It was news to me. News she told me right after I'd railed her for thirty minutes, as we lie on my bed staring at the fuzzy sleeve of dust on my ceiling fan.
"You should probably know I'm gay," she said—but only after we'd caught our breaths... after the third time we'd fucked the shit out of each other. "I haven't had sex with a man in over nine years."
Nine years old was the approximate age of her son—the flesh-and-blood proof that she wasn't always a lesbian, not every minute of her life anyway. And certainly not with me, not on this night.
...Within the first few weeks of moving to Austin, I had little to do in the evenings but squander cash and kill time at the pool hall a few blocks from my apartment. The idea was to score up a game with one of the many UT girls who blew in after 11 p.m. It was the thing to do, I reasoned, because pick-up games of pool involved drinking, and drinking involved talking, and talking led to getting-to-know-you...
This plan was busted wide open (in the good way) on Day One. Because the bartender named Heather, a tiny and more human version of Liv Tyler, clocked out and joined me on the other side of the bar to gamble for Jaeger shots while playing onscreen PubQuiz. By 2 a.m., we were shagging in the back of my car outside of her apartment. She did not invite me up to her place. But this is another story for another day.
The subsequent drought over the next four weeks would have been painfully awkward had I shelved my pool shark plan altogether in hopes of becoming a repeat offender with Heather. But I stayed away from PubQuiz at the bar, and stuck to the tables. No supplementary come-ons from Heather, and no desperate maneuvers on my part. So for 27 days straight I found myself walking home alone, shaking the ashes off my freshly charred credit card.
Finally on a breezy night in late May, I struck gold, challenging two pert and saucy minxes to a game of cutthroat. In any given duo, one girl is always cuter than the other, and I made sure to keep my balls on the table long enough for the cutest to pocket them at her leisure. And pocket them she did.
This girl dressed and moved like the inverse avatar of Lara Croft, and I came to learn she was actually trying to bust a move on the other chick. I thought they were long-time friends, but the average-looking girl suddenly dismissed herself when she noticed us getting touchy-feely. It also turns out the cute one lived in my apartment complex, one building over from me.
That night I went home and fell into my neighbor's vagina. But not until after we sat down for a nightcap with a few more beers and a half-hour of
Half Life 2
. (I cannot express the glee I felt when she told me she also owned a PS3.) Everything was going just Jake and, before I knew it, she was pulling down my pants and pushing me back on the bed.
I was somewhat baffled when, squeezing her tits which popped deliciously from the top of her tank-top, I watched her grip the base of my cock with two hands and suck on it like it was made of manna and she was six days out in the Judean Desert. It wasn't so much that she wasn't doing it very well (which she wasn't) but that I noticed she was shivering as she hunched over my junk, kneeling on her hams. She wasn't diddling herself—what with the two-handed style she had going on—yet she was vibrating like a tuning fork. She shuddered so ferociously while she sucked that I asked if she were okay.
"Yeah," she panted, "I just came. I just came by sucking your fat cock," she said, smiling up at me.
"How about that..." I murmured.
I should note that when a girl looks up at you after feasting on your manhood with the whites of her eyes gleaming in the dim light of a boudoir—her eyes gleaming in a way that conveys much more than a lascivious overture or a meaningless act—it's as if ten years are removed from your life. And when a girl tells you she reached orgasm by sucking your dick, you might just have to take a shiv to your ego the next morning to make sure your head (the one connected to your spine) is properly deflated.
Anyway, she told me she just came by sucking my fat cock. And then I said to her, "Well imagine what's going to happen when I put my fat cock inside your smoldering hot pussy." (We had evidently advanced to the talk-dirty-to-me phase of our relationship.) I knew her pussy was smoldering hot because I'd pushed my shin up into her groin, and it felt like a grease-fire were underway, even through the denim of her Daisy Dukes.
Only someone who looks like you can pull off wearing those anymore
, I thought. I did not share this thought with her.
Still clutching its shaft, she kissed the underside of my dick's head which was now as swollen as a wild apple; she kissed it with a parting gesture of adoration, like she might do to a week-old puppy. Then she clambered over me peeling off her shorts, not bothering to shed her panties. She just tugged those to the side, revealing the luscious pink fruit of her cunt, shaved clean and giving me the shameless muted scream of a cunt starved for cock. And I knew this because her eyes were screaming, too. Yet I still hadn't grasped the weight of it all—not hitherto being privy to the lesbian aspect—and as she lowered her own delicate weight onto me, she came again, almost instantly.
"Oh my god, oh my god," she gasped. This girl invoked The Divine with frequency during sex. Very religious was this Olivia. ...Her name was Olivia, by the way.
Her enjoyment was so intense that it fomented a kind of paralysis. She could only rock back and forth slightly, freezing suddenly and shushing me while I laughed at her, shuddering all the while, biting my shoulder and intimating through gritted teeth that it was nearly too much to take. On the verge of sobbing, she was, in her paroxysm of ecstasy. And I hadn't even begun to
really
fuck her yet; I wasn't in my own element as a "bottom."
I reminded her of this and she suddenly apologized and leapt off me, hustling to get back into her shorts.
"Whoa-whoa-whoa!" I hollered. Whatever the hell I had said was surely no more obnoxious than that bit about her bubbling hot quim.
"Sorry—I got knocked up at 19," she blurted. "I love my son—I just can't afford that to happen again."
