Max on the Road- Crash and Burn

"Oh shit, that was hotter than it should have been."

You know that scene in almost every spy movie where the well-dressed hero is cruising through a fancy-dress gala being charming and suave and handsome, dancing with gorgeously dressed women who suddenly act like they've been dancing with him for years and can pick up on his every subtle cue on the floor? Knows exactly what to say and who to say it to? Takes a single item off the buffet table and a champagne flute and does it all effortlessly while plotting the next stage of his heist of Top Secret material?

I swear there were, like, FOUR different versions of this guy at the party we were attending. And I don't think there were more than seventy people on the guest list. And one guy kept thinking I was a waiter and handed me his empty wineglass every time he whirled Jessica or Tabitha or Nancy out onto the dance floor and out of our conversation.

Look, I get it. I'm socially a bit awkward in situations like this. The only reason I even own a tux is because Tabitha made me buy it for some awards dinner the publishing house put on. Like suits, I don't like wearing them and nothing ever fits right.

And I don't dance. It's not because I don't WANT to, it's because I'm a menace on the floor. I don't have that situational awareness that keeps me from bumping into people. I step on my own toes! I took a Social Dance class in college as a way to meet girls and flunked.

Alone in my apartment? I'm Fred Astaire. At a party or a club? I'm a steamroller with feet.

So here I am, at this party Tawny arranged with studio people I didn't know, finance people I don't care for, actors and actresses being handsome and beautiful without effort, leaving me feeling awkward, ill-at-ease and growing more and more frustrated to the point of wanting to retreat to my poolside cabana, pack my bags and head back to Philly immediately without talking to anyone. In comfortable clothes.

In short, it was a suck-ass end of my week and not in a good ass-sucking way.

The best part about driving through the Southwest is the ability to put your foot down, get the best possible speed out of your car and just GO. I woke up in Santa Rosa at six-thirty in the morning and by seven was on the road cruising West. Managed to beat rush hour in Albuquerque and just kept right on sailing.

Seriously- if your GPS says something like "Stay on I40 for 400 Miles"? Put your foot in it and go. I managed to shave almost three hours off my trip that way.

Missed a lot of the scenery of course, but I figured I could always take my time on the way back. Maybe head down to the Gulf and cruise up Route 1? Could even go all the way to the Keys and follow it up to wherever it ended in Maine. I wonder if Stephen King would meet up for a chat? Maybe talk a little baseball?

Yup, digressing again because I don't want to address the elephant in the car.

I hurt, all over. Again, I think most of it had to do with exertion and dehydration, but there's still that niggling little voice at the back of my head that says I was sexually assaulted. But how? Sure, I wasn't expecting to get jumped by a group of women when I was being hate-fucked by their girlfriend and I didn't protest or fight AT ALL, but I wasn't ASKED either. It just sort of happened. Did I enjoy myself? Yes. Except for the whole 'waking up cold, naked and alone' bit. That was uncalled for.

And here's where that little gremlin plays the other side of the field on me, waving the 'Double Standard' flag around like a windsock in a hurricane. I'm on the Sluts App. I'm a bit free with my sexuality. I am, put simply, a Slut. But even a Slut should be given the right to say 'no' or at least control the pace somewhat. If what I went through happened to Rahne or Jessica or Tabitha or Nancy or any of the other women I've ever met, I'd be ready to hunt assholes down and... do... stuff...

I don't know. I'd be pissed and angry and vengeful on their behalf. But they, like me (Or perhaps MORE than me because the Male/Female Double Standard thing?), would be dismissed BECAUSE they 'asked for it' because they use the SI app? Am I too drunk on the freedom given to me by using the app? Did I let it happen because 'This is what sluts do.'?

And I can hear some of you saying "Yer a dude who just got banged by six biker chicks man! What have you got to complain about?". Consent. It's always about consent. And where it stops. And who am I now?

And my favorite "Guys can't get raped. If they don't want sex, they just don't get it up."? You're among the "If a woman gets wet and/or orgasms during a sexual assault, then she's obviously ok with it." crowd, aren't you?

(Yes, I can also hear the "Stop navel gazing and get to where you get laid next!" group of you too. Just skip ahead a little bit because I'm going to be laying down a few more paragraphs of mundane life-happening bullshit and introspection wanking. Just keep going until you see the word "Boobs".)

