One-Summer Stand

"Only ones too small to stay in," she answered.

It wasn't long before I realized that Andre Bouchard had left us but that champagne continued to be brought to the table. Not long after that, she asked me if I'd seen any of the other clubs and I answered that I had not. Did I dance? When I had to to get where I wanted to go, I answered.

She took me to the nearby Savannah Smiles Dueling Piano gay- and trans-friendly nightclub, where we shimmied against each other on a crowded floor to rocking piano music, backed up by a bass fiddle. Other patrons stared at us and gave us space. I could tell that they thought we were an attractive couple.

"It's crowded here tonight," she blew into my ear. "Want to do somewhere else?"

"Yes, please."

"Is there someplace you want to go?"

"Yes. My place. It's just a few blocks away, at Barnard and Liberty."

"I thought you'd never ask," she said, with a laugh.

My sex education was complete. On my living room couch, I experienced fucking Lucy, a T-girl, for the first time. On my bed later I was able to enjoy fucking the young black guy, Lamont, in the ass. Even later I gave up to control to both Lucy and Lamont, as both rode me in a cowboy, I enjoyed her/him both ways, and I played with her luscious tits.

It was, as Andre Bouchard promised, an exhilarating experience. I had a strict one-night-stand policy. Lucy/Lamont, though, left me regretting that and knowing I'd have to work hard to resist the newly established pull of the transgendered.

* * * *

I tried working through the morning—I had a session to go to at the Book Gift Shop on E. Gordon, famous as being the headquarters for programs on the bestselling Savannah murder-mystery book, Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil, in the afternoon. I had been asked to speak there about how one became a playwright—but I couldn't concentrate on the writing. I'd taken my pen and paper out to the long balcony across the back of the building that my apartment had access to. I didn't use them to jot down play ideas, though. As was often the case, my fallback doodling that sometimes resulted in set designs I could use, I sketched rather than wrote. And what I sketched was Lucy, as I was able to remember her.

It hit me as I languidly sketched, that I needed a bottle of Tylenol and more toothpaste. Abandoning the failed attempt to work, I dressed and walked over to the CVS drugstore on Bull Street. Gathering my supplies, I found myself going to the pharmacy counter rather than to the front of the store to buy them. Subconsciously I knew I was acting on having heard about who worked there.

Lucy was there—or rather Lamont today. He recognized me immediately and gave me a glorious smile as he rung me up—and rang my chimes, I must say. He touched my hand for a moment longer with his than necessary as he gave the bagged items and change back to me. We didn't say anything. I just smiled sheepishly back at him and turned and left. I'd been wondering all day about how demanding I'd been with Lucy the previous night and whether she resented me not waking up when she left. But Lamont's smile told me we were good.

I told myself that I was just buying drug store supplies I needed. Then I told myself I was just checking to ensure he—or she—was OK. No, I didn't usually do that with my one-night stands. But this one had been different. So very, very different.

The program manager for the bookstore was a young, intense, trim, and good-looking guy named Ted Danforth. Six turned up to hear me speak, and they asked questions. So, I was satisfied. How many were around any given place who were interested in playwrighting anyway?

Ted must have been disappointed and concerned for me with the turnout, though. He flitted around, apologizing, and pressing the six to try to fluff themselves up to be a bigger, more enthusiastic flock. As some sort atonement, he invited me for a coffee at the Goose Feather's Café on Banard, not far from my apartment. I could tell he was gay. I also could tell that he was aroused by me.

I knew what he wanted. After the talk, he'd said, "I want to show you something," and he pulled a glossy coffee table book out from under his counter that I recognized.

I laughed. "Where did you come up with that?" I asked.

"We have a small room in the back that sells gay literature," he said. "I want to make sure that this is you."

It was a photobook on gay porn movies from fifteen years earlier. "Yes, that's me," I said. The two photos of me revealed all that I was at that time. Time had matured my musculature a bit, but it hadn't changed my endowment. It was then that he asked me if we could go for coffee and prolong our connection.

"That—that photo—doesn't scare you off?" I asked.

"No, I have a fetish for that," he said. I admitted I had a fetish for one-night stands myself, and with that understanding he closed the shop and we went for coffee.

