Rub Diary
- Thread starter kingotis
- Start date
Escape
There are beautiful Spring days and there are lousy ones but one rarely gets a day as perfect as today. The sky was a spotless sheet of blue, the sun was high and proud, and it was finally warm enough to shed the outer layers and feel the air in your shirtsleeves. It was too nice to stay in the office. Life is short and shitty and you only get so many days like this one and I grabbed it and walked out early.
I breathed in the imperfect New York air and I made that familiar walk across town from Park to 6th Avenue. The ice cream man was back on his corner after being away for six months, and as I waited for the light to change I watched German tourists order ice cream cones as taxis sped by and brushed me back like a pitcher warning a batter with a high, tight fastball.
The streets were full of young women who have shed their jackets but my eyes didn’t even give them a glance. Past the ice cream man, past the spas on 39th Street I walked with the warm sun on my neck. I stopped and bought a small container of watermelon, because that’s her favorite. I turned one more corner, I passed the doughnut shop and the place on the corner where there was a watchmaker who is now long gone, one of the ghosts of Manhattan I see every day as I pass familiar places in unfamiliar times.
Finally I reached my destination and after an elevator ride I rang the bell. One of the other girls let me in but finally there she was and I pulled her to me and I held her for a moment longer than I should have but I didn’t care. She showed me to a room and told me to get undressed but when she returned I was still fully clothed.
Today was not a day for a massage in a warm dark room. Today was not a day for a furtive sexual exercise under dim light in a dull grey chamber. Today was a day for the sun and the air and the sounds of the city. I took her surprised hand and she looked me in the eyes and somehow, wordlessly, she understood. She pressed one finger to her lips and led me to the curtain on the far wall, which she pulled back to reveal a small, dead bolted door. She slid the bolt slowly to one side and eased the door open and suddenly the dimly lit room was flooded with unexpected natural light.
One big step up and we were out on the fire escape, six stories above an alley. Across the way, office drones buzzed and hummed and filed paperwork as we watched through grimy windows. The sun beamed down on us and we sat in its warmth and I held her hand in mine and for a few minutes the silence between us proved that nothing needed to be said.
Mia, I call her, though that is not her name. She once asked me to call her Mia and so it has remained. Her eyes are always alive, they speak more than she does. Her words are few but she says so much. She has a natural beauty that stands out in the dim light of the windowless rooms where she plies her trade. This world is so full of dead-eyed women that her bright smile shines like the top of the Chrysler Building. There is no one like her, not to me anyway.
We sat silently as minutes passed and then finally she spoke. “My mother and my father still in China, still together every day.” My ears were wide open. Mia is not a talker. I wanted to absorb every word. “My father is good man.”
I asked her what she meant. She told me that he worked hard at a cigarette factory and always brought his pay home to his wife. “That is a good man.” She said.
I nodded. I pulled her close to me and a warm breeze tickled our necks. I wanted to ask her questions. I wanted to know more, to know everything. I wanted to tell her I’m a good man just like her father. I wanted to kiss her eyes and her neck and never stop. I wanted to do all of those things but I did none of them. Instead I kept my arm around her as we sat in the sun on that fire escape on the most beautiful day of Spring and I listened to her breathe. And her breathing was the pulse of the city, the endless footfalls of the people below us, the eternal soundscape of words and sirens and cars. Her breathing was the warmth of the sun itself, and I sat with her for an hour and felt its glow.
She kissed me lightly on the lips as I left, a sweet moment that made me wish for a thousand more just like it. And as I sit tonight typing these words, that perfect day has slowly trailed into a perfect night, I hear the cars rush past on the street behind me, and in their wake I hear her voice. I hear the footfalls and conversations of passing strangers and in their words I hear her breath. I hear the tinkling of cutlery from a nearby café and in those sounds I hear the slow pounding of her heart.
I feel a cool breeze and I hear it whisper through the budding branches of the trees and I hear it call her name. In my ears and in my heart I hear it call her name, tonight and every night. Mia. In every tick of the clock, in every moment of silence and in every onrush of sound I feel, I see, I hear her and her alone.
