Is Capricious the Word?

Then he blasted the bulb of the condom, two, three times—virile and full of cum. He groaned and grunted, and then we both relaxed with a long sigh. He started to rise from me, to withdraw. But I held him close, gripping his buttocks and holding him inside me.

"No, please. Stay in me," I murmured. "Again. Do me again. Stay inside me until you no longer can."

He gave a low laugh, but he did as I had pleaded he do. Exhausted, smiling, and purring, I sent him away in a taxi and slept the sleep of the dead until I had to appear for the flight to New York.

It was dark when I got back to the apartment in Chelsea. The neighbor across the hall had accumulated the mail of the last several days on the foyer table. She would have gathered it together at the end of the week and sent it to us in New Zealand in a prestamped envelope. She didn't have to do that now.

There was a flyer in the mail about another poetry and guitar performance at a local coffee house by Zach Taggert that evening. I'd been thinking of him on the flight from Los Angeles. I had taken out the letter from my agent and, for the first time, focused on the kind of novel the publishing house said it would like for me to write next. It fit with what had already been forming in my mind for months. The story of a wiry, scruffy hippie poet out of his time, still performing in smoky bars and coffee houses for tip jar contributions. Still making enough to satisfy him and to feed his wish to remain simple and in his chosen era. Satisfied too with what sex came his way. Uncomplicated. Not capricious by any means.

I'm sure that Bram Overby was assuming that my third novel would be about him. But he'd just have to wait for the next one.

When I entered the smoke-filled room after Zach's set had already begun and stood at the back of the room, his eyes focused on me, and he smiled, pausing for a nanosecond in his reciting of his poetry. His guitar playing was smooth—reminding me of Wes Montgomery. His eyes kept coming back to me. He wasn't looking at anyone else in the room like he was looking at me. When he started into his next poem, I realized it had been the one he'd started to formulate and polish the last time he and I had had sex.

I knew that it would be me he would be taking back to his room tonight. I sighed, content with that.

Holding motionless, tense, the seconds before exploding inside me, holding to get as much ecstasy out of the moment of orgasm that he could, I held him close, both of us sucking in our breath. He tensed and we both jerked as he, a man of the pre-AIDS era, was barebacking me again tonight, hit me once, twice, three times with blasts of his warm cum. I was an addict of feeling the cum released inside me. I let out a deep, long moan, lasting through his releases. Letting out a deep sigh, he made to withdraw from me, but I clutched at his buttocks, holding him in close.

"No, please. Stay in me," I murmured. "Again. Do me again. Stay inside me until you can."

With a low laugh Zach complied, and I sighed with contentment.