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The Story of O
I met Oin a bar, where she was crying. Here's how this happened. It was a sticky hot summer afternoon, and there was this little downstairs hole in the wall drinking place where my cronies and I liked to go. The beer was cheap, nobody was pretentious, and the clientele was interesting. There was a lesbian table deep in one corner, where women would hang out if they couldn't get into the Bookends. That was a pair of gay bars, with men in the left and women in the right establishment—two long, dark, narrow divisions in a long Victorian brick house that stretched a block.
My friends and I were strictly straight, but the downtown scene with its trendy eateries, mixed bars, and attractive women was our draw. It was amazing how many attractive straight (and, I assume, bi) women came down here of an evening to seek companionship. With our impoverished means, my pals and I usually went home slightly drunk and very much without companionship of the sort one craved. I did very well, of course, with my Summers, so I wasn't complaining too loudly.
Fact was, too, I was stealthy and really didn't spread the word. It wasn't that I was trying to corner the market on Summers, as much as I would be in for some amount of ribbing. Also, show-and-tell went against my grain. I had no intention of ever sharing with another man, even my best friend, the details of what went on in the bedroom with me and my Summers.
One day, then, I came down to the Cavern alone. My male friends were all away or working or with girls. I was between Summers. It was hot and sticky, and I was waiting for the day's heat to subside. The Cavern was too poor to have air conditioning, but it was cool among those heavy walls downstairs. The semi-darkness alone lifted about ten degrees from the air. I washed my face and hair in cold water in a grimy bathroom sink, dried myself with paper towels, and came back into the peanut shell-strewn bar for a cold beer.
I saw this very attractive, slim blonde sitting alone in the middle of the bar. She had a skinny beer slowly sweating between her elbows, and she had this big brown purse that she seemed to be using for a rampart to hide behind. She had thick hair, cut short and trimmed up into a kind of high porcupine with dark and silver highlights instead of quills. She had quarter-sized earrings of beaten brass. She wore jeans, a brown blouse, and high-heeled shoes whose bare backs revealed her oiled, sanded heels and a tiny gold chain with a love charm on each ankle. I sat a few seats down and nursed a skinny one of my own. As I sat, I watched every guy who walked past try to hit on her, without result. Our eyes met several times and finally she took her beer and her purse and walked down to me. "Would you mind if I sit beside you? I'm not trying to hit on you."
"Oh, by all means," I said. "Make yourself at home. I'm just killing time."
She slid in beside me. I could smell the expensive perfume, and saw the tiny golden hairs on her bare arms. She didn't seem like a working lady. Maybe a high-end prostitute like you rarely saw around this part of town. Not that I knew much about it, but as a taxi driver I'd ferried a lot of nightlife around, including girls going to motels for pay, and...well, it doesn't bear talking about. "What do you do?" she asked.
"I am a graduate student. I get by."
"Graduate student of what?"
I wasn't sure yet, but I gave it my best shot. "Ancient history."
She laughed a bitter little laugh from the throat deep. "That's fitting."
I didn't ask. I had not seen the eye interplay that usually told me the Summer was interested in me. I wasn't sure if I was interested enough, or had the energy on this hot day, to pursue her. In another moment I noticed she was crying silently and hiding her bleary face behind her purse. I offered her a small stack of drink doilies. "Sweetheart, whatever it is, it can't be all that terrible."
She thanked me and blew her nose. She dabbed at eyes. "I'll have to do a touch-up in the ladies' room," she said. "Excuse me." She left, and came back five minutes later. "Do my eyes look puffy?"
As she slid back into her seat I examined her. "You look just fine to me."
"How old are you?"
"I'm 24."
"Mmm."
"Mmm?"
She opened a little pocket mirror and looked at her eyes, then snapped it shut and put it away. "Do you know a—" and she said some guy's name.
"No, sorry. Doesn't ring a bell."
"Do you come down here a lot?"
"No," I said, "maybe twice a week, evenings, at most. I work at a bookstore and attend classes, which keeps me pretty busy." I wasn't taking any classes at the moment, but I was officially enrolled in the system, so it wasn't a lie—just a fib. "Is this guy a friend of yours?" "Was," she said ruefully. "I just got dumped."
"Oh geez, no wonder you were crying."
