Lipstick and Other Stories

by Petual Caesar

  8:02 AM, September 11th, 2001.

  Focusing now, I glanced around the room. Clothes were strewn across the floor, and two candles burned dimly on the bureau. He was holding me tightly to him. His lips were against my neck, his chest against my back, and his long legs wrapped around mine. He breathed heavily against me, because he was as deeply asleep as I had been.

  Then I recalled how much we both had to drink the night before. We had been sitting at his kitchen table playing dominoes, and the loser had to take shots of very cheap gin. At first I was winning, but I started to lose, and lose, and lose again, then drink, drink, and drink again. Then his lips were on mine. I remembered going upstairs, him lighting the candles and putting on the music. The Isley Brothers “Don’t Say Goodnight”. I could hear it even now “…don’t say goodnight girl…‘cause you know…it’s time for love.” With a greater effort, I recalled him undressing me down to my panties. He started to scratch me. He had a way of lightly and gently grazing the surface of my skin with his fingernails that made me crazy. I remembered his hands on my hips, holding the lower half of me in the air as he tongue kissed my insides. I remembered his fingers in my pussy, preliminarily fucking me. I remembered climbing up on him and putting his dick in my mouth. At first, just the tip. I sucked it and ran my tongue over it. Then, I penetrated my mouth with him more deeply. Finally, I sucked him all the way to the very back of my throat. I felt him grab the back of my head and grind into my mouth as his orgasm flooded my throat. I swallowed, proud that I gave such excellent head. I vaguely remembered some after play and him getting hard again. I definitely remembered my thankful relief when he finally entered me, and how I grabbed his ass to quickly bring him to the heart of the matter. I remembered the heaviness of him, his absolute hardness, and his insistent way of moving inside me. I felt his arms around me, pressing me to him, and his lips on my lips, him speaking and moaning directly into my mouth. I recalled licking the corners of his lips. Then I bit his lower lip. The memory then became cloudy, and swirled out of my reach.

  He and I had been doing this for four years, since that December night when we met in the nightclub about ten minutes from his home. On and off, but more often on than off. We had stopped the pretense of dating long ago. Of course we talked. He loved talking to me, said I was the most intelligent person he knew. We talked about all kinds of things. He said he enjoyed stimulating my mind almost as much as stimulating my…other places. We discussed current events and politics, religion, philosophy, designer shoes, sports, TV shows, what was going on at his job (he was a police officer in the District of Columbia), my writing, music, nightclubs, and sex. Especially sex. Always sex. In fact, sex was the one thing that could be counted on in our relationship. From the first time we slept together after our first date until now, we had never made the move from friends to being a couple. I was disappointed because I really liked him a lot. I would occasionally get angry with him for not wanting more from me, but then I would have to be honest with myself. From time to time, he would suggest things that would have moved our relationship down a more traditional path, but I always shot him down in my sarcastic way. In all fairness, he gave what he got. Occasionally, we would part company and become involved with other people. Nevertheless, for some inexplicable reason, we always returned to each other. We both acknowledged that it was for reasons that went beyond sex, but that was as far at it ever went between us. It was a satisfying, low-maintenance arrangement. I did think of him often, and wondered where he was, and what he was doing, and if he was okay. I wondered if he was getting proper rest and eating, and if he was rubbing his fingernails across another woman’s back. At night in bed alone, I would think of him as I masturbated, gently running the very tips of my fingers across the lips of my vagina the way he did, and I would shudder deeply and come as I drifted off to sleep. Sometimes, I would do this even when others were in bed with me.

  When we did talk, he always asked if I missed him, and he would tell me he missed me, and tell me he had been thinking about me. Even with all of that said, we got together once a month if we were lucky. I would go to his house, and we would talk for hours, play games, eat if we were hungry, drink, laugh, and finally, fuck very passionately and fall asleep curled up next to each other. I would get up, always before daybreak, shower, and he would walk me to my car. He would say goodbye, kiss me on my forehead, and I would drive home. He never actually asked me to leave, even when he had to be at work at some obscene hour to protect and serve. He never asked me to stay either. I always left voluntarily. No morning after lingering for me. It would be easy to say that we both feared getting hurt, that our previous relationships had all gone badly and now we were just unable to commit. It wasn’t quite that at all—we were both very committed to what we had. We always made time for it and always enjoyed it. It meant a great deal to both of us. It was what it was.

