“Hello, baby . . . ,” she ventured, stepping toward him.
He thrust his hand forward like a gun, freezing her mid step.
“Shut up! It’s ‘Daddy,’ shithead.”
She looked down. In a quiet voice, she whispered, “Hello . . . Daddy.”
What is this shit? he thought. He could fix it; she didn’t fuck it up . . . not yet. He drew a breath and exhaled.
“Where’s my bourbon?”
She left quickly to get his drink.
“I can see why you like this movie,” Shelby said.
“Shut up!” I growled.
“You shut up. Drink your bourbon, shithead.”
Shelby and I were unable to have intercourse for a couple of months, as she had undergone a medical procedure that required healing.
Our sexual activity may have been curtailed, but nothing affected the enjoyment of our ongoing project: mining the generation gap.
Most of the time, we don’t think much of the two decades between us.
We find plenty to talk about, sharing stories, opinions, books and, above all, time. We have a very relaxed and comfortable groove.
Still, every now and then, we trip over the intervening years.
Like the time we heard on the radio news that Jerry Falwell was in failing health.
“That’s one grave I look forward to dancing on,” I said.
“Who’s Jerry Falwell?” she asked.
I looked at her and realized that to her, at age twenty, Jerry Falwell is ancient history. He was as meaningful to her as, say, Whittaker Chambers would have been to me at the same age.
So I told her about Jerry Falwell.
This education works both ways. It’s refreshing to know someone who can explain to me why the faces on People magazine are famous, someone who introduces me to new music while revering our shared favorites. (I like Radiohead; she would kill her grandmother to see them live.)
When she discovered I had never seen “American Dad” or “Aqua Teen Hunger Force,” she introduced me to “Adult Swim.” She was aghast that I had not seen “Sin City” or “Revenge of the Sith,” and put those DVDs in my player.
I scored points for realizing she needed to be introduced to David Lynch. Mind you, she did scoff when I dusted off my ancient VHS copy of “Blue Velvet.”
“Man, that is so old school. Does it even play?”
“It plays,” I said, fast-forwarding through the FBI warning. “Now, you be nice—my college roommate Jetboy shoplifted this for me when it was new. It’s a treasure.”
“Whatever, man. Last century.”
We screened “Blue Velvet” as we watched anything on television, cuddled nude on my bed, arms and legs entwined.
My fingers isolated strands of her fine hair. Her fingers plucked my nipples raw.
Intercourse was off the menu, but we still spent most of our time together nude and within arm’s reach.
We enjoy that intimacy.
I have to admit, though, that it could be frustrating.
Our bodies are accustomed to reaching out for one another. Touching and kissing lead to fucking, fucking leads to new twists and turns, leading to new highs.
Feeling her head on my chest as we watched movies, caressing her shoulders and breasts, I can’t help but want her.
I sighed. “You want a foot massage, baby?”
She squinted and raised an eyebrow toward my hard cock. I shrugged. It would pass.
Shelby pointed her toes toward the oil.
I warmed my palms.
Shelby’s medical procedure had not gone smoothly. She ditched one doctor in favor of another, and endured cramps and leaking. She retained weight and her skin broke out. She felt awful and ugly.
Given the circumstances, her libido took a hike.
I wanted to reassure her. This hurts, I would say, but it will pass. I held her hand and spooned her as she slept. I kissed her forehead and cheeks.
“I’m broken,” she lamented, curling up.
“You are my sweet baby,” I whispered, kissing her hair. “It’s going to be better.”
Marcus was going to be in town one weekend, and asked if he could stay with me. His trip included a night that Shelby was planning to stay over. I asked her if she would mind if Marcus joined us.
“It would be cool to meet him, finally,” she said. “But he knows I’m broken, right? He can’t fuck me.”
“He knows, and that’s no problem,” I said.
Such is my life now, I thought. Most of my friends assume that meeting one another will include sex.
Marcus and I decided to take Shelby to Tompkins Square Park for Wigstock, the annual celebration of all things drag.
