Sexual Solstice

by Bradley, Tracey B.

  Chapter Six – Ballet Bums and Bulges

  When Gillian woke late the next morning Robert had already left, and he had obviously sneaked a breakfast tray in with an accompanying note. “But soft, what light through yonder window breaks, it is the east and Gillian is the sun…had to go, have an audition, wish me luck. I had a great time last night. Keep in touch.”

  Gillian smiled to herself, and clutched the note to her heart. She had lived in a seemingly sterile prison for years now, with few fantasies to pull her through the dry spell. It had all been Spokes and that magical night outside Cherry Hill. The memory of that experience had gotten her through some pretty lonely and definitely horny times in her life. In her imagination she’d had Spokes play many roles, his visage was versatile, compliant and powerfully sexy. But mostly she had him over a steaming engine, with his big butt in the air while she had her way with him, mostly pulling his big prick and balls down between his legs to jack up the car, and then tickling him while he endured this punishment. Then he, finally turning to her, swept her into the back of the Rolls and licked her and kissed her all over, from head to toe. It drove her wild.

  There was steaming coffee and a full breakfast in the warmer on the trolley. Someone had even taken the trouble to put a small bottle of bubbly beside a little pitcher of freshly squeezed orange juice.

  Gillian thought of the night before, of the long night before, starting with a morose drive to Heathrow, a solitary flight until she was invited to the cockpit, where she rediscovered what it meant to recklessly abandon, again, and be a simple object of two men’s ravenous desire, and the pleasures of simple non-emotional sex. Then finding out that Edgar was gone, lost or departed. And the happenstance of a rendez-vous with an old work buddy. You can take the girl out of Brooklyn she thought, but that’s about it. Edgar, oh Edgar. What were you up to? Did a call drag you back off the plane? Was that it? Not enough time to say goodbye. But there was nothing on her phone, and he rarely left messages. In fact all that the phone seemed good for was everything but a phone, or communication. It was a bother to have the damn thing go off at the most inopportune times. And in the past two weeks, since losing her job, there had been no messages. Proof that she had sacrificed any kind of social life for that bloody career. So, no message from Edgar. Perhaps he would meet up later at their destination. Perhaps he would be waiting at Sandy Lane in Barbados, when she got there. That must have been it. She’d have a few new tricks up her sleeve, but most likely, no way to use them. What would life be like now? A series of clandestine encounters behind Edgar’s back? What a horrid fate. She almost hoped he wouldn’t show up in New York, and truth be told, he only endured this part of the journey so Gillian could visit with her mother. But last night did have its risks and she certainly wouldn’t have wanted him to walk in while she was enjoying all the pleasure that Robert offered. But Edgar walking in would have been impossible; she had been on the last flight out of Heathrow for New York, last night.

  She thought about her resolve, the animal card the old woman had passed off to her, and the words––mesmerize seemed to be not much a problem, but something she couldn’t have imagined she was able to do. True Self––perhaps she was somehow getting closer to that. All Potential––was something that stumped her. She harboured not much more than anger towards Edgar, at this point, and towards herself. It all seemed so timely or convenient for him to disappear, when she was at last ready to throw herself on the mercy of mankind. She had gone from feeling like a barren tart, fighting off school boys, to an attractive piece of confection, alluring, sexy, funny and daring, all at once. Nothing she had recently perceived herself to be.

  There was a knock on the door. Gillian wrapped herself in the robe that Robert had worn the night before, still with his scent, she buried her nose in the lapel. She wrapped a towel around her head and padded across the thick carpet. “Who is it?” she sang out.

  “Open up, you hoe.” Came Randy’s familiar and oh so bitchy response.

  “I beg your hard-on.”

  “Wrong sex lady.” She could hear giggling and knew that Val was up to no good as well. “Room service.” cried Val, doing her best at a couple of very foreign but not too convincing accents.

  “I’ve been serviced, thank you.”

  “You must be lyyyyy-innng,” came Randy’s voice again.

