“What are you talking about? I’m about to find the chick who squirts.”
I dropped my phone in my pocket then went to a mirror and looked at myself.
There was this actor, Jonathan Brandis, big eyes and darkish-blond hair, who did a show about the sea or something, and chicks often said I looked like him, so I figured, Hey, a good thing. Except I heard this guy had gotten depressed about his star falling out of the sky, losing his fame or something, and so he’d killed himself, and I’d imagine a supernova when I thought about this actor guy, a star that burns real bright before it’s gone, and then I got sad about it. Weird feeling.
Behind me in the apartment our TV glowed with an eerie silver-blue light. Micah liked to set a mood. I pushed my hands through my hair then turned my head side to side checking my face in the mirror. Heck in this light, I glowed.
Micah had settled in his chair, cock like a kickstand in his hand. “Look at this chick’s ass. God, I’d like to fuck that ass.” He yanked another second then said, “You ever fuck a chick in the ass, Ty?”
“No. Listen, I’m going now.”
“You suck, dude.”
“I know, see you later.” I waited for him to ask where I was going so I could tell him.
“Fuck,” he said. “I want some pussy!” Micah yanked harder. I went for the door. “Hey!” Micah yelled behind me.
“What?” I looked at him, waited. He’d twisted around in his seat.
“The chick squirts.”
I waved at him then bolted. Later, I’d give him the details.
Outside, the sky was the colour of an old bruise. Sitting inside my car, a Mustang I’d painted and reupholstered in high school, I stared out the windshield and got a case of the chicken shits. What if I bailed? Beat off, Ty; get it out of your system. Get what out of my system? A woman wanted to tell me what to do. And I wanted that. Simple. Like, use me, fuck me up. I figured we’d bring Micah into it eventually. A woman would lift the veil, force me into a full-on gang bang with straight sex, gay sex, all of it. I experienced a jolt to my crotch then almost cried. I leaned my head against the steering wheel then drifted, which I used to do in school.
I had a teacher in a high school, Ms Ryn. She got to me. Ms Ryn used to come up behind my desk while I daydreamed in class then slap her hands together, which made me jump so hard I’d hit my knees on the desk. Sharp pain.
When I’d look at her she wouldn’t smile, but her eyes would look glacial bright. “I want you to stay after school,” she said one day.
I didn’t ask why – for daydreaming, whatever, didn’t matter.
My friends complained. “Bitch.”
I shrugged. “Yeah.” What I didn’t say was, That bitch turns me on.
After school, Ms Ryn gave me a stack of paper and one pencil and then instructed me to write: “I will pay attention in Ms Ryn’s class. I will pay attention in Ms Ryn’s class. I will pay attention in Ms Ryn’s class.” I wrote until my hand cramped, until the callous in my middle finger was indented and I had lead under my fingernails. Maybe the punishment was . . . elementary, demeaning? I don’t know; it wasn’t to me. I mean, it was those things, but I had a hard-on the whole time I wrote those sentences.
And Ms Ryn . . . she was tall and reed thin, burning red hair, and a few wrinkles around those eyes she’d cast over me like I was . . . beneath her.
Oh, fuck, I was.
An hour later, Ms Ryn put her hand on my arm. “Stop.”
I dropped the pencil then covered my lap. My arm, where she’d touched me, was intensely warm.
“Will you pay attention in my class, Tyler?”
“Yes, ma’am.” God that felt good. What if I got on the floor? My cock twitched. I wanted nothing more than to jerk off at her command. If only she’d tell me to do it. Call me a fag then say, “Jerk off,” until I shot a load, which accidentally got on her shoe, so she’d tell me to lick it.
Ms Ryn eyeballed me like, almost, something passed between us, recognition or acknowledgment, something. “You may go.”
You may go. Loved how she talked like that. I stood holding my backpack in front of me but then didn’t move or couldn’t or didn’t want to, something. Ms Ryn had walked to the front of the room then noticed I was still there. “Is there something else, Ty?”
A lot else, but how did you say that to a teacher?
