“ Two. “
c.1998, Miriam M. Wynn“Tell me,” she said, her cobalt blue eyes flashing as she sank her perfect teeth into an innocent chocolate éclair, “how far would you go to prove yourself to me?”
Sometimes, when she got like this, I’d brush it off, pretend I hadn’t heard the violent greed in her voice, seen it waft off her skin like acidic gas, reaching, consuming, destroying. Such a pretty butterfly, but so poisonous to the touch . . ..
She seemed perfectly normal, from the outside. Open, vivacious. She was beautiful. No, not just beautiful—exquisite. The kind of lovely that made men forget their wives, no matter how faithful they were, no matter how much in love they were with someone else. The kind of woman that made a male forget himself, forget the world, forget every possible passion he might have had for anything else on this earth—she absorbed it, like a sponge sucking up dirty water. Hungrily, taking the water, clear and fresh, taking it all in, with the germs and the grit. She wanted. She needed. She was conscious of it, but never stated it. She knew that I knew this. This was why we were friends—or more.
“Why would I have anything to prove?”
I watched her long and slender fingers—photogenic fingers, like all the rest of her—wrap delicately around the fragile flute of hand-blown glass—of course, only the best for Marianne—and draw it to her lips. Blood red lips, wet with something no other woman could reproduce, unless they used some outrageously expensive cosmetic that would wear off after one kiss, one lick. Her lips were always a moist red, and slick. As if she had just sucked the life out of a man, as if, maybe, that wasn’t lipstick on her mouth, but something else, something dangerously fresh. Blood?
The champagne slid down her throat soundlessly, the way everything did, effortlessly, as if it had been meant for her consumption, as if she were master of her art of worldly cannibalism. She ate the world, and everything in it. To some extent, this frightened me. No, I wasn’t afraid of her . . . but of what she could do. There was a world of difference, there.
Her frighteningly electric blue eyes shot at me like the flash of an old camera’s bulb, and I froze in the frame of her gaze, caught. She did this often. Caught me, to inspect me, her pet, her specimen. And yes, I admitted it often to myself, and to her through my actions. She owned me, in her own way. I was hers, somehow. Everyday I went home to another woman that claimed she loved me, and I thought about a wedding ring, but then her face would flash before me, those blue eyes would crack like a whip at me, and I would ease out of the woman’s arms. Slip out of faceless embraces and into a shower to touch myself, and think of her. Marianne.
How we met did not matter. It had no influence, no meaning. It just . . . was. It defined what was to come.
In a club, eyes met. In the crush, we danced. But then she floated from me, and I forgot about her—an odd incident, to forget. Stories like this, forbidden fate, doomed destiny, in these the victims never forget, but always remember. Their memory leads them back to the flame, and they burn themselves again and again, because of some inner need for that memory.
But me? No. Forgetfulness is how I live my life. Me, I forget my mother’s birthdays until the woman that gave birth to me is no more, and this somehow explains away my lack of emotion when I pay to have her buried and do not appear at the cold sad graveside to offer my condolences. To mourn her.
I forget what love is when I spread a woman’s legs and come inside, so that I can honestly look at her later and ask her if she really thought that I wanted what she had in her heart, in her mind. She will have no excuse. And so I am absolved.
I forgot her.
Until when, three or so months later—I forget—I see her passing me on a public tourist street filled with chic shops and expensive tastes, watching her pass me with a clutch of lilies and tulips in her left hand, her right slipping on a pair of posh black sunglasses. In doing this, she turns her head slightly to ease them on, and I see her clearly. She is the one I felt a hot rush for in a useless moment of seconds in some Parisian club I crossed an ocean to forget, as I forget everything else.
I think—that is her! And I lift my glass of wine, offer her a salute, and down it. When I look up, she is gone. Just as I knew she would be. And until the next year, I forget her.
I remember her again when, in the mad crush of Carnival, in the waning daylight—New Orleans couldn’t contain itself any longer—she is suddenly before me. Her back to me, little slip of a dress terribly damp with sweat, her shoulder length hair twisted up into a classic concoction of casual sexuality, her body gyrating to the rhythms of the crowd and the music. The next thing I know, I am against her, she is guiding me, my sex enters her from behind in the middle of this crowd, so thick with bodies and heat and lust that no one cares and no one sees, and so I fuck her, love her, come inside of her, she never even speaks to me, she never even cares that I wear no rubber, that I could infect her with some vile virus.She makes one sound. One short, delicious “Unhh.” Not even an exclamation. Not a moan, not a cry. More like a murmur.
I feel how she is dripping around my sex, I cannot bring myself to withdraw, she squeezes from within, hard, so tight and strong that she draws more of my essence than I meant to allow, and I let out a short, frightened breath—and she’s gone. My fly is undone, but my sex, thankfully, has been returned to its cove, and in a nearby restroom I look at it. It is still, amazingly, engorged, as it has never been before. Inside of her, I had grown harder than I had ever been in my life.
The end result was a penis thick and corded, violently alien, a sex that was no longer mine.
She had left her mark. It was swollen to a transformed color and state, looking almost bruised and battered, from having come to such succulent success buried in her voracious loins. And that was when I began to fear her.“Oh, come now,” she says in her calm, nearly accentless voice.
She is French, I do not know from what place there, but her many years abroad have, I presume, given her a dampened articulation. She sounds unbound—not American, not European, not Asian. The sound of her is intriguing. Men will stop when we are talking, to ease behind her and smell her hair, to covertly lean close so that they can close their eyes and listen to her, smell her, lust for her without making contact, without making a sound. So that they can go home and in a fit of sudden virility, turn their wives onto their stomachs, or push them up against a wall, or bend them over furniture, and molest them like a fire.
I know that more often than not, these women will instantly react in fear, but that more than half of them will respond in a way that later shocks them out of whatever state they have settled into in their lives. The raw sexuality of their husbands, their lovers, will reveal to them that they had the power all along. That their men resent them for it, and cannot help but need them, that they needed them to the very core all along. And this is what a fire does. It consumes, and the consumption is wonderful, but in the end it leaves you barren. It burns away what was. And the women can see now. See what they are, what they want, and where they’re going. More often than not, they will enjoy their power, and they will leave their men.
She is smiling at me, with her perfect teeth, parted over blood red lips, and I know she must have thought up another of her sadistic games. She was voracious. She ate life, but it was like most meals, in need of spice. Some people can’t eat anything without salt or pepper, or a glass of wine, or their napkin folded just so, or with the table at a certain angle. She couldn’t eat life without emotional pain. She couldn’t enjoy what she ate without the delicious spices that sexual angst afforded her favorite delicacy.
