by Livia Ellis
Elon resumes his conversation with Renata. Instead of martinis and anal sex, they start talking about a pair of shoes Renata found at Harvey Nichols. Does she really need kangaroo skin shoes? Isn't there just something really gross about the idea of wearing kangaroo? These are the trials and tribulations that make up Renata's day. To buy the kangaroo skin shoes, or to not buy the kangaroo skin shoes... that is the question that haunts her thoughts.
Elon is not completely oblivious to the fact I'm under him. There is movement down below. His mouth latches on to my shoulder or neck as Renata dominates the conversation. He touches my arm or shoulder with a finger.
Elon is woefully unaware of the sensibilities of others, but he is never purposefully cruel. Renata delights in demoralizing. Time and experience have made me cautious of her and her intentions. One year of my life was devoted to trying to make her love me. Two years after were spent in therapy. Finally my therapist told me exactly what I needed to hear; Renata is a bitch – Some people cannot be fixed simply because they do not want to be fixed – Some people really are purposefully cruel for the sake of being cruel – Stop trying to figure her out because you never will – If you really want to get even with her, don't let her screw with your head ever again – Being untouchable by her meanness would be the best revenge – Just let it go – Move on.
I've had enough. Renata is keeping Elon on the phone purposefully. She is toying with us. Me specifically. I open my legs into a wider stretch. When Elon is ever so slightly deeper inside of me, I begin to clench my muscles around him. I know how to get his attention.
Elon's voice quavers as he speaks to Renata. I begin to move under him, pressing into the couch, then up against him. Rapidly he finished the call then tosses the phone on the coffee table.
When he begins to move, he does so without pause or apology. He moves both hard and fast. A sigh followed by a throaty purr comes out of me. I do like the feel of being penetrated. Penetration feels good. Simple as that. Does that make me gay? I don't know. I don't think so. I think it makes me human. And male. I think gay is a whole other thing that really has nothing to do with wanting a dick up my ass. Elon claims he's always known he was gay. It's who he is. It's just not how I identify myself.
I don't think I'm gay. I don't think I'm particularly straight either. Bisexual is probably most accurate, but then again seems a bit inaccurate. Heteroflexible? Is there such a thing? I think I'm more straight than gay. I know for certain that I'd rather end up with a woman for the simple fact I both need and want a son. It's that or my cousin Harry gets all that I inherited from my father and my grandfather. Not that I mind Harry. He's alright. He's as much a slouching loafer as I am. It's that father of his I can't stand. Call me the end product of a thousand years of English breeders that actually think things like blood and family matter and I'll raise my hand guilty as charged. I want a wife and I want a son I can pass my name on to. As long as I am gifted with the choice, I'm going to make the one that will give me what I want long term. But in the short term, I am delighting in the feel of Elon's impressive, although comparatively smaller cock, as it pulses in and out of my rectum.
I watch the men on the telly as they fuck while I am being fucked. Elon is humping me closer and closer to his own climax. Me, I'm just relaxing into the feel of being serviced. He stops twitching and thrusting. He reaches under me and I turn just enough to give him access to my cock. His hand wraps around me and begins to stroke me vigorously. I'm closer than I realized to climaxing. A few tight tugs of his hand and spurts of cum are flying. I'm not displeased when an impressive wad of my jism lands on his phone.
Elon kisses the side of my mouth then my jaw before he resumes banging me. He comes not long after, and then just lies on my back, leaving his cock inside of me. He kisses me again. Unusual. As a rule, after we've both ejaculated, we very politely get sort of butch about the whole man on man sexual encounter. There's usually a discussion about cricket or rugby. Something sufficiently dude like to counterbalance the fact he just plowed me. This is for my benefit. Elon has no problem with the fact he likes cock.
There is no rugby chat. Not this time. This time, he kisses me. It's sweet. Soft. Maybe even romantic. He's penitent and charming. I've been vanquished once again. There is no need to take a victory lap. He's stretching himself and making an effort to woo me. The dynamic has shifted. We are no longer two friends that occasionally fuck. Something has changed in the weeks since my downfall and I could smell it on the air. This has happened before. We were much younger then. Hadn't quite yet established the fact that I really did like girls and wasn't just deluding myself.