That night in the shower, I jerked off imagining Ms Ryn. Writing You will pay attention in Ms Ryn’s class while she breathed in my hair before she pushed a hand inside my shirt to pinch my nipple hard. I came a bucket of jizz. And I groaned so loud I slapped a wet hand over my mouth worried maybe Mom might have heard me.
In high school, I used to skip school to smoke cigarettes with these other jerks, and of course we had no idea why we skipped school and smoked except we needed to appear tough. That was important: look tough to the chicks. Except I fantasized a woman who led me into all kinds of things: handcuffs, rim jobs, dildos up my ass and hitting me if I said no. And I do mean slapping the shit out of me.
Once, while a chick gave me head in the front seat of my car I said, “Would you hit me? You know, across the face, hard as you can?”
She’d shown me this google-eyed stare. “What?” You really would have thought I was the biggest moron on Earth by the look on her face.
“I don’t know. Never mind.” I’d pushed her head down and focused on the sensation of her mouth on my cock, but mostly on a voice in my head, which was supposed to be hers. “Sissy little piss ant, don’t you dare come.”
“Oh, fuck, fuck.” I’d shuddered, shoved my hips forwards, and then held the girl’s head as I’d shot off inside her wet mouth. Fuuuck.
“Geez, Ty, you could have told me.” The chick had twisted away to wipe her mouth. Maybe she’d been mad, thought I was scum.
“Maybe you should, you know, pay me back or something, punish me.”
The girl had sighed. “Just tell me next time, OK?”
It wasn’t Mom. I know that would be an assumption: Mom knocked me around, under-mined my self-esteem, something. Mom was tough; she had to be. She raised me alone, and for a while we were dirt poor until she clawed her way into a good job. I respected Mom, thought the world of her actually, but there wasn’t a Freudian connection. Mom never did anything out of line with me.
I didn’t chicken out that Wednesday night. I drove to Elmore Park. Straight there. Into the arms of Fate. In the parking lot, I shut the car off then pocketed my keys before working my hand around my phone, bit of cold warmed by contact with my body. When I got out of the car, I inhaled oak trees, my own anticipation, then started across a stretch of grass. I walked fast, almost like it was a race. I knew where the fountain was. The sky was dark now, and the moon was a sliver, which reminded me of a woman’s fingernail.
When I got to the bench I sat. Then waited. When I looked at my phone, I saw I was twenty minutes early. Then I was on time. Then she was ten minutes late.
Fuck, had somebody snowed me? I started to think of ways Micah could have orchestrated the whole thing then imagined getting back to the apartment and him waiting there so he could laugh his ass off then say, “Whatever, asshole, sit down and jerk off.”
I pulled my phone from my pocket, ready to call him, laugh it off, hide my disappointment, never admit he’d nailed my exact fucking desire, and then I saw something near a light pole. A woman. Yeah. Leggy. Yeah, just over there.
“Hey,” I tried to say, but nothing came out.
“Hi, Tyler.” Same voice from the phone but clearer – not syrupy or husky either, just calm and collected. She stayed by the light pole looking at me, I guessed; therefore I couldn’t make her out like I wished I could – just a leggy figure with a backdrop of light.
“Hi.” Finally I found my voice.
The enigma stepped closer. She wore a leather jacket, pants and boots with a heel. Her heels clicked the pavement. I had no idea what else to say, so I stared at her, probably with my mouth open.
&
nbsp; “You’re cute,” she said.
“Thanks.” Relief, she thought I was cute. “Chicks tell me I look like this actor, Jonathan Brandis, but he’s dead now; anyway, I get told there’s a resemblance.”
“He committed suicide,” she said.
“Yeah.” I swallowed.
“So what did you have planned before I called?”
“Just hanging out with this guy I live with, Micah.”
“Did you tell him you’re here?”
“No, not really, no.”
“Do the two of you fuck each other?”
Bam. I liked that. But sure, I got nervous. “Nah, I mean we haven’t yet.”
“You want to, though, don’t you? You like boys.”
“Well, I haven’t ever been fucked by a guy.”
Silence.
“We jerk off together a lot.”
