Despite the warnings of the management and my protestations that we needed to talk, Monica couldn't keep her hands off of me. No sooner had I stuck my dick back into my opened fly and sat down than Monica was grabbing for it. At one point, just before her appetizer came (a suggestive and beautifully displayed selection of pepperonis and salamis from around the world), she actually got annoyed because my cock was caught in the piss hole of my jockey briefs. She tugged so hard that I let out a cry, stopping all the polite conversation that had surged around us since the first interruption caused by our dramatic entry. Monica was so frustrated she started to suck on one of the sausages until, giving up all pretenses, she simply excused herself saying, "I lost my earring," stuck her head under the table, and put the real thing in her mouth. My cum dripped out of her lips as she came up from the floor, but she insisted on a passionate kiss nevertheless. I had ordered the peppercorn pate, which was garnished with gherkins. One of the rare pleasures in life is smelling your own body fluids on someone else's lips, and the condiments provided with my pate were no competition for the aroma emanating from Monica's mouth. 1 should add that in spite of her tomboyish appearance, which made her fit right in with the occasional dykes who were part of an exchange program that The Golden Cock ran with its sister restaurant, Lady Fingers, Monica had wonderfully voluptuous lips from which my seed hung with romantic, almost mythic abandon. Sitting in The Golden Cock with little droplets of cum on her lips, cheek, and forehead, she looked like Aphrodite after a nervous breakdown.
Monica was looking at me with love in her eyes-the lashes of which were also caked together with ejaculate. And if it hadn't been for the extraordinary events that had gone on in the bathroom of The Golden Cock and later under the table, the pungent odors they produced, and the singular effect they had on both of our appearances, we would have looked like your typically smitten couple.
Obstacles have presented themselves to lovers from the beginning of time. The difficulty can result in tragedy or joy. Romeo and Juliet were separated by the enmity between their warring families, but 1 had never read of a pair of lovers separated by the kind of transcendent and ecstatic sex that obliterated their identities, leaving them in a state of temporary amnesia after each consummated act. Most lovers overcome obstacles to achieve consummation. We had consummated our love. That wasn't the problem; the obstacles came after. But now we had arrived at a turning point. After much difficulty in even getting each other's telephone numbers, we were starting to form a bond. As I stared across the table at Monica, I realized how much I loved her, and I was wondering if she was feeling the same way about me until she opened her mouth and blurted out, "I want you to urinate on me." I explained that I had never been turned on by golden showers-despite the fact that I'd once offered to urinate on her (later I would understand her change in attitude from the initial distaste she expressed at the mention of golden showers as resulting from her years of experience being peed on by pre-schoolers). I'd seen guys lying in urinals in the bathroom of The Golden Cock, looking as if they were taking the sacraments as streams of urine splattered over their faces, and I was nonplussed. I can understand wanting to get fucked in the ass; being someone who enjoys Greeking, I have empathy for the recipient of the pleasure. But I'd never wanted to piss on someone, and I couldn't understand why anyone would want to be bathed in foul-smelling uric acid.
"Golden showers are the blowjobs of tomorrow" Monica's jesuitical side always came out in these discussions. As far as I can tell, her attitude about sex was Hegelian. She believed in a dialectic, a chain of historical necessity that defined human behavior. But this intellectual side to her made me uncomfortable in the end. Everything was an argument. She fucked with the greatest abandon, but when she tried to talk about our relationship she sounded like a whining academician writing a feminist revisionist polemic that managed to be masochistic in content and sadistic in tone. In short, she lacked heart.
Ever one to take an argument to its logical conclusion, 1 prosecuted the meaning of the metaphor.
"You're saying people are going to relinquish fellatio?"
"No, no more than they've relinquished the missionary position. In our current day and age you suck someone off and it's all over. The person who's been sucked either falls asleep watching television or looks for excitement elsewhere. Ditto intercourse. Most men are not going to be able to have a second orgasm within the next ten or fifteen minutes. It's alienating and disappointing for women who want to keep making love. The golden shower is a way of prolonging the sexual experience. Some novelist is going to come around and do for golden showers what Complaint did for blowjobs."
She looked up at me with an expression that said what do you think?
"That's very interesting."
"I'd love nothing better than to fill my mouth with your hot sis. C'mon, this place is too uptight. Let's go in the men's room. I'll let you piss all over my face and tits. You can even take a leak on top of my head."
Now I suddenly felt at home. When she was being overly abstract, Monica's words were sterile. She was detached. She was no longer the person I thought I was beginning to know, but now what was coming out of her mouth was the real Monica, the woman who writhed both under and on top of me, whose cunt could make any room smell like a Chinatown fish market.
The minute we walked into the men's room she threw all modesty to the wind. Jacking up her skirt, pulling down her thong, she lay on her back in the first urinal. The Golden Cock's nightly slave auction must have started since the bathroom was empty. I'd plainly been holding it in because the first golden shower I ever gave kept going on and on and on. Monica might have been sitting under a waterfall; my stream literally bounced off her face. I peed so long that I accidentally flushed-out of obedience to my inner clock-when my bladder was only halfway emptied. I apologized, but Monica didn't seem to mind. When I hesitated, holding my stream in for a moment after pulling the flusher, she cried out, "More, more, you fucking bastard. I wanna be really humiliated." I didn't take it personally. She always employed the kind of language used to describe torture techniques of the Inquisition when she was out of control with excitement. I wasn't surprised to hear her screaming that she wanted to be humiliated any more than I would have if she demanded that she be flagellated.
After I was done, I walked over to the next urinal. There are always a few drops left at the end, and I shook them off as I always do after taking a whiz. It's something my mother taught me as a little boy that has come in handy in social situations. I'm not one of these guys who walks around with a spot in his crotch when he is wearing light-colored trousers. This display of my caringness for the feelings of others has not gone unappreciated. When friends look at my crotch or the tips of my shoes-other places where men typically splatter-they often thank me for my courtesy.
When I was done, I held my hand out to Monica and lifted her out of the urinal. I was so turned on by the pissing, I stopped her when she started to pull her panties up. 1 turned her around so she was facing the urinal, pushed her forward so that she had to brace herself against the wall in order to avoid falling in, and shoved my finger right up her ass. She let out a scream that would have awakened the dead, and as a busboy and waiter ran in to see what was wrong, I thrust my rocket-hard dick straight up her ass.