Callie and the Hipsters by Giselle Renarde

Friday night traffic out of the city was killer. The weekend weather was predicted to be gorgeous, sunny and unseasonably warm for mid-April. Naturally, every family from Belleville to Burlington seemed convinced it was the perfect time to escape into the luxurious wilds of cottage country. Callie hitched up the volume on the radio, but the static was taking over already. That was a good sign, she reasoned—if she was out of signal tower range, she was getting closer to the lakeside summer house. Still, she wished this damn car had come with a CD player. It had some sort of iPod connection, but despite her son’s insistence she buy one, she didn’t own an iPod, which made the connection pretty useless.

Even out here in Frontenac County, traffic was as thick as the evening air choked with highway exhaust fumes. If only the moral high road was an actual street I could drive on, Callie kept thinking. She was taking the moral high road, wasn’t she? By leaving the house and avoiding the temptation of destroying every precious objet therein? Yeah, this was the moral high road, all right. She knew she couldn’t be quite so tempted to go all “Hulk Smash” on the summer house because she quite simply loved it too much. It was a haven for relaxation, always had been. After a nice, quiet weekend by the lake, she was sure to return to the city having gained a great deal of perspective on the current turd pile that was her life.

When she pulled onto the heavily treed lane under cover of darkness, she’d already switched off the car stereo. Over the satisfying crunch of gravel beneath her tires, she heard voices. Her first instinct was “burglars!” until she realized the voices weren’t whispering, but chatting, laughing. The neighbours must be up already. They must be having a party. Callie drove up the slim grass path into their lot and realized she was only partially correct.

The summer house was lit up like an Amsterdam storefront, that red scarf over the lamp effect, and there were other cars in the dirt drive—a mix of ancient station wagons and gleaming little high efficiency vehicles. The drivers and passengers of those vehicles were, she assumed, the people scattered across the deck and milling about her getaway home. A growl burbled up in her throat like acid reflux, burning as it reached the back of her tongue. “Dante!” she hissed, switching off the ignition.

Callie flowed like a ghost past the young people on her summer home’s deck. Nobody seemed to notice her at all until she entered the cottage. Strange how she felt the anomaly here, when she owned the damn place. “Where is my son?” she asked the three kids indoors.

Two girls—one a pretty blonde thing, the other a plump young Asian woman with short spiked hair—looked up from their knitting. Honest-to-God knitting! Callie couldn’t believe her eyes. They were at a party, entirely without adult supervision—not that they were children by any means—and they were sitting quietly on the sofa, huddled together like a pair of kittens, listening to rather euphonious music…and knitting! It was impossible to tell what they were making, but each was adding to the opposite end of it. A collective effort. Very cute.

“Who’s your son?” the Asian girl asked.

The answer seemed obvious to Callie—on so many levels— but she simply couldn’t be mean to these sweet young knitters. “Dante,” she told them.

They nodded in unison then exchanged glances. “Maybe on the deck?” the blonde suggested.

“Not on the deck,” said the young man in the kitchen. “On the dock.”

Turning away from the knitters, Callie took a good look at the tall white kid arranging crudité on her good platter. His hair was frizzy and seemed five times the size of his face, most of which was concealed by a thick beard. Callie felt a little like she’d fallen down the rabbit hole. Girls knitting? Boys eating vegetables? Not a keg in sight? These kids were so strange. This party was hardly what she would call a party, and she couldn’t conceal her amusement. “When I was at university, we’d be smoking pot and pigging out on potato chips by now.”

The girls gave her a pitiful smile, as if to say, “You poor dear!” The boy shook his head. “How would you like to be lit on fire for someone else’s amusement?” he asked. “Or boiled in oil! Imagine the agony!”

“Geoff is a raw food vegan,” the Asian girl explained.

Not that Callie had any idea what that meant. Her confusion must have shown on her face, because the blonde explained, “He doesn’t eat meat or anything else that comes from animals, and he won’t eat fruits or vegetables that have been cooked.”

Callie had never conceived of such a diet—and she thought she’d heard them all. “Why won’t you eat cooked vegetables?”

His jaw dropped, like he was shocked or even offended by the question. “Can you imagine what it feels like to be dropped in a pot of boiling water?”

