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.
The Question of Cocksucking
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I stood at the foot of the bed. Standing up made me realize that my jeans were still unzipped, belt unbuckled, falling around my hipbones. I hedged my bets: would my cock get sucked tonight? Is it presumptuous of me to keep my fly down? I decided: yes. I began to button the jeans.
“What are you doing?” she clearly didn’t agree with my decision. We started laughing.
We weren’t going to fuck, I knew it already. That was okay – I went to see her, to meet her, to hang out, with only the expectation of the company of a smart, pretty girl, and hopefully some flirting.
And oh I got that.
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Summer Game Plan
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She saw me the moment I walked into the bar. I saw her, too, just a moment before she looked up from her vodka tonic and gave me the once-over, by which time I’d already looked away (keeping her in my periphery) and began greeting the regular barflies that were starting to recognize me. The bartender gave me a nod and poured me a Jameson rocks.
She was sitting at a table near the bar with a small group of girls of varying degrees of heteroflexible, one in sporty clothes and looking very uncomfortable, and one androgynous poster-dyke who clearly knew her way around the place and was just returning from the jukebox, which she had no doubt taken over and pumped full of quarters to last the next three hours.
The girl was in a summery dress, white with thin black lines, that tied at the shoulders, one of those perfect a-skirts that twirls a little and swishes when she walks. The ones that make me stop and stare on a busy street before I realize it. That turn me into a teenaged boy, drooling and tugging at my jeans to hide my embarrassing arousal.
And the shoes – they were low strappy sandals, my favorites, criss-crossed over the top of her feet, gently nestled against each other on the legs of her tall barstool chair.
The other dykes in the bar disregarded her, I could see it as they walked in and scanned the place. Straight, they thought. But she wasn’t.
I knew the same way I knew her friend was – I just knew. Something about her femininity was deliberate, thought through. Her nails were short. Her hair was pulled up off her neck and twisted into a clip, wispy around her face. Cheeks flushed from the recent streak of sunshine and heat, maybe she’d been playing in the park today.
And she checked me out.
(That’s how I really knew.)
Straight girls don’t look at me the way femmes do. And femme bottoms don’t look at me the way femme tops do – the tops have a self-satisfied smirk, a command, an external push of energy. The bottoms hold their breath, lower their eyes and wait a moment before checking to see if I’m still looking.
I am.
I settle at the bar. Okay, game plan: she’s with friends, but already noticed me. Wants me to make the first move (I tell myself) but I need an excuse to say something, to get her alone. And what’ll I say?
Jesse – the bartender and one of my best friends – chats with me casually as the place fills up and gets increasingly busy. She goes off to pull some beers and I’m deep into my second James when I get a tap on my shoulder.
“Excuse me.” It’s the girl. Dammit, I was going to say hi first. I turn my shoulders, not my legs, and raise my eyebrows.
“Could you get the bartender’s attention? I’ve been standing here five minutes … ” I shoot a look to Jesse and she’s smiling in that way that means she’s about to crack up, deliberately not looking at me.
I simultaneously think, “you asshole,” and “thanks.”
I give Jesse a nod when she meets my eyes and she nods back, to me and the girl, who is reassured.
I suspect it wasn’t Jesse’s attention this girl really wanted. “I’m Sinclair,” I say. The barstool next to me is suddenly vacant and the girl moves in to rest her elbows on the bar.
“Moira,” she says, and looks at me sideways, slyly, with a little shy smile, chin in her shoulder.
“Well, Moira. What are you drinking?”
“Vodka tonic. Stoli raspberry.”
I nod. Jesse approaches and I repeat: “Stoli raspberry and tonic, thanks man.”
We sit in silence a moment and I take a watery swig of the end of my James. Jesse puts a new one down in front of me next to her drink, I peel a twenty out of my pocket, throw it on the bar.
“Can I buy you a drink?” I say.
She almost blushes. A warm flush. Her few freckles deepen. “Thank you. I mean, I think you just did.” She crosses her legs at the knee and picks up her drink, discarding the lime on the napkin and taking a sip through the two thin bar straws, swiveling on her stool slightly to face me.
