Sexual Solstice (11 page)

“Wait a minute.” Randy interrupted. “You always start your really juicy stories like that. Hold onto your hat Gillian.”

“No, I mean, okay, to be honest it was partly how I got into this new business I’m running.”

“Are we in the same conversation?”

“Yes. We are. It started when I called one of our clients to let him know what had happened to his, you know, his fortune. He was nonplussed. Didn’t care. Wanted to meet me for lunch.”

“You weren’t afraid he’d kill you.”

“No, we had a history. I mean it was over the phone, and email, but I had a good sense of the guy. I’d talked him out of some tight spots, in fact, and he knew I wasn’t whistling all the way to the bank. So we met in Hell’s kitchen for a nice lunch and one thing led to another, which led back to my place. I wouldn’t have, but he was pretty damn good looking. I mean he was like Randy without the gay.”

“Oh gee, thanks.”

“Oh you know. He had that look about him, but really sweet and we’d really had a good lunch, were drunk, and fuck we were really both pretty broken up over things, not so much imminent poverty, but having to adapt to the new economy. He had acted on some idea.”

“––come on, come on.”

“Okay, some ideas, he wasn’t going to be destitute but anyway, that emotional thing kind of paved the way for some really fucking hot sex.”

“Get to the point, as it were.”

“Well it started out with lots of dope, and then some great massages, and he was massaging me and got pretty cuddly, you know and started rubbing his big prick on my ass which really felt a hundred percent fantastic. I mean I was just lying there having my shoulders and my ass rubbed, like he had and extra hand, and I was completely covered in almond oil so it was what you might call a no-brainer and he was all oily and I was all oily and then the damn thing sort of rubbed around on my hole and then it just popped right in, well, with a little help. I mean he did get me even hotter with his fingers down there, and so I just said
qué sera sera
and he was working his way in. It was a little jarring at first but more of a mind thing, and then I was totally into it. I got up on all fours and there he was, his hands on my tummy, which never happens by the way, and he was humping me like I was Raggedy Anne and fuck did that feel good. We were at it all afternoon and then I stuck my extra friend, the one I use for lonely nights, up my other hole and, well, I came pretty close to ecstasy.”

There was silence after that. The busboy happened by and badly poured more bubbly to overflowing. Randy winked. The boy left, red faced. And the three listened as the headwaiter quietly scolded the boy for stepping over the line. “Well I’ll drink to that,” Randy said, and lifted his glass, pretending to slurp the froth, and then licking his lips, long and dramatically.

Val pretended to swat him, “You pig. It was a pretty nice moment. I might see him again you know.”

“Gasp! You? Miss Independence? How revolutionary! How emancipated! How liberated! How un-anal!”

“Oh do shut up!”

“Now you sound like Gillian, putting on English airs.”

“I think it’s time for fresh air.”

Espressos revived them enough to get them back out on the street and ogling windows and pestering shop girls and shop boys. They all bought something. Randy, a red cashmere scarf from Ralph Lauren, Val a vintage Allouette touque with a huge pom-pom and Gillian, trying to keep her spirits up as life without Edgar slowly became a reality, Balenciaga fur mittens that, Randy said, made her look like she was out of planet of the Apes. Just when they thought they’d bought enough Gillian saw a McQueen cocktail skirt with a subtle pattern of one large dragonfly on it. “It’s a killer. I have to have it,” she said. “It will look amazing with my new Charlotte Olympias.”

“What the hell are Charlotte whatever?”

“Stilettos to die for.” And within a matter of minutes Gillian was waltzing out the door, package in hand. “I think we should have a little more Champagne back at my place and then eat, after the ballet. If Edgar wants to run, he can bloody well miss the fun.”

“Bloody well right, Miss Brooklyn no more.”

“In fact let’s nosh at the hotel. It’s right by Lincoln Centre. And the view is almost as good as it is from my room.

“Can we spa? Well mini-spa. My feet are aching. I need some revival.”

“My room can be base camp, and we can all get towelled up and have some steam or whatever.”

L
ater, the three, feeling vastly refreshed, emerged into the hotel restaurant high above Columbus Circle.  “Well that steam room was a bit of an adventure,” Randy said.

“Why what happened?”

