One of Those Days
By
Xenalicious
Disclaimers:
They're mine. All mine! (Yeah, don't I wish…) And they're pissy and drunk and engaging in lesbian sex in a public place. Why do women like that not live in Boston? Honestly. If you know any, give them my number, k?
Muchas gracias a mi amiga, Reneegade. Without her, my true knowledge of English language and innate unimaginativeness would sadly shine through, and if you think this story's bad, just imagine what it'd be like without her help. If you like it, well, I take all the credit!
PS
A certain "anonymous entity", who - therefore - shall remain unnamed, should notice a profound lack of the word "burrow" in this story. I *was* going to have a white gerbil skitter across the bathroom floor, but that seemed too 'Hitchcock-ovski' ('Hitchcock-ovian'? 'Hitchcock-like'?), so I skipped it. Maybe next time.
********
I could say it had been one of those days. A day where you open your eyes in the morning and the world seems a bit askew. Air is heavier to your lungs, colors seem grainy, your heart beats too loud. The truth is, it’s been one of those months, and I just noticed. In the end, it didn’t matter how long this had gone on for, all that mattered was the fact I couldn’t stand the way I felt right then.
The one positive thing was the fact that it was Friday and I’d have a couple of days to either sleep or drink off whatever funk mother nature decided to grace me with. This however did not make the people at the office any more palatable nor minor crises any less important to the annoying fucks who demanded answers from the other end of the phone line. And I just wasn’t in the mood.
Five o’clock came and rolled by and I was still at work. By the time I got home and changed, I was ready to start biting, and that was a sure sign that it would be a smart idea to leave the car at home. Tonight was no night for holding back and if there was one thing I was certain of, it was the fact that I would not be sober enough to drive at the end of the night.
The heat outside, even in early September, seemed like a wet wall that pushed against me with every step. And yet there was a chill undercurrent lining my spine as I waited for the cab, electrical warnings below my skin raising the hair at the back of my neck and flexing my hands into fists.
I heard hesitant footsteps and looked to the right, up the street. A young girl, twenty, maybe twenty-two was walking towards me haltingly, and I turned to face her. There was beauty in unspoiled youth that nothing else matched. Her gate might have been uncertain and her eyes skittish, but her body was all woman, curves and firm softness. It was obvious she had not yet learned how to use it to her full advantage, like a young tiger unaware of full potential of sleek muscle and sharp claws, and at any other time, in any other mood, I would have been salivating at the prospect of initiating her into the joys of true carnality. Tonight I had no patience for innocence.
I followed her with my eyes, registering that she crossed the street rather than walking past me only after she was walking away with a nervous glance thrown backward. I almost laughed. Big Bad Butch strikes again. I looked down and tried to imagine what I must have looked like to the girl. Six feet of tight jeans, black leather and bad attitude. At this I actually did laugh out loud. It was one thing to scare the young ‘uns with my bad mood, but when I started addressing myself as ‘six feet of bad attitude’, I knew I was *way* overdue for a stiff one.
The cab finally arrived and I got in and gave the directions. I was going to a boy’s place tonight. I decided that the less human contact I had tonight the better it would be for everyone involved, and I always considered gays to be much more sensible breed than the dykes. No little fag would think of trying to engage me in conversation tonight. There’d be plenty loud music and strong drinks and I would stay there until I was fairly certain my brain had drowned, and then I’d go home. Simple.
When I got there, it was relatively quiet. Barely nine o’clock, the after-work crowd had dispersed, and no self-respecting gay man would be caught dead in a club before 11:45, sharp. Even so, rather than vibrating, the place was merely buzzing with double entendres and frank propositions of the impatient in the crowd. I sat down at the end of the bar, out of the reach of overhead lights and leaned forward on my forearms. Leon was working tonight, and it didn’t take him too long to recognize my mood. A short, businesslike nod of acknowledgment and my drink was before me. Tanqueray&Tonic, double, two limes, no straw.
Again I almost smiled. Getting predictable in my old age. I wondered if Leon got to meet many Jackyl&Hyde types in his line of work. I only came here when I the mood for trouble struck me, and this is the only side of me that Leon saw – silent, dark and aching for a fight. He probably wouldn’t recognize me if he came across from me casually, in a normal setting. "Gregarious" and "shameless flirt" have been used more than once to describe me but always, always there was a tumultuous undercurrent lapping at my consciousness gently, just out of reach, and the most perceptive noticed it. Tonight, there was nothing gentle about it. I finished my drink and spared it a moment to enjoy the sweet burning before summoning Leon again.
