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The Story of L
L was a nurse whom I met while getting a flu shot. She was a beautiful Latina, 31 years old, 5' 6", with long, thick black hair that was so glossy it almost looked blue. She had light olive skin and exotic features like one sees on Mayan wall frescoes-the swept back head, long curving nose, thin prominent lips, small chin, atop a long neck the color of caramel.
At this flu clinic, where she was moonlighting, she wore the traditional white nurses' uniform, complete with starchy cap, white nylons, sturdy white shoes, and a white dress buttoned up the front. She was one of those women with very skinny, almost stick legs but muscular, wiry, whippet-quick and strong—I mean her entire frame, not just her legs.
I was waiting in line for some minutes behind a nondescript assemblage of men and women, when she and I caught one another's eyes. What attracted me to her, aside from her exceptionally well toned body in that white uniform, was the humor and good nature in her eyes.
"How are you?" she said in a faintly accented voice. She managed to stick me quickly and painlessly. "Go sit over there," she ordered, and had me sit for observation on a plastic chair beside her. I watched with interest as she passed several more patients through. There was a lull, in which she stripped off her latex gloves and washed her hands. "What's your name?"
I told her, and she took her time filling out my chart. She admitted later that she was stalling in the hope I would summon up the courage to ask her out. I had that sixth sense about it, as always, and made some comment that led to a conversation which led to our having dinner that evening. I picked a nice, cozy steak house that I could afford, having just been paid from my librarian job. She ran home, changed into casual evening clothes, and came around to pick me up in her car.
We relaxed over a pair of margaritas, and talked about who we were. L was second generation American of Belizean and English descent, whose family had moved to the San Francisco area a generation earlier. Her father was a professor of Spanish Literature, and her mother was a nurse as she had become. "Why do you like nursing?" I asked. We were already holding hands, though I was not about to push things. It felt good, and I knew for sure all good things would come in time.
"I like helping people," she said as she squeezed my hand. "I like being in the middle of things. What I miss most is having someone to be friends with."
I put my hands around hers. "Someone who will be nice to you and enjoy spending some time with you?"
She rolled her eyes up. "If you would pay some attention to me and keep being nice like this, I would enjoy spending time with you, yes." She patted my hands, trumping my protective gesture. "I'm not needy, trust me. I'm very self-reliant, which is why I often push people away from me personally. I get so busy helping others that I end up sitting there alone most evenings." She leaned close with an embarrassed air. "Do you mind that I am so much older than you?"
"Six years?" I shook my head. "You aren't your chronological age, but however young you feel. Also, I think Latinas age so well, that you don't seem any older to me than I am."
"You are so flattering," she said. Her teeth flashed when she laughed, and she had pink gums. Her eyes were dark and beautiful, with the whites narrowing like almonds outward. "Are you full of it, Peter?"
I trumped her hands with mine again. "I wouldn't be sitting here if I thought anything less of you."
"Did you know I was older?"
"Only by your sophistication and maturity. I like that. It intrigues me, because you have so many secrets."
"I do?" She laughed, in a tone that suggested she knew I was full of blarney, and yet there was an element of truth to it, and I was certainly sincere.
"You were married? Had kids?"
She shook her head. "I dated someone for years. Actually, a few someones. One guy through college, another through my early nursing years, and I just broke up with someone a few months ago. Like I said, I am so busy that it takes me a long time to latch up, and then I just stay with a guy unless he leaves me."
"Did they leave you, those guys you were dating?"
"The first one and the last one. I got dumped real good recently. The middle guy—"
"Yes?" I waited. "Don't want to tell?"
She shook her head. "Maybe someday, if there is a someday."
I didn't care but I said: "See what I mean, secrets?"
"That's not a secret worth keeping. Okay, I'll tell you. He was kind of unsure about himself, and then after we dated for three years he decided he was gay and left me for a doctor at the hospital where we worked. I changed jobs soon after."
"You were embarrassed?"
She nodded. "I was. But more so I was scared about HIV. Luckily, we always used protection and he was careful about it. I don't think he had had sex with many men at that point..." She seemed to realize she was embarrassing herself again, so she waved her hands like a bird trying to take flight and squealed "Enough already, let me out of that conversation!" "Tell me about Belize," I said to change the topic, and she did. Dinner came, which was very enjoyable. We went to the mall and down by the water (maybe the classic test) and then she applied the 'not-on-the-first-date' rule by kissing me demurely good night as she dropped me off at my place, and then drove off in her nice little VW Passat. I stood waving, and she waved back and there was absolutely no mistaking the longing and interest in her gorgeous eyes—the hunger, I should say—as she drove off.
Our intimacy—my consummation with dear L—occurred that weekend after one or two lunch dates and a movie evening. She was a fulltime E.R. nurse and saw a lot of nasty things every day, so she had this mixed air of competence versus innocence, experience versus naïveté, hardness versus tenderness. She could probably bake you a cake and change the oil in your car while ironing—in other words, she was utterly feminine without being dependent. Having a relationship was not about being needy or codependent but about working out a kind of deal.
She told me at one point as we walked together arm in arm, after a movie one evening: "You can stay with me as long as you want, as long as you aren't mean or dishonest. I don't think you would ever be either of those things, but some men can be and I had to say it."
"It's okay. I understand."
"So what's your boundary?" She would ever be the deal-maker.
I had to think for a moment. "I can't think of anything more than what you asked me."
"That's fair." She was always about being fair and making deals and being on the up and up. She pulled me close and kissed me. Tongues talk to each other in various ways. Her tongue had a languid way of telling my tongue that she really liked being in the same mouth with it (hers or mine) and that it was just a plain pleasure to roll around together in all that spit and desire.
