Long-time readers are no doubt thinking,
"Manno wrote a Voyager story? Holy cow! I can die now,
because I've seen it all."
Well, there are a pair of mitigating
circumstances: One, it's pre-Voyager, so technically I've not quite
lowered myself so much as you might have thought; two, it's yet another of my
racier pieces—though not without some literary merit, according to my betas.
We'll let
you judge for yourself.
"'Tom,' 'Dick' and Harry"
By Joseph Manno
I couldn't cope with what I was seeing.
Of course, where I was
and what I was doing there weren't
far behind on the hard-to-believe meter: It's not every man that finds himself
in such a position—no pun intended—at least not without arranging it
beforehand.
And, anyway, I’m not exactly
that type.
I was sure she wasn't,
either.
You think you know someone….
Morning
"I need more space.
"Maybe we should see other people for a while, too."
I just blurted it out, totally disregarding the series of logical
arguments I'd carefully constructed in favor of relaxing our relationship
somewhat… and instead simply tossing that onto the table alongside the scones.
As you might have guessed, it didn't add to the ambience in the
breakfast nook.
Elizabeth Claire Lattimore—Libby for short—put down her tea… or,
rather, she dropped it the last few centimeters to clatter against the saucer.
"What? Why?"
She didn't look precisely panicked, but her intensity level rose
precipitously. Those dark eyes suddenly felt like they were projecting a
palpable force.
That, in a way, was part of the problem. I'd always thought I was intense…
…but Libby was in a league all her own.
We'd been going together for seven or eight weeks, and things had
progressed rapidly—far too rapidly
for my taste, I'd recently discovered. I already cared about Libby, a lot, but had realized that I was
probably in too deep when the telltale warning phrases "our children"
and "wedding dress" had figured prominently in a conversation the
night before.
She had my entire future mapped out already.
I have to admit that every part of me—with one notable
exception—had stiffened when I'd heard that stuff.
The other part had pretty much drooped into flaccid shock.
"I… things are just moving too fast for me."
"Harry…"
She'd been gearing up for a major counteroffensive; I'm still
certain of it.
Then, instead, Libby nodded, and clipped, "All right."
Her expression hadn't exactly glazed over, but something had at
once gone out of it…
…and come into it.
Suddenly, I wasn't sure I'd done the right thing.
Libby stood and began bustling around her apartment, grabbing her
personal
"I have to get to the gallery," she said, then added,
"It'd be probably be best for you to sleep in your dorm room this weekend,
Harry. That should help give you the 'space' you need."
Oh, boy. So that's the way it's going to
be.
"Uh… do you want to change your access codes?"
I have no idea why I
said it. Perhaps it was an ill-considered attempt to be… well, considerate, but it didn't help in the
least.
"Why?” she snapped. “Do you want
me to change them?"
"No. No, Libby, I…!
"…I just need some time—some… freedom to figure things
out."
Libby had always joked that one of the things about modern
architecture she hated was the lack of doors on hinges. After all, how the hell
could you slam a sliding panel when you were angry?
Funny, though… in my mind, I could hear the echo of her intent as
she left.
With some people, wishful thinking counts—a lot.
I thought about it all day; I even managed to acquire a demerit in
ancient philosophy when Dr. Lambert asked me a question, and, instead of responding,
I continued staring out the window.
"Mr. Kim!"
"Sir! Yes,
sir!"
"While I'm not at all averse to quiet philosophizing—hence my
degree…" He paused as the class laughed. "…this is not the proper venue.
"Do you have an answer to the question I just asked
you?"
Rather than admitting my fault, I took a shot in the dark.
"Uh… Xeno?" Since there were two famous Xenos in the
history of philosophy, I figured it'd double my chances.
The second round of laughter told me that I'd probably fired… and
ended up hitting myself.
"No, Mr. Kim.
"But since you've referred to that particular philosopher,
might I suggest you employ his perspective and accept your demerit with… Stoicism?"
I grimaced—at both the pun, and the punishment.
Night
My roommate, George, tried to drag me out—it was Friday night,
after all, and the dorm was essentially deserted—but I turned in early instead.
I lay in bed for two hours, and slept for none of it.
…only to realize I'd forgotten it at Libby's apartment.
