Leaving Me Behind

by Sigal Ehrlich

  Spiraling in ecstasy, I lose my ability to stand on my own two feet, but I don’t have to as he helps me straddle him on the damp floor. I let the waves of my after bliss wash over me, resting my head on his hammering chest as warm water caresses us both, steadily dropping from above. When I finally come back to the present, secured in his embrace, I realize just how surreal the situation is. I am naked. Sitting astride a complete stranger, who’s probably much younger than I am. Still recovering from the ultimate orgasm he just gave me . . . and he is fully dressed.

  There’s a tense strangers-post-coital ambiance between us or at least on my part. Before facing him again, I try to think even how to start any sort of communication.

  From hardly ever having sex with the light on, to: “Oh hi, thanks for the mother of all orgasms. What was your name again?” Oh, my parents would be so proud.

  When I finally collect some courage and inwardly whisper: “Oh hell, here goes,” I lift my eyes to meet his and learn that there isn’t any discomfort on his side, quite the contrary. Together with that, I also learn that there’s a very evident bulge, almost tearing the seams of his jeans, between us. His hooded eyes fall to my lips that reflexively part and his mouth follows suit. He starts with soft fluttering over them, tenderly. He then licks my bottom lip, sucking it into his mouth. His fingers comb into my wet hair and tug it back for him to reach deeper inside my mouth.

  Water trickles between our engaged lips, adding a moister, steamier sensation to our fervent tasting of each other. I fist his shirt and he leans back, helping me rip it off him. My hands dart to his firm, defined chest, a mass of slabs covered in divinely taut and warm skin. Both my hands leisurely graze south to the set of six ridges decorating his flat stomach. His hand cradles my rear; he squeezes it, pulling me closer till his jeans-clad swell is between my parted legs, instigating a new spark of want. It’s as though the orgasm he just gave me had only opened up an appetite for more. I want, need, more of him. Much more. Hastily, I reach between us to unbutton his pants. He sends a hand to the back of his jeans, producing his wet wallet. Behind my back, he fiddles with his wallet then throws it to the side. He lifts his hips and so do I, allowing him to better maneuver in pushing off his pants. His impressive, thick, and alluring erection makes its début between us. Oh, good Lord, he goes commando! Search no more, I’ve found the very epitome of sexy.

  His thickness brushes me as I hover above him, my breasts in tandem become swollen and tender, again. I shamelessly watch his hand sliding a condom over his slick length, utterly burning for him. He grabs me by my waist next.

  “I need inside you now,” he rasps in a low, warm delicious accent wrapped voice. And not long after his last word is uttered, I’m placed right above him. He moves his hands to prop himself below me, waiting for me to take the lead. Flushed, hot for him like I’ve never been for anyone in my entire life, I. Slide. Over. Him. Oh, God. I gasp.

  “Fuck.” He shuts his eyes and drops his head back. I move to adjust, to absorb his wide length. It takes a few slides for the hunger woven aching, burning delight to replace the discomfort. And he pulls me closer to him. My breasts graze against the light hair on his chest. I seek his mouth, desperate to slide my tongue against his. Our mouths unite feverishly. His hands cup my breasts between us, and he firmly massages them. I let out a cry into his mouth. He circles my nipples with his fingers, teasing me. His mouth follows to suckle ardently, giving each of my nipples enough attention to drive me almost over the top for him. I let my head fall backward and he grabs my waist, positioning me to arch back from where we join. This new angle allows him deeper, much deeper, and I moan loud, with him filling me completely. I bite my lips and mumble incoherent sounds of pleasure. His right hand stays holding my waist while his left cups my cheek and his thumb slides between my lips. I lick the pad of his thumb, sucking it into my mouth. His thrusts become more fervent, and so are my counters to absorb him better. The deeper he reaches, the more forceful his strokes grow. My sensitized swell delectably spasms. And he pushes into me. And his grip becomes painfully pleasant. And I rub against him. And we move fanatically. And our moans come out stuttered. And in unison, we drop our eyes to watch our connection. And we pant heavily. And his last thrust sends us both to gasp and shudder.

