The Lovejoy Terrace Hotel is hardly in a bad district. In fact, it was in a neighborhood where I occasionally shopped when I was looking for outrageous “mood provoking” clothes for special occasions. There was a specialty paper store on the same block where I bought all those engraved invitations to his benefit ball, and the soiree at his aunt’s beach house.
I stopped at the front desk of the hotel where a nondescript woman with stringy hair and a soiled sweater told me that Bryan had already checked in. Taking two flights of stairs to room 306, I knocked on the door, and waited anxiously.
Bryan answered with a happy grin on his face. He was the best looking thing in the neighborhood, but that was no challenge. I knew he’d be the best looking thing around even at the St. Francis.
“You look terrific,” he said. He was already focusing attention at the cleavage popping above my sweater. I liked the way my flesh jiggled. I’m sure he did too.
“This place, it’s all right isn’t it?” he asked, being very careful.
“It’s perfect,” I said, looking about at the full-sized bed, covered by a pink chenille bedspread. The window was open because there was no air conditioning. A breeze fluttered the threadbare curtain, catching the drifting scent of some spring flower. It made me smile.
“Little Bohemian, perhaps,” he suggested, staring around at the meager ambiance.
“A lot, I’d say.”
He turned back to me, his arm coming around to draw me close to him and we kissed with full mouths. Erotic heat galloping though me thrust my ready body against his. For all my nervousness, I was very conscious of my sexual hunger.
With me in his arms, Bryan moved back step by step until we were at the bed, where we fell back on the old mattress, the springs creaking beneath us. Bryan devoured my face with kisses. I tore away the purple flowered tie at his neck. His hands went under my sweater to find bare skin; mine were dealing with the buttons on his shirt. Our mouths never stopped their probing.
When our two naked skins collided chest to chest, I was murmuring something that resonated in the warm air around us, like, “Oh, my God, yes,” or “Hold me, please.” It’s too much a blur to remember. The common understanding of this carnal need made our passions all too swift.
It was so easy for him to unzip my skirt and have it at my knees, where I was finally able to kick it off. It was a little harder getting the buckle of his pants undone when we were pressed so tightly together. Finally pushing down the trousers, I took the jockeys with them in one grand sweeping gesture, looking for nothing but naked groin. And so pleasing . . . his pulsing erection was between my legs in seconds, and then pressing into my wet home as I parted myself wide for him.
We were at an odd angle with him on top of me. But there was something easier about the position than I remember missionary making love to be. Every moving in and out tickled my clitoris. I squirmed into him to feel it more. And then, he had me scooped up in his arms lolling about the bed, almost falling out of it, it was so small. There was a little bit of laughter when he had to catch himself with one leg on the floor, lest we fall out of the bed altogether. Pushing us back on, we resumed, Bryan consuming me with such spirit, I know it wasn’t this good the time before.
He let loose with a crashing thrust, and cried, “Yeeeawww!”
I was squeezing all that fullness tightly to me, still dealing with a finale of my own that had not quite happened. But Bryan knew enough about my body response to know that all it would take was an attentive tongue and pair of lips to suck the sweetness from me. I have no idea what kind of cry, or groan or crazy expletive that came from me, but it was joyously delivered whatever it was.
With the wild reunion over, we sank back in the hammock like bed, stuck together with our sweat.
“You don’t usually do these things,” he said.
“Never. Well almost never; after all, I’m doing it now,” I said.
He insisted that we lie face to face. Caressing my cheek with one hand, he admired what must have been a blissful expression on my face.
“I remembered your face,” he said. “But not how good your body feels.”
“I remembered your chest,” I told him, peeking down at the sun-bleached hair, just the right amount, and the smooth tan muscles. “And your penis,” I added. “It scared me when I first saw it.”
“Three years ago?” he asked, bewildered.
“I thought it was perfect, but so big. I wasn’t sure I could handle it.”
“You did very well,” he said.
“Of course I did. And it reminds me now, why we were so good together then.”
We swapped affectionate caresses, like love birds paired for life. We were getting inside each other much farther than that first time, and at least for me, farther than I’d been inside anyone in a long time.
“You know, it’s the strangest thing lying naked with someone in the middle of the day,” Bryan said. “It’s been a long time.”
“A bit Bohemian,” I suggested, thinking how much the word suited my mood. “Are you married?” I asked him, changing the subject abruptly, but had to know.
“No, Well . . .” I hedged. “Divorcing.”
“Were you married long?”
“A little over a year,” I answered.
“Quick changes,” he observed, studying my face carefully, looking for clues to my feelings.
“Life sometimes throws you bricks; nasty ones,” I said.
“Did for me too,” Bryan said, the sadness behind the remark left me speechless. He said no more, and we lay side by side, eye to eye, our hands expressing affection we found difficult to talk about.
“Would it be too much to ask you to meet me again?”
“Just like this?” I said.
“I suppose then we’d have to start sharing stories. Intimate details, all that complex stuff,” I mused aloud.
“We don’t have to,” he said.
“Is that safe?” I asked. “You know, I could be an ax murderer, you could be a ne’er-do-well con artist.”
“I’d only be conning you out of sex,” he said. “I promise, I won’t ask for money.”
“Maybe we could take it one meeting at a time,” I said. “I’m not sure about committing to anything more than a week in advance. Another date seems safe to me.”
“Me too,” he agreed.
“I have some scars to heal,” I explained. I didn’t want to tell him more, but he deserved this much for his kindness to me.
“I have some scars too,” he said. “But we don’t have to mention them, Paige.”
“It might be easier if we didn’t,” I conceded, knowing the rest of my life was too complex to explain.
“So next Tuesday?” he asked.
“Dutch treat,” I said.
“At noon?” he asked. He was a man of specifics.
“Noon’s a good time,” I agreed.
I snuggled into his arms and dozed for a while. I liked the fact that we didn’t need to talk. It took a lot of the pressure off, and I certainly didn’t need more pressure. Besides, talking got me into lots of trouble in the past. All I needed was this physical affair and his inherent kindness.
“If you ever want to check my references, I have them,” he said.
“I know. But I don’t need them.”
I suppose I should have offered him my references, but at the moment, they probably weren’t very reliable.
(c) Ludovic Goubet, www.ludovicgoubet.com