An Invitation from Mr. and Mrs. M

Mr. M gave reminders of his existence in the kitchen only occasionally with the clicking of metal on ice. Mrs. M busied herself for so long over the incense that Frederick felt his eyelids droop. Her back arched inward as she leaned away and a slice of pale skin appeared between her midnight-blue blouse and her pants. Unbidden, an image of wrapping his hands around Mrs. M's waist and feeling that soft slice of skin against the callouses of his hands came to Frederick.

"Alright then," came the deep baritone from the kitchen. Mrs. M's incense caught and the first puff of white smoke whirled before turning a calm gray.

His barrel chest wrapped in an argyle sweater, Mr. M entered the dimly lit den carrying a tray of drinks. Two tumblers of brown and a glass of red for Mrs. M.

"I hope you like bourbon."

Frederick met his host's eye and took the drink silently. Eyes are the one piece that never ages, they say, and looking back at elementary school photos an adult recognizes the same voice in the void of the mind reflected out. What does Mr. M see?

The host settled into an armchair perpendicular to the couch his wife and Frederick sat on. He gave them a smile straight out of a catalog. Mrs. M turned from the incense and responded in kind with a good-wife smile. There was a roundness in her cheeks that didn't continue through the rest of her tight body. Were it not for the crow's feet she could have passed for a woman half her age.

"We recently renovated the bedroom," Mr. M said in a flat voice that was bored of its own words.

Fredrick felt a warm pressure on his calf. It was soft. Mrs. M's toe just barely kissed his skin, traversing up and down. She must've taken off her shoes in all that time she was bending over the incense with that ancient lighter. The table blocked his calf and her toe from Mr. M's line of sight but although her leg movements were slight in her lap they were still perceptible. Mr. M obliviously barreled through the story about the difficulties with contractors and the work taking longer than expected. Frederick flexed his calf against Mrs. M's toe's lazy loops in appreciation.

Frederick'd been thinking about her body more than most. There was a clear strength to her arms and he'd fantasized about being in her grip, being cradled, being a little boy for just a moment before pulling himself back and holding her throat in one hand and guiding himself inside her with the other. He pictured her gray eyes shutting and her jaw dropping.

Frederick blinked. Mr. M's story was over and his host was watching him with curiosity in his blue eyes. The sun touched the horizon outside and no one spoke. Mrs. M broke the silence.

"Sometimes, when I dream, I'm a lizard, clinging to walls and rolling my eyes around and around to take in the world and hunt for bugs."

"Have you ever had the one where your teeth fall out?" Mr. M asked.

"That's not the point."

"I had twelve fall out once, and seven the next time."

"Never mind him," Mrs. M whispered theatrically, leaning into Frederick and crushing the side of her breast against him. "He always gets Biblical when he's drinking."

Mr. M lifted his eyebrows and pursed his lips. Then, the bearded man chuckled, and Mrs. M joined in with a higher, sharper laugh. They were the two cleanest laughs Frederick'd heard in some time and he felt himself unfurling into the amber-lit room cut with smoke. The breast was so soft and yielding against him. His hand itched to squeeze it. Beneath the table he probed the back of Mrs. M's knee with his index finger, gently.

For a time none of the three made eye contact or even spoke. It was getting darker. Mrs. M grew increasingly bold with her exploration of Frederick's right leg and he responded in like or near-like measures. As the sun set outside he fingered the tips of Mrs. M's lacy blue blouse, carelessly letting his eyes stray onto the face of Mr. M and saw the older man staring straight at him.

"Frederick," Mrs. M said suddenly.

"Mm?" Frederick hardly reacted. It was like waking from a dream.

"Your glass is empty."

Mr. M frowned.

"Should he have another?"

"Hush," Mrs. M tutted, waving a hand. "He's a grown boy. Pour him another drink."

Mr. M shrugged and gathered the empty glasses onto the tray. He returned to the kitchen and readied the next round, making more noise than necessary.

The moment Mr. M passed the threshold into the next room Mrs. M yanked herself away from Frederick. The loss of heat on his calf was so sudden it made Frederick into a little boy, lost in the grocery store, his mother nowhere in sight. Mrs. M balled up, cat-like on the far end of the couch and considered the harsh, serif numerals of the clock on the wall. He wanted to reach out and stroke her but knew implicitly not to.

She struck quite a figure, Frederick thought again, and not for the first time that evening he eyed her body with real hunger. Her breasts were overlarge for her slim frame and Frederick enjoyed watching them rise and fall with each lift of Mrs. M's chest. She tolerated his gaze and he appreciated the rare moment of blameless voyeurism. It was not unlike a subway car so crowded you couldn't even hold a book to your nose. Everyone accepted that for the duration of the trip their faces and their features were free rein to their fellow socially starved passengers.

Mr. M's heavy footsteps announced his re-entrance but neither Frederick nor Mr. M's wife acknowledged him. He softly set the glasses down in front of each of them.

Mr. M allowed some time to pass before speaking, gingerly and haltingly at first, but growing to regular conversation cadence by the end.

"So, Frederick, I assume you're wondering how we got into this."

