Coming Together With Pride

by Alessia Brio, J Buchanan, Lisabet Sarai

  I never would take no for an answer, and heaven knows I'd heard enough of them from my chauve-souris over the years. You'd think a sex-starved middle-aged man would jump at any opportunity to sleep with a lovely young woman, but not Lawrence. No, getting him into bed was nearly a chore in the early days. He was raised by stiflingly religious parents, too. All this adultery sometimes overwhelmed his conscience. In the past, I'd yelled, I'd whined, I'd begged and pleaded...

  "Okay,” I replied.

  Nuit Blanche's plan of attack would be subtle persuasion.

  * * * *

  We took the subway downtown. Packed as it was, I nestled myself into Lawrence's fleecy blue jacket. Holding the metal pole with one hand, he wrapped the other arm around me. I wrapped both arms around him.

  "So, exactly where is this rash of yours?” I asked.

  The goth guy standing beside us scrunched up his nose in disgust and took two steps away.

  "On my back."

  "Maybe it's just a rash, like an allergy or something. When my grandmother had shingles, she looked like the Phantom of the Opera. Her eye went purple and swelled up until she couldn't see. Maybe you're not as sick as you think you are,” I suggested.

  "I went to the doctor midweek, and she was pretty sure it was shingles. She wrote me a prescription."

  "Bloor Station, our stop.” As soon as we stepped out of the subway, we were stunned by the magnificent state of our city. Cumberland Avenue was strung with star-studded blue flags, a “conceptual intervention” imitating a rural Brazilian festival. Yorkville was packed with people. Hard to believe, pressing through the art galleries and past the designer shops, that this district used to be hippie-central. At least, that's what Lawrence told me. That was before I was born.

  Wandering up Hazelton Avenue, we stumbled upon the Secular Confession Booth. Our programme read, “It's cheaper than a shrink with no possibility of damnation. Mature personnel will hear your confession, judgment free."

  Lawrence and I stood in silence on the dark side of the street, across from a line-up two blocks long. When was the last time my confession was heard? I was still in my teens. I remember bragging that I'd seduced our neighbour, monsieur DesLauriers. It was an act of rebellion. Take that, Church! I wasn't guilty, I was proud. Forgive me, Father ... or don't. Whatever. Two days later, maman et papa mysteriously knew the whole story. Tabernac, is nothing sacred? Idiot priest.

  "Is your conscience heavy?” I asked Lawrence. Stupid question.

  "Of course."

  "Do you want to confess?"

  "No,” he replied.

  We stood in silence.

  "Do you?” Lawrence asked.

  "No."

  That wasn't entirely true. I sort of did want to confess every sin I'd committed over the past fourteen years, but was it really worth waiting in line? No. Instead, we walked south towards the University of Toronto.

  "You know, I always was jealous of you Catholics,” Lawrence began.

  "Don't call me that,” I interrupted.

  "Sorry. Okay, then, I was always jealous because Catholics got to confess. We Baptists have to stew in our sins while you're released from yours. It's not fair."

  "You did it again,” I said, more irritated the second time.

  "Sorry."

  Following the crowd, we arrived at Trinity College's rugby field and my favourite installation. It was called String of Diamonds. Strung up on helium-filled balloons, white Christmas lights floated through the air, sparkling like starlight overhead. Young people, in pairs and in groups, lay in the grass, staring up at the illumination against the night sky. Lawrence and I lay down, too, our backs to the rugby field.

  Beating a dead horse, I began, “So, if your doctor wrote you a prescription, does that mean you're on the road to recovery?"

  "Yeah,” he replied. “They're fast-acting pills. Three days later, there's almost nothing left of my rash."

  I grinned. “So, you're probably not even contagious anymore."

  "Maybe not."

  Nestling against the warmth of his blue fleece jacket, I wove my fingers together with his. Holding hands, we gazed into the heavens, an imitation-couple staring at imitation-stars.

  "Doesn't it look like they're falling?” I commented dreamily.

  "Yeah,” he agreed. “But it's just an illusion."

  I believed him even when the lights seemed close enough to reach out and touch. I believed him until the string of LED bulbs lay across our chests.

  "I guess you were right,” Lawrence conceded. “They were falling."

  A young man with a patchy beard and bushy hair took hold of the purple balloons, refilling the helium without acknowledging us.

