Maybe Just Once

We meet at a bar -- you can do those things again and we're both relieved to be able to go out and experience the world. It's crowded -- of course it is, everyone in the world has the same idea -- and as I try to shuffle and squeeze my way through the crowd from the bathroom back to my stool, I get jostled -- the unintentional push of someone backing into me, or turning around too quickly, or simply mis-stepping that can cause so much chaos in a crowed bar -- and like a domino effect, I stumble into you. I grab your shoulder hard as I fall into you, this beautiful complete stranger, and once I've regained my balance, I let go of you quickly and apologize. "Sorry," I say, "it's packed. Didn't mean to grab you."

"Don't worry about it," you tell me, "I didn't even know the city code would let so many people in here. Plus," you grab my shoulder now, hard, "it feels nice to be touched again. A year and a half in isolation can make a gal lonely. Too bad you're not my type," you finish, giving me a knowing wink.

"Oh, no? What is your type?" I ask, hoping to keep this going.

"Women," you say, flatly, with a hint of laughter behind that last syllable. "But men have been trying to pick me up all night. It might be nice to have some cover for a while. Want to grab a drink at the bar?"

"Of course," I reply. Shot or no shot, I never turn down a conversation and a beer. Especially after this pandemic. We maneuver our way back to the bar and claim another seat and start chatting.

# # #

After the where're ya froms, how'd ya get heres, whatdaya dos, and howdya like its, we're an hour in and a few beers deep. The conversation turns to sexual droughts and global pandemics.

"Are you straight?" you ask me.

"I am," I reply. "Well, I guess maybe bi-curious curious? I don't know that I'd enjoy taking a dick, but you can have a lot of fun in a group event with all parties. Nothing too kinky -- a little handjob, some head. You know..."

"I get that," you say. "I'm decidedly a lesbian, but I think I could enjoy a cock under the right circumstances. Maybe a group sex or threesome. I don't know..." you trail off. You catch me looking at you -- it's obvious the very idea that you might switch teams for a night has the gears turning in my head. I try to not undress you in my mind, keep it classy, keep it friendly, and you grab my shoulder again -- "Hey now," you say, laughing, "don't get any ideas."

"I'm not!" I say, tossing up my hands in a not me, honest! playful way. "But if you ever find yourself in need of a third..."

"Mmm," you tease back, "When I finally find a cock I want, I'll let you know so you can play with him, too. Maybe we'll blow him together." I laugh. I finish off my drink and wink at you.

"Fair enough," I say, "actually sounds hot. So, another other kinks? Other than the switching it up?"

You ponder. You finish your beer and as I'm flagging down the bartender for two more, you start to tell me. "I do, but I don't know if I should tell you."

"Aw, come on!" I playfully whine. "That's no fair. If you're not going to tell me, just say no! Don't tease it. You coulda said, 'no I'm a strait-laced lesbian through and through.' Now a million possibilities are going to run through my mind."

"You'd enjoy that, though, wouldn't you," you tease back. I laugh.

"Yeah, probably." I toss my hands up again, "Alright, if you aren't comfortable telling me, that's okay. No worries. We'll move to something else." The fresh beers arrive, and the conversation takes a suitable-for-work turn.

# # #

Another hour has gone by. The bar is thinning out -- the 9pm and 10pm fake ID college crowds have gone home or to their frat houses or their clubs and the remaining patrons can enjoy a little more peace and quiet with their beers and conversations. A booth opens up and we agree to take it -- to free up space at the bar so folks can order drinks -- and I slide in against the wall. You take the seat across from me and toss your feet up on the seat next to mine. We keep chatting, the beers keep coming, and I gently grab your ankle in my hand. I feel my blood rush to my head, my heart thundering in my ears as I rub my thumb along the joint. I glance at you, "Sorry," I say, "Force of habit."

You chuckle under your breath. "It's better than grabbing my shoulder," you say as I start to let go. "You don't have to stop." I keep running my thumb along your skin and the conversation continues.

You take a deep swig of your drink. "I'll tell you my kink," you say. I try and play it cool, but you can tell I'm very interested in this little secret. "But you have to promise not to think I'm some creep."

I raise three fingers in the air. "Scout's Honor" I say.

"And this doesn't mean I'm not a lesbian" you say, firmly.

"Understood," I say, nodding. "It's all kinks and fantasy. Sexuality is a spectrum. I got it."