As we were sitting at a table outside the café, Lamont walked by and our eyes met. I smiled and he smiled.

Later, in my apartment, as Ted lay, naked, on his back on my bed, his eyes opened wide and his mouth in a wide yawn, and I hovered over him, holding his ankles, raising and spreading his ankles, and crouching between his thighs, feeding my porn-actor-quality cock inside him, and giving him the one-time-stand fuck I knew he had wanted since meeting and talking to me in the bookstore, discovering I was a playwright, and begging me to do a program at the store. He didn't want my program as much as he wanted my cock. And he got my cock big time. He quivered and moaned under me, whining that I was killing him, but not asking me to stop—obviously not wanting me to stop until I had stretched him to the limit and slayed him.

I don't know what Ted was thinking of other than the size of what he was sheathing while I was fucking him, but I surprised and concerned myself—I was thinking of fucking Lucy/Lamont instead.

* * * *

The next two weeks I threw myself into the effort to make significant progress on the play I was working on. I didn't only do so because my thoughts of something more than one time with the T-girl Lucy/Lamont, thinking as much of the conversation and just being with her as about the intriguing sex kept bugging me. I was here, spending big bucks I didn't need to to see if a remoted sabbatical could get my writing moving. I needed to give that a chance.

But while thinking of the playwriting and trying not to think about Lucy/Lamont I also was giving some thought to Andre Bouchard's proposal to freshen my perspective of sex revue design by working with something quirky—not just girlie shows or Chippendales revues but maybe drag queen programs. Thus, when Andre Bouchard visited me at the Liberty Street apartment with a more concrete proposal, I listened to him.

"I haven't seen you at Club 1 since that one time," he said. "I hoped you'd visit a couple of times and maybe work up some ideas for me in your mind."

"I'm not really all that interested in Club 1," I said. "Too big and glitzy as a place for me to start thinking program design." I didn't want to admit the truth. I was afraid I'd see Lucy there and succumb—that I'd be stripped of my one-night-stand policy.

"No problem. I understand. I have a place out at Tybee Island," he said, persisting. Tybee Island was a beachfront town where those from Savannah went to get their taste of the ocean. "I have a small club there with a drag queen show. Come stay at my place for a weekend there, take a look at the show, and maybe do something small for me there—to get your toes in the water on designing revues like that."

"I'll think about it," I said. And I did think about it and arranged to visit over a weekend in July.

In the meantime, I'd gone two weeks without sex, which was a long time for me. And although I'd gotten off to a good start in working on the play, Bouchard's visit had channeled some of my thoughts off into revue and set design and the lack of sexual release was making me tense.

I abandoned the apartment for a bench in the extensive nearby Forsyth Park, where I could sit and dream and either make notes or sketch on a sketch pad I had with me. I also could watch the activity in the park, and being who and what I was, I focused on the young men who went through the park.

My attention went to one who didn't go through, but, rather, lingered. He had a reason to do so. He was maintaining the flowerbeds around the fountain my bench faced. He was a handsome young man. I determined he was of mixed heritage, but what arrested my attention was that it wasn't the black-white mix that was prevalent in this area. Instead of black, he had Asian blood in him. I couldn't decide whether it was Chinese or Japanese or Korean—I wasn't experienced in whatever the differences there were in those ethnic groups—but looking at him to consider that idea made me see and appreciate the beauty of him more fully. He wasn't just a handsome and well-muscled young man, but he also moved with fluid, dancing movements.

I wondered what doing an Asian would be like.

Watching him gave me ideas, and I found I was weaving elements of a male revue—not the drag queen one Bouchard wanted, but one that would work well in one of the Asian sections of New York where there was a bathhouse I did some work with.

The effort I put in to noticing him was reciprocated. He couldn't help but see that I was giving him attention and he gave me attention in return. His check of the flowerbeds between me and the fountain became a need to weed the garden and we were there for two hours or more, communicating interest without voicing it or putting action to it.

I returned the next day and so did he—David Lu. He made the approach and I soon knew his name.

"I haven't seen you out here before—doing whatever you're doing there. Drawing something?"

I looked up to see him standing before me, luscious in shorts and a half T, showing killer abs.

