May I just say: I am not the person with whom you should be enacting a home invasion sex fantasy. Home invasions are one of my biggest fears. I don’t mean simple burglaries; I’m talking psychotic-symbolic invasions, like in the movies — you know, where some sicko sets out to punish modern bougie excess one household at a time — which is why I try to make my home life as much of a drag as possible, in case there’s an invader at the window and on the fence: No skiing trips being planned in here! Just eating a bowl of Crispix in the dark! Often is the night that I lie in bed, worrying that the footsteps in the hallway are not the loafers of my pianist neighbor but the soleless boots of soulless men who will kick in the door and torture me — or even worse, not touch me at all, say they’d rather just be friends.
So, the fetish eludes me. And yet there I was, at the apartment of a man I did not know, opening the front door he’d left unlocked for me. Once inside I followed the only apparent light to its source, his bedroom, where he wanted me to “happen upon” him. I slowly pushed open the door and, sure enough, there he was, face-down and naked on his bed. I figured at this point we could drop the charade and proceed like normal adults with emotional issues, but then he rolled over and I noticed he’d blindfolded himself with an Hermès necktie.
I paused. This was not part of the plan. I’d never hooked up with a blindfolded person before, someone with no care for what I might look like in person. Call me old-fashioned, but I like to see the face of my evening’s ruination. Do I say hello, I wondered, do I make my presence known? It was clear the level of anonymity he sought was total, so I kept quiet and awkwardly began to undress. My belt hitting the floor was Civil War loud. Saliva caught in my throat and I tried to pass the subsequent cough off as a titillating grunt. Gay Oedipus stirred on the bed.
Finally naked, I stared down at him. I thought he might say something or do something but he didn’t, so I sat on his face to ease the tension. (Gentle readers, there are many things I wish for you, but chief among them is that at some point in your lives you too rest your taints on Hermès.) For a minute or two it was as if I’d sat on an unmanned garden hose, but when I grabbed his dick he steadied himself. I generally think 69ing is chaotic nonsense, but it was our only means of communication, a writhing 9 tongue-stabbing in the dark and a 6 shouldering the sight burden.
He came, and I learned that you can fake a male orgasm when your partner’s got a tie around his eyes. We collapsed next to each other and he removed his blindfold. He smiled goofily at me. His eyes were kind. He said, “Thank you, that was amazing,” and kissed me, quite tenderly, actually. That I enjoyed. We laid like that for a while, until we heard the sound of a key in his front door.
I pulled away. “Who’s that?” I asked. “My roommate,” he replied, and started kissing me again. “Don’t you want to close the door?” I asked, “He’ll see us.” He kissed my shoulder and said, “No biggie — he’s a modern dancer.”
OK, the last person I ever want seeing me naked is a modern dancer. Fuck that shit. Unless it’s an actually blind modern dancer. A blind modern dancer who’s never been on a roller coaster before and teaches me to see the world in a new way and has such calloused fingers that when he touches my face he thinks I look like Andrew Garfield.
His roommate was still having trouble unlocking the front door. “Oh, you must’ve locked the top lock when you came in,” he said, hopping off of the bed. Well yes, I thought, it’s a lock. “Was I not supposed to?” I asked after him. “No, we never lock it,” he replied, and trotted off down the hallway. I watched his ass disappear into the dark. I called after him, “Are you going to answer the door naked?” and he called back, “Yeah, we’re naked all the time.”
Fucking god, I thought, it’s hippie madness in here, they are just asking to get home invaded. I looked at my dick and panicked. You do not leave a WASP naked in plain sight — we’ll shatter into a thousand tiny off-white pieces. I crossed my legs, but I looked like I was waiting for a caesar salad, so I gave up on that and instead hugged my knees to my chest, trying to look like Keira Knightley on the Tom Ford Vanity Fair cover. I finally hid behind his door.
His roommate thankfully shuffled off to his own room. My guy came back and snuggled amongst his pillows. I got dressed. I was buttoning my sweater when he asked over his shoulder, “Oh, are you leaving?” I told him he didn’t have to, but he insisted that he and his swinging member escort me to the door. “You should lock your top lock,” I said to him, and he gave me another grin before closing the door.
I heard him turn only one lock, the bottom one, as I waited for the elevator. I shook my head. Can’t say I didn’t warn him.