"Ohh," I sighed with relief. "You're in luck because I had myself snipped two years ago."
"Really? A vasectomy?"
"An elective vasectomy," I nodded. "I don't want kids... No offense to your boy, of course."
She relaxed but it was clear the session was over. I would have to go to bed with a pair of balls as blue as the Aegean Sea. Now that she'd gotten her nerve-endings chafed ragged with pleasure, now that she'd gotten hers four or five times in the space of ten minutes.
Or so I thought. After circling the room, she returned to the bed and told me to stay. I felt silly with my dick pointing to the sky like it saw a UFO, but she took care of that by grabbing it once more and giving it the stroke. She kissed me, and
this
she was extraordinarily good at, in my experience. A supernatural kisser, in fact. The swath of her tongue beneath my tongue shot a tingling jolt from the base of my spine up to my eyeballs. ...I was hoping beyond all hope that she'd want to play Hide The Salami again.
She did. This time fully naked. After kissing me deeply and sliding her palm up and down my cock, she suddenly spouted, "Okay. You promise you can't get me pregnant?"
"Not without extremely artificial insemination."
"Okay," she smiled. "This time you can pin me down, and hold me by my throat." (Holy shit, I thought.) "And when you come, squirt it on my tits." (Fuckin A.) I had a freak on my hands.
And, minutes later, after squirting enough unfecundated cum on her tits to fill a Jackson Pollock canvas, that's when she dropped the gay bomb on me.
"You should probably know I'm gay."
"Interesting," I said. "I don't care if you're gay."
And as I slid it in for the fourth time, she gasped and furrowed her brow in a way that signals both alarm and overwhelming pleasure. I kissed her between the eyes. I didn't give a damn if she were native to an extrasolar planet, and her son was an octopus.
* * * * * * * *
We did a lot of drugs together that summer. It seemed the one pill she wasn't on was
The Pill
. Which of course was a moot point with me. She indulged in everything and abstained from nothing. I knew she came home with at least two girls on different occasions in July. Naturally, I was heartbroken—mostly because she didn't invite me to join them.
The complexity of Olivia was remarkable. The bumper sticker on her black Ford Ranger advertised the First Unitarian Universalist Church of Austin... which was right next to her bright orange University of Texas Longhorns sticker. She wasn't a Jesus freak—I knew this much. More like a spiritualist, and while I spent the entire summer with her, I was wholly unclear on her concept of God. She never really talked about the church, in spite of her bumper sticker. I envisioned her fellow congregation at FUUCA all dressed in jumpsuits—even the men—celebrating the happy, joyous (ironic) wonder of being drug-free. Ironic because she smoked at least one joint a day... in spite of jogging 10 miles a week in the Hill Country of Central Texas. And she never wore a jumpsuit.
She hailed from Chillicothe, Missouri and sitting next to her on my futon, looking at her profile, her aerodynamic features and her quick, clipped way of speech, she evoked for me a life on the range, of infinite rows of corn and a continual threat of tornadoes. Not a hillbilly, not a redneck—like those I knew so well from the verdant musky backwoods of Kentucky, but a farmer's daughter. She brought to mind the word
dell
, as in the "farmer and the dell." Except I wondered what the hell a dell is. (It's a small wooded holler, which must be a rarity in Chillicothe.)
The way she described it, there are boxcars on long flat railways in broiling afternoon heat, a horizon with as many trees as the surface of the moon, prodigious ribbons of pink clouds at sunset over bales of hay, cricketed nights on spindled wrap-around porches, arresting starshine from the Milky Way, there are roosters crowing at 6 a.m. and the strong scent of eggs and thick fried bacon served on gingham tablecloths. It is always 100 years ago in Chillicothe, Missouri.
Her son, the biblically named Emmanuel, came over three nights a week, whence she played it straight. We all played video games together, and the boy was killer at Pictionary because he was some kind of artistic savant. He was rail thin. Had his mother's bones. But even at nine years old, it felt like you were in the room with a miniature tweenager and his much older sister.
Before Emman, she spent some time in Indiana in the Army Reserves. In both Missouri and Indiana. I teased her that she was actually from Lesbiana; and she liked that. She tried to kill herself with Trazodone at 13 and then slit her wrists at 16. She showed me her scars but I didn't asked why. Her parents had divorced when she was 10. Her fantasy was to bag two hot blondes at once...
"What made you land in Austin?" I asked.
"I was chasing a muse that didn't pan out," she said. "I'd rather not go into it. But four years later I'm still here."
...She, Emman, and I would shoot pool, play video games, play Pictionary, go swimming. Go to the Comal and laze in the sun, then tube-surf the rapids. When I walked her home sometimes, at her door she would say, "Sorry I'm so tired tonight."
"That's okay, man," I told her. "I'm not up to shagging either."
This is how it was for Olivia and me.
* * * * * * * *
In August, having not heard from her almost two weeks, I started feeling like a little bitch. Meaning that I missed her. And I wanted to impress her—rekindle whatever slow burn there was. There really was no slow burn because despite her amour for my equipment, I did not have the right face. I even lacked certain parts that she rightfully relished. But it wasn't just that I wanted to resume with the fucking... I wondered about her disappearance. She was one of my few campaneros, after all. Had she met someone? The answer to that is Yes. More on that later.
