The Dreams of Men

BOB:

I think we're in tune with this whole sex business. I sense we're in tune. O sweet cliché! Third date's the money date. I feel your compliance – okay, you're eventual compliance. You are here, aren't you? You are waiting for me, in the other room, anticipating my arrival, with longing and desire. Or so it seems to me.

"Do you want olive or a lemon twist?"

"Lemon!"

Lemon? You want lemon? Never trust anyone he doesn't drink coffee or take a martini with a lemon peel, you said. Yes, you said so yourself. What is your meaning? Do I care about your meaning, I mean, more than I care about the moist and sloppy inside of your left cheek? O God! To slip my cockhead in there and nestle for eternity. To see your cheek bulging from my head, your eyes a picture of submission.

No wait, first I'll put an ice cube in that corner of your mouth, and then my head. Or should I put the ice on my head and then my head in that boiling pocket of flesh? Yes, it's that contrast thing. Wait... Or I'll ask you what you prefer? Maybe... In any case, I'll bring the shaker out to the den with me, filled with ice, and if it ever comes to pass that we need it . . . well, there it is, ready to go, ice for your mouth.

Oh, that isn't too obvious! A shaker-full of ice for no reason. Oh please, Bob, some originality.

Wait, I'll leave a little martini left over in the shaker. That's a plausible explanation for having the shaker with me.

But first I have to make the damn things.

"Oh what a happy sound! Ice rattling in cold stainless steel!" you say.

"I'm with you on that one, Wendy!"

"Show me a man who doesn't weep for joy at the sound of a martini being made and I'll show you a man who's not an alcoholic," you say, and I laugh, authentically.

You show true wit, more wit than I've come to expect from my partners. (I hope I'm not too presumptuous to call you "partner"...) You had me with your beauty, you don't need to add wit to the mix. If you do, I might fall in love with you.

To be honest, you had me when you were born into your gender.

Okay, I'm not that desperate.

Maybe I am.

No, I have some standards.

My point is that you're way way way above my minimum standards for indulging in the sex business. I mean that as a compliment.

You say, "Before you come out here with those drinks, Bob: If you can tell me the four non-secret botanicals that go into Tanqueray gin, I'll give you a kiss!"

"Ha! Being an experienced lush I know them quite well already! What are you you trying to tell me? That you're easy?"

And that, friends, is what the French call repartee. Words are the greatest foreplay. Talk, drink, talk, drink, drink, talk, she moistens . . . And then comes that magic moment when the talking finally and thankfully stops and is replaced by the sound of moist flesh smacking and mouths sucking and pained moaning and coarse breathing.

Oh for God's sake finish the fucking drinks and get out there, Bob! You are not going to seduce her from the kitchen. Take the lemon, wipe it on the rim of the glass. (I wonder if we could use this lemon peel later. Shall I run it around the rim of your mouth, followed immediately by my swollen cockhead? Will that be a scene that shall happen to me tonight?) Pour the gin.

"I hope this is worth the wait!" you say.

WENDY:

Your awkwardness is starting to annoy me. I thought it was cute for the first two and a half dates but now it's getting stale. Why are you afraid of me? Am I making a mistake? Why does it matter that I think you're afraid of me?

Because it makes me think you're a coward.

But am I choosing my life's mate here?

Far far from it. I'm not even sure if I'm choosing to spend the rest of the night here . . .

Okay, now you sit down on the same couch as me. You get a few points for that. (You don't how many times you've come so so close to me sliding out the door, leaving you to whack off through your tears.) But a few points deducted for making zero body contact with me. What are you? Haven't you the guts? I'm not going to touch you first, you know. Not that I'm afraid. I've unzipped men for far lesser provocation (not that anything you've done could be consider "provocation"). No, I'm not going to touch you, you need to prove me that you're not afraid.

"Cheers!" you say.

"Down the hatch," I say, trying to hide indifference.

The cold burning liquor, sliding down my throat, image of my confused desire.

"Charlie's wasn't too crowded for a Friday night," you say.

"The college kids are on break."

"Oh right."

Pause. Are we going to talk about some shit all night?

Wendy, ease up. He's a human being, suffering to make his way through this world. Besides, what does Wendy have to say?

Plenty, but not in words.

"When does the break end?" you say.

I'm not even going to answer that!

Before I fall asleep or leave, I think it's time to bring out the Grail.

BOB:

What are you pulling out of your purse? Is that a bowl—

"What is that?" I say.

"This is the Grail," you say. You place it in front of us on the coffee table.

