2. The Ram
All three of the Italian women were pregnant by the time Richard arrived in New York, though he didn't know it immediately. A friend had found him an apartment on Wooster Street in SoHo, and he received Eleni's email while moving in. "Congratulations. They're pregnant," it said.
"Who?" he replied, though he knew the answer, and anyway, why was this Greek lesbian bothering him now?
"You remember the Italians," she chided him.
"Which one?"
She replied, "All of them."
It brought back his ill-starred week in Cyprus, but also the incredible three hours at the end of it, in which not one but three attractive, mature women had shagged him senseless. Now all three were pregnant? He remembered Yia-yia's promise -- that he wouldn't get them pregnant, he would just make them fertile -- and dismissed Leni's email uneasily. So they were pregnant, congratulations, so what? That's what they wanted. Three more photos for the wall at Pandemos.
His uneasiness had to do with disturbing changes in his own body. Most of his body hair fell out after he left Cyprus. His prick had grown (he thought). Especially when hard, it just seemed a lot bigger. His balls were unquestionably bigger and heavier, his scrotum fuller, the skin was darker, near purple and thickly veined. Now and then he got incredibly horny -- he had to have a woman, and if he was lucky enough to find one, he just
had
to fuck. At such times it was almost embarrassing how desperately he needed sex. Sometimes he chalked it up to Yia-yia's 'treatment;' other times he scoffed at the idea and told himself that he just had a naturally vigorous libido.
Overall, he felt good. Great, actually: confident, strong, virile, and attractive. Work was going extremely well. For the first time in his life, he joined a gym, then a Cross-fit program, and tried out boxing, then martial arts. He started running and lifting weights. He grew his hair longer, combing it back to show off a widow's peak, and cultivated a stubble that he thought complemented his lean physique.
Women noticed. He didn't bother with dates, but frequented bars and clubs, remembering occasionally, as he danced in loud basement clubs, the hills of Cyprus and the Greek dancer, Leni. Now he could dance, too. His pubic hair grew back wavy, dark and lush, not coarse or kinked -- he could brush it and sometimes did so -- while the rest of his taut body remained mostly hairless.
There could no longer be any doubt about his cock and balls -- they were bigger. Every time he ejaculated, his penis burned and afterward his balls ached. Eventually, the ache was tolerable though it lasted for a couple of days; the burning was always intense -- he hated it -- but it went away quickly.
He was normally a believer in condoms, but the first time he used one, it disintegrated. Pulling out of an exhausted, satisfied, tattooed partner, he was shocked to notice the rubber melting or dissolving or something before his eyes. Shit! He hid it and scuttled to the bathroom to scrape the mess off his burning prick.
Despite his problem, it was some weeks before he saw a doctor; he was new to the city and didn't know any. When he mentioned his main complaint -- the burning penis -- he was seen right away. The doctor took a history and did an exam, said it was likely just a UTI, but he would also test for STDs. Richard was asked about sex partners and advised to abstain for now.
Within two days, he heard back from the doctor, good news! -- he was negative for both UTI and STDs. Richard asked warily, okay, so what is the problem? The doctor seemed unconcerned but asked him to come in and give a specimen, then they would talk. That meant, it turned out, that he had to jerk off in a plastic cup, which he hated, and which again burned.
Three nights after surrendering the specimen, he was at home playing a video game when the doorbell rang. Perturbed, he paused the game to answer the door. A short bald man in white shirt and black slacks stood outside his door. "Meester Pratt?" he asked. Richard nodded dumbly and the man stepped aside to make way for a tall blonde.
She wore a long coat cut from soft black leather and cinched at the waist. She was extravagantly perfumed and absurdly beautiful. Stepping into his apartment, she pulled his face to hers and kissed him hard on the mouth. "We have to hurry," she said. "My plane is at the airport. Carl will hold the car." The accent was European, but she hadn't said enough for him to identify it. Stunned, Richard leaned to look out the window and saw a silver limo at the curb.
When he turned back to the woman, she had removed her coat and was naked except for heels and gold jewelry. And perfect pubic hair, if that counted. She attacked him. Her hands were all over him, tugging, almost ripping his clothes off, determined to reach his penis, then stroking it with one hand as the other sought his hairy balls.
She continued to kiss him aggressively, expertly. Her perfume was intoxicating. She sank to the level of his knees, apparently intending to suck him, but saw he was already hard. She pushed him onto the sofa, stuffed him into her vagina and began fucking. Vigorous, determined fucking. "Give it to me!" she whispered urgently, "You must give it to me!"
Richard responded -- anyone would. He didn't exactly fuck her back -- he was too surprised -- but he cooperated and soon enough was spurting into her greedy cunt (again, it burned). "Yes!! Yes!" she cried, and remained impaled until she was sure he was spent.
She patted his cheek before looking for her coat. From a coat pocket she extracted a pair of black panties and pulled them on, followed quickly by the coat itself. From the other pocket she withdrew an envelope. "Adieu, mon vieux," she murmured, and dropped the envelope on a table by the door as she left, already checking her phone. The envelope contained nothing but a packet of $100 bills. He was dumb with shock, still half undressed, but very impressed.
His subsequent medical consultation was vexing. Dr. Osborne declined to discuss anything on the phone and asked him to come into the office again. When Richard did, Osborne admitted that the clinical picture was puzzling. He informed Richard that he was "profoundly" infertile and he was referring him to a specialist.
No matter how many questions Richard asked, no meaningful answers were forthcoming. Osborne just kept repeating, "Well, we really don't know -- let's see what Dr. Bancroft says..." He left Richard at the receptionist's desk with a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "Jodi here will schedule an appointment with Bancroft and don't worry, we'll get it sorted out. Probably nothing serious." Dr. Bancroft's first availability was weeks later.
Fortunately, work continued to go well. Two partners in the firm invited him to a party at a summer house in the Hamptons they had recently designed. Richard was flattered and surprised to be invited as he'd had nothing to do with the project. The house was finally completed, and the owners were having a party to show it off before closing it for the winter.
The party was nearly as fancy as the house -- substantial sums had been spent on both. The food was excellent, the booze plentiful, the music tasteful, and there were happy, attractive women milling about in party dresses. Richard was sipping his second flute of champagne when a woman of about forty beckoned him. She had auburn hair and wore a blue frock that matched her eyes; she had already kicked off her shoes. "Are you Mr. Pratt?" she asked. "You must be."
Richard nodded, happy to hear his name. "I am. And you are...?"
"Gloria Harbison. I'm the owner. Please come with me, Mr. Pratt. I'd like to show you the guest house." He set his glass down and followed her outside and across the new lawn. On the way, she raved about the work his firm had done -- she and Stephen loved the new space; it would completely transform their summers. Now she intended to renovate the original house, for guests. Would he have a look at it? Of course, gladly.
He wondered as she opened the door and flicked on the lights why she had corralled him rather than one of the partners. As she led him through rooms on the first floor, she talked about her recent trip to Europe. "Wouldn't you know, I kept hearing about a special American architect named Pratt. When I saw your name on the firm's website, I thought it must be you. Is it?"
Richard blushed and stammered, thinking it must be someone else; he was too young and unknown. Gloria continued, "Well, your firm does such fantastic work, and they
did
hire you after all, didn't they? I thought maybe I should, too." She smiled again and might have winked at him. They entered a small study lined with dark wooden bookcases. "By the way, I understand you were recently in Europe, too. Cyprus, I believe. Is that correct?"
