It's the leather that binds her to me; like a fine old novel, the strong animal skin preserves and protects the delicate contents of my memory that might otherwise go the way of all flesh. The leather doesn't hold the same importance with anyone else I've known, but then again, I've never loved anyone the way I loved Patricia. We discovered the leather in a remarkably similar fashion: we both lost our virginity on leather furniture. Patricia had the superior leather, surrendering her maidenhood to her first boyfriend on an antique couch in her grandmother's drawing room, while I had the superior experience, getting my cherry popped by the older sister of a soon-to-be-former friend on an old easy chair in their garage. Patricia's first time was short and messy, mainly because she was still young and foolish enough to believe both in coitus interruptus and in her boyfriend's lie that he'd had sex before. After three strokes, he pulled out and began coming all over the backs of her thighs. Combined with her own virgin blood, Patricia was a mess, but she was more concerned with the fact that this mixture of protein was getting on the sofa. The clean-up lasted longer than the sex. My own experience was an idyllic combination of location, weather and company. While Patricia endured a winter's coming of age an ocean away in Ireland, I floated through a springtime encounter in a garage in Florida, a lovely, older woman---at 18 she was still older than me---sitting astride me, explaining what went where and why. We used condoms and it lasted the entire afternoon. Patricia abandoned her boyfriend for an older man the following spring---the same spring I lost my cherry in fact. Though the sex improved considerably, she would still go back to her first lover to search in vain for something she felt was missing. It wasn't until her third lover in the summer that she found this missing element: the leather couch. As bad as any first experience may be, it still contains a spark, a burning urge, a hunger that is only present your first time. From then on, anything that reminds you of that first time, that first real fulfillment of lust, becomes irresistible. In Patricia's case, as well as my own, it turned out to be the leather furniture beneath us. From that day on, the smell and feel of it would serve to give sex a special edge. Although Patricia was delighted to make this discovery with a lover able to capitalize on it---Number Three was experienced but still her age---she was very much chagrined that her first lover had made it happen. The realization that she would never be able to forget him would always serve to irritate her. I'd developed the same longing for leather, but it my case it was the result of the bulk of our affair being conducted on that beaten up, old easy chair. Our relationship lasted through the spring to the end of summer, ending only when she went back to college. I then went on to my second and third lovers, also searching for the spark that Number One contained, not knowing it was sitting impotently in a garage four blocks from my home. I rediscovered it quite accidentally, while shopping with Number Three and her mother for a new set of living room furniture. We were resting on a burgundy leather casting sofa in the display area when it happened. The smell of the leather crept into my brain and pulled forth memories of that garage, inspiring in me a lust that Number Three could never hope to achieve on her own. I had to masturbate in the department store bathroom just to keep from attacking her in public. I lobbied heavily for the family to purchase that leather living room set and when it was acquired, I lived for having sex with Number Three on it. This eventually cost me my relationship with her. I didn't want have sex anywhere but on that couch, and after too many near misses with her parents, she decided being with me wasn't worth it. I was thankful I was going to college the next year. I was sure I'd find women there who understood me. Across the sea, Patricia was experiencing either feast or famine in her sexual development. Either she'd go through three men in a month, or she'd be celibate for six. Neither of these made her very happy, as she found inconsistency worst than celibacy. At least you could get used to celibacy. Finally, in the fall of her nineteenth year, Patricia sickened both of the Englishmen and Irishmen available to her and left for America. Her initial plans were to stay with a childhood friend in New York City, but yet another friend had gone to L.A., and Patricia chose the sunnier climate, thus delaying our eventual meeting for another five years. Her friend in New York turned out to be Deirdre Halloran, who sat next to me in my freshman art history class. In pontificating on the relationship between the professor and his very attractive Italian assistant, Guiessspe, Deirdre and I became fast friends. In college, I was confronted with the realization I was no Romeo. Actually, I was too much a Romeo, falling for one woman and falling hard. This left my grand total of sexual experiences at college at a disappointing four; one woman a year. Having been raised by a sensitive father who preached loving monogamy, my plans of insensitive sexual rebellion were a bust. It didn't get any better in the real world. After graduating, I continued my pattern of pursuit, capture, loss and mourning. Meaningless sexual encounters were few and far between for me, and rightly so, considering how guilty I felt after them. It took me a long time to accept that women were independent creatures who were capable of having sex simply for the sake of sex and not because I'd deceived them somehow. It was my mother who first told me this, citing herself as an example. It