The pool table was unoccupied when we walked into the White Lion, and that’s when we knew it was going to be a good night. Eddie went straight over and placed a row of coins on the table’s edge, making it ours for the next hour or so. Normally, it had already been claimed by the lads from the building site across the road – the White Lion was the only establishment in the area that tolerated their work boots and site clothing – but tonight they were nowhere to be seen. We liked the pub for the same reasons they did; it was more relaxed, less of a yuppie pick-up joint than the wine bars and pavement cafés that catered to the after-work crowd who spilled out of the waterside office blocks. And even if we were still dressed in our double-breasted, skirt-suited corporate armor, at least we could take off our jackets, unbutton a few buttons and have a good time, knowing we were unlikely to bump into any of the company’s big bosses or, worse, their gossipy PAs.
While Eddie was racking up the pool balls, Michael took a contribution from the rest of us and went to the bar, returning with a couple of bottles of champagne and half a dozen glasses. Janice was slotting money into the jukebox, punching in the numbers of her favorite slow, raunchy rock songs. The look in her eye told me she was planning on drinking too much, flirting too much, and trying to entice one of the boys to go home with her. She usually succeeded; even though she was never looking for more than a one-night stand, there was no one who could resist the combination of her generous cleavage and sultry, smoky voice. Except perhaps Michael.
It was Janice’s idea to divide the six of us into male/female teams: herself and Eddie, Louise and Tim, Michael and me. I couldn’t decide whether she was still trying to set up the two of us, but I was happy enough with the plan, particularly when Michael, quickly realizing just how useless I was at pool, decided to give me an impromptu lesson. Standing so close behind me I could feel the warmth of his body pressed against my own, he took hold of my hands and directed them into place on the cue. But as he helped me line up my shot, all I could think of was that glimpse of sheer nylon. Was he dressed like that now? I wondered, barely managing to drag my attention back to the cue ball. With his help, I somehow sunk the shot, but we still lost the game quite easily, leaving the remaining two couples to take each other on.
I found myself studying Michael as he poured the remnants of the second bottle of champagne into all the glasses on the table. With his tie off and his normally neat hair ruffled up, he looked unbelievably gorgeous, and I knew that if I didn’t do something, in a couple of hours he would walk out of this pub and, in all probability, out of my life. I couldn’t let him go without telling him I knew about his little secret, and just how much it turned me on. Alcohol made me bold and loosened my tongue. The words spilled out of my mouth before I could stop them. “So tell me, Michael, are they stockings or tights?”
Any other man might have thought I was speculating about Janice as she bent over the pool table, her skirt riding so high that if she was wearing stockings, their tops were dangerously close to coming into view. But Michael knew immediately what I meant; his face went pale as he said, tight-lipped, “How did you find out?”
“I dropped my pen,” I told him. “I had to go under the desk to get it back – and that’s when I saw them.”
“And what are you going to tell everyone when I go back to head office?” he said. “That I’m a pervert, a freak? Janice will love spreading that juicy little piece of scandal when she finds out.” He broke off as Tim wandered over, clutching more champagne.
“Anyone for a refill?” he asked, sloshing more drink into our glasses without giving us a chance to refuse. Not that I would have refused; I needed as much Dutch courage as I could handle if I was going to get out of this situation without making a complete fool of myself.
I took a deep breath. “She’s not going to find out, because I’m not going to tell anyone anything,” I said. “And if you want the truth, I don’t think what you do is freaky or perverted. If you must know, it makes me really horny.”
There was a long moment’s silence, compounded by the song on the jukebox coming to an end. Now I definitely had blown it. I reached for my handbag. “Maybe I should just wish Janice a happy birthday and go.”
Michael put his hand on my arm. “Don’t go, Lorna. Repeat what you just said.”
Knowing I had nothing to lose, I said, “What, that the thought of you wearing stockings, tights, whatever they are, makes me horny?
He drained the rest of his champagne in one gulp. “You can’t know how long I’ve waited for someone to say that to me. It’s always felt like this dirty little secret I’ve been carrying around, ever since the first time I tried on a pair of my sister’s old tights. Don’t get me wrong, Lorna, I don’t go the whole hog. I don’t wear dresses and I don’t spend the weekends as Michelle, or anything like that. And I’m not gay. I just like the feel of nylon against my skin.”
