My first attempt at a story that doesn't fall under the Gay Male category, and definitely a different tone from my other attempts. Hope you enjoy - as always, I love getting feedback, hearing from folks on here and chatting about my writing or yours, or anything else!
Beautiful, naked big-titted women just don't fall out of the sky, you know.
For some inexplicable reason – beyond, of course, my own sad dependence on pop culture for my entire worldly frame of reference – a quote from the late '90s Kevin Smith film Dogma was the first thought that popped into my head upon seeing her.
In the film in question, the character of "Jay" - the rail-thin foul/motor-mouthed skate rat repeatedly essayed by Jason Mewes in the Smith "View Askew" universe – hollers the line, hoping to replicate the apparent success of his just-prior "Guys like us just don't fall out of the sky, you know," which happened to coincide with Chris Rock's "13th Apostle" character, well, falling from the sky. Unfortunately for Jay, Rock's arrival had nothing to with anything beyond coincidence. Salma Hayek's muse-cum-stripper does not appear until later in the movie, and she does not fall from the sky.
It loses a lot in the telling.
Regardless. Here I was, sitting not-quite-happily in a bar, by myself, nursing my fourth whiskey soda of the early evening, when a beautiful, big-titted naked woman fell from the sky. Well, not naked, yet. And she didn't literally fall from the sky, because this is a work of erotic fiction, not Twilight Which begs the question, since I swear I have no idea – does anyone fall from the sky in Twilight, or should I stick with pop culture references to films I've actually seen? In retrospect, I think it's probably more flying and shit, which I guess vampires can do sometimes, but maybe some of them fall asleep or run into a bird or something and then they might fall from the sky.
To get back to the beautiful, big-titted woman who's not yet naked, and sort of more appeared from outside my four-whisky-and-soda field of vision. Which also rarely, if ever, happens. At least to me. If this kind of thing happens often to you, and she turns out to not be: A) A figment of your imagination; B) A ghost; C) A hooker; D) The waitress – please write me, and we'll start hanging out more often, because for me, it's almost always one of the above. Usually A or D. C would actually be pretty interesting, assuming she's not like in The Shining and she turns all old and scabby and gross when you go to make out with her. Boom. '70s pop culture reference. Well, 1980, technically. But anyone who would guess that The Shining was made in the '80s without checking is a dirty liar and probably enjoys getting blowjobs from guys in dog costumes. And that's not a furry reference. I don't do those. That's also in The Shining.
Sooo. I'm sitting in my corner bar, contemplating the possibility of downing three more whiskey sodas in the next hour, since it's going to take me at least that many to get a serious buzz going, but at ten o'clock they turn the lights down even lower and turn the music up and I like to change the name from P.J. Shaw's to Club PJ's, and it fills up with douchebags. So I'm trying to do the math. If three whiskey sodas leave the bar at 9 o'clock, being drunk at a rate of one ounce every two minutes, how quickly can I get them in my bloodstream and stumble out of here?
And then suddenly there's a woman standing in front of me. I jump a bit on the stool, which is hard to do, without much leverage under your feet, so it's more like a little slide. The Dogma quote pops into my head, and I run down the checklist. Beautiful? Yep. Big-titted? Check, check. Naked? Nope. Hiss. Falling from the sky? Two out of four ain't bad. And they're two of the more important ones. She's got a figure like the redhead from Mad Men, the office manager who was on Firefly and wears the pen around her neck that acts like a '60s version of a laser pointer on her boobs. But this one's body is somehow even better, something out of a '50s pin-up calendar mashed up with a weird dream I once had involving the collected works of Paul Reubans. No, sorry. Peter Paul Rubens. Not Pee Wee Herman. Now that would have been weird. Anyway. She had a fucking amazing body. Toned, strong legs; hips that looked like they were sculpted specifically to grab a hold of during a brutal doggystyle fuck; an ass that evoked fond memories of my mom's yoga teacher from when I was five and she'd take me to class with her; and breasts that make Jessica Rabbit look realistic.
After staring at her body for a good five minutes, I figured I should take a look at the face. Disappointment was inevitable, and yet miracle of miracles, not to be. She had the cutest little nose, set amidst beautiful, clear, lightly-freckled cheeks, accented by deep brown eyes that sparkled in the cheap barroom light and full red lips that finally made clear what the fuck Mario Puzo was talking about when he kept describing everyone's lips as "sensual bow-shaped." They looked like Angelina Jolie's, except without the whole "somebody just punched me in the mouth" thing. If I'm not being clear, her lips were the most beautiful, most kissable objects I've ever seen.
