So, anyway, the date. NB: This took place before the entry titled I'll Call You Sometime: The Sequel. Excuse the lack of proper chronology.
Jefferson had warned me that he was out of liquor, so I bought some whisky. I am not yet blasé enough about going to a man’s apartment for the first time (especially to an apartment that sees regular orgies), or about submission, for that matter, to turn up without reinforcements in the form of mood-altering substances. I wanted Dutch courage. Of course, this involved some angst at the liquor store. I really didn’t want to spend much on alcohol (quantity, not quality is ever my motto), but could I really bring myself to show up at Jefferson’s door with a bottom shelf bottle of blended scotch whisky? I’m pretty vain – I didn’t want to be thought of as cheap. If I did buy El Cheapo brand, I would feel compelled to apologize for it. At which point Jefferson, being a well-mannered Southerner, would probably demur that it was fine. This dilemma took me a few minutes. Finally vanity won over frugality. As it so often does in my life.
Jefferson greeted me at the door in a t-shirt and pajama bottoms. I handed him the bag. “Maker’s Mark!” he said, sounding pleased.
“I read your blog,” I reminded him. I glanced around his living room. Lots of books, artwork by his kids: so, you know, not intimidating. I’m not quite sure how a few square feet could be considered intimidating, but apparently the possibility had occurred to me.
We settled down on the sofa with our whiskies and listened to Neil Young and then Emmylou Harris. I’d been thinking about music on the way over. I’d been playing T. Rex’s “Hot Love” again and again on my iPod. This seemed like an appropriate soundtrack to get me in the mood. As did, oddly enough, Billie Holliday’s “Strange Fruit.” Obviously not the lyrics, but the sinister air of melancholy, and the soft minor key melody seemed fitting as I contemplated being slapped, possibly quite hard, by a man I barely knew.
We talked and talked. Alcohol makes me quite chatty, and because, of course, it’s alcohol, I am a little fuzzy about the subject of our discussion. I think Emmylou Harris, the idea of being an artist and of the importance of loving one’s work were bandied about. I knocked back my whisky pretty quick.
When he brought me a second drink he sat a bit closer. “See, I’m sitting incrementally closer to you now,” he announced.
“Oh, right!” I said, and squeezed just a bit closer, myself.
“You’re getting better at maintaining eye contact,” he observed. He has very blue eyes.
“That’s the alcohol,” I said, giving credit where it was due. This became clearer when we started talking about his writing. “When I’m writing erotica, the sentences get shorter,” he explained. “It’s not ‘My penis did this…,’ it’s ‘My cock. My cock. And there’s no vagina, that’s what you take to the doctor.’”
“Yes!” I cried. “Cause, you know, a penis is flaccid, but a cock is hard. And you know what else?” I went on, inspired, “I think cunt is a perfectly acceptable word, but pussy is really dirty.”
“What do you mean by dirty?” Jefferson asked. I realized that using ‘dirty’ as a pejorative term might put a damper on our evening, which was supposed to be very dirty, indeed.
“I just think euphemisms are dirty.” The alcohol was making me more voluble, but, unfortunately, also less articulate. I tried to remedy that: “With cunt, I think it’s the hard ‘k’ sound, and the dentalization at the end that makes it sound clean. I mean, I like the dirtiness of pussy,” I added, not wanting him to think I was a prude or anything. “I mean, just now I got this kind of shiver down the backs of my thighs.”
“That’s also the alcohol talking,” I said, insightfully. “I wouldn’t otherwise be talking about why I think pussy is a dirty word.” I finished my second whisky. “I’m just going to use your bathroom.”
“It’s at the end of the hall.”
When I returned to the sofa he pulled me towards him and kissed me, sliding his hands all over me. I sighed. He slipped his hands up under my shirt. “This is the part I have trouble with,” he said, struggling with my bra. Like me putting on condoms.
But he soon got rid of the rest of my clothes, slipping my tights off my legs and, briefly, onto his left arm. Then he settled me next to him on the couch, and I curled up against him. He was still dressed, or rather, still in his pajama bottoms and tee.
We kissed. “I just want to smell you,” I announced. I was definitely drunk at this point. I sniffed the crook of his elbow. Nice. We kissed again. “And I’m going to stroke you,” I added, sliding my hand across his groin.
