2 comments/ 38349 views/ 1 favorites Marking Time By: RichDinMD A young man alone in the city finds his only lifeline to the real world is AOL. Will he hook up with his new-found friend, also alone in the city and staying at the same hotel, or chicken out as before? Warning--Because many people consider a story without an intimately detailed sex scene a complete waste of time, I give advance warning that this story deals with sexually-generated angst, not sex itself. Only read this story if you enjoy tales of indecision and anxiety. * * * * * I tried not to think about it. It wasn't easy. I was away from home for the first time and homesickness had bushwhacked the sense of independence I had expected . The telephone rang and I picked it up. "Hello?" "Martin, is that you?" "Yes, Mom." I kept any sound of relief out of my voice. "Are you okay?" "Why wouldn't I be okay?" "I was worried about you. You hadn't called me since yesterday." "It's only 4:40, Mom," I pointed out. "You're not even home yet." She hesitated. I heard road noise in the background which meant she was probably still on I-270, heading north. I imagined what she was wearing, what her day was like, what she and Dad would have for dinner. In other words, all things I usually never thought about. More cautiously, she asked: "How did your interview go?" I didn't compare her to a nagging Jewish mother "Actually," I said. "Not bad. The Human Resources guy was kinda cool. He had already seen two dozen people for the position but no one even near my age. My credentials impressed him." "Of course they did," she said proudly, which brought back my annoyance. I controlled it though. "He pretty much let on that I was ahead of the pack, or at least high up in the running. I agreed to meet him and some other bigwigs for dinner tonight." "Oh Martin!" she caroled. "How wonderful! You wear your blue suit, okay? No, the brown one, maybe with a blue--" "Mom," I warned. "Okay, okay. Wear what you want to, honey. I know you'll make the right decision." She sounded slightly wounded. "Just make your best impression, okay?" "I always make a good impression, Mom. You know that." Her sigh was very motherly. "I know. You make me so proud of you, Martin." I got her off the phone and unpacked my khaki Dockers and my light blue Ralph Lauren shirt and the blue and gray silk tie. I wanted to make an impression, but of a relaxed and in-command applicant, not an ass-kisser. Everyone at that place, secretaries to the mail-room kid to the Executive VP's, were a bunch of Class-A super-overachievers with 2x4's the size of Saturn rockets shoved up their asses. The only cool person I'd met that day was Tim, the Human Resources guy--and he was probably trained that way. I ironed my clothes, took a shower, put my clothes on and went downstairs to catch a cab. The hotel was on 55th Street, the restaurant was on 40th. Maryland born and bred, I knew as much about the Big Apple as I did Peoria, Illinois. I let the doorman flag down a taxi for me and gave the driver the name of the restaurant and the address. He got there in ten minutes but made enough turns to baffle a mapmaker. "Thank you," I said, getting out. "Will I have much problem getting a cab back to the hotel later on?" He laughed--even his laughter had an accent--and he reminded me that I was white, well-dressed and in the best part of town. "You could fall off into the gutter at three a.m. and two dozen cabbies would try and pick you up." At least that's what I think he said. I tipped him five dollars and waved at him when he drove away. I like friendly people with a sense of humor--even foreigners. Tim was waiting for me in the bar along with a sharply-dressed gentleman named Mr. Dyce. Mr. Dyce looked in his early forties and had shiny black hair. He looked Sicilian. I offered my hand and for exactly one second he tried to crush it. I couldn't help but flinch. They both laughed. "You've heard of The New York Minute?" Mr. Dyce said smoothly. "Well that's The New York Second." I flexed and shook my hand appreciatively. "Don't tell me about The New York Hour then," I joked. Mr. Dyce lifted his hand for the bartender. "Tim tells me your from D.C.," he said. If the speed at which the attractive young lady reacted was any indication, Mr. Dyce came here a lot. Or he owned the place. "You're old enough to drink?" Since he asked in a tone not to embarrass me, I answered with deference. "Yes, sir." To the bartender: "Do you need my I.D.?" She smiled sweetly and shook her head. "Then a diet-Coke," I said. She went to pour my soda and a third man entered the bar and joined us. This was someone I recognized from that afternoon. John, somebody. A fish name. Pike? "This is John Hake, Martin. You remember him?" Tim asked. I said I did, and John and I shook hands. He was not a member of The New York Second