0 comments/ 19551 views/ 0 favorites Searching By: kittypye The cold rain of November silently streaks the windows of my small apartment. I roll over in bed, waking from another heated dream of skin and saliva, and blink at the clock. Focusing, I realise it is already past eleven. I jump out of bed, dress hurriedly and stare into the bathroom mirror, applying dark makeup and false eyelashes expertly to my lids while clumsily dangling a cigarette from the red streak of my mouth. I scrutinise my face, it must look perfect. I trip over discarded clothing as I exit the bathroom into the dimly lit bedroom before taking one last long look in the full-length mirror at myself. I look exactly as I had wished. My long legs wrapped in fishnet stockings, jutting out of their patent-leather platform stiletto heels, the easily recognised ribbon of my garter peeking out from under the short, pleated, plaid skirt that barely covers the white cotton panties underneath. Breasts heaving over the top of the black vinyl corset sparkle with glitter dust, as do my collarbones, arms, and high cheekbones. My waist is cinched down to twenty inches, and a wildly textured black mane explodes behind the short bangs reminescent of the days that Bettie Page ruled the erotic photo magazines. Dark eyes, red lips. Wetness forms in the cotton sheath of the panties as I view myself from all sides. I look good. Surely I will find Him tonight. Please let me find Him tonight. Pulling on a shiny red raincoat, I step out into the chilly air to hail a cab. The cold air hardens my nipples behind the heavy material that binds them. After a few minutes, my yellow savior pulls up and i scurry in, giving the cabbie the address. The meter clicks on, the car moves forward, and my heart begins to race. We pull up to the underground entrance minutes later. I hand the driver a ten, he nods gratefully. I step into the darkness of the club, pay the entrance fee and hand over the raincoat to the coat check girl. Smoke wafts around my body as I walk past the bar to find a relatively dark corner to slink back in and survey the scene. It is my first time at one of these fetish clubs. My nervousness is causing the perspiration to accumulate on my palms, and I am suddenly aware of how tight the corset is around my waist. I take a deep breath and straighten my back. The crowd is gathered in front of the stage as the Mistress of Ceremonies is humiliating some thick-necked hardbody in metallic purple pants and a fishnet muscle shirt on the dance floor. She is swatting him with her riding crop in one hand, and scolding him into the microphone. People around them stand back and laugh or whoop loudly. Lights from above flash in beat to the music. Heavy red gels and strobes send streaks of light across men in leather pants, dykes in suits, and women in tight bondage dresses as they grind and slither to almost unbearably loud industrial techno music. A nearly seven-foot-tall drag queen in pink latex and white feathers catches my eye for a few seconds as I search - for Him. Unsure that I will succeed in my goal amongst Goths and transvestites, I choose to sit at a table in back. A waitress with a spider webbed see-thru body suit takes the order for my Cosmopolitan. "Nice outfit you bad little girl," she says with a smile. She's got vampire fangs, and near-perfect breasts with pierced nipples. I return the smile and cast my eyes down to the floor in slight embarrassment. There's a tattoo of a pyramid on her right shoulder as she walks away. I look away from her and back out to the dance floor. Same scene. My eyes scan some more. I lean back in my chair and try to calm down. Negative thoughts that everyone feels when they are afraid of being disappointed flood into my head, 'Maybe I shouldn't have come', 'I really have no idea what I am searching for', 'There is a void in me that needs to be filled by someone special, do I really think I will find Him in a stupid club?', 'Remember, you are only five years away from being thirty, this is an immature fantasy'. I laugh at myself and decide to just forget it, relax, and enjoy the scenery. The hardbody cries out in pain and the crowd around them applauds. I see there is another girl with a catholic school girl outfit on. Hers is different from mine--much more traditional with the crisp white shirt over small, pert breasts, narrow tie, knee socks, and platform Mary Jane's. Her burgundy hair is in braids tied with blue ribbons. She is tall, lanky almost, with beautifully defined legs that show from under her extremely short pleated navy blue jumper. Her skin is golden against her white knee socks. She dances like a snake with her arms in the air. I get wetter just looking at her, my