After the reading and dinner with an old college friend, she retired, as had become the custom, to the hotel bar. Here her company was a boyish bartender who seemed to be desperately trying to think up something witty every time he passed by her but was never quite able to get it out. He’d pause, concentrate really hard, and then move on. Men and woman of various ages were scattered at tables behind her, one guy on the phone, sighing and giving an angry “all right” every few minutes.

The bar proper was otherwise hers. She seemed destined to never achieve the kind of fame where she’d be recognized without a signpost. At a reading—at this afternoon’s, in fact—fans could be effusive, even obsessive. They’d tell you how they’d been changed, how grateful they were. Odder things, too, like the woman this evening who told her a story about an aunt who had created recipes using hamster meat in the years after her husband died. Eloise patiently took note, in that vampiric way writers do, unable after years of practice to summon up true sympathy, always on the hunt for details that could fill out a future character, hang a plot device on.

She favored martinis, vodka, twist, but with the Pacific air this seemed a liquid faux-pas, so she was immersed in a passable margarita. It had come with a twee umbrella—the bartender trying to get into her good graces, and perhaps elsewhere—which she had promptly removed, but not after favoring him with a smile. He gave her a thumbs-up, a rather bizarre gesture. Or maybe it made sense among the youth today. Kids do weird things.

She continued her sketching, which was, at this point in life, as vital as any other toilet procedure. Beneath a few fleshings of the hamster lady written in her always calligraphic cursive, she added some lines about a dream she’d had on the flight this morning, then a couplet that would serve as the nucleus to something undetermined. The bartender brought her another drink without being requested, and asked what she was writing.

“Trying to sort the day’s ideas. Sift out the 5% that are worthwhile.” She smiled. “I’m a writer.”

"What's your name? Maybe I've read something of yours."

She laughed, a surprisingly deep and buttery sound she developed at puberty. "You’re not a sexually-repressed housewife, and you’re not a teenage girl who's yet to be fucked properly, so decidedly unlikely.”

He didn't know what to say, so she added, "Eloise," and shook his hand. Not that Southern Belle limp at the wrist offering, but a break-my-wrist or I'll-break-yours exchange.

"Do you have another name?" he managed, miming soothing his hand.

"You don't like the one I gave you?"

"No, I meant, do you have a... writing..."

"A pen name?"

"That! Yes."

"No."

An agent had once suggested "E. N. Henderson" to tactfully hide her sex. For flexibility in genre. As if one could only write a spy novel by dipping one’s bell-end in ink. Her Montblanc would do.

She brazenly scanned the bartender’s entire body. Long, swimmer’s build, probably surfs. She had one use for young men, never had had any other. It was possible to overlook the clumsiness and the neediness when you could spider your hands down a ripple of abs, or you had them revved up to a good jack-hammering. Otherwise, they were simply silly.

Still, to be perfectly honest, it did feel good to have someone’s glance still drifting towards her cleavage. It felt better with every passing year, in fact.

“How long they keep you here?” she said.

He looked up. “Another hour.”

She cradled her chin in her palms and tiptoed her fingernails up his chest. “You never know. Maybe you keep the drinks coming, leave me alone so I can work until then… maybe my room number will show up on a napkin somehow. Could happen.”

He didn’t quite take the hint, so she gently waved him away.

It’s nice to be wanted. It’ll always be nice to be wanted. Her thoughts drifted to a familiar place, the nugget of memory behind a story in her most recent book, one that had benignly agitated for the last twenty odd years, like the princess and the pea. There her attention perched for a few moments as she sipped her drink. The great wheels of time creaked.

You take the joys you can reach. Someone had taught her that long ago, and for the sake of karma, she’d tried to teach it to who she could.

She returned to her notebook, the familiar waters of the life she’d made.

Someone sat down next to her, but she didn’t notice.

“It’s a waste of time to state the obvious, but nonetheless, you are still every bit as beautiful.”

The pen stopped. She stared at the page for a minute, then carefully closed the book and placed it on the bar. She looked straight ahead as she reached for her drink.

“Hi, Joe,” she finally said. She took a deep breath, and a deep swig, and put her hand on her chest.

“Hi, Eloise. Glenlivet neat.” The bartender obliged, again seeming like he had something to say, but withdrew as he sensed the magnitude of his intrusion.

“You always had good taste, Joe,” she said.

“Rather self-serving comment, don’t you think?”

“I was never one for false modesty. Come to think of it, all modesty is false modesty.”

“You haven’t changed.”

“Oh please, you never let me get away with a single cliche, and besides, that one’s simply ridiculous. Everyone’s changing, always. Some things are the same, of course. Some aren’t. For example, the girls ain’t what they used to be.” She looked down at her chest.

He laughed. “It’s the blight man was born for.”

“You and your fucking Hopkins, man. Do you remember making me memorize The Windhover?”

