Red Rock

Then suddenly an orgasm exploded between my legs. I grasped at his cock trying to keep it my mouth sucking as hard as I could as my body convulsed with wave after wave of orgasmic contractions. His semen oozed out around the corners of my mouth. I tried to keep sucking and swallowing. The taste and smell was earthy and musky and rich and I wanted it all down my throat.

Finally my orgasm started to subside and I could feel the final spasms of his cock dribbling his seed into my mouth. I pulled it out and began licking and kissing it, running my tongue to his scrotum and up to the tip licking the final drops oozing from the slit in the head. Then suddenly he sat down. He was next to me on the floor of the shower, water running over us. Our mouths came together and our tongues mingled, tasting each other.

***

Chris showered. I sat in the lounge chair in our room 40 floors above Las Vegas, an island in a desert. I had turned it to face the huge, nearly seamless sheets of tempered glass that was our exterior wall. I was wearing the t-shirt Chris had worn all day and drinking from a little bottle of mini-bar white wine. The shirt was thick with his familiar smell. I pulled it up to my nose and inhaled.

I swiped and flicked from app to app on my phone looking for a distraction. My thoughts kept pulling me away from the little screen so full of answers waiting to be found, information waiting to be to consumed, shared moments waiting to be liked. Finding. Consuming. Liking. What a lot of work. I turned it off and set it on the table. I took a swig of wine and gazed out the huge window filling with night and tiny lights blinking awake below me.

I'd had three orgasms today; one on the trail and two in the shower. I wasn't actually sure how to count the one on the trail. It could have been several that blended together or just one long one. I didn't know. Not exactly my field of expertise. This is not who I thought I was. I knew there was a whole other world of female humans out there, unlike me, who were on a first name basis with orgasms.

Theres were bright, happy souls who'd been separated from the rest of us even before we were born and endowed with special knowledge and gifts, I had always assumed. They knew. They'd read the manual. Daily, multiple, vaginal, clitoral, anal, fornix, Grafenburg. I'm sure there was probably even a secret Alexa command for orgasm.

One a week was what I had sort of come to expect from myself. If I pushed it. I often went weeks, or lately, months without one. Months. Ugh. It was true. I could go months without an orgasm. Like a camel crossing the desert. I laughed. I could just hear dry British voice over a helicopter shot of a train of camels shuffling through endless dunes. "The bactrian camel can travel great distances through harsh desert terrain without having a single orgasm." Amazing.

The orgasms, obviously, weren't the problem. When are they? They were a symptom. And symptoms are scary. Hey doc, I've got abdominal pain, diarrhea and vomiting. Those are symptoms of something serious. What about bleeding from my mouth, nose and rectum? Those too are symptoms. Gangrene? Symptom. Symptoms are never good. Swig.

So what are orgasms a symptom of? Now there's a question, I thought.

The last time Chris and I had sex the leaves were turning. It was late September. It was our twentieth anniversary. We were staying on Michigan Avenue. We'd had a nice dinner and too much to drink. We got up to the room and made out on the bed for awhile. Chris got up to go to the bathroom. I got undressed and put on a black lace camisole. Anticipating post-coital sleep, I went over to the thermostat and turned the temperature down to 65 and the A/C fan kicked on. Chris came back and asked if I wanted another drink as he fixed one for himself.

"Sure," I said, not really wanting one. "Be right back." I said.

I went to the bathroom. I peed. I took off my mascara. I brushed my teeth. I washed my face. I turned out the bathroom light and went back to the bed.

Chris had fixed himself another drink and was sitting on the edge of the bed, shoes off but still fully clothed. I got into bed, turned out the lamp and pulled the covers up to my chin expecting he would come to me and we would continue to kiss our way to intercourse.

He turned to look and me. I smiled, raising my eyebrows. He turned way and downed his drink. He stood, placed the empty glass on the dresser, slipped on his shoes and went down to the hotel bar.

I lay there in the bed, turning from side to side, almost angry, trying to puzzle it out. Why had he just left like that? Was he was mad or just tipsy? What did I feel? How I should feel? Did it matter? And finally, feeling, sadly, nothing really but tired, I fell asleep.

That was the last time we had sex. But we didn't. But we had a fun night out. We kissed. We walked together holding hands and we almost had sex. But we didn't. The last time we actually had sex was last summer. Six months ago. He licked my pussy for awhile, fucked me doggy style for awhile. Neither of us came and then we went to sleep. That was the last time. And what was that but two people mailing in a payment on the mortgage of a marriage that neither of them really inhabited anymore?