Silence.
“I’ll do whatever you tell me.”
“You will?”
“Yeah.”
She stepped a couple of feet closer. “You go to college?”
“No. I mean, not yet, maybe later.” I swallowed again, harder. She smelled like something sharp . . . and sweet . . . like apple cider in the sun.
“You work?”
“Yeah.”
“Doing what?”
“Nothing cool, just deliver pizzas.”
“You make good tips?”
“Well, sometimes.”
“Have you ever delivered a pizza to the wrong house?”
“Once I did.”
“Did she punish you?”
“Huh? Oh.” I laughed, or my voice cracked, something. “No, it was a dude.”
“What happened then?”
“Well, the right house was just around the block, so I got there on time.”
“His pizza wasn’t late?”
“Nah, I’m usually early.”
“I noticed that.”
“Yeah well, that’s me.” I laughed again, incredibly nervous. “Hey, you want to sit? You can sit if you want.” My voice had just cracked again. Shit.
“I have to go,” she said. “But there’s a restaurant on Franklin Avenue, Three Brothers, know the place?”
“I’ve heard of it, nice place.”
“Be there tomorrow at eight. Dress nicely and comb your hair.”
“OK.”
“When you get there tell the host you have a reservation; give him the name Ivo.”
“Your name is Ivo?”
“Listen.” Her voice had taken on an edge.
“Sorry.” My skin got a chill. My cock twitched.
“A young man will bring a basket of bread to the table and a pitcher of water.”
“Cool.”
“That’s all you’ll be having.”
“No problem.”
“Don’t request anything else.”
“OK.”
Ivo was silent, a sinewy shifting silhouette with a blade of light across part of her face. I said what popped in my head next. “The name Ivo, it’s very cool.”
That’s when she laughed, and the sound of it was like fork tines dragged across my ass. Then: “Shut up,” she said. “And . . . get the fuck out of here.”
I jumped off the bench and went; I was very turned on.
When I got back to the apartment the place was dark and quiet except for the ten-gallon fi sh tank across the room. The tank light was on, giving the water a violet hue, and the fi lter gurgled like a fountain. I stood at the tank a minute and stared at the fi sh, mostly mollies and neon tetras, but we also had a betta in there. Naturally solitary and very aggressive, the betta was blue with fl amy feathery fi ns. It glided among the rest of the fi sh as if totally disinterested. Then it approached the glass, and I would have sworn it looked at me as it opened its mouth. I’d heard they had tiny razor-sharp teeth.
I went down the hall, dropped my clothes, and then slid into his bed next to Micah. He was slim as a knife in there. I touched his back with one hand, scooted closer, fitted my body against the length of him then wondered what it would be like if he fucked me up the ass. I couldn’t ever ask him.
Micah fi dgeted, woke up. “What?’ he said, sounding irritated, half out of it.
“Nothing.” I turned over then heard Micah yawn.
“You get some?” he asked.
“Nah. She’s into bi guys though.”
“She told you that?”
“Yeah.”
“What’s next?” Micah moved close enough his cock touched my back.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I’m going to see her again tomorrow. She’s amazing, dude, I mean it.” I cupped my hand around my cock. “Older than us, totally dominant.”
“Think I’ll meet her?” Micah shifted his body again; his cock bumped my ass.
“I don’t know, that would be cool, you know if the three of us . . .” I wanted Micah to jerk off while Ivo orchestrated how and when he moved his hand before she gave the word to unload on my back, or in my face even.
“What’s she look like, dude?”
“Tall, very leggy, she wears boots and leather.”
“Dude, I love leather.”
I felt how his cock rested in the crack between my ass cheeks. I turned over.
“Let’s jerk off,” he said.
Nervous as shit the next night getting ready. I put on the only pants I had that weren’t jeans and a button-up shirt.
Micah stood in the doorway to my room checking me out. “You meeting her?”
“Yeah.”
“Where?”
“Three Brothers,” I said, and then I looked at him. “I’ve never been there.”
“Place is totally overrated.” He eyeballed me. “Dude, you gelled your hair.”
