipple rings. Something about his stare struck her as strange. Then she put her finger on it. “I didn’t know you wore glasses.”

  He removed the shiny circles and folded them. “I don’t.”

  “No, I like them.”

  He put them back on. They both laughed.

  “I’m glad you had a nice time. A pretty girl like you should go out more often.”

  Victoria twisted her purse strap around her hands. That sounded like something Henry would say. Pierce hooked one leg up on the couch. Force of habi
t made her eyes slide to his crotch. Oh, God. He was hard. A giant bulge pushed up against the well-worn seam. She could actually make out the separate swell of the glans. Did he mean for her to see? Or did he assume she couldn’t?

  “He didn’t get fresh, did he?” he asked.

  When her brain lurched into motion, she laughed. Now he really sounded like Henry. Feeling bold, she tossed her head. “No fresher than I wanted him to be.”

  “Brat,” said Pierce, and beaned her with a balled-up sweaty sock.

  Victoria slept with it under her pillow.

  The three of them went to the Peking Duck House to celebrate Henry getting tenure. Victoria wasn’t surprised. Whatever Henry set his mind on, he always rose to the top. Sometimes she wished she had his direction. Despite that niggle of worry, she was pleased to see him happy. Besides, he had dreams enough for both of them. He stabbed the air with his chopsticks.

  “You ought to transfer to Columbia,” he said. “No point in you cowering in Minnesota now that you ve got your feet wet here. I know the chair of the English department. He’d accept you in a snap. If you’ve got to be an English major, you might as well be one somewhere that counts.

  Victoria rolled her eyes at his snobbery, but Pierce leaned forward. “Don’t pressure her, Henry. If she likes the University of Minnesota, that makes it count for her.”

  Henry seemed genuinely surprised by the scold. He pressed his hand over his wide brown tie. “Sorry, Sis. I didn’t mean to offend. I just want you to know you could do better and you don’t have to be scared to try. I’d be happy to have you stay with me.”

  Victoria saw that he meant it. She didn’t know many brothers who’d make such an offer. “Thank you, Henry. That means a lot to me. I promise I’ll think about it.”

  Pierce looked down at his crispy pork and vegetables, his lips pressed together as if he dared not say another word. She hoped he didn’t mind the thought of her staying on.

  Pierce owned a shop in the Village. Whenever Victoria asked about it, both he and Henry became vague. Then, one Saturday, Pierce accidentally left the key to his stock room on the kitchen table. Victoria was the only one available to bring it to him.

  Immensely proud of herself, she took the subway to the address he gave her without making a single mistake. Her grin broke out as soon as she saw the shop. She knew it. Pierce owned a combination condom-fetish store. A saddle sat on a pedestal in the display window. Its horn was a large wooden dildo. A pair of thigh-high boots were positioned beneath the saddle, giving the illusion of an invisible Valkyrie riding an invisible horse across a sea of foil-covered rubbers.

  Pierce stuck his head out the door. “You can stop laughing now.”

  She pressed her palms to her cheeks. “Just tell me when I can stop blushing.”

  She wouldn’t hand over the key until he agreed to give her the grand tour. The shop was cramped, but it seemed to be prospering. The shelves were well stocked and it was far cleaner than Henry’s apartment. Her blush ebbing and swelling, she nodded at the whips and handcuffs and shiny rubber maids’ costumes. All in all, peculiar though the inventory was, the place had a friendly feel; Pierce’s doing, she was sure. She stopped at a shelf toward the back. Pierce stood behind her. Perhaps it was her imagination, but his body heat seemed to beat at her in waves.

  “What are these?” she asked, lifting a series of marblesized balls linked by a silken cord.

  Pierce coughed. “Those are anal beads.”

  “Ah,” said Victoria, though she wasn’t much the wiser. Pierce’s breath stirred her hair; it felt warm and harried. Victoria stopped breathing altogether. Her body swayed backward. Her shoulder brushed his chest, bumping the hard little ring hidden beneath his black T-shirt.

  “Lord Almighty,” Pierce said and strode into the stock room.

  A month before, Victoria wouldn’t have had the nerve to follow him, but she was a New Yorker now, at least for the summer, and New York women feared nothing.

  She found him standing with arms braced on the window that overlooked the alley behind the shop. He wore black leather today, like his Goths. A thick silver chain looped down from each side pocket. His uniform, she guessed. His butt looked so adorable she wanted to drop to her knees and bite it. He was breathing like a man about to submerge in deep water.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, even though the fearless, womanly part of her knew.

  He turned and the look in his eyes pierced her soul—a mixture of longing and misery she’d never thought to inspire.

  “What is it?” she said, softer yet. She stepped closer, close enough to touch.

  He reached for her. He wrapped his hands around her shoulders, his eyes searching hers.

  “Your brother’s going to kill me,” he said, and kissed her.

