Tallulah Tempest

by Robert Scott Leyse

  “Bursting ticklish fireworks!” she exclaims, bouncing up and down. “I’m crazy all over, inside and out! It’s so sweet!”

  I’m telling you Tallulah’s so smart, so artful, so wise, so discriminating—fully familiar with the tricky pathways of pleasure, adept at orchestrating sensory symphonies. There’s sensual genius in her, as I’ve never encountered in another girl. (And I’ll tell you another thing: if a girl isn’t a hellcat it’s unlikely she’ll have the slightest inkling what “sensual genius” means, or ever be capable of rising above rudimentary arousal, much less tasting of delirium-infused desire.) “Let’s let it ride,” she smiles as soon as we’re settled and seated side by side, scooting several inches away and removing my hand from her thigh and softly shoving at my shoulder and becoming perfectly still, and I understand: she means we should curb our overt demonstrations of affection—stockpile our attraction, allow our magnetism to build. How many girls have read my mind so accurately?

  Sometimes less is more; sometimes wordless stillness is an enthralling form of foreplay; sometimes denial births anticipation that’s forceful and dizzying enough to resemble a mystical trance. The cab commences its journey and Tallulah and I, avoiding each other’s eyes and staring straight ahead, barely stir, only venturing to squeeze our joined hands together a bit more discernibly now and then. I can feel the tone of her presence strumming upon my nerves, echoing through the tension of my muscles, and the sensation becomes more pronounced with each passing second; can feel the hushed compactness, aura of expectation, that’s enveloped her body—the alert sparkling quality of her posture, erectness of her spine; feel it washing over my skin, stimulating its surface and slipping through its pores, meshing with the flow of my blood. Yes, being non-demonstrative at the same time that we’re aroused allows the subsurface realms of our arousal to rise to the surface and further engulf us, pull us deeper into desire’s undertows. It’s magical transparency, the impression of being unable to hide from one another—even if we wished to do so, which we certainly don’t. It’s an overwhelming feeling of security, as in we’re familiarizing ourselves with and becoming comfortable with each other from the inside out. Words are merely mental tools, restricted to the surface realms and manipulable by thought, but silent inner communication—empathic alignment of the nerves—happens of its own accord and cannot be shammed. Tallulah and I are speaking to one another with our sympathetic energy and no words will ever communicate a fraction of such: words aren’t alive, as budding attraction’s emotional field is; words aren’t what gives birth to rejuvenating physiological commotion. I swear that the energy passing back and forth between us—certainly heightened in effect by the small enclosed space of the cab—becomes as vivid as an operatic high note, thrillingly sustained; swear that, by the time we’re approaching the east side of the 79th Street Central Park Transverse, I feel as if I’m a shoreline upon which warm waves are steadily breaking and foaming, swirling into shimmering mist.

  And then, just as we’re exiting the transverse and crossing Fifth Avenue, I feel Tallulah’s eyes upon me, at once piercing and soft—gentle as the flick of a feather, persistent as a tickle—and turn towards her; and the instant our eyes meet she gasps, whisper-cries, and seizes my arm with both hands and thrusts herself against me; and there’s such pronounced regard and ardor—indescribably beautiful silver light, fresh as that of stars on a clear black night—in her eyes. “Tallulah,” I inquire, “would you like to get out and walk the rest of the way? I want to be outside with you, in the open air with you, under the sky with you. I want to share springtime with you, in the caress of the breeze.”

  “With all my heart, Justin,” she smiles, grasping and squeezing the back of my neck. “It’s a gorgeous night and I love the breeze too.”