doesn’t take Freud to figure out how that little discussion screwed me up. On the West Coast, Patricia was sampling the great melting pot that is America. Coming from a land where everything was pale, she immediately took a liking for anything dark. Working out of a plant store in Venice beach, she began with an Italian customer, followed with an Asian co-worker, then onto a Mexican neighbor, before reaching the logical end of this trend with a Black man she met in a bar. This brought that particular phase of dating to an end, so by the time we met my being Black would no longer have any meaning to her. Nevertheless, Patricia was having the time of her life, sexually speaking, but Los Angeles was determined to ruin this in proving itself the shallow capital of the Western world. "None of them had anything the least bit interesting t'say," she would later tell me of the L.A., years. "Everything was about show business. If you cared about anything other than that, you were lost." Patricia tried to make the best of it by simply going for the prettiest things she could find. In L.A., this should have been able to last her quite a while, but Patricia was too deep for her own good and quickly grew tired of it all. She went celibate, went to school for a brief period of time, before finally abandoning it all and moving to New York. While Patricia was still sport-fucking her way through the greater Los Angeles area, I was settling into a loving monogamous relationship that I thought was the end of the line at a nice round ten. Number Ten was an intelligent, highly educated woman who owned a blue leather Joseph Queen sofabed with a matching easy chair. We were together almost two years, and in that time we logged in many hours on "Old Joe." Number Ten didn't share my love of the leather, but she knew my performance would be enhanced by my surroundings, so she went along with it. The relationship finally fell apart when she realized I was never going back to school and I realized that she was never going to get over the fact that I only had a bachelor's degree. Number Ten was the professional academic child of professional academic parents and she wanted a professional academic family of her own. This is difficult to accomplish with a man sworn never to set foot in another classroom again in his life. Whenever we had her friends over---all of whom were, at the very least, masters of something or the other---I would inevitably be questioned about why I didn't pursue higher degrees, which would embarrass Number Ten greatly. None of them seemed to understand that I had no interest in officially validating my intellect. They were eternal residents of the ivory tower, and like any other secular community, could not understand how people could live any way other than theirs. When Number Ten finally left me, I received the ultimate left-handed compliment of being told the only reason she'd stayed so long was because of the sex. Conversation with me, it seems, had ceased to interest her after her doctorate. Being somewhat of a pseudo-intellectual myself, I was too offended by the insult to my intelligence to bask in the glory of my dick. Lucky for me, Patricia came along right about then. While Patricia and I were reaching sexual and romantic dead-ends, Deirdre, my former partner in crime and Patricia's childhood friend, was seizing the American dream with both hands. She had very quickly worked her way up the corporate ladder in a major pharmaceutical conglomerate. I could trace her ascension by the rising quality of prescription drugs she would occasionally send me. Though I'd quit recreational drug use after a nasty incident with mushrooms at CBGB's, we stayed in touch. When she threw a party to celebrate her latest promotion and to introduce Patricia to New York, I was invited. I was still moping about Number Ten at that particular time, so I spent most of the party on Deirdre's new five hundred dollar black leather Marquis couch. The leather smell was still particularly strong, so I found it very comforting. I sat there most of the night, drinking large drinks and wandering through some fine memories of the spring and summer of '84. By the time the fourth drink kicked in, I was nicely drunk and equally horny. It was then that I began to take notice of my surroundings, looking for someone attractive enough to overcome any pre-sexual guilt for a much needed, totally meaningless sexual encounter. I didn't see very much, so I went back to my reminiscences, completely missing the pretty redhead sitting right next to me. It's a good thing, too; otherwise I might never have performed the action that led to our conversation. "What are you doing?" a husky voice with a lovely Irish lilt asked me. The action I was performing was pretty self-evident: I had my nose on the couch and was inhaling deeply. "Umm...smelling the couch?" I replied, a little bit embarrassed. "I can see that. Why are you smelling the couch?" "Why?" "Why?" I debated numerous answers, but the alcohol in my brain wouldn't let me use any of them, so I went with the truth: "I love the smell." "Really?" she said with a smile. "Really. It's a great smell. I just love a big leather couch. Don't you?" "As a matter of fact, I do." "Deirdre has excellent taste," I said. "No, she doesn't," the stranger insisted, shaking her head much more than was necessary. It was then that I noticed the large, half-empty bottle of wine in her hand. Neither of us was feeling any pain. "Yes, she does! Look at this baby," I said, slapping the couch. "How can you sit on this thing of beauty and say she doesn't have any taste!?!" "Because I picked it out," she said triumphantly, taking a deep swallow of wine to compliment her announcement. It was then that I