“Organic turkey bacon. It’s like crack. One taste, you’ll never do pork again.”
As we eat, I take the opportunity to check out her place. Before, I was much too preoccupied with making her moan. It’s neater than I expected, and eclectic. A red recliner whose fabric has seen better days is stationed next to a round, mosaic-topped table, adjacent to a comfy looking beige couch with a soft, brown blanket thrown across the back. Floral pillows of all shapes are scattered around, and a tall lamp with a beaded fringe shade stands in the corner. Just a few picture frames decorate the walls-one is of Delores, standing next to a thin woman with similar hair color, who I assume is her mother. Another is of Dee, at about thirteen, with one arm around the shoulders of a braces-adorned Kate Brooks, and the other arm around a brown-haired boy, who must be Dee’s cousin. All three are wearing roller skates.
I swallow a forkful of mouthwatering eggs and ask, “What are you doing today?”
“I have to hit up the farmers’ market in Brooklyn . . . but otherwise, nothing.”
“Do you want to hang out?”
“Okay.”
“We’ll swing by my place so I can shower, and I have to make one quick stop, but after, I thought we could go to Central Park?”
The beauty of living in the city is there’s always something to do. Even if your ass is sitting on a park bench and you’re feeding the pigeons, it feels like you’re doing something.
“Sounds good. I’ll get dressed.”
Images
Thirty minutes later, Dee’s freshly showered and walking out of her building with her hair in a bun, wearing a silver, strapless shirt, black leather pants, and tiger patterned high heels. Luckily, my illegally parked motorcycle didn’t get ticketed or towed. Dee gazes at the bike appreciatively. She runs her hand over the seat and it reminds me of how she ran her hand over my stomach, inching lower and lower. I pick up her hand and kiss her palm. “Don’t stroke it like that unless you mean it.”
She reaches up on her toes and whispers in my ear, “I always mean it.”
I pull a cap helmet out of the pack on the back of my bike and place it on Dee’s head, buckling it under her chin. She’s the perfect mixture of sensual and adorable, sexy and cute-I could eat her out right here on the street.
She climbs on my motorcycle and winks. “Take me for a ride, Matthew.”
I rev the engine. “Hold on tight.”
Not every girl is cut out for riding on a motorcycle. One or two have clutched me so tight they left nail marks and cut off feeling to my extremities. Another time, a chick didn’t grip strong enough-was too busy “wooting” and waving her hands in the air-and she almost gave me a heart attack when she went sailing off the back. Thankfully, she wasn’t harmed. Dee squeezes me just right-one arm around my waist, her other hand on my thigh, the splendid feel of her tits pressed against my back and her chin on my shoulder blade.
I’ll gladly give her one long ride after another. Both kinds.
After we arrive at my building, we park in the private deck and head to the lobby. Delores admires the impressive architecture while I retrieve my mail from the box. When we walk into my apartment, I tell Dee to make herself at home and hop in the shower. After I’m dry, I slip on a pair of jeans and a flannel shirt. Leaving it unbuttoned for the moment, I walk back to the living room in search of Delores. She’s staring out the picture window.
“I think I’m going to call you ‘Upper West Side’ from now on,” she tells me with a grin.
“But ‘God’ is much more accurate.”
She moves to the bookcase. “These are great pictures.” She’s looking at one I took of Mackenzie last year, blowing a kiss at the camera. The lighting brought out the brilliance of her baby blues.
“That’s Mackenzie,” I explain. “The niece I told you about Wednesday night . . . who’s technically not.” I point to another picture beside it. “And that’s my parents.” It’s a black and white-my mother looks blissfully clueless, my father grumpily oblivious; their everyday expressions.
I pull out my camera bag, making sure I have extra film, checking the lenses.
“Do you have a darkroom?” she asks.
“I do, actually.”
A look appears in her eyes that I’m beginning to grow familiar with-one that says she’s turned on. “Will you show it to me?”
I put the camera down and raise my arm. “Right this way.”
Officially, it’s a walk-in closet, but windowless and large enough for a shelf of chemicals and a table with a row of developing trays. The lighting is low of course, with a sepia-tinted hue. I close the door behind us, as Delores looks around. And that feeling of playing seven minutes in heaven when I was thirteen washes over me. But heaven, back then, was never this beautiful.
Dee’s eyes rake over me from head to toe. “Do you have any idea how sexy this is, Matthew?”
“A little bit,” I admit.
She presses up against me and my back hits the closed door. Dee kisses my chin, then scrapes it with her teeth. “Will you take my picture sometime?” She bends her knees and slides down my torso, her warm hands leaving a trail of heat as they skim my chest and stomach.
I swallow hard. “I will definitely be taking your picture.”
She peppers my stomach with soft kisses. “We’ll be like a modern day Jack and Rose from Titanic.”
Breathing heavy now, I say, “Jack was a pussy. If I were him, I would’ve tied Rose up, gagged her, and tossed her ass in a life boat. Then I would’ve gotten in after her.” I’d like to point out that if Rose had just done what the hell Jack told her to, they both would’ve survived.
