My Worst Date Page 5

  Suddenly he pipes up, “Maybe you wouldn’t even call this a date. I don’t know. It sure was the worst. When I was a sophomore in high school, about three years ago, I was very hot for this guy named Gary. He used to come around and we’d watch television down in the rec room. Well, you know, one thing led to another. I’m laying on top of Gary. This part is funny. And he says, ‘What do we do?’ And I said, ‘Just improvise.’

  “Anyway, Gary is sprawled across the couch with his pants down, I’m sucking his cock, and my brother walks in. My older brother. And he gets pissed off. Gary leaves. I realize I am in deep shit.

  “So when my father comes home, my brother tells him. And he goes ballistic. He drags me into the bathroom yelling his head off about he isn’t going to have some little queer in the family, you know, all that stuff. And then he says, ‘You want to suck something, suck this.” and he pulls out his cock. And get this. It’s already hard.

  “So I was crying and begging him not to make me do it, but he grabbed me and pushed my head down. And I could hear my mom outside pounding on the door screaming at him to come out and the other kids crying. It was heavy.

  “So I did it. He didn’t come. He let me go. And I went upstairs and put some clothes into a shopping bag and here I am.”

  Max said, “God, that’s disgusting.”

  Myrtle Beach, who is really the toughest of the whole bunch, said, “I would have bit the bastard’s wiener right off. What a piece of shit. Sorry, I know that’s your dad. But that’s a dad for you.”

  Then he turned to me and said, “What about you, Hugo? Haven’t you had a terrible date or two? Are you too young? Or are you just not talking?”

  Walter saved my bacon when he stuck his head in the door and yelled, “What gives with you guys? I’ve been yelling for you for ten minutes! Get the hell out there. Outta nowhere there’s a mob out there.” And we all pulled up our jockstraps and went out, me thinking about my dates and knowing when the worst one showed up, it was going to be a honey.

  sex with glenn—iris

  My experience isn’t so great that I can compare him to a great many other men. But he certainly is different from the other men I’ve slept with. My first husband—well, not really husband but I always thought of him that way—Baby, was pretty much the standard Latin lover. Oh, got the job done and off. He liked it when I had an orgasm but he wasn’t concentrating on that. And he wasn’t so high on fooling around. I never minded oral stuff, I’ve always rather liked the penis. It’s such a surprising kind of phenomenon. I mean, imagine if a man’s ear or his little finger or some other appendage suddenly blew up five or six times its size just when you touched it. God certainly had some unusual ideas about propagation. It could just as easily have taken place in our armpits. Imagine, two penises, two vaginas, and you have to get them together at the same time. A broad-shouldered man and a narrow-shouldered woman would be in a lot of trouble.

  Anyway, back to Baby. He definitely was not keen on reciprocating oral activities. I wonder how it worked with his boyfriend? He was so macho I’m sure he had to do his on-again, off-again routine even if the holes differ. Some English Lady somebody said in a court trial about someone’s perversion, “Well, we all have orifices.” And we do, we do.

  Glenn’s force field seems to be my pleasure. He’s not so much into climbing aboard and getting on with it, and he’s not really kinky. What he likes best is to use his tongue to get me to orgasm. And if more than once, even better. Personally I’d like to have a little more physical contact with that gorgeous body of his than just his tongue. But I was brought up to give a man his pleasure. And if his pleasure is my pleasure, I shouldn’t really complain.

  I’ve tried doing the same thing for him at the same time and we did it successfully once, but I don’t think he liked it so much. Me either, frankly. That lady who wrote “Latins are lousy lovers,” what’s her name? Helen Lawrenson, wrote that she didn’t like to do “soixante-neuf” because it was like patting your stomach while you made a circle over your head. You could do it, but she never knew quite where to concentrate. And I got the impression that what he really didn’t like about it was he couldn’t see me. He’s very visual.

  Glenn is uninhibited. He’s out of his clothes in a flash. I certainly get the impression that he’s been in and out of his clothes in a flash many times in many places.