"I should have seen it coming." She wasn't bitter, really. She folded her hands together on the bar and looked at them pragmatically. "There are always nice people in the world. Like yourself." She gave me a big blue look full of vulnerability.
"You seem like a pretty nice person, yourself," I said. "Who would want to be mean to you?"
"It's the silliest story," she said.
"Try me."
She shook her head. "I would have to be really drunk to have the nerve."
"Don't get drunk. It sucks. Just tell me if you want to get it off your chest."
She put her hand on my wrist, very innocently and lightly. "Are you one of those people who listen?"
"I'm a good listener. I used to drive a taxi, and people told me their life's stories."
"I'll bet. Weren't you scared?"
"What, of their stories?"
She burst out laughing and hit me on the shoulder. "No, of being mugged."
I shook my head. "I relied on luck, and nothing happened."
"Would you like to pretend you're a cabbie and I'm telling you my story?"
"Sure, why not?"
"I'll buy you a beer for a tip."
"Aw go on, not necessary. I work for free. Pro bono."
"You are an educated man. Young man, but educated. Are you embarrassed to be with a woman ten years your senior?"
I shook my head and looked her over. She was no bouncing college sophomore with baby skin, but she was okay. "I had you figured for maybe a few years older, but not ten."
She beamed. "Oh, you flatterer."
"I'm serious. No, I feel perfectly fine, two adults having a conversation. Are you awkward about being with a younger man?"
She shook her head. "No, not if he is a nice, sweet guy, which you seem to be."
"I try hard not to offend."
"Well, here's the story. My boyfriend had a choice to make and he made it." "Oh, another woman?"
"Another man."
"Yikes."
"Yikes is right."
"How long was this brewing?"
"He and I went together for two years. The past year, he realized he had other interests, and came out of the closet. We started drifting apart, because he started seeing the guy who opened the door for him."
"You tolerated that?" I asked. "I don't mean like I'm putting you down. On the contrary, I think your patience and kindness were admirable."
"Thanks." She sat hunched in thought, with her ankles cross and her fists between her thighs as if she were cold. "Why did I wait? Why did I not move on? Why did I let him dump me? Why Why why."
"You're not worried about HIV and so on?"
"I was. I stopped having sex with him months ago, and I've had two checkups. Lucky girl. I'm clean."
I swiveled around, holding my beer. "Are you sure you're done with him?"
She nodded. "I've made up my mind for sure. First there are the risks. Then there's the history between us with him and this other guy. Finally there's today. I called to find out where I stand, and he told me."
"Told you what."
She shook her head. "You're going to think I'm nuts."
"Try me."
"He said—go to this place around the corner downstairs, near Bookends. The Cavern. Wait for me there. If I don't show up, it means I decided to go with my boyfriend. I told him, if you do that, we're done. He said I understand that. If you don't see me there for our usual, then I'm going to be a man and let you go. He didn't say he was sorry, and I don't imagine he'll ever even apologize. He was really a spoiled momma's boy entirely concerned with himself."
"You said—twice—'the usual.' May I ask what that means?"
She looked at me in a funny way, her eyes brimming with secrets, and her shaking head finally told me she wasn't coming forth about it. "Maybe sometime if we get to be friends."
As my instinct informed me over those two skinny beers, we did become friends and then lovers. O was a complex person who made love in a very simple manner, which somehow jarred me a bit. She was passionate, but always seemed to be holding back. She had the not-on-the-first-date rule, and she checked me out by walking down dark streets with me to see if I grew hair on my hands and face a la Lon Chaney. I laugh, but you can't blame women for their caution.
O was a medical doctor, of all things. Made over a hundred grand a year without trying. Lived in a nice three-story townhouse, drove a Jaguar, dressed nice, could take a trip on vacation without sweating the money. She was an OB/GYN on staff at the University Medical Center, where she also taught a graduate class in the Medicine Department. In short, O was a very impressive and accomplished woman. So what was she doing in a dump like the Cavern, sitting next to a blowing leaf like me who didn't have enough scratch to buy her a cheap beer that afternoon? I thought I knew the answer—needy—and therefore didn't ask. I made it clear that I wasn't pressing her for anything—money, information, state secrets, sex; nothing. I was just interested in her company.
