She brought out the glass mugs. After all these years, she still drank tea out of glass as if back in Poland. But she stopped putting the sugar cubes in between her teeth while drinking the tea. Now she placed the cubes in the cup.
“Ma, there’s enough here for ten people.”
“You always say that. Ess, ess mein kind.”
Sophia was tempted to tell Ada about the black rose on her doorstep, but she didn’t want to fan the flames of hysteria, lurking just beneath the surface.
They made small talk as they overate and drank Swee-Touch-Nee tea.
“Come. Sit on the balcony with your tea. You want some Slivovitz?”
Sophia gratefully left the scene of the crime. Looking at all that food was making her sick. She had eaten way too much of it. All those things were having a hard time mingling in her stomach.
“No thank you, Ma. That poison plum brandy will knock me out.”
She retired to the ramshackle balcony, the size of a postage stamp. It could hold only two people. Uncomfortably.
Ada emerged bearing a plate of rugalach and her Swee-Touch-Nee, diminishing the space. She sat precariously on a red Formica chair, the seat crisscrossed with steel gray masking tape.
“Aren’t you afraid this whole thing will fall off the building one day?”
“Oy. Don’t talk crazy. I like the balcony. Look at the pretty colored lights twinkling. And this view,” she eased back as best she could in her seat and grinned at the Atlantic, its majesty unmarred by the crummy buildings lining its shores.
“Still a beautiful sight. Even from a decrepit balcony,” Sophia observed.
“Ach. Leave me alone.” Ada grew prickly.
“Okay. Okay. Sorry.”
Ada’s annoyed attention wandered to a stooped figure trudging along the surf. Her eyes followed the woman’s labored progress.
“Rudy did the fairy lights and the candles?”
“Yes, yes. He’s going to paint it purple,” Ada answered distractedly, her brow furrowing, eyes narrowing, and feet tapping in a flurry of agitation. She wasn’t listening anymore.
“Rudy the fairy? Fairy Lights? Isn’t that funny?” Sophia was trying to get her back to the present to no avail.
“What’s bothering you about that woman? She looks like she’s carrying the woes of the world on her shoulders,” Sophia said, risking further irritability.
Ada stood up with surprising agility, hurried inside, and returned with a pair of binoculars.
After peering through the glasses, she handed them to Sophia.
“Take a look.”
“What am I looking for?”
“Just take a look and tell me what you see.”
Sophia obediently took the binoculars, peering through them uneasily. Her mother’s disquiet was rubbing off.
“I see an older skinny woman, stringy gray hair flying in the breeze, bent over, walking the beach with great difficulty, carrying a big straw bag, and…”. She paused for dramatic effect. “She has the concentration camp numbers tattooed on her left lower arm. Six numbers. How come you don’t have those numbers?”
“They only did that in Auschwitz. Then they moved a lot of them around.”
“That’s the most you ever told me about that.”
“That’s not true. Don’t bother me now. Watch that woman.”
“She’s coming back to the building,” Sophia said.
“She just moved in. And she gives me the evil eye,” Ada said, making the spitting gesture three times, saying, “Pooh, pooh, pooh, keinahora.”
“Do you know her? From the past?”
“I don’t know her. But if it’s from the camps, that’s over fifty-five years ago. Maybe I don’t recognize her.”
“What happened then? Do you have anything to worry about? Did you hurt anyone? I can’t imagine what you could have done back then?”
“What you could have done back then?” Ada mimicked. “You can’t imagine what I could have done back then. Anything and everything,” she said cryptically, holding up her hand to cut off any questions.
And Sophia witnessed the shutters slamming shut. The eyes dimming, the mouth sealed tight, the determined hands crossed firmly over the protuberant belly.
Eight
Sophia let go, enjoying the strong square hands kneading and sliding over her oiled muscles while the new age music tinkled and the sensual aroma of sandalwood renewed itself with an automatic timed spritz in the darkened room.
She was on her stomach, gently drooling onto the pillow, in a semi-comatose condition, when Maria roused her with a light tap on the buttocks.
