Wild Nights

by Therese Szymanski

  “Nothing like that ever happened with Matthew, though,” she finishes, and I feel my head jerk up at the revelation.

  “Really?”

  “Yep, really.” She grins at me, a little mischievously, and I somehow manage to smile back. How can she be so at ease in this moment, when I can feel my forearm muscles knotting under her hand? “You sound relieved.”

  “I think I’m beginning to understand what my jealousy was really all about,” I say wryly. “I loved you even then, and just . . . didn’t know it.” There must be something in my voice—some tone or hitch or stutter—that lets her know I’m not quite finished, because all she does is stroke my arm and wait. I have to swallow hard before I can speak again.

  “I went to the frats a lot, while you were with him,” I mutter, turning my head away. “I’d go and drink, fool around with guys . . . it wasn’t good.”

  I’m waiting for her to pull away—to tell me that I’m just too much for her, that she’d rather be with him after all—but instead, she leans in close, wraps one arm around my waist and lightly kisses the side of my neck.

  “I’m sorry you were so lonely,” she whispers against my skin. “You need touch. It’s one of the things I love about you. I promise I’ll try my best to give you what you need.”

  “You,” I murmur, hugging her even tighter. “I need you.”

  We lie still for a little while, then, reveling in our closeness— physical and emotional. And as I hold her, I smile into the twilit room because she loves me, she really does and not even my past can interfere with that. Now that the secret’s out, I feel so much lighter inside . . . but even so, there’s one other thing I want her to know. At least the words are easier, this time.

  “Have you, uh,” I begin awkwardly, and pause. All right, maybe this isn’t easier. It seems ultra-taboo for some reason—even though I know that it’s normal. Healthy.

  “Have you ever touched yourself?” I finally blurt out. “Because I have . . . and, and recently—this past week—when I did I, um, thought of you.”

  Silence. Great—I’ve gone and done it now. Now she thinks—

  “I have, too,” she says suddenly, almost too quietly for me to hear. “I’ve always been ashamed of it, even though there’s no reason to be.” She pauses and sighs. “And yes, I’ve thought of you sometimes. Even before this past week.”

  “Oh,” I say weakly, because the throbbing has started again. She’s thought of me? Of me touching her?

  “That was my last secret,” she admits. “The last thing I hadn’t told you. I’m not sure if I ever would have, either. So . . . thank you.”

  We lapse into stillness again, except for her hands. They move—slowly, carefully—down my sides to my waist. The throbbing speeds up as I realize her destination, and I feel my breaths quicken. Her hands—I need them on my skin. Badly.

  She tugs and I obediently roll away from her so I’m lying on my back. She bends down to kiss me while slowly hiking the hem of my shirt up my stomach, up and over my heavy breasts. The slide of cotton across my nipples makes me shudder, and I think a little noise—sort of like a whimper—escapes my throat. And then her mouth opens over mine and I follow her lead, moaning when our tongues touch tentatively. French kissing had always just been the thing to do, but it’s so different now, so profoundly sensual, every light brush of her tongue against mine sending pulses of heat down my spine to pool between my legs. I want to taste her, and to be tasted in return.

  She finally pulls away, only to bring her hands back to my breasts. My head jerks back on the pillow as the breath leaves my body in an explosive sigh. Hands clenched at my sides, I try to understand what she is doing to me even as my body becomes a riot of sensation. A moment later, I feel wetness against the sensitive skin around one nipple, and my eyes flash open to behold the most incredible sight they’ve ever seen: her tongue flicking me back and forth, then circling, just before she pulls my nipple into her mouth and sucks in, hard. I can’t help it—I cry out—especially when she does it all over again and mirrors the motions of her tongue on my other breast with her fingers.

  The tightness between my thighs is an ache, now—pulling, throbbing, almost painful. The power of her mouth and fingers burns away my self-consciousness and embarrassment, purging me until all that’s left is white-hot desire.

  “Oh, god,” I cry softly, throat rough from so many harsh, gulping breaths. The swirling motions of her tongue stop and I shudder involuntarily. “I need you to touch me,” I rasp, “or else I’ll go insane.”