I could feel the grimace on my face even before I realized how maudlin I sounded, and I skipped squeezing the limes and downed the drink in a long swallow. Leon’s face was professionally blank and I let a slow smile unfurl in front of him. Just a hint of teeth, but it made him flinch. I had never caused a scene at this place, but he knew better. He could probably smell it on me, the restlessness. All the good bartenders did. As did all the good whores, I imagine. Came with the turf.
A third drink, and I had been there for less than fifteen minutes. I shrugged out of my jacket. Regretted not going someplace that had a pool table. Realized booze and competitive situations were not a good combination tonight. Took a small sip and appreciated good gin. Felt her next to me.
"Watching you is making me thirsty." Muted conversations and newest techno around us, and still the voice caressed my ears without a hindrance. Soft and with a hint of a smile. "Buy me a drink."
Not a question. Definitely not an order. The sense of familiarity in the voice almost made me curious enough to accept the fact that she was settling down into the stool next to me and instituting herself into my evening. I turned my head and prepared to dismiss her with a glance and a low spoken "fuck off", when what should have been a disgusted once-over started and stopped with her eyes.
They were very green on a face that was very pale and were offset by a smile that was knowing. Knowing and comforting. My eyes narrowed and I smiled back at her. Once I saw her smile falter, I knew she got the message. I let my eyes slip down, evaluating, but reserving judgement. She wore the classic ‘small black dress’ with enough of a scoop to show off the beginning of what promised to be very nice cleavage. Firm thighs and nicely rounded calves, and simple black sandals that added just a couple inches to her height. I imagined that even so, the top of her head would barely reach my chin. Up again, she was leaning on her forearms as well, no watch, no rings, and no jewelry save small studs in her ears. Softly tousled Meg Ryan hairdo, color and all, and those eyes again.
"Not looking for company, and definitely not willing to pay for it." She wasn’t smiling anymore, but her head was cocked, and she was listening attentively. My answer didn’t seem to faze her. She seemed to wait for more, so I complied. "You can head back to whomever brought you here," I jerked my head toward the lounge area in the back, "I’m not interested."
Same thoughtful look when I met her gaze again, and just when she opened her mouth to reply, Leon came to the rescue. I didn’t have a chance to wonder whose.
"Miss?" It almost sounded fearful, and she looked up at him. I swiveled towards her, head turned to the side, expecting to enjoy her departure as soon as she waved Leon off. My moods seemed to attract the nurturing dykes and the curious straight women, and I’d learned the quick way of dealing with both.
"Two of whatever she’s having, please. I guess I’m buying the first round." I could almost feel the eyebrow as it shot up my forehead at that. She turned and winked at me with a smirky kind of smile on her face, before focusing on Leon again. Looking for confirmation that I’d heard her correctly, I looked up at him as well. In what I could appreciate as a rare moment of being flustered, Leon was slightly open-mouthed and throwing rapid glances between the two of us. A gentle "Tonight, please" from the blonde snapped his jaw shut and sent him toward the liquor shelf.
Still. I didn’t disguise the annoyance in my voice when I spoke to her again. "I thought I told you to fuck off."
Head bent, she absentmindedly replied while searching through a small sparkly black purse. "No, you told me you were not looking for company and did not want to pay for my drink. Aside from which," nothing comforting in those eyes anymore, but hard and flat, "I don’t take well to being told what to do." A soft thunk tore her gaze away from mine, and she thanked Leon for our drinks, placing a bill on the bar.
"Now," she inclined her head towards the glasses before us, "you enjoy your drink and I’ll enjoy mine. It’s as simple as that." With a small salute, she raised her glass to her lips taking a sip, before swiveling her chair and leaning her elbows and back against the bar, dismissing me.
A few dumbfounded seconds later, I shook my head purely out of reflex and faced ahead again. That was the first time I had my ‘piss off’ routine thrown in my face in such a manner. Incredulity warred with plain old anger and with irritation I realized I was too flustered to settle on either one. I looked up and faced the dark scowl and the thin line of my mouth reflected back at me by the mirror behind the bar. At least I looked pissed off, hopefully deterring any further advances by concerned femmes.
