Guessing Carmen

After undressing Carmen, cupping her fine breasts in his hands, Brad wished to impress her with his keen eye.  Closing his eyes, making his face blank, the slightly-intimidated Brad Schillings announced Carmen's bra size while balancing her breasts in his hands. 

            Carmen was sitting in his lap, eyes closed too—but when she heard Brad's ridiculous pronouncement her eyes opened and she exclaimed, "My, don't you have the keen eye. . ."

            Brad found his eyes open as he looked back at her, with Carmen's bra tangled between them.  In this direct consideration of each other, they stared into one another's eyes momentarily, then closed their eyes again, as if regarding each other was a glitch in their plans tonight. 

            For Brad, because everything felt comfortable between them, light and easy, and because he had never before been in the presence of such ardent and keen breasts, he informed Carmen, his eyes still closed, "As soon as I saw you, I was sizing you up.  Your fabulousness required it." 

            In saying these last words, Brad wished to be a rather self-centered and immature lover.  He felt he must lower himself in her eyes, be a bit puerile with his words, yet also demonstrate that he observed her closely and was overwhelmed by her.  Also, it seemed soon he would be having sex with Carmen, and to help him with his courage he needed to make himself hapless, and possibly asinine, here as she sat on him, entagled in her exquisite, shimmering green underwear.  What was it, exactly, she was wearing?  Like her ornate bra, her panties looked like expensive and highly-wrought.  The panties were a little skirt, actually.  Moments earlier, removing Carmen's black wool skirt, he had been confronted by what looked like another skirt, the tiniest of skirts.  A skirt under a skirt; green, no less.  Baffling, daunting.   

            To be worthy of her and her underwear and her splendid breasts, might be difficult; it might be best to be unworthy.  Carmen's breasts were actually canted up and out.  They were so very round and high he had originally suspected surgery.  But feeling them, he knew otherwise.  Here was the real thing, and in witnessing them he envisioned geometry: a perfect circle and a dot in the center.  Well, two circles, actually.  Not too big, not too small.  Horrifyingly, they seemed to be more of an idea than an actuality.  

            Still balancing her breasts, eyes shut, he said, shaking his head appreciatively, "The clothes didn't even need to come off: I knew your measurements already."

            Brad again told himself that in his admiration of Carmen he must be removed from her

a bit, to view her from a distance, even though he was assessing her meticulously with his hands.  Indeed, in appraising her he must hover above her, otherwise her fine figure would efface him, obliterate him.  Still, his eyes would be closed during the appraisal. 

            Sitting in his lap, Carmen lowered her face to his, pushing her mouth into his mouth, and whispered, "It's good you know so very much about me," but instead of kissing him, as she had been doing, she bit into his lip, hard, held on, and then slowly straightened, and drew him with her. 

            Eyes popping open, Brad writhed in pain, jerked his hands up into her face—and in his sudden response he had inadvertently hooked her discarded bra around one of his fingers.  The bra rose up, wiggling between them—seeming to Brad as if it jeered him, mocked him.  Carmen pushed further into his mouth with her mouth, searching for his tongue, finding it, biting on it too.  The pain was exquisite, and Brad's hands rose away from her face, lifting like sudden wings, the bra rising too. 

            The biting he hoped it would continue, for it would force him to strike back at her—in approval of her, in desire for her.  More heralding words needed to come from his mouth, more audacious and immature words, as he shut his eyes tightly in pain.  He wished to speak, but Carmen wouldn't let go of his tongue.  Her kisses were bites, and her biting was serving as a gag, denying him words.  He thought of a hostage, a rag stuck down his throat.  His throat welled up in effort.   Love and attraction, he realized at that moment, must be retribution, in the face of this onslaught. . .and in the face of Carmen's figure, which he felt, in its distinction, its merit, he must still keep evaluating, categorizing (but with his eyes closed).  It was his only hope, and the only way to continue with her.  

            Breaking free of her, his tongue still feeling pinched, as if it squirmed under a grinding and ever-increasing weight, Brad found himself beginning to tell, or rather lisp, a story to her, a story about meeting Carmen.  But this was a tale that wasn't true, which she would know wasn't true.  This, it seemed, was its attraction: its obvious untruth.  He hissed, "Yes, I saw you at the crowded party tonight.  You stood out, from across the room.  I went over you with my eyes, x-raying you.  It seemed, as I tried to keep focused on you in the packed room, that I could actually see through people. . ." 