Sitting in front of the window, looking into the night, particles of cosmic sadness passed through my body. My vision started to blur, my eyes getting hot. I blinked and big, fat tears rolled down my cheeks. My chest felt empty and weak, filled with the hollow expectations of a life I thought I was living. I wanted to cry for the wasted time, for the self-denial, for myself, for feeling like wanting to cry. So what are orgasms a symptom of? I thought.

"Hey you, you wanna be my girlfriend?" came Chris' voice. He was moving around the room, sipping a cocktail, changing channels on the TV, getting dressed. Then he was behind me, his hands on my shoulders, squeezing.

"You gonna go to dinner dressed in a t-shirt?" He said. His hands slid to my breasts, cupping them, his thumb and forefinger raising my nipples, then his mouth was on my neck.

I took another sip of wine, my hands covering his, and I gazed out into what was now a full ocean of night lapping against the island of light at my feet, just waiting to swallow me. Marcus was out there somewhere.

***

Within a month, I was back at the El Abre. CES, the Consumer Electronics Show, is always a Tuesday through Friday carnival during the second week of January. For me, it was mostly a series of meetings to hear sales pitches from vendors, grab coffee with vendors and have a couple dinners with vendors. Work. I flew in late on Monday with three co-workers; Jim, Jim and Tori.

We checked in slowly, obviously at the same time as everyone else from the farthest reaches of the globe, and one by one we trundled off to our rooms dutifully agreeing to meet back in the lobby at 7 p.m. to grab dinner. The thought of shuffling along the street trapped in a horde of humans going to the same restaurants to wait in the same lines for the same tables for what would seem like forever gave me a headache. I wasn't coming back down tonight.

In my room I unpacked four days worth of clothes into the dresser and closet. At the bottom of my suitcase were a couple of items I'd purchased and packed without letting myself contemplate why. Now, here they were and here I was and I was going to have to face them. Right?

I stared down at a sexy black low-rise thong, a pair four-inch, black ankle-strap sandals and a just-too-short-for-your-age-but-okay-in-Vegas little black bodycon dress lying in the bottom of my suitcase daring me to take them out and acknowledge their purpose. A nervous pang shot through my gut as I picked up the dress and held it out to consider it for a moment. I dropped it back into the suitcase and moved to the bathroom to lay out my toiletries.

I looked into bathroom mirror, pulled back a hank of my reddish blonde hair and ran my hands down my body from tits to hips turning slightly to consider my tummy and rump, "You can wear it." I said to my reflection, chin up, more confidently than I felt. "No problem."

I came back into the room, ignoring the suitcase, and set up my laptop to charge. "You can wear me." The dress whispered to me. "But will you?"

Sitting at the desk, I reached into my purse and found the business card I'd tucked in there next to lipstick and powder. I pulled it out and looked at it for a moment then laid it on the desktop. I ran my finger over the phone number printed at the bottom, contemplating what story it would unlock if tapped into my phone.

Suddenly I felt alone, on my own, in this room far from my home and my life and my normal. And I was surrounded by evidence, like charms collected on a quest, of a growing obsession that I couldn't ignore much longer.

I stood and went to the minibar. I pulled out a little bottle of white wine then put it back. I paused, considering for a moment, then picked up a tiny bottle of gin, poured half into a plastic cup and drank it in a gulp. I poured the rest into the cup as the liquid burned pleasantly in my throat.

I sat down at the desk and opened my phone. Group text to Jim, Jim and Tori: "Sorry all, I'm wiped. Gonna turn in early. See you bright and early!" I knew Tori would be pissed, leaving her to hang out with the Jims on her own but it was sort of a right of passage. I put my phone down and picked up the card. I sipped the gin.

Group reply from Tori two minutes later: "Sorry, me too guys. Mañana." I grinned. Good girl, Tori.

"Okay girls, see you in the morning," came the reply from the Jims.

They were nice enough - scratch that, they were boring as fuck and made no effort to be otherwise. And tagging along with them as an act of some sort of modern, corporate fealty on a Monday night in Vegas, trapped in the shuffling horde, especially for Tori who was half their age, was a mind-numbingly boring prospect.

