Coming Together: With Pride (32 page)

"Okay? Yeah. Wanted this for just about forever. Well, maybe not forever 'cause before you there was Julie and... Right. You don't want to hear that right now. Got it." He grabbed Mason's chin and kissed him deeply, feelingly, lovingly.

Eventually, he pulled back from the kiss, breathing heavy once again. He rose and crossed the few feet to the car. "Let's go home, Mason."

And nothing says love like the magic words: "I'll even let you drive."

"But the keys, Jack. They went down the sewer."

"Yeah, they did." Jack reached into his wallet. "But I always carry a spare. I'm a good little boy scout." From the depths of his wallet, he produced three items: a spare key to his car, an extra key to his apartment, and, with great promise, an entire string of condoms.

©

www.stormgrant.com

A Brief Discourse

on the

Heartiness & Symbolism of Semen

P.S. Haven

We step out
of the hotel room onto the tiny balcony and lean against the railing, the two of us. The water in the kidney-shaped swimming pool two stories below is lit up all turquoise and aquamarine. There's a middle-aged woman swimming in it who wasn't there five minutes ago. I ask him if he wants to go ahead and get started, and he says we'll wait.

He's not as handsome up close, but he's not ugly either. His business suit had told me all I needed to know. I tell him that I usually just dance but that he seemed special—which is complete bullshit, and he knows it, but he's no newer to this than I am, and he plays along. He tells me his name is really Toby, not Dylan, like he had told me at first. He promised me that Dylan was really his middle name—he just hated introducing himself as Toby. He said he thought it was a faggot name, and I seemed like a sweet girl and probably didn't care what his name was. He was half right.

He talks a lot about his job, and I don't even pretend to act interested. I tell him he'd be fun to watch bad
TV
with, which is true. And I tell him he's funny, which he isn't. He shows me his tattoo. He's impressed that we're up high enough to see the parking lot. He points out his car. I don't even know what kind it is, but I tell him the first blowjob I ever gave was in a car just like it, only red. He asks me if I like sucking cock, and I tell him not half as much as I'm going to like the look on his face when I'm sucking his.

I light a cigarette and show it to him, asking if he minds. He asks if he can bum one, and then he asks if I've got a light. He says he can tell I give good head. He says he bets I'm going to give him the kind of blowjob that he was telling Dwayne about just the other night. Dwayne says a good blowjob is ninety percent enthusiasm and ten percent technique, Toby informs me. I want to assure Toby that the blowjob he's going to get from me will be one hundred percent technique, and that I don't know or care who the fuck Dwayne is, and with a name like Dwayne, he probably has to pay for his blowjobs, too.

But I don't.

Toby asks me if he was to come in the pool could he get the woman swimming in it pregnant. First off, I tell him, we'll be the only ones in the pool when he comes, or else he won't be coming. Not with my help, anyhow. But, for the sake of the argument, I tell him, even if he came in the water and that woman was still swimming around, she'd have to be in the fertile period of her cycle. And given that this occurs for only about five days each month, I explain, his chances just got lowered about fivefold.

I say that his semen would then have to escape the pool's filtration system and manage to come into direct physical contact with this woman. I ask him to bear in mind that sperm doesn't survive very long outside of the body, and that the water of the swimming pool is no doubt treated with chlorine, which kills sperm cells on contact. I tell him, however, that we'll assume his sperm cells have miraculously survived the filter and the chlorinated water and are blessed with extraordinary long life. And that his amazingly hearty dollop of semen just happens to make its way to this hapless bitch. Then, it has to somehow enter her vagina—he asks me to call it a pussy because the word "vagina" grosses him out. I tell him that since our subject is wearing a bathing suit, the chance of his sperm finding their way into her pussy are slim to none.

He's visibly dejected at his hypothetical failure to remotely impregnate an oblivious stranger, so I say we'll assume that some of his sperm cells slip through and make it inside, and—despite the elapsed time and the sterilizing pH level of the water—said sperm cells are still motile. Plus, we agree to assume that this woman is fertile. What then, I ask him, is the probability that this droplet of semen will successfully navigate her fallopian tubes and fertilize an egg?

He's quiet for a moment, and I almost believe he's considering my points until he says, "So you're saying, technically, it is possible?" He laughs—a big, banging laugh that comes out of nowhere and disappears just as fast—and I can't tell if he's joking or being dead serious.

An elderly couple strolls by the pool. In comparison to the previous half hour, they constitute a relative flurry of activity. And here, I admit, I begin to weigh the risk/reward factor in my head. I wonder how they would've reacted had Toby and I been in the pool, doing what Toby and I have agreed to do. She'd look, I know. The old lady. No doubt, she'd see my shape beneath the water and understand the unmistakable body language. She'd elbow the man, and he'd turn to look, too. But they'd keep walking. They wouldn't even slow down. Maybe they'd be turned on. Maybe to them Toby and I would appear to be lovers who simply couldn't resist one another. Maybe they had once been like that. Maybe they knew what it was like to want someone so badly as to be heedless of time and place. And they'd give each other a knowing smile and remember.

Or more likely, I decide, they would be quite offended, and they'd march right up to the front desk to brusquely inform the manager what they had just witnessed. Either way, I kinda liked the idea.