            Yet he had met Carmen through an internet dating scheme, not at a party.  And the first view he had of her, in a small online photo, didn't have much detail.  A fairly pretty face, that's all he saw, really.  She was a med student, age 28.  Then a week later, after a few emails, in person, out in front of the Jupiter bar for their first meeting, Carmen had been wearing a heavy jacket in the winter cold.  No hint of what lay beneath, or what lay ahead.  They had a drink, enjoyed their time, promised themselves another meeting and more drinks.  After the second meeting, they had a proper date at night.  Now they were back at Carmen's place.

            "There at the party," he whispered, as Carmen continued to bite him lightly, "there, jammed in with all the people, I said to myself, 'Here's a fine woman.  I know her measure-ments.'"

            To match her aggression toward him, he would talk, tell stories, assess her, still keeping his eyes closed.  And he realized he had his erection still, after the kissing and undressing had stopped and the talking and the biting had begun.  No underwear on him; he was naked, unlike Carmen. 

            She said, lifting her arms from him, breaking from her embrace, "So, you liked every-thing you saw.  You saw a lot, with your radar eyes."  No hint of anger in her voice, yet she dropped her face into his face again and bit him on the lower lip, incising it, driving him, in his pain, down into himself.  No view of himself, or even her, seemed possible.  Only the pain. 

            Brad lisped at her, enjoying how she obstructed him with her mouth.  He pushed her away slightly, announcing, "At the party, I noted that you were a petite girl, small-ribbed.  Didn't have to diet to stay confident—"

            She came in and bit him again hard, and he flinched.  "—Yes?" she mumbled.  "Confi-dent?  Is that what I am?" 

            He said,  eyes still closed, "I knew I'd have to pay heavily to accompany this beauty.  This girl, she'd draw blood."

            Carmen laughed and pushed at him, trying to force him onto his back.  He resisted her, and she went for his ear.  Her breath—in her lunging at him and exhaling with the effort—was loud in his ear. 

            But his words to her, and his measuring her, were still going to be his beating her back.  He would talk on, refusing to surrender his measuring her, his narrating her, yet with eyes closed: "I figured you were a size 34C, though that was maybe a tad big.  You have trouble with a 34, because you might be kind of in between.  Finding the right bra has probably been tough for you."

            Other women he'd known had complained of this in-between status, complained of the bra that would not quite fit; he would use it on Carmen. 

            Carmen straightened from him.  "So sensitive," she said, pushing him harder, getting him down onto his back, "to my dilemma, which you're just guessing at."   

            At these words, and finding himself lying down, he opened his eyes, peeked at her suspended above him. 

            She laughed, "Yes, you see so well," as she pressed her breasts down into his face, pushing one of the breasts directly into his eye.  She added, "I visit this little Euro shop in Rockridge, for my lingerie.  The only place I can go: a more precise fit, and a more feminine feel. . .with really good material." 

            Carmen then twisted away from him, found her bra on the bed and lifted it for him, and though his eyes were still closed, Brad knew what she was doing, that she was dangled the bra in his face.  Indeed, one of the straps now tickled his chin. 

            Aware that his eyes were closed, she dropped the bra into his face.  "Yes, see?  Beautiful, huh?  Do you see?"

            "Yes," he said, gripping the bra, not peeking, reveling in how passive he was, and how brave here with his not needing to look yet still be accurate about her.  "Probably not cheap." 

            "No, but the guys are wowed. . ."

            Fumbling at the bra with his fingertips, he asked, "How many guys have taken off this little wonder, I wonder?"

            In response, she asked, "How many women have you sized up, then bragged about it in bed?  Here with your eyes closed."

            Then, in another leap, full of assurance that he must say it, announce it, to perhaps betray her, to wound her, he told her, eyes still closed, "I could probably guess you roommate's bra size too." 

            Carmen sat up, removed the bra from his face.  There was a pause.  She said, "Well, yes, why don't we bring her in and see?"

            Not expecting this answer, Brad opened his eyes and stared at her, and she extended her two forefingers and made to poke them in his eyes.  He flinched, shutting his eyes, and she laughed.  "Yes, let's go get her, and you can show us your discerning eye.  We'll see how good you really are with women's breasts.  It's tougher than you think.  With me maybe you just got lucky. . ."