  For a long serene moment, only our heavy breaths color the silence as we come down from the mind-blowing experience we’ve just given each other. My head rests on his shoulder while our heartbeats calm. As the moment of landing back to reality arrives, he kisses my lips briefly and helps me up. He turns back to get rid of the condom and I quickly grab a towel to cover myself, my well-entrenched self-conscious reemerging from a lengthened slumber.

  When he turns back to face me I say, “I don’t have a dryer.”

  Glancing at the pile of soaked garments, I’m suddenly conscious of what I just said. Applause please. Best opening line after the rawest of sex, no?

  His lips twitch at the corner and he shrugs, “I’ll just put them out to dry.” That means . . . he’s staying? Oh, shit. He grabs a towel from the counter and secures it around his hips, all afterglow and nonchalance. The very opposite of me, minus the afterglow, of course.

  “I’ll come out shortly,” I say, subtly asking for some privacy. He nods and heads out with his wet clothes huddled in his hands. I watch as this perfection of a man walks out and closes the door behind him. I take a deep breath and turn to look at myself in the mirror. There’s a lot to be said about sex, and one of them is how I never knew it could be so . . . mesmerizing? Phenomenal? Fucking electrifying? Yeah, fucking apparently is electrifying.

  My eyes gleam and my cheeks radiate a soft pink. I’m delightfully, wearingly, and utterly spent. I shake my head thinking that I still don’t even know his name, but then again, maybe it’s just better this way. I’m pretty sure this otherworldly encounter of the fleshes was a one-time occasion. Sad but true. Sad but the exact way it should go.

  I step inside the shower, again, closing my eyes and letting the water drop on me, warm and relaxing. I take the longest shower in the history of mankind, trying to put off the moment in which I’ll have to step out and face him again. What do I even say?

  “Hey, so you are like a pro in the oral art department . . . eh? How about tea?” I snort, take a reassuring breath that does shit to actually soothe anything, and open the door. It’s time to face the musician.

  A smile creeps to my lips when my eyes land on him. He’s fallen asleep at the base of my bed. His upper body rests on the mattress while his legs are still planted on the floor. It’s quite obvious that he didn’t intend to actually take a nap. I take a step toward him, hug my waist, and gaze at him. His arm drapes over his face, and his long lashes caressing his hard, defined cheekbones. A light stubble exquisitely adorns his square jaw. His chest rhythmically rises and falls. I swallow hard, watching the dark, soft trail leading to the hem of the towel still secured around his waist. The thought about how some images represent an era pops into my mind. The We Can Do It lady representing the World War II effort. Madonna wearing the Gaultier bra – signifying sultry is epic. Miss Lewinski’s blue dress – manifesting adultery is the shit. Well, this guy like that, in my bed, represents sex is better than any legal, or illegal, rush.

  The exquisite visual journey I take wakens the appetite I’ve blissfully sedated less than a long shower ago. And what a shower it was. This one skyrockets to the first place in the history of divine showers. Heat takes greater momentum as snippets from the “cleansing” in subject flash before my eyes. Hungrily, I watch the person who labored exquisitely hard to make me “shine.” An inner debate starts between my head and the rest of my instigated body. Wake him up and beg for more vs. control myself. The verdict rendered is based on the logic of probably never having this opportunity ever again. Enjoy it while it lasts. In other words: have that candy, life’s too short.

  Shutting the mental door on my manners, suppressing desires, mature behavior, and oh, self-respect, I
slowly inch toward the bed. Contemplating how to approach the waking process, I decide to, ahem, return a favor, as they say. Slowly, I sit on the bed next to his handsome, serene self and reach ever so gently to remove the towel hugging his loins, allowing myself better access to wake him up. Having a fist full of the towel in my grip, with my head tilted toward my target, I hear a soft, embarrassingly petrifying chuckle. I’m not sure what occurs first, the eruption of flames that cover my face or the jump my eyes take to meet a very sexy, amused gaze. I must look like the girl caught with her hand about to violate the cookie jar. Oh Lord, the road to ultimate self-humiliation never ends.

