The last thing I did was change the bedsheets. I imagined pushing him down on his hands and knees. I wondered what he’d taste like when I licked the sweat from his back. When I swallowed his spunk. When I pushed my tongue inside him. I felt like I needed a cold shower. Instead, I took a pile of stinking clothes and bedding down to the launderette. While the machines turned slowly, I went out to buy a takeaway pizza and enough beer to stop my brain buzzing.
I still ended up having to wank myself to sleep.
***
I was down the station a full twenty minutes early, which was a miracle considering how long I’d spent in the shower and trying to figure out what to wear. In the end I threw on the same old painting clothes he always saw me in. It’s not like I had much choice in my wardrobe, and I figured Steve would have to take me as he found me.
The thought of him “taking me” made my head spin and my blood pound. At least the baggy T-shirt hid my arousal from the others waiting on the platform, even if it couldn’t conceal my twitching movements as I paced up and down.
I almost didn’t recognize him. He stepped in front of me, a different person with his crisp black jeans, tight red T-shirt, and tousled, curly hair. It didn’t really click until he smiled that lop-sided grin of his.
“Hi, Jez.” He sounded confident, predatory, and I suddenly realized how little I knew about this Steve. He was taller than I’d expected, almost as tall as me, and he moved with a cat-like grace as he flicked a piece of gum into the bin beside me. Slightly slimmer than I’d guessed under the suit, but with the kind of arse that made me want to reach out and grab a double handful. I felt under-dressed, and way out of my league.
“Hi.” I attempted a smile but my mouth didn’t want to co-operate. My hands started shaking so I shoved them in my pockets, trying to look nonchalant. “It’s this way. Come on.” I didn’t look back, but soon saw him from the corner of my eye, keeping pace with my strides.
“I didn’t realize it would feel so much like the city this far out.” I could see him looking around, taking in the sari merchants and halal butchers squeezed in amongst the betting shops and pawnbrokers. I wondered how much he liked slumming it, and if he’d be shocked by the peeling paint and stench of mildew in my building.
“Where are you from, then? The stockbroker belt?” I hated those stuck up little dormitory towns, nestled in their phony countryside of golf courses and riding schools.
He just chuckled, and although I wanted to shove him away for laughing at me, the sound got to me, somehow: made me want to hear it again, made me wonder if it would sound that good with my head resting on his chest.
“Yeah, well, that’s where my folks moved a few years back. I had to move back in after uni. Just staying there until I’ve saved enough for a deposit somewhere closer to work. It’s not my sort of place, either. Much more interesting around here.”
He lived with his fucking parents. Christ. This was starting to feel like a huge mistake, but I couldn’t deny the pull he had on me. I decided to keep my mouth shut. I didn’t want to find out anything else that was going to upset my preconceived notions. I wanted to picture him as an unattainable stockbroker in his spacious designer apartment, not some office junior living with his folks.
Not someone I really could risk trying for.
***
“Cup of tea? Coffee?” I offered, wanting to do something useful with my hands rather than watch him checking over my bookshelves with a smile I couldn’t interpret. He was probably laughing at my taste in pulp sci-fi and horror.
Steve turned around, eyebrows raised.
“I’m fine, thanks. Let’s just get on with it, shall we? Got your pencils all sharpened?” He kicked off his boots and I caught a glimpse of day-glo blue, orange, and pink stripes before he distracted me by pulling his T-shirt over his head. I was arrested by the sight of him, the dark hair lightly sprinkled over the wiry frame, making a T-shape between his nipples and right down to the waistband of his jeans. Gulping hard, I wondered whether I should even bother with drawing him first.
Catching me looking, he gave a sly smile and started to unbutton his fly with maddeningly slow fingers, obviously enjoying giving me a show. Oh my God, his underpants! They were as bad as the socks. No, they were worse: ghastly, tight orange and lime stripy briefs that bulged enticingly and just shouldn’t have been so fucking sexy.
“You want me to leave these on, too?” Steve asked, hooking a finger into the side and stretching them out so that they pulled even tighter against his dick.
“Yeah, okay, uh, you sit there.” I indicated the armchair. “Just like you do on the train.” Shit, why hadn’t I asked him to take them off? I had to draw him now, all the time imagining what he had hidden away under those God-awful stripes. He was fixing me with a come-hither gaze that I knew I wouldn’t be able to resist for long. I wanted to ask him to look away, but my mouth seemed to be too dry to form any words.
