Polly 5

29 Nov

Regardless of the widely perceived effeminacy of homosexual men, regardless of how sensitive their reputation makes them or how close their shave appears to be, when you are kissing one, it is impossible not to know that you are kissing a dude.

I hadn’t decided to go along with Polly’s suggestion through drunkenness, as I didn’t have the funds to make myself drunk. Although, given the average intoxication of the crowd, I could and did pass myself off as far drunker than I was. I rationalized to myself that straight sorority girls made out with each other all the time at parties with no other reason than to make boys horny, and that ritual fell broadly within the bounds of expected if not entirely accepted behavior. This wasn’t really different, and it could possibly help me get what I wanted. Abstractly, I thought about Newton’s third law of motion. I looked at Polly. I looked at Roger. I looked at Polly again. I thought about how badly I wanted to fuck her. Besides, I thought. Roger seemed to support the notion of Polly taking her pants off for me. I closed my eyes and thought of England. His lips abraded mine.

With the kiss and with a drink, Polly’s inhibitions disappeared. We said goodbye to Roger and danced again. She drew me around one of the pillars on the dance floor, pressed me into its shadow and kissed me passionately. We stepped out of its shade and into a loose clot of her husband’s friends, who were there with each other and emphatically not with us. She introduced me quickly, gigglingly, never removing her light and sweatless hand from my damp palm. They smiled stiff and insincere smiles and, as a collective unit, pulled away from us toward an invisible center, like an amoeba pulling back its arms upon discovering some caustic stimulus. No doubt they knew who I was, and no doubt they had definite opinions about it.

We let the flow of the crowd push us toward the exit, where we loitered for a moment the corner beneath glowing red letters. Again, she pulled the fabric of her shirt closely against her skin and asked me whether I could see anything.

“No,” I said.

She slipped the top two buttons, opened her shirt, and stood tiptoe against my chest. “How about now?”

I looked down to see red, star-shaped pasties covering each of her nipples. My head felt light. I leaned in to kiss her, moving my hand up her flank to trace the outlines of the fabric glued to her breasts. She kissed me quickly, flicking her tongue across my lips, and then pushed me away. “Someone might see us,” she said. Any number of someones had seen us, but I didn’t push the issue. She pushed open he exit. “Come on.”

The temperature had dropped enough to make me regret that I hadn’t brought a jacket. As we dashed to my car, I kept looking over at her, hoping to see her nipples, unencumbered by the bra I now knew was absent, poking stiffly against her shirt, but of course her pasties made that impossible. We reached the car and stood together, kissing again, running hungry hands over one another. She pulled back. “Let’s go somewhere and talk.”

In times past, “somewhere” had been a modestly priced motel room and talking was typically suspended until we resolved matters of physical urgency. That was out of the question: I didn’t have the money and Polly couldn’t have a charge from Super 8 showing up on her credit card statement. In this case, somewhere turned out to be an access road in a residential neighborhood somewhere between her house and the club, the sort of locale that looked like the neighbors wanted it to be patrolled more often and did not get what they wanted.

I pulled to a stop next to a disused two-car garage, left the car running for heat, and killed the lights. Polly turned to me. I touched her cheek. Our faces moved close.


Leave a Reply