Chapter 6

The blonde mother's visits averaged every other week, sometimes more frequently, sometimes less. I enjoyed my two teenage companions often. The tomboy inevitably ended up in my bed or her bed fucking. The princess fucked sometimes and didn't other times. Both found other companionship, rare for the tomboy, at least as far as I know. The princess had fairly frequent bed mates. I didn't mind.

Occasionally I shared her conquests like the poor girl who took notes in school. She and the princess made love on their own. The princess preferred when I joined them.

Sometimes the princess found a lover while in my company. The first time it happened it bothered me. Expectations became thwarted. Expecting to be with her at the end of the evening whether we made love or not, when she went off with the boy, I didn't experience jealousy. Disappointment describes it best. My mind held an expectation and the evening ended differently. Neither disappointed in her nor myself, disappointment came from the way things changed. After the first time, expectations loosened.

The second time ended in a threesome, the first with a boy. A year older than us, he stood tall and handsome. I envied his large penis. He envied me. He left and I remained. I could see his desire for her not only in his penis, but in his eyes. But she preferred me. His presence meant fun, an evening of pleasure.

As soon as we entered her room, we stripped naked per the princess's instructions. She played with our penises with mouth and hands until she achieved ejaculations. The boy and I stood side by side, an inch separating us. Once relieved of our semen, we kept separate. We took turns pleasuring her top and bottom. I began at the top, kissing her and fondling her breasts. The older boy worked her way up from her toes slowly to her vagina. His thoroughness impressed her. She shuddered in climax when his tongue met her clit. Occasionally touching and licking my testicles and penis teasingly, she became more direct in her attention after her orgasm. But I could tell the boy's efforts lacked precision. His skills at cunnilingus paled compared to mine. I switched with him. She eagerly engulfed the new set of testicles and larger penis. My efforts soon distracted her. After bringing her to orgasm, I made her crazy, fighting through her sensitivity to give her another. She nearly passed out. Switching places again for her to enjoy the bigger penis inside, she got on hands and knees and sucked and rubbed my penis at the pace the older boy fucked her. Her climax triggered his. Her mouth had abandoned my penis as she climbed the heights of pleasure. Instead she vigorously fisted me. I approached orgasm, but the other two beat me to it. Detaching from her vagina, the boy removed the condom from his shrinking penis. Requesting it from him, she held it between finger and thumb while she asked him as graciously as possible to dress and leave. My naked butt rested on her pillow watching the interaction. She handed me the condom, threw on her new, short and sexy robe and escorted him out the door. Returning with tissue in hand, she covered the thing and tossed it in the trash. My penis bowed from lack of attention. She brought it to full erection with her mouth. We lay beside each other, laughing and comparing competence while I slowly fucked her. She made it clear she enjoyed me more despite my size. I believed her, demonstrating my skills by pulling her onto her back and fucking her swiftly, intensely and accurately, and despite my orgasm overtaking me, bringing her along.

Many conquests occurred at auditions. After our debut ended badly, we decided to pursue acting. We never landed roles. The competition surpassed us. Talent swamped us. Even in school we received rejection. Along with her opportunity to meet boys, and on a couple of occasions, girls, we enjoyed the experience and never felt frustrated for two reasons. The plays produced on Broadway or at less prestigious theaters lacked daring. Even poetic and adventurous work left us wanting. And the styles of acting disappointed us. There was the declamatory outward performance of the Shakespearean style. There was the inner, gut exposing work of the Stanislavski Method. We had our own style, subtle yet heartfelt and confrontational, a seething restraint. Nobody got it. Fine with us, we created our rebellious style. And we began writing words to go along with that style.

The only disappointment came from the school play, "The Skin of Our Teeth." The princess loved it and convinced me to love it too. Not winning roles we volunteered backstage. I constructed sets and hung lights. She tried her hand at sewing. When she discovered she couldn't sew, we switched. My mother taught me well. People labeled me queer. I didn't care. I found the label useful. Girls acted less shy around me. Two beauties, a mulatto and an Indian from India resulted. Like Shirley Boop, I treaded carefully with them. The Indian became jealous like Shirley and the relationship ended before deflowering. The mulatto became my lover. She had a lovely rounded firm little body. Once she allowed me inside, neither of us could get enough. We experienced a storm of passion as intense and almost as brief as a cloud burst. We remained friends. Bright and stubborn she delighted me with her tenacious debates. Sex continued occasionally, mostly when the princess joined us. The collaboration went beyond the bedroom. The mulatto trained as an actress. Her white mother had schooled her, having trained collegiately and worked professionally off and on. Both Shakespearean and the Method had been learned. Though the princess and I opposed those techniques, it became a synthetic experience, i.e. the mulatto presented the thesis, we were the antithesis and our debates created synthesis. We continued working on writing words for it, including her in the process.

