swell
(for hanne)
published in Shameless: Women's Intimate Erotica (Seal Press)
"Would it be sexist to say that June Cleaver or Donna Reed wouldn't
be so bad to have waiting for me when I got home? Or maybe a nice
little Jeannie?"
"Only if you've got a dick, and I don't think you're packing at
the moment."
"I'm not. So I'll say it: I could learn to live with having a
chilled martini, a home-cooked meal, a cute little apron and heels
waiting for me."
Finn slipped his feet up on the coffee table and pulled a long
draw from his ale. "Huh. So, you're saying that all this old-fashioned
egalitarian stuff just isn't doing it for you?"
"Oh no. Most of the time it does, and besides, I don't really
know how you do it the other way when there are lofts and starving
artists and tofu and multiculturalism and secondary partners involved.
Hell, we don't even have a tablecloth."
"Not really necessary when you don't have a table to put it on."
"Now, you know, that's the truth."
He took another long swig, then dug the rest of the Pad Thai out
from the bottom of the cardboard container, munching as he spoke.
"Maybe Joe'd do it." I barely managed to keep peanut sauce from
shooting out of my nose.
"Oh yeah, she'd go for that. We'll just have to tell her to leave
her hacksaw at the door."
I will reluctantly confess that my life is something of a parody-in-action.
I have a boyfriend who stays home and mans the fort (as it were),
painting post-postmodern art, and a girlfriend named Joe who is
a carpenter. We barely manage a totally disorganized pansexual,
interracial, age-disparate polyamorous relationship. I run a dingy
coffeeshop in the greedy, looming shadow of Starbucks, which means
I cater mainly to the Finns and Joes of the world, and the young
folks who think for a millisecond that they want to be the Finns
and Joes, with the benefit of a trust fund to back them up. We
live in a loft, with a bathtub in the kitchen, in a neighborhood
that will inevitably become gentrified by the time we're ready
to move out, we're all vegan and we often put the wrong person's
Doc Martens in the morning. Our cat, a stray that moved in without
checking the lease or seeing the vet first, was named Sisyphus.
I swear to god, none of this is intentional. It is not possible
to be this PC on purpose.
"Point," I replied, having finished my internal narrative. "With
those hips, you know, you'd look dashing in an apron."
Finn stood up and looked himself over. "Gosh, you think? You don't
think my ass is too flat?"
"Nah, a few homemade potato-chip casseroles and you'll put Gina
Lollabrigida to shame."
He vamped it up, puckering his lips at me. "Well, aren't you a
peach."
I eyed the kitchen as he walked over, tossing his take-out container
in the trash with far less than pro-NBA aim, and viewed a frenetic
shower of mung sprouts as they jumped ship. The dishes leered
at me in an overgrown pile, mocking my pain. I flipped the TV
set off with the remote.
As Finn rumbaed his way into the bathtub, flopping enough water
on the floor to melt a half-dozen Wicked Witches of the West,
and the cat leapt unto my lap, gouging my thighs in the process,
I felt my eyeballs roll far back enough into my head to see the
times tables I memorized in the third grade.
Alevei! Where was June when a girl needed her, I ask you?
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"Can I get a half-caf carob enriched soy mocha, no whip, with
froth?"
I gestured to the espresso machine behind the counter, turning
a page. "Be my guest."
He just stood there. Oh, the lost of the world that end up at
my doorstep. I gave him a glare over my dog-eared copy of Marcuse.
"Neshomeleh, this is not a service clinic for the obsessive-compulsive,
I don't have an insurance plan or scheduled breaks, nor does coffee
do squat for me at this point. You want a coffee, I can get you
a coffee. You want a Martha Stewart special that's basically just
coffee with a bunch of weird shit thrown in EXACTLY the way you
like it, you're more than welcome to make it yourself, but I refuse
to be an enabler."
A beat or two skipped. "You know, a strong cup of coffee with
a lot of cream would be perfect."
Bella's Cafe and Consumer Rehabilitiation Clinic. Over 5 customers
cured daily. "That's my guy. I'm on it."
As I switched the old basket of grounds for a new one, I noticed
Finn out of the corner of my eye snatching one of my tables and
attempting to get it out the door. I ran around the counter and
blocked the entrance, a jarring flash of hoop earrings and vintage
1970's lycra, hopefully managing to look foreboding as well as
fashionable. "No way, Giuseppe. Not again."
