swell (2002)
published in Shameless: Women's Intimate Erotica (Seal Press)

"Would it be sexist to say that June Cleaver or Donna Reed wouldn't be so bad to have waiting for me when I got home? Or maybe a nice little Jeannie?"

"Only if you've got a dick, and I don't think you're packing at the moment."

"I'm not. So I'll say it: I could learn to live with having a chilled martini, a home-cooked meal, a cute little apron and heels waiting for me."

Finn slipped his feet up on the coffee table and pulled a long draw from his ale. "Huh. So, you're saying that all this old-fashioned egalitarian stuff just isn't doing it for you?"

"Oh no. Most of the time it does, and besides, I don't really know how you do it the other way when there are lofts and starving artists and tofu and multiculturalism and secondary partners involved. Hell, we don't even have a tablecloth."

"Not really necessary when you don't have a table to put it on."

"Now, you know, that's the truth."

He took another long swig, then dug the rest of the Pad Thai out from the bottom of the cardboard container, munching as he spoke.

"Maybe Joe'd do it." I barely managed to keep peanut sauce from shooting out of my nose.

"Oh yeah, she'd go for that. We'll just have to tell her to leave her hacksaw at the door."

I will reluctantly confess that my life is something of a parody-in-action. I have a boyfriend who stays home and mans the fort (as it were), painting post-postmodern art, and a girlfriend named Joe who is a carpenter. We barely manage a totally disorganized pansexual, interracial, age-disparate polyamorous relationship. I run a dingy coffeeshop in the greedy, looming shadow of Starbucks, which means I cater mainly to the Finns and Joes of the world, and the young folks who think for a millisecond that they want to be the Finns and Joes, with the benefit of a trust fund to back them up. We live in a loft, with a bathtub in the kitchen, in a neighborhood that will inevitably become gentrified by the time we're ready to move out, we're all vegan and we often put the wrong person's Doc Martens in the morning. Our cat, a stray that moved in without checking the lease or seeing the vet first, was named Sisyphus.

I swear to god, none of this is intentional. It is not possible to be this PC on purpose.

"Point," I replied, having finished my internal narrative. "With those hips, you know, you'd look dashing in an apron."

Finn stood up and looked himself over. "Gosh, you think? You don't think my ass is too flat?"

"Nah, a few homemade potato-chip casseroles and you'll put Gina Lollabrigida to shame."

He vamped it up, puckering his lips at me. "Well, aren't you a peach."

I eyed the kitchen as he walked over, tossing his take-out container in the trash with far less than pro-NBA aim, and viewed a frenetic shower of mung sprouts as they jumped ship. The dishes leered at me in an overgrown pile, mocking my pain. I flipped the TV set off with the remote.

As Finn rumbaed his way into the bathtub, flopping enough water on the floor to melt a half-dozen Wicked Witches of the West, and the cat leapt unto my lap, gouging my thighs in the process, I felt my eyeballs roll far back enough into my head to see the times tables I memorized in the third grade.

Alevei! Where was June when a girl needed her, I ask you?

* * *

"Can I get a half-caf carob enriched soy mocha, no whip, with froth?"

I gestured to the espresso machine behind the counter, turning a page. "Be my guest."

He just stood there. Oh, the lost of the world that end up at my doorstep. I gave him a glare over my dog-eared copy of Marcuse.

"Neshomeleh, this is not a service clinic for the obsessive-compulsive, I don't have an insurance plan or scheduled breaks, nor does coffee do squat for me at this point. You want a coffee, I can get you a coffee. You want a Martha Stewart special that's basically just coffee with a bunch of weird shit thrown in EXACTLY the way you like it, you're more than welcome to make it yourself, but I refuse to be an enabler."

A beat or two skipped. "You know, a strong cup of coffee with a lot of cream would be perfect."

Bella's Cafe and Consumer Rehabilitiation Clinic. Over 5 customers cured daily. "That's my guy. I'm on it."

As I switched the old basket of grounds for a new one, I noticed Finn out of the corner of my eye snatching one of my tables and attempting to get it out the door. I ran around the counter and blocked the entrance, a jarring flash of hoop earrings and vintage 1970's lycra, hopefully managing to look foreboding as well as fashionable. "No way, Giuseppe. Not again."

