Story of Wendell Ch. -1

Hello friends. This will be my first multi-part series. I will lend you this one caveat: The story does not immediately begin with sex, and the sexual progression is slow simmered. I can promise you this, however, that it does indeed occur, and is replete. I enjoy writing tastefully and with reservation, but I am not adverse to raunch and blunt eroticism. You will find each type of delight in the pages ahead.

This story is wildly untrue, but it certainly reflects many of my own personal aspirations. As always, my greatest joy is interaction, so please speak freely to me of your interpretations. Enjoy.

P R O L O G U E

I thought I might alert those who read this now. This first installment has no adult material in it, which is not to say it isn’t sensual. I am endeavoring to write something very special and personal, and it requires that I spend ample time setting the stage. If you are looking for a quick fix, please do not look here. If you are seeking a more detailed tale with memorable characters, I hope the Story of Wendell satisfies. In the next installment, you are sure to find much more graphic content. Until then, I sincerely hope you enjoy this introduction.

O N E

My name is Wendell.

If you had told me last week that I would be here tonight, I would have chuckled in disbelief. Yet here I was, negotiating the pulsing crowd of a local club known exclusively for its gay and bisexual clientele.

Was I gay?

No.

Bisexual?

Let’s just say that I’ve recently begun wondering if I am truly straight.

First let me regress. I have never been intimately involved with another man. In fact, so uninterested in men was I that I often marveled that women could be so attracted to them. In my opinion, there was so little to enjoy of a man’s body and meager sensuality. Most of the men I knew were crude, separated only slightly from their distant and barbaric ancestors by advances in marketing. They had no taste in dress or manner, and they seemed to flaunt the sporadic patches of hair on face and torso like so many trophies. Feral and unkempt, they paraded in pride, content to demand of women all the burdens of social preparation.

In physical distaste for my brethren, I embarked upon a series of habits that had likely suggested my bisexual inclinations long before I recognized them. I began an obsessive cleanliness, accessorized with all the creams and lotions one would find in the most feminine bathroom. My face was closely shaven regularly. I waxed my legs, chest, arms, and even my ass, so that my body glistened with an unnatural smoothness. The underarms were also rid of hair, and my pubic region was trimmed nearly to the point of absence. I attended my fingernails carefully, forming and polishing them. My eyebrows were shaped tediously with the finest and most expensive tools. In addition to it all, I maintained a rich salon tan over every inch of my body.

Many of my closer male friends looked upon these conventions with indifference, even with, I think, timid fascination. Some, however, tried valiantly to conceal their disapproval. Had they not, I might have engaged heated arguments in bitter defense. Their ideals were unspoken but clear:

“We’remen. We’re sexy by default. Why should we spend time and effort embellishing ourselves; improving ourselves? That’s for women to do—“

I was offended for all women who would spend hours in preparation of a date while their partners sat sloppily in front of the television yelling to “hurry up.” When among groups of friends, I would become ashamed and embarrassed when the males would pass jokes about having to wait for their wives and girlfriends to ready themselves. At times I thought that I missed some male-exclusive seminar that had them all now wearing flannels, shorts, and baseball caps in religious fashion.

In spite of my “womanly” habits, I maintained a discreet masculinity. I had no inclination to “be” a woman. I loved being male, and I revered many a male idol who fit the description of what I thought a man should be: strong but delicate; firm in voice and flesh, but soft in words and touch; powerful, merciful, wise, compassionate, polite, intelligent, articulate, well dressed. I wanted all men to be these things so that I could be proud. Why could men not be beautiful, and why did beautiful men have to be gay? I aspired to be the exception, and as such, my well-groomed boyish features suggested that I was much younger than my 22 years. I wore no make-up, nor did my wardrobe reflect anything suspicious of homosexuality. I took great pride in my clothes, however, which sadly today seems to arouse suspicion on its very own.

But oh how I enjoyed women. I had dated and fucked and frolicked. I pursued all manners of sexual exploration with my partners, and I cannot ever imagine being disinterested in the female form. So deeply sensual is my connection to women that I often considered myself equally female as I am male. It is a strange and difficult affiliation; one might call me androgynous, a word I fondly associate with. I had abandoned the coarse bravado I had been taught by my peers to embrace.

What then brought me here tonight?

I had developed a consummate hatred for night clubs. Noisy and sexist, they repulsed me. The clubs were ruled entirely by women, forcing men to stand idly on the sidelines. Moreover, men seemed to prefer this repression, and so I had little hope for any revolution. Only women were admitted for free. Only women were allowed to dance on stages, in cages. Only women were allowed to bare skin and flaunt themselves in euphoric liberation. From the moment they stepped into the room, women were pampered, worshipped, and aggressively catered to. So aggressive and boorish were most advances that an impenetrable wall had been erected between the genders. I had long since given up approaching women for this very reason. And so clubs became for me a cold, impersonal congregation of men protective of women they didn’t even know, interested only in the preservation of their machismo and the encouragement of Sapphic performances by the all-too-willing stage nymphs.

