Sometimes you just fuck. You meet. You talk for a bit. You like her accent.
It was late for supper. I sat at the bar. She was nearly done eating. I smiled at her. We struck up a conversation. That accent. I love an accent. It doesn’t matter from where. Hers was clearly southern, but from where? A little backwater. Creole. Raspy. She looked like she had always been wild and always gotten away with it. I got her talking about back home. Her father. Her crazy mother. An aunt somewhere in the picture. Fishing. What the sunsets were like and how she’d lay on her belly in the wet grass and watch the sky light up. We smiled at each other. This fit.
Easy. Straightforward. This is about fucking. Yes or no. I finished my burger and she grabbed my thigh and ducked her head down to look me right in the eye, close. “I can’t read you,” she said, “Are we getting a drink?” I nodded, “Sure,” I said, “That seems about right.” She slapped me hard on the back and spoke a little too loudly, “Good! But not here. I know a great little bar a few blocks towards the water.”
We walked side by side. The energy buzzing. A fast pace. Loud laughs. She grabbed my neck and squeezed it. “You’re good,” she said, “This feels good.” I laughed. I wasn’t talking much. Usually, I’m the one telling stories but she had plenty. I wasn’t used to her level of energy. I’d been out with a lot of shy girls, reserved girls, the girls who wait for a kiss. She was not one of those. Tall and lanky. A shadow of a mustache. Eyes the color of ice water.
The bar was perfect. Dark. Sticky. Stiff drinks. No one looking. She held my thigh hard between her fingers and told me more small town stories. I kissed her in the middle of a sentence. I was feeling done with the pretense. I liked her energy. I wanted to fuck. She wanted another drink. I had a bitters and soda and shook my head clean.
She had a small studio down there. Near the water. Everything changes near the water. The air. The smells. The sounds. It’s softer and cleaner but somehow, also, so dirty. Dirty gutters. More piss on the pavement. Broken meters. You can smell rotting things. The fish, the algae, the dumpsters. Brown banana peels and thrown away leftovers strewn in fields of weeds behind chain link fences. Dirty blankets. Tarps. A shoe.
She didn’t live here. Just shared a small studio space with some other artists. We didn’t talk about her art. I don’t know what she did there. Painting maybe. Everything was covered by sheets. There was a broken down couch covered in a brownish red corduroy with wide stripes. The couch was covered in sharp dried bits of things. Paint, clay, ketchup.
We fucked there. I sat on her lap. She opened her knees wide and let her hands fall next to her hips. She guided me gently with the tips of her fingers until I sat close, so close to her. My face above hers. Her head resting on the back of the couch. I touched the buttons of her shirt but she grinned and grabbed me quick, moving my hands to my own clothes. Button by button. I watched her eyes move down my chest. I pulled my shirt off, slowly eased my arms out of the sleeves and listened to it fall. She lifted one arm and tugged at the neck of my undershirt. I grabbed her head and pulled her mouth onto my tit and she sucked on my nipple through the thin cotton, letting her head fall back when the fabric was soaked. I could smell the sweet booze and sour cigarettes in her spit. I pulled my shirt tight against my skin and a small breeze made my nipple flinch cold and wet. Hard. I squeezed it tightly in my fingers and winced.
A slow show. I touched my neck for her. Lifted my shirt over my head but left it on like a harness, holding my shoulders back. I traced the outline of my belt under a finger and reached down to scratch at the seam of her jeans, wanting to feel her clit before I unlatched my belt buckle and slid it off with a hiss. I draped the belt around her shoulders. I scratched at her tits through her shirt with the rough edge of leather. She took my hands in hers and pressed them into my belly, nodding at me. Prodding me to keep going.
I grabbed the buckle of my belt hanging next to her ribs and tugged on it, pulling the strap off her shoulders until I could slip it into my pants. I had to suck in my belly to make room for my hand, pushing the belt buckle lower until it slid against my cunt. Her mouth fell open for a moment. Her smile lost. Eyes wide as if she was straining to see that buckle pressed against my clit under my clothes. I took the belt in my hands and pulled the tail of it over to me, gripping it low and holding it flat against my belly and between my tits. The thick leather felt so good in my hands. I could move it slowly up and down against my clit. We fell into this together. The slow movement. My ass lifted off of her thighs and pumping up and down with the tiniest sway. I felt her fingers on my hips.
Her small room was hot but a chilling breeze rushed in from time to time through a crack at the bottom of one window that couldn’t properly close. The metal on my clit felt so good. I was rubbing it so slow, so slow I could feel it swelling. I stared at her face. The way her eyes took me in made me shake. Made me sweat. My armpits were wet, the hair getting slicked against my skin. My pants were starting to stick to the backs of my thighs. “Keep it slow like this,” she whispered with a crack in her voice. I didn’t say a word. I didn’t move my lips or blink or nod. I just stayed in this slow movement and shuddered.
This is how we fucked. I came against the slow back and forth of warm metal against my clit. My pants still buttoned up tight. My hands holding my belt strap. Her eyes on me. Her legs open wide beneath me. Sweat beading on her upper lip. A few strands of her dark hair sticking to her forehead. I came with a jerk that shoved my chest into her face. She twisted her head away from me right before my sternum hit her hard. I thought about her sharp, thin nose and how I might have bloodied it if she hadn’t turned. I would have liked to see that. The blood on her face.
She let me open her jeans. She left her hands at her sides as I pushed my fingers inside her pants. The same slow sway in her lap. Her cunt was so wet. Thick and wet. My fingers easily slid against her, into her. Slow. Slow and burning. I got a lump in my throat. She stared into my eyes. This stranger I was fucking. This woman who’s name I wasn’t sure I knew. But I knew something about her childhood. Her dad. The yard she grew up in. Her love of soft grass and warm air and a wide sky. She took my belt and bit into the leather, holding it in her mouth, clamped down on it while the heat in her cunt built. She growled when she came and didn’t jerk or pull like I do. She opened and flattened and clenched her jaw. I saw her teeth sink deeper into the leather strap. I felt her clit throb. And then she sank a little lower and smiled.