Morning, Noon and Night

by Alison Tyler

  Well…maybe not just like confessionals. But the confessionals at her church growing up had those same kind of lights above the doors, too, to let you know when they were occupied. God forbid you’d try to scoot in on some other schoolgirl uttering her made-up confession. How many times had she knelt in booths just like this at St. Isadora’s, a rosary in her hand, her mouth doing something very different than what she was about to do?

  Holy shit, was it possible the very same factory made the very same lights for both churches and porn booths?

  Marie’s brain practically short-circuited at the thought.

  Marie stalked to the counter. She forked over her vibrator and a twenty.

  “Hi,” said the queer clerk cheerfully. “Having a pleasant evening?”

  “Very pleasant,” she said, while he rang up the vibe.

  He smiled at her like her status as a woman visiting a porn shop and his status as a queer man working in a porn shop somehow put them on an equal footing, like pervy sisters. She kind of liked that. So after he asked her if she needed a bag and she said no and slipped the vibe into her coat pocket, she probably only need to fork over one Jackson, instead of two. But better safe than sorry.

  “Twenty dollars in tokens,” she said.

  “You’ve got forty here,” the clerk said.

  “I think one of those is yours,” said Marie.

  She smiled.

  The clerk gave her a look as if to say, I would have let you go back there anyway, but he didn’t turn down the bribe. He pocketed one Jackson and put the other in the drawer and counted twenty tokens into Marie’s hot little hand.

  “Thank you,” Marie said, and winked at him.

  She’d never been good at winking, so she felt a sense of accomplishment having done it. Did the kid think she was a prostitute? No, she decided. Prostitutes in this neighborhood probably didn’t have $20 to pass around. He probably knew what she was—a suburban lady walking on the wild side.

  She click-clacked into the corridor between the NO UNACCOMPANIED WOMEN sign and the YOU MUST BUY $5 IN TOKENS sign. Aidan saw her coming. He gave her the toothy grin of a man who knows he’s about to get a blow job. He ducked into the preview booth. She took the one next to him.

  At least he hadn’t held the door for her.

  The booth was cramped and tight. It smelled of sex, sweat and bleach. There was a glory hole beneath the video screen—cut or kicked in the wall and lined haphazardly with ancient strips of duct tape.

  How many dicks had slid through that hole?

  Add one to that number, she thought, imagining Aidan’s cock, familiar in their bed—yet unfamiliar, a stranger’s, here in a porn booth with a wall between them.

  She could hear tokens clinking down the slot in Aidan’s booth next door. She heard moans and bad techno as his cinematic experience began just inches away. She fished the tokens out of her coat pocket in handfuls, pumping them in. Her own flick started—a hairy-assed septuagenarian severely rogering a wispy blonde he never could have banged if he hadn’t paid her $300. (Actually, no, they were doing anal. Make that $375 or something, Marie decided.) She flipped through the channels and quickly settled on a tall ice-blond dominatrix in a tight latex dress smoking a cigarette in a long holder while a very cute and very nude brunette worshipped the mistress’s shiny knee-high boots.

  Yum. That would do rather nicely, thanks.

  Marie had stuffed a penlight into her pocket—the one she’d just emptied of tokens. She took out the light and scouted for errant pools on the chair and the floor. She didn’t find any; it was actually surprisingly clean. The smell seemed to emanate from the trash can, a little pint-sized number that resided just under the wall-mounted tissue dispenser. The former was three-quarters full of half-stiffened used tissues. The latter had a single errant tissue hanging out, wafting in some unfelt breeze like a jellyfish on the tide.

  She hit the light again and checked the chair one more time, just to make sure she hadn’t missed some prior resident’s leavings.

  The chair looked fine, but she still wasn’t planning to sit there.

  It was for her coat, which she shucked quickly, leaving Marie naked—unless you counted her stockings, high heels and knee pads.

  The stockings and heels were de rigueur, she felt. How could you give head naked in a glory hole and not wear sheer, white, seam-backed lace-top stay-ups and sexy white high heels? Unless, of course, you wore black fishnets, but she wasn’t that kind of slut. She had, after all, once knelt in a booth not much larger than this and worried an antique rosary through her fingers as she made up some bullshit about taking the Lord’s name in vain. She was glad she’d never had anything like this to confess in the old days; Old Father Sullivan would have had a heart attack.