Never in my life had I left my instrument behind.
In that moment, my feelings came into pretty stark relief.
So what if she was a little clingy?
She loved me.
And I loved her.
I got up with every intention of getting both my blower… and my
girl.
***
I didn't call before heading over there. To be honest, it never
occurred to me she might be elsewhere. Libby was a homebody; she went to art
galleries, yes, and occasionally the cinema (something about non-replicated
movie popcorn), but generally you could find her here most every night, at work
on a painting or drawing.
Tonight, though, she was out when I arrived.
I let myself in, retrieved my clarinet, and settled down to wait
in the dark.
It took all of ten minutes.
Hell, I was still pondering what I wanted to play when the studio
apartment's door slid open. I could see Libby's tall, slender form in
silhouette, and I almost began the first notes on "Lady of Shadows,"
the piece I'd written for her a few weeks ago.
I heard her begin, "Well, thanks for…" Her voice trailed
off. Then, after a long moment, she followed with, "You know what? Come on in."
Huh? I'm already in, Lib.
Hearing a man reply, "Great,"
though, overwhelmed that feeling of confusion… with one of complete panic.
Only then did I fully realize what any idiot—any other
idiot, that is—would have already known.
She hadn't been talking to me.
I felt a surge of adrenaline and, confronted with “fight or
flight,” chose the latter; since there was nowhere to go, I did the next best
thing…
…and ducked into the closet.
Barely an instant later, she called, "Lights."
After the effort it took to conceal myself, I almost blew it all
by charging out there the minute I saw her "guest."
I knew this guy… or, rather, I knew of him. His name was Richard Ryan. He was a senior cadet, an
Academy demigod we all admired—the men from afar and, if rumors were to be
believed, the women often from as near as they could get. He had a reputation
for overall excellence, whether in the classroom, the pilot's seat…
…or, especially, the sack.
The differing impressions we all had of him were apparent from the
nicknames he'd acquired, one per gender: The girls called him "Richard the
Second"…
…while the guys just called him "Rick the Dick"… but
never to his face.
As a matter of fact, I'd seen him just this afternoon. He'd been
sitting a table away at the Academy mess hall with some of his fawning Red
Squad fascists in tow.
I'd been talking with George about Libby and me: How I'd taken his
advice and "laid down the law"… told her I thought we should see
other peo–…
Uh, oh.
Ryan, the opportunistic bastard, must have heard, remembered seeing Libby with me… recalled she was pretty
and, just now, of course, vulnerable…
…then decided on a flyby.
I don't remember much of their conversation. She was quiet, for
the most part, and he murmured to her now and again. For a while, it simply
looked like two people commiserating.
I began to relax, a bit.
Then, I heard his urgent, insistent voice with more chilling
clarity than I yet had. It wasn't much more than a whisper, but damned if it
didn't fill the room…
…and spill into the closet, too.
"Forget him, Libby.
“Let me make you feel better.
"Let me make you feel loved."
If I’d had my druthers, she’d have gasped in outrage, slapped
Richard in the face and thrown him out.
Instead, she sat quietly, wringing her hands.
After a minute or two, I reduced my aspiration to a desire for a
firm, “No… it’s too soon… I barely know
you.”
After all, that’s what I’d
gotten for over a month.
A little more time passed.
Finally, I’d have settled for a wavering, “I really shouldn’t… and I think you should go.”
As I watched, though, my own words were coming back—not just to
haunt but to damn me.
Oh, God.
Our quarrel this morning had suddenly taken on even more
significance.
I mean, we'd talked about "freedom" and "seeing
other people"… or, rather, I had
broached it, and essentially insisted. I would have sworn, if asked, that Libby
had been adamantly opposed to the idea.
At least, she had been this morning.
And, to me, the part about "freedom"—some space and
time—had been far more important than
the part about "seeing other people." I realized that, for Libby, the
conversation had had other emphases, or at least did in retrospect.
Now, she was on the verge of "seeing" Richard—far more
literally than I bet either she or I would have thought just this morning.
Harry, you idiot. "I need space," I'd declared.
…and definitely hadn't been figuring on this.
I still had hopes she would refuse.
After about another minute, though, Libby turned her tear-stained
face up to him, closed her eyes…
…and gave him a slight nod.
