Browsing Medium today I found a new “fan” had applauded my Feb. 2, 2020 reply to a sexy menage a trois post by one of my favorite writers. Clicking on the notice led me back to my answer and I discovered everyone who applauded were females. Pleasant to have pleased the ladies with my words.
So I decided to bring my words over here, for those who may have missed my humorous recounting of missed chances. Also an act of self-interest: these are excerpts from my Venus Mons Iliad trilogy, which I hope people will buy off Amazon.
1972…When Bob’s girl flirted with me, Bob walked out. Joe and his blonde left. The other two wound up in my room, none of us sober. Assuming I was thinking — what was I thinking? At 29 the clock was running down and sex remained a beguiling mystery, with no outlet. In a union where dalliance was de rigeur. In a city where sex was principal industry. Summed up in What the hell?
I sat on the floor leaning against my bed. The brunette lay face-down above me. My arms were up and bent back, hands under her, cupping her breasts, idly stroking. Bob’s girl knelt by me, kissing me and giggling. They casually discussed whether this was the night for a threesome, something they had considered before. I had to say something, didn’t I? I may not be up to it, but I will go down trying.
Their gazes met. Bob’s girl said could we face each other in the morning? The moment…stretched. A hundred years or so later they agreed their friendship would change irrevocably. Release of sexual tension was dramatic, followed by comedy: Bob’s girl barely made the bathroom before sicking-up. Her friend took her home…
Lillian, lean and dark with long dark hair, a wet dream walking, invited me to lunch: “Tell aunty.” A kind of running joke…she had assumed I was a rake-hell bachelor until Venusian telegraph identified me as married “but not fanatic about it” in her words. I told her, names withheld. “A hat trick!” She was delighted. She and her husband weren’t fanatics about marriage either. Free to rove and bisexual, she’d spent a weekend in Tacoma with a kinky blonde. Sunday evening the blonde announced infatuation…Threatened not to remove the velvet handcuffs — handcuffs! Lillian said no more sex until the cuffs came off. Then took the dominant role, pleasuring her would-be captor into near-insensibility.
Drove home to titillate her mate with the tale, fuck his brains out, and still got to work on time…she suggested taking me home for a threesome with hubby, said we’d get along fine. The offer was tempting for a reason she’d never guess. They lived near a farmer who gave them access to a private duck marsh; I had watched offshore with binoculars as his guests had memorable shoots. But damn, I had to draw the line somewhere. Too bad about the marsh.
She laughed and said her husband wanted to come watch me play. Husband. He gave a silly little laugh. Not a bad-looking guy, clean-cut, dark curly hair I could resent with my balding pate…the guy she left at home when she hunted men at the roadhouse. The guy who didn’t like blow jobs, who sadly neglected her sexual appetites, who let her go to Vegas exploring without him. That guy.
“You’ve got the moves of an ex-jock out there,” he said. “Good hands,” he added. My roadhouse girl had a mild coughing fit.
“Not an athlete, a ball player,” I said…“You play?”
Little heh-heh-heh. “I like to watch.” She coughed again…
It was time for me in the on-deck circle. I forgot his silly little laugh in the simple joy of the game. When we won for a change, the couple stopped by the dugout…She invited me home for drinks. He nodded happy approval. I declined automatically…being invited into their home just seemed too weird.
We enjoyed a stormy weekend with good books and seafood. At a restaurant, a sexy waitress flirted with both of us, hinting at a threesome. Chloe surprised me saying a fantasy of sharing me stirred her fires. Her heated, whispering confession in bed sparked erections reminiscent of youth. Almost our last experience of the old happy carnality….
Sometimes her only release came with furious self-pleasuring as I held her and nibbled her nipples. It was a melancholy joining of two jaded souls past their prime…I lost touch with her but for an occasional email. The one I remember…Viagra had hit the market. Never one to mince words, she asked if it helped. When I said yes, she suggested using it with an appreciative woman my age — her. But she had secured a live-in lover, another writer. She seemed content, and menage a trois was not my style….
As Ish told the prostitute in Seattle (Liquor Conference in Seattle), I’ve got a dozen stories (at least) of missed chances.
A few more for your amusement: in Nassau, where “serial adultery, which is euphemistically called ‘sweetheartin,’ is something of a national pastime” according to a Bahamian scholar, I failed to measure up:
The (borrowed) car was a piece of work…Chloe and I went out for an evening paper in a cloudburst. Hit a puddle, damn car stalled…Chloe steered while I pushed toward the Gulf station…The slope up into the station defeated me. The young attendant danced beneath the roof over the pumps, terrified of the rain, then ran with a bumbershoot — to push one-handed under its shelter. He…declined a curvy little black woman’s plea to push-start her TR convertible. Not in the rain! I couldn’t get wetter. I pushed. No go…
Gave up and drove her to her hotel…She invited us to her suite…Offered me her shower. The shower in our flat still wasn’t working…I accepted. Lord, what luxury. Steaming Niagaras of really hot water…I wrung out my clothes…and went barefoot in damp pants to drink with her and Chloe on her deck. She was telling Chloe she was lucky to have such a brawny man. Topped up our drinks. Said I should stay till my clothes dried.