  The knee pads were a different story. She wouldn’t even have thought about doing such a thing if Aidan hadn’t suggested it. They were eminently practical; there would be no jizz on her knees, even if she’d missed some. More importantly, at her age she couldn’t go fucking around with the health of her knees. She was practically thirty; she had to watch that shit. What more humiliating reason could there be for needing knee surgery at thirty-five? It’s true, Doc. I wore my knees out sucking cock in glory holes. She much preferred the immediate humiliation of wearing knee pads, which just had something so dirty about them. Knee pads. Who wore knee pads? Athletes. She was an athlete, in a sense.

  Marie glanced up at the screen and saw the cute brunette leaving red-mouthed kisses all the way up the dominant’s long, slender leg. Double yum. Before the red mouth could make it to Candyland, the blond dominatrix grabbed the smaller woman’s hair and shoved her face between her thighs.

  Marie was just about ready to decide she was a lesbian when Aidan stuck his dick in her face.

  She hadn’t exactly planned this part, but then again, in any other context she never had any trouble just letting her instincts take over. Marie was a big fan of head; she liked giving it and getting it, but giving it was her selfless pleasure. She did it so damned well that she felt a warm glow of pride whenever she saw a guy she thought was cute, because she knew she could rock his world. Which maybe made it slightly less “selfless” than she pretended, but Aidan didn’t seem to mind.

  She took his cock in her mouth, feeling the familiar curve, the intimate texture. She went down about halfway, caressing his balls and teasing the lower part of his shaft. She opened wide and aimed her head just right and swallowed him easily—three times in a row, nice and easy, almost effortless. She heard Aidan cursing in amazement, “Jesus, Jesus, fucking Jesus,” his obscene and blasphemous moans mingling with those of whatever chippie was caterwauling copiously in rhythmic fakeness from Aidan’s chosen porn movie—probably some kind of ass-fuck garbage. But when Marie came up for air, she saw that it wasn’t Aidan’s porn princess who was yelling like that; it was Marie’s own yummy blond dominatrix, making languid O faces while riding the brunette’s face. Ugh, Marie hated those fake sounds porn stars made. Tall, Blond and Dominant wasn’t so hot anymore. Marie decided maybe she wasn’t a lesbian after all, and then she opened wide and took Aidan’s cock deep into her throat again.

  He moaned, “Jesus, fuck, oh, fuck, oh, Jesus, fuck fuck fuck!” How was it he always seemed so surprised? She really could rock his world. Marie felt a warm glow of self-satisfaction…which was when she remembered she had a vibrator just inches away—already loaded up with fresh batteries.

  She had to grope a bit, behind her, because she was so unwilling to pause what she was doing. She was enjoying it too much. Having gotten the deep-throating out of the way, she felt she’d impressed Aidan as much as she needed to. Now she could just rock his world with her tongue and her lips and her smooth, soft face, which she rubbed all over his shaft while she lapped at the underside and groped for the vibe in her trench coat pocket.

  She found it, got it out and twisted it quickly.

  The buzzing started in her hand—hot, heavy and quick.

 
; Twelve bucks and more powerful than the spin cycle.

  She settled the vibrator between her legs, letting the tip nestle against her clit for a minute. Pleasure throbbed into her body. She nudged the vibrator down into her slit, teasing her lips apart and feeling how wet she was; after just a minute, the whole vibe felt so slippery she was afraid she might drop it. Without even thinking, she pushed her thighs together, which accomplished two things. It sent an explosive wave of pleasure into her—almost too explosive!—and it allowed her to pluck a tissue from the wall-mounted box. She used it to grip the vibe, scandalized and pleased with herself that this whole sleazy scene had gotten her wet enough to make the vibrator almost slip out of her hands. Wow. She really was a slut, wasn’t she?

  She smelled the mixed-up scents all around her, familiar and alien. Aidan’s cock. Her spit. The sticky vinyl scent of the duct tape that lined the glory hole. Aidan’s leather pants. His sweat. Other men’s sweat, lingering thick on the air-conditioned breeze. The bleach that suffused the booth—hell, the whole store. Aidan’s precome, musky in her nostrils as she rubbed her face on his cockhead. Other men’s scent, wafting up gross from the garbage can. How could a girl as classy as she was think the smell was kinda hot? Weird…it was weird. She was weird. She didn’t give a fuck.

