The token! He had forgotten to take back the token! Well, fuck it. He just couldn't be bothered to go back for it now. Too embarrassed, actually. He had just committed an act that was suspiciously close to rape, and all he really wanted to do was get the hell gone.
Sheesh! Had it really been worth it? She had lain there passively, without moving or reacting. It was like fucking a corpse. Marlene couldn't have gotten any pleasure out of it and it wasn't all that good for him, either.
The next morning she wasn't at work. Or the morning after that. Her supervisor said that she had gone back east to take care of her elderly mother. That she wouldn't be back. That they were looking for a replacement.
Well, that took care of that. He wouldn't have to face her, to apologize, to make lame excuses, to lie and cover his tracks. It made things a lot easier. But, the token! He had to get the token back! Then, out of nowhere, the thought popped into his head that he needn't worry, that the token would come back to him somehow.
A month later there was a knock at his door. What the hell? It was one in the morning. Damn it, wasn't a fellow entitled to get some shuteye?
The face staring back at him in the peephole looked familiar. Dave wasn't sure who it was, but he thought it might be an acquaintance of Marlene. He was still muzzy with sleep or he might have just told the guy to fuck off. But, he opened the door a crack to ask what this was all about. The man handed him something.
Now he recognized him. Now that it was too late. That pockmarked, leering face belonged to a local legend -- the king of the ass bandits. The man who would fuck anything on two legs, as long as it was male. The man who would fuck him unless . . . unless he could get away, far away. But, what was that in the palm of his hand?
Dave felt his knees buckle and his mind start to slip away as he gaped down at . . . the token.
WAIT YOUR TURN
Reflections are images of tarnished aspirations. -- Racter, "The Policeman's Beard is Half-Constructed"
I can't believe it's been that many years. I still remember walking the long, echoing halls of Coolidge High, looking at all the girls I couldn't have. Dripping resentment and overflowing with self-pity and bitterness. Socially inept. Inept in just about every other way.
Especially I remember Marianne. She was a tall, blonde cheerleader with big breasts, round hips, and a well-upholstered behind. (Weight loss and dieting would not become a ruling passion for some years yet.) My heartthrob, she was. She made my heart throb, all right. Unfortunately, the reverse seemed not to be the case. She didn't even know who I was and nonchalantly brushed off my feeble efforts to approach her. It was a damn good thing I didn't need to ask her for the the time of day, because she likely wouldn't have given it to me.
Why then, did I attend the thirty-fifth anniversary class reunion? Partly out of morbid curiosity and, who knows, I might just get some satisfaction for all the slights I had endured from former classmates. Vengefulness has been a part of my nature for as long as I can remember.
The refreshments could have been better. I'm not a fan of stale pretzels and greasy clam dip. The conversation was stale and greasy, too. Who were these people, anyhow? They were graying pot-bellied men and their wrinkling, desperately over-mascaraed wives. Certainly, they weren't anyone I had anything in common with any more, if I ever did.
From across the room, someone was waving at me. She looked vaguely familiar. By golly, it was an older version of Marianne. She showed the ravages of repeated attempts at dieting, with perhaps a botched attempt at a facelift or two thrown in. What the bloody hell could she want with me?
"Arnie! What a surprise to see you here. It's a shame we didn't spend more time together back in our wild and dissipated youth."
I couldn't for the life of me imagine what I had once seen in her. This was one beat-up broad, and she had liquor on her breath.
"Why, hello, Marianne. It's wonderful seeing you here. Seems like almost yesterday that I was walking the hollow -- whoops, sorry -- hallowed halls of Calvin Coolidge High. Your luminous smile was the only thing that kept me from slitting my throat with a rusty razor blade."
"Oh, go on, Arn. I imagine you had other things to live for."
"Yes, but none half as enticing as you. And you haven't changed a bit. A man could do wild and dangerous things just for a fleeting taste of your sweet lips."
"You wonderful liar, you."
Damn right I was lying. Bullshitting my way into her good graces, and possibly even into her bed. But why was I bothering? I've had numerous girlfriends much better-looking than this . . . and probably better in the sack, too. Nostalgia? Revenge? Morbid curiosity. Yep, that was it.
She took me home, all right, and she had a king-size waterbed. I was lying next to her on that waterbed after our second go-round, making idle chatter and drifting off. All in all, I was musing, it wasn't a total waste of time. She was unskilled and pretty clumsy, but enthusiastic. That usually counts for something.
There was a knock on the door.
"Arnie, this is my husband, Roger."
Oh, shit!
"Uh, hello, Roger."
"I rather enjoyed your performance . . . Arnie, is it?"
"That's Mr. Rumplemyer to you, Roger. What did you use for your viewing pleasure, if I may ask? Hidden videocams maybe? I could get you a deal on those things. One of the companies I own manufactures a line of surveillance equipment."
"Now be nice to him, Arnie. Roger means well. He suffers from certain, shall we say, disabilities, and this is one of the few ways he can get any enjoyment out of sex."
