UNDERWOOD

Installment #3

by Jason Rubis

Tomas wasn't my first lover, not by a long shot. And he wasn't my first editor, but he was the first time I had one of each in the same body. When we met, he was just a copy-editor with my publisher. He wasn't the one who bought my books, but he was the one who sent the manuscripts back to me with little scribbles on the sides in red felt-tip pen, and notes written on little stickies stuck to the pages. Most of them were just what I call "catch-its," like Rebecca's eyes are blue on p.15, but they're green on p. 160. Some of them were pretty funny, though. Little ironic comments on the action or characters, and if you've read any romance novels, you know there's a lot to be ironic about. But he was never insulting or condescending, the way some editors can be. I started sending him replies via e-mail, and soon we were having long virtual conversations about everything under the sun. And since I was living in New York at the time, it wasn't long before we were having lunch occasionally. Then dinner regularly. Then sleeping together.

It was kind of a relief when he went to another publishing house, one that dealt exclusively with technical manuals for various software applications. I no longer had to worry about the ethical dilemna sucking whipped cream off my editor's cock every other night posed. After Tomas started his new job, we got kind of wild.

By now you know a little bit about me, right? You know what I look like and what I think of what I look like, and how easily I get sexed-up, regardless of any of that. Tomas and I were perfect for each other. We were the same age, more or less, even looked alike, sort of. Tomas was as thin and small as me, and his hair was the same sandy brown-blonde. We had the same sense of humor, the same love of heavy, indulgent foods. We loved to laugh. We'd go to little hole-in-the-wall bars in the East Village and drink and laugh for hours, while all the sour-faced punks and tattoo-chicks stared at us out of the corners of their eyes and snorted. Then, after the laughter had conspired with the Manhattans or martinis or gin-and-tonics we had drunk to get us good and horny, we'd go home and do...oh, shameful things.

Tomas liked pleasure. I could hold him captive just by stroking his hair and whispering in his ear, sweet and low, so that my breath tickled him. Or by lying beside him on the bed and running my fingertips over his lower belly, letting them trail over his cock every few minutes.

Of course, most of the time I was considerably more aggressive with him. I tied him up a lot. There was one game we both liked a lot, where I would leave him tied very tightly to the bed, blindfolded so he couldn't see a thing. Then I'd pretend to be a big, hungry cat - a lioness or panther. I'd meow in his ear, and drag my nails down his chest like claws. I'd curl up around his middle and lick his cock and balls, purring and growling until he gasped and cried out loud. Tomas really liked that game. So did I.

Oh honey, the way I treated that boy, you'd think I was the hottest bitch on the planet. I'd pierce his ass with my fingers, I'd smear peanut-butter all over his chest and lick it off...very, very slowly. I'd dress him up in my clothes and tell him I was going to lick his pussy - of course, I was really sucking his cock, but it made him come just as hard.

But I don't want you to think I was exclusively the top in our relationship. Oh no. Tomas liked his fun too. He liked to cuff my hands behind my back and then cuff my ankles to a chair. Then he'd tickle my poor bare feet...Jesus, I used to scream when he did that. Merciless? Christ, it drove me crazy the way he did my feet, gave me the giggles until tears were rolling down my chin. He wouldn't stop until I called him Daddy and begged - I mean begged - him to fuck me.

Oh yeah, we fucked, too. Over and over, until we were both red and wet and sore. Then we fucked some more. It was that hot between us. For eight months. We were both on top of the world. I had published my first romance novel at 22. Lucky girl. Then I did a whole string of them. The royalties didn't amount to much, but between the advances and my trust-fund and simple tastes, I got along just fine. And Tomas was doing well at the new publisher; he moved quick as a flash up the ladder, until he was one of the chief editors. He worked hard, and a lot of weekends, but we always made time for each other. I didn't mind the evenings he had to bring an armload of manuscripts over to read over. I thought those evenings were very cozy. We'd lay naked on the bed with the pages all around us, Tomas reading, me amusing myself by reading - or painting his toenails different colors or just playing with his cock until he was ready for a quick fuck-break.

Were we in love? I certainly loved him, no question about that. And he loved me. He'd tell me every morning, when we took a shower together. We never moved in together, never even talked about it. We were comfortable shuttling back and forth between my little studio on the lower east side and his place in Chelsea. We didn't talk about marriage, either. It felt like our life together was going to last forever, just go on and on in the same golden tongue-and-toes-and-gentials blur it had been for the past eight months.

And then, one day, Tomas disappeared.