  “You can see for yourself-ish self,” she replied, and then opened the door to her two friends looking fresh faced, chilly and happier than ever to see her. Val was definitely looking like she had had a good year since Gillian had seen her, she was in a tight tweed mini skirt with a bolero jacket, black leggings for the winter chill, smart, sophisticated but not in her working girl at the office professional way. “Hooker boots, I hate you,” Gillian squealed, and you’ve got a new look. Dare I say you look bitchy?” Val’s hair had gone from spiky and short, to straight and jaw length––a severe frame to a pretty face.

  “Hooker boots? De riguer in the Big Apple.”

  Randy interrupted, “Maybe she should tell you about her big promotion, right out the revolving doors and onto her ass.”

  “Oh God. You too!”

  “Downsizing to nothing. I swear the folks who kept their savings under their mattresses had a good thing going. Anyway I got severance and I’ve got my own business, right out of my fucking apartment.”

  “What do you do?”

  “Absolutely nothing. I buy and sell online, never see the damn product. Today I’m sending cans of reconstituted grease from India to a farm equipment manufacturer in Idaho. Tomorrow––”

  “––it’s grease for the big boys down in South Beach,” Randy said. “Oooh can’t wait for that order.”

  “Oh you, you! You all over!” Gillian poked Randy’s arm. “How is it you manage to make winter the sexiest month? Is that leather?”

  “No, it’s something they made for the astronauts, very light, very sleek, and edible.”

  “God, if I was gay I would eat you with a spoon.”

  “Many have tried. Anyway I quit my job, didn’t get fired like you bitches, and now it’s real estate for the young and restless. I can close a deal in minutes in some empty Manhattan suite––on all fours if I have to.”

  “Pig! You look relaxed, for once.” Gillian had often thought Randy was the vision of stressed New York beauty––heavy concerned eyes, divided by an aqualine nose, frown lines, and bangs that pestered him.

  “I don’t sweat it. I mean how much money can a guy have? Anyway botox is my other little miracle. I’m sure I’ll find you devilishly funny today, but you’ll just never be able to tell, so don’t work too hard at it my dear. Now give us a hug.”

  Randy took her up in his arms and immediately commented on the manly smell of the robe. “Edgar here? That’s not his brand.”

  Gillian winked at Randy. Oh god you’ve been here for about twelve hours––”

  “Eleven.”

  “––and you’ve already got scent of man. I knew it would happen sometime soon. Of course I’ve been saying that for twenty years. I could sense it.”

  “Are you wearing fur pants? Wow! Val did you know about this? Well, fur does become you.”

  “Don’t change the subject––faux. I have to keep telling people it’s faux. But the funny thing is, it’s not. It’s rabbit I think. Are rabbits an endangered species?”

  “Get in here. I have hot coffee, croissants, a view of the park. Relax and let me get ready.”

  “It smells pretty, you know, sexual in here. I need to know what went down. I need some details.” Meanwhile Val stared out the window, marvelling at how few people closed their curtains during the day.

  “Oh just a little time spent with an old friend.”

  “Someone we know?”

  “Oh, maybe, remember when I worked at Paddies and––”

  “––that’s going back. Not another old guy. I don’t remember.”

  “Just a guy named Robert––”

  “�
�–the actor––the crippler? You fucking bitch I will never forgive you. That guy had the most amazing dick in the world. I remember him from the gym. Jesus. People ran the other way. You met up with the crippler? How was he? More to the point, how are you? Can you walk?”

  “It was great. He’s a doll. He works here sometimes, although he probably wouldn’t want me to say. He’s doing his acting thing and I think he’s doing well, you know, for an actor. I made him do a little Shakespeare––

  “Wait a minute.” Val turned from the vast array of lives, most of them not so pretty, presented before her in cut away view. “What about Edgar?”

  “Who?”