noticed how attractive she was. She was a small-boned girl with a pretty face I would later regret describing as "elfin." Her eyes were blue-gray and sparkled with intelligence and adventure. She wore a sundress that hung half-off her shoulder, revealing skin so white it seemed to glow beneath the track lighting. She wore no bra and I could see her nipples through the thin fabric. Little did I know that, as I was merely sizing her up, she was making her final decision as to whether or not she would have sex with me. She'd already been sizing me up for the last fifteen minutes. I was unknowingly playing a game of catch-up. It would become a very common routine for us, as the girl I was talking to was Patricia. "You have excellent taste," I said, raising my glass to her. She met my toast and we drank to the leather couch. "So what did Deirdre originally want?" "Oh, some foockin' wool number," she spat, but it sounded beautiful. An Irish accent is like a French accent: it's so lovely they can say most anything and make it sound like poetry. "It was horrible, dontcha know. I couldn't imagine sittin' on it, much less doin' the business." "And the mess," I added. "How would you clean it up? Now, with leather, just wipe and it's gone." "Not really," she replied. "You have to remember: leather is skin and skin absorbs....things." "Why do I have the strangest feeling you learned this the hard way," I said with a laugh, knowing exactly what she was talking about. More than once had people commented on the strange smell of Number Ten's leather couch and matching easy chair. Between my semen, her vaginal fluids and our combined sweat, it had acquired a unique odor by the time we parted. She hurt me all the more when she chose to have it destroyed rather than sell it to me. Patricia then revealed to me---in a very impressive drunken stream of consciousness---the story of her grandmother's sofa, and how the smell drove the dog crazy, and how he wound up tearing the sofa to pieces. "Poor grandma," she laughed, "She never knew why the dog suddenly hated the couch." Patricia and I continued to drink and talk for the rest of the night. After the party ended, I was judged too drunk to travel and invited to sleep on the couch. I didn't have to be asked twice. Though I hid it as best a drunk man can, which is to say not very well at all, I desperately wanted to have sex with Patricia on that couch, but was unsure as to how much of her friendly nature was alcohol and how much was genuine attraction. Patricia was staying in Deirdre's spare bedroom. I couldn't decide whether to go in there and take a shot, risking both her and Deirdre's wrath, or miss an opportunity that might not present itself again. While trying to decide what to do, I accidentally fell asleep. Needless to say, I dreamt of sex. I dreamt I was back in that garage and that Number One was giving me a blowjob. When I reached down to stroke her hair, something strange occurred. The hair I saw was short and kinky. The hair I was touching was long and soft. This was jarring enough to awaken me, and that's when an even stranger occurrence happened: the blowjob continued. At first I thought I was still dreaming, but after clearing the sleep from my eyes and taking a few breaths, I was sure I was not. This is when I looked down to see Patricia between my legs with most of my dick in her mouth. Once again I questioned my lucidity, but when she released it to blow cool air on the head, the resulting shivers running up and down my spine convinced me I had to be awake. "Hi," she said with a throaty chuckle, before returning to her work. "Hi," I managed to choke out, barely able to speak as the result of the sloppy, sucking kisses she was now bestowing upon the shaft. "How are you doing?" "You tell me." "You're doing great. Absolutely wonderful." Patricia chuckled again and engulfed as much of me as she could while sliding her hands underneath my T-shirt to gently squeeze my nipples. This completed a circuit of pleasure that threatened to end this encounter before it began. Partially out of desire and partially out of self-preservation, I sat up and pulled Patricia's head to mine to kiss her. She released the head of my dick reluctantly with a soft sucking pop and hungrily covered my mouth with her own. Her kiss was hot and salty with the taste of me. Patricia actually succeeded in pushing me back onto the sofa with her hungry intensity. It was when I reached for her breasts that I realized she was naked. Once again, Patricia was ahead of me. With her help, I quickly wrestled myself out of the T-shirt and boxers I was wearing to join her. Number One had taught me that it's better to give head than to receive head. Needless to say, this is complete bullshit, but if you give, your eventual reception will be that much better. Still, Number One was surprised to find that I genuinely enjoyed going down on her. Not only had her previous experiences been less-than-satisfactory, but she had to work to get them. I, on the other hand, needed no encouragement to kneel at the foot of the recliner and taste her. Patricia’s act of pulling away from me and laying down with her legs spread wide let me know she expected no less. Using my fingers, I spread Patricia's pussy open to reveal the glistening pink interior. Very slowly, I lay my tongue inside her and began to drag it upward to her clitoris. It was then that I learned Patricia had no control over her legs when consumed by pleasure. Upon that first lick, her legs immediately slammed shut around my head, causing her to pop my ears with her thighs. Realizing this was going to be a task, I encircled her thighs from the outside with my hands and pulled them open enough to allow my head to move. Later, I would learn