by Anna Reed
(11/26/08)

Two men. One is a little younger than I am; the other is older.

Two men. We shake hands as I try not to forget my name, I mean, since it is not my real name. Sometimes I screw this up. "Hello. Good to meet you both." They both smile at me. They have warm hands. They are both taller than I am. One is quite tall, the other is compact and muscular. One holds out a chair for me, taking the opportunity to graze the small of my back with his finger. The warmth from his hand leaps into my body.

Two men. One is dressed in a suit. He has come directly from work. He has told his wife he has to work late. The other is dressed in casual clothes. He seems relaxed and happy.

Two men. One looks just like his photograph, the other looks even a little better. One drinks gin, the other drinks bourbon. I also drink gin. They exchange a look when I order, as if this could mean something. Truth is, I just like the taste of gin.

I'm nervous, for this is something new, but I try to sip my drink instead of gulping it. They are both attractive. I haven't decided whether I will do this yet, but I want to be the one who decides. One starts the conversation. He asks unobtrusive questions, smiles warmly. He is polished at making women feel comfortable with him. Still, it feels awkward. He looks into my eyes.

This man has light brown eyes. The other has blue eyes; he listens quietly, sips his drink, observing me. I feel his eyes on my throat, on my breasts, on my lips. I can only look one of them in the eye at a time. I feel vulnerable.

He might be undressing me with his eyes as I answer an innocuous question about traffic on the bridge. I hope he is. I feel my earrings brush against the skin on my neck. I have worn my hair pulled back and up. I have dressed as if it were another day at the office. I haven't done anything too special. But I am wearing nice lingerie -- just in case.

We discuss books, then recent films. We break the ice. The other man is still listening. We aren't talking about ex-wives, thank God. We aren't talking about all the people we have met on craigslist, or all the people we have fucked, thank God.

I wonder how I'll make this journey. How will a normal, middle-aged woman do things she has only seen in porn films, or never seen but quietly wished for? I blush privately. The gin drinker remembers and asks a question about my writing.. I give him a quick overview of the novel I'm working on. "Picaresque," a "coming of age story." Of course the phrase "sexual adventures" makes him sit up a little in his chair; the race cars also pique his interest. He likes cars. He asks the expected question. "Is it autobiographical?" I forgive him for being predictable. "It's fiction: plausible denial-ability," I smile at him, glance into my glass, take another sip.

One man is very funny. I laugh at his jokes, smile a crooked smile when he makes a double entendre, to let him know I got it. I make a double entendre and the table goes silent for a split second. I think they liked it. I think they exchanged a look, but I was looking at the ice cubes in my glass again.

I ask them about their relationship. They are both straight; they don't interact sexually, but they don't have hang-ups. They are both sensuous. "So, you're basically like...hunting partners...or is it fishing buddies?" They look at each other and laugh. "You cut a hole in the ice, sit in a hut and drink bourbon until a big, beautiful fish tugs on the line?" They laugh again. They tell me how they got started at this.

They have had six women together. I'm surprised. They aren't that good looking. Who could guess? They look at each other and grin, like two little boys getting into mischief. They know it's naughty. It is naughty. We all know it's naughty.

I excuse myself. I leave to go to the ladies room, to give them privacy. I wash my hands, put on lipstick. I see them talking as I draw toward our table again. As I return, the two men fall silent. They are smiling a little more than when I left. I think this is a good sign.

The one who has done all the talking now sits back in his chair. The other man asks me, "How are you feeling?" I am stumped. How am I feeling? I feel a buzzing in my labia, like ringing in the ears, but more distracting.

"I'm feeling comfortable," I bat my eyelashes involuntarily. "How are you feeling?"

"I'd love to take you to a room in this hotel, undress you slowly, eat your cunt and then fuck you until you can't take any more. That's how I'm feeling."

I smile out of embarrassment and look into my ice cubes again. Obviously, they have melted.

I glance at the other man. He is smiling, waiting for my answer. I don't know what to say. This is well intentioned. That is, I imagine it's well intentioned, though vulgar. I had written that I can be vulgar after, not before. Is this a bad sign? Is he willfully disrespecting this boundary? Or has he just mixed me up with another date? Or is he playfully pushing me to turn up the heat? Or didn't he get cc'd on that email?

They have decided they want me. I am desired by these two men. What do I want? I want to do this, but not if one of them is an asshole. I can't make love with, or have sex with, or fuck, or whatever-you-want-to-call-it with a man who is an asshole. The trouble here is that I don't have enough information.