“Oh just some wayward patron, not sure where to park himself. I won’t go into details. To be brief I did leave him feeling drained. I love steam rooms.”

“Let’s have some sushi and a nice Viognier. I don’t care if it goes together we need something yummy and festive before the ballet. By the way, I love you guys, and I especially love seeing you at Christmas and especially this Christmas.”

“Don’t go getting all weepy.”

“I won’t,” but Gillian cried into her napkin. “Oh shit, enough of that. Twenty years, of what? And for what? What the hell.”

“Look at you.” Randy took her hand. “You’re the last of the Amazons, for God sake. Enough red hair to stuff a sofa and beauty that radiates right down Broadway to––”

“––to?

“Ground Zero.”

“Gee thanks. I know you meant it as a compliment.” Then she stifled another sob.

At Lincoln Centre, Randy insisted that they walk up the stairs so he could check out the men on the escalator. “There’s an after-party tonight. Anyone up for an after-party?”

“Where and with whom? I need details,” said Val, “Besides I have a conference call at about 3 a.m. I’ll have to be home for.”

“Can’t you conference on your thingy.”

“Oh sure, coming live to you from some powder room in Manhattan. No. I’d rather be at home.”

“Set your phone on vibrate, you’ll never know the difference.”

“A party? I’m up for it, still on London time, so it will be way too far past my bedtime. I have to say I love this ballet.”

“I love the Nutcracker.” Val added. “The music.”

“The nuts darling,” waxed Randy, “the big glorious, wholesome, fulsome nuts between each man’s legs.”

“The bulges?” Gillian asked.

“And butts. There is lots to be said for the butt as I’ve recently discovered.”

“Always something to look at.”

“So, you’re a man––” Gillian looked at Randy.

“––thanks for noticing.”

“Why are their bulges so big?”

“You can ask at the after-party. Gerard and Antoine will both be there to answer your questions.”

“Are they cute?”

“And straight.”

By the end of the evening of ogling the Prince’s crotch and the Nutcracker’s nuts, they took to comparing the two and deciding that the Prince had the disadvantage, having a monstrous bulge that kept them from focusing on his dancing, all of this discussed while they waited inside the stage door.

“Darlings,” Randy squealed as his two friends, Gerard and Antoine, rounded the corner. Introductions were made, Gillian took to the two immediately, Gerard, for his bony dark romantic profile, deep set eyes and red lips, and Antoine, blonde with prematurely thinning hair, but obviously the stockier and more muscular of the two, evident in a skin tight Gauthier t-shirt. They all squeezed into a limo for a short ride to the Upper West Side. Randy and Val sitting across from Gillian, who had strategically placed herself between the two dancers.

“Gillian has a question for you boys.”

“Fire away.”

“She wants to know why the bulges are so, you know, bulging.”

“Randy! Please.” Gillian scolded. “I can speak for myself.”

“Go ahead.”

“I mean, do you have a cup in there, like the hockey players do? And why does it stick out? Why not just tuck it between your legs?”

“Nope, no cup,” Gerard said. “Just fabric and elastic.”

“And,” Antoine continued, “it’s out in front because if it was tucked, then every time we did an entrechat it would be torture.”

The men’s solid legs rubbed on Gillian’s thighs, sending her senses reeling.

“Gillian’s husband is gone.”

“Oh did you have to bring that up. You shit disturber.”

“Just doing you a favour.” He winked.

“Well I’m sure he’s fine wherever he is,” Gillian said. “I doubt he misses me,” she added, and then regretted sounding pathetic.

T
he party in the Upper West Side was in full swing when they arrived. Many had attended the ballet that night. There were some other dancers, identifiable by their lithe forms and gaunt complexions. Most of the others were patrons of the arts, older and with obvious face work, from eyebrows that fought with hairlines, to expressionless botoxed and full upper lips, with a few starving artists thrown in who couldn’t dream of affording a ticket to the ballet, but managed to look like Donna Karan models or Twyla Tharp groupies. “This looks like it’s gonna be a lot of work,” Randy sighed.

“What do you mean?” Gillian asked.

“It looks totally New York. Very old, but very reno’d.”

“I guess I’ve had it with the stratospheric scene of London, for the moment anyway. We don’t seem to know anyone under seventy. This is child’s play.”