  Tallulah and I are shortly holding each other at elbows’ length, drinking in the wonder in one another’s eyes, on the sidewalk of 79th Street between Madison and Park Avenues. Even though we’re smack dab in the middle of Manhattan, one of the most concrete-and-steel-dense places on earth, the verdancy of spring’s very evident—freshly unfurled leaves are on the sidewalk trees and shrubs, a rainbow’s worth of blossoms are in planters near and far, at our feet and on windowsills and balconies from ground-level to the rooftops; and the breeze, rich with the fragrances of new growth, is whooshing around us, at once soothing and stimulating—tossing Tallulah’s hair, frequently brushing my arms with its feather-soft tendrils. Never underestimate the witchery of a girl’s hair: sometimes it’s as if a spirited girl’s energy lives in her hair; as if the crackling swish of its touch is an extension of her affection; as if it’s transmitting her yearning, animated with her wish to be irresistible. I’m telling you that, even though it’s tacitly understood we’re going to walk east across 79th and up First Avenue to my place without overmuch indulgence of desire (The better to whet our appetites, continue to “let it ride.”), the electric tickle of Tallulah’s hair against my skin impels me to pull her close and trace the contours of her face with my fingers and stroke her neck. And soon we’re rubbing against one another, soon I’m slipping one of my hands under and up the back of her sweater as she grasps one of my thighs; and her hair’s on all sides of my face now—its crisp gossamer caress, waves of bronze, beguiling scent. I squeeze Tallulah tighter, run my fingers through her curls and splash them against my cheeks and inhale deeply, and it’s not close to being enough. Before I half know what I’m doing—in a whir of blurred vision, buoyant elation, and a fleeting glimpse of the sky—I pull her into a building’s doorway and she’s seizing my shoulders, lifting herself into my embrace, wrapping her legs about my waist; then we’re kissing hungrily enough to momentarily ache our jaws as our hands insatiably explore, caress and massage and squeeze, every part of us they’re able to reach; then I’m pressing her against the wall and lifting her dress and she’s wiggling, giggling; and then just as suddenly, like a wave that’s spent itself in its surge towards the high tide line on a beach, we catch ourselves and unwind from each other. “Not yet, but soon!” I smile as we spin from the doorway hand-in-hand and begin walking.

  “Very soon!” Tallulah echoes mirthfully, skipping like a little girl and tossing her hair high above her head with her free hand. Soon she’s repeatedly play-bumping into me, rubbing like a happy cat, then yanking herself as far away as the length of our arms will allow, giggling the while. Then, suddenly, as we’re blithely walking, an extra nuance of insistence slips into our joined hands and we’re squeezing them tighter, almost frantically stroking each other’s fingers—soon passing to caresses of one another’s faces, teasingly brushing our lips together, half-kissing; and likewise does her hair impart electricity to my face and neck and hands and loom larger than life again—expand into bright scattering undulations of bronze light, place immensely appealing pictures in my head, even if I’m but vaguely able to identify what they are; and then I’m yanking her into another doorway and we’re gasping with astonished delight again, kissing fervently again, as if seeking to slip inside each other’s skin again, entangled up against a wall again, such that her head’s higher than mine and her hair’s waterfalling over my face; and then we laughingly apply the brakes again, disentangle from our embrace and smooth out our clothes, and resume walking; and then we’re in another doorway again at some point further on. So delicious is this cycle of being flung into demonstrations of admiration seemingly without being able to help ourselves and then catching ourselves and then losing ourselves again! It’s as if the quickenings of our blood are being orchestrated by the rhythms of spring, the bursting of buds into blossoms and flow of sap in the trees, and the balmy ever restless breeze. Angie, Ella, Steve: it might be tacitly understood we’re to restrain ourselves during this walk but I’m telling you this: if one unfailingly abides by such restraint then girls can’t help but begin to question the authenticity of one’s affection and become disappointed—such agreements are made to be broken and hellcats in particular expect it. Radiance oversp
reads Tallulah’s face, pleasure quivers her every muscle, each time I’m compelled to yank her into a doorway; and she doesn’t hesitate to reward me, thoroughly envelop me in her enthusiasm and ardor, sensual joy. Her beauty might inordinately delight my eyes, but it’s her vital and volatile personality, unaffected abandon and freedom, that’s the greater source of her ability to make me feel as if I’m surrounded by wonder, bursting with more energy than I know what to do with, united with the very fountainhead of life.