“We’ve been playing this game for years,” she told me, her husky, odd voice quite beautiful, like the rest of her. I remembered—yes, sometimes I could—nights where I tied her to hotel beds, riding her until we were both bloody, her sharp nails and teeth scoring me everywhere. She would always manage somehow to break free, or to wound me even if she were tied down. And I lost my mind several times, no matter how hard I tried to maintain control. We both had scars. She liked to press her own to mine, lift her blouse in public, risky, always risky, her little puckered mark—a deep stab from the thick thorn on a robust rose I gave her—pressed to the vengeful dig she had made with a pocket knife. One bump and someone would look down and see the side of her full, naked breast, my hot, fevered skin.
“Gabriel,” she said, in her almost motherly tone, the one she used to manipulate me. I always fell for it. “I know that you resent me for what I do to you. You hate me for it.” She sounded pleased, smug as a cat basking in the afternoon sun.
I shook my head a little, looked down at my partially eaten plate of escargots. She had ordered it for me. She liked to play the man with me, open doors for me, pull out my chair before I sat, order my food, my drink. She would undress me when she stayed the night and treat me like a child, then come into my bed after I lay there awake for hours. In the dark of morning, she would have me suckle her breast, and then she would suckle me, then leave me again, until we next met. Sometimes she would walk into my office, lock the door, tell me to hold my calls, and then, in front of my wall of unblinded windows, take off her skirt or pants, and order me to eat her in exact compliance with her directions. Then she would dress, and leave, and I would not see her again for weeks.
But I did not hate her. “I love you for it.”
I said it simply, looking past her, and I picked up my glass of water to wash away the taste of escargots. I didn’t care for them—they were fine, but I preferred other things. I reached for a bread roll and tore it in half, feeling how she hungrily watched the way the bread split itself open for me, hot and steaming. Her eyes followed my every movement as I buttered first one side, then the other, then bit, with great satisfaction, into one. It was delicious. Bread had always been the best part of every meal for me, the highlight of every table, no matter how grand the feast. I looked up. Lately, I had begun to lose patience with her. Doubtless this was why she felt the need for another adventure, to prove her power and reassert her control.
Her fierce blue eyes accosted me again, and I smiled, reassured. Yes, she would be the same until she died. Hungry. Dominating. Let her cow me—such a tortured life was welcome when spent in her arms.“There is a man,” she said, confidently, as we walked by the water of Carmel.
California and Europe had been the only countries to ever woo me, to ever seduce me enough to stay, to buy houses and apartments in them, to live there. I owned a penthouse in New York, but I rented it out mostly, and if I ever came to visit, it was a hotel I retired to. I also loved South America, but it’s fickle personality had never allowed me to love it as much as I loved California, or France, or Italy.
I turned to look at her, knowing that this was one of the rare occasions where she would not be able to read my face. I could do that, if I wanted. But I never felt the need to with her. But sometimes . . ..
“You know that men have never been . . . a territory between us, Marianne.”
What I meant was that of all the games we had ever played, men had not been a part of them. Of course, she would sometimes use them to arouse me, accost some stranger on a street as she had done to me once, and I would watch her seduce him, turn him into an empowered stud. Sometimes, she would grab a raw and virile one, and he would crudely grab onto her and pummel himself into her in some dripping, dank alley, and he would grunt and groan, cursing at her and violating her, thinking all the while that he was in control.
And suddenly she would laugh, and he would bury his face in her breasts, finally losing his true virginity. Baptized in violence, losing his baseness in an act of vicious love. After that, I knew, he would no longer beat his wife or girlfriend. He would have found something of the peace he had been looking for and until Marianne had not found. He would remember her. That memory would keep him remembering his true nature—in need of woman and unable to
deny it—and keep him empty of brutality forever.Yes. And sometimes, she would grab an arrogant blue-blood “all-American” fop and tear away his two-faced courage, leaving him no longer free to think that every woman was a slave to his desires, that she would swoon when he looked at her, that she would love him and need him on sight.
Yes, I was afraid of what Marianne could do. She could do good things—but she could also behave badly. But men had never really been included in the package.
“Of course they have!”
She said, turning to me, touching my cheek and then turning away again, her hair blowing back. Thick, black, lustrous hair that she highlighted in mahogany red to add carnality to her appearance. Like the small tattoo she had hidden on her ankle of the outline of a woman bound at the wrists by thick rope, the pose of her body and the spread of her legs defining her position as cruelly welcoming—of pain and pleasure. She lived her life tattooing the world around her. She wanted to make it remember her.
“I just didn’t want to rush you.” She threw me a devilish smile and I felt the need to restrain my sexual urges. She had taught me that. Restraint. But I could imagine pushing her against a tree, her face and breasts pressed into the bark, spreading her legs, lifting up her loose, light skirt and pushing aside her panties, making purchase in her wet skin, diving—
“I’m leaving town tomorrow, on business.” The wind whipped her hair again and she tossed it aside with her hand, turning back to me, walking backward. She took my hands, guided them to her waist. Partway up her sides, so they my thumbs lightly brushed the undersides of her full and sumptuous breasts. They were hidden in some orange gauze, rare—she liked to wear manly materials mostly, ferocious Wall Street suits and leather shoes, tailored to fit her, everything rich and harsh, cold and commanding. In reality, she was a diplomat’s daughter, often in the public eye, but not quite a celebrity. She wasn’t important enough. She worked in an office of a corporation that she had started. She was rich and no one could prevent her from satisfying her numerous cravings.
Blue eyes flashed at me along with a persuasive smile. “I’ll be gone for a week. You’ll only have this weekend to accomplish what I ask.” She shrugged, turned away. “If you don’t, I can always look elsewhere.”
She knew that this was impossible for me. In my days of forgetting and fading in and out of life, she had become something like water for me, or air—necessary. It was impossible to think of her missing. Imagine drowning—no air. Imagine a desert—no water. Frightening. We would all prefer never to think about such a cruel and hostile demise. It was the same with my lacking Marianne. If she were to walk out of my life—to disappear, to simply be gone . . . I might just lie down in my bed and never get out. One day I would close my eyes, take a deep breath to say her name, and never exhale it. Die of it! Die of Marianne.
That night, I lay dressed only in my cotton boxer shorts, staring at the shadows that the fire several feet away made on my ceiling. I lived in San Francisco, mostly, and in early Spring it could still get very chilly at night.
Alone in my townhouse, but for a butler, driver, maid, and cook, where only the butler and the driver lived in the servant’s quarters below, I listened to my crackling fire and the bluesy music on my antique radio. I had a stereo system in the living room, which I could control from many of the other rooms in the house, but at night, when I needed comfort, some sense of a cocoon in time, it was this antique radio that I turned on. Of course, it would have been sacrilege to turn it to a pop station, so I kept it on classical or jazz, falling to sleep wrapped in eras long gone.