I know I shouldn't have blown him. Fine, he's been on me fairly regularly since I moved in with him, but that is our normal. But me servicing him is a different animal. I know I shouldn't have pulled the lid off of that particular Pandora's Box. But I did. And I will have to suffer the consequences. Elon will be hurt. He won't tell me he's hurt, but he will be. Does Elon hurt more than others? I think he might. His bravado and nonchalance are telling. The simple truth is I can't love him the way he wants me to. I do love Elon. He's my best friend. I'm just not in love with him the way I should be in order to engage in the sort of relationship he deserves.
We lay together on the couch for a long time. He moves just enough to not squish me, but enough to stay inside of me. His hand strokes my arm, my shoulder, my thigh. He picks up the remote and turns off the porn and turns on some documentary on crusaders, sharks, Hitler, or Atlantis – I don't really remember what it was – just to please me.
He is sorry he was such a prick. The idea that I'd even consider selling my body just makes him angry. I should know better than anyone that he's not the best communicator when it comes to his emotions.
My phone chirps in my bag. He reaches over me and pulls it out. Automatic appointment reminder from The Doctor. Also, I'm out of credit. Do I know that I'm out of credit? It annoys him when I'm out of credit on my phone. Is that why I didn't respond to any of his texts? We'll stop to buy credit when we go to meet Renata for martinis.
I remind him I have no money.
He reminds me that I just earned four hundred pounds. My phone is placed on the coffee table not far from the pile of cash he offered me. He picks up his phone covered in my cum. He wipes it on his discarded shirt then checks his texts. Renata. He is to call when he's done fucking me.
He wants to shower. Do I want to shower with him? He's willing to not only pay for my drinks when we go to meet Renata, he'll give me an extra fifty quid to frot with him in the shower. If I'm really feeling frisky, I can fuck him when we get home. In fact, he'd actually like that. We'll check what the going rate for a night with an escort is in the taxi. He's going to shower. He slips his cock out of me as he kisses my neck. He's sorry about the fight, but I have to admit that I could never fuck for money. I'm just not that kind of person.
What kind of person would that be?
The kind that could fuck for money. He stands from the couch, picks up his shirt, wraps it around his cock, and pulls off the condom. He's still a bit hard. Then again, Elon is always a bit hard. Instead of taking the shirt with him and disposing of the condom, he just tosses the shirt to the side. His housekeeper, a lovely Polish woman that suffers Elon because the simple truth is he pays well and regular work is hard to find, will discover it when she's around in the morning. He truly is the most slovenly person I have ever met in my life.
I watch him walk out of the room. I wish I were gay so I could fall in love with Elon and be the person he deserves to have in his life. I'd be lucky to have someone as stealth-fully loving, kind, and generous in my life as Elon. Not to mention incredibly good looking. I've got to say, Elon is a solid ten out of ten regardless of the kind of day he's having. Even sick there is a sort of feverish gleam in his eyes that makes him look tragically beautiful. I know the real him. Not many people do. I want to fall in love with him. I want us to be a couple of annoying old fags that grow into our dotag
e together. But it's not there. I'm done lying to people about being in love with them especially for their money. Never again.
This is why I do what I do next. I get up. I get dressed. I go to my bedroom and pack as quickly as I can. Elon takes environmentally ruinous showers – thirty minutes minimum of scalding hot water is apparently what is absolutely required to get him clean. I don't know how our friendship survived backpacking for a year through Asia. I really don't. I know I have at least twenty minutes to get out the door. Probably more. The house has seven bedrooms, eight bathrooms, and two kitchens. It'll take him a while to figure out that I've bolted.
Renata has a theory that the only way to truly end a relationship is for it to end badly. This is the reason why every one of her exes requires a large quantity of therapy. I know – I'm one of them. I love Elon. He is my best friend. But he is in love with me and I know it. I cannot continue to pull him in only to push him back and hold him at arm’s length. I never should have blown him. I should have just told him to fuck off and that we needed to talk. But I did. And then when I should have said no I said yes. A line was crossed that shouldn't have been crossed.
