 | The club is moderately crowded, appropriately befitting an average Monday night, open bar notwithstanding. Tonight, for once in a long while, I'm not interested in the free booze; I have plenty of distraction right in front of me, in the form of a lithe, little girl, who at 26 gets mistaken for a teenager and is often told she looks like one of the Olsen Twins. She does sometimes, but she's a chameleon, channeling a new celebrity at every turn -- one minute she's Britney Spears, the next she's Elizabeth Wurtzel, and I'm not the only one who notices. Not a day goes by that someone doesn't stop and think they recognize her. She looks so sweet and innocent, and she knows it, using her simple charms for devious means. Maybe that's why I didn't know she was hitting on me the other day, even though she'd dropped numerous hints. I like that she was bold enough to just ask if she could kiss me when I didn't pick up on her hints; it's a rare girl who'll go that far out on a limb. But that was weeks ago, before we'd become totally comfortable pawing each other all over town. Tonight we ignore my friend who's in from out of town in favor of our own corner on the couch, oblivious for the moment to the patrons sitting around us. Well, maybe not entirely oblivious. Before my eyes close as I go to kiss her, I see a suited guy next to me, smoothly checking us out, and I know there are others around, but I lean over and pull her small body against mine anyway. She is such a wonderful combination of delicate and sinful, innocent and devious. She straddles me unexpectedly, her legs opening over me, that mischievous smile on her face. I'm sure that people are watching us now -- I would too if I saw us across the room. My skirt is a respectable length, slightly above my knee, my legs covered in thick grey tights. There's nothing improper about it, except when I'm trying to make out with a girl on my lap and stay relatively under the radar. She has no such concerns, in her form-fitting red jeans and a light t-shirt, writhing nimbly all around me. It's like a lap dance, but much more personal. We're surrounded by jaded Manhattanites but I only have eyes for her. I don't know yet that she will become my girlfriend, that I will fall for her so entirely that I stop having eyes for anyone else, but there is still something, even now, so early, that captivates me, and it's not just the way she squirms all over me. It's in her face, the intense look as she peers at me, trying to decipher my essence as her eyes mull me over, her smile sweet and mischievous, curious and playful. In many ways she is like a girl -- she looks the part, and has an optimism that most adults I know have lost over the years. As I sit on the couch, she straddles me with that daring smile on her face, leaning back over the edge of the couch to show off her flexibility. I smile too, utterly charmed by this nymph who, despite all appearances, is even bolder and more shameless than I am. I pull her toward me, arraying her long blond hair all around us, hoping that makes us somewhat invisible. I'm sensing that there is only so much farther we can go inside this club but I don't want to leave, knowing that the magic will end if we break the spell too early. She pushes closer to me, and I can feel her heat through her clothes. I grab her ass and fondle it as she leans in close to me. Her breath is hot on my ear and I can hear tiny moans escaping from her as I squeeze her asscheeks, occasionally venturing lower, seeing how far I can reach, how much I can get away with. Each moan sends shivers up and down my body, knowing that I can do this to her. We're out in public, as open and viewable as possible and yet this feels as intimate as anything we've ever done. We don't have to care about the prying eyes because we're now in our own world, communicating on a level so intrinsic and primal that we could almost be naked right now and not even care. She presses in closer to me and I take a breath of frustration at what we can't do. She bends all the way back again, her hair falling to the floor, her yoga skills coming to life as she contorts on top of me. For one of the first times in my life, I wish I had a cock to press up against her, a concrete way to show my arousal, to taunt her with as it hit her right along her cunt. I'll have to make do with other means. I pull her face toward mine and we kiss, hot and wet and needy, her tongue diving forward to reach as much of me as she can. I bounce her on my lap and pull her even closer. Again, I feel like some macho guy, despite the skirt, hair and makeup, with my girl on my lap to do with as I please. I don't know that this will be the first of many nights we're told that we're causing too much of a stir, making guys' cocks hard, guys who have no clue what we do in private but like to watch the swirl of hair and lips and skin. I don't know what will happen beyond tonight, when she gets home to her girlfriend, what future we might or might not have together, and I don't care. Nothing else is as important as the way she looks sitting on top of me, both sweet and slutty. It's tricky, challenging and a turn-on to figure out how much I can touch her here, out in the open, how many times my hand can skim over her shirt, slyly brush her nipples, how I can grab the back of her neck and squeeze it, scraping my nails lightly along that delicate skin, her heading tilting back at the contact. We keep bringing ourselves right to the edge where it almost doesn't feel worth it to stay, where we need to rip each other's clothes off as soon as possible, and then return, still on edge but manageable. Here, in a too-cool bar where everyone is trying to out-hip everyone else, in a straight enclave in the gayest section of the city, we are too fast for the likes of those around us. We're too much -- too much girl, too much passion, too unrestrained -- even though we're quiet, even though we're minding our own business. Maybe they sense that underneath our long hair and public kisses, our roaming hands and blushing faces, is something more powerful than that, something that won't let us break away and sit and be quiet like everyone else. We don't care who sees us because we're not here for them, or maybe we are, partly. With her, I don't have to analyze each and every movement, calculate who is watching and who isn't; I simply close my eyes as the DJ swirls Madonna all around us and take her in. I look at her and feel so many things all at once -- excitement, lust, power, hope, maybe a little bit of fear. She's unlike any other girl I've ever met, a beautiful and maybe dangerous mixture of sweetness and daring, pushing every envelope she can find. I know I like to think I'm bold, like to think I will do anything, anytime, anywhere, but this girl really will, and she wants me. She ducks her head down to my neck, then lower, peeling the already low ruffle of my velvet shirt down just a little bit more to reveal the bursting pink of my nipple. For all my wildness, I've never done anything like this before. Her hair mostly hides her face as her lips find my nipple and she licks and sucks it, light and gentle, teasing. Maybe it's because I don't have a good poker face, never have and never will, and can't look nonchalant while this totally fast girl works her magic on me. Maybe we've just caused too much of a stir, finally worn out our lukewarm welcome. Whatever it is, I hear a knock on the wall and am too embarrassed to look up. "That's inappropriate behavior, girls, and you're going to have to stop," says a deep male voice. I mumble something vaguely apologetic, stand up, grab my bags in a hurry. She is calm and cool and keeps talking, hugging me, not at all bothered that we're too fast for this place, too out of control. We walk out into the night and laugh, lingering, her hand on my cheek and a look on her face I don't know how to interpret. It takes us a while to say goodbye, even though the air is chilly and it's getting late. I'm not sad to go, just wistful as she smiles that mischievous smile that promises me even more trouble the next time she sees me. She bundles her long coat around her and skips off into the night. My fast girl,, as I walk to my train, a smile lingering all the way home. |