But nothing like that will happen. Nothing eventful ever does. Because even though I've never met this Toby, I've met a hundred others. And I already know exactly what sucking his dick will be like—because I've sucked a hundred others just like it. And despite my wide-eyed innocence when I told him otherwise, I've even done it in a swimming pool. And that's how I know the bleachy smell of the water will instantly take me back to the real first time I gave a blowjob, back in Richie's mom's laundry room.

It's the same way I know Toby will smile at me when he first shows me his dick, expecting me to be impressed. And even if I am, I won't show it. He'll already be at his hardest. He'll aim the shaft right into my mouth. He won't taste good, but he probably won't taste bad either, which is really all I can ask for. And I'll instantly start making all the appropriate moaning noises, and my hair will swirl all around my head in the water, like I'm caught in a slow-motion hurricane.

He'll brush the hair away from my face, and I'll look up at him with complete devotion, my face distorted and undulating, refracted through the waves. He'll tangle his fists in my hair, and I won't resist when he sticks it in a little further than I like. I'll let him do this until my lungs feel like they're on fire, and then I'll get free and burst above the surface, gulping down a chest full of air.

I'll stare up at him, gasping to him about how big his cock is and how good it tastes and how good it feels to suck it. I'll pretend like I need the encouragement he'll give me, act like I need his directions and coaxing and coaching. That's how it will be.

He'll tell me not to stop, and he'll try to force me back down. I'll struggle a little, but he'll be ridiculously stronger, and I won't really be fighting anyhow. He'll push me down, hard, so that I'll barely have time to open my mouth before he stuffs it full. I'll let him in until my throat contracts, and I'll seal my lips around him tight enough to feel his heartbeat. I'll suck him hard, harder than he'll like. And then I'll break for the surface again. He'll tell me how good I am at sucking cock, and then he'll pant a few times and tell God how good I am at sucking cock. Even underwater, I'll be able to hear him purring and growling.

The manager will come out to make sure we're okay, because he had heard splashing and gasping. Toby will beg me not to stop and make me promise I never will. I'll hear the sound of his orgasm, his relentless mass of flesh filling my mouth, his fingers crawling, mouth hung open. He'll buck and bray and, despite assuring me he understood the rules, he'll hold my head down and try to come in my mouth.

Toby asks me once more if I like sucking cock. I'm not sure if he's forgotten, or he simply wants to hear me say it again, but I tell him I love it. And then he asks me if I swallow.

And I almost tell him what I know he wants to hear, what will make his dick hard. I don't know why I don't. Maybe I figure for what he's paying me, he deserves the truth. Maybe I figure I deserve the truth. Whatever the reason, I decide to be brutally honest. I make sure I know exactly what I want to say before I say it. And then I tell him, "Come's okay." I give him time to sort out the semantics in his head. I tell him I like it, but I wouldn't say I love it. I try to explain to him that I think I like the idea of come more than I like come itself. I'm trying really hard to walk the thin line between shattering his illusions and maintaining my integrity, because my trade is in both.

I wait for some sort of affirmation from him, a nod maybe. But he just stares and listens. I tell him I love the look of it. I love seeing it. Especially from a safe distance. Like on
TV
, I say. I tell him I love it on the porno movies when the guy shoots all in the girl's mouth. It looks so good, I say, and that it makes me want to have this done to me.

I can tell Toby's cock is reacting to what I'm saying. And it's almost the truth. Because I really do feel that way, even in real life. All the way up until the exact moment when it's time to actually go through with it. Up until that point, I want it all over me. I want to bathe in it. Get drunk off it. I want to ceremoniously imbibe it like it's some kind of precious nectar.

I tell Toby I really like the clear stuff that leaks out ahead of time. I like the way that tastes. It tastes like sugar. Okay, maybe not sugar, but it is sweet. I'm not saying I want it drizzled over my pancakes in the morning, I say. But it does taste… sexy. It tastes like it looks. And I want more of it. But then, when it happens for real, I'll want nothing to do with it. It's never as warm as I expect it to be, or it tastes more bitter than I remember. And I'll wish I had it anywhere but in my mouth. I'll want to spit it out as fast as I can and dash to the bathroom and brush my teeth and gargle twice.

I laugh out loud at the thought of that, and the woman in the pool looks my way. I inhale the last of my cigarette and flick the butt into the night air. I watch it tumble end over end, giving off little orange sparks, until it lands silently in the swimming pool, not ten feet from the woman.

I tell Toby about a porno I watched once where about five or six guys each took a turn beating off into a wine glass. Or a champagne glass—I can't remember. They came in it until it was maybe a quarter full. I tell him that I realize this doesn't sound like much, but Toby assures me otherwise. I tell him about how the last guy to come had handed the glass to the woman they had all been fucking. I describe how the glass was all wet and streaked with come. He's like a kid listening to a campfire ghost story. I tell him about how the guy had given no instructions—he simply handed her the glass and then stepped back.

The men were all just standing there, watching and waiting. And this woman knew exactly what she was expected to do. And if she didn't genuinely want to, she did a fucking brilliant job of pretending she did. I tell Toby about how the woman had held up the glass to the light and swirled it around like she was some kind of semen connoisseur. I described for him what the combined ejaculate of half a dozen men looked like, pearlescent clouds spiraling around in translucent fluid. He cringes, but then I tell him about how, when I was watching it, I had felt this weird mixture of excitement and dread. I say the idea of what that woman was about to do repelled me, but at the same time thrilled me. Toby knew. I could tell.