The shower is still running as I pick up his phone. I send him a text with his own phone. A hand written note might be missed. He never misses a text. I don't want to think about what I wrote. I just don't. I want him to find someone that he can fall in love with and who will love him back. I don't deserve him. I'm a fucking mess and I can't keep on expecting him to pay for my phone credit and martinis. This is not what I write. Instead I get mean. I tell him that he could keep his fucking money. He could go and fuck himself. I never want to see him again. And he can just piss off.
I leave my phone, which he paid for, next to his on the pile of money I neatly stack. Next to the stack, I leave my house keys. From Elon's trousers, I take my belt and shove it in my bag. I'm out of the house and hopefully passing through the barrier at Green Park Tube Station before he notices I'm gone.
As I wait on the platform, I do a quick count of my cash. I have enough for the night and to get the train home to the country the following morning. At home in the country, I can figure out what to do next. I hadn't ruled out going to Japan, but I also knew Elon had a very good point; although I'd engaged in gay sex, I was neither the instigator, nor was I the aggressor. My role had always been passive. And he had always been present. Even that afternoon, I hadn't blown him to ejaculation. He'd stopped me before I finished him off. But, I did blow him. There is something to be said for that.
I travel through the sprawling intestines of the underground, until I reach Whitechapel. I check into the hotel I know because it's across the street from a cordwainer I used to come to for riding boots. Before becoming destitute, when I used to have things like horses and fun, I would go to the man often enough to have made note of the hotel. His workshop, which has been in the same location for a thousand years or so, is on the second floor of a building across from the hotel. It is the sort of place that one learns of because their father and their grandfather had their boots done by the man or his father or his father before him. Except for a small sign next to the bell, there is no proof the place exists. From inside The Cordwainer's shop, as I would sit or stand having my feet and legs measured, the glowing £20 neon sign in the window fascinated me. Who would pay to sleep in a hotel that the owners deemed was only worth £20 a night? It boggled my narrow little mind.
But there I was. Seeking accommodation in the hotel that had once enthralled me with its migraine inducing neon sign and promises of free tea and coffee. A new low. On the upside, if I ever did make it out of the purgatory my life had become, The Cordwainer was still open for business across the street. He had a pair of my boots and I wanted them back.
Behind the desk was a man of about forty, purposefully bald, tattooed, muscular, and clearly a force to be reckoned with. He spoke with a villainesque Russian accent and barked instructions to a woman in a babushka mournfully pushing a broom around the lobby filled with idling rovers.
After paying cash to a man for the room, and an additional £10 security deposit for a towel (please note the use of the singular) I was assured was clean, I was given two tokens for the shower and the key. I passed through the lobby, ignored the free tea and coffee station, stopped momentarily at an overstuffed bookshelf with a Take One Leave One sign, helped myself to a copy of Gone with the Wind – it was one of the few books in English – then went to my room which was located on the second floor directly across from an orgy in progress.
How do I know there was an orgy going on in the room across the hall from mine? The door was open. After I secured the door with a chair shoved under the handle, I began looking for any discarded hypodermic needles or used condoms stuffed under the mattress.
I confirmed that the shower really was coin operated. I had no idea such things existed before. Wiping the surfaces of my crummy hotel room with a moist towelette I found in the bottom of my messenger bag, did little to prove him wrong. I am priggish. I'm also arrogant, entitled, superior, and often smug. Truthfully, I am a pack of King Charles Spaniels and a hunting rifle away from becoming an eccentric country squire type with a fondness for tweed and Wellie boots. My darkest moment was as I killed a spider – I actually considered contacting my mother and asking her if she had any money I could borrow. Truly my darkest moment.
