Charlie
Charlie’s gone, with a hand to my cheek and a peck on my forehead, the sort I once found endearing, gone to play computer games and be paid for them, leaving me with five minutes. Five minutes in which to toss the egg–stained dishes in the dishwasher and shut the door, in which to grab a sponge from the sink and quickly unbutton my blouse, sponging off the summer sweat from underarms and under heavy breasts, five minutes until the knock on the back door. And I put down the sponge and open it, blouse seductively unbuttoned, knowing that Peter will have an excuse ready in case Charlie’s running late today, “Hey, pal. I had to go downtown to pick up some paints — wondered if you wanted a ride in to work.” And had the car pool been late, Charlie would have taken Pete up on it with a smile and a cheerful, unsuspecting “Thanks!” and a precious forty–two minutes would have been lost, one minute down the brownstone stairs, twenty minutes there, twenty minutes back, one minute up again.
But Charlie is gone, as he usually is, and so I am the one opening the door to Peter’s cheerful smile, and with a quick fluttery glance at Kate and Alison’s down the hall door, he slips inside and the door is shut and I am caught up in his arms, in his eyes, in him. Today he is hungry and the remaining buttons pop off the silk blouse, one two three and I note that I must find them later and sew them on and then his hands are pushing down the bra so my breasts spill out and his devouring mouth is on them. I must lean against the wall, hands braced flat, fingers down or I will fall. The fire sweeps through me fast, so fast and I have barely seen or touched or smelled him yet and yet the dampness is sliding from bare cunt to bare thighs. His hands, big, rough, incongruously broad for an artist’s hands are around my waist now and lifting me up and onto him. The loose skirt is no impediment and I wrap legs around him, not bothering to wonder when he undid zippers and moved inconvenient clothing, just glad glad glad that it is gone and there is no obstruction between us.
Oh, dangerous we are being, as I ride him, tender breasts rubbing up and down against a heavy flannel shirt and muscled chest beneath, my mouth on his neck and my arms wrapped around him now, fingers digging red welts even through the shirt no doubt. No matter — he has no spouse to wonder at strange markings. Peter’s kisses are gentle, always, no matter what the force of passion — he is too wise to leave visible marks. Not that Charlie could or would stand up to him, but this arrangement is convenient; it suits us all, even Charlie though he does not know it. I am hungry too, hungry for love and passion, and if Peter’s whispered words are only a gentle illusion, no matter — it is enough. Let Charlie have his games and Peter his safe downstairs daily fuck and I my taste of danger and delight. Peter’s hands pull me to him roughly, and his muttered groans pull me over my own edge as I feel his come spilling into me and I dissolve.
Peter thinks that I am on the pill. But I would rejoice in a child if it came, and sometimes I think that if it did I would leave them both, my dear husband and my daring love, and even my ladder–climbing back–stabbing corporation. I would take her up into the mountains, and we would sit together by a lake and sing with the birds and I would never never never speak of love to her. Then the timer from the microwave beeps madly, and we are quick kissing and he is out the door, and I rush through my ten minutes to shower and dress all over again before heading downtown, not forgetting to pick up the buttons and the blouse and needle and thread to take with me, so I can change before returning home, though Charlie will likely work late again tonight.
Turning Bodies
curled on blue stained comforter
your head on my thighs — I run short fingers
through white–gold
silent, speak of men we have known love, we have imagined
digital glow reminds me
you must drive skidding soon through rain —
turn my body to shield your eyes
if only I didn’t know what you’d do
if I kissed you
perhaps I’d kiss you
and see what you’d do.
Paint
Paint fumes were thick in the sun–drenched room, and the clear wash of cream we were slapping on the walls did little to reflect the heat. Liza had propped the windows open with empty paint cans and pieces of wood when we came in to survey the damage, but that only let in hot July breezes. Andrew was covered in sweat already, his white t–shirt clinging to his lanky body. Liza and I, also in cut–offs and t–shirts, weren’t much better off.
We’d let him do most of the heavy lifting involved in clearing out the apartment. Liza’s father owned the building, and somehow she’d talked us into helping her make one of the apartments habitable again. A horde of college guys had trashed the place, leaving beer cans and mysterious stains everywhere, and then left with the summer.
“Can you pull the stepladder over here, Steph?” Liza asked. She’d somehow wedged her way up onto a windowsill to paint above it, and one of us had pulled the ladder away to work on something else. For a moment I was tempted to leave her crouched up there... but the thought passed. After all, Andrew would just lift her down.
I dragged over the stepladder and held it steady as she climbed down, her long, slightly furry legs descending past my upturned face. Liza nodded her thanks before walking over to where Andrew was painting large swirly stripes of cream on the battered wall. She laughed as he stood back to admire his artistry. He casually reached out and pulled her to him.
“What do you think? Would the Museum of Modern Art give me five thousand for it?” he asked.