“You’ve got them on now, haven’t you?” I said, praying I was right.
He nodded, and I felt a rush of liquid heat to my pussy.
“I want to see them,” I told him.
“What, here?” he asked.
“No. Preferably at my place, and preferably with you wearing absolutely nothing else.” This wasn’t me talking, this was the champagne, but I still knew I meant every word of what I was saying.
“Okay, let’s go,” he said.
At that moment, Janice wandered over, slightly unsteadily. Her face was flushed and beaming, and her blouse was open far enough to reveal the tops of her plump, freckled breasts, cradled in a white lace push-up bra.
“Are you having a good time?” she asked. “Because I’m having a fucking fantastic time!” She lowered her head to mine, trying to be discreet, but the amount of alcohol she’d drunk had taken her way past discretion, and her voice was loud enough to carry across the room. “Do you think Eddie’s fit, Lorna? I think he’s really fit. He’s got a great arse when he bends over to line up a shot.”
I smiled indulgently at her and then glanced across at Michael, wondering how we could best make our excuses and leave before one or both of us lost the courage to act on our erotic impulses.
Janice seemed oblivious to the looks that were passing between Michael and me. “You know, I’ve always had a fantasy about getting fucked on a pool table,” she slurred.
Most women I knew had; it seemed almost compulsory, like fantasizing about being fucked by a fireman, or inviting your boyfriend’s handsome best friend to join you in a threesome. I knew exactly how she pictured herself; splayed over the table, her hands gripping the edges; skirt up and panties off, while Eddie ploughed into her from behind. Her imagination would no doubt add the cheering audience, the encouragement for her lover to get her big tits out on display, or slip his cock into her arse. It was a horny image, but it wasn’t my idea of a good time. My fantasies took me to a darker, stranger place and now I had found a man who shared them, I was eager to make them a reality.
“Well, why don’t you ask Eddie nicely, and see what he says?” I suggested. I got to my feet and gave her a gentle peck on the cheek. “Enjoy the rest of your birthday, Jan. Michael and I have had a good evening, but we really should be off.”
As we made our way to the door, I wondered how long it would take Janice to twig that we were leaving together, or whether she was too wrapped up in her own fantasies to realize. We stepped into the frosty night air just in time to see the friendliest sight in the world: a sleek, black cab coming down the street with its “FOR HIRE” sign blazing. We hailed it, and when it slowed to a stop, the driver pulled down the window and I gave him my address.
The cab sped through the city streets, almost deserted now that the offices and the shops that relied on them for trade were shut for the weekend. Michael and I sat close together, his hand resting lightly on my stomach as I leaned into his body. There wasn’t enough light for me to see the gap between the cuff of his trouser leg and the top of his sock, but I knew that if I could, I would have a glim
pse of sheer nylon. The thought, combined with the feel of Michael’s fingers stroking me almost absentmindedly, was enough to keep me wet all the way to my flat.
The mechanics of paying the cab fare, stumbling up the stairs to the second floor, and turning the key in the lock seemed to happen without my being aware of them. I was on autopilot, heading for the bedroom and almost dragging Michael with me.
“Slow down, Lorna,” he said in an amused tone, but I could tell he was just as impatient as I was.
I threw myself onto the bed, kicking off my shoes. Lust and hunger pulsed through my veins. “Strip for me,” I ordered him, my voice steady and confident. As Michael shrugged off his jacket and then turned his attention to unbuttoning his shirt, I rucked up my skirt, spread my legs, and began to touch myself lazily through the gusset of my panties. His eyes seemed riveted at the sight as his shirt joined his jacket on the floor. Shoes and socks followed, and then he was reaching for the belt of his trousers. I wanted to slip my finger into my panties and stroke my clit directly, but that would take me too close, too soon, and I wanted to truly savor the sight with which I hoped Michael was about to present me.