He dropped the table and put his hands up. "Caught red-handed
by Foxy Brownstein, the caffeine police! I surrender! Unless you
have a billy club, in which case I could put up a little struggle
for fun...."
I wasn't falling for it. "You know what I'm talking about Finn.
I'm not losing another table so that you can glue it to the ceiling
again. Not only did the last one not sell, but I lost a table
and nearly half my foot when it got humid. No."
He shifted on his feet, batting his eyelashes. "What if I promise
to obey the laws of gravity and good taste?"
I looked at him sidelong, waving a hand in approval at my newly
cured patient who was tentatively reaching to refill his own cup.
"It's the gravity part that concerns me. Will we see this table
again tomorrow, legs and all?"
"Scout's honor." He did a rather involved hand gesture then picked
up the table and walked out.
The patient slurped his java and gave me a sympathetic look. "I
don't think that was the scout hand signal."
I doubted it myself. "Maybe in Sicily." |
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I dragged my sorry ass up three flights of stairs, on wood-bottomed
platforms, no less, to find Joe leaning back on the wall, drumming
"Wipe Out" on her knees.
You know, maybe I don't get to come home to Donna Reed, but coming
home to find your sweaty, dreadlocked girlfriend in a dirty tank-top
and jack boots waiting for you isn't so bad, either. I fought
off the urge to start singing "Hey Joe," and just wolf-whistled
instead.
Joe smiled and planted a salty kiss on my lips. "You know, your
boyfriend's a total freak. He paged me and told me to come for
dinner tonight, and now he won't let me in."
I put my hands to my mouth, trying to look surprised. "Och un
vai! And he always seemed so normal! How do I always end up with
these guys?"
Joe shrugged, grabbing my ass in the process. As I jumped, I heard
the stereo start rolling out Herb Alpert. Joe and I raised an
eyebrow in unison. Then the door opened.
"Holy shit," we also said in unison. We were getting good at this.
Joe even dropped her vice-grip on my left buttock.
Finn stood in the doorway, a hand on his hip. Which supported
his apron. Which covered a gorgeous black silk cocktail dress.
Which stopped at cuban-heeled stockings that led down to black
heels. He winked at me from beneath a false eyelash.
Joe put a hand on my shoulder, her mouth hanging open. "Well good
golly, Miss Holly. Go lightly."
Finn swiveled on his heel, gesturing into the loft. "Well, don't
stand outside all night, I know you've both had a very long day.
Why don't you give me your coats and have a seat?"
Pity it was August and we didn't have coats. Joe and I moved slowly
into the house and she elbowed me in the ribs, whispering in my
ear. "You forget to medicate him this morning?"
I shook my head. "No. But I think I'm responsible for his fall
into the soup. I'll explain later."
We slid unto the sofa, while I tried to figure out if that was
really a vacuum cleaner I saw in the corner, and if so, tried
to think of which of our friends Finn possibly could have borrowed
such a contraption from. Joe scratched her head as Finn did something
or other in the kitchen. "You know, I have to say this. Finn looks...well,
Finn looks completely fuckable."
Let's press pause. Joe and Finn get along just fine, and we've
dabbled a few times in some synchronized shtupping, but Joe is
around mainly because she's attracted to me. Finn just has some extra equipment that she occasionally finds
useful. Occasionally useful and "fuckable" are not one and the
same.
But before I could get too confused, my newly femme boyfriend
came and whisked us both off the couch. "We'll be having our drinks
on the patio this evening."
I was starting to earnestly worry about him. "That's nice, bubee.
Umm. We don't have a patio."
He clucked his tongue at me and rubbed my shoulder a bit, steering
me towards the back of the loft. "Poor Bella. She must have had
a really hard day. We do have a patio, darling," he said, turning
me into a crudely built platform, upon which sat my table, fully
set, and behind which was a full wall-mural of a suburban backyard.
Of course, you'd only know that's what it was if you were familiar
with Finn's particular artistic style. Otherwise, you might have
thought it was a spotty green wall that got hit with an overturned
dumpster. But I have an eye for artistic interpretation.
He held out a chair for each of us as we slid into them, both
of us unusually silent. Truth is, I was fixated on Finn's ass
swathed in black silk. And I wasn't the only one. So I was also
fixated on Joe fixated on Finn's ass swathed in black silk. He looked way better
than June ever did.
"Martini, Ward? Your slippers, your strap-on, Beaver?"
