I introduced Antonio in my story, "A Blow Job from A Nice Girl Can Cost." I said, there, that "I have a fair number of pals around town, boyfriends sans sex. It always begins the same way. A guy hits on me, very politely, and I accept the initial proposition, which is never sex. So, we go to dinner, Bay Street Theater, the beach, Sunday afternoon cruise in his boat. When he puts the moves on, I put on the brakes, but in the friendliest way.
"Most stay around, so I keep getting invitations that get me out of the house and away from the laptop. That's the imperative. Else my mind senesces in my skull."
Antonio is early 40's, divorced, an options trader in New York, mostly weekender in the Hamptons. His roots are French and Italian, a few generations back, now, in Corsica. Masculine looks out of a hot French sex movie: tall with broad shoulders, dark, curly hair so black it shines, lean, buff. And I am not interested? Sure, sometimes I was wetting my panties and scraping my stiff nips against my bra. But so far, I've described only a couple dates.
In a small town, like this, I cannot get to know all the guys that intrigue me if I am getting laid by them all. That's great fun until it isn't fun, and that happens fast.
This time, we were drinking at Rowdy Hall, a favorite hang-out. I like bars. Actual bars, with high stools where my long pale legs are at their best, on display up to mid-thigh in my short skirts.
"What's the most embarrassing sex thing that happened to you?" I asked. This was not out of nowhere, some lame-dame line to start conversation. Antonio had said, "Other guys? I'm lucky I didn't become a Trappist monk after what happened to me with other guys."
"Oh, I'm already sympathetic," I said. I grinned under my pixie black bangs and dropped a shoe to lift one bare foot to run up and down his smooth woolen pant leg.
"I'll tell you," he said, with a shrug. "You have a reputation as a safe deposit box of all secrets."
I drew back, clunking my drink onto the bar with a laugh. "That sounds as musty as a 95-year-old virgin!"
Antonio's smile never could be rushed. When completed, it was brilliant with white teeth in a generously wide mouth, dark eyes sparking. "The great secrets of the world are known to the ancient and silent."
Enough of that!
"So what happened to you, Antonio. And why?"
"The 'why' is easy. His dark eyes, now sad, fixed on me, though he still held onto a slight smile. "Ellen, I simply have a a freakishly long, thick penis and for that I have been victimized all my life."
"Oh..."
"Yes, yes," said Antonio, nodding impatiently. "Of course. Once it became a matter of women, yes, it was nice."
"Nice?"
"Let me tell you what happened."
I did a quick inventory of the Chardonnay. He followed my glance. He gestured to the bartender for another bottle-the most cultured gesture I ever had imagined. He grinned at me. Yeah, everyone knows that when Ellen has her bottle, she is content.
"Let me start the story where it started for me. Then, I can fill in."
My intent gaze over the glass of golden wine said it all.
"I walk into my boss's hotel suite. We are on a company 'retreat.' Back then, when I was mid-20's, I worked for a boutique financial firm. Maybe 15 employees in all? Looking back, I should have been out of there much sooner.
"Eight of us, I think, were along on this retreat to Vegas, but Vegas has nothing to do with the story. We had had meetings all day to discuss 'strategy,' 'economic prospects,' and 'customer profile.'
"The boss, Bob, had told me to show up at his suite at 6.15 for 'drinks and more informal discussion.'
"But when I walked in, right on time, my colleagues were there, in a circle, in the suite's ample sitting area. Luxurious carpet, perfect subdued lighting, sparking view of the strip, even tasteful art on the walls.
"But, I had been told 6:15, so why were they already here, grinning like loons as I walked in, staring at me? I stopped in the middle of the room, looking around, uneasy to say the least.
"You must understand one thing. Back then, I was criminally naïve. I was one of the first to be hired by Bob at a time he was desperate for a well-educated MBA to join this no-reputation firm. He offered a great salary, a great title, for my first job. So far, so good.
"But when things picked up and we were comfortably making profits, he started hiring, again. I didn't realize it at the time, but it was only gays and lesbians. How the hell would I have known?
"All gay and lesbian colleagues-and you had no clue?"
"Not really. Not my upbringing, Ellen. Besides, Bob wasn't out the closet-so none of the others were. He set that tone. As a firm, we roared ahead. I had been the catalyst, but now we were on a great roll. Bob wanted to have some fun."
"I can't imagine how this morphs into a sex catastrophe."