club. "John works in your department," Tim advised. "He'd be your boss," Mr. Dyce clarified. "If that's the eventual outcome ." The cute bartender return with my soda. I thanked her and held eyes with her for a New York Second longer than I should have. She smiled at me however, but hid the smile from my companions. "I'll pay for dinner if that nudges the outcome in my direction," I offered. "I told you he was a wit," Tim said. I had to keep my wit in check. A crack or two might amuse these guys, but they were the makers and the shakers in this town and they didn't hire wits. They hired savvy and skill. I said, "The truth is, I understand that I'm very lucky to be here tonight. The fact you asked me is an ego-booster. But I also know that I wouldn't be here if I didn't have something important to offer the firm." Mr. Dyce grinned. Tim beamed. Every tooth in his mouth shown one-hundred watts or brighter. John Hake said to me, "You really developed that Coca-Cola model in two weeks?" Actually I had developed the model in one week; the rest of the time I spent learning Black Jack online. "It wouldn't work in the real market," I admitted. "The algorithms were from an old General Dynamics engine donated to the university in 1999. I rewrote the formulas based on the Minnesota expressions developed by Dr. Fletcher's team in 2002. It was strictly conceptual. It lost money consistently." Hake nodded. "But nobody has a model that works any better than yours and they're all written by experts." "I failed on the cheap," I conceded. "You want to pay me big money to fail big time?" "I want you to succeed," Mr. Dyce said softly. "Can you succeed, Martin?" How the fuck do I know? I wanted to say. I'm a godamned junior at a nondescript college in Maryland. I get by on student loans and an allowance from my parents. I'm twenty-one years old and I've never been laid. How the hell good I am? "If you have enough money, I can make it work," I said honestly. Enough money will make anything work. "The question is, do you have enough time?" "How much time is enough?" Mr. Dyce asked. There was no amusement in his manner now, only consideration. "Three years. Not a Sunday less. On a New York Year budget. Five years on anything less." Mr. Dyce scowled. Tim took half-a-step backwards. John Hake, who had been vacillating between friendliness and rigidity in the presence of his boss, scowled as well. "Three years? On a framework you wrote in two weeks? What kind of bullshit is that, Martin?" "My model was bullshit, Mr. Dyce. The real thing is the Titanic with watertight bulkheads. You can blow four, five modules and the thing stays afloat. Imagine a financial engine that makes money even when you program it to loose." Dyce's scowl didn't lessen any, but it didn't grow worse. "Let's have dinner," he said. I ordered New York Strip Steak with a baked potato and Mr. Dyce and Tim both had Filet Mignon. John had a Surf & Turf dinner with a lobster tail the size of the Titanic. We drank a French wine who's name I couldn't pronounce; desert was ludicrous. "So, Martin." Mr. Dyce stretched back in his chair and made it obvious he wanted a cigar. "You leave town when? Thursday morning?" "Yes, sir." The food in my stomach had me dopey and I didn't want to get into anything serious. "Tomorrow morning I'm booked on a tour of Lower Manhattan--" "Ground Zero." "Yes," I agreed. "And the Bronx Zoo tomorrow afternoon." "What about tomorrow night?" I shook my head. Dyce glanced sideways at John Hake, who nodded slightly. "The Red Sox are in town," he said. "Tomorrow night and Thursday night. How would you like to go see them?" A Yankees-Red Sox game in September? They were number one and two in the division again. The Red Sox had won the World Series last year. Washington was in the cellar with only thirty-two wins, but it was their first year in town. Who's cock do I have to suck? I wanted to ask. I said, "That's a very generous offer, Mr. Dyce. You could just as well let me sell the ticket instead and hold my first year's salary." "More like the first year and a half," John Hake said, somewhat unwisely. Mr. Dyce cut him a hard glance. I liked John, so I accepted. To my relief, both Tim and Mr. Dyce had pressing appointments after dinner and had to run. John and I migrated to the bar where I hoped to see the attractive bartender again, but she was gone. A little after nine, he stood with me on the sidewalk outside the restaurant. The September evening was cool and clear, just this side of crisp. "So what you have on for tonight?" I asked. "Unfortunately," he said, checking his watch, "I have to be across the river in Jersey at ten o'clock. My wife and I are buying a new condo there and we're meeting the broker. Sorry." Only in The Big Apple, I thought. I bade him good night and caught the first cab I flagged. I considered