I figured that the Spanish she’d spoken probably meant “poor thing” or “poor baby.”
Clearly becoming uncomfortable, she finished her story. “They asked me to come back to San Juan. I didn’t. I stayed here, went to grad school. It’s been hard sometimes. But I built myself a life on my own terms. And my sex life is built that way too. Anyway, I feel more comfortable with strangers now. I can tell them what I want about myself, or not tell them anything.”
I took her right hand into mine impulsively. It was cold, even though she had just been holding a hot cup of coffee. The skin was smooth. I rubbed it between both my hands to warm it. I managed to pull an “I see” from my throat. Once her hand got warmer I released it, and I took her left hand into mine to warm it as well.
“Where do I fit into all of this?” I asked.
“I do allow myself one form of comfort and release…sex. It is my pain reliever of choice. But I am not promiscuous or inclined to seek out random encounters, so I want one regular partner. A man with a killer tongue and a dick that understands a pussy like it used to be one.”
She had a way with words. I remembered in her ad she said she was a writer. She looked down at my hands.
“William,” she said, “your hands are very sexy. Strong. Even though you’re only touching my hands, I can feel your hands all over my body.”
The way she said my name was driving me crazy. It was the only time her speech was accented, and it was sexier than any naked woman I’d ever seen. And her directness was causing my dick to ache and moan softly. I wondered if she could hear it crying out for her.
She removed her left hand from mine. Then she took my right hand in hers. Reaching underneath the table, she placed my hand between her legs. Though her hands had been cold, her pussy was hot. Her hair brushed my arm and grazed my hand as she reached for me. It was as soft as her voice. Goose pimples formed on the places her hair had touched. The smell of it wafted over to me…wildflowers. I could taste the sweet scent in my mouth. I looked deeply into her eyes and got lost in their sorrowful cloudiness. My dick got harder, and my breathing became slightly ragged.
Was I turned on by her words? Was I moved by her story? Her hair, her voice, her eyes…when had I ever cared about any of these things? Tits, asses, hips, legs…that’s what I was into. Accessible beauty. Surface sexiness. Was I experiencing a sympathy erection? I tried to focus on her plain face, too round and too open. But I kept returning to her eyes. The momentary sadness had passed and I found myself gazing at the desire in the pools of cherry blackness. I became more aroused.
“You mean to tell me it’s that hard to find a man to fuck you,” I asked forcefully, trying to snap myself out of it. I wanted to see if bluntness would unnerve her.
She met it head-on. “A lot of the men I’ve met assume casual sex means I’m a slut. A lot of men still have that serious Madonna-whore complex. Good girl or bad girl, pick a side and stay on it. My sexuality isn’t that simple by a long shot. They think I’m promiscuous, so they treat me disrespectfully. They seem to feel the absence of a ‘relationship’ ”—now her fingers were making quotation marks in the air—“means an absence of courtesy and consideration. That’s not what I had in mind.”
My hand was still between her legs, somehow caught there. I pulled my chair closer to her. I extended my index finger and began slowly rubbing against what I estimated to be her clit. The way her hips shifted in her chair told me my aim was perfect.
; “What did you have in mind, Evangeline?”
She opened her legs a bit. She pulled her chair closer. I added another finger to the first and continued to rub her clit. I could hear and feel it throbbing and pulsing.
“What I want is a man who’ll respect and befriend me enough to make the verbal exchanges that are the preamble to sex comfortable. Then I want the shit fucked out of me.” She reached for my dick, squeezed it, and ran her fingertips across the head. “Very nice,” she said. My dick lunged forward like a race-horse heading for the final stretch.
“I want casual sex with the same level of respect and deference that occurs in more evolved relationships. How do you feel about that, William?”
“Evangeline, your hand’s on my dick right now. How do you think I feel?”
She squeezed me again. I swear I think my dick called her name.
“I think you feel…just right,” she said. She licked her lips. “I want to suck your dick right this minute. You’re a very handsome, sexy man. Clearly smart. Definitely appealing. I’ve hit the personal ad jackpot. If this interview is over and if I’ve answered all your questions, could we go to my place now? It’s not far from here.”
“Now?” I repeated. My dick grew frantic at the thought that it might lose this opportunity.
She said, “Well, if you must go, you must, but…” She trailed off, continuing to rub my dick. “It seems a shame to waste this.” And she tossed her hair back again.
Twenty-six minutes later I ripped open a condom, fresh from a shower we took together where I sucked her breasts while she cried out my name. Once in bed, I hovered over her fleshiness as I rolled the prophylactic onto myself. She was a wide expanse of uncharted territory. A new sexual frontier. I grabbed her caramel legs and hoisted them over my shoulders, and she locked her knees there. I slid my hard dick in her to the hilt, and felt like a king when she drew her breath sharply inward and bit her bottom lip. She was so fucking soft, like a thousand down pillows, and tighter than I’d known a woman could be. With her legs locked over me, she pushed her pussy against my dick, bearing down on it and looking up at me. She grabbed her own breasts as her eyes stared into mine. She flicked her tongue across the nipples, and then sucked them as I watched from above. I fucked her harder, pounding into her with stronger, deeper strokes as I watched her partake of her own chocolate brownness. The look on her face and the wet, mounting, tightening pressure around my dick almost made me come immediately, but I managed to focus and to fuck the shit out of her as she fucked the shit out of me. I liked her cool, independent, and self-possessed nature. I loved her acceptance of everything life was, and everything it wasn’t. I loved sea lo que sea. I wanted to be her friend. But she didn’t want a friendship…she wanted a sexship. So be it.