“Time to turn over, beautiful.”
Maria was performing her miracles, relaxing and rejuvenating Sophia. The twittering elongated models at Miami Models, her neighbors next door to OEDIPUS INC, highly recommended her.
This was her second visit and she was hooked. Why had she waited so long to return to this bliss?
She was on her back, regretting the imminent massage’s end, when Maria, with an adept lightning speed jerk, exposed her breasts, beginning to massage the prominent quivering globes with tender care.
Sophia swallowed, began to protest, and thought better of it as warm waves of pleasure radiated throughout her body.
“Why not?” she whispered, her eyes still closed.
“Why not indeed, sweetie. Just enjoy,” Maria whispered back, so close to her ear Sophia thrilled to the foggy warmth of her breath misting her ear lobe.
“Now, hon, if you want a happy ending, it will only be fifty more dollars. I can stop now or go for the nipples and then finish you off. Total relaxation,” Maria interjected after more vigorous breast kneading.
“You got me at just the right moment, you little devil,” Sophia said breathily. “Go for it. I need all the relaxation I can get.”
She surrendered to Maria’s magic fingers, strong as steel and soft as velvet.
The nipple massage alone was raising her to dizzying heights. Once Maria inserted her fingers into those lips and found her clitoris, Sophia was bucking and crying like a woman possessed.
When it was over, she was supremely relaxed. Her legs falling open with abandon, she lay on the table, momentarily helpless, gasping her last gasps and feeling the waves ebb away.
Maria appeared with some water.
“Take your time getting dressed. I’ll meet you in the other room,” Maria said, looking discreetly away as she glided out of the room.
Sophia, weak at the knees, made it out to the anteroom, where Maria, her sleek raven hair molded into an Elvis-like hairdo, one side shaved down in a fade, her fiery coffee-colored eyes, flecked with caramel, glimmering, broke into an enormous grin, enhancing her incongruous dainty, feminine features. Small straight nose, sensual shapely mouth, large oval eyes, all in ideal proportion, created facial perfection atop a massive muscular body.
“I’d…I’d like to make an appointment for next week,” Sophia stammered, writing out her check, sold on the massage therapist. “Those models were right. You give one hell of a massage.”
“Oh, the girls from Miami Models. Yeah. They all come to me.” She winked.
When Sophia started to rise from her seat, Maria placed her hand over Sophia’s, looked her square in the eyes, and asked, “How about I cook you dinner and show you a really good time? Your big tits and ass turn me on. You remind me of those beauty queens from the old movies. La Dolce Vita, Lady from Shanghai. You know what I’m talking about?”
“Yes. I’m an old movie buff myself. Flattering as that is, I’ll have to think about it. I’m not gay or bi,” Sophia said, taken aback by the proposition.
“You think about it. See we already have something in common. In the meantime, next week same time? No hard feelings. I just thought I’d try.”
“No hard feelings. See you next week,” Sophia said, stumbling out of the office.
Nine
Sophia sauntered home, lulled by her feelings of tranquility and physical well-
being. The toe bitten by the black rose’s thorn throbbed less. She had calls to make, calls to check, and a date with Kurt. It could all wait. She wanted to bask in the afterglow and savor the present moment. Bernie was good. But, this was the best sex she’d had in a long time.
She reached her front door, lost in thought, fantasizing about a date with Maria. Simply have her over, eat quickly, and get between the sheets to experience more of Maria’s sexual skills. Her tongue would probably rocket her into the stratosphere. One date. Then she’d say goodbye.
“What’s wrong with you?” she chastised herself, looking in the bathroom mirror and marveling at her goofy grin and glowing complexion. Take a walk one the wild side, her inner demon advised. What have you got to lose? You live in South Beach, she whispered to her mischievous reflection.
She was hurrying to get ready for Kurt, anticipating the rollicking thrill the first glance at his beauty always gave her. Like a shot of heroin. First the incredible rush, shooting her up to the stars, followed by a wooly lull, so lethargy inducing, she was cocooned in senseless stillness. Such scintillating looks could not possibly carry through on their promise. Just as she finished zipping up the long black skirt concealing a gold satin teddy, purchased for the occasion, the bell rang.
