When Tuesday came to class that first day, he tucked his backpack quietly under the chair in front of him, a chair only feet away from mine, so I could see the small pink triangle he’d pinned to the bag’s zipper, and the red ribbon that was tied around the zipper. I remember licking my lips and smiling. It’s always easier when they know they’re gay. I’ve spent too many semesters with football players sucking my cock, their massive shoulder muscles heaving as they weep salt tears over my come and their spit. When they can breathe again they always say the same thing. “Tristan, man, I think I might be gay. I really liked that. I really liked sucking you off.” If I’m not in a bad mood I tell them it was okay, but if I’m pissy, and I mean pissy about anything that happened that day—lousy parking, a dull class, a cold cup of coffee—I tell them, “Well you might be gay now, you big faggot, but that blow job just turned me straight.” Those big boys don’t wear my collar. They call me by my name. I don’t officially top them but it’s always there to some degree, and it was there even in the beginning when I was the one down on the floor. When I’m mean to lovers that aren’t bottoms they leave and don’t come back. Fine. If I’m mean to Tuesday, he might cry a little but I’m sure he’d roll over and stick his ass up in the air for me to cane, or fuck, or just stare at until he wiggles and moans and I decide to be nice.
I can relate to boys like Tuesday, or rather I can remember what it was like to assume that position. I was nineteen. My lover was twenty-six. “Hey boy,” he said, “I want to teach you something.” He pushed my arms out past my head and jerked back on my ankles until they were next to his knees. The lube was cold when he stuck his finger into my ass but by the time he worked his dick in it was warm, almost burning. “Oh you like that you little slut,” he said and he reached for his belt, the one I’d taken off with my teeth earlier in the evening. He hit me twenty-five times across each shoulder. I imagined his hand holding the belt. No. I imagined my hand on the leather. When he had me count out loud I heard the numbers as though it were his voice speaking and I smiled between each word. He told me thank him and I did, though he had no idea what I was thanking him for.
The next night he learned what I’d gathered from his lesson. He said I could tie him up if I wanted. I did, and I did it with the cuffs and joiners he’d used on me earlier. I whipped him lightly and he moaned, his mouth falling open with each flick of leather across his skin. I tightened the restraints and he looked up at me with surprise but delight. I put on a glove and pushed two fingers into him. His dick rose up. I could almost hear it humming. “Oh you like that you little slut,” I growled. He gave me a cocky sort of smile before I shoved the gag in his mouth. I put in more fingers and he rocked on my hand. “Now that you’re in a position to listen,” I said, “our relationship is going to be different and if you’re not up for that difference our relationship is going to be over.” I undid the gag so he could whisper, “Yes Sir.”
I put the gag back in and told him that I’d been thinking about what I did and did not like in bed. I told him he was not going to be allowed to touch my cock. Well, not with his hands at least. Before this moment I endured the feel of my silk underpants shifting to sandpaper as clumsy hands rubbed me through denim. Once my pants were off, too many lovers groped me, tugging and pulling until I was hard but hurting. I put up with it because I liked what happened next, when they thought they had warmed me up enough to lick my dick lightly with the tips of their tongues. I like to be taken on the tongue like a thick wafer, one that does not dissolve but still induces someone to murmur Jesus. I like to spill down a throat. I slipped out the gag and thrust into him, showing him. He swallowed and when I pulled out he thanked me. I realized then other things I liked: downcast eyes, the strands of hair that fall across the forehead after someone has exerted himself.
Tuesday had run down the hallway in an attempt to make it to class on time. His black bangs were wet. There was a damp curl twisting down the collar of his shirt. I watched him and took notes on Shakespeare’s women and my own soon-to-be boy both. I could imagine him on his knees while I, dressed in a gown, lifted up layer after layer of fabric until there was nothing between my cock and his mouth but silk. I would bind his hands first. I would write what I liked on notes that I would not let him read until class. I would have him sit in a different spot, to my left and ahead just a bit so I could watch him read but it would still be clear we were not equals, not in the bedroom, not in any room.
The professor asked a question and Tuesday’s slim hand shot up.
Eager
, I remarked to myself, and when Tuesday spoke I liked the tones of his answer. His voice cracked a little on the name Titania, and I knew I wanted him to wear glitter and answer my questions, ending each sentence with a slight and cracking “Sir.” The professor looked pleased, which indicated to me that Tuesday is a good reader. I am a good writer. I know this is going to work out. He shifted in his chair a bit and turned around as though my gaze had weight. He looked at me then looked down. He knew from the beginning where this was going. Tuesday was a very bright boy.
