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Once Upon A Time In Fox Fur

by Valentine Bonnaire
(for Robert Buckley)


erotic fictionMy mother bought me that fox fur coat.  How can I ever forget that night?  The night I wore it and felt so much like an adult.  I was nineteen.  That night I went against her for the first time.  I’m sure she was angry at me, but it wasn’t really anger—more a warning sign.  She couldn’t have stopped me.  I was taking a cab downtown to the restaurant because he was there.  I’d made up my mind and it was going to be him.

You only lose your virginity once.  I mean, we can be virgins in all kinds of different ways can’t we?  We can be naive.  I know I was.  I know I have been many, many times in life.  Naive.

That was the most beautiful coat in the world to me, then.  It was deep green worsted wool with a hood trimmed in fur.  Fox fur.  Those were the days before everything was politically correct in this country.  Women like my mother and my grandmother wore fur coats.  Fur was a rite of passage and so was that coat of mine.  It was floor length, and cinching the belt around me and pulling up the hood made me feel glamorous, just like my mother.  Hers was leather.  She’d gotten one for each of us that year.  The coat was a badge.  A badge that cried “woman.”

I called the taxi myself.  I didn’t even know how to drive yet.  I didn’t have a car.

“You are making a big mistake,” she said.

“I’m going, mom.”

“You are going to regret this.”

“I’m going.”

It wasn’t often that I talked back to my mother.

She was in the living room by the fire.  Having her third cocktail of the evening.  I had gotten made up, just like my best friend taught me.  Her mother didn’t have problems letting her daughter wear make up and nail polish.  Mine did.  I was forbidden all that, but the year I was nineteen things had changed.  I was modeling, and that glamour was part of me, suddenly. What could she do?

I looked at Pat and Patsy, her best friends—their furs draped casually over the couch that night.  The three of them sitting there smoking by the fire.  There was nobody to ask about it.  Sex.  Not even my best friend.  By the time we were nineteen she’d been through so many boyfriends she’d gotten a reputation.  It’s one of those things that people don’t really ever ask other people, isn’t it? 

He was thirty six.

He was thirty six and he was a man.  Not only that, my mother knew him as a friend.  He was one of the handsomest actors around.  He’d been a friend of our family for years.  He had driven up from Los Angeles.  He had driven up for me.

“You are making the biggest mistake of your life,” my mother said, exhaling smoke.

Pat and Patsy didn’t say much, as I listened to their glasses clink. 

“You look beautiful dear,” Patsy said finally, nodding at me.  I never knew if my mother had told her about Marcus and my feelings.  Patsy knew him, though.  From my mother’s parties.  She took another sip of her cocktail.  The three of them liked to talk for hours about their ex-husbands.  Hours and hours and hours.

“I’m going,” I said.  “The cab is here.”

I didn’t even tell my best friend about him until after.  She was always laughing at me and saying “Well, when are you going to?”

By the time I was nineteen it was embarrassing to still be a virgin.  It seemed like nobody else I knew was, by that late age.  None of the girls I knew anyway.   My mother had even sent me to Paris after high school.  It was her way of thrusting me from the nest, I guess.  I thought it was going to be really romantic if I lost it there, but frankly, I didn’t.  I really didn’t have the courage yet that summer.  It’s not that men weren’t looking.  It’s just that, the first time is a big deal.  A really big deal.  It can seem insurmountable, actually.

Everything about Marcus made me brave at first.  It was sexual chemistry between us.  Some kind of chemistry that makes the allure fatal.  Sparks.  You can’t stop them.  It’s like a train you get on that isn’t going to stop and I was on it.  The chemistry train.

The taxi arrived.  That was something my mother was good at.  Putting me in taxis from the time I was a child.  The cab door clicked as I got in and never looked back.

“Joe’s,” I said, to the driver.

I had my beautiful new coat on.  I can’t even remember what else I wore that night, except that fabulous coat.  Maybe boots and jeans?  That coat was my passage into adulthood in the ways that clothes signal something.  I was so nervous, but it’s like the coat covered all that up.

