“You know: picked up on a street corner dressed like a hooker; negotiate the cost of services; get paid; fucked in the john’s car; then dropped off on the corner again.”
“Hmm,” she says, staring at me, then stands up. “Ready? I’ll drive you back to your car.”
I nod.
The ride back is uneventful. I am lost in my thoughts and she is quiet. I wonder if I made a mistake telling her my hooker fantasy. I wonder if I’ll tell my friends this story or keep it for myself. I wonder about the significance of her packing and if I can go to a restaurant for breakfast on a Sunday morning alone dressed like I am. We pull into the almost empty parking lot of the club, and I point out the blue car as mine. She stops next to it and puts her hand on my inner thigh as I stand between her bike and my car, not knowing what to say. “What’s your name?” she asks.
“Sandy,” I say, unusually timid and self-conscious.
“Karen.” We both laugh.
“Bye,” I say as I walk the two steps to my car and unlock the door.
“Sandy, eight o’clock Saturday night on the corner of Fifth and Washington in Chinatown.” She revs her engine.
“What?” I turn toward her, confused.
“Fifth and Washington in Chinatown, Saturday at eight. I have a red ’56 Chevy and a dildo twice the size of this.” She indicates her crotch with her hand. My mouth drops open at her boldness. “I like my whores in push-up bras and low-cut tops.”
She pulls away before I can answer her. My mouth is still hanging open as I get into the car. Cocky butch, what nerve!
I pull the car out of the spot and head for the street. Before I merge into the light Sunday morning traffic I write “5th and Washington, Chinatown” on a scrap of paper. Then under it I write “Karen, 8:00 p.m., Saturday, push-up bra, red ’56 Chevy.”
Symphony in Blue
Betty Blue
I spent a lot of my time looking at blue, the color of my room and my mood: Blue on the walls, blue out of my mouth….
—Kate Bush, “Symphony in Blue”
I watched a stripe of sun on the bare wood floor as it traversed the room over time, a sextant marking invisible stars, while my fingers wandered idly through the valley between my legs. Liss used to call me at work and tease me while “jayin’ it,” as she liked to call it, lying in just such a patch of cat-gratifying sun as this.
There was a sort of blue, somewhere between periwinkle and cornflower, that seemed to permeate the room as the sun rode over it, though there was no true blue in it, only cool white walls and the dark stain of the wood. The blue came from the varying shade and light of trees through the window, perhaps magnifying a hue of the glass that wasn’t noticeable to the naked eye. Depending on the time of day, it might be a faded Victorian blue, or a soft, breakable, Asian blue—like silk, or a delicate egg.
Lying here, looking up into the discolored light, I felt as if I were under water, eyes open, looking up through the crystal cordial distortion of waves. With both eyes open, the light was merely shifting from white to gray, but if I alternately closed one eye and then the other, it was bluebottle-fly blue, then China-egg blue, then broken-windshield-blue bits scattered across the ground like chips of ice melting in the sun.
And then Liss danced through the aqueous vision, her icechip pale eyes smiling that veiled smile that promised passion and loyalty but that fled like a wild and not entirely friendly animal when looked into too deeply, as though love was a challenge or an act of war. That was a blue I would not see again. Liss had taken off for warmer climes at the first sign of love (ergo, trouble), promising to write to try to work things out when she’d gotten them settled in her head—and did not, as both of us had known she would not.
I sighed, my fingers moving more insistently and with more intent. Liss’s eyes—they were integral to the image that spurred my fingers on, but what if they were closed? What if Liss had been unable to look into the reflection of her desire as I straddled her hips—those soft and generous hips that felt like a cloud in my palms, so surprising, so soft and ethereal, as if these, too, were ready to fly? What if I had lifted the sash from my robe over the door and slipped it across the ice-pale doubt, tying off Liss’s promises and fears, allowing only the midnight blue of the rain and discovery?
