Dean greeted me at the door. Again, he was unshaven, which, again, I found pretty damn attractive. We kissed.
“Hi.” We looked at one another: this was it. After eight days of fooling around, we were going to have sex: it was our third date, after all.
“Oh, wait,” Dean shuffled through some papers, and handed me one: “Here.” It was his test results from the Callen-Lorde Community Health Center where he, and I, had both been tested for HIV. Negative, it read.
“I have one too!” I’d forgotten. I rummaged in my bag until I found it, and handed it to him. “Hey, was your counselor Samuel? Wasn’t he nice?”
After the finger prick blood test I’d been counseled by Samuel, a very kind African American man maybe ten years my junior. He’d asked me about my sexual habits, and congratulated me on the fact that I use condoms religiously, even with “primary partners” … I don’t actually have a primary partner, though. Then he’d told me my test was negative, he’d give me a call in a few weeks to check in, and have a nice day. I’d left, jubilant, and phoned Dean. “Guess what? Samuel congratulated me on my practices!” I’d meant my safer sex habits.
“I’ll bet he did,” Dean’d said. Ho ho.
“That’s totally inappropriate,” I’d said. But I was laughing.
“Yeah, he was a nice guy,” Dean agreed now. Then I dumped my bag on his floor and went upstairs to his room.
His bed was still a mess: “I see you’ve been setting the mood.” I climbed onto his bed and sat with my back to the wall.
Dean stood next to the bed. We looked at one another. “Are you hungry?”
“Not yet.” Here was the moment, after all. The third date. It was time for sex. “Are you?”
He shook his head. “I was thinking you could give me a blow job,” he said.
“Oh, you were?” This got my back up a bit. We were supposed to be having sex, but all he wanted was for me to go down on him? I mean, all things being equal, I was more than happy to blow him, I just didn’t like the idea that this was his first and best idea, like I owed him or something.
“Yeah. Well, I went down on you…”
So he had. Twice. “OK,” I said. Slowly I took the hair band from my wrist and wrapped my hair in a ponytail. Dean sat on the bed and leaned back, until his head was in my lap.
“Let me warm up,” I said. I wanted to be in the right frame of mind. I wanted to fool around a bit before diving at his dick. We kissed, and I studied his angular face, his expression.
“Should I shower?”
“No, you’re fine.”
Dean stood up and stripped down to his underwear, so I lifted my shirt over my head, and wriggled out of my skirt, tossing my clothes onto the floor. He stood in his boxers, and I reached over to stroke his dick through the thin cotton. There were splotches of pre-cum on the front. I rubbed my hand up and down the opening. Then I slid the boxers off and wrapped my mouth around his cock.
He moaned. I moved my mouth back and forth, tonguing him.
“Wait,” he said. “I want to sixty-nine you.”
He sat on the bed and then slid underneath me. I shifted on top of him until we were mouth-to-genitals, and he pulled down my underwear. As an afterthought, I unhooked my bra. His tongue flicked at my clit and I stiffened with excitement. I took him all the way in my mouth, fighting my gag reflex. He moaned again, and my legs shook as he slid his tongue up and down my pussy, really fast. I let out a little gasp.
I threaded my fingers through the coarse, curly hair around his balls, then slipped one into my mouth. My legs twitched again as I pushed my pelvis towards his mouth. I went back to his dick, more eager than ever. “Come here,” I whispered; him going down on me was distracting me from making him come.
He tugged himself away from my cunt and stood with his dick dangling in my face. I looked up at him under my lashes, then rubbed him against my breasts. “I’m going to make you come,” I explained. I went back to sucking and licking; I couldn’t get enough of his cock, and I wanted him to come all over me.
He came quickly, with a grimace. I looked up at him again as I slowly rubbed his come into my breasts, playing with my nipples in the hopes he would find this hot.
Dean slumped beside me and for a moment we looked at one another in silence. Then I smirked at him, and he gripped my hand.
Dean’d drawn the curtains, but there was a faint late afternoon light through the windows. We were cool and cozy in his bed. I leaned against his arm. We talked in a desultory manner for a few minutes, and then Dean mentioned that he was planning to go to Atlantic City to play in a tournament. He hoped to win a place in the game.
“But if I don’t place I’m committed to buying into this tournament anyway,” he explained. Then he told me how much it cost to buy into this game. It occurred to me that this was a man who, so far, I had not seen with anything amounting to a steady job.
“Um, Dean? Can I ask you something?”
“No.” But he smiled.
“Are you …” I paused, completely at a loss as to how I might phrase this: “… independently wealthy or something?”
He smiled wryly. “What gave it away? Was it cause I have a deck, in addition to the rooftop?” He pointed over his shoulder, towards his very nice deck, which boasts a grill and matching lawn furniture.
“Yeah, that, and maybe the fact that you had a live in nanny. And grew up in a house in Manhattan.” This he had revealed on our first date. I gazed at him covertly. This was what an independently wealthy person looked like. Naked. Well. It was time to change the subject: perhaps my discomfort with talking about money is a middle class habit? “Well, you’re buying dinner then.” I kissed him.
“Do you want to go to this party?” That had been the original plan: go to a party at a Brooklyn bar, then return to his and consummate our relationship, such as it was.
