Three Way, page 9
Much later, wrapped in a thick terry-cloth robe, her skin washed clean but still soft and supple after the oil-bath, Mara lay back on the couch against Beth’s knees. Looking around at her friends as they talked quietly and sipped glasses of wine, Mara sighed with contentment. Obviously, it wasn’t her circle of friends that had needed expanding after all.
1-900-FANTASY
DANTE DAVIDSON
Ian and I found each other at a bar in Hollywood called Ye Olde Rustic Inn. It wasn’t like a 1940s movie where our eyes met and held and we fell in love. It was more a floundering lunge together out of sheer necessity. Most of the other patrons were die-hard drinkers, decades older than the two of us (some older than the two of us put together).
Ian and I gravitated to each other as if pulled by a magnetic force. In the dimly lit bar, we moved from the counter to a booth in the back, and we got to know each |other over a few unhurried shots of hard liquor.
He was trying to obliterate a pretty waitress named April from his memory. I was trying to erase the fact that a handsome truck driver named Miles even existed. Together, we sat in the deep, dark vinyl booth and drank Wild Turkey and talked about the very love affairs we were doing our best to forget. We covered reasons for the breakups, and we discussed what it was about our mutual exes that we missed the most.
On that first night together, I took one of his hands in mine and turned it faceup.
“Are you a palm reader?” he asked.
“An amateur.”
“What do you see in my future?”
“It’s cloudy,” I said, “but I can see your past. Lonely nights. Lots of them. Trying to forget—”
“Her smile,” Ian would say some evenings. “Her smell,” he’d say on others. “The way she looked at me when we weren’t talking, you know, just sitting at some café. She’d look at me like she loved me.”
“She did.”
“And then I ruined it.”
By having a fling with her sister, so there truly was no going back.
When it was my turn to share, I’d feel slightly less poetic than Ian. Mainly, I missed Miles’s cock. And although I had been the one to officially end the relationship, it had been his mean streak that had instigated the breakup.
At some point, Ian and I realized we were talking less about our exes and more about each other. We realized we were sitting closer together in the booth, that our legs just happened to bump and our thighs rub as if our bodies had wills of their own. Weeks after our first meeting, I took his hand in mine again.
“What do you see this time?” he asked. “Still only my past?”
I shook my head. “There’s a tigerish redhead in your future,” I told him, and that led him to finally ask me back to his apartment at closing time. We walked the few blocks in silence, a strange occurrence for us. We were drinking buddies and talking buddies. Silence was new, startling, and difficult to deal with.
At his place, he ushered me in ahead of him and turned on the light. It was a small apartment, immaculate, with very few personal objects. He took me to the sofa and then got a bottle and two glasses. Just because we’d left the bar didn’t mean we were done drinking for the night. I was happy to have a glass in my hand again. It made me feel secure.
Ian settled himself on the other end of the couch and looked at me. I could suddenly relate to the way he’d said April had looked at him. He was staring, as if mesmerized, and I had to ask, “What?” smoothing my hair, wondering if I looked worse to him out of the dim light of the bar.
“You’re beautiful,” he said, as if awed. “You’re spectacular.” I relaxed and regarded him. Ian has blond curly hair and green eyes, a strong jaw, a lopsided grin. He nudged me with his foot and I settled back into the sofa, still staring at him. We’d never had a difficult time with words, not until now, and I wondered how we were going to get over our shyness.
Ian seemed to be wondering the same thing, or focusing on the same problem, because he stood and got his cordless phone, then came back to the sofa.
“I’ve gotten sort of addicted to 900 numbers since the breakup,” he said, something he hadn’t told me before. “I’ve been thinking of blocking them from my phone, it’s that bad.”
I tilted my head at him, curious. “I’ve never called one before.”
“They’re sort of fun,” he said, placing the phone at his side, reaching for my hand. I felt a charge when he began playing with my fingertips, tickling them with his. “I don’t talk to the same girl, or anything. But I always get off, listening.”
I felt myself growing aroused, unsure of the exact reason for the wetness in my panties. I thought for a moment, then said, “I’d like to listen while you talk on one. That is, if you wouldn’t mind?”
His eyes glowed. I think he’d had the same idea. I asked next, “Do you have a separate line I could listen in on?” His studio was so small that I doubted he’d need two phones, but he surprised me by handing me the one at his side and returning with a second.
“I have one in the bedroom and one in the kitchen.” He was dialing while he spoke. I lifted my receiver but he said, “I’ll tell you when.” Then, after a few moments, he nodded and I pressed the red button on my handset.
The woman’s voice was low and husky, exactly how I would talk if I were working a sex line. I knew her goal was to keep Ian on as long as possible, and she did a good job, starting slow, asking him his name, describing herself for him, then asking his fantasy.
“Two women,” he said, immediately.
“Oh,” she purred. “Me and a friend of mine? Or do you have someone in mind?”
“I have someone,” he said, and he moved closer to me on the sofa. He was gripping the phone with one hand, but he stroked his fingers up and down my thighs with the other.
“What’s her name?”
“Miranda.”