  "Should we move on?” Lawrence asked, picking up the change that had fallen out of his pants pockets.

  "Sure."

  * * * *

  Around 2:30, we decided the Art Gallery of Ontario would be our last stop. They were hosting the “End of the Party Party,” complete with two drag queens and a guy in an afro wig singing ABBA songs.

  "Look at this,” Lawrence shouted over Waterloo. On a make-shift coffee table in the retro-décor space stood a stuffed beaver with evil eyes wielding a wooden spear in his taxidermically-preserved paw.

  "Freaky,” I yelled back over the blaring music.

  "What?"

  "THAT'S FREAKY!"

  I could tell by his goofy grin and nod that he didn't hear me.

  The night air provided little respite after the sweaty ‘70s dance party. Almost October, and I was walking around in my T-shirt at 3am. Talk about global warming! As our subway tokens clinked into the turnstiles, I wondered what Lawrence looked like in the seventies. I bet he listened to Dylan publicly and to ABBA in secret. That was Lawrence, never admitting to the guilty pleasures. Me, for instance.

  Leaning against the door of the subway conductor's booth, I asked him which exhibit was his favourite.

  "The Kiss,” he said. A funny little installation with two illuminated TV sets facing each other, their screens touching like lips. That one was cute, but my favourite was String of Diamonds—because of the company, primarily. When would Lawrence and I ever again get to lie together in the middle of a rugby field and stare up at the stars?

  "Will you promise me something?” Lawrence asked.

  "Maybe."

  "If you do catch what I have, will you let me pay for the medication?"

  "I'm not going to catch it,” I laughed.

  "But if you do..."

  "I'm sure my medical plan will cover the pills."

  "But if it doesn't..."

  The look of concern on Lawrence's face tugged at my heartstrings. “Okay."

  When we got back to my apartment, Lawrence went into my freezer like it was his own to fetch the ice cream. I liked that he was eating my food without asking. That's what married people do. Tonight we could pretend. He made us floats with vanilla Breyer's and Dr Pepper, and we parked our weary selves on the couch to watch the end of that Cary Grant movie with the tiger. I hoped the delicious man-smell of him would seep into the sofa and never leave my apartment.

  "I should probably head home now,” Lawrence said, kissing my hair. My stomach clenched.

  "No, don't leave!” I whined. How could I persuade him to stay? “I want to see your rash."

  "What?"

  "I don't believe you have shingles. I want to see the rash."

  Lawrence furled his brow, squinting at me like I was nuts. I get that look a lot.

  "If you have shingles, you'll have a rash,” I repeated. “Show me the rash."

  Childlike eyes blue and fearful, Lawrence pulled his T-shirt over his head. His chest looked the same as always, belly muscles on their way to being well-defined. No rash there.

  "Turn around,” I instructed.

  He did. On his back, there was not a mark. Not a scratch, not a red spot, not a pimple, and definitely not a rash. I couldn't believe it. Lawrence really had lied to me! What the hell was going on? D
id he not want to spend the night?

  "Where's the rash, Lawrence?” I growled.

  He pointed to his side, to a run-of-the-mill bandage. “It's under there,” he assured me. “There were more sores before, but the pills worked really fast and now that's all that's left of the rash."

  Lawrence turned around to look me in the eye. Angry as I tried to be, I couldn't muster much frustration. I called his bluff, and now we could have sex. Woo hoo! I couldn't help it; I laughed.

  "You must think I'm over-reacting, but I can't bear the thought of making you sick,” Lawrence continued. “I could never bring you harm, Audrey."

  My heart softened into a gooey, saccharine mush, and I threw my arms around the man. “You're so sweet!” I cried. “But, my chauve-souris, you can't possibly be contagious with just one little sore underneath a bandage!"

  "But what if I am?"

  My mind raced. Lowering my lids, I looked at him with bedroom eyes. “Then you'll need naughty nurse Audrey to take care of you,” I insisted, Frenchening my accent and kissing the top of his head. “She knows just how to care for bald little mouse patients."

  Taking Lawrence by the wrist, I dragged him into the next room and made him very comfortable in his hospital bed.

  "I'm not sure about this,” he objected.

