The Stallion

| 16 Feb 2015 | 04:23

    I had an early appointment so I made it clear he could only stay for a few hours, no spending the night. I'd only even let him come over once before. We usually did it at his place and I liked that arrangement. Then I could escape?from his apartment, his self-consciousness, his constant need to touch me. Last night I even set the alarm for his exit?10 p.m. sharp. I needed a good night's sleep.

    Sometimes I try to be in love with him.

    I pretend I am. I never say it but I act like it, cooing and complimenting and acting interested when I'm not. It makes us both feel better, maybe.

    We even have the dinner of people in love: wine and bread and cheese and fruit and olives and whatever's in the fridge?which tonight is wilted spinach. It is saved by some good olive oil and lemon. We move to the bedroom. The payoff.

    He is my Italian Stallion?tall, thick dark hair, broad of shoulder and dark-skinned. A kind of macho playboy, yet he says he wants to be my "lesbian lover." This intrigues me. Does this mean he wants long, drawn-out lovemaking sessions without a focus on fucking? Or is it a prearranged excuse for limp-dick syndrome? He may just be a little intimidated by my not-quite-heterosexuality. Or maybe he'd like to see me act it out.

    We get into my bed, clothes are coming off, and to my disappointment he says he is "kind of tired" and wants to "cuddle." Shit. His dick is hard, what the fuck? I want it.

    His big hairy chest is great to nuzzle in; this is where I see my mother, her soft belly and breasts comforting me when I got stung by a bee or stubbed my toe. But right now I am not wanting my mommy, I want to fuck.

    I don't demand sex, though I want to. I'm a little annoyed. After a few minutes of "cuddling"?I really do like him, I feel guilty that I don't love him?my patience is rewarded, handsomely.

    After I can speak again I praise him for his cocksmanship. He laughs, but I am serious. He gave me a good long hard fuck while I touched myself and he came and stayed erect and kept going until I came. (I know, that's mildly dangerous behavior: the condom box says get rid of it as soon as he comes. But life is not a box of condoms.) And he was not in the most comfortable position. And he even held onto my feet so I didn't have to worry about them flopping around or figure out where to put them. I thought that was especially nice.

    His willingness to please me reminds me of another guy who liked me more than I liked him. Paul from 1987. I tell him his dedication to my pleasure reminds me of Paul. Paul gave me my first orgasm that was witnessed by someone other than my cat. He seemingly had nothing better to do than go down on me. I admire this in a man.

    Paul was sweet, cute, 21 and the friend of my friend Jane's older sister. I'd had boyfriends and I'd fucked them, but before Paul I only came by myself. He didn't believe the moaning and groaning that I'd picked up from movies and Cosmo, and set his sights on truly pleasing me. He lay me on his bed and went at me like he had all the time in the world.

    He did have all the time in the world; he was a part-time security guard and lived in a house that smelled of old sneakers with about seven other guys. He had a narrow twin bed with mismatched sheets, neither one bottom-fitted so they always got mangled and my ass was forever on the dirty gray shiny jacquard of the mattress. I didn't mind.

    So I'm telling Vince all this, feeling fabulous, all hormone-high and afterglow, and he says in his deep voice, "Yes, Christen, I am like your high school boyfriend, I have nothing better to do than make you come," and I'm thinking this is great and then the phone rings.

    I panic. I haven't turned down the volume on my machine and it could be Mac, my Long Distance Man, but probably not, he never calls. "Hi Christen, it's Chester, we met at Galapagos the other night..." My brain buzzes?who is this? "I really enjoyed talking to you and I wondered if you wanted to have a drink sometime, my number is..."

    I turn to Vince. "I swear I didn't give that guy my number, how could he have... I mean I was drunk, out with my friends, and I was flirting, but...."

    Vince saves me. "Do you think I'm going to be jealous of someone with as stupid a name as Chester?"

    I defend Chester's funny name by citing my mother's brother Chester, my Uncle Chet. My principal memory of Uncle Chet is that I thought he had three penises. My family was staying at Grandma's in Florida, and Uncle Chet was sleeping in Cousin Billy's room, on his water bed. So my sister and I get up and ask permission to wake him and Grandma says yes so we run in and jump on the water bed and he tickles us and somehow we peek below the sheets and later we have a big fight, because I say he has three dicks and my sister says he doesn't. We don't know what balls are.

    I thought men had three penises for a long time. How were we supposed to know? I mean I'd only seen my dad's in the shower, and my memory of that day is that I pointed and said, "What's that?" I don't remember the answer, just that the father-daughter showers stopped.

    My Stallion tells me he's never seen his mother naked. He sounds almost disappointed. No memory of a glimpsed breast or anything. I put my hand on the side of his face to comfort him.

    I've seen my mother naked a lot. She's been ill since I was in fourth grade, and was debilitatively obese before that. I'd always felt vaguely ashamed of her flesh, humiliated by having to help her into her bra, powder her armpits. Knowing she was once very beautiful and I still was, and I didn't want to be close to her, as if her ugliness would somehow infect me.

    As she's gotten sicker, I've seen not only her bare breasts and naked body, but I've cleaned her genitals and even seen her clitoris. While giving her a shower at home a few years ago I suddenly came upon it, a big white-pink pearl popping out. My first instinct was to touch it, caress her, masturbate her to orgasm. She doesn't have much pleasure in her life. I wanted to make her feel good. I didn't, just soaped up a dark washcloth with Ivory and bathed her. But I wanted to make her come.

    When I relay this to my Stallion, he thinks I am a little, well, odd. "Don't you think it would be better if someone else did it, like a nurse or something? What about your dad?"

    "Oh yeah, that would be great," I joke. "I'll tell him to give her some good lovin'. I should buy my dad a vibrator and tell him to make her come with it. I'll call him right now."

    We contort in laughter. Then the alarm goes off. We hold our breath. Then we laugh again anyway. It feels good. I slap his ass as he heads for the door.