We ate breakfast at a local diner and wandered around the city as the sun staggered toward noon.
She educated me about business start-ups. Feasibility studies. Florida’s liquor laws. Liability matters that came up when you owned nightclubs. Mr ATM had gone down to Florida weeks ahead to see that the movers didn’t destroy their stuff and to get the club renovations finished. I asked her what airline she was taking. She shrugged indifferently. We reminisced about some of the characters in the poetry workshop. She said it felt as though the course had been ten years ago. We agreed that time plays vicious jokes on people. “Personal arcs get tangled up, people meet at the wrong time,” she said. “D’ya know what I mean?”
I answered that of course I knew what she meant. I didn’t say it but I knew she meant that she needed to marry this man. And I knew, or so I told myself, that I still needed to be on my own, that I needed more time and space to get on my feet after my divorce.
We hugged underneath the FDR Drive and let go without getting weepy. The breeze off the river cooled us some. I hailed a cab for her.
I watched her sling her duffel bag confidently into the taxi and her confidence reassured me that she would be just fine. A double major, a good head on her shoulders, an older, stable businessman for a husband, a new life in sunny climes. We hugged one more time, quickly, and she climbed into the car.
As the cab receded she turned once to wave and then I watched how sun and shadows through the rear windshield cast bright light on and off on her long red hair, and I watched until the car disappeared from view up the highway ramp.
At my apartment the next morning I put a vase of lilacs on my bathroom sink and remembered the first time she’d come over. Clicking my laptop to life, I Googled the mailing address for Disney World’s Wedding reception hall. The hit came up as the Magic Kingdom Wedding Castle. As I scrolled down the list I saw the announcement of a Monday wedding “Gary Suggs and Shannon O’Rourke”.
I bought a wedding card with a big white cake on the cover and a Starbucks gift card. I crossed out the sappy Hallmark congratulations to a blessed couple on your blessed day. I addressed the card to her and scribbled inside, “With my abiding affection and always in good thoughts, to the girl who had her cake and ate it too. XOXO.” Then I slipped the gift card in, licked the envelope slowly, sealed it and paid the postage, handed it over to the Next Day delivery counter.
Outside the post office, I remember thinking it was a balmy summer already and it was only the start of July. Almost like Florida, I thought. She’d worn me out; I needed a nap. And I remember reminding myself that I was free and single, smack down in the middle of my life, and that, even though it was terribly quiet in my life just then, there was no real reason to be down.
Being Bobby
Donna George Storey
It was no ordinary day.
To begin with, Zoe woke up all on her own. Usually it was Bobby who roused her, his hard-on nudging her ass, but it was only six in the morning, and Bobby was still asleep.
Zoe glanced appreciatively at his long, dark curls spilling over the pillow, but she made no move to wake him. She knew the urgent tingling between her legs was less carnal desire than the legacy of last night’s beer. She slithered off the bottom of the bed and groped for her underwear in the tangle of clothing on the floor.
College had its advantages. You could spend every night in your boyfriend’s bed, and your parents never had a clue. Then again, back home you didn’t have to climb down three flights of stairs to go to the bathroom in the freezing January dawn. Teeth chattering, Zoe stepped into her panties and yanked them up over hips. Something was definitely unusual now. Overnight the fabric of her underwear had grown thicker, the fit in the ass snug, and the waistband rode suspiciously high. Zoe smiled. She’d put on Bobby’s briefs by mistake. She reached down to take them off.
That’s when things began to get very strange indeed.
Instead of hooking themselves under the elastic, her fingers crept lower, as if some invisible hand were guiding them. Before she knew it, she was tracing the front seam, the one that led down to that secret opening, with languid, teasing strokes. Just the other night, Zoe had pulled Bobby’s stiff cock through the gap and sucked him. She remembered his red, swollen lollipop poking up from the white cloth and realized, with a grin, that Bobby was always hard when she saw him in his underwear.
Maybe his underpants were enchanted, because she was getting rather turned on herself. She could feel her pussy lips swell, feel a new heat spreading along the crotch of the briefs. Could girls get morning boners?