Tonight, I felt near to sleep, but couldn’t give way to it, and I watched the shadows of the fire. I saw ships sailing, a hot air balloon, a bed, and then, Marianne naked, her hair spilling onto pillows, her body arching . . .
Just as I imagined reaching out to touch her, the phone rang, and without thinking, I automatically brought it to my ear. She didn’t give me the chance to say anything.
“Are you naked?” She asked me, knowing that she had me on her leash and that if she ever tried to let me loose, I’d tangle myself up in it.
“Almost. Boxers.”
“Cotton?” She knew me well.
“Yes.” I heard a short silence, and then a man groaning. I pictured her astride him, lifting herself slowly, lowering again with cruel speed, so slow she might kill you with your own need.
“He’s beautiful.” I drew a breath. I had not quite agreed to her proposal earlier today, but I already knew that I did not have much of a choice if I wanted to keep her.
“Like you, he’s naked in bed . . . my bed. He’s breathless. He’s straining against the pillows, arching . . . beautiful. He has full, berry lips, much like yours. He likes to lick me down below, at the dinner table. And at the opera. He guides me in so that the crowd thinks that he’s the doorman, and then he crawls back to me when the lights fall. Underneath my skirts he’s licking me, suckling me—ahh . . .” She moaned softly, made another sound of delight. The man’s moan was louder this time. I felt myself grow hard.
“Oh, yes, Gabriel, he’s a man’s man. Straight as an arrow, like you. I’ve seen him fuck dozens of women. A true stud. A stallion. They drop like money in front of him—coins, some silver, some gold. Waitresses, princesses. They all get wet and hot for him. They can never contain themselves. They make fools of themselves—“ The man gave a low shout and there was a silence. I heard her murmuring to him.
“Get a hold of yourself, darling, tonight’s our last night and you have to perform perfectly for me, don’t you? Don’t you want me, wet and hot, all night?” I heard a muffled sound of affirmation in the background, and then winced when a cry of pain echoed in my ear. She must have him tied to the bed. This was how she had taught me restraint—pleasure, pain, and then pleasure again.
“Alright, dear, I’m back.” She sounded very amused, and I knew that she was smiling, enjoying herself immensely. I imagined smearing her red lipstick across her cheek, her jaw, licking it off, biting her—
“Now, I’ll be leaving tomorrow morning and I won’t be back until next Friday. This weekend he will show up when you least expect him—and don’t turn him away. He will tell me if you went through with it. He doesn’t really want to do it either, but like you, it’s for me. And what you do for me is really for yourself, isn’t it?” She laughed, a short moment of beautiful bells, ringing into the phone.
“Yes,” she murmured, softly, sleepily, “you want my happiness because, in the end . . . “
Another agonized moan of pleasure and pain—had she scored him with rose thorns? a knife? her teeth?—sounded in the background. I heard her sigh, take a breath.“In the end, my happiness is your happiness, right?”
I lay there on my bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the dial tone.
That Saturday I had a money party to go to—where all of the rich important people show up, and all the intelligent, penniless youngsters appear, on display and eager to advertise their talents—business, painting, marketing, acting, whatever—to potential investors and patrons. It was the usual.
On my arm hung yet another young woman, devastatingly beautiful, a blonde, no less. I hated blondes. But they seemed to attract a certain amount of respect in the money world.
On my way to the bathroom to escape the superficial air, this piece of blonde eye candy suddenly appeared before me and drew me behind a potted plant into an alcove, produced a condom and within moments had me in her; she clutched my shoulders as I closed my eyes and imagined Marianne. Her full breasts brushed into my face and I pulled them free of her gown and bit at them, so that she cried out in pleasure, her face flushed and covered in a light sheen of perspiration. I came finally, and she moaned, then tightly clutched at me; as she shuddered I kissed her forehead, her lips, and when she was through I gently placed her from me, removing the filled rubber and discreetly hiding it by cupping my hand just so. She smiled gratefully at me, and moved to kiss me.
Putting out my hand to stop her, I gently covered her breasts once more, brushed her hair back into place with my hand, and shook my head once.
“My dear, you’ve taken all the fun out of it. Excuse me.”
In the bathroom I disposed of the evidence of our encounter and washed my hands, then relieved myself and washed my hands again. It was a habit of mine—my hands could never be clean enough of other people. But with Marianne, I could touch her in what others might consider the foulest of places, and never feel the need to so much as wipe my digits.
Out on the dance floor, public and mingling, I made my rounds, collected my escort, returned her home with a chaste kiss on the forehead, and rode off in the rear of my Rolls Royce to my lonesome townhouse.
It was just after midnight and I was preparing myself for staring at more firelight shadows for a few more hours. I found that Marianne tended to affect me with a mild form of insomnia that always abated a few days after she returned from whatever trip she was on.
As my butler helped me remove my coat, he turned to me to murmur, “Sir, there is a lady waiting for you in your rooms. She . . . intimated that this was where you would expect her.”
It was not quite a question; I knew that he was aware I had many lovers and so did not feel he had committed a grave wrong. But I also knew that he never referred to my guests—private or otherwise—by gender. Whether for business or pleasure, man or woman, he would always state: “You have a guest in the parlor, sir” or “There is someone here to see you, sir.” Until tonight, he had never used the term “lady.” I could hear a slight doubt in his voice about the nature of my guest.
Instantly I was excited; he had never met and did not know of Marianne; she had always arrived in secret, slipping into my room in mysterious ways. I knew that by now she must have had a key; it was easy for her to be completely unknown to my servants. Once or twice I had hinted to them about her arrival and asked, once, if anyone had seen her—and I had been returned with confused and puzzled looks.
Perhaps she had shown up to surprise me. Maybe she had returned early, or her trip had been cancelled, and she had decided to play a little tonight.
I handed Berrington my hat and scarf, nodding, then thanked him before heading up to my rooms. The front room contained a little office and small library; beyond that an open arch led the way to three downward steps, a small couch, an armoire, a coffee table, a video system, and to the side, a bar. A door led off to a walk-in closet and another to my grandiose bathroom. Beyond that, two steps led up to my bedroom area, with several antique pieces of furniture and the fireplace.
All the lights were out, but there was a fire going at full throttle—the crack and pop of crisping wood caught my ear, along with the sound of someone rustling. I smelled a faint and exotic perfume, and heard silk or satin slide across naked skin. I was immediately aroused. But it was not Marianne’s smell. Who on earth was here? Perhaps a woman I had forgotten, like so many others? Maybe she wanted to have another try. They so often did. I tended to dismiss them, but tonight, perhaps I needed a little distraction.