  I looked him in the eye, not as naughty nurse Audrey, but as me. “I have everything we need to keep me safe from harm,” I assured him. “Just get comfy, and I'll be right back."

  An eager smile crept across his face as I leaned closer to him. “The doctor said I shouldn't kiss anyone!” he blurted.

  "What a random thing for a doctor to say."

  "Well, I asked,” Lawrence admitted. How much did I love that strange hypochondriac?

  "No kissing then,” I assured him, grabbing every white scrap of lingerie out of my drawer. Getting into some slutty undergarments gets me so turned on. Oh, who am I kidding? Waking up in the morning gets me turned on!

  In the bathroom, I changed into a white push-up bra, incredibly successful in its task of pushing up. I selected a pair of white cotton panties to give the impression of innocence. Over these, I pulled on a slip so tight it over-emphasized my already-emphasized cleavage. Never before had I seen my boobs looking so juicy. I jumped up and down a couple times just to watch them jiggle.

  When I came back into the bedroom to show Lawrence what a successful naughty nurse I'd become, I could only sigh in despair. Flat on his stomach, he'd fallen asleep waiting for me. He'd managed to take off his clothes, but that was about it. Well, there was no way I was taking this lying down!

  From my night table, I dug out the box of latex gloves I'd stolen from the cleaner's cart at work. Serves them right for leaving it unattended! The snap of latex woke Lawrence with a start. Looking up at the naughty nurse at his bedside, he actually flipped onto his back. I had to laugh at his alarm.

  "I didn't know where I was,” he said.

  Snapping on a second glove, I straddled my man, letting my juicy tits hover against his nose.

  "Do you know where you are now?” I asked.

  "Mmm...” was his only reply as he shoved his face into my cleavage. When he breathed in the scent of my skin, the unfamiliar brush of stubble scratched my flesh. I was used to seeing Lawrence in the morning when he had shaved only moments earlier. This sharp hair was so manly, such a rugged contrast to my soft breasts. He nuzzled his nose deeply into my bra until I could feel his rough face against my nipples.

  "Wait a second,” I cried, running to the kitchen. I returned with a box of plastic wrap in my hand. “We're keeping safe, right? I don't want my nipples to get shingles."

  "No, you don't,” Lawrence laughed, tearing off a sheet of plastic.

  As I shoved the plastic wrap under my bra, Lawrence followed close behind with his tongue, licking my tits and sucking hard on my nipples. Tabernac, I'd been waiting all night for this! Lawrence was a nipple-sucking expert. As I held the top of the plastic sheet, he flicked and flicked at the hard pink buds. My pussy drooled with anticipation. What a smart little orifice! She knew that when the nipples got attention, her turn was soon to come.

  Impatiently, I pressed my cotton-clad clit against Lawrence's ready cock, writhing slowly against it. Lawrence got the point and sent a hand to pull up my white slip and some fingers to explore the wetness of the swollen pussy lips underneath my cotton panties. Rubbing firmly against my clit, he tugged on my nipples with his teeth. Tabernac! How did that man always know just what to do? He made me wild!

  But—oops!—I wasn't doing anything for him! I grabbed a condom and some lube from the night table, taking the plastic out of my bra. Squirming down his body, letting my hair tease his sprightly flesh, I slipped the condom onto Lawrence's begging cock.

  "It's vanilla-flavoured,” I told him, letting my tongue tease his sheathed tip.

  Lawrence didn't respond. I wondered if he knew I meant the condom.

  When I allowed my lips to encircle his gleaming cockhead, a deep moan escaped Lawrence's throat. My tongue went roving the length of his shaft. Cloaked in the flavoured condom, his cock was like a giant lollipop. Vanilla! I took it deep in my mouth and sucked the sweet muscle. The harder I sucked, the harder he got.

  And then, “Ruth..."

  When this forbidden word slipped from Lawrence's lips, my heart turned to stone. His cock fell out of my mouth as my jaw swung wide open. Had he really just called me by his wife's name? This had never happened before. I hardly knew how to react, what to say.

  But Lawrence was still blissed out, eyes closed. He continued, “Ruth is allergic to vanilla."

  "Oh.” Fondling Lawrence's sensitive balls with my gloved hand, I couldn't help but smirk jealously. “Good. Now she can't come anywhere near your delicious cock."

  Lawrence laughed with wry distain. “No danger of that happening."