"I see," I say demurely. I decide in a split second that I am going to give this pair another chance. I turn to the other man. "And how are you feeling?" After all, they are a team.

The other man smiles warmly, "I think you are a lovely woman. I wouldn't want you to feel rushed, but if you feel you want to do this, we'd very much like to have you as our guest -- either tonight, or another time, Anna."

The waitress stops by. "How are you three doing?" The two men look at me. I look at the three glasses. There is melted ice water in the bottom of each. "I think I'd like another drink," I say.

They want me. They are happy. They are happy we are having a second round because they believe that means I want them. I do -- although I still haven't decided whether the one guy is an asshole or not. If I drink this second cocktail without eating anything, it probably won't matter whether he is or he isn't.

Now our conversation loosens up. They are relieved not to have been rejected, or, at least, one of them seems visibly relaxed. They call the waitress back and order food. We talk about traveling. Both men have traveled on business, for pleasure. They don't seem to know each other all that well. I sip my drink slowly. If I'm going to have sex, I don't want to be drunk.

The waitress brings our snacks. We trade stories about Paris. They guess that I'm a graphic designer. I guess that one is an attorney, but the other one stumps me.

It turns out our guesses are wrong. One man says he speaks French. I lived for five months in Paris as a student, I say in French. We converse for a few sentences in French while the other man undresses me with his eyes. I think that is what he's doing.

"Excuse me." One man leaves the table. I listen to his buddy tell stories from places in the world I haven't been to. His partner comes back with his hands in his pockets and smiles.

"We're all set."

"Are you ready, Anna?"

No, I'm not ready. Will I ever be ready for this? "Yes," I lie. One man pulls out my chair, taking the opportunity to touch the small of my back with infinitesimally slight pressure. I feel the warmth from his hand leap into my body.

We wait for the elevator.

Which one will kiss me first? I can't tell. They both seem at ease. It feels like the younger one has "procured" me for the older one. Maybe that is what makes it kinky for them. Shades of Story of O. I press my back against the rear of the elevator, touch the rail with both hands, waiting to see what will happen when the doors close. A waiter comes in the elevator behind us and grins. I smile at him. He doesn't know.

We get off at our floor. The walk down the long hotel corridor is tedious even though one man follows me. I feel his eyes on my ass. My hips sway as I negotiate in my high heels. One man puts the card key in the electronic lock. Red light. Stop. Green light, Go. Click. The door opens. The door closes.

"May I hang your coat?" Formal courtesy is so unnecessary...and so delightful.

"Thank you." I put my purse on the dresser. No one turns on the television.

I draw a breath and look in the mirror. The man who drinks bourbon is looking at me. He is tall and thin with light brown hair and light brown eyes that look at me too seriously. I think his hands are trembling. I turn around. My hips rest against the dresser. I take the clips out of my hair. Light brown waves fall around my face.

"You are very beautiful with your hair down."

"Why, thank you," I smile shyly, perhaps too shyly for the situation. "Wait until you see me with my clothes off."

"I can't wait." He smiles. He steps forward and kisses me on the mouth. I like the way he kisses. I kiss him back. The other man is watching.

The man I am kissing pulls me toward him, away from the dresser. I am sure his hands are trembling. Mine tremble too. I let my arms wrap around his shoulders. He smells like a clean shirt. I love this smell. He tastes of bourbon. Bourbon tastes good tonight. He wraps his arms around my waist and he turns us as he kisses me. The other man comes from behind and starts rubbing the tops of my shoulders as I kiss his partner. He softly kneads the place where my neck joins my shoulders, as if to loosen the connection between my head and my body. Mr. Bourbon breaks off kissing, smiles a knowing smile. He turns me around toward his partner. I am offered up.

Mr. Gin-and-Splash-of-Soda has dark hair turning gray on the temples, with blue eyes and a faint five o'clock shadow. The knot of his tie is loose. He kisses me. He runs his fingers through my hair at the nape of my neck and brings my face toward his to kiss me.

I love this gesture. Now I know. This is the man I will submit to when the time comes.

Mr. Bourbon has his hands on my waist, around my waist, then cups my breasts from behind. I kiss his partner, who gently unbuttons my silk blouse as he kisses me. He gets my blouse open, one button at a time. The white tops of my breasts contrast with the lace of my favorite black bra. The tops of my areoles are visible through the lace.

Mr. Gin dives into my cleavage. I feel Bourbon's hard-on pressing into my ass as he pushes up my breasts from below. Gin kisses the white tops of my breasts before he takes a nipple into his mouth. He selects the left nipple. Good. It isn't as sensitive as the right. I can't breathe.

