Sex in the City - New York

by Maxim Jakubowski

  I was daydreaming about his cock and the rhythm of the train, how it was kind of like hips, when they’re moving slow and dreamy, when Santo dumped me. How he did it was he pulled his hand away from my hair. He did it hard, not like nice and making sure he wasn’t tangled, but without care, like ripping off a band-aid or a leech. Something you didn’t want on you any more, but didn’t want to feel the pain of pulling it away either. I would have said something, except my mouth was kind of open around the length of his denim-covered cock and I didn’t want to move it, really. Or bite him either. And I guess I thought maybe he was going to make a move, you know, because of me almost teasing his cock with my lips and sometimes he would lean down and pull me up to him when I’d been doing that, kissing me. He wasn’t a fantastic kisser – his one big flaw in my book, kind of slobbery and like he didn’t have any muscles in his tongue other than the one that pushed it in and out – so I was kind of hoping he wasn’t going to do that.

  Instead he pulled his hand up to his face and he sniffed. Twice. So loud I could hear him over the rumble of the train.

  ‘Your hair smells funny,’ he said.

  ‘Funny how?’ I said.

  ‘Dunno,’ he said. Looking at his hand like I’d infected it or something. ‘Funny is all.’

  And just like that, I knew I was getting dumped.

  You know how sometimes you know things, but you don’t really know them? I couldn’t have said it out loud. Maybe my brain didn’t even know it in a way that I could have put words to it. But as soon as he said those words, my heartbeat went up a little and I got that kind of breathless, stomach-queasy feeling you get when there’s a cop behind you, even though you know you didn’t do anything, or when you go to get your STD test and there’s no way in hell you have something, but when they poke that needle into your skin, you suddenly know that it’s all going to go wrong.

  The back of my knees felt clammy inside my new jeans. I’d bought them specially for coming to see Santo; he lived an hour outside the city and I lived upstate, a term I’d never heard until I met Santo, although I’d lived there all my life. I’d come down specially to see him; driven all four hours in my beat-up Honda Civic, her blowing oil and smoke the whole way so that I’d had to stop and feed her a quart every hour or so. And I was wearing my new jeans too. They were the kind that showed my ass off like I meant it; dark in all the right places, with lighter patches around the knees and a couple of strategic holes at the good spots, like at the bottom of my ass pocket. I’d bought new underwear too; Vicky’s Secret and everything. A black satin thong with nothing but two strings up the back and a little silver circle to hook them together. It was hardly cheap, but it made my ass do a stand up and shout, and I was hoping that was going to get me some, despite the fact that we’d likely be in public all day, traipsing around the city. I wasn’t averse to getting a little steamy something-something in a clean toilet stall or having his hand dallying between my thighs at a restaurant, but despite Santo’s desire not to live up to his name, he didn’t like the public stuff so much. I’d thought that jeans might convince him, especially if I could walk up a couple of steps ahead of him.

  But now I knew the hair, the jeans, the come-hither look I’d tried to give him earlier this morning while he’d bought my train ticket for me, they were all for nothing. I was getting dumped, and in my favourite city in the world. Great.

  I pretended I was asleep the whole rest of the ride, even when he slid his hand across the curves of my ass, his fingertips sinking into my pocket. Oh, now he wanted to pretend that he didn’t mind a little public affection? Great, let him go to town. I was just going to lay right there, my head on his lap and ...

  But then he was really rubbing my ass – you know that little place right under the curved and jiggly part that never gets touched unless you’re lying down? Well, he had his fingers in that place, gripping it and I was determined not to let that make me all wet, except I could feel his cock getting hard against my cheek while he rubbed. And that was doing me in. I had to close my lips hard so I wouldn’t moan, and I let the train shift me just a little, so that I was nuzzling his cock with my cheek without actually doing so. Pretty soon I could feel that little ridge of his head rising up beneath the fabric. I wanted to put my mouth on it so bad, but I forced myself not to. I sucked on the inside of my cheeks; nothing at all like sucking his cock in between my lips, the way his skin was so velvet-soft, and it would start pulsing against my tongue.

