one night stand
She lit a cigarette and, her lips pursed around the filter, the tip glowing, she shook the match out and carelessly tossed it onto the bedside table.
“There was a man, once.” She exhaled long and hard, blowing smoke out of her nose like a dragon , her eye dull and reptilian in the lamp light.
He propped him self up on one elbow the better to see her profile.
The light was kind but even so it couldn’t hide her age, the lines that bloomed away from her lips, the corners of her eyes. Her jaw was by no means saggy, but it wasn’t the firm skin of a woman twenty years younger.
She fascinated him though, his gaze roamed her as she talked.
Girls his own age would hide their bodies under blankets, shirts, shyly fold their hands over brand new breasts.
She sat naked on the bed, unabashed in her skin, unfazed by her own breasts that seemed as tired as her spirit.
“Just one man?” He asked .
A puff of smoke escaped with her cracked chuckle.
“Sweetheart. One thing you’ll learn soon enough is that it doesn’t matter how many lovers you have, there will only ever be one.”
The corner of her mouth twitched, barely a smile.
“So what happened?”
With a sigh she stubbed out the half smoked cigarette, ground it into the ashtray viciously.
“I should give these up.” She exclaimed, snatching up the packet and tossing them across the hotel room so that they fell with a metallic thump into the waste basket.
“Ten points!” She laughed girlishly and there was a tiny glimpse of who she’d once been.
She lay her head on his chest and he absently ran his fingers through hair.
“Tell me about him.”
“It’s a long and boring story darling.”
“Tell me anyway. What happened to him?”
“What happens to all men in the end. They run off and get married. Have a couple of kids, move to the country, buy a dog. Blah, blah, blah.”
He ran his fingers up and down the soft flesh of her arm and felt the muscles there tense.
“You’re holding out on me…”
She sat up and turned on him with a sideways smile.
“You always try to get life stories out of strange women you meet in bars?”
He smiles and pulls her onto him, his hands grasp at her full thighs and she leans forwards to kiss him, explores his mouth with her tongue.
He tastes ashes and pushes his mouth harder to her.
“Only the interesting ones.”
“You think I’m interesting?” She sits astride him and puts her hands on his chest. “I’m far from interesting, I’m dull, I’m boring, I’m barely alive.”
He digs his fingers into waist and she throws her head back, smiling.
“You make me feel alive”
“Boy. You don’t even know me. What are you? Twenty? Twenty one?”
“Twenty four.” He can’t quite keep the petulance out of his voice and she raises an eyebrow at it in amusement.
“Twenty four.” She grins slyly and moves her hips lazily back and forth. “Boys like you are only good for two things.”
“Is that right?” His voice is husky, his grip on her tightens.
“Uh-huh.” she grabs at his chin and squeezes it affectionately. “Fucking and helping me zip my dress up after.”
She takes his hand in hers and brings his fingers to her mouth, sucking the tips delicately.
“You’re changing the subject.”
Her eyes widen in mock coyness. “I am?”
“What is there to tell? I loved him but he didn’t love me back. At least, not enough.”
The girl in her is gone and, stiffly, she climbs off the bed and goes to the waste basket, plucking up the cigarette carton and tapping one out.
“Why should I stop now? Practically dead anyway.”
She does cross her arms over her chest now, but it seems less an act of modesty and more an unconscious attempt to protect her heart.
“He was older than me. A lot actually…. Did I tell you I wrote a book?”
He shakes his head.
“Yes. While we were together, I had grand notions of being an author. Some girls were obsessed with ballet, others with horses, most with boys, I was obsessed with writing.”
She moves over to the window and pulls the curtain back a fraction, letting the sick orange light from the street below slip in, bathing her so she looked like tarnished gold.
“He was my teacher you see. Oh don’t give me that face!” She’s looking over her shoulder at him and smiles sadly. “I was eighteen, he was a private tutor my parents hired in a failed attempt to get me into university.
At the time I thought he was the most well read, intelligent person on earth. I worshiped him, hung on his every word, wasn’t a thing I wouldn’t do for him.”
The tip of her cigarette seemed to float in the gloom as she closed the curtain and walked back across the room to the bed.