  He does not want to talk about other women he’s known. He never said if he has been married or not. I don’t really know where he’s from except that I do know that he came from California or Miami. I don’t know where he gets his money. Drugs? Well, anyway, we were talking about sex.

  He has this very beautiful body which I think he thinks of as a sort of gift he has to offer other people. He’s very quick to pick up on what you like to do and will humor you to an extent. He’ll do it, but it doesn’t become part of the repertoire without your asking.

  He’s a good kisser, which is very high up on my list. He has a very beautiful mouth. Classic. I think you can tell everything by people’s mouths. Men learn to fake it with their eyes, but when you look at their mouths, it’s all there. Those narrow lips that will give nothing and were never born to kiss are for staying away from. I even know one guy whose lips sort of went inside. When I knew him in his twenties he had a beautiful, curvy mouth and kissed very well. But I saw him recently and, though he’s still handsome, there’s just this little steel-trap line where those lips used to be. His ego devoured his lips. It was just me-me and my-my until all that taking and no giving just pulled those little lips right into his mouth.

  Glenn’s mouth isn’t like that at all. And he’s old enough that if he was a nongiver, it would begin to show.

  Also, watching someone walk away from the rear tells you a great deal. So many men look forceful when they walk toward you. But when they walk away they walk like very large babies. That kind of toddler walk. It looks cowboy macho coming on, but you see you have another big child to handle when they walk away. So I say, let’s keep them walking away. Glenn looks like a man when he walks away. I love to see him walk away from me with his clothes off. That white butt, the rest of his body nicely tan.

  Certainly he’s interested in sex and I don’t have to talk him into it. In fact, I think I could say he’s very interested in sex. And gets more interested the more you let him have his way. I’ve been experimenting with him a little bit, and he can really stay down there a long time if he thinks there’s a chance I’ll have another orgasm. And I frequently have a number of them now that I’m kind of getting into what he wants from me.

  But the lights are always on and his eyes are always open.

  He has a very nice cock, too. Circumcised. Rather heavily. Dark skin, and lighter where the circumcision is. Large head that kind of takes on a bell shape when he’s really excited. I think he really likes me to masturbate him after he’s seen me have a number of orgasms. He told me that one of the mistakes people make is in thinking they should both have an orgasm at the same time. For myself, I like to go all to pieces in the arms of someone who is going all to pieces at the same time.

  This occurs to me, and I don’t let what occurs to me take the form of gospel truth in my head, but it occurs to me that when Glenn is watching me have an orgasm it’s as though he’s imagining what it’s like. And that he is me having the orgasm, having sex with himself. As though I’m some very exotic form of masturbation. I think he’d love to have sex with himself. But being a gentleman, and kind, and realizing it’s impossible, he’s found a solution to loving himself better than anyone else. And probably loves me for doing it for him. I have a pretty nice body, my breasts are still up there. There was never very much to collapse in the first place. I think that’s how he loves someone.

  What do I really like? I’d like to be a large, fleshy, pale blond woman. And I’d like to make love to a small, very handsome man. Who would aggress my body like the Wehrmacht losing its way on the Russian steppes.

  sex with glenn
—hugo

  I don’t know that I’m in the mood for all of this. You may find out more than you want to know. First of all, let me say right here that any sex with Glenn is good sex as far as I’m concerned. I am absolutely nuts about him and it’s about all I can do to keep him from figuring that completely out, although I think he’s pretty well guessed.

  When we first started making love he was very romantic and we did it boy-girl style. He was the boy, obviously, which I don’t mind. He’s very careful, uses condoms, knows what he’s doing, and plenty of foreplay. I don’t know if I could say he loves “me” but he certainly loves my physical being. He likes to lie next to me and run his hands over my body and talk about how beautiful I am. Honestly, I’m not that beautiful because I’ve seen beauty and lots of it in this town. But I’m nice and I’m not a dork and I’m not a slag, so that adds up to something.