“So?”
Micah smiled. He actually had a cool smile, attractive, like beguiling or something. I looked in the mirror again. “Do I look all right?”
“Yeah, good. You rub one out already?”
“I’m fine.”
Micah shook his head. “Ty, man, you’ve got to rub one out before you go.”
I checked myself again. Should I button all the way or leave the top button open? Shit, I’d already sweat on the shirt. What if I changed? Except this was my best shirt.
“Ty,” Micah said behind me. “If you bang this hot older woman and come too fast, you’ll never see her again.”
I looked at him.
“I’ve got a chick who squirts, dude, you know the movie.”
Time on my phone gave me an hour. “Yeah, OK,” I said.
We sat on the couch, pants opened and cocks out. The chick in the fi lm ejaculated from her cunt in a fan of nearly invisible rays. I’d never seen anything like it. My balls were full and about to blow, but then I realized I didn’t want to get jizz on my shirt. “Fuck,” I said aloud then looked at Micah. “Do me a favour?” He passed me his shirt. I came in it.
At Three Brothers I told the maître d’ or whatever, the host, I had a reservation under Ivo. The guy, who had white hair although he really didn’t look older than thirty, gave me the most condescending look I’d ever seen; he swept his blue eyes over me like I wasn’t even a fl y in shit – whatever. And then he led me to a table at the centre of the room before he pulled out a chair and swept his hand in front of him like, sit, dweeb. He gave me a menu. “Thanks,” I said.
The guy laid another menu on the other side of the table then left. The place was pristine: soft lighting, piano music and autumn-coloured fl owers on every table. People were dressed to the nines, so I must have looked like I was playing dress-up. Another guy showed up with bread in a basket and a pitcher of ice water, just like she’d said. He asked if I wanted a wine menu. I said sure. He came back and presented the menu like it was the biggest deal in the world to give someone a menu. I tried not to smile too much.
“Would you like recommendations?”
“Actually, I’m waiting for someone; I’ll wait for her.”
He left, and
I sat there. What did I know about wine? I checked out the dinner menu: no prices. Anyway, I was having bread and water. My cock went stiff. Then my phone vibrated in my pocket. Micah. I hit ignore. Waited some more. I’d stay hungry all night. A woman appeared at the front of the restaurant: tall and narrow and older, black hair. I knew who she was and got scared.
Her name was Ivo. She had hair like Uma Thurman’s in Pulp Fiction, smooth and blunt and black. She was older than me. I don’t know how old: ageless. Her face killed me. Strong mouth, small nose, crooked teeth when she smiled, eyes like sky through an icy window. Crow’s feet and freckles.
I’d never seen a woman less perfect or more gorgeous my whole life.
Reason I got scared that night: I’d go through with it. That’s why. Up until that moment, no one had given me what I’d wanted, and as soon as I saw Ivo in the restaurant, full glory, in motion, I knew she’d give me what I wanted, and it was like when a person who was supposed to happen in your life was about to happen and then you knew your life would change for ever, and I’d do anything she wanted even if it turned out I’d be stripped of all my secrets, games up, make-believe, pretension, shot to oblivion.
“Did you always do what your mother told you?” she asked at the table, hand around a glass of white wine. Something bitter she’d said, with bite.
“I tried.”
“Teachers?”
“Pretty much.”
“What about lovers?” She ordered pasta with grilled salmon and a white dill sauce. Ivo ate everything put in front of her. Her mouth gleamed from the sauce and wine and from her licking her lips.
“Well . . . I’ve only had a few. But the girls I’ve known, they never told me what to do, they always asked me, what do you want to do?”
“How’d you feel about that?” Later, Ivo asked for a dessert menu. She ordered sorbet. My stomach gurgled with serious intensity. I felt light-headed too.
“Bored, I guess, not happy.”
“If I tell you what to do will it make you happy?” The way she spooned the sorbet into her mouth, you would have thought it was the best thing ever to happen to her. I wanted to lick her bowl, the inside of her mouth if she let me.
The Mammoth Book of Threesomes and Moresomes Page 45