“I think if there was any evidence of the efficacy of my teaching style, it’s you. And apropos of nothing, your tits look amazing.”

She turned. The picture she had in her mind of him softly merged with what she saw. Reality pushed and bled through the memory. So the old photograph’s hair grayed, whitened. The face developed a few wrinkles. The eyes were still powerful, but they started to sink. All in all, he’d aged well.

“What are you doing here?”

“You know damn well what I’m doing here.” He laced his fingers with hers. Same big hands, same sense of her own elegance as their digits folded.

“You read the book.”

“I read the book.”

“You recognized the story?”

“Which one was that? Oh, the one about the student who turned eighteen and then begged her English teacher to fuck her? Yes, I did read that. I found it scandalous, I have to say.”

“’Begged’? If ever there was a self-serving comment… I made a polite offer, which you accepted. Without complaint as a I recall.”

“You were, at the very least, somewhat insistent. But I didn’t complain then and I’m not doing it now.”

“Was it too close to life?”

He laughed. “How could it be? You changed my name to John. Brilliant. Anyway, who would even care at this point? It’s been twenty-five… well, it’s been a while. I’m retired. Alice has passed.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

A warm and strong hand squeeze. “Thank you. No, actually, I enjoyed it. Probably for the same reason you wrote it. It is, if nothing else, a nice memory. Sometimes it pops into my mind and I have to remind myself that that actually happened to me. That I was that kind of guy.”

“And I was that kind of girl.”

He looked her full in the eyes. That was the most familiar thing about him, the way he had of locking up her attention like a bird in the hands. “Eloise,” he said, “you’re not any kind of anything. I thought you were, but you were something else entirely, and I’m sure you still are. You had the whole world wrapped round your finger before most people even realized there was a world worth wrapping.”

“Well, as with everything, a lot of it was a bluff.”

“Of course. I knew that then. Still, a lot wasn’t. You terrified me.”

“I scared you?” She laughed full-heartedly, and slumped against him. He responded by throwing out an arm and pulling her in. “I thought I’d never walk again. When you came in with that look in your eye, and later… I was lucky to get out in one piece.”

“Just trying to make it memorable, which, as I recall, was the entire idea. I succeeded.”

“We succeeded, no?”

“It was a joint effort, to be sure. Everyone contributed. No sleeping partners. Hell, let’s be honest; I was holding on for dear life. That doesn’t exactly come through in your story… much as I enjoy my portrayal as Hercules.”

“I can only write through my eyes. The eyes of an eighteen-year-old ingenue, rather. I was more than a little impressed. Smitten. I hope you didn’t find any of it insulting.”

“No, but I gotta say, there may be a legal issue. I assume you have a very expensive lawyer.”

“Of course. She’s great. Just great. She could always use the chargeable time. What crime have I committed?”

“Well, you see, it turns out your story bears an awful lot of resemblance to one written twenty-five years ago. The point of view, granted, does differ. But even so: an eerie amount of resemblance, even if the names are—slightly—different. There could be a plagiarism charge.” And he opened a leather bag and pulled out a stack of papers, then laid them gingerly in front of her.

“Really?” Her smile was radiant. “Joe, really?”

He nodded.

“May I?”

He nodded again.

She began to read, just like some months ago, he had read a story called First and Last. Not his preferred genre of fiction, but he had known the author at one point, and tried to keep an eye on her work.

…

Dappled things (Joseph)

He would like to have plumply declared that yes, he knew just what he was doing, but for all his prized logic he was finding it hard to decipher this sitch. The variables were not only imprecise, their values seemed to shift when he wasn’t looking. For instance, an hour after he had read the note tucked in the poetry book, that thoughtful one she’d given him the week before graduation, he had everything properly dissected. Young mouth-waterer. Of legal age. One’s quondam student, no longer. Powerful, well aware of it, smart enough to use it, and therefore, virtually untrustable and very, very, dangerous. Desires, per note, to lose her maidenhood to “experienced practitioner.” Meet me at X, at X if interested. “Discretion guaranteed.”

This would set the bounds of the decision rather precisely, one would think. Not a crossroads one sees coming, and so perhaps it does take one some time to properly evaluate all the possibilities, but still one of the simplest versions of temptation. The risks were obvious—and the potential downsides were bads that would endure. The rewards were obvious, and just as obviously fleeting. There was the carnal gratification. Other potential benefits were… it seems there were none. So one weighs a fleeting joy with a chronic indisposition.

If in a properly logical state—say waist deep in the Arctic ocean—the path forward was clear. Burn gift. Shred note. Perhaps change email and telephone number.

