Hot Sweltering Summer Sex Vignettes
Author and semi-regular Chronicle contributor Spike Gillespie (All the Wrong Men and One Perfect Boy) has been working on a new novel called thebelljar.net, about the high-tech nightmare that Austin has become. In it, our heroine, Alice, takes on a job as "the world's oldest high tech intern" to escape her former career in food service. At her new company, The Universe, she is in charge of making coffee and copies and building an in-house Web site to act as a style guide for her higher-ups. Her self-appointed position is to keep high the morale of one of the programmers (aka moles) whom she decides is fuckable (she's naive).
Author and semi-regular Chronicle contributor Spike Gillespie (All the Wrong Men and One Perfect Boy) has been working on a new novel called thebelljar.net, about the high tech nightmare that Austin has become. In it, our heroine, Alice, takes on a job as "the world's oldest high tech intern" to escape her former career in food service. At her new company, The Universe, she is in charge of making coffee and copies and building an in-house Web site to act as a style guide for her higher-ups. Her self-appointed position is to keep high the morale of one of the programmers (aka moles) whom she decides is fuckable (she's naive).
And so, on Tuesdays and Thursday, commencing the second week free yoga classes began at The Universe, I left my cubby at 2:45, went into the ladies' room, and changed into shorts and what I hoped would be an offensive T-shirt. I'd collected many over the years, which I rarely wore anymore, but hung onto because each had a story, some sentiment, usually of the angry variety, attached. On this, the day that Jimmy, the marquis de yoga, criticized my facial expression, I had chosen to enlighten the class with a shirt featuring Charles Manson's face, bigger than life, his evil eyes drilling into anyone who dared look at me past chin level.
No one said anything. Sometimes I wondered if anyone there even knew I existed; maybe I was invisible to all but a few? But at the end of class, after our final tree poses, where we foolishly attempted to stand balanced on one leg, the other bent up, foot pressed into thigh of unbent leg -- all this with hands over our heads in some hare krishna move (during which he crept up behind me wrenching my back into "proper" position without warning, not helping me as I fell to the mat, shouting, "Timber!"), Jimmy said he had a few announcements.
"Some of y'all are doing just great!" He said, sounding like the laboratory love child of Richard Simmons and Kathie Lee Gifford. "And all y'all only stand to improve! But I have to tell you, the only way that is going to happen is with G-O-O-D A-T-T-I-T-U-D-E! And one way to achieve gooooood attitude is to dress appropriately for class. So those of you showing up here in those too-tight bottoms need to loosen up. And let's try to pick cheerful tops that will help reflect our inner beauty, shall we?" With that, he gave me the evil eye. Why this closet case was choosing to zero his thinly veiled hatred at me, I had no idea. Patsy was going to have to pay for this.
She turned to me when he was finished. "Isn't this great?!" she asked in an I-knew-you'd-love-it way. "Isn't he the best?" She beamed in Jimmy's general direction.
"Jimmy is a rude prick who hates the world because he refuses to come to grips with the gentle homosexual lurking within. He no doubt hates his mother and, by extension, all women, specifically me."
"You take everything so personally."
"Did you see him glare at me? He glared at me! He's supposed to be all inner-peaceful, isn't he?"
"Give it time. You'll see. You're going to be calmer and more flexible."
"You know," I told her, "Every time he tells us to inhale, I want a cigarette."
Dimitri laughed when I told him about class. It was a Friday night, two weeks since that first date, and we were lying naked and spent on top of one of the mats. We'd brought it into his office after several games of ping-pong, most of which I won, fully clothed, though he continued to suggest otherwise. Now we lay, on our sides, facing each other, talking softly. "Show me a pose," he said.
"I will not."
He stood up, bent over, attempting to touch his fingers to the floor, his back facing me. "Full moon pose," he said.
I laughed and he contorted some more, bending over further, poking his head between his knees, his face hidden somewhere behind his long hair, nose peeking through, pointing toward me. "Bend over and kiss your ass good-bye pose."
"Stop," I said. "You'll go to karma hell."
"You're mixing your mythologies."
"You're acting like a goofball."
He did a few more poses, making them and their titles up as he went along. The Gone to Alabama With a Banjo on My Knee pose. The Armpit Fart pose (with sound effects). The Tote 'em Scrotum pose, where he cupped his balls and marched around his office as if he were carrying them around like a ziploc bag full of goldfish.
He enjoyed this last one, I could tell. As I lay there, watching him get hard, I pretended not to notice the transformation. When he was fully erect, he stood over me and stroked himself. "This is the I'll Show You Mine If You Show Me Yours Pose," he smiled.
I pulled myself up into sitting and then kneeling position, and without warning, took him inside my mouth. He arched his back and murmured, "Mary, Mother of Christ," as I traced the ridge of his head slowly with the tip of my tongue.
I pulled away for a minute and pushed into his thighs, forcing him backwards until he could brace himself against the wall, following him on my knees. "This is the I Suck Your Cock and You Come Explosively pose," I said and went back at it until my jaws ached, until I felt every muscle in his legs and butt tense and he cried out and filled me. I swallowed as he inched down the wall into a squat, pulling me toward him, shoving his tongue over and in my mouth, licking up the drops of him still left there.
Then he stopped, leaned his head back, stared hard into my eyes. "Efharisto," he said, "Efharisto, Efharisto, Efharisto."
"What? What is that?"
"Greek," he whispered. "Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you."
I smiled, felt and smelled and tasted full of sex, of him. "De nada. De nada, de nada, de nada."
Spike Gillespie's first book All the Wrong Men and One Perfect Boy was published last year by Simon & Schuster.