Bourbon slides the gossamer silk shirt off my shoulders, down my arms. He unhooks my bra. My favorite black bra skithers down my arms. I am wet. Bourbon takes the other nipple in his mouth. The right nipple, the very sensitive one. The one that can put me over the edge when the time is ripe. They suck both nipples at the same time, but each in their individual rhythm. A moan rises into my throat. This is even better than I had imagined it. I wonder if shooting heroin could feel as good as this. I'll never know the answer to that.

Gin kisses me on the mouth again. I unbutton his shirt as we kiss, but my fingers stumble. I can only get four buttons undone before I break off and rub my face against the soft hair and warm skin of his chest. Bourbon holds my nipples between his fingers. Gin smells good -- a faint masculine body odor. He smells great.

"Would you like to lie down?" he whispers.

"Ummhmm." I would.

Two men. It is time to lie down with two men. G pulls down the bedspread. Good. Never fuck on top of a hotel bedspread. They don't wash those things between guests. I'm not a prude, but hotel bedspreads...I shudder. I feel ridiculous half undressed. Vulnerable. Maybe I look good naked, but I don't feel beautiful half undressed. This is not good.

"Come here, Anna. Let's get you out of your clothes, shall we?" asks B.

Sigh. I just love being undressed by a lover. Is that so infantile?

I love being seduced. This is heaven. Of course it is not strictly necessary. Of course he does not have to seduce me. Of course I'm wet enough to have intercourse now. I was wet enough back in the ladies restroom, for God's sake. With most men, once I am wet, foreplay is over.

B takes off my glasses, folds them, puts them on the table. He flips off my shoes. He slithers down my slacks and drapes them over the back of the chair where my blouse has ended up. He compliments my lingerie by raising an eyebrow as he removes it. Does he notice how wet it is?

I still have on my long stranded necklace. Good. I like fucking with jewelry on. No, it could break; maybe not. Oh fuck, who cares? I could re-string it if it broke. The lowest beads of the longest strand rub the tops of my pink-brown areoles.

B and G both undress. B gets there first. He has an erection. It looks delicious. "Come here, Anna. Let me hold you."

G has disappeared. B takes me in his arms and I feel all his skin along all my skin. He is warm, and hard in all the right places. We kiss again. I haven't kissed him since I don't know how long. I like the way he kisses. I really like the way he kisses.

G comes back from the bathroom. "Hi, you two. Do you think we should order a bottle of wine?" B breaks off kissing me to give me a chance to answer. I'm not sure this is a good time to try to use language. I forgot how to do it.

"I don't care." I catch myself, "I mean, yes, that would be nice."

"Do you drink red or white?"

Oh for god's sake. We should have covered this earlier in the evening. I don't want to be rude, but this hardly seems like an appropriate time to be checking out a girl's wine preferences. "I usually drink red, but I won't be picky. Get whatever you prefer..." I'm playing ultra feminine. "To tell you the truth, I think I need a glass of water." It is good to stay well hydrated; in fact, I drank water earlier in the day and creamed thinking this very thought.

I start to get up -- the spell is broken -- but G motions for me to stay put. He comes back with a glass of water from the bathroom. "It's not mineral water, but..." he smiles. I drink my glass of water, drawing my knees up like a little girl.

G picks up the phone, orders wine and a bottle of San Pellegrino (I am starting to really like this guy). B gets up to use the bathroom. I'm confused: I thought men couldn't pee when they had a woody on.

These two men are in no rush whatsoever, which is a change from business as usual. Of course, there is no need to get into it just to have room service interrupt us. G still has his pants on. I guess he's the designated door guy. B is naked and gives me a platonic neck rub.

"Your shoulders are a little knotty."

"Uh huh."

"Lie down, I'll rub your shoulders."

This isn't necessary, but it will kill time, so I lie on the bed face down. B straddles my hips. I feel his balls and dick pressing into my ass. He is still thick, but no longer hard. (I am no longer hard myself.) His warm hands work on the spot on my neck that is always sore and hard. A back rub before sex is nice, but I hope this doesn't mean I'm not going to get what I came for.

I smell a familiar smell. G hasn't asked; in fact, we didn't cover this in email. He's lit a joint. Oohh, oo-hh you're in trouble now. This is a non-smoking room. I had seen the sign. As in the first class train compartments in Spain, 'non-fumere' just means that people smoke less.

"Anna, would you like some of this?" asks G.

Well, yes, I would. Again, not necessary, but it kills time. B doesn't smoke.

"Are we waiting for room service?" I ask, passing it back to him.

"Yes."

"It's hard to wait."