Now, this being a work of erotic fiction, you'd be forgiven for thinking the above description is of some fantasy woman, some goddess of the imagination and little boy's wet dreams, the amalgamation of the body of Marilyn Monroe, the pure sex appeal of Alyssa Milano, and the utter cuteness of Meg Ryan. And yet the woman described herein is a real person, and the description is entirely accurate. It's the only true-to-life aspect of this work. And her real life beauty is actually beyond description, the words above are a mere shadow of her true wonder. And I've seen her naked. Sucks to be you, bitches.
Right. So this goddess come to Earth stood before me, hand on the hip of body-hugging jeans, cuffed around her calves, a tight red t-shirt making quite clear the suitability of the above comparison to Jessica Rabbit. Her dark brown hair had this little pixie thing going on, not ridiculous like the girls who think they're an anime character or 40-something porn stars trying to play 18, but classy and confident, befitting a woman who looked to be in her early 30s. She knew she could pull it off, and she was.
I don't think she stood there waiting for me to speak nearly as long as this description took to write, but it sort of felt that way. Words don't come easily to me at the best of times, and being that I the afore-mentioned quadrilogy of whiskey sodas was currently playing around in my brain and she was fucking hot as balls, words were taking their sweet sweet time. Don Juan I was not. I think my opening line was something like, "Hey."
"Hey yourself," was her reply, but it was the accompanying smirk that made me think that this must be some sort of sick joke. Fun to look at, but still sick. I glanced around the bar, saw nothing but the kind of guys who are already drunk at 9 PM on a Wednesday. The only guy in the place I recognized was the bartender, Padraig, and he was much more so the punch-you-in-the-face-and-steal-your-wallet type, as opposed to the more amiable "joking" type. Hence him pulling the 9 PM on a Wednesday shift in this dive.
So no joke. I kind of hoped she would turn around so I could make sure there weren't any scabby holes or open wounds in her back, but if I learned anything from The Shining – and I did – it's that nasty ghost chicks don't turn all nasty (in a bad way) until you start snogging. Hmm.
Not a joke, not a ghost (I don't think). That left A) Figment of my imagination; C) Hooker; or D) Waitress, and P.J.'s didn't have waitresses, so that was out. "You a hooker?"
She laughed and rolled her eyes, her teeth clean and even and white, which did as much to answer the question as did her soft, "No, I'm not a hooker. Thanks so much for asking though."
So, not a joke, not a ghost (I think), not a hooker. That left figment of my imagination. I was pretty fucking impressed with my imagination, and had absolutely no scruples about actively pursuing a figment of it. Wouldn't be the first time.
Having established her plane of existence (non-corporeal; non-paranormal), I took the next obvious step in this, or any similar situation. "You want a drink?"
"Actually, I was hoping to buy you a drink." Her voice was a little husky, but incredibly feminine. Granted, in P.J. Shaw's, a pit bull wearing a ribbon seems incredibly feminine. But still – sexy voice.
"You're sure you're not a hooker?"
She pursed those incredible lips, turned her head to look slightly behind me, to my left. I turned, saw some guy sitting alone in a booth. He nodded hello. I nodded back. "That your pimp?"
She sighed, pushed her hair back where it had fallen over her forehead. "Yeah, sure. That's my pimp. Fucking idiot. Do you want a drink or not?"
"Yeah, sure." I slid off the stool. "But if I ask you if you're a hooker and you say no and you are, that's entrapment. You have to tell me."
"That's if I'm a cop, retard. And that's an urban legend." She moved away from the booth, towards the bar. I followed. "You think an undercover cop is going to admit he's a cop just because some gangbanger asks him? What are you drinking?"
"Yeah, I guess that does sound pretty dumb. Whiskey soda."
"Whiskey soda," she said to Padraig, who managed to avoid sticking his thumb in it. Having a gorgeous woman buy your drink has its privileges. I should have been having gorgeous women buy my drinks long ago. This also seemed to prove that she was not, in fact, a figment of my imagination. Unless the entire bar was a figment of my imagination. Whoa. My mind temporarily blown, I could only stumble after the possibly transcendental beauty as she sashayed over to the booth.
