New Story

In the depth of winter I finally learned that
there was in me an invincible summer.
Albert Camus

It's always wonderful to get to know women,
with the mystery and the joy and the depth.
Keanu Reeves

Afzal Steps out

Two weeks of horrid weather; two weeks of inhabitants’ buttons, zippers, belts, thick socks, sweaters, scarves, jackets, overcoats, overshoes, ear muffs, caps and hats, gloves going on more or less in that order, coming off in reverse; two weeks of laborers in and about the house. Dust and rubbish. Paint smells.

Dalton Brawne wrinkled his nose and wrote checks as the last of the work crew headed home, a moment which coincided with the late arrival in the near dark of his primary lad, Edwin, from classes at the University.

Breathless with cold, Edwin made a show of stamping his feet, saw the men out, closed the door firmly, removed several pounds of outerwear, looked at his husband, and declared between gasps, glasses frosted over, “Afzal’s not coming home.”

“He’s not? I’ll give you some tea. The kettle’s on.”

Seated together at their kitchen table, Dalton smirked at Edwin’s red nose. “I should call you Rudolph, after that reindeer.”

“The rest of me’s blue,” Edwin shivered. He blew on his steaming cup, sipped, and asked, “Any guess why?”

“I’m a scientist, my dear. Uninterested in conjecture when facts are about to emerge from a reliable source. That’s you. Tell.”

“He’s gone with Amy to her apartment.” Another sip. A sigh.

Striking one of his poses of elevated dramatic flair for fun, Dalton asked, “Art thou suspicious that our poor Afzal is motivated by wicked carnal desire?”

Edwin followed suit, “I do, sir, the more because he doth like her so.” Amused at himself, Edwin changed his tone, “Perhaps we might call it study or research-and-development….”

“Of?”

“Duh. The female anatomy, Dalton. Are you playing dense?”

“Is she going to feed him? Supper, that is?”

Edwin sputtered into his tea, “That and dessert, if he’s lucky the way he thinks he will be.”

“Let us wish his enterprise well. Would you like the same?”

* * *

Indira “Amy” Ertegün had eyes for handsome Afzal Chaudary from the moment she first saw him. Chance encounters in and out of classes led to chats, an introduction to his best friend, Edwin Owen, lively acquaintanceship over coffees, enjoyable mutual study sessions, and a certain fascination she had not sorted out. Maybe it was the lingering first impression: He might have been her little brother. Her Indian blood and his, perhaps; their similar heights and compact builds; his beaming smile, easy humor, sheer energy. She liked his touches of her, inadvertent initially then conscious, she was certain. He blushed the first few times.

She reminded Afzal of his mother when she was young. Pretty – raven black hair, deep brown eyes, light tan skin tone, elegant posture, doll-like proportions. Soft-spoken and deferential, Amy benefited from the confidence of her intelligence and education, a degree of flirtatiousness which was never his mother’s, and a certain sensuality that tickled his fancy. When she laughed at his witticisms, her body moved in ways that bypassed Afzal’s mind and registered in his willingly inquisitive loins.

If the prospect of being in Amy’s simple apartment included having Turkish food, Afzal’s disappointment would have been greater. “Food at home is my Mother’s province, not mine. She has time to do all that stuff. For me, here, Italian’s a lot simpler.” Her disclaimer was insufficient to explain frozen pizzas and cheap beer.

“I don’t mind,” slipped out.

She looked at him reprovingly.

“I mean, that’s fine. Are we going to have a salad? Can I help, or something?”

She puttered – turning this way and that, bending down, leaning over, reaching into cabinets for glasses and plates, handing him utensils and paper napkins – meanwhile asking him questions about his family, where he lived, what he thought of his first Winter and, finally, ordering that he keep an eye through the oven window on their fourteen-inch meal while she changed clothes.

“Let me know if I can help in there,” he called after.

“You should be so lucky,” glad at last their personal ice had been broken.

Three years more of life behind her than Afzal’s eighteen, Amy had a certain advantage. Her upbringing in Turkey had led to romantic relationships which began shortly before her eighteenth birthday and became increasingly intimate over the following months. Istanbul University’s School of Business proved less the distraction her protective parents wanted. Family friends suggested Chicago which boasted “a great University” and “only a handful of Turks” and “not that many more Indians.” Tuition would be no problem. A surreptitious last emotional fling, curtailed by the demands of going to Chicago, left her frustrated.

Afzal knew some of this story from earlier chats. He also knew a rumor one of her girlfriends had shared. That, particularly, pumped his blood while she went to “tidy” herself.