Joe’s.  Joe’s was the biggest bar and grill in town and everybody went there.  We went at least four times a week—my mother and her table of women holding court over Gimlets in the red-buttoned booths.  I’d been going there since I was a child and everyone knew me, even the bartender.  The waiters were insufferable flirts, too, all through my blushing teenage years.  So it’s pretty laughable now how the whole thing happened.  No way was the bartender going to serve me a drink—you had to be twenty one.  It hadn’t been like that in Paris.  I had felt adult for the first time in the little brasseries, all by myself.

Marcus was waiting for me at the bar.  That whole dark mess of charm that is a black Irishman and an actor— with a thousand voices.  Which one did he use that night?  I don’t think it would have mattered.  Whatever voice it was would have been like silk.  Like his hands all over me.

“Drink?” he asked.

I settled at the bar, and the bartender nodded at me, while the waiters whispered amongst themselves.  I tried not to look at them. He knew my usual.  The bartender finally grinned, approaching me.  I’d never sat at the bar in Joe’s.  “Shirley Temple?”

I don’t think any moment of my life after that was so embarrassing.  I really don’t.


I just looked at Marcus.  “The bartender knows me,” I said.  All the waiters were smiling at me.  How was I supposed to transcend that?  Marcus made an attempt at a joke I’m sure, because it must have seemed really odd to everyone I knew at the restaurant.  They’d never seen him before.  The pink fizzy drink with the cherry materialized as if from thin air.  I took a tiny sip.  He was having a scotch.  I know, you can roll your eyes right now, can’t you?

What happened to me that night was one of the most beautiful things in my life.  Not because he was so handsome, but because of how he did things, and the way I felt with him.

Marcus.  His father had been one of the biggest directors in Hollywood.  He was one of those guys that will never live up to what their famous fathers do.  It ruins them, actually.   But it hadn’t yet.  He was in his prime, then.  I felt like he was doing me a favor.  Anyway, I was rebelling against my mother and her generation.  I wanted to be like my best friend was.  I wanted to be experienced.  I’d never even had a date in high school—that’s how protective my mother was.  I never thought about birth control that night.  I was going to leave that to him.  It’s not like anybody ever talked about it, either.  Not openly.  My dad wasn’t available to ask, because he wasn’t there.  Nobody’s dad was there anymore.  All our mothers had left their husbands.  We all grew up listening to how rotten men were, like a broken record.

I sipped the Shirley Temple and he finished his drink.

“Let’s go little fox,” he said.  “I brought something for us.”

He’d gotten us a room in a hotel, right on the beach.  He had rum and cokes at the ready.  My heart was hammering in my chest as he opened the door and adjusted the lights down low.  I stared at the bed for a long, long time.

I know I fell in love that night.  I did.  But we never made it all the way.  It hurt too much.  He didn’t try to force things or me.  We spent the night together just kissing and lying next to each other.  It was the next time he came up that I lost it forever.  He was a man, not a teen boy.  That’s what I liked best, then.  Grown men.  It seemed like they knew everything.

“I didn’t do anything, mom.”  I said that to her the following day.

“I don’t want you seeing him again, do you hear me?” 

I wasn’t even listening to her as I pushed past her and went up to my room, slamming the door to my bedroom behind me.

He’d kissed me all night long until I was dissolved into becoming a grown up.  Funny how one coat can change everything isn’t it?  Or the kisses of a man who knows what he is doing.  I couldn’t wait until the week passed and he would be back up.  Nothing was going to stop me. Nothing.  I was going to give that part of myself to him.  My whole body was on fire for his touch.

We didn’t go to Joe’s again.  I remember the hotel room and that he had cocktails ready and that he was smiling and that we were going to and that I didn’t like my body at all.  The women in my family were good at making everyone feel small about themselves.  It’s just how it was in my world.  The opposite were my best friends parent’s mothers.  It was like two different worlds.  The loose and the tight.  I always felt like I could tell my best friend’s mother anything.

He made rum and cokes and we had a few.  That made it looser, at least for me. 

It was holy.

There is an expression “the beast with two backs.”

It was holy like that, because of the way he touched me.  I don’t even know if he knew what I was thinking, because I was silent.  I just let him take the coat off of me.  I can’t remember how his hands must have slipped the first buttons open because I was lost inside that kiss.  He kept kissing and kissing and there was all this warmth all of a sudden, everywhere.  He might have even done one of his voices as he took off my clothes.  They always made me smile.

It was holy, and it took a very long time to get there, too.