Well, wake up, little Susie. Spaced-out reverie over. Joe and
I both just nodded dumbly, and Finn just called Joe "Beaver."
And she didn't belt him or call him a pig. Toto, we are SO not
in Kansas anymore. Or Bucktown, for that matter.
He brought a perfectly mixed Stoli martini, and my shiny silicone
wonder in a harness for Joe. No slippers. I figured we'd let that
one pass.
I gulped my martini indelicately as Finn-cum-June went back to
fuss in the kitchen, and Joe just looked at me, holding up the
harness. Amazing what a few swigs of vodka will do, and how quickly.
I just shrugged and mouthed "Why the hell not?" Joe shrugged in response and headed to the bathroom. I stood
up myself and walked over to Finn, who was putting the finishing
touches of something that looked and smelled oddly like turkey.
"Umm, looks good. What is it?"
He smiled widely and gestured to the thing. "Tofurkey™! And we
have mashed red potatoes, organic corn, freshly baked bread --
"
I had to interrupt. "You baked fucking bread?"
"I said freshly baked bread, honey, I did NOT say I baked fucking bread. Please. I can only work so many miracles. Speaking of
which," he said, grinning as he slid his ass unto the counter,
"are we having fun yet? Do I fit the bill?"
I let the air out from between my teeth. "You know, you do. You
make June look like a wallflower."
"Honey, June WAS a wallflower. I figured you could use version 2.0. I call it
'June meets Marilyn.' "
I stuck my fingers in the potatoes, tasting them. Not bad at all.
Finn batted at my hands. "Go sit your ass down, woman. I'll serve
in a minute."
My ass and I headed back to the table, and watched as Joe strolled
back in, clearly packing. I was definately working up an appetite.
Finn came, took our plates, and brought them back filled to the
brim with food, and headed back to the kitchen as Joe started
munching. Through a mouthful, she muttered, "Okay, are you going
to tell me what's going on here?"
I sighed. "I was saying last night to Finn when we were spacing
in front of the tube that it wouldn't be such a bad thing to have
June Cleaver to come home to."
She rolled her eyes. "Jeez, girl. Rampant sexism and pop culture
worship aside, I'm amazed you had the chutzpah to ask Finn to
do this."
I slugged the last of the vodka. "I didn't. The meshugener actually
suggested you do it first."
Joe didn't have the luck I had with the peanut suace last night,
and I watched a kernel of corn whiz past me.
"Impressive. And basically my reaction, at a much slower MPH.
But I didn't suggest anything. He did this all on his own."
She wiped her chin. "Unreal. Yo June," she shouted to Finn, "You
going to come sit down or what?"
He nibbled at a plate in the kitchen blithely. "No no no. A good
homemaker doesn't sit at the table, silly. Refill on your drink,
Ward?"
"Umm. Sure."
He filled the shaker and shimmied over, and Joe's eyes, watching
his hips, clicked back and forth like one of those ridiculous
kit-kat clocks. This was getting completely out of hand. And I
was really losing my interest in dinner. Fuck it. Since it was
handed to me, I was going to play the broitgeber card.
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"Finn...erm, June?"
"Yes, darling?" he said.
"I'm ready for dessert. And you are not going back to the kitchen
to get it."
Joe dropped her fork and grinned. "Well, shit. You go, girl."
I was in my cups now (wanting to burst out of them, but in them,
nonetheless), and fortified with enough Stoli to feel in charge.
"Oh, no no. You go girl. Finn, if you won't sit at the table, sit the hell under
it."
"Don't you get 'gressive with me Violet Rutherford." He looked
very proud of himself for belting out that obscure tidbit.
I looked him square in the face. "Look: Joe told me you looked
fuckable, and really, I have to agree with her on that one. You
do look fuckable, and even more fucakable because Joe said that, and right now, if I don't get
to see some action, I'm going to go out of my mind." I had surprised
myself, here. "So, well, yeah. Let's see it. I'm ready."
"Damn," they both said. In unison. We were all getting good at
this.
I moved my chair back to let Finn in under the table, and watched
as he got on his stockinged knees between Joe's legs. My view
was a little bit imperfect, so I pushed the table totally out
of the way, pulled a smoke from my pocket, lit it and sat back
as Joe grabbed Finn's coiffed auburn hair. She ran her finger
over his patent red mouth and looked at me.
"Jesus, he looks good." I nodded. He did. So did she. So did the
torte on the counter, but that would keep until later.