Admittedly, this is not how I'd wanted to take this drive. I wanted to cruise, do a lot of talk-to-text writing, make my usual pit stops for atmosphere. Shit, I could have probably knocked out a whole Baskerville story in the last four days. Those are getting longer by the way- more complex plots, more characterization of the main cast; all the good stuff as a writer settles into a series and starts filling out the world.

I did none of that this last leg of the trip. Instead, I just drove, station-hopped the radio a lot and felt weirded out by myself while trying to get shit straight in my head. Spoiler alert, I didn't do so well on that lust one.

Last one. LAST one. Bloody hell.

I pulled into Tawny's driveway about an hour behind my estimated time, which wasn't too bad, all things considered. Had time to drag my bags behind Jessica to the pool cabana, shower and change for dinner (Not the formal one at the top of the story there. Just a polo and some clean slacks that didn't smell like highway food farts and Cheetos.).

Due to my late arrival, Jessica had already dressed for dinner and would not be joining me in the shower, which I was somewhat okay with actually. She did stay to watch me undress and shower, expressing delight at my new jewelry and ink. She also listened to me. Then called the studio's on-call doctor to arrange a visit.

At dinner we joined Tawny, Tabitha and Nancy, as well as Bob, the scriptwriter chosen to turn the Baskerville novellas into movie scripts and Tawny's cousin Jason, who had been tapped to play, appropriately enough 'Jason', the Baskerville computers and tech expert. We had a good meal, talked about the story-to-script issues Bob was having (I did bring the Baskerville bible and several of the next few days would be him and I and a few others putting our heads together to bash things into shape for the production team.), how Tabitha and Nancy were finding California so far, pretty much everything you would expect dinner conversation to be.

And before you ask- Yes, everyone was dressed, even the two servers (male and female). Playtime would come later.

We were into the dessert course when the male server (I think his name was Dylan? Declan? Darius? Something with a 'D' for sure.) came in to let us know that Doctor Kinsey had arrived and was ready to see me in my cabana. Promising to tell the full story of my trip afterwards, I excused myself and went to see him, Jessica coming along to literally and figuratively hold my hand.

Doctor Kinsey (Or Doctor K as he introduced himself.) listened very patiently to my story, asked several questions about my sexual history, piercings and tattoo, then took my blood and gave me a quick physical. At the end, he said I appeared healthy and whole, but he would run the blood tests to be certain and get back to me with the results in the morning (They had a much more efficient lab on standby than the clinic back in Philly.). He then gave me a bottle of over-the-counter sleeping pills in case I needed them and urged me to continue pushing fluids and get a good night's sleep.

"If she'll let you," he added with a wink for Jessica on his way out the door.

Next, I had to face the music and let everyone know what was up. Thankfully, I didn't need to relate the story to Bob, who had gone home to his family, or to Jason, who had chosen to go out for the evening to a local dance club. No, instead I got to tell four women, three of whom had changed into bikinis and were lounging in the hot tub while the fourth kept squeezing my hand (And still smelled AMAZING!) about getting threatened by strippers in St Louis and gangbanged by bikers in New Mexico trying very hard not to remember that two of them I had very intimate knowledge of and the other two had joined SI after I told them about it. And the whole conversation might have been hilarious if I wasn't so weirded out by the whole thing.

And Tawny didn't help by taking off her top under the water, prompting NANCY to follow suit, then Tabitha! Ok, no, with the bubbles going, I couldn't really see anyone's boobs but still.

Then Nancy asked to see my Prince Albert and I was out. Done. Not happening. I wasn't nearly drunk enough for this conversation. And I felt the question was rather dismissive and mean, to be honest.

Two sleeping pills to drown out the noises outside and Jessica curled up behind me, I slept through the night.

The next three days were a whirlwind of activity at the studio, starting with a general tour, meeting the rest of the selected cast members and the writer's room. Seems that they were still having a problem finding a suitable Anan (My androgenous intersex replacement for Daphne.) who would gel with the rest of the cast from the seven candidates. Seven? How in the hell?

