A Cup of Jo
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She doesn’t know I exist. Sure, she takes my two clammy dollars and single quarter for my medium half-caf and she punches my card, and she puts the .13¢ in the ceramic jug that is labeled “Tips!� and adorned with jaunty daisies, but she doesn’t see me. I am reduced to my faceless caffeine addiction in the face of her casual neglect of my existence. I nothing but a cup of joe.
But her, she is a being of extraordinary beauty, and she knows it. She wears her beauty like a dress she found in a bargain bin at a church sale. It cost her little and therefore merits just that much regard. Her hair is defiantly highlighted in great swarthy swatches of blonde that stride strident against her natural oak brown. Her almond skin is bare of make-up, but for two level lines that march across her eyelids, just above her lashes, and streak out toward her temples. Sometimes her lips bear the lightest brunt of berry-hued gloss, but most usually not.
People already stop and stare, so why court their attention, or so I’d guess her thinking goes, for I’ve never spoken to her other than to order, obsequiously, my cup of coffee. What would I say? I quell and quake before her. She and her beauty and her disregard of it and her inescapable pulse of cool render me speechless. I am stuck dumb.
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Break-up Aura
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I could have taken her home. She asked me to. Said her name was Drea. She didn’t like the whole thing, Andrea, it was too common. Drea was edgier. It clearly fit her better.
She ordered a gin and tonic at the bar, making eye contact with the bar tender, flirting; the bartender was providing extra-strong gin and tonics, Drea was kind and grateful and seemed genuine, and already a little flushed from the alcohol.
She was sitting with friends, but before returning to them she noticed me nursing an already half-empty Jameson on the rocks, and said, “So did she leave you, or did you leave her?”
I smiled into my drink, thought about this. Tipped my glass enough to knock a piece of ice into my mouth and sucked it. “Not exactly either,” I said. “This is my usual drink.”
“Oh it’s not the drink, it’s the — well, forgive my hippie moment, but it’s the aura. Break-up aura.” I considered this and looked at her.
She, like the rest of the fashionably-conscious girls in Manhattan, had pulled her spring fashion out from her storage locker. Her legs were encircled in a flowy skirt with many layers, maybe a wrap-around, with a big flowery pastel pattern, aquamarine and salmon and honeydew and peach and beige, petals askew and overlapping, and she wore a white tank top, silver glitter and sparkles at the neck, tight and round over her breasts. Her cornsilk light-brown hair was layered just past her shoulders; she kept tossing her head to keep it out of her face, but gently as to not disturb its positioning. Not so edgy, maybe; but she had an energy to her, a way of slicing through things, a sharpness that made her more than just an uptown Andrea.
She took my silence for recoil. “Your heart looks broken, that’s all,â€? she said, and shrugged, making to pick up her drinks and turn back to her table, but giving me one more chance to respond, attempting eye contact, searching my face for – something – what? – and waiting.
“You’re not far off,” I said. “That’s one way to say it. But it’s been a very slow separation, not the shatter-crunch I’m used to. This was like a buttonhook needle in the sternum, an unraveling, fiber by fiber.” I’ve been reading too much Sarah Waters. She nodded, as if understanding, sympathetic. Touched my hand as we chatted. Flirted. Gave me the eyes.
It didn’t take long for her to take me to the back, to our own booth in the shadowy corner, tongues damp with another round. Her hand playfully pushed my shoulder and made an excuse to feel the muscles of my arms and wrap her fingers around my wrist, as if checking its girth.
“You have beautiful hands,” she said, and took one hand in both of hers, pulling my fingers back, exposing my palm. “Long fingers.”
Her hand moved to my thigh without any fanfare. My hand tangled in her hair at the back of her neck and her tongue was tangy, sweet and strong with gin.
She would have taken me home with her. Wouldn’t have hesitated to have me follow her into the restroom and let me finger her, fuck her. But as she attempted trick after trick to get me off, get me interested, I could only think that her mouth wasn’t as supple as yours, wasn’t as soft, and that she tasted nothing like you.
Executive Assist – A Story
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The secretary was bent over the desk with her skirt bunched up over her back and her panties pooled by her feet. Her breathing was strained and she tried to look at the wall clock by her left side, praying that her lateness wouldn’t be noticed. Her cheap rayon H&M blouse was pushed carelessly up her chest, exposing her breasts, which had been pulled out and over the top of her beige bra.
Binder clips were cruelly pinching her nipples.
“Keep facing forward,” she heard from behind her, and then the soft whoosh of the rolling chair’s wheels on the industrial carpet. She flinched in blind preparation; she knew something painful was going to happen, but she wasn’t sure what.
There was the clank and rustle of something to the right and behind her. The metal cup and rack that held her office tools. She knew the sound well.
The scratch of the open stapler. The bite of the staple remover. The relentless nip of the binder clips. The smack of the ruler. The poke and scrape of the letter opener. The smooth hardness of the “Received” stamp in her asshole. She knew them all, knew them well, wore the memory of the perverted use of these quotidian implements on her flesh like shameful, naughty undergarments.