Wait. Let’s assay that benefit column again. Fleeting carnal pleasure, but carnality is comprised of the virtues of the purveyor. We need to explode that particular benefit and see what it’s made of. So said girl had mesmerizing dark-brown eyes that were frugal with blinks, always seemed a bit bored, and hovered over regal cheek bones. Said girl’s coffee skin was the result of the great American mixing pot, and was a glorious testament thereto. Said girl’s lips were full and enclosed lightning white teeth of assembly line perfection. Said girl accented her already commanding height with heels, and walked a perfected gait that shifted her taut jeans from side to side in a lazy rhythm, all producing an effect that could start world wars or drive a man as mad as any Lovecraftian horror. Said girl had chosen shirts of such perfect length that one could not complain of skimpiness, but then again, in a rare moment, one could almost swear they had had a glimpse of a divinely level abdomen—but you couldn’t be sure.

Said girl’s tits were sizeable.

And might I just point out, playing devil’s advocate, said girl’s quick wit. Spending time with her was, by all indications, probably delightful, even sans coetus. So, you know, why not just meet her?

This was, he realized, rationalization. But let’s also consider this. Yes, the fornicative act is fleeting. But are not all the best pleasures? And has not the entire history of sexual reproduction, that old bitch, groomed us for moments just such as these, for these pursuits and these delights? And had not the old bitch made the delights that much more delightful than all others? Ignoring such inducements, ruling them out too quickly, would be a betrayal of our very substance. Of billions of years of humping, tupping, rutting. Who are we to stand in the way of this perverted parade?

Still, our genes are looking out for themselves, certainly not us, and he wasn’t much fond of having someone pulling his strings. No nubile mixed-race seductress, nor sequence of uracil would cause him to override what his intelligence deemed right.

That’s what he was thinking when she walked into the bar. She’d proposed a quite distant place, in a quiet part of the city, but nonetheless she’d disguised herself enough, surely to make him feel safer. Glasses, which he’d never seen her wear before. A smart and adult skirt and top, even to the point of dullness, with a series of thin metal bracelets down her right arm and a necklace with a golden eye of Horus tapping against her left breast. With her stature, and the heels she was never without, she looked quite a bit older, but it fit her, as if this were the real Eloise, and the high school senior had been a costume she’d finally gotten sick of.

He was in the back, watching her deliberately make her way in. He watched her smile at the bartender and waiter who couldn’t help but gawk. He waved a hand and she waved back, like old friends reuniting. He was rather dressed up himself, sharkskin and a tie; a bit of effort he’d seldom put in since his single years.

“You’re here,” she said, in her low and broad alto. “I really didn’t know what to expect.”

“Sit down,” he said. It was not a request or question, but he did get the chair for her. They stared at each other for a bit, evaluating the ramparts, seeing if any weak points were evident. The remnants of the teacher-student relationship were prominent, and it left a little sparkle of awkwardness on every moment. Something insisted that it felt off.

But one couldn’t deny that beneath it all there was some other relationship waiting to swallow the former at an opportune moment.

“Do you have any idea how foolish that note was? What kind of trouble you could get me into?” he said.

“I’m not an idiot, Mr. Cattelan.” He was always impressed by her eyes, how they never evaded, never faltered. With anyone else, it could have been lack of social skills. With her, it was pure force of will.

“No. You’ve quite destroyed that relationship with your little note. Joe will do.”

“Joe. I apologize for any hardship I may cause or may have caused you. My intentions were…”

“Pure?”

“Not pure,” she said, with a smile. “They were… honest. Buy me a drink?”

“Diet coke for the lady,” he yelled.

“Shithead,” she said.

He smiled.

“Can I assume,” she said, “that your presence here indicates acceptance of my terms?”

He looked at her for a while. “I wasn’t entirely sure of the terms as you described them. Perhaps you could elucidate.”

She crossed her hands across her chest, making it pop, but his eyes didn’t drift. He thought, perhaps, if he could make her describe it, make her blush, then all her childness would come out and the wrongness of this situation would be clear. And the decision would be made as easily as that. But she quite matter of factly responded, after sipping from her straw.

“I’d like you to fuck me.”

She didn’t blush. She didn’t even change expressions. “This is a delicate time in a girl’s life,” she continued. “Lots of fussing about in the back of cars, bathrooms at parties. Brutes locking horns so they can spend a minute or two inside you and brag to their friends. The first time I let a guy get to second base, the entire school knew in an hour. And I wouldn’t have minded, really, had it actually been at all fun. And the stupidest rise to the top: those are the ones asking you to prom. If you actually do the readings in, say, English class, and what’s more, enjoy them—you’re incomprehensible.”

“Well,” he said, “for what it’s worth, it gets easier. You have to go through the awkwardness—that’s how you learn.”

“I’m sure,” she said. “But I’ve found a way to at least remove some of the awkwardness. See, I have a condition. Congenital. Some call it a gift. More of a status. I’d like to cure this condition. And if you want to have surgery done, you certainly don’t go to the guy on his first day holding the scalpel wrong-way up. You want a learned, steady hand. I don’t see why this should be any different. You fuck me the way a woman should be fucked—voila, no awkwardness. Condition cured.”

