Calendar Mystery 3: CABIN 7
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When it comes to love-making scenes, I start with the rule that sex is possible when the characters come to life for the writer and the Reader. What makes their love scene erotic is their physical appearance, fears and desires, reluctance and anticipation, imperfections and successes as lovers. Only then does explicit language come in. Sometimes a Reader sees a reflection of himself, or of a friend, in one of the characters. Maybe he knows something that I don't, so I'm open to suggestions for further chapters: goranbixo@aol.com
Characters:
Chris Josephson, age 29, creative writer, professor, bicyclist, marathon runner, owner of Sandy Point lighthouse
Frank Zanetti, age 24, detective sergeant
Vera Ericson, owner of Vera's Cabins on the North Shore
Sunday afternoon, September 6, 2020: "Should we be looking for clues?" Chris asked after they settled in Cabin 7 with gear and groceries.
"We won't find any more clues here, unless Vera remembers a photographer and two models, one black guy and one redhead. We'll talk to her tomorrow. I need time to think through how to approach her, how much information to give her," Frank said.
"We should tell her everything, show her the calendar," Chris said. "She'll help if she knows what's going on."
"I hoping you get a vibe. That'll put is in a better position to ask questions," Frank said.
"In the meantime, do you want to find a restaurant for dinner?" Chris asked.
"We can do that, or we can mix sand and surf, Doc," Frank replied. Their eyes met. "I'm only hungry for you."
"We skipped breakfast and lunch," Chris said.
"The better to make you lean and mean," was Frank's reply.
"Grrr," Chris growled. "In that case, I'll take a shower."
Frank drew the bedroom curtains tight shut. Chris folded his clothes methodically, while Frank watched his athletic body in motion. First time seeing him naked. The musculature of his thighs elicited a wolf-whistle. Fair skin, lightly freckled around the collarbone. What other porno-literateur notices the collarbone? Oh, yes, let's not forget his eight-inch cock, circumcised, a tempting novelty to an uncut guy like Frank. Chris looked back at him with a toothy grin as he crossed the lintel and swayed his butt provocatively.
When Chris returned from the bathroom wrapped in a damp towel, he found Frank standing by the bed, still in uniform. He had secured his gun in the top drawer of the chest of drawers by the bed. On top of the chest, he had laid out supplies from his gear: a tube of lube, a package of condoms, an unopened bottle of poppers, and a pair of nip-clamps on a chain. He put his metal handcuffs next to the nip-clamps, on the off-chance that Chris might let him use them. When they faced each other, Frank drew Chris him into an embrace. Chris ran his hands over Frank's uniform and his tongue over the badge, but his hands trembled.
Apprehension and lust. Frank's voice grew guttural: "Is that one of your fantasies, making it with a cop? One of mine is making it with a professor, or maybe a psychic."
"That's two fantasies," Chris laughed.
They kissed. While they were kissing, Chris slipped his hands under Frank's belt and felt his butt-cheeks. "Careful down there. That's virgin territory!" Frank said.
"I've wanted your ass from the time I saw you five years ago, when you walked into my composition class during your first semester," Chris said.
"Do you think so?" Frank asked, tentatively. He didn't say no. Instead, he kicked off his shoes and socks. Chris helped him out of his uniform. They wrestled like puppies. No external detail of human anatomy was left unnoticed, unexplored, or unremarked upon. Of the body-parts subject to love-making, no inventory need be made, as all were involved. And yet, from the random confusion a progression emerged. Chris edged toward dominance in ways progressing from subtle to obvious.
Discovering that Frank's nips were unusually sensitive for a man, Chris seized the opportunity and the nips between thumbs and fingers. He distressed them with digital and dental pressure, alternating with tongue and teeth in his pits, accompanied by the wriggling of an intrusive finger in his butt-hole. Like needles in acupuncture, pinches and bites on his nips and his pits sent stimulating messages to his hole, and brought Frank into a trance of compliance. Like a magician in the midst of a magic show, Chris dangled the pair of brass nip-clamps, holding them by the chain that joined them. He clamped them to Frank's nipples and gave them a few experimental tugs whilst Frank's chest heaved heavily. His hairs on his chest looked like so many water-spiders on a wave coming in with the tide on Big Friendly.
Chris turned his attention to Frank's uncut throbbing cock. He manipulated the foreskin and fondled all nine inches, then propped a pillow under his butt. More than a prop, Frank's cock acted like a monstrous clittie that enabled his seducer.
Frank rested his ankles on Chris's shoulders in an anatomical position made possible by frog- legging and exposing his hole in the midst of a scene where his throbbing cock formed an animate bridge between navel and scrotum. That was as far as Frank could see when he gazed at the contours of his torso.
From his superior vantage point, Chris could see more: Frank's erogenous zones in full panoply. The navel like a cherub proclaiming innocence; the throbbing cock that enabled his seduction; the scrotum declaring its testes in curvaceous display, the palpitating brown slit that was, after all, his sole object. Further up the hirsute torso, Frank's nips and pits played their part. Count them: ten anatomical witnesses testified against Frank's will to virginity.
