Love Is Red

For my family;

MY MOTHER WHO PROOFREAD,

MY SISTER WHO CHALLENGED,
and

MY FATHER WHO IS STILL PATIENTLY WAITING TO READ A COPY.

I love you all.

There is no word or action but has its echo in eternity.

—
PYTHAGORAS,
AS QUOTED IN
Pythagoron:
The Religious,
Moral and
Ethical Teachings of
Pythagoras
,
EDITED BY
HOBART HUSON

—
EDNA
ST. VINCENT
MILLAY,
“GOD'S WORLD”

You pick her up in a bar. She's not the type who would usually let herself be picked up but that's not a problem for you. She's a beautiful woman but she's lonely. The men she's chosen haven't been kind. They've lied to her and made her feel less than she should. And time is ticking on; she's beautiful but she's not getting any younger. She was sitting at the bar when you got there. She had a book. You've seen that move before. A book, to show that she's cool enough to go to a bar with a book, a book and not some girlfriends, a book and not a man. The book is
The World According to Garp
by John Irving. You appreciate that; it shows she has a certain sense of style, sense of humor. You don't approach her immediately. That would be silly. She clearly has her guard up, the way she's nursing that drink, determinedly reading. Still, the outfit she has on says:
I might be reading but that doesn't mean I'm all mind and no body.

You admire the display, the long shapely legs with their sheen of black panty hose. There's just enough displayed to give you a sense of the thighs, creamy and smooth under the panty hose. But it's just a hint, a suggestion more than anything. Again, you appreciate it. This woman's no slut. She's got class, maybe even a master's degree. She wears the almost regulation pencil skirt,
an innocuous good-quality white blouse. She's drinking a vodka tonic by the looks of it.

The pale glass, the slip of lime, and the beautiful lonely woman pretending to read her book. It makes a pretty picture and you admire it for a moment before you move in. Nothing as crass as “hello,” though; you've seen a few others try that approach, even calling her “the librarian.” Amateurs.

Instead, you wait till they've left and she's really alone. She's stayed on that page for far too long. Then you send over an eighteen-year-old Macallan, a real drink, a serious drink. It's a drink that you know will take her by surprise with its quality and class. You send it over and you wait. She is annoyed at first and suspicious, although it's highly unlikely that any frat boy or middle-class middle management guy would send over that amber-colored beverage.

Then she sees you.

You're not what she expected. You're attractive, serious. You stare at her just long enough to make her uncomfortable and then you tip her a tiny smile, a mere curl of your lip. That's it. Make it clear there are no strings for this expensive drink. She should drink it and be happy and forget about you. But now she can't; now that she knows that she can walk away, she doesn't. So it is she who indicates that you can sit by her, she who initiates conversation, she who is now worried. She's worried you might have a girlfriend, a wife, might be bored, might leave. And you aren't too encouraging, just enough. You give her just enough space to feel safe. You speak quietly. You are witty. You never touch her, not even to emphasize the good point you just made. She leans in to hear you make another dry, amusing observation. She wants you to touch her.

You don't.

Instead you buy another round and then another one. Nothing garish about the gesture, of course. You just nod your head to the bartender. This shows that although you have class, have style, have money, have power, you never show off. You're well educated, smart, powerful, and ambitious but you're not an asshole.

Now the alcohol is entering her bloodstream.

She grows a little looser. Her hair, the small silken pieces by her ears, begins to rebel and grow soft and loose too. The book is pushed away, forgotten. Elbows on the table, leaning in, laughing, touching you lightly on the arm. When she does this she feels how firm your arm is. You work out. She is sizing you up when she thinks you're not looking. She's wondering where this could go.

Already in her mind she's telling her girlfriends how she met you. In her mind she tries out the phrase “in a bar” and melds it to “about to go, looked up, saw each other, talked the whole night through.”

Then the bartender announces last call. You say, “Well?” You smile. You shrug.

Suddenly it seems that all her dreams are about to be blown away. You pause just long enough for her tipsy heart to sink like a stone and then you ask her where she wants to go next. This is the question that opens all the doors. This is the question that's really the “yes.”

