This article was last modified on April 28, 2007.


Breathing Together, Part 4

4: Stacy: An Intimate Betrayal

I never really thought of my mouth as a playground for tadpoles. Perhaps my thinking needs revision.

That certainly was the last bizarre image I would have had running through my mind this morning, I’ll tell you that. You know, the early hours consisted of the same old routine as any other morning: taking a long shower until the hot water runs out letting myself be scrubbed throughly with my loofah; brushing my teeth with my Philips Sonicare, the latest in teeth-cleaning and whitening technology; and having a bagel with lox I had picked up from Big Apple Bagels on Calumet Street.

The air was colder than sin this morning, though. My bedroom windows were frosted up with some sort of abstract art, and I knew my car was going to need some excessive scraping. I don’t need this frustration, I thought. Not on a Friday. Another Friday where my reject boyfriend makes bullshit excuses to ditch me for his friends and play poker or whatever they do where girlfriends, wives and other ladyfolk are banned. He’s probably seeing some other woman on the side, some woman with legs that go all the way up. But why does my mind wander to such crap? I have to focus — work, work, work!

Sure enough, the car was frozen inside and out and my key wouldn’t even fit in the lock. I kicked the door to loosen the ice up, slammed my hip into the streamlined curvature of the door, and the key fit this time. I didn’t bother to scrape those fucking windows. With the defrost on high, a hole would appear soon enough. In the meantime, I could just lean my head out the window like a golden retriever or Ace Ventura. Except for the tongue-wagging part, of course. The defrost always seems to work faster when the windows are open, anyway.

No cop in his right mind would pull me over this early in the morning, and I figured the worst that could happen would be running down some penniless orphan who was better off as a stain on the road anyway. As my friend Tara observes, burning down an orphanage is less immoral than running over kittens with a lawn mower because only the kittens are actually wanted and loved.

Also, I never really understood the whole connection between poor people and children. You’ll notice this all the time — families that are well off will only have one or two kids. Families that are poor will have five or six. And I highly doubt this is because of religion or birth control. Sure, you have the Irish Catholics who can not seem to stop dropping out newborns each spring, and also the Mexicans. But the problem is not just them. Poor people genuinely seem to want more kids around the house to dirty the place up. So this leads me to wonder if being poor leads to having more children or if having more children leads to being poor. I suppose the phenomenon is just a cycle that goes unbroken for generations. Maybe I don’t understand the economy, but I bet if people just stopped pumping out so many damn kids the average net worth of any given family would increase significantly.

Think about how simple this all is. A family of four with an annual income of $50,000 has the same amount of money to spend as a family with the same income but having nine children. You would have to either starve the children and keep them naked or assume the family with fewer kids is going to have more money for other investments. Now, down the line the parents are going to die. Not only will the family with fewer kids likely have more money in the bank, but this money will have fewer inheriting it. Even if the large family was able to save the same amount of funds, upon redistribution to the children you would have to give out smaller shares. Conclusion? The best way to help out your family financially is by choosing not to have one.

Speaking of money matters, work was going surprisingly well today. But my mind kept drifting to thoughts of my boyfriend with that other potential woman I picture him wanting in my mind. The woman he probably pictures me as while he kisses me with his eyes closed. I know she exists, don’t even try to tell me she doesn’t. She’s probably some redhead with curls. One of those flaming redheads like Nicole Kidman used to be in Days of Thunder, Eyes Wide Shut or even Moulin Rouge — a woman with “drive”. That’s what James R. Skemp, my co-worker, says — all redheads have drive. I have drive, too, goddamn it! I have big plans for my life, and I’m getting out of this little dirt town if moving on is the last thing I do. Appleton — bah! I’m going to the big city, baby — Green Bay!

Shit. I looked up at my monitor to see I had typed, “Our quarterly earnings are up fifteen percent and I hate my boyfriend.” Not even my fingers are thinking about the task at hand. This is like a disease. A goddamned disease. I will get my revenge on that prick. I will fuck the next thing that enters my cubicle and furthermore, I will even call that son of a bitch up while I’m doing the deed. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. And if he hasn’t cheated on me yet, consider my actions to be a preemptive strike. Shock and awe, baby.

“Stacy?” came the cracking voice from over my cubicle partition, which is obviously not tall enough.

Startled, I whirled around to see Kevin, the Information Technology department head. That’s exactly what I get for thinking like this. Kevin. Kevin the IT guy. He was exactly the geek stereotype. Tall, lanky with greasy hair. Uncombed hair at that, and always too long to be attractive and too short to be a mullet. Slouches pitifully, won’t make eye contact (not unlike a certain small-town newspaper columnist named Steve), and probably has glasses thicker than an inch when he takes out his contact lenses. I suppose I should be thankful the first person to peak over my wall wasn’t a dog or even some woman from the mail room. Those bitches are all land monsters in need of a good slaying.

Not that I really know what IT does, either. My only experience with computers beyond what I do in my basic data entry position was when I attended a seminar for PC Productivity. Let me save you some time, as these seminars are a complete waste of it. They lure you in with the free pizza and the chance of winning an Xbox, but that is not going to happen.

