Don't Ever Love an Alpha

"Yes."

Button, zipper, I crouched and got one hand on pants and shorts at his hip, and the other on my plain white undies. I hauled them all down. I felt moisture at my crotch, and flexed against it. Much weirder was the moisture in my mouth, as I looked at Joe's uncut prick.

I wanted to suck it.

I had never before wanted to suck a cock, it had been something I was willing to do, a few times. Other times, I was relieved that I didn't have to.

This was just a penis, thickening but not yet erect. Nothing special about it. But it was attached to Joe.

I opened wide.

He didn't scape. There was musky hair everywhere, which didn't stop me from licking shaft and balls, getting the point of the tongue inside the foreskin, which enlarged him.

An Alpha doesn't have to be hung huge. He knows what to do with whatever he has.

I stayed at his crotch, despite his mumbled offer to sixty-nine. I crouched and kept my mouth on his package. I fingered my clit while I stroked and sucked him. At that moment, I didn't want anything else. My sole purpose in life was to blow Joe. I didn't think about making him cum or impressing him with my technique. I fulfilled some fundamental need of the universe by sucking his dick, while squeezing his balls.

I am FantasyWoman! I thought, baffled by the rogue actions of my body. Spew your load into my mouth, O Man, I pledge to swallow it all, while cumming on my own fingers! You need do nothing more, your orgasm is the source of my ecstasy!

And I got his orgasm, his putz flexing past my tongue. I didn't taste the cum, everything went down my gullet. Raw-dogging myself didn't even hurt (at the time, but it did later).

I took a dominant role in a sex act, to make myself submissive.

I couldn't make sense of that. The closest I got was: He's an Alpha. MY Alpha!

From Joe, there wasn't any You-didn't-have-to-do-that. He had probably picked up on how freaked out I was, and deduced (accurately) that saying that would have made me feel even stupider. Instead, he stroked my hair and said, in a dreamlike tone, "That was sooo great. Thank you."

Which, damn him, was exactly the right thing to say. Crush had accomplished something, and now there was no chance that this meta-self would go away.

The hands closed on my shoulders and lifted gently. I went where the hands wanted me to go, and stood up straight.

Joe nuzzled the hair at my left temple. "You smell so nice," he whispered, with the advantage of being nowhere near my mouth.

His hands met at the top button of my blouse. "May I?" he asked.

My nipples wanted to shred the fabric, and I have a small clothing budget. "Please do," I said, and felt like I really was a desirable woman, despite this not being one of my life goals.

I felt an unearthly calm as he finished stripping me. Within that calm, my rational mind hoped that what would happen next would hurt horribly, and we'd both know that it should never happen again.

No such luck.

***

We walked hand in hand to a bedroom. This was clearly his choice, for us to act as equals and treat each other accordingly. He probably could have carried me there under one arm.

"Is your skin sensitive?" he asked as we lay on the bed, on our sides.

"It is," I returned, my rational mind surprised that it could provide useful data.

He held up a batch of fabric squares. After a blink I saw that some were washcloths, others maybe just cut-out remnants, of different materials and textures.

One was the same as my personal rubout helper, except green to my tan.

Saying nothing, I made a point of feeling four items before holding up the green one and saying, "I like this."

The little warm feeling was now bigger and warmer. The notion that Joe had somehow watched me masturbate, in what I've always thought of as privacy, should have creeped me out more than it did. The rational mind, however, thought that was irrational.

Joe deflected the unspoken subject with a smile. "I've been told that my hide is too rough to be enjoyable."

I slid one of my legs along his and asked, "How's mine?"

The smile grew. "Delightful."

I allowed that to mean that the time I spent on shaving hadn't gone to waste.

I smiled, at what seemed like a playful, fuck-buddy moment.

But that felt wrong.

I couldn't figure out why. Wasn't a fuck-buddy attitude the best thing for me? Making this tryst superficial, fun, disposable?

I don't know if my confusion showed, and it was quickly vaporized. Joe pulled from the fabric stack another square, this one blue, the same stuff. With one in each hand, he started caressing me.

I moaned.

I had never brought my rubout cloth to a sex session. It was personal, I was a little ashamed of needing it...

