The Ubiquitous Ass
Copyright 2013 Theo Fenraven
Found the photo online. No idea who it belongs to but if it’s you and you object, let me know and I’ll remove it.
That got your attention, didn’t it?
Mary and I were eating lunch at this fabulous little bistro near Central Park. It was one of those perfect early days of spring when the leaves had finally popped out, the sexy young things—both men and women—were wearing next to nothing, and the smell of dog shit hadn’t become the top note on the city’s perfume yet.
We huddled around a tiny table in the corner under the awning, eating our endive salads with warm Brussels sprouts and toasted pecans. Mary and I met for lunch regularly. We liked picking at each other.
“Let’s talk about anal sex,” she said, crunching a nut.
Of course that got my attention. A peal of laughter burst from me. “Why?”
“The boyfriend bought me a strap-on and wants me to use it on him.” She leaned forward and waggled her beautiful eyebrows. “Tonight.”
I signaled the waiter and ordered a glass of wine. I had a feeling I was gonna need it. “And you’re asking me because…?”
She rolled her eyes. “Well, you’re gay. I figure you know all about it.”
“Not all gays engage in anal, sweetie.”
I blinked. “Sometimes.”
“Top or bottom?”
She grinned smugly. “There you go. You know it from both sides. Give me some tips or something.”
“Have you gone anywhere near his ass yet?”
My wine arrived and she immediately picked it up and took a healthy swig. I asked the waiter to bring the bottle. I also suspected he’d heard some of our conversation because he was snickering behind a menu as he went off.
“Do we need to discuss this now?” I asked, glancing around. The little tables were filled and there was a constant stream of passersby. It was inevitable someone would overhear something, and I didn’t fancy getting the dirty looks this discussion would undoubtedly engender.
She tapped me on the back of one hand. “Tonight,” she said with emphasis.
“Yeah, okay. Where were we?”
“You asked me if I’ve been near his ass yet.”
“Right. Well, have you?” I forked green stuff into my mouth and chewed. The food was good anyway. So was the weather, and I’d just spied a pretty twink across the street walking a teacup dog of some sort. Cute as hell. I willed him to look my way. He didn’t, and in the next minute, he crossed with the light and disappeared in a crowd.
“What exactly are you asking, Dil?”
Dil wasn’t my real name, which was David. People had started calling me that when The Crying Game came out and my friends noticed a resemblance between me and Jaye Davidson. I’d recently read he moved to France, and I speculated he was living some wild, hedonistic life as the plaything of some rich old faggot.
If only I’d been that lucky.
“Have you stuck any fingers up there?”
Snickering Waiter was back with the bottle and another glass. He poured, and I grabbed it and gulped. Our eyes met, and he gave me a sympathetic look. I fell in lust with him immediately.
What the hell was wrong with me? I couldn’t stop staring at guys lately, and he was a doll. Maybe I could blame it on the spring sap rising in the trees, or maybe my pants were too tight and the pressure kept reminding me I had a cock I hadn’t used in a while.
He liked what he saw, too; he slipped a folded piece of paper to me as he left. It was his name and phone number. I smiled.
“Did he just hit on you?” Mary asked, topping off her wine.
“Yes. Answer the question.”
She thought back. “Oh, right. Fingers. I should do that, huh? Stick my finger up there?”
“Not only fingers,” I said, dipping romaine in the side dressing. “Beads, balls, plugs―”
“I need accessories for this?” She made a face.
“What’s the problem? You love shopping.” I took pity on her. “Not in the beginning. But get a good lube and make sure you use it. He’ll probably be nervous.”
“He’ll be nervous? Jesus.” She drank more wine.
“And trim those nails, honey.” I eyed her professional manicure with lifted brows. “You could do some damage with those.”
She held out a hand palm-down and frowned. “Really? Damn, I love my long nails.”
“When can I use the strap-on?”
“When he’s squealing like a pig and begging for it,” I said blithely, dabbing oil off my chin with the napkin.
She looked at me owlishly. “You’re jerking my chain, aren’t you?”
“Moi?” I gestured at her plate. “Want dessert?”
“Yes, but my hips are screaming ‘don’t you dare, you fat cow,’ so I’ll pass. That’s it then? Lube up, stick a finger in there, then insert my ‘so great looking it almost looks real’ cock in him?”
I laughed. “How much do you like this guy?”
“Quite a lot.” She narrowed her eyes at me. “Why?”
“You know about the prostate, right?”
Snorting, she went for the wine again. “Of course I do. I’m educated.”
Uh-huh. “Which way do you curl your finger to massage it?”
Her forehead creased as she thought. “I… I’m not sure.” Then she smiled. “That’s why I’m asking you.”
She had me there. “If you’re sitting between his legs, curl it toward yourself. You’ll feel a little bump through the rectal wall. Take your time, try different angles and positions. He may not even like it at first.” I shoved my plate away. “Or he might come instantly.”
She flashed her teeth. “Yeah? That would be exciting.”
“If you really want to give him a thrill, go down on him while you play in his ass.”
“I should be taking notes,” she said. “I’m gonna forget some of this.”
“You won’t forget.”
“Ha. You’re not the one that drank three glasses of wine. I’m suddenly having trouble focusing.”
It was a sure bet she wouldn’t be getting much work done this afternoon. “Are you driving later?”
She smirked. “No. I’ll take the subway or grab a cab.” She was a paralegal for some hotshot attorney in mid-town. “I don’t even know if I can walk at this point.” Giggling, she took the last roll, broke it open, buttered it with hands that were surprisingly steady, and shoved it in her mouth.
“You’re thinking bread will absorb all that liquor sloshing around in your stomach?” I don’t know why I asked. I already knew the answer, because I knew her far too well.
She nodded and chewed. “What else?” she wondered between bites.
“About anal? Once he comes, he’ll want you out of there.”
She wiped her mouth with the back of one hand. “What, no lingering to enjoy the moment?”
“He isn’t a girl, sweetie. No lingering.”
“So make sure I get my rocks off before he does, right?”
“You got it.”
“That’s not what I read in books. In books,” she said, enunciating every word so she didn’t slur, “the top fucks the bottom, comes, and sometimes hangs around for another go.”
I snorted and checked the bottle: empty. She’d drained the whole thing. “Stop reading those books.”
“But they’re hot!” she protested.
“And I suppose they never mention ass hygiene either.”
“Make sure he washes thoroughly before you go poking around in there. Eat a light dinner or don’t have anything at all. Remember, shit comes out of the place where you want to stick your fingers. And maybe your tongue.”
“Gross, Dil. Jesus. I know that.” She picked up the bottle and shook it. “I don’t suppose we could get more…?”
“Lunch is over, sweetie.” I took the bottle from her and put it down. “Have I answered all your questions?”
“Yes.” She pushed her chair back and stood, slinging her purse over one shoulder. “But what if I think of more?”
“You’ve heard of the internet?” I pulled out cash and threw it on the table, leaving a generous tip for cute Snickering Waiter. His name and number I’d put in a pocket.
“Whatever else you need to know, you can find there.”
“Even anal sex?”
“Bien sûr,” I said, taking her arm as we started to walk. “One foot in front of the other, sweetie. You’re doing fine.”
“I love it when you speak French. Say something else.”
“Cela peut être une catastrophe en devenir.”
She leaned against me heavily. “What does that mean?”
“You don’t want to know.”
Next week, A Silence Kept will be released. Keep an eye open for it, will ya? Thanks. 🙂