            She covered her breasts with one hand and quickly concealed his face with her other hand, and added, "I mean, my real size, my perfect size, is an 88, which is the French measure-ment.  The conversion chart says a 34 is a 90, but a 90 is just a wee bit large.  So I go with an 88.  It's perfect.  I've got four or five of them in my dresser."  

            Carmen laughed, peering through her fingers, noting his closed eyes.  Taking her hands away, she leaned over him and pressed her breasts back into his face, saying, "You can't see, can you?  Blinded by boob."  Before he could reply, she added, "I bought all my bras at the same time.  And yes, they are expensive.  They're French, and the French do it best with women's lingerie.  So technically, you got it wrong with me.  Saying I wear a 34C is too gross, not precise enough.  But I'll give you credit for it.  With my roommate you might not be so lucky. . ." 

            Blinded by her, Brad found he was fingering the bra as it lay on his shoulder.  Turning from her slightly, he noted her bra, and even in his obstructed vision, it was indeed a work of art.  A pale green, extensively worked over with lace, like a hundred little elves had spent their entire lifetimes on it. 

            Carmen sat up on him, pulling the bra from him, harnessing herself in, doing it very smoothly.  She moved to get off the bed. 

            He asked, "Where are you going?"

            "I'm getting my roommate."

            Eyes open, Brad stared at her, processing her words.  He said, "I didn't really mean it.  I don't want her to come in here.  It was a joke." 

            "But you're into women," she said with a smile.  "You don't miss a thing.  And you're

a gentleman, waiting for three meetings before asking to come home with me.  Not pushy, just

very. . ." and she sat back down on the bed and bore in close with her face, her eyes squinted, "just very keen, even when your eyes are closed.  We poor women find no escape from you." 

            He realized he had started this all with his boast, and his inability to really look at her naked.  Then his made-up story of meeting her at the party, which seemed like a good story, a better way to meet her, rather than on the internet.  A more traditional way, a way with a little more blood and bone and reality.  His bullshit words had been in exchange for the pain she gave him, from the first moment he saw her.  After all, the man who can keep talking as a beautiful woman hurts him or impinges on him, this is a man who can remain standing, a man whom a woman will respect.  And her body, though daunting, might be her weak point.  Women were afraid of their bodies, just as men were afraid of them.  Who wanted really to look and study a body, any body, even a pretty body?  To do so invited disappointment, or awe, or both together. 

            Plus, women were always looking for the flaw in people—to wreck you, or to mother you.  They were always assessing.  So he would assess too.  But now Carmen, in reaction to his ridiculous words, had given him a scenario in return.  Something he couldn't match.  He said, eyes still open, "I don't really want to get involved with your roommate."

            "Why not?" she asked, sitting on the bed.  "I thought it was every man's dream: the threesome.  She likes you, you know.  I told her about you, in positive terms, after our first two dates.  Though maybe, with all your fast talk, that has to be reevaluated. . ."  

            He said, "I think we'll just keep it for the two of us.  Keep her out of it."

            "Oh, but I think she should come in here, and you can shout out to her: 36C, or 34B, or whatever magic numbers you can think of."  Carmen was smiling, seeming to enjoy herself.  "Really, she wouldn't mind.  She's got no guy, and she's lonely.  I'm a sporting girl, too."

            "No," he said, not able to read Carmen, not able to tell if she was serious.  "Instead, why don't you be the roommate?"  He added, "Let's pretend you're her." 

            "But we're different people, she and I." 

            "We'll pretend you're a new girl.  It's your roommate who's walked in—even though it's you.  Here, put on your shirt.  We'll start again." 

            Brad sat up, looking for her shirt he had taken off her, seemingly hours ago.  His eyes were open.  He needed to clothe her; his being naked was fine, not a problem.  Why was that?  Anyway, he would lie here naked, when she came in clothed, posing as her roommate.  He liked that.  More bullshit. 

            "Yes," he said, "you walk into the bedroom.  I'll give you the once-over again, but I'll guess wrong.  You'll tell me I don't know anything, and you'll come to me and take off your bra." 

            "Because you're a blind man.  And then?"

            "Then I'll sample you, feel you, and get the right answer.  But I'll keep my eyes closed because, after all, it's your roommate I'm with.  I have to be true to you."  He laughed, liking this idea that had just come to him out of nowhere.  "I won't peek."

            She smiled.  "You're a romantic, and a gentleman.  You've got it all worked out.  And look, in preparation you've already got your eyes closed.  Seems they're always closed."

