The following sexually-explicit story was published in the single-author collection, Obsession (Eternal Press, 2008) by Jean Roberta, now out of print.
I posted the first section of this story here: www.ohgetagrip.blogspot.com on Thursday, May 10, 2012.The theme of the week for this 6-writer blog was Birthdays.
To find out how the story ends, read on. (I've tried to put most of this under a cut so as not to take up much public space.)
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My birthday arrived on a weekday, and I had nothing planned. My two closest friends had invited me to a small party on the following Saturday, which was meant to celebrate several events in our lives. I didn't think my birthday needed its own event since it came around every year. Besides, I would only reveal my real age to the medical system or the government.
On the fateful day, I came home from work, sat down and kicked off my shoes. The doorbell rang, and I reluctantly went to see who it was. Through the window in my front door, I saw a short, stocky man with long, sunbleached hair and fuzzy sideburns from the 1970s. He was wearing a short-sleeved shirt printed with red, orange and black flames. He was bouncing slightly on athletic shoes, as though to a song that only he could hear. He was grinning like a maniac.
I opened the front door, leaving the screen door latched. “Dolly!” he sang out. “Happy birthday! It’s been so long! Did you get my phone message and emails? It’s Alan from Ontario!”
“I don’t know you,” I told him.
“I’ve changed since we were in high school. It’s been awhile. Remember Mrs. Miller’s Grade 10 English class? We learned Romeo and Juliet. She used to clear her throat all the time. We just thought she had colds, but then she was involved in that class-action lawsuit about the insulating material in the building. She said it made her sick. Jason Suckpoo was her pet.”
I stared. “How did you know it’s my birthday?”
“You told me when you turned sixteen. You didn’t even have a date. I wanted to ask you out, but I couldn’t do it. I was afraid of how you’d react. Then you left. I never stopped missing you.”
I felt as if I had been struck by lightning. “Come in,” I said before I could reconsider.
He bopped into my house like a teenage boy bursting with hormones. As I would soon find out, that was exactly what he was like.
I guided him into the front room. “Sit,” I told him as though training a puppy.
“Nice place,” he remarked.
“Alan,” I said. “I really don’t remember you from Mrs. Miller’s class. How did you find me?”
“Queer grapevine and netsurfing,” he bragged. “Remember Darcy McDougall?”
Darcy. ohmigod. She had been my first womyn lover, in college. It had ended when she told me she was sneaking out with the son of a dean, and didn’t see how she could keep seeing us both. She asked me not to tell anyone, since she didn’t want to lose her politically correct status with the rest of the lesbian-feminist crowd. I told her to go to hell, and went back to the company of my books.
“That was in Ontario,” I told him. “Over thirty years ago.”
“That’s where I picked up the trail. Darcy’s an accountant in Toronto now. She works for the Conservative Party.”
“I do not give a shit.”
“You asked,” Alan reminded me. “Darcy’s first husband was the lawyer who defended Roxy Roller when she was busted for dope in the 1980s. You know, the dyke punk-rocker. A gay guy in her band knew your husband Pierre.”
Egad, Pierre. I had married the nicest man I could find, wanting to escape from a cliquey lesbian community that felt too much like high school. Soon after I had the bright-eyed, chirping baby we named Robin, Pierre told me that he wanted to be free to date men.
“I lost touch with everyone in the east when I came here,” I told him.
“But you didn’t disappear. You worked in the public library, and your daughter starred in a school musical. Then you were at Fresh Thoughts,” Alan reminded me. “All that stuff was on websites. Easy. Especially for a computer programmer like me.”
Apparently my dyke-bar-hopping phase was below the radar of Alan's investigative skills, or so I hoped. Even still, he had been stalking me for years. He had probably heard things about me that he wasn’t willing to repeat. He had designed Ms. Raunchy Birthday as a caricature of me. Red-hot rage suddenly made me feel dizzy.
I stood up. “What do you want from me, man?”
“I just wanted to see you,” pleaded Alan. He carefully touched me on the knee, and I jerked back as though his fingers carried an incurable virus.
For a moment, fear and rage wrestled with my common sense. Boyish enthusiasm shone from his amazingly young-looking face. He gave off the vibes of a geek, not those of a predator.
“Dolly,” he begged.
“That’s not my name any more.”
“Okay, dear,” he persisted. “I always wanted to call you something sweeter anyway: honey, girlfriend, angel. They made fun of me too. Do you know what I was called in high school?”
“I don’t care. You have to leave.”
“Silly Sally.”
Visual memories crashed onto the screen of my consciousness. Silly Sally, the tomboy who could hit a baseball hard enough to break a window across the street, and who was constantly told by teachers that she couldn’t wear her baseball cap in class. The girl I usually avoided because she seemed to attract even more contempt than I did, and I didn’t want it to rub off on me. This was her, or him. By staring hard, I could see the resemblance.