We drove to her place, which was a really neat high-tech themed apartment downtown. "Ta-dahh!" she said, flipping on the lights as we entered for the first time. "Wow," I said, gazing at the glossy wood floors, the glass and steel furniture with red, white, and blue cushions, the steel ceiling with greenish glass panes. "It's a loft," I said. "I've always wanted to live in one."
She turned proudly with her arms out. "Well, second best is having a friend who lives in one." She swept into my arms, bounced off, and dashed into her kitchen. "Want a drink? How about some juice?"
"Nurses always give juice," I said. "Yes." She threw things in a blender—ice, bananas, strawberries, vanilla cream—turned the gadget on High for a minute, and served up smoothies.
"Wow, that's good," I said, sipping creamy sweetness, wondering if her cunt would taste like this, as we sat in the living room area looking out of a broad picture window at a spectacular view of the city from the fifth or sixth floor. "Sixty or eighty years ago, this was a factory," she said. "Think of all those people who worked their lives away here, making shoes. That's what they made here. Shoes. Work boots. Combat boots."
She had her philosophical side that way. She also had the first threads of gray in her glossy hair, and a few wrinkles in the usual places. She was also direct and honest and fun and could sometimes read minds. She stood on tiptoe on those thin legs, with that whippet-thin body, and reached up for a bottle of white brandy. "I'm going to put a little spirits in there so that you don't see my wrinkles." That's not the kind of statement that begs a clever reply, or any reply, so I smiled reassuringly.
The skyline grew more magnificent as night deepened. She had a good place here under the haze of building lights and neons. Traffic noise was minimal. Laughter from party goers in the bars and restaurants below was more noticeable than the occasional honk of a horn or rev of an engine. She had this narrow stainless steel ledge that functioned as a counter top directly before the picture window, and we sat side by side on bar stools nursing our fruited brandies and looking outside. A cityscape isn't complete unless you have at least one rundown hotel from yesteryear to stare at, with a few bulbs missing in its lighted sign. There was such a place a block up the street.
L was a talker and a good listener, and buddy of a woman. For a while, she actually sat with her arm through mine. Or she would reach out suddenly and hold your hand for a while. She would gaze into your eyes as if it helped her listen more intently. I talked a little bit about my book that I was writing (portions of which would find their way into a detective novel I would publish years later).
L was a follower of the not-on-the-first-date rule, and had already tested me for predatory tendencies, so I was well vetted. I ended up walking part of the way home, and taking a bus the rest of the way. The light of the city were bright, and my heart was soaring.
Over the next week or two, we sat at her perch by the window and enjoyed the marvelous view, and soft music, and eventually slipped into each other's arms for a dance on the concrete floor. She had low-end Persian carpets, very tasteful and good on the bare feet, just didn't last a century like the high-end thing. On our third or fourth date, we undressed each other and danced naked in the soft glow of nearby red and pink and green neon signs. There were few possible Peeping Tom opportunities in the black windows of shuttered Victorian buildings around us, whose working staffs had long ago gone home for the night. Had anyone seen us, they might have seen faint sticks and squares of colored light moving about. I don't think L was into being watched. I think she was just carefree. There was also a secret side of her that I would get to know in time.
As we danced nude, we kissed, and petted. I enjoyed the feel of her wiry, girlish body in my arms. She had the smoothest skin, and a figure like that famous doll whose name begins with a B. I was {k} to her {b}, if I may bend the naming conventions of this book a bit.
As we danced closely, my erection became an issue. She laughed and held it for me. Remember, she was a nurse who held people's limbs and organs and puking throats all day. I had to laugh too at her pert humor. I had both arms around her, and her head on my right shoulder, while her right hand held aloft my pecker instead of my left hand; by aloft, I mean she pressed it against my stomach pointed upward. Okay, it was funny, but it was sexy too, and I could hear her steady breathing accelerate, getting harder, under my right ear. Again she read my mind. "Can you hear me breathing hard for you?"
I murmured in response, and she moved her palm around the head. "My hand is getting wet."
I had been feeling her thigh against my knee. "I feel something damp on my knee."
"That's me getting dewy for you."
"Dewy want to retire to someplace a little less vertical?"
She had been holding my penis against my abdomen, and now pressed close to me and held it against her belly. "I'm ready for the next step," she whispered in my ear and bit my ear lobe.
There wasn't really a bedroom—just a different corner of the loft, in the same darkly pinkish glow. Her bed was a large mattress, on the floor, covered with sheets and blankets. We crawled onto this together and made out.
Our petting grew more intimate—after all, she had been holding my schwantz already, so what secrets did have left to withhold? My hands roved over the sparse but shapely and incredibly smooth topography of her small brown body. She had small breasts and small nipples like raisins. I tasted them, sucked on them, and palmed the softness of her tits. Because she was light, there were special things we were able to do; like, she sat on my face. Actually, her butt was on my chest, and her vagina at my mouth, while her legs were bent at the knee, spread over my shoulders, feet flat on the sheets. She had a brownie outtie, from what I could tell in the dim reddish light. I felt as though I were in a bordello, which gave the situation an added bit of spice. She parted her good-sized labia for me so that I could penetrate with my tongue. I explored the geography of her little garden with curiosity and pleasure. At the top, under hard Venus mound topped by fragrant hair smelling of cunt sweat and bath soap musk, she had a nice clitoris like a little dog in a bun, waiting to come out and play.
Tracing the dewy path across the garden, I came to her well. This was a wobbly little swelling with an opening in top, and it had a vaguely salty flavor but even more faintly ammonia smell. I licked it with my tongue, and my spit made it more pleasant. She intook her breath sharply as I diddled the masses of nerve endings that pleasured her as my tongue waggled the opening of her urethra. From there, I wandered down into the cave mouth of her tunnel.