"We just got into it didn't we?"

"Yes."

"You two don't have to wait. I'll get the door when the waiter comes."

Is this going to get weird? I ask myself.

Finally there's the knock. G answers. He comes back with wine and water. He uncorks a bottle of Cotes du Rhone and pours it into stem glasses. I feel relieved that a band of marauders didn't invade the room for a gang bang. We all have our irrational fears...

Two men. Three glasses. Six shoes on the floor. G proposes a toast to Craig. Yes, Craig had vision. We drink to Craig. Yea for craigslist. Is this going to happen now? My cocktails have worn off and the pot is kicking in. I'm not all that interested in the wine. Wine is numbing. I'm not interested in being numb. My inhibitions were all done with when we were working on the bra. I give G a serious look that he understands. He smiles, sets down his glass, and takes off his pants and shorts. Now, finally, everybody is naked.

I see that G has an erection. This gets me started again nicely. He lies next to me, takes me in his arms. He kisses me, fondles my breasts. It feels so good, I forget to do anything but kiss him back. Then I remember. I reach down, take his balls in my fingers and gently palpitate. I know where to massage. He seems to like this.

B guides my legs open and works his face into my pussy. He is rummaging around for my clit while I take G's cock in my hand. It has a nice thickness. This is going to be good. I stroke G as B licks my clit. G sucks my tits. B is doing a really wonderful job of licking my pussy. I want to suck cock. Of course I am too much of a lady to actually say so. G is going to have to figure that out on his own. Before long he susses me out. I have a cock in my mouth and a mouth on my clit. It's wonderful. But it's not radically different from sex with one man. After a few minutes I want to restructure. I break off from G, work myself away from B.

I fall on B's cock, licking and sucking. The pot was a good idea. I am supernaturally enthusiastic about fellatio when I'm high. B is on his back. My ass is exposed as I work on B's cock. I bet G will get the idea. He puts on a rubber and penetrates my cunt from behind as I suck B's cock. Now this is ménage a trois! The three of us throb to the same rhythm, set by G. He is dominant. I am fine with that. B is fine with that. We all seem to be fine with that.

Somehow we manage to restructure once again. G now eats my pussy while I suck his cock; B fucks me. What logistical miracles! Somehow we manage to do this. I have vaginal climaxes but my partners can't tell. I'll tell them later. B's rhythm is very different from G's. I wonder if that's what they like. They interact very little, but they adapt to each other's rhythms.

I break off from G's cock. "Play with my anus," I direct B. This is the moment of truth. Most men love anal sex, but you never know. Men don't expect this in a first encounter. Many women don't do this, have never done this. Researchers think it's about 1 in 10. How the hell do they know? Who knows for sure? I anticipate, but he is not doing it. Did I speak in English? I take his hand, put it in my mouth, place his wet fingers near my anus. Now he gets it. Henry Miller called it "stinky finger." I call it foreplay.

G directs traffic. B will fuck my ass while G fucks my pussy. How will this work? G lies on his back with his legs hanging off the bed, I lie on him, he glides inside of me. B stands straddling G's legs and places his cock at the dark entry.

"We need some lube," I whisper.

"Yes, of course." B takes care of this.

"Gently," I whisper.

"I know," he whispers back.

I haven't had anal sex with that many men. I don't know what they know or don't know. He pushes gently. I feel pressure. He rocks the head inside me. Anal penetration is so intense, so much more intense than vaginal penetration. I gasp. I squeeze my eyes shut. I probably look as if it hurts me. G watches my face intently as B pushes in a little further. My fingers are laced with G's fingers. I squeeze hard as he holds my hands. B rocks it in. I need to scream but I dare not -- the hotel isn't private enough for this. I cry into G's shoulder. G kisses my face. He holds me in his arms as B penetrates me. I can't breathe or move until he is all the way in.

All at once, everything is okay. Magically, my body has opened up. Suddenly it feels wonderful. Now I can move. I tentatively pull my body up and down, massaging these two men who are both inside of me, sharing me.

These two men adapt to each other's rhythm and to each other's presence in my body. This is it! This is why I have come here tonight -- to fuck two men. This is it. This is why I wanted these two men.

B fucks me from behind. G fucks me from underneath. They can feel each other through the diaphanous wall of my cunt.

Two men.

B holds my hips as he strokes from behind. G plays my nipples as he strokes from below. From time to time G can take my right nipple in his mouth, the sensitive one, the one that can put me over the edge.

Two men. We are three, yet we are one organism throbbing with life. This is it.

Two men. One was a little younger than I was; the other was older.

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