The commercials explain you will become “Microsoft certified” and tell you that “network administrators” can make up to $70,000 in Wisconsin. Both of these facts are true, but they have nothing to do with each other. They certify you in the basics of Microsoft — Word, Excel and Windows XP. A nice certificate is printed out for you and that probably makes your resume look spectacular. But this will not get you a job in IT… the experience might get you a job as a secretary for some car dealership if you’re lucky. But the pizza was good, for what it’s worth.

“Yeah, Kevin, what’s up?” I kept my eye sockets dead set on my computer screen like a loyal drone, but peered at him from the muddied periphery of my vision.

“The network is down in certain cubicles, I need to check your intranet connection.” He pulled a penlight out of his shirt pocket and held the instrument in his fingers like a dart.

“Um, okay, go for it.” I had not even noticed my connection was down. And believe me, I spend enough time on my internet. I have become an addict to LiveJournal, reading the political ramblings of “gavin6942”, the police reports from The Smoking Gun and the comics of Wondermark. And if you think I spend too much time on LiveJournal, you would faint at the sight of my MySpace home page, littered with surveys and videos and comments from friends who may as well be no more real than Tom.

“Thanks.” If I could say nothing else nice about Kevin, I could at least say he was always polite. He was a regular Heloise in slacks.

As for the sexual revenge, I could have turned back. The idea was just a comment to myself, not like I swore to God or anything. But for some reason I just kept going along with the plan. Something inside me just kept repeating: you are now too late, too late, too late.

“Um, Kevin?” I tried to be as nondescript as possible.

“Yeah?” No feathers ruffled here.

“Would asking you to come to my house tonight and help me with some bug I can’t seem to fix be too much to ask?” This was, of course, complete and utter deer crap. My computer has been bug free ever since installing Norton Anti-Virus, Ad-Aware, and Peer Guardian. Nobody was going to get at my most sensitive data or find all seventeen of my pirated Ani DiFranco albums (or even my Suzanne Vega).

“Gee, Stacy, that’s very nice of you. I had a LAN party planned, but for you I’ll make an exception.” Thankfully, I have no personal experience with LAN parties. If they are what I picture them to be, what you will find is a basement full of Monty Python nerds drinking too much Mountain Dew, eating Funyuns and trading episodes of Doctor Who they ordered from England.

“Um, thanks.” Now I wasn’t sure if I was inconveniencing him with alleged extra work or doing him some sort of a favor by freeing him from the slavery of his geek chains.

I slipped him my address on a Post-It Note and sealed the deal. Ladies and gents, Marty McFly and Doc Brown have passed the point of no return. Shit, now I’m referencing dorky science fiction films, too. May the Lord have mercy on my soul.

***

Kevin arrived in his Rabbit around eight. A few minutes early, actually, and as I expected. Politeness and punctuality seem to go hand in hand. I wasted no time shifting the mood from business to pleasure. He turned down my offer of a home-cooked dinner, but was going along rather well with the idea of a few drinks and a movie.

I was quite prepared to make a fine meal, I assure you. First I would have put together the Gefilte fish with horseradish sauce, being sure to offer a side of some challah bread. Next, of course, comes the matzo ball soup, and then the potato knishes. Which side dish would I have whipped up? Most likely either pita bread with humus or pickled herring (fresh, not canned). And finally the dessert; I excel at three after-dinner treats: chocolate marbled cheesecake, chocolate chestnut torte and sweetened pears. At least his decline saved me some trouble, I suppose.

My guest had a White Russian (vodka, Kahlua, and 2% milk) while I sipped on a gin and tonic. I suggested Lord of the Rings for the movie — I keep a copy handy for when I babysit my nephew — and he fell for the ploy hook, line, and sinker. I owned the extended edition, and I even found myself getting caught up in the plot with all the twists and turns. Maybe my attraction was just a result of the booze, but I think Orlando Bloom is unbelievably hot. Even Elijah Wood with his freakish eyes was a little bit cute.

At 12:30, he finally asked me the question I had been waiting all night to hear. In fact, one has to wonder why this hadn’t come up sooner.

“Where’s your computer?” We had finally gone back from pleasure to business.

“Oh, the piece of shit is in the bedroom.” Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly.

I had actually moved the old beast in there just that afternoon. I think this might have seemed a bit obvious, as the room was now quite cluttered, but he never ventured into my office, so the dissonance in his mind between a cluttered space and a vacant one probably never occurred.

We went in the bedroom, and he turned on the computer to get a feel for the machine. He told me simply leaving the computer on at all times rather than turning the power off each night was best, and I thanked him for the advice. I then excused myself to use the bathroom. Now, I know this is so cliche, but I wasn’t really using the bathroom. At least, not for any bodily functions. I was getting “more comfortable” — slipping into Grant’s favorite silk kimono with the matching teddy. He had picked the little number up for me our first Christmas together at a little shop near the movie theater.