"This is Mark." She gestured at the dude in the booth, who slid out to let her in, and stuck out his hand at the same time. I shook it hesitantly. He seemed a little too happy to have some guy joining him with this woman. I didn't sit. He did, quite close to the woman in the padded pleather seat. She grabbed a cocktail of some sort of the table, leaving a big ring of condensation on the table, took a quite healthy swig. Thirsty work, convincing folks you're not a hooker.
"Good to meet you," said Mark. "Have a seat." I noticed the woman's hand had moved onto Mark's leg under the table, and was quite obviously rubbing his inner thigh vigorously. As she did, her bicep moved against the swell of her breast, massaging it through her thin t-shirt, the neck of which I could now quite easily see down. I followed Mark's instructions and sat before my lurid imagination and her ridiculous cleavage caused me to stretch my jeans beyond repair.
"What's your name?" Mark asked.
"Nice to meet you, Um Jake." He nodded his head sideways at the woman as she sipped contentedly at her drink – dark liquor, no fruit. She had potential be yond the obvious. "This is Tia."
She nodded at me, even smiled a bit, I think. That was encouraging. "Nice to meet you, Mark. Tia." I stopped, drank half the free whiskey soda. Always tasted better free. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. "Listen, Mark." He nodded eagerly, smiling at me without opening his mouth. Guy looked like some kind of yuppie fuck, kind of guy who'd end up getting his ass kicked at the end of some John Cusack movie back before he tried to get all deep and meta.
Dark blond hair, big blue eyes, clean-cut. Fucking Billy Zabka. That's who it was. Guy who made a living playing douchebags who get their comeuppance. Karate Kid, Better Off Dead, Just One of the Guys. That guy. This guy Mark had the same smarm. But hey, free drink.
"Mark," I continued, "Thanks for the drink. It's delicious. Listen, I don't mean to be rude or something, but what the fuck is going on here? Is this some kind of cult thing? 'Cause I don't really have much money, and I look shitty in purple velvet."
He laughed, a little too loudly, showing his big white teeth. Just like Zabka!! Dun dun dun. He glanced at Tia, who shrugged, and then back at me. "Hey, Jake. I don't want you to get the wrong idea. So here goes." He leaned forward a little bit, took a drink of his beer. "We – Tia and I – we'd like you to come home with us tonight." He leaned back, his arm going around Tia.
I swallowed the second half of my drink. This just got interesting. Well, no, it had been interesting before this point. I hope. I just got a lot more interesting, to me at least. Also interesting was the foot that was slowly working its way up my calf under the table. Tia had been wearing little slip-off type heels. I had noticed those. They made her calves look amazing. She must have slipped them off. I glanced at her. She was staring at me over the rim of her drink, sipping it slowly, the ice reflecting the light into her eyes. They were certainly big and dark and brown and lovely. My eyes stayed on her. "Okay, Mark. Sounds good. Let's get out of here."
He smiled, that big goofy, Zabka smile; Tia smirked, that glorious, intoxicating devilish smirk; and I put my empty glass down on the table and stood to go.
Turned out they lived only a couple blocks away. Tia did, anyway. Apparently they didn't live together, which made things even more interesting. Just for those keeping track at home, "things" were now at a 7 on a 10-point "interesting" scale. About equal to that time this guy I know showed up at a third friend's bachelor party with a motorcycle, a monkey, two strippers and a large bag of 'shrooms. Not necessarily "interesting" in the same way, but on the same scale. A scale with the heading "This Situation Could End Up Going A Lot Of Different Ways, Many of Them Bad, a Few of Them Hilarious, One or Two Fun." I was hoping this would end up being one of the outlying "fun" results. Which sort of turns this into more of a graph of a bell curve or something, rather than strictly a scale. This is going to end up being the first piece of erotic fiction to feature footnotes and an appendix.
Prob/stat aside, Tia's apartment was nice. Very nice. For New York, anyway, which could mean a lot of things. A "nice" New York apartment, depending on your scale of living, could mean anything from "not teeming with roaches" to "penthouse that rivals the Hanging Gardens of Babylon." Tia's "nice" was somewhere in the middle, which made it a hell of a lot nicer than mine, which made it "nice."
Three rooms – living space with adjoining kitchen, new appliances and fixtures and cabinets; smaller studio-looking area off of that, decent-looking bathroom, and a good-sized bedroom. But I get ahead of myself. It's sort of a habit, living in New York. One becomes obsessive about space, apartments, cost of living, who's got a better deal and who's getting royally screwed.