One hand on my back the other down my belly to my spreading legs a thrill and no pain my hands clutching his sides my head jerking back something like a grunt and a howl escaping me his glans pushing through the foreskin moving up my thigh my butt jerking to get me flat on my back knees up and wide my juice trickling out lube from his fingers joining it slow smooth parting of labia his heat through the condom meeting mine my throat rasping out nonsense his hands again using the cloths one on each nipple slowly gently like the thrust and retreat all sense of time lost to me—

"May I kiss them?" asked the voice, the voice, as he lifted my nipples with the cloths.

"Yehhhheeahhh!"

And then each breast was kissed and soft-rubbed, in turn, while fucking went on, and on...

I was lying on my back, motionless. There was something going on inside that seemed to be lingering pleasure. Joe lay on his side, watching me. From where I was, I glimpsed his smile. I couldn't see enough to read it as smug, satisfied, or (really?) affectionate.

"What are you looking at?" I mumbled.

"You. I enjoy the sight of you."

"So you're attracted," I said, "to the glazed look of a mouth-breather?" Despite the wisecrack, this didn't feel like a fuck-buddy moment.

"You're going to have to learn," he said, "how to be happy about being happy."

Okay, the smile had to be smug.

Why the hell was I lying on my back, naked, in a lighted room, with a sighted human? My chest couldn't possibly look worse. Two red gummies on a wobbly plain of vanilla pudding.

I had put in too much effort on my appearance to throw it away now. I rolled onto my side, showing off a feminine slope down the ribs to the waist and up the curve of the hip. My breasts took on a little curvature, although towards the mattress.

I put on my glasses, so I could get a real look at him. I think he was trying to admire his work, and I wasn't helping.

I wanted to wipe away that smile, and also I didn't. Crush might have gone comatose, so the rational mind regained control. "You're a man, with everything working for you physically. Congratulations. It may be forty years before your body gets Bad Male Stuff. I'm one of those women with parts that don't work too well already." Couldn't resist sneering. "Especially when it comes to being happy about being happy."

He put a hand on my cheek and said, "Let's just be in the moment."

Oh God! I thought. How can I slug him while I melt into a puddle?

I sighed. Damn me to Hell for that.

I managed not to put my hand on his. Yay, residual sliver of self-respect!

I asked, "Has a woman ever told you about yeast infections?"

That got rid of the smile. At once I continued. "No, we wouldn't have done this if I had one now. But they do happen along. Maybe because of what we just did. When we're in that moment, will you be happy to be happy?"

His look became less phony. It was now serious, with no trace of Oh-no-it's-a-woman-thing. "I get that you're having a problem...with us."

A silent wail echoed in my skull. Noooo! Don't be reasonable, Joe! Be selfish and intolerant, it'll be much easier to get over this! And don't call us 'us!'

I sat up, working to balance how I felt, and express it. "I'm the one who has to live in this carcass. I wanted this, with you, and I'm glad it happened. If you're ready to move on to someone else, I'll deal with it." My voice caught on the end of that, and I had to break eye contact.

"No, Ginny!" I hadn't heard the voice take that tone before. Crush tried to wake up. "We've barely met! There's so much more about you that I want to learn, and experience."

I had an impulse to curl up in that bed and stay there for the rest of my life. Somehow I fought it off.

"We both know this isn't going to last," I said with a smile, and the wisdom of an inexperienced 25-year-old. "Let's have our fun until it runs out."

He smiled back, maybe in relief for how little of his life I would occupy. "There are many kinds of love," he said. "I'm eager to find ours."

Almost in a daze, I got up and headed for a bathroom. When I emerged, he was in a bathrobe, and holding up a hanger with my clothes.

If I really meant what I'd said, this would have been a pleasant fling.

By the time I was home, I knew that if I was going to get over Joe easily, the process hadn't started yet.

***

Aside from the thrills and strangeness, I had a detached curiosity about how the tryst would affect the other aspects of my life. At work on Wednesday, I felt pretty much the same as I always did, and I seemed to be just as efficient. Thoughts of Joe seemed to compartmentalize. I took this as a good sign.

It was the only one.

That night at improv class, I was lousy.

I couldn't keep track of scenes or characters. I forgot all about how to carry myself on stage. I interrupted people, but went blank when I was fed a promising line. After three scenes, none with Benjy, I begged off for the rest of the night.

