Coming to Savannah

She cooed at me and asked me how I had enjoyed the show. I told her I had enjoyed it very much, thank you. And it was the truth. I hadn't felt as loose and alive in years. It was like I could feel every muscle and bone in my body, down to my fingertips in a tingling sensation that was highly sensual.

The performance had given me a raging hard on.

She asked me how I had enjoyed her performance, in particular. I told her I had enjoyed her performance in particular. And as I said it, I knew it was true. And I equally knew that my hard on was for her.

She told me that she was Miss Savannah, and that she liked me and that she thought I might be more comfortable in her dressing room. And then she tossed off her champagne and reached her gloved hand around my neck and pulled my face slowly into hers and we kissed.

I didn't feel squeamish at all in kissing her. She tasted of champagne, which was sort of a "duh" realization, even though it had taken me by surprise. And her kiss made my nipples go hard and ache.

She rose and took my hand and led me back through a door beside the stage, one of the doors that she and her sisters had come through before my life had started—back before I felt alive and sensual again.

We fucked on the red satin-covered chaise lounge in her small, sweet-smelling dressing room. She insisted that I be naked. And she slowly undressed me and made love to me with her tongue and her gliding gloved fingers while she did so. She remained dressed in her shimmering silver gown, with its plunging neckline, and her long white gloves. Merely standing after rising from kneeling in front of me and giving me the most divine blow job I'd ever had and pushing me down on my back on the chaise lounge and reaching up under her billowy gown and pulling off her red G-string. Then she straddled my hips with her knees, her silky dress caressing my body in folds, and positioned her entrance on my erect phallus. And fucked me to paradise.

She sighed and moaned as I unzipped her bodice and let it fall down to her waist and played the best set of pert globular breasts a surgeon can give with my hands and my lips and my teeth. All the time she was rising and falling and rocking back and forth on my deeply buried cock. I moved one hand under the folds of her silver gown and found her own erect cock and slowly hand pumped that to the rhythm of her moving pelvis on my tool.

We came nearly simultaneously, and then she lowered her breasts on mine without dislodging my quivering cock, and we kissed and nuzzled and whispered sweet nothings to each other.

I whispered—in halting hesitancy—a burning question: would she come home to live with me on Lafayette Square?

I surprised and shocked myself. It wasn't a preplanned question. It came directly from the heart and the dick. I was suddenly mortified at my boldness and at my behavior. I never in a million years would do this when I was being my rational self. And yet, here I was, flat on a chaise lounge in Savannah, being fucked by a transvestite named Savannah. And I felt like a million dollars.

But then I shouldn't have been surprised. I knew. I think I knew as soon as the host started ushering me to my table.

She brought her lips to my ears and said the word I was yearning to hear. "Yes." Just that. "Yes." But with that "yes," that new world that Todd said I would find if I came to Savannah had begun. And I decided that Todd—and Edward—could go to hell.

Exhilarated, walking on the clouds, I took control. I rolled on the chaise lounge until she was under me, moaning and sighing, the heels of her stiletto-clad feet rubbing on my calves, and I fucked her into the dawn. I came in Savannah. Again and again.

The next morning, I rose early, not hungry—or at least not hungry for dark-roast coffee and beignets—and could barely dress myself, my hands were trembling so hard. I couldn't believe that it would happen. I kept telling myself it hadn't all been a dream, but the practical side of Mike kept whispering, "Yeah, it was," in my brain. I was a novelist. I was used to living in a fantasy world. Most people could tell the difference between fantasy and their real life. I couldn't. My career depended on not being able to do so.

So, it was a not-fully-convinced me who walked out of my door and down my front steps and across East Harris Street and into Lafayette Square, where I sat on a bench momentarily, my eyes glued to the blue umbrellas in front of the Café Marquis across the square rising above the purple flowers I couldn't name in the square's flowerbeds.

When I could breathe somewhat steadily and decided it was now or never, I stood up and continued my walk toward the blue umbrellas. As I drew closer, there he was. The waiter, Vallois. My waiter; my Val. Standing there, a suitcase on the curb of the road at the edge of the line of blue umbrellas. The sun was shining on this side of the square, and Val's eyes were glittering—there at the corners, where Savannah hadn't managed to cream off all of the silver Ertha Kitt glitter from the previous night.