Dance Me to the End of Love Ch. 02

Ch. 02

All Tomorrow's Parties

I went to New York after graduating, partly because there was no reason to go back to Missouri, but mostly because it was known as the place for an aspiring, optimistic-if-jaded, young, artist and writer—as I fancied myself—to go. (And maybe, subconsciously, I'd hoped to find you again.) I moved six times in that first year, I think, living in different parts of the city; a couple of furnished rooms, short-term sublets, and a few stints of staying with friends, until I wore out my welcome, or—as happened in one instance—"things got awkward."

<<Very late one night, I was roused from a deep, alcohol-infused sleep by my old prog-rock buddy's younger girlfriend, slithering under the covers on the uncomfortable couch that was my temporary bed. Pressing against me to make it clear that she was naked, she informed me, in a hushed voice, "I know you like my tits, 'cause I catch you staring at them all the time. [There was a degree of truth to this.] That's OK—I wanted to, like, fuck you since the first time we met. And you and me both know it." I declined her offer, as politely as I could, under the circumstances.

The next day, she wasted no time in giving my buddy an explicitly detailed account of how I had tried to seduce her in the kitchen. I moved out the following afternoon.>>

This was still in the days when I would occasionally, willingly, go to one of those "lotsa people from college are gonna be there" parties. At these shindigs, the conversations I had—at least the conversations among guys ostensibly like myself [young, white, straight]—all seemed to end in one of two ways:

1. "It's OK, I guess—it's a job. Know what I mean, dude?"

OR

2. "Remember junior year? How I always wanted to nail that girl over there? Stacy or Tracy, or...? Yeah, her, over by the window. Know what I mean, dude?"

One Friday night, just as I was reaching the conclusion that the dual enticements of free Bud Light and crappy bourbon were not worth engaging in another such dialog, I ran into my first college girlfriend.

I met Kimberly in the third week of my freshman year; she was a senior, a double-major, played very competitive intramural basketball, and was a clarinetist in the school's wind ensemble. Driven. [Know what I mean, dude?]

Everything about Kimberly was bold and beautiful—she was tall, dark, and very curvy; she always looked coiffed, made-up, and—no matter what she was wearing—dressed-up. [You once joked that she could wear a Hefty bag, and make it look good. I joked that you could do that, too.]

Kimberly was focused, sharp, and above all, fearless—she always knew:

1. exactly what she needed (or wanted)

2. exactly what she needed to do to obtain, or achieve, what she needed
   (or wanted)

3. exactly how to ask other people for what she needed (or wanted) from them*

[*This was not the mere logic of simple business transactions; she understood her personal responsibility and stake in every situation.]

How did it start? Kimberly approached me at a large outdoor party, and said, brightly, "Hi! You're new here, right? Freshman?" I was a little taken aback, but said that I was indeed new to the school. She continued, in a casual tone "Nice. How's it going so far? Meeting people? Settling in to college life?" Thinking she was a young professor—she looked very mature to me (and, yes, very sexy)—I mumbled something inane like, "Yeah it's cool, I guess. It's different." Suddenly, her expression became serious, not menacing, but direct (I wondered if I'd said something wrong). Lowering her voice slightly, she said, "Now, how would you like to fuck a senior? And by that, I mean me."

I think I blacked out for a second, then blinked and stammered "But, uh--" She touched my arm gently and said "You're OK. Yeah, you heard me right. Now, you stand right here for about five minutes, then walk over to Cooper House—that's that high-rise dorm on the left, over there. Room 613. I'll see you soon." Then, turning to walk away, she added, returning to her light and airy tone, "By the way, I'm Kimberly, and you're kinda cute!"

OK, I wasn't really Kimberly's boyfriend. [In fact, I came up with one description that she particularly liked: Tension-relieving-boytoy-required-while-writing-two-theses.] And Kimberly definitely wasn't my girlfriend. She had an image to uphold, so it was all very confidential; the only three people who knew about our "relationship" were Kimberly (or Kym, as she was known to a select few), myself, and you. (At least, I assumed you knew, because of the fleeting little smile you gave her, when she first introduced us.)

Now, it would be an outright lie if I said there was anything bad about this situation. I suppose it wasn't as "romantic" as I'd imagined, but I was very young and inexperienced, with only two (awkward, fumbling, partially-clothed) sexual encounters, in the back seat of my uncle's car, to my credit. To Kym, I was like another extracurricular project, but one that she approached with extraordinary patience. Among the myriad skills she taught me, for which I am still grateful (and from which she was the first to reap the benefits), were: how to give a proper foot massage; how to see, and treat, every person respectfully; and how to cook scrambled eggs the right way (this often followed the foot massage).

