by Frédérik Sisa
(02/22/06)

It was a Freudian carnival of the senses, an assault driven by the agony of unfulfilled lust. In a cubicle as crammed and cluttered with physical 'stuff' as his mind was with sex, August Bower was losing himself, quite unwillingly, in suffocating innuendo: pens became penises; whiteout was thick, sticky semen; drinking tea from his favorite mug -- decorated with Klimt's "The Kiss" -- was as galvanizing as going down on Darlene. He was almost perpetually hard; it took odd contortions and wardrobe shenanigans to conceal the bulge in his pants from his co-workers.

Nothing quenched him, not even frequent and furious masturbation.

August dug beneath a malevolent stack of code printouts, found his phone, and dialed Darlene Drobina's office. The receptionist of Black, Horowitz & Black primly transferred him to the little closet that could, someday, be replaced by a partner's palace.

"You're right," he told Darlene. "Let's do it."

"Really?" she said. Her tone was softer than it had been the past few days, not her lawyer's voice, commanding and precise, but the tone of the woman he fell in love with.

He supposed the stagnation in their relationship, although that wasn't quite the word for it, had been his fault --- at least initially. Darlene had been on her knees, dressed in red lacy lingerie that left her breasts deliciously exposed. It was a few weeks after they first began dating, the continuation of an accidental conversation started on the ferry from Catalina and continued in the happy weeks thereafter.

"This is my gift to you," she explained as she undid his jeans. "I guess I'm silly for being so mushy about it."

"I spend more time with machines than with people," he said, "and even I don't think wanting a soulmate is silly."

So she wrapped her lips around him. The Kama Sutra, he remembered, referred to it as "sucking the mango;" Darlene's insistent mouth made the analogy a good one.

It hadn't been the first blowjob he'd ever received in his life, but his first from Darlene brought things into focus. Sex, by itself, could be pleasurable, but when it came with love it seemed as if every sensation was magnified a hundredfold into something only poets could describe. Her mouth seared him and he rose up and up until he grabbed her luxurious red mane, pulled himself out of her, and spoiled the pristine porcelain of her face. His semen dripped down her cheek, eventually making its gooey way onto her breasts. It stayed there as they made love, as they fucked, but by then he had sensed the change.

Darlene never said anything, but August felt as if, somehow, he had looked the gift horse in the mouth and lost it in the process. After that, she never sucked him again.

"You're not very romantic, are you," Darlene said.

August hadn't been aware that six months of dating entailed celebrating an anniversary. None of his past girlfriends had made a point of it, and his long-term view of relationships made six months seem like a trickle in the lake.

But instead of attending Demigod Software's weekend getaway in Napa Valley to celebrate the end of an intensive, tortuous, and grueling two-year-long 3D-modeling software project, he took Darlene to the posh --- very posh --- Sycamore Mineral Springs in California's central coast. August hadn't been too bitter. Spending time with his bombshell, instead of with all-too-programmer-types, was, after all, something to be relished.

Between spending time in the mineral spring hot tubs nestled between hillside trees and touring the local wineries, they made plenty of time for sex. In their ridiculously lavish room, August and Darlene urgently undressed each other until Darlene lay on her back on the soft, fluffy bed. August moved from her lips, to the sizeable nipples on her generous breasts, to the wet blossom between her legs. He didn't simply lick and kiss her; he gave her the same kind of tongue-lashing that made their kisses the stuff of firework displays. She sang softly, breathily, and then more loudly as he pushed two fingers into her.

After she came, he turned her around, parting her legs to make room for him. She squirmed and made a quiet, contented sound as he slid himself into her until he couldn't go any further. He admired the curving landscape of her body, from the nape of her neck down to the smooth small of her back and the round fullness of her rump. She was a beautiful woman.

He then had it in mind to try something different, so he turned her around, spread her cheeks and penetrated her ass. He felt her body tense beneath him, and Darlene let out a muffled yelp into the pillow she had suddenly gripped forcefully. If she had been tight before, now she was a vise grip exciting his nerves. To mollify her, he adjusted himself so he could reach beneath her body and knead her as he thrust into her as gently as possible. It didn't take long for him to burst, but he didn't succeed in bringing her to another orgasm.

The rest of their weekend had been tense and sexless. Darlene became somewhat sullen. And somehow, August still hadn't gotten the chance to do some of the things he had wanted, like riding horses in the sand dunes at Pismo Beach. Darlene wanted to go swimming instead.

The drive to Vegas was long and boring -- August hated the desert -- and chilled by a disagreement over which hotel to stay at. He had wanted the Luxor; she preferred the Mirage. So they settled on the Mirage, if only because he hadn't really resisted. Even the chill, though, wasn't enough to put away visions of Darlene bent forward, with his soft programmer's hands holding her waist as he thrust himself dog-like into her. Nor was it enough to stop him wondering if she touched herself at thoughts of him, if fantasies of him could make her wet. But fantasies were moot -- neither had touched the other for weeks. Too much work, perhaps, though that wasn't much of an excuse.

