Schumer called in Northern Dispensary Associates for a consultation. McGuire was shocked the first time she saw O’Rourke, all beard, hair, and glasses, with an attitude that said, “I don’t give a fuck.” He was just the opposite of the slick operators who had been kissing Schumer’s ass all winter, telling him what he wanted to hear. Schumer was tentative in his approach. O’Rourke had cut him off. “Geraldine Ferraro is a professional loser,” he said, as mouths dropped open. “She’s a lousy candidate, and her husband is mobbed up. And you’re worried about her?
“Go out,” O’Rourke had told Schumer straight to his face, “and punch them in the fucking mouth and see if they like it. The problem with the Democratic Party is that Clinton and the rest of those pussies at the Democratic Leadership Council”—McGuire knew immediately that O’Rourke was referring to the likes of Joe Lieberman and Lanny Davis—“have turned the party into GOP Lite.”
The “GOP Lite” line had stuck with McGuire and was the reason that when she needed a job she came first to Northern Dispensary Associates. She also came because of O’Rourke the man. This was a real man. She was tired of boys disguised as men, with their toys and their solipsism. Hard dicks with soft heads, she thought of them. And although she had worked for him for just short of a month she knew O’Rourke was special. The way he took care of Tommy Boyle, the enthusiasm he showed when talking about issues, showed character. Even the things he didn’t want to talk about—Vietnam and Bobby Kennedy—showed what kind of a man he was. What O’Rourke had was decency, something that had seemingly gone out of fashion. And, really, he wasn’t that bad looking a man. In fact, in a saloon society kind of way, he was cute, even ruggedly handsome.
She knew O’Rourke was interested in her—a woman always knows. But he would never make a direct approach because, even at his age, he was still shy with women. It would be up to her to get the romance going. Seduction, she knew, could be fun. She smiled at her opportunity.
A sheet came up to O’Rourke’s waist. He continued his quiet snooze. McGuire surveyed him and she couldn’t resist. Gently, she lifted up the sheet and looked at his genitals. She held the sheet just a few seconds, but it seemed like a long time.
“What da ya think?” said O’Rourke out the side of his mouth.
Stunned, she dropped the sheet. Her black face blushed and she took on a purplish hue. “They’re,” she stuttered in embarrassment, “they’re humongous!”
“Yeah,” laughed O’Rourke at the sound of such a ridiculous word, “I’ve heard that before—mostly from my political opponents.”
“But they’re nice,” said Sam, giggling. “Like ripe avocados.”
“I like them massaged,” replied O’Rourke, figuring he had nothing to lose.
Without saying another word, McGuire put her hand under the sheet and cupped his balls, slowly rotating them.
“Deeper,” said O’Rourke.
McGuire dug her fingers deeper into his groin, and O’Rourke shut his eyes. His head dropped back on his pillow. McGuire’s middle finger teased his anus, and O’Rourke found himself with his first erection of the year. Neither spoke.
Then the door opened. It was old Sister Perpetua. McGuire withdrew her hand.
“Ready to go home this morning, Mr. O’Rourke?” she pleasantly asked as she looked around the door.
“Yes I am, Sister,” said O’Rourke. “Miss McGuire here is, ah, giving me a hand.”
“Wonderful,” said Sister Perpetua. “I’ll see you downstairs at the check-out.”
Sister Perpetua closed the door and O’Rourke, with McGuire holding his arm for support, helped him stand up out of the bed. He was naked with a full-blown erection.
“I’m all right,” he said to McGuire with no self-consciousness. He was amazed at the weight of his hard-on. McGuire stared at it then looked up at O’Rourke, who was looking as frisky as a happy unicorn. “I wasn’t sure it still worked,” he said. They smiled at each other, now not sure if they were embarrassed or not. O’Rourke thought that an erection was the closest thing to a truth that was to be found in the world today. It was, after all, the most honest of reactions. “Get my clothes, honey.” McGuire offered socks, which O’Rourke put on sitting on a chair, then underwear. “No underwear today,” he said, “I want to let this thing breathe.”
“Yeah,” she said as she laughed out loud, “we’re really going to let it breathe today.”
