I must cajole you with a word penis or a phrase forcing his lips against hers so you'll keep reading, so your eyes will sail across the page. It's my job to hold your attention. Trust me, it's not that easy. Distractions abound. You're waiting for the phone to ring. The nurse to call out your name.
It's a game we play, but only if you're willing. I, of course, am always willing. I've been practicing a while now, lobbing words, sentences, paragraphs. Case in point, I've already written a few sentences and you, vaguely curious, are still reading. Perhaps you'll grace me with another minute of your time and a few more lines of text. That would make me happy. And if you do, I'll give you a satisfying story with an ending that will make you smile. Guaranteed.
You smirk. Yeah right. Nevertheless, my hubris entices. Who am I to know what makes you smile? We are no relation. But I would disagree. We are very much related, for therein lies the reason why stories are written and read, told and listened to.
Continuing, let me say I'm a naughty girl. Perhaps the word naughty tantalizes you with sexual innuendo and playfulness. And a naughty girl, takes it one step further to licentiousness. I choose words carefully. I don't want to become boring, predictable. It could be my demise. At any moment you could reach for the remote and flip on the television.
So, I say I'm a naughty girl. And in a split second your mind conjures fleeting images: nakedness and last night or week-end or month when your lover, spouse was on top, panting and slapping against you. I should be embarrassed about such things. I was prudishly raised by church-going parents and a cadre of nuns who covered their bodies in wool and heavily starched cotton. But I am shameless. Holding your attention is everything to me.
However, words are hardly enough. I know my limitations. A shiny hook must be dangled.
This story is about a man and a woman, a boss and a worker bee. They are from different departments, different social strata, different worlds. He drinks dry martinis and plays golf at the country club. She line dances to country music between sips of diet Coke and rum.
Like us, their meeting is serendipitous, a matter of being in the same place at the same time. Please note I did not say at the wrong place at the wrong time. I try not to judge or give away too much too soon. Simply we are here while they are there, standing in the company cafeteria ordering sandwiches to go, specifically tuna fish on whole wheat. They are positioned rather close which is surprising since there's no need. It's almost two o'clock in the afternoon and the cafeteria is practically empty.
Imagine stepping back and taking a wide shot of this corporate lunchroom located in the east wing of the seventh floor. One cafeteria worker is on wipe-down duty. She sprays a tabletop, does a quick swipe then moves on. She is the only one making noise as she bumps along rattling tables and chairs. And from this vantage point you are indeed struck by the close proximity of the man and woman who are waiting for sandwiches. In fact, if you didn't know any better, you would assume they were coworkers, friends, or something on that continuum. A sliver of space separates them, but just barely. They are so close, they could whisper. They are so close they could pass state secrets. They are so close no good is sure to come of it.
And in fact, the first thing he notices is the way she smells, very fresh and clean. Suddenly, he longs to dive into his swimming pool, where the clear water, deceptively blue, washes away the morning's insipid phone calls and asinine questions he had to field with misleading truthfulness. He looks toward the left and tries to get a better sense of her from his peripheral vision. He sees what he seeks—breasts jetting forward, ensconced beneath thin sheaths of cotton and lace; breasts that hang heavy when loosened from their bonds, breasts with dark puckered tits that he can suck and bite. The woman is naked in the pool, attached to him, straddling his waist with her legs. Water swishes between them, making quiet lapping sounds. Her breasts are buoyant, sometimes touching him, sometimes not. And as they rise and fall, the crystalline water glistens...
Dear reader to be better oriented please know the woman is sensibly dressed in a white blouse and black straight skirt. Her outfit is cinched at the waist with a wide belt. Her shoes are red with pointed toes and sharp spindly heels. Of this, he is vaguely aware. From the real world a voice intrudes: Pickle with your sandwich? He nods, then reaches for his wallet.
The woman stares at his hands as he fingers the bills inside the fold and, without warning, a primal feeling, both basic and beyond reason, stirs. Little does she realize how subtle yet unproven confluences affect us all at one time or another.
Consider you and me. On a busy street we walk. I am heading north, while you are going south. We are unknown to each other. Still, my eyes lift from watching the ground and find you, moving quickly with an assured gait. And for whatever reason you turn your head in my direction. Our glances connect in an extraordinary, intimate way until, within the time it takes for light to travel, we blink, disconnect and continue, seemingly untouched.
I believe there are matters not totally understood but insinuated by such events. Perhaps they are caused by gravitational pulls from retrograde planets or auras that bleed then blend becoming colors in the ultraviolet range sensed only by birds. I'm still trying to figure it out. However, what attracts her to him is not his aura. Of that I can assure. His hands are large and tan and muscular; hands reminiscent of others that ran up her leg, traveled along her back, pinned down her wrists.