I walked slowly and carefully, shrugging off my suit jacket and laying it over the back of a chair. The rustling again. I came closer. The perfume grew a little stronger, intoxicating and lovely, oriental . . . in the flicker of firelight I made out the shape of someone sitting at the little antique Chinese shop table, inlaid with marble, the chairs hand-carved and fitted with silk cushions. Her hair was done up, soft tresses framing the face—I caught a lipstick glaze, long lashes, saw a long, agile body, slender and sleek—she uncrossed her legs and stood up slowly, placed unpainted nails onto the back of the chair and moved to stand behind it—I sensed fear.
The fire flickered and I saw huge hazel eyes, a fantastically beautiful face.
“Who are you?” I stopped, several feet away, reached into my pockets and drew out some change, a small piece of paper, a peppermint. I tossed them all onto the dresser, reached up to undo my bow tie. I heard her breathing stop, then start again. Fear—and what? Excitement. She was ready for me, I could sense it. I could smell the heat emanating from her skin. Had Marianne sent her?
The creature did not respond, and I admired her shape. She was athletic, tall and long, built like a supermodel. Not much for breasts, but well toned. She wore a red China-doll dress, with the Mandarin collar, sewn with the exotic pattern of a dragon. Marianne loved dragons. She liked their power, their bestiality. But this was not Marianne.
I suddenly came at her, then stopped, just a few feet away. The woman started, her eyes widening, the irises liquid fire, the lips luscious and red, the golden skin so lovely in the firelight—I found it remarkable that an Asian woman could be so tall. She was nearly six feet!
This was a welcome diversion. Marianne must have meant for me to indulge myself tonight—or perhaps this lovely creature had come into my life at some point and I had, as always, forgotten.I felt a sudden animalistic urge to frighten her sexually, and in a few strides I was before her—but I moved beside her instead, imposing her with my presence without touching her. I heard her breathing quicken—this pleased me.
I leaned in close, my lips just beside her ear, and murmured, “Would you like me to fuck you tonight?” I said it softly, lovingly, punctuating it by reaching around her to place my hand on her opposite hip and pull her to me, so that she could feel my erection, how it throbbed, how it—
She let loose one sound—“Oh!”
It was low. Masculine. Full of testosterone.
In a reaction built in with my male genes, encoded into my DNA, nurtured throughout my childhood, I released him in a rejecting move so harsh that he lost his balance and shuffled back in his high heels a few steps to bump hard against the edge of the fireplace mantelpiece. I stepped back quickly. I reached out sharply to snap on the light, then turned to inspect him with narrow eyes.
His own wide, hazel pair had dilated; I could smell the fear wafting off of him—it was unsettling, to see a male, so collected and calm, emanate such fear. I couldn’t think of what to do. All I could feel was something overwhelming, overpowering—rage.
“What the fuck is this?” I demanded, through my teeth, and I took him by the arm, my grip so tight my knuckles turned white.
He said nothing, but now he made no pretense of being female; I saw his jaw tighten, his chin lift up a notch to present a stance of challenge, and he did not move his arm, but took my fierce grip without a wince. I didn’t know what to think. Was this Marianne’s game? To seduce me with a sadistic play at dress-up? Drag in my bedroom, she actually thought that something so vulgar would manage to arouse me? That it would infuse me with a passion her little toy could whisper into her ear about while she tied him up and whipped him? Good God, what a mistake. I should have just said no, not let her take me where she wanted. This was going too far—
But the young man, probably only six or seven years my junior, parted his lips and spoke to me. He said:
“She knew that you’d be angry. I couldn’t persuade her to forget it. I’ll leave if you want. But you know that she’ll be unhappy.”
A low voice, mellow, and husky. If he worked at it, he might actually sound like a woman. But he was too male, I could smell his sexuality, completely and wholly Man. In the common world, he might seduce women left and right with only an inviting twitch of his lips and an endearing smile. He could tell her things not even remotely related to love, and she would still think he loved and cherished her. He would always be on top. Even when on the bottom, he’d be guiding his women, telling them what to do, where to go . . . always on top. I thought of what he’d said: But you know that she’ll be unhappy.
The way he had said unhappy made my breath fall still. It was as if he knew better than I did the ramifications of making Marianne “unhappy.” I looked away, into the fire, still so angry that I really couldn’t see anything, could only concentrate on the thoughts that made me angrier, on the feminine scent that this man had dared to wear, in some stupid game where he either planned to seduce me or disgust me into retreating—either way, Marianne would win her little contest. But knowing that we were both men, she would count on rejection—a man’s dignity, with Marianne, would mean holding up through the worst, not avoiding it. Pride worked backwards with Marianne. Everything did. Rules weren’t rules, but golden ribbons to be broken—they shined and they glimmered, they wafted and they rippled--enticing and inviting, all to the end of being violated. This was all a part of Marianne’s devotion to devouring the world she lived in.
The young man tried to straighten himself from leaning back against the mantelpiece, and in doing so wobbled slightly on his slender high heels—repulsed with this, I took stronger hold of his forearm and thrust him toward the bed, so that he fell on it, his back turned, is body facing the front of the room. I could tell he felt helpless, dressed as a woman, that he couldn’t move the way he wished trapped in a body-hugging dress, that to move his face would mean smearing lipstick and eye-liner and God knows what else all over my expensive damask bed-dressings. I sneered at him, started unbuttoning my shirt, just the top two, so I could breathe. I unbuttoned my sleeves and rolled them up into cuffs, discarded my bow tie. I turned to head for the bar, then looked down at him, hard. He was not looking at me.
“Get up and get out of those clothes. And get that crap off your face.” I started for the bar, for a tall, ferocious shot of the highest-proof liquor I could find to quench the anger I was feeling. As I moved away, his voice came, stronger than before.
“I didn’t bring a change of clothes.” I stopped walking, took in a breath, and kept going. My response wasn’t even directed over my shoulder.
“There are some in the closet. Get whatever you want. Just get dressed properly and clean yourself up. You look disgusting.” He made a snorting sound, then got up; I refused to look as I heard him head for the closet behind me and move through it. A silence came, he snapped off the light, and then I heard him carefully walk, still in his heels, into the bathroom. As the door shut and the vent inside came on, I let out a huge sigh of relief and started to pour.
I’d had three shots by the time he came out of the bathroom. I’d been unable to bring myself to do anything remotely normal like change my own clothing, order up a late snack from Berrington, turn on the television, or play a little music. Anything toward normality would make the man feel that he was welcome in my house. Which he was not.
