The gates of horn: the danger of threesomes with cousins

(A fragment of something I’m working on today.) 


Jaime had told Sa’afia to hold Ana’s arms while Ana knelt, her back arched, on his bed. She watched with blank curiosity while he swung his belt across Ana’s ass, letting the leather bite and kiss at her bottom and the tops of her thighs.

mff analBut when Jaime put the belt down and positioned his cock against Ana’s oiled little asshole, Sa’afia leaned forward so he could kiss her. Jaime put his right hand on Sa’afia’s waist, gripping her flesh hard while he pressed his cock against Ana’s untried, unentered entrance.

Ana’s skin burned to his touch, hot from his belt, as he closed contact with her, though the sheets in which he slept were cool.

When he leaned forward to meet Sa’afia’s embrace and kiss her, her breasts were also cool. She drew him into a tight hug while he pushed forward into Ana. Ana opened suddenly, and she gasped and begged him to pause. He did, but didn’t withdraw from her, and savoured the sensation of his cock held tightly, her little muscle clasping the head of his cock. Her lasshole.

But his dreaming imagination couldn’t keep up that level of detail. Jaime drifted forward into a generic female world, a sequence of visual and tactile moments, of Ana’s softnesses and Sa’afia’s. When it all became too improbable, and too much mental work to sustain, he woke up.

Jaime sprawled as if he’d fallen, back in his bed, with light coming in the windows, back in a world in which he couldn’t have sex with Ana, and he shouldn’t have a threesome with two cousins. He guessed the two of them would find it quite awkward, in reality. Well, maybe Ana wouldn’t mind. But Sa’afia would.

But he didn’t worry about those considerations until, eyes closed to keep the images he’d dreamed, and with spit and his cock in his hand, he came. Decorously, into tissues.

At the time he thought it was an unusually pleasurable dream, because of the intensity of the sensations that he imagined he felt as he dreamed. It didn’t occur to him that part of his mind might have been warning him. Our earliest source for the idea that some dreams bring truth and often warning, and that those dreams come through the Gates of Horn is Homer’s Odyssey, where Penelope dreamt of her husband’s retjurn after so many years.

She thought it was a false dream, that had come to her through the Gates of Ivory.

But that dream came from the Gates of Horn, and it was true. Her husband was coming home and the floor of their home, and then her white thighs, would flow with blood. Like Penelope’s, Jaime’s dream had been a horny dream, and so he should have been wary. But although he knew these things, he didn’t remember them. 

Probation Officer #196: Endgames 4

I was home. I’d written a long email to Sa’afia. She was married now. She’d sent me photos of the wedding. She looked beautiful, of course. There’d been a lot of absurdly handsome men and pretty women with parasols, wooden verandahs painted white, intensely green greenery, and tropical flowers. It looked like a good party.

I’d complimented her on her dress, and made a show of saying something nice about Paul, and then turned to safer subjects. There was something oddly haphazard about the way the houses were spaced, for example. Was that because they were built on communal land?

That gave Sa’afia something to write about, and so we talked. I wanted to ask her if she missed me, if she loved me, and if she wanted to come back, and I wanted to tell her I wanted her. If she said she wanted me, then I’d do what it took to have us together again. That was all I wanted to say, and I couldn’t say it. If she felt anything similar she couldn’t say it either.

So writing the emails hurt, at least at my end, and they said nothing of the things that mattered. I got back emails that didn’t tell me how she was. But they were all I could expect.

Te Waka Huia Choir

Te Waka Huia Choir

I put on Crowded House’s Together Alone, just the last, title track, with the Samoan log drummers and the Te Waka Huia Choir. The end, where the Samoan drummers and the Maori singers take over the track, still makes my hair lift at the back of my neck. Then I played it again, and swallowed a tumbler of whiskey.

Then I played it again, and poured more whiskey. But I wasn’t sure that I even wanted to get drunk, so I put the tumbler down again.

I was tempted to throw the tumblr at the wall. But the gesture only lasts a second, and then I’d have to face the fact that I liked the tumblr, I hated cleaning whiskey – or anything liquid – off rough surfaces, not to mention pulling tiny glass splinters out of my feet. 

Then I said, “Ah, the fuck.” It was after ten. And someone had just knocked at my door. 

