A Story

The party was getting a little overbearing for me, so I stepped out into the large courtyard and went to lean on the balcony of the penthouse suite where I was. It was pretty quiet there; the air fresh. I had a good view of the city spread out before me with bright lights sparkling like scattered diamonds; behind me boomed loud music and revelry from the party crowd. Already I was feeling restless and thinking of how I was going to negotiate my way through that crowd and exit the building.

"Good evening," a voice called behind me.

I turned around and there was this older man seated on a wheelchair, dressed in a smart-looking tux, just like me. He had angular features and a head full of white hair; a cigarette hung in his left hand. He looked to be in his early fifties and his complexion was well tanned and everything about him spoke of money.

"Good evening," I replied him.

"I hope you don't mind my coming to share some air with you?"

"No, not at all. Always wish for company."

"Thanks. You're either a party-pooper, or you're just as bored as I am in there," he indicated at the open doorway where the life of the party was happening.

"Bored, I'd say. I'm not that good with wild parties or loud noises."

"I feel your pain there." He pushed his wheelchair towards the balcony beside me, sucked on his cigarette then blew a cloud of smoke into the air. "In my days of youth, I used to be wild. But those days are gone like fine wine."

"Would you believe I haven't even met the celebrant of this shin-dig? I merely got an invite to show up here and I did, but since I arrived, nobody's stopped by to say 'Hullo, thanks for coming'. Pretty weird."

The man looked at me with a funny glimmer in his eyes. "I am the celebrant."

"Oh," said I. "I'm so sorry," I shook his hand. "That was rather stupid of me."

"Not at all, it was even my mistake. I should have met you earlier but I was busy with some folks whispering into my ear. Actually it's my wife who's the celebrant. It's her birthday, and she likes doing it in style. You know women."

I thought of something to say to dispel my earlier silly words. "You have a lovely home here."

"Thank you. This is a penthouse, actually, one of several. My wife prefers the big cities while I prefer the country. Give me anything that's got lots of green grassland and

a river, and I'm a happy man."

I smiled at this. "You never could have everything however you want them, can you."

"No, you simply can't. This is just one of the few chances I have of self-indulging her. All wives deserve to be spoiled now and then. You married?"

I shook my head.

"I envy you for that. Good men seldom are these days. I've been observing you all through the evening," the man said to me. "Your face looks familiar. I'd been trying to place where last I saw it, then it came to me a minute ago. You're that writer fellow Thomas Cini, right?"

I waved a hand like a magician about taking a bow. "Guilty as charged."

"I read that recent book of yours, that collection of short stories: The Artist at Work. Pretty good tales inside it."

"Thank you. Though I don't recall ever met you before."

"I'm sorry—where are my manners." He gave me his hand once again. "Attacus Bishop's the name. Pleasure meeting you here."

"Likewise," I said. "I noticed some famous faces in there. You and the Mrs. sure travel among famous circles."

"That seldom is the case, Thomas. Please, I hope you don't mind my calling you that?"

"No harm, no foul."

"The famous faces are merely for my wife, Claudia's enjoyment. Me, I tend to keep to silent faces. Which was why I sent you the invitation."

I looked at him, puzzled. "I don't follow."

Another drag of his cigarette. "I checked up on you the day before. I heard you were in town doing some book signing and thought we should get together before I lost you. I would have had my driver deliver it to you, but figured you may not show. So I sent it to you via your press agent, and I'm really glad you came. You've undoubtedly made my evening worthwhile."

"Whatever for?"

"In due time you'll know. Pardon me for being curious, but I remember you once used to write dirty erotic stories."

"A different life and a different time," I testily. The man had obviously dug deep into my life. I felt like a herring being set to kill.

"Naturally, I would agree. I hope you don't mind my asking but why did you stop?"

I wasn't used to being asked direct questions, especially when it concerned my writing. Such type of questions you can often get from pressmen acting like it's a right of theirs for the public to know why someone once known for writing erotic works no longer wishes to indulge in such anymore. It would have been easy for me to clamp up to the man's question, but for the sake of us being alone, I figured I should humour him. at least till I knew what direction he was heading.

"I wrote them under a pseudonym. But after a while, I got fed up with them. I wanted to get back to writing straight stuff."