She was small and tight, and my tongue filled it as if I were fucking her. She reacted as if she were being fucked, and held my cheeks while her knees came together over me. She sank down on to her knees so that her cunt and my tongue formed a near-vacuum. She reached down and fanned her clit slowly, then more rapidly. She had this other way of playing with her clit. Holding its long hard shaft between her thumb and middle finger, she used the tip of her index finger to lightly raise the hood a tiny bit and then used the same fingertip to exercise the very tip of her clit.
I felt my penis growing painfully engorged seeing all this going on within inches of my face. My tongue came out with a pop, and her tunnel made a damp sucking sound as air rushed in. "Do it again," she urged in a tight tone that told me her voice box was constricted with tension and arousal. I worked my tongue in, again and again, to its root, so it was rolled up in her vagina. I could feel the vaginal walls throbbing around it.
She began to tremble lightly, and shifted about—squirm would be a better word to describe her motions. She was dripping wet, and I was swallowing her cunt juice, almost choking on it. Meanwhile, behind her back, I grasped the thick of my dick and felt it dribble on the connective skin between my thumb and index finger. "Sit on my dick," I said.
"Are you ready, darling?" She started to move, lifting a leg.
I nodded. "I wanted to stretch it out as long as possible, but I'm just going to shoot, and I don’t want to waste a good orgasm." Compliantly, she backed down and straddled my waist. Her little rear end came down, and she held her labial door open as my head thundered into her shaft. Not a moment too soon, because her tunnel was already vibrating, and my dick was in its contractions. I sat up, laid her on her back, and proceeded to fuck her hard in the missionary position.
I didn't even take time to put her ankles on my shoulders, as I liked to do, or kiss her. I just rammed into her the way a snow truck plows into a snow bank on a blizzard night. She tried to wrap her legs around my waist, but didn't get a chance.
She cried out and moaned with passion as I thumped her rapidly, bam bam bam, and the room was filled with fleshy splatting noises as our bodies collided.
Pulling her knees back to her shoulders with her hands, she opened up as fully as she could, all defenses down, desire all eyeballs on the ramparts, as I charged across under her portcullis. Bam bam bam, the steel girders and hard window surfaces without curtains echoed above us, and she must have slid an inch back with each collision.
She threw her head back and screamed my name. "Peter!" Then she just screamed, a short bark that trailed off into a wail and then a long deep moan like that of a wounded or impassioned animal. Meanwhile, I shot. They were big gouts, like lungfuls hurled from deep. On the best of orgasms, under the most passionate circumstances, a man feels the sperm squirting up from below, feels each hurled packet fly through the thickness of his tube, and out into the woman's receiving end. This was such a moment. When I was done, I collapsed on top of her.
I was afraid to hurt her with my weight. "Am I hurting you?"
She shook her head. "No, baby, I like feeling your weight on me." She stroked my buttocks absently. We were both sweaty, and both still breathing hard. I rested my head between her little breasts, and she stroked my hair—the buttocks now out of reach.
After a little nap, lying side by side, we slowly began to explore, and to be aroused again. This time, I took her from behind. She offered herself, holding her butt cheeks apart, while I walked on my knees holding my dong out like a probe, and inserted it between those loving labia.
She was good from behind, as she had been in front, and again the room rocked with the sounds of bam bam bam, louder because she had nice tight round butt cheeks. When I came, I pulled her up on to me. I had my arms around her waist, and lifted her backward while ramming my rod upward into her. She spilled backward with her arms and legs going in all directions, but she never stopped urging me to do it harder, faster, harder. Then I was on my back, she was on top, facing away, and I rocked her up and down while we both came. As I said, her lightness made for some unique acrobatics.
Speaking of acrobatics, she also straddled my face sideways with her hands propping her up by my left ear, and her feet beyond my right ear on the other side. She did this facing first one way, then the other, while her vagina hovered over my mouth. She loved having that pussy eaten, and I spent many hors with my mouth in it, and glad of it.
She could even straddle my head with her legs folded tightly against my ears, while she rested on her elbows above my head, and her vagina was open on my chin, mouth, and nose. That was a good position, because I loved cupping her buttocks while I drank from her chalice. She was one of those women who can tolerate pressure on their clits, so I tongued her hard. Ironically, she was very sensitive around her pee hole, so I had to go easier there.
An exciting moment was the first time I realized I should fuck her while she wore her nurse uniform. I don't mean her baggy scrubs, but the crisp, traditional white one I'd first seen her in, skinny legs and all, with that starchy thing atop her head. We set aside an old pair of white hose that we cut a hole out of in the bottom, and sometimes we fucked with her wearing that under her uniform. Sometimes I had her fuck with nothing on under her uniform. A few times, I had her wait for me at the front door, rather than near the bed, and I fucked her from the back and front in her uniform, standing, though she basically had to wrap her legs around my waist and have me lean her against a wall while we banged away.
She and I had a lot of fun going to movies and plays and having dinner in restaurants or just walking hand in hand downtown. This is where the other wrinkle in all this develops. Or, make that wrinkles, multiple.
One evening, we were walking hand in hand downtown, amid a heavy flow of pedestrians going and coming amid the bars, theaters, and restaurants of those several blocks. Who should be coming the opposite way, but my concurrent flame K, the gorgeous blonde who liked to rub herself, especially while watching that certain sitcom with beautiful young people of both genders.
She was with a man, a date I am sure, a fuck buddy I'm not sure, and I know she saw us, but she looked the other way and passed. I generally was a one-woman guy. I couldn't handle with more than one woman the amount of passion I always invested. Also, oddly, though temporality was underwritten into all these dead-end love affairs, I wanted to remain true to the woman who was loving me. Later, when married, I never cheated. Like the vast majority of guys, the added work of having affairs has always been more than I can handle, both the work required for an average guy to chase a desirable woman, and the guilt. Oh God, the guilt. Not for me. But I never chose the timing of when these relationships started. Sometimes they overlapped. This was one such instance.