Probation Officer #195: Engames 3

By now I had more clients. There was Merick, who’d defrauded the company he worked with for a little over ten thousand dollars, which he’d blown on gambling. He was lucky, in a way, that he’d only worked for a kitchen products business. If he’d been able to get his hands on millions he’d have given it all to the on-line gaming companies just as surely and just as fast. 

There was Tyree, who’d shot his father, non-fatally. I hadn’t talked to him yet. 

There was Mo, who’d broken into a drug store in the early hours of the morning. He was so small he could fit between two of the roof panels, which hardly had to bend to admit him. He was so stupid that he didn’t know about movement sensors. He was so luckless that he found five dollars and seventy cents in the manager’s drawer, but didn’t find the safe. Not that he’d have been able to move it or open it. And so thoughtless that he’d stolen the manager’s half bottle of Irish whisky. If he’d left that alone, the manager probably wouldn’t have bothered to press charges. I could keep Mo out of jail, I expected. There was a girl who liked him, inexplicably enough, and he liked to be told what to do. 

bedfordThere was Effa, who turned tricks and wasn’t in trouble until she’d got her fourteen year old sister to work for her. Now she was in major trouble. At the time I still didn’t know just how much. I’d had one interview with her, and she’d spent a lot of it hitting her own head. That was alarming, but she was on worse trouble than that. Well, I’d find out. Someone put a bullet through the side of the Bedford, while I was driving it, because of Effa’s trouble.

But that happened much later.

I’d slowly built up a client list of thirty-five, so I was now as overworked as everybody else. There was no way I could see my clients once a week, or even once a fortnight, once I’d handled the ones who needed intensive help.

So I went through my client list. I sorted them into people I’d have to work with a lot. Then people I could see for an hour a week. Then people I could see fortnightly, and a few souls who were out of trouble and doing well, and I could reduce them to one appearance a month.

I arranged them into piles. At last I held Ana’s file, and weighed it in my hand. It was a thick, heavy file, but it hadn’t put on much weight lately. She’d stopped generating paperwork. If I put her onto monthly reporting, I’d only see her twice more before her probation was up.

I sat there with the file, feeling angry at Ana, and myself, and Sa’afia and, obscurely, at Minnie Mouse. “Fuck,” I said at last, “Minnie Mouse and Daisy Duck.” Ana’s file landed on the monthly pile, span and came to rest.  

Probation Officer #194: Endgames 2

Fortunately there were no crises at work. My clients turned up, went on training courses, and while no-one actually got a job, nobody did anything too obviously calculated to prevent themselves from being hired. Or got caught doing any new crimes.

Ana called me a couple of days after Sa’afia had gone. I’d dreaded that call, because I’d feared that she’d be cheerful, or suggest that other sexual and romantic possibilities were available to me. I wasn’t in the mood to hear anything of the kind.

anasuckI’d never lost the suspicion that Ana was at least partly responsible for Sa’afia’s sudden departure. Neither of them had ever explained what had happened on the night of the mysterious blow-job. Sa’afia had started that night happy, and finished it angry with me. But if Ana had had anything to do with that, it was Sa’afia who had brought her into my bed. So …

And that was all I ever learned. Nothing about it made sense. 

Ana kept herself on the right side of somber and sympathetic. I was grateful to her for that. But I wanted no consolation that she could give me.

Probation Officer #193: Endgames 1

Sa’afia had got out of bed shortly after I’d gone soft. She showered and dressed as prosaically as I’d expected and gone home. She was flying to Samoa for the wedding in four weeks’ time. She wouldn’t be back after the wedding.

She spent three more nights with me, before she flew out.  

On the first two mights we fucked until we were exhausted, and then held each other till we fell asleep. The third time I’d smacked her bottom lightly, from force of habit and affection. Sa’afia had moaned appreciatively but squirmed away. “No. I can’t be like that any more,” she’d said.

Perhaps to stop me from asking her what that meant, or challenging whether it was possible for her, she’d bent down and rubbed her nipples on my chest while she sucked me off.

But when I’d come she stayed down and delicately spat my come onto my belly. She reached for a handful of tissues and wiped me clean. It had never occured to me to care, before, whether she swallowed or not. Once I’d come, why should I care where the fluid went?