The door opened and I realized that all this time that I had been nursing my brandy, he’d taken a shower to literally wash away the evidence of his play-acting. His dark brown hair glistened still, and the smell of my cologne and aftershave headed toward me on the whoosh of steamy air he let loose when he opened the door. He wore a pair of my charcoal woolen slacks, and a royal blue polo shirt, along with a pair of my white crew socks. He looked beautiful, as he would have to if he were involved with Marianne. He looked ten times more male now than I had imagined he was under all that make-up several minutes ago, and though I wasn’t intimidated, I was perturbed. How could such a male figure transform with such ease into that of a female?
The only thing that had given him away was his voice, and the fact that Marianne had told me to expect a male in my house this weekend. If I had met him in a quiet bar, under candle-light after a few drinks, with atmospheric music and myself in an amiable mood, I might easily have kissed him as if he were a woman and taken him home to fuck him. If he had had time to practice on his voice, I most probably would have had him half-naked in my bed before I realized what he was.
I thought I heard a distant crack of thunder and then a light pattering of rain beyond the wide French doors in the middle room. The outside world was hidden by gauzy drapery, but the moonlight still shone through and outdid the pale yellow glow of the lamp I had turned on earlier and that of the light from the bar. We were alone in this area of the house; the entire middle floor never held anyone but for me, and Berrington’s and the driver’s quarters were in the very rear of the house, on the far west, while mine were east. Any sound we made, of brawling or arguing, they would never hear. Berrington would never know that anyone but a woman had been alone in this room with me at one o’clock in the morning.
The young man had moved toward the fireplace, resting his hands on the mantelpiece as if to brace himself; standing like this with his back to me, I realized that he was just as disturbed as I was. What on earth were we supposed to do now? There was no way in hell I was going to—
“Marianne’s crazy, isn’t she?” He said suddenly, lifting his head and turning to look at me over his shoulder. “I mean, a nut. But you wouldn’t know it. She seems so . . . normal. So vibrant and alive.” He turned his head away again, and his shoulders seemed to rise and then fall as if he were readjusting some burden. Then he turned to face me, leaning his upper back against the mantelpiece, this time much more sure of his physical self.
“I never meant . . . for any of this to happen. I hope you know that. I never even meant, when I met her to . . .” His face seemed to work its way toward some expression, managing only to look confused. I supplied the answer:
“Go this far?” He looked up at me in surprise, then nodded.
“I wanted something. But it wasn’t . . . this. And then, last night, she starts telling me these things. She always talks crazy, but last night it was like a matter of life and death for her. She started telling me that she wanted me to do something for her . . . that she had another game for me to play. But this time not with her. She was acting totally . . . like she’d lost it or something. As if her control had slipped a bit.” He shook his head, looked down into the fire.
“Of course, she’s always in control. That’s a given. But her control . . . it was different this time. As if something was at stake here. God, what I would give to know what the hell is going on.”“So she’s left for a trip. She’s probably not planning on seeing you again. Maybe once or twice after she returns . . . this is how she plays her games. She just took this one too far.”
The hazel eyes drew up to mine and held them for a long moment.
His voice was quiet when he spoke. “Did she?” I frowned. He couldn’t seriously still plan to . . . I decided to reinstate the failure of his mission.
“There’s no point. I don’t know why on earth she expected that you and I . . . the two of us . . . would . . .”
“Fuck?” he said it so slickly, so calmly, that I half imagined that he really found the idea arousing. Was he . . . ? He must have seen the expression on my face, for he shook his head no and emphasized it by saying what he thought.
“Never been with a man, never wanted to.” Silence. “But really, do you think Marianne would think this up if she didn’t know what she was doing? Every game she plays, she wins. Because she’s always right. She told me . . . some things, about you. Not that I was very eager to hear them—“ at this, he smirked, “but when you’re tied down with silk scarves it’s not like you have a choice about it.” He paused, turned back from the fire to face me and crossed his arms over his chest.
“I know that we both have . . . our reservations. But somehow she thought we could overcome them. She knows us both better than anybody else does . . . maybe even . . . ourselves.” I thought about this. He was right, but this still wasn’t justification for a major sexual preference change.
“Whether or not this is true, this doesn’t mean we should just turn homosexual—“
“That’s not it!” He sounded impassioned, as if he had just realized something. “No, Marianne wouldn’t want that, because she still wants control of us. But maybe she wants to open our eyes to something, you know? Cross another barrier. It doesn’t mean that we have to indulge in it perpetually, as a major life change. I mean, she’s made you try drugs, hasn’t she?” I nodded, once, looking away.
“And prostitutes. And orgies. But they’re never permanent. They’re only part of the game. Adding spice. You don’t have to if you don’t want to. So long as we both know she’s in charge and that any game she wants to play, any new diversion that she introduces, we’re going to submit to.” He looked at me, completely focused, his hazel eyes fixing on me as if he would will me to agree.
And I thought about it. From everything I could dredge out of my awful memory of the past, Marianne had never forced her tastes on me. I knew that she still kept women in her bed, that she often threw orgies for parties at her home, that she probably took drugs more often than I had actually seen her do—though I knew that she would never lose control enough to get addicted—and that though I was subject to her whims, I did not have to play them perpetually. The man was right.
“So . . . are you saying that you still intend to sleep with me? That you want to have sex?” I steeled myself for the answer.
He sighed, lifted his hand to run it through his hair. “I don’t know what I want. I’m thirsty, and I’m hungry. Have you got anything to eat?”
Relief coursed through me, and I turned to the bar again, opened up the little fridge. There was salami and cheese, and in the cupboard I found crackers, a half-eaten bag of Doritos, and in the wine rack a fine Merlot. I pulled up glasses, a small silver serving tray, a plate, and arranged the lot to look as appetizing as I could make it. I brought it over to the coffee table, but he shook his head.
“No, bring it over here. I like the firelight.” Feeling like there was no danger in store for me now, I calmly brought the food over first, then headed back for the wine and glasses. Back at the little two-chair table set near the fire, I opened the bottle and poured for both of us, then gestured.
“Have your fill.”
We spent the next hour or so talking quietly about Marianne; about our emotional experiences with her, rather than our physical. Sex was too touchy a subject; we could never admit how demeaning the sex had been, and yet how very good. That we both enjoyed Marianne’s power over us, that she frightened and thrilled us in ways no other woman ever had or would—this we discussed, tentatively.
So we talked about how enlightening she was. About how her politics were far less hypocritical than any political party we’d known, and how maybe it would do some good to try it in the White House. About abortion. About abstinence, about Russia and China, Serbia and Africa. These were all her views; none of them were ours. Because, being hers, we agreed with her ideas. Even if, in theory, we’d never support them. We didn’t believe what she believed. But we agreed.