It’s special being a virgin.  A long time later I repaid that favor for a friend who was thirty six and had never been with a woman.  He was too scared.

“It’s nothing,” I said.  “You’ll see.”

Except I knew that it was, just like it had been for me.  Somebody has to show you how?  If you are lucky that’s the right person.

Marcus liked romantic light, like I did.  He might have even brought a scarf—a red scarf that second night that he draped over the nightshade.  It made the room glow like magic.  An actor’s trick maybe.  But more than that.  Romance for the two of us was everything.  Romance for people like us always is.

It took a long time that night.  It took maybe longer than it ever has again because that’s how careful he was with me. 

After we had kissed and petted for hours it seemed, he tested me with his finger and brought it to his lips.  The intimacy of his gesture was one I’ll never forget.

“I think you’re ready,” he said.  “Do you?”

I nodded.

“I have an idea about how we might do it, this time.”

“You’re going to be on top, and then it won’t hurt.”

He was on his back and he pulled me on top of him so I could straddle him.

“Just put this in as slowly as you need to,” he said.  His cock was hard and he held it in one hand as I positioned myself over him.  “You take and hold it like this,” he said.  “Around the base.”

“It’s going to hurt,” I said.

“We’ll go as slow as you need to,” he said.  And then he was reaching for my breasts.

I felt the tip of him at me, entering, my own hand in control of him.  I thought of my best friend and how this had happened to her so many years before and how it had divided us along the lines of two kinds of girl, and I thought about my mother telling me about my father and how she had been twenty six, because she had told me, and suddenly he was inside me almost to the hilt while my mind had wandered.

He pulled me forward to keep on kissing, and that eased us the final inches.  “This is a French kiss,” he’d said.

“Are you all right?” he whispered.  I sat there on top of him and just felt what it was like with him inside of me, all the way in.  I moved a little, his hands at my waist.  The look in his eyes, his beautiful eyes.  How close to me he was inside that intimacy, for the first time.

“I’m going to turn us over now, don’t let me slip out.”

His arms were around me, as he turned us, until I was lying underneath him.  Until I was really his.

“Put your legs around my waist,” he said.  “Wrap them around me.”

I’m not sure how I can explain the holiness of what this was to you now, or how I felt when I knew we were making “the beast with two backs.”  I know that I cried a little with him inside me, but it was at the beauty of something, not because it hurt.  He started moving slowly against me, barely thrusting, my arms and legs wrapped around him tightly.  Nothing fits like that does it?  When two people are locked in each other’s embrace.  Making love is what we did that night.

It seemed like he knew everything in those days, to me.  I fell in love, in the way I always fall in love, even if things end.  Which it did after a time, between us.  But that night is a night I will never forget.

We stayed all night together, in the room.  In the morning, because he had to get back to the city we stopped and got coffee and some donuts.  French crullers.  He drove us out to the beach and we sat for the longest time looking at the ocean.  The gulls were crying in the early grey light of dawn, moving against the vastness.

He drove me home in that dawn, and I remember I saved his cup.  It was just paper, but his lips had been on it.  He’d given me the little paper bag of trash to throw away.  I saved it in my room for the longest time.  His lips.  My heart.  That paper cup.  I wrote a tiny poem on it.

I never said a thing about it to my mother.  It was as if she knew.  She shot me one of her famous looks, I’m sure that afternoon.  He’d kissed me goodbye, and pulled my hood up, smiling.

“That’s quite a coat,” he said.

There was a line I had crossed, that night.  A line that we all cross, all by ourselves.  Oh, I knew about it because I’d seen films like Summer of ’42 but there is a line for each person and their very first time.  There is a right way and a wrong way.  The right way never hurts.  I’m lucky that way.  To the end of my days I’ll take that holiness with me — the way he made me feel that night, once upon a time in fox fur.

© 2013 Valentine Bonnaire. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

Bio: : Valentine Bonnaire's work can be found in the archives at as Adrianna de la Rosa and Valentina Bonnaire, and at ERWA in the galleries and Treasure Chest. "Flowering" will appear this year in The Mammoth Book of Quick and Dirty Erotica edited by Maxim Jakubowski. Three chapters of "Man in the Moon" appear in From Porn to Poetry 2 edited by Susannah Indigo.


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