Retreat to Savannah

Was that really him I'd seen at the graveside, I wondered. It was more than a glimpse and he looked at me in recognition, but then Julio had taken my elbow so possessively, so intent on showing how close he was to Avis and me—or to me, at least. When I'd given him his moment of recognition, I looked back at where I was sure I'd seen David. But he was gone. I pulled the collar of my coat up to my ears and shuddered. Fuckin' long Chicago winters. Frozen stiff by the wind whipping off the lake. How did they manage to chip out a hole to put Avis in?

Not that Avis was in that coffin they were lowering. She'd wanted the pageantry and the attention of a full burial, but she wasn't there. She'd been cremated and her ashes scattered on top of Pedernal Mountain in New Mexico from her beloved Piper Cub plane that she was fond of being photographed next to even if she'd never learned to fly. Thus, her ashes were being symbolically superimposed on those of Georgia O'Keefe. And it wasn't because they had been buddies. Avis would do anything she could, even in death, to upstage O'Keefe.

Not that anyone here, but Julio and I, knew she wasn't in this coffin. She had trusted me to reveal the truth when the sales of her art started to flag—when she needed a boost to connect her to O'Keefe. That was Avis. Always playing the angles, even beyond death. And nearly everything about her fake—except for her art. Her art was genuine, so far eclipsing mine that I'd stuck with her these last five years, living in her shadow, but gratefully so. Doing everything I could to soak up her skill and her inspiration.

Now I'd be flying solo. Or would be if it wasn't for Julio, still standing close beside me, a "comforting" hand on an elbow. As if I were going to throw myself into the open grave in grief.

Avis would like that, I'm sure. But there were enough photographers around this gravesite to hold off the need to play the Pedernal Mountain ash dump for a couple of years.

There was truth in Avis' art, I'd grant her that. But it wasn't anywhere else that I could see in Avis' vicinity. It certainly wasn't in our five-year robbing-the-cradle marriage. That had been one of convenience from the start, me on the rebound from David and Avis thinking she needed to make the

right

statement. The statement had to be about men—and young and stylish men—as she'd had her name linked to a pro women's tennis player, and Avis' big art clients weren't

that

liberal and forgiving. Her real issue was with men, but being hooked up with black truck driver types wasn't seen as in her image interest either. The young up-and-coming artist out of the Savannah College of Arts and Design, SCAD, with the Old Family Charleston background, was just what she needed to rejuvenate her image.

The marriage was a sham from the beginning, of course, but I wanted a totally opposite reaction to the breakup with David, one of my professors at SCAD, and I wanted the further art development Avis would provide me without having taken into account how anyone walking into her shadow withered.

That there was no body in this coffin they were lowering into the ground was another lie, but also what Avis had died from was a lie. Yes, I guess it could be called consumption, but it was a consumption of men from truck cabs and off the street and from the AIDS one or more of them gave her. Not a glamorous way to go and not one that would write up well in her Wikipedia listing, so the tragic Victorian era malady of consumption was put into play. I certainly didn't object. It wouldn't mean that anyone would look at me as a sexual pariah now, and, at twenty-seven, I was in my sexual prime—and prime in my need for sex. I just never had had sex with Avis. We'd gotten drunk once and had started into it, but we both started to laugh, and it ruined the mood we both worked so hard to pretend was there.

And right at this moment, although I was managing—genuinely—a tear and a look of grief for the passing of my famous wife, what I really could use was being thoroughly laid.

As if sensing that, Julio, Avis' Brazilian business manager and my sometimes lover, squeezed my elbow and leaned his head into mine, "Hold up for just a few more minutes, and we'll be able to leave. I'll take good care of you."

"You always do," I murmured back. And he did, in his overbearing way. Whereas Avis had gone through life assuming it was all about her and correctly taking for granted that her will would be accorded to, Julio was more demanding in his assertion of control. It worked with Avis, because they both essentially wanted the same thing—a well-oiled financial account—and neither could see the manipulation of the other. And it had worked with me to this point because I had a social contract with Avis that left me little breathing room and because I had a weakness for dominating men with big cocks. Julio fit that bill. To Avis, Julio was in the family. He was a safe lover for me.