  Pause. My body pulses, a firecracker, spark halfway down the fuse. Please!

  “Okay,” she breathes. “I love you.” She slips her right hand under the elastic waistband of my boxers, and I’m gasping, gasping and trembling as her fingers find me—hot and swollen and liquid.

  Light at first, light and teasing, then more firmly as my gasps become whimpers. I hear them. There is nothing but this—her scent enveloping me, her long hair brushing against my collarbone, her fingers dipping down into my wetness and then returning up to circle my clitoris. Swirling, dancing—so gentle, so loving. My body tightens, thighs trembling as my hips arch into her hands. I’m close, so very close, and it’s right there—just beneath the horizon like the predawn sun, ready to burst above the skyline in a shower of red-gold sparks.

  Her name explodes against my lips as I come for her, shuddering against her hand for the first time. “I love you, I love you,” she whispers, continuing to massage me gently until the last of the spasms are past—until I finally regain enough strength to open my eyes and look up into her beautiful face. There’s a tiny crease between her eyebrows that I’d smooth out with a finger if I could raise my arm.

  Some distant part of me realizes that my cheeks are tingling. I’ve hyperventilated.

  “Are you okay?” she asks quietly, stroking the sweaty wisps of hair back from my forehead.

  “Oh,” I manage, my voice sounding faint through the roaring in my ears. “Th . . . that was—there are no words.” I can still feel the staccato pulse of my heart against my ribcage and I take a few deep breaths to slow it down. “Incredible d-doesn’t even come close.”

  She launches herself at me, then, and I hold onto her and murmur “I love you” over and over, and in between she keeps saying “thank you, thank you for letting me do that.” She is thanking me? I’d laugh if I could find the strength, but my entire being is limp and heavy. Sated—for the first time in my life.

  It would be so easy to fall asleep in her arms—to surrender to the overwhelming lassitude she has brought to my body. But I won’t—not yet, not when I can touch her in return. I need her to feel how much I love her, and I want to repay her for the amazing gift she’s just given me. Want to feel her softness, everywhere. Only, I’m nervous. Guys had always been content with exploring my body, so I don’t have much experience touching anyone but myself. And what if I can’t please her? I need to be able to make her feel good, to give her what she’s just given me.

  “I—I want to touch you, if it’s okay,” I finally whisper. “But I don’t know how.”

  “It’s more than okay,” she answers, voice catching. “And don’t worry about it—just do what feels good to you.”

  “All right,” I reply. “But can you tell me what . . . what you like?”

  “Yes,” she whispers back, stroking my hair. “Love, you don’t need to—”

  “I want to,” I interrupt her. “I want to. Please.”

  She lowers herself to the mattress and turns onto her back. “I love you,” I murmur, and kiss her.

  The anxiety doesn’t last long. It all feels so good, so right, so sacred—circling licking kisses around her bellybutton, rubbing my face against the softness of her breasts, teasing them gently with my tongue. And when I finally slide my fingers into the narrow valley between her legs, she shows me how to move them against her—how to make her writhe and even moan a little—until she arches against my hand and I drink in her g
asps with kisses. I fumble a few times, I know—and everything takes a little longer than I think it could—but that’s okay. I’ll learn. What’s important right now is that I can make her happy. That we’re together, loving one another, unafraid.

  Later, when she turns her back to me so we can spoon, I slip my hand beneath her breast and squeeze gently. She hums. What a privilege it is, to be able to touch her like this. To be able to show the sheer intensity of what I feel.

  “We made love, didn’t we?” I whisper, my voice thick with fatigue.

  “Yes,” she murmurs back, pushing closer to me. I imagine that I can feel the atoms of our skin blending together so that there’s no longer a barrier between her and me. So that there’s only us. “That’s exactly what we did.”

  Working the Night Shift

  Therese Szymanski

  “Hey, nobody’s allowed in here.” The big, burly man I had never seen before started to yell at me, then stopped himself. “Oh. You’re a girl. Go on.”