There are beautiful Spring days and there are lousy ones but one rarely gets a day as perfect as today. The sky was a spotless sheet of blue, the sun was high and proud, and it was finally warm enough to shed the outer layers and feel the air in your shirtsleeves. It was too nice to stay in the office. Life is short and shitty and you only get so many days like this one and I grabbed it and walked out early.
I breathed in the imperfect New York air and I made that familiar walk across town from Park to 6th Avenue. The ice cream man was back on his corner after being away for six months, and as I waited for the light to change I watched German tourists order ice cream cones as taxis sped by and brushed me back like a pitcher warning a batter with a high, tight fastball.
The streets were full of young women who have shed their jackets but my eyes didn’t even give them a glance. Past the ice cream man, past the spas on 39th Street I walked with the warm sun on my neck. I stopped and bought a small container of watermelon, because that’s her favorite. I turned one more corner, I passed the doughnut shop and the place on the corner where there was a watchmaker who is now long gone, one of the ghosts of Manhattan I see every day as I pass familiar places in unfamiliar times.
Finally I reached my destination and after an elevator ride I rang the bell. One of the other girls let me in but finally there she was and I pulled her to me and I held her for a moment longer than I should have but I didn’t care. She showed me to a room and told me to get undressed but when she returned I was still fully clothed.
Today was not a day for a massage in a warm dark room. Today was not a day for a furtive sexual exercise under dim light in a dull grey chamber. Today was a day for the sun and the air and the sounds of the city. I took her surprised hand and she looked me in the eyes and somehow, wordlessly, she understood. She pressed one finger to her lips and led me to the curtain on the far wall, which she pulled back to reveal a small, dead bolted door. She slid the bolt slowly to one side and eased the door open and suddenly the dimly lit room was flooded with unexpected natural light.
One big step up and we were out on the fire escape, six stories above an alley. Across the way, office drones buzzed and hummed and filed paperwork as we watched through grimy windows. The sun beamed down on us and we sat in its warmth and I held her hand in mine and for a few minutes the silence between us proved that nothing needed to be said.
Mia, I call her, though that is not her name. She once asked me to call her Mia and so it has remained. Her eyes are always alive, they speak more than she does. Her words are few but she says so much. She has a natural beauty that stands out in the dim light of the windowless rooms where she plies her trade. This world is so full of dead-eyed women that her bright smile shines like the top of the Chrysler Building. There is no one like her, not to me anyway.
We sat silently as minutes passed and then finally she spoke. “My mother and my father still in China, still together every day.” My ears were wide open. Mia is not a talker. I wanted to absorb every word. “My father is good man.”
I asked her what she meant. She told me that he worked hard at a cigarette factory and always brought his pay home to his wife. “That is a good man.” She said.
I nodded. I pulled her close to me and a warm breeze tickled our necks. I wanted to ask her questions. I wanted to know more, to know everything. I wanted to tell her I’m a good man just like her father. I wanted to kiss her eyes and her neck and never stop. I wanted to do all of those things but I did none of them. Instead I kept my arm around her as we sat in the sun on that fire escape on the most beautiful day of Spring and I listened to her breathe. And her breathing was the pulse of the city, the endless footfalls of the people below us, the eternal soundscape of words and sirens and cars. Her breathing was the warmth of the sun itself, and I sat with her for an hour and felt its glow.
She kissed me lightly on the lips as I left, a sweet moment that made me wish for a thousand more just like it. And as I sit tonight typing these words, that perfect day has slowly trailed into a perfect night, I hear the cars rush past on the street behind me, and in their wake I hear her voice. I hear the footfalls and conversations of passing strangers and in their words I hear her breath. I hear the tinkling of cutlery from a nearby café and in those sounds I hear the slow pounding of her heart.
I feel a cool breeze and I hear it whisper through the budding branches of the trees and I hear it call her name. In my ears and in my heart I hear it call her name, tonight and every night. Mia. In every tick of the clock, in every moment of silence and in every onrush of sound I feel, I see, I hear her and her alone.
I forgot about this vaguely sweet little thing I wrote in February of 2012. Reading it now, I recognize the words as my own but I can't recall writing it. I do remember going to that place on Grand Street almost every Sunday for many months. Things change, life is simple, life is obvious, life is complicated, life is sweet. Life is all we've got.