Tempo building at my cunt, I conjured it: the slivered outline of Liss’s ghostly pale body under the shadow of water-on- glass—a swift-moving rivulet of rain painting her in silver; eyes muted by the rose-patterned sash; skin the color of bone in the monochrome of night. Where I stroked the soft skin between my own thighs, it was the breast of Liss beneath my fingers, hot yet shivering under my touch. I traced the slope, the gentle curvature, seized and pinched the firm, rose center, and “oh, god, yes,” my fingers against my clit were Liss’s fingers, prodding, tugging, stroking harshly and then easing up, teasing until they became her mouth.
With the eyes silenced, the tongue was forced to say it all. She let it burrow into me, my thumb doing that job for the Liss of my imagination, and “oh, fuck!” I was coming before I was ready to, a sort of quick and angry climax, remembering how she would tell me about teasing herself, “ ‘jayin’ it” to the bare tingling edge of her orgasm and then stopping, making herself wait, maybe for days—until the frustration and sheer saturation of her cunt sent her tumbling over into the ecstatic abyss. She would have made, I thought, a fabulous sadist.
I pulled my shorts back over my hips, wiggling into them and buttoning the fly, rubbing my hand once more across the warm and comfortable swell beneath the denim. The sun had gone completely, now, leaving the late-afternoon dusk of the room an ordinary gray.
“Annie?” The door, half shut, swung inward and I scrambled to my feet, guilty and hot faced like a twelve-year-old. “I found the tarp—” Alyn paused, eyeing me quizzically, suspiciously. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing,” I said sharply, annoyed at her for the way I was behaving. “Let’s just do it.”
Alyn scowled, tucking the canvas tarp under her arm. “Are you pissed at me about something? If you don’t want to paint it—I mean, it was your idea.” A lone, dark curl over one eye gave weight to her scowl and I smiled in spite of myself.
“No, really, let’s do it. I was just—wallowing.”
Her eyes flickered briefly, regarding me with a moment’s more suspicion, and then she shrugged and held out the tarp. I took one end of the canvas and we stretched it across the room, covering the wood, changing the brooding shadows to a dull backdrop. Alyn pulled the masking tape gun from the back pocket of her overalls and bent down to secure the tarp at the baseboard, the buzzed nape beneath her short curls (soft, fine hair she called “puppy tummy”) showing off the long slope of her neck. I began to wish I hadn’t wasted that orgasm.
We started on opposite sides of the room with our rollers, spreading the pleasant smell of latex paint. I loved the texture and sound of it as it went on, the soft squish and satisfying gloss of it covering the dimpled landscape of the wall, making it look almost like skin. We had chosen a soft turquoise, a shade just shy of the blue I had invoked, and again it turned my thoughts toward Liss.
It was in this room that we had discovered each other, fumbled in the dark to learn each other’s secrets. I had been afraid that she would find my shape too plain and boyish, with a waist and hip that were nearly even; I had always longed for curves. But she had peeled off my panties and pushed up my bra and called me beautiful, in a voice that made me want to cling to her and cry. She had touched me with a sense of fascination, as though she had never seen a woman before, hands smoothing over me to read me like Braille. She had placed her lips against my pussy, almost whispering to it—all of her touch was cloud-like.
“You’re wallowing again,” said Alyn behind me.
I stopped my roller on the single strip of wall that I had been painting, absently repeating the same stroke without moving on. I turned and looked at Alyn, paint on her nose, and deep, dark eyes regarding me. The enti
re wall was finished behind her.
“Maybe this was a bad idea,” said Alyn quietly.
“No, it’s great,” I said. “It needs painting. I like it already.”
“I mean me, moving in.”
I dropped my arm and let the roller slide down the wall. “Alyn—”
“Annie, do you want me here or not? I feel like you’re somewhere else all the time. Or with someone else. Are you having an affair?”
“Am I what?” I reached out for Alyn’s hand, but she jerked her elbow to avoid my touch. Pale turquoise paint splattered across my shirt. “Al—” Another flick of paint hit me, this time in the chin. She was flicking the roller on purpose now. “I’m not having an—” Flick. “Will you stop that?” Flick!