“Of course, he soon realised this and was able to take full advantage of poor, little, naïve me.”
Her tones self deprecating, she’s making light of it, but he can see the way her eyes shine, doubled in size, magnified with well balanced tears.
“He nurtured me thought the book though.”
“The book? You never wrote another?”
She shrugs and slips back into bed. “Seems I only had the one in me.”
“What was it called?”
“The Vanity of Eros.” She proclaimed regally. “I know, I know.. it’s a cringingly pretentious title. But then it fits rather well with the content.”
She stretches till her joints pop then turns to him and smiles slyly.
“The things he did to me, that I let him do, that I wanted him to do. Wicked things, terrible things.”
Her fingers are running up and down the inside of his leg while she talks, long smooth strokes that make him hold his breath and twitch.
“I was his pet, his toy. He’d press his old man body against my young one and violate me.”
She traces the length of his penis with her fingertips, her lips twitch to a smile as she hears his breath hitch and sees his abdomen tense.
“He liked to hurt me. Pinching, slapping, pulling, never satisfied until I’d cried for him, then he’d fuck me like an animal.”
Her hand wraps around him firmly and she laughs.
“So this is why you wanted to know? Does it get you off? Do you get all the women you fuck to tell you about their past?”
He ignores her goading, merely moves his own hand past her belly and starts to work his fingers into her.
She gasps then recovers herself, moving her hand slowly up and down his length, almost without thought.
“He was a brute, Mon Attila Marcel …”
Her lips replace her hand so that she’s delicately kissing him, running her nose up and down from base to tip.
“When he first pushed me to my knees and got his cock out I had no idea what to do.” She whispers. “I just stuck my tongue out a little and licked it.”
A flick of the tongue and its hidden again, as though she’d tasted something bitter.
“Then he grabs my hair and says “Open your dirty little mouth”, so I do and he showed me how to please.”
And now her tongue snakes back out. Twists and slides along him, pulls him into her warm mouth so that he arches his hips off the bed and groans.
He knows she must be able to taste herself on him from earlier, and its that thought that’s nearly his undoing.
Grabbing at her he pulls her up the bed and positions himself between her thighs.
Her eyes are wide and hungry and at his hesitation she grabs hold of his buttocks and croaks “Fuck me. Fuck me now.”
He’s quick and hard, full of bullish importance, but she knows how to move, how to manipulate each stroke so that as he’s about to come she’s already there, her head thrown back, her shoulders pushed into the pillows, her hips bucking off the bed.
In those few seconds he looks down on her and she’s glorious.
Later, as they dressed, and he helped her with her zip, he asked what had happened, in the end.
“I told you. Wife, kids, country, dog.”
She’s brushing the knots from her hair as she speaks, quick, sharp strokes that look like they must hurt, although her face is passive.
“He had to choose and decided I wasn’t worth the gamble. The risk of being alone later.
All the time we were together he’d say “You’re so young, you need to go out with boys your own age, you’ll get tired of me in the end”. I never did though.”
She stuffs the brush in her bag and quickly collects up her things, as though she now wants to be gone as quickly as possible.
“He chose to stay with a woman he didn’t love and with kids he hardly knew, rather than risk being alone because he chose me. All men are the same, they pretend they’re the stronger sex, when in actual fact they can’t even function on a base level without someone behind them.”
She laughs bitterly. “They chose a lifetime of apathy rather than risk it on passion, fire….. You don’t think that’s you? It will be, one day.”
Suddenly he wants her gone as fast as she wants to leave.
She no longer looks like the triumphant Goddess she was a few hours before, now she just looks old and tired.
“I had a great time….” She smiles up at him and pats his cheek affectionately. “We won’t be doing this again though.”
And without another word, she’s gone.
Years later he happens upon “The Vanity of Eros” in a second hand book shop.
He’s delighted with the slim volume although his wife wrinkles her nose at it’s aged hardback missing its cover.
Its a hard read, meandering, touching in its naivety, its easy to see the girl who poured her heart into the words.
As the book progresses though it takes darker turns through her mind.