But maybe she's not quite ready yet to admit where she'd really like to go with you. You, with your strong arms, your wry smile, your warmth, the laughter lines around your eyes, the easy
way you listen, your clean expensive clothes, which fit well. She doesn't want to be seen to be easy. She's not one of
those
women. She's educated with a job. She's doing okay. She's a lovely woman. She just needs to be courted, a little more anyway. She's keeping a firm hold on herself even if she's a little unsteady. You remind her to take her book. She blushes. She's charming.

You go on to a little bar you know, filled with candlelight that throws quirky small shadows on the wall. You order for both of you. She loves the Pisco Sour you choose for her. You knew she would. She drinks it too quickly. She thinks you're drunk too because you're so warm, because you seem to know her so well.

The small red booth you chose forces you to sit across from each other. She studies your lean attractive face. She marvels at her luck. She wishes you'd touch her. She suddenly wants you very, very much. If you don't touch her she'll die.

Lust is the color of honey dribbled from a spoon; it smells like other people's popcorn at the movies. It tugs like a wave on the underside of your toes, it clinks like a bracelet on the glass of a display counter, it sounds like two people laughing at a private joke, it feels like slippery linen against your cheek, a wall pressed against your back.

You lean over and kiss her passionately. Your lips are strong and warm and soft. You crush her mouth, your tongue and her tongue. Your mouth is warm and tastes faintly of mint. And you kiss her and you kiss her and you kiss her. It's a wonderful kiss. It's a magnificent kiss. It's a kiss so perfect that it leaves her weak and speechless. She doesn't have any bones left in her body. She's amazed that she's still sitting up. You say that you want to get out of there. She nods. She does too. She wants you, wants you so badly that she doesn't care anymore what you, or anyone, or
even she herself thinks of her. She wants to be in bed with you. She wants you to kiss her and that whole kiss to envelop her, as if she could live forever in that kiss. Wants you in her and above her and consuming her.

This time you take the book yourself. You don't want her to forget it again.

You go to her place. She still knows what's safe, still wants to be on home territory. It's pleasant but impersonal, Matisse-like prints on the off-white walls. The apartment of a woman who works long hours, the apartment of a woman who's a professional, the apartment of a woman who doesn't want to assemble furniture all on her own. You had offered yours, but completely accept her choice. She imagines your home to be very beautiful and filled with masculine and elegant things. In time she's sure she'll see for herself. She tells you to help yourself to wine; you do. You pour her another glass too. She is on her long soft couch, longing and longing to be in bed with you. You haven't touched her again yet, though. She keeps thinking of that kiss and all the other kisses to come and the things that will follow. You talk as you pour the drinks. You are funny but not inappropriate. You are never inappropriate, never tasteless. You sit beside her with the wine. She's very drunk now. Still, you urge her to take a further sip. You admire her perfect throat as she swallows. Then she closes her eyes. You slip off her shoes, and she smiles faintly as you massage her feet. You are wonderful. It feels amazing. She moans a little because you are good at what you do and you work quickly. She keeps her eyes closed and that is good because it adds to her experience. She can feel your hands, different sensations and textures and touches. She would think about it but she cannot think. Her head is too hot. Her clothes are too tight.
Tight. You run your hands down her motionless arms and massage them, then her hands. This too feels incredible; her eyes are still closed, trying to take in each experience competing for her senses, soft and firm and stroking. Each finger light and tapering, her wrists, their clever elegant bones. You admire each and every digit while you work, while you prepare her. She sighs and you tell her not to open her eyes yet.

Then you are next to her with your arm around her neck. You pull her in closer.

Closer still.

You lean in, and farther in, and you whisper a little secret into her creamy and curved and vulnerable ear. Exposed like a soft little mouse.

Her eyes widen.

You continue whispering and she tries to sit up. She tries to sit up, to look you in the face. She tries to sit up, to see if you are serious.

But you are very strong.

You have put something in her drink.

And now she will find that you have bound her hands with rope. Thin and nylon, the kind that folds easily into your pocket, the kind of rope that will not fray or break.

