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The crape myrtle flowers outside the windows were raspberry-colored, and their scent was of raspberries as well carried through the jalousies by a sea breeze from the east and turning the bedroom redolent along with a hint of salt air. Decades later I remember this more than anything, more than losing my virginity moments earlier, more than the beach where we’d met the previous weekend, more than his penis in my hand in the ocean, long and thick and circumcised and manly, more than it, on this scented day, sliding gently in and out of me, opening me up gradually, until a kind of pure pleasure overcame me and I saw heaven: an infinity of stars against the night-sky background of my shut eyelids.
Before they reopened as he orgasmed inside of me, repeatedly. He told me he’d been saving it up, his many spoonfuls of semen, just in case I returned to the beach this weekend, and he got a second chance. And now my “sweet” anus had closed up sealing it inside me, happily, as cigarette smoke blew past me, east to west, transported on the same sea breeze as the flower scent previously, drowning it out. We were leaning against the headboard, side by side.
He offered me one, a cigarette that is, and I took it even though I didn’t normally smoke. It seemed like a good occasion for it, as our hands touched as he held over a flame. “It gets easier each time you do it,” he told me for the third time, in so many words.
The first having been before we had sex; the second after he’d initially entered me and I frowned and let out a cry. Not pain exactly but certainly not pleasure. Discomfort I’d call it, despite his gentleness and all the lubricant he’d used, working his middle finger in me to the knuckle before guiding his longer, much thicker penis to my hole and pushing, in.
He didn’t, unlike men in the future, down the road, over the years and decades, call me names either as he fucked me. Slut. Sissy. Faggot–other contrarily homophobic slurs (which I actually would come to enjoy).
“If you can stick around…,” he went on, as we sat smoking, in the nude, arms touching, his penis limp, “maybe bağcılar escort I can get it up again later.”
“I’d like that,” I heard myself say. Toward the end, as discomfort evolved into pleasure, a change had come to my voice, my moans. They’d gone up an octave or two, and to my own ears begun to sound effeminate. As these last words had as well.
I thought of my mother’s dresser drawer, her panty drawer, and all the colors and finery displayed within. The silky ones at the back, behind the plain-jane cotton ones up front: with lace and in dazzling colors. The ones she wore when out on a date–often, increasingly, with the Chairman’s son, in his British sports car. The son of the Chairman of the bank where she worked, as secretary to the President.
I would dress in the fancy panties and model them in front of her mirror. And apply her red lip gloss as well. Then, eventually, masturbate and immediately lose interest–fill with guilt and self-disgust, the same as had happened with my new friend out in the water the previous Saturday, as the incoming waves buffeted him with my slender legs wrapped around his waist, my erection against his belly, while men in Speedos on the beach watched from a football field’s distance away, envious. And I came, prematurely.
“I’ll have to call my mother,” I confessed, in bed that day.
He looked over. His beard growth, like his full head of hair, salt-and-pepper flecked. “You live with your mother?”
An embarrassed nod. “Yes.”
“You in school?”
“Yes.”
“The university?”
“Community college. It’s all we can afford.” We meaning she.
“Nothing wrong with that,” the man said, blowing grey smoke. Then: “I bet she’s pretty.”
“She is. Still.”
And we sat smoking our cigarettes for a moment.
“I can make us some lunch. Then, maybe, hopefully…not as young as I used to be,” he laughed, “we can fuck again later. It’ll be easier for you this time,” he promised for the fourth time.
“Then…if you can spend the night, we can cook out on the grill. You bahçelievler escort bring a Speedo?”
“It’s in my backpack.”
“We can’t go nude in my backyard, such as it is…,” the man said. “Neighbors. I’ve thought about putting up a surrounding hedge but…”
And I re-emphasized, now more than ever: “I’ll have to call my mom. She goes grocery shopping on Saturdays…And I help her bring the groceries in.”
Another glance over: “Where’s your dad in all this?”
A bare-shouldered shrug. “Not around. Haven’t seen him in years.”
“He live local or…?”
“Don’t know. He’s history. To me anyway,” I added. And the man put a reassuring left hand on my slender right thigh and gave it a gentle squeeze. I liked that.
“I’m here for you now,” he offered. And his hand rose up to my erection, standing, curving straight up, and he stroked it. Once. “Your turn to cum,” he said, hand’s motion resuming.
I stopped it. “No. I…lose interest after I cum.”
“You don’t want to?” his motionless hand still holding it, my flesh and blood, a little shorter and thinner than his. But then again his was exceptional. So too his balls. Bigger than mine by half, at least. They were shaved smooth, a novelty to me at the time.
He pulled his hand away and said, somewhat sadly, wistfully at any rate, “Too bad. I’d love to see you shoot. Cream yourself.”
“Maybe some day,” I offered.
“I’d like it if this became a regular thing. Weekends or whenever…I’m between boyfriends.”
“Oh?” the timbre of my voice having returned to its normal range. The jealous range. He nodded.
“Last guy…,” lighting a second smoke, “left me for someone younger. But you…,” shaking out another cigarette for me. I took it.
“Me?”
“You’re what? 18?”
“Nineteen. I just had a birthday.”
“July? My son was born in July. I forget the exact date.”
“You have a son?” I was smoking but I wasn’t inhaling. I was taking it into my mouth, as I had his cock in the kitchen before heading to the bedroom, and then şirinevler escort blowing it out. Done.
“Somewhere,” he replied. “Long time ago. We’re estranged. It’s…” He left the thought unfinished.
“So you were married?”
“Once.”
“And now you’re…?” It was all new to me.
He grinned. “It happens. Happens all the time. Pretty woman, though. I have some steaks. We can set ’em out to thaw. Cook ’em on the hibachi, outside, and have ’em for dinner. If you stay. You’ll have to wear your Speedo, though.”
“I’ll have to call my mom,” I repeated.
“So call her. Tell her you met a friend. From college. You’re spending the night with him.”
“I will,” I promised.
“Tell her.”
“I will.”
“Mom?”
(“Where are you? I had groceries…”)
“Sorry. I met a friend at the beach…”
(“What beach?”)
“The beach we all go to. A friend from college.”
(“A girl?”)
“No a…guy. A friend. I’m gonna stay over at his place tonight.”
(What do you mean ‘stay over’?”)
“Sleep over. He has an apartment.”
(“You’re gonna sleep with him in the same bed?”)
“No! My own bed! His roommate’s gone for the summer.”
(“You’re gonna sleep in some stranger’s bed?”)
“He’s not a stranger!”
Pause.
(“I don’t like this. I don’t like it all. I don’t like you getting out of bed and running off to the beach at six in the morning. I don’t like you riding your bike in the dark.”)
“It’s not dark.”
(“Dark enough.”)
“How was…your date last night?” attempting to change the subject.
(Blown air. The sound of it. “Don’t ask. I’m done with him.”)
“Who?”
(“The Chairman’s son. He’s…,” segueing into, “When will you be home?”)
“Tomorrow morning. Early.”)
(“On your bike?”)
How else, I almost say. “I’ll see you then.”
Another pause.
(“I’ll miss you in my bed tonight,” she offers, rather tenderly.)
“I’ll be there. Early.”
(“OK. See you then. Ride safely.”)
“I promise.”
All this while, during the phone call, my new friend is standing behind me, close behind, his arms around me tightly, his erection sandwiched between my buttocks, rubbing against my crack, my sticky anus.
“I got hard again sooner than I thought,” he says, with a tenuous laugh. “Let’s fuck again, sweetheart.
“It’ll be easier this time,” he promises. Then, overheard, a note of disbelief:
“You sleep with your mother?”
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