“You didn’t really mean it, did you—your ultimatum?” I asked, pinching her cheek lightly. “You wanted me all along, I can tell.” The thought was just now sinking in.
“Maybe,” was all I could get out of her, but her twinkling eyes gave her away. I didn’t mind though—it’s not every girl I’d eat fire for, and most girls wouldn’t even think to ask.
ONE SOLID YELLOW ASTER
Zaedryn Meade
I knock on the door and wait. Five flights up to the run-down Chinatown loft and they’re not even home. Great. I knock again. Finally, a girl answers the door wearing nothing but a thin white robe, somewhat sheer, dripping off of one shoulder. It looks silky, soft. She may have nothing underneath. It covers her knees but is loosely tied, generously gaping at her thighs. I don’t stare. I try not to think about how cliché this is. Her eyes light up at the sight of me, my black-and-white delivery uniform, the huge bouquet of spring wildflowers cradled in one arm. Ten stems of larkspur, seven blue iris, and one solid yellow aster, accented with “lush greenery and festive purple-tinted foliage.” One of the more popular deliveries now that it’s spring. Pretty, but not a lot of
imagination, which is unfortunate; this girl clearly deserves something unique.
She looks familiar, actually, but I can’t place her face. Maybe I’ve slept with her before.
“Delivery,” I say, looking down at the well-organized list on the clipboard in my other hand. “For Rachel…” I recognize her last name and suddenly struggle with it.
“That’s me,” she says, leaning slightly against the hallway just inside the door, an amused smile on her face. “What, you don’t remember me, Zed?”
“No, I do, I’m sorry, I uh…you cut your hair,” I try to justify.
She fingers the back of her neck. “For a play, a few months ago. It’s growing out. Taking a lot of getting used to. Are those seriously for me?” she asks, eyes on the iris.
“Just sign here.” I offer the clipboard, then hand over the vase.
We stand awkwardly for a moment, then she says, “Come in, have a glass of something.”
“I can’t, I…” but before I can answer she’s already turned, walking down the hallway, readying the flowers for display. She leaves the door open and doesn’t look back to see if I’m following; she knows I will.
“I didn’t know you moved to Manhattan,” I start. “Last I knew you were in Queens, with…what’s her name?”
Rachel rolls her eyes. “Alexis. Don’t remind me; that was a mess. Well, I’m here now. Who sent the flowers?” she asks, smoothly maneuvering the conversation in that way she always could.
I check the clipboard. No name. We tend not to allow that, actually; too many weirdos. She’s examining the bouquet: no card. I wonder if it was Alexis. I wonder how long ago they broke up. “Don’t know,” I say. “No name. Your girlfriend, boyfriend, one-night stand from last night maybe?”
Rachel rolls her eyes visibly. “Not possible,” she says airily, running the stems under water as she slices them and puts them back in the vase in some particular Rachel order. I lean against the counter. “I’m not seeing anyone anymore. They aren’t from you, are they? Some far-fetched attempt to get back with me?”
“We were never together,” I remind her. “But no, they aren’t from me. I didn’t even know you lived here.”
“We should’ve been together,” she purrs, leaving the flowers and moving close to me, closer, a little too close. She’s going to kiss me or grab the waist of my jeans any second. “You know it. Are you sure it wasn’t you? You always were so…bold with me.”
Her hair smells like girl product, flowery and fruity. I notice it’s a little damp. “Did I interrupt you?” I ask, touching the tie of her robe that would unknot with the gentlest tug.
“I was in the bath,” Rachel says, turning back to the flowers, twisting a few stems, fingering the petals. She picks up the vase and moves to the cream-colored couch—the two rooms connected and open—setting them on the end table, and calls, “So, you still single?”
I swallow. “Actually, yes. Actually, I’m not even really… sleeping with anybody these days. It’s been quite a while.”
She looks at me questioningly, eyebrows raised. “Really. That’s different, for you. Well, me too,” she offers. She settles onto the couch, pulls her knees up underneath her, pats the cushion next to her. “I miss being with someone, but it’s kind of nice to have time to myself.”
“I think what I miss most is the kissing,” I say, setting down, getting into it. “Really deep, or light, or whatever, just lots of kissing.” And her mouth is so fucking pretty. It’s hard not to think of kissing.
