Best of Best Women's Erotica (24 page)

“Moving a little stiffly, aren't we?” I said as I helped get her duffel down from the rack.

“Mmm, but the show must go on.”

“I'm sure you won't disappoint your audience.” I aimed an encouraging slap at her fine, muscular ass. “Go get 'em.”

Yasmin made a few tentative advances between New York and D.C., but I wasn't that vulnerable anymore, and she gave up and slept for most of the trip. The welcoming party at Union Station was headed by a tall, mature woman in a well-cut dark suit.

“The Princess traveled well?” she asked, with a keen, hard look at me.

“Just fine,” I said, meeting her eyes frankly, “with no harm done, if you don't count a few slaps to make her keep her hands to herself.”

“Excellent,” she said, with the ghost of a smile. “The Sultan would be happy to offer hospitality for the night, before your return trip.”

“I appreciate the offer,” I said truthfully, “but I have other plans. I'm getting on the next train to New York. There's a literary event I don't want to miss.”

 

Terry's schedule of readings was scrawled on the back of her card. There's a special one at midnight. I have a notion there'll be enough erotica groupies to go around. Beyond that, I wouldn't mind meeting an editor, finding out more about the writing game. I know damned well that Terry will want to use some of today's action in her fiction. I might just beat her to it.

I've gotta edit out that “train to my tunnel, bound for glory” line, though. Too bad. That's sure as hell exactly how it felt.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I STARE AT MYSELF IN THE MIRROR WEARING nothing, holding scissors. I like their sharp gleam. I keep them in my hand while I search for something old to wear tonight. Something from before Jack.

At the back of the bottom drawer of the long built-in set of thirteen narrow drawers Jack labeled, without asking, with his well-oiled and efficient label gun, I find them. For some reason there is no label on the last drawer, and in the back of this dark unlabeled place I find my leotards and tights and rehearsal skirts from dancing, from ballet, from before Jack who never dances. I put the scissors down but I keep them close.

Ten years old and it still fits me, black Lycra leotard, loose but no dry rot. I pull it over sheer
black Christian Dior tights that I found in drawer number seven, lucky seven, labeled “hosiery,” and unwrapped from tissue paper. I tie the sleek, smooth folds of the crimson rehearsal skirt around my waist. The effect is nearly perfect for tonight.

But not quite. I pick up the scissors from the dresser and I cut the past into now, less is more in the now, and I snip, snap, cut off the cone of material I have pulled out to a point just above my right shoulder; one naked globe of shoulder white looks great against black Lycra. Quick symmetric cutting snips the left shoulder open, and I shake both shoulders and untie the red skirt, then bisect it at an angle, jagged bi-level hem, so the longest point ends just above my knee. I retie the silky folds around my narrow dancer's waist.

Almost there—only one thing more for tonight. I lean into the mirror, lean into a stranger, take the pointed tips of my shiny steel scissors and cut a tiny heart in the black Lycra pulled taut between the swell of my breasts, equidistant between the uncovered shoulders of the stranger in the mirror. And the stranger in the mirror screams
I want
for tonight: I want to break into age thirty, skin to skin with a stranger, with another broken stranger, tonight.

 

As I drive into town the rain stops sheeting into my windshield. I can't say when that happened; I was driving on instruments only, and my radar led me here, to Belltown, to this bar. I park Jack's ugly Porsche on the street and step out onto clean wet pavement under the full orange moon rising late in a velvet sky. The pulsing neon outside the bar beckons me, so I pick up a pack of Royals at the kiosk next door and then go on in.

Tonight feels like death. Amazing how death makes you horny. I learned that when my mother died and, in shock, I
grabbed Jack and lost it. He'd been pushing me for months, said he was embarrassed dating a twenty-year-old virgin. It feels like that tonight, like somebody just died. More than revenge, more than anything else, that's what brings me here to this bar to turn thirty with a stranger.