At least their trip to Sin City wasn't burdened by one obscure anniversary or another. It emerged mostly out of their love of travel. When Darlene was nine, her father had taken her to Calaveras Big Trees State Park, not far from Yosemite National Park and the Stanislaus National Forest. He'd been impressed by the unimaginably big sequoias and believed, correctly, how their beauty -- and the beauty of nature in general -- would impress the little girl who dreamed of becoming a "tree doctor." Darlene was not only impressed; she was stunned. Forget the President. Forget even God. The majestic sequoias demonstrated where the real power and beauty of life resided. Since then, she always loved seeing what surprises the world held in store.

"I'm saving for a 'round the world tour," she told August on the Catalina ferry. "I'd love to see the rainforests."

August's parents, in contrast, were grown-up pseudo-yuppie homebodies content living behind the Orange Curtain in Irvine. Being stuck in that prison of homogeneity undoubtedly contributed to his wanderlust.

Their trip also served -- though neither had specifically said as much -- as a much-needed opportunity to take stock after a year and a half together and consider the future.

"Do you remember when Rick and Tara got married?" Darlene laughed. "The Drive-thru Tunnel of Vows?"

"Rick...The guy who wanted to be a Buddhist monk so he could wear robes all day? I remember. What makes you think of him?"

"Oh," said Darlene. "Just a dream I had once, a silly whim. Of eloping. I think the only thing scarier than preparing a case is organizing a wedding."

August almost panicked. They had never spoken of marriage. Their careers didn't seem to make it that much of an issue -- which was also not much of an excuse.

It was easy enough, thankfully, to change the subject, as they stopped in Baker. The speck on the map was the gateway to Vegas and Death Valley, and it offered them a quick bite at the Bun Boy. The huge, world-record-holding thermometer outside the restaurant announced 104 degrees Fahrenheit.

Back on the road, Darlene was enthusing over a case she was working on involving an architecture firm and the Los Angeles School District. It was another contract and payment dispute. Darlene, who'd come to hate LAUSD after its decision to tear down the historic Ambassador hotel (home of the famed Cocoanut Grove club and the setting for Robert Kennedy's assassination), was itching to see it pay through its fat bureaucratic nose.

"But then there's this obscure law that grants LAUSD immunity from prosecution," she said, "by considering them an extension of the State! It's ridiculous! This architect gets screwed over by having his design stolen, and the judge invokes this stupid piece of arcane law."

"Sets a dangerous precedent, doesn't it?" August said. "It's like saying the government shouldn't be held accountable for its own mistakes or crimes."

"Exactly," she said. "But I'm not worried yet. The appeals judge has a better head on her shoulders."

Listening to Darlene talk -- her voice unquestionably feminine, but with a sexy huskiness -- August was pleased that they still knew how to hold long, long conversations and map the connections that brought them closer. Whatever their problems, they excelled at conversations.

He appreciated how her legal reasoning shared a similar beauty to writing code. To her, a well-constructed legal argument was all about logic. She hated the wishy-washy ambiguities of language, but stoically viewed it as a challenge in crafting what she called the mother of all arguments -- something so irrefutable, defense lawyers would whimper and cry under their desks. It was a perspective he could appreciate, the seemingly improbable link between legal work and programming that required putting pieces together in ways that were simultaneously creative and rigorously logical. Darlene appreciated it too: her eyes didn't glaze over when he explained how he and his "Strange Attractors" bandmates composed computer-generated music based on fractal formulas.

Too much time had passed since they last lost themselves talking with each other.

They checked into the Mirage after cruising the strip to see all the casinos (or "money-sucking follies," as August called them). August still liked the Egyptian-themed Luxor, with its black pyramid that lit up like a beacon at night. But he had to admit that the Mirage was nice too, despite the gloom as a result of Siegfried & Roy's permanent absence. Their room was elegantly decorated in pale creamy yellows accented with lush cranberry. A king-size bed with a floral-print comforter gently dominated the space, while the en-suite bathroom featured marble tiles and a bathtub large enough for two. It certainly made the convention hotels August had stayed at seem like Home Depot projects. Darlene made comforter-angels on the bed.

As their first evening unfolded, the hair on the back of his neck stood up every so often. Love, as the song went, was in the air. Beginning with dinner at P.F. Chang's China Bistro (in the Arabian-Nights-themed Aladdin Hotel and Casino), they nurtured sobriety-challenging Hurricanes and complained about the arrogance of Republicans, the Iraq War, and other current political issues.

They continued their discussion, which took all the fluid twists and turns conversations are prone to, as they roamed from casino to casino, eventually ending up in the Houdini Lounge at the Monte Carlo. The magic-themed bar, decorated in the style of early 20th century American parlors, was crowded, but August and Darlene managed to snatch the last available table.

He could restrain neither his eyes nor his hands. She wore a sexed-up version of her usual power ensembles; the black wool skirt was much shorter, her cotton blouse was red instead of the customary white or cream, and she wore black strappy sandals exposing French-pedicured feet a fetishist would die for. It all overwhelmed his sex-addled brain. She teased him by keeping his hand from traveling too far up her skirt. And when she "accidentally" brushed his crotch, August felt like a shuttle primed for launch.