And, yes, I was jealous. Irrational to say, but I wished I had not seen K with another man. K grasped her male friend's hand, and passed with a look that is hard to forget. I saw shock in her eyes, jealousy in the half-parted mouth as she suppressed a gasp. Knowing her volatile temperament, I expected a bath of invective and a boot out of her life. I was in for a surprise.
L noticed the transaction. She felt my sudden stiffening, the tightening of my hand around hers, the exchange of looks or avoidance of looks. The other man even seemed startled. He looked like a very pleasant fellow a few years older than K. "Friend of yours?" my Belizean friend L asked.
"Someone I know."
"From how pale you suddenly look, I imagine someone you know intimately."
"It's a long story." I was suddenly worried that both women would dump me. I was very much in lust with both, and didn't relish the idea of losing either.
L didn't make more of it. She did stare over her shoulder once or twice. We went to our movie, and then sat in a bar afterward over margaritas. "Peter," L old me, "you've been looking worried. I want to assure you that I'm not upset that you bumped into an old flame or whatever."
I squirmed at the thought she might press me for information. Then I might have to reveal I was seeing them both. A violation, on the one hand. My perfect right, on the other hand, since I was not sworn to a commitment. In my confused and imperfect way, I think I had a streak of loyalty and fairness. I didn't want to hurt anyone.
"Maybe I should let you in on a secret," L said. "I don't have to, but maybe I will." She ordered us a second round of margaritas. She waited until the drinks came, and then had us move out of earshot to a private spot in a far corner. "Honey," she told me with one hand over mine, "I'm bisexual." She waited. "Are you shocked?" "Yes." I felt about an inch tall, then realized it was silly to feel that way, and popped back to my normal size.
I was still reeling—whether at her candor, or the breathtaking meaning of it, I'm not sure—when she said the next thing. "I've been having a relationship with another woman while I have been dating you." She waited for that to sink in, and sink it did. "You look a bit green," she said. "Sure you are okay? If it's something you ate, that's one thing. If it's about you're jealous or whatever, I'm like who cares, because this is who I am and it's my right to be who I am. As long as I am honest with you, as I am now, I think it's fine." She actually sounded a bit heated. "I hardly ever tell any partner that I am bi. It's none of their business, and most people can't grasp what it means. I am bi, and that stirs up animosity, whether from straights or gays, and I don't need the bullshit from either side. Okay, Peter, now you know."
"Why this moment to tell me?" I whispered when my breath came back.
"Because I got bowled over by your girlfriend. She is knock-out, drop-dead gorgeous. Not only that, but she is bi."
"I've suspected that she is bi."
"How would you know?" It was the first time L had sounded almost contemptuous to me. She was usually so even tempered. She caught herself immediately, but I wouldn't let her apologize. "No, it's okay," I said, "look, L, I love you or whatever the correct expression is to describe that I have these feelings for you, as someone I am intimate with, and I want to protect you from harm or hurt."
She put her hands over mine. "Sorry, Peter." She made a kissy mouth at me and winked both eyes shut reassuringly. "I will protect your tender little feelings too. On the one hand, baby, I have to tell you that my partner Marsha is lesbian and won't bed a man, so tough titty if you think we're going to end up in the sack all three of us. It ain't happening, poor sweet sugar cane. However, dear darling boy, that girl of yours is a walking closet case. Is she a little air headed?"'
"I don't think so. We have a very active fantasy relationship."
"I'm not good at those," L said wistfully. "I'm straightforward. Funny, Marsha is an actress and always tripping out in her fantasies, and I am the ground for her electricity. You and she would get along great if one of you had a sex change or something." We both laughed. She held my hands. "Baby, sweetheart, doll, I want to hold on to you. I hope you appreciate my secret."
I was baffled. "So, L, do bisexual people have two relationships going? I mean if you're bi, do you have to juggle two separate lives?" She grinned. "You devil, you. You're thinking, here I am struggling with two women, or however many of us you have on the hook at any moment—"
"—Usually one. I'm very monogamous," I said. "This is a unique—"
"—Okay, yeah. Unique case. No, Bobo, let me 'splain something that neither gays nor straights nor many bis understand. Remember that, though I'm a nurse, I actually majored in biology. I figured the sexuality thing out because I have the kind of personality that can step back and be neutral and figure things out. Also, I was very confused about myself and had to seek answers. Newsflash: Most people are bisexual. A small percentage are totally gay, and a small percentage are totally straight. At least 80% of the population are bisexual. One problem is that we're hung up on labels.
"First, society, driven by religious prejudices, wants to insist that everyone be heterosexual and fuck only in the missionary position on certain nights when the moon is full or whatever. No fun, just mechanics, because women are evil and men are weak and we all have to be completely miserable at all times. That's just so much bullshit. That's asshole theology, but that's the groove where most people are stuck.
"Second, the majority of people are bisexual, but each person is a unique case. Statistically, I suspect while most people are bisexual, the skew is toward hetero, since that is biologically and evolutionarily what keeps the race going. Still, most people have some mix of hetero and same sex genes. If you're 90/10 or 80/20 or even 70/30, chances are you'll live most of your life in denial and will never stray across that gender boundary. But if you're 60/40 or 50/50, you're in my realm. Since society is so full of lies and bullshit and stupidity, you have to figure it out for yourself as I did."
I told L about J's television watching and diddling. L said: "Your gorgeous friend may eventually admit she is attracted to women as well as men, or not. I'd like to get her in the sack myself. I wonder if she would let me, and if you could be there and share in the passion."
I was too stunned to say anything. I was still naïve in some ways, and part of my universe was crumbling around my ears. I was, however, a logical sort, and would usually come around to the common sense of reality, as opposed to the wishful thinking of zealots who refuse to accept reality.