She sat with me on the couch in her living room under a single reading lamp, so that we were bright islands amid soft shadows. She held both my hands in hers and said: "I can't tell you how much it has meant to me that you have been a good friend the past few weeks."
"Is this goodbye?"
Her face grew sad, and she squeezed my hands. "Oh no, Peter, I'm just opening up to you a lot more now that I know you and trust you. I hope that doesn't push you away?"
"No, of course not, O. I'm beginning to trust you also."
"Thanks." She leaned forward and kissed my cheek. She really was a very attractive woman, even with her age showing a little (I had downplayed it at the Cavern). "Maybe it's time that I level with you a little bit." She was off work for two or three days, and relaxing at home. She was barefoot, wearing only a mid-thigh blue jeans skirt, a white blouse that hung loosely on her thin frame with its small, protrusive breasts. I had not made love to her yet, but we were kissing and petting, and had reached a nice comfort zone about our bodies and each other's. "Will you sleep with me tonight, Peter?"
I was a little startled by the directness, after all the coyness. "Yes, I have been hoping you'd ask."
"You didn't press me for it," she said fondly, kissing my other cheek. She squeezed close to me.
"I knew you were probably hurting inside and I thought it would be inappropriate to push myself on you."
"You are really thoughtful."
"I hoped things would go in this direction, and it seems they have. I'm very glad I met you." "Me too, Peter. I need a break. I think you're the guy who will help me get my breathing room and—"
"Yes?"
"Pamper me a little bit?"
"Why certainly."
"I'm supposed to be a doctor and be in charge and never let my guard down." She started to cry. "I'm very lonely, and my boyfriend—ex-boyfriend—was selfish and jerked me around for two years." She burst out crying and I held her close.
She cried for a good ten minutes and then, blinded by tears, rummaged in her purse kind of helplessly until I found her some tissues.
She honked her nose. "Thanks, Peter." She cleared her throat to try and talk. She still had some sobs and sniffles in her, but the worst seemed to be past. "I won't be a pest or make demands or lean on you." She almost cried again. I knelt at her knees as she sat on the couch. I held her hands and looked into her eyes and tried to convey supportiveness. I was a bit worried that she might still be rebounding and depressed and who knew what. I did want to bed her, but as a simple thing, not a complicated issues thing.
We ended up not making love that night. I just held her, and she sobbed a little now and then before falling into a deep, exhausted sleep. It was 'that awful night' that we would mention in horrified whispers during our time together.
We were bonded, and went on little trips together—to New York City, to Boston, even to Montreal by air. She paid for everything, and never threw a reproach my way. She encouraged my researches, pushed me toward my interest in ancient history and Classics, was really a lifelong influence on me. We weren't having fun yet, however.
Making love with her, as I may have mentioned, was like playing piano with the cover half closed. I got to play the white keys, but not the dark keys. Then that changed.
First, the white keys. She was recovering from a miserable affair, and taking time to heal. We spent a lot of time together, many a night, and we started having sex. It was passionate, nice, pleasant, a turn-on—but something wasn't quite in place. She didn't do anal sex because it was bad for the sphincter.
She didn't do rimming because there were bacteria. Basically, her bum hole was off-limits, as was mine. She did a small amount of oral sex, but she seemed to prefer the missionary position. She did like to get cunt-fucked from behind, but (ssshh!) we didn't use explicit words. I concluded that she was a pent-up, prissy, overly intelligent and overly analytical woman who was too stiff and rigid to ever let go and enjoy herself. We had a big fight, didn't talk for three days, and I was about ready to move on. I'd about had it.
Before I could start trawling the city, she came to my room at the Maison Piano Music with her purse dragging and the scent of about three or four scotches and a half pack of cigarettes on her breath. I took her in, held her head as she puked out the third story window, and made her one of my coil tea specials—Lipton on the run, palmed secretly while having the tea I actually paid for at the deli around the block. She fell asleep for an hour, then woke up and seemed sober enough to drive. We went over to her place, and she 'splained.
Turns out that her ex-boyfriend had something a little special on her, because she had unloaded her secret sex life on him, and she felt extremely dependent on him. I could also see that maybe he got tired of all the energy and found simpler, easier going in the brawny, hairy arms of his new boy buddy.