“I think you should get back to work” Liza replied, digging her fingers into the ticklish spot under his bottommost right rib. He grabbed her fingers and pulled her hands behind him, laughing. She smiled up at him and he smiled down at her, and I couldn’t watch anymore. I headed to the kitchen, calling out behind me, “Anyone else want something to drink?” They didn’t respond.
As I downed some apple juice straight from the large bottle, I tried to figure out if there was a graceful way to get out of this situation and go home. It wasn’t surprising that Andrew would spend a day of his vacation lugging battered sofas and futons around, since he’d come out here to visit her in any case, but what I was doing there was anyone’s guess.
You’d think I’d have more sense than to spend time with those two. Liza and I had been best friends since second grade, and usually when I was home from college we spent lots of time together. I suppose it wasn’t surprising that we were this summer too. But when Andrew had dumped me in April, I certainly hadn’t expected that he’d take up with my best friend a month later.
To be fair, I don’t think either of them expected it either. She came out to visit for a week... and it just sort of happened. Two lonely people, with at least one thing in common. That week Liza was there I hardly saw her. I’d catch glimpses of her, huddled in a shadowy stairwell with him, her arms locked around his neck. Or hear them talking softly outside my door before she came in to crash on my floor. There were times when I would have cheerfully, creatively, killed them both.
I put back the juice and turned back to the hall leading to the living room. As I trudged down the hall, Liza came towards me. She said, “I just realized that we need paint for the trim. I’m going to take the car and run get some. It should take about half an hour, I think. You don’t mind if I leave you stranded, do you?”
“No, that’s okay,” I replied. “Is Andrew going with you?”
“I told him I expected him to have that room done when I got back,” she laughed. “Keep an eye on him, all right?”
“Sure, chica,” I said, as she walked past me and out the door.
When I entered the room, I noticed that Andrew’s shirt lay discarded on the floor near one of the paint trays. His back and arms were slick with sweat, as he sent long, slow strokes along the edge of the far wall. I couldn’t help staring, watching the muscles move under his skin, just wishing, for a second...
“Hey, Steph,” he said, turning to face me.
“Do I have to do this all alone?” His face was red and sweaty, and there was a distinct bulge at his crotch. I remembered then that Liza was still a virgin, and wanted to remain one. Perhaps I might have felt sympathy for him then, if I hadn’t remembered their matching smiles.
Something twisted in me, and I couldn’t help saying, “I think you could use a little loneliness for a change.” I turned away, fighting unexpected tears, and picked up a brush and started to paint, slowly, calmly. Suddenly, Andrew’s arms were around me, his left hand pressed against the skin at my waist, the right still holding a paintbrush in front of me. At the contact, the pressure of his long body against my back, I broke. Tears were suddenly pouring down my face. Weeks of pent–in frustration burst loose, and it was all I could do not to slam my paintbrush right through the newly–painted wall.
He just held me, quietly crooning an incomprehensible something, calming my shuddering body with the solidness of him. I calmed down eventually, turning in the circle of his arms to face him and wipe the tears from my cheeks with paint–daubed hands.
“It’s all right,” I said then. “You can let go now — I’ll be fine.”
The concern on his face shifted to something else at my words, and I suddenly caught my breath at what I thought I saw. “What if I don’t want to let go?” he asked. Before I could answer his mouth was on mine, his tongue probing gently but with determination. The paintbrush in his hands dropped to the floor, and I couldn’t help thinking, “We’ll have to wipe that up” before his hands clenched my buttocks and pulled me to him.
We fell to the floor then, clothes somehow being unbuttoned and peeled off, mouths and fingers seeking skin they had barely touched in months. I buried my face in Andrew’s shoulder, digging my teeth into his skin. He responded only by raking his fingers across my back, and I moaned, arching underneath him.
I barely noticed him scrounging around on the floor until he found his shorts, pulling a condom out of the pocket. His mouth was fastened to my breast as if he would never let go. He did, eventually, but only to slide up my slick body and into me, in a smooth remembered motion. The paint fumes grew stronger then, or I grew dizzy. We moved against the sanded wood floor, limbs locked, hearts racing. When I came, I came screaming. When he came, he was silent, as always.
We lay there naked for a while. My eyes were closed, and for a moment, with the weight of his body against me, I almost wanted to forget... The sweat on my back finally began to itch, and reaching back to scratch it, I found my fingers covered in paint. I let go of him and rolled away (he had already released me), turning to look beneath where I’d lain. Somewhere along the line we’d knocked over a paint tray, and the spreading pool had thoroughly coated my back and neck.
I swore and jumped up, grabbing for a rag to wipe up the mess. He sat up as well, watching silently as I knelt and mopped up the sticky paint. “Need help?” he finally offered, just as I was finishing. “No,” I replied. “I think you’ve done enough.”
He looked hurt at that, an injured puppy. “You were hardly fighting me,” he pointed out.
