The Pickup Line

by Louisa Trent

  But she did care, and she couldn't blow off the rejection when he said, “I can't. I'm sorry.”

  So, he changed his mind, didn't want to have sex with her? She should have just tossed it off as one of those things.

  But she couldn't. They had both agreed to a weekend of sex, and now he was reneging. What choice did she have but to take his refusal personally?

  And she would not, she absolutely would not, beg him to touch her! His loss if he wouldn't take what she was offering!

  She rarely masturbated, didn't get the point, and so she wasn't very good at it, but she had to do something to quench the horrible pressure building up inside her ... and to pay back this quietly ruthless man for making her suffer the agony of helplessness.

  She was not helpless!

  Once, in the face of a man's sexual preference, she had stood helpless.

  Not again. Never again! She would never again want a man who could not want her back. She was no masochist. The next time she gave her heart to a man, he would return the favor.

  While Lou looked on, she indulged her whim for revenge, and her screaming need for completion.

  It started as a tease, a taunt, a sexy way to entice him ... and to make him feel what she was feeling, make him give into wanting her as she wanted him. Without reservation. Without reticence. Beyond reason, because there was no reason to this, no reason to explain this attraction they felt for one another. For Lou Franco had wanted her on the pier! She knew that he had. And something had changed.

  Soon her pelvis was bearing down on the worktable, her bottom was grinding into the rough wood planking, her knees were crudely widening. One hand jerked between her legs, two digits inside, pumping. The motion was not pretty, not romantic. Nothing about this showed her in a favorable light.

  She was beyond caring.

  Her other hand went to her nipple, pressing. Pinching. Nails digging, deeply scoring the areola.

  Her golden brown pubic hair was now saturated with her own juices, her fingers slid on her sloppy wet flesh, a sheen of perspiration had broken out on her skin, sounds of liquid gushing filled the quiet room.

  Her vagina was so noisy. Wet and noisy. It was vulgar. And Lou, standing directly in front of her, his eyes on her opening, could hear every sound. Too bad.

  The tendons in her thighs went tight

  While he watched, cool and uninvolved, she was about to come, about to break apart. Again.

  Okay, now she would beg.

  “Please, Lou. I don't want it to happen like this. Come inside me,” she cried, great big fat weak tears streaming down her face as her hand lurched faster and faster between her splayed thighs and her two pinching fingers twisted her nipple.

  He took a step closer, removed her hands from her body.

  She let them fall, palms up on the table.

  “Blue, I can only give you this,” he said.

  Dipping his head, his beard-rough jaw rubbing against her skin, he kissed the inside of each thigh.

  “May I, Blue?” he asked politely, licking the crease where uppermost leg met the junction of her body. “Please tell me I can.”

  “Yes,” she grated out, surrendering everything to him.

  Just like before, this intimate claiming wasn't rushed. First, a slow press of firm lips to stake an uncontested claim of vanquished territory. Followed by an unhurried, open-mouth kiss of her core. He languidly lapped at her opening in gracious consideration, a gentleman conqueror's courteous stroke.

  No forceful invasion. There was no need. She was wide open to him. As open as a woman can get for a man.

  Her clitoris. He found it, and lingered. Lips. Tongue. Teeth. Scraping. Gallantly scraping on that scrap of sensitized flesh, softly pulling on the gold hoop-her symbol of sexual liberation-which she would now forever associate in her mind with him.

  What had she done?

  How had she ever considered that she could allow this man into her body and then walk away?

  She'd just tied herself to this quiet man, about whom she knew very little, other than that he was strong enough to show tenderness. They were as alike as careless and carefree. The man folded his clothes, for Pete's sake!

  Pete was Lou's son, and yes, for his son, Lou probably had folded clothes. And washed dishes. And more than likely hovered beside little Pete's crib when he had the usual childhood illnesses. While she was your typical self-absorbed, self-centered, twenty-something. She'd never taken full responsible for another human being but herself, and she'd patted herself on the back about doing even that, as some of her fellow contemporaries didn't do that much. Until Gil got sick, she'd never taken care of anyone. Worried about anyone. Missed sleep over someone's every fitful breath...