But then, so had David been—he had left little breathing room for me when we were together. The reality probably was that I needed to have someone control me. Preferably a strong-willed, well-hung man, I now knew after five years of marriage to Avis.

I looked around the gravesite again, but I didn't spy him. It was easier to look for him now than before, because, although the machine hadn't hit bottom with the coffin yet, some of the mourners were already drifting away. There was a reception laid on at the Renaissance Chicago Downtown, centrally located on the shore of the lake, and everyone wanted to be the cause of the stragglers not getting full champagne glasses. Avis was a little optimistic, I thought, about how long she would be remembered in anything but the prices of her paintings now skyrocketing in the market. The people who came today were other artists likely to resent Avis' new price structures rather than the rich Europeans and Asians who bought her art.

"Come here," Julio called from the living room while I was taking off my coat in the foyer after the long drive back to Oak Park. Avis wanted to swirl in the lifestyle of Chicago, so we had a pied-à-terre there facing the lake, but she also wanted to "commune" with the likes of Frank Lloyd Wright for inspiration, so the main house was in Oak Park. Except when I was doing arm candy duty, I stuck to Oak Park, because it did, indeed, have a community of artists that wasn't as full of themselves as Avis' crowd was.

Julio also concentrated his management work in Oak Park, so more times than not, when Avis was entertaining a black bull stranger in our loft studio, Julio was fucking me here in Oak Park.

"On your knees," he demanded when I walked into the living room. He already had his cock out and was holding it, although it looked fully capable of standing out erect on its own. "I know what you need right now," he muttered.

As I knelt in front of him and took his cock in my mouth, strangely enough, I agreed with him. Sex at this moment was comforting. It also put off "what now?" discussions. He fucked me doggy style with my belly plastered to the arm of one of the sofas, my spread knees buried in the cushions of the sofa seat, and my head and arms dangling down to the carpet at the side of the sofa.

Julio was good—very good. And he was divinely equipped. He also was Latin and hirsute, which I had always found arousing. And he was controlling, demanding, rough, and just slightly cruel. I was lost to him when he was fully saddled, had reached down to cup my chin and arch my back up into his hairy chest, and was pumping me deep.

"Oh, shit yes, fuck me hard," I cried out.

He laughed, knowing I was fully surrendered to him—yet again—and straightened up more on the sofa cushion, his thighs between mine. "Fuck yourself," he muttered. "Show me how much you want it." He had pulled nearly out to the surface—which was a long journey back out of my channel. With a sob of need and mindful of the intent to control and humiliate me—to establish who was dominant—I put my buttocks in motion. He held absolutely still as I pumped back on his cock until I could hold myself no more and ejaculated against the inside of the chair arm.

He left me bent over the sofa arm, walked over to the drinks cabinet, and poured himself a stiff scotch. He didn't offer me one. It was as if he was going through the steps to assert total control over all aspects of my life.

So, this was how he intended it now, I thought. A move from paid manager into Avis' place, but with full fucking rights.

"I think I should move in. You'll need someone to take care of you now," he said, as he sipped on his scotch.

I said nothing. I was still panting, having come—knowing he hadn't come yet.

"We can think on arrangements, but I'll pack a bag and bring it over tonight. We'll sleep in your room for a while, but when we can get Avis' things moved out of the master bedroom, that will be more suitable for us."

Again I didn't answer, but I turned my eyes to him. He'd stripped us both down. His body was magnificent. Mature, Zeus like. The dark hair swirling about his body arousing.

"You haven't come yet," I murmured.

"No, I haven't," he agreed.

I turned my body on the sofa to where I was sitting on the cushions. I took the cushion beside me and pushed it under the small of my back as I jutted my buttocks out beyond the front edge of the sofa. Then I grabbed, raised, and spread my legs. "Fuck me, daddy," I whined. "Give me your cum."

Laughing, he put his scotch glass down, came to me, crouched between my spread thighs, entered me strongly, and began to pump again in long, deep strokes that had me crying out for the cruelty of the cock.

I begged him to come inside me, but he laughed, withdrew, and ejaculated on my thighs.