They walked the two short blocks from the hospital back to O’Rourke’s walk-up tenement apartment on Charles Street. O’Rourke knew he was not up to snuff because it took him ten minutes to walk up the six flights of stairs. They went to his bedroom where O’Rourke immediately sat down on the bed. McGuire stood facing him and began to unbutton her blouse. She reached for her bra and stopped, looking down at O’Rourke.
“Turn around,” he said. “Keep me in suspense.”
She did as she was told and the bra hit the floor. She undid the buttons of her skirt and let it slide down her legs. She was now standing right in front of O’Rourke’s face and she slowly slid the panties down, exposing her crack. They also hit the floor and she moved backwards slowly, towards O’Rourke.
O’Rourke loved backsides and Sam’s was round and firm, with a one-foot crack which made her buttocks look deliciously inflated. As she moved back into him, he noticed the splendid marbling on the side of her ass, dark to light to lighter then back to dark. O’Rourke’s grabbed her hips and pulled her ass to his face and he kissed it, then licked it, moving toward the middle where he slid his tongue down her long crack and he could smell her true scent for the first time. He slid his middle finger between her legs and she was moist. “Tone,” was all she said as she turned around and O’Rourke pressed his lips to hers.
“My God,” said O’Rourke in awe, “surprise, surprise.”
McGuire laughed. “You like my hot Brazilian wax job?”
“I love your hot Brazilian wax job,” he said and then licked her bare pubis and slid his tongue down farther. She put her left leg on the bed, and O’Rourke’s tongue pushed deeper until her clitoris began to surface, as big and hard as a hooded filbert.
“Stop, stop,” she said, pulling her leg down and steadying herself. “God, you know how to travel below the Mason-Dixon Line!”
“I really was whistling Dixie, wasn’t I?” All McGuire could do was hold her stomach and laugh nervously. For the first time O’Rourke saw the silver navel ring decorated the middle of her soft belly. O’Rourke looked up and realized McGuire didn’t have a hair south of her eyelashes. Her breasts were bigger than O’Rourke thought they would be and their weight made them sway away from each other. Her nipples were like bolts, blacker than herself, with aureoles a good three inches in diameter, dotted with those magic bumps that made them look like chocolate chip cookies. Then he caught a shine from her left nipple. “What’s that?” he said standing up and undoing his pants, his erection just as hard as it was back at the hospital.
“I’m pierced.”
“Only one breast?”
“Just for a little attention.”
“You got it,” he said. “How do you get through the metal detector at the airport?”
“I have my ways.”
“You’re full of surprises,” he said as he pushed his erection against her. He hadn’t had an erection like this, he thought, since he was fifteen.
“I have lots of surprises for you, Wolfe Tone O’Rourke,” and with that they fell into each other and onto the bed.
“I don’t know if I’m up to this,” said O’Rourke.
“Oh,” smiled McGuire, “you’re up to it, all right.”
“I don’t mean that.”
“I know what you mean.”
McGuire got on top of him and placed O’Rourke inside her. She moved back and forth in a rhythm. She smiled at him and he had his hands on her ass, as if holding on for dear life. They went on for minutes before she spoke. “Back at The Mary Louis Academy,” she said as she stopped to laugh, �
�we called this ‘The Proud Mary.’”
“The Proud Mary!”
“The Proud Mary.”
“She will be proud,” said O’Rourke as he found the perfect rhythm for McGuire, driving himself in at the perfect angle, finding her groove again and again. He could almost hear Tina Turner sing “Rollin’, rollin’ on the river.” “Oh, my God,” said O’Rourke quietly, “oops!” He shot. “Don’t move,” said O’Rourke with urgency.
“Wasn’t that a little premature?” said McGuire with a look of disappointment on her face.
“Premature for whom?” answered O’Rourke. Then, retrieving a sexual trick from his youth, he started slowly moving again like a piston engine.
“What?” she said.
“I’m still hard. Let’s keep going.”
“Yeah, let’s.”
For forty-five minutes they rode. That was the amazing thing about good sex. The time flew. For the first time in years, O’Rourke felt like a real man. It was a gift to have someone like Sam McGuire for a lover. He had been a lucky man throughout his life with his lovers. But there were always two he thought of, even thirty-odd years after he had lost track of them—Rebekah Hoffman and Grace Phelan. They came back to him now and he began to drift in attention until McGuire suddenly stood up.
