How Deep Is Your Love?

The fact that it was named for a popular seventies disco band, thankfully, was something I was able to overlook. My dad’s record collection contains a lot of music that I would not want anywhere near my g-spot, and the idea of masturbating with Phil Collins’ Head isn’t something that any girl would go for. None that I know, anyway.

But there was always something impressionably alluring about the BeeGees, even if I was too young to have heard them in their prime...heck, I wasn’t even born when they scored their biggest records. But I’ve seen the videos, heard the hits, danced at retro seventies parties... and now there’s a Bgee humming in my hand and I wonder - will it make me feel I should be dancing? Or will I just collapse into night fever?

I sighed, slipped it back into its bag, and walked back into the living room. “It’s your mess, you should clean it up.”

It was housekeeping day and the living room was a bombsite – my room-mate Patrick’s bombsite. For a week he’d been wrestling with one particular account, a new advertising campaign for the Oedipus hair-weave: “So lifelike, even your mother wouldn’t recognise it.” Well, I thought it was funny, but the boardroom simply clucked and suggested he come up with something a little less controversial. So he’d spent the last seven days surrounded by an ever-growing heap of discarded sketches and slogans, and would I even go into the room to help him try and organise the clutter? No. It’s your mess, you should clean it up.

It wasn’t the first time we’d had this argument, and it wouldn’t be the last. When I first agreed to share an apartment with Patrick (and that’s all we were doing, sharing – he had a girlfriend and I had a social life), I knew his work would keep him from pulling his weight around the place, at least when it came to keeping things tidy. But sometimes, I totally lost my patience with him, and this was one of those occasions.

A few hours later, as he finally got the last pile sorted, I did enter the room, a conciliatory beer in one hand. He looked exhausted and I handed him the drink without a word. He’d done his best to pick up; and, though I knew I’d be doing it properly myself later on, the least I could do was show him some gratitude.

In another lifetime, Patrick and I might have made a go of things. He’d seen me at my worst, after all; coming in from work after two hours stuck on the subway; stumbling in for breakfast with my hair all tangled and my make-up still a cup of coffee away; or sitting in a darkened room, eating my way through a box of chocolate because – well, never mind because. But, even without our other attachments, it would never happen. I thought he worked too hard, he said I smoked too much, and if Cindy was any indication of the kind of girl that turned him on, chalk and cheese don’t come into it.

“How did it go?” I asked, as he sank into the armchair.

He shrugged. “To be honest, I don’t think I even care anymore.” He inclined his head towards a manila folder on the desk. “There’s half a dozen presentations in there, not one is a patch on the first one, and does it matter anyway? It’s not as if the commercial will be seen outside of a handful of mid-western test markets.”

He ran a hand up the side of his head, ruffling his hair. I liked it when he did that; he looked boyishly bemused at the best of times, and that habit just amplified it louder than ever. “What have you been doing?”

I gave him what I hoped was a stern glare. “Not much. Made two beds, vacuumed four rooms, cleaned the bathroom….” And I opened my mail, although there was no need to mention that the postman brought me a sex toy. Another old BeeGees song came to mind... the one about the Triple A batteries. “Staying Alive.”

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry. Look, how about if we just grab a few bottles of wine and some pizza tonight, and stay in and watch a movie? My treat.”

“You’re not seeing Cindy?”

“Not tonight. PTA.” Of course. Cindy taught Math at a High School on the other side of town, and had been dreading this evening for weeks. “I told her I’d catch up with her at the weekend.”

“In that case, yes, let’s. But what should I bring along?”

“You pick the movie.” He smiled. “Just don’t get anything too girly.”

“So, your lesbian porn collection’s out, then,” I shot back. His DVD collection was a standing joke between us, ever since I’d borrowed his copy of Pirates Of The Caribbean one evening, and found he’d put the wrong disc… the wrong pirates… back in the case. Instead of a few hours with Johnny Depp, I got an eyeful of Jeneveve Jolie, and I’d not let him hear the end of it – especially when I learned that Cindy knew nothing about his late night viewing habits. What other little secrets did he have, I wondered?

I would learned the answer to that one later, sometime after we opened the third bottle of wine of the evening evening. We’d managed to sit through twenty minutes of Harry Potter & A Series of Disconnected Scenes That Really Make No Sense (or whatever the last movie was called) before loudly agreeing it was one of the worst things we’d ever seen; and then spent another half an hour wondering what to watch next.

“Looks like it’s going to have to be the lesbian porn after all,” he shrugged, and if that wasn’t the clumsiest hint-disguised-as-humor I’ve ever heard, it was damned close.

“I don’t think so.” Two can play at this game. “If I’m going to have to watch porn all night, I at least want to see some stiff dicks.” I drained my glass.

“Really?” His eyes were wider than I’d ever seen them.

“What?” I did my best to sound offended. “How would you feel if I suggested we watch a bunch of naked guys getting it on?

He nodded. “Point taken. To be honest, I’m not really into the lesbian stuff either.”