Touch me.
This was getting even weirder. Could underwear talk?
Go ahead, put your finger inside.
Although she wasn’t usually in the habit of taking advice from Bobby’s underwear – or anyone else’s – Zoe decided it was too early for arguments. Obediently, she snaked her finger under the flap and burrowed through the second opening to greet her clit, already standing at attention. Suddenly she wasn’t so cold any more. Knees bent, pelvis tilted forward, she began to strum. The briefs strained against her buttocks, like hands gripping her there. It felt naughty, but exciting, too, to play with herself like some perverted voyeur while she watched Bobby sleep.
He was a very appealing sight. His bare shoulder still had a coppery sheen even in the pewter light of dawn. She loved his skin. To her it tasted of cinnamon, cumin and cloves. Like his gorgeous black ringlets, it was the happy legacy of his adventuring grandfather, a Liberian chieftain’s son who stowed away on a steamer bound for New York.
Just then Bobby moaned and shifted, one arm shooting out to embrace the emptiness where Zoe had been sleeping.
She jerked her hand from his underpants. The cold pang of guilt in her stomach reminded her that she really did have to pee. More awake now, she could easily spot her own jeans, bra and blouse in the pile.
But that was what she wore on ordinary days.
Her pulse racing, she pulled on Bobby’s sweatshirt and wiggled into his jeans instead. Suddenly the smell of him was all around her, Mediterranean spices and sweat. She could feel the ghost of his body, too, in the looseness of the waistband, the tightness at the hips, the pooling of the denim at her ankles. It wasn’t a perfect fit, of course, but it was good enough for a trip to the john.
Stepping into her own shoes – that little glitch in the outfit couldn’t be helped – Zoe moved quietly to the door. On the way out she lifted his baseball cap from the dresser and slipped it on her head, brim backwards, the way Bobby wore it.
She shivered and blinked in the harsh light of the stairwell, but by the next floor, she’d found her rhythm, taking two stairs at time. Bobby’s clothes were warm now, melting into her skin. Even her flesh and bones felt different, lighter and infinitely at ease, as if the very essence of the universe were pulsing through her veins like liquid sunlight. No one was watching or judging – hey, man, get a load of those tits. On ordinary days, Zoe hated the way her breasts jostled when she ran, and she loathed her butt, which remained stubbornly round and full no matter how much she dieted. But this morning she’d somehow escaped the prison of her own body. She was exactly what she wanted to be: long and lean and jazzy, just like Bobby. For once what she looked like was less important than the things her body could do. As she savored each swaggering step, each powerful ripple of muscle in her legs, these words floated into her head: this must be how boys feel inside.
Of course, the magic couldn’t last forever. The stairs took her straight to the door of the men’s bathroom. If she really were Bobby, she could saunter right in, but to get to the ladies’ she’d have to follow a long subterranean corridor to the next entryway. The architects who built this dorm a hundred years ago, when the college was all male, probably never dreamed their design would be such a pain in the ass to a young woman creeping down from her boyfriend’s bed to answer nature’s call. Dead white males – that was another thing about college, everywhere you turned the
y’d left their mark.
Zoe glanced down the hallway quickly in each direction. All was quiet and cold, deserted as the Siberian tundra.
Go ahead. Do it. No one will see.
Throwing her shoulders back, she strode into the men’s room. She half-expected a crash of thunder in divine retribution, but the only sound was a faucet dripping in the far corner and the faint buzz of fluorescent lights.
Zoe paused, sniffing the air. The place reeked of boy, as if the walls had sucked in all the secretions of decades of its inhabitants for posterity: sweat and piss and rivers of milky jism swirling down the shower drains.
She smiled.
