Tuesday, October 25

Coca-Cola Fellatio

We met on a Thursday and it seemed longer than three days before we met again, on the Sunday. Nerves and excitement tore at me when I thought of seeing her again. Lust, yes, lust; it knocked on my organs once again, after years apart. It had been a different three days to what I was going through, my mood having u-turned from troubled sadness into an optimism about things. So, she is sent to pick me up as the nights draw in earlier. I resist admitting that I thought of her non-stop, but there was certainly that deep, continuous interest one experiences after having met an impressionable member of the opposite sex.
Seldom did I have plans on a Sunday, so why not see her again? I was very excited. It is inconvenient how everything, the objects and emotions of the world, become brighter at the scent of infatuation before it deteriorates into wretched torture. Around the corners of her perfect mouth I was finding reasons to be cheerful; optimistic even.
She lived in the north of the city, and traveling up there on the Northern line – its carriages and colours different – endowed the journey with a larger significance than it probably deserved, as though I were traveling much farther, to a foreign land. It took a while to find her flat in amongst the quiet suburbia of Finsbury and, after some phone calls, there she was on the pale green pavement without shoes. As the two of us ascended the stairs to her first floor flat, I studied her: she wore a thin, dark dress that opened up a porthole to her white back; flawless, so it seems; and her tights shifted in the taught and soft stretches of her calves climbing the stairs.
It was quiet, too, I remember that, an eerie quietness on everything; the afternoon tea of semi-detached housing, hedges, and numbers on black slate. The flat, too, was silent. The windows bolted shut against the cold and October grey. It was tidy and clean; it smelled tidy and clean. She immediately went back to the sofa, from where she had been interrupted, folding her legs beneath her and resumed sipping her cup of tea. Not one to upset someone’s nerves, naturally I set about inspecting the place – having declined a drink – and spent a while before the bookcase as she pointed out which books belonged to her and which to her boyfriend. Although our tastes overlapped substantially there were a number of pressings I had not seen before and was quite curious to open up. She offered me some dark chocolate and I declined. I sat down next to her. It was good to see her again. I was happy but anxious. When I leafed through the large books on her coffee table she became flustered that I did not put them back in the right place, the exact right place, to the millimetre. In an instant she would switch from dominance to submission, her blue green eyes flaring then softening. She apologised for the large mirror that hung in the living room, conspicuous and garish—‘It’s hideous!’ Indeed it was. ‘But it’s bolted to the wall!’ She tried to remove it, but couldn’t. Their bedroom, presented during a small tour, stirred up a degree of envy in me; my eyes, if not my body, falling on to the voluptuous sheets and pillows. She would scold me for the smallest of trifles – such as washing my hands in the kitchen and not the bathroom – yet I found it amusing. We held a gaze and the ends of her lips lifted—‘You look like you’re going to punch me.’ I told her I was not going to punch her, that I would move to the opposite side of the room. After all, despite so quickly becoming friends, we were still strangers and she had invited me to her home.
‘What do you think of this lipstick?’ she asked me.
‘It’s lovely.’
‘It’s not too much?’
‘Not at all.’
Pause.
‘Let’s go out,’ I said. She refreshed her lipstick, simultaneously recommending, through swollen puckering, a pub nearby that reminded her of her northern hometown. We left.
The streets were quiet, were cold; it was that brief British autumn, before the hold of winter; in that condition, a warm pub is paradise. The streetlights hung golden and a thin veil lay foggy over everything. The pub was warm. Scattered far enough away from each other were young families, the odd couple, a mother and daughter; Observer and Times readers; well-behaved children elevated by wooden highchairs. The bar staff were fashionably young and decorated with love-bites. We sat near the fire.
Around the square table we positioned ourselves diagonally to each other. Occasionally one loses track of time. Perhaps everything was a measure of drink, a unit of time expressed in the sinking of a beer. We talked and laughed. Often we would go outside for a cigarette. The beer garden – not much of a beer garden at all, but textured paving slabs skirted by overgrown autumnally bare bushes and packed with vacant tables – was dark, barely illuminated by straying streetlight and the discarded glow from inside. We would become cold, dosed with nicotine, then retreat indoors.
Finally we just stayed outdoors. Things unfolded—
‘Do you prefer me in jeans or a dress?’ she asked, apropos of the chill.
‘I can see your legs.’
‘What about my bum? Did you look at it when I climbed the stairs in front of you?’ She smiled. She had exceptional lips to smile with.
‘Was more focused on your back, that hole in your dress, like a porthole.’
She quietly delighted in my answer.
In her hands was a half-empty coke bottle. She began stroking it and rubbing her nails down the length of its curves—‘Does this give you an erection?’ I told her no. She fellated the bottle. She crowned the neck of the bottle with her tongue and lips. ‘Now?’ I told her yes. She continued to fellate the bottle and giggled, our eyes together, engaged in some peculiar act. This was a very strange game but the erection was heating a strip of my thigh. We talked about sex and what we enjoyed. Strangers passed on the road nearby. The pub did not stir from its timid babble. We smoked. Between the cold and my excitement, I was overcome with tremors that made rolling a cigarette difficult. I wanted her on the beer garden table, splinters down our legs, smashed glass, come cooling on the slabs.
‘Would you have a threesome?’
I liked her eyes when she asked me such questions—‘I dunno, it’s not something I could answer until the actual opportunity was there, you know?’
She smiled—‘Okay, I’m asking you: would you have a threesome?’
I laughed and looked away. The cold was obvious now. It was very funny in its way.
‘Why are you laughing?’
‘Because after all this I’m going to wank into a tissue and you’re going to fuck your boyfriend.’
Silence.
The Sunday night traffic. Of all traffic, Sunday night traffic is the most reclined. My thoughts were everywhere. I did not know what to think. I could not focus. The sound of passing cars seemed like something to latch on to. We sat there in silence. We walked back in silence. I did not know whether I could see her again, whether I could handle it; I did not understand the point of it all, if there was to even be one. As we said good-by, I did not know whether to hug her. I was sad to leave her, or I was sad to leave the night, putting a full-stop on the evening. I longed for her as soon as she was gone, and, as the cabbie asked me how I was, I drifted off faintly, staring out at the bright shop signs, foggy in the breath of the car windows.

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