Do I really need to spell out that she taught me how to do pretty much anything imaginable in bed?

<<So, obviously, I went to her room that afternoon. When she answered the door wearing a short, black satin robe over a bustier that barely contained her 38DD breasts, a tiny g-string, and black fishnet stockings, I nearly passed out. [NOTE: I actually could not have named of any of these articles of clothing, nor guessed her bra size, at the time, having only seen pictures in my uncle's poorly-hidden Playboy magazines.] I mumbled, "Uh, hi, um, Kimberly?" unwittingly staring blatantly at her chest as she waved me in. Looking me up and down, she smiled and said, "Welcome to your first day of school, baby. In this classroom, you call me Miss Kym." Then, suddenly my senses were filled with her perfume, the tantalizing warmth and volume of her body, and her alluring voice, saying "I just knew you had a lot of potential," as one hand pulled me toward her, while the other assessed the bulge already forming in my khaki shorts.

As Kym let the wrap drop from her shoulders, I fumbled self-consciously at what felt like 100 clasps running down the front of the lacy corset. When, finally, I managed to undo the last one, I heard her say, very sweetly, "There you go!" My breath caught in my throat, as if I'd just unwrapped the greatest Christmas present of all time (barely aware that Kym had simultaneously, deftly, unbuttoned and unzipped my shorts). The bustier fell away; her large, prominent, ebony nipples pointed directly at me, as if to say, "Your move!" Hesitating for a long moment—I was, after all, about to touch the first official, actual, real, naked boobs I'd ever seen—my confidence was buoyed by Kym's low, breathy invitation, "Go ahead, you can play with my titties. If you want to, that is." As she said this, her hand slipped into my underwear.

I nodded slowly. Reaching out, even more slowly, I felt the warmth and weight of her breasts—pillowy, very large, and a little jiggly. Transfixed, I watched as my own fingers crept up to find, then gently squeeze, her hard nipples, earning a soft, approving, "Mmmm, that's good, baby," from Kym. Without conscious thought, my face was drawn inward, but the sudden collision of intense sensations—her large areola filling my mouth, the exact taste and feel of her nipple as my lips and tongue recorded them, and her cool, firm hand vigorously stroking and jerking my cock—overwhelmed me. With a muffled "Unnhhh," I ejaculated into my underwear, and all over Kym's hand.

I shuddered as she wiped the cum off my post-orgasmic, exaggeratedly sensitive penis, and heard her muse, "Yeah, but I know you'll keep going just like the Energizer Bunny, won't you?" Then our first actual lesson started. Kym held up a condom, and tore open the wrapper, with a teacherly pronouncement of, "Now that we got that outta the way, you're gonna learn to use these." When I protested that I had worn one before, she merely commented, "Baby, I'm sure you never put it on the right way." Kneeling down, she worked the condom onto the head of my partially-erect dick, then proceeded to roll it the rest of the way on using only her mouth...

When we finally finished, I could barely feel my lower body. Kym announced, "Time to get going, baby—I got plans for the evening." I must have looked crestfallen, because she smiled seductively and said, "Awwh, don't worry—you're a sweet boy!" Then, in the same definitive voice she had used at the end of our initial meeting, said, "And I'ma definitely need some more of that [indicating my crotch with a little nod] real soon. I will call you." I had no doubt in my mind that she would, and I finished getting dressed, smiling inside. As I started for the door, Kym said, "Hey, before you go, be a doll and pick up all those rubbers and throw 'em away in the trash can down the hall, OK? Thanks, baby!">>

So when I ran into Kimberly at that party, I was a little surprised (but pretty sure) that she didn't remember me. She told me, in a pleasantly perfunctory manner, that she had just finished law school, had taken a job with a prominent law firm, and was moving to DC. When she asked, "Hey, you don't, by any chance, know anyone who's looking for an apartment, do you?" I nodded (still not convinced she remembered me). "Because," she continued, "I'm moving out of the place where I've been living for the past couple of years. It's not fancy, but it's very quiet and very reasonable. The girl who has the lease needs another person to split the rent with. She's a little wacky for my taste, but nice enough, on the whole. Tell you what, though, she'd have fit right in with that little [gesturing air quotes] avant garde crowd you hung out with in college." (Of course she remembered who I was...) I took the number, thanked Kimberly, we air-kissed, and I wished her luck in DC.

