I have news for you, boys: there are horny women out there. There are women walking the streets and bookstore aisles, or riding trains, who are practically crying inside because they want it so bad. Either that, or I’m the only one. But I would put money on the fact that I am not the only one. Especially given what Jason has told me.
It’s because of Jason that I don’t have to prowl those aisles, those trains, anymore.
I first noticed him in Halfpenny’s, in the cookbook section. I was thumbing through a spiral-bound volume on Thai cookery when I caught him looking at me. Or maybe it was he who caught me. By that point, I was frustrated. It was a summer evening, cool and breezy, and though I wore a brief, swishy dress, and had arranged my hair suggestively, I had not had good luck. The only mild interest I’d gotten was from people I had no interest in. And while I was starting to think I’d hump an aardvark if I had to, I knew better.
I was biting my lip and trying to decide if I should give up and go home, the book open in my hands but my eyes unfocused, when Jason stepped out from behind a tall bookcase. My eyes flickered up and then back down to the book. He was tall, a little underfed, with blue eyes and light brown hair…and was he looking at me?
He was. I gave him a longer look, and a smile. He returned the smile in a knowing way. Thank goodness. The hook was baited. I put the book down on the table, and let my head fall back, some of my curls brushing my bare shoulders. I saw him gulp—hook swallowed. He came toward me and said, “Hi.”
“Hi,” I said, lowering my eyes with a shyness that wasn’t entirely unreal. I was accustomed to being the cute one, the desirable one—but Jason would have turned my head even if I hadn’t been having one of my horniest nights. Suddenly I wasn’t sure what to say to him.
He saved me by speaking first. “I’ve been following you for a while.”
“How long is a while?”
He blushed. “Since Alton Station.” He reached his hand toward mine, and brushed his fingertips against my arm. I had to stifle an audible intake of breath. “Would you like to go somewhere?” he asked.
I nodded. “My place, if that would be all right with you.”
There was that smile again. “Lead the way.” He orbited me with a crooked arm as I turned toward the door, but he did not touch me until we were sitting on a bench at the station. I was almost shivering by then, fantasizing about his arm around me, waiting for it to happen—and then he slid close, his blue-jeaned leg touching mine, and his arm slid across my shoulders. His breath was warm in my hair, against my ear, in the air-conditioned coolness of the station. If I had an engine, it would have revved.
I didn’t want to wait until we got home. It would be twenty minutes on the train, and then a five-minute walk, and I was so hot and ready that I was afraid I’d slip off the peak and lose my edge. The frustration and need of the long evening made my jaw stiffen, the ache in my belly only intensified by the proximity of our bodies.
His lips nibbled at my ear and tears almost sprang to my eyes. He smoothed my dress down over my legs. I wished I could just lie down on the concrete bench, put up my legs and let him root around to his heart’s content (and mine). Another pass with his hand.
I hadn’t felt so hungrily frustrated since junior high, when I used to sit backstage during drama club rehearsal, on Daniel Pera’s lap. We were too young for sex and knew it, I guess, because we never took any of our clothes off. But he used to trace every line or design on the fabric of my shirt with his fingertip, roaming feather light over my chest and up and down my neck. Sometimes he would trace the seams of my jeans. We’d sit like that for hours, while rehearsals were going on, in the darkness of the wings, until we were needed onstage. Sometimes I went on flushed and dizzy, unsure of where my feet were, unsure even of who I was, which character I was to play, or the words I was supposed to say. I went home every night dying to masturbate the minute I got to my room.
Now Jason’s fingertip began to trace the flowery vines on my dress. I shuddered a breath, in and out. I wanted to murmur sweet nothings in his ear, to give him a taste of the painful anticipation I was riding—but I could not speak. His finger slid along the center seam of my dress and came to rest at the crook of my hip. Then he turned my chin toward him, and before I could say anything, he smothered my unspoken words with a kiss.
His fingers were drumming now, like a piano arpeggio, closer and closer to where my clit throbbed under layers of clothing. Yes, I wore panties, even when out on the prowl. His gentle tapping intensified my longing. I didn’t dare open my eyes, afraid that people were staring at us. He kept his rhythm even, his touch light, as if there were no urgency in him at all. The urgency was all inside me, making my shoulders tighten under his arm, my breath grow shallow, my jaw clench.
And then came the train. He held my hand and pulled me into the car. There were only four or five people within earshot, none of whom paid us any attention. Jason pulled me down into a seat and right onto his lap.
That finger of his was busy again, this time underneath my dress, pushing aside my cotton panties, then nosing back and forth through my wetness. More liquid was forthcoming, and I licked my mouth as if to match it.
When his finger slid into me, I started to cry. You ninny, I was thinking, you’re going to ruin it, he’s going to freak and run away on you. But I couldn’t help it. His slow, gentle touch was going somewhere deep inside of me, somewhere I needed to be touched so much that the relief triggered tears. I clung to his neck and sobbed softly, my face hidden by drifts of my own hair, while his finger went in and out, soon joined by a second one. He could barely move his hand, jammed between my legs like that, but it was enough, just rocking. Then his thumb perked up and rubbed against my lubricated clit, and I sobbed harder.
“It’s okay,” he said into my ear. “I know.”
Feeling as I had during those confused moments of stumbling from the curtains in the wings, unsure where to stand or where to go, I now found myself being carried from the train. He had me in his arms and whispered in my ear and nibbled my neck, and the next thing I knew we were at my door and he was asking for my keys. He set me down on my feet and I opened the apartment door and we climbed the dark stairs.
At the time I didn’t think it odd that he knew where to go; I was too grateful to be there, mere steps from the bedroom, where we soon were, me kneeling on the bed, him standing while I unbuttoned his white cotton shirt, unbuttoned his jeans, and revealed him. His silky red erection came free and I sighed. I cupped his balls with my hand and let my lips fall around him. Ahh. Mmm.
He sensed that I didn’t want to waste time, and let me swallow him deep a few times before he pushed forward onto the bed, flattening me in the process. We shed the rest of our clothes and I pulled a condom out of the side table drawer. I kicked off my socks while he put it on. I wrapped my legs around his back and pulled him into me.
With every thrust I felt like sparks flew down to my toes and shot out the tips of my fingers. I thought again of junior high, of a trip to the beach—baking in the sun for an hour and then running headlong down the sand and plunging into the cool water. An intensely pleasurable shock. A shockingly intense pleasure. Jason gave me that again and again.