“Pretty name. Is she a pretty girl?”
“Spectacular,” he said, his mouth away from the phone, his lips against my ear as he spoke.
“What do you see us doing?” she asked.
“Why don’t you tell me,” Ian suggested, now being more forward, cradling the phone against his shoulder and sliding both hands under my skirt. I trembled as his fingertips met my naked thighs, swallowed hard as he dragged his thumb down the sopping wet seam of my panties.
“I see us in a tub,” she said, “a bubble bath. Do you like that?”
“Mmm-hmmm,” Ian murmured, to keep her going.
“The three of us soaping each other all over.” She was getting a little louder as she spoke, as if she were really turning herself on.
“I like that,” Ian said, then looked at me and mouthed the words, “Do you like it?” and I nodded.
His fingers were probing further, up to the top of my panties and he was sliding those down my thighs and off. The woman was still talking but I could hardly concentrate on what she was saying. Ian went on his knees on the carpet, between my thighs, and he set the phone down while he moved forward to taste me. I spread my legs wide and tried to stifle the moans I so wanted to let loose.
She was still describing the scene for us. “Your girlfriend is sitting on the edge of the tub, Ian. Her pussy needs to be shaved. Do you wanna shave it or should I?”
I tapped Ian’s shoulder, wanting him to pick up the phone and talk, but he shook his head, the movement spiraling me into bliss as his whiskers tickled my outer lips. “You do it,” he murmured against my skin. “You talk.”
“This is Miranda,” I said into the phone, startling the sex lady from her monologue. “Could you shave me? Ian’s a bit busy….” The girl was good. She didn’t falter. “Of course, darling. What color fur do you have down there?”
“Red,” I said, sighing as Ian stroked it with his fingers, tugged gently on my curls. “Dark red.”
“Pretty,” she said, “But I’m gonna shave it all away and make you nice and clean for your man and me. I’m dying to taste you, and I want you bare before I give you my tongue. Would you like to be all nice and clean and pretty for me?”
I mumbled something, and she kept talking. Now I was having a hard time concentrating; between Ian and his magic tongue between my legs and this phone sex lady and her hypnotic voice I felt transported. As I neared orgasm, I handed the phone to Ian, insisted he take it from me, and he said, “Ginger? It’s been a pleasure. We’ll call you again.”
And as he hung up the phone, I said, “Next time you’ll listen while I work you.” He smiled and let me know that would please him just fine.
I think we’re both going to mend our broken hearts without a problem. I foresee a long and powerful love filled with sexual heat and fire in our future. I may be an amateur soothsayer, but I’ve got a real good feeling on this one.
In Town for Business
ZACH ADDAMS
I’ve always wanted to eat pussy. I have no idea if that makes me bisexual; I’ve always felt as gay as Julie Andrews in the Austrian Alps, but ever since I was in high school I’ve fantasized about having my face planted firmly between some gorgeous woman’s thighs. That doesn’t change the fact that most of my fantasies were about men, or that sucking cock was always my favorite thing in the world. But eating pussy came a close second—except that I’d never done it.
It’s hard when you get labeled as a queer in seventh grade. You end up with lots of female best friends and you hear a lot of stories about how their boyfriends don’t go down on them, but expect plenty of blow jobs. I had this one friend who was a bit of a blow job queen, with a reputation for putting out on the first date, even though she never fucked until college. She would often tell me about some new encounter where she’d had a guy’s dick in her mouth and even while she was enjoying herself she had wished he would reciprocate—and as soon as she left my place I would jerk off. Imagining that I was there, eating her pussy and moving my way up to his cock just in time to have him come in both our mouths. After I’d made her come three or four times on my tongue.
When I did finally start sleeping with guys, rimming quickly became my favorite pastime. There is something so delicious about planting your tongue in a hole that’s just made to receive a big cock. I always worried about those nasty parasites you can get from rimming, but that didn’t stop me, it just made me meticulous about cleanliness. This annoyed me, since I loved tasting the sharp tang of boy ass, tasting every hint of his body pulsing onto my tongue as I reached between his legs and stroked his cock, listening to him moan until he came. What would it be like to just dive into a pussy and taste it in all its unwashed glory?
I wouldn’t be such a dipshit as to try to explain why something turns me on, but I do remember the first piece of porn I ever found. It was a beat-up ’70s sleaze paperback stuffed in my mother’s nightstand drawer, and the most dog-eared of all those dog-eared pages was the one where the hero ate the heroine out for the first time, tonguing her clit over and over again until she came. The very same book had a scene where the heroine, giving some secondary male character a blow job, tucked her face between his cheeks and tongued his ass until he came. I jerked off to those two scenes more times than I can count; the moment I came I would think how weird it was that this was my mother’s book, and I would be overcome with guilt as I tiptoed back to her bedroom and replaced the book after checking to make sure I hadn’t gotten any of my come on it. I am quite sure that some homophobic psychoanalyst somewhere would be able to convince me that jerking off to your mother’s porn will make you gay, but it’s much too late to perform a controlled experiment, and how the hell would you ever get such a thing past the ethics board? My father didn’t have any porn—or at least I never found it. Maybe if he had, I’d be wearing Hooters T-shirts and drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon in Fresno this very day, instead of Juicy Fruit wife-beaters and Amstel Light in the Castro.