You slip your strong hand from the base of her neck to her soft warm mouth. She tries to bite you but you remember that trick well. You put some of your fingers into her mouth, holding her jaw apart so her bites feel like nothing more than a puppy teething. You like the wet dark of her mouth, your fingers in the wet dark, and you give her tongue a little pull. Just a little pull, because puppy must know when not to bite, puppy must learn. She whimpers. Maybe it hurts. But it hurts in a good way. You like that. You know that her adrenaline is fighting against the
alcohol and the drugs. The adrenaline is no match for you. With your other hand you move down her body. Because she has other parts that you like. So many parts. Slowly you unbutton each button on her blouse. She is trying to wriggle free but she is still unsure. You are incredibly delicate, despite the wiggling. More so, perhaps, because you like a challenge.

You don't want to ruin her shirt. Her breasts, in her bra, are exposed. You run a delicate hand over them. Her nipples tighten despite, or because of, her fear. You bend your face down and suck through the material. She moans again. She's terrified that you're going to bite her nipples, bite them hard. She thinks this because of the secret that you told her.

How can anyone truly appreciate life who has not destroyed it?

She thinks she knows what kind of man you are. But she's in for a surprise. She has no idea. No one does. So you are content to suck and lick her round, creamy breasts. Till her nipples are hard and hot in spite of herself. Still struggling, but she's wearing herself out.

Which is foolish.

You, who bring death, know how fleeting life is. You know because you take it, you break it, you inhale it, blood and breath and bone.

Your one hand is still in her hot, wet pink mouth, expertly holding her tongue, and your other hand is down her pencil skirt, down, down and slow. A firm deliberate stroke and then suddenly up between her legs. Now she tries again to wriggle free and maybe for the first time feels a sudden constriction because you have also bound her legs together. You are feeling up her legs, the slick sheen of the tights against the softness at the crotch.
More layers to go through. What to do now? You like it. It's nice to have choices. Puppy moans and writhes a bit.

“Be good, puppy,” you tell her. “Be good.”

While you think you make circles against her stockinged crotch with your thumb, wide and then smaller, then stroking back and forth against the tight fabric. She tries to close her legs tight. Silly puppy. This only makes you excited to play. You will have to teach her. Casually you tear a hole through her stockings. A perfect hole.

“Bad puppy,” you whisper. “Look what you made me do.” You like the way she smells now. Sweaty. A rank snarl of animal fear cutting through her floral perfume. She is wearing pale blue panties despite the lace bra. Not her best underwear. She didn't dream she would actually be getting naked tonight. She didn't plan on meeting you. You are rubbing and rubbing her through her underwear while she is still trying to move away. Her eyes so wide and full of tears. You like the wet. You lick the tears away with your tongue and the salt makes you hard. Very, very hard. You are having so much fun. It's fun to play, after such a long time-out. She's smelling the way you like her to smell. You want to eat the way she smells now. You can smell women like a pig smells truffles. Snuffle, snuffle for the truffle. The wet begins to show. Now you ease down the pale blue panties.

“Is my little puppy wet?”

You want to know.

You place one knuckle on her pink nub and gently rub. Rub-a-dub-dub on the nub. You will make her as hard as you. You give it a tiny pull. She moans. Through your hand, your fingers on her tongue. You are tireless. You are strong.

“You like that?” you ask. Yes. Yes, she must like it. You are sure she does. They always do. Thumb rubbing and circling, your fingers
climbing down. The eensy weensy spider. And then they go in. Slowly, slowly up, up into the tight, wet, slick dark. So tight and wet in spite of herself. Two fingers up in dark pink pinkness. From somewhere far away you hear puppy whimpering louder and louder.

“Shut up,” you say. “Be a good puppy.”

Now you have two hands in her. One in her mouth and one in her cunt. You could spin her like a top. Spin and spin and spin. Maybe you will. But she is squirming and moaning too much. You give her shoulders a little shake. Shake 'n bake.

“Play nice,” you say.

You don't say, however, that you will play nice. You will not play nice.

She's your first drink after the drought, your first bite after the famine. Hers are the first streaks, the first leaks of bold and brilliant color. You intend to savor every drop.

In the Beginning you did not hunt; you merely sought out and destroyed.