  And then she understood. Because of the gift of caring for Gil, she understood why Lou was so careful, why his touch was so soothing.

  He'd nurtured another life since infancy; he'd cherished a soul other than his own. As surely as he'd shaped his son, his son had shaped him, changed him. Even when Lou was twenty-something, he could not have been self-involved because he had a son.

  As a tongue licked her vulva, as a shallow and delicate French kiss was bestowed, as a careful thrust was made, as full tongue penetration was accomplished, she knew there was no going back, no undoing the changes this night would bring to her. Just as Pete had changed Lou, Lou was changing her. That's just the way it was. People you let into your life change your life. Why hadn't she realized that before?

  Between her legs, in and out motions had interspersed with talented tongue curls. The room was filled with the sounds of a man swallowing. Repeatedly swallowing. Lustily swallowing.

  Lou was drinking of her! From her! No man had ever before tasted her essence, sampled her honey, wanted the taste of her in his mouth.

  Lou wasn't doing this hoping for reciprocity; this was a man who wanted to go down on her, who was savoring her flavor on his tongue.

  He tongue fucked her. For minutes? Hours? She didn't know how long it lasted; all she knew is that the cunnilingus was thoroughly done. Lou branded her with gentleness, but he marked her all the same.

  Sobbing, her hands grabbing at his head, her fingers clawing through his crisp hair. She convulsed. Once. Again. Her body twitching, she let go and came on an ungentle scream.

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  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Much later Blue rose weakly from the worktable, pushed her perspiration-soaked bangs out of her eyes, and drew her sweaty body up straight. She would confront Lou on her feet, not lying limply on her back!

  Lou had withdrawn from her before the echo of her cry had even dissipated. As she fought her way back to the self-reliant person she once was, he had coolly gathered his clothes together and gone to dress across the room; only his eyes touched her as the aftershocks of climax wracked her body.

  She didn't bother to pretend she wasn't upset.

  “Why?” she asked, the harsh and distraught word a cry torn from her throat.

  “Because we don't know one another,” he replied, pulling his white shirt on over his dark pleated suit pants. “Because I didn't want to rush it. Because I thought maybe we could have something good if we took our time. Because I have to be at work at eleven and I didn't want to leave you alone afterwards thinking maybe I had used you for sex when it's not that way. Not because I didn't want to, sweet Blue, because I did want to very bad.”

  He picked up his suit jacket and shrugged into it. “We need to talk, Blue. You have one more night in town, right?”

  Lou was fully dressed now, and she just didn't have the energy to get into her own clothes. And what was the point? She'd opened herself up to him; he'd already seen everything there was to see. He'd seen her weak and crying. Sweating. Her fingers, coated with her own juices, jerking between her legs. He'd heard the wet, sloppy sounds her pussy made as she masturbated ... he'd heard her come as he'd delved her with his tongue. He'd tasted her secretions, swallowed her excitement down his throat. Pa
rt of her was inside his belly.

  She wanted him to come inside her body, without wearing a condom. She wanted to feel his hard male flesh moving within her, no rubber in between. She wanted to wear his semen like Miss America wants to wear her crown.

  Why?

  Was it because he said she was beautiful? Is that what this was all about?

  Was she so petty, so superficial ... so insecure ... that a man's off-handed praise would make her want to cast all responsibility aside and take him unprotected into her body?

  She knew better!

  Calling her beautiful was a cheesy pickup line. A sappy platitude a man speaks because he thinks it will get him what he wants. In her case, it was so unnecessary! Lou could have whatever he wanted from her sexually without having to lie.

  She would not plead with him to stay.