With a shrug, Callie said, “Probably not as painful as being eaten alive.”

Geoff looked disgusted by her suggestion and swept his crudité right by her without offering so much as a carrot stick. When he got outside, she could hear him telling other people what she’d implied. Those kids out there on the deck sounded as mortified as Geoff had, but the girls on the couch only giggled. Out of the corner of her eye, Callie saw the Asian girl kiss the blonde behind her multiply-pierced ear. For a moment, she felt scandalized. The nice knitters are lesbians? Her fingers felt numb and her breath hitched in her throat, but she told herself she was being silly and closed-minded. She shook out her hands until the feeling came back, turned toward the girls, and smiled.

“So, what’s that you’re drinking?” Callie asked, spotting a pair of brandy snifters on the low table by the sofa. Raiding the liquor cabinet, eh? Maybe these kids weren’t so strange after all.

“Armagnac,” the blonde replied, nodding to the bottle on the kitchen counter. “Please, help yourself. Oh, we’re so rude, coming into your summer home like this and not even offering you a drink!”

Callie felt a little rabbit-holed again. Twenty-year-old girls drinking Armagnac? And definitely not her Armagnac—nothing in their liquor cabinet was half as posh. “I’m okay, thanks.” But, of course, that was far from the truth. A big part of Callie hoped these kids would be smoking and drinking. Then she could join in, be part of the group, escape from her wretched existence for just a little while. She wanted to disappear right now. She wanted to numb the pain.

When the knitting girls turned their attentions—and affections—to each other, Callie tiptoed over to the liquor cabinet. For some reason, she felt like she was stealing even though everything in there was rightfully hers. She grabbed the big brown bottle of Kahlua and snuck toward the staircase. When she was halfway to the second floor, she murmured, “I just have to pee. Long drive.”

Why was she making excuses to Dante’s little friends? Better yet, why wasn’t she tracking down her son this very second and dunking his smart-alec head in the lake for throwing this party? She knew the answer to that question, and the answer was silly: she didn’t want to face all those kids on the deck who thought she was a monster for daring to bake a potato or sauté an onion. Dante’s friends were weird, but she was still embarrassed that they would think ill of her.

Life was full of silly, silly things, and sometimes Callie found herself acting like a silly, silly woman. Like now, twisting the lid off the bottle of Kahlua in the dark, searching the bathroom for a plastic guest cup to drink from. This was excruciatingly silly, and yet…

Callie froze after pressing the door to the master suite open with her hip. She was still in the doorframe when she realized she wasn’t alone. The lights were off, but the moon and its twin in the lake illuminated the space well enough for her to make out two bodies writhing in her bed. Hers and Winston’s bed. Well, not anymore. She very nearly turned tail and left them to it before remembering this was her bedroom, not theirs, and she’d most likely had a much crappier day than they’d had, so she deserved it more. And then she thought, well, what am I going to use it for? Drinking alone until she passed out? At least they were having fun. They were young! Let them enjoy life.

Callie didn’t move. She wasn’t really sure where to go, now. There were two girls making out on the couch downstairs, and up here…were these girls too? Whoever they were, they were too into each other to notice her presence. She waited for her eyes to adjust to the moonlight, and when they did she nearly dropped her Kahlua. They were boys—both of them! At first she wasn’t sure. She tried to convince herself the white guy underneath the brown guy was actually female, but they were both buck naked and there was no mistaking balls.

Both guys were skinny. Thin arms, thin frames, thin legs—skinny. She had a much better view of the brown guy—Indian, maybe? South Asian, at any rate. He was fucking the white guy doggie-style—did gay guys call it that? Callie didn’t know—with the covers and sheets all pushed down to the foot of the bed. Although she felt like a total perv for doing it, Callie crept further inside the bedroom and concealed herself in the darkness of the corner by the door. She gulped down her second bathroom cup of Kahlua and poured herself a third. If she was going to act like an utter reprobate, she should at least have an excuse. Drunkenness was a fine justification for any misbehaviour.

The Indian boy had a hand in the white boy’s sandy hair now. Callie could just make out the clutch and pull as he forced his lips against the boy’s ear. “You like that, don’t you? You like my cock in your ass.”

The white boy moaned, but that obviously wasn’t good enough. “Tell me you like it,” the Indian guy insisted. “Tell me you like my fat dick in your tight little asshole.”

