I was eighteen. It was the summertime, and I spent a lot of time with one of the bartenders that I worked with during the day as we prepared for the night ahead, or recovered from the evening before. He was a lovely man. I used to give him a hard time, because he really did have difficulty keeping men off of him.
Paul was in his mid-thirties, but he looked like he was maybe 25, and that was being harsh with his looks. He had been in the navy, and was a trained rescue swimmer. He had a medium build, he was well built, and his had disarming good looks. His hair was jet black and fell in perfect, heavy locks across his head, he had disarming black eyes and perfect teeth - the kind you see in toothpaste commercials or whitening advertisements. His smile was lovely, and he only smiled when he meant it, so it was always a pleasure to see.
We spent a lot of time in his loft apartment with his best friend Mike, another guy that we worked with. Most days we threw open his patio doors and let the wind come in. We would lay across his couch sipping drinks and occasionally wander outside to smoke a cigarette. They would toss out ideas for new gimmicks for the dancers, drink specials, new shots, and how to play to crowd’s on various nights of the week. They would tease me about being single, or give me tips on my outfits, or hair [or wigs, which I wore a lot of] and compliment me on my abilities. Most of the time I lay in the floor, or on the couch and listened, content to just be there relaxing. Listening to their banter and watching their expressions as they talked always put me in a good mood.
I’d done drugs before. Lots of them. I was no innocent. So when, on occasion, the two of them decided to indulge, I had no problem with it. They always offered me a hit and I always declined. It wasn’t that I was opposed to it, I just didn’t care to do it.
It felt like a waste to me. You see, I jumped strait into hard drugs, cocaine, meth, poppers and pills. For some reason, smoking weed never did it for me. I had tried it several times, and it had never really done anything for me. I never felt relaxed. I never felt much different, except later on I would feel hungry. I felt like it was a waste, and finally, one day, when they pressed me for a reason, I told them so. If I wanted to be hungry or sleepy, I could do that on my own.
Paul laughed and said I had either not had the good stuff, or I wasn’t doing it properly. I shrugged him off, telling him I had smoked from a tobacco pipe long enough I thought I knew what I was doing. Mike laughed, and told me that I should let Paul get me high the way he had gotten him high for the first time, because he used to think the exact same thing. I agreed, knowing in my mind, that it wasn’t going to make a bit of difference, and if I could settle it once and for all, it would be fine by me.
The, to my surprise, got up and walked back to Paul’s bedroom. Now, I had been in his bedroom before, in fact, it was my favorite room of the house. It had a tall cheery sleigh bed, gorgeous artwork, huge french doors that led to the patio and more pillows and candles than I could count. I wasn’t nervous to be in there, we often spent time in there, I just knew that he kept his stash in his bathroom, and there wasn’t much a reason to be headed back to that particular room.
The two of them removed their shirts, and slipped off their leather sandals. Mike went to light some candles, and Paul took me over to his closet and pulled out a tee-shirt from his huge stack of plain, white, perfectly bleached undershirts. Telling me to put it on, he slid my skirt off my hips with ease of practice [he helped me to dress when I danced] and when I had put in on, lifted me up onto the bed and instructed me to relax.
Now, at this point, I imagine most women would be in a panic. Either from being undressed in a bedroom with two beautiful men, or from nerves at not knowing what the hell was going on. In my case, I was completely calm. I had been around the two of them so often that I had no qualms with doing as they told me. I trusted them implicitly. They had seen me undressed more times than I could count, and I was not shy about seeing them with their shirts off, as they often worked that way on weekends when the club was so hot that neither air conditioner, barrels of water or huge fans could break the sweltering torture brought on by hundreds of people pressed against each other for hours on end.
When I laid back on the pillows, I closed my eyes for a moment, trying to center myself and become as calm as I could possibly be. I opened them again when I felt Mike settle onto the end of the bed. Sitting cross legged, he managed to look both completely comfortable and somehow very, well, stern almost. Paul slid onto the bed next to me, laying on the night stand a lighter and his pipe.
