Cloudy Day Spontaneity

It's kind of gray and cold out there today. How about a tumble with a willing woman? I'm smart and attractive, and looking for something to cheer me up on a dreary day.

The clouds of depression have dogged me since my teens, and a move from snowy Vermont to mild San Francisco hadn't done anything to stave them off that rainy winter. I'd done my best to cheer myself up with breakfast and a couple of bong hits with my friend Cal, who I used to work with and who lived around the corner. A sweet boy of twenty-four, he was sympathetic to my situation, but pretty clueless when it came to knowing how to deal with me when I was this down. It was about one in the afternoon when I left his place and trudged back to my own.

I had posted this before heading to Cal's for breakfast, and was not expecting to hear from anyone fun from it. Fun was going to be a hell of a reach for me that day, but I was again casting about for comfort wherever I could find it. My in-box was full of the usual dreck in response to that morning's post—got-a-pics, you-want-this-babys, I'm-games—the usual bullshit. I was inclined to crawl back under my covers and sleep off another day of deep blues.

Returning to my desk overlooking Valencia Street, I glanced at Clooney's Bar across the street. Standing out front was an energetic blond. Pacing and prancing, he held a cigarette cupped in his hand against the pervasive fog of the day. His hair gelled into a modest Mohawk of sorts, he and a companion were full of happy energy and sound.

I impulsively went downstairs and crossed the street, and followed the pair into the bar just as they finished their cigarettes. Hot Guy was bouncy and cheerful, long-legged and fit. Not So Hot Guy was younger, taller, not as attractive, but with an open face and smile.

I was wearing a short skirt and sweater, anticipating a clearing and warming to the day that wasn't happening. But my legs looked great, if a little goose bumpy from the cold. I bought myself a Corona and took a stool near the pool table where they were playing. Hot Guy was feeding quarters into the juke box: Red Hot Chili Peppers, AC/DC, Counting Crows, loud and raucous. He wore sunglasses even in the dark bar; Not So Hot wore a baseball cap, never a big pleaser here. They were speaking to one another in what I thought was Spanish.

I watched them play for a few minutes before saying hello to Not So, who bravely spit out a broken hello of his own.

"Where are you from?" I asked, realizing that his English was going to be near useless.

"Brazil." Oh. Not Spanish, then, Portuguese. With seriously hot Brazilian Rob already notched on my bedpost, this news, coupled with the first few sips of Corona, cheered me some. I finished my beer as they finished their game, enjoying the cat-like grace of Hot Guy as he pranced around the table, posing and preening, hitting the balls hard with a little jump with each shot. He was a pleasure to ogle, for sure, and he knew it.

When they finished their game, I formally introduced myself to them as we headed to the bar. Hot Guy took off his sunglasses, and showed me astonishing green eyes, framed by some wrinkles that told me he was at least 35. Not So was clearly younger. Hot Guy introduced himself as Andre, and told me that his friend Jack didn't speak any English. Andre was a little hard to understand, but offered me a beer in the universal language of alcohol. I declined, saying I needed to go home and change into warmer clothes, but promising to come back.

I didn't know how I would feel once I hit the apartment, and wasn't entirely sure I would return, but jeans, socks, boots and a jacket revived me, and I was back in five minutes. They had waited for me to start another game, and asked me to join them.

There wasn't a lot of conversation, what with the screaming juke box and the language barrier, but within minutes of starting my second beer, Andre was standing behind me, instructing me how to properly hold the cue, arms wrapped around me as he talked softly into my ear. I was helpless. Something about him just melted my blues away. His hand brushed against my breast, dangerously close to my hardening nipple.

Within minutes I was laughing, making bad shots, and generally acting like the silly bar girl I'm not. If he had retreated into a corner and unzipped his pants at that point, I would have been happy to oblige him with a hot barroom blowjob. As I carefully lined up an easy shot, really wanting to sink at least one ball, he lightly tapped me right on my clit, just as I hit the ball, which careened wildly across the table. He was over-the-top hot to me, and I was ready for him.

Another beer and a game later, outside having another cigarette, I invited them to smoke some weed at my place. A bit shocked by my own boldness, and wary of having others in the bar see me go in to my building just across the street, I nevertheless led them straight to my apartment, messily disheveled after days of depressed moping.

I turned on some perky music and threw some stray clothes into the bedroom, while Andre whipped out a rolling machine. Mixing in a little tobacco with my good weed from Cal, he rolled and we smoked a joint, European style, he called it.

Now very buzzed, I collapsed into my arm chair, slouched back, legs outstretched, and watched his energy move around my apartment. Jack had politely taken a chair by the window, blowing his cigarette smoke into the exhaust fan as I'd requested. After a while, Andre looked at me with a questioning raise of his eyebrows. I knew just what he was asking, and I nodded yes. Putting his hands on the arms of the chair, he leaned over and kissed me and I was gone. This guy was going to make me feel good today.