A furtive glance in the mirror revealed the back of a blonde head bobbing in time with the beat coming off the speakers. Bunched muscles of back and shoulders revealed by the cut of the black dress moved with every up and down motion of her head. An arm uncurled itself, sliding off the bar and lifting the glass to the lips, allowing me to appreciate sleek contours of a finely sculpted bicep.
I brought the glass to my lips as well, almost growling in the drink. She seemed well and relaxed, and here I was, thrown off my game and rapidly losing steam. Draining the glass I hesitated for the moment before pulling over the drink she had ordered. Might as well, that’s the least she could do after ruining a perfectly good ‘pissed off at the world’ session for me.
I was feeling uncomfortable and deflated and pissed off in a diffused way and I couldn’t help stealing glances at her. She was looking out onto the lounge area, seemingly content with people gazing, and totally oblivious to the acridly fuming pile of discontent sitting next to her. Fine, two could play this game. She didn’t care, I didn’t care.
For the next fifteen minutes I engaged in the most elaborate "I’m ignoring you" process I could come up with. It included counting all the bottles of liquor on the shelves in front of me (57), counting different kinds of liquor represented (13), counting different labels of each liquor represented (three, on average, though they had up to four or five different kinds of vodka, tequila and scotch), going over a few cocktail ingredients in my head, and dismissing each of them as something I’d want to drink right then (I didn’t feel like having a Screaming Orgasm, Sex on the Beach or a Blow Job in the liquid form), and looking up three times to see if whatsherface was noticing me ignoring her. She wasn’t.
And just as I was utterly positive that it was working, she half-swiveled, not taking her eyes off whatever it is she was looking at, and deposited her empty glass on the bar. This, in turn, helped me catch a whiff of her perfume, and I closed my eyes, focusing on it. I wondered what it would tell me about her. It was light, but sharp, the kind of scent that seemed airy and simple at first, but only in the traces of it could you sense the underlying cloyingness of musk. It wasn’t a perfume at all. It was a man’s cologne. With it came an image, sharp at the back of my eyelids, of her, holding me at arms length pressed up against the wall and leaning in, slowly, slowly, letting her scent conquer me first. That was when desire, serpentine, coiled in my belly and struck, speeding up my heartbeat and fluttering my eyelids with the need to erase her from my mind. So much for my game of "I’m ignoring you". She had won without even playing.
I swirled the clear liquid in my glass, watching the ice cubes chase each other around the perpetual circle. A deep breath. Another glance at the mirror, and I ground my teeth in frustration. It was as much a relief as a disappointment not to be able to see those eyes again. Another long drink and the glass was empty again. That seemed to happen at most inopportune moments.
I raised my eyes and then my hand, catching Leon’s attention, when realization hit me at the same time as gin hit my stomach. The funk, the mood, the anger which accompanied me since this morning, it was all gone. Just like that. Gone and replaced with confusion, lust and a vague sense of regret. It must have shown, because Leon approached much more carefully than usual. He could see something was amiss.
"Another drink Jamie?" Curious, I could see him examining my face, my eyes. I wondered if what he saw there now was so different from just over a half hour ago. I could only nod at his question.
"And for the lady?"
I looked at him sharply and then stole a glance at the mirror. She didn’t seem to have heard him. "Yes. I’d hate to leave here owing her anything," I gruffed out. "Close my tab when you come back." Another glance, her head was cocked now, and I could just discern a tiny smile on her face. I threw a few bills on the bar, enough to cover my tab, and slid off the stool away from her. A second to settle my equilibrium, and I headed toward the bathroom. I had no intention of being there when the drinks came, nor coming back to face her again.
Near the back door, by the handicapped entrance, was a single bathroom. It was out of the way, it was private, and it was still too early for the boys to come out and play there, and I had always used that one when I was there. More than at any time before, I needed a few quiet moments to compose myself before heading out.
The light in the bathroom was bright and harsh, and I could see the feverish glint in my eyes. Gin had nothing to do with that. It was desire, swirling my insides and turning my brain to mush. Desire that wasn’t allowed to root itself in anything specific, though every time I closed my eyes I could see a finely sculpted, pale arm uncoiling and reaching out, reaching towards me.
A splash of cold water against heated cheeks. Another one. I wished I could splash cold water between my legs. I decided to wait till I got home to do that. It had been a most unusual ending to the evening, but I didn’t dare complain. Where there was anger and restlessness boiling below my skin an hour ago, now there was imploded desire and a misplaced feeling of loss. Oh, and gin. Not a bad trade-off, all in all. However, the alcohol was finally making its presence known in my bloodstream, and my hormones knew the dance steps of inebriated blood cells all too well. It was time to go home before I did something stupid. Like walking up to the blonde at the bar, the woman who was exclusively responsible for my present state of mind, and demanding that she make it better. With her lips.