“You still with me?” she asked.
“Forever, sweetheart.”
She turned around and O’Rourke—a man who loved shapely women—admired her abundant chocolate rump. He looked down at his wet cock and he thought he saw it grow even more in front of his very eyes. Then McGuire lowered herself down on him and pulled herself forward, grabbing his ankles, and started pumping her bottom. In and out, up and down. O’Rourke’s panoramic view made him so hard he was afraid his dick would explode.
“At The Mary Louis Academy,” she said as she laughed again, “the girls called this ‘The Reverse Proud Mary,’” she said, throwing the words over her shoulder.
“What the fuck kind of Catholic school is The Mary Louis Academy?” O’Rourke said, joining her laughter.
Soon both O’Rourke’s hands were on the top of McGuire’s wonderful bottom. She was still pumping with the robust energy of a very sexual and horny thirty-five-year-old. He moved his hand across her chiseled backside and his pinky found her other hole.
“You dirty bastard,” she said, but she really didn’t seem to mind.
In and out, in alternate rhythms, they perfectly played. Then she stopped but O’Rourke continued to play her solo.
“My God,” she said.
“Whence did all that fury come?” he said.
“What?”
“Whence did all that fury come? / From empty tomb or Virgin womb?” McGuire craned her head over her shoulder to look at O’Rourke, his head comfortably on his pillow. “Saint Joseph thought the world would melt / But liked the way his finger smelt.”
“You filthy, blasphemous bastard!” she said as she leapt off him, and O’Rourke began to laugh uncontrollably.
“Who wrote that?” she demanded.
“I shan’t tell.”
“Sounds like the work of that drunken poet friend of yours, Fergus T. Caife.”
“Fergus,” said O’Rourke, “would love the compliment.”
“You,” said McGuire accusingly, “didn’t write that, did you?”
“Nope.”
“Well?”
“William Butler Yeats,” said O’Rourke with triumph. “It’s called ‘A Stick of Incense.’”
“You’re kidding!” said McGuire laughing, then slapping him playfully on his Vietnam scarred arm. O’Rourke winced. The smile left McGuire’s face. “I didn’t see that before,” she said quietly. “I was looking at your thing too much.”
“That’s all right, Sam.”
“I’ll never hurt you again,” she said kissing him and they embraced, not saying a word for the longest time.
Soon after, McGuire fell into sleep. Although O’Rourke came twice, he was still rock hard. McGuire turned her back to him and O’Rourke, looking to dock, slid his erection into the pier between McGuire’s ass cheeks. Her hand in sleep reached back and pulled his hip closer to her. “Yes, honey,” McGuire said in sleep, “yes, that’s it.”
O’Rourke’s hand patted McGuire’s soft belly and he began to drift back in time once again. Again it was the two loves of his life, Rebekah Hoffman and Grace Phelan. They had one thing in common: Rebekah was the only woman O’Rourke had ever asked to marry him and Grace was the only woman who had ever asked marriage of O’Rourke. Rebekah wisely had said no and O’Rourke, although it broke his heart, had given Grace a negative reply. He was 0-for-2. O’Rourke had slept with enough women, but these two kept bouncing into his mind. Thirty years and they would not go away. He didn’t even know where they were anymore and wondered if they had grown gray and fat like he had.
Naked with Sam, O’Rourke felt very comfortable. There was no inhibition and that reinforced his ease. It was the same with the other two. You would never find three women as different as Rebekah, Grace, and Sam, but O’Rourke loved them all. With Rebekah and Grace he had been too young and immature. O’Rourke, in his fifty-third year, had learned that he should enjoy women, do exactly what they told him, and everything would be fine. His decreasing testosterone, O’Rourke was happy to concede, had been replaced by common sense. He leaned forward and kissed McGuire on the shoulder. In response, she squeezed the hand that rested on her belly.
