by Fulani
When I reach my usual seat, close to the end of the bar, Gal is already getting warmed up. She’s one of those fascinating delicate Middle Eastern beauties with tightly curled jet black hair and a sharp, angular face, elegantly wrapped in porcelain-smooth caramel-coloured skin, and a midsection so tight you could bounce a quarter off it. And damn if she can’t wear the hell out of a pair of leather pants.
She greets me with an excited smile and a kiss on the cheek. It’s only nine o’clock, and since there aren’t many more people in the bar besides she and I, she’s plugged her iPod into the stereo system, hit the shuffle button, and is playing everything from Tupac to Rock and Roll from Israel whose lyrics I can’t understand while she dances and finishes cutting limes and pouring ice into the ice bins. Every so often she’ll stop to sing a line or two into the top of a bottle while she’s pointing at me.
I love watching her work. She’s been here about a year and a half now, and she always makes sure to give me a show when we’re alone in here together. Suddenly, a glass full of rum and pineapple juice appears in front of me, and the game is on. We chat about pleasantries and gossip for the next hour, until the place starts to fill up and other people start pumping dollar bills into the equally eclectic digital jukebox in the corner. She jumps up on the bar and starts dancing around the brass pole right in front of me, knowing it’s half of why I come in here. I start eyeing the crowd and try to select an appropriate victim.
* * *
I really should have elected to go to grad school classes over the summer. This whole staying up until some ridiculous time of night and not having any weekend time to myself is for someone else to suffer through, not me. Of course, I could’ve picked some place easier to get to than NYU. It’s not really the ride downtown after teaching all day; it’s the ride back up to the Bronx and the dark circles under my eyes that lead my kids to ask: “Miss! You was up late last night?” Yea, but doing nothing you would’ve wanted to see. Adolescence is such naïveté, despite their burning desire to appear experienced in all things.
‘This is a Manhattan-bound D train; next stop is 34th St., Herald Square.’ Halfway there and there’s only 15 minutes before class. No doubt about it, I’m gonna be late tonight. After catching the R to 8th Street, it's a run up the stairs and stop at Knossos for a large coffee and a bagel. Terrible diet choice, but it’ll have to do for the moment to soften the burn in my stomach until I can go get something else. The clack-clack of my heels rings off the brick of the buildings despite passing traffic, and the lukewarm wind is trying to do a Marilyn Monroe on my skirt, which is more action than I’ve had in months.
Our professor luckily understands our plight as professionals, and my appearance 15 minutes into her talk doesn’t even appear to slow her down. She just points to the handouts which I pick up on my way to a seat and I join a group of other students frantically scribbling to try to keep up with the lecture.
‘Where are we?’ I ask the man sitting next to me.
‘Review of Noonan and Intro to Bialystok. If you did the reading this is rather basic. I’m just wondering what she’s going to drop on us for the final project.’
‘Ugh. Is it time to start thinking about that already? The semester just started!’
‘Not even, it’s the end of March, we finish up the end of May, plus there’s vacation days in between; that’s not a whole lot of time to gather information and put everything together.’
Why does he have to be right all the time?
The next two hours are an exercise in masochistic pleasure. Luckily I have hot coffee, and I can hide behind several other personalities eager to respond to every question the professor asks. Alex approaches me after class with something of a wry smile on his face:
‘A couple of us are planning on heading out for a drink, to sort of let off some steam, you interested?’
It had never occurred to me that there might be a use for the huge total of sick days that I had amassed during the past several years, but I suddenly felt as if something was coming on that would only be survivable if I drowned it with copious amounts of vodka.
‘Hmmmm, now that might just be a good idea.’
The four of us, Alex and two other girls, wandered a few streets over to a bar the other girls assured me was just the right kind of place. Even for a Thursday night in the city, when most people in the working class choose to start their weekend early, this place was starting to look rowdy. On the inside, my assessment from afar was not entirely unfounded: girls dancing with girls on the bar, a lot of Hip Hop from before Biggie and Tupac got shot, and a clientele that I’m not sure would appreciate the brains that go along with this body. But, what the hell, I’m not searching for a soul mate in here; I’m out trying to relax.
‘What can I get you?’ asks Alex as he slides me into a chair near the corner of the bar between him and the other girls. Poor boy, I wonder if he’s guessed at my predilections.
‘Vodka and cranberry, and tell them to give me an extra lemon.’
He sours his face and turns to the bartender to repeat my request. She’s a spindly thing, a bit less curvy than my taste; her raven coloured poodle curls give away our common genetic heritage, though her skin tone denotes a distant connection.
Looking around the place, I would have probably never ventured in had I not been brought by friends; it’s dark – really dark, noticeably more so than the lamp lit streets outside at 10 p.m. You’d have to be either nocturnal or a vampire to be able to see clearly with the lights so low. There’s a lot of motorcycle memorabilia, and all the wood in the place – bar, chairs, tables, looks like it’s been here since the year I was born. I’m almost surprised to not see sawdust on the floor.
But, removed from the general havoc, and nearly staring a hole in my right cheek is a bright eyed dark skinned girl. She’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt cut low enough to showcase her magnificent cleavage, and knotted in the back to emphasize the fact that she wants it to be looked at.