Isn't Life Grand?
The F train is usually almost empty on Sunday nights. I know this because I like to slip into Chinatown around 8 or 9 on Sundays for a massage. My heels click on the floor of the car as I make my way to the emptiest section, the place where I am least likely to have to overhear banal conversation about haircuts and eyeliner and shitty amateur rock and roll groups. People. Why is the world so fucking full of people?
For a moment I look purposeful, deliberate in my steps. I inhale and puff out my chest and stick out my chin and scowl a little. The scowl makes room for the smile.
I sit down and put my earbuds in and for 20 minutes all I hear is Ray Charles. You'd think I'd get tired of Ray Charles but I never do. All music can be found in Ray Charles. There's very little need for much else.
East Broadway comes and goes. I rise and stand at the door. The eyes on the train follow me. I don't blend, I don't match, I don't fade into the background. I look like something from 70 years ago, like a museum exhibition. The only way to hide is to be alone...or someplace dark...which is where I am going...
Delancey Street. I exit and head up the stairs. The starless Manhattan sky is punctuated only by the full moon, the moon that hangs there like a ripe bittersweet grapefruit, begging me to pluck it from its branch and consume it.
Pluck it is what I do, but I decide to save it for later and with the moon in my pocket I ignore the guys in front of the burger joint who treat me like royalty, who think I'm some sort of gangster with my hats and my shoes and my money clip. Every Sunday they bow before me and I laugh and I hand them dollar bills. "After," I tell them this times. They know what that means, and they will wait.
I turn down Ludlow and then right on Grand where I enter a barbershop. Four girls are sitting, watching Chinese soap operas on a big, flat television. One rises when she sees me and we head to the unmarked door in the back. She takes me into a stall where I take my clothes off and she brings me a cup of warm tea that I swallow in two gulps before she brings me to the shower.
Her name is Lisa, she's probably in her 30's somewhere and nothing special to look at but she treats me like a king and tonight that's all that matters. I towel off and she brings me back to the stall where I lay face down and she rubs some oil on my shoulders before taking off her shoes and pulling herself up by the rails mounted above us. One small step onto my lower back. Slowly, lightly at first...then harder, more aggressive. She knows where it hurts. She uses her weight and her strong legs and feet to work on the spots that feel like I've been beaten with a sack of doorknobs.
I am flooded with relief, the vague pains that trouble me night and day are temporarily erased. The strange thoughts that keep me awake at night fade into a slow sunset of orange and purple.
She asks me to turn over and she touches my cock lightly. I nod and she oils her hand a little. She rubs me until I'm hard and I run my hand over her ass...under her shirt...into her bra, where I feel her hard nipples and she sighs a tiny little sigh. She rubs me slowly and I look her in the eyes and smile. She speeds up and smiles back until I come into her hand and I cover my eyes with my arm.
She cleans me up and I get dressed. Another cup of tea. Back out to the hair salon. Coco and Wendy are sitting there and I give them a smile and a wave, which they return before getting absorbed in soap operas again. I pay the usual 85 bucks and Lisa gives me a little peck on the cheek before I head out into the crisp night air of the city I love and need and hate and adore and crave and reject and celebrate and condemn. It whispers to me softly, it shouts in my ear. It touches me lightly, it punches me in the jaw. That's love, isn't it...
I head north on Essex and it is dark...darker than usual. I remember the moon in my pocket. Its warm glow is palpable through my cloth coat and I want to hold it there, to keep it selfishly for my own. I want the moon all to myself, for my own pleasure and no one else's.
I get to the burger joint and toss out a few bills to the dope fiends who cry out "Hey, Tony Soprano!" I tip my hat and turn the corner and the feeling of warmth bleeds over me like a head wound. The pain is gone. The hands, the feet, the eyes, the mouths. Humanity, which two hours ago seemed like death, suddenly looks like life. And life is what I want, all of a sudden, again.
I pull the moon from my pocket and I give it a careless toss. Back into the clouds it sails, before finding its perch. Again the world is bathed in its blue light. Again there is life. Again, I retreat, down those stairs, smiling to myself and only myself, back to the train that takes me home, home, home.