  But for the first time, I was here, and it was fully morning. I had just spent the night with him. All night. Daybreak had passed me by, and here I was the morning after, in his arms, in his bed. The sun shone brightly outside, like it was happy for us. Was I supposed to offer to cook breakfast, I wondered? As the night before came more clearly into view, I remembered some of the things he had whispered to me. I remembered how it had been different somehow…more…meaningful? Substantial? Then shaking my head slightly, I attributed what I thought I had detected to the loosening of my inhibitions because of the gin…the poor man’s Viagra.

  Next. I remembered more practical things. I was clearly not going to get to work that day. I would have to call my job and make an excuse. My cell phone was in my purse on the nightstand next to the bed, and I managed to ease myself away from his grasp just enough to reach my purse, grab my phone, and make the call. No one was in the office, so I left a voice mail explaining that I wasn’t feeling well this morning and wouldn’t be coming in. I put the phone back in my purse, and returned to my spot in his arms.

  He was awake now. He nuzzled the back of my neck and made a low sound in his throat. He kissed and licked my shoulder for a long time. I said nothing. I just lay there in his arms. He just held me for the longest time. I listened to him breathe, and felt the rise and fall of his chest on my back. Without realizing it, after a minute or two we began to breathe in unison, inhaling and exhaling together at precisely the same moment. I looked over at the candles on the nightstand. They had burned out. After a time he began to touch me. His fingertips read my mind as they passed over my arms, and my shoulders. He kissed my neck and held my breasts in his hands, pulling me closer to him. He began to fondle my nipples, and as I lay back to enjoy the sensations, he reached over to the soft warm wax of the candle, dipped two fingers into it, and rubbed it against my nipples. I shuddered and bit my bottom lip. I felt beads of sweat form on his body, and wished I could put my tongue against him and refresh myself by drinking the perspiration. As he continued to massage my breasts and add more warm wax, the heat from his hands began to liquefy the wax again. I was entranced. Reaching down lower, he touched my clitoris and held it between his thumb and index finger. He rubbed his finger against it, making slow dragging circles over and over. I began to grow wetter. He did this for a long, luxurious, endless space of time, a slow steady rhythm that caused my clit to get hotter and hotter. I felt the beginnings of a soft sweet orgasm. He then began using his moistened fingertips to probe along the edges of my pussy’s lips—the very way I did when alone in my bed. Every now and then he’d move his finger inside me…gently to make certain I was willing, and then with more pressure when I indicated that I was. I grew more excited and tried to reach for his wonderfully stiff dick. His penis rose up and began to press against my ass cheeks. Then his hardness moved into my softness, finding a slick, sliding trail that led up inside me. The head of his dick led the charge and I felt suddenly weak as he started to enter me. I cried out. As the thickest part of his shaft made its way in and lay me completely open to his will, I called out his name. I felt his dick
pushing against my tightness and easing me open to him in the most intimate way possible. He was pulling me closer and closer and he moved deeper and deeper into me, grinding his way past all my defenses and heading straight for my sexual self. Bit by bit, my insides received him, held tightly, and released him slowly. I found the rhythm of him and moved all my pussy muscles mightily against his dick. Pressing myself on it with absolutely no shame. He sharply inhaled as I made my pussy tighter for him, and moaned. He moved into me with greater dedication, and I began to respond involuntarily now, my muscles tensing against his shaft in time with his thrusts. I was so wet I could feel it trickling out of me, and I pictured it running down his balls. He always said he liked how wet I got and how it ran down his shaft, balls and thighs. I began to climax again, and I could feel him fighting the urge to climax as well. I wanted him to have all he had given me, so I bore down on his dick with every bit of strength my pussy possessed. Pounding into me, and me giving as good as I got, I gave in to the sensations and he did as well, his voice raising up higher and higher still, then becoming a growl as he finally came. A deep low moan came out of his throat as the aftershocks moved from my pussy to his dick. After the sensations passed away, a moment of tenderness claimed me. I could almost feel tiny pieces of his heart trickle into me. When he whispered my name, it sounded like a prayer. It pulsated in my ears like a church bell. I felt my heart soften just a tiny bit, and I wished for a millisecond that he were truly all mine.

