The Protocol of Ahab

I flopped on the futon and pulled a cover up to get warm. I stared blankly at nothing in particular. Wanting to cry and at the same time not wanting to shed a tear for her. "This is all a mistake" I pleaded with myself. "This is not where I belong. I should never have left Nebraska." I sobbed uncontrollably. For the first time since I arrived in Baltimore I seriously considered returning to Nebraska. "It is an option I suppose. I would be humiliated and say I made a terrible mistake and beg to let me come back; even if just until I get myself straightened out." I argued with the bare walls.

Into my heart an air that kills

From yon far country blows:

What are those blue remembered hills?

What spires, what farms are those?

That is the land of lost content,

I see it shining plain,

The happy highways where I went

And cannot come again.

"I can't do it!" I sobbed. I knew returning was not an option. It was not what I wanted, and I would not give her the satisfaction of making me leave. She can go somewhere else. She can find another job, but I won't. Not just because of her. My mind spiraled into a free fall before I exhaustedly succumbed to sleep.

I awoke at first light; tired and hungry and thirsty. I gazed out the window. Another car occupied the spot where Rachel had parked. The neighborhood looked cold and forbidding. I returned to bed and slept away the remainder of the day.

Sunday, I awoke exhausted. I slept but I did not rest. My resolve to remain in Baltimore wrestled with my urge to leave and neither won. I was famished and decided to make a large unhealthy but satisfying breakfast. As I mixed some pancake batter, the phone rang. Was it Rachel? I rushed to the phone, grasped the receiver, took and deep breath and in my most relaxed tones asked "Hello?" A wave of nausea swept over me as a familiar voice asked cheerily, "Good morning and how are you today?" It was Visnow at his charming best. He planned a day of museum hopping and invited me to accompany him. If it was an offer from someone else or under different circumstances I would have readily accepted. The offer this morning and from Visnow, forced me to decline.

I returned to the window. How long did Rachel sit there in the car? Did she have any second thoughts? Was it her way of ending the relationship? I never thought of her as being cowardly. If she wanted me to get out of her life, she would have said so directly. The phone rang again. "Visnow, you sure are persistent!" I barked into the receiver. My declaration was greeted with silence for a few awkward seconds before the caller softly hung up the phone.

The apartment suddenly became very close. I was never claustrophobic, but I suddenly became anxious and had the urge to get out. I grabbed a coat and left. The sky was brilliantly blue and the air cold and brisk, not as cold as Nebraska and very refreshing. I headed down Falls Road with no destination in mind. Of all the areas of the city, these blocks most emphasized the difference between my former hometown in Nebraska, and my current hometown, Baltimore. Tract ranch houses with ample open space are replaced cheek by jowl with narrow row houses interspersed with store front bars, convenience stores, coffee shops, a music store, art gallery, an upscale restaurant which seemed out of place, a bakery and assorted other enterprises.

As I walked, people passed on the street without speaking. They were minding their own business or just not caring about yours. I wondered about their lives. What secrets did they have? Did they have a dark side also? Could they relate to my Midwest upbringing and reconcile that with the orgiastic Vegas night? Maybe we all have dual lives; some we only enjoy vicariously in our imaginations, others we experience for ourselves. If the people I passed had secrets, they did not share them with me. I was left to my own devices to fathom or invent them.

I meandered a bit along the back streets with no destination in mind until quite suddenly the landscape changed. Before me was an urban park with a vast stretch of lawn, mature trees, and a stream coursing through the center. I realized I was at the back of the university campus. Somewhere over there Visnow has an office and classroom I thought to myself. Somewhere over there Visnow may be entertaining a student or faculty wife or who knows whom.

I had passed the main entrance of campus several times but rarely saw it from the back and never felt inclined ventured on to it. I followed the edge of the campus as the road curved gently to the left away from the afternoon sun until I came upon an entrance at the bend. On the far side of the street was a dual-equestrian statute, notorious for some reason that escaped me. A couple lingered around the base while their children tried to climb the side and touch the horses. I gazed beyond the entrance at the large sandstone building facing south over another section of the park. The steps fanned out from the entire width of the building to cover half a block where they met the sidewalk. Large columns marked the front. Hanging from the columns was a blue banner with white lettering proclaiming 'FREE ADMISSION'. It was the art museum.

