What came next were two weeks of shameless debauchery, peppered with phone calls and webcam dates with the boys. They talked about the summer camp they were attending, the many virtues of Deiondra's cat and the fact that there was a huge piñata in the backyard for their joint birthday party at the end of their visit.
The fact that the kids were gone gave my mother the notion that I would be at a loss for things to do. I called Jackson. He agreed to call me every other day and invite me to do something with him and his girlfriend. That way, when my mother asked what my plans were for an evening or a weekend I could say, honestly, that he'd invited me out.
I never saw Jackson those two weeks.
I saw a lot of Thomas. Anthony. Curtis. And Billy.
Billy posted an ad on Craigslist which sounded innocuous enough, with the phrase "busy professional" worked in. Translation: He doesn't have time for or interest in bullshit. He was my age with strawberry blond hair and freckles and a nice build. Billy also had a keen interest in being dominated by a girl.
My heart leapt with excitement.
"I know; it's pretty freaky, right?"
"I don't think it's freaky at all," I replied, "tell me more."
He told me about a girl he'd picked up, taken to a sex shop and fucked in the dressing room where they were interrupted by another guy. Billy invited the guy to take a turn while he watched.
"I guess I'm into being cucked. Do you know what that is?"
"Yes. Tell me, do you ever participate?"
"With the dude? Sometimes."
"Giver or receiver?"
"I like to suck. I've never been pegged, but I'd like to try it. I'm a total freak. I'm freaking you out, aren't I?"
If he only knew.
"You most certainly are not. When can we get together?"
"Lunch? How about a drink?"
"How about I schedule a massage? I'm really nervous about this, and that might relax me."
"We can do that. But you have to know that I'm not THAT kind of massage therapist. I mean, it's all totally ethical."
"Oh, yeah, I'll pay you and no funny business. I didn't mean to suggest..."
"That's fine. Let's schedule a massage and get comfortable with each other. One o'clock?"
He phoned at noon, saying he'd finished his meeting early and was on his way to my town, "I'm really nervous. I was going to stop at the brewpub downtown and have a beer before i came over, and I thought you might want to join me--my treat."
He picked me up on his way downtown and we sat at a corner table. We ordered our beers and talked about him. I kept to one beer. After two he loosened up and started to smile. After three he was confessing to a secret fetish he'd had for a dozen years: Tight, shiny panties.
"Oooh! Like, so tight that they cut into the hips? And you can see them digging?"
"Uh huh. And the shinier the better."
"Damn, that's hot."
We left and drove to my apartment.
"Are you still wanting a massage?"
"Definitely. No funny business."
I left the room and came back a few minutes later. He was under the sheet, ready for work. I kicked off my sandals.
I started with his upper back and shoulders, stretching, kneading and pulling while digging my elbow into the trigger points between his shoulderblades.
After about 20 minutes he needed a bathroom break. He grinned sheepishly and walked across the floor in his boxers. When he came back I continued the massage. We talked about his work, his divorce and baby son named Jack.
25 minutes later his hands were hanging straight down at the head of the table where I stood stroking parallel paths from his neck to his low back.
I felt his fingers graze my ankles.
"Is this allowed?"
"If you touch me like that I'll have to end this session and fire you as a client."
His hands moved up my calves.
"Wow, your legs are so muscular!"
His fingers stopped behind my knees.
"William, this session is over. I can't be your massage therapist any longer."
"Oh, that's too bad."
He raised my skirt and caressed the backs of my thighs. I pulled back.
"Now that we are no longer therapist and client I want you to get me a drink. Pour one for yourself if you'd like. You'll find the bourbon in the cabinet to the right of the sink along with the glasses. Three cubes and two fingers for me, please."
He sat up.
"Do you have any beer?"
"William. I have bourbon."
He turned and walked into the kitchen. He was a little loopy.
I stripped and climbed onto the table as the cabinet door closed, glasses were plunked onto the countertop, ice cracked and dropped into glasses. I listened to the delicious thunngg of cork pulling free from bottle, followed by the glug-glug of bourbon rushing downward.
I raised myself on my elbows and watched him.
He came back with the drinks, clearly not accustomed to the finer points of whiskey drinking: He'd poured us both glasses 3/4 full of bourbon.
"This shit is really strong."
"Easy, baby, you need to sip it. Maybe you'd like a glass of water? So you can alternate?" I asked, taking a drink and swallowing.
"Nah, I'm good. I've just never drunk bourbon before."
"This is going to be fun."
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