Apartment Stories Ch. 05

"Stop with the fucking labels already. Hearing you describe your sexuality is like standing behind some obnoxious twat in Starbucks ordering something that most definitely isn't coffee."

"But I want you to understand, Alice. If you cared, you'd want to understand."

I didn't know it at the time, but the conversation was to be the death knell of my longest and most serious relationship. Otherwise, I might have tempered my words. Maybe.

"No, I don't want to." I said. "I've had it with the navel gazing. I've had it with the labels that sound like an impossible recipe. Just be, for fuck's sake."

I was never the touchy-feely type, obviously. He knew that going in, back when he still used a pronoun that worked grammatically.

At any rate, following my outburst of intolerance, he said he needed to escape the tyranny of the cis (presumably me) to explore what it meant to be him (presumably non-cis). And honestly, that was fine. The relationship had become exercise, like a brain teaser designed to prevent one's grey matter from atrophying. Or like Twister, where touching any area outside the well-defined dots represented some horrible personal affront. Pronoun preferences strewn about like mines in no-man's land (if it could still be called such). Sexuality occupying a spot on some ineffable spectrum, the "this" and not "that" that had to be honored somehow.

I wasn't equipped to deal with this. Or that. I had a degree to finish. I wanted my sex uncomplicated.

I didn't have time to play pin the label on the jackass.

And that was how I found myself alone. They (because they did not use singular pronouns for themselves anymore) decided to be elsewhere.

And so they took their penis away from me. That was bad -- the loss of the penis. I'd grown fond of it. The rest of it, the large endlessly talking bit that the penis was attached to, was less of a loss. Of course, the loss of their half of the rent was bad too, particularly as it necessitated roommates to make up the shortfall. The best I could do was a mediocre mature student and an off-putting yet sexy goth pinup who exuded wantonness like a filthy aura.

I didn't believe in reincarnation, but sometimes it felt as though an eighty-something year old curmudgeon had been inserted in my twenty-something year old body while I slept. At my age, I should have been all over the issues my cohorts were so earnestly exercised about. Like pronouns. Like micro-aggressions. But I wasn't. Sure, I demonstrated for the big things like environmental issues, reproductive rights, and obscene income gaps between the rich and the poor, but I just couldn't get excited about everyone's individual struggle with whatever. There just wasn't the time.

I was raised to treat private things were private. If you dabbled or were confused or got your freak on with someone as bewildered and indefinable as you, you didn't have to prattle on about it. Or worse, blog. You did what people did in previous, less enlightened generations -- you filed the experience away and brought it out when you were old and decrepit and needed to prove to yourself that you were once alive and capable of delicious recklessness.

At any rate, the missing penis. I liked sex. The problem was that I didn't much like people and there were obvious limitations to having sex by and with myself. For one, I knew myself too well for me to get turned on by my own company. And I knew all of my moves like the back of my hand.

And so I was at loose ends. For a change, I was alone in the apartment. Having just turned in a term paper that morning after pulling an all-nighter, I was grateful that Helin and Matthew were out so that I could decompress in peace. I didn't mind my roommates, though it irked me that I needed them at all.

Decompression took the form of a middling Chardonnay even though it was before noon and the guilty pleasure of a romance novel enjoyed on the balcony. Maybe later I would masturbate. Then I would nap.

I settled on a chair and moved it to the sliver of sunshine that would traverse the balcony over the course of the afternoon. I closed my eyes and raised my face to it, hoping that it would do something for my pallor.

The breeze shifted and brought with it an aroma that I knew from my occasional attempts to misspend my youth so that I'd have stories to tell.

Weed. Newly legal, the politicians having determined that they could derive tax revenue from the reefer madness that was such an existential peril before.

It was now a legal smell. Evocative of past misdemeanor naughtiness.

It wasn't particularly annoying but it was an invasion of my personal space, like a passenger farting in my car.

A muffled cough from next door. The weed cough. I knew the culprit.

For reasons I didn't consider too deeply, I set my book and my middling wine aside and wandered next door to unit 3F. I knocked tentatively on the door.

Bryan was Chinese Jamaican. When I first heard that accent coming out of him several months ago, I'd done a double-take. It was like Bruce Lee possessed by Bob Marley.