After class Tuesday wandered over to my desk. Although articulate with literature, he seemed shy about practical matters, so I told him to come over to my apartment on Wednesday. I took his hand and wrote my address on the back of it. I did not ask for his address. We did not exchange names or numbers. I was certain he’d show up and if he didn’t, well I knew where to find him, and I’ve noticed other boys in this class who I could entice over, boys whose bruises would make Tuesday sorry he did not accept what I offered. I am not stingy, but careful, with my kindnesses.
Tuesday put on his backpack and promised to arrive at my place on time. I wrote
seven
on his wrist. Black ink over the blue of his veins. He smiled, and since I am careful with my compliments I did not tell him that his mouth is perfect. As he walked out I noticed that his ass matches it beautifully. I’d like to fill his ass and his mouth at the same time. I have the evening to decide what will go in each hole. I briefly wonder if Tuesday has a preference and suspect that I will learn. What I will do with that knowledge, I haven’t decided. I imagine him grateful. I imagine him suffering. In both circumstances, Tuesday’s cheeks are wet with tears and his naked chest is crossed with claw marks.
I like my nails long. Sometimes I paint them with slightly black-tinged gloss so that they shine like talons. Once, when I was at the counter of the grocery store preparing to pay for a package of strawberries, the scruffy man looked at my hands and not my face. He said, “That will be three dollars, Miss.” Slightly amused, I responded, “Here you go,” as I handed him the bills. “Oh,” he gasped looking up, “I thought you were a woman.” I pulled the berries from his hands and hissed, “If you were paying attention you would have realized I’m a goddess.” I strode out before he could respond.
Everyone has his kink. Mine has a feminine bent. “Don’t even think of calling me anything other than Sir,” I tell the boys as I take off my panties. Anyone who looks skeptical earns an hour in my drag closet with the instruction not to come out until he is beautiful. Then I take him out for a night on the town. I put on the corresponding clothes, a three-piece suit with my father’s favorite tie. We look like a het couple so I buy the girl/boy dinner. I have her/him eat out my ass for dessert.
I think about Tuesday while I am making myself dinner. I am hungry and hungry makes me horny. Something about satiation causes the wires in my brain to cross so that after I fuck a boy, after I come inside him emptying a cock full of cream into his body, I myself feel full. I no longer crave anything but, perhaps, to watch the boy clean himself off with a warm wet rag. With the jocks I’ve fucked there is no ritual. I send them home immediately after and I do not care how they brush their teeth or scrub their asses raw in the shower. I’ve been called a bitch on more than one occasion. “Frigid bitch,” was the phrase used by the last quarterback after he told me that he loved me and I told him that I wasn’t interested in fucking him anymore. He called me frigid and I watched my come cool on his chest.
My thoughts about Tuesday are more tender. I make three portions of tomato sauce, one for me to eat tonight and the other two for us to share on Wednesday. I want him to watch me eat and feel hungry before it is his turn. I want to hand-feed this one. I want to play sweet master, for a while. A mediocre top once told me, “You can’t top someone if you’re serving them food.” I liked neither his phrasing nor his twitchy eyes. I assured him it could be done and pointed out that he didn’t deserve for me to prove it to him. Instead, I invited his favorite submissive play partner over and tied him up in my shower. I washed him outside and in. He wept when the water ran cold. I commanded him not to tremble while I patted him dry so gently that he ached to press his hard cock into the towel and hump it until he came but I never let him come. I dressed him up and set him at the dinner table. With one hand, I grasped his throat. With the other, I fed him small bites of vegetable lasagna. I chewed each bite first and, when he looked thirsty, I put water in my mouth and spat it into his. He didn’t play with that top again, a decision I’m sure was influenced by his encounter with me. Everyone has his kink and I have a talent for turning people on to mine.
I don’t think about Tuesday again until I am bathing. I’ve poured in a small amount of bubble bath and the white sides of the tub are as smooth and slick as I imagine the head of his cock will be. The water gradually warms the enamel and I push my back down against the bottom. My cock swells and breaks the surface of the water. It bursts bubbles and I fixate on Tuesday’s ass, how I want to ease in while he pants at the difficulty of having me there. I haven’t seen him around, which means that he is a freshman and, although he has a pink triangle on his bag, the button is new enough that it may have just been put on. He is pretty, but then so are boy bands. I suppose it would not have been difficult for him to be read as straight in high school. Even if people suspected he was gay, he is the kind of pretty that rivals a girl’s good looks. Most guys are too scared to ask a boy like that out on a date much less get their dicks into him.
