The 19-Year-Old Virgin

"David," she said, as we were getting ready for the mysterious Monday night at Theta Cubed, "this has been a wonderful week and I'll always remember you...."

I had adopted "Theta Cubed" as the reference whenever I thought of the club. The actual name is "ΘΘΘ," the Greek capital letter "Theta" used as an homage to the body type of the women who supported it.

"Are you breaking up with me?" I asked, hating the tears that started to flow.

"Oh, honey," she said, smiling, "there was never an 'us' to break up. It's been fun, David, but I am not interested in a long-term relationship and, honestly, neither are you."

"But...." I started and she shushed me with a finger to the lips.

"David, Carla told me you were still pretty, well, innocent and tended to mix love up with lust," she said, "and while this has been great lust, it ain't love honey."

I didn't say anything, processing and, well, okay, trying to get my tears to stop.

"Oh, sweety, don't be so hurt. I'm not abandoning you," she said and kissed me lightly on the lips, "I'm giving you a chance to sample other women."

That stopped me.

"Huh?" I said, demonstrating that sometimes I'm not the rapier-witted conversationalist I like to think I am.

"Honey," she said, and she was giggling now, "Monday night at Theta Cubed is when girls auction off men they are," and she stopped then, thinking, organizing her thoughts.

"Okay, let me try again," she said, "Monday night at Theta Cubed is when girls auction off men they are ready to move on from."

"Huh?" I said again.

"Sweet cheeks," she said, reaching up and pinching my cheek as she said it, "I am going to put you on stage and sell you to the highest bidder. If you refuse her, no harm, but you will no longer be welcome at the club. The sale is for one week and after that, well, you can come back without whoever buys you, you can stay with her if you're a compatible couple, or she can auction you off again."

"Auction?" I managed.

"Yes, David, although she won't actually pay me. The money will go into an account and support an open bar tonight as long as it lasts, but it will be real money," she said.

"I don't know what to say," I said.

"David," she said, taking my hands in hers, "Carla was your first and I was your second. I'm not looking for a 'relationship,' so you can try other women. Don't be sad, honey," and she kissed me again, "think of it as playing the field with the field coming to you."

"Okay," I said, accepting and, honestly, feeling a little stirring in my groin.

"Okay," she said, "now let's make sure you're looking pretty. I want to get top dollar."

We spent an interesting half hour getting me ready for my debut as a sex object at Theta Cubed. She fussed with my hair, selected my tightest jeans and a T-shirt announcing that "I don't play guitar because I'm good at it. I play guitar because I like it." It's not like I had much of a wardrobe at her place and most of my stuff was still at Carla's apartment.

"Okay," she said, "you're beautiful."

She turned serious for a minute then, her eyes holding mine.

"Davey," she said, "you've been a treat, you really have. Hell, I kinda wish I was ready to settle down," and she kissed me, a very soft kiss.

She physically shook her head and grinned then.

"But," she said, sighing theatrically, "I'm not, so come on."

I followed her to the club in my 10-year-old pickup truck, a Chevrolet if you care.

In the club, I exchanged greetings with some of the women I knew and realized that there were no other men. That surprised me since Theta Cubed was a great place for young men looking to get laid.

Valerie went to the bar and had a quiet, huddled conversation with the bartender.

I was looking around when Valerie touched my shoulder and said, "Come with me."

I followed her behind the bar into a section of the building I hadn't explored before. A dimly lit hallway led us past four doors until she opened the fifth and took me into what was a dressing room straight out of a movie set. One wall had a half dozen small stools in front of a full-wall mirror with lights across the top and mounted in vertical strips of LEDs every four feet or so.

She sat me at the mirror and fluffed my hair before showing me the collar.

"Really?" I said, feeling an odd rush deep in my belly.

"It's symbolic, baby," she said showing me the way the leash terminated in a handcuff, "whoever is high bidder gets locked to you for the night. Where it goes after that, well," and she giggled and patted my head, "that'll be up to y'all."

"Okay," I said, lifting my chin.

I came erect as she put the collar on me, drawing it tight enough to dent the skin slightly, not choking but I was aware of it. I felt another rush in my belly as I watched in the mirror as she used a small brass padlock to secure the collar in place. She bent over and kissed the top of my head as she dropped the key, in that way only a reasonably well-endowed woman can, into the cleavage supported by her bra.

