She didn’t wear deodorant, and I am uncertain if her underarm shadow is intentional or not. She had a near-quarter sleeve down her right arm that was populated with black colored roses and vines with thorns that dripped blood. Later, I would find out that each blooming rose was a permanent notation of the death of her love for a former lover. Her elbow and top of her forearm were interwoven with vines, anxiously awaiting a new rose. The black ink was a stark contrast to her pale skin that she embraced, wearing blush to really accentuate her milky skin. She smoked my cigarettes, one right after another without skipping a beat. She takes a drag of my cigarette as she pulls her feet up on the chair, pressing her knees against her breasts, hugging her nicked-up legs with her right arm. What was once pearly white boat shoes are ripping at the tongue as she kicks them off. Her toes are perfectly painted black.
She looked like a Leonard Cohen song.
“Songs from the Big Chair,” she slowly spoke pursing her lips, “now that – that is a righteous record.”
“I can’t stand this indecision, married with a lack of vision,” I say, leaning back, taking her all in.
She moved her head slightly, allowing her nose ring to shimmer in the sun. She looks off into the distance, thinking of what to say next, amongst many other things I am sure.
“Hey cowboy, you fucked me so good, I nearly told you that I loved you.”
I smirk. She notices it and embraces it. I reach for what is now a rather watered-down whiskey sour. I take a sip, biding my time as she awaits my response.
“Slow down, sweet talkin’ woman. It would be weird if you didn’t feel that way.”
“I bet you tell that to all the girls,” she speaks as she purses her lips once again.
“If you knew all the nights, I was alone, and every once in a while lonely; you would laugh.”
I can smell her. Her scent. While faint, it is still bold. It smells like a secret—a secret only between the two of us.
“I get bored easy, cowboy. Yet with you, you just might be my final destination.”
“That, my dear, is a very astute observation. Now, what are you prepared to do about it?”
She slightly opens her lips, and bites down on her right side.
“Ah. Don’t tell me. Let me guess,” I say as I light another cigarette and I notice that we are dangerously running low on our rations.
“But, whatever it is that you do decide to do, remember that the train is not always going to be in the station.”
She smiles at me. Her butterfly-printed faux Ray-Bans hide the mystery in her eyes. She wiggles her toes and then leans forward slightly.
“I’m prepared to suck your cock. Slowly and very, very wet.”
She leans back into the chair; extends her torso back, and slowly moves her feet under the glass table and sets her left heel on my knee and right foot on the chair and slides it between my legs, into my crotch. She moves her arms outward and rests them along the armrests. The way she sits, makes her look like she’s sitting in a chair two sizes too big. Her faded tie-dyed bikini top is coming undone. She knows it, and isn’t just letting it happen, she wants it to happen at the slow-burn pace it is. Her stomach is mainly flat, with an ever so slight pouch that encapsulates her penchant for gin and two am Taco Bell runs. She’s wearing these old lacrosse gym shorts she found somewhere in my closet or bathroom or somewhere in between. I can see her pussy, and she knows that I know that she knows I can. She’s wet and I’ll need a toothpick afterward.
“Well,” I pause for a dramatic effect, “I accept that offer, hot stuff.”
She smiles, ear to ear, just like the Cheshire Cat. She wiggles her legs, bouncing her feet up and down on my thigh and within my crotch with excitement. I set my drink down on the glass. She looks down at it and her face turns from excitement to concern.
“Let me fix you another drink,” she slightly exclaims, quickly removing her feet from me and leans forward swooping her black roses down and grabbing my glass. She quickly gets up and walks through the broken screen door. I may be lazy as shit with not getting it fixed, but I absolutely slide what’s left of it open and shut. I gotta stand for something.
“Hey. Grab another pack of cigarettes. Above the KitchenAid, in the pantry, and behind the Girl Scout cookies there should be three-quarters of a pack. If not, there might be another, but we’re probably fucked.”