Finn unbuttoned Joe's jeans and slid his mouth over her black
silicone appendage, his eyes on me as he swallowed it, and pulled
his mouth to its tip again. I felt the mashed potatoes melt inside
my stomach. Screw voyeurism. It's highly overrated.
I slid off my chair at light speed and slipped behind Finn on
my knees, sliding my hands under his dress, making a beeline to
what I knew had to be the erection of the decade. Under silk,
no less. Ward never had it this good.
He let out a long sigh, and I licked my fingers and slid them
up and down his cock synchronously as he gave Joe head, smudging
his lipstick in a very fetching Joan Crawford-goes-on-a-bender
way. I slid the fingers of my other hand around the top of his
stocking, reveling in the texture of his leg hairs beneath the
garter clips. As he moaned and groaned my finger wanted very much
to dip into his asshole, but I was lacking the proper acoutrements.
"I'll be right back, " I whispered in his ear. "I need to go to
the bedroom and get -- "
He slid a pair of gloves out of his apron pockets and handed them
to me, slipping me a tube of lube from the other pocket. Gee whiz.
Mama certainly did have a brand new bag. I slid on the gloves
to the satisfying sound of the pop of latex, lubed them up and
let my fingers do the walking.
Joe cocked her head to the side, smiling at me as I circled slowly,
then slipped my slick finger inside and Finn/June cooed, reaching
beneath his apron to stroke himself wantonly. I gave Joe a quick
wink, but preferred to let my eyes wander down to Finn's sweet
pucker, watching as my finger slid slowly in and out, between
his ripe cheeks amidst the silk and the stockings.
I let my other hand wander over Joe's waistband beneath her package
and wiggled her clit gently, relishing having both my partners'
tender spots in the palm of my hands. My brain was trying to do
some imaginative calisthenics regarding how the next few hours
might be spent when I realized that I was a woman without the
proper accessories. But I had a feeling someone else wasn't. I
slid my hands out from their warm locations and patted Finn's
apron pockets.
"Hey, June? What else do you have between those apron strings,
nu?" He grinned at me over his shoulder after recovering a vague
composure, and began unloading his booty.
"Why, everything a girl needs with her, of course! My gloves,
my wrap, my hat, my ring, and my flask."
I sat silent for a moment, amazed not only with the entire contents
of our play kit he had tucked in there, but with his quick handling
of the double entendre. How was it the broad in the LBD was not
only the best dressed, but always the wittiest one in the room?
"Well, that makes it easy," Joe said. "Let's see. Eeenie, meenie,
minie mo, catch a tiger by the... oh." She picked up the shiny cock ring, grinning. I concurred with
a nod. Then we looked at Finn's rather profound erection. Maybe
not.
I patted it gently. "Down, boy. Down." It sprang right back up
to meet my hand. He shrugged apologetically. He was a very bad
actor. With a very uncooperative prick.
Joe shook her head. "I bet he'll be saying he only took it off
to do the dishes, too, the harlot."
"He may be wearing June's pearls, but you know, this sure looks
like Lumpy," I added.
I swerved around Finn and tugged at Joe's jeans. "Well, guess
he won't be getting any dessert then. His loss, your gain, girl."
He whimpered as I tossed the worn denim across the room and wrestled
Joe out of her harness and boxers, unwrapping a dam while she
dribbled lube on her twat and spread it around diligently.
Sliding the thin sheet of latex over her pussy, I gave a tentative
nibble and she slapped her hands to the side of my head. I interpreted
this as encouragement (or a seizure, which could also have been
interesting), and so pressed forward, razing my tongue in long
lines between her clit and her cunt, pressing her furry chocolate
lips rhythmically against my cheeks as I did. As I suckled Joe
noisily, Finn's hands slid over my breasts and pushed my dress
unto my collarbones, exposing my erect nipples.
I hummed into Joe's cunt happily as he pinched the pink nubs,
twisting them forcefully between his fingers. Joe teetered slightly
in her chair.
Finn's hands slithered down over my ribs and my hips, around my
thighs, and with a smooth stroke, he pulled my lips back and pressed
two fingers hard against my clit. Pushing my hips back, he pulled
my ass into his hips and ground his dick against it as he jiggled
my clitoris divinely. As I growled under my breath, Joe inched
back fast with an unbutcherly whimper and a grin.