mind journeying up her skirt. "Christ, I need to get laid", I tell myself. She keeps looking up to the right set of stairs that curve from the dance floor to the second level of the club, so I inch my chair around to see what is so interesting. That is when I see Him for the first time. He is looking down on her in his floor-length trench coat. His hair is tied back at the nape of His neck and His face has strong, defined masculine features though he is still young. His stance is strong, legs set wide apart - like a super hero. He holds His head high and His shoulders back. His large, black eyes are piercing, He looks as if on prey at the tall girl. The Mistress of Ceremonies, taking a break from her post, clunks her way up the stairs in her platform glitter ankle boots. She stops and politely kisses Him from under her day-glo orange wig. They small talk until they both look down on the dancing girl, she then says something else to Him as she descends the staircase and disappears into the crowd. He turns away and heads upstairs. I get up to follow Him, but my drink arrives. I pull out a five dollar bill and hand it to the near-perfect breasts, she smiles widely before kissing my left shoulderblade as she flits off to the next customer. I look back out and see that the Mistress has engaged a conversation with the lanky girl. He is interested in her - that has to be it. My hopes deflate slightly, since I look nothing like her type - not as tall, yet more defined muscularly, with grapefruit-sized breasts and curvaceous hips - not at all the bony ballerina-type. They ascend the staircase. Curious, I down my drink and slip through the crowd to follow, forgetting all about what happened to Alice when she saw the white rabbit. Half-pretending to casually look around at a new scene, I manage to keep my eye on them. Upstairs, is actually quite elegant - a large loft holding crescent-shaped booths with black tables encased in crimson velvet seating. Curtains of the same fabric enclose each space creating a private room when necessary, but only two are closed off so far. I search the area for somewhere inconspicuous to stand and still manage to keep my eyes on the ballerina in His booth. They share niceties, shaking hands and such, then the M.C. leaves them alone. I slink into a barstool at a table overlooking the dance floor so I can casually glance in their direction. She slides next to Him, chatting about nothing much, I gather. He leans back in the booth. How relaxed He looks in this setting, cool, distanced from His surroundings. The seed deep in my groin aches as I watch them. I burn with envy. Suddenly, the girl's demeanor changes. Her head lowers, shoulders straighten, and she simply nods as He does all of the talking. "What is He saying to her?" I scream inside, frustrated with the surrounding blasts of music. I watch her hands creep up to the tie around her neck and loosen it, dragging the knots apart slowly, and then unbuttoning her blouse with the same amount of enthusiasm. He leans in toward her and strokes her hair. The blouse is parted to reveal her naked breasts, milky, and firm. He kneads them, the nipples cresting into mauve points as He pinches them roughly. He leans back once again as she stands and turns to face Him, sitting on the tabletop, spreading her legs so that her feet straddle His knees. His hands stroke the inside of her thighs, then under the skirt, tugging at the red lace panties underneath. Panicking, she stops them at her knees. At this, He slaps her breast hard, and she slinks back, surrendering. The panties come off, and are stuffed into her mouth. He softens a bit, lifting her skirt while caressing her face and kissing the pain of the slap away as He slowly stands. Her head falls back in ecstasy, and taking her neck in His hand, He guides her back onto the table. She lay there, splayed out in front of anyone who might walk by, totally abandoned, on the brink of orgasm at both the humiliation and His stern attention. I cross my legs, pressing the folds of my inner wet flesh together in hopes of finding some relief to the excitement of watching them. His hands grope at her pale skin, and she writhes under them. He then forces his fingers inside her and she arches her back like a heart attack victim being resussitated with electric shock. She rocks back and forth on them. Her nipples are hard diamonds, her neck craning, and her open mouth full of the red lace used to stifle her moans. I hear Him calling her names of anger and degradation. This makes her spread her legs even wider, riding the hand faster, faster. She shudders violently and stiffens. I hear her cry out in pleasure while I blink back tears of longing and