She’d always swallowed before, and now I thought about it, every other lover who’d ever sucked me to orgasm had swallowed too. Sa’afia refusing my come was probably some kind of fidelity to Paul, in a way I vaguely understood. But tt felt like rejection. I was amazed to find that it hurt. But it was only a detail, like getting a bee sting while falling down a cliff.

ht_samoa_airplane_nt_130402_wgThen, one day, Sa’afia was gone. I said goodbye to her in the morning, to avoid the crowd of her family at the airport. They’d be asking what the hell I was doing there, and that would be bad for Sa’afia’s reputation.

We became pen-pals. Email-pals. 

Probation Officer #192: The Samoan Minister 29

At some point I wrapped my belt round and round Sa’afia’s wrists and held them tight, high above her head. Sa’afia stared up at me, unblinking, while we fucked, crashing through for what might be our last time. I couldn’t look away.

Sometimes Sa’afia screamed, still staring at me, wrenched by another orgasm. We’d lost track of hers. I was delaying. When I came we’d have finished, and I feared whatever would happen when we were finished.

It’d be prosaic. Eventually Sa’afia would get up. Usually, she’d try to wear a towel to the shower and I’d keep tugging it off her, telling her to carry the towel. Then we’d help dry each other, and we’d pull clothes onto our still-wet bodies, joking and embracing while we moved back to ordinary time. We might have a cup of tea, or discuss something, but eventually we’d go our separate ways. But when we did that this time, I’d be alone.

But Sa’afia lifted her legs, clasping me with her feet touching my hips. The sensations changed, and sugar surged within me. I cried out incoherent noises as I came in her, so intensely that it almost hurt. Then I lay on her, letting her take my weight, and we puffed like long distance runners. 

She held me. I wanted to tell her, again, that I loved her and that she should stay with me. Anything else would just be silly. But I knew it would do no good and only spoil the memory. Sa’afia wasn’t my girl any more. She was the fiancée of some Samoan Minister, who offered her more than I did and who was possibly a better man and certainly a luckier one than I was. 

So I lay, still unwilling to move, while we sometimes kissed and my cock ticked slowly soft inside her. 

Probation Officer #191: The Samoan Minister 28

I siad, “You’re a good woman. I love you. I don’t think I’ll ever stop loving you. And yes, I will forgive you.”

Sa’afia closed her eyes, and mouthed the words, “thank you”. She snuggled into me as though we were going to go to sleep. I held her, still not happy, still not sure whether Ana or this Minister, Paul, had had more to do with her decision.

I shook my head, and put my arms around her, one on her waist, the other touching the back of her neck. I tried to look at her without her glow. It wouldn’t go away. Well, nor would love. There’s no guarantee that it’ll come at a convenient time, or make you happy.

Eventually Sa’afia opened her eyes again. She said, “hurt me, darling.”

“Er … now?”

“It’s not right, I suppose. And it’s a hard thing to ask of you. I mean for you, after what I’ve said. You can punish me if you like. But please, Jaime, hurt me. Any way you like. And then fuck me. Please?”

I could think of reasons why I shouldn’t comply. But if I refused her, it would be awkward, and she’d have to leave. I didn’t want her to leave. So I picked up the stick. After all that emotional work, I wasn’t really aroused, but even that can be helpful, if you look at it the right way.

I tapped the rod against Sa’afia’s mouth for her to kiss, then brought it down, hard, diagonally down the crest of her right buttock to the upper curve of her left thigh. Sa’afia twitched, and already I was interested. So was Sa’afia. She watched my eyes, to see what I would do. I tapped her ass again. “Serve me, girl. Suck my cock.”

Probation Officer #190: The Samoan Minister 27

“Jaime, you’re a good man.” Sa’afia smiled. I wished she weren’t quite so beautiful.

Of course I’d let myself in for Sa’afia being painfully beautiful, when I’d decided to let myself love her. She’d become the new loved one, and our bodies and minds always perceive that person through a halo of radiant, buttery, luminosity. It’s one of the effects of something called “limerence”, which is what makes people so giddy at the start of new love relationships. I’d studied it in psychology lectures, after all. I just happened to be getting it at the end of a relationship instead of at the beginning.

I shook my head. “Yeah. Yeah.”

“No, you’re a good man. Don’t insult me by thinking I wouldn’t know. You deserve success. You deserve happiness. You do.”

I shook my head again. I didn’t know if I was a good man. I mostly doubted it. And while I liked hearing anything nice about me, mostly, in this moment it was anything but a consolation.

“You don’t believe me. But I know I’m losing a lot in losing you. A hell of a lot. It isn’t easy. But it’s the right thing. And I have to do the right thing even if it hurts like hell. I don’t know if this can be any consolation; I don’t think it will be. But that’s something I learned from you.”

