Penthouse (11 page)

“Like this?”

I’m swallowing her fingers. How many? She’s pushing into me.

“Like this?” She pushes hard, deep jabs, the way I like.

I nod. I think,
Exactly like this.
Still, I give her my favorite line. “Don’t be too gentle.”

I lie back on the chaise. She’s totally fucking me with her fingers. Relentless. I squeeze against her touch and look up.
The tops of the trees are moving—there must be a breeze. She keeps at it, and I start to get that inevitable feeling. I close
my eyes. It’s just me, and I am just this pulsing, gripping center and a tiny corner of my brain that is pure gratitude. Then
it happens. She keeps going and it happens again.
I love you,
that corner of my brain wants to say.

I’m afraid to open my eyes. I just lie there, like some cartoon oaf who shoots his wad and rolls over to sleep. Finally Valerie’s
hand is on my shoulder. “Hey,” she says. “Ellie. What’s up?”

“Kevin.”

She takes her hand away. “Think he’d mind?”

“How should I know? You’re his girlfriend.” Again, that tone. “How long have you guys been together, anyway?”

“Since Christmas. Scoot over.” She lies down beside me. We’re face to face, everything else to everything else.

“How’d you meet?”

“Discussion section.”

“You liked him right away?”

“I thought he was cute.”

“He is cute.” A flash of sibling pride, or loyalty, or guilt. “He’s damned cute.”

She strokes my side. The suit is still bunched around my waist. She pets me like a cat. Leans forward, licks my
lips. Slowly, for a long time, like she’s never heard of kissing. Then her tongue’s inside and everything’s starting up again.

I want her. I pop her tits out of the bikini top, easy enough. The bright fabric frames them. Her nipples are dark, the way
I knew they’d be. They’re in my mouth.

She pushes her bikini bottom off so hard it rolls into a coil. She flings it onto the grass. “Touch me.”

I do, but only for a second before I kneel on the grass and go down there with my head, with my mouth. I’m about to move in
when it occurs to me—Kevin’s been here. Kevin comes here. Kevin’s a regular at this particular spot.

“Are you on the pill?”

“No. Why? You gonna impregnate me?”

“What do you use? A diaphragm?”

“Condoms,” she says. “Rubbers.”

He doesn’t come in her. Maybe once or twice, but I can pretend it’s pure there. I don’t have to contemplate traces of my brother’s
semen on my mouth. “When was the last time you fucked him?”

“This morning. He couldn’t believe how horny I was. He was like, ‘What’s gotten into you?’”

“What’d you say?”

“I want your sister, but in the meantime I’ll settle for you.”

I smile and dig my nails into her ass.

“Liar.”

“Ellie?”

“What?”

“Lick me.”

“I think there’s a word missing from that sentence.”

“Lick me now.”

When I taste her, desire hits me so hard I feel it in my
gut. Having her doesn’t make me want her any less. I’m all hunger, all mouth. Her moans, even, sound far away.

How long have her fingers been in my hair? She’s twisting, pulling, thrashing. Until her legs go rigid. Then she shudders.
I stay where I am until she pulls me up toward her. My knees ache when I stand.

For a long time, we lie quietly, eat chunks of warm cantaloupe with our hands. My hair’s almost dry. She combs it with her
fingers. Once in a while, she kisses me.

“What time does he get home from work?”

“Around six.”

“I’ll leave at five.”

“But—” She stops mid-sentence. Shows me big, sad eyes, big white teeth. Her hair’s in a ponytail, stray pieces falling into
her face. “Are you sure?”

I just look at her. Then I smile. “Think of it this way. We’ve got—” Her watch is facing away from me and I can’t reach it
without letting go of her. “We’ve got all afternoon.”

BY
L
INDA
H
OOPER

I
had one of the peak weird experiences of my life last week. Some friends and I went out to the Palomar for dinner. It’s a
Mexican restaurant and bar that tries to be fancier than it is—they added blue corn tortillas long ago—and it was full of
straight cruising folk: yuppies and chamber-of-commerce types. So naturally everyone got kinda quiet when we walked in, and
heads turned to look at us—the usual. So at one point during dinner, I got up to go to the bathroom.