It was already after 8:00; he’d been making me comfortable for two hours at this point, and I was due to leave at 9:00. “OK,” he said at last. “Take your drink into the bedroom.”
So I did. Hey! I thought. This is where the orgies (parts of them, anyway) happen! I looked at the bookshelves, then sat on the bed.
When he came in he joined me on the bed, pushing me back against his pillows and reaching into the drawer of his bedside table. He slipped a mask over my head, where it snagged in my hair. It was the real deal, not one of those wimpy Virgin Atlantic sleep masks. I couldn’t see a thing, not even an impression of light. I sighed. He lay on top of me.
After a minute I felt his dick on my face. He rubbed it across my mouth, and I licked it desperately. I tried and tried to get my mouth around the head, but he wouldn’t let me. “Please?” I said. “Won’t you let me suck you?” He slapped my face. I gasped: “Ow!” I hadn’t expected it at all. I had thought the slapping would be limited to my ass. It hurt. I wasn’t wet. I might have been excited, but I could barely even think. It really hurt.
Then he turned me over and slid me to the edge of the mattress, and spanked me hard. Several times. It was really painful, and I heard my voice whimpering. But it went on.
I don’t know how long it lasted. Not very long, I don’t think. Afterwards, Jefferson lay me on my back and covered me up with his body. He took off the mask.
“Well,” he said. “So we tried that, and it’s not for you. That’s OK.”
“No,” I said. “It’s not that I didn’t like it…” I said. Lying, I think.
“That’s a lot of double negatives,” he pointed out.
“It’s that I let you do that to me,” I was nearly in tears. “I let you. I didn’t even stop you.”
He kissed my face, and was quite soothing. I’m not surprised he has such an active social life. Even though he hit me really hard, and his promiscuity makes me nervous, I think he’s lovely, and I’m going to see him again, no question about it.
He found a cigarette, an unfiltered Gauloise! (How French!) and we split it, with me slouched in his armchair, and him lounging on the bed. It was after 9:00.
“Sometimes I don’t think I’m actually submissive,” I said, returning to our conversation. “I think I like the idea of refusing to do what I’m told,” I said.
“Oh, so you’re a brat,” Jefferson laughed.
I wondered if this was an official term for this particular perversity or if I’m just completely weird. Do I just want to annoy my partners to orgasm?
It was getting late. “Don’t you have another date?” I asked.
“I’m actually headed out,” he said. “I wish we’d planned for you to stay over,” he said. I smiled.
We started to dress. It was at this point I realized I was very, very drunk. The term legless suddenly made sense.
We walked to the subway station. “Are you OK?” he said. I was not too steady on my pins.
“I think I’m going to get a cab,” I said. “I just need a cash machine.”
“I’m going to come with you,” he said. Thank God for that, I was in a real state. He saw me to a nearby ATM and then into a cab. I don’t remember getting home, and I can’t imagine how I managed to give the driver directions. I struggled out of my clothes and collapsed in bed, not even washing my face. I woke up at 4:00 am with a splitting headache, having dreamt about HIV tests given by cheery people who kept mixing up the results and giving them out in public. My subconscious isn’t all that subtle, it seems.
Walking to the subway station this morning, I checked my voice mail. The phone had rung while I was at Jefferson’s, but I’d assumed it was Marc, since I’d asked him to check in. But aha! It was Daniel. He’d called to see if I was free tonight. Since I was playing it cool, I called him back immediately and said I’d love to get together. I believe this is called self-sabotage. I’ll call you sometime, eh? Call me Tuesday night, pal!
Jefferson had threatened – or promised – to give me bruises that would last nearly a week. I hadn’t had the courage to ask him not to (how could this take courage? It’s my ass! What the hell is up with me?). I don’t want bruises because I’m seeing Jordan on Friday night and am not sure of proper sub etiquette regarding multiple partners leaving welts on one’s ass. I can’t see my ass, but I don’t think it’s bruised. I thought it would hurt to sit down. I was kind of excited about being constantly, physically reminded of my night. Which is strange, considering how ambivalent I was about being hit that hard. But anyway, while it stings, I can’t tell if it’s a response to the spanking or just the latent effects of lycra-heavy tights clinging to by skin three days running. If there’s any visible bruising presumably Daniel will tell me. Wow, I am a slut.
When I got to work there was a nice email from Jefferson. He’s lovely.