Leaving Jack at the window, Andre and I headed to my bedroom, where I was naked in moments, kneeling before him. "Pray," he instructed me. He wanted my hands behind my back and my mouth available to him, and I was happy to oblige. My blues receded as I drew him in, his hands on my head showing me just how deep he wanted it. I gave myself up to the rhythms of his hips, gently rocking on my own knees, letting him guide us.

After a time—I have no idea how long—he put me on my hands and knees on the floor, and began working me from behind, first with his fingers, and when I was dripping wet, slowly and deeply inserting his cock, his hands holding my hips, rocking me onto him, his huge balls slapping. I could feel him touching bottom with each stroke, massaging the pain that lived there, so deep inside.

I had no thoughts of anything at that time but the sensations of our rhythms, and was oblivious to the growing rug burns on my elbows, knees and nose. That first time, he came in a laughing string of Portuguese expletives, which I didn't understand but which made me laugh nonetheless. In my blues, my own orgasm was elusive, leaving me in a chronic state of arousal, longing for more.

We took a break for a while, returning to Jack in the living room to smoke more weed. Andre put his clothes back on and I slipped into the beloved red silk robe I've had since I was a teenager. My CD changer was on the floor in the living room. Bending to hands and knees with my ass raised high on the beige carpet to change the music, Andre lifted my robe and caressed me, first gently, then with light slaps that kept me wet and ready.

Andre and Jack stayed into the evening, and Andre and I were back and forth from living room to bedroom many times. We would briefly come back out to join Jack for another smoke, another beer, more laughter, then retreat again for more kissing, sucking, licking, stroking, fucking. He was the cure for my depression, at least in the short term. At some point I must have fallen asleep, and I woke alone the next morning.

The next day, still not working, I fielded a call from Andre around noon. Did I want some company again? Yes, I certainly did. I hadn't felt that good in a while, and was eager for more of his contagious energy. The two of them arrived with more beer, a pizza and that slick little rolling machine, and our party was rolling again by three.

We partied away another afternoon. The persistent gray weather didn't call us to the outside, and we spent many hours drinking, eating pizza, smoking, dancing, fucking. At some point later in the evening, I got to feeling sorry for Jack. Andre and I were making all kinds of noise in our bedroom retreats. I'm not quiet when I'm excited. As we came out one more time, Andre's hand was cupping my crotch as I looked at Jack.

"You too?" I asked him. There was enough heat in me for both of them at that point, and I wanted to share it. Jack was confused.

"You want two boys?" Andre asked me. Apparently I did.

After their brief consultation in Portuguese, Jack smiled broadly. I was still in Andre's arms when Jack came up behind me, nuzzling my neck and exploring my wetness through the thin silk of my robe. We danced that way for a bit, the deep bass notes of Morphine urging us on, Andre's tongue in my mouth, his hands pinching my nipples, Jack growing harder, pressing himself against me from behind.

We adjourned once again to the bedroom, where I soon found myself lying on my back on my bed, my head hanging off the edge. Andre stood behind me and his big cock found its way deep into my throat and worked me there, while Jack fucked me from below. Jack's rhythmic pounding below forced my mouth against Andre's cock, and the combined massage of pussy and throat both excited and calmed me.

Jack was tentative at first, but warmed to the scene quickly; Andre was in his element, and I suspected he had done this before. He probably didn't realize it was my first time.

We spent hours in my room, our respective nicotine addictions forgotten, the boys working me over and over and over. I had a cock in my throat and one in my ass; with me on my knees on the bed, they stood over me and fed both their cocks to me, talking softly in Portuguese as they did so. My blues were forgotten as I surrendered to them, relishing the sensations.

I had no idea what time it was when they left. As they did, I heard what sounded like angry words between them, but between the alcohol and the Portuguese, I couldn't be sure. When Andre called me the next day to go to the beach, I jumped. He came alone to my apartment, and we rolled a couple of joints while I packed us a small picnic.

Caressing his stomach, I placed my tongue on a small scar, centered just an inch or so above his belly button. I was shocked when his eyes filled up.

"I am not a boy," he said. I looked at him questioningly, brushing a tear from his cheek. "I am a man, and I have done things no man should do."

I offered him a beer from the cooler, and asked him to tell me about it. I was growing accustomed to his accent, and was able to decipher that he had been a soldier in Sierra Leone, had seen unspeakable atrocities, had killed a man and been shot himself.

After this confession, I, too, started to cry, the waves of my own depression flooding over me again. When I tried to tell him that he was a soldier, just doing what he had to, he jumped up and ran out of my apartment, leaving me stunned and shaken. And wanting. Wanting more of a man who could put such an experience away to play pool, who could live with such memories and still laugh, who could fuck through the pain.

We didn't get to the beach, and I hope he found the comfort or distraction he needed that day. I saw him a couple of times in the neighborhood after that, on the street, delivering pizza, his part time job, always smiling and bouncing. And with his help, I fought off the blues one more time, as I have so many times before and since.