  If he knew I was awake, he never said. And he never went any further, which was just like him: dump me, then tease me, but not enough to get me off, just enough to make me doubly regret that he was ending things.

  When the train stopped, he kinda shook me, soft-like, like maybe he thought I was really asleep.

  ‘Donna,’ he said, leaning down a little to say my name into my ear. ‘Donatello.’ He means Donatella, the fashion chick, not Donatello the Italian artist. I tried to tell him about Donatello once, but he didn’t really listen. Just nodded and uh-huh’d. You’d think he would have cared, him being Italian and all, but I guess your roots only extend so far.

  Of course, my name’s not Donatella anyway. It’s just plain Donna. Not like Santo thought it up on his own. His ex-girlfriend called me it the first time she saw me. ‘Holy blonde,’ she’d said. She was as olive and dark-haired as Santo, and she wore it big-big, like to add another half inch to her height, even before the high-heeled slouch leather boots. ‘You’re a regular Donatella, aren’t you, hon? Nice choice, Santo.’

  Then she’d walked away, shaking her hip-skinny booty like it’s something Santo’d still want after she cheated on him with half of the Fashion Institute campus over one spring break, all those ‘o’s in Santo’s name trailing behind her like a big long fake orgasm.

  Since then he’s called me Donatello. Which somehow bugged me less than Donatella, because I could almost pretend it didn’t come from his ex, but from some love of art and quality and, of course, me. But, well, it was easy to see how well that deception was working for me, wasn’t it?

  ‘I’m up,’ I said, smiling up at him and stretching, eyes blinking, like I hadn’t just spent the last twenty minutes trying to make an imprint of his cock in my cheek. We stumbled off the train and there was the city.

  You know, people who don’t grow up in New York, they think the whole thing’s the city. But I gotta say, I didn’t go to the city until I was sixteen, on some kind of school trip where they kept the girls from the boys and we saw what might have been the world’s worst play if it hadn’t been for that one scene where a couple of the actors got mostly naked, which woke up the whole class. Not to mention I grew up on a farm, so it still knocked me on my ass every time I stepped into the city. It was like my neck wanted to crane way, way up just to get a glimpse of something that wasn’t right in front of me.

  ‘You hungry baby?’ Santo slid his hand into my back pocket, and I tried to wiggle away. Partly because he was going to stretch them all out in the ass, which is the worst thing that can happen to jeans, and partly because he’d broken up with me on the train, but he was acting like he hadn’t. Then he slid his hand out of his own accord and put it around my shoulders instead, not even seeming to care about the hair he’d bitched about earlier. He touched my earlobe the way I liked, pinching it lightly between his nails and goddamn it if I didn’t shiver just a little.

  ‘Mhn,’ he said, laughing a little. Good laugh too, a soft clear sound beneath all the other sounds of electronics and cars and money. Damn if that boy didn’t have a bit of everything. Made me want him all the more, even as I was mad at him. ‘How about Jekyll’s?’

  The Jekyll and Hyde Club was the place where we had our first date. Well, our first real date that didn’t involve me going to his dorm room to sit around with his stoner roommates and watch the Nets lose. Again.

  I shrugged, an ‘I don’t care’ shrug, just to see. ‘I could eat,�
� I said.

  ‘You could eat,’ he said. His arm tightened around me, in that kind of protective, kind of see-my-girl way. Guess out here my hair didn’t smell so damn bad. ‘You love Jekyll’s. What the hell are you talking about?’

  I had to agree. I did love Jekyll’s. It was the kind of spooky place that made me hot: ghouls hanging out in the bathrooms, doors hidden in library shelves, a laboratory with all kinds of failed experiments. Yeah, I know that’s an odd one, right? But to me, being scared and kind of creeped out makes me want to fuck.

