Sexual Solstice (4 page)

 When she came out of the bathroom, Edgar was under the sheets holding two glasses of Cordon Rouge. “To you.”

“No, to you, and whatever it was you were celebrating this evening.”

“Thank you.”

“Mmmm. This is lovely.”

“Glad you like it

“I definitely don’t want to rush things but I really have been having a good time and would love to continue.”

“Do you have a boyfriend?’

“Mmmm?”

“You know, are you hitched.”

Gillian was caught off guard by this question since she had abandoned any romantic allusions since leaving Nicholas. “No just recently broke up.”

“Oh good. I mean. Oh dreadful.”

“No, it was good, to end it. He just didn’t seem to have much hope of growing up, and he was all grown up if you know what I mean. He was twenty-seven.”

“Ah, an older man.”

“I like older men as you may have guessed.”

“So, an older man, incapable of––”

“Anything really, that involved commitment of any kind, to anything, from having a cup of tea, to an honest to God dinner date. I was stood up beyond belief.” What Gillian didn’t mention was that Nicholas loved to have sex in as public a place as possible––movie theatres, late night at an empty tube station, phone booths, public washrooms, even one time in the kitchen at the pub where she worked. He was forever in pinstripe from his banking job, which made him look positively innocent most of the time. The public sex was fun and didn’t bother her much, and yes, she admitted it was downright fun most of the time although there was never any payoff, everything was always on his terms, so there were no dinners afterwards in which to catch one’s breath.

“He just ran his life for himself. That’s all. Up and coming banker.”

“Met him at the pub too?”

“No. No. I was doing one of those touristy walks in London, you know, see all the famous places where murders, Jack the Ripper and all that took place.” Gillian didn’t mention that while they were wandering down a lane near Tower Hill tube stop Nicholas pretended to be Jack the Ripper and Gillian willingly succumbed and let him fuck her, with the group off in the distance gaping at something the guide was pointing out. The thrill of knowing they could be caught, plus the fact that the guide had set them all on edge made it that much more exciting. “Anyway he’s long gone. Living in world of his own making I suppose.” Gillian turned to Edgar. “Now let’s get back to––”

“––work?”

“––God no. Let’s get back to the moment. You had broken the ice I do believe.”

“––And you were about to light the place on fire!”

“More or less.” Gillian realized she could teach him a few tricks of her own.  “I hate to say this, but just lie there.”

“What are you up to?”

“You’ll see.” She pulled the sheets back and was pleasantly surprised to see that this Fleet Street solicitor hadn’t neglected his body. “You workout obviously.”

“Squash. The Fleet Street league.”

“Let me see your bum.”

“Your wish.” Edgar rolled onto his side.

“Oh my God, a true squash bum. You weren’t lying. Magnificent if you don’t mind my saying.”

“Not at all. But genetics may have had a role. Or the landscape. I grew up in the counties.”

“Well whatever did it. It’s prime.”

“Never heard it described that way.”

“Now back onto your back. I need to have a look at––oh my goodness what balls! Were you raised on a cattle farm in the counties?”

“Bane of my existence. Hard to keep them under control.”

“We’ll see about that.” Gillian took Edgar’s ample balls and fondled them. “Wow, I hope these don’t get in the way while you’re playing squash.”

“There have been a few accidents, to be honest.” Edgar rolled his eyes back in ecstasy.

Soon a rise and some movement began, something that couldn’t be ignored. “You seem to like this.”

“You could say.”

“You shave them?”

“Just a trim, you learn by observation in the club showers and change room. Seems
de riguer
nowadays. Good God that feels incredible.”

“I’m only just touching them.”

“But it’s the way you’re touching them.”

“Do you like it?”

“I didn’t realize they were so sensitive.”

“Hasn’t anyone ever touched them?”

“Not really. No. Usually lights are off and––”

“You’re married?”

“No. Not anymore.”

“Someone special?” Gillian, for her few years, knew that getting involved with someone who was involved would only end in drama, histrionics and lots of sodden Kleenex. She’d seen what it had done to her mother and vowed it would not happen to her.

“No.”

When was the last time you had sex?” As she spoke the head of his cock became swollen like the head of the champagne cork. “What on earth, the end of this thing is huge.”

“It’s been some time.” Gillian, in retrospect realized that for a man to not have had sex ‘in some time’ was a bad sign. Men, most men, the majority in fact, loved sex, or at least needed it. There was always a penis to be had, as long as your were selective.

“Did your wife ever blow you?”