“Yeah, I miss the kissing…and I miss light touching…the kind that almost tickles.”
“Yeah, I love that,” I answer. “Especially after.”
“Yes,” she says, breathes in. “After.”
Her lips curl and part and I can almost see her warm breath moving between them. I try not to stare. “I love it when you smile like that,” I say quietly.
She doesn’t really hear me, or maybe she does, but keeps going. “I tend to want to hold on to the person I’m with after. Lots of silence and breathing.” Her eyes soften.
“I love that. That closeness can be so intense, and beautiful. When you feel like your bodies are so close and connected…it can be amazing.”
“You know what else I miss?” Her voice gets anxious, faster. “The intense feeling of being wanted…the
before.
The moment when you suddenly feel so wanted…so sexy…just from the energy coming off of the other person.”
“Yeah, I miss the wanting,” I agree. “I always feel so transparent. I always think I’m hiding it, but I wear my emotions so obviously.”
“Oh, me too. I become bold in certain instances, though. I start saying what I’m thinking out loud. I stop being embarrassed.” Rachel’s eyes shine playfully.
I’m still thinking about her kissing comment, and her mouth, her skin, her taste. Kissing everywhere. “Kissing is so similar to…going down on a girl, too, which I also just love, and miss.”
“Jesus…” she says, almost under her breath. Her body flutters a little, which is exactly what I wanted. “I haven’t had the pleasure of doing that in…over a year,” she says. “I haven’t done it that much, but I miss it, a lot actually. It seems I miss a lot of things.”
“Yeah, there’s a lot to miss.” I pause, then continue, absently brushing my hand against her knee, exposed through a gap in her robe. She watches my fingers. “I love that moment when it turns from kissing to sex.”
She leans her head back just slightly. “That moment when a hand slips under your shirt just slightly. Like it’s asking for permission. And then when your body gives it, by pushing back just so.”
“I miss the throw-down, the taking control. I love that feeling, when I have permission to do it.” I’m feeling bold. She always could do this to me.
“And I love surrendering. In that sudden, amazing moment where I feel completely taken care of…so I no longer need control. Control is so vital for me in most of my life…so when I’m able to give it up…it’s thrilling.”
“I miss having someone trust me like that.” I stop again. Something occurs to me, and I smile. She’s caught. “Are you trying to seduce me?”
“What,” she says, eyes sparkling, “am I not making it obvious enough?”
She moves toward me, as if to straddle me, but I move to push her down onto the couch at the same moment and instead, neither of us goes anywhere. I get caught up, ahead of myself, and shy all at once. But it’s her, Rachel, my Rachel, the girl I used to dance with every weekend at Meow Mix, who I used to run into everywhere, who I used to fantasize
about while getting off with someone else. Something about her hips, the perfect roundness of her breasts, her fucking perfect mouth. I’ve wanted her for so long. Shit. I laugh, mostly at myself, softly, to cover up the desire. “Why do I feel so…? I’ve had a crush on you since—when? Ninety-seven?”
“Ninety-eight. And it’s mutual,” she says, gazing at me with that seductive Rachel look. “Don’t be shy.”
I run my fingers along her cheek, then her jaw, to the back of her neck where her short hair is still a surprise. “A long time.”
“Yes,” she says. “A long time.” Damn, she is
on.
I breathe and clear my throat again. Nervous. I look around her new place and admire her music posters, theatre posters, delicate decorations. The early afternoon sun creeps through her windows and the airy orange-yellow curtains paint pastel tones through the open rooms. Most of her shelves and walls are still bare, and small stacks of boxes are tucked in between the furniture.
“How long have you been at this place?” I ask.
She stiffens a little, but doesn’t falter. “More than a month,” she says. “It’s starting to feel like home, but…I haven’t even unpacked my vibrator yet. Isn’t that awful? It’s not lost,” she corrects herself. “It’s just hiding out. It’s been…six months I think. I’ve lost my drive entirely.”
I glance at her sideways. “You should unpack it.”
“I should unpack it, huh? So it can sit in the nightstand.” She sighs dramatically. “This conversation has depressed me. Lord, and you always said that I was the tease.”
“I’m not trying to depress you, rather the opposite—to inspire.”