Frederick turned his face away from his study of the curled figure to consider his host's blurred jawline. He said nothing. It was Mrs. M who continued the thought.

"He's always loved porn."

"Only to watch," Mr. M countered. He raised his hands placatingly.

Mrs. M stretched with her arms way over her head, her breasts spilling out. "He likes it for the plot."

Frederick's brow furled good-naturedly. Mr. M adjusted to sit erect in his chair and squared his shoulders as if to begin a lecture.

"Pornography is famously unrealistic," Mr. M announced. "Girl orders pizza, pizza delivery boy fucks girl. Boy is behind on his rent, landlady agrees to forgive the debt if he fucks her ruthlessly. They're insipid stories and that's all they have to be to get the job done. To make the viewer cum.

"But some stories have a deeper subtext - twink porn, where a straight nineteen-year-old boy agrees to do gay porn. They call it gay-for-pay. Why? Drugs, rising L.A. housing costs, to get some extra cash to live glamorously? Your guess is as good as mine. Or maybe even better. I want to hear yours, Frederick. Why do you think a straight young man would agree to anal sex for a couple hundred dollars?"

Frederick blinked and felt the slowness of the muscles on his face. He'd breathed in so much incense he felt as formless as the smoke now and, for the first time that evening, answered unguardedly.

"Maybe a little piece of him was always curious."

"That's brilliant!" Mr. M beamed. Mrs. M smiled too, and she adjusted on the couch so her legs rested across Frederick's, idly interlocking and unlocking her toes on display for both men. Mr. M eyes greedily watched his wife play with her toes on another man's lap.

"Whether it's taboo or just plain abnormal, there's an innate curiosity in the human mind," Mr. M continued, his eyes never leaving his wife's feet. "So, Frederick, my wife and I - we've become curious ourselves."

Frederick extended a hand and held Mrs. M's toe between his thumb and forefinger. He massaged it. The erection came on suddenly and Mrs. M giggled. She ran her calf over his lap, toying with him.

"And it seems you're willing to indulge our curiosity."

With a glance at his wife Mr. M raised himself out of her chair and she slid to her feet in a fluid motion, pulling Frederick up by the hand. She didn't let go after he'd stood up.

"Let's show you that bedroom remodel we were telling you about," she purred.

* * *

Mrs. M surprised Frederick when the three of them reached the bedroom. Throughout the evening she'd shifted between a distant coldness and lethargic affection. Frederick had formed a sexual image of her as a stroker and not a grabber. The moment they crossed the threshold into the bedroom, however, Mrs. M tore at his clothes with a new hunger. She came at him so frantically his shirt lost a button and her mouth went to his chest, hands splayed across his broad pecs and her lips sucking his nipples into her mouth.

Mrs. M was still fully dressed by the time she'd stripped Frederick down to his briefs. She pushed him onto the bed and he allowed himself to be guided down. Starting at his belly button, she kissed her way down to his pelvis, pulling his underwear-covered cock into her mouth, sliding her mouth up and down over the fabric. He brought his hands to her hair and gripped her, guiding her motions.

It was Mr. M, though, who most surprised Frederick. Oftentimes the husbands sat in a chair and masturbated to the site of Frederick fucking their wives. Some even had Frederick meet their eyes and tell them how their wife deserved a real man, how they could never pleasure her, how she was his now. Sometimes, the men held cameras and filmed the intercourse. Others just left the room and waited for their wife to send them a picture, or - this only happened once - the used condom.

But Mr. M just stood there. Fully clothed, hands in his pockets, casual. As if he were on a smoke break.

Frederick didn't have much opportunity to consider Mr. M, though. Mrs. M had finally gotten Frederick completely naked. She wore nothing herself except for thigh-high stockings. Her mouth met his and she thrusted tongue inside, hands scrabbling at him, every piece of her body in motion and writhing like a captured snake. Frederick found he'd fly away if he didn't match her wild energy with his own.

They tussled on the bed, the bedsprings squealing beneath their energy. At one point Frederick was propped over her on his elbows and she met his eyes. "I want you to make me shake," she instructed, but she was so out of breath the words came out slurred and Frederick wasn't sure she'd said what he thought she'd said but took it on as his spiritual mission. He lowered his head and took a nipple into his mouth and sucked, hard - Mrs. M moaned and arched her back. He half-clamped his teeth and in response she ran her fingers through his hair and clenched.

Frederick raised his head back up and saw her teeth biting her lower lip. He felt her hand on him, guiding him inside of her. With one hand he gripped her throat and spread the other, splayed-fingered, on the mattress for leverage. He wasn't halfway inside before she lolled her head to the side, gasping.

Neither of them lasted long. Within four pumps Mrs. M was shaking so hard Frederick knew she was climaxing and seeing that, feeling that, brought on his own, his balls wetly slapping into her as she shook underneath him, fingernails leaving burning red marks across his back.

The moment their climaxes subsided to manageable levels Mrs. M rolled herself apart from him. Frederick half-turned and fell onto his own back and watched the fireworks going off inside his eyelids. Everything inside him was racing. For a moment he wasn't an individual but one half of a sexual creature he and Mrs. M had brought into existence.