"What you mean is he can't get it up any more. An interesting situation. Roger gets his jollies watching his wife getting rogered by jolly strangers. So, what did you think of my technique, Rog?"
"Well . . . Arnold . . . doggie style used to be my favorite, back when I still . . . could. I was sort of hoping, though, that you'd give it to her up the . . . well, anal alway fascinated me."
"Here, Roger, sit yourself down." I moved over to clear a space beside me on the bed. "Make yourself comfortable. This is your home, after all.
"So, tell me, Marianne. What's all this about? You didn't invite me over just because you had a sudden itch in your crotch, or did you?"
"We need help, Arnie. Our marriage is in trouble. I love Roger, but he can't satisfy my needs. And his own needs are, well, rather unusual. Impotence and voyeurism are only the tip of the iceberg. Roger, you see, is bi. He always was. I knew that when I married him. We've had ways of dealing with that."
(What kind of royally screwed up mess had I gotten myself into?)
"Let me get this straight, Marianne. You need me to . . . make love to you. Roger needs to watch, and maybe something more. And the two of you together -- just what is it you expect from me?"
There was a moment of dead silence.
Roger began hesitantly, "Well, Arnold, it should be clear to you by now that I'm attracted to men. I love Marianne, but I have certain other desires, desires she can't fulfill. Some of those desires involve having done to me what . . . what you did to Marianne a few minutes ago. Need I be more explicit?"
"No, Rog, I get the picture. It just happens that I'm a bit bi myself. Most men are, actually, even if they won't admit it to themselves. Putting it bluntly, what you likely want is having me sodomize you. Well, Marianne, do you stay and enjoy the show, or leave?"
Marianne blushed. She quickly got up and left.
By this time I wasn't in a mood for any more talk. I wanted to get it over with and get my ass out of here. I had to admit, though, that the thought of getting another piece of ass -- even male ass -- did have its appeal.
"What's your pleasure, Rog? Bent over the bed or on hands and knees?"
His tunnel of love was tighter and considerably less sloppy than his wife's.
All that lovemaking wore me out. I fell asleep. And later, much later, woke up.
I was in my own bed. But it was a bed I hadn't slept in for thirty-five years. I jumped to
my feet and pounded over to the dresser mirror. There was an oddly familiar discoloration in the upper right-hand corner. It was the mirror on the dresser in the bedroom . . . of the house where I had grown up. The face in the mirror was mine, all right, but it was an unscarred, innocent face. A face that only needed to shave once a week. I was eighteen years old and had just awakened from a very strange dream.
It was a hell of a dream, all right. Before it faded I wrote down everything I could remember of it. The fall of Viet Nam. The collapse of the Soviet empire. The screwups in the space program. Moslem terrorists. Handheld hi-fi music players. Computers in every home. Most of the world connected by a data network. Stock market bubbles and crashes. The twenty-first century. And sex! Lots and lots of sex. All the girlfriends I had been with and all the interesting things I had learned from them. Yum!
Far out! I'll have to check up on some of this stuff. Do some heavyweight research. Find out if there are a couple of Steves named Wozniak and Jobs growing up in Homestead, California. See if they have any plans for maybe building a computer in their garage and naming it after a fruit. Figure out what it takes to corner the world market in silver, and see if the Hunt brothers are making any moves in that direction. Check if there's a lawyer by the name of William Gates II up in Seattle with a bright teenage son named after him. Maybe that kid has an interest in programming computers. Could be he'll have a company of his own some day. A company worth following and investing in . . .
After breakfast, it was off to school. Good old Coolidge High. Marianne the cheerleader didn't even turn her head when I said hello.
* * *
BELONGING
I looked up at her smiling face.
"Nice biceps, guy."
Well, yes, and nice of you to have noticed. I hoisted the barbell back over my head and gently cradled it down in the supports. Maybe next time I'd break my bench press record of 235 pounds. Ah, well. . . . One of the unintentional side-effects of making the health club coed was the constant interruptions you had to put up with. Not that this didn't have its benefits now and again.
"Thank you, my good woman, but if it's all the same to you, I'd rather rather be admired for my mind. And by some weird coincidence, my given name actually is Guy."
"I'm sure your mind is quite adequate for most purposes, Guy, and if you hurry you can get dressed in time to come home with me. The name is Elise, by the way."
That was short and to the point. Modern sophisticated women know what they want and they're not particularly shy about expressing it. What a refreshing change from the Dark Ages, when you'd have to go through a whole song and dance just to get a date, never mind the goodies that might or might not come afterwards.
Elise electronically locked the door behind us. State-of-the-art security system. Plush carpeting. Framed paintings that looked like they might be originals. Elegant Victorian furniture with plush upholstery and fluted hardwood legs. The place positively reeked of good taste and money. Way, way out of my class.
"The guest bathroom's over thataway. Freshen up and shower. The bathrobe hanging on the wall hook should more or less fit you. Afterwards, go down the hall and into the bedroom. Don't bother knocking. The light will be off, so just slide under the quilt, and I'll be waiting, dear."