I glared at her and flicked back, smattering her cheek with blue. Alyn shook her head angrily and reached out with her roller, smacking it in a straight and steady stroke down the front of my face. I made a swift, furious swipe across hers and she tackled me, knocking me into the section of wall I had managed to paint. We slipped and slid against the wall and I tripped over my pan, sending blue flying. Alyn was covered and she smacked her body against me, sharing the paint, and took me down. We rolled and tumbled on the canvas like pigs in mud, Alyn still trying to wield her roller. I climbed over her and grabbed for the open can.
“Don’t you dare!” Alyn ordered, barely managing to close her mouth before the full gallon of paint slapped her head-on. She stood astonished, arms spread at her sides in sticky disbelief, entirely turquoise and devastatingly beautiful. I kissed her before she could hurt me.
“Go away!” she protested, trying to fight with me, but she was laughing and pissed all at once, and we hit the floor once more. I rolled with her and climbed on top of her, pinning her arms down as she continued to laugh furiously.
Here beneath me was the warm, flesh-and-blood beauty who had agreed to share my life with me, who hadn’t run away at the threat of love. What candle could a ghost-girl hold to that?
“You’re a mess,” I said, pulling the straps of her overalls down. Paint had dripped down her face and into her once-white ribbed tank, and I lowered it, tucking it below her blue-smeared breasts. “And you’re a slut,” I teased. “Traipsing around without a bra.”
“Shut up,” she said, half-heartedly, trying to wipe the paint from her eyes as I freed her arms.
I pressed my hands into the paint on her tits and cupped them, watching the blue squish up between my fingers.
“Don’t,” she said softly, petulantly, and poked me in the breastbone, one dark-satin eye peeking at me from out of the ocean of turquoise. “You’re a jerk.”
“I am a jerk,” I agreed, peeling off my own ruined shirt and unhooking my bra to let our breasts touch. The paint felt like cool velvet.
“And you wallow,” she pouted, arching up slightly.
“I’ll stop,” I said, slipping one hand into the overalls.
“And don’t get paint in my pussy,” she murmured, pulling the overalls down.
I unbuttoned my shorts and kicked them off, peeling out of my underwear. Alyn bared herself conveniently, with the overalls shoved down just far enough so that I could straddle her, skin to skin.
“You’re a slut,” I whispered into her ear as I pressed myself against her, paint sliding between us. “Can’t even bother to take off your clothes.”
“And you’re wearing socks,” she murmured, hips undulating beneath me. “You’re just weird.”
I rocked against her slippery pussy, clutching her breast and pinching the nipple, which kept sliding away from me in the paint as she met my motion. Alyn slipped her hands behind my ass and poked one relatively paint-free finger into my cunt and one into hers as she began to thrust harder, making the little sound in her throat, like a pigeon cooing, that drove me wild.
I braced my hands in her paint-slicked curls and drove my cunt back against her finger, the apexes of our mons still pumping together. Alyn went motionless for a moment, the sign of her impending burst, and then began to pant, her shallow, breathless noises and her finger in my pussy pushing me toward my own climax. Her high, delighted squeal put me over and I wrapped myself around her and came, waves of desire and release fluttering through my cunt as I felt her paint-smeared lips throbbing against mine.
Aqua-eyed Liss, even before she was a memory, had always been a ghost-girl, slightly out of phase. But Alyn was solid, deeply real. I could see growing old with Alyn, without fear. Her heart, beneath layers of paint still slicking between us, was pounding steadily, making promises.
I relaxed against her when we had both calmed down, my hands still in her hair, where the paint was starting to feel stiff. “Alyn,” I murmured sleepily, happily. “I’ve changed my mind. Screw the blue. Let’s paint it white again.”
From the handprint she left on my ass, I think Alyn preferred red.
Good Old Tyme
Linda A. Boulter
Even the old-timers didn’t remember the days of mechanical bulls, animatron broncos, and real, honest-to-goodness pinball machines. When the Old Tyme Gaming Saloon opened its doors, the curious wandered in to see the legends they’d only seen in holostreams or read about in vidzines; the realism that wasn’t real was like looking into a mirror looking back at yourself into a mirror.
This was the good old-fashioned reality of gaming. The simple slots with flashing lights, rolling symbols, noises, the notorious one-armed bandit…now that was real. The Saloon drew crowds after its first week and three years later you could always expect a wait on the most popular games. And then there was the headliner, The Rage.