  If I have to be terribly honest, it’s not the fact that he’s in me that’s so terribly thrilling, but it’s the fact that the man I love is making love to me and enjoying it that makes it gratifying. The most exciting part is when he has his orgasm.

  I think I must be basically very feminine because it’s seeing him and knowing we’re going to make love that gets me all worked up. The minute we are behind closed doors I want to get out of my clothes and get at it. He’s the one that makes it into more of a ritual.

  Lately it’s turning out that he really enjoys my masturbating him, which I like to do. And he has revealed a taste for porno flicks on his VCR. What he likes best are those threesome jobs but he only likes the boy-girl sections, not the boy-boy stuff. He told me that he likes the homoerotic stuff better than the heterosexual videos because the men are better looking. It’s so complicated, isn’t it? I don’t really get off on porno videos so much myself. A: I like the fact that someone wants to put the blocks to me. With video there is no victory. They don’t even know you’re there. B: I don’t like to make love with videos playing because it demoralizes me that I’m not hot enough to be exciting all by myself. C: I’m not into threesomes, foursomes, you name it. I like romance. And with a video there is definitely a third party in the room. And D: it’s quite obvious that you can really get into video and sex magazines and that stuff, and that’s just like a drug scene. You start a little and sooner or later it’s the only thing that turns you on. And you get real weird. With black leather stuff hidden in the closet and straps and strangling and all that stuff. If it doesn’t feel good I don’t really dig it. Of course, I’m just a kid but I don’t think things are going to sort themselves out in that direction for me.

  In fact I wasn’t so keen on it the other night with Glenn. He puts on a video, throws a sheet over the couch, and we strip and plunk ourselves down. He pulls out the grease and says, “No condoms tonight. Just wanking.” He really got into that video and he didn’t want me to do the hand work. He wanted to do it himself, and he really kind of forgot I was there. He had his other hand on my winkie, but he was really enjoying himself and when he came he shot halfway across the room. I sort of felt I was like one of those inflatable dolls.

  I tell you what. He certainly has a big crush on his own dick. It’s a good one, but I can tell he really enjoys looking at his own body and his winkie in action. I suppose that’s good from an ego standpoint. Maybe someday when his own hot looks skid a little he’ll change. Who knows? All I know is that things change all the time and obviously we’re never going to get married and have kids. (He’s too old for me, ha, ha, ha!) My job is just to stick with him and really try to love him. Although I don’t know exactly how that is going to shape up in the future. I mean, I am planning to go to college and I certainly don’t plan to be a kept boy.

  at the gym

  “You must come with me to the gym,” Macha said.

  “Why? Doesn’t my body look good enough now you’ve seen Glenn?” I asked. We were on our way down the hall from our economics class. We were in the second half of our course and I’m still not clear as to what it’s about. Although I’m getting good grades in it. It’s kept interesting because Mr. Burley, our teacher, is having a nervous breakdown or something. A very extended nervous breakdown. It’s been going on since last fall. Today he almost lost it. He suddenly got all red and burst into a sweat and just stared into the back of the room and held tight onto his desk. LaVerne Engels was reading something and she at least had the wits to keep right on reading after she got to the end of the paragraph. She must have read about three pages when he finally snapped out of it. It wasn’t all that terrible. We’ve all seen our friends get into a drug snit or two, if we haven’t ourselves.

  Actually there isn’t a lot to Mr. Burley, but I think we all like him better because of his nervous breakdown. We’d probably hate him if he wasn’t falling apart right in front of our eyes. Anyway, he kind of snapped out of it and said, “That will do, La-Verne,” and gave us our assignment for next time. None of us discussed it because we don’t want the principal to know.

  “Burley almost didn’t make it today,” I added. Macha ignored this. “It’s not your body. Your body is fine. Come on, you’re on the swimming team. I want to see somebody there and I want him to think it’s just by chance. That we go there all the time.”

  “I don’t even have a membership. You go to the Fountainbleu Spa, don’t you?”

  “I’ll take you on mine. I can have six visitors a year and nobody’s come with me yet,” she said.