The Art Museum! "Could this be where Visnow is hopping today?" I mulled the idea for a bit. If he is, he is; if he isn't, he isn't. I decided to go in. 'No backpacks. No cameras.' Read the sign above the door. I checked my coat.

The entrance hall was a huge square open area rising clear to the top of the building. The second-floor balcony overlooked the Rodin's Thinker positioned squarely in the center. I had seen several pictures of this masterpiece but never up close, close enough to touch it. In person it is a powerful work of sculpture, muscular and commanding. I felt intimidated. The crowd admiring him spoke in hushed tones as if they would break his concentration. "What is he thinking about?" a child asked. I posed that same question to my mother several times as a youngster. Her stock answer was "where he left his clothes". While face to face with the statue I suddenly realized how trite was that answer.

I did not pick up a catalog of exhibits nor did I use the audio tour; I just decided to wander about the halls, directionless. I feigned interest in several large, and old, paintings. They were interesting but not to me. I was just meandering but still felt obliged to at least look. At the base of the staircase to the second floor I looked up. There suspended by a nearly invisible wire, a large mobile floated. I stood to the side and stared. I was mesmerized by the delicate suspended arms, all in perfect balance. The rising heat from the radiators and the slight draught, created a current which caused it to sway, almost imperceptibly, with all the components in scripted harmony.

I remained transfixed on the graceful sway of each element until I heard a whisper behind me and off to my right, "That is a Calder." I turned in the direction of the voice to espy a tall, slender, elegantly dressed woman pointing with her left hand at the mobile. As she extended her hand the light caught the stone on her ring and shot a laser like flash across the room. I stared as the light flared and danced with each subtle gesture. If her attire did not presume wealth, that gem sure did.

The girls were equally well outfitted, fashionable, and expensive. The taller, I would have said older, but I could not distinguish their ages, appeared genuinely interested in her mother's, I presumed mother, litany of facts about the artist and his works. The other, slightly shorter one, attempted to be interested but an air of indifference showed through her demeanor.

I surreptitiously studied the girls; high school students, private school no doubt, sophisticated and mature for their ages. All the attributes I never possessed back then. Did those girls have secrets they did not share with their mother? How about the mother? Beyond the facade of elegant wife and mother, did have a hidden side, known only to a discreet consort? Were they virgins? Perhaps. Did they give head? In high school, that was the Holy Grail that every guy was looking for. Getting laid was an accomplishment but also an exaggeration, but getting a blowjob was worthy of real bragging. A girl that sucked cock was dirtier, easier, and more desirable than one who just had sex.

I recalled Mimi the high school vixen. She had it all; popular, attractive, willing, and experienced. She had a reputation which was, by her own account, much deserved. Although I lacked the qualifications, too scrawny, undersexed, late to develop, to be a member of crowd she hung around with, two afternoons a week we did work together at the local produce market. Together we walked from school to the shopping center where we worked unloading and stacking produce, waiting on customers, and generally making ourselves useful.

During our workplace conversations she talked openly about oral sex and freely admitted to partaking of it. She relished the title 'cocksucker'. If someone ever let the phrase slip in conversation she acknowledged with a knowing smile. I was just the opposite; inexperienced, shy, and easily embarrassed even by clinical references to sexual behavior.

Biology class explained the roles of male and female in the reproductive process. The female produces the egg and the male ejaculate his sperm to fertilize it. Ejaculate: the word had a religious connotation and I never associated it with orgasm! From text books and lectures I imagined the event as a sterile, biologically exact reaction completely devoid of sensation. However, Mimi had firsthand experience what it was like, the heated, throbbing, pulsing eruption that spewed warm, thick come over her hands, clothes face and hair. It was all prosaic yet mystical to her. One day she causally described taking an erection in her mouth and coaxing it with her tongue, lips and teeth until the magic moment and then slurped and swallowed until completion. Her descriptions scared yet tantalized me.