the best way to give Patricia head was from behind. That way, she could keep her legs closed tightly as she liked, but I would still have access to her. That first time, however, I had no choice but to struggle to please her. As Patricia became more aroused, her scent became stronger, mixing with the smell of the leather in my nostrils. This opened a floodgate sexual memories for me, and I felt a sudden rush envelop me resulting in a single drop of seminal fluid breaking free. I knew I couldn’t survive another rush like that, so I moved to enter her. Already having her legs partially open to accommodate my head, it was easy to slide my torso between them and enter her. Thanks to my earlier machinations, Patricia was well lubricated, so I slid into her with ease. Actually with too much ease. Neither of use expected my full length to go in so deeply and that quickly. We both came in a moment's notice. This had never happened to me before. In fact, one odd thing about me sexually was that I was unable to have quickies. Number Six was a sexual adventurer who couldn't tolerate my inability to have sex with her anywhere at the drop of a hat. When I refused to fuck her at the Met during a display of Degas landscapes, she called it quits. "I'm sorry," I finally managed to gasp out to Patricia, once the flashbulbs stopped going off in my head. "For what?" she said, pulling me to her tighter with both her arms and legs. "For not being able to last longer. That's never happened to me before." "Well, you've never been with me before, now have you?" she said, obviously proud of the fact that she'd made me come so quickly. "But I wanted to make love to you longer," I said with a genuine pout. "Are you going somewhere?" "No, but---" "But nothing," Patricia said, silencing my protests with a kiss. She then began to move down my neck, stopping at my chest to suck softly on my nipples. Normally, this would make me hard, but in this case, it simply kept me that way. Soon, the only sounds to be heard in the room were the moans and groans of the sofa and the people on top of it. We awoke the next morning, mysteriously covered by the blanket we'd thrown on the floor that night. On the table was a note from Deirdre who, while no prude, didn't much care to see our naked bodies before breakfast. She also told us to have the couch cleaned up by the time she returned. Since we had to clean the couch anyway, Patricia and I decided to make it worth our while, so we abused the couch again. From that day on, Patricia and I were a couple. We connected with an intensity that startled us both. Never one to go out very much, I found myself out with Patricia almost every night while she explored her new home. The city, which had seemingly become old hat to me, was now a brand new and exciting playground. Of course it really wasn't, it was Patricia who was new and exciting. As long as Patricia stayed with Deirdre, we had access to a leather couch and proceeded to make the most of it---until Deirdre noticed the smell. Once she realized what it was and what was causing it, not only were we banned from the couch, but Patricia was given her walking papers. This is when I discovered how enamored I was with Patricia. Looking for an apartment was actually enjoyable with her. This stunned me, as apartment hunting is number three on the lifetime pain scale, right behind job hunting and root canal. When I mentioned this to my mother she was delighted. "You're finally really in love! Your father and I are so happy!" Mom had found Number Ten too cerebral for any great passion to be developed over her. Numbers One through Nine she barely knew. "Mom it's a little soon for that, don't you think?" I was lying. I thought I was in love with her too. "Gerry, this is you mother you're talking to. If I say you're in love, you should believe me. After all..." Mom then went into her favorite soliloquy on how I was once part of her, physically and emotionally, and how this gave her special insight into what I was feeling. Citing actual scientific research, etceteras, and etceteras. I really shouldn't complain. My parents love me very much and have always been very supportive, but their New Age "every living thing is connected" view of the world can be exasperating sometimes. At the end of the month, Patricia still hadn't found an apartment to her liking. She refused to leave Manhattan and refused to live outside of certain areas. As a result, she wound up moving in with me. "This is only temporary, Gerard. You know this, right?" Patricia felt the need to caution me as soon as she agreed to the idea. "Of course," I said with a smile, just to tease her, as I saw it as temporary as well. A one-bedroom apartment in Manhattan was a struggle on a fact-checker's salary, but I enjoyed living alone, and as much as I loved Patricia, I really wasn't prepared to give that up. Around about the sixth month I realized my outlook might have changed. The swiftness in which Patricia became a part of my life was a bit unsettling. Almost immediately I had trouble remembering what life was like without her. Patricia was frightened and pleased as well, but fear was the deciding factor in her life. I learned this when she was suddenly able to find an apartment after I joked about marrying her. We fought from the moment she signed the lease until I walked out of her new apartment---after having very angry, very hot sex on her kitchen floor. It wasn't that I minded her leaving, it was the reason why. For the next two weeks, all communication was done through Deirdre. "She says you're acting like a child, Gerry, and I'm inclined to agree with her." "Me!?! Me!?! " I said in a harsh, hushed tone, as I was speaking to her over the phone at work. My efforts to mask my anger