We took a long, leisurely bath together in her warm tub at midnight. She had taken some cola syrup and other homeopathies, and was feeling better. She made a face at the mention of either scotch or smoking, and neither ever came up again (literally or figuratively). We lay at opposite ends of this huge tub, and played footsies while she explained. "Honey, I don't know if you'll understand this, or if it will drive you away from me. The time has come to be honest, and to let you decide if you want to do this with me."
"'The usual,'" I guessed, recalling the afternoon's conversation at the Cavern they day we'd met.
She nodded. "Yes. So what is the usual? Well, it has to do with what it takes to turn me on. I mean, really turn me on. You've never seen me turned on. Frankly, I was hoping it was over and I would never go there again, but you can see—"
I interrupted: "You were like a different person when you showed up drunk and reeking of tobacco at my place earlier. And you're a doctor."
"I know, isn't it a shame?" She grinned. "I promise not to drink or smoke again. That was just the bad girl in me trying to get out."
"So what is this 'usual' that you want to tell me about?"
"It's a sexual thing."
"Okay?"
She swallowed hard. "If you laugh at me I'm going to—to—pour cold water on you and make you go away."
"I won't laugh at you. If anything, it will probably turn me on." She frowned at me speculatively. "You do have a huge imagination. Maybe you'll appreciate this in a different light than that poor dodo I wasted two years on."
"Try me."
"Well, it's very simple, Peter. I like being picked up."
After a silence, I said: "That's it?"
"Yep. Nothing really terrible. No violence, no rape, nothing like that. Just a kind of role playing. You can have your sex one way or the other with me. There's the vanilla, Miss Prim way that you've known, which I know you're sick of; or you can meet me at some bar we agree on, and flirt with me, and pick me up, and I'll butt fuck you with your own dick or with my foot."
"Honestly?" I was amazed.
She closed her eyes and nodded portentously. "Wait until I get warmed up, yet. You ain't seen nothin' yet."
She could not have been more right.
The first time, I met O at ten p.m. at a clean, well-lit tavern with a stately old bar, a rather sterile pink-looking faux brick wall, some hanging plants, mirrors, and a pool table frequented by cowboy types in denim and white or black Stetsons. There were about fifty people in there, mostly hanging bars or walls. Very few tables. Good mixed crowd, different age groups, some married couples, a few singles looking around hard while nursing drinks, a few pickups in progress. When I walked in, I spotted O's blond head. She was sitting at the bar, and a beefy guy with red hair, twice my size, was avidly leaning over her in a conversation that suggested pickup in progress. I had a little worried thing in the pit of my stomach, not knowing how she liked to play the game, and if I had to become a bloodied pulp in the process to be rescued by her.
I walked up to the bar, sidling among some guys in black leather jackets holding a beer in one hand and their helmet in the other. They were laid back, though, and there was no trouble.
The big beefy guy was getting closer to O. His hand slid down her back and rested on her buttocks. I was sick to my gut. Next thing, she had told him to take a hike and he stomped out of the place. He had a dazed look on his face, and almost took the inner swinging saloon doors with him, but he disappeared. Next, I wasn't quick enough, and a seedy looking man in his 50s, with gray hair and a rumpled dark suit, stood by her holding a beer mug and saying something idiotic. He was sent packing in a few minutes. I was on my way over to her, when a young black guy (twice my size) walked over with a strange, insistent expression on his eyes. He pulled out three multicolored balls and started juggling for her. He also got his hands on her ass (inbetween juggling) before being sent packing. As I drew near, O flew from her seat for the bathroom, spitting at me in a rage: "What's taking you so long, Custer?"
I stood by her seat and nursed my beer until she returned. "Do I know you?"
"No ma'am. I'm George Custer."
She was still angry. "You got the Seventh Cavalry with you?"
"No, Ma'am, ah came alone."
She looked almost humored. "You think you're big enough?"
"Yes, ma'am, I am endowed by my creator with all the goods and services you need to be rescued from this Big Horn here."
"Well, George, my name is—why should I tell you my name? I don't even know you."
"Yes ma'm, we don't know each other, but I reckon I could save you and we could ride out of here on my hoss together."