"Okay, sweety," she said, offering me her hand, "let's get you sold."

She opened the door at the other end of the room, drawing me along by the leash. She wasn't yanking or anything, just, well, guiding I suppose is a good word.

The door, it turned out, gave onto the stage where the band or occasional stand-up comic worked.

As we walked out onto the stage I saw there was a reasonably good crowd. I guessed about 50 women. And that's the thing. It was all women. Every other time I'd been to Theta Cubed before men had outnumbered women. It was, of course, that way by design. One of the mottos was "Every Night is Men's Night - Half Price Drinks." Theta Cubed offered free drinks with a student ID, accompanied by a driver's license as proof of age of course.

But tonight it was all women.

I had never been on the stage before and I realized, as Valerie walked me out to the front that the discrete dot on the floor was, literally, the "mark." It turned out the mark, as I found out in a few moments, was the spot where various lights focused.

"Stay," Valerie said, leaving me standing at the spot, as she went to a rack of impressive-looking electronic gear. She flipped a switch and picked up a microphone. She rejoined me and then said, into the microphone, her amplified voice easily overriding the general hubbub of voices, "Hazel, lights please."

The room lights went out and a couple of spotlights put Valerie and me in a bright pool of light in the general darkness.

"Ladies," she said, in an almost conversational tone, "we have an auction this evening before we open the door to the hungry mob."

She paused and I watched the general movement as the women in the room gathered at the stage. I had never thought about stage fright, but suddenly I was aware of all of those eyes focused on me and found myself blushing.

"For those of you who don't know," she started something sounding like a set speech she had been preparing, "this is David. Our departed friend Carla was his first."

She paused for a few seconds, for dramatic effect I was sure, letting that sink in.

"Yes ladies, he was a virgin. Carla was his first, I was his second. And now, one of you will be his third," she said with a dramatic flourish.

Another pause while I stood and blushed and squirmed.

"Now ladies, this is a valuable commodity," she said, gesturing, "he has energy but he's still learning. He has talent, but it needs to be refined. He's biddable," marking the first time I had ever used that word used in reference to a human being. "Annndddddd," she said, drawing out the consonant dramatically, "he do like the fat girls."

The crowd cheered and applauded.

"Now ladies, don't fuck around here. The opening bid will be five hundred dollars, no exceptions. If you can't come up with that then fuck it, I'll keep him for myself," she said.

Instantly I heard, "FIVE HUNDRED!"

I couldn't help the smile that spread across my face. On some level, I was gratified. At least someone had bid on me.

"Five ten," I heard another voice.

"Five fifty," a third voice.

In the end, I sold for seven hundred twenty dollars that went into the bar account and ensured free drinks for a good bit of the night.

With the auction over, one of the women, I thought maybe Tina although I couldn't be sure, opened the front door, and a stream of men, mostly young men, who had been waiting outside came in. The sound system started playing music, drinks were dispensed, and dancing began.

The woman who bought me came to the two steps that led me stage and waited.

The most distinctive thing about her was that she was hugely pregnant. A T-shirt proclaiming, "Yeah, knocked up at 40. Got a problem with that?" over one of those line drawings of a bug-eyed woman with an open mouth looking maniacal was stretched over an immense belly. The shirt was so tight her protruding belly button was on display.

The woman herself was attractive in that sort of mom-next-door way. Her hair was auburn with just a few stray grey hairs, her face was round and a bit puffy making me wonder if it wasn't the hormones that were filling her out, her eyes were a striking grey, wide set, her nose small and round, her mouth generous with full lips, and her ears were small. She stood in the leaned-back posture of a woman in the third trimester dealing with a center of gravity well ahead of what a lifetime taught her was natural.

"David, this is Chelsea, Chelsea, David," Valerie made the introductions.

As I watched, Valerie latched the handcuff that was the end of my leash to Chelsea's left wrist and then dropped the key to my collar, hanging from a fine gold chain, over Chelsea's head. This had the sense of a scene played out often enough that it was scripted.

"Let's dance, David," Chelsea said, "and let's see if I got my money's worth."

