Saturday, July 28, 2018

'Blind Date (Part 2)'--a short story by TAS

Blind Date (Part 2)

Ginny is parked a few blocks north of the tower complex, and we have time to talk along the way.
“Zane seems like a really nice guy,” she says.
It’s not like her to make small talk and my laughter brings her up short.
“What?” she says. “What’s funny?”
“Well, you have to admit that ‘he seems like a really nice guy’ is kind of an odd thing to say about somebody who was balls-deep inside you not five minutes ago. Seems like a really nice guy to me... Yeah, I’ll bet!”
“Tell me about him,” Ginny says, “I mean, seriously.”
“Well, he is a nice guy. One of the nicest I’ve ever known. It’s always kind of bugged me that he’s never been able to find the right person.”
“Because he’s blind?”
“There are lots of reasons that don’t necessarily have anything to do with his being blind—”
“But that’s a part of it, right?”
“I suppose—do you remember the night we first met?”
“Sure, at Cheryl’s party.”
“And do you remember who made the first move?”
“I remember us talking... but, no, I don’t remember who started the conversation.”
“I can’t forget. It was you, Ginny. You came up to me, bold as brass, and dove into a discussion like you’d known me your whole life. That conversation was one of the most exciting things that’s ever happened to me. Do you know why?”
“Tell me.”
“It was because you were so direct, so open, and honest, and verbal with me. You made it easy for me to pick up on the signals you were sending out. I didn’t have to guess about the hidden meanings in your body language.”
“Oh...” It begins to dawn on her.
“You’re already at an enormous social disadvantage when you’re visually impaired—when you can’t read people’s gestures or pick up on their visual communication. Fully-sighted people take it all for granted; being able to read the non-verbal subtext, or take the hints another person gives by the way she carries herself, or the look in her eye, or the way her upper lip twitches when she’s nervous. It’s like a set of subtitles that aren’t necessarily a literal translation of the spoken dialogue on the screen—and sometimes might even be the exact opposite of what’s being said. Body language and gestures add the deeper, richer, truer layers of meaning, and those of us who have sound but no picture really are handicapped in that department.”
“I hadn’t thought about it like that,” she says.
“Every time we saw each other after that night, especially when we started finding excuses to be alone together, you let me know—showed me in no uncertain terms—that you liked touching and being touched, that you wanted to be kissed and held and cuddled, and that it was OK for me to take the lead—be the kind of  dominant that turns you on.  For me, it was a dream come true. I mean, look: I have some vision, but I can’t read people from more than a few inches away. Imagine not being able to see them at all. Wonderful as it can be, you still miss out on the deeper subtleties of seduction, all those exhilarating nuances, the miniscule movements fraught with meaning, the things that make romance so thrilling and mysterious and fun. It becomes like a minefield.”
“A minefield covered with eggshells,” she says. “It’s kind of sad when you think about it.”
“To have to face those kinds of impossible hurdles everyday—”
“They’re not impossible, Ginny, just slightly more challenging than the average lazy-ass sighted wuss is used to. Jesus! If everything had to be easy, grown men would be playing T-ball in the major leagues. If everybody was expected to be good at something the first time they tried it, nobody would ever have sex more than once. Most people are given the benefit of the doubt concerning their potential abilities. If they express an interest in something, the attitude is: Sure. Go for it. Give it the ol’ beginner’s try. If you fall on your ass the first time, get up and try again. Then start practicing, concentrating, honing, improving, getting good. We’ll cut you the slack you need to grow, give you the space and time you need to fail if you have to on the way to achieving your goal.
“And that, my friend, is what being normal is all about; having the opportunity—no, the right—to try and fail like everybody else. But sighted people in their paternalistic wisdom are so concerned about protecting us ‘poor blind folks’ from ourselves that they routinely deny us this most basic human dignity.
“Let me tell you a little story. That summer when I was at the state school, they would organize recreational activities for the kids in the evening—like the thing with the go-carts where I first met Zane. One night, Miss Fotzenberg had us all line up for a game. She put shaving cream on a toy balloon and had us take turns trying to ‘shave’ the balloon with a safety razor. Sure enough, the balloon would always, always pop, because, of course, blind kids are all dull-witted, clumsy, incompetent things who will never amount to anything in their lives—never be anything other than clumsy, incompetent blind people who can’t perform the simplest task without a sighted person’s help.