Given the casting problem, one of the writers suggesting replacing my androgenous intersex master (Mistress?) of disguise with someone easier to choose, like a furry. There was only one answer to that suggestion-

"So, you want to replace Daphne...with Scrappy Doo?"

There were no further character changes discussed that day.

I did my part to help out though, helping narrow the choices down to three that I best felt could pull off the role given their other works, which is weird way of saying we watched a few pornos and I pointed out which of the seven I thought did the best at turning me on.

Otherwise, I gave over the copy of the bible I'd created to Bob's script group and then went over any questions they had. Got a lot of good notes and suggestions for future stories out of those meetings. Worked out well on all sides. I made a note to myself to find a script-writing class at a local college. I figure if I can write the next few novellas with what is required to make them into scripts, maybe I can keep helping in some way.

It took two nights of sleeping in the same bed as Jessica, who wore sheer silky negligees if she wore anything at all to bed, before I was in the mood for sex. By then the blood tests had come back and I was in the clear physically.

Mentally though, I was not.

I could get it up, that wasn't the issue. I'd spent the last three days talking about sex, in the presence of two of my personal porn stars and around dozens more in some fashion or another. I knew Tabitha and Nancy were having a ball, quite literally, jumping back and forth from Tawny's bed to Jason's and back. I was sleeping with a woman I regularly fantasized about whose glorious naked body greeted me every morning. I was, to turn a phrase, living the wet dream.

But getting it up is not the same as getting it on. I tried; I really did. I did all the things that have worked for me before-nibbles on exposed shoulders, sucking delicious nipples, letting our hands roam all over each other with no boundaries, close quarters in the shower every morning... it ALL worked. I was hard and aching to go.

I would part her lips, her buns, feel her tongue caress me and...

Nothing.

Worse than nothing, I'd start going limp. Or I'd get sudden headaches that felt like someone trying to open my skull with a spoon. We tried for an hour before just giving up and going to sleep.

Tawny came to visit the next morning, intent on jump-starting me with Jessica. She glided in unannounced, looking as 'Oh My Fucking Goddess' as ever and, no doubt, my heart started pounding in my chest. Jessica's hand was wrapped around my rock-hard cock, slowly stroking.

The satin robe dropped off her shoulders, revealing the same stunning body that haunted my dreams since I knew what sex was. I swear the wolf licked her lips at the sight of me.

She crawled up onto the bed, between my legs, moving them aside with a light touch. That predator gleam filling her eyes, she bent down to lick my leaking head.

Jessica held my sticky shaft steady. My heart thundered in my chest. Tawny's tongue made contact.

And I came off the bed when some asshole threw a Buick into my nose.

I mean, not really, but the headache and nosebleed that exploded my head sure felt that way.

Several hours in the hospital and multiple x-rays, cat scans and very unpleasant round with an on-call psychologist arguing about calling the New Mexico state police turned up no results. Whatever was going on with me wasn't the results of any sort of injury or undiagnosed illness or brain tumor. I remember the doctor who released me rattling off a long string of impressive sounding Latin names and medical words that boiled down to 'It's all in my head and I just need to take some time and lots of therapy to get over it'. He used the word 'through' instead of 'over' but I knew what he meant.

Unfortunately, Tawny had arranged this fancy party to celebrate the start of the project and a lot of important people were going to be there to kick off the fund-raising and schmooze ongoing efforts. I was supposed to meet producers (aka financial backers who threw money into a project for a cut of the profits and a chance to screw the cast.) and studio heads and basically be a pleasant person when I'm feeling like shit. There was going to be food, wine, a naked woman laid out on a table covered in sushi, music and dancing and areas where the important guests could slip off with a willing partner to get their dick sucked in private. They'd been prepping for it for weeks.

I slipped down to my cabana to take a nap, laying on the bed, tossing and turning for about twenty minutes before deciding to try something. I was alone. Jessica was helping prep for the party. Tabitha and Nancy were attending to some actual business for one of their other clients. I had the time and space to myself, so I slipped into the shower and jerked off.

Squirting a handful of liquid soap into my palm as soon as the water reached temperature, I closed my eyes, leaned back against the wall and slowly started making myself hard. I didn't think of anyone, just stroked myself and sunk into the pleasure. Nothing fancy, just the simple self-pleasure that all but the most sexually uptight and repressed engage in at some point in their lives. I'd been doing this since I first discovered my penis and didn't even need to think about what I was doing.