While it is highly likely that young Tuesday is a virgin, I find it impossible to believe that he hasn’t stuck anything up his own ass. I decide that I will make him catalogue those objects between bites of dinner. Eventually I will put the spider gag on him. I want to enjoy the sight of his mouth open. Maybe the second time he comes over I will start there and work my way down. For our first time, I am exclusively interested in his ass.
I sleep well after my bath. I dream about an old building with many rooms. It looks unmistakably like my college though instead of classrooms there are cells. I walk down the halls and hear the sounds of boys fucking. The doors are oak and each has a window that is placed exactly at my eye level. I look into the first door that I come to and see Tuesday inside, hog-tied on top of Professor Alice Adams’ desk. The room is populated by the men’s lacrosse team. They stare at Tuesday because he is naked and beautiful. They want him but they are only students who will, at most, witness the lesson. A door next to the chalkboard opens and Alice Adams walks in. No, she struts in. She struts toward her desk in a black latex suit that forms the curves of her body into straight lines. A huge pink strap-on protrudes from her fly and Tuesday’s eyes widen as she pulls a condom out of a mysterious and previously unnoticed back pocket. Alice Adams walks past the desk and Tuesday follows her with his eyes. They are the only parts of his body that can move and he stares as Alice Adams hands the condom to a redheaded boy in the front row. The boy blushes brighter than his freckles as she orders him to put his hands behind his back and put the condom on her cock using only his mouth. Once he completes the task to her satisfaction, she rewards him with a piece of chocolate to take away the taste of latex on his tongue.
Alice Adams’ cock is wet with this boy’s spit when she shoves it between Tuesday’s lips. He grunts and gulps until he deep-throats her. The door I am peeping through opens and I find my cock in my hand ready to fuck. I spread Tuesday’s ass and spit on the trembling red opening that reveals itself to me. Alice Adams and I fuck him until the three of us come, me first, Alice second, and Tuesday third. I wake up gripping the sheets. There are hours to fill until my doorbell rings.
I get some work done on my thesis: The Erotics of the Sonnet. I’ve been working on this project all summer and although it is only the first week of classes, I can think of no bigger turnoff than a fourteen-line poem. Maybe a haiku formed from a magnetic poetry set. The only set I’ve ever appreciated was the set of “dirty” magnetic poetry that I got from my dyke cousin Jodie. There are no less than ten rectangles that read
cock.
The adjectives are impressive, from the functional,
hard,
to the more metaphorical,
effervescent.
I would like to have Tuesday compose poems with the set while sitting on a sterling silver butt plug. He’d look darling in just a white button-down shirt and a tie. He’d be pantless so I could see the plug penetrate him and run my fingers along the crevice between perineum and metal when I wanted to distract him from his task. I know this would be unfair of me but I am not attempting to be fair. I would rather dish out what a bottom needs than indulge him in what he thinks he wants. I am insidiously benevolent. My gifts are gifts. My punishments are also gifts, when viewed with the right interpretation. This is not Orwellian doublespeak, but a truth I’m sure a bright boy like Tuesday will be able to grasp.
In my house, the pleasures of the bedroom extend beyond its walls, so in preparation for Tuesday’s arrival, I clean every room. I like the possibility of taking him anyplace. Every space in the house is ready. The tables and counters are clear. The floors are clean enough to eat off of. I pull a large wooden box out from under my bed and lay the gear out on a towel. I unwrap each cock, each plug, each chain, each strap, and each clip. I polish the leather with saddle soap, shine the steel, and wipe down the rest with alcohol swabs and a hint of lavender. I put everything away but a blindfold before the doorbell rings. Wanting has grown in me like a horse pounding its hooves, steam rolling out of its nostrils like the blackest aspect of fire. I conjure spurs and a whip. I tighten myself till I am calm, then I open the door and lead Tuesday in. He trembles as he kneels before me and I brush his black bangs aside to tie the blindfold. His breath is measured and I feel him sinking into where I want him, but before he goes down too deeply, I give him his safeword. I inhale. I begin.