by Sacchi Green
“Where are you? Right now?” Sofía is ready to pay any amount of money for a cab if it means they get to have this conversation in person.
“I’m—this is so embarrassing but I’m actually— outside. Could I come in? Do you think? To talk.”
Sofía almost trips in her haste to get down the stairs and throw open the front door. Alice is wearing a tweed coat with the hood pulled up, and her hair hangs in wisps across her forehead.
“I’ve reconsidered,” Alice says.
“Reconsidered?”
Alice looks uncharacteristically anxious, pulling her coat tighter around her shoulders. “If that’s even an option now.”
It hits Sofía like a bullet. “You have to say yes first. Before I’ll—”
“Yes, that’s what I’m saying. Yes . . . ”
Sofía kisses her before she can finish the sentence. Alice tastes the same, coffee and cinnamon, but this time her hands rest tentatively on Sofía’s waist, and she moans quietly into Sofía’s mouth.
“Inside,” Sofía says because at least one brain cell is still functioning and Alice Courtney should not be seen making out with strange women. Even if Sofía’s not strange at all. Even if she knows the pattern of lines around Alice’s eyes.
They stumble up the stairway, and Sofía keeps her hands to herself until her door is closed behind them. Then she backs Alice up into it and tugs her coat off her shoulders.
“You have to tell me what to do,” Alice gasps as Sofía bites kisses up her neck.
The words sink in. Sofía pulls back, just slightly.
“I’ve never—with a woman. I’ve always wanted to. Always, since I was—don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m experimenting or confused or—I can’t think, kiss me again.”
Sofía does, licks into Alice’s mouth, starving for the way she tastes. She’s never been this crazy to kiss someone, never felt this out of control. The coat is pushed to the ground.
“Tell me,” Alice whispers, and Sofía hears something else behind her words, under the uncertainty. Need.
“Take off your shirt,” she says quietly, and notices the way Alice’s pupils dilate.
Alice unbuttons her shirt. She’s wearing a beige lace bra and her stomach is soft. Sofía feels a want as sharp as pain inside her.
“Undo your pants.”
Alice does. They slide off her waist and rest on her hips.
“Do you like this?” Sofía murmurs, sliding her lips against Alice’s neck. “Do you like me telling you what to do?”
“Sofía—”
“I’m going to touch you now, all right? I’m going to put my hand in your underwear and slide my fingers into you. Do you want that?”
Alice shudders a reply, and Sofía traces her hand up Alice’s inner thigh before pushing her underwear aside. Her pubic hair is wiry and wet, and Sofía strokes between her lips, coaxing with her fingers until Alice arches her back and makes a lost, fluttering sound.
“Oh . . . your hand . . . ”
“Like that?”
“Like . . . yes, like that.”
“You’re so wet. Do you feel how wet you are for me?”
“Yes, oh yes.”
“I want you to . . . ” Sofía has to catch her breath because there are so many things she wants right now. “I want you to take the rest of your clothes off and lie down on the bed. I want to look at you.”
Alice moves away from the door, shedding clothes as she makes her way to the bedroom. Sofía follows her, eyes lingering on the curves of her hips, her calves, her back. Alice lies down on the bed, chest heaving.
“I’m going to suck on your nipples,” Sofía says, crawling across the bed to tongue at them while Alice writhes beneath her. Alice’s breasts are perfect, bigger than Sofía could fit in her hands, and she’s been dying to touch them for longer than she can remember.
“I’m going to taste you now,” Sofía says, placing searing kisses down Alice’s breastbone, stopping again to lick and bite at her nipples before continuing down her stomach. Alice flinches as Sofía bites into her pubic hair, tugging gently at it with her teeth.
There are strands of gray in it. The streetlights turn them silver.
“Do you want this?” Sofía asks.
“Yes, before I die!”