Dee wets her lips with her tongue and slides my jeans down over my hips, freeing my already aching dick. She wraps her small hand around the base, pumping slowly. “Until you take those photographs of me, and develop them here, I want you to think about this the next time you’re in this room.”
Still stroking the base, she covers the tip with her lips, sucking gently and flicking it with her tongue. I lean more weight against the door-my knees going weak. She removes her mouth, peels the foreskin back, and takes me fully in.
And I can’t help but moan. “Fuuuck.”
Her mouth is hot and wet and so tight, bright dots appear in the darkness of my closed lids. Slowly she increases the suction of her mouth, the speed of her rubbing palm-my hand buries in her hair and tightens.
Dee hums around me, and I beg, “Faster . . .” She grants my request and her head bobs quicker, dragging me closer with every pass of her mouth. I pant. “Dee . . . yes . . . gonna come . . .” She sucks me even tighter, and then I’m coming, groaning raggedly, gripping her hair in my fist-trying not to pull. As soon as she releases me, I sink all the way to the floor, breathing like I completed the New York marathon.
I reach for Delores-pull her up against my chest. I kiss her nose, both cheeks, and finally her mouth, thoroughly. “I’ll remember that for a long, long time.”
“Mission accomplished.”
Images
“You’re kidding me, right?”
I take my helmet off and lock it onto my motorcycle. “No, I’m serious.”
Dee hasn’t gotten off the bike. “I’ll wait out here, if it’s all the same to you.”
“Come on-it’s halfway over already-I just have to drop off my envelope.”
“Have you never heard the saying, ‘As nervous as a whore in Church’?”
“Knock it off with the self-deprecating comments. If that’s the standard, I should be sweating bullets. Let’s go.”
“Do I have to drink blood?”
“Only if you’re baptized.”
If you haven’t figured it out yet, we’re at St. Mary’s church. It’s Sunday-and on Sunday, I go to church, even if it’s only for the tail-end of the mass. I have a deeply held belief that something terrible will happen if I don’t.
Twelve years of Catholic school will do that to you.
I drag Dee into the vestibule. She steps carefully, like she’s walking into a haunted house.
A suited, gray-haired gentleman comes through the double doors carrying a brimming collection basket. Perfect timing. I slip my envelope in and bow my head as the priest’s voice echoes through the speakers from the main chamber, working up to the final blessing. Dee watches, copying my stance as she stands beside me. Before the priest is finished, a commotion of clattering feet coming up the stairs from the basement draws my attention. Through the side door, Sister Beatrice Dugan steps into the antechamber with a dozen Sunday school students in two lines behind her.
Sister B was my first sexual experience. Well . . . my first self-sexual experience. She was all of our firsts-the closest Drew and I have ever come to a three-way.
Wait, that last part is gross, forget I said that.
Anyway, puberty is a confusing time for a boy. Having a fuck-hot teacher who happens to be a nun made it more confusing. I got carried away when I first discovered the joys of masturbation. Unfortunately, I didn’t just “choke the chicken”-I literally strangled the sucker. That’s how, at thirteen years old, I ended up diagnosed with CPS-Chafed Penis Syndrome. I don’t need to elaborate on that do I?
My mother may have bought into the doctor’s explanation that my CPS was caused by keeping a wet bathing suit on too long, but my father sure as hell didn’t. In one of our more tender conversations, he told me spanking the monkey was nothing to be ashamed of, that it was like electricity-God wouldn’t have given it to us if he didn’t want us to use it. But, like all things, moderation was key. I calmed down after that chat, and was able to engage in regular self-pleasure, without inflicting injury.
Sister B quiets the giggling kids with a look. Then with an Irish lilt that time hasn’t diminished, she says, “Matthew-how are you, m’boy?”
“Right as rain, Sister B.”
“Right as rain and yet still late for Mass? Tsk-tsk.”
I shrug. “Better late than never.”
She smiles. “I suppose you’re right, though offering a few Our Fathers as you pray for punctuality may be in order. I saw your parents at the early mass; they’re looking grand as always.”
I nod. Then I turn to Dee and say, “Delores, this is Sister Beatrice, my grade school teacher. Sister B, this is Delores Warren.”
Sister B greets her. “Pleased to meet you.”
Dee waves. “Hi.”
Sister Beatrice’s brow wrinkles. “You look uncomfortable, m’dear. Why is that?”
Dee fidgets. “I just . . . I’m not Catholic. Not even a little.”
Sister B pats her shoulder, and in a hushed voice tells her, “That’s quite all right. Neither was Jesus.”
New Book: Back Home to Marry Off Myself
Loredana’s father left the family for his mistress, leaving them to fend for themselves abroad. When life was at its toughest, her father showed up with “good news” after 8 years of absence: To marry off Loredana to a paralyzed son of the wealthy Mendelsohn family.