  The grin he sends me next, after I timidly smile at him, might have just disintegrated the stiches of my skimpy panties. His eyes turn to bore on me in tandem to his tongue playing with the edge of his front teeth. My heart starts to beat in double pace as the notion of what’s coming next registers. My lips gape and the center of my body burns as, with my eyes still glued to his, I slowly lean in toward him. Abruptly, he breaks our promising eyes connection to look out the window.

  “Mierda!” He jolts to sit. “Shit, shit.” He jumps from the bed, his towel dropping to the floor, leaving him all bare and glorious before me. I try not to, but end up staring, of course. Who can really blame me? Some things were artfully crafted to be stared at.

  “I’m going to miss my flight,” he murmurs, his fingers push through his hair as he looks around the room on edge. “Where are my clothes?” He finally addresses me, bringing me back from my momentary fixation on him. I shake my stalking off.

  “Um, just a sec,” I say and head to get his clothes that are hung on the ropes on the back balcony. Not a second passes from the time he snatches the semi-wet pile from my hands till he starts shrugging them on, ridiculously hurried. Between buttoning his fly and shrugging on his shirt while almost losing his balance, he sends his thick metal watch a peep that results in a string of impressive swear words in Spanish. Something clicks in my head and I take a step back, fold my arms, and watch him. I have an urge to start clapping for the performance he is giving me. Best. Flitting-a-one-night-stand-excuse. Ever. The guy should quit his day job and pursue an acting career.

  Buckling his belt, he finally lifts his mesmerizing dark eyes to acknowledge me. He takes a wide step to reach me, and before I realize what’s going on, his hand cups the back of my neck and pulls me into one hell of a kiss. I gasp, and his mouth presses harder. I get sunk into the kiss until his lips gently release me, his hand still holding my neck. His breath mixes with mine as he says, “I’ll be traveling on business for the next three days. I want to see you when I get back.” Another kiss and I watch the door as it closes after him.

  Wow, he is good. He is really good. Not only has he managed to sneak away with no awkward, “Good-bye, hope to never see you again,” but he actually made it somehow look promising. Not to me, anyway – maybe it would have worked on some pathetic airhead. It’s not going to happen. He didn’t even bother to ask for my number. I roll my eyes; a smile laced with scorn forms on my lips as I head to rip the sheets he slept on off my bed and throw them in the washing machine. I can’t even cross this one off my bucket list because I couldn’t have even allowed myself to imagine what he just did to me or even to imagine just . . . him. Even if I tried hard, really hard . . . still a solid no.

  And what the hell is a delivery boy doing going on a business trip anyway. God, what a player. But who really cares. I’ve started experiencing the goods this new country has to offer, which, after all, was the crux of my grand plan.

  Chapter 6

  “The Morning After”

  Meg Myers

  Sluggish doesn’t even come close to describing my morning. If I took it a tad easier, someone might need to check for my pulse. Literally and figuratively, I indulge in every moment as it passes¸ from drinking the extra froth, extra espresso shot, and extra cinnamon coffee, to the extra jam with my roasted butter scented croissant. Alas, this serene mode is plagued when I check my phone. There are more than ten missed calls and one message screaming in bold letters from the screen. A sense of alarm enfolds me before I check the message. My worries direct in two separate paths – one leading to my parents and the other to Kai. It’s quite sad, come to think about it, that I actually worry about three people on the entire planet. Oh, Dr. Smartass would have a field day with this one. When I check the number and the text that follows, any worry I might have had diminishes.

  Vivian: are you alive?

  I cinch my light, white cotton robe at the waist and melt onto the porch swing, returning Vivian’s not at all exaggerated number of calls. Before I manage to add “morning” to my “good,” missiles of words assault my ear, “worried” being the most popular one.

  “I’m fine, Vivian, really!” I say, still trying to understand what lies behind this sudden concern for my wellbeing.

  “Well, you sure left enough evidence for me to imagine all the horrible scenarios possible.”

  I try to think about last night and what “evidence” we might have left. Oh, heavens. I’d be mortified if there are any clues related to me molesting a younger stranger.

  Feigning casualness, I say, “I’m not sure I follow.”

  “Not that I mind, it’s really only about you being fine. But you left quite a mess in the kitchen.”