The F train is usually almost empty on Sunday nights. I know this because I like to slip into Chinatown around 8 or 9 on Sundays for a massage. My heels click on the floor of the car as I make my way to the emptiest section, the place where I am least likely to have to overhear banal conversation about haircuts and eyeliner and shitty amateur rock and roll groups. People. Why is the world so fucking full of people?
For a moment I look purposeful, deliberate in my steps. I inhale and puff out my chest and stick out my chin and scowl a little. The scowl makes room for the smile.
I sit down and put my earbuds in and for 20 minutes all I hear is Ray Charles. You'd think I'd get tired of Ray Charles but I never do. All music can be found in Ray Charles. There's very little need for much else.
East Broadway comes and goes. I rise and stand at the door. The eyes on the train follow me. I don't blend, I don't match, I don't fade into the background. I look like something from 70 years ago, like a museum exhibition. The only way to hide is to be alone...or someplace dark...which is where I am going...
Delancey Street. I exit and head up the stairs. The starless Manhattan sky is punctuated only by the full moon, the moon that hangs there like a ripe bittersweet grapefruit, begging me to pluck it from its branch and consume it.
Pluck it is what I do, but I decide to save it for later and with the moon in my pocket I ignore the guys in front of the burger joint who treat me like royalty, who think I'm some sort of gangster with my hats and my shoes and my money clip. Every Sunday they bow before me and I laugh and I hand them dollar bills. "After," I tell them this times. They know what that means, and they will wait.
I turn down Ludlow and then right on Grand where I enter a barbershop. Four girls are sitting, watching Chinese soap operas on a big, flat television. One rises when she sees me and we head to the unmarked door in the back. She takes me into a stall where I take my clothes off and she brings me a cup of warm tea that I swallow in two gulps before she brings me to the shower.
Her name is Lisa, she's probably in her 30's somewhere and nothing special to look at but she treats me like a king and tonight that's all that matters. I towel off and she brings me back to the stall where I lay face down and she rubs some oil on my shoulders before taking off her shoes and pulling herself up by the rails mounted above us. One small step onto my lower back. Slowly, lightly at first...then harder, more aggressive. She knows where it hurts. She uses her weight and her strong legs and feet to work on the spots that feel like I've been beaten with a sack of doorknobs.
I am flooded with relief, the vague pains that trouble me night and day are temporarily erased. The strange thoughts that keep me awake at night fade into a slow sunset of orange and purple.
She asks me to turn over and she touches my cock lightly. I nod and she oils her hand a little. She rubs me until I'm hard and I run my hand over her ass...under her shirt...into her bra, where I feel her hard nipples and she sighs a tiny little sigh. She rubs me slowly and I look her in the eyes and smile. She speeds up and smiles back until I come into her hand and I cover my eyes with my arm.
She cleans me up and I get dressed. Another cup of tea. Back out to the hair salon. Coco and Wendy are sitting there and I give them a smile and a wave, which they return before getting absorbed in soap operas again. I pay the usual 85 bucks and Lisa gives me a little peck on the cheek before I head out into the crisp night air of the city I love and need and hate and adore and crave and reject and celebrate and condemn. It whispers to me softly, it shouts in my ear. It touches me lightly, it punches me in the jaw. That's love, isn't it...
I head north on Essex and it is dark...darker than usual. I remember the moon in my pocket. Its warm glow is palpable through my cloth coat and I want to hold it there, to keep it selfishly for my own. I want the moon all to myself, for my own pleasure and no one else's.
I get to the burger joint and toss out a few bills to the dope fiends who cry out "Hey, Tony Soprano!" I tip my hat and turn the corner and the feeling of warmth bleeds over me like a head wound. The pain is gone. The hands, the feet, the eyes, the mouths. Humanity, which two hours ago seemed like death, suddenly looks like life. And life is what I want, all of a sudden, again.
I pull the moon from my pocket and I give it a careless toss. Back into the clouds it sails, before finding its perch. Again the world is bathed in its blue light. Again there is life. Again, I retreat, down those stairs, smiling to myself and only myself, back to the train that takes me home, home, home.