You take a deep breath and say, "I'm a lesbian and I've never had a real man's cock inside me, let alone felt one cum in me. But I have a secret desire to be taken and bred by a man in the most primal way, grunting like an animal while he fucks my pussy hard."

I can feel the hot blood flooding every vein, I feel like my face is on fire, my heart a thundering stampede, my skin alive and electric. "I, uh," I stumble, "I, uh, actually have the same kink."

"Shut up," you say, throwing a crumpled bar napkin at me, "that isn't going to work."

"No, I do!" I say, "well, not with a lesbian, obviously, but I also have a breeding fantasy. There's something about the primal instinct of it. Just this agro fetishy urge, the freedom to go at it just for my own pleasure, the promise of her tits getting plump and full after, fulfilling your manly duty sort of bullshit. I don't know, it's just hot, I guess." You look at me straight faced across the booth. You bring your beer to your lips and take a long drink. I feel like all the lights of the world are shining only on me, the hot flush from a global spotlight on the creepy dude in the booth, making a fool of himself. You let me suffer and then say, "Yeah, it's something like that."

"Annnyyyywayyy," I say, making each syllable last a second, hoping by the time I finish the word, my embarrassment will have receded.

# # #

The night has gone on and the bar has practically emptied. There are a few barflys left at the rail, a couple or two in the booths down the row, an old man with a stack of folded newspapers doing the crosswords week by week making up for a lost year, downing cheap beer after cheap beer. I slip out of the booth to get us two more -- it's last call -- and when I return with our final two, I take a chance and slide back in next to you.

It's been a long night -- we've been chatting for hours. Your arm touches mine, and we both scoot closer. You hold your beer to your chest, and you drop your head onto my shoulder. I drop mine on to the top of your head and we feel each other breathe. "Jeez, it's nice to just experience physical touch again," I say, "even if it is with an out of my league lesbian," I finish.

You look up at me, "Psh. You're not out of my league," you say, and placing your hand on my thigh, you whisper "Plus, if I was going to let anyone breed me, it would be you." You wink at me and plant a gentle teasing kiss on my cheek. I try my best to be a good 21^st century man, accept this budding friendship for what it is, to not sexualize and objectify you. But my cock doesn't play long. The blood rushes to it and I get hard -- I fidget to try and keep it hidden, but the outline of my cock appears through my pants, pressing tight against the denim of my jeans, and you can't not notice it.

You raise your head up off my shoulder. "Okay, time to go."

# # #

We wait outside the bar for the uber. It's just past two in the morning. The cicadas sing in the trees in that haunting crescendo and decrescendo like waves upon a shore. The occasional car drives past, its low rumble fading down Madison Avenue. The streets are empty except for the occasional lonely walker, headed home or headed to the late night/early hours bars that don't open until three. "Where dreams go to die" you quip. Your uber pulls up and the driver rolls down the window. "Emily?" He calls out, and you give a small wave to confirm that's you. "Just a second," you tell him. We start to say good-bye, and you grab my shoulder again, "I can't believe I'm saying this," you tell me, looking me dead in the eye and the song of the cicadas seems like the loudest sound in the world except for your next words, "but come back to my apartment with me. Enough with the pleasantries, but I want to fuck, and I want you to be primal until I tell you to stop. I'll say flugelhorn when we've gone far enough. Can you do that?"

The sound of tires on wet pavement, of cicadas in the trees, of rumbling late-night buses and their squealing hissing breaks fill my ears. The blood is pounding, my cock throbbing, my hands feel like they are shaking. Your fingers hold on to my shoulder and your eyes stare deeply into mine. I grab the back of your neck, my hand finding its way through your long brown hair and I pull your lips to mine. My free hand slips up under your Patagonia sweater and along the underwire of your bra. Your breath is hot on my face and before we kiss, I whisper to you, "Of course. I want you." My lips draw your fat lower lip between them and all the sounds, all the blood pumping, all the after-midnight chill stop instantly and in deafening silence, we kiss.

# # #

We climb in to the uber, and before the wheels even start moving, you lean forward to speak to the driver. "I'm sorry," you tell him, "But there's a small change in plans. Can you actually take me back to his place?"

"200 Stonewall," I tell him, and he grunts the begrudging acceptance of a man awake at 2:30am earning a living bringing folks home from the bar. The car jostles as he puts it back in gear and we start to move.