Hours later, after giving up on trying to make the television work, and coming to terms with the fact the room is freezing and I may never be warm again, there is a knock at my door. The interruption takes me away from lying on my bed and writing poisonous and vitriolic words in my diary about Elon, my former fiancée, Japanese businessmen, and my poverty. Two girls I'd noticed participating in the hijinks across the hallway, stand in the doorway. I look past them and into the room across the hall. The orgy continues.
There's a party across the way. Do I want to join?
No. I don't want to join.
There is some flirty talk on their side that I refuse to engage myself in. I'm sulking and it's going to take more than two pretty blond girls giving me come hither eyes to pull me away from wallowing in my own misery. I've finally had enough of the two of them and I get to the point.
If you want to fuck, then come in. Otherwise, leave me alone. I have no interest in a gang bang at the moment.
They converse amongst themselves as I stand at my open door letting what little heat I have in the room out into the hallway. Truthfully, I have no interest in sex at that moment. Elon worked me over pretty well and I just don't feel like it. I want to finish writing in my diary and start reading Gone With the Wind. Part of me, the one that is genuinely considering going to Japan as a sex worker, tells me to treat the women like paying customers. I'm not always going to want to have sex when I'm being paid to do it. So do it. Push myself. Consider it like practice. Or an internship. Unpaid work that I'm expected to do well in order to advance to a paying post. After about twenty seconds of going back and forth, I interrupt.
What I want to tell them: You bore me. I am bored with you. You have three seconds to decide whether or not you want to come inside. One... Two... Three....
In my dreams I shut the door leaving the two of them on the other side.
What I do tell them: Honestly, I'm just not feeling it. I got into a fight with my best friend. I just want to sit on my bed and feel sorry for myself.
Dutch (Danish?) Girl 1 – or G1 as I shall think of her – holds up a bottle of vodka I hadn't previously noticed.
Dutch (Danish?) Girl 2 – G2 – has a shot glass.
How do these things happen? How do we go from three people that are tossing back shots to me on my back with DG1 riding me and DG2 sitting on my face? How does this happen? I don't know. There is usually a fair amount of slap and tickle and then someone dares someone else to do something that's going to get the whole thing started. Sort of like a boring evening at a house party in the country. Everyone is just humming and blahblahblahing until someone c
hirps up and says let's all take off our clothes and fuck! Then everyone else say oh yes jolly good that sounds like loads of fun! And before you know it you've got your trousers off and two Danish (Dutch?) girls are abusing your body and you're just sort of present during the whole thing wishing they'd go away and let you read your book and bemoan your fate all by your lonesome.
I get in a very direct and obvious way, this spontaneous little ménage à trois really had nothing to do with me. It didn't. I was there as a ruse. I was the excuse G1 used to get G2 naked. Fair play to G1. If I'd been in the mood I might have been a bit more willing to make it easier for her. But I wasn't. So it became all about me. As it was the first time I was the pickle in the middle of that sort of sexual sandwich. What do I recall of my first sexual encounter with three? Elon and Renata set me up, I'm certain they did, and then they tried to make me think it was all my idea. Best part of all – Renata was my girlfriend at the time. Nice. If the two of them had been honest with me (Elon and Renata – not the Dutch (whatever?) girls) then I would have gone along willing. But that is just so them. Why be honest and straight forward when there is the possibility to complicate a situation?
Two hours later we're naked and wrapped around each other like a twisty pretzel. I'm drunk, sweaty, covered in girls, and out of condoms. They're falling asleep. I've reached the end of my hospitality. I don't knock them off of me, so much as I... well I actually kind of knock them off of me. But nicely. I'm very nice about kicking them out of my room. Nice and firm. I hand them their panties and their shorts. I have a thing in the morning. I need some sleep. Thanks for the booze. Sex was great. Bye. While the sex was superb as always, even afterward I still wasn’t into it. The vodka blurred the details, all I really remember is that each of us came multiple times and I really didn’t want anything more to do with G1 or G2.
CHAPTER FOUR
Where We Return to the Present, My Life Sucks, Elon is No Longer my Friend , Renata is Forever Doomed to be a Narcissistic Bitch, and I Actually have Taken a Job That Involved the Exchage of Sex for Cash