“Just like that, huh? And will there be follow up visits required?”

“With a procedure like this, they’re optional, depending on the judgment of the presiding physician.”

She really was fun to talk to. Some guy would be very lucky. “May I ask why I was selected for this honor? I assume you didn’t go around giving notes to all your teachers.”

“Not all.” She beamed. “Ok, well, just you. And there’s a very good reason for that. I want to fuck you, and you want to fuck me.”

“Is that so?”

“Of course. I’ve actually been dreaming of your cock for months now. I like to picture how it might look. Length, girth. Cut or not. How that little bit of precum that sometimes sticks at the head of it would taste on the very tip of my tongue. Which of your balls hangs lower. How far down your shaft I could get my lips before gagging.”

Like any man, he had the overpowering urge right now to shift in his seat, but that seemed like it’d be a surrendering of power; so he simply smiled. “Quite graphic, Eloise. What if I’m gay?”

“You have a wife,” she said.

“So did Oscar Wilde.”

“There’s also this,” she said.

“Please take your hand off my penis.”

She looked up, but her hand was quite comfortable where it was.

“Now, Eloise.” A slight anger in his voice.

She obeyed, but she dawdled.

“Are you even capable of embarrassment?” he said.

“Of course,” she said, “I just don’t think we’re doing anything embarrassing. And neither do you. You know what would be embarrassing? If some guy puts on a condom inside out and upside down and it slips off, and that’s your first time. Or he comes as soon as you take off your top. The ways it could go wrong are endless.”

“The ways it could fuck up my life are endless. What makes you think this is appetizing in the first place? Yes, you’re a fairly attractive young woman. But have you ever fucked a virgin? You get a lay out of it, but she ends up crying halfway through, and you don’t even get to cum.  Or worse, she falls in love, stalks you afterwards, kills a house pet. I’m sure this all seems like it would never happen to you, but you’re a woman.”

“I’m actually rather offended. You always acted so woke in class. You had us read Chopin. You don’t think I can just fuck and be done with it because I have a cunt?”

“You could, but I’m talking about probabilities. Women’s first time does something to them. Dopamine flows, you get addicted.”

“Fine. Then let me down easy. Better you than some jerk. As for crying in the middle of it… well, let me put it this way. I promise, swear on my scholarship, that you will cum. I’m positive I can get that done. Past that, just think of it as a mentoring relationship. I’m just looking for some knowledge and experience. During the process, of course I’ll be yours to mold as you want.”

…

First and Last (Eloise)

… as you wish.”

She could barely hear her own voice over the thump of her heart, but she hoped she was selling it. She had folded her hands primly in her lap to hide the shaking. Touching his cock was not anything she had planned or even considered, but it seemed the most mature action at the time and so she took it. But now, one wrong step and he might realize how nervous she was and ruin this whole thing.

“Whatever I want?” he said. He was enjoying himself, at least that much she could tell. Maybe even in spite of himself. It was the gentle confidence of his voice, the slight teasing aspect. She knew what he was doing. He thought he could get her to crack if he just treated her like a girl. He might be right—but, well, she wasn’t entirely helpless.

“Yes, of course,” she said. “I trust you, John. Unreservedly. That’s why I chose you.” It was weird, through all the flirtation, to just have a few words of truth scoot out.

“Elena,” he finally said, and his hand gripped hers. The first touch of skin between them: her eyebrows lifted to say, “You realize what you’ve done?” while his mirrored the motion to reply, “What of it?”

“Elena, listen,” he said. God, she hoped he didn’t notice how sweaty her palms were. Oh, for fuck’s sake, of course he did. He could always see right through her, could see through to what she was trying to say—the way he marked up her papers, it could make her titter or cry, and regardless, feel naked. Only natural to wonder what it would be like to not just feel naked with him.

“You are a lovely girl. You are, and I’m not bullshitting, because I think we both feel all the boundaries falling already and there’s no point in putting up more. Do I find you attractive? Obviously. Would I like to fuck your brains out right now in a bathroom stall, spank your ass, bang my dick against both your cheeks and come all over your tits? It’s tempting.”

She had started with the profanity but now he was diving into it. She kept a bratty smile on, but she knew things were starting to flow inside her. All the lovely moist machinery of love. A variety of pornographic images were flashing through her head, and she had to believe he’d put them there quite deliberately.

“But it’s not that simple. There are trust issues. Maybe you’re not my student anymore, but when you were, there was a certain power balance that still exists. Believe it or not, I don’t want to take advantage. Maybe I shouldn’t have come here. You brought me here, because you know you have a power, and I’m not as strong as I’d like. I’m a man. I think, and then later I realize it wasn’t my brain that was doing the thinking. But regardless, it doesn’t mean I have to go through with it. I do have concerns about what would happen if this got out, of course, but believe it or not, my real concern is, whether any of this is going to hurt you.”