L said: "I don't know if you'll understand that, but for God's sake, please listen. When rightwing zealots claim to have changed gays to straights, they are I their own ignorance dealing with confused bisexuals. That is the tragedy of my kind. I know who I am and what I need. Most people aren't critical thinkers and cannot reason this kind of thing out for themselves, so they become victims of these cult leaders. Because we are such a pathologically rightwing society, those cult leaders are able to twist a lot of people to their agendas. That's all beyond the scope of you and me. What I want you to understand, Peter, is that every bi is different. Some have long-term relationships, and stay with a man or woman for life, or for years before flipping into another relationship. It's not the gender, but the loyalty, the fact of remaining true to one person. In the whole spectrum of things, yes there are opportunistic bis who play both sides of the fence. Most people are like you or me, Peter, and try to be kind and fair. I just want you to understand that being bisexual doesn't mean you necessarily have both a male and female partner, although when it happens it happens. At the moment, it seems to be happening for me. In my case, I am not in love with anyone right now. I am very fond of you, but you aren't in love with me, and I'm not in love with you. To be in love is to have a committed relationship, and neither of us has that. You certainly aren't ready for that, but you will be one day. I was seeing a woman who deeply turns me on, and I shared with her something I could never share with you. We've cooled off quite a bit, and I don't know where or if it's going. She doesn't know about you—that's how I prefer to play the game. I call it a 'need to know' basis. I have to always go back to who I am and what my needs are, and at the same time what's fair for my male and/or female lover." She shrugged. "That's the whole story."
"Is your female lover beautiful?" I asked.
She laughed. "You're not going to bed with her. She is a committed Lesbian."
"I didn't mean that. I many never get to talk like this with another bisexual, and I'm just curious, especially because I'm trying to figure out what is what with K."
"She'll never get past looking. She's a 20 maybe—just barely aware she is interested in women, but not enough to act it out. She'll go through life wondering why she gets a little hot when just the right gorgeous woman walks past her in the street, or flirts with her. She'll do that thing you said, rubbing herself, and some of the pictures in her head will be of a woman on the street who looked at her a certain way, or a woman on a passing bus who noticed K and turned her head to stare after her, or a totally straight woman who finds K looking at her kind of hard and blushes and looks away. K will have all those things, but never go past them." After some telephone games (she made it clear she was hurt or miffed or something about having seen me with L, though she herself was with another man), K invited me over a few evenings later. I had called her to initiate it, and she made it a little rough, but then she caved and told me to come over right away. She was waiting for me, kissing me as soon as I came in the doorway. She was exceptionally passionate and had both arms over my shoulders while Frenching me, then got her hand down my pants and led me to the bedroom, where she made love hot and heavy. As we lay together, she said: "I was afraid you had moved on."
"I am not moving on. I just happened to meet this woman. I'm still hot on our fantasy games."
"Does she play games with you like I do?"
"No, L honey, she is very straightforward. She's a nurse and gets right to the point."
"To your point."
"Yes that point. The point." I slipped my index finger in between her labia, and she squirmed her hips so that her cuntie seemed to suck on my finger. My finger and her cuntie were making a little light love there on their own, while K and I made pillow talk.
"Does she do everything to you that I do?"
"No, you are a better lover."
"How do I know you aren't lying?"
"You can't know. If I am telling the truth, you should feel good that you are the better lover. If I am not telling the truth, and please don't use the word 'lying' at me, then you should feel good that I care enough to spare your feelings."
"I'm sorry. 'Lying' was a bit harsh."
"You know it. And besides."
"What?"
"She couldn't steal me away from you."
"Why is that?" She cupped her hand over my hand, so that my finger was safe or trapped or something in her vagina where it belonged. Her finger. Her vagina. Her man. She leaned close to brush my lips, and I could feel the heat of her breath on my skin.
"She is bi."
"Oh really." After a momentary brightening of interest, she changed the subject, and we ended up petting for ten minutes or so. There was another storm of passion on the way, but we were resting up, saving ourselves for it. After a while, her hand, which had been cupped over mine, moved so that her fingers pushed another of my fingers into her slot. Now I had my index finger and middle finger both in the moist groove from her clit to her hole. My middle finger sensed the wet suction of her hole, and naturally wiggled in. She closed her sphincter and with her hand backed me out. "How do you know she is bi?" She was breathing a little harder, and I could tell she was fascinated.
"We talked about it."
"Is that all? Did you see her?"
"No. She has a lover but it's growing cool and she might be looking for someone else."
"Did she say that?"
"No, I'm just guessing."
"So you didn't see anything really hot and racy?"
"No, like I said, she is very straightforward. Not complicated like you, bunny. She doesn’t watch television sitcoms and rub her labia with her finger and have all these little micro-orgasms whether it's over a boy or a girl actor."
"You only think you know what I am turned on by. I'm turned on by you."
"You are being extra hot and passionate tonight. I am happy that you are turned on by me."
She snuggled against me in such a way that not only did she want me to hug her, cover her, shelter her, baby her, protect her, but the movement made her hip ride up so that my finger slid back into her hole. She reached down and pushed all four fingers of my hand in, bundled so that index was next to baby, and on top of them middle next to third. She rocked her hip, which made her tunnel slide back and forth. Her head was against my chest, hidden, her face shadowed. I could smell her hair.
"Want to play?" I asked.
She nodded, a quick embarrassed shake of the head. She kept her face buried. She was waiting for me to take the fantasy where she knew I knew she wanted it to go. L would have called her (fondly) a chicken-shit.
"I am holding you," I murmured, and she preened at the knowledge a game was starting and I was going to be kind and hot with her. I kept murmuring on and on: "I am holding you, and you are getting turned on." She licked my nipple. "I am holding you, and you are having me put my fingers in your cunt." She tightened around my fingers, pulling the tips in deeper, while she gave my other nipple a lick. "You know that soon I will slide my thick dick into your wet hole, and you will squeeze your whole body around it because it just fills you up and turns you on." She gave my other nipple a lick. "I love holding you and feeling your figure in my arms. Then, while we are making love, you think about the boy and girl actors in that sitcom." Her cunt tightened excitedly. "You think about the dark-haired guy and the brown-haired guy. Then you think about the beautiful girl who has that hairdo and jiggles when she walks." Her cunt, still tight, wetly turned a few degrees each way, corkscrewing on my fingers.