“It struck me as odd that anybody would be able to pop a balloon with a safety razor, even if they really put their mind to it. And, sure enough, when it got to be my turn, I was extra careful, wanting to be the one kid in the line who didn’t fuck up. I was almost done, when I saw—saw!—the teacher’s hand coming up from underneath with a needle to pop the balloon, exactly as she’d done a dozen times before with the others. That ‘funny joke’ of hers was nothing more than a sadistic exercise in humiliation—an experiment designed to condition us—to make us all feel worthless. The message of that game was loud and clear: Don’t. Even. Try.”
“Oh my God, Hank, that’s terrible!”
“Thank your god I never went back to that school as a regular student. But Zane—”
“Was stuck there? I feel so sorry for him—”
“No pity, baby. Pity is the last thing he needs or wants. Pity is part of the reason he’s alone.”
“Guess I don’t understand.”
“You can love someone you pity, but can you honestly fall in love with them?
“It could never be the true love of equals, because the pitier always feels somehow superior to the pitied. The object of pity is just that, an object, a kind of pet, like a dog or a cat the master can project his own shallow, manipulative notions of dominance onto, his own imaginary nobility and righteousness.
“Most people’s first instinct when they meet somebody like Zane is to feel sorry for the poor blind bastard, and they never get past that first impression, no matter what. They’ve judged him, classified him, pigeonholed him, folded and flattened him into a trite, one-dimensional factoid before he’s spoken a single word out loud. They never allow him to speak for himself or allow themselves to see the accomplished, smart and incredibly deep human being he truly is. All the well-meaning, ignorant, pitying assholes see when they look at Zane is a blind guy, an object, a thing—”
“Isn’t that how we saw him this afternoon though? Didn’t I just treat him to a pity fuck?”
“Is that how you felt?”
She thinks about it for a second.
“Neither did I. Oh, I suppose somebody might think of it that way, but I’m pretty sure Zane doesn’t. Take his blindness out of the equation and how is what we did any different than what sighted swingers do every night of the week? Besides, it’s not like you were stringing him along or offering to go steady.”
“Maybe I should have,” she teases.
“Don’t even think about it,” I say. “You’re mine!”
We are half way to the car. A bleak cloister of dwarfing concrete pillars beneath a vacant office building affords us a transient moment of privacy. I take her in my arms for a kiss, re-breathing through my nose to make it last. Finally, she breaks away, and we resume the death march of the fast-waning weekend.
“So tell me, baby,” she says, “weren’t you just the tiniest bit jealous watching Zane and me getting it on together like that?”
“Kind of ironic, don’t you think, me being jealous of you with another guy?”
“Well, are you?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, a little.”
“Only a little?”
“What do you want to hear, honey? Seems to me we’re a long way past being surprised or jealous about anything.”
“And what does that mean, Hank?”
“It means... how can I be jealous of you and Zane for doing exactly the same thing that you and I have been doing behind your husband’s back for half a year now?”
“What?” She is stung by my too-casual reference to our adultery. “I thought you were OK with this—I mean with me and Zane today.”
“I was—I am. I helped set it up, didn’t I? It’s not like one of us came up with the idea and dragged the other one along kicking and screaming. And if you’re asking if I regret it now, the answer is no, I don’t.”
“Do you regret us—you and me, the way we’ve been these past few months?”
“I love you, Ginny. I’ll never feel bad about anything we’ve done together.”
“I want to believe you,” she says. “So, did you get off on it?”
“Off on what?”
“You know, silly!” She punches me in the shoulder.
“You mean, watching my best friend screw my best girl? Yes. It had its discrete charms—voyeurism’s a major hoot. Anyway, it’s not like I could tell you guys to get a room.”
“Is that what you wanted to do?”
“No. What I really wanted was to be in there with the two of you, maybe pleasuring an alternate hole or three. I figured you’d be cool with it. I just didn’t know how Zane would feel about having a co-pilot.”
“I could handle two sticks at once.”