There was several of me. With the tomboy I became a boy looking back, a continuum of our long friendship. With the princess I looked forward, revolutionaries in our minds. We endeavored to be in the company of groundbreaking artists, acting like mature and fascinated students. Along with the Estonian before his untimely death, the Dutchman and the best of the artists, we sat at the feet of the young poet and his cohorts. After the fiasco of the bust, we attempted to continue contact with the playwright. His presence inspired us. Our creative force emerged from the play. But he became afraid of associating. The bust made him paranoid, avoiding the company of the young or the queer. Eventually he left for a small college in the middle of the country to teach English.

I was another person at school. With few friends, mostly girls, I presented a loner and an oddball. I rarely spoke in class, and when I did, it divulged a unique impression on the subject. Like our efforts in acting, rejection followed. My relationship with the princess differed in school. Our intimacy apparent at the end of the past school year appeared to be chaste friendship at the beginning of the next, encouraging new sexual conquests.

The relationship with Mother was another me. It evolved into a psychic understanding. It became the place to expose nerves and do battle. Except for moments with the tomboy when irrational bouts burst forth, I exposed myself emotionally most with Mother. We knew how to aggravate each other, and when one of us, usually me, unhinged emotionally, arguments exploded into drawn out screaming verbal wrestling matches. We said terrible things. Once out of our system, we asked forgiveness. Quiet followed the storms. We resembled an old married couple except we didn't couple. If we had, the post fight fucks would have been the best. Instead she lay beside me and told tales.

There was the curative gigolo for the blonde mother. When we made love I represented maturity. Despite our vast age difference, sometimes I felt equal to her, other times older and she the kid, and then I exposed my youth and lack of wisdom. Seeing me as a teenager jolted her into reality, soon followed by amusement and happiness. She enjoyed the reality of me.

Finally there was the working me: me as model. Posing for artists proved easy. When I modeled for photographers I became uncomfortable. The older I got the more self conscious I became. Somehow it turned out fine. I projected confidence. The rhythm of the shoots resembled a strobe. The flash revealed an inner truth. In the darkness between, I lost confidence. I wondered what I brought. I wondered when the magic would end. I felt like a magician who didn't know how the trick worked. If it didn't I couldn't fix it. I felt sick like stage fright. I only enjoyed shoots with the princess. I could be in my guises with her, the lover or the collaborator and forget my unease.

Out of the unease came my second escort client. One job merged into another. She had been a familiar face and figure during the twenties. Her face invoked a beguiling and alluring paradox of innocence and corruption, charming and seductive and fascinating and beautiful. Her thin body accented by pert breasts and buttocks appealed to men and women. Perfectly suited for the straight cropped hair and the loose dresses of the flapper, her image defined an era. Times change. Fashions ascend, explode and dissolve into dust like Fourth of July rockets. Beauty ages. Age complicates the face. Creases reveal the past. Eyes reveal regret and the pain of looking back, of looking up at past heights from a low place. Lips tighten and form a bitter downward curve. Pertness becomes loose and bedraggled. And yet, with the help of expert makeup artists, coiffeurs and dressers and a narcissistic determination, she remained seductive and alluring if not innocent. She remained beautiful. Whether age defeated beauty eventually remained a question. She was only forty.

A photo feature on trends for teenagers rich enough to afford them required a long day of quick changes and long waits as new sets got lit and dressed. My unease built. I let a moan escape. The old flapper, preoccupied by her mirrored thoughts and ignoring me throughout the day, heard it. My response to her inquiry about the meaning of the moan made her laugh.

"You're too young and beautiful to worry," she said, shaking her head. "I have no empathy for you. When I was your age, I wanted nothing more than to be where you are now. Forced to do drudgery work by my mother in the steaming back room of the dry cleaner, she was hired so I could be hired for the fat owner to paw and stare at me. Clothes I hung and pressed taunted me. I dreamed of wearing them and sending the maid or butler to get them cleaned or tossing them out and wearing only new things. I stole a dress and got hired for my first modeling gig and left that ugly world forever. I wasn't even nervous the first time. I was too determined and cocky to be nervous."

"It's not my first gig. I've been doing this since I was a baby," I explained. "I don't know why I get this way. I feel dishonest I guess, pulling a fast one. The more I'm paid the more uncomfortable I get. Today is my biggest payday." I shrugged. I smiled. She smiled back. Talking helped.

"A veteran, huh? I'd have never guessed. You look familiar. Tell me what you've been in."