“Fuck it, let’s go get dinner and get drunk,” I said. So we did.
When we got back from dinner we stretched out on his bed. He slid between my legs and examined my underwear: black nylon mesh bikinis. “I’m going to rip these off,” he announced.
“What? That’s my underwear!”
“They’re already kind of worn.” So they were; rubbed thin at the crotch.
I sighed. “Oh, go ahead.” A couple of other guys have ripped off my underwear, they all seem to get a kick out of it. I suppose it’s quite a macho gesture.
Once I was knicker-free, Dean slipped his tongue right against my clit. I swallowed as he swirled his tongue around my lips, tapping against my skin. My legs shook.
After a moment Dean stood up, and reached into one of the drawers built into his bed frame. He took out a condom.
“Kimonos?” I’d never slept with a man who used those.
“They’re very thin.” He fiddled with it until it was snug on his dick. He lay down on top of me. We looked at one another. With a grimace, he struggled to fit himself inside of me.
“I want to get on top,” I said. ’Cause usually I’m on top first, I come, and then the guy I’m fucking is free to do what he likes. Well, within reason.
“Sweetie,” Dean grunted, “You’re going to have to wait.”
Eh? Why was that? Dean pumped himself against me. His eyes were on a spot somewhere behind me.
I pushed my pelvis up against him and let my voice go slack and breathy. “You like that? Tell me.”
“You’re a slut,” he said obligingly. “A tight little slut, with your warm, wet pussy…”
That was good. I shoved myself up against him more. “Yeah. Come on, Dean. Give it to me.”
“What’s today’s date?” he panted. “August first.”
“Mmmm.” I pushed my mouth towards his.
“Lily. On December first.” Dean kissed me, “If we’re still fucking, then we’re going to both get tested again and I’m going to start fucking you without a condom.”
“Ummm. Can we have this conversation later?” I gasped. “When we’re not having sex?” I mean, what was that about? I’m not having sex without a condom unless I’m in an exclusive relationship, which I was sure was not what he was aiming at, but, really, did I need to explain this to Dean while he was inside me? For God’s sake. Dean shuddered. “Say my name,” I demanded.
“Lily. Lily. Lillian Vereker.”
Lillian Vereker feels like I’m in school. “Just Lily is fine,” I said breathlessly. I wrapped my legs around his hips, and he lifted them higher around his torso, until it my legs felt the strain.
When he came I held my hands against my back, as if to keep him inside me, cause I liked the pressure and weight of his body, his cock, against me. When he rolled off I made him turn on the air conditioner. He feel asleep easily, one arm around me. He began to snore: “Veerup!” I cocked my head at the man next to me. It was the noisiest snore I had ever heard. Each snore was accompanied by a long, quiet wheeze, and just as I got used to the wheezing he would snore again. It was from deep in his chest. I stared at him, nonplussed and unable to sleep. He sounded, I decided finally, (and poetically) like the death rattle of a baby frog: “Veerup!” I put my head under a pillow and waited for the snoring to become background noise.
I woke up with a bad hangover and very horny. I wrapped myself around Dean, who, luckily, was amenable to being cajoled out of his sleep in order to service me, as it were. He rolled on top of me. “I want to get on top,” I said, determined to have my way at last.
“Wait,” he said.
He put on a condom and with a sigh I opened my legs and he struggled inside me. After a minute he nodded and he slid out. I crouched on my knees as he lay down, and then clambered on top of him. He fiddled with his dick and then, stretching forward, I started to ride him.
This is the position I like best, it’s the easiest way for me to come. I just rock back and forth and, if the guy stays still (I know, not very sexy), I get myself so worked up that I come very quickly, especially if my partner engages in a little dirty talk. Most men, of course, feel obliged to participate in the act, and Dean was no exception. “Stay still!” I grunted. This was not too successful. “Hold my hips,” I tried again. “No, lower.” I bounced a little on his dick, anxious just to ride him hard and come. “There. There. No, wait.”
Hmm. “Tell me to stop,” Dean said.
I looked at him. “Stop,” I said, experimentally. Huh. “Stop, stop,” I made my voice exaggeratedly whispery. “Stop.” I laughed at how coy I sounded: “Stop.” I didn’t want him to stop at all, but I wanted to keep saying it; it was turning me on. Good lord. I opened my eyes wide, half pouted, and heard myself beg: “Please stop.”
Despite this and my fevered rocking, I did not come, not even when Dean began slapping my ass lightly, as per my directions. So eventually, both of us sweaty and stuck together, he rolled back on top of me and fucked me. “Come on,” I said, my voice almost a whine: “Come on, Dean.” He obliged.
When we at last made it out of bed and into the shower, I realized I was too hungover to stand up and sprawled in the tub, clutching my forehead theatrically while Dean scrubbed his back. “Are you OK?”
“Uhh,” I moaned. Eventually I managed to get upright and washed, and after I’d tugged on yesterday’s clothes we went out to breakfast. We sat at a sidewalk café and collaborated on the crossword before all the carbs I digested made it necessary for me to go back to sleep.
We made it back to his place where I flopped on the bed. He lay on top of me and we smirked at one another, sated and smug. I closed my eyes and drifted off, enjoying my midweek idyll. And I considered that being an unemployed slut has its compensations.