frustration, still not being able to take my eyes off of the scene. She lay there panting, and it is then that I notice His gaze is upon me. I try to look away, but He holds it. I blush until my face feels red hot, and He smiles an ominous smile at me. Embarrassed, I jump from the stool and fly down the stairs, clawing through the crowded dance floor, out of the humid bar, and into the freezing rain. I rush into the safety of my apartment, of my solitude. Tears streak my face as I throw myself onto the bed. Why didn't I smile back? Why can't I jump into this unknown world I so desperately long for? Why did He have to see her first? I slowly get up to undress, and then slip into the shower and fall straight into depression. It has been two years since I have had a decent lover, though none of them ever even came close to being what I need. I am the queen of "making love". Ugh. One sensitive guy after another all desperately trying to take the animal nature out of the act itself. Trying instead to turn it into something intelligent, and to me, fucking isn't about intellect once the seduction is over. No one has ever excited me like Thomas Fry did back in the twelfth grade. I love remembering those days. He was my first experimental lover. We did everything and anything. He showed me how to masterbate, touch a man, suck cock, and he was the one that made me admit to liking things rough. He fucked me on the tailgate of his truck outside of the Senior Prom, tafetta and netting thrown up over my ass, his hand covering my mouth while I screamed my orgasm as he took me from behind, spanking me all the while. He initially didn't want to do it out in the open, in public, but I begged and pleaded in the notes we passed in the hallway, and of course he relented. I crawl under the smooth sheets that chill my fevered body. I rub my already hardened nipples softly with the palm of my hands in slow, circular motions as I think of the dark man and the schoolgirl back at the club. To be like that, so uninhibited, so out of control like she was, seemed like a dream. I pinch them harder, pulling them into stiff peaks and shooting flashes of pleasure to my groin. “Fuck it.” I think to myself, “Masterbating will make it all go away, at least for now”. My right hand slides down my firm stomach and over the soft down covering my mound. The outer hair is already soaked with my juices that hadn't yet stopped flowing, regardless of my emotional outburst. I move slowly, sucking in breath as my fingers touch my swollen clit. I could come now, but I want to prolong it as much as possible, feel every sensation. Moving my fingers in circular motions, I pull even harder at buds of flesh on my breasts, making them red and angry. I think of Him slapping them like He did hers. Blood rushes to my labia and my hips work up and down on their own, fucking the invisible cock that is filling me. I hear His voice, giving me commands to betray my will. I give my nipples a rest and instead, take my fingers down to my ass, wet with the oozing honey from my cunt. My fingers gently rub the sensitive hole and it relaxes, sending ebbing vibrations through me. I keep stimulating my clit as I carefully insert one finger into this forbidden zone and an incredible fire rushes over my skin. Guttoral noises escape from my throat and I feel as if things are in slow motion. I want to savour it, to hold back, but I can't, my body has taken over. Then it hits, wave upon wave of flashing electricity through my body. Heat, and then ice radiates from my chest outward. I rock wildly on the matress, crying out louder than I ever have, hoping that somewhere He will hear me. Searching I've been living in New York for some time now, comfortably separated, working a bit too much - as a refuge, I suppose. Dating just seemed weird, and I stopped looking for companionship years ago, just happy to stick to my routines, politely accept the dates that my friends set up, and otherwise enjoy my solitude. Then, out of the blue, I met HER, in the deep freeze of the coldest winter we've had in decades. What a crazy city this is. As you know from the news, it has been horribly cold, and getting colder. So cold, in fact, that last week Mrs. Laurel Robinson, 45, of Scarsdale, New York, froze to death one night after getting locked out of her home while looking for her cat. Her husband had long ago been banished to a second bedroom because of his snoring, and didn't realize she was outside until the next morning. As the anchor on the local news intoned in an appropriately somber and deep voice, this tragic event turned a cold winter into a season of death. That night the temperature dropped to ten degrees overnight, and the next morning Ms. Robinson