A hastily pulled ponytail and a muttered ‘stupid long hair in the summer’ later, I took my jacket and opened the door. And was not truly surprised to see her leaning against the opposite wall. And yet, I couldn’t feel my legs. Nor could I take my eyes off her.
"You know," her voice was low, very low, and her movements graceful and still somehow full of warning as she pushed off the wall and started walking towards me, "my mom always told me common courtesy is never wasted nor misplaced." She stood before me now, head cocked to the side, eyes peering at me from under sun-bleached bangs.
"I’d like to think I was nothing but courteous towards you." At this she stopped and looked at me full on, eyebrow raised, and a small part of me in charge of such things was noticing the surreal quality of the situation. Playing along, I nodded my agreement. "Right," she continued, as she slowly reached out, palms first, and laid her hands on my upper chest, "and you were in turn nothing but unnecessarily rude." She was burning the imprints of her palms into my skin, through the layer of light white cotton of my T-shirt, and I knew what was going to happen, I knew what she was going to do.
She continued, unabated. "Yes, very rude." Her hands slid up now, fingers burying in the hair at the nape of my neck and drawing my head lower. "Crude, even." There it was again, enveloping me, the scent of her and the heat and I focused on it, keeping my lips just above hers. It was torture, feeling her breath on my lips, tasting her already in my mind, but this time I didn’t want to lose the game even before the first hand got played.
"If that is so, what are you doing here then?" I was able to tear my gaze away from the gloss of her lips, parted, and look her in the eyes. It almost undid me. They were dark and I could see the hunger in them and then, when my words registered, approval. Her hands tightened in my hair and her face moved away a bit, those eyes enveloping me.
"Because," she said, a purr of a cat, "you need to be taught a lesson."
I would have raised my eyebrow at that, or scoffed, or done something equally appropriate and relayed my honest doubt that she, a mere slip of a woman, would be able to pull off such a tremendous feat, but she had chosen that precise moment to take the final step that was separating us and press herself fully against me. The hand that still held my jacket caught up on the synapses being sent by the brain and dropped it, sneaking around a slender waist instead. The other hand which was up until then sneakily holding onto the wall for support, prudently regrouped its efforts in aiding my knees in keeping me in an upright position. And yet, as far as she could see, all I did was pull her in closer and sustain a shit-eating grin from before.
The truth was, I was way out of my league here. Never, ever in my twenty-nine year long life did I have anyone affect me, arouse me, shake me up and just plain get to me, like she did. And it scared the shit out of me. And I couldn’t wait to have sex with her, that after I swore never to repeat my one-time bathroom experience. It was too much all at once, and I felt like I was going to start shaking soon, and I did the only thing I could come up with as a means of gaining control of the situation.
I kissed her.
I kissed her gently and slowly, just a touch at first, but it electrified. And then the touch became a necessity and I did it again. And she opened up for me. Then the necessity became a need and the touch turned into a feeling, and I was feeling the inside of her mouth and it was feeling me, and the warmth was familiar and the taste was addictive and the sounds were necessary. I don’t know who moaned first. I don’t think it mattered. I don’t know how her legs twined themselves around my waist, how we got inside, nor how her back ended up against the closed bathroom door. But there we were and then there was a moment of respite where she looked at me and I looked at her and her mouth was red and bruised and her eyes were glistening and it hurt. It hurt to see so much beauty and to want it so badly. She smiled then, softly, and caressed my cheek and moved in until I couldn’t focus on her anymore. I closed my eyes and gave into it.
My hands seemed large against her frame, one to cradle her head, one to hold her up, and the dress slithered beneath my palms, but her skin evaded me. I lowered her to the ground, but kept her unbalanced with one knee between her legs. I raised it higher and pushed into her, and the heat and weight of her against my thigh was all I could focus on for long moments. I had her hips fitted against my palms, and when I used them to move her against me, her hands flew up and gripped my forearms. Head thrown back, shoulders pressing against the door, she gave herself to me. There was no finesse to it, she was soaking my thigh and her mouth was open with the force of her exhales and I descended upon it.
