"Kill me with your dick." In spite of the piss all over Monica's face, we couldn't keep our hands off each other. We started to make out wildly until Monica said, "Okay, it's your turn, big guy."
I lay down on the floor of the bathroom right there and then. She squatted over me and took what could only be called a passionate piss, in which she used her stream to make figure eights all over my face and chest. Heaven is the only word to describe the experience. If she never said a word to me again, that moment-when I was staring up into her parted labia and asshole, and a strong yellow stream was coming at me with the vibrancy of the life force itself-would have epitomized everything that made our love as singular and powerful as it was. I've always said that love is like a river, and in that moment-on the dirty tiled floor of The Golden Cock, with the swish of urine emanating from her and its steady stream flowing with the pressure of a spigot in a luxury apartment building-I knew what they meant when they said you're in for the long haul. if this was what commitment entailed, if this was what it took to be in a relationship, then I wanted it. We'd had some rough times and some misunderstandings, especially when it came to verbal communication. I had mistakenly thought that the lack of rapport we had when it came to words, ideas, and feelings was an indication that we weren't right for each other. There was a lesson to be learned in this, not only for myself, but for others: Never judge a book by its cover. What is said rarely has anything to do with reality. Words are a mask. I only have to think back to my first experiences of sex in high school. I'd be on top of a girl and I'd ask, "Do you want to fuck?" She'd naturally say no or, "No, don't do that," when I first tried to remove her skirt or blouse, but two minutes later her panties and bra would be off and her mouth would be dancing up and down my shaft in that frantic way that women have when they both want to be fucked and want to hold off and tease to increase the intensity of the final moment when the prick, reddened with excitement, is shoved up their wet, hot cunt holes.
Both of us knew at that moment on the bathroom floor of The Golden Cock that there was no turning back. We were in it for keeps, but if we were indeed in it for the long haul, I was going to have to give up Bill, and she was going to have to move out of her pad or have her boyfriend move out. We were going to have to climb out of the puddle of cum, piss, and cunt juice that was the paradise we created whenever we got together, to deal with the realities of our lives. For instance, Monica had the lease on the apartment, but while the sofa and the dining room table were hers, the bed belonged to her boyfriend, and the kitchenware, it turned out, was also his. Monica felt she couldn't deal with the vicissitudes of our existence together until she shopped. After we had purchased any beds, chairs, or dishes she needed, she would feel more secure in telling her boyfriend she was leaving him. 1n fact, she argued, having furniture delivered to her house would be an excellent way of informing her boyfriend she was leaving him. The idea made little sense as far as I was concerned (from my point of view it would have been more practical to tell our respective companions and then do the shopping), but 1 had come to accept the fact that the woman 1 loved could be a deeply muddled thinker when she wasn't talking about blowjobs or golden showers. Like a blind person, she had compensated for her deficiencies in one area with great sensitivity and awareness in others-one of which was sex.
The waterbed was an expense that we both immediately agreed on. It epitomized Mies van der Rohe's Bauhaus formfollows-function idea in that the choice of decor was dictated by the activity that took up the greatest amount of our time together. Another couple might have lavished attention on a library, television room, or kitchen, but we never discussed books, watched TV, or cooked. We knew our life together would be about take-out Chinese food and hours of fucking. 1 could just see the piles of cartons with brown sauce stains dripping down the sides, lining the shelves of our refrigerator like tombstones in a cemetery.
The waterbed would also be an unequivocal statement. The minute that bed arrived, her boyfriend had to know Monica was making a choice between the sexless one-fuck-a-week life they had lived and the deeper sexuality that was so dominant a part of her nature. Monica had been living a he. She had tried to appear like a modest, upstanding citizen instead of an unspayed bitch in heat. She'd been leading a double life. When she'd fucked her brains out with me, she'd been cheating on her boyfriend. When she was trying to be something she was not, she was cheating on herself.
I arrived with my bags soon after the boyfriend had left. Monica's eves were red from crying, but the minute she saw me she unzipped my fly and started to suck on my cock. She had me he down on the bed, and she held it in her mouth, sucking on it not as if she were giving me a blowjob, but with the short little suction movements of the lips that infants employ when they are sucking on a pacifier. My dick was plainly a great solace to her in her moment of grief.
My parting from Bill turned out to be more wrenching than I'd expected. I knew he had grown very attached to me, and I came close to letting him suck my cock just one time as a goodbye gift, but I asked myself avhats once? If he does it once, he'r going to avant to do it again and again, and likely to become a pain in the ass both figuratively and literally. Still, having a person willing to lavish so much unswerving attention on you is a real gift. I had been fortunate in finding the unconditional love from Bill I'd never even gotten from my mother, who treated me more as a lover than a son (when 1 was good in bed she liked me, when 1 wasn't so good she was cool and removed). The kind of care and love I got from Bill reminded me very much of Maxey, my old poodle. And when I told Bill I was moving in with Monica, I felt very much the way I did when I put Maxey to sleep. I couldn't even look at Bill. I walked out, sobbing loudly once I got down the stairs onto the street so he wouldn't hear me. Bill and I had been through so much together. I knew Monica couldn't continue to see her boyfriend; that would have been too complicated. But Bill and I had never become lovers, and it occurred to me that once things settled down he could still cook for us or even be our maid.
Bill and I went through a tough period when I first moved in with Monica. He called all the time and threatened to commit suicide, but once he was reassured that he would play a major role in our lives, he calmed down. I let Bill live in my old apartment, which I was going to keep until I was absolutely sure Monica and I could successfully live together. That would be his remuneration; in the event I gave the apartment up, I'd pay Bill a salary large enough for him to get his own place. Soon after Bill had adjusted to his new circumstances, he'd started to buy exercise tapes; I also offered to pay for him to take courses in aerobics at our local junior college so that he could live out another one of his dreams: To become an exercise guru like Richard Simmons. I'd encouraged Monica to sign up for a seminar in communication arts at the same place. I thought they might even commute together.
My only real problem was a career that put me on the road for half the year. For starters, I would be doing Bye Bye Birdie in Cincinnati during June and we'd have to figure something out. We'd tried phone sex on several occasions, but it reminded me of Plato's cave. We didn't have a verbal relationship to begin with, and sex that depended on the romantic language of seduction bore a pale relation to the real thing. Monica and I were as capable of cursing and getting down and dirty as anyone. That kind of verbal banter was no problem; it was a strong point in our relationship, in fact. But statements like, Fuck me up the ass, Shove finger up my hole, I wanna fuck your stinking I'm gonna come on your face, were more effective for us as loving additions to a physical act. I had learned from experience. Saying, I'm going to plug up your shit hole into a receiver hardly has the emotional power of actually shoving a part of myself up into someone's tight ass.