It Started as a Joke (All the Presidents' Beds, #1)

by Kit Helix

  If not for all the damn people, it would have been a hell of a party. Sandra, of course, picked the perfect restaurant. It looked as though the dining area had been cleared of half its tables to allow for maximum mingling (Sandra’s work, surely). The lights were set to that elusively perfect dimness where every blemish is hidden and even the weakest cheekbones stand out. The waiters glided silently with trays of hors d'oeuvres, picking up every discarded glass, ensuring not a single napkin was out of place. They wore the standard white button-down shirts and black slacks with aprons, but each also had a brightly-colored neckerchief. Those neckerchiefs did a good job of allowing the waiters to stand out, and they were an odd enough feature that there was no risk of someone showing up to the party in a white button-down and black slacks and being mistaken for a server like in so many terrible romantic comedies.

  The bar stood opposite the doors, a deep mahogany that reminded me of Al Capone. Its shelves overflowed with bottles of every shape and size, but I could tell whoever set it up had done so with a great amount of care. Deep blue bottles flanked by reds, tall bottles cascading down to short ones. If I were a bartender there, I’d be frustrated that nothing was logical. There was no area where they kept gin; everything was aesthetics, with form surpassing function. I stared at those bottles for way too long, and in my reverie a former fling found me.

  Kyle, handsome as ever, was as enthusiastic and dumb as a golden retriever.

  “How’ve you been?! I haven’t seen you in sooooo long,” he said. His smile was so broad it crinkled the corners of his eyes in a not-unsexy, Clooneyesque fashion.

  “Oh, I’ve been fine. Thanks for coming. My friend Sandra seemed to think hookups were fair game for momentous occasions, but whatever,” I said, wondering if he’d get the hint.

  “Totally. I was chatting before, and I can tell that some of these guys totally don’t even know you,” he replied. Hint: not gotten.

  “Well, there are a lot of randoms to get to, so have fun. Drink lots; sober cabs are courtesy of The Mogul,” I said.

  “The Mogul?”

  “The dude over there getting a handy from the hot Asian chick.”

  As his eyes drifted over, I made my escape. Two steps around the corner of the bar and I was free from him. I attempted to get the bartender’s attention. Instead, I got Alessandro’s.

  “Hello Alice. You are looking ravishing,” Alessandro lied.

  “Ravishing is a bit of an overstatement, wouldn’t you think?” I replied. The tardy bartender, realizing I was the birthday girl, thrust a Long Island tea into my hand.

  “Fine, you look like you just came from work without changing your clothes or showering. But it was a surprise party, so what should I have expected. I was merely complimenting you on how you would have looked, had you been armed with both the foreknowledge of the event and a reasonably good time machine,” he said.

  I choked. Long Island down the wrong pipe or time machine reference startling me? One? The other? Both? Probably both.

  Alessandro held my shoulders gently and patted my back as I coughed.

  “I apologize. I didn’t think such an offhand compliment would affect you so,” he smiled.

  “Perfectly alright. How’ve you been?” I said. And I actually cared.

  If Alessandro weren’t so deep in the closet that he was dancing with Mr. Tumnus and eating Turkish Delights with the White Queen, he would have been exactly my type. Suave, handsome, full of vigor and genuine concern for his fellow man; he was one of those people who were interested in all of the things we lie about being interested in: theater, the arts, opera. But he was also the kind of person who would, if his girlfriend (read: me (read read: should be a boyfriend)) asked, would gladly give up his tickets for an event if she/I/he wanted to stay in and watch the final voting for a particularly trashy American TV show about a person who is not married trying to give a particularly beautiful flower to a person who is also not married and who has been whittled down from a group of a couple dozen other unmarried persons.

  Shit, is that clear enough?

  He gave up tickets to the final night of the Royal Shakespeare Company’s once-a-decade tour of Twelfth Night (incidentally his favorite play, and the one where the Duke develops feelings for his ostensibly male errand-boy) to sit down in PJs and watch a shitty reality show that we just as easily could have DVRed.