She, or he, had had a crush on me for most of hir life. I sat back down, feeling weak.
The person called Alan was watching me. His admiration and concern felt like fingers tickling my tummy from the inside, and reaching for my hands to steady me.
“Alan Worth,” I said. “That’s nice. Wasn’t your family name Wrosky?”
“Good memory,” he smiled. “It was. I had it changed legally.”
The truth came down on my head like a pile of bricks. He had shadowed me for years,but decided not to contact me until he felt that he had grown into his true self, and until the anniversary of the day he had let my Sweet Sixteenth birthday slip away. It was all carefully planned. Dorothy, meet Alan. No losers here.
“Do you have plans for today, honey?”
I realized that I hadn’t told him what to call me. “My name is Dorothy,” I told him.
“No, not really.”
“On your fiftieth birthday! Then I’m in luck,” he bragged. “I’d be honored if you’d go out for dinner with me. Isn’t your daughter planning to celebrate with you?”
“She moved back east to live with her grandparents. Now she’s married and pregnant. She says she wants to be a good mother, unlike me. It’s a long story.”
“Oh, Dorothy, that sucks. I’d love to be your friend.” I groaned at the campy reference to queer folks as “friends of Dorothy.”
He went on. “I really want to hug you. Please?”
“Sure,” I laughed.
He wrapped me in his arms, and the hug felt better than I expected. I could feel his heart beating beneath a hard chest, and then I felt his muscles flexing like live animals. He smelled like some light, citrus-and pine-smelling cologne. He rocked me, not wanting to let go.
I almost expected to feel a hard bulge between his legs, and then I was embarrassed to realize that I had no idea what he had there. As if to distract me, he pressed his lips to mine and just let them rest there for a moment before slyly slipping his tongue out. “Mm,” he groaned. His facial hair tickled my face, and I felt like giggling. I felt my lower lips growing wet. I felt like a teenager on a date.
He withdrew just enough to say something. “You’re like a dream come true. I could just keep going, but I don’t want you to think I only came to see you for one thing.”
I must have looked downward before I could stop myself.
“No,” he told me calmly. “I don’t have one yet. That’s the next phase, but I know what to do. Trust me. I’ve got more tools than most men.”
His androgynous face looked so innocent and handsome that I wondered why I hadn’t noticed before. In some sense he was going through a second coming-of-age, and he seemed to have the grace of youth. “Alan,” I said. “I hope you’re happy.”
“I am now,” he grinned. “Are you hungry? Let’s go eat, and then pick up where we left off.”
He chivalrously helped me up from my chesterfield by holding both my hands. He felt stronger than he looked, and his strength didn’t feel like a threat. He slipped an arm around my waist as we headed out the door. Now that he knew he was welcome to touch me, he wasn’t willing to stop.
He ushered me into his Italian sports car to drive us to a locally-famous French restaurant. Over hors d’oeuvres and cocktails, he gave me tidbits from his own past: his own efforts to fit into several lesbian communities, the websites he designed, his escape to Thailand to teach computer science in a place where no one knew him, his research in gender reassignment.
The food was delicious, and our swishy male server hovered by Alan’s elbow, persistently calling him “sir,” but I found our conversation more interesting.
Over coffee, I asked Alan what I still wanted to know. “Do you know why I left school when I did?”
He looked away. “No.”
“Bullshit,” I said. “You must have heard something.”
At the worst possible moment, he was trying to be a gentleman. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Yes it does,” I told him. “I bet you were told what kind of trash I was, and why I couldn’t show my face among normal teenagers. Someone must have told you that, didn’t they?”
Four servers walked smoothly toward us, carrying a cake with orange icing and ten lemon-yellow candles on top, each representing five years of my life. “Happy birthday to you!” they sang in unison. Alan sang with them. I gritted my teeth in a smile.
The cake was placed in front of me and the servers stood all around me, beaming. “Sorry there wasn’t room for an inscription,” said Alan. “I couldn’t have everything. Make a wish.”
I gathered my breath, blew out all the candles, and got a round of applause.
“Now your wish will come true,” promised Alan. “That’s what they say.” The servers discreetly dispersed.
I snorted. “I always say the Goddess helps those who help themselves. But thank you for arranging all this, Alan. The cake looks tasteful without any sugary messages on it.”
Alan looked smug. “I want to give you a sugary message in private, babe.”
Between bites of cake, I said, “You didn’t answer my question.”
Alan blinked apologetically. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you asked me anything.”
“Alan,” I said as calmly as I could. “Why do you believe I left school? Tell me.”
“I don’t know, D-Dorothy,” he said. “I didn’t care. I just wanted you to come back. I heard you had a baby and gave it up. And I heard that someone saw you working a street corner to support a heroin habit. I heard you were dying of cancer.”
