Here’s how the convo went down between me and the lovely Helena:
Helena: Would you be interested in hosting the end of my six-part love story?
Me: Of course!
GIVE ME THE SEX SCENE That will be lovely to have you GIVE ME THE SEX SCENE on my blog. I just caught up on parts 1 – 4 and can’t wait for part 5 GIVE ME THE SEX SCENE.
Helena: Awesome! I feel like your blog would be great for the
hot steamy writhing sex finale.
Me: Ooooh, finale. I like that word. It’s sort of like climax. I get
to the climax. Yum.
And that’s how Part 6 ended up here. I hope you enjoyed that glimpse of my professionalism. If you haven’t been following the story, please don’t skip the
foreplay beginning. This is a luxurious six-course meal, after all. Allow me to wet your appetite:
Appetizer: Lizzi “Hunting and Gathering in the Modern Age, or, The Quest for Red Grapefruit Juice”
Salad: Gretchen “Bad Behavior”
Meat: Samara “Please Please Please Let Me Get What I Want”
Vegetables: Mandi “One Night in Bangkok, Or, Quite Possibly My Last First Date”
Cappuccino: Hayley “I Put a Spell on You, or, Quite Possibly the Last First Kiss”
And, finally, your dessert. Enjoy.
This part of the story, like so many others, begins with music.
The first week of September, there was a music festival in Toronto, and so many good bands were playing — The Cure, Death Cab for Cutie, The Flaming Lips, and the list goes on. Penny got us tickets to go, but at the very last minute, surprised me by telling me that she’d given her ticket to Spenser, so that the two of us could do something fun together.
We had a fantastic time, of course, but that’s not what this story is about, darlings. This is about what happened after all the music was done, and our hearing was nearly gone, and we were tired and sweaty and high on adrenaline.
“So, I did something without asking you,” Spenser told me as we walked out of the park, being herded like sheep with several thousand others. “And I hope you don’t mind, and don’t think I’m being presumptuous.”
I confess, this didn’t sound to me like the best news. I didn’t say anything; I just waited for him to continue.
“I booked a hotel room,” he said. “I only mean that I thought it would be nice for you not to have to drive home — you’re probably tired. And I’d offer for you to crash at my place, but my roommate’s not only a slob, but also kind of an asshole, so…”
“No, it’s okay,” I said, and I was full of mixed feelings. A thousand years ago, it seems, another man once surprised me by taking me to a hotel, in one of the most romantic locations. That man was a friend, but thought that if he could romance me so completely, that he could make me something more than just a friend. In fact, he was quite insistent.
I was expecting that kind of déjà vu when we stepped into what was neither a sleazy motel nor the honeymoon suite at the ritziest joint in town, but when I opened up the door and there were no rose petals on the bed, no scented candles or champagne on ice, I was more than just relieved. I was delighted. I nearly started crying I was so happy. I had spent my entire life being the fly caught in someone’s trap, and it was so refreshing to not be treated like prey.
He closed the door behind us, and put his hand on my shoulder.
“I just want to make sure you know I didn’t bring you here with any expectations, or…”
I spun around and grabbed him by his sweaty shirt and pulled him into me.
“Shut up,” I said, and kissed him fiercely. It was a meaningful kiss — a kiss of sexual intent. Not pre-meditated, but neither was it accidental or given under coercion or while my judgment was in anyway impaired by alcohol or medication. Just to be clear, darlings, I kissed him in such a way so as to make sure that should he be asked about the evening’s activities the next day — perhaps under oath, should any laws, either federal or of nature, be broken — that my consent was never in question.
Having been on our feet all day, we stumbled clumsily, nearly falling as we tried to tear each other’s clothes off. Finally, I’m not sure whose feet got in the way, but we did end up falling ass over teakettle, only managing to avoid injury by crashing into the bed, where we collapsed in laughter and sighs.
“I don’t think my feet work anymore,” I said, running my hands through his hair and grabbing a handful of it and tugging playfully.
“I can’t feel mine,” he replied, and kissed a bead of sweat off of my nose.
“I’m going to get a bath,” I said. “Don’t go anywhere.”
“I won’t,” he promised.
“Unless you want to join me,” I invited.
“Bathe,” he said. “Soak your aching feet. I’ll grab a shower when you’re done.”
I pushed myself up off of his shoulders, and paused.
“Do me a favour, okay?” I asked, looking around the room at its utter lack of cliché romantic gestures, all of which had lost their charm on me years before.
“Anything,” he said, and I had half a mind to test the theory and send him for a five shot Americano with three sugars and about an inch of cream. Instead, I bit my lip vis-à-vis the coffee.
“Don’t do anything. Don’t spread flowers around, or put on Barry White, or…”
He laughed at me.
“I’m serious!” I said, trying not to grin, but it was a losing battle. “I’m not kidding, if I come back and there are candles out here, they’re going straight up your ass, whether you like it or not.”
“Not my thing,” he assured me, and waved me off to the bathroom.
If you’re imagining a Jacuzzi with some sort of citrusy bubble bath, like something out of a Calgon commercial, then I’m afraid I have to disappoint you, darlings. It was a hotel bathroom, and as I’ve already mentioned, it wasn’t the Honeymoon Suite. It was just a tub, and the soap was generic, but the water was hot and felt glorious on my aching calves and feet.
The only problem, such as it was, was that when I got out of the tub, and wrapped myself up in a towel, I realized that I had not intended to spend the night away from home. And I was not about to put on my sweaty clothes and crawl into bed.
“Naked it is, then,” I said under my breath, and lay on top the covers, still wrapped in my towel, while Spenser showered.
