by D. M. Hubbard
(05/21/03)
"What is it with you and gay guys, Kate?" I hardly hear him. Jason and I are waiting for a table at our favorite Italian restaurant. It's our two-year anniversary, and he forgot to make a reservation. The place is busy, even for a Wednesday, and we're sitting in the courtyard created for the constant overabundance of guests. I try not to stare at the two guys seated on a bench by the entrance, but I'm incapable of not staring at two cute boys affectionately touching each other.
"Kate?"
"Hmm...?" They both face forward, and talk like two people perfectly at ease with each other. The dark-skinned, blonde boy inspects the hand of the fair-skinned, brown-haired one. He holds it like a treasure, lightly rubbing the fingers and kneading the palm. Occasionally they laugh at something the other has said, smiling with their strong jaw lines and perfect, even teeth. They share a quick kiss, leaning into each other momentarily, their mouths slightly open and then lightly pressed together. Then just as quickly, they separate. My imagination surges, dirtying up the image. I want to see them devour each other, suck each other down with those mouths that ache like mine does for the hardness of a cock --
"Kate." Jason is standing. "Our table is ready. Didn't you hear them page us?" We proceed through the courtyard, towards the boys. The fair-skinned one smiles at me as we walk by, and I smile back. In minutes, we're seated at our table. Jason doesn't even open his menu. He always gets the same thing -- he's so predictable. I love to read menus, and I read every description on it, despite my familiarity with its contents. "Everything sounds so good," I mention.
"You always say that." I peek at him over the menu. He's looking out the window. He's right, though. It occurs to me that I'm just as predictable to him as he is to me. Our relationship is constipated, nothing is happening that should be happening. Our sex life is especially affected, and lately we've just been going through the same routine. Jason wants to try anal sex; he's become fixated on it, actually. I have become fixated too, fixated on giving it, not receiving it. I've told him that he'll have to let me take his ass virginity before I'll let him take mine. He thinks I've gone insane.
"So," he says, "you never answered my question."
"What did you ask me?"
"What is it that fascinates you about gay guys?"
I put down my menu and look at Jason. "You know, I don't think I could explain it to you. I'm not sure I understand it myself."
"Try to explain it," he says. "I'd really like to understand." Convinced of his sincerity, I give it a go.
"Well, I guess it has to do with completely letting go of one's inhibitions. Sometimes when I look at a man's body, and admire the beauty of it, I'm aware that my appreciation of it doesn't have to do with the fact that I am a woman. And sometimes," I lower my voice a notch, "when I have your cock in my mouth, and I'm all in love with the feel of it, I think how my desire for it stems from a -- from a base, physical need. A need that doesn't have anything to do with my being a woman." Jason looks confused. I struggle on.
"What I mean is, I think if you took a man, and stripped him of all societal influences, and reduced him to a sexual being who hasn't been told what he should or shouldn't desire, that he would want to experience a man's body that way. I mean, it feels good to have a cock in your mouth. It feels good to be filled that way. And so, with gay men, they share that with me, that love of a man's body. They know what I know, and don't hide their erudition. I respect that."
I can't read the look on Jason's face. "So," he says, "you'd have more respect for me if I wanted to suck another guy's cock?"
"No, see, this is the part that confuses me. Because, although the idea of you and another man excites me, if you really wanted that, I'd be worried that you were gay." I read the shocked expression on his face easily.
"The idea of me and another guy excites you?"
"Yeah, what's wrong with that? I'm sure if I wanted to sleep with another woman, that would excite you."
"That's completely different, Kate."
"Why? Why is it completely different?" My voice rises angrily. Men and their double standards. They expect us to take it in the ass, and like it, but when we express a similar curiosity in them, they act as if there's something wrong with us. The waiter arrives to take our order, and although we change the subject after he leaves, it already feels like the evening has been marred. Tension underlies our small talk, and after dinner, as we sit silently in his car, I realize if we go back to his place, we'll follow the same routine for sex that we always do. He'll hint for anal, and I'll refuse, and then there will be resentment on my part that he has asked yet again, and resentment on his part that I have refused once more. It's a never-ending cycle.
"Kate?" Jason picks my hand up and rubs his fingers between mine, his skin textured like fine sandpaper, bent on softening my own. "Come home with me. I forgot the reservation, but I didn't forget the champagne and the raspberry torte." His fingers are soothing, calming. I smile. "Okay."
He goes to start the car when I put my hand on his arm. "Wait!" The two boys from the restaurant are kissing passionately in the front seat of their car, directly in front of us. Their mouths rove about hastily, greedily, and their hands stroke each other's hair and faces. The fair-skinned boy's flesh gleams in the street lamp light. I go wet. I don't know what Jason is thinking, nor do I care. I feel stricken, and overwhelmed. I watch them intently, and when Jason whispers my name, I'm not sure how long we've been sitting there. I turn reluctantly towards Jason, and he is looking at me.
"You look beautiful, watching those boys." The dull throb in my stomach moves to my throat, then escapes as a thick groan as his open mouth meets mine. We embrace for a long while, kissing and touching hair and skin, until the sensation of being watched comes over me. I break our kiss, and look forward. The boys are watching us, and smiling. Reciprocation, I think. I bet they know the art of reciprocation.
"Jason."
He murmurs, "Hmm?" as he kisses my throat.
"In order to go forward, we have to learn how to reciprocate." He stops and looks at me. I continue. "Do you understand how it's unreasonable to expect me to let you do something that you won't let me do to you?"
"I just don't understand why you want to do it," he says.
"Well, why do you want to?"
"I don't know, because it's something different, I guess."
"Exactly!"
Jason still seems unconvinced, and it feels like there is something unspoken between us that desperately needs to be voiced.
"If I like it though, wouldn't that make me -- sorta, gay?"
I can't help but laugh. "Of course it doesn't," I say. "Come on, let's go to my place. I have everything we'll need." The boys are still watching us. Our odd foursome exchanges waves as Jason starts the car and pulls out of the parking lot.
It takes a long while to get to what has been between us. We seem to have rediscovered the joy of kissing, undressing, and caressing, as if the act of intimacy in which we are about to partake has already had a positive effect on us. From my dresser, I remove the dildo, the harness and the K-Y jelly. I attach the dildo to the harness, then strap it around my hips. Jason watches me from the bed. I know what he sees; I've tried it on a few times when alone, and admired my figure in the mirror; the full breasts, narrow waist, and wide hips. And the cock. I've strutted about the room with it, before removing it and then using it on myself. "You look strangely beautiful with that on," Jason says. I take the length of it in my hand, and it moves against my clitoris.
I kneel at the end of the bed as Jason continues to lie on his side, still watching. "Turn over, darling," I whisper. He does so, his face turned so that he can see me. His skin looks pink against the white sheets. I kneel between his knees, then stretch my arms along his back, dipping down so that my breasts touch his lower back and then brush along his buttocks. Goose bumps rise along the surface of his skin. He is vulnerable, and it excites me, that he trusts me so, and I understand how a man feels when he is about to take a woman's virginity. I knead his buttocks with both hands, stooping lower to kiss each cheek, trying to relax him. His skin is as soft and smooth as a girl's. The long length of his backside beckons me. I coax his hips up with my hands until he is on all fours. The snug sheath of my hand -- slick with K-Y -- streamlines around his cock. His face is flushed against the pillows as he strains backwards, waiting. "Trust me," I whisper, and as I push slowly forward, he arches his back even further to meet me halfway.