  The naked woman whose ass I’d just been admiring as she bent over, stood, turned and smiled unabashedly at me. She was blonde, but I couldn’t tell if she was a natural blonde because, well . . . she was completely shaved between her legs.

  I was glad my family wasn’t exactly normal. I mean, really, how many folks go to help a hospitalized brother in another state and end up in a situation like this?

  “I’m Leeka,” she said, coming up to me, running a finger along my collar, and tightening my tie. There’d been a chill in the women’s restroom earlier, which the two bachelor party dancers had apparently tried to alleviate by turning both showers on to hot, so the scalding water would heat the air. The result was a much warmer changing room that was rather quite steamy, enough to cause little beads of water to collect and roll down smooth, curvy, luscious skin. “Hey, this isn’t a real tie,” Leeka said.

  “Uh, clip-on,” I said. “I never wear clip-ons but if a guard’s going to wear a tie she’d better wear a clip-on ’cause otherwise somebody can grab you by it and strangle you. That would be really bad.” I could feel my cheeks flush, and that was just one of the places my blood was rushing besides my brain. Her breasts were perky, her nipples hard, and she wasn’t exactly crossing her legs in front of me.

  “Hm,” the other girl, a brunette, said. “You don’t have a gun. How’re you gonna protect us from all those joes out there?”

  “She’s got this really big stick,” the blonde said, caressing the nightstick that hung at my side. My brain went to some very bad places and I got a bit weak-kneed with the way she ran her soft hand up and down my, er, nightstick. Little did I know at that moment how much time I’d waste during the rest of the night keeping the boys from my big stick, because they wanted to “borrow” it as soon as they saw the girls.

  It wasn’t even my nightstick—I’d had to borrow it from my brother, since I’d left mine in D.C. They’d really have been all over my stick and ’cuffs, since mine were much nicer. “And I’ve got these,” I said, pulling out my borrowed handcuffs.

  “Oooo,” the blonde said, running a finger over the hard metal.

  “Leeka,” the brunette whined. “You have to help me decide what to wear!”

  “I, uh.” I pointed at a stall.

  “Heather. Leeka,” the boy said, his arms crossed over his broad chest, “you have to get ready. Let her do what she came here to do.”

  “Oh, Brian,” Leeka said. “You never let us have any fun.”

  I have to admit, I was grateful as a wino who’d just been given a quart of Boone’s Farm that the showers were running. Otherwise I’d never be able to do what I’d gone there to do.

  I raced from the restroom as soon as I was done, never looking back. It’d been a wicked long time since I’d been around dancers, and these two were just so young and . . . nubile . . . and . . . and . . . apparently my inner stud had gone out to pasture sometime during the intervening years.

  Plus there was the entire “I’m here to do a job and not get some nookie” bit of it all.

  I stopped by the bar to grab a bottle of water, which I ensured was not opened before it came to me, even as I observed the male bartender (obviously the boss) with his arm around a female employee. Slender, with long dark hair and eyes; lush, full lips; and just-right makeup. She reminded me a lot of the hot, bad-girl lead from the movie D.E.B.S.

  But I didn’t like the way they were acting around each other— him grabbing her waist, her giggling and flipping her hair, showing cleavage and pushing against him. So I went back to the office, hoping the boys would be able to behave themselves and not trash the building. After all, I was only there to ensure the safety of the building. I was paid by the party-throwers, but only because the apartment complex made them hire a guard from my brother’s security agency if they were to rent the community building for an after-hours party.

  Mostly I was here because my sister-in-law really didn’t want to be, since she found bachelor parties extremely tiresome to work, because the boys’d get all testosteroney and all. Once she’d found out I’d still be in town, she asked me to work the job (making sure to mention there’d be strippers, because she knew that’d get bonus points with me).

  I was there to help the fam, so of course I was both feet in.

  Now, I could do without the misogynistic, patriarchal Chaldean men, however. I knew their sort all too well from all the years I’d worked and gone to school here.

  And I wanted to get busy with being my old, bad self, a person I’d left behind years before. I wandered out of the office and the bouncer they’d hired, a big, big guy, grinned at me and nodded me in to see the dancers.