            He said, "Everything's better with the eyes closed.  Everything is possible." 

            "Yes, perhaps only then, when you're blind."

            "A new woman for me.  A new woman for you. . .to be.  Yes." 

            "But we haven't even had sex, you and me.  Think of it." 

            Smiling, goggling up at her, a blind man, he shrugged and said, "There's no hurry." 

            She said, "No, we have to bring her in.  In person.  I like that idea.  A real test for you, in more ways than one." 

            "My eyes are closed," he said, demonstrating it, holding his blind face up to her, hoping that Carmen didn't follow through with her threat, hoping also to show her, in his mock blindness, he didn't really care what she did, that he could handle anything.  " I won't know who's who."

            "Maybe her, maybe me!" she exclaimed.  "Who knows!"

            "Exactly," he said. 

            "Such a decent man," she cried.   "Eyes closed: no transgression.  I won't be jealous, right?" 

            "Right.  And that's what we men have to do all the time, when we're with a girlfriend,

and a beautiful woman walks by: eyes closed.  Or, look the other way.  Can't see her; can only imagine her." 

            "Oh, is that what you do?"

            "What all men do.  We shut ourselves off.  Closing our eyes, looking the other way, it keeps her away.  Keeps chaos and dissolution at bay.  Keeps your female jealousy away too.  But it gives us more imagination, it gives us everyone.  Metaphorically, at least." 

            "Why, it's perfect," Carmen said. 

            He felt her get up off the mattress, heard her slipping on her shirt, then head to the door.  Then she stopped and said to him, as he held his closed, smiling face to her, "Her name is Viv.  Let me procure her.  You might want to be clothed, at least at first.  And to open your eyes when she comes in." 

            A couple of minutes later, he heard footsteps, after hearing voices softly confer in the kitchen.  Carmen was actually talking to her roommate, actually giving out her proposal, and then as they came to the door, he suddenly was scrambling to get his shirt and pants on. 

            Carmen was back in the doorway, with Viv behind her.  "Here she is," Carmen said to Brad, who was now sitting up, zipping up.  Speaking over her shoulder, Carmen said to Viv, "He's going to guess your bra size.  He thinks he has a good eye.  I've told him there's a good chance he'll be wrong.  If so, then he might need a little more help.  He might have to cheat, you know, and actually touch you.  He'll have his eyes closed, though.  He's a very decent and discerning guy. . ." 

            Viv stepped in.  She was pale, tall, and smiling.  She wore jeans and a t-shirt.  She wore no bra; her breasts were clearly outlined in the shirt.  Brad tried to remember what Viv was wearing earlier when he had greeted her upon entering the apartment with Carmen. 

            "Hi," she said.  

            "Hello." 

            Carmen was taking this right to the edge and beyond.  The two women stood at the foot of the bed, addressing him, with Carmen still wearing her little skirtlet underwear and no pants.          Viv said, looking at Brad, but giving her words to Carmen, doing it very slowly and methodically, "I don't know if this is a good idea, Carmen, you know, having me here with your boyfriend.  I mean, how exactly do you feel about it?" 

            "Oh, I have no problem," said Carmen, still smiling.  "Brad, he's into women.  He knows their bra sizes in a glance."  She didn't appear to be mocking him. 

            "Well, okay," and Viv shrugged.  Her trepidation was not very convincing, so perhaps, Brad thought, this had been rehearsed. 

            Then Viv addressed herself to him, "I'm a new girl for you, who was a bit lonely when you were introduced to me in the kitchen, the girl drinking tea tonight when Carmen and her new boyfriend came home from their date." 

            Sure now that she was reciting rehearsed lines, Brad smiled and shook his head at them, his eyes closed, and both women shouted ecstatically, "Open them!" 

            With Carmen announcing, "You have to examine her."

            He opened his eyes, and fell backward on the mattress, staring at the ceiling.  He had no idea where this was going, or what he needed to say.  In his pants, his erection was gone.  Still, he felt almost elated.  "Well," he said, not giving Viv a look, "I think she's a 34 too, or an 88, as you say.  Maybe you two shop together.  Maybe," he said, "you do everything together." 

            Both women laughed at this. 

            Carmen turned to Viv and said, "I told you, he's funny."  

            The two women turned back to him.  "A 34?" said Viv, as if unsure about this guess.

