We sip our brandy. We seem to be unselfconsciously considering one another, thinking our own thoughts, finishing our dinner. The atmospheres imperceptibly shift from two to one. We are both suddenly aware that we have been looking intently at one another for several moments. I smile. “Good meal.” I reach across the space between us and lay my hand concilatorily on top of his. “Good company. Thank you.”

He dismisses my hand. “My pleasure!”

Not the evening I expected, I think, but not unsatisfying, either. No sex, I guess. That’s okay. Maybe another day. Maybe my senses mislead me. Maybe never again. No more romance.

Checking things, gathering things, adjusting in our seats, getting ready to leave, bring us face to face with each other.

Very firm. Very determined. His hand reaches across the gap between us and his fingers kiss my nipple. He is not smiling. He is serious.

My left breast sensitizes. My shoulder shifts, pushing my breast into his fingers. His fingers spread and cup. Our movements are subtle, deliberate. We are looking at each other. A sudden, sharp thrust in the rhythmic pressure of his palm massaging my nipple causes me to gasp lightly, turn my head to the side and close my eyes.

His hand drops to my hip. When I look at him, again, he is closer than I remember.

His doubts show in his face. He does not look helpless. Perplexed, though. No longer worried about betraying himself to me. I wonder what it is of me he needs to contact. I can’t imagine, being married, that he is comfortable with his desire.

We are both turned acutely toward the other, now. The discreet arrangement of the restaurant emboldens me. I reach between us and press my palm against the front of his slacks, pressing at the base of his shaft, feeling his erection vertical against his belly. I feel it swelling above his slack belt, loosened after dinner. My fingers snake over the shank and unbutton his shirt. I feel soft cotton against his corona. An undershirt. I sigh and look at him. In the privacy of the booth my impatient fingers had wanted to trace the heated head, collect the slick drop at the tip, smooth it over the finely grained, retracted foreskin. In frustration, my fingers grip the tip of his dick through the T-shirt. I feel moisture seeping through the cloth. We both inhale sharply. Frank closes his eyes and caresses my hand, holding it firmly to his belly. His is warm, large, moist. I feel as though my entire body is being caressed by his hand.

We need to prepare to leave. Turning away, I wonder if we will be able to recapture our unselfconscious ease after a break, if we will be as tactile. I wonder if we will want to. I decide to make no assumptions, to act as though nothing had happened.

Settled in the car, I turn to him, smiling from some well beneath my diaphragm. “Good evening,” I pronounce, lowering my voice. “Thank you.” I touch his thigh reassuringly as he pulls into the street.

He turns to me, feigning surprise, “Is it over?”

I open my mouth, breathe in, arrange my features non-threateningly, and face him, but no sound comes out. I look directly at him, smiling, puzzled. Finally, “I don’t know what to say.” Each word is meted out slowly.

I don’t know what to say. I am not sexually sure of myself. Had he made plans past dinner, I wonder. Had I? Coffee, more conversation? Did the evening go as he expected? Is he surprised at the sexuality? Who started it? Did he just want to know if he had made a sexual impact, had discovering this satisfied him?

“What did you expect of this evening?” I finally venture. I modulate my voice into the higher, quieter register of objectivity.

Frank looks away from me. For long moments he searches the street, distracted. The car slows dramatically. He turns into a residential side street and parks against the curb. He unbuckles his seat belt, unlocks the door, opens it. I remain quiet and watchful. He walks around the front of the car and motions for me to unlock my door. He opens the door and steps back. I rise out and away from the car. He closes the door. I face him. He gently backs me against the side of the car. Both his hands are on my shoulders. “I don’t know what I was expecting,” he begins. “I knew I wanted to see you on a more personal basis. I knew that we seemed to click, and I thought you might be an interesting person to know. I knew I felt very, ah, open, towards you. I knew that the last few times you’d been in the office, I had been afraid to come out and say hello. Something about the way you sounded, I was afraid I would not be able to resist taking you to me. I guess, tonight, I wanted to know if I could resist. And if I should.”