“I decide to smoke not because I want to, or enjoy it, but because I need the taste of ash on my tongue to remind me that death is imminent and he can’t touch me there.”
He finds himself touching his own tongue with his fingers and imagines he can taste the ash from her kiss.
Please enjoy reading my submission for the 2012 Summer Lovin’ Story Contest. Comments are always welcome…thanks for reading! Ella <3
A French 75 is made from Gin, Champagne, lemon juice, and sugar. The drink was created in 1915 at the Paris landmark, Harry’s New York Bar by barman Harry MacElhone. The combination was said to have such a kick that it felt like being shelled with the powerful French 75mm howitzer artillery pierce. Also called a “75 Cocktail”, or “Soixante Quinze” in French, the French 75 was popularized in America at the Stork Club. The drink’s recipe was first recorded in The Savoy Cocktail Book in 1930. It was the summer of 1984. I was twenty-one, a guest at this wedding with a man 14 years older than me. I had been with him for four years; I knew he screwed around constantly. He was in sales — he went out of town a lot, and had a girlfriend in every city — but I was too lazy to move on. It was just too convenient having a steady boyfriend. He had money, a house and was nice to me, most of the time. Sometimes he treated me like I was inferior (i.e., stupid) because of the age difference, but I largely ignored that. Our relationship was based on sex, which initially had been fantastic. It really was the only thing we had in common. He had a slight kinky side; he tried to play the role of Dominant and tried to teach me to be submissive, but I was young, unwilling to learn and I didn’t completely trust him because of his infidelity. He liked to pretend he had some control over me, but outside of the bedroom, I was just as feisty and immature as ever. We had reached a point of stagnation. Like anything else, the “newness” had worn out. In truth, the relationship had pretty much run its course. But he thought he loved me and I thought I loved him, so we were still together that summer when his friend invited us to his wedding.
The reception was very casual, in the back yard of the bride’s parents’ house. Although I really didn’t want to be there, I was enjoying the glorious summer afternoon. It was sunny and relatively comfortable for August in North New Jersey. I was standing at the edge of the porch with no place to go and no one to talk to. My “date” was sitting at the picnic table under the porch awning, reminiscing with a bunch of his college friends. (Remember when I laid this one? Remember when I laid that one? Blah, blah, blah…) I was effectively excluded from the discussion. In all honesty, I was bored, so I wandered to the far side of the yard where the bride’s younger brother was playing bartender.
I found a lawn chair under the shade of a tree and watched him for a few minutes. I guessed that he was close to my age and I found him to be quite attractive. Thick, blond hair, piercing blue eyes and, oh, those lips. They seemed…so deliciously kissable. He was well-built and I found myself daydreaming what he would look like without the shirt. He looked like one of those athletic rowers I had seen practicing out on the Schuylkill during Spring break; his muscular arms stretched the tuxedo shirt almost to the point of tearing. I didn’t realize I was staring until he waved to me, an amused look on his face. In a stupor, I waved back, blushing with the realization that I had been caught. He motioned for me to come over and get a drink.
I think the trouble started when he offered me a French 75. I watched him pour the champagne and I smiled at the way the bubbles danced and sparkled out of the glass, like liquid fireworks. It looked so tantalizing. So I told him, “Yes, I would love one.” The cocktail was light and refreshing and when I sipped it the bubbles almost made me sneeze. He laughed at my attempts to ensure that I didn’t. We fell into an easy conversation about music and school. I lingered there, talking and flirting with him, as he continued to dole out drinks to the wedding guests.
My date called to me with a snap of his fingers to get him another drink. It was his third drink, not that I was counting. I delivered the glass to him, looking at him closely. I really, really looked at him. In comparison to the handsome bartender, he suddenly looked…old. After being paraded around as his trophy for so long, I think I had reached the point of no longer caring to salvage what little was left of our relationship. Besides, I really didn’t like to be around him when he drank. Sometimes he could turn mean. That day, however, he was becoming more and more entertaining to his college classmates by the minute. He didn’t seem to be missing my company. So when the bride’s brother refilled my glass without my asking, I didn’t refuse it. He was young, I was young, and my date was…old, and getting drunker by the minute. There would be no sex happening for him later, that was for sure.