Tia locked the door behind us, left the overhead lights off, walked slowly around the living room flicking on a handful of floor lamps. They cast a soft glow around the room, leaving some shadows in the corners, which I assumed to be hiding dust bunnies and whatnot. That wasn't the first thing I got wrong this night. Girl kept the place fucking immaculate. It looked like she had a maid in every morning or something. She tossed her jacket onto the arm of one of the couches and sat herself down next to it, crossing her legs, leaning back, her mostly bare arm stretched out along the back of the sofa. I noticed a big colorful tattoo on her upper arm that had somehow escaped me in the bar. Perfect tits can be distracting that way. And they were distracting me now, as she leaned back, stretching comfortably, her t-shirt pulled tight around those glorious examples of some Dionysian god's goodness to mankind. I needed to sit down. Next to her on the couch? I plopped into the wing chair to her left, facing the kitchen. Fortune favors the bold, but I didn't want my back to Zabka, who was currently occupied pulling what looked like a bottle of vodka from the freezer.
Tia tapped her fingertips lightly along the top of the leather couch, her fingernails the same red as her lipstick. Candied apple? Fire engine? My mother would have called her a slut with a color like that, but my mother also thought Julia Roberts was actually a prostitute after she saw Pretty Woman, so her judgment is suspect. Whenever thereafter she would see Ms. Roberts in anything, she would get all pissy about how Hollywood would never have employed "a woman like that" back in the day. Whatever color they were, Tia's nails were drumming up a storm on the back of that couch.
"What color do you call that?" I asked, nodding at her hand. Not subtle, am I.
"Hellfire." She lifted a single perfectly formed foot up above the short coffee table that squatted in front of the couch, her slip-off shoes having slipped off somewhere back around the front door. Toe nails matched. "You like?"
"Hellfire. Nice. Not something you'd find in a Crayola box, huh?" I thought that was clever. She gave me a look like I was an drooling idiot. Not even pity, just sort of apathy. This woman was proving difficult to figure out. Why the fuck was I here? I settled back in the chair, plumbing the quite often nightmare-fueling depths of my mind. Was this an American Psycho thing, where they pick up a dude and split his head open with an axe while blathering about terrible music? God, I hope not.
Mark/Zabka wandered over from the kitchen, squeezing three highball glasses in his hands, filled to the brim with ice and clear liquid. Fuck. Should have watched him pour. How long do roofie's take to dissolve? Or are they liquid? For someone who spent an unhealthy amount of time hanging around squalid dive bars and watching movies, I knew painfully little about slipping someone a mickey. He handed me a glass, gave one to Tia and kept the third for himself, settling in next to the goddess on the couch. I put my glass down on the table in front of him and took the glass from his hand.
He looked at Tia. She shrugged, smirked again, and held her glass up towards me. "Cheers." Mark touched his glass to hers, and I slowly followed suit.
"Cheers." I watched them each take a big sip before I did the same. Tasted like vodka rocks.
"I don't blame you, Jake." Zabka's voice was different. Less hyper than he had seemed in the bar. Less nervous. "I'm guessing it's not every day you get picked up by random strangers in a bar."
I took another gulp. No need to waste good vodka. "Oh sure, Zab...Mark. Happens all the time. Just the other day I went home with one of the Kardashian sisters and her husband. I think she was a Kardashian. One of the ugly ones though. But hey, beggars can't be choosers."
He smiled. Definitely less goofy. Still not sure what Tia saw in this ponce, though. "Well, one still can't be too careful. Good to know you're not the blindly trusting type. Bottoms up, now."
His eyes were on me over the top of his glass as he tipped it back, piercing blue eyes, and I almost felt hypnotized for a second. I emptied the vodka down my throat, felt the slight burn, set the sadly empty vessel on the table. Tia and Mark had done the same. He reached over, put his hand on her wonderful thigh, his long, slim fingers moving slowly over the perfect curves, the two of them watching me closely. Waiting for something?
My head buzzed a little. Not an alcohol buzz. Oh dear. I looked down at the glass, because that's what people do when they've been drugged. Stare at the empty glass meaningfully, with a slightly confused, very dumb look on their face. That's why I did. Then back up at the drug-ers. Mark was grinning, tight-lipped. But where he was now cool and calm, Tia was suddenly the opposite. A dull haze moving over me, I saw the goddess perched next to him, her nipples visibly hard through her thin t-shirt, her lips parted, breathing heavily through her mouth, her eyes glazed and half-shut. And her hand was between her thighs, rubbing herself through her jeans. That was fun.