            "You're both very attractive," he said, peering at them now, still on his back, looking at them down the length of his body. 

            Hearing his words, both women turned to each other smiling.  Carmen said, nodding, "He's sweet, too."  

            Their heads came back around to Brad.  "So?" they demanded. 

            He said, "You're both attractive, and you're both. . .both kind of. . .well,  keen.  You actually look somewhat alike.  So, tell me, why is it that all the good-looking women find each other?  They become roommates, in fact."

            "Yes, who knows.  Why?" said Carmen.

            Viv, said, nodding in agreement, "It's a mystery. . ." 

            He said, "But beyond that I don't want to say.  Measurements?  I mean, what is beauty, anyway?"  He was grinning, perhaps finding his stride now that was engaged with them, talking to them, but being oblique, making it up as he went.  Maybe he just needed to compliment them, that was all.  "It's all in the eye of the beholder," he explained.  "You're both attractive; I can't say, or give out any specific numbers."

            Carmen hissed, "Oh, say!  Be a man."

            "No.  It would be impolite."

            They both laughed loudly at this.  "It would be objectifying," Carmen said.   

            He paused, then nodded.  He might like this, he thought.  This banter.  Maybe he could take it further, and keep lying.  Make nothing true.  It would be like keeping his eyes closed.  He said, still lying on the bed, "Well, I'd say Viv is more like a B cup, not that anything's wrong with that. . ." and both women laughed again, nodding at him, as if in on his game, his politeness, his evasiveness, his lies.  

            Then Carmen said solemnly: "You guessed incorrectly.  You're not as good as I thought." 

            Viv was nodding in agreement. 

            Brad, said, "Yes, I was wrong, I guess." 

            "Definitely wrong," said Carmen.  "I think you have to close your eyes and feel her breasts, to get an accurate sense.  Have to put your arms around Viv, and give her a hug, and maybe. . .you know, support them. . .in your hands.  After all, when you guessed my size you had seen me naked, and had slipped your arms around me." 

            "Well, yes." 

            Carmen now commanded, stepping towards him, "Close your eyes, boy," and he did so.  Then she added to Viv, "His eyes have been closed for most of tonight, actually.  I think maybe he's had his eyes shut all his life.  He sees nothing.  Tee hee." 

            Carmen had come around the side of the bed, and he could hear her looming over him.  She addressed him, outlining the situation for him, as he listened closely, smiling, eyes closed.  His closed eyes, he guessed, had become a kind of joke for them all.

            Carmen said, "You've never seen this new girl naked before, and yet you'll be showing your strength, your honor, by keeping your eyes closed while you inspect her.  If you open your eyes, the girl leaves, and your other girl, Carmen, is upset and crazed with jealousy.  She leaves too.  You get thrown out.  Okay?  Those are the rules." 

            Brad was feeling much better about all this now.  All these rules were fun.  Where did they come from anyway?  Was this a game they'd played before? 

            Both Carmen and Viv sat down next to him on the bed.   He could feel the mattress shift with their combined weight.  But he realized he had no idea where each woman was situated.  Had Carmen been to the right of Viv as they stood in the room, or to the left?  Just as he thought perhaps to take a peek, to get them oriented, a pillow was pressed down on his face. 

            Carmen said to Viv, "So, he can't see a thing.  No peeking for him.  I'll hold the pillow down over his eyes, not his mouth—for the poor boy has to breath.   Take off your clothes, Viv." 

            Then, as Viv moved to do this, unknown to Brad, it was Carmen who took off her shirt and green bra, doing it stealthily, quickly, with Brad's muffled face and open mouth gaping up at them.  Brad did not suspect anything. 

            Seeing what Carmen had done, and getting in on the game herself, Viv asked, "You really don't care if I do this, Carmen?"

            "Oh, don't worry," said Carmen.  "It's okay with me.  Plus, he's got a lot to prove—to both of us." 

            But it was Carmen who leaned over Brad, pressing her own breasts onto Brad's chest and throat.  "Feel 'em?" asked Viv, with her face next to Carmen's, grinning at Carmen, wishing to confuse Brad.  "What's your guess?  You can use your hands.  Go ahead, take your time." 

            Thinking it was Viv pressed against him, and bringing his hands to Carmen's breasts very tentatively, Brad said, "Oh, these are fine.  Yes, quite wonderful, but these breasts are perhaps not quite as fabulous as Carmen's.  I mean, Carmen is really something. . .but yes, I'd say these are C cups, like Carmen's.  I have to admit that I was wrong." 