One hand cradling and fondling my balls, I worked my soap-filled hand up and down my hard shaft from root to tip. The warm water cascaded down my back. My mind stilled. My heart started pounding against my ribs. My balls tightened. My breath caught. The surge started in my knees, charged up my thighs, squeezed my ass, tightened my belly and finally shot in an arc of pearlescent white cum from the tip of my round head to the glass door of the shower.

I opened my eyes to see both Nancy and Tabitha standing in the doorway to the bathroom, watching me. The blood rushed out of my dick and straight to my face.

"Do you fucking mind?" I shouted, trying to cover myself more than a bit too little too late. Oh goody, I think I get to put a star on my Exhibitionism badge! Yay.

"We came by to see if you needed any help with your tux?" Tabitha had the sense to turn away, embarrassed at being caught no doubt. Nancy couldn't stop leering. Jason's had been the first dick she'd had since Tabitha's bottom surgery and she looked hungry for more.

"I am perfectly capable of putting on the damned performing monkey suit!" I kicked the bottom of the shower door open so I could reach out and grab a towel to throw around my waist. I snapped my fingers at Nancy. "Hey! Try and get a grip on something other than my dick, okay?"

"You always have a hard time with your tie..." Tabitha ventured gamily, still not looking at me as I bulled through the door into the bedroom.

"It's a fucking clip-on! I'm still capable of doing the stupid little hook." I crossed to the far side of the bed, Jessica's side, and pulled on my swim shorts and a dirty T-shirt. That's when I noticed Nancy coming out of the bathroom, licking her fingers clean. "Really? Off the door?"

"You're not going to give it up from the tap so..." she replied with a shrug.

"What the fuck is WRONG with you? You're acting totally out-of-character. And you're supposed to be calling me some sort of monkey-based insult."

"This isn't one of your novels, Max." She folded her arms under her breasts, lifting them as if to try and tempt me with Forbidden Fruit.

"Damn straight it's not! My plots are better written than...than whatever THIS is!" My headache was starting to come back. I started fumbling with the bottle of pain relievers, eventually shaking three into my hand and downing them.

"We're worried about you." Tabitha offered me a glass of juice from the pitcher supplied to the cabana every morning. "You were excited to come out here and..."

"And shit changed. Yeah, believe me, I'm aware. Look, you're concerned? Swell. How about you stop acting like pervs and...and just let me be, okay?" My stomach started to churn and I just wanted some peace and quiet. "I'll be at the party whether I'm up for it or not. For now? Just get out and leave me alone."

They left, allowing me to lock the door behind them. Then I went around and made sure all the windows were locked and the blinds closed. Then the lights. And once the room was locked, dark and quiet, I sank down to the floor.

I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream. I wanted to rage, venting my frustrations to the void.

Instead, I just sat, holding onto my knees, resting my head against the coolness of the drywall, until my alarm went off at six and I had to start getting ready

Tabitha fussed over me in her slinky gown, making sure I was shaved and my clip-on bow tie was straight. Nancy fussed over me, making sure the backside of my jacket was free of lint a little too much. Tawny embraced me in her gown that left her left breast exposed, then artfully mussed my hair. I could have used a haircut, but there wasn't time now.

Jessica glided onto my arm in a dress whose plunging neck and backlines left no doubt that she wore nothing under it. She smiled and I felt a little lighter.

Nor was she the only one showing a lot of skin. Jason bounced down the stairs with his own dress shirt and jacket open to the waist, showing off the intricate tattoos on his chest and stomach against the backdrop of dark copper skin. The servers, both male and female, wore nothing but slippers, identical blue thongs and turquoise chokers instead of bow ties. They were, as I was to understand, amateur porn actresses and actors who Tawny employed for functions like this to give them some experience in the business. And there was that nude woman being lain out on the table and artfully covered in sushi.

The guests started to arrive and we greeted the first fifty or so, getting introductions and shaking hands, the more familiar getting kisses from Tawny and Jessica. I put on my best smile, told a few jokes and did my absolute damnedest to get into being there.