Sep 12, 2015

A cheap motel for intercourse with a near stranger --- This is heaven --- fragment

Our friend Glenn sends this picture... 



Question: wouldn't "intercourse with a perfect stranger" be much funnier?


...while we are writing Chapter 28 about John and Taylor making out in a hotel room...so we simply had to post this post. There's a lot of sex in the chapter that we omit...some of the text overlaps with recent posts, apologies...what we are trying to do, give you an impression of the entire seduction sequence...seduction isn't possibly the right word, defloration might be a better word...although we're doing a bit more than just defloring Taylor who has just turned 18...

For more context go here, or here.


So we’ve been set free, and are now walking past the row of nervous aspen trees lining the Davis Canal, heading north in the direction of Georgia Avenue. We feel a bit experimental, both of us (I guess), so we make conversation that’s not centered on what happens between horny males in overheated bathrooms and decrepit trailers, or whether it’s accidental or providential (what happens there).

Still, as you might imagine, it’s on my mind whether there’s a follow-up to this, a Taylor-closure, as it were, some full sexual act with this youth played out in some convenient location, like, say, my bedroom---which would be the least convenient location in all of Georgia Beach with Maurice and Ben and everybody else around. Taylor doesn’t know about Maurice and Ben, of course, although he’s possibly assuming that Alex could be a roadblock, the only person who isn’t available as a roadblock at this juncture, sadly. Perhaps we could apply my overcharged credit cards to the reservation roster of the Lupo di Mare, the hotel-restaurant around the corner, or consider the Atlantic Sands Hotel, where we would bump into a wisened Juliette who’d figure us out immediately, the way providence (and female instinct) works.


A propos roadblocks

We’re about to reach the corner of Canal Street and Georgia Avenue. We would have to turn left here (and then left again) to get to my apartment with its bed chamber and other ingredients of supposed privacy, or turn right in the downtown direction and return to the Surfside Field, supposedly. Another round of green-room sex is out of the question, of course, not to mention trailers and police tape. We’ve painted us into a corner. Where do we go from here?
“Where do we go from here?” I ask (one of my better lines today).
“You go home now?” he asks.

Come to think of it. Why not take him home? In all innocence? There will be Maurice, I’d tell him, and Ben, possibly, the black guy who worked for Luke the first day and who’s staying with me because he’s from out of town, and there would be a cup of coffee perhaps, and other refreshments. Taylor could have a shower (both of us need a shower, urgently, sweat dripping---the trailer, the a/c-less jail, etc.), and we all could have an intelligent conversation about rape, playwrights, vampires, dreams, French, SCOTUS, not to mention Enid Blyton. At the kitchen table. There are four chairs. Or on the kitchen table, we wouldn’t even need the chairs. No.

Okay. Let’s put it this way: “My place is busy at the moment.” (Too direct.) “My place or your place.” (Terrible.) “My place is around the corner, but it’s a mess.” (Not ideal, but what can we do.)
“A mess,” he echoes.

(Good.)

“I’ve several people staying with me at the moment.”
“Several people,” he echoes. (Good.)
“It’s like a hotel.”

(He falls silent, watches the traffic.)

What do you make of this, reader? I interpret this as a plain yes. And you know what, my dick, which is never far away, fully agrees. Feeling eighteen again. “There are other hotels, you know.” (I dare say.)
“I know,” he says.

(YES!)

I’m about to turn to the right (that’s where the hotels are). He isn’t prepared to follow through though, he’s still watching the traffic---and in particular a Toyota Prius with what appears to be a charismatic-looking bad boy at the wheel. The Prius pulls over, the passenger window rolls down. “Your destination?” Alex asks.
“The next cloud bank,” I say (another of my better lines today).


[Alex has taken them back to the festival field, where John had some business with Luke, and now:]


We direct our steps toward the Atlantic Sands Hotel, which, as you know, is not far. We’re quiet now. That’s fairly typical with a new trick, you’re either quiet or you talk a lot on the way to the venue. It happened barely a week ago under very different circumstances on the way to Godehart’s place, remember, where it ended in an in-flagrante masterclass of Wagnerian proportions. Let’s see what we’ll be getting this time.