            Both women burst out laughing.  Viv then quietly slipped out of her shirt and pants, smirking at Carmen.  Both women saw he was erect in his pants again.    

            Carmen removed herself from Brad, still holding the pillow to him. 

            Now Viv lay down on top of Brad. 

            Carmen, bending down to the pillow, announced to him, "Now give me a try, and compare." 

            To Brad, eyes still closed, hands touching, this second woman felt very much like the first woman.  They seemed interchangeable.  Yet his not being able to witness Viv's earlier nakedness, and never really having met her before, plus his being unable to comprehend any difference between the two women—it was tantalizing, dizzying.  Two different women—naked, yet the same, pressing themselves to him—this was not disturbing at all, even though they were playing games with him, teasing him.  And somehow he felt his not knowing the difference would please both women.  Still, he wanted to also say, Yes, this is a bit better.  This is my Carmen. 

            Though it was actually Viv. 

            But then Brad thought it might be preferable to say that the first woman, Viv, was better.  That might actually be the way to go, to fight back at Carmen and her games.  "Well," he said, "upon consideration, I have to change my mind."

            Both women shouted out, "Oh, you do?"  

            He said, hoping to outrage them, "I need to reevaluate.  The first set, the first rack, was better. . ."  

            Brad did not know about the trick played on him, that the women had fooled him, but the two women found his changing his mind prescient, clairvoyant, for indeed the first woman on top of him had been Carmen. 

            "My, oh my," said Carmen. 

            "I think, though, to be precise," Brad said, "I need to touch both of you again. . ." 

            Delighted at this, laughing, both women nodded and changed places, silent, stealthy, pressing their breasts to his palms again, Carmen first, then Viv.  The pillow was still held to Brad's face. 

            Enthralled, full of love and appreciation for both of them, Brad decided to say there was no difference.  He whispered up to the ceiling, shaking his head, "I'm confused.  Both of you are equally fabulous."   

            Grinning, the two women pressed their foreheads together in joint commiseration and elation when they heard this.  "But you have to decide," said Carmen, wishing to continue the scene, yet full of new regard for Brad.  "We need measurements—precise numbers—now that you've felt us both." 

            "Can't," said Brad. 

            "I think we need to take it to the next step," said Viv, peering down at Brad's erection in his pants. 

            This, Viv realized, was her idea, her words, not Carmen's; she now wanted to take this where it should logically go.  She was part of this process too.  "We have to see what this guy is made of."  

            "I think you're right," said Carmen, nodding, wanting to share Brad with Viv, but wanting to go first.  She climbed onto Brad's chest, while Viv unbuckled his belt, pulled down his zipper, and eased his pants to his knees. 

            With one hand still keeping the pillow on his face, Carmen used her other hand to angle his erection up for her.  With an effortless squat, she was in, and Brad grunted once—and his hands, which were lying flat on the mattress, rose up like birds, then settled. 

            Standing next to the bed, Viv moved silently up to Brad's face, leaned into the pillow and asked him, "So, who is it, dear?  Who is this you're in?  Take your time. . .no mistakes."

            "Never," Brad said, "been in either of you. . ." 

            "All the better," said Carmen.  "You'll get to compare."

            "This was not my idea!" he shouted happily. 

            "Oh no," they both said in jubilation, "not your idea at all." 

            Carmen began to move her hips on him. 

            "How's this?" Viv asked Brad, trying to further confuse him, her face still close to the pillow.  Her voice was in his ear, so perhaps he would think her motion was on him.  Viv was surprised at herself, at her roommate too, surprised how easily this had been enacted, and how effortlessly she herself had, in effect, become Carmen.  They did indeed were the same, as Brad had said. 

            And after several minutes, watching Carmen move on him, with no one making the slightest noise, as if all three of them were holding their breaths, enraptured, frightened too, Viv was making motions to Carmen to get off Brad—but Carmen grinned at her, shaking her head no and continued on him.  Viv, she thought, was perhaps getting a bit too in a hurry. 

            Brad's hands had settled onto Carmen's breasts, but only the fingertips, all ten of them, very delicately, with caution, with tenderness, and perhaps a little dread.  Carmen hissed, pushing her breasts into his palms, "They're not going to explode. . ."