"What the fuck is it?" I say. It is made of murky dark glass and shaped like a bowl, but one so shallow that it couldn't really hold anything. At the base is a thick glass column, raising the bowl a couple inches.

"It's just a really cool piece of glassware," you say. "I found it with great difficulty on the internet. I bought twenty of them."

"Why so many? What do you use it for?"

"You'll see," you say. "Or maybe you'll see. I'm not sure yet."

Was that a pass? What the fuck does the bowl have to do with anything?

WENDY:

Time to move things along.

Shall I shift my ass and touch my thigh to his shy quivering thigh? Naw, too pedestrian. How about the old . . . Yes . . .

I lift this foot here and rest this ankle across the opposite lower thigh. There. With this skirt length I am now flashing an imaginary point directly in front of the couch, showing a full frontal view of my black panty crotch (you can almost smell it). Unfortunately, Bob, you are off to the side of me and can't see the show. You are desperate to have your perceiving consciousness float to the front to that wondrous imaginary point in space where it could see, See the panty show, unabashedly, at its own horny leisure. And then, when the time is right, float your consciousness forward until it is lost within my skirt, and then the darkness of my vulva enfolds you. Oh you can smell it, can't you.

Ah, you peeked at me! I saw that! You looked at my ineptly crossed legs! Yes you did. There may be hope yet that this evening will turn out right. You peeked at my legs, and now you are in pain. And now you must do something about your pain. You so want to resolve your pain somewhere—anywhere—between my legs.

And then you say, "I heard that they used to run numbers out of Charlie's. I don't know if they do anymore."

Oh Christ.

BOB:

That was not an accident! This is no accident! No adult woman would ever cross her legs like that! Maybe an oblivious girl, but not a woman! Not even one wearing pants. Let alone one wearing a mid-thigh skirt.

Does this mean you want me? Could you want me? Could you?

What would be so unusual about that? I've slept with enough women. Enough have decided I wasn't that homely (though plenty did decide to pass over me).

You really need to work on your confidence issues, Bob, I often say to myself as I shave.

Focus, man. Once you break on through you'll be fine. But how to?

Just reach out and touch her cheek.

No, her thigh.

That's too forward.

Her cheek, unless that's too lame.

Don't make it too romantic. Convey more wretched desire, more animal-scented, slapping desire. If you touch her cheek you're setting yourself up for an hour-long, ball-busting, makeout session, followed by many silent and lonely jerk offs once she's left for the night. No, do something more. Don't just touch her thigh. Take it in your hand and squeeze it. Make yourself plain. Don't fear rejection.

"How is the martini?" I say.

"Good."

"Just good? Was it better than the two at Charlie's?"

That's a good point. If she wanted to "keep her honor" would she be drinking three martinis? Oh no, this girl's in play! Hey wait . . . Three martinis, three dates. And last date she had two martinis. Coincidence?

I say, "Charlie's were better because they were the first two of the night. The first are always better."

You taunt me, but playfully. I like that. I sense we could be real friends.

I want you so bad.

Bob, you just reach out and take her. What's the worse that can happen? She runs out of the building. So what. There will be others.

But probably no others as wet and willing as she. Extend one finger and touch the back of her Achille's heel, right where the seam starts. Oh God, why did she wear panty hose with a seam? Does she know all my fetishes, or just the ones involving seamed panty hose?

Okay, I am going to touch the seam in three . . . two . . . one . . .

"The first martini is the best for me," I say. "The second one is already off-peak."

"Uh huh."

Four . . . three . . . two . . . one . . . TOUCH!

I'm there! I'm touching you!

"How much do you think the Grail cost?" you say.

Am I touching you too lightly? Could you not be noticing it? I'll touch harder.

"I don't know. Ten dollars?"

"Forty four dollars each."

"Wow."

You're not objecting! I'm on the seam and you know I'm on the seam and you don't object!

Calm, Bob. Smooth. You've done this before. One stroke up the Achilles tendon, one stroke down.

You still don't object! Jackpot! I think now the awkward words will end. I am in! Now I will take my time and enjoy this.

In a moment I will run my finger up along the seam, swelling at your gently muscular calf, dipping into the back of the knee (and then back out again at that weird mound of fat behind the knee). Up, up, up the back of the thigh until that wonderful fold where ass collapses onto the back of the leg (but just barely in your case). I smooth out the ass-fold and climb up the ass, then I trick you and go back down the fold to the thigh, and then back up again, and down and up a few times, ass, thigh, ass, thigh, ass . . . until I stay on the ass and feel your muscles tensing and quivering slightly just beneath the dainty layer of fat that you sit on all day long. Yes, I will do this all, in a moment . . .