The walk takes us along North Surf Avenue, low dunes to left, occasional multistory condos to the right, all stylized as beach holiday homes with their bay windows gaping at the sea. They would be pretty, the structures, if they weren’t too large---comely porches transposed into five story balconies, it doesn’t work for me. The condos are prettier than the Sands Hotel, though, which was cheaply inserted into this prime location forty years ago. A giant, inverted sign on the roof mirrors its name. I point at the sign (just to make sure). Taylor nods. We enter through a back door and arrive in the lobby from the wrong side, none of the reception people has seen us coming.


Atlantic Sands Hotel


The way we look, drained by the heat, shabbily clad (me), untidily (clad) (Taylor), in sneakers, shorts, T-shirt, we may not even own a motorized conveyance, let alone money, they could easily turn us away. Too late. An assistant manager has made eye contact (‘What are you doing here?’).

“We need a room,” I say. She’s more tactful that Luke, at least, the receptionist, in that she isn’t lowering her gaze; instead, she casts it at the main entrance where she keeps it for two seconds (‘Has she decided to ignore us?’), but then returns it to me (‘Has she changed her mind?’). Squeaky footfalls break the silence, somebody has a hand on my shoulder, in passing, and---you guessed right---it’s Alex, in full alpha-mode now, beaming his post-felo-de-se grin at all of us. “I have an urgent appointment with the Professor Bienpensant,” he says, “replacing Mr. John Fletcher of Wichita Falls, Texas.” The receptionist couldn’t care less, of course---a place like this accommodates five hundred sex acts per day---but Alex is simply too beautiful not to evoke second guesses and wistful smiles. The assistant manager keeps her libido in check, however, and asks: “You know the room number?” And yes, Alex knows the room number and disappears squeakily in the direction of the stair well, ignoring the convenient elevator nearby, for emphasis.

In a sense we were lucky that Alex showed up so soon, because---would he have arrived only two minutes later, he would have witnessed the humiliating scene of an impoverished assistant professor of French brandishing overused credit cards which are then, one by one, put down ruthlessly by the booking system of the Atlantic Sands Corporation. I skip a few details---Taylor saves the day with his own credit card. Nobody asks about his age. We use the elevator.

The room is in the same wing as Juliette’s (and Barbette’s I guess). The view is the same as well; we could see Africa if the world were flat. We bolt the door. We stare at the room.




Why is it different this time? Is there anything beyond sheer sex that holds us back? I mean, John, please, be realistic, how many emotional punts have you placed inside a week, more than you placed during the rest of your life, practically. And now Taylor? All this while Alex is viciously banging the Bienpensant downstairs?

I turn my ears to the left wall, the right wall, the ceiling, the floor.

Taylor can read thoughts, at least this one. We’re both listening in now. This is a thin-walled structure from the poorly insulated ‘70s. It resonates with clanking elevators, children’s shrieks, flushing lavatories, banging doors, passing footfalls on the gallery, connubial disagreements upstairs, and a connubial (?) agreement downstairs, something banging against the wall, a bedhead, presumably.

“Let’s have a shower,” Taylor speaks a redeeming word.

So we undress. Shorts, drawers, shirts, they don’t drop on the floor but are folded away on the luggage tray next to the wall desk. Half-boners come into view. Taylor looks at my thing and affects a coughing laugh. His junk has been treated to a fairly thorough bikini wax since yesterday, all pubic hair is gone. It’s quite okay, his body, nothing too small or too large, the slender features of a belated twink---not much in the way of definition, of course, very white, the body, not much beach time for this ambitious nerd who has put his spectacles away and squints at the world like somebody just waking up.  He isn’t Hollywood material, but even-featured enough to run for office or have full sex with impoverished assistant professors of French. His dark hair is very thick and completely unruly; several cowlicks point in all directions. His hair is clearly his strongest point, physically. With a bit more chutzpa I would now take my dick and wave it at him.

“With a bit more chutzpa,” I say, “I would now take my dick and wave it at you.”
“Why don’t you do it, then,” he asks.