asking the cabby where the nearest nightclub was, but didn't have the courage. Being alone in New York City is no fun. * * * It was eleven o'clock. I slouched in the surprisingly comfortable upholstered chair, remote in hand, channel surfing. My laptop was open on the table beside me; on screen, Microsoft Outlook awaited any messages. The six in my In Box had already been answered and I was bored. "I wanna get naked," I said aloud. Actually, what I wanted was to suck a cock. Don't get me wrong--I'm not gay. I've never had sex with a guy and I don't find guys attractive. My problem is one of fixation. Since my first image of a girl sucking a cock, I've wanted to suck one too. I've become addicted to certain newsgroups on AOL. You probably know which ones. Like any addict, I both loath and cherish my addiction. What I need is a personal Glory Hole. To the uninitiated, a Glory Hole is a 4" diameter hole in any wall through which an erection can be placed. Of necessity it is generally located at groin level, in one wall of a small cubicle, usually in a sex shop. I've never seen or been inside one, but I have seen pictures. Once inserted in the hole, an erection can be sucked anonymously by a man or a woman--or both--depending upon your predilection. My perfect scenario would be a 7-1/2" long penis of a Caucasian male, nicely pink, of medium girth, with a not-to-protuberant glans. The testicles should be large and droopy enough to allow for easy fondling. My perfect pair are distinctly mismatched, one hanging lower than the other. The right testicle should be larger by half. In this perfect scenario no human being would exist on the opposite side of the wall. I shifted uncomfortably in the chair, adjusted my position. In deference to the situation, I sat there in my jockey shorts and my tee-shirt. In defiance of the situation, I had the curtains halfway drawn, though what good this did on the fourteenth floor I don't know. The building opposite was only twelve stories tall. Taller buildings were visible in the distance, to be sure, but from any of them you'd need high-powered binoculars. Then again, this was New York. I momentarily considered giving myself a little stroking action, just on the off-chance, you know, but my penis said, Forget it. It had no interest. Why not go online? I had thought this earlier, but lethargy kept me glued to the chair. Now it was eleven-fifteen and the idea had more appeal. I got up and sat down at the table. The hotel was rigged for wireless. I started AOL, selected my screename, SimplMind100, and connected via TCP/IP. "Where shall we go tonight?" I wondered aloud. I scanned through the member-created chat rooms and stared at M4MNYCHotels. My hand gave a tiny shake. I got a tiny little shiver. I clicked on the name and sat there a moment thinking. Two months ago I had almost jumped. I started up a friendship with a guy named Sean (real name? Who knows?) from Baltimore that I met online. We hit it off the first night and progressed from touchy-feely chat to heavy duty cyber in less than an hour. I promised him my oral virginity and he committed his to me. We resolved to 69 each other in bed with a camera recording. Arrangements were made after our third session and I got as far as the parking lot of the motel. This was in Columbia, Maryland, halfway between our homes. I sat in the car for half and hour berating myself for being a chicken; in the end I just left. If he showed up for the liaison I never knew because I deleted my screename and blocked out his. I hadn't been in an AOL chat room since then. I double-clicked M4MNYCHotels and went in. * * * "What hotel you in?" I had been chatting with SPUDKNOCKER99 for ten minutes. His real name was Dan, he was thirty-one years old, he was married with two kids and in town trying to close a deal on pharmaceutical equipment. His hotel was in mid-town from what I'd gathered. "The Clarendon," I lied. "On 53rd." "Close," he came back, "but no cigar. Maybe if I looked out my window I could see you. Try waving, LOL." "My window faces east. Should I stand there naked?" "PLEASE NO! LOL. Let me keep something to the imagination." So far I had told him my age and my general description, my reason for being here and how long I was staying. "I'm at the Westbridge, on 55th," he wrote. I shivered mightily. He was here? At my hotel? Thank God I had lied! "I could hop on over on my twinkle toes," I told him. "Spray you with my fairy dust." "Keep typing like that and I'll rip the hard drive out of my computer, sonny boy." My penis had discovered its missing blood supply and was struggling for freedom. I kept it where it was. "How hard is it really? And how large? Does it ever give you a laptop dance?" "I'll laptop dance you, boyo. You'll doing the dancing, of course." He knew I was a closet flautist. He knew I joked