“Drag queens?” Shelby grinned. “Man, I’m so there.”
As we cabbed downtown, Marcus told us about his recent clients, using euphemisms and gestures to foil our eavesdropping driver.
“This guy—let’s call him ‘Brick’—he was pretty hot. So he wanted to, you know,” Marcus said, pointing first to his dick then, looking to be sure the cabbie didn’t notice, pointing to his mouth, “You know what I mean? And that was fine, but I also knew he had never, you know,” he lifted his ass and pointed to his hip, raising an eyebrow. “You know? And I wanted to take his,” he lowered his voice to a stage whisper, “virgin ass.”
Shelby laughed. She was taken with my boyfriend. Everyone is.
We were a block from the park when Marcus lost patience with the traffic and paid the cabbie. We walked through the crowds milling along the sidewalk, eyeballing the beautiful queens strolling past awful paintings.
“George Dubya seems to be a popular subject for bad art,” I observed, holding Shelby’s hand.
“Apparently,” she nodded. “Did that one spell ‘fascist’ right?”
We made our way into the park, pressing close enough to see Lady Bunny announce the closing acts. We had missed most of the show on stage, but no matter. We were really there for the show going on around us.
We were awash in a sea of fabulousness, held aloft on waves of AquaNet.
The three of us pointed out the beauties that caught our eye. Marcus ran off to tell one queen—who may actually have been a woman—that she was too much for words.
He stopped her. “I’m sorry, I just have to look at you for a moment.” She posed and gave herself over to his eyes.
“Thanks,” he smiled. “You are just perfect.”
We stood near a gate, and as the crowd began to thin, hundreds of people filed past us. Marcus and I lapsed into a game of “Who Would You Do?,” an urban game in which players must identify passers-by that they would bed based on looks alone.
“I’d do him,” Marcus said of one passing man.
The man overheard. “Excuse me?”
“We’re just playing a game,” I assured him. “My friend says he would do you based on your looks.”
“Oh, well, thanks . . . ,” the man stammered, blushing and smiling.
Marcus got extra credit for garnering that reaction.
Shelby held close, not playing along. I leaned to ask if she was okay.
“Meh,” she said. “Cramps, they suck. Tell you what, if your friend’s massages are as good as he says, I’d take one.”
“Easy as pie,” I said, squeezing her hand. “Marcus, you’ll rub her down when we get home?”
“Sure, of course, but I’m starving, aren’t you? Can we please eat?”
Shelby voted for Indian. We headed to our favorite place, the one with the lights dripping from the ceiling and the “orange chicken” she craved.
We picked up some beers and climbed the stairs to the restaurant. The hosts of other establishments opened their doors, assuring us they had better food at better prices, but our eyes were set on that familiar orange chicken.
Shelby opened up over dinner. She felt comfortable here. She alerted the waiter that it was Marcus’s birthday. Marcus objected that this was not true, but the damage was done: the lights were dimmed in favor of disco sirens. Crazy birthday music blared as Marcus was served a dish of mango ice cream.
“Not nice,” Marcus smiled. “Not nice at all.”
“Eat your ice cream, bitch,” Shelby laughed, clapping to the music.
Back home, I reminded Marcus about the massage.
“Right,” he said, turning to Shelby. “Where do you ache?”
“Where don’t I? That’s the problem.”
“Okay, come here,” he said. He took her hand and led her to my bedroom. He stood her near my bed, and squeezed her shoulders. “Are you comfortable stripping to your underwear?”
“Sure,” she said, lifting her shirt.
I left to find candles. I poured a bourbon.
When I returned, Shelby was standing bent over, reaching for the ground as Marcus rubbed his palms along her spine. She was wearing panties, he was wearing briefs.
I busied myself with candles.
“Here?” he asked, pressing. “How’s that?”
“It hurts, like everywhere,” she said, standing up.
“Okay. I want you to stretch up, first this side,” he instructed, reaching for the ceiling, “and then this side,” he said, alternating his reach.