He pulls out a fifty-dollar bill and calls out to the cashier that he'll pay for everything—his lunch and the woman's too. Oh yes, and keep the change. Money talks, without him having to bother. A lesson learned from his parents and theirs: cash is more than commodity. Always. But that's another story.
Please know, he doesn't buy lunch for women at work. In fact, this is the first time he's ever done so. There are rules talked about in the boardroom, rules between company men that have less to do with propriety than with saving their company's behind from embarrassing lawsuits, rules that today in this seventh-floor cafeteria are obviated due to an overriding, growing stiffness achiness between his legs caused by . . . he can't be sure. The smell of tuna? The deftly handled knife? The thin skin of the tomato that, resistant at first, splits apart oozing juice and seeds? Point is, once the gear shifts, caution blows out the exhaust.
The woman hears his offer. But the overture pales to the sound of his voice, authoritative and assured; so unlike the effusive, fictitious, desperate chatter found in accounts receivable—love the dress, love the shoes, great haircut. A man's voice reverberates. A man's voice buffers and surrounds and draws her under. She'd like to hear it again. Close her eyes and imagine Take it off in a deep-throated demand. There's arousal in servitude. In seconds, hormones release causing a chain of events that leave her mouth dry.
And while she tries to focus on his words, he waits, stock still, vigilant, on the edge. It's all about the hunt and its components: stalk, chase, kill, metaphorically speaking of course. He holds the fifty-dollar bill and waits for some acknowledgment from the woman with breasts. Even the sandwich maker stops and looks up. He's waving money in the air, unsure of his next move. Does he remake the offer, only louder? Does he pretend the words never left his mouth? But salvation arrives. A thank you is heard, he pivots, and for the first time they are face to face.
Dear reader think to those daily events when a new person is seen close up. Perhaps you are in a store checkout occupied with a duty to perform: the alignment of cans, boxes, bottled, jarred, plastic-wrapped products, until the activity demands discourse. Paper or plastic? Whereupon you look up to find another human being within arm's reach. At first, there's only a simple scan, an impersonal glance, after which your mind may wander. On the other hand, some detail of that person may cause your eyes to linger, to evaluate, to wonder.
She is pretty but plain. No long blond hair to fall over his chest or full red lips to consume his hidden parts. Her hair is of some indiscriminate color he can only guess at—light ash brown? In a style that is wispy, blown about, as if she's just gotten out of bed. Yes, of course. Perhaps that's the attraction, a reminder of how she may look in the privacy of his office, on the leather couch, each pump solid, forceful, with legs wrapped around him and hot breaths against his cheek.
"Sir. Are you listening?"
He snaps back. Two plates with sandwiches, chips and a pickle sit on the counter.
"Your food's ready."
Suddenly, hands, his and hers, reach. And for a moment our couple is in tandem where remarkable, complicated synaptic messages from hand to spine to brain, and back down again, are repeated in two separate bodies with the same results. They each grab a plate. Without forethought, he says, "Where should we sit?"
The question is a curious one. Certainly polite. But there's an assumption made, a command hidden in the subtext. Still she could object (How dare you?) or interject (Sorry. Got work.) or scurry off without a response. But truthfully, she likes the panache, the smoothness, the tone of complicity they have yet to share. "Wherever you like," she says.
They weave around the tables and chairs to a distant place where, he hopes, their voices won't carry. Already he's planning a move, not totally formalized. He stops. There's a moment's hesitation, uncertainty. With some parrying, he sits facing the room as she slides in across. Without a word, or a bite, he takes a better look. Sunlight pours over her, exposing fine hair along the side of her face. His gaze then follows a slender neck to where the collar of her blouse fans out. There is no cleavage. Still, her breasts are full and high.
He's framed by glass and the city beyond. But the view pales to his shameless stare. Understanding men, she sits straighter. Yes, they feast with their eyes, take it all in, and frankly, as luck would have it, she likes being appraised, gapped at. Her mind is in two places. In one, she is pleasantly aroused; in another she is removed, thinking how each man has a unique checklist of what he likes, most probably imprinted at an earlier time when his body responded without willfulness to secret events — looking up a young girl's skirt at the playground — and not understanding, but liking, the intrigue it held, the flouncy material giving way to where the legs thickened and the bit of underpants showed around the curved backside. Boys react early, that's a fact. First voyeurs, then taunters, then going in for the gusto with dares — I'll show you mine if you show me yours — inching the envelope further each time. Men are like boys, never outgrowing, prescient adolescence with all those hormones either natural or store bought.