I turned back to the girls and tried to gauge their level of experience. Were they cut from Mimi's or my cloth?

'I sure have come a long way from the produce stand to the Vegas night!' I thought almost audibly. The image of Mimi lingered as I continued my amble about the museum. 'If she could have seen me Friday' I almost laughed at the thought. Besides tempting me with lurid talks of her sexual adventures, Mimi also continually tried to set me up with dates. I always demurred fearing the guys would assume that since Mimi made the arrangement, I would behave like her. Then there was Bobby.

I turned a corner and walked out of the shadow into the low afternoon sun shining through the tall window. It suddenly became uncomfortably warm.

I never knew how Mimi met Bobby. His family owned a farm on the west side of town, and he attended the rival high school. It was not an arranged date but a coincidence. Mimi had invited a crowd over her house after the end of the football playoff and he was there. I don't recall how we met or started talking. He was two years older than I and was graduating in June. He played football for a cross-town rival and was friends with a lot of people there. A college in Indiana offered him a scholarship. He planned to major in Ag-Business. After that he would come back to work the family farm for about five years. Then he would take his degree and experience someplace he could make big money.

I liked the attention but when he drove me home, he dropped me off at the door with barely a smile. I didn't talk about him at school and assumed that was all there was to it. A couple weeks later at the produce stand Mimi asked me if I had talked with him. I froze when she asked and shook my head 'No'. "He really liked you" she said, "and thinks you didn't have a good time." I balked at making a positive reply and shrugged but added "I liked him too."

Whether Mimi relayed my comment or not I never really learned, but Bobby stopped by the stand 'just to chat'. Soon he was driving me home in his old pick-up truck. One afternoon we drove outside town and past his family's farm. It wasn't special. I was located just beyond the grain silos on the edge of town. I passed it hundreds of times just didn't know it was his family's. We drove past acres of fields separated by wind breaks of poplar trees and took a turn on a farm road. There amid the poplars, out of sight of the road and the farmhouse we parked. There we kissed and I let him feel. Booby's hand went under my jersey and cupped my budding tit. I flinched in fear but continued.

The brief detours to the trees soon lengthened. The heater kept the chill at bay and the pick-up's bench seat provided amble room to get tangled. We removed our clothes and explored our bodies. The cold bleakness of winter gave way to the mild rains of spring and then into the encroaching summer. Bobby graduated and worked full time on the farm. I picked up extra hours at the produce market. I eagerly took the early shift of unloading the trucks and the late shifts to clean the stands and shut down. During the day I slept. This provided us the opportunity to spend time on a large quilt beneath the dark summer sky. Naked and cool our tongues entwined and our hands roamed over the pale lustrous country bordered by our tan lines.

And then one hot muggy night we clung to each other and sweated. The grass scented musky aroma of his sweat filled my nostrils and my tongue sampled the hot salt from the coarse hair on the center of his chest. I felt his warm hand start at the damp crack of my ass and glide up the ride of my spine to the nape of my neck and then to the back of my head. Instinctively, I knew what to expect. A slight push started me on the short journey from his chest across his abdomen and stopping over his crotch. I knew what he wanted but I balked. I nuzzled my face into the thick curly hair and slowly circled the base of the shaft until I was able to lick and kiss his balls. He purred with delight but still maneuvered my head around his cock. I pursed my lips and kissed the soft conduit on the underside just below the head. Bobby's body flinched and his hips bucked sharply upward. I opened my mouth and bit softly on the same spot. His body contorted as he let out a long low moan and grabbed my head with both hands and thrust his cock at my face. I tried to pull my head away, but his grip was firm, and the slippery head glanced off my cheek and chin. "Please! Please!" he begged, and I relented, strained my mouth and accepted his erection. Once I had him in my mouth I again hesitated. 'What do I do now?' I thought. I expected him to instantly ejaculate but he didn't.

