Honest Conversation Is Overrated
Actual Human Interactions Witnessed Or Overheard
In Twentieth And Twenty-First Century America
In Twentieth And Twenty-First Century America
I can only fit 10 1/2 inches in my mouth when I've taken my socks off first. I have no idea how much I can take in the ass because no one has made an attempt to kick it since I was in junior high. While I think Aaron would be entitled to pull my foot out of my mouth and insert it up my own ass, I believe he has made other plans for that particular orifice.
"We should maybe continue this conversation at your house, with alcohol."
"Yes," I say, "lots and lots of alcohol." I'm not sure if there is an actual volume of alcohol that can be drunk to erase away the memory of gender identity confusion. But if there is such an amount, tonight I shall drink it.
Aaron rides my ass all the way home. I have a feeling he may continue to ride my ass once we get there.
"Nice place." He says when we've put the last shower-capped pan of fudge on my kitchen counter. "Beer in the fridge?"
"Where? All I see is hard lemonade, cider, and Zima. Are you sure you're not a girl?"
"There's Guinness in there somewhere. Let me see if I can find it for you." I reach in and start moving around the various togo boxes and Cherry Coke cans that have filled the lower two shelves. "Ah, there we are, one" penis presses firmly against my ass. "Hello."
"Just wanted you to be sure that it was there."
Apart from Randy, no one has ever been remotely as forward as Aaron is being. I am equal parts turned on and horrified.
He reaches over me toward one of the widget cans on the top shelf. "You, uh don't want one of those, let me get you a bottle."
"I prefer the cans, if you don't mind."
"No. They've been in their since R...they've been in there for a long time. The bottles are fresh."
He backs away from me. "Ok."
A Guiness for him, a Pumpkinhead Ale for me, and we are good to go. I go into the living room and sit in one of the cranberry wingback chairs that my mother left in the condo when she moved out. I am not terribly surprised when, instead of sitting on the couch, or the other chair, Aaron straddleds my lap. "Comfy?" He asks. I am decidedly not, but it is the type of uncomfortablity that I am growing accustomed to.
"So how many years have you been working at the faire now?"
"And all this time you thought I was a woman?"
Truth be told, I hadn't thought of Aaron at all until he approached me about working for us. I had taken the blank slate approach to working at the renaissance faire. I stayed in my little booth and did not very exciting fudge centered things, while the faire moved flamboyantly around me. In three years I hadn't learned the name of a single person who didn't work in my booth. "Well, to be fair, until last night, I'd only seen you from a distance."
"So you weren't interested in me at all? You were too busy drooling over Ben and CSB, I guess."
"Ben drools enough on his own, he doesn't need me helping him, and CSB is straight. I didn't notice you because I'm incredibly" He kisses me. Like a girl. His face is soft, like he just came from swimming in an ocean of aloe and vera.
"You're a pretty good kisser for a first timer."
"Have you kissed a guy before?" His gaydar may be finely tuned, but his whoredar is apparently on the fritz.
"One or two" hundred.
"Anyone else from the faire?"
"No. Are there a lot of gay guys working there?"
"Most are trendy-bi at least."
"Like who?" I asked.
"Both nut boys, one of the mud men, the village drunk, three of the wax workers, three of the fudge men, one blacksmith, the jeweler, two of the leather & chain mail salesmen, the entire staff of the costume booth, and the red knight. The court jester, one of the guys at the fried dough booth, the other mud man, and about half a dozen of the actors are straight up gay."
"Jesus, is there any guy there that you haven't fucked?" I ask incredulously. Whether I am incredulous at the volume of people he had slept with, the shittiness of my gaydar, or the hypocrisy of me being shocked by someone's whoring, I'll let you decide.
He shakes his head and laughs at me. "I didn't fuck all of them, I just know they're gay or bisexual. I've only slept with" he began counting on his fingers, "most of them."
"Wait a second. You said three of the fudge men."
"I know CSB shows up on gaydar, but I'm reasonably certain he's not even really bi. You haven't..."
"Well," he says, "I think he's at least bi, but I was talking about Brent."
"Yea," he says, "we work together at the hardware store during the off-season. Everyone there calls him Juice."
"Because when he gets drunk, he takes guys home and asks them if they'll juice themselves on him. You know, come."
"Thanks, I got it." And I want to give it back. Brent is fairly cute when he isn't speaking or otherwise making a fool of himself, but I do not want to think of him spread eagled on a floor somewhere asking people to jerk off on him.
"I take it you don't want to invite him over for a threesome. It's just as well. I'd rather have you all to myself."