            Stunned at what was happening to him, unable to see but completely delighted at what was happening to him, Brad was still suspicious, as if waiting for something malicious to occur.  Carmen, he guessed, was the woman on top of him, though he couldn't be sure.  Then again, because he felt they wished to bring him down in some way, to reduce him, or mislead him, he thought perhaps it was Viv on him.  And their voices. . .now as he listened to one of the woman tell him her breasts would not explode, he realized he had no idea whose voice it was.  He could not distinguish them.  He simply hadn't spent enough time with Carmen. . .even though he had.  He'd been out on three dates with her—whereas with Viv he had heard only a handful of words this evening.  

            "Delicious," he said to the air, beginning his own motion.  "Like butter. . ." and again the women laughed. 

            And for Carmen, sliding languidly on top of Brad, the fact that this was happening, with all three of them playing together, it fostered her extreme pleasure in being with Brad.  This man, with his bullshit and bravado, somehow allowed anything to happen, and he was considerate, polite, and impetuous.  He'd been hard practically the whole time too, eyes closed, grinning, talking to them, chatting with them, accepting their game, not caring about consequences, with his fat hard-on glowing.  He somehow deserved this. 

            Really, how could she and Viv wish to embarrass him, or trick him?   He was too decent, too fun, for that. 

            And she didn't want to relinquish him to Viv.  Didn't want to disengage, didn't want to stop with her hips.  Best, though, to keep Viv here next to her, watching her, encouraging her, continuing the game—yet Brad was her man.  It had been settled, here on the third date. 

            Still, she also couldn't wait to stop her movements on him and hand him over to Viv, her good friend and partner tonight.  It would be intriguing to see how Brad handled this. 

            Brad had been right about them: they were the same, the same bodies, the same wishes, the same voices, the same boobs.  When they were done with Brad (which would be when— tonight, next week, next month, ever?), no one would be sure about anything other than the fact they had allowed any and all possibility to appear, to rise up at them like an enchanting ghost and seize them, and perhaps alarm them too. 

            What had they discovered?  

            Viv was gently tapping on Carmen's shoulder, asking for  her turn.  Her lips were held tightly together in mock secrecy, her finger over her lips as she began shaking her head, and with that gesture, it seemed to Carmen as if Viv was disapproving, as if the rules were being broken with Carmen's extended ride on Brad.  She was right.  Time to change places and see what this did to him.  

            But then, as Carmen prepared to give Brad up, she suddenly bent, pushed up the pillow slightly and kissed him hard on the lips, and bit him on the tongue, signaling to him her identity, she hoped.  She couldn't help it. 

            "There," she said, biting him while pressing down hard on the pillow.

            For Brad, he had smelled this woman's breath in the instant before she bit him, but her voice, her single word to him, was muffled.  He found he was even more confused, with his bitten tongue now vibrating with pain.  This woman, she had bitten him, as Carmen had done earlier before Viv came in, so it must be Carmen—except Carmen might have talked to Viv about this when they were away in the kitchen.  These two women were still out to hoodwink him.  And still too much the same. 

            Then the other woman was climbing on top of him, situating herself, preparing for him; instinctively he felt this woman was not Carmen—there was simply something that told him, though he couldn't name it, couldn't list any one thing, not her skin, her smell, or any familiarity in her movement, in her limbs. 

            Suddenly this body's face was at his mouth, and she kissed him too, and bit him, just as the first body had done.  Even more pain, great, enrapturing pain, that clouded his head and heightened him.  Now he was very mystified, yet wanting this to go on.  And this woman, whom he had perhaps not ever seen naked, to whom he had perhaps hardly addressed a word, was now pressing her hips onto him, to be split on him.  Even before it happened, his breath escaped him, and he felt himself automatically bring up his knees. 

            A voice laughed, "Easy, boy."  

            Brad realized his eyes were open, and that the pillow had slipped a little.  Whoever was on him, was not pressing down hard enough on the pillow.  Yet feel her. 

            He didn't want to see her, or anything.  Without his eyes to see, this woman was a warm, delicious sheath for him, nothing more, the whole length of her, from both top and bottom, serving to enwrap him, grip him.  No body, no face, only a warm, always-giving-way sleeve for him to be inserted in yet fail to fully plumb or comprehend.  And he found with this blinded sensation, with his being somehow entombed, sightless, subterranean, with his not being able to view her, or know her identity, that he had more respect and awe for this woman than he could have believed possible.  This woman was not Carmen, yet she was better than Carmen by far, simply for her having come right after Carmen, sharing herself, being exactly like Carmen, part of a progression, a sequence given to him by Carmen—and with her possessing no face, no body, her simply being a velvety  torquing of him, she was proving to be irresistible, insurmountable. 