"I live nearby—for the summer," I answered. "I'm a playwright. I found I was feeling stifled in the apartment and came out here to think and write yesterday. It worked well enough that I came back. You work on the gardens here, do you? It's never-ending work I suppose."

"It's good work," he said. "It helps keep the body toned."

"I can see that," I answered. Was this the start of a hookup, I wondered. Was there something about me that got them going this fast. If so, that was fine with me. I hadn't had it for more than two weeks and I was hornier than hell. And this young man was one delicious little piece.

"And working outside is healthy . . . and I sometimes get to meet interesting people . . . like you."

"Interesting people or something more than that?" I asked, putting the sketch pad on the bench beside me, spreading my legs, and giving him a good look.

"Not just people. Men. Really good-looking men. And attractive, attracting more than just interesting."

"Men like—?"

"Like you, yes. I hope I'm not embarrassing you or making you uncomfortable. We aren't supposed to get familiar with people coming into the park."

"No, no. It's fine. I admit that I'm in a mood for it." It was evident he was staying on the beam with me on this. He looked around to see if anyone was watching and he took a couple of more steps toward me.

"It that what you were doing with that sketchbook?" he asked. "You were making notes for a play."

"Not exactly."

"Can I see?"

"I'm not sure if you should."

"Why not?"

"It may be too forward. It may suggest leading to something, well . . ."

"Let me see. Please."

I picked the sketchbook up and turned it toward him to show what I had been working on while he was crouching between my bench and the fountain, working in a flowerbed. The sketch was complete. I was a good artist. I was a set designer. I caught his likeness well and there was no doubt he'd be able to recognize that it was of him—in the nude. This was the danger point. Where would it go from there?

"That's me. Naked," he said.

"Yes."

"It's good. You're really good."

"I could be," I said.

"But . . . I'm afraid to say it."

"Afraid to say what?"

"I think it will mean you're not interested."

"Try me," I said.

"The sketch isn't anatomically correct, I'm afraid. It will turn you off, but I'm trans—and transformed. I don't have what you have sketched me as having. Sorry. I can just go back to—"

"No, that's fine with me. There's another sketch. It isn't finished, but I can rework it. Give me a minute." A minute was all I needed. After I'd made the change, I said, "I don't know, though, if you want—"

"Let me see it, please," he said, and when I turned the page so he could see it, he sucked in air.

"Oh," was all he could initially say.

The sketch was of both of us, both of us naked—me sitting on this bench and him, David, in my lap, facing me, hands gripping my biceps, leaning back with a look of ecstasy on his face, and saddled on my buried cock. It was a cunt I was buried in. I had redrawn him with a change in equipment.

Tearing his gaze away from the sketch, he looked around us, his attention landing on a brick garden shed not too far away, with heavy bushes surrounding it on three sides. I let my gaze follow his.

"You do it for men, don't you?" I asked. "Over there, in the bushes, by the shed? You let men come into the park and take you over there and fuck you. Men who have a fetish for T-girls."

"Yes," he said.

"For money."

"Yes."

"You'll take my cock for $200?" I asked. "Both ways, if I want."

"Yes."

"I'd rather take you back to my apartment. It's not too far away. Can you get off work?"

"Yes."

"Make no mistake. Just this once. I just do it once with a guy."

"OK."

It was getting past the noon hour by the time he'd cleaned up and clocked out. We stopped on the way back to my apartment at Mrs. Wilke's Dining Room on West Jones Street for late lunch. I told him to load up on food, as we'd probably not break for dinner.

We didn't break for dinner. He was a delight in bed, taking it like a champ, starting with the missionary position on my bed, with him on his back, his ankles on my shoulders, my hands gripping his hips and rolling his pelvis up to me, penetrating him deep and fucking, fucking, fucking him—first in the cunt and then changing to the ass.

It was fuck, recover by drinking beer, watching porn in the living room, and fondling each other, fuck, recover, and repeat, until we both drifted off into an exhausted sleep. Sometime in the night I woke to hear him, across the living room, in the bathroom shower. I feigned sleep as he slipped back into the bedroom, dressed, took the $300 I'd put on the dresser top for him, and let himself out of the apartment.

He'd heard me about the one-night stand and that was OK with him.