He knew where to hit—a little bit of sexual flirtation, but then in with a hook, some truly genuine concern, then a jab of honesty. Was she being silly by being so affected? Was she younger than she thought? Just a little girl after all, playing the vamp? Or did this son of bitch just know his game? Because handsome as he was, he had to know exactly what he did to women. And he had to have had plenty of practice.

But she knew—always suspected, now knew—that her sex weren’t as powerless as they seemed in Victoriana.

The first thing to do was get away from this concern shit. That’s where he had the power, and he knew it. If she let him go on like this, she’d end up crying and he’d send her home. Maybe that’d be for the best. But she saw something she wanted, something that she’d wanted for half a year and now was within arm’s reach, and she certainly wasn’t going to just let it be plucked away without venturing a pounce.

“John,” she said, rubbing the pad of her thumb along his palm, “I appreciate that, I really do. You probably do know best, as to whether or not this is good for me. You’re older and wiser—that’s the fucking attraction. But let me tell you something. There’s a reason you want me. There’s a reason you’re imagining what it would be like to splash your cum all over my tits. There’s a reason why you want to know what sound I make when you’re fucking me. You want to know if I’ll beg for more. You want to know if I’ll scream or moan or just gasp for breath. You’re pondering just how tight I’d be around your cock. Maybe that attraction isn’t just foolishness. Maybe it’s a good attraction—maybe you could be good for me and we could be good for each other.

“And, like I said, I’m giving you carte blanche. You want to pull my hair, pull it. You want to stick a finger up my ass, put two. Put me on top, put me on bottom, put me against the wall, put me over your lap if you want. Maybe not all of our attractions are wise—I was as much a Bieber fan as anybody—but I’m trusting in this one. And if it’s foolish, then, fuck it, I’m allowed a little foolishness. So are you.”

She pulled a folded piece of paper from her wallet and slid it into his hand. “That’s my case; that’s the best I’ve got. Take it or leave it. Here’s the hotel room. I’ll be there all night, and if I’ll be there alone—well, I’m working my way through Clarissa, and it’s so fucking good it may be better if you don’t show up.”

She gave him a wink. As she stood up every man at the bar glanced over—one pretended to be scanning for the waitress. John was watching her too. She looked back at him. No smile. Just his crisp blue eyes tracking every movement she made. It felt proprietorial. Judging.

She didn’t turn back—she was blushing hard and that was a secret she’d rather keep.

…

(Joseph)

As he said, the values shifted when he wasn’t looking. He thought he had pinned everything at its proper mix of utility and disutility. Then he’d seen her. It had been one month since school, but everything had happened. You’re with someone day in day out, amongst a bunch of kids who spend half their time dreaming up excuses for homework that they could have done in half that time, you see that person as a thankless child, who didn’t want to be taught and who he didn’t want to teach. Sure, she was a smart girl, and he’d noticed that. Sure, she was an attractive girl, and he’d noticed that. No sense in denying biology. But he had her cabined off into the box where she belonged—a platonic jail in his brain, unable to inspire any sort of interest. Messmates with Ayn Rand and H. G. Wells.

But then she walked in, with her skinny legs and round hips and that skirt and that top and that square of ebony flesh displayed below her neck and makeup subtle but done to the point of perfection. It was when the other men at the bar craned their necks that the box simply broke. She wouldn’t fit it in it any longer. This woman—do whatever you like with her—was not a nameless jug to be filled with knowledge, but an agent in her own right. A creature of reproductive worth that would not be dismissed, but that had to be, whether pursued or shunned, evaluated. It may not be fair, but now she was in the game, a prize to be won and a contestant at the same time.

That was the moment he’d gone hard. Before she even sat down, before she’d said a word. The rest of her seduction, artful as it had been, if a tad gauche, was just icing. He knew before she’d alit that the decision had to be completely redone.

And that’s where she left him, with his Scotch going warm in his fist and a piece of folded paper in the middle of the table, his name on the top in her frostwork calligraphy.

First, he poured the drink in a nearby plant and got a coffee: alcohol has never once improved a decision.

Second, the obvious: tumescence is even worse than alcohol. He waited for fifteen minutes for his erection to subside, and then, with no relief in sight, hobbled awkwardly to the bathroom, locked the door, and rectified the situation manually.

He watched the football game for a while, got invested, slammed the table in disappointment at a humiliating interception, and that was as long as he was distractable. Then he just sipped his coffee, lining up the variables, examining the contingencies, musing on philosophical questions that arose as the heuristic superstructure was cemented into place.

So he decided. It was his decision, not society’s, and not his dick’s. And it was a relief to have made it, such that afterwards he sat there contentedly drinking his coffee, thinking of things with not the slightest relevance: yard projects that needed to be done, books he’d like to read this summer.

He leisurely called for the check.

…

(Eloise)

It had been three hours. Which meant it was time to first, recognize that her brilliant plan had been a bust, and second, order room service. Third would be a long bath. Also, don’t tell the concierge, but somebody’s suitcase is full of wine.