“Well. Yes.” She presses up against me, lowers her voice, lowers her eyes, lowers her hand to my crotch, attempting to be subtle and still obviously checking to see if I’m packing. “Do that. Inspire me. Please?”
“You really haven’t had sex in six months?”
“Seven.” she says, recalculating, certain this time. “Seven months.”
I clear my throat, swallow. There is little more that I would rather do than spend the afternoon in bed with this beautiful girl. But I’m so loaded down with deliveries today, and I need to get ready for a date tonight—pick up some wine, tidy the apartment. How can I exit gracefully? “Rach…I have to go, I have more deliveries, a full schedule this afternoon.”
“Yeah I know, I have work to do too. I’m supposed to be at the theatre in half an hour. But…I just want you to…tell me more.”
I look at the clock on my cell phone and gauge my afternoon, counting the minutes in my head. I see her watching me. “Fifteen minutes,” I offer. I can’t just leave, not with her all smooth and bare and begging on the couch next to me like this. “We’ll see how far I can get.”
“Yes,” she nods, and kisses me, gives herself over, her mouth like a ritual offering. Warm, soft. She’s already making those little
oh
s and
mm
s from her throat.
I don’t waste any time. I pull her robe from her shoulders and press my hands inside, touching her skin, her beautiful curves.
“Bedroom,” I say, an order and a question. She moves her tongue over her lips where I’ve pulled away, her body thick and wanting, then stands and leads me. Her robe is falling off of her everywhere and she doesn’t stop to adjust it.
Her bedroom is set up in an elaborate romantic scene of lit candles and slow music, with soft blankets on the bed. It’s
darker than the living room because the curtains are thick, but there’s still some daylight trickling through. I wonder if I had been expected. If she’d known I was going to come. I slip the robe to the floor and lay her down naked, taking my time, slow, excruciatingly slow, lying next to her, kissing, hands everywhere.
She pulls on my black pants, my button-down white shirt that seems strangely formal next to her naked skin. She’s trying to rush me, wants me up in her, wants me exploding in her, wants me everywhere all at once. I notice massage oil on the nightstand. No vibrator, but oil. I imagine her in here after her bath, skin supple and puckered from soaking too long, slathering oil along her freshly shaved legs, hands, elbows, breasts. Sitting alone with the oil on her skin.
I pick it up and rub my hands with it, put my hands on her belly, her legs, her hips.
“Why would you make me wait, after all this time, huh?” Her eyes flash, she’s curious and frustrated and desperate all at once.
“Because I can,” I say. “Because you’re looking at me with all that want. I can feel it from here.”
“So what, you’re going to torture me?”
“Maybe not entirely. And you’d like that, anyway.” I see right through her.
She breathes in, sighs. “You know me too well.”
I keep going, lovely soft touches, lots of kissing. She tries to get to my buttons, the seam of my pants, and I have to grab her wrists every once in a while, set her arms above her head, hold them to her sides.
“I can be pretty good at doing what I’m told,” Rachel whispers. “Just ask.”
“I want to touch you,” I say. “I want to see if you can just lie back quietly and feel me, without moving, without responding. Just lie back and feel me.” I feel her relax, and run my hands over her skin, run my fingers along her legs and arms; her sides, a little ticklish; her back; her stomach. She tries to stay still, she does, but it’s hard for her not to move. Her back has a tendency to arch at will. It’s beautiful. I can hear her breathing deepen, grow heavier. Her skin is all honey and smooth, sweet and dimpled, freckled in places, contoured perfectly. I don’t know how many times I’ve been up against her begging for this to happen, don’t know how many times I’ve been at home alone wishing for this skin to be under my hands. I maneuver my body above hers, between her legs, softly; she opens quickly and her hips curl, knees bend. I hold myself up by my arms, not really touching her, watching her eyes, her skin as she flushes and struggles for control over her desire.
I kiss her, soft and deep, and let some of my weight fall on top of her. She has trouble keeping quiet. Whispers and sighs and moans.
I feather my fingers over her chest, trace her breasts, barely touch her nipples. “You’re so beautiful,” I whisper. It takes restraint not to press inside her, hard, not to fuck her
now
.
She whimpers a little. “This is hard,” she says. “I’m really trying not to just…open my legs so you can feel me.”