It had been a good release for us both and the sex had been quite fine. Fucking an Asian was interesting—as was fucking a T-girl—but, though exotic, and though he knew some positions I hadn't tried before, there was nothing I found that unusual in doing an Asian. He was well fucked. He opened up for a big one as well as any other young man did for me, although, like most, he acted like I was splitting him while clutching me and not showing any desire that I stop.

Whenever we'd reached a juncture where he could have thought I might suggest seeing each other again, I'd shut that down with an "It's great, but one and done—that's my way." He'd gotten the message. He hadn't asked for my number or given me his. He probably hadn't even retained my name. And, although, he knew where I lived now, I didn't expect him to show up here again, and he didn't. I stopped going to Forsyth Park, sticking to the closer, smaller Pulaski and Orleans squares. I found I could design in my mind and write and sketch in my book on benches there just as well as in the larger park with its David Lu distraction.

Sticking to a one-night-stand policy seemed to be getting more and more difficult—and fucking one guy but thinking about Lucy/Lamont was getting tedious. I had thought that doing another fully transformed T-girl would cure me of Lucy/Lamont, but it didn't.

* * * *

Tybee Island, twenty miles and a thirty-minute drive away, is the closest ocean beach from Savannah. I agreed to meet Andre Bouchard there on a Friday to take in the current transvestite revue at his club, Cherrie's, on Butler Avenue, the island resort's main street, and then to go back on Saturday for a fuller inspection of what was there and, perhaps, to start to design a couple of new revues for the club. I didn't plan to spend much effort on this, but I had a lot of formulas available that I'd used before. It was just a matter of mix and match, with an eye on the crossdressing aspect. At the last minute, though, Bouchard couldn't leave Savannah and dropped off the keys with me to his house on the island.

"It's the last house toward the ocean on 18th Place, nearly at the far end of the island," he said. "It has direct access to the ocean. Take a suit and enjoy the beach before going to the club."

"The club. How will they know—?"

"I'll have someone from the club pick you up at 8:00 pm take you to dinner and then to the club. They'll get you into the club on Saturday too."

His house was a small bungalow. He was right that it sided up right to a broad beach. I was ready for sand, sun, and water when I got to Tybee Island, so I went out on the beach. It was late afternoon and there weren't many on the beach, but there were two couples who had set up a volleyball net and were playing, one couple against the other. They were all strikingly good looking, young, and in great physical shape.

I dipped in the water, nodding to them in passing and getting smiles in return. I was wearing a skimpy Speedo myself and knew I looked damn good for my age. I strutted and they ogled They all looked a bit familiar to me, but I reasoned they couldn't be, as I hadn't really circulated much since I'd arrived in Savannah.

I went back to my beach towel, laid out on my back, and dozed off. The next thing I knew, I woke up quite a bit later than when I laid down. The shadows were long on the guard tower not far from where I was stretched out. And I almost immediately realized that I woke up because someone had laid a hand on my belly.

"You need to wake up, Mark. You've been out on the beach too long. You'll be a lobster—boiled—if you stay out much longer."

The voice was familiar—and so was the face, I realized, as I came too. It was a woman—one of the volleyball players. But then I realized it wasn't—that that it wasn't one of the volleyball players, it was—that it only sometimes, like now, was a woman.

"Lucy?" I asked, being enough in it to have picked the right name for the moment. But was I really awake? Why was I meeting up with Lucy/Lamont out here on an ocean beach a half hour away from Savannah? I'd done my best to avoid this.

"Yes," she said, as I struggled to sit up. "I saw you come out on the beach. I was playing volleyball with some of the dancers from the troupe."

"Dancers from the troupe? What are you doing here away from Savannah?" And then, before she could answer, I accounted for myself. I didn't want her to think I was following her. I had a reason to be here. "I'm staying at Andre Bouchard's beach house—over there—he asked me to come here and look at the club he has here with the thought of designing some new revues for the entertainers."

"I know all that. I know Andre has a house and club here. He rotates dancers and singers in and out of his club, Cherrie's, here and the clubs in Savannah. I'm here this weekend. I knew you were coming out to look at the club and write some new revues too. Andre asked me to pick you up at the house at 8:00 today, take you to dinner, and then take you to the club tonight and tomorrow."