His right hand cups my neck. His thumb raises my chin. He takes my lower lip between his and licks it, sucks it to fullness. I respond, reaching for all of his mouth. His lips elude mine, slip over my upper lip and prime it. My mouth is rooting back and forth like a baby’s looking for a nipple, trying to nuzzle fully on his. Suddenly, his mouth fastens on, parting my jaws. One hand braces the back of my head; the other grasps my left breast. I feel as though I am simultaneously getting and giving a transfusion. His tongue probes deeply. I moan and nestle into him. When our lips release, his arms are completely around me, my chest raised and pressed against his, his hands supporting me between my thighs, against my vulva. I slide my head against his neck, still unsure of what to say. His arms caress my body, holding me tight, his hands rubbing back and forth between my thighs, over my buttocks, exploring, gently spreading the matched mounds. He breathes audibly, humming on the out-take. I feel his belly vibrating, and I sense the vibrations of my murmured response.

When I lift my head, I feel air evaporating moisture, and damp, reluctant skin peeling apart. I wonder if he and I would part clumsily or languidly, after sex.

“Frank,” I say evenly, “maybe we should wait for awhile, and meet again, and see if we are embarrassed by our behavior this evening, or if it’s...”

“I don’t think so,” he breaks in. “I don’t think the evening’s over.”

No explanation. Urgency. Organic urgency.

He pulls me forward, then reaches around me and opens the car door. Holding the door ajar, he gives me one more sensual, lingering kiss. My enthusiastic comeback attracts his lips longer than his body anticipates and he loses his balance, breaking the kiss. He laughs, a hearty, unexpected laugh, pulls me out of the way of the door and states, “This evening is not over!”

I do not feel awkward as we drive, despite our physical separation. I am anxious, though. “Frank, I don’t know if this is a good time. I’m fertile right now, probably at my fertility peak...”

“I’ve had a vasectomy,” he reminds me patiently. When Bob gets angry at Frank, he accuses him of shooting blanks. I recall Frank’s typical reply, usually spoken loud, low and deep, “That’s when I’m creating people, not when I’m creating product!”

He looks at me quizzically.

“I know, Frank, that’s not what I’m concerned about. I, well, I, when I’m fertile, I am more emotionally, well, volatile; and, there are certain sensations that are intensified, and they tend to intensify my vulnerability...” I pause, wondering if any of this is even registering with Frank, “and if this is going to be an experimental...” an experimental what, I wonder. I pick up elsewhere, “Well, I’d rather be in an experimental mood, not an intense one.”

“I am now convinced that tonight is a good night for us,” he cuts in softly. I am nonplused. I still need to decide whether I think so.

“Besides that,” I continue, “I don’t think I have AIDS, but I’ve never been tested. I’ve had several sexual partners since the early seventies, and for a time I was, well, not as discriminating as polite society dictates, but I have reason to believe that I don’t have AIDS.”

Frank laughs in surprise, cocking his head toward me. “What kind of reason?” he quizzes, clearly amused. I realize he must be unused to this. This calms me.

“It won’t bother me if you want to use a rubber. I understand the concern with death and sex, these days. But, well, Ralph, he was my main partner for several years, and he sold his blood twice a week, up to his death. So he got tested for HIV twice a week. And, since he was free of it, I figure I don’t have it. I’ve been pretty conservative, socio-sexually, since knowing him.” I think about Len, and Luthor. And Dar. Then I stop thinking about them.

“I love the way you talk, so precise.” His voice is intimate, soaked with testosterone. I feel a sexual flush rising on my neck. He notices it and lightly strokes my throat. “I want to see where this starts,” he whispers.

He rests his hand back on the base of the steering wheel and scans the road ahead. “As you know,” he begins, oratorically, “I’m married. I’ve never been with another woman besides my wife. I’ve never wanted to be. My wife has never been with another man. I’ve never had a blood transfusion or a transplant. I’ve never done IV drugs. So I’m sure I don’t have AIDS. As far as your vulnerability is concerned, I’m not afraid of that. I’m not afraid of my vulnerability. I do not want anything coming between us when I take you. Nothing. Not a rubber. Not your fears. Not mine.”