He dropped the table and put his hands up. "Caught red-handed by Foxy Brownstein, the caffeine police! I surrender! Unless you have a billy club, in which case I could put up a little struggle for fun...."

I wasn't falling for it. "You know what I'm talking about Finn. I'm not losing another table so that you can glue it to the ceiling again. Not only did the last one not sell, but I lost a table and nearly half my foot when it got humid. No."

He shifted on his feet, batting his eyelashes. "What if I promise to obey the laws of gravity and good taste?"

I looked at him sidelong, waving a hand in approval at my newly cured patient who was tentatively reaching to refill his own cup. "It's the gravity part that concerns me. Will we see this table again tomorrow, legs and all?"

"Scout's honor." He did a rather involved hand gesture then picked up the table and walked out.

The patient slurped his java and gave me a sympathetic look. "I don't think that was the scout hand signal."

I doubted it myself. "Maybe in Sicily."

* * *
I dragged my sorry ass up three flights of stairs, on wood-bottomed platforms, no less, to find Joe leaning back on the wall, drumming "Wipe Out" on her knees.

You know, maybe I don't get to come home to Donna Reed, but coming home to find your sweaty, dreadlocked girlfriend in a dirty tank-top and jack boots waiting for you isn't so bad, either. I fought off the urge to start singing "Hey Joe," and just wolf-whistled instead.

Joe smiled and planted a salty kiss on my lips. "You know, your boyfriend's a total freak. He paged me and told me to come for dinner tonight, and now he won't let me in."

I put my hands to my mouth, trying to look surprised. "Och un vai! And he always seemed so normal! How do I always end up with these guys?"

Joe shrugged, grabbing my ass in the process. As I jumped, I heard the stereo start rolling out Herb Alpert. Joe and I raised an eyebrow in unison. Then the door opened.

"Holy shit," we also said in unison. We were getting good at this. Joe even dropped her vice-grip on my left buttock.

Finn stood in the doorway, a hand on his hip. Which supported his apron. Which covered a gorgeous black silk cocktail dress. Which stopped at cuban-heeled stockings that led down to black heels. He winked at me from beneath a false eyelash.

Joe put a hand on my shoulder, her mouth hanging open. "Well good golly, Miss Holly. Go lightly."

Finn swiveled on his heel, gesturing into the loft. "Well, don't stand outside all night, I know you've both had a very long day. Why don't you give me your coats and have a seat?"

Pity it was August and we didn't have coats. Joe and I moved slowly into the house and she elbowed me in the ribs, whispering in my ear. "You forget to medicate him this morning?"

I shook my head. "No. But I think I'm responsible for his fall into the soup. I'll explain later."

We slid unto the sofa, while I tried to figure out if that was really a vacuum cleaner I saw in the corner, and if so, tried to think of which of our friends Finn possibly could have borrowed such a contraption from. Joe scratched her head as Finn did something or other in the kitchen. "You know, I have to say this. Finn looks...well, Finn looks completely fuckable."

Let's press pause. Joe and Finn get along just fine, and we've dabbled a few times in some synchronized shtupping, but Joe is around mainly because she's attracted to me. Finn just has some extra equipment that she occasionally finds useful. Occasionally useful and "fuckable" are not one and the same.

But before I could get too confused, my newly femme boyfriend came and whisked us both off the couch. "We'll be having our drinks on the patio this evening."

I was starting to earnestly worry about him. "That's nice, bubee. Umm. We don't have a patio."

He clucked his tongue at me and rubbed my shoulder a bit, steering me towards the back of the loft. "Poor Bella. She must have had a really hard day. We do have a patio, darling," he said, turning me into a crudely built platform, upon which sat my table, fully set, and behind which was a full wall-mural of a suburban backyard. Of course, you'd only know that's what it was if you were familiar with Finn's particular artistic style. Otherwise, you might have thought it was a spotty green wall that got hit with an overturned dumpster. But I have an eye for artistic interpretation.

He held out a chair for each of us as we slid into them, both of us unusually silent. Truth is, I was fixated on Finn's ass swathed in black silk. And I wasn't the only one. So I was also fixated on Joe fixated on Finn's ass swathed in black silk. He looked way better than June ever did.