It wasn't exactly emphatic, but it was good enough for him.
Perhaps Richard really understood just how fortunate he was: I
don't think I've ever seen a man remove two sets of clothes so swiftly, so
smoothly, in my life—first Libby’s, and then his.
It was as if he wanted her nude and vulnerable before she could
reconsider.
I know that because if I'd suddenly won permission to have sex
with a very beautiful, slightly reluctant woman, it's what I would have
done—though I must admit I probably would've fumbled around a lot more than he
did. Richard accomplished his task in record time, and even garnered points for
style while so doing: He turned sliding her sundress down towards the floor
into a lengthy caress, fingers following after fabric… and even retrieved her
panties with the same smooth, steady motion.
Then he lifted Libby, cradled her briefly, and moved to the bed,
where he placed her with care in its center.
He's a large man, perhaps six inches taller than me, with broad
shoulders—heroic shoulders. She'd
almost looked like a sleepy child in his arms…
…but I didn't think he'd simply be tucking her in.
I suppose I did have a
choice—at least technically. I could have
closed my eyes, stopped my ears and tried to block out what was happening only
ten feet away. The temptation, however, was much too great.
I didn't want to see.
I had to see.
So I watched them.
As he took his place beside her, Libby glanced down the length of
his form; her eyes lingered for a long moment on his already hard erection.
Let's just say all his proportions were heroic.
The smile it evoked was one I’d never seen—one she had never given
me. I probably could have done without ever
seeing it, to be honest—at least in this context.
He was clearly the aggressor, or at least the more insistent
partner, but Libby never once tried to stop him; instead, she lay back and
settled immediately into a passive role. I was vaguely surprised; with me,
she'd always been rather proactive—what I'd thought was ardent.
Now, she was letting Richard do all the work.
After a few moments, I could see why: He was a conscientious,
industrious lover, lavishing her body with intense attention and real
appreciation… taking his time, savoring each step along the path towards their
union. He was gentle with her, too... and she responded favorably to his every
touch, her breathing at first slow and steady, but graduating in a few moments
to an ongoing series of appreciative sighs.
For a while, I was angry... but only for a while. Eventually I
became both fascinated... and chagrined.
I suddenly understood that Libby had always participated with me
because she needed to show me what was right—what was good.
Richard just seemed to know.
I saw.
I saw him kiss her with growing insistence; and after a brief
period where she lay ambivalent and still, her mouth opened to his, and grew
eager.
I saw his lips shape themselves over her breasts, caring for each
nipple in turn; and her arms entwined around his neck to encourage it.
I saw his hand slip between her thighs; and she parted them
willingly, wriggling as he grazed her vulva.
Things seemed to be going well—for everyone but me, that is.
I saw him slither down the bed to where his mouth could replace or
augment his fingers, and got another unpleasant surprise: Libby's reaction to
this when I had done it had always been one of reticence, or outright refusal.
Thus, I was stunned when, unbidden, she readily lifted her legs to
drape them over his shoulders, and relaxed them to rest easily along his broad
back.
That kind of easy accommodation would have been amusing if it had
been anyone but Libby—the same Libby who'd once told me she didn't “feel comfortable doing that."
Evidently what she'd meant was "doing that" with Harry.
It certainly looked to me as if she'd suddenly found her… comfort
zone.
I couldn't see much, but what I could was quite informative: Her
hands, which had for a moment rested gently atop his head, dropped onto the bed
as if she were enervated by what he was doing. Seconds later, as he began
working in earnest, Libby's slender toes first curled, then flexed... and
finally began an almost lackadaisical waggle that continued as long as he did.
And he continued for quite a while.
Eventually, though, she regained her strength, or at least her
strength of purpose: Her hands reached down to clutch at him, to urge him up
towards her. Almost before Libby could indicate what she wanted, he disengaged,
and quickly took his place above her.
When they joined, it was like two streams
melding into one, and flowing perfectly onward: I almost couldn't tell where
one of them ended and the other began. Again, Libby's arms relaxed onto the
bed… but her legs had a mind of their own and wrapped themselves around him,
her feet meeting sole-to-sole in what I would describe as a prayerful pose if
it weren't so sacrilegious.
