Blind Date
Story Codes: MF, MM, Consensual,  Exhibitionism, Threesome


Blind Date
By M. David Hornbuckle


It was a Tuesday, and Tracie and I were at East Village dive where we’d spent many
drunken evenings in the year we’d been together. Tracie and I were supposed to be
on a blind date, not with each other, obviously, but with a third person, yet to show. We
were early. It wasn’t exactly blind either, since we’d seen his picture, and we’d
exchanged a handful of emails, the way people do it these days. We sat near the front
so the guy would see us when he came in. “What’s his name again?” she asked me.

  I tried to remember if it ever had even come up. A superficial detail anyway, I
thought. “I don’t think he mentioned it,” I said. “He was the skinny one, with the
glasses.” In his picture, the guy wore thick-rimmed glasses, like Elvis Costello or that
guy from Weezer, and he was built a lot like me—medium height, thin, pale. “Don’t
worry,” I reassured her. “I stayed within the parameters.”

  Our minimum requirements were: no mustaches, no leathery tans, nobody with
satiny shirts half-unbuttoned, nobody that seems like a cokehead. That ’70s style
“swingers” image didn’t appeal to either of us. We were just looking for something to
spice things up. This particular adventure, the outreach to potentially bring a third
person into our relationship, was mainly my idea, and Tracie said she was just going
along for the ride, She also told me she had fantasized about it since I first brought it
up. I did all the footwork, placing our ad on the internet (including what I thought was
the best picture of the two of us, from somebody’s birthday party a few months before;
we were just sitting at a table with drinks, much like we were now), screening potential
candidates and setting up the date. I’d waded through countless messages from all
kinds of depraved individuals before finding anything worth responding to. I was
immediately turned off by the married ones, the ones with chronic spelling and
grammar problems, the ones with five nearly identical close-up photos of their
genitalia, the ones that were in New York for a night and looking to “hook up” with an
attractive young couple, the ones who clearly just wanted to screw Tracie and had little
or no interest in me, the ones who were much older than we were. So far we’d been
stood up twice, both by solo boys, and once we met a nice bi couple, but there really
wasn’t any chemistry.

  The boy, which is what Tracie and I call the guy even though we are all three in our
thirties, still hadn’t shown, and I was on my second drink, Maker’s Mark on the rocks. I
didn’t want to be drunk when/if the boy showed up, so I let this drink sit for a while and
get watered down, and I considered switching to beer for the next round.

  As the whiskey did its work, I recalled to Tracie that one of the first sexual fantasies I
remembered had evolved out of wondering what it would be like to be the woman, to
be penetrated. In most of my fantasies, I told her, I’m submissive, or passive. I let
things happen to me, let myself be controlled. I always identify with the more
submissive person when I’m watching, say, a pornographic movie. Actually I never
really thought I was submissive, so much as lazy.

  Tracie laughed at this, said she didn’t think I was lazy or particularly submissive.

  I told her about another early fantasy from high school—or was it a recurring dream,
or a series of dreams, or a dream that was later fully imagined while awake—in which I
was seduced by one of my male friends, Byron. In the dream, Byron told me frankly
that he wanted to do things to me, and I told him to do whatever he wanted, gave
myself up to him. At that point, I’d never had sex with anybody, male or female, and I’d
only even kissed a couple of girls.

  Nobody then in the suburban Alabama enclave where I grew up was openly gay.
Although there were always those of whom everyone held silent suspicions, for
instance the kid Jayme who lived on Stonehaven Road and was so into gymnastics. I
knew one guy, Julian, who was an older friend of my goth friend Melissa, who claimed
to be bi. Julian, who was from South Florida and ended up in Birmingham for
godknowswhatreason, often said Melissa was the only woman he ever loved, and the
teenage me thought that was terribly clever and even a touch scandalous.

  After I told this story to Tracie, we didn’t talk much more while we sat and waited. We
lived together, and we’d spent an hour coming down on the subway from Washington
Heights, and we’d exhausted our arsenal of idle talk for each other for the day. She
flipped through the Village Voice, and I stared into space, chin cupped in my hand. My
eyes wandered from the door to reading the beer menu written in chalk above the bar
to her dark exotic curls and voluptuous lips, the silly tee shirt she was wearing with the
Japanese cartoon cat. She was beautiful, hip, brilliant. I felt confident and warm
because I knew she thought the same of me.