I grab the thing and affect an unconvincing undulation. Taylor coughs another laugh and disappears in the bathroom. I get another glimpse of Africa before I follow him. This is an old-style hotel bathroom, the shower integrated into the bathtub. He has already stepped into the tub and turned the water on, which is too cold, of course, and then too hot, and so on. There’s a lot of water pressure, fortunately. Should we enter a wet embrace? There’s no shampoo. Two tiny samples of branded hotel soap sit casually on the wash basin table. Soap, right, the soap will do it. I step out of the tub, unwrap both “bars,” step back into the tub, and hand one to him. “We both need a good rub,” I say---which is true.

Truth is a universal lubricant. So I begin to lather the body of my newest lover, first where he needs it, the back, shoulders, arm pits, neck, pecks, torso, and then where he needs it more, between his legs. I proceed in all innocence, despite his erection. He reciprocates in all innocence, despite my erection, our arms tangled up in crossing, each trying to fondle the other’s junk for sanitary purposes. Did I ever do this before? I never did it with Alex so far.

‘Alex,’ I think while reaching for Taylor’s rear, how often did we had sex? Including Albert or not including Albert? Including the Sunday morning penetration through which I slept through? If it ever happened, his Maltese shot, perhaps Alex made that up. How about the hand-free sex of last night? So we had sex three times at minimum, five times max. No six times, don’t forget the second dune fuck, after the walk on the beach, that was serious material. We’re both versatile, luckily.

‘Anything I forgot?’ (I think) while working the rest of the soap into Taylor’s ass. Taylor has turned his back to me, water dripping of his cheeky butts in all directions. He seems to like the lathering, widening his stance, stooping a bit to let me deeper inside. Soap suds slide down wet skins. Water on skin is always sexy, we should do this more often. We embrace. Dicks connect like crossing dag-gers. I grab both dingers, press them together. “Try,” I say and hand them to him. He joins both dicks with both hands. “One hand,” I say. “Feel it?”
“What?” he asks.
“Touching both kin in one go, one is yours, one is mine, sensing yours in two ways, mine in a different way, this hilarious sense confusion.” He tries, he strokes. “Yeah,” he says. We make eye contact. We couldn’t be harder. We kiss a soapy, bitter-tasting kiss. Yak. We spit. We agree.

We exit the tub. The unbranded towels are second-rate (“I’m a faceless towel, no need to pinch me”), it doesn’t matter, I rub him dry, he rubs me dry. We proceed to the king-sized bed. I remove the cover. We make eye-contact again, embrace again, kiss a formal French kiss that feels superfluous. “Lie down,” I say. He sits, reclines, athwart the bed. “Turn around,” I say, “I have an idea.”

[...] [Just to give you the hint of one of the sex scenes:]

Back to work, the tip of my tongue inside his ass, inverted French kissing. “AAGHH, AAGHH.” More of this. Deeper. “AA-GHH, OOOHHH.” He feels me, feeling him, feeling me, lapping, slurping, lapping, tickling, kissing. I think I know how this will end, I’ll be rimming him to death now. And there he goes: his butt jerks, he’s upside-down, falls back on his back, his dick gushing thick ropes of goo.

[...] [And another hint:]

And now we’re being treated to an ordered sequence of sighs, starting with another ‘Aaaggh’ and ending with something along the lines of ‘Aaaaaah.’

“Where are you?” I ask.
“It just feels so good when the pain subsides.”
“That’s it?”
“Yes.”
“That’s all?”
“Yes.”

“Okay, Taylor, we have to change tack.”
“You do this all the time?” he asks.
“We’re improvising.”
“Feels like, feels like.”
“You chose the wrong guy for your defloration,” I say.
“Your dick is too large,” he answers.
“You should have asked Alex,” I say.
“Smaller, Alex?”
“Ten inches,” I say, cruelly.
“Ouhouhou,” he moans.

[...] [They are done:]

“The earthquake is over,” I say and withdraw. We’re lying side by side now, besmirched, unable to lift a limb. We’re silent. We’re so silent, the silence talks. The children have stopped squeaking, the couples have made up, the footfalls have subsided, even the bedheads are at rest. You could hear a pin drop. No pin drops.

“You think they were listening?” he asks.
“They still are,” I say, “so to hear.”


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