O, too slap my thigh-fronts against your ass, mercilessly. O . . .

WENDY:

Finally. Your pathetically shaking hands do their best attempt at a "caress." For God's sakes, man, get a move on, and try to move on to a place a bit more erotic than my heel. Please.

Oh, there you go, the inevitable climb up my leg, now that's original.

But what are you doing with your face? Your hand is on my leg, nearly at the swell of the calf, and I'm not objecting, and your face is just sitting there smiling dumbly into space. I predict awkward kiss in three . . . two . . . one . . .

Bingo. Tongue out, for sure. You've kissed me.

Now you take a step back and gaze into my eyes, quizzically, like a Golden Retriever trying to determine whether he has offended his master. I give you back a neutral look, though I certainly do not reject you. Kiss, kiss, kiss, lick, lick, smack . . . You continue to remind me of a dog, though a dog licks with more affection.

You moan a bit for good measure. Your fingers climb higher up my leg, predictably. I moan a little to stroke your ego (the only thing I plan on stroking). You cross the Rubicon of my ass fold and I protest for good show...

"Bob. Bob. I don't know..."

Your hands flee respectfully.

"Wendy, I would never doing anything you don't want to."

Yes, you are a truly a "nice guy" but that won't spare you.

"I don't know what I want..."

I pause.

Ahem . . . I PAUSE! Can't you see I'm pausing, you meathead! Now's your chance to show me what I really want.

"I know what I want," you tell me, and try to overpower me with your hands and tongue with just the right amount of respectful force, but ready to cower at the slightest hint of displeasure on my part.

There's that tongue again, with it's faint reminder of your Charlie's shrimp dinner. Eaten, no doubt, as an aphrodisiac.

"Wait... There are other things we can do," I tell you. You lift your hands and tongue off of me, but a bit more reluctantly than last time, as your ache is building now.

I take out an authentic Polaroid camera and a black Sharpie.

BOB:

Whoa! Kink! But what's with the marker?

WENDY:

"I want you to unzip your pants and take your penis out."

BOB:

Gack! What? Gack! She really said that?

Yes! Yes! You got it, baby! I'm gonna get some tonight!

Act suave.

"Sure, I'll do that!"

Unzip slowly, like you've unzipped your cock in front of a woman a thousand times before. You have nothing to be ashamed of. You're big enough. Plenty of girls have been happy with you. She will be, too.

Unzip . . . three . . . two . . . one . . . done.

Now lower the front of the elastic (careful not to touch myself). There it goes, down the length of my cock and over my balls.

O God, I am totally out there right now! The air feels cool around my good old boy. My cockhead glistens with pre-cum.

I shift my hips a bit toward you, Wendy, with profound aching desire. Oh please please please touch me now right now.

Why are you smiling? I'm not that small. Is that why you're smiling? No one has ever come away from me unsatisfied.

"Touch yourself," you say.

Huh? Act casual. You didn't hear that. Jut dick out a bit closer to her hands.

"Go ahead, touch yourself. Don't be so shocked. You know you do it. Everybody does it. All the time, you jerk yourself off, don't you? It's all right."

Play along. Act like you have very broad sexual boundaries and jerking off in front of a woman is old hat for you. Smile in acquiescence.

"Touch yourself. Put your hands at the bottom of your thighs and slowly raise them up your thighs until they're wrapped around your penis."

Do it, man. This will only lead to good things. Win win.

Oh my soft girlish inner thighs. Oh my balls. Oh my fucking cock. My hand is around you now, old friend. I dare not move.

"Do it. Jerk it."

Okay, I jerk at my girl's command. You are one kinky babe, Wendy. . I think I might love you. I think... I think...

"Unnnnhhh."

Did I just moan out loud? Oh shit! Is that tactless to do in this situation? Moan at my own jerking?

"It's all right, little boy," you say.

Oh, Wendy, I think I love you!

"Oh, Wendy..." I say.

"Keep going. You're doing great," you say.

You smile at me like Venus rising from the sea, totally accepting of my stiff aching lust, totally accepting...

"Don't knock the Grail off the table with your foot!"

I am free to jerk before you.

And moan.

And glisten.

And ... cum? O Wendy, will you let me cum?