  As for the walk from Central Park and 79th Street to my apartment, it’s one I’ve enjoyed too many times to count, usually when returning home—alone or with others—after a visit to the park, but I declare none of the other walks come close to being as memorable as this one, because I’m with lovely petite spitfire Tallulah this time, her energy and verve and wildness—her sweetness and charm, the more pronounced for being balanced on a razor’s edge of reckless impulse, always subject to the pull of her dark undertows (as I recall very clearly, even if her behavior thus far might incline me to forget it). It’s not a long walk—fifteen minutes at the most—if uninterrupted, but tonight it certainly takes us over an hour to reach our destination. And at one point Tallulah abruptly stops, seizing my wrists and facing me, and gifts me with the trembling look of kindness and vulnerability and hope and trust again, that I first saw in her eyes at the fountain, and I seem to swirl out from under myself and float into the sky.

  By the time we arrive at my apartment we’re fairly jumping out of our skins—half-crazed with anticipation, grabbing and kissing and caressing and teasing one another nonstop—and fall together on my bed within minutes. Somehow I undress Tallulah while on my back, and then I’m at first arching my back and lifting my hips from the mattress and thereafter sitting upright so she can undress me as well. As customary, though, I’ll decline to provide the particulars of our intimate interval, feeling such intervals should remain private and that it would be exceptionally tacky to make them public—not to mention that keeping such intervals between us adds to their value: there are few things as delicious as the secrets lovers share. I’ll content myself with stating that Tallulah doesn’t know the meaning of restraint—that her embraces alone are enough to tingle the top of my head and tips of my toes and all points between. Tallulah wraps her svelte body about me and turns electric, demonstrates affection as if her life depends on it. When I gaze into the depths of her excited eyes, as immeasurable as they are mesmerizing, I’m assuredly communing with primordial nature.

  Sometime after midnight I awaken to find us facing one another in a close embrace. Even though Tallulah’s still asleep, she’s alternately squeezing me tight and releasing—now emphatically writhing against me, now as relaxed as if sunbathing on a beach; one moment breathing with deep urgency and the next very softly, almost imperceptibly: it’s as if she’s in thrall to the give and take of highly eventful dreams. For perhaps forty-five minutes I thrill to the fitful ballet of her tensing and slackening muscles while wondering what events are unfolding in her mind’s eye. At points it seems as if she’s on the cusp of awakening: she thrusts her head against my chest and rubs the top of it against my chin so forcefully I don’t see how the amount of physical friction will fail to awaken her, but the spasm passes and she becomes lax again, fluid and lissome—the tightness of her visage subsides into an expression of utmost serenity. So vivid are the fluctuations of her facial expressions I can’t help but imagine a storyline to accompany them, picture dramatics that could plausibly be occurring on the screen of her dreams—as of she dealing with a rabidly jealous rival at a club where she’s worked as a dancer. The rival, intending to deprive Tallulah of one of her fan-favorite dresses, has filched it and butchered it with scissors and stuffed it beneath the bin of lockers in the dressing room. Suspecting the rival, Tallulah confronts her: the rival heatedly denies the theft but the incriminating evidence, shredded dress and scissors, is located. The rival, being unwise, then chooses to boast about the deed instead of continuing to deny it and Tallulah, utterly fed up, flings a vase of flowers at the rival’s feet, whereupon the rival, stung by shards of shattering glass, becomes silent and grows afraid, awakening to the fact she’s aroused the ire of the wrong person. Tallulah completes the humiliation of the rival by denouncing her in front of the other dancers—stating, among other things, that dancers should be supportive of each other instead of resorting to despicable behavior to gain undeserved advantages. The rival, surrounded by angry glances and catcalls, bolts from the room, too discombobulated to gather her belongings. Following the rival’s exit Tallulah’s commended by the other dancers and curtsies, advancing to hug each in turn. Then there’s another rival to vanquish at another club: the sequence repeats itself, with minor variations, in rhythm with the manner in which Tallulah continues to forcibly seize ahold of and vibrate against me, breathe vehemently enough to hiss, and then release me and sigh and become silent and still—so enthralled am I that perhaps I wouldn’t mind if her dream-dance were to last through the night. And I can’t help but add, as further indication of my belated awareness that hellcats are living treasures without whom life would be intolerably tedious: no nice girl would be capable of moving me to this degree for a second while she’s wide awake, and here Tallulah’s doing so while she’s asleep. The mere fact of being in a hellcat’s presence eclipses any experience a nice girl could provide.