As I stalled, Bobby gripped my head tighter and with a hard push of his hips forced his cock deep in my throat. I felt the urge to gag but pulled my head back and took a breath. Bobby thrusted again but this time I rode up with the push and as he eased back, I continued down on him. Again and again, he pushed and again and again I worked in unison with him until he slowed. I now had the rhythm and continued mouth riding the hot swollen member. Bobby relaxed his grip on my head, and I continued my reciprocating motion. With each drop of my head, I took him as deep as I could and with each rise, I sucked harder than before. "That's great! That's great! I want you to do that all night!" But the next moment he shuddered and gasped, "I'm coming! I'm coming!" I braced for the worse which did not happen. Instead, his cock pulsed, and a glob of warm smarmy goo filled my mouth. I breathed through my nose as I swallowed before another, and another filled the available space in my oral cavity. As I pulled away to swallow the remainder, I suddenly felt very tired. I dropped my head on his stomach and watched his cock go limp in the moonlight. I thought of Mimi. 'I did it. I did it. I am now part of the club'.

I glanced down the corridor. The trio had just admired a tall phallic looking statue at the corner. As they turned the short, and I supposed younger, girl looked back at me. Our eyes locked and for and instant which seemed like a millennium we knew each other or knew something about each other. Another second and she turned the corner and disappeared.

My thoughts turned back to Bobby as I made my way to the exit. That is what I could do. Go back to Nebraska and look him up. We could get together again. We could start over. Pick up where we left off. Where we left off? I had forgotten that part. Not much of a chance starting over with him. The bitter reminder of the end of that summer dismayed me.

The sun was low in the sky as I left the museum, the air turned chillier and long shadows stretched across the landscape. A small car with a noisy muffler passed in front of the museum. Was it Rachel? I can't go back to Bobby or to Nebraska and I shouldn't have to. Why should I leave because Rachel is upset? I have a job here that may become a career. I won't drop that just to soothe her hurt feelings. No! I will not run away. I will stay and live with the consequences and make my own way. A long sleek car sped around the curve away from the museum. Was that Visnow? I gave a shrug. I no longer cared. It started sleeting. I bunched my scarf up around my chin and trudged on to my apartment: decisive for a change. Hormones I thought.

Chapter VI

I arose Monday with a complete lack of enthusiasm. The rain changed to sleet and the wind picked up. I slipped along as slowly as possible to the office, hoping it was closed due to weather or the world would end at least. The lot was sparsely populated. Rachel's sleet covered car was parked at the first spot. The accumulation indicated it had been there for some time perhaps overnight.

The office was almost deserted with a few scattered lights from random cubes. On my desk was an unsigned note, but I recognized Rachel's handwriting, calling a team meeting for 11:00 that morning. At least it was a 'team' meeting, and I would not have to face her myself. I felt guilty thinking that. I wanted to confront her with my newfound determination, but I still doubted that I really had the conviction. I still wanted to confront her but only on my terms.

I noticed Rachel's door was closed most of the morning. When it was open, she wasn't there and did not appear to be in the building.

The appointed hour rolled around and six of us assembled in the conference room and waited. There was no agenda, and nobody heard a rumor regarding the meeting. A few minutes passed and Rachel walked in with George, the president and Peter from the production department. A wave of panic swept over me as George made some general comments about Rachel and the team and what projects were on the horizon and then he turned the meeting over to Rachel. She was cool, poised and in control of the situation; much like I had often seen her and how I always imagined her to be. Her remarks were brief. She complimented everyone on the work they had done and wished us all well. She was leaving her position as the managing editor to go work in business development for the company. George interrupted by added that he had wanted Rachel to take on this new role for several months, but she had demurred. She started her new assignment that day and Peter will take over as the editor. That was that. Business Development was located on the far side of the building with a separate entrance. No more interaction with Rachel at work. Peter had already moved into Rachel's office. That removed one hurdle for me.

The day slogged by solemnly somewhat listlessly. After lunch a memo arrived from Peter with a schedule of introductory interviews he wanted to have with members of the staff. Mine was scheduled for 4:30 to 5:00, the last of the day. I shrugged. It was all part of the new beginning.