  Blue straightened her wide shoulders, shoulders too wide for a woman, and walked to him, her bare breasts bobbing a little, her thighs slick from her juices and his tongue.

  “Tomorrow night from seven to nine is my opening reception here at GoCA. It's one of these glitzy, formal affairs artists have no choice but to attend. Can you make it?”

  “I wouldn't miss it.”

  He sounded sincere. But his dark brooding eyes were hooded and his face looked strained as he reached for her breast, gently rubbing at the hard, reddened nipple.

  Fuck his gentleness! What would it take to push this controlled man over the edge, over the brink, to get him to toss his clothes upon the floor and ravage her, with no thought of restraint, with no thought of consequence, with a wildness she knew lurked within him?

  That's how she felt. She felt wild. Abandoned. She knew he felt it too. She had seen the animal side of him on the pier with those two river rats. She recognized the look of rage in his eyes that he masked with coolness. Had those two men touched her, Lou would have killed them. She wanted that animal passion unleashed on her.

  “Open your legs for me, Blue,” he said.

  She did, because she couldn't keep them closed.

  “More,” he ordered.

  And helplessly she did; she spread herself for him.

  His hand left her nipple to cover her pussy. “Will you be with other men while you're in Fenton?”

  “Define ‘be with’ ?”

  “I mean...” His finger slipped inside her wet pussy lips. “Will you let any other man inside here, inside your vagina?”

  “Possibly. Why do you ask?”

  “I know you need sex, but don't go to other guys to get it. Let me be the one to give you what you need.”

  “No promises, Lou. I'll have to see if you loosen up some. A girl has to leave her options open, you know. And it's not like we'll be seeing each other after this weekend. It's not like this is anything more than fun.”

  He took a deep breath, his finger moving upwards. “It's more than fun to me, Blue, so go easy.”

  It was just another pickup line, she reminded herself. The words meant nothing.

  But she wanted to believe him. That's why pickup lines were so cruel; women wanted to believe men meant them.

  She said nothing in reply, and when he offered another finger, she took it. Greedily.

  He smoothed his hand down her back to her bottom; his cool fingers cupped a cheek. “I'm willing to do whatever you want, whatever it takes, to have a chance with you. But no other guys, okay? I'm old-fashioned that way. I know you're adventurous and you've got a free spirit, but be mine, alone, for a couple of days. Please? We can work this out, I know we can.”

  Even though she'd presented herself to him as a good times girl, still it rankled that Lou believed her bullshit. He actually thought she was promiscuous when she was the furthest thing from indiscriminate. She wasn't casual about sex at all. Her attitude was all bravado; she did not intend to sleep with another man.

  Though it hurt, she didn't defend herself; after all, his misguided opinion of her afforded her some protection.

  “I can't make you any promises,” she said, refusing to give him any more than she'd already given him. Lou was playing this cool, well so would she! Let him think he was only one man among many!

  Withdrawing his touch, he left without saying another word, closing the door quietly after him.

  Strung out, she stared at that closed door for a very long time.

  Oh, Gillian just look at what I've done now!

  When she was younger, before she'd come up against some of the complexities life has to offer, she would have laughed herself sick at the idea of falling in love with a man who didn't fit a very narrow, idealized image she had in her head. Had she been asked, or even if a photo of a young sensitive man, an obviously, no question about it, gay young man with long brown hair, a flowing muslin shirt, and an open smile been shown to her, she would have said: God, no! I am no fag hag! I would never, not in million years, fall in love with a homosexual.

  And she hadn't. She'd fallen in love with Gillian, a poet, an artist, a dedicated social activist, a man who openly, no apologies, made love to other men.

  Wiping a tear away, Blue drew on her trousers.

  Who knows why one human being is irresistibly drawn to another human being? Who knows what inspires the need to be with one special person to the exclusion of everyone else?

  That is to say if you're lucky enough to find that special someone at all.

  Some people never do, Blue mused sadly, as she shrugged into her shirt.