about more. He was Bi, but with very limited experience. So far his experience was at the mouths of two other men. "A laptop dance is something I might enjoy sometime," I told him. "Given the right circumstances." "Think you'll ever take the leap?" he came back seriously. I explained about Sean. "Apart from being an asshole about it," I typed, "that's closer than I ever imagined I'd go. What about you? How did you hook up?" "Good old reliable AOL. Just like this, only with some chance of success, LOL." If only he knew. I shivered and typed: "How big are you? The real version, as opposed to the AOL version." "I didn't dare lie about that, not when I'd be meeting the potential blow job later on, LOL. My REAL size is 8" long, thick with very large veins, and I get an angry red when I'm hard. I'm cut, with a moderately big head. You?" "Embarrassed," I confessed. "Six inches on a really good night. Normal thickness. Takes a hook to the left. Care to rent me your package tomorrow night? For my own use with the ladies?" "Would rather you try the goods yourself, but sure. Visa, Mastercard or American Express accepted. And cash, of course. Rent by the hour?" "How about a one-year lease?" "Sorry, the lease-holder is my wife. And she never sublets. A one-night opportunity, here, Marty, take it or leave it." "I'll take it," I replied. "I'm upstairs in room 1412." I sat back to wait. I shook like a bamboo shack in an earthquake. His response was immediate. "I know you're joking. You wouldn't be that cruel. Actually, just joking about it is cruel, LOL! I have a very large erection in my hand and it nearly got yanked off!" "I am so shameless," I wrote. "I need to be taken over my knee and given a good paddling." "On your bare ass, buster." "How did you know my ass is bare?" "Lucky guess. An informed guess." My erection demanded its freedom in no uncertain terms. My heart beat like an elephant's heart: thud-whump, thud-whump, thud-whump. When was I this aroused? Certainly not since Sean. "Your guess is only half-informed," I told him. "Physically my shorts are still on; mentally they've been pitched out the window. In other words, my bottom is psychologically ready for a good spanking." "LOL! You're killing me. I wasn't kidding about my erection. It's ready to rock and roll. It would react very favorably to seeing your ass getting paddled." "I'm trying to think the last time that actually happened to me. I think I was ten. I've never gotten it bare-bottomed before; that was reserved for my sister. She's seventeen now." "Ever get to see it?" "They did it to her in her bedroom. I could hear it though, which turned me on immensely." "I bet it did. How old was she when they stopped?" "Stopped?" "LOL again. I keep setting myself up, don't I? Is your sister hot?" "I prefer to think of her as cuddly. She's blonde, has blue eyes, still wears braces on her teeth--which just drives her nuts, but which I think is cute--and she has a nice figure. And no, I've never seen her nude, so don't ask." "DARN! Skunked again. Would you like to though?" He caught me. I had often wanted to see Kierney nude, had seen her countless times braless in stuff that let her nipples protrude; had seen her in outfits like a tank-top and gym-shorts which clearly defined her developing breasts and left her thong panties exposed--I had even seen her in her bra and panties. I typed: "Every day and every minute. Like an introduction? You'd have to wait six months to bang her, though, she's still a minor." "Her twenty-one year old brother would do just fine." I almost told him then. I almost placed my fingertips on the keys and typed, "I was lying about 53rd Street. Come up here and fill my mouth with your erection, please!" Instead, I let my blood pressure settle again. "I'm curious. Did either of your guys let you cum in their mouths?" "One did," he replied. "The second one. His name was John Smith, and I kid you not. I even looked at his license. The first guy's name was Ted, but I won't tell you his last name. He let me come on his chest but John wanted it all. He masturbated me the second time we did it, right into his own mouth. Then he swallowed. The first time he spat it into the toilet but the second time he swallowed it. (I enjoy saying that, LOL.)" "So I gathered. I've swallowed my own cum before. Does that excite you? Or turn you off?" "It EXCITES me stupid! (You're not stupid, sorry.) Tell me about it." "Well," I typed, "I usually do a couple of spurts at a time. I get myself to the brink of ejaculation (not always on purpose, LOL) and shoot into my palm. I don't actually cum, so I'm still turned on enough that I can slurp it up with my tongue. I do this two or three times before the main event, but if I'm lucky or really intent on enjoying myself, I'll do it over and over until I've easily had two or three