With almost no effort, he slid me into his lap, so that I was still propped up, half against his pillows, and half against his chest, my legs dangling over the side of the bed, the tips of my toes playing in and out of the sheer table cover. He asked me if I was alright, and I smiled and nodded. Reaching for his pipe, he told me to watch him as he did it. I nodded. This wouldn’t be a difficult task, considering I nearly had my head on his shoulder, and he had me in such a way that unless I struggled against his arms, I wouldn’t be able to see much but him.
The mechanics of the next moment or so still escape me when I think of it. But I know how pulled me very tight as he used his right arm to hold the pipe to his lips and his left hand to light the pipe. I was close, very close to him. In fact, with the exception of a drunken after party where I had made a spectacle of myself dancing with him, I had never been quite ths close to him before. But Mike must have taken the pipe from him, just after he inhaled. I remember Mike’s voice telling me to look at Paul closely, and then the sound of him inhaling the pipe on his own.
I lost track of everything for a moment, though, because Paul began to kiss me. I knew in a moment what he was doing, but was so surprised, I think I would have choked even had I done that type of thing before. But, I titled my head back and tried to exhale through my nose as he poured the smoke into my mouth, cradling my head with his hand and teasing my lips with his tongue.
I coughed and spluttered for a moment, feeling completely ungraceful. He smiled and asked me if I wanted to try again. I said yes. Now, this is another moment where you might jump tp conclusions about why I said yes. I’ll tell you. First, I honestly wanted to try and feel it. Second, he was [and quite possibly still] one of the most beautiful men I have ever seen in my life and if he wanted to mouth feed me drugs, I was not going to say no. Third, I was already feeling tingly, which I imagine was from the combination of surprise and a small amount of lust. I’m no angel. I’ll admit that freely, and regardless of my orientation, or his, I knew there was no small amount of regard that we both held for each other, if only from a purely esthetic point of view. This was something most guys in the bar we worked at would kill to do, and would never experience, and I wasn’t about to pass up the chance. Not in a million years.
He cradled me back again, this time sliding me in between his legs, so that my back was rested on his chest, and this time when he was ready, I was too. His mouth came down on mine again, and I closed my eyes and imagined pulling the smoke physically out of his mouth with my tongue. I inhaled deeply, and I think I heard him sigh. Mike was laughing in the background, and said something to the effect it was about time the two of us had gotten around to doing this.
I let it go, not wanting to ask. And I tipped my head back and exhaled out slowly, feeling soft, sexy, and strangely unreal. Paul was stroking my arms and talking to Mike, but his voice was soft, and soothing. Mike called it his bedroom voice. Regardless of what it was, I felt very nearly like I might float away, but they weren’t going to let me do so, not just yet.
I was slipping my legs back and forth across the duvet, curling my toes and enjoying the feel of my thighs against each other. Mike laughed again, and began to massage my feet, telling me to try and relax. Paul went back to the pipe, and then, back to my mouth. This time he did sigh, and just after I let the smoke go, he went back to kissing me in a soft, teasing way. His hands worked their way across my stomach and up to my collar bone, where he feathers touches there with expert movements.
I lay my head back into his chest, sliding down a bit, and began to stroke his legs. Mike moved over me, and began to give me a hit from his mouth, and I smiled as I took it from him, slipping my hands across his back and then back down his chest.
We went on for some time this way, the three of us, until Mike declared himself finished, and went to lay on a chair just outside the french doors, in the sunlight. Paul stayed with me, and continued to pet me and give me hits, kissing me in his deep and oddly detached manner for nearly another half hour. When we finished, he lay next to me on the bed, and let me enjoy the feeling of the pillows beneath me.
I vaguely remember telling him how I felt. The way everything felt a little softer and more lovely around me. How I couldn’t feel the ache in my body that comes from dancing. How I felt beautiful and a little giggly at the same time. He let me talk on for ages, and then he laughed and put a finger to my lips, telling me he had obviously done what he had set out to do.
I know we lay there for quite some time, and I am not exactly sure how we left things, but I remember that very vividly. Him petting my stomach and lounging with me on those pillows, and the long time we spent laying there quietly. And the one real kiss he gave me before he went outside to join Mike, telling me I was beautiful and he was glad I finally felt that way.