  How truly blessed she'd been to find Gillian!

  Gill had been perfect for her in every way.

  Except one way. The most devastating way.

  And knowing there could be no happy ending for them, she had loved him anyway. His soul complimented her soul. They're spirits touched, even if they're bodies never had.

  He'd been brutally honest with her. He told her in his very Gillianesque fashion that he wasn't straight, he wasn't bi, he was just plain happily gay, and please not to try to change him.

  She hadn't.

  Nor had she turned away from Gillian simply because he hadn't fit her expectations of what a sweetheart should be like, should look like, should do in the privacy of his own bed.

  They'd met as college freshman at the same art college. Both far from home for the very first time, they'd started a torrid affair of the hearts and of the minds.

  But not of the bodies.

  Gillian was unquestionably, positively, not a virgin; she was very much a virgin and remained so despite her heart-mate's insistent prompting that she experiment upon a heterosexual man. ‘So you'll know what you're missing,’ he'd said.

  What was the need of all that wasted effort, she reasoned, when she knew what she felt for Gillian was real and lasting and true, and that she wasn't missing anything? It wasn't like she'd ever had a boyfriend. You don't miss what you've never had, and since she'd never had sex, she didn't miss it. Why open up a Pandora's Box?

  Gillian had been the love of her life in every way-except physically. They'd been like two misfit peas in a little funny pod. They had finished each other's sentences, laughed at one another's stupid and silly jokes, understood each other's motivations, appreciated one another's creativity, shared the same political leanings. Theirs had been a love bond from the start, and from that joyous start to the sad, sad finish, the bond between them had remained platonic.

  They'd been together for six lovely years, inseparable since that first day, linked at the heart muscle until the return of a particularly vicious form of childhood leukemia had separated them forever.

  That was three years ago.

  Blue still grieved.

  And if Gillian hadn't extracted a particularly lascivious promise from her, she'd still be a virgin.

  But Gill had made her swear, on the site of his future cemetery plot, no less-the horrible ghoul!-that after a suitable period of mourning-he given her a year, she'd taken two-that she'd lose her hymen.

  She had, last year in London with Jeremy, a British art his
torian.

  Jeremy was teaching a grad course on the Renaissance, one of the many classes she'd taken to fill the time after Gil's death because she couldn't seem to paint.

  Paint! What a laugh! She couldn't eat or sleep, never mind paint. She could barely make it through a day, was barely functioning. And she had yet to fulfill her promise to Gill. Then, one bleak and rainy London day, she took Jeremy aside after a class, explained she was a virgin looking to lose her cherry, would he mind terribly much putting in the extra effort required with her?

  Jeremy hadn't exactly minded, but he hadn't shown any wild enthusiasm about the prospect of deflowering her, either. After the first time, they'd simply fallen into the habit of having tepid sex together in his flat when both of them had nothing else to do-luckily, they were both very busy people. The arrangement was all very civilized, all very convenient.

  As were Jeremy's lies.

  Apart from the genuineness of his sexual orientation, Jeremy turned out to be a disingenuous fake-

  Jeremy hadn't known about Gillian, hadn't known she'd had an affair of the hearts with a homosexual man. Not because she'd been hiding that part of herself from him, but because the pain of her loss had been almost unbearable, certainly too painful to put into words. One night, though, they'd been out dining at a small restaurant, she couldn't even remember the name of the place now, and they were seated beside a table so close to theirs that they could easily overhear the conversation. As it turned out, the two men at the next table over were lovers out celebrating their tenth anniversary. Afterwards, in the restaurant parking lot, Jeremy had shared his opinions about the couple. None of the opinions were complimentary and all of them were in direct contradiction to his publicly accepting view of gays.

  His blatant hypocrisy made her sick.

  After telling the supposedly liberal-minded academic exactly what she thought of his lie, she'd informed him it was time they stopped seeing one another-splitting up implied that they had been together as a couple and they had never been together in that way.