“Okay!” she yells out from inside. I don’t hear her in the kitchen, nor the sideboard where the bottles and what is left of the ice is. I do hear a rustling, so I know she’s doing something. I hear that ambient static. She put on a record. Mark Knopfler’s guitar picks away to “So Far Away”.
Clever girl.
I sink back into my chair like that guy in that old Maxwell advertisement, smoking my cigarette looking like one cool motherfucker. I hear bottles moving and cabinet doors shutting and now her bare feet slapping against the ironwood floors and then she emerges through the broken screen door, making an entrance like she’s one of those girls on the Price is Right showing off a showcase showdown as she holds out, presenting a pack of cigarettes and a fresh whiskey sour. She smirks and simulates a curtsy and then rushes over to me in a blur and plops down on my lap. She holds the glass up to my lips and lifts the glass as I open my mouth, feeling the sweat dripping off the glass onto my chin and chest.
“It’s good, hmm?” she insists tilting her head down and making her sunglasses slide showing me her eyes. Oh, the sights to see in these motherfuckers. Good gravy, Marie.
“Baby, this isn’t the best whiskey sour I have ever had, but this just may be the best goddamn drink I’ve ever had.”
She digs her ass into my half-hard cock, letting me know that my answer exceeded expectations. She hands off the glass to me, as she takes a more than likely stale cigarette from the stashed pack and lights it. She inhales, not breaking her stare, and exhales slowly as she removes the cigarette from her moist, lipstick-covered lips. Just like in a movie, her hand moves to my face in slow motion, as she flawlessly rotates her hand and brings the lipstick embossed end to my mouth. I squeeze down, inhaling. Tasting both her, her lipstick, and the tobacco. She places her hands on my chest and slides her whole body down between my legs pressing her knees against the concrete; shifting to adjust herself in the right position.
“Sunglasses on or off?”
“Off. I wanna see the whites of your eyes,” I tell her.
She smiles and slides them down, hooking an arm in the middle of her bikini. And there it goes, unties itself and the strings slide down her sides. Her breasts drop out from under the washed-out kaleidoscope of colors. She puts her arms on my thighs and opens my legs up. She digs her elbows into my knees and moves her hands and undoes my jeans. She reads the message on the inseam and snickers to herself. She looks up at me and bats her eyelashes. The smoke look around her eyes emboldens her lashes to the point where they must be fake because they are so perfect, but have to be real. I smoke my cigarette slowly, savoring it. I move my left hand and slide it up her right arm, past all the thorns and grab a handful of roses, squeezing her skin, feeling the slight shadow coarsely between my fingertips and fingernails.
“This is going to be, really, great.”
She reaches into my jeans.
“I really think you’re going to dig this.”
I take the cigarette from my mouth and exhale. She looks up at me, frozen in anticipation.
“I want you to do it like you would for the one you love.”
She starts. Very slowly, strategically. She knows what I like; what I need. Mark Knopfler tells me from within my home,
“I’m tired of being in love and all alone when you’re so far away from me. I’m tired of making out with you on the telephone. You’re so far away from me.”
I am thoroughly enjoying this, there is no doubt about that. She knows what she’s doing, how she’s doing it. She knows how torqued up she’s gotten me. But I won’t give her the satisfaction of cumming so quickly. I look down at the black roses, the dripping vines as I move my fingers in the crease of her underarm. She’s perspiring. I’m not as curious as to the first rose is, that’s the first, not as interesting, I am more curious about these chaps in the middle, there is about seven or eight roses, so who are these guys that are three, four, and five? At some point among her travels, she had to think that anyone of these three, well, especially three and four might be keepers. Five is where she might have thought that she’s just going to be on this endless crusade to find the one, who in actuality does not exist, so she’ll just populate her arm with roses, only marking herself with the ones of significance. The ones that meant something, the ones who have earned it. I know I have. Sure as shit I have. Now seems as good a time as any to cum. She earned it, and I earned this moment in the fucking sun.