She came out from inside my embrace and pushed herself up so her head was higher than mine, and she nibbled my earlobe. "She has a gorgeous little ass."
"Which one, the blonde or the redhead."
"The one you were with the other night."
I was a bit surprised, but shined it on. "We just passed each other in a flash."
"I looked back. I made my friend cross the street with me. I told him it was to look at a shop window, but it was really so I could stare after you too. I was mad at you, but I really liked her little ass."
"She does have a little ass."
"I'll bet you had your hands on it."
"Now, now, K, let's make a deal and stay off the jealousy stuff."
"I was very jealous of you. Now I'm not jealous. Well, maybe a little. I'm interested in the juicy details. Come here." She pulled my hand out of her cunt and had me rub the wetness on my member, getting it engorged. Then she rolled on top of me so that my head popped through her gate and slid up her tunnel. "See? I love you, Peter, fantasy bunny, and I want you to tell me all about it because I have never made love to a woman."
"Well," I said carefully, trying to keep it a game that would turn her on without hurting her feeling or making her angry or jealous. "She likes to get right to it."
"Did she fuck you on the first date?"
"No, she held me at arms' length and checked me out long and hard."
"Long and hard, I'll bet. Well, then she has good sense. Good for her." She rode my dick slowly in a very preliminary way, getting herself ready to get ready to get heated up.
"Your nipples are big and hard," I said. "I am glad you approve of this woman and her good sense."
"She has good taste in men," K said as she continued rocking on my dick while she straddled my waist.
I fondled her soft, blunt knees and stroked the good curves of her thighs. "I think I have wonderful taste in women," I said.
"You do, you do."
"You approve of her?" "I think so. From afar."
I reached up with my lips and kissed her pinkie titties. She leaned forward to let me, and even held each one in turn for me so it would be easy to reach its pink nipple. "I'll bet you ended up kissing her titties," K said while she held hers and I sucked on it.
I pushed out on her knees to spread them a little, so that she rested harder and more helplessly on my groin. I reached around her and pressed with both palms flat on her tail so that her vagina pressed against my groin. "She has brown nipples, and a brownie outtie cunt."
K laid her face on my chest and fondled my arms absently. I could feel the tightening of her cunt with interest as I spoke of L's genitals. She wanted to hear more, but couldn't bring herself to urge me verbally. She didn't want me to see her face, but I know she licked her lips because her mouth got a little dry. Her palms tightened around the delicate skin of my ribs, which I liked, so I pressed my arms against her hands for a few minutes to hold them there—and to hold her, trap her, make her feel wanted. I forced her tailbone area down lightly.
"Her name is L," I said, "and she has a tight, wiry, very powerful little body."
"Does she know my name?"
"No," I lied. "I didn't tell her anything."
"Would she be jealous?"
"I didn't want to find out."
"I don't blame you." She still had her cheek pressed against my chest. She was thinking, and drawing circles in my skin with her fingertip. "If she doesn't know about me...well, tell me more about her. Did you enjoy it? Was she good?"
I put my arms around her back, stroking the back of her neck and her head lovingly. "She is small, and wiry. She has a nice tight pussy, and it gets very, very wet." K stopped drawing circles and pondering, and listened. Her own pussy tightened with interest and concern. I said: "She can lie on top of me just as you are doing right now, but there is less of her, and I prefer having more. Specifically, I prefer having more of you." As I spoke, K sat up and started rocking again. We were going for it. I rubbed her knees and said: "Do you know, honestly, I could get turned on just by kissing your soft round knees, especially when you have a tan?"
K lowered herself back onto my chest, but resting on crossed arms, and chin to chin. "Honey, Peter, would you pretend that I am her?"
"You want me to imagine her?" "No, I want you to make me do whatever she does." She sat up straight and waved her arms in the air dramatically. "How she does it. I want to be her."
"We can try. Will you be turned on?"
She nodded eagerly, as if I were finally catching on.
"I will have you be her, then. I have to pretend that you are she, however. Will that be okay with you?"
"As long as you don't forget who I am." Her cunt tightened on my cock and sucked on it with its interior muscles. She wanted this pretty badly.
I hugged her to me and, with her pinned in my embrace, beaming at me, I said: "I think you have been waiting for a long, long time to be this girl, and to have me pretend you are she." She nodded. "I think I know something else you would like me to show you." She knew what it was, and nodded. It was one of these flashes of genius, or telepathy that happens to two people as tuned in with their fantasies as she and I were. I said: "I am going to let you pretend that you are you, and I am going to pretend to be her, and you are going to let me do to you what she would do if she were here."
"Yes," K admitted, "that's what I would really, really like most of all."
I made love to her, keeping L in my thoughts. I tried to remember the things my little Mayan Indian had said and done to me. The way it worked, sometimes I did what L would have done to her, like sticking her tongue deep in K's blonde cunt and doing the glass woodpecker thing (head up and down, drinking from a glass while rocking on a fulcrum) to tongue-fuck her. At other times, I had her pretend to be L, like when I had her sit on my chest and bring her pussy really close and hold her labia apart so I could get my tongue in there. We played Peter and the Maya for hours, and K never tired of it.
I had never had a threesome, and had no idea if either woman would be game, but this was intriguing. K thought that L did not know about her, so that K felt a certain stealthy sense of empowerment. I asked K: "Would you like to meet her?"
K lit up—sure she would, I could tell—but hid her face in my chest again.
"I mean, not meet her, if you are too shy."
"I'm embarrassed. Scared."
"Okay, not meet her, but sit near us if I were to have a date with her?"