So she didn’t look in the peephole, because she thought it was just her fudge sundae.

Just him. No one else in the hallway. Not a sound. He didn’t wait for an invitation. Even an acknowledgement. Just her surprised face and he kissed her, and that stopped, so she kissed him, and then that stopped, and then they fell inside while he kicked the door closed.

“I was expecting dessert,” she said, but he wasn’t in the mood to flirt. He took two handfuls of her ass and hoisted her, and god if that was as good as a little groping felt she wanted a thorough manhandling, maybe even outright abuse. He poised her on the edge of the desk. She was playful; her tongue darted around his, and his wrestled hers back.

It was too fast. She wanted to show him every part of her. But slow. He’d come back; he’d earned everything; the contract was fulfilled. And she had so much to show. But it was happening so fast, spiraling.

While their tongues were in full melee, her ass slid back along the desk, knocking over a lamp and a few complimentary waters. She was reaching for the buttons of his Oxford when she found herself being turned around and bent over the worktop. Not exactly how she had pictured it in all her schoolgirl fantasies, so only natural that she would try to turn back—but he held her fast with one hand while the other was skillfully making preparations under her skirt. Her belt was ripped off with a whistle and sent flying across the room. Her carefully chosen white thong, its diaphanous cutwork cupping her buttocks, unappreciated and jerked down while one of his fingers slid in the muggy crevice from her clit around to her anus (which, in retrospect, was just a gentleman making sure she was ready). She heard a tear and a spit and saw part of a condom wrapper go flying past her, and just when she was about to suggest slowing down his cock was introduced in full into her cunt and the sense of fullness went radiating out from some deep dark cavern she’d never suspected, rose at the speed of electricity, burst like champagne bubbles against the inside of her skin.

She gazed over her shoulder, and their lips met again, but there was no chance he’d wait. She had opened her gates, she had shown him where the treasure was kept, she had given the guards the day off. He grabbed her hand and placed it on her vulva with his over top, and their two hands moved in unison on her, with a precision like he had owned and tended her genitalia for decades. As if through careful study he had come to learn each freckle, each sensitivity. There was a bit of pain in her below, and she knew he knew, but he didn’t want to stop, and he knew she didn’t want him to. And even if they both wanted to stop, neither one could now. This was choreographed long, long ago. The steps were perfected when the phyla of life were still young.

“All yours,” she said and fell forward onto the desk, bi-lobed brown heart of her ass in the air as his hands locked around her hips. “Tear it up.”

Not the words she had planned on. Maybe she had planned too much anyway.

She could feel her heart beating in every joint of her body as the full fucking started. She had dreamed about his cock, but that was only visual. Never suspected the muchness of it inside her, the tactile torment. Never suspected it had its own power, its own intentions. Seeking out new vacancies in her. She was a little afraid, the way the first man who tried to tame a lion must have felt. What had she gotten into? What had she released? If he wouldn’t take a no, what would he take?

She heard a loud moaning, a feverish breathing; it was her own. The rhythmic slap she realized that was his crotch against her thighs. She could hear her own wetness, her own contribution. And the sound was wonderful. Fuck strings, fuck flutes, life was always percussion. Flashes of images: some spear-wielding racist caricature of all Africa, Heart of Darkness extra, taking his fine-ass full-bodied topless woman with the firelight on their skin, not knowing nothing about all them empires looking hungrily at this darkest continent. That was part of her mix. And Bronte heroines in four-posters in habitats of propriety and lace. That too.

She had thought, stupidly it seems now, she could control him like every other man she’d ever met. The reins were a well-timed smile, a bit of giggling, a flash of a bra strap. She thought that she could give out each piece of herself in her own good time. Maybe in an hour or so all of it, but not now. But the invaders had crossed dead man’s land, they were wild and howling and setting their flags in this virgin country. And she could only try to contain them.

And then he sped up, and she felt her heart starting to fill again. The sweat up and down her whole body, falling from her eyelashes in droplets onto the tabletop. She must have had a fever. Random syllables came out of her mouth—she didn’t know even what she was failing to say.

“Can’t take it…” she finally managed. “Too much…”

“You’re fine.” The syntax of an order, the connotation of an encouragement.

Regardless, he was right. Once more, he knew her better. She was melting under the onslaught, but she was fine. She couldn’t imagine what life had been like or would be like without having this man fucking her. She just knew—so did the rest of the world—that something was coming for her. And she wanted it.

And with a growl and a final furious minute of complete bruising thrusts he had come. She was a shivering mass on the desk, big-ass ass up in the air, still in her top, skirt around her ankles with the curled-up loop of thong. One stiletto on, one somehow ten feet away. Panting in a way she had thought only dogs did.

Whatever she had pictured, whatever anyone had pictured as a first time—this wasn’t it. But after all, that had been the point. She’d won.