One night in particular, feeling lonely and indifferent, I ventured to find a new club. I walked aimlessly for a long time beyond the conventional strip of meat markets, searching, hoping that I might find something a little different.

I did.

T W O

“Prospero’s.” Curious name, I thought. Poe or Shakespeare? I wondered if either provided the influence.

I might have passed it before when touring the city during the day. It looked like a church. It must have once been—a cathedral perhaps. Now mind you, there was no shortage of church-like clubs on the island. It became en vogue some years ago and the theme never ceased to proliferate. Subtly, this one stood out. It lacked the club-like adornments that had converted the others; neon lights and profuse synthetic fog; block-long lines and velvet ropes along the adjacent streets; the most exotic and expensive cars parked purposely in front of the entrance.

This club had no such aspects. It was widely dark, unlit. Only the luminescence from neighboring buildings revealed its remarkable gothic intricacies. Had it not been for the dull reverberation of music behind the business-clad couple at the door, I might have not paid much notice. They stood tall, the both of them, smiling warmly at all who passed. Strange, I recall thinking. Doormen? Smiling? And one of them, female?

They were striking though, even he, and beautiful, with fine features that rivaled my own. Peculiar attire though. They wore fine garments of modern corporate influence, but not without bold flamboyances. The colors were inconsistent with the style—a rich crimson in place of a more typical grey or black. A golden tan set of gloves were worn by both sets of hands. Each of them sported perfectly tailored slacks and jackets. The man’s shirt and tie were rich and textured, and the woman’s blouse was ruffled and striking as a Frenchman’s might be some many generations ago.

The man carried a gold watch and chain connecting his vest to its pocket. The woman adorned her hair with a bizarre plate, as though a large and shiny half oyster shell gripped the side of her head, allowing the fine strands of blonde hair to escape and fall seductively over her left eye. The man’s hair was walnut in color, long and luxurious, untied and resting elegantly on his shoulders. They enticed me, although I confess I suddenly felt underdressed in my single-breasted and tie-less suit. Nonetheless, the sudden appraisal seemed mutual as they moved invitingly to open the large wooden doors.

I walked inside through a long, red carpeted hallway decorated with fascinating art. Beyond this entryway was another door which I entered and found that there was indeed a line. It moved steadily and without interruption. There were no slights to those in waiting by groups of giggling and scantily clad girls skipping ahead only to be freely admitted by an apish bouncer. In no time at all, I was prompted to pay a hefty cover charge, but not, evidently, a requisite of my sex; girls in front of and behind me were billed the same. My interest was definitely piqued by this time.

A young girl in similar dress as the one outside drew open a curtain which led into a yet another hallway, this one darker, and lit naturally with candles instead of overhead lamps. The same exotic and marvelous artwork adorned the walls, and I paused in my advance to admire while others hurried past me in eagerness to join the fray which, according to the loud throb of music, was just ahead. There, two young men dressed in some manner of period garbs and steadying long staffs in opposite grips parted a curtain to reveal a room whose size could not truly be possible given what I thought the buildings dimensions should be from the outside.

Before me was quite an impressive spread of entertainment. The room was large and the ceilings were easily several stories high. Two tiers of catwalk wrapped around the perimeter of the room, the top one extending just past the lower one in breadth. The room was eerily lit, as most clubs are, but the music was more to my liking than I was used to. The crowd was thick and embracing. There were aspects that intrigued me. For instance, there were all manners of people here, many of which did not fit the traditional profile you might see in excess at any other club. The wardrobes were wild and wildly varied, as were the bodies that modeled them. There seemed to be no shame or apologies among the guests, and it inspired me. I felt welcomed here, and I hurried to accept it in turn.

All around the room were couples engaged in various forms of intimacy. Nothing was particularly lewd mind you, but many of them were couples of the same sex. That in itself was not what interested me, but rather that the crowd paid little more attention to the gay and lesbian couples than they did to the heterosexual ones. All around women embraced women and men embraced men. Normally the former would be celebrated in your average club while the latter would be quickly met with acts of violence. Here it seemed the norm that all combinations of people be open, and it didn’t take my strongest mental effort to realize I had wandered into a bisexual club.

And so there I was.

