He lounged next to us on the bed, jacking off. The spectacle had gotten him hard again.
Acting on a decision I didn’t know I’d made, I reached for a condom. I hadn’t had a cock in my mouth since middle school; I suppose I hadn’t given much thought to whether I ever would again. But I was clearly embarked on the sort of erotic adventure with these two that I could never have foreseen and, what’s more, I trusted them. What had she said? A casual, experimental attitude?
“Use an unlubed one,” she said when she saw what I was up to, and I managed to get the rubber on him while she watched, that cat-on-the-hunt look coming into her eyes again; I heard her sharp intake of breath when my lips touched his cockhead. I didn’t much like the taste of the latex — had a moment of regret for the loss of naked cock skin, even as long as it had been since I’d tasted it — but my mouth slid down the length of it, and I concentrated on the sensations, his cock so hard and hot against my lips. I glanced up; his head was thrown back and he was breathing deeply; she was absorbed in the vision, her fingers almost absently slipping up and down the length of her cunt lips. My cock was starting to stiffen again already; it responded to the look in her eyes as she watched me. How keenly I felt the heat of her arousal under my own skin. Energy built between us even as I felt on my lips his fast pulse beat.
He reached for my cock. I reached for her, pulled her down to join me. Together we ran our tongues up and down his shaft, kissing around him, trading our attentions from cock to balls. I played with her breasts, tugging on the nipples, feeling her response. He jacked me off with long, slow strokes.
He wanted to fuck her again. So did I, but I could wait. This time I watched for a while, hand on my dick to keep it as hard as he had left it (I wanted to be in the minute he was out). I took advantage of the lull to change condoms. When I saw her hand move towards her clit, I slipped a finger into her cunt, still thinking of both of us in her at once. So hot and tight, wet with sweet, salty cream. She got tighter when I put a second finger in her, then a third. When I began to move them in and out, her cunt stretched with his cock and my fingers. She began her whispered orgasm song again, arched up in a perfect Reichian curve, climbing, climbing. I wanted her full, fucked like she’d never been, this tattooed little sex priestess. She held her breath, mouth open in an inaudible cry, until she came, but nodded, eyes wide and on me. “Yes, yes. .”
And came hugely, once, twice, not enough, and then he stiffened with pre-orgasmic tension; I felt him slow his thrusting the instant before he came.
The minute he pulled out, I was on her, in her, enfolded. And we fucked slowly, tight in each other’s arms, soul-kissing, soul-fucking, a long time, a long time.
I rolled her over so she was astride me, and I could watch as my cock slid out of her pussy, and she thrust down on it again. She braced her hands on my chest and rode me, my hands cupping her ass. Then I had her on her back again, closer, faster, to finish.
Have I only just met her? I thought. She, silent and intense, gazed at me, engaged in her own wonderings.
They did this all the time, he told me as we all lay in each other’s arms, talking, letting the intensity ebb in preparation for my getting up, going out of the room, leaving them.
She had me understand it had been another calibre of experience this time, that it did not always feel like this. Her fingers stayed tangled in the fur on my chest, just over my heart.
Would I leave my number with them, he asked. Could we all meet again?
Of course.
Anyway, it was only Sunday night. We were all staying until Tuesday. Time to play like slick fish in the effervescent water of the warm pool, to meet under the shine of the stars, to talk, catch up in words to this deep knowing. In each other’s arms, in the arms of the holy mountain.
Don’t Be Mad at Me
Adriana V. Lopez
I don’t usually come on to authors I interview. But the baby-fine hair peeking out of the young Spanish writer’s open collar was breaking my concentration.
I had devoured his book in one lonely weekend. It was a sophisticated exploration of alienation in contemporary Barcelona. At the novel’s centre is an unsuccessful young author who’s hired by an enigmatic older woman to write her life story.
When I finished it, I stared at his author photo, looking for the depth in his welcoming eyes that had led to this work. I had to see him in person. I researched the controversial underground Barcelona literary journal he and his cohorts founded named Crack, and I found my angle. I decided he would make a good feature on the Spanish avant-garde for Publisher’s Forum.
David Canetti happened to be in New York for a few months on a writing scholarship. He responded to my email immediately. This is what I love about being the international editor at the book review magazine. It’s “meet the author” all the time.
David and I were sitting below a Moroccan-style ceiling fan struggling through the leaden humidity of a mid-August night. I told him to meet me in the Lower East Side at a cafe bar called the Red Pony. Seven p.m. I’d be the girl carrying an emerald-green book tote that said “Reading is Radical”. I told him I was tall, with short black hair, and would be wearing a sleeveless turtleneck dress.
After our initial Spanish two-cheek hello kiss and some nervous prattle about the similarities between New York and Barcelona, I got down to business. I asked him about his sales. I could see the creases taking centre stage on his smooth forehead.
I focused on his large, hazel eyes as he attempted to save face. They were encased in a thick set of dark lashes that made him appear as if he were wearing chocolate-coloured eyeliner. I furrowed my brow a little and nodded, feigning concentration.
“Few people actually read the novel today,” he lamented in strained English.
“Yes, it’s a problem for all authors. It’s tough to keep up with the shorter attention spans.”
Like a Modigliani painting, his face and nose were long. His fingers were long, too; he had them wrapped around a short glass filled with the amber-coloured whiskey we’d both ordered.
I was as drawn to him as I am to unreadable books.
His eyes remained glued to mine. He took a sip of his whiskey and sat back in his chair and grinned at me.
“So you’re family is Latin American?”
“Yes. My mother is Colombian, and my father is a Spaniard. But I was born here.” My delivery was flat. I’ve been told that I can come off as cold, a little arrogant.
“Aha! I thought you were too attractive to be just American. Do you prefer English?”
“Spanish is fine. I need to practice.”
“You have a slight accent to your Spanish. It’s very cute.”
“Thanks,” I said, tensing at the dig.
“But it’s much better than my English. Nobody in Spain worries about their English.”
Of course he had the linguistic advantage. I only got to practise my Spanish with my parents and a bunch of stiffs in my prep school classes on the Upper East Side. Or on the dreaded occasions my parents dragged me to visit my humiliatingly snobbish families in Bogota and Madrid.
“OK then, Spanish it is,” I said in the tongues of our mothers. The r’s rolling from my tongue gave me a whole new sexy persona. I felt like I had tapped into that dormant nineteenth-century maja I had in my veins.