“I know what you mean,” I agree, barely above a whisper. “Skin against skin is important to me. Moisture against moisture. Heat against heat. There’s something inside me that has a hard time with safety when I am sexually involved; it feels like it defeats the purpose, especially the first time. I think about taking in seed, and there is something inside me that is opposed to protecting myself from it...something in me that says it is life and I cannot protect myself from life, even if death seems more apparently harbored in the seed.” I know I am sounding pedantic. I wince. I am confused about these feelings, but I have always had them, as I’ve known I would never have children. I’ve never been afraid of AIDS, or other STDs, of pregnancy. It is my body’s inherent ability to weigh sex against death and throw its lot with sex, to convince my mind that sex outweighs death, even in death, that feeds these thoughts. This choice, which is publicly scorned, of which I am ashamed and that I do not broadcast, this choice seems like an act of private, occult wisdom, to me, but a wisdom I’ve never been able to dissect and successfully place before a panel of skeptical judges.

“Good.” Frank reaches across the car and cradles my cheek. I nuzzle his hand, kiss it, as though it is his mouth. Lick it, as though it is his dick. I cannot refuse this man’s fluid. I would feel cardinal rejection if he refused mine.

He takes his hand away from my mouth and turns into a parking garage. He does not wipe away my saliva.

We walk toward an elevator. His arm guides me. I do not care to know about his marriage, right now, I think. I do not want to know if there is something in his marriage that is driving him to act on this attraction, something that will drive him back to his marriage.

At the elevator Frank stops and covers both signal buttons on the wall with his hand. “I am not abused or unhappy in my marriage. I am not here because I am looking for something I haven’t gotten from my marriage. I am here because you are here. Since I’ve met you, I’ve been here. Since I’ve met you, I’ve been here, and only since I’ve met you.”

I discover I am comfortable knowing he can sense what I’m thinking.

In the elevator we stand facing one another. There is no coquetry between us, no thin smiles. Finally, I think, sex is a reliably adult activity. I feel as though I am looking into him.

My behavior is charged with what is taking place between us. Without guile, my right hand caresses my breast, my left hand skims between my thighs. They are both instinctive movements, as though I am rubbing a throbbing muscle while performing an invigorating physical task. His eyes soften and widen. He reaches for my arms, pulls me closer. Staring pointedly at me, his hands displace mine. Mine are diverted to cradling his, following the tension of his rubbing through the back of his hand, encouraging it with my own. He does not look scared. I do not feel scared. He does not look like a guilty little boy. I do not feel like a cringing wife stealer. There is something else here, between us. I do not know how long it will last, but it is here, now, and we are going to act on it.

I am moaning, softly, intermittently. While I am still looking at him, my head shaking gently back and forth, I know I am smiling. When he rubs between my thighs, against my jeans, savoring the dampness and the heat, I am becoming aware of a force from the center of me, a slick, pulsing suction, wanting to grasp...

“See what you do?” I tease softly, still shaking my head, still smiling. As I reach for the waistband of his slacks, the elevator slows. I hold myself at bay. This time, I do not want that first glistening drop of his desire absorbed into cotton, I want to break it with my finger, distribute it, taste it, draw more from him.

The doors slide ajar. My throat constricts as we approach the door of his room.

He closes the door behind us. I turn to him, reach for his belly, press my hands firmly against his erection, “I feel as though, something, I should say something,” I stammer.

“Not necessary.” He pulls me to him. I slide my hands between his thighs, feeling his balls through the cloth, rubbing and pressing on the base of his shaft, feeling his muscular contractions, hearing pleasure in his high grunts.