We danced then, the sound system seemed to feature mostly slow songs with a leavening of something faster every fourth or fifth selection. It was awkward at first as I figured out how to reach around her and sort of mold my body to accommodate the oddly hard round swell of her belly. She was light on her feet as we danced, and she seemed to legitimately enjoy herself. I know I was enjoying it.

The seven hundred twenty dollars she paid was devoted to an open bar. I was on my third beer, she was on her third

7-Up

, as we sat at the little table, resting, talking.

I was fascinated by her story. After 18 years of marriage, she and her husband assumed there would be no children. They had started living a party life. As she put it, they decided if they weren't going to have to raise kids they might as well have fun.

When the stick turned blue she told her husband. He turned around, walked out, and the next she heard from him it was when a process server delivered a divorce petition.

So here we were, my collar attached to her wrist, as I told her of Carla and Valerie and, well, even my pledge to Bonnie made in the 8th grade. She laughed at that.

"Soooo," she said, chuckling around the vowel, "you actually stuck to your pledge to your 8th-grade girlfriend until Carla got her hooks in you?"

I toasted her with the beer across the little table. "I did," I said.

"Any regrets?" she asked.

"Not a one," I said, "not a one," I repeated for emphasis.

"Good," she said, touching my hand with hers, "because you have been bought and paid for by a hormonal 40-year-old knocked-up divorcee who's coming off of an eight-and-a-half month dry spell."

I laughed at that and touched the handcuff attaching us.

"You heard Valerie," I said, "I'm not experienced, obviously, but I AM biddable."

She giggled, a happy sound, and said, "Oh goody."

The sound system started Chuck Berry's definitive version of

Johnny B. Goode

and Chelsea giggled and stood.

"Come on, you biddable boy," she said, "one fast dance and I'm taking you home."

I'm a good dancer. I always enjoyed it. So I walked her to the dance floor, took a couple of seconds to pick up the backbeat, and spun her off into a jive. She was light on her feet, and the smile on her face can best be described as "ear-to-ear" as we went through the quick steps of the dance. She was sweating when Chuck ended with the final riffs, and was short of breath.

"Oh my," she said, a little breathless, "take me home."

Valerie called over the shoulder of the handsome young man with whom she was dancing, I guessed a college student like me, "You kids don't do anything I wouldn't do, now, y'hear."

Chelsea laughed and waved at her.

I waved and felt a slight twinge of, well, something. Not regret really, or sadness. I guess just a vague feeling of emptiness. She had been so much of my life while we were together, and I would miss her.

But not much, I decided, as Chelsea took my hand and led me to a very nice Cadillac CTS.

It was obvious that I wouldn't be able to get in the car the way we were hooked together. Well, I suppose it would have been marginally possible to clamber across the center console, but I wasn't sure it would work out. When I pointed this out to her she smiled and said she would trust me.

"Follow me," she said, unlocking the padlock on the collar.

So I did. I took my truck and followed her across town into the outskirts, that part of the city where lots were bigger and houses more spread out. When she pulled into one of the long driveways I followed and parked in front of the door that was slowly closing.

I got out of the truck, not sure what to do, but saw her open an access door at the side of the big double garage door I had watched close. I went to her and she met me just outside the door, the collar in her hand. It was obvious what she wanted so I closed the distance between us and leaned my head back, offering my neck. I felt a little rush in my belly as she tightened the collar enough that I could feel it and then clicked the little lock closed.

She smiled and said, "Yes, I'm a bit of a control freak."

I just smiled, figuring it was her show.

"Come on," she said, giving the leash a little tug, and leading me into the house.

The garage opened into a short mudroom where coats hung and shoes were in tidy little cubbies, and then into the kitchen.

In the kitchen, I stopped and just looked. This was a kitchen that would have been suitable for a world-class restaurant. The Viking six-burner stove itself with its two ovens was, I guessed, somewhere north of $25,000. The oversize Viking refrigerator/freezer was another twenty-five grand. Hell, the fancy copper-clad Duparquet pots and pans hanging from a rack suspended from the ceiling were another $5,000 easy.

Okay, I'm a bit of a cooking nerd.

She was watching me.