Shelby mirrored his movements.
I sat in a chair, sipping my drink, fully clothed.
Marcus asked Shelby to lay face down on the bed. She bunched her forearms to her side; he extended them above her head.
He gently touched her back with his fingers, and then alternated with feathers.
“Just breath deeply, Shelby. Don’t think or respond. Relax.”
Shelby drew a deep breath and exhaled.
“Good, just like that. Keep going.”
Marcus’s hands rubbed up her sides, to her shoulders and arms. He returned to her lower back and worked up again.
He straddled her body to gain leverage.
The two of them looked peaceful and still by the candlelight. Shelby relaxed gradually, breathing and feeling herself in her skin. Marcus communicated no hurries, no sense that this touch would end.
He crouched beside her to work her legs and buttocks. As his palms pressed over the fabric of her panties, Shelby asked, “You want me to take those off?”
“If you want,” Marcus said.
Shelby raised herself to remove her underwear.
Marcus stood to remove his.
He straddled her body again, rubbing her shoulders as he rocked his erection against her bare ass.
Shelby lifted a hip. Her hand found its way to her shaven slit.
“Yep, I’m wet all right. Damn, I miss cock.”
“You want to suck me, baby?” I asked.
She turned, her dark eyes looking through fallen strands at her ever-helpful boyfriend.
“Yeah, hand me that hair tie, okay?”
I put down my glass and stood. I passed her a black tie. She worked it into her hair as I stripped.
Marcus rubbed Shelby, his eyes on her neck.
I kissed her hair.
I lowered myself in front of her face.
She pulled herself up on her elbows, prefacing the blowjob with a self-confident smirk.
“Do your worst,” I said. “I can take it.”
“Ya think?” she said, taking my cock in hand.
She plunged me, deep.
“Hello, Jesus!” I gasped.
“Impressive,” Marcus concurred, as he worked Shelby’s thighs.
She spread her legs to accommodate his hands.
“I understand you are learning about your ass,” Marcus said, resting a hand on her buttock. “Let me show you something . . . ”
Shelby stopped. She held my cock as she looked back at him. “You are not fucking my ass, man.”
Marcus feigned shock. “What do you think I am, some amateur? Of course I’m not fucking your ass. I’m touching it, like this.” He rotated a finger pad on her hole. “And this,” he said, his thumb pressing on her perineum.
Shelby closed her eyes. “Well, yeah, that’s okay.” Her breath began to lift into staccato.
I tapped a knuckle on her skull. “Hi, remember me? Blowjob in progress?”
She turned back to me. “Shithead,” she murmured, taking my cock.
Shelby’s body moved to Marcus’s touch. He lowered his mouth to assist his fingers.
She sighed. Her finger returned to her clit.
It had been so long since I had seen Shelby surrender to her pleasure. I ran my fingers through her fine hair as she chased her orgasm.
“Sweet baby,” I whispered.
“You two are so sweet,” Marcus smiled, his chin resting between Shelby’s cheeks.
“Yeah . . . ,” I nodded, eyes closed.
“And you weren’t kidding about Shelby’s mouth,” Marcus said. “That does look like the best head in North America.”
Shelby stopped. “You want to find out?”
“Sure, if you are offering.”
“Yeah, let’s do that.” She faced me. “You. Move.” She looked back to Marcus. “You. Here.”
“Actually, can we try this?” Marcus asked, turning her shoulders as I moved aside. “I want to ride your face.”
“Whatever, it’s your blowjob, man.”
I sat on my haunches as Marcus straddled her chest. She took his cock in hand.
“You ready?” she smirked.
“Go for it.”
Shelby swallowed Marcus in one fell gulp.
“See?” I laughed. I rested a hand on his shoulder, watching as he felt that initial rush pass. He exhaled loudly as he began to fuck her face.
Shelby’s fingers worked her clit—or rather, that sweet spot just to its right.
My tongue craved her pussy, but I knew she wasn’t comfortable with that these days.