He moved easily into and out of her, the stroke
deep, steady and fluid. Libby’s response was quietly fervent, her hips rolling
in complete acceptance of both his style…
…and
his substance.
Despite my mind's desire to trivialize what was happening, to make
it somehow ugly, shallow and mean, I couldn't pretend they were just having
sex—that this wasn't true lovemaking. It was. She was at once artist and object d'art; and Richard clearly
appreciated the canvas upon which he was privileged to work.
It had never been like that for us.
Oh, we got where we both wanted to go, eventually, but... we stumbled
there.
It was pathetic compared to her and Richard.
I wanted to be furious, but I just
couldn’t manage it.
Libby Lattimore was still the most beautiful
thing I’d ever seen in my life.
She never said a word, but I knew the moment of her climax, and
his. He threw his head back and groaned; only then was he anything but
restrained, plunging into her with almost violent force. As always, Libby came
quietly, as if afraid to disturb anyone; only the two fistfuls of blanket she
tugged out of place gave any evidence to what she'd felt.
I hoped he'd get up and leave right after they were done, but
instead, they lay side-by-side, hands clasped. I never saw her stir or glance
at him in that time, but in only a few minutes, he grew hard and ready again.
I now understood to what "the Second" referred.
As I watched, Libby silently rolled over, and lowered herself to
encompass his shaft, at first content just to have him inside, then moving with
care and purpose—a mutual purpose that, this time, she labored to achieve.
It was only now that I could see her face, her expression. Libby
bit her lip harder as she continued to ride him—her expression that one of
anguished pleasure with which I was intimately familiar, though less so than I
would have liked. At first, I thought her hands were cupping her own breasts,
but realized after a moment she was simply covering them. It was startling that
she would feel vulnerable, considering her hips were rolling with real zest.
Then, again, nothing would startle me now.
Her eyes opened once, near the end of it... and if the closet
hadn't been so dark, I would have thought she'd seen me. But they fluttered
shut again as he bucked his hips upward, and she accommodatingly sank back onto
him, taking what he offered with his release.
When he was done, Libby's head dropped as if she were exhausted.
Perhaps she was…
…or perhaps satiated was a better description.
Again, she lay back next to him.
For long moments afterward, they whispered. I couldn't hear, but
the tones were recognizable: She was pleading.
Five minutes later, without another word, he was dressed and gone.
I guess he'd gotten what he'd wanted.
Now I had two goals: wait for Libby to turn out the lights and
fall asleep...
...and try not to cry while I did.
Libby's Turn
Dawn
I managed to leave the apartment that morning without bursting
into tears.
It's over.
Maybe that isn't what he said,
but I'm not an idiot. "I want to see other people" is never a prelude to better things.
On line at the transporter platform, I played over our
relationship in my mind, searching for the moment in which it had all gone
wrong.
We'd been so happy. Rather, I'd
been so happy.
Obviously there was some dispute on the former point.
I really didn't have a habit of talking to myself, but this
morning I made an exception—on more than one occasion, judging by the reactions
of my fellow travelers. There's nothing like indulging your neuroses in public;
at least people tend to leave you alone.
I'm sure the paint-covered smock and cartoon lunch-box don't help.
Cathi, my supervisor at the gallery, and mother hen
extraordinaire, saw my face as I entered, and immediately knew something had
gone wrong.
"It's that young man from Starfleet, isn't it?" Her face
was sympathetic, but her tone held on odd admixture of disapproval and "I
told you so."
I really wasn't in the
mood, but I knew she meant well, and so bore up.
"His name is Harry,
Cath, and… we're reevaluating our relationship."
"OK, sweetie," she said, managing to cram understanding, comforting and
patronizing—I always wondered why that word wasn't "matronizing" when
applied to a woman—into just those two words.
Work was rarely a chore for me… but
today I would have rather stayed in bed.
Unfortunately, the man I would have
wanted to stay with me wasn't
interested anymore.
Dusk
"Hi."
I turned, and from my crouch glanced boot-to-head. Gray trousers,
red trim…
Harry?
No.
This man was taller, and more strongly built. His features were
chiseled to marble perfection: If he'd lived 450 years ago, he'd have been a
candidate for a poster trumpeting Aryan supremacy.