It was well past midnight when they made it back to their room. Whatever stars there were to see from their window were obscured by the neon glow of the city. Taking off their clothes, they didn't so much kiss as unleash their pent-up lust. He suckled her breasts, aroused by how hard her nipples were becoming beneath his tongue. Darlene returned the favour, going so far as to bite him gently.

"Wait," she said, stopping suddenly. "Shower."

It was cruel and teasing, the kind of thing to blueball a man, but it was also traditional with her. With a few exceptions, Darlene never liked having sex unless they both had a shower first. It struck August as a good sign that, after weeks of cold chastity, she hadn't abandoned familiar habits.

When August finished showering, he found Darlene in a taunting, painterly state of nudity. Her racy black lingerie set off the paleness of her skin. The only light in the room came from the half-dozen scented candles -- cinnamon, cedarwood, vanilla -- he had arranged as she showered.

The look on her Nefertiti face hinted at feelings both demure and mischievous. There was desire in the turn of her smile, love in her twinkling eyes, and maybe a hint of nervousness. August took her in his arms and kissed her. Eventually he got around to removing her bra and thong. (Gorgeous gift-wrapping is wonderful, but it's the gift that makes the present.)

They kissed until Darlene pulled away, stood up, and retrieved a lurid -- and disturbingly large -- strap-on dildo from their red Swiss Army luggage. August watched, intrigued and unsettled, as she buckled it on. The black harness seemed out of place, but there was something wild in watching her put the base of the dildo inside herself. The silicone parted the lips of her second mouth and hung there for a few electric seconds before she engulfed it. She finished fastening the harness into place, then took some K-Y and rubbed it until the external flesh-coloured cock glistened in the flickering candlelight.

August leaned forward on the bed, knees on the floor. He sighed contentedly as she massaged his back, letting the slick dildo flop haphazardly against him. After a time, she put a finger in him, one hand still kneading his back. He groaned; the sensation was invasive, unfamiliar, alien. Finally, she placed the tip of the dildo against him and slowly, carefully, pushed it inside. It wasn't even halfway in when he forgot the touch of her hands and let out a cry; there was only pain, the feeling of being stretched, followed by the sensation of being filled. When the dildo was fully in, she rested her head against him, breasts crushing into him, arms holding him. Then she kissed his neck and began to thrust.

She kept at it, the friction eventually becoming so pleasurable that he became hard again. As her climax built, she moaned a kind of staccato he'd never heard from her before. In the mirror above the dresser, August could see in her face that she was close to coming -- the harness's inner dildo was pushed as deeply into her as the outer one was into him.

And finally she came, shuddering, eyes closed, lips parted.

The expression on her face epitomized August's most fundamental belief about eroticism. What was most erotic was not depictions of sex, or naked bodies, or the diversity of positions; it was the expression on a woman's face when an orgasm took her over. Though the dildo inside him contributed towards his own orgasm, it was the pleasure in her face that let it loose.

They nuzzled together in bed. Her hand rested lazily between his legs, while his hand cupped her right breast with equal laziness. They drifted off to sleep, awaking once in a while to kiss or murmur to each other.

"It was sweet of you to miss your company party for our anniversary," Darlene said, "but you didn't have to. You should have said something."

"You knew?" August said.

"Reading people is part of my job," she said. "That's what makes me a good lawyer. I figured it out a week or so later."

"That's why they call you 'Spooky' in the courtroom."

Darlene smiled.

"I know it was important to you," she said. "You worked so hard on that project, you deserved to celebrate. If I had known about it then, I would have suggested going on another weekend."

August didn't say anything. He couldn't bring himself to say how overbearing she could be sometimes, making it seem like the things he wanted to do were insignificant in comparison to what she wanted. But Darlene was very spooky. She already seemed to know what he was thinking.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I charge ahead without being sensitive, sometimes."

"I'm sorry too," he replied. He gave her nipple a playful squeeze.

She stroked his face gently, then brushed her lips against his skin.

"If you can trust me with my fantasy," she whispered in his ear, "you can trust that you can tell me what's on your mind, you know. You might be surprised what happens when you open up."

Then she tenderly reached down, exciting him again. Darlene sucked the mango as he leaned back into his pillow. Then she surprised him by swallowing.

The next day -- another dry, hot Vegas day -- was a Sunday as Sundays were meant to be: carefree and fun. August wanted to go to "Star Trek: The Experience" at the Hilton. Star Trek wasn't quite Darlene's cup of tea, but she gamely went along and, though she didn't admit it outright, even had fun. They hit the Mirage's pool in the late afternoon (he looked good in a swimsuit, she said).

Dinner was at an elegant French restaurant called "Mon Ami Gabi." Savoring that universal expression of decadence, a warm flourless chocolate cake with chocolate sauce and whipped cream, August reflected on their time together, and on the previous night. It had been good to clear the air, to chart the valleys and peaks that make up all relationships, to understand how love involves giving and taking.

He looked into Darlene's pale blue eyes and basked in her smile.

Perhaps, he thought, eloping wasn't such a bad idea.

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