Attacus seemed to ruminate about this for a moment, then: "Well, I can say that I'm a true fan of your straight stuff. But honestly, I miss your erotic works; my wife and I did. It's the reason why I invited you. I might have a story for you."

"A story for me?" I said, piqued with interest. "Whatever type of story?"

He gave me a smile. "What do you think, Thomas: the dirty kind."

"Mr—"

"Artie. Please, call me that."

"Very well. Artie, I don't mean to be disrespectful so please don't take none of this personal, but whatever makes you think I'm interested in listening to some concocted sexual fantasy from someone stuck in wheelchair?"

Thinking he was going to explode with anger, the opposite was the case: he threw his head back and bellowed with laughter. The way he shook I thought he was going to fall out of his chair any second. I stood there dumbly waiting for his laughing feat to die down. Finally it did, though not with his wheezing into his fist. His cigarette fell from his hand and smouldered on the ground beside his wheelchair.

"Forgive me," he muttered while he coughed into his fist. "But that's ... it's been a long time since I got to laugh so hard. Anyway, nothing personal taken with your comment. You had every right to make it. But I've got some points to make. Are you ready?"

"Whatever," I said.

"I'm a rich, and well-to-do someone, and I wasn't always stuck in a wheelchair. Matter of fact, this wheelchair came about six months ago. Also, my story that I have to tell you has got nothing with being concocted or fantasy-like. It's all true, and it's got to do with why I in this wheelchair and why my wife's in there having the night of her life. My story concerns her too ... and the guy she's with in there."

"Excuse me?"

"Do me a favour, Thomas. Walk over to the doorway and see if you still see her dancing with a tall, handsome black man. I'll be here waiting." He fished out a cigarette pack from inside his jacket along with a lighter. "You can't miss her—she's got a bright mane of blonde hair, buxom, and wearing a cream dress. She's probably the gayest gal in there."

Feeling I had nothing better to do, I left him at the balcony and walked across the courtyard to the open doorway into the house. The party hadn't died down all this while, and it seemed to have even kicked up a notch. There was music playing and people grooving to it on the dance floor, everyone yelling and laughing like it was the fourth of July. I spotted a servant strolling about with a tray of drinks in hand and I grabbed myself two glasses. I quickly drained one but held onto the other. It didn't take me long to find his wife. She certainly was having the time of her life in the room. There she was surrounded by a trio of male dancers. Though only one of them stood out: a tall, athletic black man looked like a younger version of Michael Jordan. He had his jacket off and I noticed he kept pulling Claudia into his arms like he was jealous of other men around stealing her away. There were other women in the room and with the way the party was going I wouldn't be surprised an orgy was soon to happen.

I left the room and returned to the balcony where my host has lit another cigarette and was blowing a ring of smoke at the distance moon. He turned his head when he heard me coming.

"Did you see her?"

I nodded. "She's got some black guy dancing way too close with her."

The man nodded. "That's her permanent lover. He's name's Shango, whatever that means. He's Nigerian."

"You seem to know a lot about him."

"I should. He's been with her almost a year now. It's because of him I'm stuck in this wheelchair."

"And you don't mind seeing her frolicking with him?" I asked, amazed at his calm demeanour. But he simply laughed.

"You ask if I mind. Of course I do mind. Why else would you think I'm here talking to you."

"I don't know about you, Artie. But if that was my woman, I'd never let any bastard lay his fingers on her. I'm surprised at you, really." I leaned on the balcony, seething, gazing out at the city, my mind percolated with interest.

"Do you still want to hear my story, or should we just call it a night?" he said to me.

"Artie, if you've got a story to tell, how about you putting it in your memoir or something?" I argued.

"This isn't the sort of thing I'd want to leave behind for my kids to later find out, Thomas. It's a story I feel might appeal more to your sensibilities than mine. If you'll please allow me to divulge it."

"Is there any chance saying can say no?"

"Of course," he looked at me, surprised. "There's always a choice, Thomas. Although I'd prefer you don't choose no. Maybe there's nothing in my story, but I'd like if you'd allow me the chance of telling it. I beg you."

