This is the third part of a four part story that chronicles events that took place in mid-1970s New York City when free-love, drugs, sex and Rock & Roll dominated the American youth culture. In this part Jordan and his lover's open relationship takes an unforeseen turn. Jordan begins an affair with his downstairs neighbor with unexpected results.
If you'd like to know how this journey of erotic exploration began, you can find it in "Sleep with me!" Ch. 1 & 2 in 'Interracial Love'.
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Part 08: Coffeecake and Kara
"She would never say where she came from,
Yesterday don't matter if it's gone.
While the sun is bright,
Or in the darkest night,
No one knows,
She comes and goes.
Goodbye Ruby Tuesday,
Who could hang a name on you?
When you change with every new day,
Still I'm gonna miss you..."
"Mroww?" my nosey Siamese cat said as I sang along with Mick Jagger and the Rolling Stones.
"Hush up silly girl," I said to Ling, "I'm not talking to you."
Tail straight up in disdain she leaped down from the stool next to the kitchen table where I was putting the finishing touches on a yeast-raised coffee cake. She ran into the living room.
"Everybody's a damn critic!" I said as I slipped the cake into the oven.
Forty-five minutes later the enticing smell of warm cinnamon, plumped raisins and toasted walnuts wafted from my open windows as well as filling the hallways at 47Β½ East 7th Street. I rummaged around in the fridge until I found the empty vacuum jar.
"Shit," I said aloud to myself, "I'm out of coffee!"
Putting the cake on a rack to cool, I ran out to Schacht's Deli to buy some beans and have them freshly ground. Just as I put the key in the front door I heard the seductive tones of a woman's voice. I turned around.
"Hi Jordy, whatcha bakin'?" Kara's tone was deliberately provocative.
She grabbed the bag out of my hands, stuck her nose in and took a deep breath.
"Mmmmm that smells fantastic! 100% Colombian, right?"
"Hi Kara," I replied, and grabbed the bag back.
I was in no mood for her games.
"Yeah, Colombian, and the coffee cake just came out of the oven."
"So, what's a girl have to do to get a piece?" It was more of a leer than a smile.
Kara had the "hots" for me and, if I had a more suspicious nature, I'd swear she was stalking me. She'd developed the uncanny knack of appearing almost every time I entered or exited the premises.
"Come on upstairs, Kara," I said throwing in the towel "I'm happy to share. I'll even put up a fresh pot of java."
She grabbed my arm and led me up to my own apartment.
Kara was an attractive red-head who lived on the first floor but she just wasn't my type, what we refer to today as ample. My personal preference tended toward the more traditionally curvy, hour-glass types. Still, the way things were going lately I should have been more flattered when receiving a woman's unsolicited attention. As I prepared the coffee I became lost in thoughts of how quickly things can change . . .
Part 09: Sauce for the Gander
The summer had begun filled with incredible promise and things I could never have dreamed possible. Sheryl and Katarina had agreed to our mΓ©nage-a-trois arrangement and it was glorious - while it lasted. Kat had become disillusioned first and decided to return to her old boyfriend. Left alone together, Sheryl and I tried to act like a monogamous couple but neither of us was seriously committed. We were in an open relationship (I was already seeing Ronnie) and I wouldn't have objected to Sherry's extra-curricular activities if only she'd been honest about them! I mean, why'd she have to offer herself exclusively to my buddies? Convenient for her, certainly, but so terribly tacky!
In the days following Kat's departure Sheryl became increasingly restive and argumentative. Rightly, wrongly or indifferently I decided enough was enough and I chose to confront whatever the problem was.
"OK Sher, I give up." I demanded, "What the fuck's wrong with you?" The best defense, I've always been told, is a good offence so I decided to be offensive and braced for her response.
She was balanced precariously, one foot on a stepstool and the other on the kitchen counter trying to hang one of her pen and ink drawings. She answered without turning.
"What makes you think that you're the only one with needs around here?" Her tone was definitely combative.
"What needs of yours am I not fulfilling? I thought you loved what, when and how we do what we do?" I responded.
My offense melted into defensive silence. I held my tongue.