  Oh. I think fast for the best excuse to be given in place of: “I left in quite a hurry because I was practically about to be banged on your precious kitchen’s counter. See, the thing is, someone had to taste me.”

  “Oh that, I’m so sorry. I had such a terrible stomach ache and couldn’t wait to be home and rest.” The ease at which lies have recently flown out of my mouth is beginning to scare me. The qualities I’ve been enriching myself with since setting foot in this place are overwhelming. I’m turning into a liar and a slut, in record time. Just splendid.

  “How do you feel?” The concern laced to her question just makes me feel even worse about lying.

  “I’m better, thanks. I guess it was just something I ate.”

  “Well, as long as you’re okay,” she says, thankfully not as stressed as a moment ago. “Then come over, I need a coffee companion.”

  I smile and assure her that I’ll be there soon.

  . . .

  “Ice coffee?” Vivian asks, not really waiting for a response as she’s already starting to fix said beverage. I just shrug with a thin smile.

  “You look good,” she says before turning to the blender. She pours the coffee, milk, and ice into the container.

  “Thanks,” I say, having a little mental debate of “to eat or not to eat, that is the question” while surveying the display of baked goodies separating Vivian and me. The noise of the blender crushing the ice cubes and amalgamating the brown and white liquids into a marvelous mocha hue fills the café.

  “So . . .” Vivian asks and her next words are swallowed as she flings the little button for one last quick whisk. “Came last night?” She turns to me, holding the container in one hand. “I saw the bottles in the pantry.”

  Came last night? Bottles? THE DELIVERY GUY! Oh yeah, he came last night. He came hard, with me. I also came, no less hard, twice. I really hope not everything that buzzes inside of me reflects to my new friend. And shit, I missed his name, she just said his name! Snaps of visions from last night burn before my eyes, visions to which my body responds in a heated wave.

  “Um, yeah . . . the delivery guy dropped by.” I play casual as if I were auditioning for the role of my life.

  “Delivery guy?” Her brows join. She hands me a cold, tall glass filled with her iced production. “He is the owner of the vineyard. Okay, more like runs his family’s vineyard. You must taste their wine; it’s heavenly. I’ll get you a bottle so you can try it.”

  And hence the business trip. So, he wasn’t lying after all? I’m not sure I like the way my insides react to the notion. Though I mentally beg Vivian to shed further info on the still nameless be
st sex I’ve ever had, she changes the subject while gesturing for me to follow her.

  We take our seats at one of the little tables just outside Vivian’s café, blending with the sound and ambiance of the lively street. After she tells me a bit about her night at the engagement party, including what each of my new friends was wearing, I ask her, “So what’s everyone’s story. Better yet, what’s Dominique’s story?”

  Vivian’s dark curls turn my way. That beauty mole below her eye lifts with the rise of her cheekbones. Her hazel eyes smile as she says, “She’s quite a character that one, eh?” We trade an agreeing smile.

  “Well, she’s the bored wife who has been left behind. She’s a diplomat’s wife, the French ambassador.”

  I gaze at Vivian as she tells me Dominique’s story.

  “She wanted to become a diplomat herself. She actually worked very hard to get to that point. But she gave it all up when she fell in love with one. She dropped everything for Gérard and became the ultimate helpmate. After ten years of playing second fiddle, she started to get bored and frustrated. A hazardous combination for any woman who spends many hours alone while her husband shines. Especially doing what she had dreamed of doing for years.” Vivian sighs. “When he got the position of the French ambassador in Spain, Dominique decided she’d play wifey only part time. He lives in Madrid, she lives here, and only on really special occasions does she accompany him to events. He visits her every other weekend, and that’s kind of it. I guess they lost each other along the way.”

  “Sad,” I comment, fiddling with the straw in my glass.

  “And your story, will you tell me the real version?” Vivian’s eyes challenge mine.

  I take a sip of my cold drink, slouch back onto the wicker chair, and with my eyes trained ahead, I say, “Well, I came here since I didn’t want to lose myself along the way.” I turn to her. “Let’s just say I wanted to take a breather from my career and from everything familiar. I looked for the one place that seemed to be a piece of tranquility and, funny enough, came across Serenidad. So, here I am, and that’s basically my story in a nutshell.”