O’Rourke thought that he had never had as much fun in bed as he had with Rebekah. They were at once complete opposites and still strangely alike. Over the years O’Rourke had to smile at the thought of him and Rebekah. She was a Mennonite and he was an Irish-Catholic. There just had to be a law. O’Rourke once, trying to be a smart ass, had introduced her as “Rebekah, the Amish.”
“How would you like me to introduce you as ‘Tone, the Orangeman?’” she said, clearly annoyed.
O’Rourke had gotten the message. Rebekah reminded him how the Mennonites had suffered martyrdom at the hands of both the Catholics and the Protestants during the Reformation. “They refused military service and would not baptize their children,” she lectured him. “They were considered subversives.” Rebekah knew of O’Rourke’s Dublin passport shop and how he liked to disrupt.
“Subversive?” said O’Rourke, delighted, as he gently kissed her lips.
“Subversive,” replied Rebekah as she teased his tongue with hers.
Rebekah felt guilty about everything and O’Rourke felt guilty about almost everything—except sex. Sexually, Rebekah was a walking dichotomy. To her sex outside of marriage was wrong, but, God, she loved it and she was expert.
O’Rourke had met her at the Moat and had taken to her immediately. To this day, he didn’t know why. There was just something about Rebekah, a genuineness and goodness that, frankly, reminded him of his mother, Mary Kavanagh. She was a good conversationalist, liked a drink, and loved to laugh. She was a handsome woman, not a great beauty, but whatever it was, for O’Rourke, she had it.
It had taken O’Rourke two months to bed her, but it was worth the wait. She hesitated to take her clothes off, but when she finally did it was as if she was totally liberated. She was a true exhibitionist. She loved to walk around naked, posing her pouting bush and making sure O’Rourke saw enough of her curvaceous ass. After a mutual shower, she would put her hair up in a towel and hold her hands around the towel so her full breasts would stick out tautly. Tastefully, she was a great tease. She had a great body and she knew it. O’Rourke was thirty, she was 22. Just out of college, she was trying to fit into the New York publishing scene. There was no denying their animal attraction to each other. The only sex apparatus they needed was a towel to dry Rebekah, she was so excitable. Missionary, cowgirl, doggie, they would pump for hour after hour. They would fuck in bed. They would fuck in her rocking chair. They would fuck on the floor in front of a mirror so they could check themselves out in action. She would pose naked for Polaroids, staring i
nto the camera defiantly or flipping her rump out provocatively. “I want to be,” she would say in an imitation of Greta Garbo, “your Priestess of Love.’” And the thing that made sex so much fun with Rebekah was that she felt so guilty about it.
“Oh, we shouldn’t be doing this,” she would say in the middle of coitus.
“Shut the fuck up,” would reply O’Rourke with the sensitivity of the horny.
Never was fucking was so good, and never was fucking so bold.
O’Rourke loved her, and for the first and last time, he had asked a woman to marry him. She sadly shook her head and told him that it just wouldn’t work. He would get drunk and show up at her apartment and pull his limp cock out, and she would be patient and he would fall asleep, his head on her shoulder. He just couldn’t understand why she just didn’t love him when he loved her so much, so much that he had exposed himself to her in every way. And her rejection had deadened part of his heart forever.
Grace was something else. She was probably the most beautiful women he had ever seen. She had the face of the Irish Madonna, resplendent with fine Celtic features including a broad forehead and high cheek bones. She looked like a young Gene Tierney, only more beautiful. He had met her, too, at the Moat. The first time he saw her, he desperately wanted her. O’Rourke wasn’t often like that, but the look of her drove him insane. Grace loved a drink and pretty soon she had found her way down to the end of the bar where O’Rourke and his cronies sat, night after night. At first, he was very shy in front of her, as her beauty intimidated him. He didn’t know what to say after he was introduced, so he offered to buy her a drink. She accepted. O’Rourke soon learned that Grace Phelan loved booze so much she would accept a drink from even Adolf Hitler. One night, drunk, O’Rourke had asked if she would like to have dinner with him. When he didn’t call, Grace went right up to him and said, “You owe me a dinner.” O’Rourke didn’t think the dinner had gone that well. He was a good conversationalist, but there were lots of awkward silences during the meal. The next day she called. “That was the best first date I ever had,” she said. “Want to come over to my place for dinner tonight?”
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