I was in there just washing my hands when this woman came out of the stall and said, “I just gotta ask you—can I touch your
hair?”

She was probably a Republican wife; she had the Republican hair, the red suit, the fluffy bow tie even, the perfume, the makeup,
the perfectly polished not-too-long fingernails. I thought,
This is an adventure,
so I said yes. She started rubbing my head.

“Your hair is really purple, isn’t it? What do your parents
think? Do your parents know?” All the while she was rubbing her hand over and over the top of my head.

My hair had grown out a little then, so it was about a quarter inch on the sides and a good inch and a half on top. But she
was pressing herself up against me. It was really wild. While she was rubbing my hair and asking me all these questions, she
was putting her other hand on my shoulder, and even brushing my breasts. Then she was holding my waist and pulling herself
against me, and her face was really, really close to mine; she was watching her hand flick back and forth through my hair.

This all happened very fast, of course. Then her friend came out of her stall, and I heard her shriek, “Carmen, what are you
doing?” and then laugh hysterically. But then the friend came over and asked, “Can I touch your hair?”

Thinking,
This is really bizarre,
I said yes. And then they were both petting me at the same time, touching me in fairly intimate places—for strangers—like
my waist, and squeezing my hand. They were touching each other, too, through their stiff Republican dress-up suits, putting
their arms around each other, reaching around to brush each other’s breasts from the side, and laughing into each other’s
face while they brushed my hair back and forth. Of course, I was laughing too, even though this was not my usual bathroom
visit. And they were saying, “Can you imagine dyeing your hair like this?”

“Yes, I could, but Michael would shit,” as if making Michael shit were something very fun.

“Forget your husband, what would your hairdresser think?”

“He’d never have me again.” And they laughed hysterically again, like they’d made a double entendre never heard before.

Now, since they had brought up sex—their Republican fashion, anyway—I decided to push it, so I said, “Carmen, I really like
your perfume. Can I smell it?” Before she answered, I put my face in her neck and started nuzzling her. My hair was touching
her face (which I know felt good), and her friend was watching (and I knew it looked good), so I started kissing her and touching
her breasts lightly through her Republican suit.

“You really, really smell good,” I said, though, I must admit, I didn’t really like the perfume that much. But since the smell
was part of the whole scene, which I did like, very much, I guess I wasn’t exactly lying.

I heard her friend laughing hysterically again. “Carmen, I think she likes you,” she said in a sort of taunting way, but not
threatening to me. Maybe they were lovers?

“And I like her, too,” Carmen said decisively, and she pushed me back against the wall, just missing the towel dispenser,
and kissed me hard on my mouth, shocking me with the chemical taste of her lipstick—which I love. I opened my mouth, and she
put her tongue in. I grabbed her closer, pushing my hands in the small of her back so her cunt pulled into me, and I kissed
her back.

“Oh, I gotta see this,” the friend was saying somewhere close to my ear, and when I took one of my hands away from Carmen’s
ass to feel her breasts, well, imagine my surprise to find the friend’s hand already up there, and Carmen’s suit being unbuttoned.

Carmen and I kept kissing like teenagers, and since her tits were occupied, I decided to pull her skirt up, and I found this
very small pair of panties surrounded by a garter belt that held up her stockings—and I found a very, very wet Republican
pussy. In went my finger; she stopped kissing me.

“What are you doing?”

“You must know what I’m doing, because your pussy told me to do it.”

“Oh my god, Carmen, what is she doing?” But the friend knew what I was doing, because she reached around, and her hand followed
mine into Carmen’s skirt. I think she stayed there awhile, doing something to Carmen’s ass, but Carmen and I started kissing
again. She moaned and fucked my mouth with her tongue as my finger went in and out of her.

I think around that point someone opened the door to the bathroom, but they left. I don’t remember anyone actually coming
in and flushing or anything, but I was busy— I could be wrong.

Carmen was fully, fully involved. Her friend lifted up her hair and was sucking on her neck and such, pulling down her clothes
and licking her shoulders, anything she could get her tongue on. Carmen had her hands up my T-shirt by that time, and her
friend followed her hands up there too, so they each had a nipple and a breast.