I hadn't exactly fantasized about him, but I had daydreamed because that's where my head went when confronted with something unusual and exotic. And fit and sexy.

He opened the door and the aroma of weed emanated from him like an aura.

"Alice!" He seemed genuinely happy to see me. I wanted him to talk more, to bathe me in that accent.

"I was just outside and noticed that something on your balcony reeks."

"My balcony?"

"I assume so. I checked the direction of the breeze and it could only have come from your side."

He grinned. "What did it smell like?"

"Skunk. In fact, I thought it was until I remembered that we're three storeys up and skunks are definitely earthbound."

"Must be the weed then."

"You think? I never understood what would possess someone to smoke something that smells like the air behind a skunk's ass." Why was I being so churlish?

"Some eat ripe Limburger. You just never know about people."

He had me there.

"Not that I'm a prude or anything..."

"Heaven forbid."

"...But I haven't smoked in years."

"Ah, so you're not an innocent."

"Hardly."

"Have you ever made love stoned?"

The guy must be totally baked, asking a question like that to a near stranger standing in the hallway. TMI. Too much indica. Still, I answered, "Ugh. No. I like to have my wits about me."

"Don't knock it till you try it."

Was that an invitation? "So what makes it so special?"

"What?"

He was going to make me say it. I crossed my arms beneath my chest and gave him my iciest stare. "Stoned sex."

"It's languid."

"Languid lovemaking."

He closed his eyes and inhaled, like a sommelier experiencing something rare and sublime. "It's the best."

"Maybe later," I said, because lovemaking, languid or not, was something one had to consider. Particularly with a stoner stranger, if that was indeed what he was suggesting.

"Want to come in? Maybe partake?"

Or maybe you didn't need to consider. The way he said it in that accent. Partake. Weed or languid sex? Or weed and languid sex? Either alternative or both seemed okay in that moment.

He sparked a blunt and I watched as his face emerged from the smoke. He passed it over and I took a tentative hit, proud of myself that I didn't cough and gag like a noob.

I passed it back and it occurred to me that we were sharing trace amounts of saliva in addition to the weed. That was something intimate, surely.

Another back and forth. The room was foggy so he opened the patio door and I watched wraiths of smoke blow off to the right, to my balcony.

We didn't do that hold-your-breath business that we used to do in high school to maximize the benefit at the lowest possible cost. When the joint got down to the nub, Bryan tossed it into the ashtray. No roach clip or burning your lips. I felt sophisticated. In the hands of a master.

We chatted about this and that and eventually I wondered if I seemed as stoned to him as I felt. Everything was gauzy. My attention wavered. He said that he was a programmer and was taking the day off after a release. I pretended to be interested. I told him I was a grad student and he pretended to be interested too. Or maybe he really was; I couldn't tell.

All I know is that one moment we were talking about nothing in particular and the next moment, he was behind my chair and had his hands on my shoulders. A small pang of concern met his touch and was then rubbed away beneath his fingers.

"You're tense," he said as he massaged muscles that I didn't know needed the attention.

Bliss. I was pleasantly buzzed and relaxed. If he thought I was tense, who was I to argue? Maybe he was a renaissance man -- programmer, weed sommelier, genius masseur. The latter for sure. His hands felt wonderful. He pressed spots that shot tingles down to my toes. My ex would never had done anything like this unbidden. He would have asked permission because spontaneity was rife with imagined danger, personal space being sacrosanct even though we'd invaded each other's countless times before without incident.

Brian's thumbs kneaded knots. Fingers awakened skin. My head lolled. A spark of possibility smoldered and caught. There was fuel enough for the fire to grow larger. Months of abstinence but for one episode a week before that I wanted to forget. Mostly all work and no play. I'd become a dull woman.

"My breasts are tense too," I said after a few minutes. The words were out of my mouth before my brain could parse the consequences. The weed seemed to have numbed my mind while awakening my body.

A pause. Then his hands descended, squeezing and weighing. "I can feel it."

More bliss.

"Let me help, if I may," he said.

I said nothing as he pulled my t-shirt up over my head.

And I helped with my bra because I didn't want him fumbling endlessly with the clasp.