Chloe said later she wanted to play. Play what? With us, Ish. Play with us. Laughed at my expression…My flower-child was amused at my shock. We left, my wettest things in a bundle…Never did get a newspaper.
Still in Nassau: Two drinks and Chloe would be dozing…Hard-drinking island women showed mild contempt when she nodded off at parties, and closed in on me. One voluptuous English blonde sat close to describe being raped by several Haitians who broke into her place. Her description was more reminiscent than traumatized.
“They were gentle when I didn’t argue…didn’t hurt me, though some were quite well-endowed….they were just lonely. Didn’t even steal anything. Would you think me a slut to say it wasn’t that bad?” Peculiar form of come-on but damned if she didn’t seem aroused. Abruptly seized my arm, said, “Take me dancing at Charlie-Charlie’s!” An Over the Hill nightclub that didn’t open till two a.m. I said Chloe’s too drunk. Instant reply: “She can sleep in the car…”
Out Island junket: The resort owners’ daughter, a Montreal advertising executive, dark, intense, vivacious…over drinks in the clubhouse related her surprising plan to live on an Israeli kibbutz. I asked if love led her so far from her Montreal-Bahamas axis. She wondered why love was my first thought and I told her my Israeli story, which absorbed her. We talked writing, from books to newspapers to advertising. She seemed to like me. Hollis took her away to shoot photos for the resort ad. I saw them in Nassau: curvy and smoldering in a swimsuit, wading in a beach cave. Look what you turned down, he said.
That night, when he returned to our guest cottage, I had mentioned I was sleeping without Chloe the first time since marriage. But not necessarily alone, he said. Our new friend is taken with you. Gave me her cottage number. Go on over for drinks and whatever. By yourself. Three is awkward for that. I concede the field. I reflexively declined…The simple truth was I feared rejection…And wasn’t sure how I would feel if I wasn’t rejected, in an island environment where philandery ran rampant…
Some time later, in LA: working for a labor union, a PR guy for a big California bank asked me to bring organizers to a Beverley Hills trust officers’ convention “to liven things up.” They had a whole hotel floor…I wound up on a balcony with a snuggling, lovely bank officer in a little black dress. Was I married? Yes. “Second or third?”
“Don’t they have first marriages in LA.?”
She giggled. “Oh my god, he’s a virgin!” I just amused everybody.
Fed up with California condescension, I moved on the most beautiful blonde in the crowd…Eventually she asked me to drive her home, a million miles away through one of those icy Valley fogs that test reflexes sorely after half a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. She was so drunk she nodded off. When we hit Riverside County, she woke up and worriedly said look out for Daddy’s men. Daddy’s men? Daddy was a local police chief. She was eighteen.
Anyone thinks you can’t sober up instantly has never heard such words from the drunken teenage beauty-queen daughter of a police chief.
Got to her apartment — she left home when she graduated high school; this was after all California — and she invited me in…We parked in her driveway. A helicopter clattered above, throwing intrusive spotlights…She said it was a routine police patrol, a California innovation I never heard of or even imagined: was Dad aloft with his merry men looking for heads to crack?
But one lesson the matriarch drummed in was never leave a girl feeling scorned. So beneath her apartment-entrance fanlight I kissed her goodnight, giving it my best effort. Got the big luminous eyes, the telltale catch of breath. I told her she was too special to take advantage of. “Call me when you’re rested (didn’t say sober) if you’re still interested.”
“You are something else,” she sighed. “California men aren’t like that.” As I retreated to LA through the fog I wondered if any man, anywhere, was like that.
Still in LA: Took the Studio City brunette’s little girl on rides. I hate carnival rides. We sat tandem in a hollow-log contraption cranked toward a water chute plunging into a dark tunnel, my arms around her. She looked up bright-eyed: “Don’t be afraid. I’ll protect you.” Whoosh. Huge splash.“Whee. Do it again!” I was a big hit. So mom suggested a date, just the two of us. “But please don’t keep calling, men get so needy…”
When I got to Studio City the next week, there was a note on the door saying her little girl was sick, sorry I’m not here… raising specters of past disappointments with females. My fault: I was married, should not have been there, and was too thin-skinned for this nonsense. Joe later said she hid out with his girlfriend, couldn’t bear waiting because I hadn’t called. She feared I’d stand her up! He laughed at my outraged reaction.