sperm-loads." I didn't know what this bit of information did to my friend, but it agonized me. I squirmed in my chair. "I'm currently freehanded," he wrote. "The concept of you 'enjoying' yourself was just too much. Either I let go of it or it made goo-goo all over me. I wouldn't want that, because like yourself, cumming extinguishes my fire. Right now, I want that flame hot as a blowtorch. Anyway, what other pleasantries might you employ in your quest for enjoyment?" Marking Time Even the broken clock is right twice a day. The glass panel in front of the clock face slips beneath my fingers, like Dali thought to liquefy it right out from under my hand. My knees feel as though his brush found them as well, and the cruel quick-succession of shutter sounds are drowned out only by a stark staccato pounding in my head. Each white-hot camera flash flogs a bigger gash of time-honored insecurity across my back. Why did I want to do this? Is it for him? Is it for me? Is it for… art? Flash. God forbid, for posterity…? Click. I am not a young woman anymore. I’m not old, either, mind you – just another nearing former-glory-reduction, reluctantly succumbing to that insipid melting pot that bubbles away just this side of the middle of the somewhere in between… Flash. With Sir Isaac, skulking just around the corner, eyeing my tits… Click. And Salvador setting his imaginative sights on my ass… Tick. …Tick? It’s just occurred to me that this grandfather clock has now stood in my front room for eight years and sixteen days. I’m not sure I’ve so much as looked at it – let alone, dusted it – in all that time. It called out to me from just inside the doorway of a ramshackle little antique store, as I was passing by on my way home from work, on the eve of my first real objectionable birthday. The store was going out of business (or so they said), yet – sucked in by an elusive melancholy something – I undoubtedly paid far too much for it. Dare I admit, I entertained a sweet Rockwellesque notion of its sturdy time-honored chime, sounding warm waves of familial comfort all through our tiny home. That the faithful peal and firm tick-tock were accompanied by a softer pitter-patter – for a fleeting moment, in the less acknowledged clamorings of my brain – that tugged at a string and helped puppeteer my hand toward my wallet, was a special bonus pang atop the birthday blues and considerable price-tag. I was certain this clock had a story to tell. To my dismay, the deliveryman was brutish and careless. The face (along with the delicate clockworks behind it) tipped inward as he jostled it from the back of the truck and bullied it up the front steps and through our narrow front door. The pendulum stopped swinging mere moments after he huffed off, shrugging his powerlessness against the faults of the (admittedly, quite uneven) hundred-year-old hardwood floor and grumbling at my very deliberate failure to tip. I never did get around to having it leveled, looked at, or appraised. Not an hour was marked. I never did find out if it had a story to tell. Creek. How, now, is the pendulum swinging? Tick. Under my hand, it seems to… Yes. It stirs. Gears groan and remember their way. It fills with life next to me. Tick! I lean into the body of the clock, soothed and steadied by its awakened beat. The tremor of oscillation beneath the carved hardwood casing, resonates in my breast and echoes down into my belly. I press against the low measured cadence and feel my own pulse stir, heat, quicken, and fall into step. I surrender to the rhythm, one hand for the clock’s and one for mine. Marking Time Most of the dialogue here is in Jamaican Patois. I have done things this way because I think that the Patois has a lyrical quality to it that Standard Jamaican English (SJE) doesn't quite capture, and it is the way that many Jamaicans speak when backstage with close friends and relatives. Certainly the blend between SJE and the Patois is there for many even if SJE is the onstage presentation at work and broadly socially. If you read it and sound the words phonetically you should be able to understand what is being said. If not, please feel free to ask me. - Cin * The couple on the bed pause suddenly and listen, shocked, breathing heavily. The man has been fucking the voluptuous woman violently. She is sopping wet and ready for him; primed just the way he likes her. Her legs fall from near her ears and wrapped around his torso to trap him. She needs little encouragement because he wants to stay. He is so hard that it is painful. He needs to cum but this interruption is like a pail of cold water taken straight in the face. He has just swallowed her low moan and a filthy exhortation in a harsh kiss when they first hear the voice. They glance at each other. The man shakes his head slightly and sighs heavily. The woman frowns and hisses