“Wrap your legs around my neck.” Sofía buries herself in the warmth of Alice’s thighs and the taste of her wet cunt. Sofía has always loved the taste of women, but she never felt like she might come just going down on someone, never felt like she was touching herself by touching someone else. Alice shouts at the first lick of Sofía’s tongue, tugging her closer with her thighs, pleading for more. She’s so wet her thighs are dripping, and Sofía has two fingers inside of her before Alice even realizes what she’s doing. She cries and jerks her hips, riding Sofía’s hands and face in desperate, shaking movements.
“Oh, oh, oh,” Alice breathes in time to the thrusts of Sofía’s fingers.
Sofía adds a third finger and Alice tugs at her hair, thighs trembling against Sofía’s shoulders.
“You’re going to make me—oh god, I’m going to—”
She clenches around Sofía’s fingers, a wail rising out of her throat that seems to never end, building and building as she shakes and rocks against her, crying out profanities that Sofía never in her wildest dreams thought she’d hear from Alice Courtney. She wonders if anyone else knows how filthy she is, how she likes to be ordered around, what she tastes like.
At last Alice collapses back against the bed, arms stretched out on either side. Sofía rests her face against Alice’s stomach, breathing. She wants to come, wants to touch herself or tell Alice to touch her, but the ache is pleasant right now. A good sort of pain.
“That was . . . ” Alice says, as Sofía licks her fingers. “I want . . . ”
Sofía kisses her stomach again, then her breasts, then her shoulder (which makes Alice giggle and squirm a bit. Is she ticklish there? This will need investigating).
“I want to touch you too.”
“Yes. Just a second.” Sofía kisses her, openmouthed and greedy. Alice squeezes her eyes shut.
“I think maybe—maybe I’ve always wanted this. And I was just too afraid. And then—I met you.”
She laughs, the laugh that made Sofía lose her heart, all those years ago.
“Come to Barcelona with me.”
If this were a movie, it would be the last scene. The room striped gold with lamplight, the bedsheets white and rumpled. Sofía saying, “Yes.”
THE SALE OF TWO TITTLES
Nanisi Barrett D’Arnuk
It was the worst of times. It was the best of times. Oh dammit, who am I kidding? It was definitely the worst time I’d ever had. It seemed like nothing was going right, hadn’t been for months. I felt I was drifting: no focus, no plans, nothing interesting. I did my job, got a little exercise, ate the minimum amount of food necessary, and slept. Not much more than that.
I walked down the river walk quite often, sometimes during the day to breathe fresh air and feel the sun on my face, sometimes at night so I could melt into the shadows and watch. People seemed to sense that I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I’m very careful about letting anyone into my personal space. No one ever dared to infiltrate my world. No one even tried.
Not that I can’t be sociable; I can be the life of the party when I choose. But not today, not this week, probably not this year. I supposed I’d have to get over it someday.
It was a good thing I could work from home. I set my the sale of two titties own hours, worked when I felt like it, and slept when I didn’t. I mailed the advertising layouts to the head office and they deposited money into my account. I didn’t have to be polite. I didn’t have to dress up. I didn’t have to do anything if I didn’t feel like it.
I guess I’d been this way since Janey walked out on me three months before. I still don’t understand what happened. Maybe I was in denial,
maybe it was my fault, but I never saw it coming. Pam knew. She and her partner even loaned Janey money to get another apartment. I never realized it until she was gone. By then it was too late.
I would watch the water taxis ferry tourists to the boutiques and cafes along the river. The boutiques where the items cost a lot more than they were worth, but the little sticker on the bottom, with the city’s name, said they were purchased in a place that would impress those back home. I wasn’t impressed. But then, nothing seemed to impress me these days.
Sometimes I would sit on a bench (I thought of it as my bench) and throw bread to the ducks that paddled along the river. I also dropped popcorn onto the grass along the walk for smaller birds and squirrels. They never said thank you, but I knew they appreciated it.