She nodded at my list. When I told her about the princess she nodded larger. "She's a beautiful creature. No wonder I barely remember you. She stole my attention." I agreed and proudly told her I had discovered her. "Well done," she said. "I take it there's more than finder to your relationship. I bet she's more beautiful naked." I blushed and nodded.

Then I remembered something. The fashion photographer had a show at a nondescript gallery downtown. Necessarily discrete, you had to know him or know someone who knows him or be on a select list. I invited her to accompany me. "You'll be on the wall too?" she asked, eyes widening and glancing down my body covered in shorts and an unbuttoned shirt. The conversation occurred during the casual theme of the shoot. She squirmed. She became the uncomfortable one.

"Probably but I don't know," I shrugged. "I haven't been. My friend didn't want me at the opening. I expect exposing my youth might be a problem even if the show is discrete."

Relaxation returned when she began her tales. They have never ended. Tawdry like my mother's if less detailed, they gossip and celebrate wickedness. I always enjoy them. They relax her like nothing else except after the final climax of a long bout in bed.

The gallery closed by the shoot's ending. Fortunately the shoot needed another half day. It meant more pay and an early finish and an opportunity to show her my body afterwards.

The old flapper held my hand tightly and pressed against my side by the time we finished looking at the photos. All nude studies arranged chronologically. The exception arrived at the end, a series of photos of me; a separate chronology. It presented my physical biography. From a photo of my infant self with my mother and the fashion photographer's boyfriend, images chronicled my physical development. The three shots from the party with the princess who the old flapper agreed was beautiful naked seemed to be the finale of the show. The gallery owner, a robust little man wearing a vest made up of thick wool threads in a rainbow of colors, came up to me, shook my hand, bowed to the old flapper who he recognized immediately, and guided us into a private room behind a black curtain. There hung a print nearly as large as the wall of me ejaculating, the queer man's hand pressing out the semen and my hands fondling the princess. The silvery sheen of the ejaculate and the subtle shadow gradient astonished in its beauty. The fashion photographer composed it perfectly. "I want it," whispered the old flapper pressing her body into mine, her hand searching and finding my engorging penis in the crotch of my pants. "I want it," she repeated louder for the gallery owner to hear. "I want them all."

Having married and divorced rich men who became poor three times, her latest marriage remained fiscally sound if physically distant. A nephew of an owner of copper mines, he proved the most resourceful of the inheritors of his uncle's fortune, becoming president of the company and diversifying wisely. Though he loved her, she didn't love him. Thus she revealed her difference from my mother who almost always felt love for her sponsors. After a couple months of nightly fucking in which she faked orgasms, she hired maids to provide the service, paying them well, until a steady one ended the search. The last maid being a mixed blood Brazilian prevented marriage in the ex husband's exclusive world. His love for the maid and hers for him finally shut up the rich husband's whining about not having his wife in his marriage bed. The old flapper rarely had sex except with herself. Being touched by older men made her queasy and nervous. Unfortunately older men provided a stable financial source at least in theory. She fantasized about young men, teenagers, boys my age. Despite the wild roaring twenties, she feared her fantasy, feeling immoral and avoiding being scoffed by pretty young men who could have their pick of nubile young bodies. I had that too, but I was for hire.

The cost for the collection of nude photos of me would have kept me clothed and fed and housed for months. She didn't bat an eye writing the check. She wrote it quickly, arranged to be notified when the show ended and pulled me out of the gallery. She knew when it ended directly. She made a pilgrimage to the gallery twice a week, buying a couple more of the nudes destined for more prominent display in her Montauk mansion while my photos would hang where only she and I and few others could see them, in her personal spa/gymnasium.

The taxi dropped us at her Fifth Avenue penthouse. She kept a safe distance until we entered. Even then she only stared at me and touched my face before zipping into the kitchen. I joined her for sandwiches and coffee, hers containing a hefty pouring of cognac. Not a lush, she needed fortification.

"I thought about what you said about nerves," said the nervous but calming old flapper. "It's the click that does it, the fast moment. Maybe you should look into film. You photograph well. Maybe a flow of time is what you need." I asked if she had been in film. She blushed. I persisted. "I tried but couldn't emote right. I was in film though. Probably the craziest party I ever attended. It was an orgy. I wasn't a star, but a featured player." I asked her what became of it. She giggled. The cognac loosened her. "It was destroyed except for one copy. One of the featured players was a featured player. I wasn't threatened but he was, especially since he played with the men. Maybe it's because I'm a greedy bitch, but I did some favors for the guy who filmed us and had him make a copy. I don't think I would have blackmailed the actor, but if I had been desperate enough ... But I like looking at my beautiful young self in the midst of all those beautiful bodies."

