Someplace I've never been, part 2

Virginia by Jennifer Nehrbass

The man from New York had suggested we meet at a pub not far from my house. I had showered, and even though I hadn't washed my hair it was damp from the spray. I felt rushed and disheveled, but strangely calm and focused nonetheless. Everything seemed clear, hyper-clear.

As I arrived I saw another vehicle pull into the parking lot. It was already so late that I knew it had to be him.

I parked and waited. I didn't want to get there first. When a minute or two had passed, I opened the door and stepped into the humid night. By late August, summer seems to have lasted an eternity in Austin, and it isn't even close to being over. This night was no different. The air was heavy, hot, and muggy even though it was after midnight. The temperature was still in the 90s.

I walked through the bar and out onto the back deck, where he had said he would be. And yes, there he was at the table farthest from the door. He was attractive, average height, average build, intelligent eyes. He didn't smile in greeting. I don't remember seeing him smile at all, but there was a lot I was unable to see directly. It's hard to explain, but the whole time I was with him, I wasn't able to confront things visually. I didn't use my eyes to see my surroundings as a whole. I saw small pieces of the whole. I know, for example, that he was wearing flip flops. I remember images -- his hand disappearing under my skirt, my mostly full glass of beer on the table when we left, the expanse of his t-shirt across his abdomen when he stood right at my car window -- but I'm getting ahead of myself.

He asks me if I want something to drink and I say yes. We walk to the bar and he buys two beers, waving off my offer to go dutch. A group of young people glance at us as we make our way to the back of the deck. Maybe I'm imagining it, but they seem to know that something is up. One girl's eyes seem to linger on us. When we sit, my back is to them, so I can't see them, but I vaguely hear them talking and laughing.

I may have said something, he may have said something, but the first thing I remember is him telling me to unbutton my top button. I do, and we continue talking, but at regular intervals he tells me to undo another button. I don't hesitate. I undo each button smoothly, determined not to react. I can feel a defiance building inside me -- not to defy his commands but to defy any natural reaction or hesitance. We are two cool customers to anyone looking on from the outside. Cool as silk. Cool as cream. He tells me to scoot forward in my chair. I oblige. He tells me to part my legs. I obey. It's too dark outside on the deck -- he can't see. There's a flicker of impatience or annoyance at this across his face. Are you wet? he asks. I tell him I am. Show me, he says. I reach under my skirt and then hold my shining finger out to him. It's a strange mix of resentment and excitement that courses through me each time I do what he asks.

He pulls my hand over to his crotch and I keep my eyes locked on his as I knead the bulge of his erection, tracing it with my fingers, scratching at the fabric with my nails. He leans forward and his hand snakes up under my skirt, already bunched up around the tops of my thighs, and he draws a breath when his fingers encounter the slick swollen folds of my cunt. "Oh, you do like this," he says, and twists his fingers farther in. I am leaning back now, my head falls back, I'm breathing hard, and --

Stop, he says quickly and sits up. I'm struggling to grasp the meaning behind every single thing. Everything is charged with significance. Every act has a goal. And I have completely lost my bearings. I have no idea what I'm doing. So when he says stop, I freeze, uncomprehending. Why stop? Then I hear the footsteps on the deck behind me. Someone has come out to tell us the place is closing. Now I understand. And I feel better that he's looking out for us.

I think I want to take you back to where I'm staying, he tells me. Would you be willing to come? I indicate that I would. I follow him in my car to the house, which happens to be close to mine. We stop on the way for condoms. At the drugstore I park next to him, and he comes to my window. Take off your shirt, he says, and I start to, but he stops me when someone approaches. I have a moment to sit and think while he goes into the store, but no thought comes. I am merely there, in the dark, in my car, the window down, the stifling hot night pressing in on me, and then he is back and it is a short way to the house.

I park in front and walk up the driveway where he is waiting for me. He shows me into the backyard where there is a patio with some furniture. He makes no move to open the back door, but stops on the patio and kisses me. It's the only time we kiss -- not just that night, but on the following nights. I remember how his mouth tasted, good, faintly like drink and cigarettes but more of him, and his tongue is warm. I remember being too stunned to kiss back. He tells me to undress. I do, laying my clothes across a chair, my mind racing with the novelty of being outside, more or less in public, and naked. I have not done this. I have never done this.

"On your knees," he says quietly. I don't hear him at first, or maybe I do and it's that delayed comprehension effect again. Everything seems to take a few seconds for me to process right now. Uncharted territory. "On your knees," he repeats sharply, and I sink. Suck me off, he says, and I start to unbuckle his belt, but I'm fumbling and he helps me and then I have his cock in my hands and then in my mouth.

He talks to me, too, but not the way Rick did. He calls me a whore, he tells me I'm a good cocksucker, he wants to know how it feels to be such a slut. These words roll off me -- I hear them, but I don't feel them. At the same time, I recognize them as a sign of approval; of excitement; and that in turn excites me. His cock hits the back of my throat, over and over, and I gag now and then, but I manage to keep going until he pulls out and turns me around and bends me over what might have been a low wall, I'm not sure -- a pause while he gets the condom on -- and he's sliding into my cunt, murmuring, telling me that I'm such a whore, look how wet. He's fucking me hard and we're both drenched in sweat, and I realize that I'm making noise and there are neighbors and can they hear me and oh my god, fuck me, I'm saying, and he is. He is.

When he comes I feel the first recognizable emotion of the night, and I push it back, because I don't know what to do with it. There doesn't seem to be a place for affection here. He withdraws and I stand up, disoriented, reaching for my clothes, not sure at all what to do next. I opt for turning back into myself. I feel friendly, all of a sudden, and I want him to think I'm an interesting person. Oh, stop it, I tell myself. Get dressed and get the hell out of here.

I dress, and sit down to put on my shoes. I push my sweaty hair back from my face, try in vain to gather it off my neck, and mutter, "It is really fucking hot."

"Yes it is," he says, not exactly to me, each word enunciated like a drop of water into a bucket.

I've been keeping my eyes down, unable to calmly take in my surroundings, but when he says this I look straight at him. He's still nude, standing like a pasha, legs apart, arms on his hips. He isn't looking at me. He's looking around, head raised, and I hear him inhale through his nose. He fairly reeks of satisfaction (and really, why shouldn't he) -- he's like Yul Brenner in The King and I. It almost makes me grin. I'm certainly no Deborah Kerr, in my half-clothed state, grit on my knees, sweat and come and my own juices sticky on my thighs.

He asks me if I would like a cigarette. "Yes please," I say, and reach down to brush my knees. "They got dirty," I explain self-consciously. Oh, sorry, he says, and I make some sort of goofy noise and shrug. We sit at the table on the patio and smoke, and the nicotine makes me dizzy. I don't smoke, I want to tell him, except now and then when I need a reason for the ritual, but I end up saying nothing. Well, nothing about that. I know we talked. I don't know what we talked about. I was there and I wasn't there. I put out my cigarette and he pointed out how late it was. He said he would be in touch. I held myself very still on the inside as I rose, said good night, and walked down the driveway to my car. I held myself still as I drove home. I concentrated on how I felt physically. Thirsty, mainly, and sore, and really, really, really fucking high. Strangely triumphant. I started to laugh.

The next day he emailed me. He was looking forward to using me again. We'll see about that, I thought to myself, but really, it was a foregone conclusion. I had to see what came next.