My drink comes to me as I’m busy being seduced by a colour of blue like the unending sky above a calm ocean in the summer. I’ve never seen anything like it.
‘Tifa … ’Tifa!’ calls Alex. I fumble for the glass, still looking at those glowing celestial orbs, like pictures of Venus through a telescope, and mumble a ‘Thanks’ for his valiant effort, as we continue to communicate through the established visual connection all our intimate feelings. She’s pretty good at this.
Alex chuckles after following my gaze and realising what’s going on. ‘Just let us know if you need us,’ he whispers in my ear before rejoining the other two ladies from our class who immediately include him in their prattling about work, life, and love.
For a split second, I turn my head to nod an assent, and when I look back, she’s gone. Feeling completely disconcerted, and not knowing how to respond, I scan the far reaches of the blackness frantically, straining my eyes for that inimitable connection that was worth a hundred one night stands and come up empty handed.
She couldn’t have gotten to the bathroom that fast, and I would have seen her going out the door, where could she have gone? I’m just about to give up in frustration when I feel a tap on my shoulder, and follow a Hershey’s bar coloured arm upwards to see that it leads to those glorious mounds, squeezed unceremoniously into a straining black shirt, bouncing delightfully to the rhythm above a well defined abdomen, and the conscientiously tied knot that floated just inches above the delicious firm roundness that her jeans could barely contain.
The music is swaying to the rhythm of her tits, she’s reaching for my hand to pull me up on the bar with her and a group of other girls, and I know for sure that this is the beginning of a long night.
I don’t even get the chance to finish my drink because two other sets of arms appear from out of nowhere to help her lift me clean out of my seat and suddenly this girl’s hands are all over me as we shimmy and slide in the midst of so many feminine bodies. I haven’t eaten enough, the drink is prett
y strong, my temperature rises at the concept of suddenly getting laid tonight, and the smells of perfume, liquor, and sweat send my mind reeling until suddenly there’s a tap on my foot.
‘Here! Take this!’ One of the other bartenders, this one shorter and thicker than the one who served Alex, hands the two of us shots of God knows what.
I take the shot and swallow it quickly, even though I haven’t finished my original drink, and it brings me closer to reality. We keep moving, and I keep falling into those eyes; why do I recognize them? Something I saw earlier today on one of my students’ shirts, a female vampire, her mouth bloody from the kill, staring out from the night under a full moon. I’ll have to ask her about it next time I see her.
My mystery engagement pulls me tighter into her, places a gentle hand against my cheek, and brings her full lips towards mine and I can smell the rum on her breath. Our tongues meet and there’s a fire igniting inside me I know she can feel. She presses into me, and she is luckily holding the metal bar above her head with a practiced strong hand because I’m leaned over backwards and hanging off her neck for dear life and pressing my mouth into hers.
All the patrons are cheering, cameras are flashing, and I suddenly begin to think that being in heels half drunk on top of the bar is likely not the best idea I’ve ever had in my life. The night continues on like that, more drinks, more dancing precariously, more hot kisses, and excellent conversation. She’s a writer, she knows how to turn a phrase, she lives a few blocks away …
Yes!
We stay on at the bar even after the others leave. Having used the online system to reserve a substitute for tomorrow is starting to look like a better idea the later this night gets. We get to talking about cooking, and suddenly my stomach begins to let its displeasure be known. I make a comment about hunting for something to eat, and she makes the suggestion I’ve been waiting for all night:
‘Why don’t we head back to my place?’
From 2nd Avenue and 4th Street to her apartment on First and First is a blur. I’m not quite sure what happened, but I was to hear later that I had a whole lot of fun. Even though she was on the first floor up, looking out on to the avenue just above the street level tattoo shop, we barely even made it in the door to the building before the action started happening.
She presses into me again, and her hands are inside my top, squeezing my tits and her mouth slides up and down my neck, her tongue flicking across my skin, and my pulse becomes a persistent drum beat, better suited to a tribal ritual than the confines of my chest. I’m suddenly clawing at her back and the sounds escaping my throat I don’t recognize, as I grip the flesh of her shoulder between my own teeth.
‘Hnnnngh!’ she exclaims and pushes me towards the stairs at the back of the hall. They are steep and winding, and rounding the corner on the landing between the two flights leading to the second floor I slam into the wall, saved only by my unsteady grip on the wooden railing.
She helps me up and spanks my ass with each step on the way to her floor where I follow her to her door. We’re no sooner inside than she pushes me onto the bed, and tears open the top to my pant suit.
Not to be outdone, I work the already half open shirt down around those delicious mounds and unhook the bra so I can get at those swollen nipples. She reaches down and gets her hand in my panties and I know she can feel where my wetness has soaked through. Thank the gods I was wearing black today. I’m so turned on at this point that her hand grazing my aching clit and gently massaging my lips brings unexpected shudders from me. I grab that sinuous arm and dig my nails into it, releasing what is just the beginning of months of frustration onto the gently swirling fingers.
