Twelve

It was a lovely late afternoon as we left Thomas in the East Village, so I proposed we walk to Chelsea.

There, Belle would clock Number Twelve.

As we strolled, Belle asked, “Say, what was the name of that boy I fucked yesterday?”

“Congratulations!” I laughed. “If you can’t remember the name of someone you fucked yesterday, you are now officially a slut.”

“I appreciate the honor. But really, what was his name?”

“Do you really want to know, or would you prefer to have fucked a boy whose name you can’t recall?”

“I really want to know.”

“Starts with a ‘D’ . . .”

“Come on!”

“Driti.”

“Right. Driti. He was cute. Kind of full of himself.”

“That’s Driti. Now you know his name. But you are still a slut, because you forgot it.”

“I can live with that.”

We were nearing the corner of Todd’s street.

“Now, I have to warn you,” I told her. “I’ve never been to Todd’s place, but it is legendary for its mess.”

“Dacia has warned me.”

“You are prepared for the worst?”

“Oh yes. Nocturnal bachelor living alone? I’m ready.”

Todd rang us up from the entry.

“Belle! It’s so great to see you again.” Todd kissed her, then me. “I’m really glad you are finally visiting my apartment, Jefferson.”

“It’s . . . very nice,” I commented. “Prewar?”

“Yes. Excuse the mess.”

“Oh . . .,” Belle demurred, taking it in. “It’s not so bad . . .”

“Of course it is! But it’s just me and the kitties, and we don’t mind.”

At thirty-one, Todd is young yet, but well on his way to becoming an eccentric old man who may yet rival the legendary Collyer brothers.

The Collyers were packrats who collected pianos and saved heaps of newspapers, books, maps, and pretty much anything one can imagine in their Manhattan mansion. No one was allowed inside.

The elder brother, Homer, was blind. His younger brother, Langley, saved each day’s newspapers in the event that Homer would one day regain his sight and want to read up on what he had missed.

So it went for decades.

They died in 1947, when Langley was crushed by a fallen pile of newspapers. Left to his own devices, Homer died of starvation a few days later.

The authorities eventually excavated Langley’s body—well after it had been discovered by rats.

A cautionary tale for Todd? Perhaps.

For now, like the Collyers, Todd has created an environment that is very much like the man who lives within.

Standing on the landing of his studio apartment, one can see carefully selected furnishings—comfortable leather chairs, vintage side tables, book cases and an entertainment center—that reveal his peculiar erudition.

All of that, though, is buried under avalanches of books, DVDs, CDs, magazines, and the accumulated cat toys of an indulgent papa.

The kitchen is kept dark, and perhaps that is best. It was long ago retired from use, reassigned as a repository for unwashed dishes, heaps of papers, and other disused items escaping easy classification.

In stark contrast to his home, Todd is most fastidious in his personal appearance. His short black hair is well coiffed, his skin clear, and his clothes stylish.

His clothes . . . well, truth to tell, I more often see him without them, so I can attest that his tall, lean body is also kept smooth and neatly trimmed.

“What do you think of my Moroccan lamps?” Todd asked. The room was dimly lit by elegant lamps, whose designs cast shadowy finials over the room.

“They are really lovely,” I admired, in full honesty. “And they work here.”

As Todd finished a late lunch—or an early dinner, I’m not sure of his schedule—Belle and I sat in chairs rescued from an old movie theatre, watching a few moments of House of Flying Daggers. Todd keeps movies playing on his flat screen television as background.

The colors of this film transformed the space the way a painting might.

He played a selection in which the blind heroine is pursued by horsemen in woods. The horses tumble in impossible acrobatics. We wince, eyes full of lush cinematography.

“So, I suppose we should get at it,” he said, putting aside his meal and standing.

We moved to his bed.

I was undressed quickly. I planned to watch and lend support.

Belle found a clear space to stand, and shed her clothes, leaning an arm on a bookcase. Once again, she wore striped hot pant panties.

“You have chosen a style of panties that really suits you,” I admired.

“Thanks,” she said. She hesitated, then removed them.

Todd adjusted lights as he stripped to his underwear.

They met on the bed.

I cleared a chair at the foot of the bed and sat to observe, propping my feet on the mattress.

They knelt before one another, caressing. Todd learned how Belle loves to kiss.