He couldn’t look me in the eyes. “I was a bad kid in those days, dear. I really hoped you were in some kind of trouble so I could find you and rescue you. I thought that was the only way to get you to notice me. But I had to be worthy of you. I felt as if you had left to get away from freaks like me.”
I looked away. “That wasn’t it. Remember how everyone in school used to worship the basketball players?” I asked him. “Two of them raped me.”
His expression changed drastically, and his face went deathly pale. “If they’re still alive and I find them,” he said, “I’ll kill them.”
“I was stupid,” I pointed out. “I should have known what I was walking into.”
“You weren’t stupid,” he told me. “You were a smart, beautiful girl. That’s why the pigs attacked you. Did they go to jail?”
“Are you kidding? Not unless it was for something else, which wouldn’t surprise me.”
“Then they need to be killed. If that hasn’t happened already, which wouldn’t surprise me either. But I really want the pleasure of doing it. And I want to be your bodyguard from now on.”
I reached for one of his warm hands that just fit mine. “My hero. This is where I’m supposed to talk some sense into you. But I would love it if you killed them for me. That’s probably the best birthday present anyone ever offered me. For now, let’s keep it as a fantasy.”
“Yes, dear,” he grinned. “I really hope you don’t hate all men.”
“Um. I haven’t met all men. Some are more unusual than others. Let’s play it by ear.”
He paid for the meal with his credit card, and explained that he was staying at a venerable Canadian Railway hotel while he was in town for a conference. On the way to his car, he grinned, “My place or yours?”
“Mine,” I answered. “I’d feel more at home.”
After he parked in my garage, I tried to give him a tour of my perfectly-restored house, originally built with early-twentieth-century oil money. However, the master bedroom charmed him so much that he didn’t want to leave it. He lifted me up and bounced me gently onto the patchwork quilt on my double bed. Then he stretched out on me (using his elbows, like a gentleman), letting me feel his length, his weight, his heat, his hair and his energy.
When he kissed me, an electric current seemed to run from our joined mouths to my awakened cunt. I had not had a period for seven months, but I felt young, juicy, and ripe to be fucked.
He undressed me first, raising me up so he could pull my sweater over my head, deftly unhooking my bra, unzipping my pants and pulling them teasingly down past my hips, exposing my springy, untrimmed patch of chestnut pubic hair. I was glad that I hadn’t seen any grey hairs there yet.
Alan actually licked his lips. “Oh my god,” he sighed. “This is amazing. You look better than I imagined when we were kids.” He bent his head to suck on my hardeningnipples and flick them with his pointed tongue.
For the first time in years, I heard sounds coming out of my mouth that I didn’t recognize.
“Baby,” he sighed in a voice that tickled my ear, “I was going to go slow and work up to it, but I just can’t wait.” He slid a determined hand over my panting abdomen, and trespassed on the grass above my slit. I moaned, spreading my legs apart for him. He pushed two fingers into me and wiggled them, spiraling deeper.
“Dolly!” he groaned. I didn’t correct him.
I nibbled his tongue but then lost my concentration when he found my clit and tickled it in circles. He progressed to vigorous rubbing as I rocked beneath him. “Does it want to be kissed?” he teased.
“Yes,” I muttered. He moved down to bury his face in my wetness and suck my throbbing clit into his mouth. He fucked me steadily with three fingers until I came to a loud, thrashing climax.
As we lay together in the aftermath, he seemed strangely embarrassed. “I’m sorry if I was too fast, honey,” he told me. “You know how trigger-happy we men are.”
“It’s okay, man,” I assured him. “I wanted you. But I don’t want you to keep your clothes on in my bed.”
He squirmed uneasily, but I was relentless. I unbuttoned his jazzy shirt, and saw the scars where his breasts had been removed. His muscles had given his chest a new set of curves, and I guessed that he spent much of his time lifting weights, probably in the solitude of his own bedroom. The thought made my eyes sting with tears, and I shook my head to clear them.
“Promise not to laugh?” begged Alan. He pulled down his black pants, taking his underwear down with them as though his briefs would look sillier than honest nudity. An oversized clit like a swollen thumb lurked beneath his light-brown bush. Somewhere lower down was the opening to his hot, damp and vulnerable cunt.
“Oh,” I sighed, closing in on his little cock as though it were a wild animal. “It’s adorable. I’d like to pet it.”
“Please do,” Alan muttered. I breathed in the tangy smell of his sweat as I moved down to give him the same attention he had given me. I rubbed the little cock, took it into my mouth, and licked it to distraction as I cautiously entered his cave with two fingers. He told me without words that he didn’t like the same things I liked, so I kept my invasion shallow. He bucked, groaned and came, drenching my mouth and fingers. I was enchanted.
We held each other, enjoying the rhythm of our combined breathing and heartbeats. “Honey,” I told him, “I like toys too. It’s not a question of either/or.”