Looking over at the clock I saw that it was a little after two. I felt lethargic, but not at all tired, and wondered what to do now. He couldn’t stay, yet I couldn’t give him a ride home. I’d wake both Berrington and the driver getting to the car and leaving in it. They’d wonder why on earth I was taking a woman home in the middle of the night. They always left in the morning, delivered to their own doorsteps by my driver. I didn’t want anyone suspecting that anything odd had happened in my house, in my bedroom, tonight. Or any other night.
What to do? Feeling him looking at me, I glanced over. My breath stopped. He had a gleam in his eye that had not been there at all tonight; leaning back in his chair, one hand on the table, the other holding a half-full glass of Merlot, he looked at me through his lashes without any expression, and I sensed what was happening.
He was sizing me up. I could feel that he was looking into me, gauging whether or not the two of us in bed was plausible, whether or not—
I looked away. Picked up my own glass of wine and reached for a piece of cheese, but in mid-reach, his voice came out, low and commanding. Mild. But it brooked no argument.
“Put that down.” I looked quickly at him, but his expression, and his stance, had not changed. I put the glass down. Good God, what was I doing? He took a sip of his wine and continued to look at me.
“Go stand by the fire.” I frowned, certain now that what was happening I would not like.
“What?” I shook my head. He only nodded, once.
“You heard me.” Silence. “I want to see what Marianne sees in you. I want to know what it was that made her so sure you and I would enjoy a night together, despite our . . . natures.”
Not knowing exactly why, I stood up, and moved to the fire. I turned my back to him, I think, deliberately, a challenge of sorts. I had done as he asked, but had not allowed him to see what Marianne evidently thought was declarative of a man who might enjoy a lusty night in bed with someone of the same sex.I heard no sound, but suddenly he was behind me, breathing on my ear much like I had earlier. I froze. His hand reached out and took mine, and guided it to my crotch. His fingers were strong and nimble, agile fingers, lover’s fingers. He slid his fingers over mine and persuaded my digits over the part in my thighs, over my sex, which, to my chagrin, began to swell and harden. He did it slowly, smoothly, no rush, guiding me, and when I tried to move my hand away, he firmed his grip and held me there. I closed my eyes. This was not happening . . . it couldn’t be . . .
“Are you big? Hmm, feels like it. Of course,” he whispered, a voice like silk in my ear, “any man that slides into Marianne has got to be big . . . and hard . . .” His voice murmured at me, soothing me and frightening me; he continued to rub me using my own hand, and I felt myself gain size and thickness, against my will. I was becoming aroused at the command of another—
“She likes big balls, doesn’t she, Gabriel?” I hastily drew in another breath, then held it. “By the way, my name is Robert. Did she tell you that?”
I made a negative sound in the back of my throat, finding that my ability to speak had left me. He suddenly guided his fingers to find the shape of my testicles through my pants and boxers, and began manipulating them with both our hands. The galling sensation of pleasure at the hands of another man made me clench my teeth together and grow rigid in an attempt to maintain my dignity—but it was impossible!
“How big are these balls of yours, Gabriel? I wonder if I’ll have to see them to know just how big you are. Do you think so?” I closed my eyes, tried to pull away, but his hands were on me, his free hand holding me in place by my side, and my God, this felt so good . . .
“And your skin, it’s beautiful. Dark and tanned, your natural skin color, isn’t it? I bet she likes to look at that beautiful skin naked, by firelight, doesn’t she? Yes, Marianne does know how to pick them.”
I struggled to find something to counter him, anything—
“What about you? Why must you inspect me?” I heard him give a small laugh.
“Why? Do you want to see me naked, Gabriel?” He said my name like he was sucking at a peach, eating out a pear, devouring Marianne herself, licking her up and nibbling at her. Driving her crazy. That’s how he said my name.
And then I felt his tongue on my neck. His teeth. Sucking. They moved up to my earlobe, licking, biting, and then suddenly it wasn’t my hand at my crotch any more, but his. I didn’t move, but stood there, my eyes closed, my sex bulging against his hand, straining for it, as he grasped me through my black tuxedo slacks and rubbed me slowly, warmly. This was madness . . ..
A few movements had his pants undone; he took my hand and guided it into the crevice, into the darkness; with my eyes closed I breathed hard, and touched him, touched him through his white cotton briefs, yes, I glimpsed them through my lashes, then closed my eyes quickly again. His sex was equally large, if not larger, than mine.
“Feels good, doesn’t it, Gabriel,” Robert whispered, and I moaned at the touch of his tongue against my lips, as his hand massaged my sex through my slacks. My size would soon be impossible to hide behind the clothes that I was wearing. It seemed the same was happening to him.
“I wonder, Marianne likes to get a good, long, lick at you, doesn’t she? When she’s got you—“ at this, he took my free hand and threw it up against the wall above the mantelpiece, pinning it in place at the wrist, as I continued to fondle him, and he did the same to me. This was crazy, this was sinful, this was abominable—
“When she’s got you all tied up . . . she takes a good, long suck, doesn’t she? Doesn’t she like to suck you, hard, tight, wet—“
“Yes! Yes she does, and you know she does the same to you!” I whispered fiercely, so very ashamed at what was happening, that I was enjoying it so much. Robert went silent, his lips at my throat, I could hear him breathing in my smell, and his own was just as intoxicating as the liquor I’d had earlier . . . and he was going down . . . down . . . it took me some time to realize that my pants had gone, that they were down at my ankles, that he was now reaching for—
Too late!
“Oh, God, no!” But too late, he ignored me as I watched him, horrified, my sex now free from its hiding place, huge and embarrassing in its obvious eagerness to invade flesh, to pleasure itself, to find mad oblivion in serpentine movements and animalistic thrashings. I watched, eyes wide, as he inspected it. His fingers did not touch it; his hands merely held me still at the hips, and he took me all in with his eyes, and I felt it, felt him draw on me, and felt myself grow harder, longer!
And then Robert spoke: “I’m going to touch you, Gabriel. And you’re not allowed to move.”
Defeated, I slumped back against the mantelpiece, the fire burning my backside through my thin cotton boxers, and I felt his hand reach to circle my sex. His flesh seared mine, and I groaned, groaned as he leaned closer and then wetness just lightly crowned my head, a tongue tip swirled at just the very end, and then swabbed the entire bulb. I cried out—reached to stop him but instead found myself drawing him closer; heard his own moans as he suddenly moved to take all he could in—not much, but enough to make me draw tight like a bow and shiver with the sensations. Sex with Marianne had never been like this!Robert continued to lick at me, suck at me, his hands working miracles on my shaft, my balls . . . I throbbed with the rhythm, throbbed with need, and rocked myself slowly, surely, deeply, into his mouth, into him.