I made my way back to the bar to talk to the bride’s brother. During the course of our conversation, he began to talk about his new car. He asked me if I had ever been in a Fiat Spider convertible. I told him no; I’d never been in any kind of convertible before. With an excited look on his face, he grabbed the glass from my hand and poured it into a plastic cup, topping it off with more champagne. Then he took my hand and dragged me over to where my escort was now loudly holding court, his fourth drink in hand and a full pitcher of French 75 on the table in front of him. The bride’s brother patiently waited for the man to stop talking and then he asked permission to take me for a ride in his new car.
I held my breath, waiting for some kind of sarcastic response. Instead, we got a slurry “Oh, sure!” and a dismissive wave of his hand, with some inane comment about “letting the young people go out and have some fun.” I was shocked! Sensing that my date might change his mind, I quickly pulled the bride’s brother out of the back yard to the street where the car was parked.
He opened the passenger door of the small red car for me and I remember thinking what a gentleman he was. I put on my seat belt while he held my drink, and after he buckled himself in, he peeled away from the curb like the devil was on our tail. I laughed and made sure that my summer dress was tucked tightly beneath my legs. My long hair was windswept and tangled in a matter of minutes. He was driving so fast that I was afraid I would spill my drink, so I finished it as quickly as I could and tucked the cup between the seat and the door so it wouldn’t fly out of the car. He had the radio blasting, and I couldn’t help singing along as Bon Jovi was wailing out of the speakers.
I had no idea where we were going, and at that moment, I didn’t care. It was a beautiful, warm summer day and I was in a fast car with a hot guy The champagne and gin were starting to have an effect on my head. I closed my eyes and leaned my head back for a few minutes, just enjoying the sun and the wind. It felt good. I felt good.
When I opened my eyes we were coming up to a traffic signal. I recognized that it was close to the house and I wasn’t ready to go back. I reached my hand over and put my hand on my driver’s thigh and gently squeezed it. He looked down at my hand and then at me. I didn’t say anything, but I didn’t move my hand. When the light changed, instead of heading back toward the house, he turned in the opposite direction. I smiled, wondering what was in store, feeling very wicked and naughty.
As we made our way out onto the highway, he reached over and tugged my dress up from where I had tucked it under my leg. He cautiously slid his hand across my thigh and between my legs. I moaned, shifting in the seat to allow him to reach even higher. That was all the encouragement he needed. He pulled his hand away and threw the car into fifth gear. I still didn’t know where we were headed, but I had a really good idea of what was going to happen when we got there. He tore off the highway at the next exit, hardly slowing down.
After a few more miles he turned the car into what looked like a private driveway. It was a paved road, lined with lush, green trees and dense foliage on both sides. A few twists and turns and we wound up in a gravel-covered parking area of a small park. There were only three cars besides ours in the lot.
He parked the car and I waited for him to open my door for me. He helped me up out of the car and I had to hold on to his arm to steady myself because of the gravelly surface. The plastic cup that I had wedged between the seat and the door fell onto the ground, and I knelt to pick it up. He stood directly in front of me and I looked up at him, my face level with his waist. I could feel a current of electricity passing between us. I had never wanted to go down on someone as much as I did at that moment. It apparently wasn’t what he’d had in mind, though, and he reached his hand out to help me stand and threw the cup onto the floor of the passenger seat.
There were two or three paths leading away from the parking lot and he led me to the closest path. I stumbled, the heels of my shoes sinking into the gravel and dirt. High heels were useless on the uneven dirt and rocks. He put his arm around my waist and held onto me, guiding me down a slight incline until we came to a creek. There wasn’t another person anywhere in sight as we made our way through the trees toward the water.
The gradually sloped banks of the creek were a sandy mix, with dirt and rocks. It wasn’t cleared enough to be called a beach, but under the circumstances, it was close enough. He led me to a spot near the water and sat down to take off his shoes and socks and roll up his pant legs. I kicked off my shoes, too, and we waded in the creek for a few minutes.