were upset by the fact I was now standing up at my desk. "I’m not the one who ran screaming to the hills the first time the 'M' word was mentioned!" "Well, you have to admit it happened kind of quick. You can't base a marriage on how well you fuck on a sofa, can you now?" "You can when you do it as well as we do," I countered, trying not to let the truth in her words deter me. "Besides, I didn't ask her to marry me. I simply made a joke about doing it. That's all. And to my knowledge, being able to conceive of it doesn't make me a child, Deirdre. It fact it indicates quite the opposite." "I wasn't talking about that," she said. "I was talking about your behavior since she decided to move out. You won't get any awards for manhood there, will you now?" My silence was all the confirmation she needed. "Yeah, that's what I thought." Deirdre then sighed and said, "Gerry, you have to try and see things from her point of view. Patricia has no idea of what she wants to do with her life, and she's afraid that if she settles down before she does, she'll spend the rest of her life miserable, wondering 'what if?' Surely you can understand this." I did and called Patricia that evening to apologize and invite her to dinner. She reluctantly accepted my apology and my invitation, though insisting the only reason she was coming was to return my keys. She was adamant about needing space and spending time apart. The concept of not seeing her sent me reeling and subsequently scouring Manhattan for what I felt was the cure to our ills: a leather couch of our own. Due to budgetary limitations, I met with little success and pleather---an odious plastic simulation of leather---would just not do. I was just about to give up when a co-worker suggested that I look for an apartment sale. I found just what I was looking for in the Village Voice: Black Leather loveseat. Brand new. Retail $1000. Selling for $500 or best offer. Call (212) 777-9311. I went there with $400 and my friends Doug and Lee in a rented van. We left with the loveseat. When Patricia came by that Friday, she found me sitting naked on the loveseat, sipping a glass of champagne. We didn't leave the apartment for the rest of the weekend. The loveseat seemingly gave our relationship a new lease on life. Patricia refused to move back in, but I didn't care. She spent five out of seven days at my place anyway. Just the simple presence of her own place gave Patricia the peace of mind she needed to continue our relationship. For my part, I kept any thoughts about marrying her to myself, though I was convinced we were going to spend the rest of our lives together. Unfortunately for me, fate had different plans in store for us both and set them into motion with the death of Patricia's father. Patricia's relationship with her father was very much the opposite of mine. Whereas my father was a bit too loving and caring, Patricia's father didn't seem to care for her at all. She'd refused to play the role of dutiful daughter from day one, and they'd fought ever since, sometimes actually coming to blows. When Patricia left Ireland, she was leaving him as much as anything. She was still close to her brothers and sisters, however, of which she had seven. They worshipped and adored her. She was the oldest and a hero to them for leaving home and moving to America. She spoke of them often and when she did there was such tenderness and loving that it actually made me jealous. It was this same love of family that caused Patricia to leave me. With her father's sudden heart attack, she was now head of the family, being the oldest, so she had to take care of them now---which meant leaving me and the states behind. I wanted to argue her choice, but I could not. I loved her too much to ask her to choose between her family and me. Instead, I helped her in every way I could. Patricia moved back in with me after she returned from the funeral. It was purely a money-saving action, but I didn't care. She was back with me, no matter how briefly. Patricia was very shaken up by the funeral. She'd never liked her father, but as a child would, she loved him nonetheless and was having trouble sorting all these feelings out. More crying than lovemaking seemed to occur on the couch from that point on. The last time we made love on the sofa stands out, not simply because it was the best sexual experience of my life, but because we were saying good-bye. Patricia's flight left on a Sunday afternoon. Deirdre had threw a party for her on Friday, so only Saturday was left for us. I'd left that morning before Patricia awoke so I could shop for the dinner I'd planned to make her. My trips took me all over the city so it was in the mid-afternoon that I returned. I found her sleeping still, but now she was in the loveseat where she'd obviously fallen asleep again after eating breakfast. It was something she'd made into a regular habit, which contributed to her inability to hold a day job. Patricia was wearing a sheer orange bathrobe she'd bought in Chinatown. Framed by the black leather, her disheveled red hair all about with the afternoon sun shining directly on her, she seemed to glow from within. It was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. All thoughts of dinner were soon forgotten. I put away all of the perishable groceries and took off all my clothes. Quietly, I walked into the living room and kneeled before her in the loveseat. Softly, I began to kiss her feet and ankles. She didn't move. I then took her big toe of her left foot into my mouth and began to softly suck on it, trying to duplicate the magic she'd once worked on me. This got some response. Patricia shifted, but only slightly. I would discover later that she'd awakened on the first kiss; she just wanted to