  When it was over and he had thoroughly scratched me all over, he got up, turned on the T.V., muted the sound, and headed to the bathroom. I sighed softly to myself, enjoying the afterglow, and rolled over to look at the screen.

  A very tall building was on fire. Smoke billowed from its windows, and I watched, horrified for a moment. Wondering what far away place had broken out into war, I picked up the remote and turned up the sound of the television. Staring at the image, something pulled at my memory, and I dragged my thoughts away from what we had just done long enough to focus on the picture on the screen. Oh my God, I thought, one of the World Trade Center Towers in New York City. I had grown up in North Jersey just over the river, and he had grown up in the Bronx. Thinking of my friends and family now, I increased the volume. As the sound came up, the news reporter confirmed what I had just realized. As he came into the room, still naked, a huge airplane crashed into the other tower right before my eyes.

  I was speechless, pointing to the television. He turned the sound up louder, and the horrible details poured out the speakers. Two commercial jets had crashed into the World Trade Center Twin Towers in New York City. There were clearly hundreds of dead, injured, scared and lost, but no one knew exactly what was going on, who was responsible, or why it was happening.

  The next announcement was that an airplane had also crashed into the Pentagon. They showed the Pentagon, smoke billowing from it also. The Pentagon was only a few miles away from us in Washington, D.C. D.C.? D.C.! I looked at Daniel, an odd tightness filling up my throat. Daniel was a police officer in D.C. He had to go. I had to go. We had to go.

  We both quickly got dressed, keeping a watchful eye on the news the entire time. The whole nation was starting to panic and shut down, as people feared being attacked from the skies, from the ground, from anywhere and everywhere. All airports had been closed, and all major transportation systems were slowing and being shut down. I had come to his house on the train the night before, and he took me back to the train station now.

  We pulled up into the parking lot of the train station. The faces of all the people there were panic stricken. I sat in his truck for a moment, thinking. I spent so much time with this man, and I never really thought about the things he must see, feel, and deal with while I was at home, living my life in relative safety—working, sleeping, hanging out, lying in bed with other men as I thought about him. I wondered if he would be okay. I wondered how I would find out if he were not okay. I wondered if I would ever tell him that he wasn’t just some random sex partner of mine. That maybe if I could ever find the words, the nerve, maybe… Then again, I figured enough crazy things had happened today, and I shouldn’t to add to the confusion by making panicked declarations of…whatever.

  So I looked into his eyes and smiled, like I always did when it was time to go. He smiled back. As always, he kissed me on the forehead. I nodded, still smiling. He kissed me again, on the cheek this time. He put a finger to my lips and I kissed the tip. I got out of his truck, and watched him drive away.

  As soon as I got in the terminal, the trains stopped running. I did not bother to call him back. He had work to do.

  *

  I didn’t hear from him for about three months. Not a word. Not a syllable. The weather had grown colder too, just like he and I had. Thanksgiving had passed and the Christmas holidays were quickly approaching. Once or twice during our years together there had been extended periods when we didn’t see each other. His work schedule was insane at times and barely allowed him time to sleep. Sometimes his regular phone calls to check on me would even stop. Usually he always managed to drop me a line somehow…a quick instant message, an email, a text message. It kept me from having to check The Washington Post to make sure he was okay. And he always made up for it when he turned up. But after that fateful September day he disappeared. I tried not to think about it too much. I realized he could be working a lot now, or that he too had felt perhaps we had overstepped our boundaries during our last get together. No matter what it was, I didn’t feel willing to face it.