“I know,” I replied, as I pulled my clothes back on. A mess of emotions was roiling my stomach. “That’s part of the problem.” It was then that we heard the car pulling up. Looking out, I saw Liza stepping out, lugging two cans of paint. “It’s Liza,” I said. “You’d better get dressed.”
I walked down the hall, leaving him naked behind me, frantically grabbing up clothes. I met her on the stairway.
“Could you give me a ride home, chica? I’m not feeling very well. Sorry to disappear on you...” I asked her.
“Sure,” she replied. “Got a headache?” Her perceptive eyes glanced over me, noting the paint smeared on my body, the tears in my eyes. When she got upstairs, she would doubtless notice the light cream color of the floor, the walls that were no more painted than when she left. She, of course, wouldn’t say anything.
“Something like that,” I replied. She turned and walked down the stairs. I followed a few steps behind.
Sleeping With His Best Friend
We lingered much too long
across the rumpled bed.
I should have sent him home;
smiled, a gentle hostess,
and closed the door behind you both.
How was I to know
(how could I not)
that when you said good night
you meant goodbye?
And if I should have known
would I have touched that carven face
those pouting lips?
I shut the door behind you alone
and turned to see him smiling there,
knowing why I’d let him stay;
knowing what I would not say
until it was too late.
At times when minds are silent
lips and tongues and thighs can shout
a rough–voiced yes into the sweaty chest
and crumpled sheets.
When he dared me
to tell the truth,
should I have lied?
Blind
I wake to darkness.
The champagne lingers in my body, and I do not know how long I have been asleep. Perhaps I dozed off briefly during the birthday celebration — I am not used to so much champagne. Maybe I have been asleep for hours, and Joshua has ushered out the guests and turned out the lights.
There is a heaviness across my eyes, something pressing against the skin. I try to bring my hand to my face, to test what feels like silk, or chiffon... and discover my hands are bound behind me. Gently, comfortably, but without any extra give at all. I am curled on my side, my arms behind me, my legs tucked under, blind.
This is probably one of his little games, but I hear no voices, feel no touch of callused hand or stubbled chin. I breathe deeply and open my mouth to scream for him... and a finger lands softly on it, as a feather might, and a stranger’s voice whispers, “hush.”
I do not know who is here. I do not know who is here with me, in my blue–painted room, in my flannel–sheeted bed. I do not know whether to scream or smile or wait. Maybe I am dreaming.
A hand slips between my legs, parting them gently. This hand is soft, testing, and I am dry as desert, and I do not know if that is what the stranger wants. Apparently not, for he, she, parts my legs even more, and a wet mouth is suddenly moving on me. The mouth plays me like an old friend, tracing a delicate path from inner thigh to hipbone to circle around my clit and back again. This is not Joshua’s touch. This is not a rapist’s touch.
I try to remember the tongues of all my lovers. All of them, every one, did this at one time or another. It’s hard to distinguish once you’re past your fourth or fifth, and the growing fire between my damp thighs is making it hard to think. I am trembling now, as soft hair brushes my hip and a warm tongue thrusts in and out, followed swiftly by one, two, three fingers. And then I am arching, moaning, begging this stranger, and a tongue is tasting my neck and this, this is Joshua, biting softly and the world is starting to dissolve around me... they stop.
Cold hands grasp my breasts and squeeze, hard, forcing a gasp. They twist my nipples cruelly, and I am helpless against this. Tighter and tighter, and then the fingers are replaced by two mouths, biting softer, then harder, until I am pleading, no, don’t, nooo...
I do not say stop. One continues and the other slides behind me, and I cannot tell whom it is. Male, though, his hairless chest pressed hard against my thin shirt, his erection hard against me. My skirt must be pushed out of the way; I can feel the texture of his warm skin against my own shivering.
Fingers gently probe my asshole, and I contract, tense. The mouth on my breast stops its assault suddenly, and it is kissing me, a stranger’s kiss on my lips and so it is Joshua behind me, unless there are more than two here. Fingers return to squeezing nipples, and gentle lips drop butterfly kisses against my mouth, my cheeks, my chin. Joshua’s fingers, I hope, are cold and wet between my cheeks, sliding in and out and around
, going deeper and deeper each moment.
A cock slides between my thighs, rubbing gently against my clit as his hips move forward to meet mine. The man in front of me, a man I do not know, continues to kiss me as his cock strokes me, his mouth gently promising, not asking.
o0o
I do not remember when I first started telling Joshua my fantasies. The one about sex with a stranger. The one about two people at once. The one about two men at once, two cocks inside me. The one about pain. The one about being blind.
o0o
A cock presses against my asshole, insistent, demanding. It pushes forward, and I cannot tell how long an eternity it takes to make its way inside. The stranger alternates breast and breast and mouth and neck, at one moment his teeth and Joshua’s on opposite sides of my neck, at another so close they might be kissing. Fingers tease my nipples, my clit, rake fiercely along my back and sides and always the cock in my ass is sliding further and further, until it is lodged inside me and I am almost weeping.
Torn Shapes of Desire Page 3
