26 Nights

by 26 Nights (Memoirs of a Contemporary Gentleman) [MF] (retail) (epub)

  “Shut up, Vinnie,” Winnie panted.

  “She gets short-tempered when she’s coming,” Vinnie said.

  “Fuck you,” Winnie said.

  “That’s how you can tell us apart,” Vinnie said.

  “Drop dead, silly bitch!” Winnie shouted. Her body was twisting wildly and arching so strongly she lifted me off the bed, her inner muscles still rippling more spasmodically now. “Ohhhh YEEESSSSSS …”

  And she came just in time. I couldn’t have waited a second longer.

  “Now me,” Vinnie said.

  “I can’t,” I said. “I can’t. No more. I’m exhausted.”

  “I bet I can fix that,” Vinnie said.

  “I bet we can fix it together,” Winnie said.

  “We like to do things together,” Vinnie said.

  “We’re twins, you know,” Winnie said.

  “I know,” I said. God, did I know. “But I can’t. I’m sorry.”

  “What’s wrong with him?” Vinnie said.

  “Maybe he’s gay,” Winnie said.

  “Gee,” Vinnie said. “He seemed pretty straight up to now.”

  “Well, you can never really tell,” Winnie said.

  “That’s true,” Vinnie said.

  “Some gay guys don’t even know they’re gay,” Winnie said.

  “Did you know you were gay, Steven?” Vinnie said.

  “I’m not gay,” I said.

  “It’s okay,” Winnie said. “There’s nothing wrong with being gay.”

  “I’m not—” I said, but then it occurred to me that this was a way to avoid further risk of messing up my bet. “Okay,” I said. “You’re right, I’m gay. Sorry, girls. It’s been nice, but, well, you know how it is.”

  “That’s okay,” Vinnie said, patting me consolingly.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Winnie said. She began to pat too. Patting me, stroking me, giving me little consoling kisses. Both of them. Pretty soon things were stirring again.

  “Ohh look!” Vinnie said.

  “I see,” Winnie said.

  “Wow,” Vinnie said.

  “Maybe he’s not gay after all,” Winnie said.

  And the patting and the stroking and the kissing started to move downward.

  “No!” I said. “I mean yes. I am. Gay. And I have to stop now. God damn it.” And with a reluctance I cannot even begin to describe, I pulled away from them and slid out of the bed.

  It may have been the most difficult thing I’ve ever done.

  “Gee,” Vinnie said. “He doesn’t look gay.”

  “Not now, he doesn’t,” Winnie said.

  “Believe me, ladies,” I said, forcing myself to start putting my clothes on, “if I were ever to turn straight, you are the ladies I would do it with.”

  “We know that,” Vinnie said.

  “That goes without saying,” Winnie said.

  “Guys find us very sexy,” Vinnie said.

  “Straight guys, that is,” Winnie said.

  “I’ll take your word for it,” I said.

  I had come to the point in my challenge that I’d been brooding about from the start.

  I had to find an X.

  Faithful readers of this chronicle may recall my mentioning that I had, long ago, known a young lady whose father, a classical scholar, had blessed her with the name of Xanthippe—although she preferred to pursue her career as an exotic dancer under the name of Tiffany. Who could blame her? After our brief but intense liaison I had lost track of the lady. I had blithely mentioned her to Miss Greenglass at the inception of our wager, and since that time I had been making sporadic, unsuccessful attempts to track her down. The time was growing uncomfortably short; I had just a little over a month left of the six months that I was allowed—and ladies with names beginning with X are not particularly plentiful.

  Xanthippe’s father, I recalled, had been a professor at Columbia University, but when I called the Classics Department I was informed that he had retired a few years ago. When I inquired of his present address, I was told they couldn’t give out that information. And though I exerted all my charm, and even hinted at a bribe—two methods which are generally quite effective, especially the latter—nothing could change their mind.

  I was desperate. So I called the cops. Actually one cop, Angela, an old friend of mine who might be willing to do me a favor. But there were strings. There were always strings.

  “Been a long time, Steven,” she said when I called her.

  “I know,” I said. “I’ve been kind of busy. Listen, Angela, I need a favor.”

  “Me too,” she said. “A big hard one.”

  Memories stirred my blood, but I shut them out. “I just want to locate somebody,” I said. “An ex-professor at Columbia. They won’t give me his address, but if it’s a police matter … Okay?”