"Martini, Ward? Your slippers, your strap-on, Beaver?"

Well, wake up, little Susie. Spaced-out reverie over. Joe and I both just nodded dumbly, and Finn just called Joe "Beaver." And she didn't belt him or call him a pig. Toto, we are SO not in Kansas anymore. Or Bucktown, for that matter.

He brought a perfectly mixed Stoli martini, and my shiny silicone wonder in a harness for Joe. No slippers. I figured we'd let that one pass.

I gulped my martini indelicately as Finn-cum-June went back to fuss in the kitchen, and Joe just looked at me, holding up the harness. Amazing what a few swigs of vodka will do, and how quickly. I just shrugged and mouthed "Why the hell not?" Joe shrugged in response and headed to the bathroom. I stood up myself and walked over to Finn, who was putting the finishing touches of something that looked and smelled oddly like turkey.

"Umm, looks good. What is it?"

He smiled widely and gestured to the thing. "Tofurkey™! And we have mashed red potatoes, organic corn, freshly baked bread -- "

I had to interrupt. "You baked fucking bread?"

"I said freshly baked bread, honey, I did NOT say I baked fucking bread. Please. I can only work so many miracles. Speaking of which," he said, grinning as he slid his ass unto the counter, "are we having fun yet? Do I fit the bill?"

I let the air out from between my teeth. "You know, you do. You make June look like a wallflower."

"Honey, June WAS a wallflower. I figured you could use version 2.0. I call it 'June meets Marilyn.' "

I stuck my fingers in the potatoes, tasting them. Not bad at all. Finn batted at my hands. "Go sit your ass down, woman. I'll serve in a minute."

My ass and I headed back to the table, and watched as Joe strolled back in, clearly packing. I was definately working up an appetite.

Finn came, took our plates, and brought them back filled to the brim with food, and headed back to the kitchen as Joe started munching. Through a mouthful, she muttered, "Okay, are you going to tell me what's going on here?"

I sighed. "I was saying last night to Finn when we were spacing in front of the tube that it wouldn't be such a bad thing to have June Cleaver to come home to."

She rolled her eyes. "Jeez, girl. Rampant sexism and pop culture worship aside, I'm amazed you had the chutzpah to ask Finn to do this."

I slugged the last of the vodka. "I didn't. The meshugener actually suggested you do it first."

Joe didn't have the luck I had with the peanut suace last night, and I watched a kernel of corn whiz past me.

"Impressive. And basically my reaction, at a much slower MPH. But I didn't suggest anything. He did this all on his own."

She wiped her chin. "Unreal. Yo June," she shouted to Finn, "You going to come sit down or what?"

He nibbled at a plate in the kitchen blithely. "No no no. A good homemaker doesn't sit at the table, silly. Refill on your drink, Ward?"

"Umm. Sure."

He filled the shaker and shimmied over, and Joe's eyes, watching his hips, clicked back and forth like one of those ridiculous kit-kat clocks. This was getting completely out of hand. And I was really losing my interest in dinner. Fuck it. Since it was handed to me, I was going to play the broitgeber card.

* * *

"Finn...erm, June?"

"Yes, darling?" he said.

"I'm ready for dessert. And you are not going back to the kitchen to get it."

Joe dropped her fork and grinned. "Well, shit. You go, girl."

I was in my cups now (wanting to burst out of them, but in them, nonetheless), and fortified with enough Stoli to feel in charge. "Oh, no no. You go girl. Finn, if you won't sit at the table, sit the hell under it."

"Don't you get 'gressive with me Violet Rutherford." He looked very proud of himself for belting out that obscure tidbit.

I looked him square in the face. "Look: Joe told me you looked fuckable, and really, I have to agree with her on that one. You do look fuckable, and even more fucakable because Joe said that, and right now, if I don't get to see some action, I'm going to go out of my mind." I had surprised myself, here. "So, well, yeah. Let's see it. I'm ready."

"Damn," they both said. In unison. We were all getting good at this.

I moved my chair back to let Finn in under the table, and watched as he got on his stockinged knees between Joe's legs. My view was a little bit imperfect, so I pushed the table totally out of the way, pulled a smoke from my pocket, lit it and sat back as Joe grabbed Finn's coiffed auburn hair. She ran her finger over his patent red mouth and looked at me.

