The Feast, Revisited

I woke up this morning with the worst case of PMS depression ever. Aside from work stress, it was New Year’s Eve. I was angry and pissed off that I had no big plans, even though no one in my circle of friends had plans of their own.

What I really wanted was to ring in the new year with Parrot. Normally, I’m very accepting that we can’t be with each other on most significant holidays; we make up for it in big ways at other times. When I told him that I wished we could get food from my favorite Chinese carry-out, a bottle of bubbly, and have a naked movie night in bed (Casablanca, again), he promised, “Soon, dear.”

I know I can count on him for that.

A few hours later, I got a surprise in my Dropbox — an audio recording of story he wrote earlier for me this year, The Feast (Click for audio.)

Not only is it a drippingly gorgeous and romantic erotic tale, but how it all came together – before, during and after—in our actual lives is a spectacular story and memory. There really isn’t much fiction about it. The post I wrote about his story, Surprises, Foreshadowing and The Feast, is definitely worth a read, especially for those of you who are die-hard and highly sexual romantics.

I hope you enjoy listening to the audio, although I’m sure you won’t enjoy it as much as I. For me, stories, written and recorded, like this one are the most treasured gifts ever. When the women I know get into their engagement ring conversations (you all know how those go; the woman with the biggest diamond wins), I’ve been so tempted to say, “Bitch, please. I got this …”

The Feast

How long have I been waiting for this night? The calendar says it has been less than two months. It feels much longer.

At last I have been able to make some plans. Your airline reservation is confirmed, accommodations made. We have a date.

In other aspects of my life I am somewhat impulsive; I seldom make firm plans ahead of time. My artistic sensibility leads me to show up, step through the door and see what happens. Life for me has often been a series of surprises leading to marvelous adventures.
Not this time. I have realized that our time together is so rare, I want to plan every aspect—to make each second count. To make every moment we have together the perfect expression of who we are to each other.

So I have been making plans. Anyone who knows me at all knows how uncharacteristic this behavior is. Hotel reservations? Why worry about it? There are plenty of last minute rooms available. Dinner reservations? That would mean deciding far in advance where and what we will eat. So what if we spend an hour at the bar waiting for a table? More time to talk, to look into each other’s eyes; more time to anticipate. Exquisite foreplay.

No, this time I have planned almost obsessively. I have written down an itinerary for our time together. I have calculated driving times from one place to the next. Is this too much?

I ask myself that question often, even as I put pins into the map showing the waypoints for our travels. The answer comes to me: you and I are making art together. With every experience, every embrace, every caress, every moment of shared ecstasy we are creating our story.

There is certainly a time for improvisation; there is a time when we follow our muse, marveling at the sights, sounds and sensations along the way. And there is a time when our story needs a plot line—an armature upon which we build our tale, even as it is unfolding.
We have been counting down the days. I am now at the airport. Your flight is ten minutes early. I feel my heart pounding as I watch passengers coming across the long marble expanse from the gates.

There you are. You don’t see me yet. You clutch your phone as you scan the crowd for my face. I press speed dial. Your face brightens as the phone vibrates in your hand.

“Hey baby,” I say as I see you put the phone to your ear. You grin broadly, looking for me. I watch you for a moment, then wave. You see me. You run to me, your impractical heels clacking on the hard floor, your roller suitcase rumbling after you.

We are holding each other, kissing, laughing, kissing again. The crowd swirls around us, an impressionistic blur. We can’t seem to let go of each other.

After several moments, I take your hand and pull you and your roller bag toward the parking garage. I almost want to run with you to my car, but those provocative heels would make such haste risky. We stride purposefully instead. We have plenty of time.

The car is nearby. I press the remote from twenty yards away, hearing the chirp. The trunk is open when we get there. I throw your bag in, then grab you, hungry already. We kiss again, open mouthed, two libidinous teenagers making out.

“Let’s get out of here,” I say, releasing you reluctantly.

I suppose that would be okay,” you say with a shrug, feigning indifference. Then you laugh, a husky, sexual woman’s laugh, deep in your throat. We get in the car.

We reach the hotel in twenty minutes. I pull the key card from my shirt pocket and wave it in front of your face with a conspiratorial grin. Now the door is open and we are barely inside before you begin tearing urgently at my clothes. I feel my body respond to you.
“Wait!” I say, pulling away from your hungry mouth. “Our reservation! At the restaurant!”

“Fuck the reservation,” you say, wrapping around me. “I’m starving for you.”

“I’m starving too,” I say, my voice husky with wanting. “But I made this reservation three months ago. I had to pull strings.” Your hands, which have been fumbling with my belt buckle, pause.

“This had better be an amazing dinner,” you say through clenched teeth.

I have told you ahead of time to be ready to dress for a fancy dinner. You do not disappoint. You go into the large bathroom to dress, and when you emerge, I catch my breath. You have poured yourself into a dark—almost black—burgundy dress. It is cut low in front, showing enough cleavage to turn male heads and piss off their women. It clings appealingly to your hips and ass, leaving no room for underwear. It is short enough to be illegal in most of the Middle East and in several southern states. You strike a pose, perched competently on those impossibly high heels. My jaw drops.

