Not Exactly a Love Story

My hometown is about 15 minutes outside New York City, so my friends and I often visit to see movies, shows, go shopping, or eat. Early this morning, around 8 o'clock, my friends and I left to purchase tickets to an upcoming show for the band Alice in Chains. We decided to spend the early part of the day in Times Square, and then slowly made our way over to Soho before parting ways. I have different route to take home, and I also want to grab something light to eat, since it's only about 11:30 a.m., so I find a small cozy bakery not too far from the train station. It's a warm summer morning, and the sun seems to be especially bright today, lighting up the sidewalks, bringing people out of their homes to enjoy the break of the weather. There is an outdoor patio area, lined with cobblestones and decorative adornments of floral arrangements, and I can tell this is a posh and likely expensive place to eat.

I fit in somewhat well: I'm wearing a white t shirt by Express, dark Lucky Brand jeans, and white sneakers by Steve Madden -- the perfect balance of casual wear befitting of any of the yuppies roaming these streets. Several people are seated outside on patio tables, which are supported by thin, black wiry legs, and a flat glossy tabletop with a different mosaic pattern on each; most are sipping cups of coffee, reading magazines, and shouting into their phones or text messaging. I make my way through the center of the terrace, which has a flattened path leading to the doorway, and inside, which I notice is empty, save for two customers online and another small group preparing tea or coffee, observe large glass casings housing an array of scones, croissants, bagels, muffins, and other assorted breakfast snacks. I settle on a hazelnut coffee, which I plan on loading with sugar and milk, and an apple turnover that is about the diameter of my fist and half as fat. The total: $8, a nice hole in my wallet for a small breakfast. I had the woman begin the counter a twenty, take my change and head outside with a white paper bag advertising the bakery's title in a yellow stamp on the side.

Heading down the paved flattened path, I notice an attractive girl, sitting alone, idly sipping a large cup of coffee, whilst reading a book (I can't make out the title from the distance I'm at) and enjoying the remainder of what looks like a cinnamon Danish. Her curly blonde hair is pulled back in a loose ponytail, and she wears a skimpy white linen dress along her long, lean body, with low, open-toe white heels. I can't quite make out her features, which are hidden behind a large pair of Chenel sunglasses, but one can easily see she's very pretty. I'm single, and though she looks as though she may be older than me, possibly 21, or 22 compared to my 20 years, I decide to hit on her anyway, keeping my brother Jonathan's advice fresh in my head ("A girl can be 15 and look 22, or be just the opposite, so be careful you fucking idiot," he had said to me just before I left for college). As I approach, she looks up from her book, smiling graciously as I near her table (a good start, so I'm dimly aware that she's at least somewhat interested), and I return with the same gesture.

"Hi," she says as I step up the table.

"Hi, how are you?" I ask tentatively. "I'm Marc."

"Nice to meet you," she says. There's a brief pause.

"...And your name is?" I ask.

She pauses before answering, and the smile one her face slants. "You don't know me?" she asks, her expression changes, concerned, her eyebrows furrowed, as though she's trying to solve a difficult algebraic equation. The novel she is reading is entitled 'Weekend in Paris' by Robyn Sisman, and I stared at the pastel cover art as I try and organize my thoughts. Do I know this person? Does she know my family? My mind is blank, and I look to her for some sort of indication.

"I'm sorry...I, I don't...Have we met before?" I stammer. Shit, I think to myself, this is not going well. There is no shot you're getting laid, let alone a number, you fucking retard.

"You genuinely don't know who I am?" she asks, her face straight, neither smiling nor frowning, neither angry nor happy, just a plaintive stare from behind the black, reflective surface of her sunglasses.

"I guess I'm supposed to. I'm not trying to offend you or anything, but I really do not recognize you."

"I write music, if that helps," and she smiles wryly. I focus on her face for a minute, and after a brief consideration, an "ahh" moment washes over me, and I realize who it is.

"Oh! Oh...Shit! I'm sorry, I wasn't trying to be arrogant or anything, I just really had no clue who you were. I'm, not...I guess I'm not used to seeing you with sunglasses," I say. In front of me, on a patio outside a small Soho bakery is Taylor Swift. I laugh good-naturedly, pushing my long brown hair out of my face and over my ear. The bangs extend the middle of my cheek, parted at the left with the larger portion right-bound, and the back runs roughly midway down my neck, neatly combed, but subtly disheveled - my attempt to look like a rock-star-slash-model. Maybe my look works. In the brief instant separating my realization and apology, I note my appearance, making sure everything is in order so I don't look messy. After deciding I look fine, I continue the conversation.