"Okay. I am standing there. I have said my hellos, given my smiles. Then, Bob, my boss, speaks up. 'Antonio! Welcome! We have been talking about the evening's entertainment and come to a decision.'
"What the hell was this about? What was going down?
"Bob says with his characteristic authoritative tone, 'Antonio, take off your clothes. And shut up; that is what you are going to do. We have seen your emails to Margo.' I'm sure you get the picture, now, so just strip.'"
I was ready to giggle, But Antonio looked sick. He said, "Even now, more than 10 years later, it wallops me in the gut. I want to puke, right now. And I still experience the original panic."
I reached out for his hand. And my bare foot got busy up and down his pant leg, now lifting it with my toes to rub his skin. He had a lot of crisp black hair on his body. "It's over, Antonio," I said. I threw him a kiss.
"Yeah," he said heavily. "The trap didn't gradually become clear that evening. Realization exploded in my idiot brain. I had been sending emails to my assistant, Margo, the only straight girl in the place. I was positive they were secret. It was the sweetest game. We never spoke a word about it in the office or met outside the office. I sent her emails and she sent me pictures. Not real nudes. Her incredible face. Her legs. Her belly. Her decolletage. Every possible pose and alluring angle of her body without nakedness. And I promised her things, promotions, raises." He added: "I really wanted her to have them!"
I was withdrawing all consolation. I lowered my voice (I mean, we were at a bar) and said, "I just don't have words for how brain-dead that sounds. In the office!"
Antonio was nodding. He said, "In some ways, I was back in Corsica. A powerful man, a beautiful but insignificant girl."
He held up his palm like a stop sign. "Standing there, I got the whole photo in one blast. What Bob and the other guys were. How all this got planned, their excitement, their plotting. I could feel tears start in my eyes. I looked around. Margo wasn't there.
"Bob, my boss, short, handsome, though given his height his head seemed too large. Steve, about my age, settled and self-conscious gay, and a conscious advocate. Jim, younger, a protégé of Steve, born in Washington, D.C., of two high-level federal employees—a designated prince. Dave, a heavy set, sensitive, righteous guy sometimes getting his butt grabbed in the supply room by Jim. And Cynthia, short, heavy-set girl from Boston with 1960's long blond hair, big hips, big bosom. Smart, smart, smart, and no BS. But totally private about her life. I didn't know the first thing about her.
"My boss said: 'Stow the gab, Antonio. Show us you get it.'"
I shook my head. "It must have been awful, Antonio." I paused for a moment. "Wait, you said this was about the size of your dick?"
"All my life, I had felt like a freak. This huge thing hanging between my legs. My balls, too."
He made a soft, controlled 'slam' on the bar with his fist. "No one would leave it alone! After the guys saw me in the shower, at gym, clustering around to stare and point and tease me, I never had a peaceful day. And every so often, a bunch of guys would gang up to ambush me somewhere, just for laughs, stripping me stark naked and going off with my clothes."
He sighed. He nodded to himself, silent, as though confirming an idea. "Now, you have to understand. Why that night the game went down the way it did. As terrified as I was in school, I realize, now, years later, that I began to get off on it. All that attention. I knew it was envy, jealousy. And the guys told the girls and I got looks all day long at my crotch. And standing there, that evening, I felt the blood flowing down there, swelling me, and my balls pulsing.
"My colleagues had cooked up this bizarre blackmail just to see my body. They were risking everything."
"You didn't have to," I said softly, glancing up briefly into his eyes.
"No," said Antonio. "The other choice was to be charged with sexual harassment. All the evidence right there. Fired. No other jobs open. And my friends hearing. Totally screwing up Margo, too."
I just looked at him.
"I made the decision. My heart pounded, but I told myself I was doing this to survive. But the other element, the subconsious titillation, was there, too.
"I kicked off my shoes. Unbuttoned and shrugged off my shirt. I shoved down my trousers." Then, I stood in a daze-in my underwear. I remember they were light blue Jockey shorts. But Jesus, everyone was staring like hungry animals at this lump in my shorts.
"My boss, Bob, snapped, 'Jimmy, Antonio can't pull the trigger. Do it for him.' And snide, superior little Jimmy, with his heavy black glasses and grinning face, came scuttling over and went to his knees.
"Ellen, this felt like the worst moment of my life. Everyone waiting. The freak about to be exposed. It brought back all the fears.
"Anyway, you know. With a flair for drama, Jimmy takes the sides of my underwear and slowly draws them down. My dick flops out, then my balls. Everyone is gawking.