I turned to him, resting my back against the balcony, holding my wine glass in hand. "Go ahead," I said.

The scared face of the moon shone down on us from where it hung in the night's sky.

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ATTACUS'S STORY

1.

Like I said earlier on, I wasn't always this crippled. I'm a banker, you see, and a successful one too. I've got major investments in stocks, bonds, and in oil, but my main passion lies in banking. We'd opened up a branch halfway across the continent and six months ago, I spearheaded another in Port Harcourt, Nigeria. I had Claudia with me at the time. This was where we met Shango.

Claudia isn't my first wife, as you can probably tell from the look of me. I've been married three times prior to when I ran into her. I've got three prior kids, and they're all about the same age as she.

In business, you might consider me as you would a shark. I play hardball a lot and there's lots of competitors out there who tremble at the mere mention of my name, this I kid you not. But when it comes to matters of the bedroom, I'm something else. I'm a puppy dog, and I expect to be treated as such. My previous wives never could understand my submissive side, and I guess it's what's caused my earlier marriages to end rather abruptly. But Claudia was different. Before we met, she worked as a paralegal for some law firm on the east coast that represented one or two interests my bank had. We met at a party unlike this one, and we sort of clicked right away. I told her about my submissive side and she fell in love with me after that. She's such a slut in bed; I could barely keep up with her. She liked calling me names, degrading me, insulting me ... and the more she did, the more erect I stayed.

I encouraged her to have other lovers, and to tell the truth, she practically didn't require any prodding from me to have one. Sometimes I joined in the fun and other times I sat across the room and watched and jerked myself off. God, how I miss those days.

Anyway, we came down to Nigeria to launch a branch in the south part of the country, in Port Harcourt, I mean. I got to meet with the governor and we just fell in love with the place. Lovely country, and the people too are just wonderful. Anyway, we had this luncheon party and that was where I met my wife's future lover, Olu Shango. He worked with the Nigerian embassy and he was sort of representing some big wig politician who couldn't make it that day. Very charming, courteous fellow. A real smooth operator, the likes you've probably never met. He's the proverbial sort of fellow who can sell ice cubes to the Eskimos—Claudia and I fell for his charms right away. That night while we made love, crazy fucking love. Claudia rode me like a horse, humping and grinding away, the bed groaning under us, I thought I was going to hurt my back for real. She couldn't stop talking about him, about being fucked by him. I too couldn't stop dreaming about it.

I wasn't in any hurry to leave the country, and for some reason, Olu persuaded me not to. We'd already exchanged phone numbers and he called me up the following morning and asked if he could show us around, which he did. Later that evening we went out to some night club—Liquid, it was called, I think. Lovely crowd: fine your women with little on, some white guys around, everybody minding their table. We got ourselves one and ordered some champagne. Claudia sat between me and Shango, though later on he got a girl to come join us and had her sit next to me. Little did I know that he and Claudia were playing hookey under the table.

I was unaware of when their touchy feeling began—maybe back in the car or at the hotel, I can't really say. Not that I knew right away, mind you. I too was getting quite touchy with the young girl seated beside me. Later on I reasoned the bastard had invited her to keep me preoccupied while he got his hands on Claudia. Not that I would have minded ... though later on I did. I am a man of control, Thomas. I have no scruples with my wife dilly-dallying with anyone she minds, as long as I get to know the man well enough. But besides that, Claudia and I had never had the thought or experience of being with a black man. I'm no racist, just never had it cross my mind, so it was kind of unusual things happening the way they were.

Shango excused me of my wife and took her to the dance floor. Me, fool I was, was lost in the moment. Plus, I had a young girl beside me rubbing me all over, feeding myself with scotch. At one time I turned and saw them dancing in the crowd. It looked like they were making out. An hour later, getting towards midnight, we decided to leave. We hopped in the car, Shango and my wife in the front seat while I had the young girl with me in the back. And she didn't waste any time: unzipped my pants and reached down for my cock with only her mouth. Claudia turned around and looked at me, smiling. I smiled back at her.