watch me work. I moved on to fellate each individual toe on each foot. Soft sighs slid out of Patricia, though she continued to maintain her facade of sleep. Once I finished with her toes, I slid my tongue roughly down the arch of her left foot and up to her ankle. I gently parted her legs and kissed my way up her calf to the soft back of her knee, where the delicate fragrance of her perfume still lingered. As I moved up her inner thigh, I exhaled hotly on her skin rather than actually touching her. I paused at her vagina only to inhale her scent intertwined with that of the couch. I then moved on without touching her there to exhale hotly down the inner thigh of her right leg; on to kiss the soft back of her knee, to lick down her calf, her ankle, the arch of her foot and returned to suck her toes. By this point, Patricia was exhaling deeply, her body shuddering as she tried to control it. The struggle to feign sleep and still enjoy herself was taking its toll. I finally placed my head between her legs again and gently lapped at her clitoris. It was a tiny, almost imperceptible lick, but Patricia's reaction was as though struck by lightning. Her legs closed immediately with as much force as I've ever known. It was still capable of catching me off guard, but I was quickly able to pry them apart enough for me to continue my activity in relative comfort. Whoever decided that the word "job" belonged to the act of fellatio had never gone down on Patricia. At this point her eyes finally opened. "Hi," I said with a throaty chuckle. "Hi," she said with a smile. "How are you doing?" "You tell me." "You're doing great. Absolutely wonderful," she moaned, gently grabbing my head with both hands and pushing her pelvis up for more. With her waist at a more elevated angle, I was now able to slide the full length of my tongue inside her and began to use it like a small penis, tasting her fluids on each withdrawal. Patricia grunted between clenched teeth as I raised her up even more and began licking up and down her perineum before settling in the crinkled rosebud of her anus. Without breaking contact, I turned Patricia around onto her stomach and pulled her halfway off the couch so her knees were on the floor as well. Now she could close her legs as tightly as she pleased without encumbering my efforts. I spread her cheeks and spat on her asshole causing her to twitch. I then used the saliva as lubricant to slide my tongue inside her. Patricia whimpered as she pinched her own nipples, prompting her first orgasm. I then kissed my way up her back until I was pressed against her, resting my hard dick in the warm crevice of her buttocks. I then used the remaining saliva to slowly slide the shaft up and down her asshole. Much to my surprise Patricia was able to get another orgasm out of this. "Patricia," I whispered musically in her ear, "Did you just come again?" "Yes," she said with a delighted sigh. "You animal." "You do this to me," she said, twisting her head back to kiss me. While doing so, we simultaneously raised and lowered ourselves so I could enter her. She grunted an exclamation into my mouth. Though indecipherable to the untrained ear, I knew it was "Oh, God!" and not "Oh, shit!" or "Oh, yes!" Patricia began to thrust back onto me before I could attempt anything. Though the mechanics are the same, the results are slightly different. I get an added thrill of being done rather than doing, and Patricia gets to control her own pleasure. The one disadvantage is that it makes me come very easily and I usually have to stop her. That afternoon threatened to be no exception. When she pushed back I enveloped her body with my arms and held her there, while we both felt me throb inside her. She cooed and asked me if it felt too good in a babydoll voice. I could only nod as it was taking all my concentration to prevent myself from coming. Once self-control had been re-established, I cupped her breasts in my hands and began gently squeezing the nipples between my thumb and forefingers. Patricia moaned an appreciation, turning back to kiss me once more, biting and sucking at my lower lip. I slowly pulled myself out of her until only the head remained inside her. I then reentered her with such force that our bodies produced and audible slap and held myself there. Patricia had to break our kiss to gasp. "Feel too good, baby?" I teased. "Uh-huh." I then began to repeat my action. Slow withdrawals, quick re-entry and hold; but each time I would decrease the time between withdrawal and re-entry. Very quickly it became a steady pump and Patricia was clutching the leather skin of the sofa in her fists. "Uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh," Patricia would say like a mantra, in time with my thrusting as her orgasm drew near. As it came closer the pace would increase in proportion with the volume. When she finally, came it was just one long "uhhhhhhhh." The second syllable never made it out.. When Patricia came, her vaginal muscles would tighten as well as her legs, making further movement nearly impossible. If I was in, I wasn't going anywhere, and if I were out, I wasn't getting back in. This intense pressure could easily prompt my orgasm, so Patricia and I almost always came together. At this point, however, I wasn't prepared to come, so I held her tightly as her inner muscles gripped my dick tightly, trying desperately to squeeze an orgasm out of me. After she came, Patricia grabbed my head and kissed me furiously. It was a struggle to break away so I could change our positions. Though Patricia could come more easily and more frequently in a rear entry position, kissing her threatened whiplash. For sheer intimacy nothing beats a face-to-face fuck. Without disengaging, I managed to turn