I'm a big girl, but this man made me feel small.
The deep voice went with the rest of the package.
"Maybe you remember me, Libby? Richard Ryan? We dated a few
times?" The tone was amused.
I smiled at him, and stood. I was still looking up.
"I remember."
We went to dinner.
We went for a walk—a long walk.
We talked about us, briefly… and about Harry and me at length.
He was a good listener—far better than I remembered. Richard had
been one of the men who'd decided me to lay off cadets as too arrogant. Now,
though, he was solicitous, comforting… and exactly what I needed.
Even though it was late, I invited him in for tea—to this day, I
believe just for tea… but one out of three is only good in baseball.
I should have had an inkling of what was to come—heh—when he
chuckled outside the door.
"What's so funny?"
"Harry Kim. What a
name.
"Rules to live by, Lib: Never
trust a guy with two first names."
Obviously I was being set up, but took the bait anyway, pointing
out with a smile, "You have two
first names, Richard."
He grinned.
"I'm the exception to a lot
of rules."
Darkness
"Forget him, Libby.
“Let me make you feel better.
"Let me make you feel loved."
It won't be love unless
it's Harry.
That was how I felt, but I didn't have the heart to say it to this
man, who'd made it apparent he cared for me… wanted me.
I thought about the fact that I still loved Harry.
I thought about the fact that he'd hurt me—that he clearly didn't
love me.
And, though I know it's more than a little shallow, I thought back
to the time I’d spent in bed with Richard…
…and accepted that even if he couldn't make me feel loved, he knew
very well how to make me feel good.
And I needed to feel
good—at least for a little while.
So I let him do as he pleased, knowing it would probably please
me, too.
I didn’t say anything as he went about making love to me. It felt
fine, but I wasn’t by any means overwhelmed. I sighed a few times; he took them
for excitement or at least satisfaction, when in a way for me they may have
signified only contentment, or perhaps simple tolerance.
As he kissed down my body, though, my attitude left ambivalence,
stopped briefly at interest, and moved quickly on to quiet anticipation.
I knew what was impending.
I placed my legs just where I knew he wanted them—comfortable for
us both.
He smiled knowingly, and I shivered.
This was an act of love I’d sorely missed: Harry doesn’t like it,
and I’d never force him to do something simply for my own gratification. I know
some women have the feministic “you must give to receive” imperative, but to
me, that’s selfish and mean-spirited. I sincerely enjoy pleasing a man that
way, so why withhold it in some display of sexual resentment?
Richard, though, was more than willing.
He and I had quarreled a lot when we'd dated—to be honest, he was
more than a bit of an arrogant asshole—but he'd settled a lot of arguments with
that incisive tongue of his… and I obviously don't mean by talking. Of course,
I'm sure he'd laugh and say he'd won those debates… and he'd have a
pretty good case.
I’d been feeling guilty, wondering and worrying about Harry—that
is, until a few seconds after Richard really got going.
If you’d asked me after that, I would probably have moaned, “Harry
who?”
Richard, whenever he’d gone down on me in the past, had always
possessed a way of making me feel utterly, wonderfully drained, as if he were
lapping up my life-force and will along with my juices.
It felt so good, though, I would have been more than happy to die that way.
His flattened tongue bathed my vulva with a perfect rhythm;
occasionally he surprised me when its pointed tip snaked out, flicking or
encircling my clitoris, or delving between my folds and parting them as it
passed. He even drew my lips between his own, tugging gently, suckling with
real relish.
Once or twice, I thought I was going to black out.
I may not have loved him, but I certainly loved this. He was a real connoisseur, and I
didn’t at all mind being on the menu. Dreamily, I remembered the old joke,
“I’ll give you an hour to stop that.”
Frankly, I would have given him a week.
I was still elsewhere when I felt him move; I vaguely registered
him atop me when I felt his rigid erection nudge at me…
…and then, at once, he was inside.
Unlike most women, who find it easier to climax with what he'd
just been doing, I'd always needed this; and his slow, thorough
strokes were just what I liked. I was well on my way.
If anything, Richard was better in bed now than he'd been then.
His lips were near my ear.
"Oh, Libby, it's so good… you're so beautiful…"
I didn't say a word for two reasons.