  “You mean to say you’ve been leading us on with this good girl routine until we were thinking it was us with the problem, and all of a sudden, at Christmas no less, you are telling us that you did it with the guy that all of Coney Island knows as the crippler–– plus he’s raking it in booking national commercials. I see him on TV all the time. No wonder he works here, he doesn’t need the cash, he just needs to fill a few female fantasies every night. Now what about Edgar?”

  Randy joined in, “The guy is a sex maniac.”

  “He was so gentle, and, and spontaneous.”

  “A gentle and spontaneous sex maniac.”

  “Sex isn’t a bad thing, really. It seems really good. I mean I feel great, although I haven’t really had much, until recently.”

  Val tied to stifle a laugh. “And now you’re an advocate for free and fancy sex.”

  “Think of all the women he’s helped.”

  “Look, let’s drop this. Did Edgar come with you?”

  “He’s gone AWOL. Didn’t get on the plane as far as I know, or else he parachuted off. The last I saw of him he was on the fucking plane. Honest.”

  “Foot loose and fancy free in Manhattan,” Randy said.

  “We’re both jealous in case you couldn’t tell,” Val added. “Now, you get dressed because we have a big day that involves shopping, lunch, shopping, dinner, ballet and then God knows what.”

  “The crippler,” Randy said.

  “No more crippler. First time lucky, just stay with the feeling,” Gillian said.

  “––of his cock in your, I mean my, mouth.”

  “You pig.”

  Gillian took a shower, filled the bathroom with steam, and more freesia scent of her Jo Malone. She looked at herself in the mirror, and saw a lightness that hadn’t been there before. She was thrilled to be back with her friends. She wanted to see Manhattan at Christmas and she wanted Manhattan to see her. She slipped into another green skirt, this one by Carven, simple white shirt, and a Max Mara quilted coat, perfect for winter in Manhattan, and some Kurt Geiger suede stiletto boots.

  “Et voila, I am ready let’s go!”

  They walked in and out of Central Park, sometimes along sixtieth. “I want a cab, now,” called Val, much too late.

  “We’re too close now. Fifth Avenue is right there.”

  “Next time, you fruit, if there is a next time.”

  By the time they got to Fifth Avenue it was time for lunch, and lunch they had at the Plaza Champagne Bar––high ceilings, gold and gilt, drapes and leisurely wingbacks to plunk their chilly asses into. They nibbled on the light and tasty, as Randy called it, and Gillian treated them to endless ‘98 Pol Roger, Winston Churchill. Lunch was long and funny and drunken. “This can be Edgar’s treat,” she held up her glass to toast into the air.

  But Randy was otherwise occupied. “I could so blow that waiter.”

  “Busboy, he’s a busboy. The waiters are much too old for any of us. You’d have to inflate a waiter. Just blow the busboy.”

  “What an ass,” Randy continued, “you could serve that to me fully undressed. With a side of gravy. Yum.”

  “Okay,” Gillian started, “Which part of a guy really turns you on. I mean, that you get flushed when you think about it.”

  “Flushed? You mean a hard on?”

  “Okay. A hard on.”

  Val touched the edge of her glass with the tip of her tongue. “God, we’ve opened a veritable Pandora’s Box here. What ever did you get up to last night?”

  “Well, call me a newbie. I mean there are certain things that people like to do. I mean Randy mentioned ass. What the hell would you do if the guy came over and presented that ass on a platter, you know, turned around and pulled his pants down, although they wouldn’t come down very easily because his ass is so big that he has to pull them over his ass, and then, you know, sproing, out pops his ass like a big tomato aspic.”

  “Hold it, hold it. Whose fantasy is this?”

  “Well you started it.”

  “I mean Robert was totally into having me caress his balls last night. I never thought that would be much of a turn on. But wow! They have a life of their own.”

  “Hello-o, what the hell, don’t talk so loud or the sex police are going to arrest you. The balls? Come on! That’s like me saying I didn’t think your flaps are sensitive. Duh.”

  “Your gay. How would you know?”

  “Everyone knows that.”

  “Okay. Have some more champagne, I stand corrected.”