  The shape and feel of his lips enthralled her: thin, mobile, and wide. His tongue pressed inward and found an eager welcome. He moaned down her throat. A tingle swept her from scalp to toe. She felt as if she’d never been kissed before. This was a kiss. This was a mouth. The right taste, the right pressure, the right mix of gentleness and lust. His hands released her shoulders to clasp her face, one palm deafening each ear. He tipped her head just so, and the kiss perfected itself.

  Her paralysis broke. She took his waist between her hands, kneading the hard block of muscle on either side. His feet sidled hers, as he shuffled closer with another lovely moan. She swept her thumbs down his hipbones, daring that much, daring to touch the edge of the taut, sloping leather that crossed his straining crotch.

  When she brushed his balls, he cursed and grabbed her wrist. With a grunt of pleasure, he molded her palm over his erection. He turned his head, kissing her desperately now, then clutched her buttocks and thrust as if he meant to crush her fingers between them. She was just gathering the nerve to thrust back when he shoved away and wiped his mouth on the back of his arm.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, his hand shaking, his face crimson. “I shouldn’t have done that.” He turned to the window. “It won’t happen again. Henry would kill me.”

  “Henry likes you,” she managed to say.

  “That doesn’t mean he wants me making out with his baby sister.”

  Was that all she was? Henry’s baby sister? She left without saying good-bye.

  One of the Goths came over that night, the one with the purple hair and the tongue piercing. Victoria buried her head in her pillow and cried. She never heard how loudly the Goth moaned or if this time, God forbid, Pierce moaned back.

  She woke at two, according to her travel clock. Her face was hot, her eyes sandpaper rough under their lids. She’d look a fright tomorrow if she didn’t get the swelling down. She pressed her ear to the door and held her breath but heard nothing. Heart beating, she tiptoed to the kitchen for ice. The sight of Pierce s beloved cookie dough ice cream tightened her throat. Wistfully, she touched the dented lid. A mattress creaked. Victoria jerked her hand back as if she’d been burned. Diving for the light switch, she plastered herself to the wall before anyone could see her.

  The door to Pierce’s bedroom opened. She peeked into the living room. Pierce and the Goth came out. He wore silk boxers. The Goth was dressed, or what passed for dressed to her.

  “Promise you’ll call?” she said.

  Pierce murmured something indecipherable. The Goth grabbed his ears and pulled him in for a kiss so assertive Victoria could only marvel. When it ended, Pierce steered the Goth toward the door and saw her out.

  Then he headed for the kitchen. Victoria’s heart skittered into double overdrive as he passed within inches of her. He didn’t bother with the light but walked straight to the freezer. He pulled out his ice cream, then dug a spoon from the drawer he and Henry kept in the worst jumble she’d ever seen. He leaned against the counter to eat it straight from the carton.

  “Fuck,” he said between heaping spoonfuls. “Fucking, fucking fuck.”

  Victoria felt like a spy. And a coward. “I thought only women did this,
” she said.

  The spoon clattered across the floor, but Pierce managed to catch the ice cream. “Geez, Victoria, you scared me.”

  She stepped away from the wall. Her heart was pounding in her throat, but she kept moving. “You mean now or this afternoon?”

  He froze in the act of retrieving his spoon. He straightened. Victoria heard his breathing change, grow faster, shallower. “This afternoon I scared me.”

  She stopped a foot away from him. She touched his chest with her fingertips, brushing the edge of his areola with her thumbs.

  “Victoria,” he said, but she wouldn’t let him silence her.

  “I want you, Pierce. I’ve wanted you almost since I met you.”

  “Oh, God,” he said to the ceiling, and it really did sound like a prayer. He set the ice cream down. His chest rose and fell under her hand. “To hell with it. I can’t keep my hands off you a minute longer. Come with me and I’ll give you as much of me as you can take.”

  He drew her by the hand to his room. She remembered that first evening in the Village with their hands linked and swinging, being so frightened and feeling so safe because of him. She felt the same way now. With Pierce to guide her, she knew she wouldn’t lose her way.

  He closed the door before he turned on the light. He stroked her hair behind her ears with his long, beautiful hands. “We have to be quiet. I don’t want to upset your brother.”

  She nodded. They both knew how stuffy Henry could be.

  He bent down until they matched eye levels. “Are you sure about this? I’m not like the other boys you know. I don’t even have a real job.”

  “You own your own store. Isn’t that real?”

  “I own a condom store. I sell whips and chains.”

  She put her hands on his shoulders. “Is that you talking, or your father?”

  He sighed and embraced her, pressing her cheek into his warm, hard chest. “With you, I don’t always know who I am, except it’s different than with anyone else.”

  “Is that bad?”

  “No.” He kissed her hair. “No.” His heart sped up beneath her ear. His voice dropped to a whisper. “I’m crazy about you, Vic.”