In her bedroom – thoughts divided among her guys in Istanbul and their customs (Oh!), the dearth so far this year (An entire semester!) of suitable Turkish men on campus, and the new, cute Indian from Malaysia with his hopes up (And something else soon, I hope.) – Amy quickly sponged herself in critical areas, dabbed on lotus scent from a minaret-capped bottle, left off a bra, donned black lace panties and a clingy white cashmere pullover, and tugged up her tightest pair of faded jeans. Last, she freed her ponytail and hit her curls with a few strokes of a brush.

Not bad. Her mirror told few lies although imagination occasionally mulled reality and image.

Their meal’s clean-up, which took virtually no time, gave them excuses to stand side-by-side. He washed; she dried and put away. When they finished, Afzal’s finger went to dislodge a smidgen of pizza crust on her chin. She let him, and puckered for an air-kiss.

With beer-loosened nerve, he said, “Woman, don’t tempt an innocent man.”

“Were you thinking of removing the crumbs on my sweater?”

Coyly flashing his best glance, “Of course. Would you prefer my lips or my fingers?”

She quipped, “Your choice.”

* * *

“Heavy petting, they used to call it,” Dalton said after Afzal’s next-day, early-morning opening account of the evening.

“Today, it’s ‘making out,’” Afzal updated, “and it’s so much fun, Dalton. She couldn’t get over how well I kissed. And her titties – I mean, her breasts – were a-mazing.”

“You sound like a teenager after a first date.”

“I am a teenager after a first date – with a woman,” Afzal said proudly.

“Do go on.”

Both glanced at the advancing figure of Edwin, bathrobe cinched, wearing a hungry look. “Don’t stop for me. I’ll tend to myself.”

“You’ll tend to us, my dear,” Dalton reached for Afzal’s hand. “We have only had coffee and that’s gone now. But this one hasn’t given me a chance to brew more.”

“Settle for more of same and crunchy cereal with bananas? That won’t take long.” Edwin didn’t wait for an answer.

To running water, cabinet doors opening and closing, the rattling of spoons and bowls, cereal’s rustling apportionment, flourishes of a knife with the fruit, pouring milk from the refrigerator, Afzal regaled Dalton with descriptions of Amy’s anatomy as its uppermost protuberances felt through cashmere and, when finally she gave him leave to do so, with a hand reaching under that sweater.

“They’re soft and warm and her nipples, like yours,” he nodded to the old man, “stiffen up and she likes that – not as much as you do – and then really wants to kiss. They’re bigger. And when I got to suck on them, she pushed me away. Were we hot! It was like being in the Summer. We had to cool down then, she said, or ‘We might get into trouble,’ and I said – can you believe? – in my best voice – ‘Trouble is my middle name.’”

Dalton’s spoon clattered from the table to the floor scattering its contents in several directions, he laughed so hard. “How do you know that phrase?”

“Bapa has a CD of really old American songs he likes and some guy sings it over and over,” he said rather proud of himself.

Spoon exchanged for a fresh one, Dalton resumed eating with an academic aside to Edwin, “This young scholar cites his sources.”

“I take it he remembers how he knows what to do with a girl,” Edwin pretended Afzal was not seated across from him.

The ebullient suitor bolted straight up, “I do! Hassan told me – and showed me. He knows everything about sex.”

“That he does,” Edwin nodded as he reached for the coffee. He poured three cups before raising an eyebrow high and, Dalton-like, dropping his voice, “I trust that you did not try all of it last night.”

Afzal caught the cue, looked askance, and assumed an affronted tone, “Certainly not. Do you think me a Lo-tha-rio?”

Edwin flipped his coffee spoon in the air where Dalton caught it. “Now you’ve stunned me. How do you know that name?” – adding, “And don’t tell me it was part of your education.”

The dimples in Afzal’s cheeks grew deeper. He jiggled in his seat. “Remember where Bapa works – at Stephen and Terry’s exports company? Last year, when one of their customers from Spain was visiting and I’d gone to show Bapa my academic report, that guy, Sr. Melendez, or Menendez or something like that, said if I grew as tall as Bapa, I could ‘turn the senoritas’ heads and become ‘a regular Lothario.’ So there.”

Dalton changed the subject, “When are you and Amy getting together again? I mean, apart from being the classes together.”

“Next Saturday,” he looked at Edwin, “for your tour.”

“What tour?”

“For the Mensa people. It’s on your calendar. I want her to see you in action because she doesn’t believe me that, quiet as you are, you are really something when you have an audience.”

“Oh gosh, I forgot.”

Dalton barged in, “You brats have forgotten there’s laundry to do. Get to it. Breakfast is over."

