to grin, said, “Hel-lo!”, then pressed the assault.
When we reached the tenth floor the elevator jerked. I think it was the elevator. I felt a wet dream in my shorts. How embarrassing.
She tugged me with urgency from the elevator and down the hall. She poked her key-card into its slot, pushed through the door, dragging me along.
I slipped away. She turned. There was an honest flush of lust on her face, a hunger that demanded feeding.
“Restroom?” I asked.
She smiled. “There’s one on the other side of the bar,” she pointed. Then grinned. “Or in the bedroom….”
I moved towards the bar. Inside I took care of business.
When I came out she was gone. I took a glass down from the bar, fidgeted through the fridge, found bottled water, took it, pressed the glass into the ice dispenser and enjoyed the cold clanking of the falling ice. I poured water, gulped it down, filled the glass again, took the bottle with me to the couch. On a coffee table were several tapes.
One of them was Tin’s Cup. I felt my stomach tighten. She hadn’t said Tin Cup. All the movies on the table were porno, takeoffs of mainstream movie titles.
“Slip one in,” Jerri said behind me.
I turned and watched her head to the bar. She mixed a Scotch and tonic.
She had changed into something more comfortable for her, but for some reason made me very uncomfortable. It was a black satin nightie that fastened between her legs. She didn’t look plump in it, but fat.
Her boobs seemed to have lost three sizes. She was no longer bossomly. Her hand strayed to the wall, and the lights dimmed.
“Or we could just listen to music, if you’d rather? I don’t really need a movie…if you know what I mean?” She smiled as she came at me. I felt like a man in a lifeboat sinking in shark-infested waters.
The radio came on, an alternative-Rock station.
Jerri sat down beside me, kissing me as she set her drink down on the table. I tasted alcohol for the first time in more years than I could remember.
Her kiss was devouring. She unbuttoned my shirt, kissed a path down to my belt and without so much as a pause had me unbuckled and my pants down in as fluid a motion as an Arnold Palmer golf-swing.
She took me in her mouth. Like a virgin I inhaled sharply.
Jerri looked up at me, her eyes dancing in a mockery of mischievousness. “I like the taste of it after a man’s pottied.”
Then she got back to work. And it was like work, going at it with one goal in mind, taking me up and down, longer ups and shorter downs, then accomplishing her mission.
She kissed her way back up to my face.
“You don’t mind kissing me, now, do you?”
I kissed her.
“Some men won’t ever do that…you know…after,” Jerri said. “But most…when I ask them to leave…most of them will kiss me then.”
We kissed. Then she began to slid up my chest, my face between her breasts. I pulled down her nightie to expose them. I took a nipple in my mouth and froze.
The goddamned thing was the size of a man’s thumb. It was like having a worm come to life, squirming its way down your throat in the last swallow from a bottle of tequila.
I went back to work, chewing. She moved up more, unsnapped the nightie for me and pulled it above her waist. I kept one hand on a breast, kneading, jerked the night over her head with my other hand.
She pressed herself into me. Wet as a washrag and twice as nasty. I continuously worked a breast with one hand while I snaked the other around behind her, my fingers trolling, teasing, finding her, thrusting as my tongue did its part.
When she reached her climax she became an animal in its death throes, convulsing and yelping. I clung with my mouth to her, my hands working. She collapsed onto the couch.
But I kept at it. She tugged at my hair, trying to dismount my head.
But I kept at it. Her hands began to push my head down and her hips arched. This time she squealed like a worn-out dog. I trailed my lips up her body, her neck, her chin, her lips. When I thrust my soaked tongue into her mouth I thrust my other part into her down there, and she squealed again.
I kept at it. For a long while, like that, then pulling her ankles to her ears. She didn’t like that, the loss of control before she peaked, and would struggle until the fateful moment, relaxing only for a moment afterwards.
I turned her on her side, then later on her belly. Then our knees were on the floor, her body draped across the couch, me behind her.
“Harder, harder,” Jerri yelped, but it was never hard enough.
“Spank me, spank me.” And I did, lost in the moment, becoming some kind of animal, like her.
I reminded myself it was just my job. Yeah, right.
When I reached my own peak for the second time I almost drove her head through the damned couch.
We were drenched in sweat. This wicked laugh escaped her and I felt awash in filth. I felt the warm kiss of evil wrap around us.
My skin crawled.
WOULDN’T YOU KNOW IT
When I heard the clapping, I was so drained, bent over Jerri, breathing heavy, I couldn’t even sit up and look to see who it was doing the clapping.
“What are we going to title this performance, dear?” His voice was like the snarl of a dragon.
I managed to sit up. My nakedness did not bother me. I’d once killed two men while brushing my teeth after a morning shower.
Man’s gotta do what he’s gotta do. I’m not bragging about the killing. I’m not every happy about it when it happens, even in the most judicial of circumstances.
But afterwards…afterwards I was always happy to be alive. It is our instinct, humankind, to survive. No matter the price. No matter the cost.
He was big as a Mac Truck. Naked himself except for a pair of black satin boxers that must have been the match for Jerri’s nightie.
“Oh boy,” I said. Sorry, but in that state, after sex, totally spent, staring at a man holding a gun, it is often hard for the brain to come up the best of biting quips.
It’s even hard to say the simplest of things, like, “I love you,” afterwards. At least for men.
Mac Truck said, “Not a bad title. Not great, but in a pinch….” He paused, as if in deep thought, the gun hanging nonchalantly down by his side. “How about,” he said, bringing up the pistol, “‘Your Money or My Wife, Again?’”
I think he was serious. Not just about wanting my money, but about the title. And about his wife.
Jerri moaned, squeezed me with her privates, said, “Ooo, I like that one!” She squirmed away from me and, I noticed with flush of pride, stumbled to her feet and over to Mac Truck. I watched her shaky legs. Gave me strength, that burst of pride. Macho macho man.
I stood up.
“Gerri, this is Klick.”
“Gerri and Jerri? Not any kin to the Rosses are you,” I asked, watching their puzzled faces. I’d worked a case years back (Klick the Dick) where a married couple practiced the most perverted kind of act imaginable during sex. Fatally perverted.
Jerri turned and moved away, behind Gerri. Hmm, this could get confusing. Jerri, the woman…. Never mind.
She was still rubber-legged when she returned, holding a video tape in her hand. She had black marker in the other hand. Her brown eyes glinted suddenly.