  “The balls, the balls. What can I possibly say about the balls? They are God’s gift to our male being. It’s like having two penises, they are so sensitive. And they are a gift to whoever gets to place those sacred jewels in their mouth or anywhere near their mouth. Ah the balls.”

  “Ode to the balls. So what about the ass?”

  “Yes smart ass,” Val joined in. “What about the ass.”

  “Oh come on Val.” Randy let out a guffaw loud enough to draw glances. If they hadn’t been drinking three grand worth of bubbly they might have been ushered out. “Sorry, sorry,” he whispered.

  “No. Really.”

  “Hmmm, well we are eating, albeit lightly but I do have to say that the sensitivity of the sphincter is just the beginning, for moi anyway. Just spend some time on a bidet, sadly, hard to come by, in this harsh place they call the New World.”

  “Go on.”

  “Well, you relax and start to feel other things, other than just having your hole cleaned you know? You feel like maybe the bum bone’s connected to the cock bone––in your case, oh women, you’re all one big singular sensation. One minute your crying and the next your cumming. How do you do it? Just let go, relax. You’ve let someone massage your twat so what the hell, let them massage your you-know-what, maybe even poke a finger, or better, up there.”

  “Honestly? I just can’t see it happening. It’s just way too private back there.”

  “Oh God, listen send the busboy over. Then I can demonstrate. Let’s start from the beginning. Now first, what he does is lie across my lap, oh yeah, undoes his pants and all that, and then I gently take his dick, which is pressing against my own crotch, and I massage it until I feel some response, then I start to stroke those rosy cheeks, all chilly-bum from the cold outside.”

  Gillian giggled. “Okay so far I’m with you. It’s even kind of titillating.”

  “Val?” Randy said, “You with me?”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “Good, so anyway here’s how it goes. I stroke the cheeks and get a bit closer to the hole and then he starts to figure out that just maybe I have a certain destination in mind, so he relaxes a bit.”

  “What if he farts?”

  “Well in this fantasy he doesn’t, and with any luck you have taken precautions too, and avoided the bean salad and hummus for dinner. Avoided dinner for that matter. Anyway he knows what pleasure awaits him and I have let him think that there is more to come so I let a finger or two slide down that lovely crevasse to touch the soft pink skin surrounding that lovely hole, and then the fun starts. He oohs, and ahhhs to let me know that he is enjoying it. That’s the signal. I won’t force it if I get the feeling that it’s a no-go. You have to trust your feelings you know, and your lover’s instincts. If anyone forces anything from choking you with their dick to being
the least bit disrespectful down there, time to move on.”

  “Come on. Get on with the good bits.”

  “So anyway, I slip one then maybe two and depending on the feeling, a few fingers up the poop shoot.”

  “Poop shoot? Okay I think I’ve heard enough.”

  “––to continue. The fingers may be quite enough. I mean we aren’t on a tight schedule here one hopes. So, I’ve got the busboy on my lap and he’s moaning away and all and so I push a little more, not just in, mind you. I do have a destination.”

  “Being?”

  “The famous prostate. It’s sort of on the north side of the inside, kind of behind the balls, towards the penis if you know what I mean. So, once you hit that I tell you, it’s like having another penis.”

  “I thought you said the balls were like having another penis. How many penises have you got down there anyway?”

  “It’s a total pleasure centre, that’s all. When you press on that, it’s like someone has put their finger in your cock––from the inside.”

  “So, what’s your bus boy doing at this point?”

  “Probably writhing and most likely has a real honest to God hard-on and is in pleasureland.”

  “What if he wants more?”

  “He can have it; I’d bring him around so that he was sitting on my lap and then I’d slide in the big salami, gently though, since I’d only had two fingers in him, and my dick is, well, without exagerration, and I’m not bragging, worth at least five fingers. Then you just work your way up. Lots of lube too.”

  “So that’s what it’s all about.”

  “Well there is that aesthetic aspect to the ass or any part of the human body really, where you just look and let the eyes do the walking, and appreciate it for what it is, for what you see.”