“I know you could, baby. And Zane is the only guy I would ever feel totally comfortable sharing you with, because... I love him, too, like a brother. And I could never see myself in a threesome without another guy I loved that way.”
“Awww! That is so sweet!”
“It’s what they call compersion—feeling joy when your partner has great sex with somebody else.”
“I didn’t know there was a word for it,” she says.
“True. I promise.”
“Mm hmm, and what if we had asked you to leave?”
“I would have left.”
“Liar!” She punches me in the arm again.
“I swear, Ginny—ow!—I would have left.”
“If you’d both asked nicely? Of course. I would’ve taken the elevator down to the lobby and paced around for half an hour, all the while imagining the two of you together, and that would have been pleasure and pain in pretty much equal amounts. I’d still have been glad about it, but I can’t deny the jealousy would have been a lot stronger, too. Not to mention the fantasies I’d be having if all I had to rely on was my imagination. It’d be a million times more vivid and intense than an actual memory—mainly because the laws of physics are mere guidelines in the realm of wet dreams.”
“You are such a smartass! Shame we didn’t throw you out.”
“I’m glad you didn’t, honey.”
“Seriously, Hank, you’re the smartest man I’ve ever met, the most perceptive, the most passionate. You see farther and deeper than anyone I’ve ever known.”
“And you, my lovely Virginia, are the sweetest, most intelligent, kind, empathetic, generous woman I’ve ever been with or would ever care to be with.”
I draw her close for one last kiss. She pulls away too abruptly and I am confused.
“Sorry.” She is suddenly melancholy. “I miss my kids, that’s all.”
“I understand, baby.” This is my lover’s way of trying to re-establish her real-world identity. Distancing herself from me and our shared world is how she begins to re-enter that other life.
She walks away from me like a stranger in her tight jeans and loose-fitting blouse, and I am in agony, hollowed out, empty, utterly alone. We’ll always have this city—this weekend—the final afternoon’s dalliance a memory like no other. In years to come we will recollect the glorious abandon of that hour and know that there was a time when we were truly alive together. And yet, I sense that the experience has already begun to come between us like some shameful secret—that we will look back on the moment of our greatest bliss, our highest exultation, only to realize that it was the beginning of the end for us.
I wish I could not see it all so clearly.

Sunday, July 22, 2018

'Blind Date (Part 1)'--a short story by TAS

Blind Date (Part 1)

“Hey there, gorgeous! Ever been on a blind date?” It is Zane’s favorite ice-breaker, even after all these years.
I’ve brought my girlfriend to meet him this Sunday, up to the sixteenth floor and the tiny Section 8 efficiency with its stinging odor of institutional soap, and the glorious view of the city skyline that my best friend cannot appreciate.
Ginny giggles politely at the compliment as Zane ushers us through the stark cinderblock entryway. The long narrow main room is a three-sided fish tank, already uncomfortably warm in the mid-afternoon sun despite the lumbering A.C. and the dusty drapes that are seldom closed; a grotty kitchenette at one end, a lumpy twin mattress crammed between the window and a shelf of stereo components at the other. Zane puts a Music from the Hearts of Space compilation in the CD player and sits on the bed. I take the ratty antique La-Z-Boy that hasn’t reclined in decades. Ginny kicks off her sandals and settles on the carpet in front of me, nestling contentedly against my knees.
Zane and I have been friends for more than thirty years. Ginny and I have been sneaking around behind our respective significant others’ backs for about six months. We’ve stolen this weekend together, she and I, telling such lies as were necessary to escape, desperate for a few hours in each other’s arms. We’ve been living incognito for a couple nights now, shacked up like a pair of newlyweds in one of the less-than-grand hotels downtown. Zane’s building is within walking distance and this is our borrowed holiday’s last hurrah.
Ginny practically glows, her flesh abloom, still subtly flushed after our last round of love-making. I breathe in the scent of her hair, the faint metallic hint of rose and orange blossom her ineffaceable signature. She rolls her head back, gazing worshipfully up at me, vibrant brown pupils afloat in glistening white pools, wide with salacious wonder. Her smile is irresistible, even upside down, and its meaning just as clear; she would be kissed—now, this very instant. Her flimsy voile top is loose around her shoulders, the light, gauzy fabric crinkly under my roving fingers as I lean forward, and I am granted a magnificent view of her braless breasts as we make out.
