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March 2006
Mar. 15th, 2011 12:05 amShe left a trail of spilt wine for me to follow, dark as blood and delicate as tear drops beneath the crush of my boots. I arrived at the veranda, lit pale silver by the moon’s waning blossom. The trail trickled across the pollen coated floorboards and climbed the hug of her spectral white gown with tiny steps of red stains. She sat facing me on a railing entwined with dying ivy, swigging deliriously off the dwindling bottle. The pinot noir trickled steadily down her lips, curved the chin’s jut, plummeted along the neck and vanished into the thirsty shadows squeezed between her breasts. A mild wind set auburn bangs to flutter briefly before eyes the green of winter’s shores receding and of the ocean’s waves lapping patiently along the curious prow.
She offered no confession. She delivered no taunt. The silence in which she regarded me, the indifferent gaze of a well fed animal. It didn’t matter. I knew he was here and what was done in my absence. The ghost of his cologne lingered along air still charged with an electric arrogance.
“Do I know him?” I asked.
“No,” she said wiping the last of the noir off her chin and with a thoughtful roll of the eyes, “maybe. Does it matter?”
I made my way over to the railing, kneeled down before her and looked up into those delightfully treacherous green eyes, “Tell me everything.”
“Everything?”
“But his name…," and I threw back my head and opened my mouth as far as it could go . She poured the wine gently and I lapped at it eagerly, the juices splashing against my cheeks. When the bottle was emptied, I hiked up the folds of her skirt, slid magenta panties down milky white thighs until they dangled from a single ankle, pressed my face into her lap and continued to drink with a terrible thirst.
They met at the club last month during the Shadow Ball. I was too drunk on the dance floor to notice them vanishing into the woman’s room to do a bump together. He risked a kiss and scored. Another bump and another kiss, this time to her nipples. Another bump and she shrugged consent to his mounting needs. He took her from behind while she crouched over the lines cut across the toilet’s tank lid. A twelve inch cock made up for a lack of technique. Clumsy fingers probed uselessly under the hood of the clit. He came with a giggle that fired across a graffiti scrawled octopus. Outside regulars giggled while touching up lipstick and checking outfits. They did another bump. Traded numbers and before I even noticed, she was back on the floor dancing with me.
Her cunt sopping wet beneath my tongue. I orbited and suckled, I lashed and stroked... but no matter how hard I tried the faint taste of latex and him remained. My face flushed with shame and need, she continued between gasp and grunt.
He called her up earlier that night. Said he was going to be in the neighborhood. When she asked which one, he replied whichever one she was in. She fired a text to make sure I was still working and texted him back the all clear. He arrived fifteen minutes later with two bottles of wine, a twenty bag of blow and twelve inches of much needed pain. The exact numbers needed to reach her sum.
She paused the story and sank deep with a groan into my efforts.
I pulled my face back and saw that her head was thrown back with the low hanging moon behind her forming a luminous halo.
The rest of the evening, she explained with a shiver, lacked the forbidden charm of their bathroom’s dance. The clothes stripped with drunken fingers, the mounting quick without coax, the hair yanked and the ride, though properly hard, much too quick to arrive at his shuddering destination. He left her, with three lines cut on the dresser and one of the bottle’s still unopened.
I nodded and fished a smoke out of my jeans. Lit it and let her take it from my lips after a single drag.
She helped me back up on my feet and I caught her before she fell off the railing.
We kissed…
… both knowing it would be the last time. A tear rolled down her freckled cheek and mingled with the blood red wine dry on her chin.
“You knew who I was before we got together,” she sniffled.
“And you knew that I didn’t care so long as I didn’t know who they were.”
“But…”
And I say his name and it’s a friend’s name, a roommate’s name, the name of a man who’s bummed my last twenty and smoked with me my last joint the night before.
She nodded once. We hugged. The warmth of her press against me tempted me to stay at least until the next morning. Instead I pushed her away, with soft insistence and I left without looking back. Yet, to this day, or rather to this night, her treachery continues to haunt my private satisfactions and reflects back at me through the eyes of a dozen lovers since.
She offered no confession. She delivered no taunt. The silence in which she regarded me, the indifferent gaze of a well fed animal. It didn’t matter. I knew he was here and what was done in my absence. The ghost of his cologne lingered along air still charged with an electric arrogance.
“Do I know him?” I asked.
“No,” she said wiping the last of the noir off her chin and with a thoughtful roll of the eyes, “maybe. Does it matter?”
I made my way over to the railing, kneeled down before her and looked up into those delightfully treacherous green eyes, “Tell me everything.”
“Everything?”
“But his name…," and I threw back my head and opened my mouth as far as it could go . She poured the wine gently and I lapped at it eagerly, the juices splashing against my cheeks. When the bottle was emptied, I hiked up the folds of her skirt, slid magenta panties down milky white thighs until they dangled from a single ankle, pressed my face into her lap and continued to drink with a terrible thirst.
They met at the club last month during the Shadow Ball. I was too drunk on the dance floor to notice them vanishing into the woman’s room to do a bump together. He risked a kiss and scored. Another bump and another kiss, this time to her nipples. Another bump and she shrugged consent to his mounting needs. He took her from behind while she crouched over the lines cut across the toilet’s tank lid. A twelve inch cock made up for a lack of technique. Clumsy fingers probed uselessly under the hood of the clit. He came with a giggle that fired across a graffiti scrawled octopus. Outside regulars giggled while touching up lipstick and checking outfits. They did another bump. Traded numbers and before I even noticed, she was back on the floor dancing with me.
Her cunt sopping wet beneath my tongue. I orbited and suckled, I lashed and stroked... but no matter how hard I tried the faint taste of latex and him remained. My face flushed with shame and need, she continued between gasp and grunt.
He called her up earlier that night. Said he was going to be in the neighborhood. When she asked which one, he replied whichever one she was in. She fired a text to make sure I was still working and texted him back the all clear. He arrived fifteen minutes later with two bottles of wine, a twenty bag of blow and twelve inches of much needed pain. The exact numbers needed to reach her sum.
She paused the story and sank deep with a groan into my efforts.
I pulled my face back and saw that her head was thrown back with the low hanging moon behind her forming a luminous halo.
The rest of the evening, she explained with a shiver, lacked the forbidden charm of their bathroom’s dance. The clothes stripped with drunken fingers, the mounting quick without coax, the hair yanked and the ride, though properly hard, much too quick to arrive at his shuddering destination. He left her, with three lines cut on the dresser and one of the bottle’s still unopened.
I nodded and fished a smoke out of my jeans. Lit it and let her take it from my lips after a single drag.
She helped me back up on my feet and I caught her before she fell off the railing.
We kissed…
… both knowing it would be the last time. A tear rolled down her freckled cheek and mingled with the blood red wine dry on her chin.
“You knew who I was before we got together,” she sniffled.
“And you knew that I didn’t care so long as I didn’t know who they were.”
“But…”
And I say his name and it’s a friend’s name, a roommate’s name, the name of a man who’s bummed my last twenty and smoked with me my last joint the night before.
She nodded once. We hugged. The warmth of her press against me tempted me to stay at least until the next morning. Instead I pushed her away, with soft insistence and I left without looking back. Yet, to this day, or rather to this night, her treachery continues to haunt my private satisfactions and reflects back at me through the eyes of a dozen lovers since.