His upper body leaned against mine, imparting his warmth to my back. Fingers teased my nipples to attention, enough to etch glass it seemed. As disembodied as I felt, he still managed to evoke a low, distant humming in my core. Anticipation, I figured. Nature's programming.

His hands bade me to stand and he came around to my side of the chair and stood behind me agin. He made a show of removing my jeans. Deft fingers unfastened the button. He paused, waiting for me to object. No objection formed. Smooth hands descended into the opening, cradling my lower abdomen, fingers flitting over the upper margins of my pubic hair. I was grateful that I'd tended to things several days ago, partly out of boredom, partly out of alarm at the wild, unkempt thatch that had sprouted while I tended to things academic.

He pushed my jeans down a little, fingers tracing the crease between my thighs and my mound. A tiny whimper escaped my lips. I wasn't usually the whimpering kind and I cursed myself for revealing weakness even as I whimpered again. Already I could feel my body responding, laying out the welcome mat of lubrication and heat.

Finally his hands found my hips and pushed my jeans and panties the rest of the way down.

I stepped out of them and kicked them away from me. Still standing, naked now but for my socks, I let his hands explore me, own me. Cupping my throat, kneading my breasts, sliding down my abdomen, teasing the margins of my sex. I raised a hand and cradled the back of his head while he nuzzled my neck, bathing the area with soft kisses and hot breath.

I was being selfish, standing there while he lavished attention on me. I could have let it go on for hours, but I didn't want him to think poorly of me. "No fair," I said finally, speaking to the wall opposite. "You've still got clothes on."

I turned around and faced him, me naked and him fully dressed. The inequality might have bothered me at another time. Not now. I glowed under his curious, hungry gaze and my body warmed under it.

"Let me help you this time," I said.

I concentrated on the buttons of his shirt, my languidness making the task more complicated than it should have been. More fun too. My heart rate increased as I slowly revealed his torso. A fine specimen, I thought. Not an ounce of fat on him. A body like an MMA fighter. A welterweight. Not a heavyweight thankfully. Lean. Muscular. Largely hairless, more due to genetics than some misplaced vanity.

Wow.

He laughed.

Had I said that out loud?

His nipples tightened under my exploratory fingertips, just like mine had. Goose pimples rose on his skin. I got the power, I sang to myself. At least I hoped it was to myself. I could have read his torso for hours. Like Braille. I don't think I'd ever been so intent before. Chest and nipples, an actual six-pack, arms corded in veins. I explored it all. Languidly.

He made a sound. Arousal and discomfort. I looked into his eyes and then down. An erection strained against his jeans.

"That must be uncomfortable," I said, tracing the outlines of his penis with my fingertips.

"It is."

"I got the power," I sang in a whisper and he laughed.

I worked more quickly now, less fumble-fingered than before. Hunger tended to focus one's attention. Soon he and I were on equal footing, both naked, both primed. Both wearing nothing but socks.

"Show me how languid works," I said.

He smiled, took my hand, and led me to the bedroom.

The room featured a poster of Bob Marley, of course. And various bongs and weed paraphernalia, of course. It was tidy, the bed actually made. He turned on the stereo. I expected reggae, but instead it was Miles Davis's "Kind of Blue". I warmed to Bryan just a little more.

He crawled onto the bed and rolled onto his back, his cock pointing like an accusing finger to the ceiling.

"I want to taste you," he said.

His words warmed my heart. He wanted to make a meal of me. I wanted to let him eat.

With all the pot we'd consumed, I had the munchies. There were no Doritos on offer evidently, so his cock would have to do. There was only one thing for it, one thing that answered both of our needs.

I joined him on the bed and straddled his head, then stretched out on his torso like a blanket until his cock touched my nose. He could have my pie and I could eat him too.

He moved me into position with insistent touches. A little back. A little down. At the first silky-wet touch of his tongue to my nether regions, I mewled. I preferred that to whimpering. His hands held my hips just so, pressing his fingers into my flesh. Before launching myself at his cock, I waited, relishing his flitting exploration of my various folds. The first flick at my clitoris jolted me out of my reveries. It was good and I could lose myself to the sensations, but I had some fellating to do.

I grasped the base of his cock between my forefinger and thumb, squeezing it gently. A heavy exhalation from down below tickled my pussy.