I opened a cabinet and pulled down a gold box filled with sex toys.
I rummaged for a double bullet vibrator. I inserted the batteries and broke open one of the expired condoms reserved for toys.
“Baby, you want a bullet in your ass?” I asked, sheathing one of the vibrators.
“Mmm mmmf,” Shelby replied.
“You were talking to her or me?” Marcus asked. “’Cause I’ll take one.”
I picked up another condom. “Two ass vibrators, coming up.”
I spread Shelby’s cheeks, applied lube, and slowly inserted the metal egg. She grunted as it passed her sphincter.
“You okay, baby?”
“Good.” I kissed her thigh. “Your turn, baby Marcus.”
“Here, I’ll do it myself,” he said. He lifted his hand from Shelby’s scalp and took the remaining egg. He turned to slide it into himself.
I switched the vibrators on low. My friends’ asses hummed in quiet harmony.
I sat back, sipping my bourbon and watching.
With Marcus on her torso, Shelby was flying blind as she masturbated, unable to see past her own chest.
Her nimble fingers, trained on a cello’s bow, twitched as she sought the right note.
She suddenly arched her back, groaning as she raised her hips.
Just as abruptly, she fell back to the bed.
She missed that train.
“Grrrrrr,” she growled into Marcus’s cock. She drew a breath. Frustrated but determined, she started over.
Marcus rested his cock in her mouth. “You almost had that one, Shelby.”
I wanted to help. I knew it had been a while since she had cum, and she was trying hard. But close as she was, I didn’t want to interfere with my own hand—her fingers were better tuned to her body than anyone else’s could be.
Still, she needed to get off. Badly.
“Baby, you want another vibrator?”
“Muuuhf,” she shrugged. She bobbed her head on Marcus’s cock, signaling another round. He parlayed with his own thrusts.
Her fingers set back to work.
I took up a vibrating egg and lay it alongside her clit.
“Mmfff!” she called.
“Keep doing that,” Marcus suggested.
“Got it. Come on, baby.”
“Mmff . . .”
Her fingers worked and I followed her actions, moving the vibrator to press her clit back against her fingertips.
Her fingers flew.
The vibrator buzzed, louder than those inside their bodies.
She lifted her hips.
“Nnnngguh . . .”
“That’s it, that’s it . . .”
“Come on. Shelby . . .”
“Nnngguh . . .” Shelby spat Marcus’s cock from her mouth.
And she roared.
Loud and long.
“Good, good!” I called under her shouts.
“Too hot,” Marcus said. “So hot, Shelby.”
Her body fell back on the bed.
She lay there, panting, her chest rising and falling. I languidly traced the vibrator on her thigh.
“Shit, man.” She laughed. “Okay, Marcus, get off me.”
Marcus lifted himself from her body and lay back on the bed. She sat up, bent over, then stood.
“Whoa, bad idea.” She fell back into a chair. She drew a deep breath. “Okay, man, I needed that.”
“You okay, baby?,” I asked, laying next to Marcus.
“Oh yeah. Oh yeah, I needed that. I haven't come in so-oo-oo long. I thought it was broken.”
“Nah, just on hiatus. Welcome back.” I kissed Marcus. “Nice work, everyone.”
“You boys entertain yourselves,” Shelby said, catching her breath. “I’m just going to sit here for now.”
I brought Shelby a glass of water, and picked up where she left off on Marcus’s cock.
That night, she slept nude in my arms, as usual, content despite my snores.
Marcus crashed in the back room.
The next day, we lounged nude until Shelby had to head home. She dressed and kissed us goodbye, lingering long for our kiss.
She made her way to Penn Station.
I poured another cup of coffee and sat next to Marcus.
“Can we talk about Shelby?” he asked.
“Sure, like what?”
“She really is something else.”
“Yeah.” I sipped my coffee.
“But Jefferson, she really is pretty young.”
“You guys are cool, and that’s great. But she is young.”
“Well, you know.” Marcus flipped open his laptop. “So now, who are we going to fuck today?”