“Lift your ass toward me,” said the voice behind her. Not angry, not passionate. Not anything. Its tone could be requesting her to pass the salt.
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Hot Curry Nights
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The curry is particularly good at a certain little Thai restaurant south of Market. We pilgrimage there on a Friday night, past the shops and shows and leather crowds on Market Street, to stand in line with the rest of the curry and satay lovers. We must look quite a pair while we wait. I have planned this evening minutely, dressed with special care. You have obliged me in wearing your cotton sateen dress with the long petal skirt that goes so well with your short jacket and cordovan boots. My leather pants, black bomber jacket and hair in a tight braid are selected to accentuate your softness this evening. Only you know about the sleeveless shell of peach silk I’m wearing against my skin.
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Food, booze, & girls
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When a banquet is laid out before me, fresh strawberries and glazed pastries and luscious sauces for pasta and spices, herbs, steam rising, I can’t not eat. I just can’t.
Sometimes I wish I had the willpower. It does occasionally get me into trouble. I just came back from a lunch where there were five kinds of potato chips, and I just could not resist the barbeque flavored ones, even though I know they’re not real food, and they’re awful for me – they’re never something I would buy for myself.
But when they’re right there? Just, right there, in my reach, in front of me? I cannot resist.
And booze, too. “Another drink?” My friends ask, poising the bottle of wine above my glass. Well, no – I’m drunk enough, I’m comfy and feeling no pain. But why not? It’s right there.
And then there’s girls.
I know better, half the time. I know it’s trouble to kiss your best friend’s girlfriend, or even worse, your best friend’s sister, or even to kiss this girl who’s been coming onto me all night but in whom I have little interest.
But sometimes they’re all stunning and seductive, and I give in, I give over. I cannot resist.
Does it sound like a cop-out to say I’m rendered powerless against these feminine wiles? I always thought that was such a sexist stereotype: “I’m just a big dumb guy, I can’t possibly be held accountable for my actions once a woman seduced me.”
But sometimes, that’s how I feel. That’s exactly it. I start to feel like we are so well matched, that my soft places are just where she’s hard, that her hard places are just where I’m soft, and that she knows exactly where to stroke my thin underbelly before she digs her nails in.
I cannot resist when she starts giving me those under-the-eyelashes looks of submission and seduction and permission to step in and take her. The way she begs with her skin and fingertips and the way she sips a drink and flips her hair. I can’t not take her down. I can’t not go inside and see.
Maybe that makes me a pushover. My buttons get pushed and I respond, knee-jerk reactions. But I want, I ache for it when it get close to me, like my teeth starting to sting and my tongue starting to water when a beautiful china plate with German chocolate cake gets placed in front of me, knife and fork in hand.
How could I possibly walk away?
The Prettiest Girl in the Bar
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“You,� I said, lips right next to her ear, the gardenia scent on her neck more tangible at such close range, “are the most beautiful girl in this whole place.�
The music thumped, colors from the lights fluttered. I’d been watching her for half an hour, since I got here, and had danced next to her for the last two songs. I couldn’t hear my own words but trusted she could.
She could. She flushed, bowing her head a little, looking up at me through her lashes. Tossed her thin, long blonde hair.
“Can I buy you a drink?� I asked.
She nodded, still shy, eyes flashing. Interested. “Vodka cranberry?�
Lipstick …
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… on my cock. Red, a mess of it, and on your mouth, wiped to your cheek where I smeared it hard with my fingers. My hand in your hair, pressing deeper into your throat. Under my desk maybe, or in the board room on that big oak table with huge windows that look over the shopping center. Black leather chairs with high backs that roll. Glass water pitcher in the corner. Ice cubes.
I bet the table height is just right. Bend you over it, push the mess of fabric out of the way to smack your bare ass, hard, leave a red imprint of my hand. Tease your lips, thrust my fingers in. Press your cheek down onto the smooth oak wood, hand tangled in your hair. I think the door is locked; there’s a conference call phone unit in the center of the table. Perhaps it’s on. Perhaps someone is listening in. They could be.
In the server room. Against a mess of wires and humming of machines, gasping, fast movements of desire. Your hands under my shirt. The thrill of your fingers. Mouths wet and hungry.
There’s an empty office down the hall. Still the desk is a mess of paperclips, a stapler, binding clips, an empty inbox. Lift you up to sit on the edge and pull myself close, between your legs, in an blue office chair with wheels. A letter opener rips through whatever thin fabric you might be wearing so I can taste you. Your hands on the back of my head, knees bent, head bent back. Shoulders against your thighs.
I can’t look at any of these flat surfaces without thinking of bending you over it, lowering you onto it, lifting my knee to it for leverage. Empty rooms, hidden corners, chairs all become enticing. Wracked with lust. Please, work me over till I’m spent, pull it from me, leave me empty instead of always bursting.
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