During a break, Benjy got close enough to ask quietly, "Something wrong?"

"No," I said, bottling up annoyance. "A good reminder to keep my day job."

"Need to talk?"

"No!"

That was heard by at least ten people.

The next morning I e-mailed Benjy an apology, with no elaboration.

That afternoon, Joe e-mailed me, asking about weekend plans. My productivity plummeted.

We agreed on which party to attend. He was okay with us arriving separately. I was okay with us leaving together.

At the party, we didn't display affection in public. He could tell that I wouldn't be comfortable with that. We had some public displays of exclusive proximity (if that's A Thing), to indicate a level of togetherness. I was even a little nervous about them, but I also wanted them to last longer.

Most of the night, I was kind of a mess, in ways I couldn't understand. I made myself mingle with other people.

Benjy was there. A few times, we shared glances.

At one point, Joe was in a conversation group that included Fran, who was intelligent and witty. She was also outgoing, friendly, and didn't take herself too seriously.

She was also curvy, cute, and three inches taller than me.

The discussion topic didn't interest me, so I moved on.

A minute later, I realized that I didn't know what the topic was.

I got more coffee.

At this party, of course, Topic #1 was Joe-with-Me, but only one person addressed it out loud.

Sandra, working on what I guessed was at least her second Long Island Iced Tea, fixed me with something too fuzzy to be a glare. "What are you giving him?" she muttered. "Is it ass? That's really all you've got. Do you twerk on him?"

Fortunately, a guy named Darrell stepped up and took her by the arm, saying, "Let's walk it off, okay?"

As I watched them thread through a crowd, I realized that the women in Sandra's club all seemed to have male enablers now. Betas, I guess.

I closed my eyes. I really, really didn't want to see Benjy right then.

Joe sidled up to me a few minutes later, and we stayed in proximity for a while. Joe chatted people up. Mostly I smiled.

At no time did I get angry at Sandra or curious about anal sex with Joe. Those non-events may have been my high points of the evening.

Later still, I saw Joe in a group of five. He and Fran were the only ones talking.

I turned, telling myself, Let's walk it off, okay?

Of course Joe would go after Fran. Maybe he already had, before I was in the picture. From some part of me I didn't recognize, resentment sought to flare up against a woman I barely knew and had nothing against. I thought, Who the Hell am I? Is this what so-called love does to otherwise decent people?

A few minutes later, I found a moment when I was able to catch Joe's eye and angle my head at someplace-other-than-here. He gave me a slight nod and, after another few minutes, he returned to my proximity and we made the rounds for good-byes.

I stayed the night. The sex was calmer, with talking about what we liked and disliked. Oral was only foreplay, and I rode him cowgirl. The sex was satisfying for us both, at that time painless for me, and orchestrated by him.

It wasn't until morning that I came out with, "How many kinds of love were there at the party?"

Which set him off on a long, earnest declaration that he never wanted to hurt me and would make sure to respect my feelings and wishes.

He did not set a time frame.

I wasn't mollified by the little warm feeling I got. But I also couldn't get rid of it.

***

Look, I can't keep this up, not at this level of detail. Even working on this in stages is getting me down. I'll have to leave some things out. I'll try to bring in the important stuff, along with moments that don't bother me much.

I was able to get my job focus back the way it should be, by getting Joe to call or message me only outside of working hours. He may have been fine with that, to keep his own work from being interrupted by his chick.

Yes, I was his chick. He was never my guy. Neither of us addressed this, but I knew that was how it was.

The next Wednesday, Benjy asked me to join him for a quick dinner, between the end of work and the start of improv. We met at a booth-and-counter place that was more my speed than anything with valet parking.

I told Benjy what he already knew, that I was involved with Joe. I then delivered my best performance of the night, describing a reality that I didn't believe but had at least rehearsed.

"You could say that I'm getting this out of my system," I said, aiming for both self-deprecation and confidence. "When it's done I can go back to being me."

"Maybe it'll stay in your system," said Benjy, again with his lawyerly detachment. "Have you ever thought that you might be an Alpha too?"

I bristled. "Don't be ridiculous. I'm plain folks."

He smirked. "You insist that there are Alphas, and there are the rest, all clearly defined, and you never go from one to the other. Maybe you've advanced."