Night was much better for me. I could hide then. Not behind walls or fences, but right out in the open. People never notice anyone in the dark, unless they’re paranoid or looking for someone or something. No one peered into the shadows. They usually only saw their companions, enjoyed the cloak of privacy the darkness seemed to offer, and hoped no one would notice them. The cloak was a solo garment for me.
That night, I was pacing like a caged animal, unable to sit still on my bench. I had to move. So, I walked up the mile-long river walk, and then retraced my steps. Maybe the physical exercise, combined with fresh air, would tire me and I’d be able to sleep that night without nightmares and recriminations.
Finally I decided I needed something to help, and walked up the river walk until I reached a side street. Right around the corner was a small bar that didn’t seem too crowded and wasn’t bright and noisy, an older bar without a glitzy exterior. The facade hadn’t been painted in several years. It seemed hidden from the rush of partygoers, only attracting the serious local drinkers who weren’t looking for parties, to get laid, or even to flirt. Those who simply wanted a glass of something to take the edge off. My kind of people.
Inside, I looked around. Older patrons sat at tables in the dim light and chatted softly. There were only a couple dozen people. The music was low, the atmosphere just what I was looking for.
I sat on a stool at the bar. Sitting at a table might seem like I was looking for company.
The bartender was a pretty woman about my age and my height, maybe a little thinner. She had medium-brown hair barely brushing her collar and the most captivating soft dark-blue eyes, but I didn’t dare stare into them very long. It might have looked like I was interested.
“Scotch,” I ordered. “Neat.”
“Single malt or blended?”
“Single.”
She reached for a glass and a bottle from the next to top shelf and poured a shot. The bottles had one of those special caps that measure the liquor so you don’t have to use a shot glass. It also makes sure the bartender isn’t being too generous. She smiled when I paid and laid down the tip but didn’t say anything, merely picked it up, slid it into her pocket, and walked to another part of the bar. I like that type of bartender. I don’t need someone in my business. If I wanted a psychiatrist I’d go to one.
There was something about her, though. I looked up from time to time to watch for a moment, but not too long, so she wouldn’t think I was asking her to talk to me. I glanced up once when she took some longnecks to one of the tables. Nice ass, I thought, as she walked across the floor. Moves nicely. The whole package wasn’t bad at all. Then my eyes returned to my drink.
I was contemplating my glass when someone sat down beside me.
“Can I buy you another drink?” His voice had a medium range and tone. Nothing distinct about it.
“Nope.” I didn’t look up to see who he was.
He’d been drinking. I could smell the beer on his breath as he leaned closer with each question.
“Did you see the ball game tonight?” he asked.
“Nope.”
“It was pretty good, but Thomas blew it in the sixth inning. You like baseball?”
“Nope.”
“Bet you’re a hockey fan,” he tried.
“Nope.”
“Do you ever say anything besides ‘nope’?”
“Nope.”
“Ah! Playing hard to get.”
Nope, I thought. Being hard to get.
He talked . . . and talked . . . and talked, trying anything that might get my attention. Sports, the weather, politics . . . just about everything. I was glad he hadn’t started up on religion. That would have been the final straw. I’m not sure I’d lost my faith but I didn’t want to talk to anyone about it.
So on he talked. Still I ignored him, hoping he’d get the message, not surprised when he didn’t. I looked up to see the bartender, not far away, washing a couple of glasses under the bar, listening surreptitiously to the conversation. I gave her a quick, disgusted shrug.
“You want another drink?” he finally asked. “It’s almost closing time.”
“I doubt it,” I finally answered, still staring into my glass. I took another sip of my scotch.
“You doubt you want a drink? Or you doubt it’s almost closing time?” He chuckled. I didn’t have to look up to see the smarmy smile on his face. I could tell he thought he was funny.
My silence seemed to arouse him.
“Want to go for a walk, then?” he asked, almost whispering in my ear.
“You couldn’t afford it,” I replied slowly, looking over into his face for the first time. It wasn’t the money I was referring to. It was the psychological abuse I was getting ready to heap on him if he didn’t go away.