Truth be told, this wasn’t the first time Zoe had visited the men’s room in the fourth entryway of Holder Hall. She’d been here just one month before, but with a proper escort. She and Bobby had stayed on campus for a few days of the Christmas break, supposedly to finish up term papers, but really so they could fuck all day long. One morning Bobby talked her into taking a shower with him. He said guys brought their girlfriends here all the time. He’d come down to brush his teeth or whatever, and he’d spot four feet under a shower curtain, two of them smaller, the toenails painted a tell-tale pink or red. Zoe didn’t really need much convincing. She could barely restrain her giggles as she stripped down and slid behind the cheap plastic curtain. At first, they just kissed and rubbed their wet bodies together under the shower spray. Then Bobby took the lead, gliding the white bar of soap over her breasts, moving it in tight circles over her nipples. She leaned against him, reveling in the sensation, an odd combination of cool and rigid, slippery and soft. Then Bobby turned the soap sideways and pushed it up into her cleft, brushing her clit with it, then moving back up over her mons and belly. Only when he had her nearly sobbing with lust did he stop the teasing to press the soap steadily between her labia and pinch her nipple just the way she liked it. Zoe rode the makeshift sex toy, thrusting against the slick, rounded edge, until she came in silent gasps, the hot water lashing her face and chest.
She fell to her knees and gazed up at him, his ringlets wet against his shoulders, his bittersweet chocolate eyes glowing. It was her turn to please him. Greedily she took him in her mouth, her head nodding – Yes, yes, I’m doing a dirty thing. I’m sucking off a guy in the shower in the men’s bathroom. Bobby’s thighs tensed, his cock grew thicker and harder between her lips. She knew it wouldn’t be long before he gave her that warning tap on her shoulder. Some guys whined and gave her shit because she didn’t like to swallow, but Bobby had always been cool. Yet suddenly, kneeling on the shower stall floor, she felt ready to do something even more wild and daring. She wanted to watch him come, and she wanted to taste it, just a little, before it dissolved in the pulsing spray.
She pulled away and met his eyes.
Come on me, Bobby. Spray me with your jiz.
Of course, she didn’t actually say such things out loud. Zoe had never had the nerve to tell a guy the crazy things she dreamed of doing during sex. The words always got all tangled up in her throat.
But Bobby seemed to understand.
He reached down and brushed her cheek with his fingertips. “Do you want me to come on you?” He made the words sound almost romantic.
She bowed her head and nodded, blushing at her own perversity. Bobby took his dick in his hand and began to pull on it with practiced strokes, aiming it straight at her.
Zoe tilted her head back, lips parted. She knew Bobby masturbated in the shower – what guy didn’t? – but it gave her a secret thrill to be here with him, watching and waiting.
Soon Bobby’s chest was heaving, his legs shook. The head of his cock was as taut and purple as a plum. The first jet of cream landed on her chest, sizzling into her flesh. The second hit her cheek, hotter than the shower spray. The rest dribbled into his pumping fist. Zoe stared, entranced, but before she had a chance to scoop up any of his gooey, gleaming spunk, the pounding water washed it all away.
No, she wasn’t exactly a stranger to this place. She’d had her baptism. Yet, it was different, even dangerous, to come here alone without a native guide. She glanced at the bank of urinals, and shook her head. She wasn’t quite ready to take on that challenge.
Instead Zoe marched into the first stall and latched the door. She relieved herself with a luxuriant sigh, her most pressing need finally satisfied. Yet, even after she wiped and zipped, her flesh still throbbed with longing. She had to admit it now: Bobby’s clothes were making her very horny. Fortunately, she saw the perfect solution. She could simply go back to the room, slip into bed and do just what Bobby would do. Nudge, nudge – wake up, I want you.
In Bobby’s clothes, she could do anything.
Then she heard the footsteps. Heavy, entitled footsteps headed right for the stall door.
Zoe caught her breath as her stomach twisted itself into a pretzel. Had Bobby followed her, mad as hell because she’d stolen not only his clothes but his spirit, too? Or, worse still, was it the custodian, ready to turn her in to the dean? What she’d done might not be quite as weird as if Bobby had put on her panties and bra and flounced into the ladies’ room, but she’d still have some serious explaining to do.