Ready, aim, fire! Chris crept forward. He steadied himself with his left hand on Frank's torso. With his right hand, he guided his rod to the palpitating target, a half-rounded brown slit half- hidden in hair like a rabbit hiding in grasses and brush. An advance liquefaction of pre-cum moistened the gateway to Frank's earthy garden. Frank clutched Chris's thighs with both hands and drew a deep breath.
Frank had readied himself for a painfully penile intrusion in his sphincter. Instead, he felt a warm ooze of jizz at the gate. White like surf below rocks by the lighthouse, Chris's ejaculation washed over Frank's erogenous zones. It pooled in his navel. Milky rivulets got lost in the pubic thickness of hair. Chris's load was prodigious, but premature. The fragrance of jizz filled the bedroom and spurred an erotic spirit in Frank.
They lay together quietly.
Frank broke the silence: "Didn't your mama teach you the difference between inside and outside?" he quipped. An anthropological joke. Inside' versus outside' is a semantic polarity that anthropologists apply to their analysis of cultures around the world. Chris groaned.
"Don't worry, Doc," Frank said. "You can do me next time."
"No, I can't," Chris replied. "I got a vibe. Your cherry is intended for another, so you're off the hook... for now. That suits your disposition to be a natural-born top. But you'll be on the hook again, eventually, in a way that will help solve the calendar boy mystery."
"I don't know what you mean by that," Frank said. He clung to Chris's torso when they drifted into sleep; a fitful sleep for Frank, because Chris had stoked fire in his loins and left him with blue balls. Even so, he didn't disturb Chris. He ran his hands over Chris's abdomen and chest, and probed nips and pits gently. At last he could tell from Chris's breathing that he was awake.
"Shall I fuck you in the dark, Doc, or do you want the light on?" Frank asked.
Chris sloughed off slumber. "Let's shower first. Help me wake up," he muttered.
"Good idea, Doc," Frank replied. "I wouldn't want you to miss anything when I plow your ass into acreage." Under the showerhead, he bragged to Chris about how much it was going to hurt: "Some people say it's all in your head, but think the pain will be real."
"I wouldn't have it any other way," Chris said.
"I read somewhere about a guy with a nine-inch dick who offered his partners a shot of Demerol," Frank said.
"Did they take him up on it?" Chris asked.
"I don't know," Frank replied. "I think it was a fiction, so maybe they did. The worst pain would be over by the time they felt anything."
"Demerol!" Chris exclaimed. "It would be like Sir Lancelot falling asleep in the chapel of the Grail castle. The Holy Grail came and bestowed strength-giving miracles to Galahad, Perceval, and Bors, but Lancelot slept through the whole event. It was for him as if the Holy Grail never existed."
"I like that analogy," Frank said, "My cock up your ass like the Holy Grail in the chapel."
"To receive the Grail is enlightenment," Chris said, "but if you're asleep or on Demerol, you miss it. No pain, no gain. That's my philosophy. Of course, I haven't actually had cock up my ass."
Not yet. Initial penetration was a more difficult challenge than Chris had imagined. Frank was merciless because Chris told him to be, but it wouldn't have mattered. The discomfort when Frank opened his outer sphincter was nothing compared to the sharp burning sensation that came with stretching his inner sphincter. After the worst was over, some of Frank's movements felt like an earthquake. Many a stroke felt like battering some bit of undiscovered terrain inside him.
"I must be cruel, if only to be kind," Frank said.
"Shakespeare will never be the same," Chris countered.
"Same thing goes for the Quest of the Holy Grail," Frank countered back.
To make an end of this theme, their first night together was unusual. Frank got foreplay and Chris got defloration and insemination. Afterwards, Chris lay so quiet that he seemed barely breathing. After a half-hour of silence, he said: "The brown man in the calendar's sex-scenes is a symbolic figure. In psychological terms, he's the shadow. He personifies the dark side of sex in a contest between good and evil. The same man in all twelve photos."
"Is that a vibe?" Frank asked.
"Possibly," Chris said. "Let's page through the calendar again."
They got out of bed and sat at the kitchen table.
"Look at the scene for February," Frank said. "Fair skin and brown skin, side-by-side like a 69, but arched and contorted to look like a valentine. It's a playful sex-scene, nothing more. And there's a red heart-shaped box of candy at the center."
"Playful but symbolic," Chris argued. "Two halves of the human spirit, white and black. The conscious side and the dark side. The brown man's face is obscured to signify that anima is always mysterious. Anima is the Unconscious. We know nothing about what's inside the Unconscious, but we know it exists because there are signs that point to it, like the heart-shaped box. The box is a signifier, a sign that points to other signs in a chain of signifiers that ultimately point to the Unconscious."
"Jacques Lacan," Frank said. "You wrote a paper about that in Psychology in Literature'. You worked it out in the Tale of Gareth in Malory's Morte Darthur'.
"You read that paper, Frank?"
"I've read all your stuff," Frank replied, and changed the subject: "The brown man in the calendar might not be American. He's too hirsute. The shape of the head isn't right. And the tattoo on his thigh, it's some sort of bird. It looks more like a totem than postmodern body art."
"African?" Chris asked.
"Maybe," Frank mused. "We've got to identify that bird."