  My poor lover! Imagine being married to someone who wouldn't have sex with you. The thought saddened me, making me want to please Lawrence all the more. That lovely man deserved every explosive orgasm I could give him.

  Leaning into his hot body, I pressed that solid shaft against my supple breasts and Lawrence thrust instinctively against the cleave. His cock felt warm and wet against my chest. As I lay my head down on his body, Lawrence pressed my shoulders against his waist, thrusting against me. Oh, I felt terribly naughty getting my tits fucked like that. But what a wonderful feeling! A hard, hot cock between my pushed-up breasts—lovely!

  With lube coating my latex glove, I traced the perimeter of my man's ass hole. Lawrence breathed in sharply. Slipping a wicked finger into my man's ass, I made that ‘come hither’ motion he loved so much. Lawrence panted rhythmically. The hot friction between my tits was making me crazy. I had to get that solid cock inside my pussy before he came.

  Sliding out of my damp cotton panties, I held Lawrence's vanilla-sheathed shaft in my latex-gloved hand as I sank onto it. Our bodies perpendicular, I let Lawrence watch his cock slowly disappear inside me. Then slowly reappear. Then disappear again. His straining rod filled me, driving out every thought that wasn't centered in this very moment. I'd been waiting for this all night! I knew I could convince him.

  With Lawrence's cock inside me, we were connected. He was mine completely. While his sheathed meat pierced my cunt, he wasn't somebody else's husband; he was my lover. Mine.

  Collapsing onto my man, I thrust frantically against Lawrence's warm body, throwing my pelvis roughly against his over and over again. Now in addition to shingles, Lawrence would have pelvic bruising. Tee hee! The welcome itch of his pubic hair against my clit was making me come faster than ever, and I always come super-fast when I'm on top. Tabernac! There was no holding back. I wrapped my arms around his sides.

  "Watch out for the bandage!” Lawrence cried.

  "Sorry!” I shrieked, sending my arms flailing out at my sides. Lawrence grabbed my hips to steady me, pushing and pulling my body to maximize friction. As I rubbed my clit against his fuzzy g
roin, my grasping pussy went into massive convulsions. Oh, that cock! That wonderful man! It was like streaks of starlight were shooting out my fingers and toes to the outer limits of my being.

  Exhausted, I again collapsed onto my wonderful partner, who in turn flipped me onto my back. “Are you up for some more?"

  "As long as you do all the work,” I smiled. “I can go all night."

  I watched his proud cock coming at me as Lawrence penetrated my blissful cunt from on top. I watched his strong arms as he pinned mine above my head, holding my wrists against the pillow like I taught him to do. Totally in his control, I whispered, “I'm yours, Lawrence. J'suis a toi."

  His eyes went all tender. Diving at me, Lawrence kissed my mouth with full force. So much for not exchanging bodily fluids! Cock thrusting wildly between my open legs, Lawrence released my wrists to wrap me in his arms. His hot tongue writhed against mine with such intensity I knew he was about to come. I was right. Plunging deep inside with violent thrusts, Lawrence's issued a high-pitched squeak and fell on top of me. Panting in unison, his bulk upon mine, we lay together in disbelief. How could it feel so good every time?

  "What happened to not kissing?” I asked with a grin.

  Lawrence sighed. “Oh well."

  * * * *

  I gave him a new toothbrush and we cleaned our teeth side by side in my little white bathroom. Just like married people do. There I was, twenty-eight years old and still playing house. When I slipped into bed beside my husband-for-one-night, he wrapped his warm arms around me. I hugged him around the waist.

  "You speak French,” Lawrence said. “What does Nuit Blanche mean?"

  "Sleepless night,” I replied.

  Some noisy teenagers were shouting drunkenly outside my building, and I thought about going to the window to quiet them, but my limbs weren't exactly obeying my brain. Lawrence's hand cupped my butt. Maybe he was trying to squeeze it. I tried to do the same to him, but again the limbs weren't obeying. I must have fallen asleep after that.

  The night of Nuit Blanche, I had a dream. In my dream, Lawrence unwrapped a fresh block of cheddar cheese from my fridge, and I was angry because there was already a block of cheddar open. I yelled at him, ‘Why open a new cheese when the old one's still good? We don't need two cheddars open at once.'