So I went back with him to his apartment. It was tasteful, well appointed one might say. Floors so shiny you could probably fix your lipstick in their reflection. Glass and leather with empty spaces between them. Floor to ceilings windows looking out to the river. It looked like a model apartment, maybe even a hotel room. No one really seemed to live there.
And then he ushered me into the bedroom.
Or maybe I should call it ‘the boudoir’. Because for everything impersonal and cold in the other rooms, whoever decorated the apartment had made up for it in spades in this one. The window was blacked out. The walls were covered with red velvet. The bed was sunken, engulfed by fifty some odd pillows in jewel tones. There was a cashmere throw at its foot.
Everything suggested touch, as if clothes shouldn’t even be permitted within its confines. I unlaced my boots, rolled down my tights. He pushed my dress up over my breasts. I felt the lush silk against my bare back, my feet sunk into the creamy throw. I gave in to texture—the smooth tip of his cock, his wiry hair against my thigh, down pillows and cashmere slipcovers caressing my cheek, my waist. My nails slipping slowly down his tailbone until they found their way inside of him.
His girlfriend had had a vision, he told me later. She dreamed about the boudoir, thought they should give it life together. They shopped in secret over the Internet, came home early from work to lay down the velvet, dried roses for potpourri which they then sprinkled around the bed while they worked. When the room was finished, they spent the whole of a week there, watching porn, ordering in food, giving themselves every pleasure they could
think of. Ice cream, chocolates, fried pickles, peach schnapps, whatever whim or memory or thought came to mind.
It was a nice story. When he was done I asked him what had happened to his girlfriend.
“Oh she’s at work,” he said haphazardly.
I wonder if she knows someone else has been allowed into her secret world. I wonder if she’ll smell me when she’s rearranging the throw. I wonder if that’s the way he likes it.
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Head Cold
I come from one of those families where unless you had a bone sticking out of your arm, you were going to school. Fever? Not a factor unless it was over 100.5. Tummy trouble? Ginger ale is all you need. Mumps, measles, pink eye, flu? Just make sure you don’t breathe on the other kids, honey, and you’ll be swell.
So now when a winter cold hits, I tend to do my best to ignore it. It’s just a cold after all. Nothing a little orange juice and chicken soup can’t kick.
That is until you’re giving head.
I was okay through all the preliminaries. You would have never known anything was wrong through all the petting and stroking and skin. I didn’t even know anything was wrong myself. There I was running my tongue along the edge of his pants. Sliding one hand down his zipper and the other under his boxers. Easing them down to his knees. Skimming the pads of my fingers lightly over his balls, through his hair, kissing him on the inside of
his thigh. Feeling the tip of him with my closed lips, then with the flick of my tongue, then with the inside of my mouth.
Then realizing I couldn’t breathe. At all.
I tried to take big and quiet gulps of air, but sometimes that resulted in a not-so-sexy wheeze. There was no way to clear my nostrils. Whenever he moaned I tried to quickly and quietly blow out, but that didn’t seem to be doing the trick.
Neither were my efforts of trying to keep my mouth partly available for breath. The guy was a plunger, pure and simple.
And then my nose started running. Luckily it’s hard to tell the difference between bodily fluids in the dark.