Tai Huang
Dawn broke on a perfect Spring day. The sun's warm rays pierced the veil of clouds and made their way to my window and...I kept on snoring. I rolled over and thumbed my nose at the universe and kept on sleeping. I slept like an infant with a solid dose of his mother's milk in his belly until an almost unthinkable hour before finally getting up and making some eggs while shaking the accumulated mental fuzz that gathers over the course of any week in New York. By noon I was ready for the long trip to Flushing.
On Roosevelt Ave. Mia was waiting for me when I emerged from the subway. I could see the sparkle in her eyes through the lenses of her sunglasses, and her face stood out in the sea of Chinese women the way it always does. She lights up even a street corner like a 2000 watt bulb. I crossed the street and pulled her to me and kissed her hard.
She led me down Roosevelt until we got to Prince and then we turned and saw Tai Huang on the other side of the street and we crossed over and went up the stairs. Past the second floor beauty shop where a friend is slowly changing one life at a time, we made it to this little oasis in Flushing where the floors are clean, the towels are fresh, and time on the massage table is cheaper than the dumplings on Main Street.
My six carefully rehearsed Mandarin phrases were rendered immediately useless as Mia engaged in conversation with the staff. The sign on the wall said $35 per hour, but she explained that for $140 I would get six hours to be used over successive visits, and so it was. We were ushered into adjoining stalls formed by sliding dividers that still had Ikea stickers on them and we both stripped down to our skivvies and laid face down.
She was attended to by a man who, according to her, had exceptionally strong hands. I was attended to by "Cici" a pretty woman probably in her later 30's. I asked for a strong massage, but what was delivered was not the usual fare. Cici proceeded to tap vigorously here and there, applying elbow pressure once in a while as she moved wordlessly around the table. It wasn't like the usual stroking or rubbing, though I was surprised how effective it ultimately was, which I guess only goes to show how much I long to be beaten. I turned over and she rubbed my head and shoulders and occasionally smiled sweetly when I looked her in the eye. The silent dance proceeded until she finally said something about my eyes and I smiled a little and finally turned away.
The timer rang and Cici left and I poked my head into the adjacent stall to see a beautiful smile play across Mia's perfect lips. We tipped a generous $15 each and tumbled down the stairs into the fresh Spring air. We walked and walked and walked through Flushing, talking about anything and everything. We passed the little place where she used to rent a room and we took each other's pictures. We wandered through Bob's Discount Furniture and I covered the "unt" on the sign to make it "Bob's Disco." I grabbed a handful of free butterscotch candy, thinking I'd make her try it, but she doesn't like candy, and I suppose life is pretty sweet without it anyway. Finally we circled back to Nan Xiang on Prince where we ate and ate and ate until we couldn't eat another bite.
We walked together until the sun was low in the sky and shared one last long, lingering kiss before I made my way underground. As my train drew further from Flushing I felt her presence growing inside me. The train filled gradually, with one or two souls of every shape, size and color joining at each stop. What meaning do you need when you have love? Love is all the meaning life has to offer, the rest is window dressing and white noise.
Just before the train descended into the ground I looked out into that subway car. Through the windows I saw the red and orange setting sun pouring through the iron lattice that supports the Brooklyn Queens Expressway. Manhattan shined across the river like freshly polished patent leather. I peered at the faces across from me and I saw the panorama that is humanity laid before me. After all these years of looking, of searching for meaning, of wishing for destiny and design, I finally understand. Love is all the meaning we have, there is nothing more, and that's more than enough. For me, that's more than enough.
Dawn broke on a perfect Spring day. The sun's warm rays pierced the veil of clouds and made their way to my window and...I kept on snoring. I rolled over and thumbed my nose at the universe and kept on sleeping. I slept like an infant with a solid dose of his mother's milk in his belly until an almost unthinkable hour before finally getting up and making some eggs while shaking the accumulated mental fuzz that gathers over the course of any week in New York. By noon I was ready for the long trip to Flushing.
On Roosevelt Ave. Mia was waiting for me when I emerged from the subway. I could see the sparkle in her eyes through the lenses of her sunglasses, and her face stood out in the sea of Chinese women the way it always does. She lights up even a street corner like a 2000 watt bulb. I crossed the street and pulled her to me and kissed her hard.