It’s unusual to come while standing up. I know, I’ve tried it with many girls. It happens all the time in erotica, but that’s
why they call it fiction. Carmen started getting up to it, I could tell, and I wondered if she was going to be able to come
like that. Her body was ready and wanted to, that’s for sure. I could feel her clit getting very hard, and it was reaching
for my finger. Carmen’s body did that fast dance, and then the slow one that brings the orgasm, the boom, boom, boom. She
pressed her clit into, and then away from, my finger each time, and then she did come.

Oh, oh, oh—like that, sobbing against me, and then she squirted, too, into the palm of my hand. I really liked that, but I
didn’t tell her. I thought it might bother her if
she knew I noticed. Her friend loved Carmen’s orgasm, and covered her with kisses, although they didn’t kiss each other. Carmen
kissed me at the end, but left me with a little less tongue with each passing second.

She was weak in the legs. I held her up, but then they started laughing again, and her friend and I helped Carmen get her
clothes back together. “Are you going to tell them what took so long?” I asked her, giving her a final peck on the cheek.

“Do you think I should?” she asked her friend, not at all serious.

“Depends on how much you love your husband…or your husband’s money!” And they laughed hysterically again, their red, red mouths
wide open, like cheerleaders, and very close to each other.

Carmen needed to fix her lipstick. I tucked my shirt back in and told them both I probably needed to get back to my friends.

“You’re really a great kid,” Carmen said. “And I love your hair.”

“Thanks,” I said. I met the pair’s eyes. “That was real fun.”

“Oh, anytime,” Carmen said, and they both laughed together again, giddily. I left them still laughing in the bathroom and
went out to the dining room. I sat down with my friends and stuck my finger out into the center of the table.

“Guess what took me so long?”

BY
R
ENEE
L. O
TT

I
can hear the distant sounds of talking and laughter as I slowly walk toward the room. For a brief moment my courage fails
me. My palms feel sweaty and my stomach flutters. Should I stay or should I go? Taking a deep breath, I walk in.

Looking around, I count at least seven tables. There he is, but where is she? She’s got to be here, she’s just got to. I really
need her support, even though she has no knowledge of this yet. Finally, I spot the blond head I know and love so well. I
make my way toward her, stopping to hug and “hi, how are ya?” with different friends.

A quick hug and smile for my best friend stills the questions in her eyes. Her hand caresses my arm and moves to rest gently
on my hip. The mere touch of her fingers sends the butterflies in my stomach spinning toward my crotch. A short glance at
her face mirrors the passion. Before she can open her mouth to ask, I slide into a vacant chair a few seats away.

The one thing I truly love about twelve-step groups is
the consistency. No matter where I go, or which program I’m in, they are basically the same. They start the same, talk about
the same twelve steps, and end the same.

The familiar droning voices could be heard reading from each table. Mine was no different. Sighing quietly to myself, I fade
out, lost in my own thoughts. Of her. Remembering the first time we were together.

We were going somewhere, a dance maybe. I was running late, as usual. She was running even later, as usual. As she was getting
into the tub, I was stripping off my clothes, too hot in what I was wearing. I rummaged through her closet for something cooler.

I heard her calling, so I stuck my head out of the closet to yell, “I can’t hear you!”

“Come check my heart out—I might get lucky tonight and I want it to be perfect,” she said, again. I caught my breath as I
walked into the bathroom. A perfectly heart-shaped bush thrust itself just above the water. I sat on the edge of the tub and
leaned over to touch it. “It is beautiful,” I whispered. I heard her sharp intake of breath as my fingers worked their way
through her soft hair and into her wet pussy.

My eyes followed my fingers as they traveled across her stomach, over her hard nipples, and to her mouth. Her teeth caught
my fingers. She sucked and licked them just as she has sucked and licked most of the cocks in her life. I raised my eyes to
hers. Her eyes, usually blue, were a gorgeous deep shade of violet. I’ve learned over the years that her eyes change to that
shade only when she’s overly tired or incredibly turned on. No wonder they say that eyes are a reflection of the soul.