Zane is saying something about the music—I don’t quite catch the words.
“What’s that, buddy?”
“I really like what he does here.” He puts the CD on fast-reverse, back to the part he’s anxious for us to hear.
“Oh yeah! That is pretty neat.” I’ve slipped a hand into Ginny’s top. Her skin is taut yet subtly yielding, though my sense of touch is momentarily confused as to whether it is cool, or warm, or merely moist with nervous perspiration. She makes an effort to keep her breathing steady.
“So, how long you guys in town for?” Zane rocks nervously back and forth, tossing his head like a davener in a synagogue.
“Gotta head out pretty soon,” I say. “Ginny has to be back this evening. I’ll stick around a while, catch the bus at 9.”
“Too bad there isn’t more time,” Zane says. “It’d be fun to go out, get crazy like back in the day—remember, Hank?”
“Sure! How could I forget? Like that time we got smashed on your birthday?” I flick at one of Ginny’s nipples, teasing it to stiff attention.
“Or that time at school, with the go-carts—”
“—when I was driving us around that old dirt track.”
“What happened?” Ginny asks.
“I was trying to take the thing around the turns, and we kept wiping out—”
“And Hank here keeps hollering ‘Lean! Dammit! Lean!’” Zane can hardly contain his amusement.
“Which was a pretty scandalous thing to say, at least according to Miss Fotzenberg.”
“Oh God! That bitch!” Zane snorts.
“Where was this?” I can feel Ginny tensing slightly as I lay the flat of my palm over her breast. “Where’d you guys meet?”
“State school for the blind,” Zane and I reply in unison.
“I was there for the summer session,” I explain. “I always attended public schools—I guess they call it mainstreaming nowadays—basically because I’m not totally blind like Zane, and have always been able to use the sight I have to get around, more or less—though you should see this guy navigate downtown at night! Man! I’d be lost inside of ten seconds—”
“It’s pretty easy once you’ve had the mobility training,” Zane says.
“So anyway, going to the state school for a few weeks that summer was a way for me to kind of expand my horizons, encounter other visually-impaired kids, really for the first time in my life. And, of course, who’s the first guy I meet there? This dude!”
“Can you believe it was 1973, right before we started high school?”
“I was a year old,” Ginny says.
“Bet you were cute even back then.” My best friend is a shameless flirt.
“You’d like her,” I tell him. “She’s amazing.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Oh yeah! About 5’4” barefoot, which, by the way, she is right now. Drop-dead beautiful—we’re talking incredibly hot—”
“He’s exaggerating, Zane.” Ginny is actually blushing as she protests.
“—an incredible body,” I insist. “Everything’s perfectly proportioned and just the right size—”
“Shut up!” Ginny laughs.
“—beautiful big brown eyes, and really pretty reddish-brown hair down to her shoulders—”
“Mmmmm!” Zane is imagining it.
“Here, wanna see?” I reach over and guide his hand to Ginny’s hair. Breath catches quietly in her throat as he touches her, shyly running his long sensitive fingers through the luxuriant glossy strands. “How ‘bout that, big guy?”
“Wow!” he sighs, reluctantly withdrawing. “That’s really nice.”
“Thanks, honey,” I tell her.
“Yes! Thank you, Ginny.” Zane is genuinely appreciative.
We sit quietly for a while, pretending to listen as the music drones on. A raucous parade of emergency vehicles roars down the avenue far below, their Dopplering sirens like thunder echoing off the high-rise rim of the deep concrete canyons. My mind is all on Ginny. I am nuzzling her neck, debating with myself whether to give her a hickey before she has to leave, the soft bruise a lurid, if quickly fading, memento of our time together.
“This is really turning me on,” she confesses in a throaty sotto voce, nodding in Zane’s direction. It is the idea of being invisible that excites her, of being naughty without being seen; of ‘getting away’ with something crazy and subversive and utterly outrageous right under this strange man’s unseeing eyes, though I have little doubt my friend knows exactly what’s going on between us.
“You thinking what I’m thinking?” My voice is a soft rumble translated through my nose, tucked up gently under Ginny’s ear.