He laughed. “I give good birthday spankings. Would you like that?”
“Yes,” I answered shamelessly. “But – oh, Alan . . “
He was watching me with a devilish grin. “Fifty might be too much? From a guy who works out?”
I felt a hot blush spreading up my neck and face. This date really did feel like a return to our lost youth. “That too.”
He managed to arch both his eyebrows in a comic look of surprise. “There’s more? Do tell.”
Without waiting for an answer, he scrambled up into a sitting position and pulled me, face down, across his lap. He slid a small but hard palm over each of my ass-cheeks in turn, making me shiver. “Oh,” I sighed.
A sharp, well-place slap hit one side of my butt, and the sound seemed to echo subtly off the walls. Even still, I knew he was holding back. “Tell me what you’re thinking, Birthday Girl,” he insisted.
“Hard to think,” I told the quilt underneath me. I turned my head and he pulled me into a position that placed my face closer to his.
“Well, look at it,” I blurted. “I didn’t give you the time of day when we were in school. That was cruel, and I’m sorry. But you stalked me for years without my knowledge, which was creepy. I doubt if you’re sorry at all. Then again, you have the skills of a hit-man, and I’d like to have you on my side.”
“So?” He was openly laughing.
“So if you’re just using my birthday as an excuse to spank my ancient ass, what does it mean?”
“Means your ass is still tempting and I’m an opportunist.” He punctuated this remark with a harder slap on the other side of my butt. I squirmed.
"One for every five years?" he mused. "Or one for every two years? If you don't count them I'll just keep going until you tell me you've had enough."
The next one caught the underside of my right cheek. "Three!" I squealed.
"Nah," he responded. "The first one was just for warm-up."
He slapped the same spot on my other cheek. "Only ten," I gasped. “No more.”
He slapped higher up, near my tailbone. Then he landed one in the middle of the other cheek. "Five!"
"Good girl," he chuckled, and kept going. He spanked from different angles: closer to my hips and closer to my crack. The stings seemed to spread outward in widening circles through my flesh.
“How many was that?” he asked me.
“Enough,” I moaned, carefully touching my behind.
“One more for luck?”
“Okay,” I consented, even though my ass already felt as though it had been heated on a grill. The last spank felt like the finishing touch.
“Done,” he said comfortingly, pulling me up so he could kiss me. This time, my mouth and my cunt felt wetter than before. I felt as if I could melt into him.
He pulled away to tease me. "You want something, honey?"
“You.”
“But you must be too sore down here to want to be touched any more.” He slid two fingers lazily down my back and into the hot crack between my cheeks. “Birthday girl. Shall I put some ice on it?” The mere suggestion made me jump.
“Tell me what you want,” he persisted, “or you won’t get it.”
I imagined the birthday hint lists that everyone in my family used to hand out to each other when I was growing up. I almost guffawed aloud. “I want you to fuck me doggy-style,” I said. “Deep and good to make up for all the lost time.”
“Can’t do it here, my dear, because all my best cocks are at home.” His fuzzy cheeks moved as his mouth curled up in a smirk. He was stroking my ass with feathery touches that drove me crazy.
“Use one of my mine,” I told him. I slid out of bed, opened a drawer in my dresser, and pulled out my silicone dildo. Suddenly feeling shy, I handed it to him without looking him in the eyes.
He squeezed me in a bear-hug. “Dolly!” he sang into my hair. “I never thought I’d get such a bitch in heat. I am so going to make up for every minute you haven’t been filled with love.”
And so I placed myself on all fours on the accurately-named shag carpet in my bedroom, trusting him to do something effective with my own toy, even though I didn’t have a harness to go with it. He knelt behind me, holding me by the waist, and gently but steadily filled me with the thing that felt like a part of him, even though I had often used it on myself.
Fairyland, I thought, as his catchy rhythm worked me into an altered state of consciousness. I’m in the geeky world of cartoon characters, shapeshifters and magic wands, all with a rocking soundtrack. And it doesn’t matter any more if either of us seems abnormal to the rest of the world.
For a moment I was afraid that I was under too much pressure to come for real, but then Alan breathed on my sensitive ass, and that did it. I came hard, filling the space with the sound of my voice. I felt as if I had been released from a curse.
Afterwards, as we lay in my bed together, he told me what he was thinking. “I was in a jewelry store before I came to see you,” he confessed. “There was a perfect ring. It looked like silver with a blue stone, probably a sapphire. I just – but I thought a present like that might have freaked you out.”
“Jesus, Alan,” I told him. “It would have. On top of everything else.”
“We’ll see,” he gloated.
I reacted with an uncontrollable belly-laugh. We had so much more than anyone expected for either of us in our youth. And we still had years ahead of us.
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curious
contemplative
cynical