  “Pining for you, my dear, forever and always. That, and I’ve taken up sculpting,” he said.

  “I have an art opening at that gallery we once visited. The one where you said everything looked like vaginas,” he whispered the word “vagina.”

  “It was an exhibit called ‘Caverns of Lesbos,’ which I think was a pretty good clue that they were VAGINAS,” I said, raising my voice on the word “vagina.”

  “Where you saw them, I saw actual caverns. Different people, different interpretations. I would love it if you’d come to my show,” he said.

  “That sounds grand. Do you have a flier or something?” I said.

  His hand moved towards the inside pocket of his suit jacket then stopped. “You know, I must have forgotten them at home. I can always send you one,” he leaned in, “or we could go get one right now.”

  And I don’t know if it was my impending trip through time or my love of his smell or my dread at talking to these people for the rest of the night, but I agreed.

  He pulled his jacket off the stool next to him and walked towards the door. As I followed him, I looked in Sandra’s direction and mouthed “I’m leaving, ok?”

  She pulled her right hand from out under the table and waved at me, smiling. The Mogul’s face, which had looked placid while staring at the screen of his phone, turned noticeably grumpy when Sandra’s hand came out. He followed her wave, looked at me. I smiled, made the universal high school jackoff sign, mouthed “Thank you,” and then gave him a thumbs-up. He laughed as Sandra’s hand went back down into his pants.

  The valet pulled Alessandro’s car to the door. An October crispness was holding the warm ocean air hostage, so Alessandro had put his jacket over my shoulders. He held the door for me, closed it, then walked around to the driver’s side, slyly handing the valet the $10 I’d seen him remove from his money clip as we’d waited for the car. I put my hand in his jacket pocket and pulled out a card.

  As he entered the car, I studied the card. It was, of course, the announcement for his exhibition.

  “They’re at home, right?” I asked.

  “How did that get there,” he smiled. “But since we’re already in the car, what do you say go to my place anyway. I could tell that you didn’t want to be in there.”

  “You’re perceptive. Was it my scowl, my sighs, or the fact that I seized upon your flimsy excuse to leave?”

  “All of those. That, and you looked hot and I wanted to fuck you tonight,” he whispered, and lightly brushed my neck with his fingertips.

  Gay or not, the guy knew how to get me wet. “That’s fine, but we’re going to my place. I want to shower first; I like my shower; and it’s closer.”

  As I unlocked my door, Alessandro gave my ass a gentle squeeze, and then punctuated it with a sharp one. I yelped.

  “Did I hurt you?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I replied.

  “Good.”

  Entering the apartment, I realized that I hadn’t given it a deep clean in at least two months. Sure, to the untrained (read: straight male) eye, it looked fine. But, Alessandro was not that untrained eye. His nose crinkled at the smell of unscrubbed floors and dirty laundry. His eyes surveyed the crumb-covered counters in the kitchen, the magazines piled haphazardly, and I could tell he was judging me.

  “Make yourself comfortable,” I said. “I’m heading to the shower.”

  “Do you need someone to scrub your back?” he asked. Subtle.

  “I have a loofah on a stick; I think I’ll be ok. While I’m gone, pull up your website on my computer. I’d love to see a preview of your work before your exhibition.�
� I walked into the bedroom to grab my towel.

  My kitchen shares a wall with the bathroom, which is opposite the bedroom. The living room, where Alessandro sat at the computer, is open to the kitchen, so Alessandro would be able to see me walk in a towel from my bedroom to the bathroom if he so desired. I grabbed one of my smaller towels and wrapped it high enough above my breasts so that the bottom of my ass would just peek out from under the towel. While I liked to pretend I was sure that he was gay, there was always that part that hoped I was wrong. If he were straight, he’d be perfect. If he were straight, there’d be no fucking presidents. If he were straight...

  I glided out from the bedroom to the bathroom, and, just as I expected, Alessandro was paying attention to the computer rather than looking to catch a glimpse of me in a towel. Another implicit confirmation of his sexuality.