His cock grew between them. She tugged down the band of his underwear to release it.

“You have a gorgeous cock,” she admired, bending to take it in her mouth. He moaned loudly.

I grew hard, stroking my cock as I watched her tug his underwear down to his knees.

He took her fingers to his mouth.

She crouched to get a better angle on his cock. He leaned back, running his long fingers through her short hair.

Her back was arched, lifting her ass. His hands ran along her back, finding the soft skin of her hips.

“I want to taste you,” he said.

“We can arrange that,” she replied, sitting up, and then laying back.

Todd stood and kicked his underwear to the floor. He bent to suck each of toes, affording me a full view of his ass, and his mouth on her.

She spread her legs wide as his mouth made a circular and unhurried journey up her legs, finally plunging into her cunt.

He licked with a strong tongue, gradually slipping two fingers to her g spot.

She took as much of that as she could. “You know, you need to fuck me now.”

I was hard, hearing her repeat those words again. She smiled to see me looking at her eyes.

“I was just thinking that, yes,” Todd agreed. He retrieved a condom.

He entered her slowly, deeply, his moans drowning her own. They kissed as they fucked, holding one another close.

“You are gorgeous,” he beamed at her.

“You aren’t so bad yourself.”

The build up to this had been intense. After a time, they stopped for a breather. Todd rolled onto his back.

They talked. I listened, watching, quiet.

“Jefferson? You want to join us?” Todd asked.

Belle slide to one side, making room between them.

“Sure!” I crawled across the bed to lie between them. It was a tight fit. I snuggled in, holding Belle’s hand in mine.

Todd caressed my arm and chest as the three of us talked, feeling our skin on one another.

I grew hard.

“Jefferson, you want a hand with that?” Todd asked.

“Huh, well, would you look at that?” I said, holding my cock. “Yes please, that would be mighty neighborly of you.”

Todd rolled off the bed and knelt. He patted the mattress before him.

“Park your ass right here,” he directed. I shifted my body, dropping my legs to the floor, resting my head on Belle’s thighs.

“Oh, I get to watch some hot boy-on-boy action!” Belle exclaimed.

“Enjoy the show . . . ooh!” I jolted as Todd’s mouth plunged to my cock.

He took me deep, swirling his tongue up and down my shaft as he swallowed me.

My body lurched involuntarily as that boy went zero to sixty on my gear.

He alternated his powerful mouth with strong hands, greased with a tasteless lube.

When I was still, I touch his hair. He has soft hair, I realized.

His mouth put my body in convulsions.

I reached back to touch Belle. My mouth ached for her breast. I looked back and up—her mouth was wide as she watched him blow me.

I found the nipple I wanted, sucking, my mouth longing for flesh.

Belle shifted, putting a pillow under my head in place of her thighs. She crouched next to me. My fingers traveled up her thigh.

She was dripping. I plunged two fingers to her g spot.

She pushed her body down to my fingers, groaning, her eyes never leaving Todd’s mouth on my cock.

I wanted my mouth on her cunt. Soon her mouth was on my cock, sharing it with Todd.

“Please,” I said, “Stop. You’re going to make me cum.”

I wasn’t ready for that.

They released me. My skin was tingling, alive, tender, my lungs heaving.

“You okay there, Jefferson?” Belle asked.

“Yes . . . fine . . .,” I panted.

Once I caught my breath, Todd proposed that we massage Belle. A fine proposal. We worked her over with four hands and sweet musky oil.

Todd brought out a pinwheel, a small spiky metal disk on a handle. It reminded me of a tool my grandmother uses to cut patterns.

“I want you to feel this,” he told Belle. He rolled it gently along her spine. Her buttocks lifted under my hands.

“Unnh,” she squirmed. “That is so nice!”

After a few moments, he handed it to me. “Let the weight of it guide you,” he instructed. “Gentle, like a watercolor brush.”

I could visualize that. I rolled the pinwheel along her back, down her legs, to her feet, my ears drinking in her responses.

Todd slipped on a fur mitt, and followed the tingling of my traces with a soft rub.

“I died and went to heaven.”

“Don’t die yet,” I laughed, as Todd buried his face in her ass. “You’ll want to be alive for Lucky Number Thirteen.”

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