  In fact, the best fuck I ever had was with this boy, two before Santo, from my community college. He was cute as all hell; soft baby face, curly blond hair, kind of wide in the shoulders. Wasn’t a good fuck at all, mostly, but I didn’t know any better then. Except for one Halloween, we went on a haunted hay ride. Way out in the country, six of us sitting on a wagon rolling through this old apple orchard. Spooky as hell. I was sitting on that boy’s lap. In the dark, he had his hands under my shirt, his fingers pulling on my nipples, which were already hard from the cold and from the scare. Every bump of the wagon slid me back against his cock so the he was pushing into the crack of my ass. Creatures were popping out of the woods around us right and left, and he was getting the hang of tugging on my nipples just at the right moment so my little gasps were timed perfectly with each scare. All of a sudden, he leaned in and flicked his tongue in my ear, hissed, ‘Clarice ...’ through his teeth, just like Hannibal Lecter. As soon as I realized it wasn’t the boy, but someone else, I swear to fuck I nearly came right there. We laughed, a lot, but when we were done laughing, we climbed off that hay ride, and I rode him so hard in the back of his Impala that he nearly put his foot through the window. I think I came three times that night, which is unusual for me, especially being on top, and then at least five times more thinking about it later.

  So when Santo said Jekyll’s, you knew I couldn’t resist. Had to let him keep his arm around me as we walked through the city, fighting for space on the sidewalk, even though I was pissed at him. Even though I kept seeing his face, the way his nose had curled all up when he’d said that about my hair.

  Jekyll’s was busy, like you’d expect, it being Saturday and all, and the table we always took – one right back in the corner where you could watch the people start to get freaked out when the bar stools started lowering and raising beneath them – that one was already taken. I took this as another sign. First the hair, then the table. Things were going bad-bad-bad, and I felt like I couldn’t do anything but wait it out. Or try to entice Santo into one last fuck. I missed his cock already.

  ‘Let’s go up to the library,’ Santo said, already pulling at my hand. I said yes fast, but only so I could scoot up before him, let him watch my ass sway inside my new jeans. He had his hand flat on the curve of my ass while we went up, almost like he was pushing me, and I pushed back, letting the weight of my curves lean into his palm.

  The library’s on the second floor, and it was totally empty. No one likes to eat there, I don’t think. They hold séances up there sometimes, and it had that smell. Not like dead people come back, but like live people who are sweating too much hoping that the dead might come back.

  Santo took a look around, realized at the same time I did that no one was there, and pushed me forward against the séance table. So my hands were flat on it and my chest was lowered, which pushed my ass right against his already-hard cock. So he had noticed.

  I wiggled against him, fitting his cock in the centre of my ass, letting him push me hard against the table. The edge of it hit right at my clit, that mostly-pleasure-but-almost-pain kind of feeling that really revs me up.

  I wanted to crawl up on that table, roll over and beg Santo to fuck me right there. His cock has this little upward curve to it, and when I lie over a table, my legs hanging down, that curve knocks right into my g-spot like a door knocker. Bang-bang-bang.

  But a busboy came up the stairs, making Santa let go of me quick, so that I almost fell down. The busboy started cleaning up dishes, eyeing both of us under his bangs like he knew what we were doing. So I behaved. Properly. Like I was supposed to. No bang-bang-bang for me, even though my clit was already beating a drum of its own, my nipples hard points under my shirt, all of my sensitive bits begging for attention.

  The table Santo picked was right next to the séance area, but it was tacky. Well, the whole place was tacky, but the table was tacky in a different way. Didn’t matter. I figured it was the last time I’d be there anyway. Not like I was going to come back by myself.

  Santo slid in and I went to slide in after him; we always sat on the same side so he could put his hand on my thigh, play with me through my jeans. It was about the most I could get him to do out in public, and I craved it. Especially when he let me do it back to him, the back of my knuckles brushing his hardening cock.

  But this time he shook his head, and gestured to the seat across from him. That fucker. I’d known it, known it as soon as he’d said that about my hair. Damn it. I was in some space between horny as hell and pissed as a hornet.

  Santo seemed oblivious to it all. He had his eyes on the sticky menu that was already on the table. ‘Mmm ... wings,’ he said. Like Jekyll’s actually had great food. Like that’s why we came here.