"I'd love to see it. And you're still beautiful."

"Thanks. I'll show you later if you're a good boy. Right now you're a dirty boy. Let's give you a bath."

As she cleaned me, working slowly towards my stiff penis, the head cresting the water, she went through emotions like a card shark through a deck. She laughed, she ogled, she got turned on, she sobbed. "My boy would have been not much older than you," she said. "I was at the end of my run and decided to have a baby. He miscarried. I hated being pregnant. I hated my misshapen body. I hated the discomfort. But I wanted that boy. I dreamed of domesticity and love. I don't know if I would be a good mother, maybe not. I'm a selfish bitch. But I know I would have loved him more than anything."

I grabbed her hand and gently lured her forward until our mouths met. A tough mouth to crack, I persisted until it softened and let my tongue in. Her tongue became a button my tongue pressed. I switched on an oven burning away fear. Sustaining the kiss I unfastened her skirt and rolled down her panties. She hopped into the tub in stockings and garters. I pulled the drain to empty the tub. Her vagina hovered over my penis. I guided her on. She felt hot and flowing and tight. My penis had had its own growth spurts but hadn't quite reached adult stature and yet it needed to make room for itself. Once embedded, she tore off her blouse and pulled my head to her tits. They drooped loosely but her nipples formed firm stubs I sucked. I held her firm little derriere as I assisted her rise and fall. Looking up at her face while suckling, I saw frustration break through wild passion. I popped out of her as she rose. Pulling my hand, she walked me briskly to her bedroom. In bed, her skinny legs spread wide and her knees high, she held my cock and guided it back in. I returned tit suckling and cunt fucking. The harder I sucked, the deeper her breaths. When I chewed, she screamed with pleasure and moaned loudly from then on until she climaxed with another louder scream. Before her climax, she thrust her hips against me as hard as I thrust down. With the squealing bed springs and the slap of flesh and my guttural breathing and her moans, we could have been heard by several apartments in my building. In hers, we remained alone with our noise, liberating and exhilarating. "Cum in me," she said when I kept pounding after her orgasm. She reached down to play with my balls. I slid a finger into her anus. My mouth sealed hers; slithering around her tongue with mine. My skull reverberated with her moans. She let go of my balls and pulled me into her by my butt and I released my sperm into her depths. She greeted my orgasm with her own. She shivered around my throbbing penis and shivered in my arms. When she relaxed, she sobbed. Once my climax subsided, I slid out of her and lay on my back, drawing her into my arms, combing her stiff brunette hair. "It's alright lover," I whispered. "Everything is good." Looking up at me from my dampened shoulder, her smile despite her tears looked relaxed and youthful and happy.

"Good," she echoed. I kissed her reddened forehead. After a couple minutes she reached down and cupped my flaccid penis. "Do you think it could grow again?" she asked. I nodded. She stared at my penis so she couldn't see my affirmation, but her thumb rubbing my glans brought her her answer. Slowly my penis expanded. She kissed her way down to it and pulled on it with her lips. I guided her legs to straddle my chest and worked on her cum saturated genitals while she worked on mine. When my skillful manipulations brought her near a third orgasm, distracting her mouth from felatio and using her fist, she turned around and straddled my hips and guided me in. It started as a slow fuck. We took inventory of our bodies. Though thin, she had long strong elastic muscles. She kept in shape. Proving her strength and resilience, she picked up the pace and fucked me hard through a fourth orgasm and recovered and returned to the fast pace and sustained it until I filled her vagina with my second spend. She collapsed on top of me, whispering, "Thank you darling," and then gently bit my earlobe.

When I awoke she draped me. Her steady breath neared my ear. My mouth neared hers. I whispered her name until she awoke. "Hi lover," she smiled. Her face relaxed, I hardly recognized her. She revealed a different beauty, more normal, realer.

Not sure if I cared about the consequence, I decided to confess my second job. Beginning at the end with my relationship with the blonde mother, I told her about my mom and how we survived. Amused, she said she should have hired her to look after her husband. "But he likes them thinner for some reason," she said having seen my mother's nude photos at the gallery. "But she is beautiful. Let me think about it. Let's finish your bath. I could use one too."

In the bath while I scrubbed her, she debated the decision. "I never paid," she said. "I guess it was the other way around. But maybe I should have. I haven't been fucked well in years. I haven't really been made love to in I don't know how long. I didn't think I wanted to. I didn't want to be touched. But it was the wrong men touching me. You made me realize that. It felt so good! It still does. But paying ... I wish you weren't what I want. You're a boy, goddamnit. Why couldn't I be normal at least in my head? How else could I have you? You have your girlfriend already. I certainly can't compare to her."