was found frozen in her backyard. So you get the picture. A week ago this past Tuesday it was four degrees. As I left my apartment in Manhattan for the 30 minute walk to my office, gusting winds were stirring up the salt and ash that had been liberally spread on sidewalks to fend off slip-and-fall lawyers, much as garlic was once thought to deter vampires. Deter the bloodsuckers! I left at the usual hour, the wind stinging my eyes, my mouth half hidden by a scarf. The last three or four weeks it has been so cold that I've been wearing whatever I want to the office - jeans, old brown shoes, a long wool coat like a western duster, collar turned up, and an Irish fisherman's sweater that smells like a sheep. If I were a woman my colleagues would cattily hiss behind my back and say "She's given up, poor dear, just LOOK at those shoes, it is so sad (cluck cluck), if she only TRIED a little bit..." Instead, I imagine I come across as an insouciant Ralph Lauren-like executive of a certain means and age, with an accenting touch of grey at the ears. Though I could be wrong. And so I trudged down Broadway, my eyes stinging, and as I walked my nose began to run - my sinuses have been hell for weeks. I was sniffing, wiping my eyes, and finally I couldn't stand it anymore, I cleared my throat and spat. Garlic may not truly ward off vampires, but other old adages are true. One should not spit into the wind. Yes, even me, for as you know I'm trumpet player - I have awesome lung volume, and could suck the air out of a Macy's balloon float, or blow down the little piggies' straw and twig houses, maybe even their brick house too if I huffed and puffed enough. If I were the more vulgar type, I might be dominating my age category in the Spitting Program International Tournament (SPIT) (50 and over, non smoker), riding from one venue in the Ozarks to another until I had no more room for trophy-spittoons on my mantle. But you see, some folks have to learn the hard way. I was always the kid who, when the sign said "no this, that, or the other thing permitted" would immediately do whatever was prohibited to see what would happen. I needed to know why, always. Now some people don't spit at all - they think it is gross. I guess it is a question of your circumstances and upbringing. The Japanese, who are forever spitting everywhere, think that our habit of expelling snot balls into hankies that we carefully fold and put back into our pockets is gross. They have a point. Other people spit, but not on the crowded sidewalks of New York. If your aim is off by a few degrees you could hit somebody, and they might respond by beating you to death with their bare hands, a trash can, a newspaper box, or by pushing you into a careening taxi driven by a Egyptian emigrant who has never driven in ice and snow before. I myself have no reservations - under duress, I'm a spitter. You might think I was being particularly dim, or something - I mean, everybody knows that you shouldn't spit into the wind. I guess I wasn't thinking, or the whole thing was too distracting - the cold, the grit in the air, my runny eyes. We all know that the reason we don't spit into the wind is that, well, it comes back at us. But there's more to this story. Much more. The reason we don't spit into the wind in winter when it is four degrees with a wind chill of twenty five below is not only because it comes back at us, but because it freezes so fast you can almost hear it, crackling faintly as physics and chemistry and other science stuff happens and the liquids you expelled at approximately 98.6 degrees return as an irregularly shaped, jagged little three dimensional polygon. And so it did. It came back at me, right in my face. This is where you can say "Eww",but it more or less bounced off of me, like hail and icy rain will. I cursed and kept walking down the street, bumping into a few people who were off balance from the unaccustomed, poorly distributed weight of six layers of clothes. As I walked I felt my ears and cheeks start to burn from the cold, and thought about putting on my gloves, but I hate gloves. I was about halfway to my office in the Financial District when a woman stopped in front of me, blocking my path, and said to me "Are you ok?" I'm often stopped on the streets in New York. Three quarters of the people who stop me need directions, especially down here in the south part of Manhattan - the streets are built on old colonial footpaths, which were built on old Indian trails, which were built to track game along meandering streams long gone. It isn't like midtown - a neat, ordered grid of numbered streets - it is very confusing. I'm happy to help folks who stop me and ask for directions, and as far