WENDY:

Hee hee hee! There is no more pathetic sight than a man disabled by his own masturbation. I just love your shy boy shock at this whole affair, as if you've never taken your wanker in your own hands and I'm teaching you something wondrous and new. You pathetic sop....

"Keep going," I say. "Keep going."

You go fast, you go slow. You don't know if you're supposed to cum. And I'm not going to tell you yet.

"Work some of that shiny pre-jizz around your head," I say.

"Why don't you do that for me?"

"You do it. It will be worth your while, I promise you."

And it will be worth my while too.

Poor boy is strangling himself and is going to pop soon, far too soon. How surprising.

I say, "I want you to bring out your blow-job machine."

"What?"

Well-feigned ignorance, expected.

"I want you to bring out your blow-job device, you know, the thing you put on your penis to simulate a blow job."

"I don't know what you mean."

"You do. And given your demographic category and level of internet usage I know that you own one. And if you ever want to cum in this century you will bring it out."

BOB:

That deviant!

No, she means well. Quit being such a prude. Everybody owns one. Go with it. You have nothing to lose. At least you can't humiliate yourself any more.

"Why should I get it? What's in it for me?"

"You'll get to cum, most likely."

"What about you? What if I want to see you cum?"

"You'll see me cum."

"Promise?"

"If all goes well, yes, I promise."

"I'll be right back."

Why do you let women lead you by the balls? Or maybe it's your balls that lead you by your balls. If I go to the trouble of bringing this out she better be there when I get back.

Let's see. Tube, soft gel ring, pump unit, A/C adapter. That should do it. Back to the living room.

Are you giggling?

"I'm glad to see you still here?"

"I wouldn't miss this!"

"Quit laughing, or I'll make you do this, which I should by rights!"

"Hee hee!"

I have finally lost all my dignity. But it's worth it if I can cum! Let's see... ring on cock, tube on ring... hose on pump...

"At least plug it for me."

"Yes, Bob."

"And do the honors. Turn it on now."

WENDY:

Click.

Oh look at you go. You really work. No need for my services here. This really does work, and you really will cum. Your eyes are narrowing, like I've seen men's eyes narrow a thousand times before.

"Bob, if you cum will I be able to taste it? To let it shoot across my lips?"

"Oooh... Unhhh.... No, it all goes in this tube."

"Can't you take the top off? I really want to feel you shoot."

"I think so... Unhhhh... When the time is right I'll take the top off... Unhhhhh . . . . "

Oh, you poor weak bastard, weak from desire, weak from lack of self-control, weak from being pre-orgasmic. You are a pitiful puppy, helpless, baffled, powerless. I will give you one gesture of love: I take my hand and I wipe it across the hair that lies on your forehead.

"Unhhhh...."

You really are in bad shape, if you moan from me touching your forehead.

BOB:

Ohhhh.... Ohhhhh....

If you were half a man you would rip this silly toy off and shove your cock down her throat! She deserves it! Do it, man!

Ohhhh.... God damn this perfect blow job machine! I can't move.

Hnnnnn.... Fuck.... Ohhhhh.... This can't go on. Ohhhh....

"I'm gonna cum!"

Click. She turned it off!

"Turn it on! Turn it back on!"

WENDY:

I pat your forehead. "Shh shh shh... Relax..."

BOB:

"Oggh!"

WENDY:

"Soon, Bob. Soon. Relax. Do it for me."

You pant and struggle without reason or comprehension. But the immediate crisis is averted. Your eyes implore me to relieve you.

And then I say, "How flexible are you?"

BOB:

Pant.

This must be good.

"Pretty flexible."

"I want you to give yourself a blow job."

O fuck a duck! I did not hear that!

"I said, I want to see you give yourself a blow job."

Agha! You are fucking kinky madwoman!

"I'm not that flexible."

"I bet you are. Everybody is."

"I've never done that."

"It would really turn me on. And you'll be in a good place if I get turned on."

I have hit the mother of all kinky sex jackpots! A bona fide sexual deviant is in my midst! Play along, Old Man, play along. This is all good, all good.

"I'll try. Just for you."

And here I go. Reach... reach... Ow! My neck. You moron, if you couldn't do this at fifteen why do you think you'll suddenly be able to at thirty-two?

"I can't make it... Why don't you do it? You'll have a better angle."

WENDY:

"You're not really trying, and you'll never do it in that position. Do exactly what I say and you'll make it."

"Won't you do it?"

"Nope. Take off all your clothes."

BOB:

I have no choice. I pull my jeans off my legs and toss my socks and shirt and wait for you.