A few minutes later, Spenser emerged from the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist and his hands full of his dirty clothes.
“I guess I didn’t really think this through too well,” he smirked in embarrassment, dropping his clothes on the floor next to my own pile.
He looked so adorably nervous, so I patted the bed next to me, inviting him up.
He got up on the bed, leaving his towel in place, and making no move to take mine, and we just lay beside each other, staring at each other, not saying a word. He reached out and traced a finger down my jawline, and around to my lips, and let it linger there. I kissed it, and reached out my own hand to feel his heartbeat. I was so tired, but more wide awake that I’ve ever been.
I kissed him, slowly and purposefully, drawing him in, and relishing the taste of him, wrapping my arms around his back and kneading the muscles there, squeezing him and feeling him as if to make sure he was real.
He kissed me like an explorer, trailing kisses down my neck, across my collarbones, and back up to my mouth, where I hungrily pulled him back in, pulling his body on top of mine and wrapping my legs around him, trying to bring him closer.
He didn’t exactly resist, more like he deflected me, darlings, and the first time he did this, it took me by surprise. I wanted him to take me, I had put myself in a passive position, but instead, he took off my towel, and began kissing my chest, my breasts, and then trailing kisses down my belly, and I sighed in anticipation for what surely must me coming next.
Instead of what I thought was going to happen, he stopped and rolled me over on my belly. He sat up against the backboard of the bed, while I lay facing the other direction, my feet practically in his face.
“So,” he said, beginning to massage one of my feet, working his way down to the calf. “Are there any ticklish spots I should be aware of?”
I moaned in pleasure. It felt almost as good as what I’d thought he was going to do. I began to realize that we weren’t just about to have sex. We were going to spend the night together, and we did – we spent the whole night together. Sometimes we talked; sometimes we kissed and touched each other. Sometimes there were snippets of poetry.
(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
Sometimes there were baser demands.
I need to feel you inside me.
Sometimes there were strange confessions.
I think I love you – is that crazy?
I was so utterly relaxed, and yet my whole body was tingling. We had explored each other’s bodies for what ended up being hours. He said he’d wanted to get to know me, and it turned out that wish extended to sex. I lay face down, biting the pillow on occasion, as he kissed the back my neck, which is a huge erogenous zone for me, and pressed himself against my bottom. I was so ready that it nearly hurt. There was an ache low in my belly that was nearly unbearable. I arched my hips, inviting him in. I wanted him to. He positioned himself behind me, and I got up on my knees ready to accept him, but he just took himself in hand, like a paintbrush, or something, and began stroking himself against me, rubbing me, teasing me. At one point I could feel the whole length of him against my wetness, and I nearly broke out laughing, which, I realize, darlings, would have spoiled the moment.
The problem is, my mind goes to strange places, and all I could think about was the Dread Pirate Roberts/Wesley trapped in the pit of despair in The Princess Bride and being told what’s going to happen to him, and his response is: So it’s to be torture, then?
This kind of torture, I could get used to. I was positively thrumming. I wanted him to start; I wanted him to put himself inside me, I wanted to feel all of him deep in me. But I would not get my wish for hours.
I’m not going to spell out every detail of how he teased me, how he revved me up and then cooled me down, but if I were so inclined, I could a tale unfold whose lightest word…
“Yes, yes,” Penny interrupted, rolling her eyes. “A tale whose lightest word will harrow up thy soul, freeze thy young blood, make thy two eyes something something, and then make your hair stand on end like a porpentine – which you still haven’t explained, by the way.”
“Well, actually, I was going to say it would give you moist panties,”
“Yup,” I said defiantly. “I totally did. I blame that red-headed minx.”
“Which one?” she demanded to know, perhaps seeking whom to exact vengeance upon.
“For her own protection, I think I’d best leave her identity as anonymous,”
But if you’re reading, darling, that one was just for you.
It would be nearly six o’clock in the morning before we actually finished, exhausted and exhilarated. I looked at the hotel clock and had a hard time believing it was right.
“I can’t…” I panted. “I can’t do that again.”
“What?” Spenser asked, confused. “That thing with the toothpaste?”
I confess, he may or may not have said that, darlings.
“You’re killing me,” I laughed. “I was ready to pin you down and tie your wrists to the bedposts.”
“Some other time, perhaps,” he said with a mischievous grin. “Just no gimp masks, promise. That scene from Pulp Fiction still creeps me out.”
I promised, and lay down beside him. Sleep was right there on the edges, beckoning me. I rolled into him, laying my head on his chest, which was still rising and falling rapidly as his body calmed down; his heart pounding excitedly.
We fell asleep with grins on our faces, but before we did, I had a strange, beautiful revelation, and I needed to say it before I forgot.
“Spenser,” I said, looking up at him. “I think I love you.”
“Finally,” he said sweetly. “I fell for you the moment I saw you.”
The enigmatic Helena Hann-Basquiat dabbles in whatever she can get her hands into just to say that she has. She’s written cookbooks, ten volumes of horrible poetry that she then bound herself in leather she tanned poorly from cows she raised herself and then slaughtered because she was bored with farming. She has an entire portfolio of macaroni art that she’s never shown anyone, because she doesn’t think that the general populous or, “the great unwashed masses” as she calls them, would understand the statement she was trying to make with them. Some people attribute the invention of the Ampersand to her, but she has never made that claim herself.
Earlier this year, she published Memoirs of a Dilettante Volume One, and has finished Volume Two and is in the editing process.
Helena writes strange, dark fiction under the name Jessica B. Bell Find more of her writing at http://www.helenahb.com or connect with her via Twitter @HHBasquiat