“Mm?” She stretches like a contented cat.
“Maybe we could... do something nice for him—if you were up for it—”
“What’s that?” Zane’s ears perk up.
“—I mean, if you’d be comfortable. You know I’d never ask you to do anything—”
“No, it’s alright,” she murmurs. “I wouldn’t mind.”
“What do you think, buddy?” I inquire aloud. “I assume you’ve been following the conversation?”
“Yeah, I pretty much got the gist,” he says. “So, what did you guys have in mind?”
“Some fun, if you’re up for it,” I reply. “Ginny here would kind of like to give you a present before she has to leave.”
“Seriously? You guys aren’t playing with me now, are you?”
“Seriously, Zane.” She puts a reassuring hand on his knee. “That is, if you’re cool with it—”
He takes a long moment to consider.
“Yeah, I’m cool—”
I get to my feet, swiftly bringing Ginny up with me. She raises her arms without a word of question or command, and I pull the flimsy blouse off over her head, loving the way her hair falls so charmingly back into place in the wake of the garment’s removal.
“—so how do I—?” Zane is still uncertain. “How do we—”
“Shhhh.” Ginny seals his lips with a pair of outstretched fingers. He is abruptly still, sitting bolt upright, davening no more.
She stands in front of him, takes his hand, draws him to his feet. He seems to tower over her and I am weirdly aroused by the sight of them together, the odd physical disparity, not merely in height, but in every aspect of this fleshly-surreal juxtaposition. Her skin is peaches and cream to his swarthy russet tones. Her youthful body is lithe, smooth and fair, subtly athletic, a diminutive Belle to this big middle-aged man’s jovial, beer-gutted Beast.
“Mind if I?” He reaches down to touch her face, bashfully at first before finding his confidence, exploring deliberately, thoroughly, memorizing her features one by one. There is an intimacy in this ritual that the sighted seldom know.
“Like what you see?” She has already gotten the hang of this counterintuitive idiom, and I am proud of her.
“Oh yeah,” he sighs. “Hank was right.”
“You ain’t seen nothin’ yet!” She steers his hands to her breasts.
“Oh... wow!” He draws the words out on a long, tremulous breath, his mouth a gaping rictus of surprise, as if stunned by the sudden touch of ice.
I stand close behind them, watching over her shoulder. Zane’s huge hands hover above her breasts, barely making contact until she leans in, pressing them firmly into his palms.
I draw the curtain of her hair aside, lean over and gently kiss the back of her neck.
“Mmm,” she sighs. “You’re really cute, you know that, Zane?”
“Thanks. You too, Ginny.”
“So... why don’t I help you take off your shirt?”
“That’d be OK, I guess.”
She takes her time undoing the pin-striped button-front, starting at the top and moving steadily down, placing a soft kiss wherever the fabric is parted, until it hangs open and loose like flaps of skin around a wound. Zane moans softly as she slides it off over his shoulders. His chest and belly is a tangled thicket of coarse dark wires.
Now she looks up into his smile—an open book of wonder—puts her arms around his shoulders, crushing her breasts against his torso, bear hugging, topless, skin to skin. He binds her to him with hairy, hard-muscled forearms, tight around her naked middle, though I notice that both of them are holding back, shyly avoiding contact below the waist.
She reaches up to touch his face. Zane’s head is large, with a longish, thoughtful brow, caught in that homely fortysomething limbo, not balding, precisely, though his perpetually-thinning hair has receded to a rusty halo. He has the sort of ordinary everyday mien average people usually refer to as... average. His plainness does not disturb or dissuade her. On the contrary, she is excited by the fact that he cannot perceive or judge her own imagined flaws—cannot be turned off by what he cannot see. His face is a mirror reflecting only beauty.
“So, Zane...” Ginny’s voice is sultry and thick “... would you like to kiss me, now?”
“If... if it’s OK with Hank.”
“She doesn’t need my permission—”
“Damn straight!” She laughs.
“—neither do you, buddy. Go for it.”