"I might be jealous." "Not if I told her I could only see her for an hour, and that I have a date and have to go."
"Yes. That would work. Oh my God, Peter, that would be such a turn-on."
My next conversation was with L. We were sitting naked in bed in her loft, just before making love. I had worked at the bookstore, and she had come home exhausted from the E.R. We were resting, and drinking a pair of espresso coffees I had made. The neons outside winked on and off. We looked like reddish people. "Hey, we're both Indians tonight," she quipped. "Great espresso. Thanks, Peter. Good job."
"Remember I mentioned my friend K?"
"The closet dyke?"
"Bi."
"Sorry, yes. What about her?"
"She is interested in you."
L almost spit out her coffee.
"Sorry," I said. "I'm just the messenger." I was being a bit of a conniver, was more like it.
L laughed and set her cup aside. "Honey, did you talk with her about me?"
"A little."
L squealed. "You are a piece of work, man. Tell me every word."
"Well, she was jealous for a moment, then afraid I was leaving her, and in the end she told me she wasn't jealous of you (at first she was) but of me for having you."
L was incredulous. She waved her hand at her self. "She told you she likes me?"
"She said that she crossed the street to get a better look. She said you have an incredible tight little ass. Those were her words."
L held her hand to her head.
"What's the matter?"
L shook her head and sipped coffee. "I'm blown away. I just saw her for a moment. She is gorgeous."
"You like her?"
"The way you like a James Bond girl."
"You don't think she would go that far. That's what you said."
"My experience tells me she is all eyes and no action."
"Which gets her turned on, anyway."
"And me."
"You?" She held her hands out questioningly. "Duh, Peter. Doesn't it turn you on that your blonde girlfriend thinks your Maya jungle girl is hot eye candy?"
"It gives me a hard-on," I admitted.
"What are you driving at, Peter. What are you maneuvering us toward? You want a threesome?"
I hung my head, speechless. Did I? I had no idea.
"You are red as a whorehouse lamp."
"I don't know what I want. I—"
"You are a young guy drowning in your own hormones."
"And you're not full of hormones, Miss Belize?"
She smiled and put her hands on mine. "Listen, Peter. I don't mean a good, clean, honest game where nobody gets hurt. She might be interested in a Platonic date where you and I and she go out to dinner and a movie. A few drinks maybe. I pay a little attention and flirt with her, and she gets her rocks off that way, and then you take her home and fuck her."
"That's your imagination at work, not mine."
She shrugged. "You brought the situation to me."
"I know. But wouldn't you feel used?"
"Yes."
"What if I preferred to take you home and fuck you, and put her in a taxi?"
"She would be hurt to the end of the world. That will never happen."
"And you?"
"I can handle it, my good buddy." She wrapped her paw around my cock and squeezed reassuringly. "I know you'd come back to me."
"And feel used?"
"Don't you get it, Peter? Maybe I would enjoy being used. I am intrigued by a beautiful blonde who rubs herself while watching television. You know, honey..." Her voice lowered into a purr, and she slid closer while holding my dong. "...I might just come right then and there if I saw she was rubbing herself while looking at me. That would be a supreme turn-on from such an uptight little 20." She meant her supposition that K was too marginally bisexual (20/80 ratio bi/hetero) to cross over at all. I'm talking myself into doing this. Can you arrange it?"
"I'll see. I think so. She thinks you don't know about her. That gives her an edge into thinking she can be near you and you have no idea she is checking you out."
"I don't go for games, ordinarily, but this one is a scream." "So," I continued, "I could see if she'd be interested in something like this. You'll work with me?"
She said matter-of-factly "uh-huh," nodded, and crawled to my dick to give it a blowjob. She was so turned on that she initiated everything that evening, was on top the whole time, and we climaxed together in a chorus of passionate voices.
K liked the suggestion, but wanted to take baby steps. I got it worked out with L, and we met at a bar. K still had no idea that L knew about her, so I told K this: "I am going to meet her for a drink, with the understanding that I have somewhere I must go afterward."
"What if she wants to go with you? What if she is jealous?"
"I'll pick an evening when I know she has somewhere else to go."
"Her lesbian lover?"
"Don't be tatty, K."
"What's tatty. Is that like catty?"
"It's small. It's when you are like a spoiled brat who needs a spanking."
"I'm sorry." She looked contrite (or played at looking so), unbuttoned my shirt, and give each of my nipples a lick. "I'll try to behave myself."
I held her to me and poured on a little sharper humor than I would have ordinarily dared: "Hey, listen, kiddo, this is going to be your big bisexual adventure, so don't get cocky. You are a scared little Bambi in the woods."
"Yes I am a scared Bambi. But I am not having a bisexual adventure. I'm having a sexual adventure with you."
"What we call things, and what they really are, is sometimes the same thing, and sometimes, when we want to pretend, it's not. But a thing with another woman is a bisexual adventure."
"Just checking her out."
"Right."
"I can't win," she said with a sigh. "What were you saying about spanking? Want to put me over your knees?"
I purred in her ear in my fantasy voice, and she caught on right away. "Has Bambi been bad?"
"Yes, Bambi has been very bad."
It went from there...a delicious fantasy, to be told another day.
K's big bisexual adventure happened in a fairly crowded corner dating bar. It was the kind of place that young urban professionals went to after work to have a beer or latte, check each other out, and maybe pair off. It had undertones of neighborhood hangout, depending on the evening, and was very tolerant. A few GLBTMs came and went (M being 'Miscellaneous') and you just noticed them for a minute before they blended into the crowd and the shadows. With all the intrigues that go on in a place like that, a twenty dollar bill took care of having a waiter keep two tables open by leaving one in need of bussing and the other with a Reserved sign on it.
When I arrived with L, K already sat at the table behind us nursing a latte in a big white ceramic mug.