  I leaned forward and tried to stick my fingers between his thighs. I wanted to squeeze that cock of his the way he liked, all my fingers around him tight, my thumb rubbing across the sensitive head. But he just shifted out of my reach, without even thinking about it. I put my hand back on my own leg, just on the inside of my thigh. Fine. If he wasn’t going to play, if he was going to dump me and he wasn’t going to fuck me, then I was going to go in the bathroom and get myself off. Come back, be all impervious to his shit. Strong. All the lust masturbated out of me. If you were going to get dumped, might as well go out with some pride.

  ‘I’m gonna pee,’ I said.

  ‘Mh-hm,’ Santo said. Stupid menu. Stupid fucking dirty plastic-ass menu.

  When I was getting up, the busboy came over, held up a mostly clean cloth. I sat back down, just for a second. He was cute, in a way that was totally different than Santo. Shaggy red-blond hair hanging in his eyes, the kind of blue eyes that are so pale they’re almost grey.

  ‘You want a wipe?’ he asked. Good lips, straight white teeth. A tiny curved scar at the corner of his chin, like maybe he got bit by a dog once or fell off his bike when he was a kid. I had an image of myself, spread out on the séance table, down on my back, Santo going at me between my legs, that curved cock of his bang-banging my g-spot. Busboy kneeling on the table above me, a hand around the base of his cock. I couldn’t see his cock at the moment – it was hidden by his apron – so I gave him a big one, not long but thick. Pale, with those soft red-blond curls around the base. The busboy would slide his cock into my mouth, and despite the moans I was making from Santo shoving into me, I’d keep my lips over my teeth, be sure not to scrape his cock as he stuffed it almost to my throat. I could practically taste him, a little like soap and a little like salt and a little like all the dead-spooky smells that filled the room.

  The things I think sometimes. Jesus. Still, it was making me wet. Seeping through my jeans so that I was shifting in the seat, clenching my thighs together.

  The busboy leaned over the table, wiping and wiping, and I just wanted him to go away so I could go bury my fingers against my clit in the bathroom, that image of being double-fucked still in my head.

  I never made it to the bathroom. Of course, I didn’t.

  If I’d made it to the bathroom, masturbated, went back to the table, let Santo dump me like he wanted to, if I’d done all that, this would be a different story, wouldn’t it? A boring one. Girl meets boy, girl falls in love with boy’s cock, girl gets dumped by boy and by his cock. You’ve heard that one, right?

  I made it as far as the edge of the library, to that secret hidden door you h
ave to go through in order to get to the bathrooms, and I pushed the secret hidden door button and I was on the other side. Busboy was there, red-blond, grinning like he thought he knew something. I wondered what it was.

  ‘Good jeans,’ he said, in that way that let you know he wasn’t talking about the jeans at all. I liked him, that fast.

  ‘Good line,’ I said.

  ‘I try,’ he said. ‘You with that boy in there?’ He licked his lips between words, a quick small swipe with his tongue and I thought what else he might do with it.

  ‘I was,’ I said. I’m nothing if not truthful. ‘He’s about to dump me.’

  ‘His loss. My gain, maybe?’

  I canted my hip at this boy, showed off the way my skin curved under my jeans. I didn’t say anything. Not to that. If he couldn’t tell, he couldn’t tell.

  ‘I got a key,’ he said. ‘For after hours.’ He pulled out a key ring, jiggled it around.

  ‘I’m just here for the day,’ I said. ‘We came in on the train.’ The hallway was dark, a tiny space that made us stand too close to each other. I could smell the gum on his breath, something spicy and sweet.

  ‘Too bad,’ he said. Leaning in, his eyes on me. So different from what Santo was doing, all his hot-cold, hot-cold crap. He kept looking at me, even when he leaned in, even when he was far too close and all I could see were his eyes all blurry. He didn’t kiss me, just rested his forehead to mine, then pressed his hips in so my back was against the hidden door. Through the apron, his cock wasn’t how I imagined: it was long and lean, curved against his thigh, a hard point of arousal against my hip.