I massage Ginny’s shoulders as she and Zane begin to make out. I do it as much to deepen my own shameless enjoyment of the moment as to encourage her. The encounter has unlocked emotions long walled-up within me, just as I imagine it has awakened something dark and wild inside both of them, a sweltering perplexity of unfamiliar urges—things we never knew we wanted until this very moment, but cannot now imagine living without. I am curious to see how these mischievous, intoxicating new endorphins will affect us, each in our own way—how far, ultimately, we’ll be willing to go if things, already hot, quickly become heavy.
Ginny holds nothing back with Zane, does not feign shyness or pretend to be coy. Her kisses are the kind that linger for seconds on end, passionate, full-lipped, slow-simmering, wet. She brings her tongue into play, and Zane makes a sound in the back of his throat like a hungry animal.
My friend is not completely inexperienced. Zane’s been with women before and knows what to do. But he is twice-shy, having been burned more than once too often, taken advantage of by vile, self-loathing users who saw him only as a convenient fuck-stick, an easy mark they could pick up for a drunken one-off when no other self-respecting male would give them so much as a look of disgust.
He has fallen, not altogether unwillingly, into these traps, lured by loneliness and the unrelieved urges of a healthy libido. Zane can be gullible and, sometimes, pathetically easy to influence. Predators perceive his gentleness as weakness, his trusting nature as malleability. They get what they want from him and sneak out in the morning without so much as a “call me.” They leave nothing behind but the indelible stench of their own embarrassment, cheap perfume and drunken sweat on the pillow, dollar-store shampoo in a chain-smoker’s hair, and the stale redolence of red sex lingering on the sheets, the memory like a hangover of shame and regret that never goes away.
And am I taking advantage of my best friend at this moment? Pimping out Ginny for my own perverse amusement? True, she is not like the other women he’s been with. She is genuinely attractive and he knows it. She is sober and willing, and this alone is a gift. Zane is not some overgrown man-child. He is not so naïve as to believe that being with Ginny is anything other than a glorious one-time adventure that will be fun while it lasts, but over when it’s over, and nobody is pretending otherwise. No one is trying to deceive or humiliate anyone here.
I hook a pair of fingers through the belt loops on either side of Ginny’s jeans. She is in the moment with Zane and barely notices as I begin to pull them down around her ample hips. She’s not wearing panties—much to my surprise. But her snow-white bottom is abundantly fleshy, well-toned, and pertly curvaceous, and I think my friend will appreciate it immensely. A simple whispered suggestion in her ear is all it takes. Ginny grabs his hands, planting them decisively on her cheeks as they continue to neck.
I know what I’m doing. I am fully aware that this will kick things into a higher gear, setting wheels in motion that will be much harder to put the brakes on later. But then, it occurs to me that I have become both director and stage manager of this little production, as well as its unwitting captive audience—and why should I be shocked if the actors choose to improvise?
Ginny reaches for his belt. The work of a second brings his cock out into the open. She gazes down at it with the blossoming expression of an impish brat imagining some new way of getting into trouble. Takes it in her hand with an appreciative sigh, impressed by Zane’s unselfconscious girth. Strokes the shaft a time or two until it wakes, then, casually, without warning, lays the still-half-flaccid thing like a slab of thawing meat against her naked cunt.
My mind races to one of those risqué Japanese ‘spring pictures’ where the lovers’ genitalia are so grotesquely exaggerated as to become, in effect, the erotic center of the world. It’s not a difficult connection to make. Zane’s cock is big, bigger than mine for sure, bigger even than most. It seems positively huge against Ginny’s daintily sculpted pubis.
“My God! It’s—” She is lost for the obvious. “What do you feed it with?” Ginny shoves him, gently, into his original sitting position on the edge of the bed. “Shall we find out?”
She helps him off with his jeans before shimmying out of her own. I search through a zippered pocket in my duffle bag and hand her a line of foil-sealed condoms. She waves off the bottle of lube I offer, and there is nothing left for me to do. I take a step back from the scene.
They are sitting up, facing each other on the edge of the bed now. She straddles his thighs, carefully adjusting her position before slipping down around him. They remain motionless for a moment, like a pair of classical lovers, captured forever in some exquisite terracotta vignette. Ginny gives him time to calm his breathing, and I know exactly what my friend is feeling: that heady sensation of at once filling and being surrounded, caressed and enveloped by soft, sucking flesh, the warm, moist closeness of infinite possibility.