He stood there and watched her as he slid the condom off his slumping cock. Dropped it in the trash then methodically unbuttoned his shirt. She could feel his eyes drifting up and down her body, examining his kill. He pushed his pants the rest of the way off, and loomed over her, naked, quite blessed in the chest hair department, absent mindedly stroking his gleaming member with his left hand. Like a hunter sharpening a knife.

And she realized he wanted to show her things too.

“Come on,” he said and disappeared into the bathroom. The sound of a bathtub being filled.

He knew it. She was precocious, so she knew it too.

It wasn’t over. Some heathen god wasn’t yet sated.

…

(Joseph)

He heard the cork pop. “No, no, no,” he said, lazily rolling over in the bath. “Put it away.”

“Why not? I need to celebrate. Cherry popped! Mission accomplished! Put up the fucking banner!”

“I’m not procuring alcohol for a minor.”

“I ain’t asking you to procure shit, motherfucker. I brought my own props. Fuck, I ain’t even letting you have any.”

She was in her underwear in the doorway of the bath, white spider webs of lace trying to restrain her breasts, thong like a bit of cloud borrowed for modesty, waist cocked to the right. She sashayed towards him, bottle in her hand. He watched her in that numb post-coital way of examining something once thought sexual, as if some dark veil had finally been ripped away, and he could appreciate the artistry of every curve, could almost see the Renaissance craftsman who had spent a century plotting her out with a straight edge and compass. Without hesitation she let her breasts spill out, slid her underwear to the floor, and slipped into the hot water, her back against his chest.

“What the fuck,” she said, and poured some champagne sloppily in the general area of his mouth. “No rule says I can’t give it to you.”

“Good champagne.”

“Acceptable sex.”

“Shut up. What do you have to compare it against?”

He could taste the little bubbles of wine on her lips. His hand weighed her breast, squeezed tenderly.

“I don’t know. I’m not sure that was your A-game. I think you holding out on me.”

“Maybe. So how does it feel?”

“Being a woman?”

“Yeah, that.”

“I understand the appeal. I’ll probably spend a fair amount of my life having that or looking for it. But, at the end of the day… it’s just textbook mutilation right? Like when they chopped off that part of your dick.”

“Observant. Is that how you pictured it?”

“I pictured eleven inches! So, you know, another letdown.”

He laughed, as he clumsily tried to unwrap the complementary soap with his left hand. “You’ve been watching too much pornography, Eloise.”

“Would you just be like everyone else and call me Elle. It’s French for ‘she.’”

“I like ‘Eloise.’ It’s something you’d hear in a nursing home.”

“You fucking asshole. Enough champagne for you. Maybe enough cooch too.”

“I was told I’d have carte blanche and I’m not done with you, Elle,” he said. He was softly massaging her sex. He kissed up and down the curve of her neck, the unblemished skin, tight and smooth was it would ever claim to be. Salty and sweet.

She guzzled from the bottle. “Never liked porn actually. The acting is abysmal.”

“People aren’t watching for the acting.”

“Neither am I, but what’s the appeal of two people fucking if you don’t know who they are? What they want. Like take a Dickens book. Take Great Expectations.”

“I’ve heard of that one.”

“Cut out every part of it that deals with motivation. You’d have twenty pages. Twenty shitty pages. That’s what porn is.”

“That’s the thing with men. They only need those twenty pages. They read the rest of the novel to get to those twenty pages. And then take a nap. By the way…” He feigned snoring.

“Bullshit. I know damn well you enjoy the whole book. After all, you made me read the damn thing.”

“How’s your cunt?” he gently inquired.

“It’s ok. It hurt a bit. Still does. Was it—did it feel all right for you?”

“Don’t ask stupid questions.”

“Sorry. Thanks for using the condom by the way.”

“Of course. I don’t know where the hell you’ve been.”

“Nowhere exciting, I assure you. Or scandalous.”

“You’re young. I’m sure this is just the beginning of your escapades. There’ll be rough shit, there’ll be multiple partners, some experimentation with the same sex—you’ll probably end up hosting orgies.”

“Maybe I’ll end up an English teacher in the suburbs with a fucking gorgeous bod.”

“My crystal ball says otherwise. Lean forward, I’ll do your back.”

She pulled her hair to the side. “Do I feel what I think I feel?”

“I guess it’s been fifteen minutes.”

“Is that typical?”

“Different guys, different refractory periods. I’ve even heard unverified tall tales about men who don’t even need them at all.”

“I’ll have to find one of those.”

“Best of luck: citation needed.”

“You will be ready to go again before too long right? Because if not I’ve really backed the wrong horse.”

“I’m not waiting for my benefit, love. Elle. You need to rest.”

There was a knock; her whole body tensed and water splashed out of the tub. “Who’s that? Oh! It’s my fudge sundae!”

“If that’s a euphemism, it’s disgusting.”