"Let's hang around a little," she muttered—not to George Custer, but to Peter Spring. The first huge guy came back in, almost taking the saloon doors with him again, and he got himself a boilermaker and stood not far away eyeing me with tiny lead eyes full of hate and violence. I saw the black guy juggling for some other woman across the room, and he looked at me with a strange stare.
"Have a beer, George, and relax," O said. She put on this persona of a slightly tough babe. I figured this all had something to do with her self-worth and some childhood rejection. She wanted the attention, and she enjoyed the sexual tension and violence in the air. It was like predators in the wild sharing a watering hole and competing for food and their own kind of the opposite sex. I drank my beer and after a few minutes had to go real bad. So walked down this long, narrow, dark hallway to the Men's Room and went in already unzipping my fly. There was the guy with the lead eyes, coming out. He looked down at me over the acreage of his chest and stopped.
"Hello," I said.
He nudged me out of his way. I walked to the urinal and hung myself out. He pushed open the bathroom door on an afterthought—a sheet of paper couldn't have fit there between him and the frame. "Hey, dude—what's the secret?"
"Huh?"
"The bitch you picked up."
My dick was so frozen I thought it would be a week before I ever pissed again.
"I'm talking to you." "Sorry."
"What did you do to score?"
I shrugged. "Want to know? For real?"
"Yeah." He hung his shoulders.
"Well, for one thing, I don't put my hands on a woman's ass in public. That's when she send you away."
He stared at me, and I couldn't' tell whether he was going to beat me senseless and spray blood all over the walls, or if he was going to cry. He meekly whispered "thanks" and strode off.
I stood trembling and alone in the bathroom and almost cried myself. There was no piss coming out of me just then. Despite having drunk a beer and needing to go, I was like a dry creek here. I flushed anyway, so nobody would think I was weird, even though nobody was in there. I went back and joined O, who was fighting off another guy. I walked up to her, took her arm, and yanked. She managed to grab her purse. "Fuck the drink," I said as I propelled her to the door. Outside, I let go her arm.
"Where are you taking me?"
"Home."
"What if I don't want to go?"
"I'm taking you home."
I was to tell her we were through, when the door opened and out came the black guy juggling this balls. He pointed at me: "You! I want this bitch." He looked at O and pointed like Zeus: "...and you ain't leaving with this pencil-dick."
The door of this inexplicable nightmare place opened, and several men burst out. "What's going on?" "Onion!" The black guy's nickname was Onion. "Onion, you going back to prison if you fuck with them people." I saw the crowd gather round to restrain him, saw the balls juggled in the air, grabbed O by the hand, and started running. We ran around the corner, jumped into her car, and she gunned the engine and pulled out just as the men came tearing around the corner. In the lead was Onion, looking for mayhem and juggling while he ran. I'm serious—you couldn't make this up in a book of fiction. It's the real world. Nobody would believe you.
"What the hell was that all about?" I asked.
"Don't talk," she said. She held up her palm. "Please." She looked rigid and pale as she drove with both hands on the wheel. The only words spoken in the car were by her: "I'm carrying it with me." She almost seemed to be holding her breath.
We got to her house, and she instructed me: "Wait in the car about ten minutes, and then come up. Okay?" "Okay." I was dubious, to say the least, but I was giving her a chance.
Ten minutes later, I let myself into the lobby of her secure place with a spare key she'd given me. I went up in the elevator, got out, crossed the hall, and knocked. "Come in!" So I let myself in with a spare key, closed the door, and turned around. The entry way was dark, and music poured out of a throbbing, pulsing back area lit red like a bar. The music poured out around me the way smoke pours out thick and black from a raging house fire. Only it was cool in here. With a few tricks of lighting, she had transformed one of her living spaces into a pickup bar. She turned to look at me—still wearing the blue jeans miniskirt that showed off her thin legs and fine ass. I began to get turned on as I walked into the room and saw her there. She turned and looked at me, a totally transformed person. She waggled a finger for me to come closer. "Hi, Peter."
"Are you O?"
"I am O, and I want to prove to you that everything is different now."
"Yes?" I walked up and started to take her in my arms.
Her eyes had a glazed look, and her teeth showed a little bit in a grimace of animal tension. "I want you to fuck me, Peter."
"Yes," I said, not sure how I could do this without first embracing her, kissing her, working my way up to it.