  “Who is this we’re going to track down?” I wanted to know.

  “You’ll see. And you owe me this. I sat through that ordeal with you on the beach.”

  “Ordeal?”

  “Wasn’t it an ordeal for you? Or was it just a breeze? A whiz? You get in bed with men in their thirties all the time, right? You don’t even know if he’s married. There could be a Mrs. Glenn. And lots of little Glenns. He could have syphilis. He could have AIDS!” This she screamed so loud that about twenty people going into French class ahead of us turned. “What are you looking at?” Macha demanded. She can get very belligerent so there was no big reaction. Some girl said, “Oh, be cool, Macha, for God’s sake.”

  “Are you coming?” she added in a slightly lower tone. I said, “Yes.”

  “Are you going to take this French class?” I asked her. “Or what?” She said, “Yes.”

  The terrible thing about the gym, and this goes for any gym I’ve been in, is that the guys are all so terribly self-conscious and there’s this kind of cruisy atmosphere, which if you’re not cruising makes you so nervous you have trouble getting the key into your locker. I’ve never been to an all-girls’ gym, but it would be kind of a relief.

  The Fountainbleu isn’t bad. I’ve been to the gym on Lincoln Road Mall once and it was unnerving. When I was there this great big humongous guy put down these weights and said, “I’ve got to get out of here. Bill will kill me if I don’t have dinner on the table by the time he gets home from work.” But the Fountainbleu has more of a New Yorky atmosphere. People who go there seem to be in more of a hurry to get in and get out. And there were definitely some unattractive guys in the aerobics class who were there to come on to girls. Maybe I’m the one who sees everybody being cruisy.

  Macha came in from the women’s dressing room. She was wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt. Plain. She was just letting you see she has a nice bosom. Actually she has a great body and nice legs. Nice proportions. Normal like. But she keeps it pretty well covered up, which I think is great. I wore sweat pants, too, because I have nice legs and like Macha, want to err on the side of not flaunting things. I sound just like my mother when I say something like that. “Err,” you know, not “error.” She heard someone say “To error is human” once and sat them down to explain that it was “err.” So much for educating the masses.

  But I wore a tank top. Swimming has given me nice shoulders and I’m not going to keep everything from human view. Our teacher wore short shorts and one of those tank tops that hangs open so you can see the nipples on t
heir pecs. Nice. Not. He had dark, curly receding hair and one of those tight, little nervous faces with little dark eyes that flick all around the room all the time to see if there is anyone who doesn’t think he’s sexy and beautiful. I’ll bet there’s some guy at home that he gives a real hard time to most of the time. Did I say that his tank top was peach?

  He gave all the standard aerobics stuff. To his credit he did it. I hate those teachers who start off the exercise and then walk around as though they’re checking the class out to make sure they’re doing it right. You could be upside-down with your toe in your mouth and they wouldn’t notice.

  After class Macha said, “So. Let’s go do some weights.”

  “He wasn’t here, right?” I asked her.

  “Don’t get smart. You could use some weights. Your body is your living, you know.” And she snickered loudly and pinched my ass.

  As we walked into the weight room I got the picture. There was Ken, the guy from the beach. Still wearing yellow. That must be his color. He must have told Macha he goes to the Spa and despite her being cool, Ken must be on her agenda.

  Instead of going over to Ken, Macha went over to one of the instructors and asked him to show her what weights he thought she should use on the bench. The instructor weighed about four hundred pounds without any fat. I could kind of get into body building if you could keep your neck. I don’t fancy having one of those necks that’s the same width as my head. And then having a crew cut on top of it. It’s like your head is your neck. And maybe you should have an even larger head on top of it. So I went over to Ken. I will repay my debt, I thought. “Hi,” I said. “Remember us? From the beach?” He was doing those weights on pulleys on each side, for strengthening your armpits, I guess, and staring into the mirror at his normal-size but perfect body. I have to admit it. There was nothing wrong there. “Hi. Uff,” he grunted. “How are you? Uff,” grunting again.