  Pleasure hummed through her. After that, Aidan no longer got the benefit of having two eager hands on his cock; he only got one, but that was more than enough. Marie deep-throated once, just to remind him she could do it, and got the pleasant strains of obscene language as a reward. That made her work the vibrator harder against her clit. She jostled it rhythmically. She was close.

  Aidan was closer. Marie had been so lost in the pleasure of servicing him that she hadn’t even noticed how close he was getting. When he erupted in her mouth, she had to gulp fast, and she didn’t get it all. Aidan’s come ran down her chin and onto her tits. She squealed and pushed the vibrator hard against her clit. She felt the come dripping—no, pouring—down her belly, drizzling over her hand as she worked the vibe. Just like always—in their bed, on the couch, a motel room, a dungeon—it was the warm salty flood of Aidan’s spend that pushed her over the edge. It wasn’t that she was some kind of a freak; she simply needed to know that she’d rocked his world.

  She took her mouth off his cock, still drooling everywhere. She looked up at her new girlfriend, the O-face dominatrix; she was still putting on a pretty fake act. Marie put on a much better one, moaning at the top of her lungs as she came. She didn’t care who heard—not the queer boy clerk, not the customers. Besides, that dumb dominatrix was doing such a midnight-movie acting job, anyone who heard her would think she was part of the act.

  She came hard. She swayed and clutched Aidan’s cock for support. She was glad she wore knee pads.

  Marie gave herself a minute, leaning her forehead on the side of the glory hole and giving Aidan’s cock one last kiss before he pulled it away, stuffed it in his leather pants, and zipped up.

  Her flesh goose-bumped. She was getting chilly.

  She plucked six more tissues from the box and wiped her face and tits and belly.

  She stuffed the soaked tissues through the garbage hole to join their many stinky brothers. Marie gave her howling dominatrix one last disdainful look as she donned and buttoned her trench coat. She tied the belt and stuffed the vibrator into the pocket—this one was a keeper.

  As she made for the door, Marie looked the clerk in the eye and smiled at him.

  He smiled back.

  She tried to wink, but a stray blast of Aidan’s come had dried on her temple; it distracted her at a crucial moment.

  Oh well. Marie was pretty sure the kid got the idea.

  ONE A.M. GIRLS’ NIGHT OUT

  Vida Bailey

  I swing around, pint glass in hand, and there he is. Rob. He’s dancing with some girl, and the eye contact he’s making looks convincing from her vantage point, but most of the time he’s scanning the crowd under the cover of the strobe lights. I try to pretend I don’t know he’s catching my eye.

  Last time I saw him, he was tiptoeing out of my apartment in his socks, collecting his scattered belongings and sneaking out the door. That’s why I decided. No more flirty eyes across the bar at kicking-out time, no more grinding on the dance floor. No more shot-for-shot games sitting either side of a bottle on the floor. No more rum- and sweat-soaked orgasms in the small hours, followed by a two-day hangover and a three-day comedown where I cursed my luck with men and whatever perky-breasted bitchslut he was surely sniffing after now.

  Nope. Not good for the mental health. I grasped my resolve in my silver-ringed fist and set my sights on surer things.

  Tonight, though, those surer things weren’t exactly lighting up my crosshairs. If I’m honest, I’ve been the one tiptoeing barefoot away from yet another snoring disappointment the last few Saturday mornings. Those lackluster encounters haven’t been as good for the psyche as I’d anticipated.

  So I’d been planning to just go dance with my girls. Thick-soled, lace-up boots with leggings and a clinging cotton shift dress. I’m grunging tonight, though the dress does have a low back. It’s one of those nights I feel blessed with my perky little boobs that push against the cotton without any need for support. I’ve got boots and skin and a necklace hanging the wrong way—my jet beads tight at my throat and hanging down my spine, pointing like an arrow toward my ass. I tip my head back and hold my arms out, slopping beer through my fingertips caging the rim of my pint glass, balancing myself with its weight. No cocktails tonight, no handbags, just lovely, dirty, sweaty, nostalgic music in the humid, beer-tainted air.