  One night at 3 am my cell phone beeped. A text message. Sitting up and rubbing the crust from my eyelids, I grabbed my phone and pushed the buttons. My eyes focused on the text, hoping against hope that it was Daniel.

  “This is Carl. Do u member me?”

  Carl was Daniel’s partner and best friend. We had met twice. I wasn’t sure how to respond. Placing my thumbs on the keys and trying to fully awaken my brain, I sent him text. “Sure do. What’s up?” My phone beeped to let me know my message had been sent.

  There was an agonizingly long wait for the return beep. I opened the message. “Its bout Daniel. Something u need 2 no.” The pit of my stomach grew icy cold, and before I could even formulate a response tears began to slide out of my sleepy eyes. I angrily rubbed them away.

  My phone beeped again.

  “R u there? I need u 2 be strong honey. Its gonna be ok.”

  I wiped my eyes angrily again. “I love you Daniel,” I said out loud. Then I realized I needed to be speaking in the past tense. I could feel a bolt of pain shoot through my heart.

  I moved my thumbs slowly across the keypad. “Y do I gotta b strong?” Beep.

  I waited an eternity. So long in fact I re-sent the message.

  I heard a police car’s siren in the distance. My tears multiplied and fell more heavily. I knew I would cry every time I heard that sound for the rest of my life. The siren grew louder, and my phone finally beeped.

  “Cuz u r bout 2 b policeman’s wife…if u want 2.”

  The siren was approaching my block now. It reached my front door and stopped suddenly. The lights continued flashing and spinning. I ran downstairs, phone still in my hand. I threw the door open and there was Daniel, on my doorstep, on one knee, holding an open ring box. Something sparkled inside it. My neighbors had come to their windows, and a few had even opened their doors on this chilly December night to see what was going on.

  “Sorry about all the noise,” he said, smiling. “Merry Christmas, by the way…a couple of weeks early.

  I smiled back and asked, “Why do you have to be so dramatic?”

  “I didn’t think it was dramatic considering what happened the last time we were together,” he responded.

  I tore my gaze from him and looked at the ring. Oh my God. It was mine. He was mine. All of it was mine. I looked back at him. He was smiling and breathing hard even though he wasn’t running. I watched his frozen breath rise from his mouth as he spoke.

  “
So,” he asked, “what do you say?

  My cell phone beeped. I pushed the button. “Please say yes, or I’ll neva hear the end of it.” I looked out to the car and saw Carl inside. I waved to him and he waved back, both of us grinning like idiots. He turned off the flashing lights and drove away.

  I laughed, and took the ring box out of his hand. I threw my arms around Daniel and murmured yes into his ears, into his lips, into his heart. I continued saying yes as I let him into my house, into our bed, into my pussy, and into my life for good.

  A Natural Progression

  To Mousse

  I wonder if you just become freakier as you get older. Maybe that’s just how it works.

  I’ve heard that a woman’s sex drives goes on the upswing as she progresses through her thirties and her forties, and that men’s tends to take a downturn after their early twenties. Or maybe my increasing libido was just who I was, and I was just looking for something or someone to blame it on. It wasn’t what I expected out of myself, so I needed to find something to blame it on…the fact that I had become a freak.

  I wasn’t always this way. I had normal desires when I was younger. My first sexual experience at seventeen was a rather sweet, romantic event that took place the night of my senior prom with my equally inexperienced boyfriend of three years. I never was one of those “Girls Gone Wild” in college. I dated steadily during those years, but not excessively. I was sexually active, but never had a lot of partners, and certainly never more than one at a time. I was a serial monogamist…regularly seeing one person for an extended period of time, ending that relationship, and after a hiatus, moving to the next extended relationship. Perhaps that methodical way of doing things eventually caused me to go off the deep end. For whatever reason, by the time I reached my mid-thirties, I became what I am now…a sexually uninhibited, free spirited woman. Like I said earlier—a freak.