Deep, it was deep and wet and there was more that I was missing and I wasn’t going to be denied. I took a step back, lowering my leg, and with the same motion I cupped the back of her thigh and brought it to my hip level. My mouth was on hers and if she had thought to complain, I wouldn’t have let her, but then I had two fingers inside of her and it was deep and wet and I closed my eyes and got lost. We fell into a rhythm together and she was urging me on with her mouth and pulling me in with her hips and the carnality of it was overwhelming. I kissed her lips, I grazed her cheek and then my nose was in her neck and I could smell her again, I could smell her, airy and sharp, and musky and clean and it fit. It all fit.
She was panting now and I could feel her tightening around my fingers and I didn’t want it to end. There was soft skin under my mouth and I kissed it and then my teeth grazed it and I could feel her pull me in closer in response. The column of her neck was before me and I could see the beat of her desire under the soft skin and my lips attached themselves to it. I was going to mark her, I was going to show her the strength of the need to have her.
Then her hands were at the back of my neck, pulling herself up, pulling me in, and she clamped down hard on my shoulder with her teeth, as her cunt clamped down, hard, on my fingers. She rode me, she rode me with abandon and ferocity and a touch of despair, and when the waves finally passed, she was shaking in my arms.
I cradled her, as best as I could with my knees shaking as well, and when I pulled my fingers out I felt she was going to collapse. That is why I pulled her in tight, held her close and tucked her head under my chin, willing the tremors to pass, not because of the wave of tenderness that enveloped me, that made it hard to breathe with the wonder of what happened. Or so I told myself.
I don’t know how long we stood there, I against the door and she against me, but when she stirred, I was loath to let her go. But I did. She pulled back just a little bit, enough to look up at me and smile. She was beautiful – tiny crinkles around her eyes and a sated blush on her cheeks. Then she winked.
"Well, that was a hell of a lesson." It was raspy and still a bit breathy, and the meaning behind it sent a shiver down my spine. Her hands slid under the soaked cotton of my shirt and splayed themselves against my back. She was standing between my legs and when she moved, her hip brushed the apex of my thighs. She moved with a purpose.
"You were very nice to me now, but I still need to teach you a lesson…" Then her hands moved forward and my bra proved to be no barrier for those inquisitive fingers. I couldn’t help but gasp and press down on the hip that was rubbing against me when her fingers found and squeezed my nipples.
And yet… I looked up and noticed the harsh fluorescent lights and the dripping faucet in the sink. Then I looked back at her again, and I didn’t want it to end like that. I covered her hands with mine and pulled them away and she looked at me, questioning.
"Come home with me." It came out, and we were both surprised to hear those words. Then they seemed to hang between us, unavoidable, and she looked at me, and I looked at her and my heart was beating fast. Then she blinked, once, twice, moved away a bit and slid her hands from under mine. When she looked at me again, there was another smile on her face, the smirky kind again and she said, "But I already came tonight, sugar."
Oh. Nothing that could be said to that. Except, idiot. Goddamned, stupid idiot. Go home with me? For what – some cuddling? Fucking idiot.
My eyes skittered away of their own volition, finally settling on the toes of my boots. I noticed a new scuff on the worn leather, and then my eyes tracked up to the dark stain on my jeans. It was the evidence of her desire, and it had seeped through the fabric and permeated my skin. But that’s all it was. A stain on my jeans.
Then there was warmth on my cheek, and softness, then a firmness as it pulled my face up. She left her hand there, cradling me, and I fought not to lean into it. Her eyes were serious, and her face was serious, and I didn’t want to look at her but her hand was unyielding.
"I didn’t mean it like that." I just looked at her and she continued. "I didn’t. And I’d love to go home with you, but…" and her fingers tightened against my face, keeping me close and pushing me away at the same time, "you brushed me off once tonight, and I still made myself come after you. I won’t do that again." I mustered a shake of my head, but that didn’t seem to appease her. "If there’s any chance of you changing your mind on the way over, you tell me now."
I shook my head again, and, as an afterthought, managed a low "I won’t."
She looked at me and I could see that she was struggling to believe me and then she nodded, once. She took my hand and pulled me away from the door, reaching for the handle and opening it. My jacket still lay on the floor, discarded, and she picked it up and swung it around her shoulders. Then she took my hand and I followed her up the stairs, looking up at her, at the shapely legs flexing with every step, at the dark bulk of the jacket enveloping her, at the golden halo of the hair above it, and the sight of her eclipsed everything else.
"Wait," I said, "what’s your name?"
"Hope." She said, without turning around.
The End