I came back into the bedroom, and Kevin was standing there hunched over the screen, probably mesmerized by the size of my hard drive or something equally stupid. And by mesmerized, I mean due to his complete underwhelming, not overwhelming… whatever a “whelming” is. If he was looking to play EverQuest or World of Warcraft, he had come to the wrong house. I snuck up behind him and slipped my hand between his legs, clutching his bulge firmly. He jumped, but I think he liked the surprise because he was swelling up like a grapefruit.

I leaned in and kissed his neck, and he turned to me. He was obviously drunk, but he tried to kiss me, his tongue slobbering like a puppy’s. And he told me then something I hadn’t heard since junior high.

“I’ve never done this before.” Somebody was jumping to conclusions; but, in this case, they happened to be the right conclusions.

I assured him I would do all the work, and I gently threw him backwards on to the bed. He was pitching a tent like a Boy Scout alone in the woods, so I thought I would give him a hand. Unzipping him slowly, I revealed his Bugs Bunny boxers — cute! — and I reached in to pull out his throbbing manhood. And throbbing the member was, pulsing in my hand as some excitement bubbled out from the tip. That pound of flesh was a regular Mount Saint Helens on the verge of near-eruption.

He looked down across his body at me in shock. He had probably never seen a woman besides his mother in her pajamas before, and soon he would see so much more. I grabbed his waistline and pulled firmly at the khakis and shorts. They came down easily with Kevin not wearing a belt. I untied his brown, semi-casual shoes, threw them aside, and finished up on the pants.

“What are you going to do?” I think he was scared, yet also unbelievably excited. I no longer recall the way I felt my first time, having been much too young and with a man much too old. He had been a friend of my father’s from the bank, and thankfully that little secret never got out.

I crawled alongside Kevin and began to kiss him passionately on the mouth. Full kisses, open mouth with tongue; real tongue, not just church tongue. He quickly picked up the technique and wasn’t too bad a kisser himself. I cupped his lower region in my right hand again, gently massaging him, being sure not to press too hard. These freshman will get excited over just about anything, and I had plenty of time to kill.

I stopped for a second and took his hand, sliding his fingers into my panties. I showed him my clit, swollen and warm, and I told him to rub — be gentle. He did, circling the little man in the boat lightly and being as gentle as an eight year-old. I quivered with the anticipation of his hard rod, which was now back in my hand. I squeezed the prick, watching his purple head get bigger and bigger.

He put his index finger inside my rigid davenport, and then followed that first one up with another one, the middle finger. I buckled in delight, having not felt a man inside me these past few weeks. But then Kevin did something I would have never expected. He pulled his fingers back out and put them in his mouth, sucking them seductively. I knew I was moist, but I had no idea just how wet I was until I saw his fingertips glistening in the glow of the monitor.

This was just too much.

“Do you like it?” This was me asking, eager for a verbal acknowledgment for what I already knew to be true.

“I like it.”

I wasn’t sure if he was ready to go all the way, so I took the initiative and dropped to the foot of the bed, pulling his ankles to bring him towards me. I licked his wrinkly bag, which was mysteriously shaved. His testicles popped in and out of my mouth like ping-pong balls in a lottery raffle box, getting tighter as they were being kissed by my soft lips. And then I took his holy lance in my hand and put the monster in my mouth. First I just circled the tip, stroking his shaft with the lubrication of my saliva. But I couldn’t contain myself and started to deep throat him like an extremely fat man would enjoy a Nutty Buddy, taking him all the way in to the point where he was tickling my nose.

Kevin wasn’t nearly as well-hung as Grant, which made the throat relaxation a lot easier than usual (which I had taught myself from repeated viewings of Fast Times at Ridgmont High). But the size didn’t matter tonight. There was just something thrilling about the whole excursion — something risque, something new. A forbidden pleasure of the flesh.

And then, like lightning, he came. Oh God, did he come! I swallowed, gulping the viscous fluid down. Two gulps, and then I sucked him clean. I felt like I was starving from dehydration, and I wanted more. And he gave all of himself to me. The look of ultimate ecstasy he gave me cannot be described in words. The fact that no one will ever believe him if he tattles on me is just too bad.

My sloppy haven of womanhood was convulsing like a horse munching oats. I told him what I wanted, and then grabbed his hair to pull him in. Kevin didn’t need much prompting, he was eager for another taste. And he was good, real good. I’m not so sure he was a virgin, because he knew all the right moves — when to start, when to stop, speed up, slow down. Almost as if he was getting pinpoint direction from Frank Capra. He could lick and flick with the best of them, as if he was at Baskin Robbins and I was his favorite flavor. I came twice, and still he wanted more. He was getting hard again, so I knew the night was young.

Reaching for my cell phone, I decided this was the ideal time to call Grant and moan right in his cheating ear. Kevin and I would both moan, breathing together in pure lust. This will show the worthless little prick what it’s like to be made a fool of.

He picked up the phone, but didn’t say anything. I could hear his brother in the background. Then Ryan took the phone and told me something I would never have thought possible.

If I had to pinpoint when my troubles began, this would be as good a time as any…

Also try another article under Poetry and Fiction
or another one of the writings of Gavin.

One Response to “Breathing Together, Part 4”

  1. Valentine Szmalc Says:

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