"The divorce settlement was, well, let's say, satisfactory to the wronged woman," she said with a smile, "I got the house, he got the mortgage, and my regular checks represent exactly 49 percent of everything he makes in that business I helped him set up."

I was kind of speechless I suppose.

She closed the distance between us and kissed me. It was an awkward kiss, I had to bend around her belly and I hadn't figured out the positions and leverage yet. But it was a good kiss as well. Her mouth was soft and hungry, her tongue wet and warm, and her hands on my back were demanding.

She broke the kiss after a very long count, both of us kind of gasping for air.

"David," she said, "it's been an eight-month dry spell for me and I'm about to explode so please, baby, please take my fat ass to bed."

I laughed softly and said, "Oh, please, Br'er Fox, not the briar patch."

She giggled, catching the reference, and said, "Oh, Br'er Rabbit, I'm afraid y'all have caught the tar baby."

She headed down the hall, me in tow as the leash drew tight. As we passed by an opening, this house had avoided the currently popular open-floor-plan architecture, the kitchen had a small pass-through but there was a wall between the kitchen and the rest of the house, I caught a glimpse of a large front room, what I think the architecture types call a "great room," with oversize and comfortable looking furniture, a huge flat screen television, and what looked in my quick glimpse, like a big rack of high-end stereo equipment.

But I didn't have time to look. Chelsea was a force of nature, not to be denied, as she pulled me down the hall.

Her bedroom surprised me. I had expected frills and pink. Instead, it was almost gender-neutral and brown. A big four-poster bed, what I think they call a "California King" was the centerpiece and it looked like it covered a not insignificant (sometimes the double negative is the best way to express something in English) fraction of an acre. The furniture was brown, making me think of Mahogany. The posters on the bed were brown, very dark, I thought Ebony. The sheets, where the bed was made in almost military precision, were so white they almost glowed, but the spread was tan. The floors were real wood, Oak I thought, and the area rug under the bed was dark brown. Even the walls were not quite tan, a slightly dark beige.

I only had time for a quick look, though, because she had me in her arms again.

Damn, the woman could kiss, and her hands, roaming up and down my back, were demanding. When she started working the T-shirt up my back and then over my head, I helped, lifting my arms.

She sort of giggled as the shirt came off over my head. "I guess I didn't think this through," she said, looking at the way the shirt hung from the leash connecting us.

It was my turn to laugh as I started working the T-shirt with its silly proclamation up, across her belly and then her arms, raised over her head. I grinned as I pushed her shirt, hanging by the hole through which her head fit, to join my shirt hanging from the leash.

I had never seen a pregnant woman before.

Well, I mean I had never seen a pregnant woman

naked

before.

And I couldn't look away. The old-fashioned word "mesmerized" came to mind.

I literally could not look away.

Her bra was white and cotton and held very small breasts, I guessed it was a 38A. She seemed almost out of scale.

Her body was responding to the demands of the mutation of her million-times-removed great-grandmother as she obviously added fresh fat cells to a naturally slender frame. A tracery of very pale stretch marks ran from the top of her bra where white material met pale skin up across her shoulders.

I reached around her and found the hooks of her bra. I liked the little quiver I felt in her body as I worked out the combination and unhooked it. I was still far from being considered "experienced," but my time with Carla and Valerie had taught me some basic skills.

Her breasts were small, hardly more than bumps on her chest, and a distinct pale set of stretch marks pointed to the big, okay, huge areolas that covered half of her breasts. They were very dark, chocolate syrup colored and her nipples were even darker. They were large, inch-long hotdog ends rising from the cone of her areolas that tightened as I watched.

Her belly was a mass of very dark stretchmarks, radiating out from the belly button that protruded dramatically from the roundness of her belly.

"Well, at least you didn't try to run away," she said.

This time it was me who initiated the kiss.

And I kissed her thoroughly. I remembered what Valerie had done once, and used my left hand to pinch her nose shut, forcing her to share my breath, something I found to be a special intimacy. As she breathed out I breathed in, accepting her breath, and then as I breathed out she breathed in, sharing that one breath. We held that kiss until I was starting to get lightheaded as the oxygen in our shared breath was used up and finally broke it with a gasp.

"I'm not going anywhere," I said, working on catching up with my oxygen debt, "unless you chase me away."