"Jesus, he looks good." I nodded. He did. So did she. So did the torte on the counter, but that would keep until later.

Finn unbuttoned Joe's jeans and slid his mouth over her black silicone appendage, his eyes on me as he swallowed it, and pulled his mouth to its tip again. I felt the mashed potatoes melt inside my stomach. Screw voyeurism. It's highly overrated.

I slid off my chair at light speed and slipped behind Finn on my knees, sliding my hands under his dress, making a beeline to what I knew had to be the erection of the decade. Under silk, no less. Ward never had it this good.

He let out a long sigh, and I licked my fingers and slid them up and down his cock synchronously as he gave Joe head, smudging his lipstick in a very fetching Joan Crawford-goes-on-a-bender way. I slid the fingers of my other hand around the top of his stocking, reveling in the texture of his leg hairs beneath the garter clips. As he moaned and groaned my finger wanted very much to dip into his asshole, but I was lacking the proper acoutrements.

"I'll be right back, " I whispered in his ear. "I need to go to the bedroom and get -- "

He slid a pair of gloves out of his apron pockets and handed them to me, slipping me a tube of lube from the other pocket. Gee whiz. Mama certainly did have a brand new bag. I slid on the gloves to the satisfying sound of the pop of latex, lubed them up and let my fingers do the walking.

Joe cocked her head to the side, smiling at me as I circled slowly, then slipped my slick finger inside and Finn/June cooed, reaching beneath his apron to stroke himself wantonly. I gave Joe a quick wink, but preferred to let my eyes wander down to Finn's sweet pucker, watching as my finger slid slowly in and out, between his ripe cheeks amidst the silk and the stockings.

I let my other hand wander over Joe's waistband beneath her package and wiggled her clit gently, relishing having both my partners' tender spots in the palm of my hands. My brain was trying to do some imaginative calisthenics regarding how the next few hours might be spent when I realized that I was a woman without the proper accessories. But I had a feeling someone else wasn't. I slid my hands out from their warm locations and patted Finn's apron pockets.

"Hey, June? What else do you have between those apron strings, nu?" He grinned at me over his shoulder after recovering a vague composure, and began unloading his booty.

"Why, everything a girl needs with her, of course! My gloves, my wrap, my hat, my ring, and my flask."

I sat silent for a moment, amazed not only with the entire contents of our play kit he had tucked in there, but with his quick handling of the double entendre. How was it the broad in the LBD was not only the best dressed, but always the wittiest one in the room?

"Well, that makes it easy," Joe said. "Let's see. Eeenie, meenie, minie mo, catch a tiger by the... oh." She picked up the shiny cock ring, grinning. I concurred with a nod. Then we looked at Finn's rather profound erection. Maybe not.

I patted it gently. "Down, boy. Down." It sprang right back up to meet my hand. He shrugged apologetically. He was a very bad actor. With a very uncooperative prick.

Joe shook her head. "I bet he'll be saying he only took it off to do the dishes, too, the harlot."

"He may be wearing June's pearls, but you know, this sure looks like Lumpy," I added.

I swerved around Finn and tugged at Joe's jeans. "Well, guess he won't be getting any dessert then. His loss, your gain, girl."

He whimpered as I tossed the worn denim across the room and wrestled Joe out of her harness and boxers, unwrapping a dam while she dribbled lube on her twat and spread it around diligently.

Sliding the thin sheet of latex over her pussy, I gave a tentative nibble and she slapped her hands to the side of my head. I interpreted this as encouragement (or a seizure, which could also have been interesting), and so pressed forward, razing my tongue in long lines between her clit and her cunt, pressing her furry chocolate lips rhythmically against my cheeks as I did. As I suckled Joe noisily, Finn's hands slid over my breasts and pushed my dress unto my collarbones, exposing my erect nipples.

I hummed into Joe's cunt happily as he pinched the pink nubs, twisting them forcefully between his fingers. Joe teetered slightly in her chair.

Finn's hands slithered down over my ribs and my hips, around my thighs, and with a smooth stroke, he pulled my lips back and pressed two fingers hard against my clit. Pushing my hips back, he pulled my ass into his hips and ground his dick against it as he jiggled my clitoris divinely. As I growled under my breath, Joe inched back fast with an unbutcherly whimper and a grin.