She led me down Roosevelt until we got to Prince and then we turned and saw Tai Huang on the other side of the street and we crossed over and went up the stairs. Past the second floor beauty shop where a friend is slowly changing one life at a time, we made it to this little oasis in Flushing where the floors are clean, the towels are fresh, and time on the massage table is cheaper than the dumplings on Main Street.
My six carefully rehearsed Mandarin phrases were rendered immediately useless as Mia engaged in conversation with the staff. The sign on the wall said $35 per hour, but she explained that for $140 I would get six hours to be used over successive visits, and so it was. We were ushered into adjoining stalls formed by sliding dividers that still had Ikea stickers on them and we both stripped down to our skivvies and laid face down.
She was attended to by a man who, according to her, had exceptionally strong hands. I was attended to by "Cici" a pretty woman probably in her later 30's. I asked for a strong massage, but what was delivered was not the usual fare. Cici proceeded to tap vigorously here and there, applying elbow pressure once in a while as she moved wordlessly around the table. It wasn't like the usual stroking or rubbing, though I was surprised how effective it ultimately was, which I guess only goes to show how much I long to be beaten. I turned over and she rubbed my head and shoulders and occasionally smiled sweetly when I looked her in the eye. The silent dance proceeded until she finally said something about my eyes and I smiled a little and finally turned away.
The timer rang and Cici left and I poked my head into the adjacent stall to see a beautiful smile play across Mia's perfect lips. We tipped a generous $15 each and tumbled down the stairs into the fresh Spring air. We walked and walked and walked through Flushing, talking about anything and everything. We passed the little place where she used to rent a room and we took each other's pictures. We wandered through Bob's Discount Furniture and I covered the "unt" on the sign to make it "Bob's Disco." I grabbed a handful of free butterscotch candy, thinking I'd make her try it, but she doesn't like candy, and I suppose life is pretty sweet without it anyway. Finally we circled back to Nan Xiang on Prince where we ate and ate and ate until we couldn't eat another bite.
We walked together until the sun was low in the sky and shared one last long, lingering kiss before I made my way underground. As my train drew further from Flushing I felt her presence growing inside me. The train filled gradually, with one or two souls of every shape, size and color joining at each stop. What meaning do you need when you have love? Love is all the meaning life has to offer, the rest is window dressing and white noise.
Just before the train descended into the ground I looked out into that subway car. Through the windows I saw the red and orange setting sun pouring through the iron lattice that supports the Brooklyn Queens Expressway. Manhattan shined across the river like freshly polished patent leather. I peered at the faces across from me and I saw the panorama that is humanity laid before me. After all these years of looking, of searching for meaning, of wishing for destiny and design, I finally understand. Love is all the meaning we have, there is nothing more, and that's more than enough. For me, that's more than enough.
Ha that was me. I took my SO for a massage and there was a curtain separating us. I had been to this place before on my own and had gotten a good tease but no HJ. She started with the st tease and I just kept super quiet and she kept teasing and stroking till I exploded. It was very surprising and erotic and the danger factor made it more exciting.
Happy Birthday
One year later and it's still raining. Everything else is a little worse for the wear. That hat needs to be blocked, those shiny two tones need new soles. My head is a little grayer, my brain a little foggier. She needs company, and I am always available.
We meet in the place where we had our first date, as the clouds gather I scan the crowds of tourists for her face. I look west and then I look north and then finally she is there, my lovely Mia, every bit as beautiful as the day we met. I touch her elbow and peck her cheek, playing the gentleman. I usher her through the revolving door and we are shown to a table - just next to the table we occupied so long ago.
My mind reels, it stretches and it snaps and I am turned around, upside down and nowhere at all. This beautiful woman sits before me again and for the moment I let myself enjoy the light of her smile, and all I can do is remember.
It was about a year and half ago, it seems like a century, it seems like eternity has passed between us. She ordered lobster and steak and got herself drunk on Long Island Iced Teas. We made broken conversation that skirted our language differences like a sparrow darting from branch to branch. We laughed and maybe, just maybe we started falling in love. We stepped outside and I hailed a cab and called a hotel and before long we were naked in that bed together, the first of many nights we would spend together, our naked bodies entwined until the sun would come and nudge us apart.