Patricia onto her back, much to her amusement. "Whee!" she giggled as her entire body rotated on my erection. Patricia now lay flat on her back on the loveseat. I then moved her lengthwise so I could join her on the couch, but left one leg on the floor. This gave me a great deal of control, as I began to lower myself into her with long deliberate strokes. As I did so, I leaned forward so the shaft could slide along her clitoris. "Oh, baby. Oh, baby. Oh, baby," Patricia said over and over I moved in and out of her. Her nails gently raked my chest. We had now settled into what she liked to call "serious fucking." "Serious fucking" was akin to what athletes like to call "the zone." It's when you transcend the mere physical actions of your activity and are one with what you are doing. Time loses all meaning and you’re enveloped in a sensation that makes your totally numb, yet acutely aware of every single thing around you. For me, it starts in my penis with a warm, tingling sensation not unlike the first indication of an orgasm. It builds and builds waiting for me to set it free, but when I refuse it begins to spread. First to my balls, then up my ass, my spine to my brain, then back down to my fingertips. A golden glow seems to cover everything. Patricia has described a similar experience on her end. "Serious fucking" then leads to one of my favorite results: serious sweat. The combination of our efforts, the midday sun and the leather beneath us, whose black color retained heat, soon had us both covered in tiny rivulets of salty moisture which we would use to hydroplane along each other's bodies and the sofa itself. We would also lick it from one another's body, both practicing the exquisite torture of tonguing each other from the stomach to the neck. It was worse on Patricia as I would not stop fucking her to do this. I would also add blowing cool air on her nipples, forcing them to become so taut she would either beg me to suck on them or twist them herself. Though "serious fucking" seems endless, it is not. The glow is, after all, the delicious agony of an orgasm denied, and it will only be denied so long. Patricia was not shy about letting me know when a big orgasm was near. The more intense it is, the more frantic her efforts. It ranged from the mild "Oh, Gerry, I'm gonna come," to the extreme "Come on!" as she dug her nails into my hips and pulled me in. That day, however, her action was to wrap her arms and legs around me, pulling me close until only the moisture on our bodies separated us. She then began to cry. "I love you. I love you. I love you," sobbed into my neck. I don't why, but this began to trigger my own orgasm and I began to plumb her as deeply and with as much passion as I could muster. Soon, the bubble that enveloped me popped and it's contents spewed forth. Patricia took everything I had to offer that afternoon on the couch. I experienced an orgasm that drew on every part of me. As she came, her vaginal muscles clenched me like steel velvet and pulled my heart and soul from me and into her. When it passed, I collapsed onto her, nothing but a shell. I was now crying myself, the only thing seemingly remaining inside me being grief. My tears distracted her from her own heartache and she held me tenderly and consoling. Patricia and I didn't make love again that night. In fact, I never made dinner. We ordered in and spent the rest of the night kissing and crying on the couch, talking of plans for a life that would never be, making outrageous promises for that life, freed from any obligation to fulfill them. We told each other grandiose lies of love, desperately trying to ease the pain. I went with Patricia to JFK and wanted to stay until her flight left, but she told me to leave. She told me that she couldn't bear a drawn out, tearful good-bye, and the sight of me watching the plane leave just might kill her. I left but I only went outside the terminal. I watched until I was sure her plane faded into the distance. Then I went home and cried on the loveseat. Initially, we remained in close touch. We called as much as we could until the resulting phone bills put an end to it. Transcontinental phone sex is not cheap. But it was fun and I would always be on the loveseat when I called her. Patricia would always ask me if I were, and would force me to validate it by sliding a dry hand along the skin to make it squeak. After we stopped calling, we wrote letters. Along with our sexual fantasies, the letters contained actual information about her life back at home. She'd taken over her father's small grocery store and actually ran it well. She was very proud that she was going to be able to clear out his debts and probably start turning a profit at the beginning of the New Year. I didn't date. I merely commiserated with Deirdre until she got over it and refused to see me until I got on with my life as well. I slept on the loveseat for a long time until I realized that the thoughts it provoked were killing me. I then started sleeping in the bed---not that being alone there was much easier. Eventually, her letters came less frequently. The grocery store being the reason why, her family another. A planned trip for me to Ireland was called off with no explanation. After six months, I actually I managed to go out on a date and have sex, but Number Twelve suffered the indignity of my crying during intercourse and inability to get it up again. Thirteen didn't get the crying, but that's all I can say. I gave up after that. Almost a year after her departure, I received a phone call from Patricia at four in the morning. She was drunk and crying and kept telling me over and over again that she loved me. "You believe me, don't you Gerry?" "Of course I do, Patricia," I said, "What's wrong?" "I