Once a week I went to her home. I usually brought food with me, but occasionally she would cook. I loved her cooking and marveled at the seasonings in her cabinet that were foreign to me. She always made a huge pitcher of sangria. I turned on the television, and she’d bring our food and drinks into the living room. She always served my plate, and asked about my day at the office. I’d tell her few stories about my meetings with my partners, or my day in court. Sometimes we’d get into heated philosophical debates about this or that. Those conversations were foreplay for the brain. (I never realized before Eva that the best fucks start in the mind.) I would ask how the writing was going, and she’d tell me about her latest assignments, her insane editors, or her impossible deadlines. Occasionally she’d let me read something she was working on.
Once we’d eaten and cleared up, we’d watch TV. After a while she’d turn off the television and go up to the bedroom. I would follow her. She had a wrought-iron candleholder on her dresser, and I would light the candles before I got in bed. We would lie together, marinating in each other’s personal space. Some nights we would bask in sweet, silent complicity. Some nights we’d laugh and joke and tickle each other. It was the only time I could get her to laugh out loud and smile with her mouth open. Eventually I would reach around to rub her swollen nipples, or kiss her neck. Sometimes I would wind my fingers around her hair with one hand, or I’d snuggle close enough to her so she could feel my hard dick against her backside. She’d sigh, turning to face me. We would kiss once. It was always a long kiss, a wet and passionate kiss that would go on for minutes. My tongue would enter her mouth as she sighed and let her tongue find its way into my mouth. We would kiss and breathe each other, inhaling and exhaling and giving and taking each other’s mouths and lips until we were satisfied.
I would spend a good deal of time bringing her to an initial climax with my hands and mouth. Gently finding her clit with my thumb and forefinger, I would touch it ever so slightly, enjoying the arch of her back that was her response. I would dampen my forefinger and thumb with her juices, then bring my hand up to our faces, placing my thumb in my mouth and my forefinger in hers. We would taste her in unison. She’d lick my finger and begin to suck it, and my dick would rise up, jealously wanting to take my finger’s place. After we had both eaten her essence from my fingertips, my head would find its way between her legs. Her pubic hair smelled like summer rain and was just as humidly moist. I tongue-kissed her fleshy insides until my thirst was quenched and her orgasm had flooded her pussy. I would then kiss her nipples with the utmost reverence. They would be slick with sweat by now, and I’d lap at the saltiness, thinking of drinking margaritas by a clear blue sea. She would grab my dick like she did that first day, stroking it, begging it to come inside her with low Spanish murmurings and with sensuously gyrating hips. By then she was more than ready to fuck me, and I was more than ready to fuck her.
She was the best I ever had. It was never the same with her, but always perfect. She had split sexual personalities. And I loved them all…had no favorites. I was always glad when each one showed up and always sorry when they left. Some nights she was porn star good. She’d put on these ridiculous five-inch heels and would stand over me on the bed, lowering herself down on me, playing with her titties, doing me like an adult movie superstar. Some nights she was standing-on-her-head-doing-a-split-
in-midair good (yes, she could actually do that). Some nights she was freaky-scary S&M good. She took handcuffs and long silk scarves and feathers and tongue vibrators and warming gel out of her nightstand, and our imaginations would have us climaxing all night long. She was reliably and consistently satisfying, as open and honest at her ad. She knew what I liked, and always gave it to me. Her consistency was as sexy as her honesty.
She gave me excellent head exactly how I liked it…shamelessly and skillfully. She’d clench her hand around my cock and run her hand up and down, squeezing it as her mouth bobbed up and down on it. Not a nick even in the throes of our most heated sessions. And she never forgot to give my balls attention too. She would fuck me excellently from any position, at any time. I could wake her up from a sound slumber and get the shit fucked out of me. Even if we skipped the foreplay, she would still be ready. Missionary—she fucked the shit out of me. Doggy style, both kneeling and lying down—she fucked the shit out of me. She could make her ass clap too, and I had only seen that kind of action in strip clubs. Cowgirl and reverse cowgirl—she fucked the shit out of me. In a buck with her legs over my shoulders—she fucked the shit out of me. Pinned against the wall after returning from the bathroom, early in the morning with the sun just starting to rise and the candles going out, with me standing on the floor as half her body hung off the bed and she hung on for dear life—she fucked the shit out of me. With Prince screaming from the CD player or Luther crooning love tunes—she fucked the shit out of me. In dead silence in the dead of night in the dead of winter—she fucked the shit out of me. With it pouring down rain outside, with thunder and lightning crackling the sky—she fucked the shit out of me always. I kept up my end of the deal and fucked the shit out of her.