as the people who aren't asking for directions - they are usually trying to hustle me. This is New York, after all. I always try to decide as quickly as I can who is going to hustle me and who needs help. I'm in a pointless rush, like every other coffee guzzling, harried New Yorker. But even after having been stopped by people maybe a hundred times, I've never had anyone ask me if I was OK, even after too many drinks at my favorite sushi bar when they should have been asking. I looked at her and wasn't quite sure what was happening. She looked local, whatever that means - had a certain air, she looked like she was on her way to work - and I didn't think she was going to hustle me. She had on a nice brown winter wool coat, a lovely pattered scarf, and a pair of pearl earrings that were probably real, judging by the fabric of her coat and scarf. 'Was I alright'? What did she mean? "Excuse me?" I wasn't sure what else to say. "I asked if you were alright." She was looking right at me, and had the loveliest blue eyes set against pale skin. "You're bleeding." With that she reached up, took off her brown leather gloves, and touched my face, ever so gently. "Right there. I'll show you." She rummaged around for a second in her purse-thing, fished out a compact - that's what you call them, right, those little round mirror things in cases - popped it open, and pointed it at me. She was right. The icy kamikaze spitball from hell that I had created apparently had cut my face when the wind ricocheted it back at me. Back at ya' kid! Blood had been dripping down my cheek for blocks, freezing about halfway down, my face too numb to feel it. I looked like an escapee from a Halloween horror house created by eight year old boys. I was genuinely startled, and almost felt light headed - I'm not sure why, it wasn't more than a small gouge in my face. At fifty four I've got more than my share of accumulated dings, scars, and healed-over wounds in places both visible and hidden, and I don't give these types of mishaps a second thought. I think what caused my momentary wooziness was the surprise of it all. I saw her look at me with concern. "I have one of those wipes..." and the next thing I knew she was handing me an antiseptic wipe. We were standing in the middle of the street, and I suggested we get out of the pedestrian traffic, so we moved to the fence at the edge of the sidewalk, the fence that borders Trinity Church and the graveyard. I fumbled around - my hands were half cold and numb, my fingers not working too well - and then she started laughing, covering her mouth with her hand. "What?" "You're just smearing it around!" and she outright laughed. "Look, if you promise me you don't have any blood-borne diseases, I'll do it. Promise?" She was looking in my eyes again, confident and comfortable, right at me. "No blood borne diseases, promise." She put her right glove back on - I'm not sure she totally trusted me - and pulled another wipe from the mini-dispenser. With the softest touch she daubed at my face. The alcohol stung for a moment and I probably flinched the tiniest bit. She paused for a moment, looked at me again - "Is it ok?" and I nodded. She pressed a bit more firmly, and finally, after a few moments of wiping studied my face, for longer than seemed necessary, honestly - and seemed satisfied. "Much better, see?" I looked at myself in her compact, trying to move the tiny circle of mirror to get the right view. Indeed, no more little kid Halloween fright mask. And that is when it got really weird. As I stood there I could not help myself - I felt my face grow warm and started to cry silently. First a tear welled up in my eye, and then another, and they started rolling down my face, the salt stinging the nick on my cheek all over again, and her blue eyes got big. "Did I hurt you? I'm so sorry!" "No, no, the opposite. Are you a doctor or a nurse or EMT or something?" She smiled again. "No, that's silly. I just wiped some blood off your face, I didn't perform a hip transplant." But she still looked puzzled. "Why are you crying?" And I don't know why, but for once in my life I let down that guard, that protective armor I carry everywhere like a Roman shield. I didn't want anyone other than her to hear my confession, and said it softly. "I'm crying because it has been so long since I was touched with such care and concern. Too long." And as I admitted this I felt the tears again, rolling down my chapped face in the cold and dripping off of my chin. She just looked at me and cocked her head. I looked down for a second, embarrassed at the whole thing: my stupidity by challenging one of the most basic laws of nature, spitting into the wind! Embarrassed for having walked