  “Easy enough,” Angela said. “Why don’t you come around and see me tonight and we’ll talk about it. In bed.”

  Tit for tat, so to speak. I took a breath. “Angela, I can’t,” I said. “Not right now. I’ll have to owe you one, okay?”

  “Am I hearing right?” she said. “Is this Steven Walling, the stud of the stock market? The boffing businessman? The wolf of Wall Street? The Casanova of commerce? The fuckmaster of finance? The—”

  “Cut it out,” I interjected. Angela was sometimes too cute for her own good. Sexy as hell, though. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

  “Now,” she said. “Make it up to me now. Right now.”

  “Right now? On the phone?”

  “Right now. Right here. In the middle of the squad room.”

  “Angela,” I said. “You’re home. I called you at home.”

  “No,” she said, and her voice was huskier. “Forget that. I’m in the middle of the squad room. At my desk. And all the guys are looking at me. I’m pulling up my skirt, Steven. I’ve got my legs up on my desk and I’m pulling my skirt all the way up over my panties and spreading my legs. All the cops are watching.”

  Angela, I forgot to mention, is a little kinky. It’s a theory of mine that you have to be at least a little kinky to be a cop. “Okay,” I said. “Fine.” Whatever it took—as long as I didn’t have to actually do it with her. Not that I wouldn’t have liked to. In fact, thinking of Angela and envisioning her with her skirt up and those fine legs stretched out was having an effect on me. I adjusted myself in my chair.

  “They’re all watching me, Steven,” Angela went on. “I can see their pants bulging as they watch me. I’m stroking my thighs, Steven. I’m touching my pussy through my panties, and they’re all watching and going crazy. They want me, Steven.”

  “I believe it,” I said. I believed she was doing what she said, too, although not in the squad room. I could hear her breathing getting heavier, less even. I recalled her sexy brown eyes, her quirky mouth, her short dark hair, and the way her taut round breasts pushed out against the starched blue of her uniform.

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “If you’re in the squad room why aren’t you in uniform? What’s with this skirt business?”

  “It has been a long time, hasn’t it?” Angela said. “I’m not in uniform anymore, Steven. I’m a detective now. Almost a year.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Well, congratulations. But it’s too bad, in a way. You used to look so sexy in your uniform.”

  “Don’t you think I look sexy now?” Angela said huskily. “With my skirt pulled up to my waist and my panties showing? I’m wearing stockings and a garter belt too.”

  “I see,” I said, and in my mind I did. I closed my eyes. Not a bad picture.

  “All the guys think I’m sexy, all right,” Angela said. “They’re standing around with their tongues hanging out, watching me play with myself. Watching me spread my legs wide apart and slide my fingers beneath my panties to get at my pussy, Steven …”

  “Uhhuh,” I said, perhaps a bit hoarsely. I adjusted my position again; my trousers seemed to be getting a little tight. “Is that all they’re
doing? Standing and watching? Sounds like a pretty wimpy bunch of cops.”

  “They know they can’t have me,” Angela said. “There’s a rule against police personnel becoming sexually involved with each other.”

  “Oh, right,” I said. “And everybody knows the cops never break the rules, right?”

  “Besides,” she went on softly, “I only want you, Steven. Come and take me. Take me right here with all these guys watching.”

  “Um,” I said. I had called her from my office while Miss Greenglass was out to lunch. I glanced at my watch, seeing that there was still some time before she could be expected to return. I had a momentary twinge regarding the propriety of going along with this situation in terms of my wager. I shook it off. This couldn’t really be considered sex, I told myself; after all, we weren’t even really together, and I didn’t intend to actually do anything anyway. But the inherent irrationality of the thing still made me hesitant. “Actually, I’m not much of an exhibitionist,” I said. “Can’t we go somewhere more private? Or even better, why don’t we wait till we can really—”

  “I see you, Steven,” Angela murmured. “I see you standing here looking at me. Can you see me?”

  Oh well, it was for a good cause. I closed my eyes again, thinking once more of the Angela I remembered, imagining her in that revealing position. “Yes,” I said. “Yes, I can.”

  “What are you going to do?” Angela asked.

  “What am I going to do. Well … ah … what do you want me to do?”

  “You’re sitting on my desk,” Angela said.