  When Tallulah does awaken it’s in the manner of a cat when raw meat’s held to its nose: with a sudden burst open of her eyes, alert and intent in every limb, without a trace of grogginess—there’s zero noticeable adjustment involved in her switch to the waking state. “If I remember rightly, you promised to feed this girl!” she announces, playfully flinging herself against my chest. “I haven’t eaten all day and am ravenous!” So saying, she mock-bites my wrist, interspersing light scrapings of her teeth with lappings of her tongue, after which she rolls her tongue about her lips and smacks them. “See?” she laughs, suggestively running her fingers up and down my arm. “I might just eat you if I’m not fed!”

  “Yeah, we forgot dinner,” I smile. “We were hungry for something else.”

  “Sure were,” she giggles, “and what a nice something else it was!”; then, lifting her eyebrows and rolling her tongue about her lips again, “Well, what about our food?”

  “Do you like lobster?” I ask. “I have a couple frisky three-pounders in the fridge—got them in Chinatown yester... I mean, the day before yesterday.”

  “My favorite!” she exclaims, springing to hands and knees and bouncing up and down on the mattress.

  “Were you having wild dreams?” I can’t resist asking at this point, briefly describing her behavior while she was asleep.

  “I’d say it was more of a feeling than a dream,” she responds, continuing to bounce, albeit more slowly, on the mattress. “A feeling of hunger in general and being happy with it because sometimes it’s nice to be hungry and crave, because craving can lead to curiosity and unexpected happenings. And because there’s nothing nicer than satisfying craving and at last becoming peaceful. Well, maybe…” she trails off; then, tapping my shoulder and winking, “Actually, I think there might have been a succulent dinner or two in my head and we know why that is! We’ve had one kind of feast and now it’s time for another!”

  “Absolutely,” I agree, taking her by the hand and scooting to the edge of the mattress. “I’m starved too.”

  “See,” she laughs as we exit the bed, “we’re already in sync!”

  Soon we’re in the kitchen preparing dinner, bantering and laughing the while, each of us wearing one of my dress shirts, nothing else. Tallulah’s shirt is white and the transparency of the material’s advertising her curves most delectably, and likewise does the flutter of the shirttail about her thighs enthrall me. In fact, she seems more naked with the shirt on than without it: buttoned once at the crests of her breasts, it seems to accentuate her svelteness more than conceal it. And my kitchen’s small enough that
, while we’re busy with our respective tasks—myself with the lobster, she with a salad—we can’t help but frequently brush against one another. And I wish to quickly pass over this interval in the interest of advancing my narrative, but I’ll say this: the confined space of the kitchen quickly becomes thrillingly electric, such that it’s as if the jolts of delight I experience when I drink in the sight of Tallulah or brush against her are accumulating, hanging suspended in the air—increasingly pulling me towards her, distracting me from my assigned task. And I can see the same desire rising in her eyes, flushing her face, adding sultriness to her manner, lithe blitheness to the mood about her; sense the same quiver-shivers, delicious mini-shocks, overcome her each time we brush against each other, which we begin to do deliberately and lingeringly. So suffice to say dinner’s delayed several times, when we find ourselves unable to refrain from embracing, sinking happily entangled to the floor. But we do refrain from surrendering to another intimate interval, always managing to stop short and remind ourselves why we’re in the kitchen—that we actually do need to eat. I conclude by stating it’s a beautiful thing when a girl’s irresistible enough to persistently divert one’s attention from the rumblings of one’s starved stomach; when the emanations of her presence, sparks of one’s emotional alignment with her, crackle in the air with such force one can’t help but grab and kiss her again and again; when she’s rapidly becoming the beginning and end of what one values most—electrifying one with vitality, revealing unsuspected opportunities for emotional fulfillment, surpassing one’s expectations of everything a relationship can and should be.