The footsteps passed on and stopped by the urinals. There was a cough, then the soothing sound of a waterfall at spring thaw.
Zoe’s shoulders sagged in relief. There’d be no angry scene, no disciplinary action. It was just some guy who had to take a pee.
Okay, man, you can skulk here like a pussy or make your move and get out now.
Boldly, Zoe pushed open the stall door and headed for the exit, turning her back to the urinals. She’d heard somewhere that straight guys made it a policy not to check each other out in the men’s room. Even if her companion did glance up, dick in hand, there was a decent chance the back of her would pass for male to his bleary morning eye.
And in fact, there was no rough hand on her shoulder, no outraged cry of accusation – Hey, you don’t have a penis, you’re not allowed in here. Zoe bounded up the stairs, laughter bubbling in her chest.
Being Bobby was turning out to be a lot of fun.
Except, unfortunately, it was almost over. Soon she’d have to strip off his potent armor, shrug away the heady legacy of adventure coursing through his blood, and sink down into her own boring skin again.
Back in Bobby’s room, Zoe undressed slowly, a gloomy little striptease – jeans, socks, sweatshirt. Yet when it came time to take off the briefs, her hands balked once more. Again she slipped a finger through the secret entry to tickle her needy clit. The other palm cupped its sister protectively. She looked at Bobby, still sleeping innocently on his narrow bed.
She’d always marveled how easily Bobby could spring a woody. Her black minidress had given him a bulge the moment he laid eyes on her, and once he even got a boner from a glimpse of her bare midriff when she reached up to get a book on a high shelf. She’d always wondered how could someone get so turned on just by looking.
Suddenly she knew.
And so she did exactly what Bobby would do. She crawled back into bed, spooned him from behind and pushed her crotch against his firm ass. Reaching around to touch him, she discovered that even without his magic undies, he was already hard.
Bobby mumbled and stretched. “Your hands are fucking freezing.”
“I just came back from the bathroom.”
He turned and opened his eyes, thick lashes fluttering. “But the rest of you is nice and warm.”
His hands cupped her breasts, giving her nipples a quick good-morning tweak, then meandered lower.
Zoe stiffened. She realized, too late, that she should’ve taken the underwear off before she got in bed. Would Bobby think she was a pervert, a dyke, a gay man in a woman’s body? A friend made that joke about another acquaintance and Bobby had grimaced in disgust.
His fingers found the waistband. He paused. “Hey, are these mine?”
“Yeah,” she admitted breathlessly. “I couldn’t see in the dark, a
nd I put on the wrong ones.”
He laughed softly.
Zoe exhaled.
Yet what Bobby did next surprised her. He pulled the covers back and gazed steadily at the extraordinary sight of his girlfriend dressed up in his underwear.
A smile dancing on his lips, he reached out to trace her vulva through the cotton.
Zoe gasped, involuntarily parting her thighs as Bobby’s finger tunneled through that irresistible opening. Soon she didn’t recognize the sounds coming from her lips – shameless moans of pleasure mixed with deep, staccato grunts. Her ass was thrusting so fast in time with his strumming finger, the bedsprings screeched in protest.
Bobby always made her feel good, but it had never quite been this good. As he rubbed, a column of heat arched up into her belly, as if a cock were buried inside her. But it wasn’t like a guy’s cock, just pressure and motion and heat. It was her cock. She could feel it thicken and throb, feel the hot spunk gather and burn, ready to explode in a fountain of pearly white cream.
In no time at all, she climaxed, arching up off the bed with a bellowing groan.
Afterwards, Bobby wrapped his arms around her as he always did. She was glad she could bury her face in his shoulder to hide her blush. She’d wanted him inside her when she came.
“Wow, you’re hot this morning,” he breathed. He didn’t seem to mind she’d climaxed too soon, like a boy.
Of course, she knew she had the advantage over the typical premature ejaculator. She wouldn’t have to work on him with her finger or tongue for god-knows-how-long when all she really wanted to do was go back to sleep. All a girl had to do was lie back and let the guy pump away.
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