"I may want to fuck," you lean in and whisper in my ear, "but I'm no fool. We just met tonight, and I don't want you knowing where I live just yet. No offense."

"Fair enough, none taken," I say, so laser focused on what is now occurring to me to be a possibly insurmountable task that the location is hardly relevant. You notice my unease, though I've clearly put forth a herculean effort to hide any reservations.

"What's wrong?" you whisper, taking my hand and intertwining your fingers with mine. I sigh and rest my head on yours. I turn my neck slightly to catch your eye, and whisper so soft to you that you strain to hear me.

"I've never had sex with a lesbian before. I'm not saying I don't know what I'm doing, but I just don't want to disappoint you, is all. It's a tall order."

You squeeze my hand. "Do you not want to? That's okay."

I don't want my opportunity to slip through my fingers because of my own self-doubt, so I try and recover. I take your cheek in my hand, run a finger along your hairline, up around the ear and back to your neck. Your lips are dancing across mine, close enough to touch just occasionally, each moment like an electric shock. Our breath hot on the other's face and eyes out of focus. It feels like there is no city outside the car windows, no driver in the front seat, nothing except these next few moments, deciding the future of this night. "No, I do. I really do. I just don't want to disappoint."

You kiss me, softly, gently, almost with pity, and then bring your lips close to my ear. "I said I wanted primal, animalistic sex. I didn't say I want you to make me cum or covert me. Warren, I'm a lesbian. No matter how great you are, I'm still going to be a lesbian. This is a one-time thing. Get out of your head," your lips drift back along my cheek and kiss me again, "and get me into your bed."

I pause. I contort my face to make a little show of thinking about it. I squint my eyes, gaze off into the distance. I smile and nod. "Good points. Fair enough. Primal. I can do that."

# # #

The uber lets us off at my apartment, and you squeeze my hand. "You didn't tell me you live in a mansion." The building is large and stately on a row of large and stately homes on the crest of a major road leading down into the city proper. A series of steps lead up a small hill to a line of french doors -- frosted panes eerily white in the harsh yellow glow of the street-lights along the main road.

"Yeah, well, just one half of the top floor. It's been converted to four units, plus the carriage house in the back. I live up there," I say, pointing to the set of upper windows overlooking the intersection, "and Ms. de Rosa lives below me. She's very sweet. She's probably 106 and they always leave her newspapers down here by the street, so I have to run out and get them for her in the morning. In exchange, sometimes she'll make me a cake."

"She sounds lovely," you say, as we walk up each small flight of steps to the doors, and down along the porch to the far set, which I unlock and push open. We step inside and the lighting changes instantly. No longer awash in the jaundiced street-lights, we're standing at the bottom of a steep staircase, which runs half the wall high to a large landing before doubling back sharply to second floor. The windows above pour the street light and moon light -- defused through old panes -- down the stairs to give the entire room an off-kilter feel, like an old surrealist film. Shadows juxtapose with the dutifully straight lines of stairs and the room is angular and wide. I place my hand on the small of your back, under your Patagonia, and pull you to me.

We kiss, and I run my right hand along your spine, my left firmly holding onto your upper back, over the clasp of your bra. You embrace me, one hand running along my chest, teasing the buttons of my flannel, the other around the nape of my neck, pulling my lips into you. We're furious with our kisses, inelegant and hard. Our teeth clack against each other, our faces turning left or right in between, our noses brush as we make out. I bite your lip and pull it between my teeth. You do the same. I move along your face, kissing your cheek, your jawline, moving down the curve of your neck, pulling the collar of your sweater to allow me to kiss your collarbone. Your breath is hot on my neck, on my ear, I hear your small moans and content sighs as I work along your body. "Emily," I call, "I want you so terribly. I need to be in you." I say each word slowly, between a kiss.

"Warren," you reply, fumbling with a seemingly endless number of buttons on my shirt, "breed me. Cum inside me. Take me like an animal." I take my cue, and grab your Patagonia from the bottom seams, twisting it up over your head. Your arms raise with the sweater, are freed from above you as I toss the Patagonia to the stairs, and your arms fall to rest on my shoulders, your fingers working through my hair. My cock is throbbing at your semi-nude torso, and as we kiss, I try to sneak glances down your frame. A collarbone here, the curve of your breast there, a freckle by your navel, a nipple peeking out from your bra. God, I crave this. I crave you. I wish I could see more, take it in all at once, this heart-stopping beauty you posses. Why not? Why can't I, right now? Primal, Warren, I tell myself. Think primal.