“Will this be satisfactory, sir?” you ask, fluttering long, dark eyelashes. I swallow hard.

“Very. Yes. Fine. You look great. I mean, you look fine. I mean, great. You look great. No…beautiful. You’re beautiful.” I realize I am babbling. You laugh.

“Don’t you think you should get dressed? I think you said we have a reservation. “ I am still in khakis and a polo shirt.

“Oh, right,” I say, stammering. “Just a sec.” I pull a clean white shirt and light wool slacks from my garment bag. In two minutes, I am resplendent in blazer, slacks, Bass Weejuns and hand-tied bow tie—the consummate preppie. You look me over appreciatively, tweak my tie to perfection then press your cheek against mine.

“You are going to get so fucked tonight,” you breathe into my ear as you kiss me. You take my arm as we leave the room, heading to the elevator.

Our hotel has one of the finest restaurants in the San Francisco Bay Area. It has been celebrated in every reputable guide—including the iconic, redoubtable Guide Michelin.

We enter the restaurant and are greeted effusively by Jean-Yves, the maître d’. He shakes my hand, looks appreciatively—and with considerable Gallic thoroughness—at you. I feel you blushing. He takes us to our table, a quiet booth where we sit side-by-side at the back of the restaurant. He presents our menus with a flourish.

Even before we have a chance to look at our menus, the server arrives with cocktails: martini for me, sazerac for you. And oysters. A dozen and a half Pacific oysters with mignonette sauce. I feed one to you, watch your face as you slurp the oyster and its liquor from the shell. You close your eyes, savoring it. I realize again that this is one of the many things I find so endearing about you: this ability to be present to so many experiences and sensations. I take your hand, kiss your warm palm.

“I am so glad you’re finally here,” I say, then raise my glass to you. We clink glasses and drink.

“What’s good here?” you ask, then gasp as you begin reading the menu. Even the most pedestrian dishes have a creative twist from a gifted chef. House-made duck sausage and confit. The pork tenderloin is wrapped in house-cured bacon and is served with truffled cauliflower. A simple Scottish halibut is made into art with celery root purée and crimini mushrooms.

“I don’t know where to start!” you say. “I could stay here all night and work though this whole menu!”

“I have a different menu arranged for later,” I say, giving you a meaningful look over my glass. You make a low sound in your throat, a sort of feline purr. I look up for the server, and Jean-Yves appears at the table as if by magic.

“I decided to serve you myself this evening,” he says. “Such a beautiful woman…” he looks at you with a smile—“should have perfect service, n’est-ce pas?”

“D’accord, Jean-Yves,” I say. “What has the chef done special tonight?”

“You know how he is with his duck,” he says. “Tonight he has created…” His rhapsody about the menu seems to fade into the background noise of the dimly-lit restaurant. Sitting next to you, I am finding concentration difficult.

“That sounds wonderful, Jean-Yves,” I say. “Could you just bring us your chef’s best efforts tonight?”

“Bien sûr,” he says agreeably, taking our menus from us. He leaves us to our cocktails and oysters. We feed them to each other, a habit we have gotten into. These simple bivalves are so sensuous, it has become a sort of public foreplay for us. I’m sure we can attribute the legendary aphrodisiac properties of these creatures to the sybaritic pleasure of feeding them to one’s lover.
The food arrives, carried by two immaculately dressed servers. Jean-Yves stands by, supervising, looking sternly over his half-glasses. One server places your plate in front of you. Jean-Yves glares at the server, a young girl of twenty, and she rotates the plate to the correct orientation. Once the plates have been placed to the maître d’s satisfaction, he gives a curt nod. The servers retreat.

“Bon appétit, monsieur-dame,” he says, bowing, and leaves us to our meal.

And what a meal it is. The chef is known for his artistry with duck, and he has outdone himself. The fowl’s skin is a deep golden, its texture perfectly crisped. The fat under the skin moistens the succulent flesh beneath. He has seasoned the confit de canard with quatre épices: a four-spice blend of ginger, pepper, cloves and nutmeg. It lends an earthy depth to the perfectly cooked duck. There is duck sausage, exquisitely seasoned and toothsome. I have selected a distinguished Napa Valley cabernet, one of our favorites.
We savor each bite of our meal, feeding morsels to each other, oblivious to anyone else in the small dining room. We sit close together and I can feel the warmth of your thigh under the table. Your toe finds its way along my foot, teasing me.

“I have a confession to make,” you say, close to my ear. “We were in such a hurry to get to the restaurant, I completely forgot to put on panties.” You take my hand and put it on your thigh. Your dress has ridden up and I feel the heat radiating from you like a furnace. You grip my hand between your legs, smiling coquettishly.

The light from the small candle dances on your face and puts catch lights in your eyes. Your scent fills my head. I drink the last of my wine.

“Ready to get out of here?” I say, signaling for the server.

“Can’t we have dessert?” you ask with a charming, fake pout. I laugh, in on the joke.

“I have other ideas,” I say, moving my hand higher. You part your legs. I feel slickness.