            And yet this woman was not as good as Carmen.  They were twins, but Carmen had come first.  Carmen had graciously invited him to her place tonight, and listened to his crap when they first got naked.  She had humored him, teased him.  It was Carmen who had invited her room-mate in too.  It was Carmen commanding him to close his eyes.  Carmen, in her grandeur.  Carmen finally—in her vanishing from him, her imagelessness—Carmen the queen.  Perhaps she could be the first and last lover for any man who had ever felt himself sink into a woman, who felt himself drawn into her facelessness, her conviviality, her familiarity, her strangeness, her repetition.  He was drawn down into her daring him, her surety that he was strong, that he would be at his best for her, though he knew nothing—and she might question him, wonder about him, even hope to deny him, even test him.  Yet she would encompass him, acclimatize him, and bring him through.  

            All of this was true, and all of it had happened with his eyes closed, as it should be.  "Yes," he murmured to the air, "this is very good.  What a privilege I've been given here by these two fabulous women." 

            "Shut up!" they shouted together joyously.  "No talking.  Only fucking!" 

            "What?" he said.  "I can't hear you.  What did you say?" 

            They shouted, "Fuck her, fuck me!  Fuck us all."

            Instinctively Brad tried to remove the pillow, but a hand was right there, rather violently slapping the pillow down on his face: "Oh, no," a voice cried, "don't open your eyes, don't see—or I'll go. . .poof!" 

            "It's like you're a genie," he giggled.  "Back into the bottle, gone." 

            "Exactly." 

            All he could say was, "It feels good, it feels so familiar. . .it feels like. . .every woman."

            They both laughed, and by the sound of their laugh he knew this was true, that this what he was supposed to say. 

            "Learn a lesson," a voice said.  "You must fuck all woman.  All men must fuck all women."  

            "It's the United Nations," said the other voice. 

            Then suddenly the body was withdrawn from him, and Brad gasped.  As she had been sliding up and down on him, and with his not being able to see her, it had felt to Brad as if he were continual tumbling down into something not related to himself; there was nothing suspending him, for he was a plummet down, a cascading, despite feeling so very under—under the pillow, under the women.   No visuals, not enough bearing or foundation, yet very much heightened sensation.  And then she was gone. 

            Almost immediately he felt new limbs, new skin pressing him and he was rebridged, reconnected—the very same sensation, the same soothing encompassment, warmth and moisture—only different.  A different woman.  A different motion on him, just slightly.  Different smell, a different breath on his lips and cheek.  Yet the same motion.  And the pillow had slipped a bit.  He couldn't see, but he could hear. 

            He and this new body continued, and then one of the voices asked, teasing him, "Who's better?"  

            He said, shaking his head, "United Nations.  World peace." 

            Both women ignored his humor, asking, in unison, "Who's better?" 

            He pretended not to hear. 

            The motion on him stopped.  A prodding of him, fingertips on his hip, a bit impatient.  "Who?" 

            "He's a sweet guy," he heard, when he didn't respond. 

            "Who's tighter?" asked a voice.  "Who's smoother?"

            "Yeah, who?" he asked, smiling.  "You're both the same: perfect."  

            Wild laughter to this.  "Such a sweet guy.  Who?" 

            But no motion.  The body remained immobile on him.

            He now greatly feared this body would be withdrawn from him, or that the movement would not commence.  He said, "I want you both.  I want everyone."

            "Gotta pick." 

            He waited, and the pillow was pushed into his face harder. 

            "Pick." 

            When he still hesitated, both of the voices were saying together, laughing, "Better be caaareful at what you say!  Pick!"

            Then one exclaimed, "The poor man, he's doomed.  There's no way out for him."  

            "He has to figure a way out.  Like any mythical hero." 

            "He'll wander the earth, his eyes gouged out.  Not finding closure."

            "Not me," Brad said, smiling into the pillow, lifting his hips, trying to get her started again—whoever had the voice of the woman who was on top of him.  It didn't matter who it was.  "I can do this forever," he said to both of them, waving his hands in front of his blinded eyes.