I licked him from base to tip before pressing my lips around his shaft, just behind the head. My tongue swirled around the silky smooth hardness, exploring. He was large but not huge, girthy but not alarmingly so. A perfect cock, I thought to myself. Rather than thrust into me, he let me do my thing at my pace. Teasing the crown of his cock, running my lips and teeth up and down the saliva-slick length of his shaft.

His fingers crawled spider-like from my hips to my crack, spreading the cheeks, exploring there like he had every right to do so. It was bold and I was grateful that he just went and did it rather than ask. Not a modern approach to this kind of thing, but I wasn't about to get all political about it. A finger circled my anus while his tongue flitted magically around that pink pearl of nerves that crowned my cunt. I couldn't have objected even if I wanted to, partly because of the cock in my mouth, but mostly because it felt too good.

That's when I tasted him, a teaser of precum. An appetizer. I normally wasn't the swallowing kind, but the taste set my mouth to salivating as though I were starving and he was serving the most delectable dish in the world.

I wanted to finish him. I wanted him to come in my mouth and I wanted to swallow it. But he was taking his fucking time, playing with me as I was with him, drawing the moment out in mutual torture.

My mind wafted unanchored from sensation to sensation. The hardness in my mouth. The insistent softness of his tongue against my sex.

Then he focussed on my clit, unleashing a flurry there. That's when I knew that I was approaching the point of no return, when my body took over and strove for the promise of release.

I reciprocated with some intensity of my own and a warm moan emanated from behind me. My hand moved in counterpoint to my mouth. I took him as deeply as I could, used all the moves in my arsenal to goad him into an eruption.

Then came the final sprint. Our actions became less focussed but more insistent. I moved my hips against his face, quivering and hitching against the onslaught. At the same time, I allowed his cock to impale my mouth past the point of comfort, but also past the point of me caring. If I could have engulfed him completely, I would have.

And then, simultaneously, a second of pause, the moment between chambering a round and pulling the trigger.

Then, the explosion.

My body obeyed its own imperatives. I was vaguely aware of the unspooling and the spasms as I came. I was more focussed on the swelling in my mouth and his own spasms as he spurted his hot seed. Uncharacteristically, I swallowed it, gulping it down as best I could while continuing to milk him with my fingers and my lips.

After we'd recovered somewhat, Brian sparked up another joint but I limited myself to a few light tokes. My body felt gelatinous already. If I were any more relaxed, I'd probably melt into his bed and disappear.

We spoke little in the aftermath but engaged in some desultory stroking. I was fine with that and grateful that he didn't launch into the post-coital post-mortem that some guys insisted on.

I nestled into him, my head on his chest and a leg flung over his. It was a comfortable fit. His heart beat slow and steady against my palm.

"You have anything to do today?"

"Nope," he said. "Just this."

"I don't want to overstay your welcome."

He laughed. "After that? Never."

"Good."

After a while, my hand strayed down to his groin again, just to check things out. His cock was soft now, slumbering. I rolled his balls in my hand before returning for some gentle strokes.

"I'm not sure that's going to work."

"Have faith. I got the power, remember?"

He laughed. "I'm just not sure if I do."

But eventually he did.

"Round two?" I asked.

He reached into his bedside table and produced a condom. "Dress me up?"

I unrolled the condom without butchering the job. Then I swung a leg over him and sandwiched his cock between his stomach and mine. We kissed and eventually I lined him up and descended on him slowly.

A satisfied hum issued from his lips. For the most part, he let me do as I pleased, contributing only the lightest of touches up and down my back and occasionally toying with my breasts. Languid was the theme of the day, so I fucked him in that spirit. The slow pace enabled me to focus on the passage of his cock, how it filled me, how it warmed me. The sense of possessing a part of someone within me, stretching to accommodate foreign flesh, was my secret thrill, almost more than any other part of the act. And so I took my time, releasing him and claiming him anew. As long as he stayed hard, I was glad to keep this up, stroking and grinding.

Beyond a lazy smile, he reacted little, just lay there as my hips rose and fell, his cock a greased piston on idle.

Finally, he said, "My turn."

He flipped me onto my back and braced my legs against his arms, spreading my legs wide in the process.