Once the shaking stops, all of my speech functions have been summarily inhibited, though I’ve regained control of my limbs, and I decide to simply go after the prize. She’s teasing me by wearing button-fly jeans, and she looks down smiling at me as I fumble with drunken fingers and in delirium at the closure.
While I’m busy trying to unhinge her, she gets busy relieving me of my own pants, and stops to kiss at all the delicate bits hidden behind the even more delicate lace.
‘What lovely purple panties … ’ she remarks, as I’m just managing to slide the denim past those lovely lady lumps.
If they looked good in the jeans, out of the jeans they are many times better. Luscious and round, not a single blemish, and tight, the essence of cocoa butter penetrates my nostrils, and as I move closer to fix my hungry mouth to her gleaming wetness, honey and vanilla add themselves to the mix and blend.
‘Thank you,’ I offer coyly just before moving aside the strip of her cotton thong separating me from the fountain of life. It has been quite literally years since I’ve had drunken sex after a night out, I’d almost forgotten what it was like. I’m overcome with sensation, the smells, the glide of her tongue on my clit, the feel of her ass in my hands, and I need to feel the weight of her on me. I pull her on top of me and make sure I explore every single inch of that region with my tongue.
She in turn sucks and moans into my own pussy, pulling my hips towards her face, the vibrations and manipulations sending me over the edge time and again, while I begin fingering her and working her towards an earth-quaking climax as she grinds into me.
Just when I thought this night couldn’t hold any more surprises, she slides two fingers inside me, and begins to massage that tiny button inside and my clit at the same time, and my body willingly starts to race towards a whole new level of orgasm.
Her pressure is steady, and at just the right level to ensure that I’m going to rocket through the roof, it’s coming, I can feel it build, my legs quiver, my stomach clenches, my toes curl, my fingers dig into her ass, I throw my head back and start to howl those unearthly sounds the first evidence of which escaped from me earlier in the hallway, and at just the right moment, I can feel her do something inside me, and before I can stop it, I’m gushing like a geyser, soaking the bed sheets, and there is a warm wetness flowing down her face. At the same time, I must have come too many times tonight, suddenly getting very sleepy, very slee …
* * *
This one’s pretty good. Even drunk she’s better than most of the ones I would normally share my bed with on a night like tonight, and those ones I’ve trained. Pity though, to have to lose her, we mesh on so many levels.
Fuck but she tastes good! Blood and come, liquor and sweat, how many years has it been since Yasmyn? How many lonely nights? How many meaningless fucks? This one has potential. But, she is nearly drained, her body temperature is dropping, she’s already unconscious. Only one way to save her now. I bite through one of my own nipples and let the blood drain into her mouth.
She is not so far gone that she doesn’t recognize the need to suck. Slowly, her mouth starts working, and eventually I can feel the flush return to her skin, she reaches up and cradles my breast in her mouth, still oblivious as to just how much like a baby she is at this point. But then, this is where the fun begins!
* * *
She blinks at me through the darkness from a renewed consciousness. ‘Welcome back! I thought we’d nearly lost you there for a moment.’
She winds her arms around me and holds herself there for a few moments before dropping back on the bed.
I draw the shades, kill the light in the entryway, and give her a space in the bed next to me. Dawn is coming, and tomorrow night there will be a lot of explaining to do.
His Ghost
by James Hornby
It was years since he had died, going on for a decade but she still missed him. She didn't think that would ever change. Waking up each morning with her arm flung out as if grabbing for the absence on that side of the bed; feeling the cold sheets, the still plumped pillow, sometimes she cried.
The house stood in the woods, a short distance from a main road which connected two cities. In the summer and at night, with the window open, she could hear the cars whooshing by, their tyres making love to the road, here then gone. She wond
ered about those people, where they were from, where they were going.
And she wondered if she should just sell up and go, just sell the house and leave these memories but then she would realise that it was the memories, held so dear, of love made on this bed, passionate and sweating, love made in the garden, fresh and sweet, that she would leave, and that was all she had left. The absence would not vanish, absences never can.
They had met during a writers’ retreat. The class had been dull and uninformative and they had started to mock the old teacher, balding with little glasses and an inability to pronounce his ‘R’s. They would sit side by side, elbows touching, so aware of each others bodies that the slightest twitch of an arm at the mention of ‘Witing’ by the grey little teacher would send them into fits of silent laughter.
As the classes progressed his closeness increased until his arm lay atop hers, the back of his wrist pressing the soft side of her breast. She would lean into him, just the smallest amount and feel a shiver of pleasure.
Things grew between them, developing through their love of the world, of words and each other. Her magazine writing, freelance mainly – apart from a website that employed her to write about new theatre productions – developed and soon she was able to move away from her parents’ home and buy this little house in the woods. It was her dream home, with a well, and trees of oak, elm and dog wood, standing like silent pilgrims about the clearing until the autumn winds would rush in and send them whispering and chattering in their ancient voices.
A few months later he joined her there. He was not as successful with his writing, which she would often tease him about as they lay among crumpled bed sheets. They had a relationship in which no bitterness took root, he accepted her for all her flaws and successes, and she could have loved him for just this reason.