  “I am? I mean, yes, I am. Of course I am. On the desk.”

  “You’ve got your hands on my legs. You’re sitting between my legs now.”

  “Really?” I said. “How did that happen?”

  “Never mind. You’re running your hands over my legs. Oh Steven … ohh God that’s nice.”

  I kept my eyes closed. “Glad you like it,” I said. “What am I doing next?”

  “Steven …” There was a note of pleading in her voice. “Be serious, come on …”

  I silently sighed. “Okay, I’m sliding my hands up to your crotch. Under the panties …”

  “Yesss,” Angela hissed. “Take them off.”

  “Well, I’m sitting between your legs,” I reminded her. “I’ll have to—”

  “Oh for God’s sake,” Angela moaned. “Don’t be so damned literal, Steven. Rip them off or something!”

  “Fine. Consider them off. Now I can stroke your pussy. It’s wet, Angela.” It usually was, as I recalled.

  “Yes. Ohh Steven, yes. Mmmmm, I feel your hands, Steven, you have such wonderful hands.”

  Her husky, moaning voice was getting to me now. The constriction in my pants was becoming more pronounced. I shifted position again, and then, hardly thinking about it, I pulled my zipper down—just to ease the tightness and let my cock breathe. That was all.

  “I’m taking out my cock,” I said.

  “Lovely,” Angela crooned. “Lovely cock. I always loved your cock. Stick it in me, Steven.”

  “Great idea,” I said. My eyes were still closed, and I was breathing faster now. “I’ll just slip off the desk so I can—”

  “Can I suck it first?” Angela said. “Just a little bit? Put my mouth on it and lick it and suck it, before you stuff it into my pussy? Would you like that, Steven?”

  “Damn,” I said fervently. As I heard Angela gasping and whimpering, driving herself to climax with the thought of sucking my now-throbbing cock, my free hand involuntarily sought out my straining member and began very lightly to stroke it, while I mused on that fine sweet mouth and how it could feel when she …

  Suddenly I heard the swooshing of air with movement. I opened my eyes with a start and nearly had a heart attack. There in the doorway—gazing at me with her usual inscrutable expression, but with her eyebrows arched higher than I had ever seen them, as much as a quarter of an inch, perhaps—stood Miss Greenglass.

  I think I shouted. I know that in my frantic confusion I hung up the phone with one hand while swiftly trying unsuccessfully to stuff myself back in my pants with the other. I hate to think what shade of red my face was.

  “I … I was … I mean …” I stammered. Miss Green-glass just stood there unmoving, and seemingly unmoved. “Look, I’m … it was just … you know … phone sex … sort of. Doesn’t, um, count, really. I mean … how long … damn it to hell …”

  “I think, Mr. Walling,” Miss Greenglass said, “I think I shall take the afternoon off—if you don’t mind.” Her voice was even more controlled than usual—as though she was trying to repress something, mirth or anger, I wasn’t sure. “I’m sure you won’t need me, as you seem to have things … well in hand.”

  Before I could say anything more she went out again. As she walked away down the hall I thought I heard the faint sound of not-quite-stifled laughter. I looked down at my still-erect member. It looked up at me. Neither of us was happy.

  Chapter 25

  XENOPHON STUCK VERY STRICTLY TO THE facts,” Professor Daltry was saying, between puffs on his cigar. “Whereas Thucydides had a tendency to embroider a bit here and there for the sake of drama, one has to be somewhat wary with Thucydides. Herodotus, on the other hand …”

  For the sake of politeness I tried to look interested as the good professor rambled on. I had, after all, passed myself off as an alumnus of his department as plausible reason for seeking out his ex-colleague, Professor Anderpol—Xanthippe’s father. He therefore assumed I would share his somewhat obsessive interest in the ancient Greek historians. He was wrong.

  Professor Daltry had been head of the Classics Department at Columbia since Professor Anderpol had retired. I had come to see him as a last resort, hoping he could help me locate Xanthippe’s father, and thus possibly find Xanthippe. My cop friend Angela was no longer speaking to me, after I had hung up on her when Miss Greenglass had interrupted our incipient phone fantasy. (Miss Greenglass since then has not referred to that incident by word or deed, and I was too embarrassed to bring it up.) I had explained to Daltry that Professor Anderpol was an old teacher of mine who I was trying to find for sentimental reasons. Unfortunately, once I finally got him to focus on the subject, the professor informed me that Anderpol was on an extensive tour of Europe and Asia and had no fixed address.