Many a cosmic cowboy sauntered into the joint, slapped his ATM card down, cocksure he would win the million-credit nightly prize for riding The Rage the longest that hour. The Rage was a mechanical bull right out of the ’80s souped up with a little modern 21st century technology. It could outperform the real thing and didn’t need a spiked harness over its privates to do so. A computer chip implanted in the bull sensed the rider’s weaknesses and emotional state. Sensors in its side at stirrup level provided extra action not recommended for the faint of heart. Most of the young bucks thought riding The Rage would be like suiting up to battle in one of the many cyberspace killing arenas. But cyber-fitness can’t match real physical shape, so just as many had been carried out on a stretcher or braced between buddies to put ice on black-and-blue balls. The macho types that challenged The Rage scoffed that women never rode the bull; they only rode the men who’d won.
The regulars didn’t remember when mechanical bulls were all the fashion. But they will likely never forget the day when the petite redhead with fire in her eyes strolled in and demanded a shot of whiskey straight up. Her tooled leather boots replete with spurs jingled as all heads turned, male and female alike, to see a woman dressed like a western warrior. She wore sturdy, button-up blue jeans topped with fringed leather chaps. Her upper body sported a genuine silk western shirt intricately embroidered and unbuttoned down, just so. Slung over her shoulder she carried a studded blue-jean jacket—obviously couture. And on her head she wore a Stetson, as I later found out. Her stride didn’t speak of arrogance, it spoke of surety and don’t fuck with me or you’ll reap the results. She walked up to the bar with a cuntsiness that was cultivated by a strong sense of self-esteem. She paid her 1,000-credit entry fee plus the extra 1,000 credits to meet the current champion, then keyed her name—Dale Evans—into the computer to add it to the list of hopefuls ready to risk life and limb and for sure a sore butt riding The Rage. She was ready to ride The Rage with one goal in mind: winning. Winning meant beating the cocky cyber-cowboys who strutted their machismo and scorned the abilities of a woman.
I’m a pretty good-looking lady myself but let me tell you, that woman was gorgeous. I couldn’t keep my eyes off her, and the boss had to warn me several times to keep the prattle up pedaling the hooch and the hits. The more we sell, the more credits are spent on the machines and the more exciting the action is in
and around The Rage’s Ring.
Every hour, twenty-four hours a day, our announcer warms up the crowd with music and sound effects. Then, precisely on the hour, the purple velvet curtain that surrounds The Rage is hoisted up in the air. The massive sound system built into the walls emanates a giant inhale, and everyone unconsciously joins in as the excitement mounts. It was midnight, the Grand Contenders Hour, when regular challengers might take on the current champion or a young upstart might try to dethrone the current king. Jake, our most talented announcer, worked the crowd.
“Are you ready?”
The crowd replied with polite applause.
“What, I can’t hear you? Are you ‘Rage’ ready?” he shouted.
This time the crowd, swept up in the urgency of Jake’s voice, yelled as one, counter thumping and foot stomping.
“Rage, Rage.”
Calmly sitting at the bar, Dale Evans tightened the buckles on her chaps, pulled her leather gloves on, carefully making sure they fit as tight and close as her skin. Dale’s eyes were fixed on The Rage, her concentration steady, unwavering. My eyes were caressing every inch of her perfectly formed body.
Jake’s voice boomed over the roar of the crowd, “This hour we have only two riders. The incomparable, current standing ch-am-peeen, The Red Rider.”
A burly, red-bearded, bow-legged man rose from the crowd, towering above them, lifted a shot glass, saluted them, downed it, and then raised his arms together, his hands clasped champion fashion as the room exploded with cheers. Jake played with the crowd, like a cat with a mouse: “The Red Rider has six wins, including the longest ride ever…ten, that’s right folks, ten loonnnng seconds on The Rage.”
At that point, the Techie activated The Rage and the bull started to paw and snort, lunging at the crowd, which roared and gasped at the fury soon to be unleashed. Eight seconds technically is a win, unless your opponent goes longer, and anything beyond that is a sweet bonus.
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