“I like it,” the white boy cried. It was the first time Callie heard his voice, and it was higher in pitch than she’d anticipated. “Give me your big dick, Vish. Fuck me hard.”

It seemed to Callie that this boy, Vish, was already fucking him hard, but apparently Vish could go harder. “You sure you can handle any more?” he taunted.

“I can take everything you’ve got, babe.”

Vish released his grip on the white boy’s hair, and they somehow managed to contort themselves enough to kiss. For a couple scrawny boys, their kiss looked fierce, and Callie poured herself yet another cup of Kahlua. Her legs were feeling a little wobbly now, and she leaned against the dresser for support. It really was an invasion of their privacy, what Callie was doing: drinking in the corner, watching these guys go at each other. Then again, this was her bedroom.

When Vish, kneeled a little more upright behind the skinny white boy, Callie suddenly realized the extent of her arousal. The crotch of her panties was wet with juice—she could feel the slippery stuff against her clit, which was so engorged it crept eagerly out from between the lips of her pussy. She watched the muscles of Vish’s tight brown ass writhe with the rhythm of his thrusts, and her knees went even weaker. The smooth, warm sweetness of her Kahlua paled in comparison to that boy’s behind. She wanted to touch it. She wanted to lick it. God, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so turned on. His ass clenched every time he jerked forward, thrusting into the white boy’s hole. Each time he pulled out, pulled back, those tight muscles slackened a touch. He got into a rhythm of back and forth, in and out, grunting while the white boy moaned.

The slap of his pelvis against the white boy’s ass pumped Callie’s arousal to unknown heights. Her pussy was throbbing now, so hot and wet she wanted to hike up her skirt and play with her clit. She knew she’d come in a matter of seconds if she let herself do it, but if she had an orgasm now it would be damn loud and she didn’t want to draw the boys’ focus away from one another. Anyway, the self-imposed restraint was even sweeter than her fifth cup of Kahlua.

“Fuck me,” the white boy was chanting now. “Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me…” They were hardly two separate words, but more like a string of syllables that bled continuously into one another. “Fuckmefuckmefuckmefuckme…”

“Yeah, I’ll fuck you. I’ll fuck you so hard you’ll feel it for a month.”

Vish rammed the boy, his heavy, hairy balls swinging at the apex of his thighs. They drew Callie’s gaze down to the white boy’s balls, which were either shaved or simply had very little hair, and the semi-erect dick that swung with every thrust. She’d always wondered how that worked with gay men—did the bottom one’s cock get hard while the top one fucked his ass? She’d wondered if they came together or not, or if the bottom guy ever got to come. There was so much she didn’t know.

Vish was panting now, wheezing and gasping with effort. “I’m going to pump you so full of cum…”

“Yeah?” The white guy bucked back against that hard cock the way Callie knew she would if it was her in that position. How long had it been since it was her in that position?

“Yeah, I’m going to make you my cum dumpster, you little slut.”

So dirty…God, Callie might come just listening to their back and forth. She grasped her Kahlua bottle and her cup tight to keep her hands busy, otherwise they’d certainly have found their way under her skirt by now.

Holding the white boy’s slim hips, Vish thrust hard, trembling all over. He let out a canine yelp and held perfectly still, his back straight as an arrow, his head cast up toward the ceiling. The white boy fell down flat against the mattress, and Vish soon followed suit, collapsing right down on his back. To Callie’s surprise, through their gasps for breath, they started laughing. They barely moved a muscle, but they laughed and laughed.

“That was amazing,” the white boy said, his voice muffled by pillows—Callie’s pillows.

“Evan, Evan, Evan…” So the white boy’s name was Evan. “You are one hell of a good fuck.”

The boy’s voice was dainty and self-satisfied when he said, “I know.”

Maybe it was the Kahlua—in fact, it definitely was—that made Callie so emotional and so legless that she slipped in more ways than one. The boys’ ultimate tenderness after a hot fuck session warmed her heart, and she found herself mumbling, “Aww, that’s so sweet!” When the boys’ bodies tensed in the bed and Vish turned his head, Callie lost her bearings. She’d been leaning against the tall dresser, but her shoulder slipped and she went down…all the way down…