I moved into my studio at the end of September, painted the walls warm spice (a.k.a. orange) and guava juice (pink), which looks much better than it sounds. As I settled into my new home, I discovered that I did not hate to cook; what I hated was sharing a kitchen. My parents helped me hang pictures. Then, armed with my new wooden folding-leg table from Target, I decided to throw a housewarming party on Halloween.
I bought Martha Stewart Living and made paper cut outs of bats. I draped a cobweb over my bed. On Halloween, I left work early, made apple crumble and headstones out of Styrofoam (mine read Lily Vereker: Crushed by Vending Machine in Altercation Over Lost Quarter) and stocked up on beer. I mixed non-alcoholic and hard cider with rum in my crock pot and waited in my apartment for guests to arrive.
My dear friend, sometimes banker, and regular supplier of British confectionary, Marc, arrived first. He was dressed as the masked guy (I mean, V) from V for Vendetta (I was, again, Death). He brought beer, and I urged him to eat the apple crumble, the salami, the cheese, all nicely arrayed on my new table from Target. I was afraid no one would show.
Though I’d sent out invites, there weren’t going to be many guests from my secret life. Though Marc is aware that I have a somewhat demanding sex life (when I first started sleeping with relative and actual strangers I would call him to check in. He loaned me A Round-Heeled Woman, leading me to dub my project Operation Round Heels), he has only read carefully selected (non-sexual) excerpts from my blog. Sweetheart Daniel was expected; he’d met Marc and a number of my other non-slut friends a few times. And Aaron, he of the chocolate ice cream and TONY notoriety, had also said he’d come. “I’m sorry I can’t host you,” I written, delicately. “I have a guest staying over.” Meaning Daniel.
“Hey,” said Marc, “Did you paint the walls orange for Halloween?”
“No! I just liked the color. Don’t you think it looks cozy?”
Others dribbled in, and soon there were about 10 of us sitting around, eating and gossiping. People were very nice about my apartment, my apple crumble, the books on my shelves. “Hey,” said my friend Miles, “Did you paint the walls orange for Halloween?”
“No. I just liked the color.”
More people arrived, and when people had to start angling their shoulders sideways in order to move across the room, I decided my housewarming was a success.
Daniel turned up as the devil, complete with horns and toting some papers headed “Lucifer Morningstar, Acquisitions Officer.” Below, in a Gothic font, was a contract for the signer’s soul. At the bottom of the page, in small print, it read: Desires to be fulfilled in 4-6 weeks. Not responsible for ironic interpretation of wishes. “I would never sign that, even as a joke,” I told Daniel. You know, just in case. In case there’s an afterlife, that I have a soul that can be sold, that the devil exists, that Sweetheart Daniel is a proxy for him, and that the contract is legally binding in the state of New York. It’s a long shot, but I wasn’t the only person unwilling to ironically sign the contract, get an ironic fulfillment of wishes, and lose my soul: Though copies were passed around, no one else signed, either.
After about an hour Daniel looked at his watch. “I’ve got to head out soon,” Daniel said.
I was taken aback: “I thought you were staying.”
“I’m sorry, I thought I told you I couldn't stay.”
“Oh.” But he hadn’t told me, because I would have remembered, and I’d told Aaron we couldn’t hook up on that assumption. “OK.” I said. Well, maybe Aaron would sleep over instead. I felt a little guilty thinking that—as if they were interchangeable.
By the time Aaron arrived things were noisy. “Hey!” He gave me a brief hug. “Happy Halloween!” Aaron was dressed as Joe the Plumber, carrying a plunger and wearing a latex wig that made him appear bald. He followed me down my guava juice-colored hallway to the main room. “Hey, did you paint the walls orange just for Halloween?”
Eventually, the party started to wind down, and everyone except for Aaron and I headed up to the roof to smoke or hang out with smokers. He came over and stood very close to me. Our noses almost touched. “Where’s your friend?” he asked.
“He had to leave.” Aaron’s just a little taller than I am, and our bodies fit together nicely. “You could stay if you want to,” I added diffidently. He smiled. We kissed, and I wondered if my guests were watching us—we were clearly visible from the roof. I could hear the hum of their conversations.
It was late, and I was looking forward to being alone with Aaron. Too late, I’d realized my fatal flaw as a host: I like to go to bed early. I started gathering empty beer bottles, and Aaron helped. When we kissed again, he tasted of Binaca.
After everyone left, for a moment we looked at one another. “I’m going to brush my teeth,” I said.
When I came back, he was sitting on my bed, in his boxer shorts. I undressed, casually, like we did this all the time. I was too tired to strip seductively. I sat next to him on the bed. Then we slid onto our backs, and started to kiss. He slipped his hand down my stomach and slid his fingers gently across my pussy. His light touch got me very excited, very quickly. After a minute, I decided that this was enough foreplay for me, and I scooted down to his groin. I wrapped my mouth and hand around his cock, and I was gratified to see it respond accordingly. I was hungry to have him in me; there was this empty, clutching sensation where I wanted his dick to be. But when I reached for a condom, he lost his erection. Since by now we were both exhausted, we agreed to resume activity in the morning.
When we woke up, he got right down to cases: eating me, another really dirty-sounding phrase. Clearly this was a position he enjoys. I thrashed around the bed as his tongue probed my clit and the folds of skin beside it. I gazed at the top of Aaron’s head as he tongued me.
“Ah!” I said, “Oh, God.”
Aaron looked up at me under half-closed eyes: “I love having your juices on my chin,” he said. Juices sounded … sloppy. Could he sort of drink me? Normally I don’t get excited about oral sex, but his enthusiasm and thoroughness was kind of thrilling.
He dipped a finger inside me, and I squirmed. He licked the finger thoughtfully, then slipped it back in. He moved one finger, then two, in and out of me, all the while keeping his mouth on my clit. I fought the rising wave of tension. I usually come as I fight the spasms that are a prelude to orgasm for me, and this time was no exception. “Oh God!” I said again, and arched my hips to meet his mouth. I came with a long shudder. I gazed at Aaron with a new respect. “Thank you,” I panted.
But now it was his turn. After my breathing returned to normal, I slid down and took his cock in my mouth, like I was starving. Remembering what he’d told me the last time, I tugged hard and held his dick tight as I sucked. I was rewarded with an immediate erection and, shortly thereafter, an orgasm.
We lay there in polite silence. I was replete, dazed with satisfaction. Still, there was another appetite to be fed. “Want to get something to eat?” I asked. “I’m starving.”