“You have your child’s play cut out with those two.”

“Oh come on they have wives or girlfriends or something.”

“Better check on that.”

Val let herself be swallowed up by the crowd. She had spent too many so-called gatherings with money people and she needed to scare up a new scene. She was thrilled about this new life of blurred boundaries she had embraced.

After drinks were gotten and the others nibbled from the buffet at the dining room table, Gillian found herself with a man on either arm, much to her liking.  She had assumed that Gerard and Antoine would be looking for their own fun, but they seemed fascinated with her and framed her on the love seat, surrounded by people talking, shouting, laughing, drinking and eating.

“So you’re in New York for––”

“––two more days. I’ll be seeing my mother tomorrow and then off to the south the next day.”

“Sounds lovely. And your husband really is gone?”

“I guess he is; the police haven’t contacted me yet.”

“Randy mentioned that not much has been happening in your life, you know what I mean.” Antoine winked, flexed his arms, just a little. Randy leaned into Gillian. “We don’t have to stay you know.”

“I don’t want to spoil your night out.”

“Oh we’re quite content to accompany you. Maybe we could all have a drink at your hotel, get away from this noise. We’ve put in an appearance. That’s prestige enough for whomever held this shindig. We don’t get paid to socialize.”

“A drink sounds great. I’ll just let Val and Randy know we’re going. Meet you at the coats in five.”

Gillian got up, caught her breath, her heart was beating in anticipation. The two men were absolutely steaming hot, and polite, and charming, and she had finally unlocked desire that had been stored away for years. She was brimming with anticipation.

The hotel was just a few blocks away so the two dancers hooked their arms through Gillian’s and the three walked south toward Columbus Circle. “Let’s have a drink from my room, the view is really nice.”

“I’m sure the view is perfect,” Gerard said, a hint of suggestion.

At the room Gillian ordered up a bottle of Dom Perignon, Epernay 2000, and every one got comfy around the window as a small blizzard kicked up. The lights below faded and soon they were in a wonderland of swirling magical snowflakes making the room feel that much more secluded and silent. There was a knock and then the door opened, to Gillian’s complete surprise, that Robert was holding not one, but two bottles of Dom. “Good evening Madame.” He winked. “I figured you had company so I brought up some extra glasses, and an extra bottle, my treat. I hope you don’t mind my letting myself in.”

“No. Thank you so much Robert. In fact, why don’t you stay for a drink? It’s beastly out there and I am sure no one needs you right now––as much as we need you. Am I right Gerard and Antoine?”

Gerard looked at the fine figure that Robert cut, “I’m sure there’s enough to go around.”

“I hate sharing,” Robert added. “But I’ll do my best.”

“Well then, someone pop that cork. I’m thirsty! Men, please make yourselves comfortable. And please excuse me while I freshen up. Gillian headed for the bathroom to rinse her flushed face, count her blessings, and don a little lace outfit she was saving for the tropics. She tied her cover up loosely and then returned to the living room where the three men sat, silently, in nothing but their briefs. “Surprise!”

“Oh God.
Quel surprise
. Wow!” Gillian couldn’t take her eyes off of any one of the men. Robert’s form, evenly coated with a fine dark layer of hair, an obvious burgeoning erection in his underwear; Gerard’s sinewy muscular build, with a line of hair running down to his underwear that was met with yes, a familiar bulge; and Antoine, whose chest was magnificent, large and defined and matched by his big thighs and the notorious ballet bulge, in his fine white briefs. “I think we need to wet our whistles. Robert could you do the honours?” Robert was already in the process of squeezing the head of the champagne cork and deftly removed it with little noise. Gillian held the glasses, Robert poured and Gillian handed the glasses to the dancers, offering a toast. “Here’s to many more Nutcrackers, to the waltz of the snowflakes, Christmas, and––”

“––that king sized bed,” Robert interrupted.

“––here, here” the dancers offered, and held their drinks up. Then all four took generous sips, yes, to wet their whistles, and Gillian got comfortable on the edge of the bed, letting her wrap fall open to reveal her lace bra and panties. “Oh boy, you can always depend on Dom, no matter where you are. So festive. So yummy.” She reached up behind her head and undid the knot holding her hair, then let it fall around her shoulders, and slowly shook her head. “That’s much better.”