"It's getting easier for you isn't it?"
I had spent another night at Peter's, and he was busy on this Sunday morning preparing the coffee maker: inserting the filter, scooping in the dark chocolate-colored fine grounds, pouring in water from the carafe, then putting the latter, black plastic top lowered, on the hot plate below the spout from which dark chocolate-colored liquid would soon flow. I had never drunk coffee before meeting Peter, and sleeping in his bed with him, just as I'd never had anal sex before meeting him, by accident.
Now I craved coffee, rich, dark, expresso-like, though in a mug, and now I'd had anal sex, I'd bottomed, three times. Check that, four.
"Yes," I replied, in the minimalist way of a college sophomore, a barely 19-year-old, when speaking with someone his senior. Old enough, that is, to be my father, who was a mystery to me. Someone I'd barely ever known.
"You've really opened up nicely," Peter went on, taking two mugs down from an overhead cabinet. The mugs had colorful, embossed surfaces. One, a bear chasing a honey bee. Swatting at it. "Even Darren said so."
Darren was Peter's friend, and yesterday Darren had introduced me to him. Peter had already fucked me and now it was Darren's turn. Sloppy seconds, Peter had joked. Darren could have worn a condom but he claimed going second didn't bother him and he barebacked me the same as Peter always did.
Darren's cock was a little thicker than Peter's and it filled me, filled me full, and his stamina was better as well. And when he finally came, after what seemed an eternity on my elbows and knees, he expressed his pleasure in a series of shouts. Shouts so loud in fact I worried the people in the adjacent condo would hear him, and think that someone was being murdered. Or that two men were having intercourse.
And when he pulled out some of the commingled cum oozed out of me. And clung there beneath my anus before liquefying somewhat and slowly running down my crack to my balls, from where it began to drip. Peter, in the doorway watching this (I assume), said, "I'll get a towel." And moments later he gently wiped the escaped semen and lube from my crack and balls with the cooling warmth of the wet towel.
"OK. You're clean." As for the grey drip spots on the fitted sheet beneath me, there was nothing he could do about them. Aside from, after Darren left, after yet another vodka martini, pulling it, all of it--sheets and pillow cases--off the bed, with my help, and tossing them in the wash.
We didn't remake the bed immediately. The cum had already soaked through to the mattress and Peter wanted to let it dry out first. I had never had a martini before, either. Like sex and coffee, the drink was growing on me. Making me, at times, feel dizzy.
"What did you think of him?" Peter now asked, as coffee gurgled and sighed and steamed in its liquid descent.
I shrugged a bare shoulder. I was wearing the second panty I'd brought. The second of the three I'd stolen from a female dormmate's chest of drawers when I consented to water her plants while she was away for a week in the improbably middle of the term. She was pretty and I liked her but I barely knew her. It was an act of hopeful friendship, or more.
I'd gotten the urge, the urge to dress up in girls' underwear, after that first time Peter penetrated me. Entered me deeply, all the way in. It was as if a button had been pushed, a bell rung, and I immediately, in the moment and beyond, felt effeminate, and wanted to dress as such. Most of the panties in the drawer were cotton; practical. But the ones I'd lifted were for special occasions, or dates with someone other than me--soft, silky, lacey. The incredible thing was the girl and I took the same size: six.
"Darren?" I asked, having been lost in thought.
"Yeah."
"You mean in bed?"
"In general."
Another shrug. "He's OK. Nice guy. I guess."
"He liked you," Peter advised. "Says he'd like to come back. Maybe become a regular Saturday thing."
I wasn't sure if Darren had told Peter this or if Peter was just speculating. Wishful thinking.
"Whatever you say," I told him.
"Well it's not just up to me..."
Yes it was. Had I invited a second guy over yesterday? Had I asked him to fuck me? No. The whole thing had taken place with me as a bystander (until we got in bed, that is). A robot. An automaton. A sex toy like the ones I'd discovered in Peter's bedside drawer.
A naive 19-year-old in a girl's stolen panty. Until time came to take it off.
I rephrased it: "I'll do whatever you say."