her teeth. "Eric? You in there?" shouts a voice from outside. "Eric?" "Me a come," the man shouts back finally when he accepts that his friend will not leave. He does not want to leave the woman but he must. He gives her nipple one last, lingering suck and a painful little bite and turning over, he bounds out of the bed and grabs his clothes. He turns to the naked woman at his side, smiling ruefully. "Trust me, A." he whispers and leaves the room. The woman lies in bed. She closes her eyes and winces. Her nipples are painfully erect, her body trembling with need. She needs to cum! Damn that man, Eric! Why must he be such a goody-goody! Why can't he leave the fucker outside? Who would expect someone to still receive guests at this hour? Why answer the door? The woman bites her bottom lip and hisses her teeth again. She is very disappointed. She thinks of her pleasure denied. She sighs and tries to fight off angry tears. She glances at the clock on the night table next to the bed. She sees that it shows 1:30. He throws herself in the bed again and screams silently. The woman listens to the men speak and laugh. She frowns again. Eventually, she hears a door slam and a gate clank. The woman sits up and glances at the clock. She sees that it is now 1:59. The woman hears two cars start up and drive away. The woman punches the pillow on which the man was lying, twice. She hurls the pillow to the floor. The woman grabs her own face and presses her long nails into the skin at her hairline. The woman screams silently. The woman massages her temples, sighs and shrugs her shoulders. She glances at the clock. She sees that it is now 2:05. The woman then gets up and dresses quickly. She wipes her still wet cunt in the bed sheets, leaving her musk for Eric to smell whenever he decides to return. She wants to torture him. The woman walks to the living room and sits in a chair. She pulls her legs to her chest and hugs herself. She stares at the blank screen of the television standing in front of her. She peers toward the clock on the wall. The woman closes her eyes and continues to rock herself gently. She hears a car stop outside. She rises from the chair, turns on the television and stares at a point on the wall just above it. She glances at the clock on the wall. She sees that it shows 2:16. The man opens the door at 2:18. He chuckles. "Close call..." ***** The man is fucking the woman violently. She likes it rough, and he likes to oblige her. This is their third time tonight and still she isn't gentle with him. She is ravenous and so is he when he is with her. A lady in the boardroom and on the social scene; but he has no words for what she is in the bedroom! He is learning fast! He is learning that it is possible for a woman's legs to really bend back and rest around her own ears without her toppling over! Fucking contortionist! He is learning that women can get so wet that they slurp when they walk! He loves her role plays, her lack of inhibition about sex, her inventiveness about making his fantasies come true, her wildness. Yes! Avis is some woman! The man hears a voice calling his name and asking if he is here. He plows his thick dribbling cock into the woman's slick hole a few more times hoping that his friend will leave if they remain quiet enough. The voice is insistent though. It demands that he respond. The voice outside excites and frightens him. As lovely as she is, he does not wish this man to know what he has been doing. It would be very embarrassing at best. He winces, groans, withdraws and looks momentarily at the woman. The woman frowns. The man rises from the bed. He dresses hurriedly and whispers to her. He has made a choice. He tries to reassure her. The woman stares angrily at him. He knows that there will be hell to pay later. The man walks to the veranda. He opens the gate and lets another man into the house. The men shake hands and slap each other on the back. "What you doing here so late, man? It's 1:30!" "I'm just leaving. I was working and I fell asleep, but I have to go." "I was just passing and I saw the car. I came to see if you were here..." The men continue to talk and laugh and drink two bottles of beer. The man, Eric, packs some books and clothes into a black bag. He picks up a bunch of keys from the coffee table. He glances toward the door, smiles at his friend and looks at his watch. It is 1:57. "Boy, I have a rough day tomorrow," he lies smoothly. "I really was leaving just as you came along, you know. Let's make it another evening. I can't manage it tonight." "That's cool man." His friend looks disappointed but tries to put a brave smile on. It does not quite work. There is something cold and angry about him tonight. It might be good for them to talk, but not tonight. He needs to get back to bed as soon as possible. The two men walk to the veranda