She was laying on her belly on the bed in the hotel robe, legs swaying back and forth in the air as she dismantled the dessert. He was propped up on a pillow with his reading glasses on, flipping pages.

“You’re right, this is good,” he said.

“How have you never read Clarissa?”

“It’s the longest novel in the goddamn English language. Nobody’s read it. Like Infinite Jest.”

“I’ve read Infinite Jest.”

“Nerd,” he said.

She licked fudge off of her finger thoughtfully. “Can I ask you something?”

“See this?” He held up the novel. “That’s me.”

“I don’t get it.”

“I’m an open book.”

“Ah. Cute. No, what’s that other word? Lame. So you mentioned porn before. Why is it every scene ends with a facial?”

“Men enjoy the visual.”

“Yeah, but why? What kind of sense does that make, from a Darwin viewpoint? Cum all over a face, or tits, or the small of a back, that’s just wasted. It’s not going to spread your genes. That don’t spread shit. And why do guys want you to swallow? Do they not understand basic biology? Because no one ever got pregnant that way.”

“I don’t know all of Greek mythology, so I can’t guarantee that, but your point’s a valid one.”

“You, for example, Mr. Cattelan. You’re a man. And an open book. So little survey: would you enjoy cumming on my tits?”

“Yes,” he offered, clinically.

“My back?”

“Probably.”

“My face.”

He made a show of examining her features. She smiled, modeled the profile from both sides.

“Hard to tell without actually performing the experiment.”

“Awfully convenient,” she said. “So what’s the point of that?”

“Maybe it’s marking your property. Facial, and bam, you smell of me. Other guys stay away: I’ve claimed exclusive access to this vagina.”

“Really? So tell me…” She lifted her head and her tits rose up from the bedding like two supermoons over a tundra. “Have I been marked? Has someone claimed this particular vajajay?”

“Hmm,” he said, and sniffed. “Can’t tell. All right, new theory then. Maybe it’s gay panic. If any man likes semen, then he must be gay. And that puts him in a bind, you see, because he produces the stuff. It comes out of him on the regular, but if he shows the slightest interest in it, then he’s queer, right?”

“’Queer’ has a different meaning nowadays. I’ll send you some links to read up on it.”

“My point is, he is obsessed, absolutely obsessed with ways to get this stuff out of him, and the second it comes out he’s got to get rid of it, lest it look like he’s anything but a full-blooded heterosexual. Anywhere will do. In a tissue, in a sock, in a carefully prepared cantaloupe.”

“Joe, fucking ick.”

He shrugged. “So the heterosexual male’s lot is implicit self-hatred.”

“And a woman is just a place to get rid of cum?”

“Not so fast. Yes, but it’s more than that. Because it’s not just a facial that sells. What really sells is a facial with a smile. Or with eye contact. Anything that indicates that it’s something she wants. Because then she’s communicating that this horrible, gay-inducing batter you produce isn’t terrible after all. This thing that you make non-stop that you’ve been taught to loathe; someone out there actually likes it. Appreciates it. Wants all she—or he—can get. What a relief.”

“You’ve put a lot of thought into this.”

“I find Freudian bullshit very easy to manufacture. But if you end up needing a college thesis topic… you’re welcome to it.”

“And I suppose this all applies to swallowing as well?”

“Doubly so. Have you ever done that?”

“Joe, my word, you’re giving me the vapors with these personal queries.”

“I believe you started it, Miss.”

“To answer your quite rude question: no, I have not. Have you? And by the way, refusing to answer means you think it’s something to be ashamed of, which is… so regressive.”

He ran his hand through her curls, grasping, releasing, grasping a little tighter. “Much of your twenties is figuring out your own sexual map. Sometimes you’re in the boring midlands. Sometimes you’ve found you’ve crossed a boundary, and you’re in an alien country and you need to retreat.”

“You’re avoiding the question.”

“No, but I am choosing not to answer it.”

“Coward.”

“Never claimed to be perfect. Never claimed to be eleven inches for that matter.”

She rolled onto her back and gazed up at him and they moved casually into a petting session. He had hit a homerun and only now was bothering with second base. Which was actually nice because now there was no rush, nowhere to go, and he took his time enjoying the landscape.

“You felt like eleven,” she said.

“The way you try to take control is fascinating. How did you achieve this expertise in manipulating men?”

“You act like it’s some grand mystery to figure out what men want. It ain’t. It’s like a puzzle with two pieces.”

He laughed and gave her ass a slap ‘n’ squeeze. “That’s fair. Women are convoluted. But there’re heuristics—you can figure them out if you want.”

“Could you teach me? I’m not opposed to branching out.”

“It’s tough to lecture on, better to learn through trial and error.”

“And have you got me figured out?”

“Well, you’re not exactly a closed book. But yeah, I know you.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. For instance, I know you want me to cum on your face.”

“Because I was curious about it?”

“Among other signals.”

“And will you?”