She opened the door to Kurt, ready for the visual feast, stepping back to savor the full effect. He did not disappoint. Shoulder length thick sun streaked honey blonde hair crowned the features of a pre-Raphaelite courtier, presenting depthless aquamarine eyes flanking the summit of a suggestive nose ending in a discreet bulb, reminiscent of a finely shaped penis. She loved men with penis noses. His full mouth, the sensual glossed lips begging to be kissed, gleamed suggestively. Despite the August weather, his wiry six-foot frame was clothed in a royal purple cashmere sweater, emphasizing his long lean musculature, and skin tight white jeans, outlining his hard thighs.
She pulled him inside, slammed the door shut, and strained her five foot six frame to reach his mouth. He leaned down to meet her. They became lost in the kiss.
Kurt finally broke away, saying “You’re in a sexy mood, baby.”
“I’m always in a sexy mood when I first see you. You turn me on. I love your nose,” she breathed, reaching to give him a nip on the nose when he bent towards her obligingly.
“Ready for this hot new restaurant on the beach?” he asked.
“Yes. Let’s do it on the beach afterwards,” Sophia suggested.
“We’ll see. I don’t want to mess up my hair and this new sweater. Do you really want sand up your ass, Sophia?”
Sophia felt some of the heat dissipating. She had met him soon after Morton’s demise. He was her first sexual encounter as a widow. The looks swept her away that night at Van Dyke’s. Morton had been gone for only three months. She had remained faithful throughout their marriage. The call of the wild washed over her, like the irresistible swell of the tide. She met Kurt. His looks promised the world. He didn’t deliver often. He opened the floodgates to promiscuity. There was always something bigger, something hotter, and something harder around the corner. She was making up for lost time, sampling a smorgasbord of sex. Like her mother with her endless supply of food.
“Where did you go, babe?” Kurt asked.
“I was just thinking about when we first met. Remember Van Dyke’s? Sammy Figueroa’s group was playing. Not one of my favorites,” she reminisced.
“Your big boobs. I couldn’t get enough of them,” he chortled.
“Thanks Kurt. I’m just a couple of big tits to you. How flattering,” Sophia retorted.
“Don’t be like that. You know what I mean. Touchy tonight.” He pinched her rounded buttock.
“And, a big ass. I rest my case.”
“Aw. Don’t be like that. You’re the one who wants to fuck on the beach,” he whined.
The restaurant was disappointing. It was too sterile with mediocre food, a poor vegetarian selection, and mobs of the pretentious South Beach crowd, all swooning and swaying over each other.
While they were waiting to be seated, a glossy anorexic next to her at the bar, stared at her contemptuously in between longing, admiring looks bestowed upon Kurt. She clearly was assessing her to be unworthy of Kurt’s good looks.
They ate quickly. Their small spindly table was uncomfortable as were the lightly cushioned steel chairs.
“Let’s go. I’ve had a tough week and I’m sick of the beautiful people of South Beach posturing and fawning,” Sophia hissed, irritability having taken complete hold of her.
“What about the beach?” Kurt asked.
“Fuck the beach. You don’t want to mess up your hair and I don’t want sand up my pussy.”
“All right, Princess. Let’s go.”
“I’m not feeling it tonight Kurt,” she pleaded when they reached her house.
“Come on, baby. You can’t leave me on your doorstep. We’re down to seeing each other only once a week because of your crazy second job at the psych ward. I want to see more of you, not less,” he protested.
“Okay, okay. You’re right. You’ll just have to load me up with a lot of booze. I’m in a shit mood all of a sudden,” she conceded, a frisson of guilt seizing her regarding the cock and bull story about her second job.
She felt something underfoot. She had stepped on the second black rose lying on the mat, crushing its petals.
“What’s that?” “The second black rose left on my doorstep. I’m glad I have shoes on this time. I don’t know if someone loves me or hates me or both.” She shuddered.