I knew it would take total surrender to him sexually to mark my assent for him moving in and taking control of my life. But I hadn't verbalized my agreement. And I didn't intend to. As soon as he left to pack a suitcase and return, I went to the computer and started looking up long-term rentals. I didn't know where I would look—other than Chicago—before I reached the computer, but, once there, I just naturally keyed in Savannah, Georgia, the image of David floating up into my consciousness.

* * * *

I woke at the sound of a snort. As my eyes flipped open, I assumed that had come from me. But then I realized it hadn't. There was a well-muscled chocolate-brown arm laying across my chest—my naked chest—and there was nothing familiar about the part of the room I could see. It was close enough to dawn for me to pick out shapes if not exact colors. But this definitely was not the loft bedroom in the carriage house I was renting on Savannah's Oglethorpe Square.

I turned my head toward where the snort had come from. God he was good looking. Maybe my age or a little older. Certainly not much older than thirty. I didn't think he was full back, as his facial features were more European—and the skin tone was definitely milk rather than dark chocolate. We were both naked. I could tell that because he had his left leg bent and thrown over my midsection, the knee on my belly and the meat of his calf covering my genitals. His cock, flaccid, was pressed into my hip. I could feel the curly hair of his pubes but other than that his body seemed to be hairless—other than the hair on his head, which was shoulder length and done in dreadlocks. The arm laying over me was tattooed in a colorful design all the way down to his wrist and up to his shoulder and covering his left pectoral muscle.

OK, so I'd been fucked last night by a black man—a black man with a big tattoo. I'd never been fucked by a stranger before, let alone one with a big tattoo. I did been raised to think of such men as scary crazy. Being fucked at all didn't happen all that often that I should be feeling so calm about it as I was. But I just couldn't work up the concern. My head was throbbing whenever I concentrated on my pain centers, so I tried not to concentrate on my throbbing head. Not doing that brought out the soreness in my ass, my muscles there still contracting and expanding. That's how I knew I'd been fucked. I knew how it felt to be fucked in the ass. This was it. And by something big.

He wasn't at all the kind of man I'd usually go with. I hadn't been with black men before. Julio was dark skinned—almost as dark as this man—but he was a Brazilian. This guy didn't look like the black guys Avis liked to go with either. Other than the tattoo he wasn't thuggish or poor-looking like Avis liked, but, God, he was built.

I felt a moment of panic. I couldn't remember anything about what put me in this man's bed. It certainly wasn't my bed and it wasn't a hotel room. It was some sort of studio apartment. Neat, but Spartan in furnishings. A working man's place. The bed was only a double, and he wasn't a small man, so him being almost on top of me probably was a necessity if we were both were going to be on the bed. There wouldn't be much of a reason for us both to be on this bed if not for sex. And I knew we'd had sex—that he'd been inside me. And on top of me—and with vigor. Our bodies were knotted in sheeting. There still was a pillow under the small of my back. I was a bit sore, which only happened when the man was built big. My legs were slightly raised, my feet flat on the surface of the bed, and my legs were spread—a sure sign I'd been fucked and that he was built big. He was significantly longer than I was and heavier of body, although perfectly proportioned.

I was sore and confused enough that I didn't want more this morning of whatever we did last night—although he was a real hunk and I regretted not having a memory of what we'd done last night and how we'd gotten here. I'd let him do me again, though—when my head was clear. He was that much of a hunk. A rain check. No, I'm not promiscuous. I'd just like to know what I missed.

I'd gone out in the early evening to meet David at a club. That much I remembered. I'd finally gotten up the courage to let David know I was in Savannah on a six-month house lease—just to get my bearings, I told myself. I'd at least pretended I wasn't chasing David down now that I was free. When I called him, he professed delight that I was here, because he had something he wanted to propose to me. My first thought had been that he wanted me to move in with him and maybe I'd been precipitous to rent the carriage house in Savannah's historical district near the river. But then something was in the back of my mind about that thought not having panned out. Something very disappointing. Something that made me angry—both at myself and at David.