The night would be one soaked in whisky (the Jims' tolerance was spooky), filled with beef and decorated with endless chatter about golfing, golf equipment, golf courses and people who play golf. I'd had that night with the Jims several times. Kill me.

I put the card down and stared at it remembering the brief encounter I'd had with its owner. Marcus S. Coursi, General Manager, Hospitality Venture Group. I'd spent, what, fifteen minutes with him? We talked about nothing and flirted a bit. Well, more than a bit.

But something about him had gotten to me, had gotten into me. It was as if I'd breathed in a Marcus Molecule and it had bonded with a Daphne Molecule and altered my brain chemistry. Protein synthesis and dendrite activation and serotonin receptors and, poof, my brain was different. That was possible, right? Like taking psychedelics and having a religious experience that changes your outlook forever.

Okay, probably not that. But I couldn't explain what it was. I had connected to him and something in me had changed. I needed to know why and how. I sipped the gin. "Marcus S," I said aloud, wondering what the S stood for. Samuel? Sinclair? "What did you do to me?" I said to the room.

My phone vibrated with text from Tori: "Emoji with tongue sticking out and laugh emoji."

I texted back: "Hands clapping emoji."

She texted: "Martini glass emoji."

It vibrated again, this time a text from Chris: "You make it okay?"

I texted back: "Thumbs up and blowing kisses emojis." Then another: "I'm wiped. Prepping for tomorrow then early bed. Call you tomorrow."

The reply came: "Emoji of a peach. Tomorrow then." I stood up to go for a second bottle of gin, sipping the rest from the cup, savoring the sharp juniper burn in my nose and throat.

After we got home from Vegas last month, Chris didn't mentioned Marcus at first. Not once. And we fucked almost every night. We were hungry.

Then, after about week he brought it up, asking if I thought Marcus had anything to do what my new condition. Instantly I became indignant. Insecure with anger and embarrassment. Everything shut down between us. One afternoon he came up behind me as I stood at the kitchen sink, slid his hands under my arms and cupped my breasts - a move I loved and one he'd made a hundred times over the years. I went rigid, just standing there, water running, and he pulled away.

Yet, every chance I got, I touched myself. Brought myself to orgasm. It seemed I was wet or nearly wet all the time. Between meetings at work once, I went to the bathroom, closed the stall door and lifted my skirt and stood with one hand against the wall. I pushed my hand down inside my underwear and found myself swollen and slippery. I brought myself off within a minute.

And every night when I came home Chris looked for an opening and found none. He would just withdraw, confused. I couldn't talk to him about it. I wanted to but there were too many words to say and too many words in the way and not enough strength to unwind the time that had gathered between us, to clear the space we needed to even try to understand. I wanted to weep. He never again asked me what had changed, he just looked at me with a fleeting curiosity in his eyes and smiled. He waited at a distance.

I think he knew what was happening even if I hadn't completely figured it out myself. He knew it was a puzzle I needed to solve on my own before I could talk about it. And I think he knew if he pushed a conversation again, any chance we had at coming back together would collapse and wash away before it could root and take hold. He knew I was coming back to Vegas and I think a part of him hoped I would find some kind of answer.

I drained the second bottle of gin into my cup and dropped a couple of cubes into the cup and stirred with my fingers. I sipped again and was feeling the warm, pleasant glow of the alcohol spreading through me, lubricating my thoughts.

I licked my fingers, kicked off my pumps, hiked up my dress and pulled my panties to the floor. I moved toward the chaise longue in front of the huge window wall, grabbing my phone and the card, feeling the cool air swishing between my legs.

I lay back on the chaise with my knees raised, tenting my dress, holding the card with both hands in front of my face trying to remember his voice. His earnest, almost boyish smile. And his scent. I closed my eyes and lay my head back dropping the card to my chest, inhaling deeply, trying to remember.

My fingers found my nipple and began to pinch and pull. His face floated into focus then his scent emerged, unlocked from some limbic synapse it raced across my brain shaking open the chemical cages of pleasure. And then it began, the tingle at the base of my spine slowly spreading between my legs.

I pressed my hand along my leg to my knees and grasped the fabric of my dress, pulling it to my waist, exposing the fork of my thighs. My legs parted and my hand covered my vulva, my fingers exploring. My body was racing ahead, as my finger parted my labia I realized I was already wet.