Frederick let his breathing return to normal and slowly, slowly, reopened his eyes. The brightness hit him like a whip. Had the lights been turned up? Or had he lost his grip on reality? He scanned the room for Mr. M but the man was gone, had been long gone.

Mrs. M, next to him, said nothing. She laid on her back, her eyes rolling in continuous arcs like the lizard she'd dreamt of. It would have been grotesque if she weren't covered in their shared sweat and so evidently, uniquely at peace. It was nearly religious. Frederick felt himself hardening, physically as well as spiritually, but knew not to attempt another go. It would be criminal to interfere with such human contentedness. It would be like painting over the Mona Lisa, adding wings to the Statue of Liberty. He donned the white robe set aside for him and quietly stepped out of the room.

* * *

Mr. M was reading a novel in his armchair when Frederick reentered the den. Frederick sat in his previous space on the couch. The incense smoke lingered in the room and he felt his head swimming.

"Thirsty?" the host asked.

Frederick nodded.

"Same drink OK?"

Frederick nodded.

Mr. M closed his book on his finger out of instinct before reopening and sliding a bookmark between the pages. He clomped to the kitchen and mixed a drink, this time shushing the metallic and icy noises, returning with two glasses of the same evil-smelling brown held by their rims. Frederick took his and drank, aware that he was placing his lips just where the oils of Mr. M's fingers had been smushed.

"You know, you share your name with a famous orator," Mr. M said.

Frederick had been studying the serif feet of the numerals on the clock on the wall. He let his head drop back and his eyeballs swivel to meet Mr. M's.

"Frederick Douglass. He took the surname from a family in a Scottish poem. The additional ess was his own invention, you know."

Mr. M furrowed his brow and leaned forward, conspiratorially. Then he continued with husk layered into his voice:

"You know, Douglass was whipped."

Frederick made no motion on the couch.

"Like an animal. Whipped. Twenty lashes, bloody lines across his back. Sometimes in his speeches it'd be his big reveal to show what slavery does to people. Even as a freedman he'd turn and lower his shirt and show those scars. Not often, not often. But sometimes. Tell me. Frederick. Have you ever been whipped?"

For a beat Frederick didn't react. Then he breathed in deep through his nose, flaring his nostrils wide. He looked at his drink. He drank his drink and pivoted to his host. Leaned in. There was a challenge on his face.

"Of course not," Mr. M said. His voice was slow. "The thing is, I've never been whipped, either."

The bearded man took a long, long drink of his bourbon, finishing it all except for one sip.

"You understand this, right? All of this?" He gestured to the room with an open palm. "Do you understand," Mr. M asked, "that I've never been whipped?"

Frederick nodded, slowly.

"Frederick," Mr. M began. "Would you-"

Just then Mrs. M's footsteps came from the kitchen. She clomped into the den with a bright smile and glassy eyes. It couldn't have been from the smoke. She must have been crying, Frederick though. As Mrs. M entered the room she called out, "Hello, boys."

She sashayed straight to Mr. M and kissed him on his bushy cheek before turning to the couch and settling onto Frederick's lap. Their robes partially overlapped and there were disjointed slivers of skin on skin. Frederick felt the heat rise in him again and gratefully cupped her back in his arm. She slung her own slender arm over his shoulders.

Mr. M gave what Frederick could only comprehend as an anxious smirk before speaking.

"I was telling Frederick that he shares a names with one of this country's most famous orators."

"Mm." Mrs. M let her head loll into the nape of Frederick's neck.

"And I explained how when Douglass was a slave he'd been whipped."

A cloud stole over Mrs. M's face and Frederick felt her body tense against him.

"Fucking whipping again?"

"Evelyn-"

"No. Jesus, you can't bring that shit up all the time."

Her husband started to speak but Mrs. M wouldn't let him. She stood and whirled around to Frederick. A breast had spilled out of her robe. She didn't bother to adjust it. "You should leave," she said.

Frederick's face didn't change. "I haven't been paid."

"Jesus Christ, pay the kid." For a moment Mr. M did nothing. Then he took an envelope from the side table and handed it past his wife to Frederick. Frederick opened it and pulled the green bills into his hands. "Don't count it," Mrs. M stormed. "Don't you dare count it in front of us. The money is there, just get out of our house."

Frederick nodded. He didn't bother asking about his clothes - those were lost. He stood, but as he made his way out he spotted the box of incense and turned back to his hosts. He lifted a rod and watched the first flakes crumble off.

"Can I take this? As a memento?"

"Of course," Mr. M said at the same time Mrs. M said, "No." Frederick slid the incense rod into the robe's front pocket. Mrs. M wrapped her robe tight around her chest. Frederick drank in her figure one last time with his eyes, the last moment of shameless voyeurism he'd ever get with her, and gave the couple a final nod.

He walked out the front door into the cold winter night. The fresh snow on the ground was as white as the robe he wore.

When he got home, before sleeping, he lit the incense. Once his bedroom took on the rod's heady scent he snapped a photo of himself. In twenty years, he wondered, will I recognize these eyes?