"You know who I am now?" she asks, an uncomfortable smile spread across her face.

"I'm sorry, you just look different in person, and you're incognito sort of, with those sunglasses. All celebrities wear them, it's always the big sunglasses, but now I know why," I say and she laughs. "It's partially because I'm ignorant, but have a lot of people approached you?"

"No, not really. Not too many people have noticed. Are you fan? You don't really look it."

"I'm kind of a fan..." I say. She's pretty, and her music isn't bad, but this is coming from someone who is in a metal band. I listen to pop when I'm in the car with girls and have no choice, but other than that, I have virtually no exposure to it. But I'm not fawning over her, and girls hate it when a guy isn't in the palm of their hands; they have an overwhelming need for attention, especially girls this attractive, and when a guy seems unimpressed, she will go out of her way to grab his attention and gain his interest and approval.

"Admittedly, I listen to a lot of rock and metal. But I actually know how to play the chords to 'Love Story', so at least I can say that."

Taylor laughs, indicating the chair to her right, before saying, "Sit. Do you play guitar?"

"I actually play drums. I'm in a band so...I like, steal my friend's guitar during practice, and maybe mess around with it a little." I pause. "And in the process I learned 'Love Story'," I say, and we both laugh. "As far as being a fan, I'll admit I don't really listen to your music, but um...I actually have a story for you."

"Do tell," she says, shifting in her chair to lean in a bit. I look at the arms and the frame of the chair; they aren't very comfortable, more designed for art than function and comfort.

"Ok, so I was talking to my friend, who I may need to text, so apologize if I do, and she started singing one of you songs....randomly." She giggles briefly. " And I asked what she was singing, and she told me 'Taylor Swift.' So I said, 'Oh, she's pretty' and she got all angry and defensive and was like 'She's like fifteen, you creep!' Meanwhile, I just turned 20, and I was pretty sure you were older than fifteen, and I actually looked up your age. Otherwise, I would have felt creepy."

"Do you know my birthday?" she asks, the tip her tongue sticking out between her teeth as she smiles. She's flirting with me.

"December...sometime in the teens, and you're 19, born in '89 same as me....so I'm not a creeper," I laugh.

"Aww, you remember! You're so cute!" she gushes.

A feeling of embarrassment and flattery passes through me, and my chest flutters. I smile in response, but I feel strange. Her face is so young, rounded and elfish like a child, and though she is very pretty, her tall, but modest frame (she has small breasts and her hips aren't very wide, though she does have a nice shape) makes me think she is almost too young, though I'm barely six months older than her. I snap out of my hypnotic state, admiring her body, and continue the conversation.

"Uh, thanks...you're very cute yourself. So what brings you to New York?" I ask. "I know you're from Tennessee, so this is some distance from there. Are you doing shows, or interviews, something like that?"

"I'm actually living her for a few months, taking some time off, writing, being a teenager for a little longer."

"Ugh," I groan, "I just turned twenty and I feel miserable. I feel like I should have accomplished so much more by now."

"Oh, well, I'm sure you're fine. What have you been up to?"

"I'm in school, in southern New Jersey, and hopefully when I graduate I'll get my masters and my Ph.D. I'd like to pursue things with my band, but that's a little tough, especially with the rest of the things in my life getting in the way."

"Ah, trust me, I know," she says. "High school was great, but it felt like it got in the way a lot too. Are you from New Jersey? How'd you end up over here?"

"A half hour train ride actually. I'm maybe 15 minutes outside the city. Small town in Jersey just across the bay. I was getting tickets to see Alice in Chains."

"Oh cool. You come here often?" she asks.

"Very. There's nothing to do in my town. Plus, look who I run into?"

"Yes, even though you didn't recognize who you ran into," she says, smiling wide, and I laugh.

"You do look a lot different in person. Much prettier. But I really couldn't tell it was you."

"Well thank you," she says, smiling as she undoes the tie in her hair, letting it flow in golden cascades down her shoulders.

"So you like chick lit? 'Weekend in Paris'?"

"It is a chick book, but I love it and it's actually pretty funny, and very good. It's about this pharmaceutical assistant who is going on a business trip and finds out her boss is trying to sleep with her, so she walks off the trip, and decides to go to Paris."