When I get inside I know it's the right bar. I smell it. It smells old: lots of history here. Smoky, brick dust; old, high dark ceilings; old ghosts. The walls shine with polished mahogany wainscotting; there are high-backed booths, circular, with generous, honey-colored leather interiors like an old Jag or a Packard. You could take a nice ride with a stranger here. Amber liquids line the glass shelves, Glenlivet, Chivas Regal, Galliano; golden lights repeating themselves over and over in the mirror, stretching out the length of the bar.

I wait to catch the rhythm—and by the time I strut my stuff, walking the line, I've got them all looking. The guys, and it's mostly guys here tonight, feel it and swivel to watch me walk. I'm carrying a lot of atmosphere with me—stormy weather, small craft warning. Let's all watch the waves, boys.

They melt away to let me through, can't help themselves: boys. I take the last post, shiny chrome, leather dome under my thighs. The empty seat next to me remains a naked invitation.

I cross sheer black magic Christian Dior thighs, smooth slick slide of toned nylon. Elastic recross. Beat beat. I dig in my daughter's tiny heart-shaped purse, it's just big enough for cigarettes. At seven, Paige uses it for playing dress-up. This is the first time I've dressed for seduction. Until now, Jack's been the only one.

I take out the cigarettes, first cigarettes since Jack—ten years of Jack and no nicotine. I tap tap the pack on the slick surface of the bar and draw one out slowly. Royals: French, long and
menthol. A double whammy. I stick the end in my mouth, crimson velvet, like my skirt. I make the letter
O
with my lips and kind of roll it around to get it moist.

“What can I get you?” It's Dracula behind the bar, thick black widow's peak, slicked-back ponytail, black silk shirt tucked loosely into small waist, waiting in motion, quick bounce from one foot to the other, yes, light on his feet.

“So what is it, lady?”

“Something potent, I don't want to remember any of this.”

“Can you get a little more specific?” His eyes say
get on with it,
he's seen too many ladies on the hunt to humor me now.

“Maybe…tequila. Potent and specific, wouldn't you say?”

“Cuervo?”

“I don't know, sure. Say, do you have a light?”

“Look, lady, I can come back when you're ready.”

“Okay, Cuervo, a double—please?” But he's gone for the drink, attitude bristling from his shoulders and his tight mouth. What did I do to him?

“Can I give you a light?” This from the eager boy on my left. Fresh-faced, college-sweatered.

All right, here we go. “Please. I was beginning to think no one smoked anymore, but then I smelled this bar from the street.”

“Good ventilation though, I come here a lot. Here you go.” He flicks a square silver lighter with a strong flame.

“Thanks.” I steady his hand with mine, dead white with crimson nails against his tan. I lean into him and suck it in long and deep, following his eyes up from my short skirt to the heart-shaped cutout where my breasts press each other. He reads my eyes and smiles.

“You really suck that down,” he says.

“Nervy, I guess—it's been a long time.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Since I've smoked, I mean.”

“It doesn't look like it.”

“I could get to like it again.” I look at the lit cylinder in my hand. He straddles the leather seat next to me and lights a Marlboro for himself.

“I haven't seen you here before. I would have remembered.” Again with the slow smile.

“Like I said,” I take another drag, “it's been a long time.”

“So what's with the outfit, you a dancer or something?”

“I didn't have anything else to wear.”

“Don't get me wrong, I like it. I just thought…you might get cold.”

“I may just have to cozy up to some warm stranger.”

“Now that sounds…” He moves in close, but Drac, the bartender, is back.

“Drinks, shooter, double Cuervo for the lady. And you, Joe College, what'd you have down there—Red Hook? Draft?”

“I'll get the lady's, too.”

“No, that's okay,” I say. “I'll pay for it.” I give the bartender a fifty. “This should cover it, and a Red Hook for my friend.” He makes a face. “Just take that and run a tab,” I tell him. I add a “please,” real sweet, but no smile from Drac. He's off for the beer on the turn of a heel. Nice ass, but I'm back to the bird in the hand.

“I'll get the next round,” he says.

“Sounds great. So, where were we?”