It didn’t go so badly after all, because once I had the pencil in my hand everything else flew away, and my mind was absorbed in the task of translating the lines, curves, highlights and shadows of his body onto the paper. It was only as I was finishing, and I noticed him starting to fidget, that my cock began to stir and I wondered what would come next. I wasn’t sure that the fantasy version of events would work with the real Steve; I couldn’t picture him all innocent and submissive like I’d imagined.
“Okay, I’m done. You can move now.” I stared down at the sketch as he got up and walked toward me. I could smell him as he stood over me, my breath hitching on the mixture of soap and musk with a bright tint of lemon.
“That’s fantastic. Do you do this for a living, then?” He sounded genuinely impressed, and I tried to look him in the eye, but my gaze was snagged by the very obvious swelling in those dreadful briefs.
“Yeah, look, I should pay you for the modeling.” I wanted to get it out of the way before anything else happened. I wouldn’t want him to think that I was paying for sex.
“No need, it was my pleasure.” He flashed me that filthy grin again, stepping even closer so that he was standing between my legs.
“I always pay my models,” I insisted, knowing that my capacity for rational thought was dwindling as my blood rushed south.
“I’m sure I can think of some other way you could compensate me.”
With that, Steve hooked his fingers in either side of his briefs, pulling them down so that his cock pinged upward, thick, veined, and already leaking pre-come. I found myself salivating, reaching out to cup his buttocks with my hands and take that beautiful prick into my mouth. But I only got the tip of my tongue in contact before he pulled back with a shimmy and a chuckle, leaving me gaping like a fucking goldfish.
“Hey, wait a minute. There’s no rush, is there?” Before I knew what had happened he was on his knees and we were kissing, his hands in my hair as mine roamed over his naked back. He tasted warm and welcoming, with a mere hint of mint lingering in his mouth. “I just love your hair,” he said between nibbles to my lower lip, tugging on my locks in a way that made me arch my head back, hissing. “It’s like a mane. Makes you look like some kind of wild-man.”
Steve fell on my neck, scraping the skin with his teeth and sucking up marks, his busy fingers tugging up my T-shirt. I helped out, pulling it off over my head and lifting my hips as he wrenched down my jeans. I found myself idly wondering at what point I’d lost control of the situation, but let’s face it, I’d probably never had it in the first place. But it felt right, somehow, and I went with it, asserting myself enough simply to grab hold of his hair when he swallowed my cock. This wasn’t how I’d imagined it, with me thrusting into his prim mouth and shocking him with my easy mastery. No, he was deep-throating me like a pro, one hand playing with my balls, the most delicious humming and moaning sounds escaping him.
Looking down at those long lashes against his cheeks,
at those succulent lips wrapped around my cock was almost too much. I squirmed, panting, sweating, and desperately trying to hold back just for a little bit longer. He’d be leaving soon anyway, and I wanted to eke out this sweetness for as long as I could.
More than anything, I realized that I wanted to hold him and taste him. I wanted to see his expression and hear the sounds he made as he came. I pulled him off me, saying, “Please. Steve. Here.” Hooking my arms under his, I hoisted him up onto the sofa so that he was straddling me, and I could take both our cocks in one spit-slickened hand. I found his lips again. This time I could taste myself in his mouth, the flavors mingling in an exquisite cocktail. I felt his hand join mine, heard him moan, saw him pull away all flushed and sweaty, saw him gazing at me with shining eyes like he thought I was something special.
He came first, the sight of his seed spurting hot over my hand and the sound of my name on his lips sending me tumbling after him. We shuddered our way back to stillness, and I thought ‘this is the bit where he makes his excuses and leaves.’ But then he laughed, breathlessly, kissing me softly and telling me how fucking gorgeous I was, and I just didn’t know whether I should believe him or not.
***
“These are beautiful,” Steve said with a reverent expression, picking up a charcoal sketch of Kathy. “She must be someone you really care about.”
I looked at him sharply. “What makes you say that?”
“Just the way you’ve captured her expression. There’s so much tenderness, like you’re showing us something about her hopes and dreams.” His gray eyes seemed to be focused somewhere far into the distance, and I wondered if I’d ever be able to capture that on paper.