* * *

Lead me not into temptation; I can find the way myself.
Rita Mae Brown

Passion, though a bad regulator, is a powerful spring.
Ralph Waldo Emerson

It is one of the superstitions of the human mind to have imagined that virginity could be a virtue.
Voltaire

* * *

Treydon Hospitality Nets News

No admission of guilt marked Winter’s gradual retreat from the northern climes of the United States. Mornings in Chicago and Treydon still broke cold and gray but middays brought enough rise in temperature that the ground could absorb remnants of snow floe and cause signs of Spring to appear. Leaves and grass touched the world with green and crocuses lifted their heads toward the sweet light. Squirrels sniffed and poked around their acorn stashes. Migrating birds soared overhead in neat Vs.

As outdoor life perked, events indoors took on new-found energy particularly in the homes of Agatha Cobb and her neighbors next door, Anne and Erich Wolfe. A Teachers’ Workday at Treydon High had enabled their early morning coffee klatch. Intended for local gossip – “What’s the use of it if you can’t spread it?” Agatha had asked by way of invitation – it had been interrupted by the soft bang of blanket-clad Jesse Boyd’s unhesitant declaration, “Shan’s had news you’ll want to hear. I’m going back to bed. He’ll be here right after his shower – and he’s really hungry.” Three sets of eyelashes batted at the appearance, announcement, and swift disappearance.

Anne’s voice went straight up. “Jesse spent the night here? Last night was a school night.”

Erich blew on his cup, “It’s Friday, dear. There’s no school remember, or we wouldn’t be here at this hour, now would we?”

“Oh,” she put two-and-two together.

A quick move later, Agatha poked her head into the lovers’ trysting spot to ask what Shan wanted for breakfast. From under his covers, Jesse murmured sleepily, “Ask him,” and thrust a slender arm toward the bathroom. Sounds of water spraying and efforts to whistle gave Agatha a start. She straightened her apron before charging into the steam.

“Hi, Auntie.” Shan seemed unsurprised despite being occupied with drying abundant, pendulant genitals.

“You look none the worse for wear, young man.”

“I’m great and ready to eat,” he beamed, moving the towel to his backside.

“Is the news you’ve got worth more than blueberries and strawberries in oatmeal?”

He tackled his muscled legs. “Better throw in some raisins, too. I’m famished.”

Auntie’s right brow went up.

“I worked hard last night and again just now.”

“I’ll bet.” With those two words and a pat on her ward’s damp cheek, she strolled back to her kitchen stove and waiting guests. Over her shoulder, she said, “Must be good. Watch.”

Anne and Erich observed a pre-existing pan of oatmeal having water and three fruits stirred into it, covered, and the burner set on low. A new pot of coffee was started. Agatha checked her milk. “Plenty,” she said to herself; to the neighbors, “Shall we twiddle our thumbs?

“Why wait?” Anne wondered. “Just call Dalton.”

“Shhh…” Agatha’s finger waved back and forth. “Let’s not spoil his fun.”

Heavy footsteps brought the fresh-faced, neatly clad teen into the gathering. Without so much as a word of greeting, he said, “Last night on Law & Order, I heard this, ‘My plan is to introduce into evidence for the court’s consideration several facts concerning’ … my brother.”

“Afzal?”

“The very. He has a girlfriend and has made it to first base with her.”

Agatha squinted. Anne’s jaw dropped. Erich bit into his still-warm pecan roll and made a humming sound.

Shan took note. “There’s more. First base was two weeks ago, but the gang up there in Oak Park conspired not to mention a word until…."

“Until what?” Erich finally showed interest.

“Until second base had been, uh, stolen.”

“And that means?”

“That means that what Hassan told Afzal when coaching him about heterosexual relations - remember that? - and what Afzal heard from some of Amy’s friends proved to be true.” He paused for Agatha’s presentation of fruity hot oatmeal and a large spoon.

During the lull, Erich leaned forward to request more coffee but didn’t lean back. Shan had his attention.

“Amy’s Turkish boyfriend had introduced anal sex into their affair os-ten-si-bly,” he played coy with the word, “to preserve her virginity for marriage. My brother was aware of that Turkish pro-cliv-ity,” he smirked, “thanks to Hassan and two girl confidants. So, on his second date with Amy, he directed his anxious little hands not down from her breasts but under her arms to unclasp her bra. Then, down to her backside and into her black lace panties.” He didn’t finish the sentence but lowered his eyes as Anne’s widened. “It seems Amy had grown to like it, was proficient in its pleasures, and,” he slowed, “had missed it. I don’t think she owned even one dildo.”