"I want you to take me." She got down, pulled my cock out, and started sucking it while twirling her hand around it. She looked up: "You're hard."
I shrugged and let her take me. I went with the flow. In the throbbing red lights and music, she had a bottle and two glasses on the counter. There was also some sort of strap-on dildo thing that puzzled me. I closed my eyes with pleasure as this newly released wild woman sucked my tube. "Peter, do you like this little dress?"
"Yes."
"I want you to pull it up and fuck my ass." She stood and pulled on my dick. "Now."
I didn't know if I was ready yet, but she bent over a chair and lifted that little dress, and there was her asshole. Whatever was missing from my hard-on, it instantly returned to maximum tensile strength. She leaned over the back of that chair with her feet dangling by my ears as I got closer for a visual inspection. She was holding her ass cheeks apart with four red fingernails spayed on each hand, like landing lights directing a plane in. Her pussy was a pink hanging garden of labia under that. I put my finger in her cunt hole, which was wet, and licked her asshole. I couldn't help myself. Those cheeks were pale and perfect, and she held them open for me to get inside. "I am licking your asshole," I said.
"Yes!" she shouted hoarsely.
"I am rimming you."
"Yes!"
"And then I am going to fuck you."
"Yes! Do it! Go on."
After licking her, I knelt behind her and shoved my train up her tunnel. She shouted hoarsely. Her hands flailed on the seat back as she steadied herself, then half unbuttoned, half tore her blouse off. No bra. My groin kept slapping hard against that soft little ass of hers. She reached behind and pulled me to her as I butt-fucked her and came. When she felt me coming, she yelled hoarsely and doubled over, which made it easier to get in and out of her. "Fuck the bacteria," she shouted, "get into my cunt. I want to feel that donkey dick inside of me. Go on! Do it!" So I got into the pink of her pussy and whaled away until a while later we both climaxed again.
The way to O's sexual switch was to pick her up. We did it a bunch more times. It was never again as weird as that night with Tiny and Onion. Mostly it was subtle, the way I liked things. I would walk in out of the cold, see her at a bar, work my way slowly over to her, maybe watch her dismiss one or two clumsy overtures (no jugglers, no giants), and be sure she was getting pre-orgasmic knowing her big bad baby boy was sidling closer for his wet spot. I would get close so it would look to onlookers (and they really did look on) that we were just exchanging pleasantries.
I was talking dirty to her. "Is your little pussy wet?" ("Oh yes.") "You are sitting there all prim and proper, Miss Goody Two-Shoes, but if I were that barstool I'll bet I would be smelling some cunt juice by now." ("Oh yes.") "I saw your tight little ass the minute I came in the door, and my cock got hard, so I had to come over and tell you that I have a wet spot in my shorts where I spewed a little thinking about you." ("Oh yes," she would murmur, "I have a soggy place in my panties that I want you to lick up later. Will you take me home in a while and fuck me?") "Little lady, I am going to take you home to that bar and I am going to put you on the chair, because you are a bad little girl, and I am going to look at your asshole. I am going to touch your asshole. I am going to lick your asshole. I am going to fuck you in the asshole." ("Oh yes, please.") "But I have a very large dick." ("Oh yes, I am sure that you do.") "I am going to fill your asshole up with my dick." (I think she had a little mini-orgasm right there, because she closed her eyes, gritted her teeth in taut cheeks and emitted a tiny mouse-like eek). "I'm going to pull that huge old dick right out of your asshole and shove it in your pink pussy hole." ("Oh yes. That's what I want.")
So it went. Dear little O. We played this game, and I got good at it. I had a talent for this kind of thing. Too bad a slightly younger man ages and stops being what a young older woman wants. It was good while it lasted. O was challenging, to say the least, and high-energy, but it was fun for a while. I think I tired of it before she did. I think she sensed it and wasn't about to waste another two years of her life on a fading thrill.
One night, I met her at a new bar (it was never the same place twice) and there she was talking to some handsome guy in a business suit. He had long dark hair, and was schmoozing closely with her. She looked delighted, transformed, and stroked his long brown hair. This time, she was not the one dumped.
I watched them leave the bar, arm in arm, and I never heard from her again. I didn't try to contact her. I hope they lived happily ever after.
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