After several minutes of this he stopped and looked up at me, then stood and pulled off the polo shirt. He undid his pants all the way and stepped out of them, but left the socks on, which I found, oddly, endearing. I did not know what to do. He pointedly looked at my clothes, then stepped back, sat down on the bed, and slipped out of his briefs. His magnificent organ sprang free, large and proud, obscenely long and thick, corded and youthful. He had very little hair around his sex. He had very little hair over any of his body, for that matter. What hair he did have was light and fuzzy, and was a very pale brown. I suddenly imagined that body beneath Marianne’s, trussed like a bird and straining against her cream bedsheets; such a body would look beautiful bucking, the face contorting in response to extreme pleasure, against the pillows of a huge bed. His sex . . . what did it taste like? Would it taste like a woman’s?
“Gabriel,” he prompted. “Undress.” Looking down in surprise, I saw that I looked pathetic with my pants around my legs, in dishabille. I took off my shirt, my undershirt, stepping out of my pants. I took off my shoes, and then my socks, and looked at him, unsure.
“Come here. Come to me.” Slowly, I came forward, and, not knowing what else to do, stood there. He smiled.
“You think I know what the hell I’m doing?” He said. I stared at him. “I don’t.”
At that, he moved back on the bed, spread his legs, and offered himself.
“Now, do for me what I did for you. I want to know what it feels like. From a man.” He watched me watch him, and it took me forever to build up the courage. Finally I knelt on the bed. I leaned forward, gazing at his large and virile sex. It looked young, clean, and fresh; it was golden and glowing, engorged and beautiful—something I had never thought possible. I never thought that I would think such things of another man’s—
“Gabriel,” he prompted again, and I nervously reached out to take him by the knees. It was awkward. I would have to come closer. My hands slid down his thighs, tentatively, until I was squatting, facing him, down on the bed, face to face with his sex, my head between his slightly raised thighs. But my, he was beautiful, spread out like a feast, glistening and ready—with one hand I took hold of his sex, gently, afraid to hurt it. It felt so soft, the skin, tender and weak. But the state of it! Hardly weak. I brushed my lips across it and heard him sigh, saw, out of the corners of my eyes, his hands clutch the bedsheets. I parted my lips, and touched him lightly with my tongue. He gave a yelp, then a nervous laugh, and became quiet again. And then I slid my tongue around the knob, closed my lips around it, and sucked. The sound he made was incredibly gratifying—a cross between a cry and a moan, a tortured sound that made my own sex swell against the bed beneath me, as I began to repay him the pleasure he had given me.
My tongue, not at all as I had intended, somehow managed to find his scrotum, and it licked, roughly and eagerly, at the sacs within, pressing and rubbing, my entire face buried in his groin, my fingers playing with his sex, my tongue pleasuring him, until he cried out my name and yelled at me to stop.
“Wait, that’s enough! We’ve got all night . . . and the morning, if you want. Cool it . . .”
Breathing heavily, he withdrew from me, gingerly moving away so that he could sit with his legs crossed and his sex between us. I sat back, waiting. I wanted more—I wanted to see how far I could take him, what other interesting noises he would make. His beautiful face looked agonized and flushed in the golden light from the fire; I knew that he was just as shaken as I was, and that he wanted more, just as I did. He closed his eyes for a second, then took a breath, opening them.
“Alright,” he began, his voice mellow and a little shaky, “condoms.” I shrugged, smiling a little.
“I’ve used them with every woman. Once, a long time ago, with Marianne. But I’ve tested negative. No HIV. No STDs. I’m clean.” He nodded.
“The same with me. Clean.” Silence. Then: “And neither of us have been with men before, so we don’t have to worry about that.”
Quiet again. My sex throbbed between my legs; I took hold of it and squeezed lightly. His eyes fell to my crotch and watched fascinated, as a few drops of semen appeared at the bulb. Moving forward slowly, he came eye to eye with my sex, and then knelt his head over it, his tongue sliding out to lick up my juices. Then he moved away again, quiet, eyes closed. He seemed to be savoring the taste. I continued to slide my hand, very slowly, up and down my shaft. I didn’t want to end things too soon . . .
Shortly Robert moved to the center of the bed, then gave me a grave, but excited look.
“Alright. Shall we go all the way then?” I nodded, slowly. He did the same. Then, carefully, I came toward him. For several moments, he licked at my sex, then he turned over and spread his legs, on all fours, presenting his well-muscled backside. I felt myself get harder, if that were possible. Reaching out for him, I took hold of his rear and spread it slightly, gently, to peer into the glistening crack that I would have to enter. It looked tight—too tight. I had been in those of women, but how would it be for a man? Taking a breath, I took hold of my sex and inched it toward the opening; the little orifice puckered slightly, as Robert took a breath and steadied himself.
The head of my penis brushed against his anus, and he let loose a small whimper, but I was determined now, I wanted him. So I took tighter hold, and began, with mighty patience, to enter him.
The entrance was indeed almost too tight. He had never been entered before, except, possibly, by a few of Marianne’s toys, none of which was near the size of an average man’s penis. I looked down at my member, watched it get sucked in, and moaned his name—moaned it deeply, as he took me in. The going was excruciatingly long and tentative—and then finally I was in.
Taking him by the hips, I retreated slightly, then pushed deeper; the sound he made now was a high, keening hiccup that broke off as I reached around and beneath him for his cock. It throbbed, huge and ready, and I pumped him, as I pumped within him, the rhythm slow and careful, my sex growing heavy and wet inside of him, lubricating him with juices he had never encountered before.
We rocked. Thrusting and rolling, my hand pleasuring him as we moved, our bodies rocked to a sinful beat that was deliciously forbidden; I imagined him sucking my cock in an elevator, plunging into him in my Rolls Royce—my God, even allowing him to invade me in the steamy confines of my favorite sauna at the spa down the street!
The pleasure continued; his tight, hungry asshole sucked greedily at my sex, as he made luscious grunting noises beneath me, my hips pounding rhythmically into his ass. When the pleasure came to a peak, I held him tightly with both hands and tore into him, hearing his cries echo around the room, his face buried in the bedsheets, his sex rubbing hotly against the mattress, until finally, inevitably, we climaxed—his semen spurting like hot lava up against his belly, upon the sheets, even onto my thighs—as my own shot into his very bowels, driving deeper into him until we both grew limp.
Opening my eyes sometime later after we had napped, my sex still buried in his anus, I saw that the clock read three in the morning. I was not at all tired.