One, I'm not beautiful, and it's usually annoying when someone
says I am—like in this case. I have no pretensions in that vein. I’m
attractive, certainly, but nothing more than that. My mouth is too wide, my
lips are too thin, and my eyebrows don’t so much need a beautician as they do a
landscaper. I have small breasts, slim hips, and my toes are lengthy enough to
function in a pinch as auxiliary fingers; I am, in my opinion, skinny rather
than slender—far too many angles and far too few curves.
I'd only ever really believed that comment from one man… and it
wasn't Richard.
Two, I didn't want to start talking.
I was terrified I might say the wrong name.
Fortunately, it didn't become an issue, since Richard got my
attention back on the matter at hand…
…and I've always been fairly incoherent when I'm coming.
A few moments later, we were at it again.
Even while riding him, though, I realized that Richard was nothing
more than a momentary, if entirely pleasant, distraction.
It was as I settled fully, contentedly onto his big shaft again
that I noticed Harry's clarinet was gone. While, normally, that wouldn't have
bothered me in the least, it had been on its stand when I'd stopped home before
my… ahem… “date.”
My first thought was, Oh
no... Harry was here.
Well… so much for my second orgasm.
Men don't seem to understand how easily we're distracted from
lovemaking. An errant thought can undo all a lover's hard work, no pun
intended, and leave us high and dry—literally.
Then it got worse.
I saw that the closet door was ajar. I'd been looking at it off
and on since... well, since Richard and I had started up again. I couldn't see
into it, but it didn't matter.
Suddenly, I put the clues together, and just knew.
Oh, no... Harry is here.
It was, of course, in that very
instant I felt Richard thrust upward into me, and climax again.
This time, I didn't get as much enjoyment out of it.
I almost burst into hysterical laughter, and wildly thought, Thank God someone's still having a good time.
In the time he’d taken me back into his arms, Richard's expression
had changed—from considerate to conceited.
"So… you liked that, huh,
baby?"
I'd just remembered why I couldn't stand the man.
Damn.
He'd gotten into my panties yet again—even after that final
argument months ago, when I'd said something asininely melodramatic like, "I
wouldn't sleep with you again if you were the last man in the universe, and God
put in a special request!"
And I know he was now thinking, I win. In the way that mattered most to him,
he had.
It was almost a perverse pleasure—no
pun intended—to toss him out, when he'd clearly been expecting sated purrs and,
"Now
that we're back together…" comments.
To his credit, he left swiftly and
silently… but there was a hint of whipped dog about him as he did. Strangely
enough, it would have been perfect to have him do me as well as he had, and
then toss him out—that is, if I didn't now know I'd just been torturing Harry
for the last hour or so.
The door slid closed on the last
vestiges of my relationship with Richard Ryan. He glanced back once, his
expression one of astonished "I can't believe this fucking bitch used me."
Tables turned.
Mine may have held a hint of guilt
intertwined with a touch of satisfaction, but mostly it was neutral: I just
wanted him the hell out of my sight, my apartment… my life…
…because, of course, the real fun was about to begin.
Alone at last, I thought, and waited for him to confront me.
For a long moment, there was neither response nor movement; and I
realized that Harry thought he was going to get away unnoticed.
For a minute, I considered my options: Pretend to nod off and let
him slip, or rather slink, away; or head for the shower, which would allow him
the same chance. Hell, I even considered feigning sleep and cruelly
"gunning him down" with some nasty comment as he walked across the
room towards his escape.
I chose none of those.
Instead, I waited all of two minutes after the front door slid
shut on Richard before saying to my other "guest," "You might as
well come out now."
I heard a thump as his clarinet hit the floor.
Smooth, Harry. Real smooth.
Oddly enough, though I should have been, I wasn't angry over his
little adventure in voyeurism—at least not at first. I was ready instead to be
compassionate, to tell him I was sorry he'd seen that… and if he'd emerged
showing any remorse or contrition, that's exactly what I would have
done.
Instead, he attacked me.
It was a decidedly
unpleasant first few minutes.
As you might expect, Harry was mortified, anguished, frustrated,
infuriated… and one other thing I pointed out a few minutes later.
"Libby… how could you?
You knew I was there, and… how could
you?"