His lips move. "Unbutton your blouse," he tells her.
She gives him a wry smile as if to say, you first.
He is not amused. "Do it," he says.
He wants something she has. A power play has arisen. Suddenly she feels on the edge of a blade. His eyes are riveted. Slowly, she raises her hand and with deft, playful fingers, toys with the top button of her blouse. He nods. He approves. And with a twist the button loosens.
The top of a white bra is showing with swelling mounds to each side. He likes what he sees, but wants more. "Keep going."
She turns her head slightly.
He understands. "Don't look. No one's around."
She focuses back with curious, detached thoughts — how hard is he? how hard is he willing to get in a seventh-floor lunchroom? She reaches, then lingers at the second button. He takes in a breath. She then rewards him with yet a third button.
With each inch exposed, his heart revs. Her midriff is flat and tight, making her breasts appear larger than he had expected. He'd like to reach over and rip off what's left. But there's no need. The bra has clasps in the front. He juts out his chin, then whispers, "Show me your tits."
We, you and I, smile at this. He's overplayed his hand, made one too many assumptions, demands. We watch for a sly smile to crease her face or trite words to excuse herself. But she is quiet, solemn. In fact, certain body parts, like his, have swollen to a dull ache. Perhaps it shouldn't be a surprise — they are breathing the same air.
She's almost, but not quite, beyond consequences. She's almost, but not quite, ready to leave. How far will the next move take her? She dives in quickly and unhooks the bra. Spontaneously, cloth splits apart, freeing constricted flesh to cool air. Once exposed, her tits tighten, sending an electrical pulse throughout her body. A pulse that transfers across the table.
His response is no surprise. He tells her to button up and go with him. She nods. They then stand, and barely able to walk, toss their uneaten lunches into the flap of the trash can. Once out of the cafeteria, the two fall into a rabbit hole of unchartered land.
Pulling away for moment I'd like to make an argument that neither you nor I are very different from this man or woman. There's a familiar story here. Yes. I know for a fact there have been irrational moments in our lives. Spontaneous events driven by emotion, poor judgment — a crying child perhaps, or a reckless drive after one too many drinks. Point is what separates us is a gossamer wing, transparent, permeable. We're all human. Anyway, your interest is piqued, as is mine. We are voyeurs in this underground place.
With furtive eyes we search for our couple. Imagine. Zoom to spots where they may be.
The elevator shows no sign of them, nor his office or hers. They are not in a rest room. And you are blaming me for leading you down this unnerving path.
But wait.
Beyond the cafeteria, beyond the windows, even beyond the building. Yes. Outside to where a panoramic view of the high rise is seen. Imagine with X-ray vision, the stairwell that zigzags from the bottom floor to the top. Close your eyes for a moment and listen. What do you hear? Echoing moans? Gasps for air? Undoubtedly. Now look. Let your eyes follow the stairs as they rise higher, to where the noise gets louder. Suddenly...payoff.
She's pinned against the wall, skirt hiked up, straddling. He's deep inside her, pumping quick, short thrusts. They're panting, moaning and well beyond any measure of control. Though close physically, they are deep within their own bodies, where each reptilian brain's insatiable hunger for pleasure and pain must be fed. We watch their contorted faces and understand how wracked their bodies are with exploding hormones, muscles, and nerves. The privacy of the matter should honored, but we do not. We want to experience more, zoom in so close that we can step inside the gyrating unit they share. But just as we make the move, their bodies release deep shivering throbs. And we are left gawking, neither in nor out of the rabbit hole where the balloon's popped and the movie's over.
But there's more....
Denouement comes quickly for the man and woman. In a heap their bodies loosen. He slides out. She stands. Buttons are fastened, hair is rearranged. Then one heads up the stairs, the other down.
However, matters are quite different for you and me. What we've read has affected us, drawn us inward to a time of similar circumstance. Tell me, what was it like? Loving or rough? Kind or cruel? Generous or scant? Did you strip, suck, slap, bite? Was the rising excitement fed then taken away, over and over again? Interesting how sex is a simple mechanic of infinite execution. Interesting how sex — the thought, picture, sound of it — never gets tired. In any event, before we share stories, let me light two cigarettes and pass one over.
Linda A. Lavid is from Buffalo, New York. She writes, publishes for the pleasure and pain. For more, check out: LindaLavid.com.
Comments (closed)
Nita
2009-10-06 03:00:49
I loved the part of the story I read. It'sexplosive, fascinating. I have got to read the entire story.
You are a fabuloous writer and very exciting I can't wait to read more.