"Shit, sister," she laughed. "That mouth battery operated?" I
don't think I responded coherently. But I got the point. Clitoral
overload was quickly approaching. Rock on.
"Need a hand?" I managed to mutter.
By way of affirmation, Joe spread her legs wide and leaned back
in the chair, arms raised; moaning in anticipation. I managed
to slip a new pair of gloves on without disconnecting Finn's fingers
from my pulse point, taking in the fine view of her bushy armpits
beside the dark nipples I could see jutting through her worn top.
Her right hand slid to her clit and circled slow.
Dousing my hands in lube, I slid two fingers into her cunt, twirling
them back and forth, as Finn moved back and opened a condom, unrolling
it unto his cock, seductively whispering in my ear, "Now Ward,
don't be too hard on the Beaver."
Smartass. As I worked up to four fingers, tucking my thumb into
my palm, his fingers moved back to my clit, jiggling it jollilly
as he circled the tip of his dick over my twat, then pressed in
with a long thrust. As he pushed his way into me, I let Joe's
cunt swallow the widest part of my hand, reflexively balled up
my fist, and swiveled my wrist in deep as the three of us released
a collective squeal.
As we ground rhythmically forward and back, I had a hard time
chasing the the little voice out of my head that kept gulping
and whispering, "Gee Wally, do you think Mom'll be mad?"
I felt Joe's cunt start to clench around my hand and swiveled
it, watching like an alter kucker as she worked her clit manically.
Like I gave a rat's ass what Mom thought. I pressed her to the
chair with my other hand and drove it home, pulsing my fist open
and closed inside her as she growled and shuddered, her juices
sliding over my glove and down my arm beautifully. I barely managed
to slide my hand out before she slid off the chair and to her
knees in front of me, covering my mouth with hers.
I popped off my gloves and pulled her to me, just gosh-darn-overwhelmed
as suddenly all my attention was on my own body, sandwiched and
steaming between Joe and Finn, like a warm hors d'oeuvre. As Finn
pulsed behind me, Joe slid her sticky hands over my hips and nibbled
at my neck deliciously, and reached for her harness again, buckling
herself in, looking to me, then to Finn. Unable to flip out a
witty response, or any sort of coherent utterance, I did a version
of the Bus Stop in his direction, and Joe licked her lips and
circled, sidling up behind him and making her grand entrance.
I felt Finn's moan on my back as it rumbled from his stomach,
as he arched up behind me, penetrated and penetrating all at once,
the lucky boy. I felt the starchy hem of his apron on my ass,
smelled Joe's sweet sweat mingled with his and mine, and my toes
curled in my wedges as he pumped faster, tapping my clitoris with
his fingers like he was drumming out morse code. I could envision
the rhythm of the dildo gyrating over the tips of his stockings,
the black straps of the harness over Joe's luxe round brown bottom.
The perfect portrait of the American family. In the back of my
head the peppy strains of the theme song marched in time to Finn's
tapping fingers and the doubled pounding against my ass: ba DA bah dadadum, DA dadum, bah DA dadadada dum...
And as I felt Finn's cock tremble and heard Joe call out with
her usual "Opaa!" I came in violent waves and narrowly missed giving myself a concussion
on the chair I was holding on to for dear life. And as we all
moaned, then whimpered, then sighed, then slid unto the floor
in a sloppy, drippy pile, my eyes wandered over to Finn, who,
despite the smudged lipstick, the unruly coiffure, and the dress
hiked over his ass, looked every bit the perfect homemaker.
He grinned like an idiot. "Ward, did we handle everything all
right?"
I blew air slowly from my lips, smiling, "Bubee, it was just swell."
Finn lethargically crawled around Joe, over to the living room
and grabbed the remote, flicking on a Mary Tyler Moore episode.
He looked at the screen, then over his shoulder.
"You know, Bella, with that head-wrap, and the dress and the shoes,
you have a serious Rhoda thing going."
Joe came back from the dead and waved her hands in the air in
limp surrender. "Oh god, no. Even in this trio, no one is perverse
enough to wanna fuck Lou Grant."
I wiggled an eyebrow. "Zoltsu azoy laiben, Beav."
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Yiddish glossary
Alevei - only me/ it should happen to me
Alter kucker - lecher
Broitgeber - man of the house
Meshugener - crazy man
Neshomeleh - sweetheart
Och un vai - alas and alack
Shtupping - fucking
Zoltsu azoy laiben - you should live so/ you should be so lucky
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