I unclasp your bra and toss it to the floor like contraband, and then immediately, I push you away from me. You fall back on your foot, and the light from the windows upstairs falls angular and pale on the staircase, illuminating them as if they are waiting for the opportunity to showcase. I grab your shoulder, and push you down, off your feet on back onto the stairs. You take a seat on a step, lean back against the steep staircase, and I can see all of you. Your jeans are tight along your legs and ride low along your hips. Your figure is divine -- your navel long, matching the length of your slender torso. A singular freckle guides my eye from your navel to two small abs -- this small brown moon orbiting your navel, along the expansive universe of your stomach and chest. I imagine its circuit, my eyes following down along the ab, below your navel and above your beltline, following along your hip back to its home below your chest. Carnal, and heavenly.

And here, finally exposed, what I've wanted to see since we sat at the bar, what I glanced at in the mirror behind the bar, what I ached and yearned to touch in the uber. Your tits, so round and proper, slightly pale compared to your tanned body. In their center, two pink nipples, perfect in their shape, almost adorable if they weren't so tempting. Follow along the curve of your breasts, above the pale tan line to those collarbones, your neck, your face. Your thin upper lip, sexy in a classic way. Your hair - long, to your tits -- an oaken brown like the woods at end of autumn. Gorgeous. I wonder to myself what good deeds I must have done in a prior life to be here now, what tremendous fortune I have that you, this Aphrodite incarnate, have offered this masterpiece of the human form for my carnal pleasure.

I don't ponder the question, and instead grab your jeans. I unbutton them quickly, unzipper them and grab you -- jeans, panties and all - at the hips, lifting you off the step to pull your clothes off. As I do, you undo the last of the buttons on my shirt -- as far as you can reach anyway -- and with equal enthusiasm, pull my shirt over my head and to the floor. As soon as I have my arms returned, I continue to pull your jeans down your legs. Over your thighs, to your knees, only to be thwarted.

You catch the heel of your left boot with your right toe and kick it down the stairs. With your stocking foot, you do the same maneuver to your other boot. They clatter down the steps, coming to rest at the foot of the stairs, joining a growing pile of discarded clothing for which we have no need. Like a starting gun had been fired, I pull your jeans and panties off your legs quickly, toss them aside. I catch each sock with my thumb and toss them. You grab the nape of my neck, pull me in, and we kiss again. I take your thin upper lip in my mouth, then release and take in your fatter lower lip. Our tongues play against each other, running along the back of our teeth. You stop behind my two front teeth -- explore along a permanent retainer. I was once a gangly, brace-faced teenage boy. In some small way, you know me better now. Your tongue continues, you pull me closer.

My hands run over your body, too excited to stay in one place long. I run my hand along the curve of your waist, up from the hip and along to your ribs. I grab your tits, rub your nipples with my thumb as I run my fingers along the firm flesh. I squeeze you, slide my fingers down you, pinch your nipple. With my free hand, I unbuckle my pants, jostle them down my thighs and kick them off my legs, my shoes caught in them, a jumbled heavy mess of clothing, joining the discarded unnecessaries at the bottom of the stairs.

I'm at an awkward angle, leaning over the stairway, you laying back on it, these steep stairs an afterthought in this retroverted old home so that while I'm kissing your neck, your shoulders, your mouth it leaves my cock stranded in air -- erect and dripping precum -- orphaned and unattended. So, I improvise. I grab you under your shoulders and pull you -- you pushing your way up the steps with the balls of your feet helps -- up to the landing, and I lay you down. Your torso and head lay back across the landing, your hips and legs down the stairs, and I throw myself over you.

You run your hands along my chest -- I'm not a body builder, nor particularly out of shape, my thin frame is composed mostly of a hint of ribs and sinew. You run your fingers along me, the muscles of the chest, the ribcage, the waist, tracing along my hips, hinting at my cock. You place your hand flat across my chest -- I have to imagine this is new, a male chest, and you spread your fingers out wide and drag them back. The hair of my chest catching your fingers, you tease it, pull it, play with me. I want this. Desire consumes me like a fever. I want your body, I want you to want mine, I want this fantasy. I lean down and kiss you hard, depart from your lips and growl in your ear.