Triptych

There was a knock; her whole body tensed and water splashed out of the tub. "Who's that? Oh! It's my fudge sundae!"

"If that's a euphemism, it's disgusting."

She was laying on her belly on the bed in the hotel robe, legs swaying back and forth in the air as she dismantled the dessert. He was propped up on a pillow with his reading glasses on, flipping pages.

"You're right, this is good," he said.

"How have you never read Clarissa?"

"It's the longest novel in the goddamn English language. Nobody's read it. Like Infinite Jest."

"I've read Infinite Jest."

"Nerd," he said.

She licked fudge off of her finger thoughtfully. "Can I ask you something?"

"See this?" He held up the novel. "That's me."

"I don't get it."

"I'm an open book."

"Ah. Cute. No, what's that other word? Lame, that's it. So you mentioned porn before. Why is it every scene ends with a facial?"

"Men enjoy the visual."

"Yeah, but why? What kind of sense does that make, from a Darwin viewpoint? Cum all over a face, or tits, or the small of a back, that's just wasted. It's not going to spread your genes. That don't spread shit. And why do guys want you to swallow? Do they not understand basic biology? Because no one ever got pregnant that way."

"I don't know all of Greek mythology, so I can't guarantee that, but your point's a valid one."

"You, for example, Mr. Cattelan. You're a man. And an open book. So little survey: would you enjoy cumming on my tits?"

"Yes," he offered, clinically.

"My back?"

"Probably."

"My face."

He made a show of examining her features. She smiled, modeled the profile from both sides.

"Hard to tell without actually performing the experiment."

"Awfully convenient," she said. "So what's the point of that?"

"Maybe it's marking your property. Facial, and bam, you smell of me. Other guys stay away: I've claimed exclusive access to this vagina."

"Really? So tell me..." She lifted her head and a view of her tits rose up like two supermoons over a barren landscape. "Have I been marked? Has someone claimed this particular vajajay?"

"Hmm," he said, and sniffed. "Can't tell. All right, new theory then. Maybe it's gay panic. If any man likes semen, then he must be gay. And that puts him in a bind, you see, because he produces the stuff. It comes out of him on the regular, but if he shows the slightest interest in it, then he's queer, right?"

"'Queer' has a different meaning nowadays. I'll send you some links to read up on it."

"My point is, he is obsessed, absolutely obsessed with ways to get this stuff out of him, and the second it comes out he's got to get rid of it, lest it look like he's anything but a full-blooded heterosexual. Anywhere will do. In a tissue, in a sock, in a carefully prepared cantaloupe."

"Joe, fucking ick."

He shrugged. "So the heterosexual male's lot is implicit self-hatred."

"And a woman is just a place to get rid of cum?"

"Not so fast. Yes, but it's more than that. Because it's not just a facial that sells. What really sells is a facial with a smile. Or with eye contact. Anything that indicates that it's something she wants. Because then she's communicating that this horrible, gay-inducing batter you produce isn't terrible after all. This thing that you make non-stop that you've been taught to loathe; someone out there actually likes it. Appreciates it. Wants all she—or he—can get. What a relief."

"You've put a lot of thought into this."

"I find Freudian bullshit very easy to manufacture. But if you end up needing a college thesis topic... you're welcome to it."

"And I suppose this all applies to swallowing as well?"

"Doubly so. Have you ever done that?"

"Joe, my word, you're giving me the vapors with these personal queries."

"I believe you started it, Miss."

"To answer your quite rude question: no, I have not. Have you? And by the way, refusing to answer means you think it's something to be ashamed of, which is... so regressive."

He ran his hand through her curls, grasping, releasing, grasping a little tighter. "Much of your twenties is figuring out your own sexual map. Sometimes you're in the boring midlands. Sometimes you've found you've crossed a boundary, and you're in an alien country and you need to retreat."

"You're avoiding the question."

"No, but I am choosing not to answer it."

"Coward."

"Never claimed to be perfect. Never claimed to be eleven inches for that matter."

She rolled onto her back and gazed up at him and they moved casually into a petting session. He had hit a homerun and only now was bothering with second base. Which was actually nice because now there was no rush, nowhere to go, and he took his time enjoying the landscape.

"You felt like eleven," she said.

"The way you try to take control is fascinating. How did you achieve this expertise in manipulating men?"