<<Kimberly built a prosperous career as a lawyer, before turning to politics. She would eventually become a city council member, then (after coming out while in office), Kym would be elected mayor, in a landslide victory, of a Midwestern city.>>

The next day, I called, and asked if I could come see the place. After looking around—which took all of twenty minutes, including thorough descriptions of the building, neighbors, and neighborhood from the woman who held the lease—I said I was very interested. Before I could say anything else, she held up a finger to stop me, stating, "Ah got a couple things you should know, before you write that check." Looking me directly in the eye, she added, "Ah am NOT tryin' to find a friend, a li'l company, or even just a roommate. You're rentin' a room. Ah don't care what you do in there, so long's you don't burn the buildin' down. You're welcome to use the rest of the place, long as Ah'm not around, or entertainin' guests—don't worry, that never happens. Just keep it neat, including the bathroom—that means LIFT. THE. SEAT. (She pointed her finger at me to emphasize each word.) Understood?" She said all of this very fast, and when I nodded, finished with, "OK—now you can write that check." In less than a week, I had moved in.

Callie was tiny and energetic, with an outsized personality that belied her stature (which was maybe 5'2" wearing heels), large, dark eyes, and shoulder-length black hair that was usually arranged in some version of a "beehive" hairdo. (I would later joke that "original rock'n'roll bad girl Ronnie Spector" was both her fashion and spiritual guide. To which she replied, "Y'all got a problem with that?" Thus ended the discussion.) My first impression of her was an anime character—a pixie that could do kick-ass martial arts. Callie also had a hint of a drawl, that she would turn up or down, as needed. Along with a kitschy patchwork quilt given to her by a long-dead aunt, that accent was one of the only artifacts of her Southern childhood.

<<FACT: Callie could always tell when people were trying to, as she said, "figure her out." Unable to assign her a cultural background or ethnicity, someone once asked her, "What are you?" [Yes, really. I was there.] For her part, she delighted in shocking them by cranking up the drawl and declaring "Ah'm 25% Creole, 50% Ah-talian, another 25% who-knows-what, and 100% from N'Awlins." [I think most of this was true. But I'm not sure.]>>

My room was tiny, but private and quiet; an ideal place to work. I quickly observed that, just as with her style and grooming, Callie was fastidious, and kept the rest of the place spotless and neat. In our occasional contacts, always brief, she seemed charming enough—polite and formal, but also bubbly, in that uniquely Southern way. Gradually, I also began to notice that there were periods when I wouldn't see her at all—even in passing—for a week or more at a time. When she was home, it seemed like she shut herself in her room, listening to what I envisioned as a mixtape of very sad songs. (I'd arrived at this conclusion having recognized several that I had catalogued in my own mind, to reflect certain dark emotions.)

After some months, despite the strident disclaimer she had given me before I moved in, our interactions became more frequent and less formal, and we actually started to become friends. Callie, which was short for Calliope [whoa!], was one of the most interesting people I ever had met (after you, of course). Like you, she talked about important stuff (politics, spirituality, art, sexuality). She listened to music I'd never heard before, bleached and dyed parts of her hair, wore vibrant red lipstick paired with intense black mascara and eyeliner, and had a seemingly endless stock of cool, vintage clothes. (See, Ronnie Spector!) A few of her more revealing tops also let the world know that she had a tattoo, located on her upper chest. (She was the first person I actually knew who had one—it depicted a black heart pierced by a dagger, with a single drop of shockingly red blood dripping from its tip.)

Calliope was about five years older (and 20 years wiser) than me—a young, wannabe artist/writer. She became a bit of a teacher and a muse (as I suspected she had been to other people as well). Over time, I mapped out that we each seemed to have a few friends and colleagues with whom we hung out now and then, and both dated people now and then, but that we also gravitated toward an odd, cute form of domesticity. We had really bonded over my first disastrous attempt to make vinaigrette, about which Callie declared "Man, Ah feel bad for the poor salad who gets drownded in that. Lemme help you." I couldn't refuse.

We soon discovered that we also liked having a glass of wine, or a beer, and watching sci-fi movies, and "hah-brow foreign films," as she called them, in the tiny living room where she had set up a small TV and VCR. And if I fell asleep—as I frequently did—watching a movie on the large, threadbare couch [which Callie had rescued from the trash, of course], she would cover me with the old quilt, and quietly retire to her room. Weeks and, eventually, months passed.