I unzip his slacks carefully. I wonder if a drop has formed at his tip, if I have already dispatched the second one. I step away, pull the loose flaps of his slacks back carefully, and unbutton his shirt, folding it back. I pull his T-shirt away from his body at the hem, and lift it slowly, anchoring it under his arms. My hands rest on his breasts. I notice that his nipples are well developed and erect. I look down for the drop. My vagina contracts. I slide his slacks further down his hips and thighs. I slide my open palm down the base of his shaft, purposely avoiding the brimming tip, and grasp his balls. My hands are warm from his slacks, but when my flesh touches his, his breath sizzles on intake. His balls are large and loose. I worry the nutlike testes against one another with my fingers, I tweak the rough scrotal skin. I slide my palm back up the base of his shaft, exploring with my fingers as I ascend. Frank greets each sensation with short, impassioned “Oh’s”. His dick is hard, pliable and thick. He carries it well, his hips are not embarrassed by it, but work with it, accommodate it. It rises out of his body with authority. I anticipate the erotic tension that will be created with his initial penetration. How my clutching slickness and heat will feel to him; how his pressure and rhythm will feel to me. I am already grateful to his self-possessed dick, and kneel to greet it. I want to whet myself, through my mouth, with how he will feel inside me. I seize the base and tantalize myself with the drop at the opening, licking around the rim of the head while looking at it, lapping here, nipping there, below the crown. I place a finger on either side of the urethral opening. I gently spread the rim of the hole. Frank groans windily. My vagina contracts, again. I feel a light seeping along my vulva. I spread my knees further apart on the carpet, moan, and arch my back, to give my swelling more room. Frank is staring down at me. He squats to accommodate my reduced height. As his thighs part further, my left hand reaches between and rubs his balls, the heel pressing against the base of his shaft. Frank’s pelvis pitches reflexively. I move my closed lips back and forth over the head, smearing the drop. The tip of my tongue encircles the hole and tastes the fluid, then stabs at it. Between stabs, my fingers spread the hole and I draw on it. My hips are butting sinuously, my vagina is anticipating the pressure and stretching of penetration. I pull his entire head into my mouth and tantalize him, sucking it in and out, thrumming the rim firmly with my lips, displacing skin momentarily, salivating copiously, distributing broth generously with my tongue and fingers. With each inspiration, I am taking more and more of him into my mouth, imagining it thrusting deeper into me. Occasionally he grunts. Occasionally I moan.

At the foot of the bed is a low coffee table with an extra blanket folded across the top. Frank backs himself into a seated position on the blanket. He moves slowly, pausing and undulating at critical moments, as I follow him, refusing to release him, in a quadrupedal crawl. I settle into a hands-and-knees position between his thighs, my back parallel to his quadriceps. His penis reaches into my mouth. His balls are squeezed toward the base of his shaft. His hands are on either side of my head, clasping but not directing. His fingers are winding in my hair. His torso curves over my head and back. His hands slip to my shoulders, down the front of my sweater, over my breasts. I notice his balls are becoming more compressed. I imagine the excitement he might be feeling from increasing pressure as he leans forward. I touch what I can still reach of his balls with the tips of my fingers. The skin feels taut, warm, tender. I retrieve some moisture from the juncture of his shaft and my mouth and rub it on his balls in an insistent circular motion. His hands release my breasts from the cups of my bra and begin massaging them, rolling the nipples between his fingers, pressing the tips in and massaging them, reveling in their bulk and warmth. I release his dick from my mouth, rise, and catch it between my breasts. I roll my breasts around and over the organ, massaging it, lifting it. He is lightly pinching and strumming the puckery knobs at the tip of my nipples. I want to feel his dick prodding the most sensitive part of my breast. Holding his penis in one hand, I brace my left breast, lift it and guide the two together. Pushing my chest forward for anchoring, I release his dick, take hold of my breast on either side, and look up at him. His fingers touch my lips, his index finger slips between my teeth. I lick it with my tongue and draw it further in. It tastes like sweet brandy. He raises himself, just clearing the blanket, and begins a series of short, lusty thrusts with his hips. The little jabs against the core of my breast shimmer through me.