“Oh God no. You know, lights out, that sort of thing, face to face. I don’t understand why she left me for someone more dashing when she didn’t seem to want to go the distance herself.”

“Well you have a lovely prick and that knob, if you don’t mind my language, is very tasty looking.”  While Gillian spoke she felt Edgar’s hands slowly venture up her thighs, touching her public hair and then running along her tummy toward her breasts. “Enough about my cock. It’s you. You are so––well, my cock wouldn’t be doing what it’s doing if I didn’t feel this way about you.”

“May I?” She asked.

“Please do.” Edgar replied.

And Gillian did, licking the mushroom head of Edgar’s cock until the shaft grew to a stiffness that betrayed his calm demeanour.

“Oh my God, it still works.” Then Edgar moaned.

“Mmmmm.” Gillian slowly started to move her lips lightly up and down the tight shaft, licking the head in a circular motion each time she returned to the top. Meanwhile Edgar’s fingers tickled the soft skin on the way from her tummy to her breasts.

She couldn’t help thinking of the luxury that surrounded her. Though she wasn’t easily impressed, a king size bed was so much more pleasant than the futon back at her student digs. And champagne instead of cider. And a gentleman instead of Jack the Ripper-offer. So if someone had ever suggested that Gillian was a fortune hunter, or in search of a sugar daddy the answer was no. She just found it so much more convenient to be attracted to someone who paved the way with silver and gold.

She brought Edgar to the brink, alternately kissing him––he was a remarkably good kisser––while her hand stroked him, and sucking his cock. His simple touch on her front was keeping her by him, on all fours, in throes of easy pleasure.

Edgar gasped, “I can’t hold it any longer.”

“Hold on,” Gillian manoeuvred herself, gripping the base of his cock until she could bring herself on top of him. She gently pressed down on the large head until there was a shift and he was inside. With this older man she liked being in charge, it was like a drug to her. Edgar reached up and gently twisted her nipples, causing Gillian to relax further and press down as he responded and shoved his pelvis upward. Edgar’s cock was thick and comfortable once inside her, and Gillian started to ride him like a stallion. She was in control now, and she liked it, as did Edgar. And the pleasure was limited only to what she thought she was capable of. He looked at her throughout, looked at her breasts, her belly, watched his cock go in and out of her, all of which made him shove even harder. He was there, all present, no closed eyes and off somewhere else.

After, Gillian struggled with her idea of this attraction. Was it just Edgar’s wealth––he had money and land, on the south coast––the south coast of several places, England near the Isle of Wight, Spain on the Costa del Sol, France somewhere between Marseille and Toulon, as well as a recently acquired property in the Caribbean––or was it love? Love? As time went on it always seemed that she was charged with giving Edgar pleasure, the times that they had done it.

Gillian stared out the window of the first class lounge. A 747 stared back at her, rain trailing down the windshield, two pilots beyond going though pre-flight checks, making sure they had enough lube and condoms, she thought, a smile momentarily lighting up her face. Her resolve to sleep with Spokes all those years ago came back like a wave now. It knocked her off balance. This was the twenty-year mark of life with Edgar, with more than two decades of marital celibacy if you added the celibate parts together. It was time to do something––but what? London to New York for the compulsory family pre-Christmas visit, and then New York to Barbados to escape the northern darkness.

Her own reflection startled her. She admitted that she had found, over the courtship, that perhaps she couldn’t separate her attraction for Edgar, from her love of his money, or stature. She’d had time for neither with her own career. The lines were blurred and she virtuously tried to convince herself that it was Edgar she loved, time and again. Where others couldn’t separate love from lust, Gillian’s problems were more abstract. Still, she had felt proud to be on his arm for the first years. And perhaps she loved him. But something happened. Edgar started to treat her more as a decoration than a person. She could tell right away that he had lost interest in the bedroom. She realized that she had fallen for a man who was constantly obsessed with new. New purchases and acquisitions. New friends. But perhaps, Gillian thought, new women. New sex. Was that what she was feeling? She had been new and now she wasn’t.

Chapter Three – Falling for Cliff

T
he New York leg of the flight might have been uneventful––Edgar disappeared to the lounge behind the cockpit for a conference call just before take-off, as happened frequently when they traveled together––until a young steward with a red face and red hair, like her own, and a Scot’s accent leaned down by her seat. “Ma’am, excuse me.”

Gillian had been dozing, never one to turn down an offered glass of bubbly, it was the right time of day, cocktail hour, and t’was the season to enjoy.

“Ma’am, are you comfortable?”