love you, Gerry. Dinna forget that. I love you. I love you. I love you," she sobbed into the phone before hanging up. I tried calling her back, but the phone was left off the hook. I understandably felt uneasy about her call. Something had to be wrong. The next day I called Deirdre to see if she had heard anything, but she had gone out of town. I continued to attempt Ireland, but still no one picked up. Finally, Deirdre returned. "Gerry, are you okay?" she asked with the awkward tenderness of someone not used to it. "Yeah, I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be? Listen, do you know if anything's happened to Patricia? I got this weird phone call." "You still don't know, do you?" she asked in a voiced that chilled me. "Damn." "Know what, Deirdre?" I replied, the glass breaking in my stomach. I knew what she was going to tell me, but I still had to hear it. "Gerry...." Deirdre was having trouble getting it out. She didn't want to be the bearer if bad news. It was too late. "Just tell me, Deirdre," I choked. Hot tears singed my flesh. "She was married a few days ago. That's where I was. Oh, Gerry, I'm so sorry." Deirdre listened to me cry for a few moments before she spoke again. "She told me not to tell you because she wanted to do it herself." "She did," I said, choking out an empty laugh, as I relayed my conversation with Patricia to Deirdre. It turned out she had called me the night before her wedding. It was ironic. Patricia had sworn never to date an Irishman again, much less marry one, but there she was, Mrs. Delaney in less than a year. Deirdre secured her bid for sainthood by actually coming over and taking care of me for the next week or so while I fell completely apart. Ironically, it was when I was dying during this that my new life was born. I had always thought of myself as a writer and like most people who consider themselves writers, I'd never been published. It was actually my fault in this instance, as I had made a few friends in editorial at the magazine where I worked and they were more than happy to give me a shot. Unfortunately, all my stuff sucked. Not after Patricia. Whoever said that to make good art you have to suffer was right. I had my first piece published about six months after Patricia's wedding. Eventually, Patricia sent me a letter trying to explain why she'd gotten married. Love played a small part in it, but mostly she was tired of shouldering all the burdens of her family on her own and was simply tired of being alone, He was a good man and he'd cared for her since they were kids. At this point, it was enough. I wasn't invited because she knew I would try and stop her and would probably be foolish enough to try and marry her myself. " .... and you could never live here," she wrote, "and I can't leave my family." She also had liked my piece. It was about loving and losing. With the article, I was now a professional writer, so I quit my job. In retrospect, it was very foolish to do so on the basis of only one article, but it seemed right at the time. Thing seemed to fall into place after that. I published a few more articles and was soon able to get a book deal based on them for the next year. More importantly, I was able to get an advance on the book deal. It was this money I used to leave New York. I couldn't live there any more. It was all Patricia to me now and much too painful. I moved back into my parents' old house, as they had moved to a new home a year earlier. It's okay, because I'm happier alone. Needless to say, I defeated the purpose of leaving New York by bringing the loveseat with me. I keep the loveseat in the attic, placed squarely in the middle of the room. I rotate it during the day to catch the sun coming in through either of the two picture windows I had installed on the east and west sides of the house. On the north wall sits a print of a painting that never fails to remind me of the warmth and depth of my relationship with Patricia. It's ironic that I found it while trying to seek refuge from any thoughts of us. During those hard months after Patricia's wedding I would frequently go to the Metropolitan Museum of Art to seek peace of mind. Occasionally, I would actually find it, losing myself in the greatest art treasures in the world. It was in trying to find peace from her in art that I found peace with her in art. The work I discovered depicts a woman asleep in a chair. Her disheveled red hair seems to almost meld with her dress of translucent orange. The sun shines down upon her and she appears to radiate heat like a living fire. The name of the work, appropriately enough, is "Flaming June" by Frederick Lord Leighton. It was the second most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. My hands were shaking when I bought a full-sized print. On bright sunny days, no matter time of year, I'll go to the attic, drink a bottle of wine, listen to Miles Davis' "Sketches of Spain" and stare at the painting, my emotions flowing freely from pain to pleasure and back again, but strangely I feel at peace there. It's as though she's still with me through the picture. I'm in therapy at my mother's insistence. It's a friend of hers so it isn't costing me a cent. Mom's concerned over the fact that I can't seem to get over Patricia. Sexually, I'm up to Number Twenty, but my heart is still with her. I'm intelligent enough to know that it's not so much an inability to move on, as much as an outright refusal. My mother thinks that therapy will help me stop refusing. She's wrong. I'm refusing because I'm waiting. I'm waiting because whenever I talk to Deirdre, she asks me if I still have the loveseat. I know Deirdre could care less about the loveseat, so I know who's really asking, and as long as she asks, I'll wait.