That wasn’t much of a consolation, as she said. But it was a powerful compliment. I held on to it, and it meant more later, when I wasn’t hurting so much.

“And I know you’ll be ok. I know you will. And you look after Ana.”

I said, annoyed, “Oh, fuck Ana.”

Sa’afia looked at me, still glowing, brighter than the day and wiser than nature, with the most beautiful face in nature just centimetres from mine, and said, “No, don’t fuck Ana. I don’t know, not now, anyway. Jaime, I do love you. Will you forgive me?”

It’s an unfair question. There is only one answer, unless you want to regret what you said for most of your life. It’s the answer you eventually have to give, but you shouldn’t be made to give it straight away. But I thought of how much I loved Sa’afia, and I thought about how there might be a time when I remembered little of what it felt like to love her or to be hurt by her, but still had to live with myself. So I said what I had to say.


Probation Officer #189: The Samoan Minister 26

I said to Sa’afia that I wasn’t in love with Ana, and that I was in love with her, Sa’afia. She just watched me talk, disbelieving me. She was wrong. As far as I knew I was telling the truth. As far as I can judge it now, I was telling the truth. But she disbelieved me and watched me, and there was nothing I could say or do that would change her. 

But we were reluctant to let go. I held her and Sa’afia wanted me to hold her. Eventua;lly I said, “But why do you want to get married anyway?” 

Sa’afia shrugged. “It’s not that. It’s that he wants to help people, in the village where I grew up. There’s a lot has to be done, in housing, and the paths that people walk -“

“You mean that metaphorically, or are there literal paths that are a problem?”

“Literally the paths. They’re slippery. Old people get hurt, and sometimes kids. And they get worse as people walk on them. They need to be replaced with boardwalks, or actually a stone walkway would be best. It’s that sort of thing. Paul can do it as a Minister, but he can’t as just some guy. And I can help as a Minister’s wife. Not as someone who lives with him. Or is the girlfriend of a nice man in LA.” 

“Yeah. I can see that. It’s your life in a good cause. You’re a good woman. It’s a good cause. I can’t argue against it.” 

“Wouldn’t you wish me well?” 

“Oh for fuck’s sake! I’ve just told you I love you. I’m in love with you, whatever you think. And not with your cousin. Whatever you think. And the reply I get is you saying, thanks, but I’m off now? I’m not happy. How the hell can I be happy? Jesus, darling. So yes, in one sense I wish you well. No, in every sense. If you go, I wish you every success and happiness. Even with him, this … Paul. But I’d wish you every success and happiness beside me.”

Sa’afia touched my mouth. Months ago she’d touched my mouth like that, at a party. It was how we’d become lovers. 

Probation Officer #188: The Samoan Minister 25

Sa’afia hesitated. “We were together for two years. Paul and I. He’s a really good man. He went back to Samoa to help people. I know you don’t think much of … churches. Nor do I, I guess, but it’s what you have to belong to if you want to help people in Samoa. Well, I didn’t go with him. I didn’t want to, not back to Samoa. I’ve got my degree to finish. But I can do that as a distance student. Sorry, anyway, he … asked me to come back. And I’ve thought about it. And.”

I knew what she was going to say, and that she was going to be unable to say it because she’d go back to sobbing. I reached for her to comfort her before she started, and held her shaking body in my arms. Her grief was real. Although she was hurting me, my sympathy for her was real too. But I felt, in the back of my mind, that we were performing. 

Eventually she said, “I’ve said yes.” Though I knew it was coming it still felt like being hit by a hammer.

I once – in a good cause – kicked open a door that an angry landlord was trying to nail shut. Weirdly, I hadn’t expected him to use the hammer on me. My point is that I know what being hit with a hammer is like. It’s like a woman you love telling you she’s going off to live with another man. 

I said, “Ump.” She looked at my face, worried at whatever she saw. Then I said, “But I love you. I’m in love with you. I need you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“What? I love you.”

“Oh, Jaime, I’m sorry. But I meant, you don’t need me.”

“Of course I need you!”

“No, you don’t, Jaime. You love me, I know that. But you’re in love with Ana. And she’s in love with you.”

“No! That’s just not true. Anyway I’m her parole officer.”

“But that’s nearly finished. Not in three months, you won’t be.”