I made my way to a large island bar in the center of the room, above which a network of large television screens played wondrous images to the crowd. I sat and ordered the most expensive water I had ever encountered, though it tasted no different than the water dispenser at my home. Everything about this place seemed expensive, and with good reason, I imagined, for it was heavenly. I looked above and, for the first time, noticed the ceiling was painted in a renaissance fashion high above. The club was nothing if not eclectic.

“Nice ring.” A girl’s voice seemed directed at me from beside. I turned to find myself staring at a lovely girl, slightly older than myself, occupying the chair to my left. She was tall and not so very slim as some of the other stick-like girls, but healthy and curvaceous. Her orange straight hair was cut short just below her ears in a metropolitan style that accented her round and striking face. She wore a typical club outfit with a simple green top and some shiny synthetic pants.

“Thank you,” I said, smiling. The acoustics here were surely considered, for though the music was near deafening on the dance floor, I had barely to shout at the bar.

Deciding not to pass up an opportunity to speak with an attractive woman whose defense was obviously not at full mast, I continued.

“This is quite a place, it’s my first time.”

She replied with an intoxicating smile, “This is my third. It’s the only place I’ll come to now.” I thought from her eyes which seemed to shift fleetingly that she might be under the influence of some drug or another. Perhaps that is why I so quickly captured her attention? I lamented to think that her only reason. Of course later I would find that to be untrue.

I turned to finish my drink and found upon my turning back that she was gone, and my heart sank.

“Oh well.” I thought to myself. Certainly there were other girls to meet here. I turned back and ordered a shot, and the atmosphere was much more encouraging than any I had known. As I swallowed down the bitter drink, I felt a soft breath on my neck.

“I’m Gwen.”

I turned and there she was again, all smiles.

“Wendell.” I said, returning her smile.

“Awesome name!” She exclaimed, as though it was the most interesting thing she had yet heard.

“You know, if we added our names together, we could be Gwendell!” She said gaily, proud of her quickness and unashamed of her silliness. What a strange girl. I liked her immediately.

I laughed and went forward boldly, “So you want to dance Gwendell?”

Her face lit up, and followed with a mock seriousness, given away by a faint smirk, as she extended her arm courtly, “I’d love to Gwendell. Shall we?”

Yes, I liked this girl immediately.

T H R E E

I was not particularly good at dancing, but I was no stranger to it, which is more than can be said of most guys from my experience. I fought my rhythmic insecurities on more than one occasion so that I could take part in the fun.

Gwen led me by the hand into the mob. She seemed very particular in her choice of space, but we soon found a clearing that swallowed us up. Together we moved, forced into proximity by the density of the crowd. Neither of us seemed to complain as our bodies began grinding together. She moved quickly to wrap her arms around me and I felt the fullness of her breasts press into my chest. She kissed at my neck and ear, and I thought it rather bold. I played back, occasionally lifting my thigh between her legs to rub against her crotch. She enjoyed that immensely, and I was having a wonderful time. I looked over her shoulder at the people around us. Every glance I met was accompanied with a smile, both male and female. Even men who had seemingly no bisexual or homosexual inclinations would grin fondly at me as brothers would. This was truly a special place.

Then, as if there was anything that could so command my attention as the crowd and my partner, he suddenly did, through the thick forest of faces. It wasn’t the prettiest face here, but it suddenly seemed the most commanding of attention. He was almost exactly my height, and his features were neither rugged nor plump, but simply inviting with a playful and sophisticated countenance. Indeed he was beautiful, as I always thought a boy should be. Surely not much older than me, he was slim and fine, fair but not pale, and his skin glowed like well scrubbed porcelain. His hair was short and very dark, but not quite black, worn messy with a hint of intention. And then all at once he moved unintentionally through the crowd toward me, not yet catching my stare.

My heart quickened. He stood out by some way I cannot fully describe. Perhaps it was his movement, for he strolled as if with no purpose or direction. As others merely watched, he studied intently the crowd. So comfortable he seemed navigating the thick and dense mass of guests that his saunter was gracefully uninterrupted. He seemed impervious to the music and the motions, and he displayed such a familiarity with the scene that I imagined he’d walked every possible route a thousand times each.

I took notice of the more subtle features that collectively made him radiate as he approached. His lips seemed a pair of rose petals, soft and velvety, dark and virile. And though they contended to fight for attention with the rest of his features, it was his eyes that surely demanded the most. Endless they were—an endless sea of the most welcoming brown. He wore eyeliner, so thinly applied I was uncertain. And then, only upon a squinting examination of those precious eyes did they rise from their study and look upon my own.

To be continued…

I cherish your feedback, and I love to make friends, as the story’s character implies. Age, sex, and gender is unimportant.

Your friend,

Wendell