"You act like it's some grand mystery to figure out what men want. It ain't. It's like a puzzle with two pieces."

He laughed and gave her ass a slap 'n' squeeze. "That's fair. Women are convoluted. But there're heuristics—you can figure them out if you want."

"Could you teach me? I'm not opposed to branching out."

"It's tough to lecture on, better to learn through trial and error."

"And have you got me figured out?"

"Well, you're not exactly a closed book. But yeah, I know you."

"Really?"

"Yeah. For instance, I know you want me to cum on your face."

"Because I was curious about it?"

"Among other signals."

"And will you?"

...

(Eloise)

Sometimes he looked at her in a certain way and it no longer seemed possible to speak. There were words right in her throat at the moment, climbing up her tongue and then slipping back down again and again like Sisyphus' boulder.

He led her to the wall, pushed her gently to the floor, then stood in front of her. The robe was fuzzy and warm on her, but she could feel the air conditioning on her breasts and sex.

He crouched down to one knee, like a coach giving a pep talk. "Ever touched yourself?"

Dumb question. She wanted to say that. She couldn't. She just nodded.

"In front of someone else?"

She shook her head.

He moved even closer, whispering now. He had a certain smell, an aftershave or something. She recognized it from class. "Elena, I want your eyes on mine. You're good at that. You'll look away when I say it's all right."

She fucking loved a challenge. She bit her lip eagerly and looked deep into those Caribbean blues of his. He was unfazed.

"Start," he said, and she did.

Not without a flair for the dramatic though. Her hand made a weekend trip out of it, fingertips through the cleft of her breasts, nails along the dusky skin on her inside thigh, one then the other, then dipping into the rapidly filling lake between her labia. Surprisingly wet... something about the way he talked to her, made the cogs turn and the pipes open. Would have been scary with anyone else, to know someone else can work your insides. Was even a little scary with him.

Their eyes held. "Good girl. Are you wet?"

"Yes," she said.

"You're wet for me?"

"Oh god yes," she said.

"You look so beautiful now. Show me how beautiful you can be."

She rubbed herself for him. She imagined parts of him going into her as she played with her slit.

"I'm going to touch my cock now. But you're not going to look at it. Are you?"

"No." Jesus, it came out as a shameful whimper.

"You're going to look in my eyes."

She nodded, while she fucked herself.

"My hand's on my cock now. It's so hard. You're making it so hard. I can't control it. You're the one doing it, making me so hard. Making me want you."

"Oh god, John."

"I'm taking off the robe now. Where are your eyes?"

"On yours."

"My cock is so hard right now. I'm thinking about when I was inside you. You were so tight around me. You loved every fucking moment of it and I know that without even asking. Where are your eyes?"

"On yours."

"Why?"

"I don't know."

"How do your fingers feel?"

"They feel good. It's, actually, never been this good." She gulped.

"I'm going to stand up now. Are your eyes going to leave mine?"

"No."

"Why?"

"Because that's what you told me."

"And why does that matter?"

"Because I want to please you."

He smiled. "I want to please you too. Play with your clit."

"It's so sensitive right now. It's hard to touch."

"I know. Just a little, then finger yourself for me, then touch it again."

"Ok."

"I'm rubbing my cock for you. I'm jerking myself off, cause you look so fucking beautiful fingering your cunt."

"Can I kiss you?"

"Did I say you could?"

"No."

"Then no."

Not only could she feel herself getting closer, she could feel him pulling her up the hill. Fucking Houdini this guy. He knew she'd respond to the authority—well, yes, that was an easy inference. She had pursued her teacher, after all. But how did he know that all she could think of right now was looking at his cock? It wasn't just an itch she'd been forbidden to scratch. There was a desperation in it. All she wanted was to see it, see what she'd wrought. A glimpse would be fine. He could have anything he wanted from her, if he'd just be a little charitable.

And he knew it.

He smiled. He had started to breathe deeply. He seemed to tower ten feet above her, growing steadily. "Women are more complicated, sure," he said. "But there are patterns you learn, if you pay attention. Eyes on mine. Tell me about your cunt."

"It's incredible. It's... oh Jesus, it's so good right now." The sloppy sounds of her fingers. His occasional grunt. She started to pant. "John."

"Elena."

"John... John... I'm going to cum and I want to look at your cock so bad."