Quite thought Gillian. She remembered her dalliance with the flight attendant from years before, the hot cabin, the air of horniness that seemed to permeate everything.

“Excuse me?”

“I’m sorry I thought you were awake. Just wondering if you are comfortable. If everything is to your liking”

Gillian thought the young lad to be so uncharacteristic of the first class cabin––the stewards had usually earned their stripes after many years. She wondered if he himself was the before meal hors d’ouevre. She could have just popped him right in her mouth. She thought of the possibilities. Maybe he could reach down a pillow for her, and while doing so she could undo his zipper and help him get that pillow that was lodged oh so far into the back of the overhead bin. His rosy pink dick would fall out and she’d take it in her mouth until it was too swollen to tuck back into his pants. He’d blush, if you could tell, and Gillian would offer to let him sit by her and then she could sit on his knee as the huge get lumbered over the North Atlantic, the passengers slept, and the pilots played with their joy sticks. God, thought Gillian, I am now deeply into revenge sex. It’s as if I want to get back at an entire community of people who sold deals by selling themselves.

“Yes,” she smiled, happy that she wasn’t entirely bereft of Christmas spirit. The kind boy seemed to have cracked her icy demeanour, “I’m fine. Perhaps a bit more Bollinger if you’re around with a fresh bottle.”

“Yes, ma’am. I take it you’re thirsty.”

“You could say––”

“I’ll be right back, and please don’t hesitate to call on me if you need anything.”

To Gillian, the possibilities seemed limitless. It would take moments to have the boy’s pants around his knees she thought. Almost a crime.

She played with the rim of her champagne flute, stared at the seat back in front of her, wondered if she’d see Edgar at all during the next six hours. She sat back and thought of her mother and siblings, racing at her at five hundred miles an hour from the other side of the Atlantic, or so it seemed, even though it was she who was doing the racing. They stood out like a stack of cards, kings, queens, jacks and aces all waiting for their share of her, before she jetted off. Jetting off wasn’t something that any of them had ever taken to. It just wasn’t something that working class Brooklyn could take seriously. Jetting off.

Why not? Gillian thought. What was this noble aversion to wealth and a bit of luxury? It just wasn’t that bad. Aunts, uncles, cousins. They’d all had a laugh when she announced that she was going to work and study in London, even that struck her mother as highbrow.

“I’m not asking for a dime,” she had told her. She had savings enough from her work at Nathan’s Famous (tall enough to see over the counter) to Peggy O’Neill’s (looked Irish––which she was), at the ballpark. She had no trouble working at Coney Island, it seemed to fulfil all her desires to be social, and once she started at O’Neill’s the money was good to great. She’d meet her friends afterwards, didn’t have to ask anyone’s permission to go out since she already was. Sure, she’d lied about her age, once she started at the ballpark, but she was tall enough, and charming enough, to get away with it.

There had been the odd summer lover, the odd fling, mostly romantic with a little touching here, kissing there, a bit of fondling and petting, but she was not sure when or where she acquired her taste for older men. It was a relief to her mother once her father was gone, and there was no hardship. Her mother had a job, the kids pitched in and they carried on. Her first older man was only somewhere in his twenties, or so he said. They ended up meeting regularly at a hotel right across from Nathan’s. He’d made an impression by saying something embarrassing about the sausages and after that Gillian was in some kind of pursuit. She’d watched him come and go, without his knowing. It was always interesting to see what happened when a guy didn’t wear underwear on those hot days. She could just make out the thickness of his cock, but she may have been optimistic, since it was hanging down quite a ways. What else could he have in his pocket that would be shaped like that? His brown hair hung down in long ringlets, and he wore everything loose, his pants, t-shirt and vest, all very unkempt and wrinkled, but clean, as if he’d pulled it all off the floor a few days after pulling it from the clothes dryer. He had a little goatee and wore wire rim sunglasses, never on his nose, but always nestled above, in his hair. His arms were covered with a flow of silken brown hair, covering a firm lean musculature. His eyes blazed green and the irises seemed rimmed with fine dark lines to make them that much more striking. And on his departure the fabric on his pants always clung to his ass, especially in the heat. That ass had to be made of Jell-o. From there, his big sandaled feet wandered slowly from the food counter and back into the crowd. Those big feet. She’d seen this guy at his worst, clumsily ordering sausage, when he was probably vegetarian, and that somehow endeared her towards him. He was charming too. But there was something about his attire and manner that didn’t seem to add up. He wasn’t authentic through-and-through flower child. More like an undercover cop or something. Gillian couldn’t put her finger on it, but, on the whole, her instincts said go for it.