  After I’d showered, I put my towel back on (this time wrapped at a more reasonable, less revealing level). As I exited the steamy bathroom, I noticed Alessandro quickly close a window. His face turned to me in an extra-wide smile, and his eyes were opened larger than normal. What was he hiding?

  “I was just checking my fantasy team,” he lied. “You are looking very sexy in that towel. Come, sit on my lap and we will look at my pieces.”

  I slowly walked to him, my toes sliding across the soft, blue carpet. He had taken off his suit coat and dress shirt and laid them neatly on the couch. He still wore his pants and tank top, and I could trace the outline of his cock straining against the fabric of his pants. Always to the right of the zipper, some things never change—maybe I was wrong? Guys don’t just get hard for no reason, right? I sat down, carefully rubbing my bare ass on his bulge and crossing my legs.

  “So, I call this exhibition ‘Freedom,’” he said. “Here, click through the slideshow.”

  He moves the mouse towards me. As he lets it go, he places his rough right hand on my knee and slides it upwards. He reaches the inside of my thigh and I jump, just a little.

  “Tickles,” I say.

  “I really wanted to make a statement,” he says. I feel his fingers brush my hair lightly. “Slavery may have been abolished 150 years ago, but it’s still a part of our world.”

  He slips his fingers up, nearly to my belly button then begins to plunge them downwards.

  “Wage-slavery, the man who lives his whole life working for someone else.”

  “Uh-huh,” I say, though I’m not quite listening.

  His fingers scratch through my bush, pausing to spread me enough for access.

  “He wants a family, so he puts in more hours, works harder than he should, to get to the point where he’s free to have a family.”

  He grazes my clit once, twice. The tips of his fingers used to be so soft, but the sculpting must have roughened them, given them new crags and valleys that are unexpected and exciting. He pushes against my thighs with his thumb and pinky, trying to spread my legs apart, but I hold firm.

  “Uh-huh, and it isn’t freedom?” I say, attempting to keep with his train of thought. Looking at his sculptures, they are all men. Gorgeous, naked men with cocks the size of midsummer cucumbers dangling between muscular thighs. Oh Alessandro, you poor bastard.

  “No, because he gets accustomed to that money, that new standard of living. And along comes a wife, and along comes a child. And he’s happy, because that’s what he wanted. But he’s got to work even harder now.”

  “Yes,” I say. I’m not sure if I am agreeing with his words or his hands, but now I’ve given up the fight and spread my legs for him.

  “And he thinks, when the kids are grown, everything will be easy. I will be free.”

  A light brush on my lips, then two fingers are inside me. A moan. A smile.

  “But,” I begin, but now he has taken his other hand and wrapped it around me. The fingers on his left hand are not as rough as his right, but they still remember what to do. Waves hit me, and my leg jerks, my foot stamping the floor. He laughs. I can still feel the outline of his cock under my ass. I want to rip his pants off and feel him inside me, but I know I would just end up on all fours with him reaming me. No passion, no touch, just brute force.

  “There is no freedom except this,” he says. Little explosions, firecrackers before the grand finale, shudder me. His fingers inside move rhythmically, hitting that rough patch that makes all thought null and void and renders me incapable of speech.

  “Mm-hmm,” I say. I turn my head to search for his mouth, but he dodges and ducks and keeps himself in control.

  “Working with your hands, working for yourself and no one else,” he says. I can feel it, the firecrackers in a long chain, leading, leading...

  Cool as ever, he finally lets me kiss him. I shove my tongue into his mouth furiously, banging against his teeth as the chain of firecrackers lights the grand finale. I awkwardly wrap my hand around his neck and pull him in while screaming silently into his mouth. The muscles in my leg seize for a second, then release, but he’s not letting me fall. My hips jerk upwards into his hands, my towel comes unhooked, and I’m bare for him to see. The cold air kisses and bites and caresses my skin adding a sharper edge to everything.

  And for those seconds where all reason ceases and life is only touch, I think that maybe I was wrong; maybe my gaydar was out of whack or I’ve been projecting things onto him that don’t really exist. He slides his fingers out and gently massages my lips. He takes his left hand off my clit and wipes it on my towel. As I steady myself back on his lap, I realize that he’s still looking at the screen, not my naked breasts and pussy, and his once-hard bulge has gone soft.