"I'm going to come too, but you can't look at my cock yet."

"John, I, I, I..."

"You're so beautiful."

"John, I'm close..."

"I know, love. I know."

"Oh God, John, please, let me look. I can't stop it."

"Cum for me."

"It's close... it's... so... so... fucking... Oh God, John."

"Cum," he said.

She did. Her mouth gaped and her whole body heaved as she kept his gaze. There were earthquakes in the foundations of the hotel, there were hurricanes at the window, dynamite in her uterus.

"Now look," he said.

She did. His hand closed on the back of her head and pulled her close. It came out hot along her left cheek in one boiling line. Another jet arched into her hair and dripped down her forehead. A glob onto her lower lip. He just kept pumping and pumping and it seemed to be bottomless, along the side of her nose, down her neck, in her eyebrow. She'd earned all this.

She looked up at him and smiled.

...

(Joseph)

There was the moment of surprise that you expect, but it was the moment afterwards, the demure lifting of her eyes and the posing for the yearbook smile, cheek to cheek, dimple to dimple, that was instantly tattooed into his mind. It was tenebrism... brown eyes, brown eyebrows, brown skin... white teeth, white sclera, white semen.

"So," she said, afterwards, lying next to him in the bed, "I like to think I'm the last person to slut-shame anyone, least of all myself. But I'll admit, I'm ashamed to say how much I enjoyed that. Can I wipe it off now?"

"One last look."

They turned to each other. She smiled again, impish now. He mimed a camera, took an imaginary snapshot.

"That'll do," he said.

"So, did it feel like marking your territory?" she said, applying a moist towel. "Have I been branded? Will all the other horny troglodytes keep away from our cave out of fear of you and your giant club?"

She could have taught his class. Hell, she could have taught any class. "You know," he started, caressing her, "that sounded like bullshit when I said it, but I'm starting to suspect there might be something to it. And you liked it?"

"I did," she said, without embarrassment.

"Consider a career in porn then?"

"I told you, asshole, I need a plot. Also, I don't want herpes."

They recharged by devouring steaks and green beans and mashed potatoes. They watched half of Blue Velvet, which he remembered liking, but she wasn't impressed, and on a second viewing, neither was he.

"You believe in God?" she said.

"Oh for fuck's sake," he said, facepalming, "Save that for college."

"Do you have any idea how many Hail Mary's it's going to take to wipe out this weekend?"

"Of course you'd be Catholic."

"Thousands. It'll take thousands. Rosaries will be worn out."

"The weekend's not even over yet."

She curled against his side. There was a miasma of their sex and sweat in the air. "It's been way more than fifteen minutes, by the way," she said.

"I'm only human, brat. It's not just the tools down there. It's basic endurance. And there's that other thing."

"The hormones?"

"Yeah, those," he said.

"Are you in danger of falling head over heels for me, Mr. Cattelan? Is the dopamine flooding your synapses?"

"Funny girl. Cheeky bitch. You know what I mean."

"Please don't be hurt, but I'm not falling for you. I've enjoyed this—I'm not ready for it to end, but my cunt remains undomesticated. Wild and free. I'll remember you as a good fuck if at all."

"You sure about that?" He sized her up, rocking his head back and forth. Like any successful flirt, she was a liar first and foremost. "All right, O Wild Cunt. You know best."

Generally, she did. Generally. But he'd been around, he'd done his field work. There was a black box in her—there's one in everyone. Galactic dark. Impenetrable. Hers probably had most secrets than most. More mysteries and subtle irrationalities. Those were the things he couldn't figure out, wouldn't be able to crack. He wouldn't bother with those. But she was still a woman; and there were subclasses of women and she could, like any other case, be placed in the proper one. She certainly enjoyed being in command, but he had realized pretty quickly that she responded to being controlled, too. The first time, coming through that door—sure, it had been what he wanted. But he wouldn't have gone through with it, wouldn't have pushed her in, gripped her tight, tugged down her skirt, none of that if he hadn't known it was exactly what she wanted.

Maybe she had done it consciously, maybe subconsciously, but regardless, that had been exactly what she was trying to elicit from him. She knew how to drive a man crazy, and she had expertly applied those wiles right to him, and it produced the predictable result.

Sometimes he wondered who was fucking whom. And that uncertainty meant he was in a position much like her. He had to trust her, just as she had trusted him.