It was dark. I found the bed by bumping into it. Her body was warm and yielding under the covers, and her lips were sweet. Sweet! I couldn't stop running my hands over the flowing curves of her bare flesh. She couldn't stop running her hands over the hard bony angles of my bare flesh.
"What's your favorite position?" she murmured between kisses.
"Doggie usually works," I answered.
"I like sitting face-to-face with my legs wrapped around my partner, impaled on his rod, just hugging and kissing and rocking back and forth in sustained bliss. It's the most intimate way of connecting, of blending together into one flesh. Don't you think?"
"Sounds like a winner," I said. "Let's do it."
And we did.
Later on we did the doggie, too.
And later than that, she flopped over on her tummy and asked me to do her in the rear aperture. "The lube's in the top drawer of the nightstand," she said.
Her pussy had been soft and buttery and gently embracing, but her ass was tight and demanding, and throbbing with heat. I drifted off to sleep thinking that I could grow very fond of this particular woman.
A rushed breakfast and a quick kiss on the way out is not my preferred way of saying goodbye to a lover. But Elise was expecting her husband back momentarily. Or so she said.
Back at the health club pumping iron. That little tryst the previous night seemed to have pumped quite a bit of the iron out of me. Damn! I could barely manage 200 pounds now.
"Nice biceps, guy."
It was a male baritone. I turned my head to look. A well-built man who looked to be in his early thirties was giving me the eye. "Thank you," I answered. "And the name does happen to be Guy, with a capital G."
Well, why not? I'd pretty much had my fill of curves and orifices and female softness for a while. Maybe what I needed was the feel of a hard body for a change. Being bi does make for an interesting love life.
I let Dan talk me into going home with him. Home? We pulled into a very familiar street. And up to a house I had been inside of just a few short hours ago. Elise's house, in fact. It suddenly dawned on me that Dan was the missing husband.
"I want your ass," he said.
Why not? After all that hard work last night, I'd be perfectly content to just lay back (or bend over) and have it done to me. No responsibility, no performance anxiety, no stress, no strain. Just let the other guy do all the work.
"Sounds like a winner," I answered.
He gave me the full treatment. I'd never had my nipples sucked in quite that way, and his technique of fingering my asshole gave me fluttering palpitations. Two fingers, then three, and I was craving more. Much more.
He was kneeling facing me, and I was on my back with my torso raised up at an angle and my legs dangling over his shoulders. His cock thrust into the far corner of my gut when he rocked forward to push further in. Every so often, he would lean back and pull all the way out just to hear the slurp of lube and body fluids leaking out of my hole, and the low-pitched moan as air rushed in to fill the vacuum of my empty rectum. Sound effects could be every bit as sensual as physical sensation, he said.
Now he sat back and spread apart my legs, holding them at waist height. The "froggy position," he called it. This let the head of his cock drag across my prostate gland as he pushed into me. It also changed the insertion angle and decreased the pressure against the bend of my intestine. This would optimize the sensations for the receiving partner, he said. It would make being ass-fucked a memorable experience for me. He was right.
His cock slid smoothly in and out, and his groin slapped against my butt cheeks when he bottomed out. Every so often, he would stop and rest at maximum penetration, and reach a hand forward to play with my shaft. I was hard, very hard, but it was as if something kept me corked up tight. "Help me," I pleaded. "I can't come."
He pushed my thighs toward my chest, and splayed them open as far as they would go. His palms on the insides of my knees pushed my bent legs outward to the bed, on either side of my torso. This contorted posture stretched and loosened up my sphincter ring and let him thrust into me with greatly increased force. "Rubber asshole" was the name of this particular configuration, he said. It corresponded to the notorious "rubber cunt" position so beloved of bondage afficionados. The result was similar: a totally elastic receptacle open to full-force fucking. And it provided quite intense sensations to the passive party. Intense enough to blow the top of my head off.
I had to admit that he was pretty good at this sort of thing. A real master of sodomy, he was.
I was bent over the bed face down when he showed me an interesting little variation. He'd just barely enter my ass, maybe just an inch or so inside, then pull all the way out, the
n in again -- fucking me with very shallow strokes, actually fucking just the entrance. Sphincter noodling, he called it. Damn, I ached to have him further into me, and he laughed when I told him that. Then, when I couldn't stand it any longer, he slid all the way inside me in one sudden plunge and I came in a sudden storm surge of overpressure, spurting fluid under me all over the bedsheets.
Late, much later that night an urge came over me to do him, to stick my own aching cock into his hole. He was asleep then, with his back to me. I nudged him half awake, and he mumbled something unintelligible, which I took to be consent. When I tried to ease into him, he indignantly pushed me away.
"Listen, Guy. That's just not the way it's done. As the saying goes: 'please kiss me before you fuck me.' Huh?"
The Syntax of Seduction Page 24