“Morbid. You haven’t been fooling around with anyone? Any Gothic types?” Kurt asked, suspicion clouding his compelling blue eyes.
“Now do I have time to fuck around?”
“I guess you don’t.”
“Creepy, actually.”
“Maybe you should tell your cop friend about this.”
“Good idea,” she said, carefully picking up the rose before unlocking the door and letting them in.
“Let’s have some whiskey,” she said, thinking, I have to get to the sexy feeling fast. I have a long day of patients ahead of me tomorrow.
“Okay, doll. I’ll pour,” he said, taking off his soft sweater and kicking off his loafers as he moved, lithe as a jaguar roaming the jungle floor, across the room.
She was ready when they were on their third whiskey.
“Let’s go, lover boy,” she said, pinching his nipple.
“Ow. That was too hard,” he protested, following her up the polished staircase, watching her over exercised and overfed buttocks sway and roll as she ascended.
He threw her onto the bed as soon as they entered the bedroom. Sophia always sensed a tight knot of anger coiled up in his gut, like a snake lying still, ready to strike. It frightened and fascinated her.
He slowly stripped off her black clothes, glaring hungrily at her gold underwear. He growled as he buried himself in her, releasing a cloud of his signature Tom Ford Vetiver, sharp and sexy.
An hour later, she lay frustrated in her bedraggled shining teddy, nowhere close to a climax. Why did she always fall for the promise of his looks? When it came to the boudoir, he was a dud. Too selfish, too angry, too self-absorbed. If she started to give him directions, he became furious and batted her hand away or clamped his hand tight around her mouth. She finally faked it.
She thought of Maria’s magic fingers. She thought of Bernie’s mighty tongue.
Ten
“You’re so tense,” Jack said, pulling her hand away from worrying her left ear. “I’m glad you finally made time for me. You’ve become a busy person. Busier, I should say.”
“I know. I have something to tell you. Well, about twelve things, but one in particular,” Sophia blurted out, wanting to confess about her real work.
“I have something to tell you too.”
“Right. So your message said. You go first, Jack.”
“Okay. But aren’t you going to offer me a drink?”
“Oh. Yes.”<
br />
She poured them two scotches.
It had been a long day of listening to patients, but she needed to get this conversation going.
Jack’s red hair, peppered with gray, was shades lighter than Sophia’s. His green eyes, alive with intelligence, comparable in color to hers, revealed an intense underlying melancholy.
Their coloring gave the impression they were related. His Boston Irish to her Polish Jewish. Close as siblings, reading each other’s thoughts. The thirteen year age gap was no gap at all. She had no siblings. He had too many.
Sophia never imagined her closest friend would be a male. And, a much younger one at that. She thought there would always be a sexual tension, a carnal frisson in such a relationship. Maybe there was a smidgeon of suppressed smut there, but if anything, it was the glue that kept them tight.
“Thanks,” he accepted the drink, sweeping a hand through his thick red and gray locks. “Annabella is pregnant,” he announced, expelling a sibilant sigh. “It was an accident. Neither one of us is ready, willing, or able to care for a child. She’s been complaining about my work hours, like every woman before her. Long story short. What the fuck are we going to do?”
“Abortion, adoption, acceptance? Those are your three choices, unless she’s going to throw herself down a long flight of stairs and hope for the best.”
“None of them good. I’m a lapsed Irish Catholic, who’d go for abortion, but it’s her body and she’s a Cuban Catholic who can’t see her way clear to abortion. Adoption. I don’t know. Carrying it for nine months and then letting go?”
“It’s not an it you know.”
“I know but thinking of it as an it makes it easier. Maybe. I don’t know.” His eyes clouded gray with worry.
“Maybe keeping the baby would raise your relationship to a new level? Just a thought. How much have you two discussed it? It would be a gorgeous smart ass with you two as parents. There aren’t many of those around.”
Time's Harlot: The Perils of Attraction, Seduction, and Desire Page 3