Threesome - Lawrence Block [35]
You know, it’s hard now to remember exactly what that month was like. Not because things have changed radically but because the changes have been on the subtle side. We are still very much ingrown and self-contained, not much concerned either with other people or with cosmic events. But then the mutual self-absorption was total, all-encompassing. Nothing got through the shield.
It was not merely that we spent an astonishing amount of time in bed together. We did. It was not merely that we invented an incalculable number of ways for three people to make love. Again, we did.
But when we were not actually balling, either two of us or all three of us would be wrapped up in some verbal unfolding of self. We did not merely talk, but, as the children say, we rapped.
Magic days, old buddy. The years melted off like fat in a steam room. Overnight, we became young again. There was an innocence to us, an openness about us, that was probably in any objective view at least a little ridiculous. But, see, there was no one around to view us objectively. There was just our holiest of trinities, self-contained and utterly complete, and we did not find ourselves absurd in the least.
This is slow going, this chapter. The work went poorly this morning, and the girls left the house together after lunch, and I’m alone with the typewriter, addressing remarks to a mythical old friend. And trying to describe a mood, an ambiance, which I can barely get exactly right in my own mind, let alone render in words. This writing is easier, it seems, when one knows exactly what one wants to say.
Is a picture really worth a thousand words? That’s what it says in those tables on the backs of children’s notebooks. Twelve inches to a foot, sixteen ounces make a pound, and one thousand words equals one picture.
Let us try a picture or two.
The bedroom at early evening. The last of the sunset barely visible through the window. The closet door slightly ajar and the closet light on, a yellow bulb that throws a soft diffused glow over the room.
Rhoda lies on her back on the bed, eyes closed, breathing slowly, gradually returning to normal. Her body is glossy with perspiration. On her left Priss is curled up with an arm flung across Rhoda’s waist and her head pillowed on Rhoda’s belly. I lie on Rhoda’s other side, but further up on the bed, so that my waist is almost even with her shoulder. I have propped myself up on one elbow. My eyes move back and forth between Rhoda and Priss. I have an erection, which I hold in one hand and brush idly to and fro against Rhoda’s breasts.
Rhoda says, “I love you both so much.”
“And we love you,” I say.
“And we love you,” Priss echoes.
“I came so beautifully. I came in beautiful colors, all red and green and blue. Like a Mexican flag exploding.”
“What an unusual image—”
“Ah, senior, senora, my Mexican flag, she is exploding.”
“Beautiful, beautiful.”
“Harry, you’re going to turn me on all over again. You’re waking up my sleeping tit. What are—oh, for the love of God, that’s your cock!”
“What did you think it was, my elbow?”
“I didn’t really know. I guess I—oh, hey, wow!”
Priss, grinning sleepily, moves her head from Rhoda’s belly. Her tongue darts out and begins drawing insistent circles around Rhoda’s other nipple. I lower myself on the bed so that I can suck Rhoda’s breast instead of nuzzling it with my cock. Priss throws a leg over Rhoda’s lower body, and my prick is happily trapped between each of their thighs. Rhoda’s body trembles as we suck her beautiful breasts.
“God, it’s like nursing twins.”
We stay at her breasts for a long time, happily free of sibling rivalry, drawing special nourishment from these fountains. Then Priss abandons her post and turns neatly around. On hands and knees she straddles Rhoda’s body. She places a kiss on the pit of Rhoda’s stomach, at the very top of the curly auburn triangle. Rhoda beams, and raises her head slightly, and