Rising on my forearms, I kissed the back of his neck and ran my hand through his hair, then gently withdrew, looking down to find that both my sex and his rear end leaked the creamy fluid of life. I walked barefoot to the bathroom to find a washcloth and rinsed it in hot water before squeezing it out. I wiped myself off, then returned to him to wipe all of him, and as much as I could of the bed, clean.
Moaning contentedly, he rolled over onto his back after this, his sex still mostly hard, and smiled at me, drawing a pillow under his head. He watched me clean up, and walk to the bathroom, and return to pour myself a full glass of wine. Sipping it, I looked at him over its rim, and came up with an idea.
“Come here,” I said. “Come to me.” His smile grew wider at my use of the phrase he had used earlier, and he did so.
Standing before me, he looked like some Greek god, bronzed and gorgeous. I pressed my hand on his shoulder and made him sit on the edge of the bed. I left him then, to find the tube of lubricant in my bathroom, and returned, laying it to the side. Taking up my glass of wine again, I knelt before him, smiled, and brought the cup up to his sex. His expression showed surprise, but he stayed still, as I soaked him in wine. I brought the glass away, then quickly moved to take him in, sucking on the flavor of Merlot as I brought him to full arousal. I did this several more times, until he was too large to reach very far into the glass, and then I returned it to the table, took him by his waist, and began to suck on him.
Minutes went by, and his hungry groans sounded up to the ceiling, until finally I withdrew and took up the lubricant, smearing him down well with it. This done, I moved away, to the thick faux fur carpet before the fireplace, bracing my hands on a footstool, and I presented him with my rear.
Moments passed, and then I felt him part my ass, a finger sliding up the crack to give me chills of pleasure. And then he did something wicked—he went down to slide his tongue in its place, so that I gave a shout and he laughed in return. The room grew silent again, and then finally I felt his hand at my waist, and a wet, pulsing organ pressing into my rear. It was painful—painful, and wonderful! The soreness drove me to clench the footstool and bite my lip, as he slid into me, huge and burning; the ache made me mad with hurt, but as he inched forward, ever so slowly, I let out a moan and tried to take him in. I pushed out, as if I were voiding from my bowels, which allowed him to progress; in this way, he found himself completely within me, and I felt filled, with him, with life, with pleasure, with pain. Ah, Marianne! Were you right about us!
The rocking began again, but this time I was the recipient, and it was equally grand; his sex thrust into and out of me, and I knew, for the first time, what it felt to be a woman; closing my eyes, I pictured us two as from an objective view: a beautiful man invading another—novel and old, a past-time for the great thinkers of Greece and Rome! I sighed, and shivered, and melted beneath Robert’s movements; I reached down to take hold of my cock and found that he had done the same; together we masturbated and invaded, and it went on forever, and hardly for long enough—
When we came, I had the sense of mind to grab the towel I had earlier and collect my liquids; Robert’s own seared into me like fire and I gasped, letting out a frantic cry as he suddenly took hold of my sex again and brought me to another orgasm, his own fierce and raw as he bucked behind me, straining for another exquisite culmination. It came, and we let out heavy sobs of shaken pleasure, collapsing onto one another in a fit of shuddering bliss.
The rest of the night was incomparable.
After another short rest, I took him to the little antique marble table and put everything aside; I buried myself in him until the climax came and he cried out; again, across the back of the couch, and on the coffee table; again, on the floor, I fucked him. At some point he wanted his own experience of domination, and he flung me onto the bed, spread my legs at the ankles and lifted them, his soaking sex wet with juices that were mine and his. He slid his member into me in this position and for the first time we could watch each other experience pleasure. I took hold of my own sex and masturbated fitfully, ferociously, frantic with the need to come and watch him come with me. We did this together for breathless minutes, and then finally, deliciously, we both spilled our seed; my own shot all over his chest, driving him mad with the raw sexuality of it, so that he did not stop coming until several minutes afterward; after this, I licked him clean, and we resorted to the shower. Not even scalding hot water could wash away our need, and twice more we took to sordid positions, enjoying our power, straining beneath the hot water to produce our own steam.
The night was spent like this, two heterosexual men reveling in an uninhibited night of raw homosexual taboo—we feared what would happen when the dawn came, and we closed the curtains over the windows to prevent it from arriving.
I awoke to a deep and loving kiss, and reached for her—and found him instead. But he was just as wonderful. Beside me, his naked body nestled next to mine, Robert was a vision in the dusky glow of murky light—he had cracked the curtains earlier. His beauty aroused me again, and we wasted another hour or more playing when we should have been planning.
Afterward, we took separate showers and dressed, then sat staring on the couch toward the strip of light at the window.
“What—“ Began Robert, suddenly unable to phrase words now.
“You’re going to tell her, right? About us. And she’ll be pleased.” He nodded, looked down at his feet. He still had no shoes. I had to remember to give him a pair of mine—they might be too big, but they would have to do.
“Gabriel, what do you think? Will we do this again?” He would not look at me; I knew that he did not want to lose what we had found last night.
I nodded, reached out and took his hand. His firm and strong hand.
“Of course we will. With or without her.” He nodded. It was time for the truth.
Turning to look at him, I waited until he looked at me. My voice was calm and certain when I spoke.
“Neither of us will ever be with anyone else . . . but each other.”
A partial question, but mostly a statement. When I said “anyone else,” I meant any other man. For it was impossible. We still loved women. But we loved each other now. We would continue to do so, to bury our sexes in each other’s bodies, to find incredible bliss in each other’s arms. But it was impossible to imagine doing such a thing with another man. It was frightening. And we would still always love to pleasure and be pleasured by women. It was our nature.
And Marianne?
Robert nodded, then leaned close to me for a kiss. We sat like this for hours. Sometime in the afternoon the phone rang, and I reached to pick it up.
“Hello?”
“Darling, how was last night? How did you find him?” I looked down at the handsome young man cocooned in my arms, and I smiled.
“I found him delicious. As a matter of fact, I think I love him. How’s that for winning?” In surprise and delight, Robert’s head came up and he grinned at me, not shy at all. The silence on the other end broke.
“Love, Gabriel? In just one night?” I cleared my throat, brushed a kiss across the top of my lover’s brow.
“Yes, it’s possible. But of course, we still love you. But we also love each other.” I paused. “How do you feel about that?”
Her laughter put me at ease, and I smiled down at Robert. Marianne was still ours, we were still hers, and now we were also each other’s.
“Wonderful, darling! Exactly what I’d hoped for!”
Wasn’t that just like Marianne? A woman who would never admit that she was wrong. It didn’t matter.
In the end, wrong might as well be right.