The water was cold and it sobered me up just the tiniest bit. He splashed some water at me and I laughed, but before I could splash him back, he closed the distance between us and wrapped his arms around me, pinning my arms to my sides. He was taller than me and as he looked down at me, I could see the hunger in his eyes. He bent down and kissed me, his tongue pressing past my lips into my mouth. I greedily met his kiss, thinking how much I had missed kissing over the past few years. (And I was right…those lips were oh, so kissable!) His body pressed even closer to mine and I could feel his erection pushing against me through our clothes.
We stood there, barefoot in the creek, kissing for what felt like forever, until our feet started to go numb from the cold. His whole demeanor changed as he took my hands and led me out of the water. The flirtation was over. He told me to sit down on the bank of the creek and I complied. There was urgency to his every move as he stood there on the banks of the creek and tore at his belt. He finally ripped the zipper of the tuxedo pants so he could take them off and threw them on the ground. He hurriedly unbuttoned the top buttons of the shirt and then pulled it over his head and tossed it on the ground next to the pants.
I sat there on the embankment, watching him strip, my body on fire with anticipation. I guess I should have felt fear, or anxiety, but I didn’t. I was excited. I wanted him. We were outside, in a park, with a bridge not so far away. It felt…dangerous. At that moment, I was completely aroused and ready for him.
He knelt down and yanked at the straps of my dress. I reached back and unzipped it and he slid the straps off my shoulders, then waited for me to unhook my bra before he tore it off of me. He tossed it over toward his clothes and then grabbed, almost frantically, at my breasts. He pushed me back and straddled me so I was lying there on the ground while he sucked and bit on my nipples. His hips were grinding into mine, his erection driving into me through my clothes as he tried desperately to pull my dress up over my hips. I finally managed to push him away long enough to pull up my skirt and take off my panties; they ended up on his pile of clothes, along with his now discarded boxers.
I was pinned there beneath him on the ground. He thrust his knee up between my legs, forcing my thighs apart. He was leaning on one hand and with the other, he grabbed my jaw, and kissed me, hard. This wasn’t going to be a romantic tryst between two lovers; this was going to be primal, lustful sex between two consenting adults. Animal fucking. Period. And I was perfectly happy with that.
I reached down to stroke him and guided his cock inside me. There were no gentle caresses, no tender words. He never once slowed down. He slammed into me, over and over. I had my legs draped around his hips and I was holding on to his thick arms while he watched his cock pounding in and out of me. I could only imagine what a sight we must have been — his muscular body thrusting wildly into mine, my dress in a tangle around my waist, legs in the air. I wondered for a split second if anyone was on the bridge, watching us, listening to us, hearing his grunts of pleasure every time he tore into me.
I was so turned on that I came in no time, screaming out loud into the summer air. After a few more strokes he abruptly pulled out of me and moved his hips up to my face. He grabbed a handful of my hair and with the other hand he thrust his cock into my mouth. He knelt there above me and fucked my mouth. It wasn’t long before he threw back his head and let out a guttural groan, his cum streaming into my throat. I greedily swallowed all that he offered. And then he pulled away and collapsed on the ground next to me. I got the feeling that he was done with me. Somewhere in the back of my mind, “gentleman” dissolved into “typical college guy.” But I didn’t feel used. I felt empowered. In my version of the story, I had seduced him, so we had both effectively used each other.
He struggled to stand up after all that physical exertion and then offered me his hand to help me up. We dressed and did our best to straighten up our appearance as we walked back to the car. I was right about him being finished with me; there was no more kissing or after-sex intimacy, no flirting or teasing. He did, however, open the car door for me once again, and this time it made me laugh. (And to think I thought he was a gentleman! I wondered if he had mistaken me for a “lady” somewhere earlier in the afternoon, too.) I settled into the passenger seat, aware that I had a huge shit-eating grin on my face. It was so warm and sunny and I was fuzzy from the alcohol and sex. I drifted off to sleep as he made his way back to the wedding reception.