“Ohnhnh,” I moan. I drop suddenly and gulp his dick back into my mouth, hard and full. I feel his hands pulling my sweater over my back, sliding around my waist to the front, pulling the button fly apart. I have set up a fierce rhythm of wet sucking, duplicating the movement of my lower body. His hands slip under my jeans, guide them over my rump and down, skim the moist, distended flesh protruding between the backs of my stretched, separated thighs. His fingers slide through my lips, exploring over the slick surface, between the folds, from perineum to clitoris, linger, massage the sides of my clitoris, press lightly at the mouth of my vagina, tease me into grinding against his hand. His penis surges from his groin. Frank moans, spreads my lips apart and plunges two fingers into my vagina. We both know, it is time. I rise up, separating his arms, facing him, looking at him, and rock back on my heels to pull my jeans from my legs. When I move back to him, his index and middle fingers part my lips and travel further into me. He kneels forward, off the coffee table, lifts my chin and kisses me, thrusting his tongue into my throat, matching his pattern of finger penetration and clitoral stimulation. I am moving with him, picking up his suggestions of rhythm, humming accompaniment, “UHNhnhUHNhnhUHNhnh”. He is coiling around me, now, reluctant to leave my mouth, but urgent for consummation. He is going to take me from behind. I am eager, I want to feel the power of his initial penetration, unimpeded by a curl in the back, or the space created by bent hips thrusting from above, thrusting from below. I present myself to him, drop my hands, stretch and extend my trunk. I look back at him, wondering if what he sees is stimulating.

He hesitates. His eyes are focused on my spread. His pupils are dilated. He plumps his balls, a primitive animal movement. I moan, imagining the contents shooting into me, “Oooh”, and grind in his direction. He moves between my knees, separating them purposefully with his, aiming his dick with his hand. The motion causes me to look forward and drop my head. I moan again and push to meet him. He retreats briefly, slides his head forward to my clitoris, playing with me. We continue this erotic, sophisticated courting until politeness undoes him. I grind and moan and this time he braces his head against my pussy, plants his hands on my buttocks and thrusts, grunting. I gasp. It is pulsing.

Frank’s initial insertions are sharp, probing, retracted fully, sometimes slipping out of me. When I lose him I hear myself whimper, I feel myself lunge back, and he swiftly reenters me. At the apex of each plunge he grinds into me and groans, quick and low. My body is moving with him, of its own accord, telling him, “Do what you want, go where you want, I want everything from you, I want you everywhere.” My vagina is pulling furiously at him, luring him further.

I glance over my shoulder. He is still vertical. He is entranced, watching his dick slide in and out of me. I begin erratic contractions. Frank reacts to each spasm by slowing his thrusts, moving back and forth mid-pussy, frictitiously, reading my shuddering through the walls. As each spasm subsides, my center becomes hotter, wetter, and Frank plunges back into the crater. I wonder, momentarily, if I am going to come before we’ve both finished this enticing dialogue.

Frank’s stance shifts. He coils around me, slides his arms around my chest for support. His rhythm changes. He is burrowing, now, undulating syncopatically with me. My center expands, like a lung. I feel a corresponding shift in my joints. “Ohnhn,” he moans, and whispers huskily, “Your hips! Your hips just opened to me...”

“I know,” I moan, but I am sure the words aren’t decipherable. Again, as at the beginning of this encounter, I am asked to consider an expanded level of sexual intimacy. I assent.

I imagine my vulva snatching at his balls, excitedly taut against his lower groin, trying to take them into me. I seize him even more tightly, at the peak of a thrust.

“Ohnhn, Shenar,” he growls. We are taking another turn.

He crouches further, relying on the strength of my countering grinds to support him. I feel as though I am completely wrapped in his body, and full of him, besides. It is a violently feminine feeling.

“Yes! There! There! Ohhhh, put it there!” I am shouting. Now, as we culminate, I can speak. This is urgent, my tone is demanding. I need it right there! Right now! I think of myself impaled horizontally on his dick. My body gives way and begins to convulse. His dick skewers my vagina, through my cervix, into my uterus, through some secret slit now revealed, through my diaphragm, suspending my rotating on a barré of energy stronger than steel, more dynamic than fission.

In my abyss, I feel Frank shift into automatic. I think of high spurts of thick lava. My vagina constricts strongly, fully, rhythmically, swallowing the reality of what I am imagining.

Text & Graphics © 1999 by Gail Rae Hudson

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