  The boy finally did arrive, was apologetic for being late, was named Bernard. He was
a little more conservative-looking than I’d imagined, and also a little older, maybe 40,
but that was fine. He was wearing an olive button-down shirt and jeans. His hair was
slightly mussed in that deliberate way that people in the East Village often wear their
hair. My head wasn’t quite in the moment, hadn’t quite accepted the reality of this
meeting as anything but some kind of video game, the person on the other side of it
being just ones and zeroes, requiring a very unlikely divine intervention to
transubstantiate into flesh. And yet, here he was.

  After introducing ourselves and talking for a while, we started to feel quite
comfortable. Eventually, there was subtle touching of legs as the conversation at the
table had taken a predictable trajectory from the mundane to the sensual by way of
some candid tales of our individual previous experiences in internet-enhanced dating
and non-traditional sexual mores. Finally, Tracie and I exchanged a knowing, gleeful
gaze.

  Bernard’s apartment on West 25th Street was in a lovely building—freshly painted
walls, waxed floors, new elevators, art deco tiles in the lobby. The apartment itself was
a spacious one-bedroom, by New York standards. The living room had layers of
Turkish rugs. We’d gone there because it was closer to the East Village than our place
uptown. He asked what we’d like to drink. I said whiskey or beer if you have it. Tracie
asked for a glass of water, and Bernard disappeared into the kitchen.

  Bernard said he didn’t have any whiskey. He offered us some wine, which seemed
like a logical first step. After bringing us glasses, he sat on the end of the sofa, Tracie
between us. I realized at that point the possibility that none of us was likely to make the
first move, which meant that nothing was going to happen. I could see in his eyes that
he was trying to come up with a plan of action and failing. Bernard was nice enough,
and attractive enough, if a little dull. Perhaps we’d see him again sometime, and there
would be more chemistry.

  Bernard excused himself to the restroom, and we sat quietly for a moment, both
wondering if anything was actually going to happen. When Bernard returned from the
bathroom, he was wearing black panties, a lace garter, and fishnet stockings. I had to
stifle a laugh, and I noticed Tracie doing the same. But she soon straightened her face
beckoned him over with a wave of her hand. She started caressing the fishnet, running
her fingers up and down both his legs, grazing his buttocks. “Somebody has been very
naughty, hasn’t he?” she asked. Bernard nodded. “Excuse me?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said.

  With that, Tracie smacked him hard on the left ass cheek. I was a little startled, as I’d
never seen this side of her, though it suited her. “You’re a voracious little slut, aren’t
you?” she asked. “I believe Rob’s cock needs some attention from you.”

  Bernard knelt down in front of me and unbuttoned my jeans. He took to my cock
hungrily, and I had no doubt he’d done this before. After a couple of minutes, Tracie
ordered him to come back to her, and then she lifted her skirt and shoved his face into
her pussy. She kept him going back and forth like that for a little while. At one point,
she seemed to reach orgasm, after which she bade him to stop and asked him to sit
down. “This is as far as we’ll go on a first date,” she said. “But if you like, you may
masturbate while I finish off Rob.”

  Tracie turned and straddled me as Bernard jerked off on the floor. I came fairly
quickly, and so did he. Afterward, he politely brought us some tissues from the
bookshelf. Just then, I started to feel queasy, and I ran to the bathroom to puke. I
stayed there quite a while, in that terribly clichéd position, clutching the porcelain. I
heard murmurs of conversation on the other side of the door, but mostly I was blacked
out. I came to and rinsed out with some mouthwash that I found in the medicine
cabinet. After splashing some cold water on my face, I stumbled out and apologized for
the bathroom digression, an awkward end to an otherwise enjoyable evening. Bernard
said not to worry about it, happens to the best of us once in a while.

  We said good night and made some small talk about meeting again some time, but
we didn’t make any specific plans. Ultimately, I didn’t regret the experience at all, other
than the puking, but I didn’t see much of a possibility of anything long-term with
Bernard. There was something just a little too strange about him, and I was
embarrassed at having had too much to drink again. I was getting too old for these
patterns. Tracie seemed to have had a good time though. I slept with my head on her
shoulder all the way to 181st Street.



© 2009 M. David Hornbuckle



M. David Hornbuckle is the author of The Salvation of Billy Wayne Carter and Other
Stories. His fiction has appeared in over a dozen literary magazines and anthologies.
He lives in New York City and is a freelance writer and copy editor.