  “Happy birthday,” he said, smiling.

  “Thanks,” I said. “That was fantastic.”

  “I remembered what you like. You are very easy to please.”

  “Speaking of pleasing, would you like to head to the bedroom for some pleasing of your own?” I asked. It was only polite; he’d just given me a pretty fantastic orgasm. He smiled then turned his face away.

  “You know, I’m not sure if it was something I ate, but I am just not feeling up to it,” he said. Of course. When we were dating, there were always excuses. Stomach ache. Migraine. Tuckered out after giving me oral. For a while I ascribed it to a lack of chemistry or my own flaws as a lover. Over time, however, it became clear that there were other issues.

  “OK. Well, do you want to stay and watch something? I feel like you should get some sort of consolation prize if you aren’t getting the big O,” I joked.

  He held my shoulders sweetly then gradually extricated himself from the chair. He picked up his neatly-laid-out clothes.

  “You are a beautiful woman, Alice, and too kind. I have some calls to make about my exhibition, so I must demur. I will see you there, though, right?” he asked.

  “Yes, definitely. I’m looking forward to it. I’ll bring Sandra and The Mogul; I’ll bet they’d love to buy a piece,” I said.

  “Perfect. See you then,” he walked over and gave me a kiss on the top of my head. I reached out and gave his cock a little pat.

  In the ridiculous, deep voice I reserve for speaking to male body parts, I said, “See you next time, buddy. Maybe he’ll let you come out and play.”

  “Hilarious,” he said. I followed him to the door, gave him a peck on the cheek, and then locked it behind him.

  8:30, next morning. A text from Sandra.

  Gay, huh? See you in 10.

  Out of bed and into a blue polka dot dress that hugged my curves, I hurried around the apartment trying to make it presentable. The dishes in the sink had been sitting for days, a plasticized layer of takeout that would take too long to get unstuck; I turned on the faucet and squeezed some dish soap into the sink to make it seem like they were new. I grabbed a wet rag and wiped the copious amount of crumbs off the counter, organized the shoes by the door and threw everything that didn’t have a permanent home in the living room into the hall closet.

  Sandra knocked precisely 10 minutes after she had texted
.

  “GPS is the fucking tits. It says 10 minutes, you get there in 10 minutes,” she said as a greeting.

  “We were the ones who...” I trailed off. Because of my high security clearance and the number of defense department projects my organization worked on, I could rarely talk about work matters. In fact, today’s visit with Sandra would be the first time I told her about an actual project since I had been recently reprimanded for the doing the same a couple of years before. To be as vague as possible: I told her to invest in something; she had The (at the time) Little Bump invest in it; in the last year, The Little Bump had become The Mogul because of that investment. Since my company tracked the financials of all associates, they deduced my tip. Official reprimand, but well worth it.

  “You better keep that mouth closed. I can’t risk you losing your job and coming to live in our guest house,” she said.

  “That’s actually why I wanted to talk to you,” I said.

  “Wait, not yet. Tell me about Alessssssandro,” she said.

  “Not much to tell. Totally gay. He has an exhibit opening in a couple of weeks that you’re going to go see and buy something,” I said.

  “Alice Johnson, we’ve known each other for 10 years. You don’t think I can tell when you’ve gotten some? Look at this place: you knew I was coming over in the morning, yet you didn’t even finish the dishes last night. You slept the sleep of a thundering orgasm,” she pinched me on the arm, hard.

  “Shit, that hurts. Fine, he may have been instrumental to my reaching climax, but little Alessandro didn’t even make an appearance.”

  “Really little? Or...”

  “No. Um. Let’s just say The Mogul and I both had a similar experience last night.”

  “Gotcha. Did he make you lick his fingers after?”

  “No, gross.”

  “Such a prude. He gives you the O and then leaves? He must be gay. Making her come and then you go? A 90 year old blind guy would’ve gotten blue balls from something like that,” she said.