He shoveled in spoons of oatmeal with a look of satisfaction and swallowed with his head thrown back.

“Would you stop slobbering over that oatmeal and get on with it – your report, that is?” Agatha craved the outcome.

“Auntie,” Shan rolled his exotic eyes as beguilingly as possible, “my breakfast is so tasty.” Provocatively, he downed another spoonful, smiling like an innocent from the Kama Sutra.

“I’ll smack you.”

He swallowed slowly, “All right. May I be direct?”

Nobody said a word. They merely looked expectant.

“He fucked her ass.” Quick as lightning, he jabbed a finger in the air to stop any interruption. “The fun part was that she had no idea how, when Afzal’s crazy-excited, my brother – I use Edwin’s term – buzzes a butt.”

“Buzzes a butt?” Erich queried.

“Yeah, he has this trick thing with his pelvis, so fast back-and-forth that it makes a butt buzz like a bumble bee. They came wildly and, according to Afzal, vibrated for quite a while later.” He stood, bowed as if onstage, took up his cereal spoon and resumed eating as if nothing had just transpired.

With uncharacteristic directness, Anne asked no one in particular, “I wonder if there’s a vibrator on the market like that?”

Agatha flapped her apron. Erich turned deep red.

* * *

If you’d be happy – don’t delay!
Tomorrow’s ills we’ve yet to meet.
Lorenzo De Medici

In America, sex is an obsession; in other parts of the world, a fact.
Marlene Dietrich

Involve me and I will learn.
Benjamin Franklin

* * *

Home Life on Two Fronts, Monday

“Winter’s a bitch,” complained Shantanu Chaudary. “So confining.

Back from Treydon High, he had stripped off his Winter gear and was glad to be in the warm kitchen.

“Maybe it’s why your studies are going so well,” Aggie said deadpan, glancing out at the evidence. Sudden snow and ice over the weekend were under attack by sleet. “The crocuses are dead and everything that sprouted last week. I heard that, if this keeps up, school will be canceled tomorrow.” She went back to trussing her fresh-washed chicken.

“Auntie….”

“Don’t you ‘Auntie’ me. You do something smart for a change. Put back on everything you had on and….”

“I’m not even thawed out yet.”

“Did I ask you? If you’d stop being impertinent and pay attention, I’ll tell you why.”

Shan clasped both hands to his obscenely beautiful mouth.

“Do you happen to remember a sweet little thing named Jesse Boyd? Don’t answer. Chances are you do. And where is he right now? Don’t answer. He’s at home helping his mom Sally pack. She’s got to hit the road immediately. Family emergency. Her car’s got snow tires, so she ought to be okay if she heads out soon before the slush starts freezing. Now, if you have half a wit, it will dawn on you to rescue poor Jesse from being alone in their empty house and worrying about his mother. Jesse – are you ready for this? – could spend the night with us and maybe tomorrow and the next night and….”

Shan’s feet already were finding their way into his boots as he wrestled into his fleece-lined parka, grabbed a dry scarf, his gloves and his new, fur-lined trapper hat. His groin radiated growing heat, a fast-action response.

“Slow down! You look like a cartoon character – about to fall on your nose.” She watched him right himself. “That’s better. There’s to be chicken and rice for supper. And I need the two of you to make biscuits. Now – GO!”

* * *

Dalton accepted as inevitable the news that Chicago’s ice storm had trapped Afzal at Amy’s. “Lucky for him and for me,” he said, rubbing knuckles over his husband’s near-frozen cheek. “I won’t have to share you.” He reclaimed his newspaper and sat to watch Edwin doff his heavy wrappings.

Edwin shivered, rubbing hands together, “If he’s trapped there for a few days, I’ll bet she lets him fuck her properly.”

“That’s what I meant by my use of the word ‘lucky.’ Or were you paying attention?”

Edwin stood and turned, looking over his shoulder. “Your fucking me’s always proper. We’re married.”

An uptilt to Dalton’s nose preceded, “I’m feeling particularly frisky.”

“You’re known for being particular. Isn’t that why you married me?”

“I’ll let you know after we do the dishes.”

“Really?”

“Definitively but not finally. I mean to reinforce my answer over these next days in camera.” He used his eyebrows in imitation of Groucho Marx, adding, “So you’ll need all the stamina you’ll get from cleaning your plate tonight.”

“For us, filets mignon with gorgonzola sauce, a rather good claret of a certain age, some buttery whipped potatoes (Aggie’s recipe) and flash-frozen peas; for me – for my dessert – you, in several tempting positions.”

Edwin played at being coy, “How about a replay of the occasion when we first met – when I invited you to spank me?” He snickered, “Say, have you taken an unusual dose of Viagra or something?”

