One-Summer Stand

Well shit, was all I could muster up in thought. And here I had been doing my best to try to avoid Lucy—and Lamont, for that matter.

* * * *

Lucy lay on her back on the bed in the back bedroom of Andre Bouchard's beach cottage, in the bedroom toward the ocean, beyond sea grass-covered sand dunes. She was fully open to me, naked, her arms stretched over her head, her hands gripping the top brass rail of the headboard, and her hips raised on the pillows stuffed under the small of her back. Her sighs and little gasps were mixed with the night sound of the surf rolling up on the beach and also of the sounds of me, kneeling between her spread legs, devouring her sweet little brown body as I moved down from her lips, to her throat, over her pert breasts, down the line of her torso, licking at her belly button, nipping at her belly, and then down, down, down, into her snatch. My tongue played in the folds of her surgically provided slit. My teeth went to the vestigial penis at the top of the folds, and I inhaled it into my mouth. The fingers of my right hand rubbed her folds, and, as she cried out, entered her. My left hand was under her, palming her tailbone, my thumb entering her ass and fingerfucking her while I feasted on her cunt.

She writhed under me, panting and groaning, moaning and begging for the cock. Her fingers were dug into the hair on my head, holding my face close into her crotch, grinding her hips against my relentless tonguing and nipping and sucking, until, writhing under me, she gave a little cry, came, and collapsed.

Then and only then, I rose over her, hovering over her, spreading her folds with two fingers, opening her up for the thickness of me. She pushed her cunt up into my hand.

"Do it, do it," she pleaded.

I put the head of my sheathed erection in place, between my fingers, thrust up inside her, and fucked her and fucked her and fucked her.

After our heaving bodies calmed and cooled, I turned my attention to Lamont.

"Oh, baby, baby," he murmured as I turned him onto his belly, mounted his ass from on top and behind, glided my arms up his to grasp his wrists at the brass headboard, thrust up inside him, and fucked him in the ass.

I had spent the evening with him at the Cherrie's club. He'd done his Diana Ross act there and, as before, had been terrific. Afterward, he come out in the audience and sat with me.

"That act is really too good for the club here," I said. "Why aren't you back at Club 1 in Savannah and performing tonight."

"I lost my apartment there," he said. "The place was condemned and I got tossed out. It will take me time to find something else in Savannah I can afford. Meanwhile, I have friends here. Those you saw playing volleyball this afternoon. They're all performers here and rent a large communal house. I'll be back in Savannah when I can find someplace to live there."

"Did Bouchard tell you I was coming here this weekend and ask you to guide me?"

"Yes."

"And to seduce me again?"

"Yes."

"I've been avoiding you."

"I've noticed," Lucy said.

"Maybe not for the reason you think," I said. "You've challenged me. I have this strict one-and-done policy. It protects me."

"Maybe someday you will decide you no longer need that protection," she said. "Andre told me about your policy."

"But he set up us even though he knew we'd fucked once already."

"Yes. I begged him to. I don't have a one-and-done policy. I'm sorry that you do."

There was silence between us during which I did some mental processing. I wasn't getting any younger. Eventually, Lucy broke the silence. "I'm not a morning person. Andre wants me to bring you back to the club when it isn't open so that you can go over what we have here. When in the early afternoon should I come by his beach cottage for you?"

"Why don't you come back to the cottage and spend the night with me? We can then return here when we're both ready too."

"Are you saying?"

"Yes. I want to fuck you again."

"And about your one-night-stand policy?"

"Maybe we'll stretch it to a one-summer-stand policy. I don't know. I'm too weak now to think straight on that."

"And too much in heat for Lucy's snatch."

I laughed. "Yes, too much in heat for Lucy's cunt and Lamont's ass. I want them both."

And that's what I did—again and again—take Lucy in the cunt and Lamont in the ass. Sometime in the darkness of the night, when Lucy had rolled off my body after a fuck, I murmured, "If you want to come back to Savannah, you can stay with me until you find a new apartment."

"But your policy," she whispered. "You've decided to change it?"

"This is sexy Savannah. There's no reason that a one-night-stand here couldn't play out as a one-summer stand. I'm just here for the summer. There's no pressure for it to go beyond the summer."

* * * *

The first two weeks of December were hectic in New York, but everything was ready now. The reopening of the Gaiety Theater, relocated from Broadway to Chelsea, and featuring glitzy all-male dance revues, had been gossiped about ever since shortly after I'd returned to the city from my summer in Savannah. I'd come back with a lot of ideas—and a couple of play scripts, both of which had been optioned and one of which was in production on Off Off Broadway. Some of the ideas were for gay male strip line revues, though, and one of those had been for a Christmas program.

I'd hooked up almost immediately with an old production friend, Cliff Taggert, who had leased an empty theater in Chelsea, and the rest was just racing to get everything done for a Christmas show.

The last dress—or undressing—rehearsal for the Christmas show had been this afternoon and, for the first time in weeks, I was free for the evening. This called for a small party, I thought—and maybe there would be an opportunity to put up a tree this year. It would have to be a small one, because, although my apartment was convenient to everything, it was the size of a postage stamp.

But, what the hell, it was Christmas. A tree was in order. I'd have lights and an ornament for all the years I'd been in New York—my family had made sure of that—but I'd never before had an opportunity or the motivation to put one up. Two productions on stage for Christmas—the Off Off Broadway play and this male dance revue. I was on my way.

I found a three-and-a-half-foot tree that wasn't too bushy after stopping for a bottle of bubbly—for that small party—and went home.

I could smell dinner cooking as I opened the door to the apartment. And there she was, decked out in a long, slinky, clinging shift covered with silver sequins, but standing in the kitchen, preparing a meal.

"You haven't changed," I said. "You were great in rehearsal. That was Eartha Kitt, wasn't it—a new impersonation?"

"Yes, doll, that was Eartha Kitt," Lucy said, coming close in to me, working her way between the tree and champagne bottle I was holding. "I didn't have time to change after returning from the dress rehearsal at the Gaiety," she said. "Had to get our supper on. You mentioned something about a small party here this evening."

"Yes, as small as it gets," I said, putting the tree and bottle down, embracing her, and going in for a kiss as I unzipped the back of her dress. "Just you and me."

I was thirty-eight. By the end of the summer in Savannah I had realized that I'd had enough of one-night—or even one-summer—stands.