"Shit, sister," she laughed. "That mouth battery operated?" I don't think I responded coherently. But I got the point. Clitoral overload was quickly approaching. Rock on.

"Need a hand?" I managed to mutter.

By way of affirmation, Joe spread her legs wide and leaned back in the chair, arms raised; moaning in anticipation. I managed to slip a new pair of gloves on without disconnecting Finn's fingers from my pulse point, taking in the fine view of her bushy armpits beside the dark nipples I could see jutting through her worn top. Her right hand slid to her clit and circled slow.

Dousing my hands in lube, I slid two fingers into her cunt, twirling them back and forth, as Finn moved back and opened a condom, unrolling it unto his cock, seductively whispering in my ear, "Now Ward, don't be too hard on the Beaver."

Smartass. As I worked up to four fingers, tucking my thumb into my palm, his fingers moved back to my clit, jiggling it jollilly as he circled the tip of his dick over my twat, then pressed in with a long thrust. As he pushed his way into me, I let Joe's cunt swallow the widest part of my hand, reflexively balled up my fist, and swiveled my wrist in deep as the three of us released a collective squeal.

As we ground rhythmically forward and back, I had a hard time chasing the the little voice out of my head that kept gulping and whispering, "Gee Wally, do you think Mom'll be mad?"

I felt Joe's cunt start to clench around my hand and swiveled it, watching like an alter kucker as she worked her clit manically. Like I gave a rat's ass what Mom thought. I pressed her to the chair with my other hand and drove it home, pulsing my fist open and closed inside her as she growled and shuddered, her juices sliding over my glove and down my arm beautifully. I barely managed to slide my hand out before she slid off the chair and to her knees in front of me, covering my mouth with hers.

I popped off my gloves and pulled her to me, just gosh-darn-overwhelmed as suddenly all my attention was on my own body, sandwiched and steaming between Joe and Finn, like a warm hors d'oeuvre. As Finn pulsed behind me, Joe slid her sticky hands over my hips and nibbled at my neck deliciously, and reached for her harness again, buckling herself in, looking to me, then to Finn. Unable to flip out a witty response, or any sort of coherent utterance, I did a version of the Bus Stop in his direction, and Joe licked her lips and circled, sidling up behind him and making her grand entrance.

I felt Finn's moan on my back as it rumbled from his stomach, as he arched up behind me, penetrated and penetrating all at once, the lucky boy. I felt the starchy hem of his apron on my ass, smelled Joe's sweet sweat mingled with his and mine, and my toes curled in my wedges as he pumped faster, tapping my clitoris with his fingers like he was drumming out morse code. I could envision the rhythm of the dildo gyrating over the tips of his stockings, the black straps of the harness over Joe's luxe round brown bottom. The perfect portrait of the American family. In the back of my head the peppy strains of the theme song marched in time to Finn's tapping fingers and the doubled pounding against my ass: ba DA bah dadadum, DA dadum, bah DA dadadada dum...

And as I felt Finn's cock tremble and heard Joe call out with her usual "Opaa!" I came in violent waves and narrowly missed giving myself a concussion on the chair I was holding on to for dear life. And as we all moaned, then whimpered, then sighed, then slid unto the floor in a sloppy, drippy pile, my eyes wandered over to Finn, who, despite the smudged lipstick, the unruly coiffure, and the dress hiked over his ass, looked every bit the perfect homemaker.

He grinned like an idiot. "Ward, did we handle everything all right?"

I blew air slowly from my lips, smiling, "Bubee, it was just swell."

Finn lethargically crawled around Joe, over to the living room and grabbed the remote, flicking on a Mary Tyler Moore episode. He looked at the screen, then over his shoulder.

"You know, Bella, with that head-wrap, and the dress and the shoes, you have a serious Rhoda thing going."

Joe came back from the dead and waved her hands in the air in limp surrender. "Oh god, no. Even in this trio, no one is perverse enough to wanna fuck Lou Grant."

I wiggled an eyebrow. "Zoltsu azoy laiben, Beav."

© 2002, 2004 Heather Corinna. All rights reserved.