I was awakened, rudely, by the mother of the bride — who was also the mother of my driver, of course. We had arrived back at the house and she had opened the passenger door of the car and was just about yanking my right arm from my body. I still had on my seatbelt as she was trying to drag me out of the car. She was screaming at me (“Whore!” “Slut!” “What the hell did you do to my son?!”), she was screaming at her son (“You’ve been gone for two hours! What the hell were you doing for two hours?!”) and right behind her was my date, who was looking (like a parent?) very sober. Oh, shit. I was in big trouble.
I just kept mumbling, “I didn’t do anything! I didn’t do anything!” as they escorted me and the bride’s brother into the house. My date told me to go upstairs to the bathroom and clean up. He was glaring at me like he was going to put me over his knee and punish me (and not in a good way). When I got to bathroom, I could see why he was so angry.
I stood looking in the mirror, horrified at what I saw. My hair, which had been so tangled from being in the convertible, was littered with leaves and dirt. The back of my dress was also smudged with dirt. My shoes had dirt crusted all the way up the heels. There was no good explanation for any of that. I could only imagine how I smelled! I started to giggle. I was in so much trouble, but, goddamn, it was worth it.
I did my best to get the leaves out of my hair using my fingers and got as much dirt off of my dress as I could. But really, what was the use? We were busted, plain and simple. I needed a plan. It occurred to me that I was far younger than most of the people who were freaking out on the first floor of the house, and they must have been drinking the whole time we were gone. I didn’t weigh more than 100 pounds and as far as they knew, I had had lots to drink as well. I decided to use that to my advantage.
I pretended to trip down the steps, acting far more drunk than I actually felt. As I came back into the room, I could hear the bride’s brother explaining that we had gone over the state line so he could open up the car on the highway. (We went out of state? When did that happen??) My entrance into the room caused another huge uproar from the mother of the bride. I just staggered, like a drunk girl at a wedding, and put a dazed look on my face. My date grasped my elbow and while apologizing profusely to the bride’s parents, steered me out of the house to his car. I never said a word. I never even got to say goodbye to the bride’s brother. He gave me an apologetic look and a slight shrug of his shoulders as I got pulled out of the door.
My date made me get into his car and buckle in before he made his way to the driver’s side. He had a full drink in his hand when he got into the car. (I should explain that his car was his pride and joy. Not a speck of dirt was permitted to be in that car. So I was quite surprised at what he did.) Before we even pulled away from the curb, he spat several demeaning insults in my direction and then he threw the drink at me. The cup hit me in the face. Champagne and gin splattered all over me, the windshield and the passenger seat and door. I’m sure he was attempting to humiliate me and to vent his anger. I didn’t say a word. I didn’t cry. And that made him even angrier.
I don’t remember much about that drive home, except that I knew that it was going to get a lot worse before it got better. When we got back to his place, he stormed out of the car and slammed the door before he stomped into the house, leaving me there in the passenger seat. I finally decided to go in and face the music. It wasn’t pretty. He screamed at me, calling me a “cheap, slutty whore,” among other things.
I didn’t try to defend myself. I also didn’t apologize. I stood there with my head down and took all his abuse. I let him scream and as he got angrier, I saw the darkest side of him emerge. He scared the hell out of me; he didn’t hit me, but he slammed his fist so hard onto his glass-topped coffee table that he almost cracked it. I began to realize through his barrage of verbal defecation that he wasn’t angry because he thought I had fucked someone else. There was no indication of jealousy. He was incensed because he was embarrassed. I had embarrassed him; I had emasculated him in front of his friends. It was all about him not being able to control me. It was all about him.
Any guilt or shame I might have felt vanished at that moment. I no longer felt the need to explain what I did, or why I did it. I was exhausted. I felt nothing for this man except fear and loathing with a side order of disgust. I had finally found the last straw in this long, pointless relationship. I refused to allow this man to take up one more minute of my time. I didn’t love him. It was over.
Going to that wedding was a huge turning point for me. It was the end of a (bad) four year relationship and the start of some colorful adventures for me. The first thing I did after I moved all my stuff out of the old guy’s house was to book a trip to Aruba. By myself. Yeah, turns out to be a happy ending after all. Except for one tiny thing…I really wish I could remember the name of the bride’s brother. He really was hot.