What does it all mean? I couldn’t begin to tell you, except that it means when I finally got a chance to do it, I received a round of applause that may have just turned me into the world’s gayest pussyhound.
It all turned out just like one of those success stories published on an adult personals website. The original ad read: Attractive early-thirties couple, in San Francisco this week on business, seeks very oral non-bisexual man to service both him and her. Reciprocation possible but not promised.
Sometimes you do things and then wonder why you did them. I sent an email stating emphatically that I was not bisexual, though I suspect I was not at all what this particular couple had in mind. “Not even close to bisexual,” I said, adding with a twinge of guilt at my deception, “At least, I don’t think so.”
I got an immediate response with a picture that made me drool. Their names were Tim and Gina. In the picture both were wearing skimpy swimsuits, his a beach thong in electric blue (tasteless) and hers a string bikini in hot pink (even more tasteless). I was not particularly interested in a fashion consultation, so I let it slide, hoping if anything happened I would be able to talk them out of their clothes quickly. He was tall and buffed, and the way his cock, half-hard in the photo, tented his tacky swimsuit made my own cock stir. But she was even more gorgeous, in that she had a body shape like Pamela Anderson’s before she lost her D-cups, and bleached hair to match. She looked like the average straight guy’s wet dream. That turned me on; if I was going to eat pussy for the first time, didn’t it make sense to do it with a woman who could easily be in a Hustler spread? I imagined the woman on the cover of that early porn novel and, except for her enormous knockers, this woman looked a bit like her—if I squinted at the picture and didn’t look too closely. It seemed crazy to do this, but what the hell? They probably wouldn’t answer my second email, anyway.
I looked through the folder of digital photos I used when cruising guys on the Internet, and looked for the one in which I looked the least gay. There wasn’t one. I finally said “fuck it” and sent a picture a friend snapped while I was working out at the gym; maybe their gaydar would be as faulty as their fashion sense.
I got an immediate response: “You free tonight?”
They were staying in an unfashionable hotel near crack row, but one that was clean enough I suspected they didn’t know how many dealers were operating less than a block away. I resolved not to tell them, however tempting it might be.
As it turned out, there wasn’t much of an opportunity to tell them anything.
Gina answered the door in a green terry-cloth robe that clashed so completely with her yellow hair, I immediately resolved to minimize the conversation.
“Are you Zach?” she asked.
“That’s me,” I told her.
“You’re even cuter in person,” she said. “Tim’s taking a shower.” I could hear water running in the bathroom.
I breathed a sigh of relief and came in to the hotel room. Gina locked the door behind me and when I took off my coat and turned around, she pushed herself up against me, grabbing my head and dragging it down to her mouth.
Never having kissed a girl before, I felt a moment’s panic at the lack of beard stubble. When she opened her robe I saw that she was wearing a skimpy baby-blue-lace, see-through, one-piece thing and nothing else. I tried to think what a straight guy would do in this situation, and went right for her tits. They felt full and heavy, a little too firm—fake, maybe?—and as I tweaked her nipples the way I would tweak a guy’s nipples, I heard her squeak.
“That’s too hard,” she said. “My nipples are very sensitive.”
I felt my face reddening. Should I work harder to seem straight, or just forget it?
I decided to forget it. Not even bothering to take off my T-shirt or jeans, I pushed Gina down on the bed. I buried my face between her thighs as she spread her legs. I kissed her pussy tentatively through a thin film of baby-blue lace, smelling her cunt and feeling my cock respond immediately even as I felt the panic of bizarre newness. When she reached down and unfastened the snap crotch, I thought for a second she’d ripped it. This snap crotch thing seemed strangest of all so far.
The scent of her cunt continued to fill my nostrils, and I couldn’t decide whether to be turned-on or repulsed. When I realized she was shaved smooth, I tottered into a sudden turn-on—there was something so kinky about that. Shaved balls look ridiculous in my opinion, but shaved pussies now seemed beautiful to me—even if I’d only seen them in porn. Close-up, I liked it even better.
“Eat my pussy,” Gina growled.
It wasn’t a request, and I didn’t take it as one. I pressed my mouth to her cunt and started to lick. Her cunt tasted tangy, different from anything I’d ever experienced before. So different than a boy’s butthole. But as I slipped my tongue into the tight hole, I felt a familiar lust taking me over, and I started to wriggle it deeper into her.
“Jesus,” she sighed, sounding bored. “Have you ever done this before, Zach?”
Of course, I thought. The clit. The clit. The clit. The porn I’d read as a youngster was all about the guy jamming his enormous tongue so deep into the girl’s pussy that she came uncontrollably as he tongue-fucked her. But I wasn’t so gay as to be totally without clitoral knowledge. I slipped my tongue up to her clit and began to tease it, and when she responded with loud moans, I started to suck on it the way I would suck on the very tip of a guy’s cock. Gina liked that.