I slipped the pad of my finger gently back and forth along the length of my cleft, up, over and around the hood of my clit, savoring the building sensation. My legs spread as I imagined his body pinning me to the chaise, his mouth on mine, his tongue searching hungrily. I could taste the desire in his breath and my hips began to move, ever so slightly against my finger.

Slowly, my finger traced the contours of my sex, exploring the valleys between my labia, circling the hood of my clitoris. I could hear his hot whispers in my ear preparing me, "Are you ready?" He exhaled, "I need you now," inhaling me, "I need you Daph." He grunted. The taut ball of nerves in my perineum ruptured and the contractions began to wrack me. "I need you Daph," peeled through my brain and tiny tingles erupted over my whole body. "I need you," the plea echoed through my mind. My knees came together and my head jerked forward. "Fuck." I barked through ragged breath. My knees slumped to the chaise.

In the ebbing afterglow, my breathing returning to normal, I knew I had to call him.

***

"You've reached the voicemail of Marcus Coursi," said the electronic version of the smiling voice I remembered. "Please leave a message and I will get back to you as soon as possible." Then an almost computerized female voice, "Please leave a message after the tone." Tone. I hung up.

It wasn't the kind of conversation I wanted to start with a voicemail. There were too many unknowns; would he remember me, if he did remember me, would he think it was weird that I was calling him? The answers to which were almost certainly, 'No, probably not,' and, 'Yes, quite fucking weird, actually.'

But if it was interesting weird instead of fatal attraction weird there might be a chance to... to what? Explain? Not exactly. To meet again. And then, I wasn't sure what. To ask him what virus he'd used to infect me with this obsession. Probably best not to use the 'O' word, 'obsession' or the other 'O' word, come to that. "Hi, thanks for meeting. So, I'm a grown-ass, middle-aged woman who met you once a month ago for fifteen minutes, during which time my life seems to have changed completely and now I'm obsessed with you, can you explain that?" Have to work on that.

My phone began vibrating. His number. Adrenaline exploded in my chest. Shit.

I picked it up. "Hello, this is Daphne." I said. It kept vibrating. I looked at it. I slid the 'answer' button. "Hello? This is Daphne." I said.

Without a pause came a laugh, "Daphne. Oh my God how've you been?" He said, realizing who it was. "How was the riding out at Red Rock?"

I was immediately relieved and began to laugh, "Oh, it was, it was great. I've never... It was great. We had so much fun." I said. "And I'm so sorry we weren't able to take you up on your offer, so generous, your offer of dinner. I wish we could've but..." I started to trail off, heart pounding, unable to think of the next thing to say.

"No worries. No worries. Any time in you're back in town, the card is still good. The offer stands." He said. "You guys aren't back already are you?"

"Actually," I said, "I am in town. I'm in for CES. It's a work thing. A few of us just came in this afternoon."

"Wonderful. How many are you? We'll get you all taken care of." He said.

"Oh no," I said, "I wouldn't dream of that." I thought of the Jims, "Kind of a nightmare actually. No, I was hoping to..." I paused. And here it was...what, exactly, was I hoping? "I was wondering," there was no way around this, "if I could buy you a drink." I winced. I had just driven off the road and into the Desperation Territories. "I'd like your opinion on something." I said. Better. "I have an idea I'd like to discuss." I said. Even better. Back on the road, hands on the wheel, ten and two. Crazy dust cloud in the rearview but back on the road at least.

"Well. Opinions and discussing ideas. How stimulating." He said, playfully. "I'd love to meet and hear all about it." He said. "When's good?" He asked.

Back to me. I couldn't believe I hadn't thought this through. I looked at the clock beside the bed.

"Umm," I stalled. The clock read 7:44. Still early. "How's your evening look?" I said, plunging ahead. Tonight? TONIGHT!? I thought. You're going to fucking do this tonight? Do what? Yes. What? Shit. I don't know, I've never done this. Tonight is fine. Right?

"Tonight, let me check. Hold on," he said. Then after a pause, "I've got some time between eight and eight-thirty or at ten I'm basically open for the rest of the night." He said. Then without pausing, "Why don't we say ten? Where are you staying?"

Ten. Calculating backward ... 8 a.m. meeting at the convention center, fifteen minutes by shuttle means leave the hotel at 7:30, an hour to get ready means up by 6:30 which means six hours of sleep if I get back by midnight at the latest. And how long could this take? Plus I got plenty of rest last night and, who am I kidding, I'm not going to sleep tonight anyway.