She flexes her hips, just barely enough to induce a gentle friction where their genitals are joined, virtually fused at the thighs, and I remember our first time together, breathless, awkward, fumbling, the two of us coupled in this same precarious pose, sitting face to face on the rear bench seat of her husband’s tasteless conversion van...
I watch them from the La-Z-Boy, pants around my ankles as I touch myself through a condom. My greedy fingers play along the taut gamut of my shaft, my loose-clenched palm mirroring the motion of Ginny’s heaving pas touche, slip-sliding ever-so gently up and down over Zane’s impassive rod.
She is breathing hotly, straining and sweating, tossing her head back as she shoves her bosom forward. “Oh... my God!”
“What?” Zane is instantly concerned. “What is it?”
“It’s alright... You... you just made me come—”
“Yes... really... really—oh my God! Really!”
“Do I need to—”
“No! Don’t stop! Please... not for anything! Just... keep... going.”
She lunges at him and Zane falls backwards onto the bed. Ginny is with him all the way, sprawling on top, allowing him to feel the delicious weight of her body born down with all its prurient intention. His hands rove over her flesh like a sculptor working with wet clay, gradually discovering the hidden form within; her shoulders, her breasts, her sides—kneading, patting, shaping—her hips, her thighs, her bottom—teasing, caressing, stroking, admiring.
“Oh Jesus! Fuck me, Zane! Really fuck me!”
He pushes forward with a groan, taking the initiative, pushes again, still harder, and again, and again, building up a steady, driving rhythm inside her, encouraged by the sounds she makes, the high-pitched sighs and soft girlish grunts. They are rutting now, a pair of animals tearing at one another, discovering their true nature, sloughing off the old skin of civilized artifice, shame and all pretense of modesty. She shoves her pelvis backwards to meet his oncoming thrusts, projects her aching need at him, on him, around him; wanton—wanting—breathing, panting, looking, letching, seeking, searching, finding, feeling, fiddling, fucking, fucking, fucking, but never, never—ever—forgetting.
I rise from the chair to stand over them as I masturbate, inspired by the view of Ginny’s broad naked back, glistening with sweat, her beautiful hair disheveled around her shoulders, her writhing rump bobbing like a pair of pink floats on steady rolling waves. I am looking directly into my best friend’s face, and jerking off right here in front of him, and I, too, am turned on by the idea of my own unchastened wickedness, the liberating invisibility of this dark ménage.
It is over quickly. Zane throws his hands out to either side as if in search of something to keep him from falling. His whole body trembles. I can see his limbs jerking and juddering with the quickening force of climax. I know the feeling. A man’s orgasm is like a sudden plunge into freezing water, the terror and exhilaration of total immersion—skin touched everywhere at once, no place that is not vulnerable, no place that is not alive—the indiscriminate senses roaring in confusion.
We are climaxing simultaneously, the three of us. I fill the tip of my condom with white hot spunk, and cannot help but imagine Zane doing the same thing deep inside Ginny’s spasming channel. I have to remind myself that this is my friend’s moment, not mine, in spite of all the pleasure it has given me. I must not be the first to speak.
“That was amazing,” Ginny pants huskily, stretching forward to plant a sloppy kiss on his forehead. “You are a total stud, Zane!”
“You too—I mean, thanks, Ginny. Thanks for... everything. It was... it was... just—”
“I know, baby, I know. For me, too.”
The set is struck with impressive haste. Ginny steps into the bathroom to clean up. I help Zane find his clothes. No one pauses to comment on what has only just passed between us.
“I should walk Ginny down to the car,” I tell him. “Be back up in a few minutes. We can hang out for a while if you want, listen to music, maybe order a pizza?”
“Sounds good, Hank.”
Zane is shy again as Ginny enfolds him in a long farewell embrace. They kiss each other goodbye like old lovers, which, of course, is what they are now.
“Hey!” she laughs, “I finally know what it’s like to be on a blind date!”
“Oh... yeah!” He brightens at the reference.
“It was really fun,” she tells him—and I am convinced she means it. “Be seeing you around, Zane, maybe next time Hank and I are in town.”
“Can’t wait,” he says. “We’ll get crazy for sure.”
“I like the sound of that...”