We got back to the hotel and I bought a bottle of wine down at the bar before we climbed into the elevator and headed up to our floor. When we got there I realised Shango had earlier on gotten himself a room right next to ours. I wasn't thinking too seriously when he led Claudia towards his door, telling me he had something he wanted her to see, leaving me and the young girl alone. I took her into my suite, and I'll be damned if I said I didn't have a most unbelievable sex that night. I tell you, if I'd known black girls were that hot and raunchy in bed, I'd have married one already ... either that or kept one on the side, know what I mean?

I don't remember how long we fucked, but it was halfway into the morning when finally we called it quits. I don't know what time it was when I woke up, thinking I was back home in my room and that Claudia was lying beside me ... except the woman in bed with me wasn't breathing like her. I turned on my bedside lamp and there was the young black girl lying there, not Claudia. Then I remembered the room she'd gone into with Shango and I got out of bed and put on my robe and went out the room to see whatever they were up to. I tried their door handle and sure enough it was locked. I returned to my room, tired at the same time wondering what was going on in that other room ... then I heard bumping sounds coming from my wall. It was a bed hitting against the other side of my wall, and with it came that of two people fucking. It was the kind of sound you'd be most familiar with. I went to the wall and placed my ear to it and listened. Sure enough it was coming from the room next door to mine and I knew it was Claudia and no doubt Shango screwing. The way that bed slammed against the wall like it wanted to break through ... the happy sounds she was making ... she was getting it real bad. My pecker became strong and stroked myself in time to it. All the time I'd made love to her, I'd never made her cry as loud as I was hearing her that night and it got me excited ... and jealous. It all added to my jerking hand and wouldn't you know it, they were still fucking while I spurt cum in my hand. I stood there leaning against the wall, getting myself together while still hearing the bed hit against the wall, my dear Claudia hollering to be fucked harder. Anyway, I packed it up and went back to bed.

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FIRST INTERMISSION

I watched him struck alight another cigarette; he'd killed four of them already. I thought was he despised himself being in a wheelchair so much he was looking forward to killing himself with cancer. I couldn't blame him for that. I still had my wine glass in my hand though it was empty.

He puffed at his cigarette then turned his attention to me: "Are you still with me?"

"Like I'd left you already," I replied.

"Just wanted to know if I still grabbed your attention. I'm curious about something, Thomas. Your surname sounds Italian, yet you look nothing close to it. How did that come about?"

"Like I could lie to you about my not being black," I said somewhat cynically, though not meaning to. He wasn't the first person being curious as to my change of name. I guess I kind of liked it that way—it got them curious and wondering. But that's to the few who bother; others just nod their head and look senile.

"You are black enough, that much is obvious," he remarked. "It's just your name I'm wondering. Sounds like something a clothing designer would have."

"Such is what most people have told me. I'm from Nigeria, and my native name is much too complicated for most people here to pronounce. Also, my book publishers advised me the name change, so I did."

"Where did you get it from?"

That's one question nobody's ever thought of asking me—where I got my new name from. I guess it was because I wasn't some silver screen idol.

"I was watching the Godfather movie one night, and there was this bad guy who ran a mob family who didn't like the Corleone family. I liked the sound of his name and turned it the other way around."

Attacus held his cigarette off his lips and laughed. "Very ingenious. I'll bet your name grabs the ladies, too."

I smiled at this. "Partly it does. Women love a good mystery, and a lot of them are fans of my erotic books. I keep getting secret invites to their homes."

"You haven't taken them up to it?"

I thought for a moment, wondering if I should answer the question. Then thought what the hell, why not. "I have done so a couple of times, but I had to give it up once when her old man returned home early from fishing. She told me he always went out with his gun." Recalling this memory unleashed a torrent of laughter from myself. "I grabbed my clothes and jumped out her window as if I were an Evil Kinevel stunt man."

Attacus joined me in laughing. "That must have been something to write about."

"Oh, I did write about it, though I made it into a short story. It was the last erotic work I made and that was two years back. I haven't written any sex stuff since then."

"Was it that you were scared?"

"I wasn't. I simply got bored and fed up with it. The words, the stories, they all seemed sort of familiar to me. I felt like I was churning out recycled material. I couldn't sense anything original in what I was writing. It's a feeling one gets sometimes, almost like experiencing Writer's Block. I decided to call it quits and get back to my straight stuff."