As his trousers slithered to the floor, my breath caught in my throat. This was every hot, dirty fantasy I had ever had come to life. My eyes trailed upward from the crumpled garment pooled around his ankles. The fine, blond hairs on his legs were almost invisible beneath mesh of a denier much finer than I could usually wear without laddering, but that wasn’t what drew my attention. Michael wore no underwear, and the tights, sheer to his waist, clung to his already erect penis and balls. His excitement was evident, dampening the nylon in a halo around the head of his cock. It was a beautiful, magnificent vision, more erotic than anything I had seen in my entire life.
Now that I had what I had dreamed of for so long, my self-assurance seemed to melt away. Need made me weak, robbed me of the ability to speak. In the end, I just opened my arms and beckoned Michael onto the bed with me.
Our mouths met, wet and hungry, and we kissed as our hands roamed over the other’s body. Michael was tugging at the buttons on my blouse, almost popping them in his eagerness to undress me. I, in return, was stroking the long contours of his back before my hands settled on their real prize; his muscular buttocks, wrapped in their delicate second skin.
Stripped of my blouse and bra, I was aware of Michael’s hands cupping my small breasts, thumbs rubbing my nipples till they peaked. But at that moment, my pleasure seemed like it could wait. Like an excited kid on Christmas morning, all that mattered to me was playing with the beautiful present, wrapped in tights, that knelt before me.
Kids, though, always want to tear the wrapper off in their haste to get to the goodies inside. Not me: as far as I was concerned, the wrapping was the present, just as much as the gorgeous, erect cock concealed beneath it. I touched Michael’s cock through the nylon, skimming along its length with light, spidery strokes that made him moan. The soft hairs of his balls prickled through the fabric as I caressed those, too. And then I bent my head and did what I had done in my fantasies; I began to lick his thighs, my tongue moving ever closer to the hot, throbbing length of flesh that waited between them. I could taste salt on his skin, smell the muskiness of his genitals, trapped and magnified by the artificial fibers of his tights. I could have breathed in that scent forever.
The nylon was turning slick and wet as I mouthed it, my saliva mixing with the juice that leaked from the tip of his cock, but I would have happily kept licking him until he climaxed. Michael, however, had other ideas.
“Lorna, I want to come inside you,” he said urgently. He reached for the waistband of the tights, about to pull them down, but I caught hold of his hands and shook my head.
Using a fingernail, I carefully poked a hole, close to the seam that ran between his legs. Grinning at a surprised Michael, I ripped downward until there was enough room to pull his cock through and out into my eager clutches.
I quickly removed my skirt and panties, leaving on only my hold-up stockings, and then I clambered over Michael, straddling him. Grasping his cock firmly, I placed it at the entrance to my pussy and lowered myself, taking him inside me inch by inch. My eyes never left his as I bégan to move, rising and falling slowly. He reached up and played with my nipples as I rode him. Our nylon-clad thighs slithered together, and I could feel the material at his crotch rubbing against my pussy lips every time our groins made contact.
It was all too much for both of us. He was groaning and bucking his hips frantically; I snaked a hand between our bodies and quickly rubbed my clit, feeling the spasms of orgasm starting to pulse through my sex. Michael cried out, and I knew he was coming. The tension that had been building within my body suddenly broke, and I followed him.
I slumped forward onto his heaving, sweaty chest. His hands stroked along my back as our breathing slowed.
“I’m sorry I ruined your tights,” I murmured.
“That’s okay,” he replied. “You’ll just have to buy me some more – as long as you promise to ruin those, too.”
“Don’t worry, I intend to,” I said, feeling his cock begin to stir beneath me again. “In fact, if you’re interested, there’s a supermarket round the corner that stays open all night – and I do believe they sell their tights in packets of five . . .”
Meat and Potatoes
Geoff Cordner
Eddie moved into a squalid little single on Gardner just below Sunset, straight down the street from the Guitar Center and around the corner from Rock’n’Roll Ralph’s. His wife called him from Vienna the day he moved in. He didn’t even know his number yet, so he couldn’t figure out how she got it.
“Hi, Eddie?”
“Alicia! How are you? Where are you?”
“I’m in Vienna, Eddie,” she said. “I’m good.” She paused. “I’m really sorry about your mother.” Her voice sounded like it always did, hesitant, soft, and repentant. She was taking a long time between sentences.
