Another Izamar tale...
Okay, so you know now about my boyfriend who is writing stories that he posts on a website for dirty stories. So now we have all sort of joined in, especially since Florenz’s stories—masquerading as fiction—appear to be based on our actual lives. And Maddy was already writing a roman a clef ... and so we have all started dabbling in the genre—or is it oeuvre?
I already told you a little about Florenz’s housemate Sage. Well, he has this thing ... okay he has several things ... one of which is their lesbian housemate Madeleine’s extremely long clitoris. And the other thing that really revs Sage’s motor is asshole licking. He says—and really I think this must be true—that there is an intoxicating drug emitted by the anus when you lick it.
But all that fall—you guys remember I was telling you about my housemate Sabina and the menage a trois we had going with her and me and my erstwhile boyfriend Florenz. He would come over and the three of us would gather as it were in my bedroom and Sabina would moan just to look at him naked. She would sprawl on the bed—next to me actually—her body a veritable open cunt—I’m not kidding here, people—fringed with dense dark hair, the fleshy lips open and inviting. She was a torso with vestigial stumps. She lay back, smiling, her eyes wide as she looked into Florenz’s eyes. He held himself over her and slid slickly inside. I would watch them as they coupled and buckled, Sabina splayed beneath him and Florenz supporting himself with his arms, his chest ripped and pumped from the exertion. Of course I masturbated as I watched. But often I persuaded Sari, our other housemate, to join us so that somebody would be eating my pussy while I looked at the couple coupling on my bed. But then the trouble was that Sari ... God, Sari! What a beauty she is! She is not short not tall not thin not fat no I think more thin but fleshy where it counts and a face embellished with a marvelously long nose and dense eyebrows ... the trouble was that Sari wanted to watch also so the pair of us would often sit on the bed each of us gilding her own lily. Sometimes we would watch, panting, and beat each other off, my hand on her and her hand on me. And then! Florenz would lay on his back—right there on the bed in front of us—and Sabina, two and a half feet tall, would hop upon him, impale herself on his highness. And I would watch transfixed as she flew up and down upon him, revealing and then concealing his organ. And she would whimper as she flew. And then the three of us or the four of us, depending, would cuddle on my bed and fall asleep, sometimes while we fondled one another in a dreamy daze.
But then one day, everything changed. The semester was coming to a close. The weather was changing. When all this began (you remember I told you about how Sabina and I met and that she was teaching the class in postmodern women artists that I was taking), it was hot. It was August but then it stayed hot all through September. Little Sabina was slick with sweat as she leapt and bounded upon Florenz’s woody. We would smoke pot and sip red wine. Stoned, Sari and I would massage each other with herbal essences while the couple beside us sweated and groaned and bounced in the heat you could cut with a knife. No wonder they call it heat.
Fall came, the air brisker, less dense, welcoming in its own way, notwithstanding its implicit gesturing towards the winter. We were meeting regularly in my room. There was school, but other than that we were increasingly holed up inside the boudoir, thumping and slithering and grunting. And then there was a blanket of snow outside the bedroom window and we were safely ensconced in the warmth of my bed—the four of us naked and hot. We would smoke pot and sip hot mulled wine.
But then the semester ended and my lover and professor finished her PhD in communication. And she was moving away to start a job teaching gender studies at the University of Zagreb. And she told us she was getting married! Hidden depths! I had no idea. We had never met him. She hadn’t mentioned him. Or I don’t know—maybe she’d alluded to him but we weren’t paying attention. Anyhow, he lived somewhere else and he came to town at the end of fall term. Sabina had just finished submitting grades the day before for the class I was in. (I got an A, just so you know.)
So Hans shows up at the fucking door at the house on Birch Street. I went to the door. He is gorgeous and, like, twelve years old. Okay, he’s not but he is probably 22 (it turned out he just graduated from college the spring before and has been working as a bicycle designer) to Sabina’s 27 (which makes her two years younger than me). He’s about average height, well built, wearing a long-sleeved tee shirt under a suede car coat and a scarf tossed around his neck and a beret for Christ sake. He has light brown curly hair and is very handsome. Did I say that already?
I’m like, “Ye-e-s-s?” And he’s, “I’m Hans. I’m Sabina’s fiancé.”
“Fuck an A,” I blurted out. “Pardon my French. Won’t you come in?”
So there he is and then when Sabina and I are alone I’m like Hans is so cute, Sabina. And she’s you know, of course he’s cute. You found him where? I asked. Was he a student? My voice was guttural with the thrill of the question.
“Well yeah,” she says. And then she laughed. Reared back and laughed. I put my arms around her and she fell against my bosom and I cradled her for a long moment, rocking and purring.
“Yes,” she continued at last, “he strode into my classroom sort of a gawking around, standing there, and then he sort of took stock and saw everybody looking at him. Then he smiled at me. A totally pleasant I like you smile. I--this is so embarrassing--I sighed so audibly--so loud--everybody heard it and the whole class--they were too nice to chortle--they just looked at me and at him and sort of gasped? You know, a big simultaneous intake of breath on the part of everyone. Except me and Hans. We just looked at each other. I don’t know, I guess all this took about eight seconds or so.”
Sari and I made dinner that night. We wanted everything to be wonderful for Sabina’s reunion with her BF. Sari made a roast for God’s sake. I made pasta alfredo and a tossed salad. We put candles on the table and everything. When the three of us were seated Sari came into the dining room holding the roast in front of her on a serving platter. It was very dramatic. In the candlelight and all. She says, “This is for you two, Sabina and Hans, and also for the end of the semester and your PhD and also for Izamar’s A.”
Thus dinner began.
We’re drinking red wine. Chilean carmenere--Sari’s favorite. (Her mother is Chilean though I don’t know if that has anything to do with it.)
Hans puts down his wine glass. “Izamar, what was your A in?”
“Male and female in Postmodern Women’s Art.”
He looked over at Sabina and Sabina grimaced humorously.
“I was Sabina’s student too,” he chirped brightly. And takes another sip of wine while he smiles back and forth at us. This guy is literally made out of charm. We’re talking Cary Fucking Grant.
“It’s a thing I do,” Sabina said with ironical self-deprecation, “charver my students.”
Hans spread his palms in a gesture of innocence. “Nothing happened,” he began and we leaned forward expectantly. “Until the semester was over.”
Sari smiled over her glass of wine, her elbows on the table: “Did you get an A?” I mean, Sari has a way of speaking! Her voice is soft but forceful in a way. It has this lilting, rhythmic quality--it reaches wonderful highs--that demands attention.
Hans looked at her. “Huh?”
“Did you get an A?” Sari repeated.
Sabina and I laughed. Loud belly laughs.
Hans’s eyes darted a bit like a possum’s. Sari took a swig of wine. I love these people!
Sabina’s laugh calms down. Finally there is quiet. “He’s still getting an A,” she says and lays her hand on top of his and squeezes it.
“Actually I got a B,” he told us. “Because she didn’t want to appear to be treating me like teacher’s pet.”
“That’s not true,” Sabina said. “You deserved a B.”
.... There is more of this story ...