Something, maybe that brought me to this black man's bed. This black bull's bed. I wasn't able to help myself. I let a hand move to my hip and take the measure of his cock, a procedure that made me draw in breath. He'd had that inside me—surely even thicker and longer in erection. No wonder I was sore and my ass muscles were still having slight spasms. It was hardening just from my light touch.

He sighed in his sleep and the cock responded to me. I let loose of it like it was a hot potato.

As carefully as I could, I extricated myself from under his arm and leg. He snorted again but was asleep enough that he turned toward the wall, smacked his lips, and began a soft snore. He had his bare buttocks turned to me. They were bulbous and muscular, with deep hollows between the cheeks and hips. I resisted the urge to run my hand over them, and now I really regretted not remembering the sex.

I swung my legs over the side of the bed. A foot came down on swishing film. A spent condom on the floor. No, two spent condoms, both sea slug fat with contained cum. We must have had

some

night—and he must have worked hard to be as dead to the world as he was now.

Our clothes were in the center of the room—or most of them were. I didn't see my briefs, but then I felt them on the bed where the heel of my hand was pressed into the mattress. I lifted the briefs. They had been ripped down the middle in the back. A memory flashed across my brain. Belly to bed with a heavy weight on top of me. The sound of ripping material and a deep laugh. An arm snaking under my waist, lifting me to my knees. My chest flat against the bed under the pressure of his chest. The initial searing pain of a cock the girth of a baseball bat entering me, through the slit in the briefs.

I dropped the briefs. He could have those as a souvenir if he was into such fetishes. He probably had a drawer full of ripped briefs from the men he had ravished.

Our clothes on the floor were mixed with each other. His trousers and polo shirt were of as good quality and name brand as my trousers and dress shirt. We obviously had undressed quickly, though, anxious to be on the bed—him anxious to be inside me; me anxious to have him inside me. I felt no bruising other than the sore channel. He hadn't forced me—hadn't been violent. Of that I was sure. I had wanted to be here—to be with him.

Something about David. There was some reason why I'd drunk too much, had wanted this black hunk to fuck me too much.

I almost fell down when I stood up from the bed. My legs were cramped. I'd had this feeling before after sex with a guy—a guy who had held my legs spread and raised and pumped me interminably. All of the signs were that I had been totally taken by this black bull—both from the back and from the front. If I wasn't so freaked out at not remembering much of anything from the previous night . . .

But I wasn't really promiscuous. I could count on the fingers of one hand the men I'd slept with in my life, starting with David and ending with . . . whoever this black bull was. This was all unfamiliar and scary ground for me—the part of having different partners—I'd slept with David and Julio on too many occasions to count. Best thing would be if I managed a retreat without him waking up. And then forget this ever happened. Not that I could remember what happened.

I found myself on East Jones Street when I found the stairs and descended to the street. The studio apartment I'd left was over a gray-stone double garage in what had been a carriage house to a larger house, now gone, and replaced by four wooden shotgun houses. I wasn't in one of the better parts of town, but I was still within the edge of the old city. And I'd lived in Savannah before, while attending SCAD, and some of the college buildings were on West Jones across town from here in a tonier section, so, once I saw the intersection of East Jones and Price Street, running north-south, I had some idea where I was.

I was nearly twenty blocks from home and on a side of the city I'd rarely have reason to be in—the rundown side of the historical district.

Savannah had been laid out in straight-line streets within a pattern of thirty park squares. The squares now had been reduced to twenty-two squares, with the line of squares on both the east and west side of the pattern having disappeared over time. I was on the east edge, where squares were missing. My rented carriage house, on Oglethorpe Square, was in the middle of the second line of squares from the river and thus in the center of the historical district and in the high-rent district. It also, unfortunately, was nearly twenty blocks toward the river from where I was standing, so I was going to have to hoof it a good way. I didn't have a car in Savannah; most here didn't keep a car in the downtown area.

I started off, headed north, toward the Savannah River, on Price Street, but within a couple of blocks, I cut west into the center of the historical district because Price Street wasn't looking too safe. I'd only gone those two blocks, though, when I saw a sign over a step-down door in an old brick building. The sign advertised a bar, Louie's, which was familiar to me. And then I started remembering how the previous night had unfolded so that by the time I got to Oglethorpe Square I had most of it worked out.