and Eric switches off the light as he locks the door. He locks the grille gate to the veranda and walks toward his car with his companion. "Whose car is that?" "I don't know. It must be someone for the people next door." "It's just that it's parked right at your gate." "No man... Them had a whole heap a car here earlier..." The men talk for a little while longer. They get into their cars and drive away. The man looks at his watch. It is 2:05. He drives around the streets for a while. He gazes at his watch it is now 2:14. He drives to the gate of the house in which he has left the sexy, naked woman. The man walks quickly up the driveway, opens the grille and lets himself in. The man opens the door at 2:18. He chuckles. "Close call. I'm sorry about that. George really is a real pain sometimes, man; but he mi fren. Mi did jus waan get rid ah him." "Yuh not telling me anything I don't know! What sort of person comes to visit people at 1:30 in the morning?" "He's lonely. Sad. Marriage breaking down and everything. You know that's how he is A..." "Why didn't you tell him you couldn't speak with him now?" she interrupts. She does not want to hear any excuses. "No man I can't do that!" "Why not? Just tell him that you're in bed with your woman!" "And if he asks to meet you?" he asks, trying to calm her. "Now? No! No sane person would do that!" The man looks away from the woman and sighs. The woman's voice is becoming shrill. She wants to quarrel instead of finishing up where they left off. She's fully dressed again and shows no sign of wanting to return to his bed. ***** A man looks over the balcony. He chuckles wryly. "What happen? Why you laughing?" "Nuh a mad man gone to visit di people at number three at dis hour of di night." "So? It's still early." "The man is in there with him girlfriend." The four men glance at each other and guffaw. They turn back to their dominoes, disinterested in their neighbours. The four men hear two voices. One of them glances up and glimpses two men chatting at the gate of a house a few metres up the street. The man sees two men get into their cars and drive away. The man pauses, frowns, shakes his head, shrugs and turns back to his dominoes. He notes the time briefly, in case he ever needs to remember this moment for the police. It is just after 2 o'clock. ***** A man cruises through the streets. The roads are deserted. He glances at the clock on the dashboard. It is 1:28 a.m. He hisses his teeth. He is very angry and confused. His life is spiralling out of control. He wants things to return to the way they were before. He remembers how mean his wife was in telling him that this wish would never come true for him. He remembers the day when she got a restraining order against him. He thinks about how good to her he had been. He had watched her flirt with his friends and not said anything. He wanted her to be happy. He understood that some women need a little more and he was happy to oblige. Avis was some woman! He thought that this was what she wanted, and he liked to think that his friends wanted her! He was shocked when she called him weak and told him that he disgusted her. He had begged and tried to reason with her, but it made her angrier. Eventually she got the restraining order. He asked his friends if they understood what had gone wrong. Nobody did. He sees two cars parked at a gate. He stops raking through the past, happy to see a port in the storm. The man accelerates and skids to a halt in front of the two cars. The front one is a rental. He smiles broadly to himself as he takes two six-packs from the car to grease his way into the house, and opens the gate. Perhaps tonight will clear things up for him. "Eric? You in there?" he shouts. He knows that Eric, a man whom he has known since high school, is inside. He knows that he is not alone, but that doesn't matter. Perhaps tonight he will get some relief. His marriage breaking down was a shock and he still doesn't understand how it could have happened. He needs to ask them both to help him understand. Perhaps the woman can explain. He has burdened all his other friends with his drunken speculations he knows, but Eric and he go far back. Eric will help him, he reasons. "Me a come!" he hears Eric cry out at last. He rolls his eyes at the double entendre. He is uncomfortable about thinking of his friend's sexuality. He has seen women throw themselves at Eric over the years. Deep down he is jealous, but tries to like him anyway since, to be fair, he has always been a good friend until now. He has now become just as secretive and distant as everyone else. It can't be the divorce; he doesn't drink too much around Eric. It just doesn't seem cool when he's with him. The man waits to be admitted to the house. He shakes the Eric's hand and slaps him on the back. He pitches himself into a chair and