  “I see,” I said, trying to conceal my disappointment. Then, clutching at straws, I asked, “Do you happen to know if his … ah … his wife and daughter went with him? His daughter Xanthippe?”

  The professor looked surprised. “Why, I have no idea,” he said. “Actually, I wasn’t aware that Anderpol had a daughter.”

  “Oh yes,” I said. “Oh, he did indeed. She was a—well, a kind of entertainer. Called herself Tiffany. For stage purposes, you know.”

  “Ah. Hmm. … Yes,” Daltry said. “Understandable, I suppose. Too bad though. Fine old classical name, Xanthippe. You remember how Theopompus, in his Philippica, speaks of—”

  I interrupted before he could get started on the classics yet again. “Very unusual though—isn’t it?—for a woman to have such a name. One that starts with an X, I mean. You, ah … you don’t happen to know of any others, do you?”

  “What? Ah. Hmm. See what you mean. Yes. No. No, I don’t believe I do, come to think of it.”

  I sighed. “I didn’t think so,” I said, and rose to go. “Well, thank you, profess—”

  “Except for Miss Kanellopoulos, of course,” the professor said.

  I sat down again. “Miss Kanel—um—who?”

  “Yes, Miss Kanellopoulos. Xenobia, you know.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Why don’t you tell me? Who is this Miss Kanel—um—Xenobia?”

  “Oh, she’s an instructor here. In this very department. Oh yes. Teaches ancient Greek. Very good at it too, I understand. Not an easy subject, you know. Ancient Greek.”

  I wondered how ancient this Xenobia was herself, but I forbore from asking. “Ah … do you
think I could meet her?” I said, trying to sound casual. “Just out of curiosity,” I added hastily. “As I say, I have this interest in unusual names. And Xenobia sounds so … classical.”

  “Oh, indeed,” Daltry said. “I believe it is Cratippus who makes reference to the female priests of—”

  “Yes, I believe it is,” I said. “Would this Xenobia be around now, do you think?”

  “Um.” The professor glanced at his watch, discovered he wasn’t wearing one and looked up at the clock on the wall. “Well yes, I expect she would still be here. Perhaps you could find her in her classroom. Let me see—” He opened a drawer in his desk and consulted a chart. “Yes, three twenty-one. Right in this building.”

  “Wonderful,” I said. “Thank you, professor. And give my regards to Thucydides.”

  On the one hand I was excited, as I made my way to the third floor, by the fact that I had discovered an actual X-lady—and one so conveniently located. On the other hand, I feared that this Ancient Greek instructress would be a doddering old frump with false teeth, thinning hair and a wen on her nose. But the pressure of time an the fact that X-ladies were so scarce as to be practically nonexistent determined me to do my best to add Xenobia to my list regardless of her age or appearance. As long as I could manage to look at her without throwing up, I told myself, I could make love to any woman on earth. Or so I hoped.

  My heart sank and my resolution wavered when I approached room three twenty-one and saw emerging from it a small, dumpy, snaggle-toothed woman of at least sixty-five. Oh well. While my dreams of ever bedding Miss Greenglass shattered into small pieces, I stopped the lady.

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” I said. “Are you Miss … uh … are you Xenobia?”

  “No,” she said. Suddenly I saw she was a beauty. “Xenobia’s in there.” Indicating the room she had just left, she waddled away.

  I now took a deep breath. I knocked on the door and opened it.

  The woman was sitting behind a desk at one end of the room. When she saw me enter she got up and walked around to stand in front of it. I looked at her with my mouth agape.

  She was, I conjectured, about thirty-six or -seven. She had midnight-black hair, short but abundant, cut in a kind of circle that surrounded and set off the off beat beauty of her features. Her eyes were equally dark, and highly intense under heavy brows that would have seemed masculine on most women, but which suited her face perfectly. Her complexion was what is known as olive, and for the first time I understood and appreciated that description, for her flesh had the smoothness and translucence of that distinctly Mediterranean fruit. The erect and aristocratic posture she assumed as she stood on her own ground displayed the generous ripeness of her figure: breasts high and full, hips deliciously rounded, legs—at least the portion of them not hidden by her dark calf-length skirt—sculptured to perfection.