I paused. So far as I could tell, there were two directions this conversation could go; either I asked him what he was into, and opened the door to all manner of flirtatious confessions, or I could abruptly change the subject and remind him that a bathroom was the most intimate thing we would ever be sharing.

Or I could sit silently for what must have seemed a painfully long time, which is what I suddenly realized I was doing. I could see Patrick watching me; I wondered what was going through his mind? After all, if anything did happen between us, it was he who had the most to lose. He was the one with the steady girlfriend, and it was my name on the apartment lease. I spoke. “What did we get from Netflix today?”

He picked up the little envelope. "Fifty First Dates.” And I blotted out the little voice in the back of my mind that echoed, “fifty first facials.” Hell, that pizza was salty.

“Let’s give it a go.”

He stood. “Shall I open another bottle while I’m up? We seem to have made short work of the last few.”

“Why not?” I watched him leave the room – he did have a nice ass. Had I noticed that before? I must have. And, as he walked back in, he had a nice bulge at the front as well. Now that I know I’d never noticed. I reached for my cigarettes, and smirked. Soft or hard pack?

He looked at me. “Care to share the joke?”

I shook my head. “It’s nothing.” He handed me the bottle and his hand lingered just a few moments more than was necessary as I took it. His loins were at eye-level. Hard pack, definitely. Or near enough. I wondered what he would do if I reached out…. Instead, I took the bottle and poured myself a full glass. “Nothing like pizza to make you drink like a fish,” I said carefully. This stuff was really going to my head.

I shifted in my seat and sent the remote control flying; Patrick stepped behind me to retrieve it, and I made my decision.

“Hey, while you’re back there, you wouldn’t give me a quick shoulder rub would you? I hate this chair, I always ping a muscle when I’m sitting here.” I scooted onto the ottoman beside the armchair.

“And I thought wine was meant to relax things,” he answered as his fingers probed around my shoulder blade, then drilled a thumb into what, presumably, he thought was the trouble spot. I stifled a yelp of pain – there was a lump in there some place, but he wasn’t anywhere near it. “Wait up a moment.” I stood and walked into the bedroom, my mind whirling around the thoughts that were ricochetting off my conscience... should we be doing this? Should I be doing this? I picked up the little cotton bag and walked back to where he was sitting, an expectant expression fixed on his face.

“Use this.”

I opened the bag, withdrew the thin tube-like vibrator, twisted the cap... thank God I’d already inserted the batteries.

Patrick watched me curiously. “What is that thing?”

“What do you think?”

He laughed. A big pink Sharpie?

“Yes, that’s exactly what it is.” I traced it down my arm, its swollen head sending a succession of very basic, but undeniably brusque sensations through my flesh, long before it got anywhere...

“...interesting,” Patrick murmured and I broke my reveille for a moment. “What?”

“I said ‘that looks interesting’,” he repeated

I handed it to him. “Go on then...”

He stepped away and I thought, for a moment, that I’d lost him; that I’d misread the situation altogether. And then he was crouching beside me, his face close to mine, his arms encircling my shoulders. He kissed me, a searching, passionate kiss that melted us together. I pulled him even closer, my hands around his back, so tight that I could barely squeeze my fingers between us. I released him, then dropped my hand to his hip, to toy with the waistband of his pants, lightly scraping his skin with one nail.

He pushed himself against my leg, then that finger slipped inside, reaching down towards his cock, gently scratching the yielding tip. He had my blouse open – I was glad I’d gone without a bra this evening - and was gently squeezing one nipple between firm thumb and finger. My chest tightened as he lowered his mouth towards it. His breath was wine-warm, and the tingle of the alcohol gave me shivers; I was almost shaking as I unbuttoned his pants and wrapped my fist around his cock, gently squeezing it to echo the sensations he was pulsing through my nipple.

Somehow we manoeuvred backwards, and fell onto the carpet with a thump and a sudden laugh. I swear we never released our hold on one another the whole time, but suddenly we were both naked, my fist slowly, but firmly, jerking his cock, his hand hard against my pussy, sliding one… two… now three fingers in and out of me. I was so wet down there and let out an involuntary “oh” as he planted a warm, wet kiss on my thigh, just below the groin. It’s the most ticklish feeling in the world, but you never want it to end.

That did it. I picked up the bgee from where he’d laid it; seven inches of beautifully angled burgundy plastic; and, while he watched with wide-eyed fascination, I placed it at my pussy lips.

I gasped. I didn't even need to push as my flesh sucked it in; did not even need to aim as it slipped unerringly towards that spot for which it is also named. And not even blinking as it penetrated inch by inch inside me and one more BeeGees oldie muscled into my mind.

“How Deep Is Your Love?”

Deep enough, sweetie.... and as he lapped at my thighs as they dripped with my juices, he suddenly laughed aloud.

“What’s so funny?”

“Oh, I was just thinking about something you said earlier,” he spluttered. “’It’s your mess, you should clean it up.’ Well, it looks like I'm cleaning yours up as well.”