“So,” she says, “I guess that bought you a drink’s worth of conversation. I’m curious – does this kind of thing work on lots of girls?” Her eyes are flashing, lips curling at the edge. Playful.
“Well, I … uh … ” I want to tell her there are no other girls, there haven’t been in months. I’m in a dry spell and I like it that way. Sure, they catch my eye, but they don’t keep it. I want to tell her not to come home with me because she’ll just determine like all the others that my heart is broken, that I’m broken. I want to tell her I love her shoes. I want to taste that drink in her mouth, feel her slender fingers in the short hairs on my neck.
I breathe in, out. Then shrug. “Sometimes.”
She laughs. Jesse looks over at me from behind the beer taps and smirks.
ask for what you want
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I want you to only address me as Sir.
I want you to start playing with your clit ten minutes before I arrive, but under no circumstances are you allowed to come.
I want you wearing high heels and a short skirt with nothing underneath.
I want your safeword to be carnation, which means, you can yell no all you like, but I will not stop.
I want you ready to bend over my lap struggling as I spank you. Lift your dress up and turn your ass-cheeks red until my hand hurts. And then you’ll kiss it, suck my fingers, make it better. I’ll scold you for making me all hard and wanting, and you’ll straddle me and ride.
I want your explicit consent. I want your permission and submission.
I want you to know how to draw it from me. I am afraid of my own power. I want you to pull these cruelties from me, to beg for them. I want to take your energy and mine into one huge fireball that I will weild and you will receive. I want your surrender. I want you to make me feel like the biggest, baddest top in the room, even if I’m not.
Can you do that for me?
Ask For What You Want
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I want you to only address me as Sir.
I want you to start playing with your clit ten minutes before I arrive, but under no circumstances are you allowed to come.
I want you wearing high heels and a short skirt with nothing underneath.
I want your safeword to be carnation, which means, you can yell no all you like, but I will not stop.
I want you ready to bend over my lap struggling as I spank you. Lift your dress up and turn your ass-cheeks red until my hand hurts. And then you’ll kiss it, suck my fingers, make it better. I’ll scold you for making me all hard and wanting, and you’ll straddle me and ride.
I want your explicit consent. I want your permission and submission.
I want you to know how to draw it from me. I am afraid of my own power. I want you to pull these cruelties from me, to beg for them. I want to take your energy and mine into one huge fireball that I will weild and you will receive. I want your surrender. I want you to make me feel like the biggest, baddest top in the room, even if I’m not.
Can you do that for me?
you’re going to come for me
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“Harder,” she whispered. “Fuck me harder, please, please.”
In a dingy bathroom in the downstairs of a Tibetan restaurant. Her cheek against the peeling greasy paint, legs kicked apart, stockings pulled down just to below her ass, dress shoved up around her waist, in front of the filmy bathroom mirror where she could see my arm flexing as my fingers – two, three – thrust inside her. Photos of the Dalai Lama on the wall. Penny joked about her being a bad Buddhist.
But I couldn’t resist.
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My Lover’s Absolute Devotions
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My lover has fallen in love with my pussy. By stating this, my lover’s in-loveness, I don’t mean to suggest that there was a time when she didn’t like my pussy, if not love it. I mean rather to suggest that what she feels now seems to have turned a more scarlet shade of passion, a richer hue of devotion, a more singular tone of monomania. My lover is seriously in love with my pussy.
She kneels, she kowtows, she pays deep, wet, and oral obeisance to my cunt. She seems unable to help herself; she loses control; she stampedes toward my pussy. There is only the sweetest, too brief interlude at my mouth, the quicksilver flash of her tongue rolling in my mouth like a piece of sashimi, the gum-rubber slickness of her lips. There is a cursory stay at my neck; she pulls my head back and she pauses like Rousseau’s lion at my gypsy throat. She bites, but all too fleetingly. She takes a detour—the swiftest pit-stop—at my breasts. She sucks one nipple, she bites it as if she were nipping a berry from a bush. She suckles, summarily. She then descends, rapidly, single-mindedly, thrillingly, to my hoary depths so that she may worship at the altar of my cunt.
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