"Sounds like something my mom would read, but I'm sure it's good. I actually read a lot, too. Bret Easton Ellis, Thomas Harris, some others. I like fiction works, stuff that gets you out of the ordinary."

"I gotcha. But I like the stuff that seems like it could happen, something I can relate to it," she says.

"I read nonfiction too, autobiographies, and other things, I just like things that are more...extraordinary."

"Mmmm," she says, sipping her coffee.

"If you don't mind me asking, I know a lot of your songs focus on your past relationships, but um, what's going on with that?"

"Well, I've been writing about life and my experience with guys for a whi -- "

"No, no, I meant like...dating-wise. I don't want you to feel like you're in a music interview," I say, smiling so she doesn't feel uncomfortable.

"Oh sure, ha..." she pauses, smiling, looking into her lap. "I'm not really seeing anyone, I've just been focused on writing my music, and my friends, not much else really. I mean, I've been involved with guys, but it doesn't always go that way I'd like it too, and things end up...not as I planned."

"I can imagine you get a lot of material from that," I say, offering some condolence. She nods in agreement. "You do know why I came over to you, right?"

She shakes her head. "I figured you had recognized me, but once I found out you had no clue who I was...I don't know."

"Why don't we do something?" I ask, and she smiles wide as she turns to me.

* * *

I'm on my stomach on top of Taylor in her apartment, our lips together, tongues intertwined, my left hand around her back, my right at her hip, lightly caressing her flat stomach every so often. As I kiss her, I become more aware of certain things which I had neglected before; the sweet smell of her perfume, the silky, sheer material of her dress, and the light touch of her fingers running through my hair. We're two bodies, embraced, shuffling over one another, joined at the lips. Her body is long and thin; though I'm six foot, she's only an inch or two shorter, and her long body follows the length of mine, shuffling underneath me, her hands rubbing my stomach and chest. After a few minutes, I decide to get things moving; touching her breasts seems like a good start, so I slowly move my hand up her body, first high on her hip, then on her side just next to her breast before I place my hand on top of it, feeling and massaging it, and after she offers no protest, I continue to move my hand in circular patterns, avoiding her nipple to create anticipation.

"Oh, Marc....yeah...." she moans. I kiss her neck and then her chest just below the collarbone, continuing to massage her tit. Finding her nipple through the fabric, I run my finger back and forth over it, and she pulls her body closer towards mine, a low moan emanating from her. Her breasts aren't very large, but their firms, and nicely shaped, making me eager to stroke them. This goes on for a few minutes before I slide the breast-cup of her dress over, revealing the pink flesh of her nipple, and then I move my mouth to it, licking at it lightly while I expose her other breast and then begin to caress it as well. She's moaning and holding my head, pushing it into her cleavage, encouraging me to keep going, and when I pick my head up and take my shirt off, throwing it across the room, her hands reaches up to my face to pull me back down. I feel her soft hand run down my back, flowing over each muscle, pushing down on me as I rest on top of her. I'm pretty skinny, but I've been working out quite extensively as of late, and Taylor takes note of this, placing her hand against my hardened abs, my chest, and my biceps. I then take my hand from her breast and move it down underneath the bottom of her dress, touching her ass and hips, guiding her legs around either side of me. Feeling the skimpy straps of a thong, my hands cup her firm buttocks, the flesh pressed into my palms and between my fingers. I then move up from her chest to her neck, trailing my lips up to her mouth before kissing her passionately. My hand pushes the dress up to her stomach and she rises up, a stern look on her face alerting me of some potential problem. She pulls back from me, her arms coming from around my back and away from my stomach, and I'm almost certain I've ruined my chances when her arms cross, but thankfully, she grabs either side of the dress, pulls it up and over her head, kicks her shoes off, which fall and clack against the hardwood floor, leaving her in just her pink thong. I'm ready to ravage her, but restrain myself, instead running my lips down her body to her crotch. Taylor's thong covers very little, and I kiss her vagina through it.