Today we understand each other, but we talk around the gulf between us. We talk about the weather, we talk about business, we talk about anything but what I've done. We step gingerly and lightly around each other until I touch her hand. She is drinking Long Island Iced Teas. I want her so much, I want to press my lips to hers and run my hands over her body and I want to pick her up and bring her to my bed. I see the future. She will be drunk. I will kiss her. We will go back to her place and I'll fuck her, it may be the last chance I have to feel her body around mine, to feel myself inside her.
I touch her hand, I pay the check, I take her to the door. I kiss her lightly at first and then harder and then our tongues are intertwined. Outside the rain is pounding. It's her birthday. Exactly one year ago it rained just like this. It poured and it poured and I disappointed her. I vowed that night never to hurt her again, never to disappoint her again, and yet that's exactly what I did. In her kindness and love she took me back two times, three times, but my luck has run out. I want her, I want to bend her over that massage table and feel my cock inside her wet pussy, I want to taste her again, I want to feel her warm mouth on my hard cock. I want all that, but that's not all I want. I want her to be mine again. I want her to feel the way I feel, I want her forgiveness and her love.
I guide her through the rain, up Fifth Avenue, dodging raindrops that surround us like explosions. Across two long blocks and we are almost there. Finally, wet from the rain and our own perspiration we arrive.
In the elevator I kiss her hard and she kisses back. I am going to have her again, she will be mine. We walk through the door and into the little room where we have spent hours, days, weeks together. I kiss her and pull her to me. I touch her, she swoons a little. I can taste the alcohol on her breath. I pull her dress over her head. I reach behind her and unhook her bra and then I take one beautiful brown nipple into my mouth, then the other. She moans a little. She will be mine.
Kneeling, I pull her panties down. I lay her down on the table and she spreads her legs. I taste her lightly. My tongue on the lips, then inside her, then teasing her clitoris. Lightly I start, then I move faster and harder, feeling her respond, I change my movements. My tongue in slow circles, then faster, then back and forth, hard and fast. Her hands are on her breasts, teasing her own nipples. I hear her breathing rise. I shake my head faster and then I press my tongue hard against her clitoris and her whole body shakes and spasms and her face contorts in a perfect tableau of pleasure.
I pull my clothes off and stand above her, my hard cock protruding from my body, There is a knock at the door. She is needed. She pulls her dress on to attend to some bit of business. I sit for a moment and breathe. Everything is quiet and dark. I look inside myself. I look inside and I ask myself what I want. I want what I have lost. I want her. I don't want her pussy, her ass, her mouth. I want her heart. I want her mind. I want her, but I don't want her this way. I don't want a drunken afternoon escapade. I want her, I want her like I have never wanted anyone, and the feeling never goes away.
I dress quietly. When she returns I am in my hat and coat. "You need to leave?" she asks. "Yeah," I say. "Work…"
I hold her close to me again and kiss her deeply. I pull back and kiss her lightly, then I kiss her forehead. On her cheek, a single tear succumbs to gravity and rolls its way slowly down. I wipe it away. "Don't be sad," I tell her. "Good things will come." It's a lie I have told myself a thousand times.
I kiss her once more and whisper "happy birthday" before turning away. Outside the rain pours down in torrents and floods the streets of Manhattan like an Old Testament deluge. I extend one foot and those worn out two tones guide me the way they always have. I pull my hat down low and my collar up high, and slowly, I begin to walk away. Slowly, slowly, slowly I walk away until finally, I am gone.
One year later and it's still raining. Everything else is a little worse for the wear. That hat needs to be blocked, those shiny two tones need new soles. My head is a little grayer, my brain a little foggier. She needs company, and I am always available.
We meet in the place where we had our first date, as the clouds gather I scan the crowds of tourists for her face. I look west and then I look north and then finally she is there, my lovely Mia, every bit as beautiful as the day we met. I touch her elbow and peck her cheek, playing the gentleman. I usher her through the revolving door and we are shown to a table - just next to the table we occupied so long ago.