K looked very nervous. Her eyes looked hunted, and she shivered while rubbing her hands together over her hot, steaming coffee. She had a silk scarf over her blond hair, which hung in a bob in front, and she wore a dark green loden coat with a heavy wool scarf.
I entered with L on my arm, gave the waiter another twenty, and guided L to the table. After some discussion, I had L and I sit laterally. There was actually one of those tall, pre-aged tannish vases on the wood floor with an arrangement of pussy willows and fake ficus to give K some shelter while she spied on us.
L and I ordered margaritas and sat with our faces close together. We played with one another's hands. At one point we told a joke and steepled our fingertips together. I never did glance toward K, though I saw her shadow on the wall behind the vase, and sensed that she was intently watching us. I wondered if she felt jealous, intimidated, hurt—I had no idea, and I hoped it wasn't something that would drive us apart prematurely. I enjoyed having those fantasies together with her. L meanwhile was direct and pert and fun. She too was trying to play it straight, so to speak, and never made eye contact with K.
"Do you think she knows I know?" L said softly. We spoke in low voices under the general hubbub of clinking dishes, rumbling foot-treads, and laughter.
"No, I don't think so."
"She is knock-out gorgeous."
"I know."
"I'd go to bed with her if she would."
"I'll work on it." I couldn’t imagine what bliss there might be. Or would there? Would L be able to tune into our fantasies, or would a third person's presence actually dull things down? I had never thought about such things before.
The hour passed quickly, and I rose with L to leave. I notice with misgivings that the table behind the vase was empty, and the busboy was already cleaning away the solitary cup while a man and woman and the hostess and the waiter all crowded around for the precious seats. L left a tip, and we walked outside into the fresh cold air. "She was gone," L said hugging and kissing me, standing on tiptoe on her skinny legs.
"I know. I hope she wasn't turned off."
"Maybe she went home to watch those sitcoms," L said with a slightly harsh laugh, but not a mean one. It was more ironic and helpless.
"I'll find out."
"I would take you with me and do dark things to you," she said ruefully as she pressed her forehead against my chest (shades of K).
"I thought you said you'd be okay with this."
"Listen, I checked her out. She and I each went to the bathroom at least five times. We almost bumped into each other twice. I'm going to go home and get a cucumber, warm it between my thighs, and think about your lady friend." She kissed me and ran off before I could say another word.
K had arranged to pick me up in her car a few blocks away. As I got in, I was prepared for anything—being slapped, yelled at, whatever. Instead, L hugged me and kissed me passionately. She seemed aglow with pleasure. "What a gorgeous, exotic creature!"
"I was afraid you'd be upset."
"Oh no—I wouldn't have done this if I thought I would be upset."
"You weren't lonely sitting there by yourself?"
She put the car in gear and pulled out into traffic. "No, honey, I was fascinated. A few times I asked myself what I was doing there, you know, have I lost my mind, can this really be happening, but it went pretty quickly."
"Are you satisfied?"
She pursed her lips and nodded. "Yes I am."
We went to her place and turned out the lights and made passionate love. She had me pretend she was L when I licked her down below, or had me pretend that I was L when she licked my nipples and fondled my rear. We said no more about her great bisexual adventure, but she seemed exceptionally turned on. Maybe, I thought, that was what she had needed. She still rubbed herself in later weeks while watching television, and otherwise nothing seemed any different.
As I must sadly admit again, all these relationships ended after weeks or months. Hardly a one lasted over six months, none as long as a year. There were so many of them, and so many wonderful women among the average and dull and bad dates, that time seemed like a blender, sweeping me along with it.
Some time after I had moved on, when I was done with both K and L, I happened to be with a date, and happened to drive down the street where I had had all those wonderful, passionate fantasies with K. It was one of those drizzly early evenings, and my windshield wipers were going swish, swish, swish like in the children's song. My date was a girl my own age, who liked me and was interested in going to my place to hear more about my book and perhaps to check out some Mozart with wine and low lighting. I saw the familiar house, and glanced over—to see both K and L come out of the house, holding hands like a pair of star-struck lovers. Their faces were unmistakable, their glow that passed between them as readable as a book. I slowed briefly, which puzzled my date. K and L had not known me after I bought the car I was driving that evening, and a light rain obscured the windows, so I know they did not recognize me. I stared after them from behind the wipers, and I'm sure my face glowed with astonishment. Then I recalled L's comment that the two had gone to the ladies' room innumerable times and almost bumped into each other. Now I knew they had in fact probably exchanged phone numbers. I had remained with each for some time, never knowing about the "other woman" thing forming behind my back.
My date asked innocently: "Is something the matter?"
"No, just a little thing of the moment. Passing."
"Peter," she said primly, "it's not unusual nowadays to see two men or two women together."
"No," I said, "it's not. I heartily approve, but it's still a little surprising."
I wondered what tales K and L probably swapped about me as they sat laughing happily with wine glass in hand. So neither of them relished the idea of a threesome, and K had managed to overcome her hang-ups and become at least a 50/50 like L. Was there ever any end to surprises? I wondered if they had fantasy voices and could turn each other on in an instant. I tried to imagine my little Mayan nuzzling my blonde, blue-eyed Frisian's neck and saying "Has bunny been a bad girl?" and my Frisian writhing in the other's seductive charms saying "Oh yes, bunny has been very bad, and needs a firm lecture about how to be a better girl." I remembered what lovely soft round kneecaps K had and I hoped L would discover them for herself. When we were still a menage-a-trois without my knowing it, did K ever have L pretend she was I and have L enter her, L, (like with a strapped-on dildo) while they played a fantasy game? Did K ever pretend she was Peter as she seduced L? Were they ever both Peter? Did they ever swap identities just to see if it could be done?
"Merging traffic," my date warned as a traffic sign loomed in the rain, and I seemed to be driving like a man in a dream. Oh yes, the real world.
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