"Do I have to list everything that's wrong with me? No Alpha is allergic to gluten."

Despite this byplay, that night I was again bad at improv. Even when Benjy got me into a scene and clearly fed me obvious set-up lines. I just couldn't get my head into what was going on. I couldn't access my creativity.

***

Having exchanged information about our work and, to a limited extent, lives, Joe and I moved on to our hobbies. He insisted on watching me at improv class. Surprising me not at all, I was even worse during that session, and to a casual observer (if one existed), Joe's support and cheering for me made me look totally pathetic. I got through these couple hours in the belief that our time alone would salvage the evening, which it did.

Two nights later, Joe took me to the 9th Street Chess Club, of which he is a member (and is, of course, on the Board of the nonprofit that operates it). I made myself take in stride the fact that Fran is also a member. There were, in fact, some other people there I recognized from the party circuit. One or two had sent me unrequested messages, weeks earlier. So my presence there would create new messages.

I'm not a chess newbie. I got into three games, against strangers, and won two. I stayed out of the main action there, however, which was in speed chess. I saw no reason to seek even more anxiety than my baseline when I was around Joe.

I watched as Joe took down seven challengers, finally losing to the club's main grandmaster candidate, a sullen denizen of the autistic spectrum who seemed to take no pleasure in his victory. Joe was, of course, gracious in defeat, winning in the larger contest of life.

Fran won a fair number of games, thriving on the speed and seeking the quickest clock slaps. She seemed to take as much pleasure in her losses as in her wins, chatting throughout, with her opponents and kibitzers.

Somehow I bottled up all of my increasing envy.

There was a coffee bar, with a French press operated by someone who knew what she was doing. My mocha hazelnut was really good. I mention this because that favorable memory helps me get through this next part.

Fran got on the stool at the bar next to mine. She asked, "Is there any chance that we can be friends?"

I looked at her. There might have been empathy in her expression, but I barely knew her.

"I guess there could be a chance," I said, hoping I didn't sound bitter. "Maybe in a universe where there's no Joe Calderone."

She chuckled. "Ah, but wouldn't that be a sad universe?"

I wanted to give up, right then. Fran was obviously Next, and might already be Now, shunting me to Sandra's club. The awful self I had lately developed wanted to despise Fran, but she gave me no justification.

"I'm not blind, or stupid," I told her. "Except that I thought I'd be okay with this being short-term. But I'm not."

Fran picked up her whipped-cream-topped coffee. "Same here." She took a sip, getting a napkin to wipe cream from her nose. "You're prettier than I am. I think the best option is to change the game."

I took a sip of my own, yielding the floor to her. Damn good coffee.

"Naomi was closer than anyone. Got him to sign a lease with her. If Joe thought she wasn't enough, what is?"

Despite even more anxiety I said, "You already have an answer."

"I do. At least, something that's worth a try. Probably my best and only chance."

"I guess I should wish you luck with it." I wondered if I could get through the night alone. Or any other night.

She leaned closer, and glanced across the bar. Seeing no one nearby, she said, "That chance...requires a friend."

I think my eyes popped.

"If all goes well," Fran continued, "Nobody loses."

I didn't know why this wasn't in my catalog of worst-case scenarios.

It was there now. My shaky hand set the coffee cup on the bar.

"High risk, high reward," Fran added, looking less relaxed.

"Whose trial balloon is this?" I said in a hoarse whisper. "Yours or his?"

She sat upright. "I think for myself, Ginny."

"Good to know," I said, standing.

As if nothing had happened, Joe took me to the place where he had programmed the drapes to respond to his voice command.

Our time alone did not salvage my evening.

***

I have nothing against other people doing that, or trying. If they can make it work, good for them. I just know, at my innermost core, that this would change me back into a wallweed, forever. No matter what my supposedly significant others do to convince me otherwise.

Is it so selfish of me to want to be the only one, for one other person?

***

After that, I almost zombie-walked through the next several days, knowing it had to end, unable to make myself take the initiative.

I got a yeast infection. Joe insisted on us catching a movie, saying "Let's just be together." He seemed to go out of his way to hug and smile and be close and, he probably thought, supportive. This just made me feel like a burden, even as I lapped up the attention, and the warm feeling.