My mind reels, it stretches and it snaps and I am turned around, upside down and nowhere at all. This beautiful woman sits before me again and for the moment I let myself enjoy the light of her smile, and all I can do is remember.
It was about a year and half ago, it seems like a century, it seems like eternity has passed between us. She ordered lobster and steak and got herself drunk on Long Island Iced Teas. We made broken conversation that skirted our language differences like a sparrow darting from branch to branch. We laughed and maybe, just maybe we started falling in love. We stepped outside and I hailed a cab and called a hotel and before long we were naked in that bed together, the first of many nights we would spend together, our naked bodies entwined until the sun would come and nudge us apart.
Today we understand each other, but we talk around the gulf between us. We talk about the weather, we talk about business, we talk about anything but what I've done. We step gingerly and lightly around each other until I touch her hand. She is drinking Long Island Iced Teas. I want her so much, I want to press my lips to hers and run my hands over her body and I want to pick her up and bring her to my bed. I see the future. She will be drunk. I will kiss her. We will go back to her place and I'll fuck her, it may be the last chance I have to feel her body around mine, to feel myself inside her.
I touch her hand, I pay the check, I take her to the door. I kiss her lightly at first and then harder and then our tongues are intertwined. Outside the rain is pounding. It's her birthday. Exactly one year ago it rained just like this. It poured and it poured and I disappointed her. I vowed that night never to hurt her again, never to disappoint her again, and yet that's exactly what I did. In her kindness and love she took me back two times, three times, but my luck has run out. I want her, I want to bend her over that massage table and feel my cock inside her wet pussy, I want to taste her again, I want to feel her warm mouth on my hard cock. I want all that, but that's not all I want. I want her to be mine again. I want her to feel the way I feel, I want her forgiveness and her love.
I guide her through the rain, up Fifth Avenue, dodging raindrops that surround us like explosions. Across two long blocks and we are almost there. Finally, wet from the rain and our own perspiration we arrive.
In the elevator I kiss her hard and she kisses back. I am going to have her again, she will be mine. We walk through the door and into the little room where we have spent hours, days, weeks together. I kiss her and pull her to me. I touch her, she swoons a little. I can taste the alcohol on her breath. I pull her dress over her head. I reach behind her and unhook her bra and then I take one beautiful brown nipple into my mouth, then the other. She moans a little. She will be mine.
Kneeling, I pull her panties down. I lay her down on the table and she spreads her legs. I taste her lightly. My tongue on the lips, then inside her, then teasing her clitoris. Lightly I start, then I move faster and harder, feeling her respond, I change my movements. My tongue in slow circles, then faster, then back and forth, hard and fast. Her hands are on her breasts, teasing her own nipples. I hear her breathing rise. I shake my head faster and then I press my tongue hard against her clitoris and her whole body shakes and spasms and her face contorts in a perfect tableau of pleasure.
I pull my clothes off and stand above her, my hard cock protruding from my body, There is a knock at the door. She is needed. She pulls her dress on to attend to some bit of business. I sit for a moment and breathe. Everything is quiet and dark. I look inside myself. I look inside and I ask myself what I want. I want what I have lost. I want her. I don't want her pussy, her ass, her mouth. I want her heart. I want her mind. I want her, but I don't want her this way. I don't want a drunken afternoon escapade. I want her, I want her like I have never wanted anyone, and the feeling never goes away.
I dress quietly. When she returns I am in my hat and coat. "You need to leave?" she asks. "Yeah," I say. "Work…"
I hold her close to me again and kiss her deeply. I pull back and kiss her lightly, then I kiss her forehead. On her cheek, a single tear succumbs to gravity and rolls its way slowly down. I wipe it away. "Don't be sad," I tell her. "Good things will come." It's a lie I have told myself a thousand times.
I kiss her once more and whisper "happy birthday" before turning away. Outside the rain pours down in torrents and floods the streets of Manhattan like an Old Testament deluge. I extend one foot and those worn out two tones guide me the way they always have. I pull my hat down low and my collar up high, and slowly, I begin to walk away. Slowly, slowly, slowly I walk away until finally, I am gone.