With calm deliberation, Dalton rolled the arts section of his Tribune, stood, shot an arm to grab Edwin’s slender neck, hauled him unprotestingly over the kitchen table, and delivered the newspaper with energetic whams in time with, “I-don’t-need-chemical-facilitation!” Releasing his captive, he cooed, “But your scrawny ass may.” With sarcasm, “Try to remember this number, if need be: 9-1-1.”

Edwin straightened and smiled, “Hmm…solid edition of the Trib.Felt good. What inspired you if it wasn’t a blue pill?”

“Nothing you’d care about. Just an article about you by that…that woman – what’s-her-name? – Joan Dearing.”

“Oh no. What now?”

“You look like a lizard just bit your finger.”

“Dalton, that’s a painting by Caravaggio!”

“The way your mouth was open and your eyebrows in a dither…. Anyway, she writes that a rumor is circulating that you, while supposedly deep in your University studies, are involved in some hush-hush project at the Art Institute. She reports further that your foray to Cleveland – according to an article I wasn’t aware of in the Plain Dealer – produced a certain flap concerning a ‘Corot’ by you being passed off as the real thing in the home of some important art collectors…”

“Christ almighty! I forgot all about that. Is the painting still there?”

Dalton nodded, then disapproved of Edwin’s invoking Christ, “Shame on you.”

“Don’t you remember I’m taking Hananian’s seminar in the Middle Ages?”

Dalton bristled at Edwin’s next remark, “I’ve even been reading the New Testament. Of course, Christ’s on my mind.”

“You’re out of your mind. Those books just have the stuff of picture material in them. They have little to do with theology’s rise during those centuries. If you want to be precise – and a budding scholar ought to be – then, since you read neither Koine Greek nor Aramaic, you’ve read not the New Testament but mere error-prone translations cowering under nitwit religious preconceptions.”

He was on one of his tears. “Bet your Armenian-devolved professor – if she’s as smart as you’ve claimed – knows both languages and knows her theologians through Aquinas. Didn’t she tell you nobody – without risk of skin, limbs, and life (in that order) – dared paint any scene not oriented to theology?”

“She did. I slipped up. I thought our subjects were dinner – I’m hungry – and what you’re going to do to your one-and-only beloved’s anatomy.”

“Right!” Dalton lifted his cast-iron skillet and fired up a large burner of his range. “I’ll tend to the meat. You can heat the potatoes in the microwave. A minute on high. Stir in some butter. Another minute or two. Stir, taste, make sure there’s enough crushed black pepper. Hand me the boiler with the peas and I’ll boost their temperature.” He flipped on the overhead exhaust fan, “There’s going to be smoke.”

Edwin, fire building in his nether regions, counted himself lucky to have changed the subject so adroitly. The gorgonzola sauce waiting nearby brought saliva to his mouth. His bottom fluttered, flattered at the idea of being Dalton’s dessert. He ditched consideration of the Dearing article. It was far from his mind. Likewise his painting. Time had come for the potatoes.

* * *

The ’phone rang shortly after Agatha had placed her chicken in the oven and tidied her countertop. She listened for the third ring, guessing what was about to come.

“Auntie, it’s Shan. We’re stuck here. Mrs. Boyd tore off so fast, she forgot us. Can you drive over and pick us up? We just looked out of the front door and, well, it’s just awful.”

“And I should go out in it?”

“Please, please, please,” Jesse chimed in. “We’re hungry, too, and can practically smell your chicken.”

“Oh all right, babe. Grab whatever you’re going to need – and I don’t mean Shan – need for the next few days. Clothes, you know. And anything you must have for school when it opens. And you both be ready when I pull up, or….” She hung up, reached for her coat and car keys, said a prayer to no deity, and found her way through the already trampled icy mess to the garage.

Backing down her driveway, headlights bright, Agatha heard her neighbor’s shrill voice, “Aggie, what are you doing out in this weather? Have you lost your mind?”

She opened the opposite window enough to be heard, “Going to rescue the kids, Anne. If we’re not back in ten or fifteen minutes, you and Erich better come looking for us. Leave your lights on.”

In the back of her mind, the temptation to rattle the young lovers by proposing that one spend the night at Anne and Erich’s – Shan perhaps – and the other – Jesse – with her. Skidding into the slush, Agatha giggled like a school girl.

This and preceding chapters are successors to my novel, "Young Edwin - Eros - Arts", to which I invite your attention. For the moment, your opinion is sought (below) about the chapter you have just read. I monitor every comment like an ICU nurse who cares.