“Eddie, you gotta minute?”
“Yeah.”
“I got your letters, Eddie.”
“Yeah?”
“Well, it’s kinda hard for me to say this, but I’ve been thinking . . .”
A long silence.
“Eddie,” she said in that soft, repentant voice. “I hate you. I really hate you. And I just wanted you to know that.”
A week later, Eddie met Lisa. Lisa was a meat and potatoes kinda gal. A big-boned, heavy-breasted blonde; she looked like a farm girl version of a Ralph Lauren model; she had a solidity that those models don’t; she had muscles, she was sharp, but hers weren’t patrician angles. She and Eddie had nothing in common but sexual attraction.
It was meat and potatoes sex. She’d show up, they’d buy some beer, they’d fuck, they’d order in Thai food from Pink Pepper, they’d fuck again. When they were both too tired, she’d leave. They never went out, they never rented a video. They never really even had a conversation. They just drank beer, ate Thai food and fucked. She always paid for the beer and the food. Eddie marveled at how nonchalantly she’d take cash advances at the Seven–Eleven ATM. He couldn’t even afford the $2 surcharge.
He had three pieces of furniture in his apartment. He had a mattress, a TV, and the Sophia Loren set. He found the mattress in a dumpster behind the Veterans of Foreign Wars Thrift Shop in Glendale, kinda near the old house he lived in for a month with his first wife before she threw him out. He got the TV in trade from North Hollywood Bud, who didn’t have any money but had a lot of TVs. The Sophia Loren set came from Out of the Closet Thrift Store on Fairfax, and as far as Eddie could tell it wasn’t a set at all since none of the pieces matched, but the weird Russian Queen refused to sell them separately. The Queen kept waving his arms around in a dramatic fashion while sputtering out an impassioned monologue in some language Eddie was pretty sure wasn’t English, and the only thing Eddie could understand was “Sophia Loren, Sophia Loren, Sophia Loren”, who seemed to somehow be at the center of t
his incomprehensible torrent of words. Besides his car, the only other thing he owned was a spare car door. He’d bought a ’63 Dart from Nicky, who’d once played drums for the Cramps, and Nicky insisted on giving him a spare door, just in case. Most people had a spare tire, but not Eddie. He got stuck with a spare door. He didn’t even know how to change a fuckin’ door for Chrissakes. The door was in the kitchen, propped against the stove.
As far as Eddie could figure, he’d come back to LA to die. He hadn’t wanted to come back to LA and he didn’t want to die, but that’s just the way it was. He felt totally ripped off. His mother had just died, and with her went the past. It didn’t sound like Alicia was coming back, and with her went the future. Eddie had an unconventional notion of time. The way he figured, the future had already happened; it just hadn’t happened yet, and so that bitch Alicia had stolen something that was rightfully his. The present was nothing – just a bridge between what had already happened and what hadn’t happened yet. The present was nothing, and suddenly that was all he had – nothing – stuck on a fucking bridge from nowhere to nowhere.
“I hate you Eddie. I hate you. I just wanted you to know that.” That fucking bitch, that soft voiced, hesitant, repentant bitch. She and God had fucked him. Fucked him. This was desperate shit. It was fucking sad what they’d done to him.
Eddie didn’t fuck Lisa. She fucked him. And that was okay. The way things were, getting fucked was pretty much what Eddie did. He was used to it. His role in life was just to lay there and take it. At least he enjoyed getting taken by her.
Eddie couldn’t start drinking until three in the afternoon, and this was starting to give him trouble. The reason he couldn’t start drinking until three in the afternoon was not because he couldn’t afford it, although he really couldn’t afford it, but because of the whore. The liquor store was on Sunset, all the hookers lined the sidewalk looking for some business lunch action, and there was this one whore on the corner, next to Resurrection Guitars; she looked about 18 tops, but a worn out 18, tottering around on her high heels with a desperate jones, somehow managing to look funereal in skintight fluorescent lycra. “She’s on loan from the dead,” Eddie thought to himself, “just like I am,” and he’d shudder.
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