Trust her to, among other things, not fall in love.

He tried her in missionary, but the eye contact felt dangerous. He finished quickly, looking down at the soft hinge of their genitals, his pubic hair against her bare engorged vulva, purple like twilight. Cowgirl was dangerously intimate too, more so, but she responded so well he had to teach her the possibilities. That was, on paper at least, the point.

"Give it to me, baby," she said, impaled on him and riding up and down him, juices draining down his cock. It was amazing how she'd gone from naïvete to sex kitten. "Fuck my wet cunt."

"Ride it, babe," he said, bucking against her.

"You feel me? I need you so bad, I need your fucking cock so bad right now in my tight little pussy."

He started laughing. They paused, and she started laughing too.

"Too much?" she said.

"No," he said. "It's actually perfect. I'm just impressed."

She came first, clasped around him for dear life, but he finished moments later, for the first time on her tits, and damned if he could think of a more incredible sight anywhere else in these contiguous United States.

...

(Eloise)

So sex, as it turns out, is awesome. Yeah, they say it's awesome, but it's like trying to describe a painting to someone in words. Language won't suffice. Language isn't even the right modality. Sex is good like... like errRRR. A cock ramming into you is!!!!!!!!!!!! The act is the sound of teeth chattering, two epees making contact, jets taking off. There's just no word for that species of dull moan in your chest. Or that fullness, like flowers in your navel blooming one after another, lifting you, expanding you. The linguistic can't grasp, won't understand, the steel alloy in his eye when he wants you. The complete abandon of her lordosis.

She loved being on top; she loved holding his eyes and warming his cock and setting the tempo. And she also loved when he just lost control; that time she was moaning and she had both arms holding her thighs wide, like a pinned specimen. But in a second he had her flipped over, was pumping into her doggy-style, and had one hand holding her head into the pillow, which was fine because it made her perfectly free to scream. It was fun when he gave it to her; it was funner when she gave it back. It was all just stars and kittens and leather and fireworks.

It was becoming clear that her body liked to please him. Not just in a neighborly way. Not just as gratitude. Not as his friend or even as his lover. She thought about how she looked when he was taking her, and she wanted to look as good as possible for him. She aspired to fuckability. If he enjoyed it more, then, there was something... something good in that, in itself. That was reason enough to do it. Some feminine need to give? Some vagary of her personality that she'd have to learn? Or was it just something about him?

When he went down on her for the first time, she almost felt like she was letting him down, like she was being selfish. And he somehow knew, without her giving any hint, to say, "It's ok, babe. Lay back. Enjoy it. That's an order." And at once, her body completely released itself to him, to his tongue and its preternatural ability to apply just the right amount of pressure, for just the right amount of time, and when she came, it felt like a gift she had given. And he seemed to take it in just the spirit it was handed over.

They napped together, and she wondered about the hormone trap when he had her arms around her. He had spouted that chauvinist bullshit about orgasm releasing dopamine, but an orgasm was over so quick. A neutrino through the planet core. Having someone hold you, that was dangerous territory, when the fit was right, when his smell was familiar and exotic simultaneously, when his heart slowed as he fell asleep, a cage of muscle protecting her from the world. Long-lasting, perilous terrain.

No idyll lasts forever, though. Like when she went down on him, which, really, after everything they'd done—masturbating for him, begging him to fuck her, his finger barely fitting into her asshole while she came—fellatio should have been easy.

...

(Joseph)

"Hey. Hey, can you stop?" he said. This was something every teacher had to deal with. Sometimes eagerness outshines ability. "Elle, promise me you won't take this as an insult." He had her by her hair, which he quickly realized she responded to with alacrity.

"Jesus, what?" she said, her eyes getting bigger than he'd ever seen them.

"You are absolutely horrible at this," he said.

She looked crestfallen, but then slapped his dick aside and laughed. "Yeah, well I'm eighteen, what do you want? You think you could do better?"

"Yeah, I do."

"Have you?"

"Once," he said. "And I did a lot better than this."

She fell back against the pillows. She needed to rest anyway. "I was really close to a perfect game there, wasn't I?"

He laid alongside her, arms behind his head, bare cock with an eye on the ceiling. "You were. Alas, Miss Henderson, you are human after all."

"Can you give me some hints?"

"First, it's a cliché, but careful with your teeth."