ten blocks or more with a blood-smeared face. And embarrassed for crying, and admitting to a stranger that I craved to be touched. I felt as if I were naked, exposed, and it was uncomfortable and wanted it to end. "Listen, I can't thank you enough. I'm sure you have to go to work - I do too, despite the way I'm dressed, I actually do have a job." Softly, somewhat tentatively, she said "You're welcome. You know, people always say that kind of thing, like a cliché: 'I can't thank you enough.' Actually, you could thank me 'enough.' You know how?" It was now my turn to cock my head. "You could buy me lunch one day next week." That's when I noticed, on her ungloved left hand, that she didn't have a ring. Not one. No wedding ring, no engagement ring, no wedding-engage combo, no trick rings on the non-ring fingers to confuse me and other simple-minded men. So we had lunch this past Monday. She's separated, too, no kids - thought that's complicated - and he's in Florida - much older. Eventually the age thing became too much. He moved to Florida, Boca Raton, to bask in the warm waters of the Gulf of Mexico in his waning years. She said "Boca Raton - doesn't that mean 'the rat's mouth'? Somehow I doubt that Walter's coming back from the rat's mouth. It seems to suit him." (Insert mischievous smile.) She used to play piano and appreciates music, and speaks a little German. She's a curator for a small fine arts museum, and her specialty is European furniture from the 16ththru 19th centuries. She's travelled extensively over the years, sometimes to rough places hoping to uncover dusty family heirlooms and the like. As we exchanged details over lunch she told me that she and Walter had a child, a daughter. Their daughter was killed ten years ago in a car accident at the age of sixteen when a classmate drunkenly crashed a car full of post-prom kids into a tree. The daughter lingered on life support for a week, an agonizing eternity where her mother was forced to question and eventually abandon her faith and hope. It has been years since that happened; she told the story factually, without much emotion, but it was then I realized what I saw in her, what really touched me - there seemed to be a sadness in her that connected with my own. There was something deep, permanent, irrevocable in her, something hidden by the scars that time accretes on our soul, but beneath which lives the dulled sense memory of searing pain that can never be forgotten. She came over just this past Tuesday night - the circumstances and logistics seemed to present themselves, a coincidence and an opportunity. It was so cold that we agreed we'd order Chinese food, a so-very-New York thing to do. Candles flickered on the table in my apartment as the heat from the register struggled to keep us warm, and gently nudged the flames atop the wicks. The Empire State building literally shimmered on the horizon, the air so cold that the light from its tower danced and wavered as it sped through the subfreezing ether. She wore a dress, a dress like a real woman, and when she turned away from me I could see underneath the fabric the garter stays that held up her stockings, as if they were beckoning me. When we sat on the couch after dinner she asked me to put my arm around her, to warm her, she said. Afterwards, hours later, we curled in bed and talked, almost all night, the rug burns on my knees a mark of our pleasure, the yin and yang like the sweet and sour soup we shared for dinner. I want to describe for you the spectacular sex, how her moans echoed in my ears and were seared into my memory, burying my aches, how the cold and her passion made the points on her chest swell like her body was reaching out to me, how I erupted in a fit of pent-up need and desire and made rivers run, how her heart was pounding after she came, like a Valentine's Day cartoon on a sproingy bouncy spring. But there I go again, like a man, getting into the biomechanics of it all. Sometime around two a.m. I lit the last taper candle in the apartment and put another blanket on the bed, crawling back under the covers. She rested her head against my scarred chest and ran her fingers thru the graying curly hair that covers me to my neck. As she moved her fingers aimlessly over my chest, she whispered so low I could barely hear her - "I needed you to touch me as much as you needed me to touch you." My search is over. Of course, my dear reader, none of this is true - I just wish it were. Well, almost none of it is true. The only true part is about Mrs. Robinson, who after a couple of drinks too many wandered out to look for her cat and died in the cold, though she never really felt a thing. Because that is how life really is - or is it?