That quieted him for a moment. “You a pro?” he asked, his eyes wide.
That was all I needed to hear. I was tempted to say “No, a dyke,” but that would have opened even more items for conversation and I wasn’t in the mood.
I turned to him and looked him up and down. I didn’t smile.
“If you don’t get out of my face,” I whispered to him, “I’ll yank it out, cut it off, and ram it down your throat.”
He didn’t ask what “it” was but his attitude seemed to change. I guessed he finally got the message.
“Jeez! I’m just trying to be friendly, just trying to be nice.” He looked around as if others were going to come to his defense.
I downed what was left in my glass, half turned, and slapped my hand down onto his leg, barely millimeters from his crotch.
He sprang back instantly. The stool tipped over as he almost fell backward. He struggled to regain his balance.
He looked at me with indignation. “Bitch,” he spat. Then he stalked out the door, muttering obscenities that might have angered someone who cared. He almost ran down the walk.
When I turned back to the bar, the bartender was in front of me. “Thanks,” she said, and washed off the counter where he’d sat. She reached to the top shelf and poured me anther drink.
“My treat,” she said, placing it on the cardboard coaster in front of me. “I’ve been trying to get him out of here for a week. I was this close . . . ” she held thumb and forefinger very close together, “to calling the police.” Then she chuckled. “I like the way you did it better. The look on his face was worth the wait.”
I toasted her with the glass. “Thank you,” I said. She smiled at me, then picked up a dishrag and went to wipe down another part of the bar.
A few minutes later she was back. I didn’t look up but I could feel her looking at me. I let her stand there while she washed and dried several glasses. When I did look, she smiled and didn’t look away. I stared back down into my glass. I could feel her carefully polishing the glasses.
“Anything else I can get you?”
I had to grin at that one. There were many things she could get me but I wasn’t sure I was ready to go that route yet. I just shook my head.
She leaned over the bar to whisper to me, “I heard you tell him he couldn’t afford you.” She cleared her throat as she looked around to see if anyone was listening. “Think I could?”
I looked up
into her eyes in surprise. They were warm, smiling, and inquisitive. I couldn’t quite understand their expression. Was that a challenge? An offer?
“Maybe,” I answered, not wanting to commit myself. “A lot closer than he could.” I didn’t want to close any doors yet. I like aggressive women; someone who knows what she wants. “Is this a down payment?” I motioned toward the glass of scotch and for the first time in weeks, I really smiled.
She stepped back and contemplated her next move. “I’ll be through here in a few minutes,” she finally said. “You should smile more often. It’s very nice.” She picked up a bar rag and a tray and went to bus the tables that still had clutter on them. There was only one table of customers left in the bar. I sat back and watched her.
Would she follow through? Would I?
I don’t know why I went with her, but I did. Was it her eyes? Her smile? Her body? She intrigued me. No needless chatter. No unnecessary games. Just a smile and a look. When she scanned my body, I felt a sudden spasm in my stomach. It dropped down below my belly. I hadn’t felt this in several months. When she held out her hand, said, “Come home with me,” and motioned me to join her, I clasped her hand and we walked away from the bar.
Her apartment wasn’t far up the river walk. As we entered, she turned on a dim lamp near the couch and tossed the mail from the box in the lobby onto a table near the door. The complex had only been finished a year or two so everything was still new. She’d furnished the apartment sparsely but with class. The couch and chair were chocolate brown with dark wooden arms. The coffee table matched.
She drew back the long drapes lining one wall, revealing a small balcony overlooking the water taxi mooring. The view was stunning. At this time of night, the best parts of the city glowed over the small park and the water.
“Nice view,” I commented, as she unlocked the sliding glass doors.
“It’s one of the few things that make up for the high rent.” She slid open the glass door and went out. I followed. We both looked out onto the water for a few minutes, not speaking; we hadn’t said twenty-five words since we left the bar.