  Once I stepped into the room, some dude walked up to me. “Here,” he said, handing me a hundred dollar bill.

  I stared down at it.

  “Just look the other way when we smoke,” he said.

  I brushed past him, ignoring the bill.

  Brian, who was overseeing everything while manning the music, grinned at me. “Go on. They do a real good show.”

  I moseyed on over, but couldn’t really see anything through the mass of oversized boys. My presence was soon noticed, however, and I was pushed through to the front of the throng. It was as if the boys liked seeing even a uniformed butch like me watching two hot women stripping and dancing and rubbing up against each other. I really didn’t want to be a part of their entertainment.

  “Can I borrow this?” some guy said, trying to snag my nightstick, which I instinctively grabbed just before he did.

  No matter how much the boys wanted to watch Heather’s and Leeka’s show—their naked forms, their bodies . . . They wanted also to watch me watching the girls touching each other, caressing each other, French kissing each other and licking each other’s skin . . . flesh . . . sweat . . .

  Okay, so maybe it was kind of hot.

  But really, when they let the boys touch them, hold their naked forms and squeeze their tits, it got a bit too much for me. Boys were rough. Unappreciative. Just squeezing and touching and showing off for each other. Not wanting to make the girls feel good. Not enjoying what the girls were showing . . . giving . . . offering them.

  I walked away.

  “They always act like they’ve never seen a naked woman before,” Brian said, just as the girls started taking money toward a toy show.

  “I am so stressed out,” Leeka said, following my direction into a corner a few minutes later. “I need a cigarette.”

  “Really, just five minutes,” the short, hairy dude said, following me and grabbing at my nightstick again. “I’ll give you twenty bucks!”

  Brian pulled out a pack and a lighter. I went to fetch a glass of water from the bartender that the girls could use as an ashtray in this nonsmoking atmosphere.

  “Oh, sure,” a couple of guys said, moaning and whining. “You’re gonna let them smoke inside.”

  “You want me to make them go outside?” I asked, keeping my back to the girls, giving them some privacy
in their nudity. I used my body to keep the boys away from them.

  They really had no reply to that.

  “So are they your type?” the female bartender asked.

  I was one of four females amidst more than a hundred guys but I was The Guard, which was to say that I was The One Wearing Far More Polyester Than Any One Person Ought To. Ever. When I was younger, I felt as if such a uniform gave me power. Now that feeling was gone. I used to be able to make boys in situations like this, and in any fast food restaurant, respect me. Now I used my powers for other reasons, and had lost this particular ability.

  Also, I wasn’t at my sexy, most confident best. I was wearing my brother’s pants. And I was sure the gun belt made me look fat. “Uh, they’re okay.” I’d been figuring this bartender was straight, given the way she’d been hanging with that other dude earlier, whom I had assumed was her boyfriend. Now, the party was supposed to be a bachelor party, but until I saw the dancers paying special attention to the groom, I’d become sure it was just a blind pig, set up just to charge admission to a drinking party, so no matter what, I reckoned I wasn’t scoring tonight.

  “Just okay?” she asked.

  “I, uh, well, I don’t do dancers. It’s a long story, really. And quite boring. But I kind of like women with brains and not quite so much silicone and . . . who likely don’t have so many social diseases. I prefer to come away from relationships—or even one-night stands—with something other than venereal diseases.”

  “Well, that’s frank and to the point,” the woman said, leaning forward on the bar and bringing her arms forward to squeeze her breasts together and show off some mighty fine cleavage. “I’m Angela, by the way.” Her gaze suddenly darted to just behind and to the right of me.

  “A hundred bucks for just five minutes!”

  I beat the dude to the nightstick yet again. He was old enough to be my dad, and all these girls were more than a decade younger than me. No wonder he needed my stick. “No,” I said, yet again.

  He slunk away and I went back to Angela, who was giving me a little, secret sort of smile. There go my knees again. “Uh. Hi. Reese. Is me,” I said. “That’s my name. Think peanut-butter cup.” I was sure I could blither just a bit more.