  It’s dark, but he sees me. I can feel his eyes on me. But I’m not going to look. He can flaunt all the floozies he likes, I’m gonna get my dance on and walk home alone.

  1:00 a.m. and I’m sitting on the wall outside his flat. Lights on. I’m a stalker, sitting here, waiting for two silhouettes to cross the window. It’s cold and my ass is going numb on this wall. I’m fighting the Shoulds pouring through my brain—shouldn’t have severed contact with him, no, should never have slept with him in the first place, should really be home in bed. I stand up and look at the window one more time. As I move to leave, my phone beeps. I don’t recognize the number at first because I so virtuously deleted him from my address book.

  Were you planning to come in, or are you just going to sit there all night?

  I look up. The window still seems empty. I text back, desperate for a one-liner that will somehow excuse my undignified behavior.

  Do you want me to?

  Facepalm. Not so suave. A second ticks by, and his door swings open, his familiar shape backlit. I jog across the street and then drag my heels up to his door. He reaches out and runs a finger up the zip of my scruffy black parka.

  “This is nice,” he says. “Retro.” I smile. I know from his record collection that we shared similar tastes in the past.

  “I’m in fancy dress.” He raises an eyebrow, fingers still lingering on the black canvas. “It’s nice to have a warm coat for the walk home.”

  “Or for stalking?”

  “I wasn’t stalking!” Lying indignantly is the best defense.

  “Tea?”

  So tea will be the stream we float on, until we arrive at a place that’s comfortable again. I sit on the sofa, knees pulled up, hands clasping a hot mug, and breathe in the steam. I glance at him while taking a sip. He’s looking at me, openly, and he looks amused. I can feel myself blushing—this is far harder without the blanket of drunkenness we usually operate under. I’m not sure what he’s waiting for and I look around the room to buy some time. I’ve only been here once before, late at night. The next morning was a sort of stagger-round-in-sunglasses affair; I didn’t remember much about the decor. But it’s nice. Not what I expected. I thought it would be flat-pack furniture and student squalor, to be honest. But it’s a lot more tasteful than that. Rich neutral colors and reclaimed boards. Art on the walls. The place must be
his, and he’s done some work on it.

  “Your place is lovely, Rob.” I gesture at the heavy wooden coffee table and bookcase. He nods at me in acknowledgment. He cocks his head to one side and studies me and I squirm under his gaze a little.

  “Thanks.”

  There’s no “Do you want a tour?” or suggestions about the bedroom. He just keeps watching. “I like your place, too.” I frown at my tea.

  “You’re always in such a hurry to leave it, though.”

  Crap. That was meant to come out like jaunty banter, but instead it falls flat and sits in a sad little puddle between us. I smile too brightly and wish he’d offer me a splash of something in my mug to give me a little Dutch courage. He leans his head on his fist and his blue eyes burn bright.

  “Would you like to stay with me tonight?”

  I clear my throat and nod, tongue-tied. It’s the first time he’s ever asked. Usually, there is grinding and groping and tacit agreement, and we stagger home and fall into bed. I have no idea why tonight is so different, but then I suppose I initiated a different protocol, with the stalking and all.

  “Stand up.” His voice is soft, low and firm. I lean over to put my cup on the table and uncurl my legs. I pull myself to my feet and look down at him. “What is it you want, tonight, Cally?” The question paralyzes me. I’ve no smart answer because for once it doesn’t really seem to be a smart question. I wrestle with the fear that I shouldn’t be there, the conviction I’d had that I was chasing my tail. I open my mouth, and close it again. He sighs, but not irritably. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to do all night.”

  He stands up and walks over to me. Putting his hands under the shoulder straps of my dress, he slips it down to my waist and inches it around and replaces it so the high front is at the back, and my front is…backless. My nipples pebble under the air and exposure and self-consciousness. He’s framed my breasts like they’re a painting and sat back down to look at it. “Will you take your boots off, Cal?” I nod. I bend and unlace my right boot, fumbling with the knot; the eyelets seem endless. I stand and balance myself to shuck it, kick it under the table and this time prop my left foot on the table. With my leggings on I’m still quite modest, or would be if my chest wasn’t naked. I get the other boot off more quickly and drop it with a clunk. The noise makes me giggle: there’s no question these are fuck-you boots, but Rob doesn’t seem to mind, judging by the look in his eye.