“We were talking about keeping you warm.”

“Right, and you're the man with the fire!” I say, taking out another cigarette; he's just as quick with his lighter. This time he leans in a little closer and I take a little longer with my hand on
his and we are fast coming to an understanding, I think. I cross my legs again and shift on the slippery leather, and this time my knee just happens to end up against his.

Keeping cozy, he stubs his cigarette into the glass ashtray, and pops a mint into his mouth. “I've gotta start tapering off,” he says. “I have to quit this fall.”

“Why this fall?”

He kind of clears his throat and I can see he knows I'll be impressed, so I get my face ready with the proper level of interest.

“I start medical school this fall, and quitting smoking, well, it's practically a requirement.”

“Medical school?” My face freezes, my mouth can barely form the words. Medical school. Just like fucking Jack. Can't I get away from him tonight? I slam down my shooter, and choke on the hot fire going down my throat.

“Are you okay?” He can see that I'm not.

I see the bartender again through the water in my eyes. “Another double,” I tell him. It comes out a choke, and Mr. Future Doctor starts hitting me on the back.

“That won't help,” Drac tells him, and hands me a glass of water. “Drink this,” he says, and watches me, his eyes a little softer now. “You sure you want another double?”

I get my voice back. “I know what I want.” I slide off the stool, bumping into Mr. Future Doctor, Future God, Future Jack—it makes me queasy, or maybe that's the cigarettes. Forget him. I'm picking my stranger by how much he doesn't have in common with my husband. “Excuse me.” I get up, leaving my coat. I have to get away from this guy, suddenly he looks too smug, too sure of himself, too Jack. I point vaguely toward the ladies' room and take off, still coughing.

I walk down the line. This may be harder than I thought. He's too old, he's too young, ugh, too tall—opposite of Jack, there we go, short and dark, kind of stocky, over there, farther down the line. I pause in front of gray flannel, briefcase at his feet, straight edges, maybe too straight. Wait. He's loosening the knot on the burgundy tie with the tiny sperm-shaped paisleys. His eyes say
give me a chance,
and I think I will. Hello, short and dark, Jack's antithesis in gray flannel. Nothing to do with Jack. I've been so stupid.

“Excuse me, are you waiting for someone?” He's quick, looks like a lawyer.

“Absolutely,” I say, jumping right in there. “Someone like you.”

“Sit down, then.” He pats the leather seat next to him, “Let's talk about it.”

I turn into the leather round as he moves the seat closer to him and I collide with his Manhattan. “Oh, sorry, look, I got you all wet.”

“No problem,” he says, mopping it up. “Really.”

“Let me replace that drink, please—it's the least I can do. Here, have some more napkins.”

“Really, it's no problem.” He's being a good sport about it.

“I am sorry…all that pretty gray flannel. Soda water would help. Here, let me help you.” Now we're both mopping. “Oh, your pants, too. Oh,
sorry,
I…you'd better do that…. What we need is soda water. Where is that bartender?”

“There he is.”

“Can you get him? I don't think he likes me.”

“He's seen us, he's coming.”

“You think he looks like Dracula?” I ask.

“What are you talking about?”

“The guy, the bartender, see it? That widow's peak, the slicked-back hair, those eyes.”

He considers it, but then he shakes his head. “Nope,” he says, “he's not pale enough. Dracula's been dead for centuries—his skin's like chalk—kind of like yours.”

“You like white ladies?”

“Among others.”

“Excuse me, um, Cesar,” I'm reading the bartender's name tag, “is that how you say it—Seh-zar? I like that. Nice.”

“It's my name.”

“And—what's in a name, right?” Nice eyes, too, I'm thinking.

“Did you have something in mind?” he asks.

“Absolutely,” I reply.

“To drink.”

“Yes, to drink. Another double shot of Cuervo, for me. And this gentleman in the wet gray suit needs some soda water for his pants and something to wet his whistle. Was that a Manhattan, mister, ah, maybe I should know your name now that I've soaked you to the skin?”