dangles one of the bottles at his host. He can see that Eric does not want him there. That is not surprising, but nevertheless, they chat, laugh and drink the beer. "So how is Jennifer?" he asks finally. "She fine man. She's at a conference. Mi drop har at di airport yesterday. Mi should call har later today. See how it going," Eric says quietly. "Leave the woman nuh man. Yuh not supposed to have to follow, follow har up like dat! Let her concentrate on her work. She will miss you more. Yuh mussn mek yuh wife rule yuh!" George almost shouts. "Still, if me did a do dat den tings might a work out different." Despite the fact that his failed marriage isn't funny, they laugh a little at this. The mood becomes a little less tense. The man watches the other man, Eric, as he packs his bag quickly. The man's smile fades a little but he continues to chat animatedly. He suspects that Eric's woman is there. The place has a musky odour and Eric has a sexual tension around him. He has seen it many times before. He does not believe that Eric is leaving. He wonders why she doesn't just come out and meet him; have a drink like a civilised person. The man sees Eric look surreptitiously at his watch. The man drags himself to the door reluctantly. He glances at his watch as well. It is just a few minutes after 2 o'clock; still early. The two men laugh and chat at the gate. Neither one wants to leave the house. "Whose car is that?" "I don't know. It must be someone for the people next door." "It's just that it's parked right at your gate." "No man... Them had a whole heap a car here earlier..." The man shrugs. He chats for a little while longer with the other man. They get into their cars and drive away. The man turns up the volume of the CD playing in his car. It is the song that he and his wife used to think of as their song. Suddenly, realisation dawns! He turns the car around and accelerates. He reaches into his glove compartment and pulls something out. It is cold, heavy and metallic. "Today," he laughs, mirthlessly, to himself. "Yes, Eric. I know. I not blind anymore. I going to ketch yuh wid har red-handed; an ah gwine kill di two a yuh to rass, today." Marking Time This was the "Daily Double," the question I'd been steering him toward. I wasn't even sure I had done it consciously . . . just following my cock, maybe. "I have this other fixation. Two months ago I went to this sex-shop around the Beltway from my house--its in Beltsville, the Lower East Side of Maryland. I was so embarrassed it took two trips just to get in the front door. When I did get in, I kept my eyes off what I had gone there to see, instead browsing the magazine racks. I settled for a prepackaged set of girly mags. They were so poor quality and I was so pissed I didn't even beat off to them. I just threw them away. "Two days later I forced myself back to the place and was astonished at what I saw. Covering one entire wall and part of another was the most amazing collection of dildos you can imagine. They had long ones, black ones, two-headed ones, green and red ones in Dayglo colors; they had dildos two feet long and midget dildos. They had dildos you strapped onto your body and dildos you put batteries in and dildos with knobs and ticklers. They had--well, you get the idea. They had so many dildos I couldn't possible make a choice, much less an informed one. Then I saw this row of flesh-colored dildos in varying sizes, all from the same manufacturer. They looked exceptionally real and even had testicles. They're called "Ballsy Cocks." "The largest one nearly took my breath away. It was an incomprehensible fourteen inches long and thick as a forearm. At the other end of the scale was one six inches long and slightly thicker than myself. The head was beautifully formed, like a Triceratops head. The tip had a distinctive opening that looked like a real pee-hole, and it was ridged along the shaft by 'veins.' I had never seen anything so beautiful. "I took it down with shaking hands and carried it over to the counter on rubbery knees. I put it into a Plexiglas carousel like you see at a bank--the counter area was completely enclosed in Plexiglas--along with a twenty dollar bill. The guy paid no attention at all, shooting the shit with some old man. I took the dildo home with me and on the weekend, when I didn't have to worry about being bothered, I put it to good use. And now you know." His reply was a moment in coming. "Define 'good use', Martin." "I think you already know," I replied. Again a pause. "Did you enjoy it? Would you enjoy the real thing, you think?" With numb and shaking fingers I answered: "I think I would enjoy you, Dan." And then I told him he could find out for sure by taking the elevator to the 14th floor and knocking on the door to room 1412. I am waiting to find out myself, and oh boy, am I scared.