Jean-Yves appears at our table. “Is there anything else you wish…from the kitchen?” He has the kind of sly, knowing smile only the French can manage. His eyes linger on your cleavage. I know you are blushing. The fact is not lost on our host. “Shall I bill your room?”

“That would be fine,” I say, anxious to get you upstairs.

“Merci, monsieur-dame. Bonne nuit. Et…amusez-vous bien.” Another Gallic smile at both of us, and he disappears.

We leave the restaurant, holding hands as we walk through the hotel lobby to the elevators. As soon as the doors hiss shut and the car begins its ascent to the fifth floor, you are in my arms, kissing me urgently. You hook your leg around me, pulling me close. Your short dress rides up. You grab my hand and put it on your hot pussy. You are sopping wet. I push two fingers into you and you squirm.
The elevator stops at the fifth floor. As the doors slide open, we release each other and assume a more decorous pose just in time to see an older couple standing in front of us, waiting to enter. As we walk out, the man gives me a quick wink. He take his wife’s hand as the elevator door closes.

We walk down the carpeted hall to our room. I already have the key card in hand and open the door. I barely have time to hang the Do Not Disturb sign on the doorknob before you are in my arms again. We kiss urgently, holding each other tightly. I reach for the hem of your dress, pull it up to your waist. You are wearing stockings and a black lace garter belt—and no panties.

I lift you up and carry you to the bed. Your legs are splayed as you open yourself to me. Your lips are deep pink and glistening with arousal. I bend close and inhale deeply, breathing in your musky scent. You have shaved your pussy for me, and you are smooth and bare to my lips.

I trace your outlines with my tongue, exploring your intimate contours. Your juices flow copiously. I push two fingers into you and you gasp with pleasure. My probing tongue finds your clitoris. You moan and thrash, wrapping your thighs around my head.

“Please,” you sigh. “I need you inside me…please.” My cock is like steel and throbs with wanting you. I find the zipper of your dress and pull it down, then pull your dress over your head. With one hand, I deftly unhook your bra and throw it on the floor.

I look at you in the dim light. You still wear the garter belt, stockings and heels. Your arms beckon. I tear at my clothes, desperate to be naked with you, to feel your skin against me. Soon my clothes lie in a heap on top of yours. I stand next to the bed, my hard cock pointing skyward, jerking slightly with my heartbeat.

I grasp your thighs and pull you to me. I place my cock at the entrance to your pussy, running it up and down your wet slit. You lift your legs high, resting your heels on my shoulders. You grab my ass to pull me into you. Your pussy is warm and slippery. I begin to move in and out—slowly at first, luxuriating in the long-delayed feel of your soft flesh.

This always feels so familiar. Even when we came together after being apart for nearly two decades, it was this way. The way your body wraps around mine, the way the strong muscles of your pussy clench around my cock, asking me to go deeper, asking me to stay there inside you. I feel every contour of you as I move: the ridges, the muscles; I can even feel your heart pounding in rhythm with mine. I bend over to kiss your mouth, your breasts. You wrap your arms around me.

I feel as though we could continue this way for hours. As always, you are loud, begging me, encouraging me. Your hot vagina is a river, and I am flowing downstream, faster and faster. Our breath rasps in sync, but we are not tired. I pull your body closer to mine, seeking to penetrate you even more deeply, more intimately. You squeal when I do, telling me this is just what you want.

Our coupling takes a new urgency. Your cries—guttural, sensual, husky, melodic—inspire me, and I fuck you with a faster tempo. I can feel the tension building in both of us. Your cunt tightens around my cock, as though to extract everything I have to give—and more.
I feel we are near our apex now. I slow my tempo, plumbing your core, reveling in each sensation. We are balanced at the very top.
Suddenly you let out a long, ragged breath that becomes an ecstatic wail. I feel a gush of warm, copious liquid bathing us. Your pussy suddenly feels different to me. The slipperiness has now changed to something that grips my cock, as though demanding I stay inside you. I plunge into you over and over again, feeling my own release coming to join yours.

Now, with a blinding intensity, I reach my own climax, shooting hot spurts inside you, over and over. I wonder what I have done in my life to deserve such ineffable pleasure. We are traveling a white water river together, a thrilling ride that saturates our senses. We fill the room with our cries of ecstasy. It doesn’t matter what any of the other guests may think if they can hear us. Let them be jealous. Let them aspire to what we have. Let them make their own art.

We are spent. I collapse on top of you, exhausted for the moment. I want to stay inside you for as long as I can. You want the same thing, and wrap your legs around me, forbidding me to leave your body. I press my lips to yours and we kiss again, tenderly and open mouthed. Even our breathing is in perfect sync. I can feel your heart beating against mine, in perfect sync.

After a long while, we stir, and get under the down comforter, enjoying the feel and fragrance of crisp sheets. We hold each other without speaking; stroking, kissing, nestling into each other, enjoying the way our bodies fit so perfectly together. We don’t really want to sleep, but drift off together, knowing that we will still be holding each other when day breaks. We will make love sleepily in the morning, a comfortable, intimate expression, the preface to our day. Then, at the end of the day, we will make love again—maybe extravagant and passionate like tonight, maybe familiar and normal—but surely a coda to the symphony we have been creating together.