"Oh fuuuuck....Marc....oh my God......uhhhh....." she moans. I'm using only my lips to massage the area around her vagina, avoiding it to once again build the tension as I had done with her tits just before. She's breathing very heavily, and after kissing the area where her thighs meet her pelvis, I push the thong aside and move my mouth to her pussy, massaging it and taking its folds in my lips. She begins moaning, her cries becoming more and more urgent, as I gently caress her. Breathing through my mouth to create warmth, I continue massaging the area with my lips and poke my tongue out to lick at it lightly. I taste her, feel the smoothness of the area and the moisture of her, and I feel a wave of euphoria from the anticipation. Taylor gasps and her hips wriggle in response, her legs bent, and her feet, suspended in the air, point down with the toes curling, so I put both of my hands on either side her hips to steady her body as I eat her out. After a few moments of licking the area, I fully insert my tongue, using it to stimulate the inside walls of her vagina, flicking it around inside her. Her back arches incredibly when this happens, and I feel her left foot touch my shoulder from the movement. "Oh....uhhhh....yeaaaaaaaah," she moans, and I continue to lap at her vagina. She squirms a lot, almost as though she is trying to move away from me, but I keep my head close to her body, and take her hands and put them on the back of my head, where she lets them rest, occasionally pushing my face into her further. I begin to rub her clitoris with my index, middle and ring finger, and she grabs a fistful of my long, thick hair and lets out a loud moan. Other than Taylor's cries, only the subtle creaks from the springs of the mattress are audible, her voice filling my ears.

"Oh, yeah....yeaaaaaaaah....mmmmpf....Marc.....uh," she moans. I'm about to pull a nasty little trick on her that will make her have white-hot orgasms in a few minutes, and I kick my pants off the back of my bed, the white boxers inside each leg since I've removed them together. I then insert my index finger into Taylor's pussy, merely allowing it to rest inside her, licking around it as I continue to rub her clit with my other free hand. This gets her used to the size of my finger, which is comparatively thinner than my penis, so she'll be less accustomed to the girth, making me feel bigger than just the average white guy. After a few minutes, Taylor has become frustrated: "Oh yeah....yeah.....yeaaaaaaaah.....fuck me, baby. I want you to fuck me," she whines in a sexy voice. I keep my face pressed into her a little while longer, just to tease her a bit, and then remove it; she lets out a pleasured sigh of relief when I do so. I'm getting up to go to my dresser and get a condom out of the top drawer when she stops me.

"No don't stop...What are you doing?" she asks eagerly. She's gasping unevenly, her breasts heaving then depressing rapidly with each breath.

"I need a condom," I say lightly, grabbing my wallet from my pants.

"No, no, I have morning after pills. Get back over here!" she snaps, a deviant smile spread across her face.

"Well...Just give me -" my words fumble, and I'm not sure what to do. "Are you sure?" Taylor responds to my question by getting up, turning off the large light in her room, leaving only a small dim desk lamp lit, and pulling me by my erect penis over to the bed. Now I'm above her, my arm around her back, pulling her body close to mine, my right hand balled in a fist and my arm straight, burying it into the mattress while holding my torso up. I'm kissing her neck and then her face when I feel her grab the base of my stiff cock, touching my hairless pubic area, pushing her thong aside while she guides it into her. My penis slides in about halfway before she shifts her weight down so her thighs meet my pelvis and I'm fully inserted. I begin slowly, feeling my pelvis shift upward to collide with her thighs, my swollen balls slapping against her ass over and over again. After a few strokes, I slide my cock out almost all the way and feel it slick and wet with her juices before quickly shoving it back into her, causing her to gasp loudly and bury her face into my chest. After a few minutes of long, moderate strokes, I increase my speed and begin fucking her harder. "Oh fuck, Taylor," I say, feeling the tight, moist walls of her vagina, the pleasure making me weak. Her hips arch, bending her lower back towards me, bringing her hips up so as to receive more of me. "Yeah, yeah, yeah, oh fuck me, yeah, harder, oh, oh, fuck, Marc!" she cries. My arms give and I lean onto her, using my right elbow for support, my face against the pillow, and I begin pounding down into her vagina, wanting to fuck her as hard as I possible can. With each stroke my lower back raises, arching my body before I slam my cock back down into her. Eventually, the pleasure becomes so great, that, coupled with the exertion and the amount of vigor I have used, I sort of collapse atop her, hips pumping madly, feeling the intensity of the moment steal the energy away from me. Her moans get louder, no words really decipherable since my ear is now against the padding of the mattress, and I eventually slow to a stop and her cries subside to heavy breathing. "Phew....uh...fuck, Marc," she gasps, and I move in and kiss her, tonguing her mouth. Withdrawing my penis, I roll over onto my left elbow.