How could an office grunt possibly understand all of this? And why was he still here? He was back in his jeans with a cup of tea in his hands, and seemed intent on making himself at home, walking around and asking me about all my stuff, particularly my paintings, which seemed to impress him hugely. I would have suspected it was all a ploy to get into my pants, but he’d already done that so I couldn’t tell what he was up to.
“What about your hopes and dreams, then?” I asked, thinking that I may as well know the worst before I found myself falling for him and his bloody soulful eyes.
“Depends whether you’re talking about careers or personal, doesn’t it?” He gave a lopsided smile. “Careers-wise, I’m only just starting out in publishing, but I want to work my way up to senior editor, and one day start a small press of my own. That’s why I’m always working on the slush pile manuscripts on the train.” He told me about the mountain of unsolicited manuscripts he’d been given to practice his editing skills on. “They need a lot of work, but they’re people’s dreams and I have to respect the effort they’ve put into them.”
Shame heated my face as I recalled how I’d judged him as some kind of facts-and-figures obsessed automaton. He might dress like a businessman, but that was only a shell. As he spoke of those wannabe novelists his eyes took on that faraway look again, and I found myself wanting to kiss him slowly, to be the focus of his attention.
“And your personal dreams?” I held my breath for his reply, feeling like his answer would seal our fate together. He looked at me, really looked at me, a small smile on his lips.
“I just want to find someone special.” He took a step closer, his hand brushing mine. “You know, I’ve been watching you ever since I first saw you. I’ve been wanting to see you smile. You don’t do it often enough.” He stroked my cheek, and I felt myself start to grin. “That’s it. That’s beautiful.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I thought you hated me. You kept glaring. You know you’re bloody scary when you glare.” I laughed at his expression of mock-fright. “Love that sound,” he said, leaning in to claim my lips.
This time we made it to the bedroom, and I christened those new sheets as Steve pounded into me from behind, his hands around my cock. I found myself chanting his name over and over, and I didn’t ever want to stop.
***
He stayed the night and we sat up until the early hours watching some of my favorite zombie films. It turned out he loved them, too. Steve sprawled on the sofa in his underpants and socks, with his feet in my lap. I realized that I hadn’t seen his feet yet, so I peeled those lurid socks away and studied them, wanting to learn every inch of him. I traced over the tendons with my fingertips; I licked the arches. He whimpered a little, trying to pull his foot away, but then I sucked on his toes and he groaned.
We soon forgot all about Dawn of the Dead.
***
The train pulls into the station. I climb on, looking to see if my seat is free. Steve hasn’t managed to find his usual one, so I take one opposite where he’s now sitting. Because we get on at my old stop -- our stop now -- he’s not always able to get that seat, but it doesn’t stop us trying.
I watch him crossing his legs. I study the way the turquoise and yellow zig-zag socks cling to his ankles. I remember picking them out for him, thinking that they were like a Bridget Riley painting, and the grin on his face when I gave them to him that evening. I’ve realized that he can make the most tacky, clashing colors look good just by being in them. I’ve realized that I don’t need to be angry anymore.
I’ve realized that I’m worth loving.
I watch him and remember how wrong I was. Every now and then he looks up at me, smiling, but mostly we just pretend to be strangers. It keeps me from taking him for granted.
It’s always crowded on our return journey, and the seats are all taken. We stand next to each other, clinging onto the same handhold, our bodies nudging together with the rattling motion of the train. We murmur into each other’s ears about our days. We walk home from the station, side by side.
At night, when we tumble into bed, I always remember to look up at the triptych of framed sketches over our headboard. On the left, the stranger on the train, naked apart from his shoes and bright pink socks. In the middle, a portrait of a dreadlocked man with forlorn, lovesick eyes. And on the right, a man called Steve, posing in his stripy underwear on the day he demolished the last of my first impressions.
First Impressions
Copyright © 2010 by Josephine Myles
All rights reserved. No part of this eBook may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address Torquere Press, Inc., PO Box 2545, Round Rock, TX 78680
Printed in the United States of America.
Torquere Press, Inc.: Sips electronic edition / January 2011
Torquere Press eBooks are published by Torquere Press, Inc., PO Box 2545, Round Rock, TX 78680
First Impressions Page 2