sorry. I keep getting nervous and saying dumb things. My eyes are gray. They change color with what I’m wearing so sometimes they look blue or green.”
“Tell me what your breasts look like. Please.”
I sat in my chair, my legs spread. “They’re not very big. Although I’m dark-haired my skin is pale and the nipples are pink. I don’t tan easily. My breasts are very sensitive. My nipples get erect easily. I like to have them caressed. Kissed.”
I listened to him breathe.
“May I touch you?” he asked.
“Yes. Where?”
“I’m closing my hands over your breasts, squeezing them. Your nipples push against my palms. They’re very hard.”
“I love that. May I unzip you now?” I was pretty sure he was unzipped, stroking himself, pants spread open, my unknown man in his dark cabin. Did he gaze at his cock and hand, or were his eyes closed? Did he smile or grimace?
“Later. Let me give you pleasure. Stroke my way down your body. Ah, here’s your navel, that sweet little crease. Take off your bra … good. I’m holding your breasts, squeezing them, feeling their weight. I want to lick them.”
I licked my fingers and pinched my nipple. “I can feel it in my clit.” Oh, God, I’m so crude. Heat spread over my face.
“I think your clitoris needs some attention, don’t you? Are you wet yet? Take off those pretty panties, darling. I’m kissing the inside of your thighs, where the skin is so soft and silky. I can smell you. Yes, you’re wet. Soaking. Dripping for me. You’re swollen with desire. Your clitoris is as hard as your nipples.”
My skin glimmered in the light, my pubic hair a dark mystery, my hand delving, playing.
“Taste yourself.” His voice was hoarse against the artful spin of Bach.
I slipped my fingers inside myself, then into my mouth and tasted my arousal, my salty musk. I imagined his hand pumping, the flex of his forearm as he jerked off.
“I wish I could put my fingers into your mouth. Feel you suck them, lick between them. And I’d like to lick you. Your lips, your chest, your cock, all over. I want to make you come.”
“I want you to come, too. I want to hear the sounds you make. Down between your legs, darling. Play with yourself. I’ll play with your nipples. A little pinch, some fingernail—is that what you like?”
My toes gripped the edge of the console.
“Come for me,” he whispered. “Come for yourself. Do it now.”
I came so hard it almost hurt, ratcheting me upward. I abandoned the attention to my breast and clutched at the arm of the chair, terrified that I would fall, alarmed by the intensity of the orgasm, yet not wanting it to end. I subsided, sobbing for breath.
“Lovely.” His voice was a whisper. Had he come?
“Did you …” I hoped he hadn’t. I wanted to share the moment with him.
“No. I’m sorry.”
“Let me help you.” Maybe he was still shy.
“Your pleasure isn’t enough?”
I could see him, a sprawled dark figure, face hidden, his stroke slowed to accommodate my needs, fingers curled loose around his cock. Sliding. Wetness, a very little, gathered and dribbled over his fingers.
“So.” He cleared his throat. “What happens next?”
3
AT THE END OF AN AIR SHIFT, IT’S CUSTOMARY to tidy up for the next person on air.
After I signed off for the night—the station is dark between two and five in the morning—I made sure there were no embarrassing damp pieces of underwear lying around.
I reshelved compact discs and pulled the first few for my morning announcer.
I took the last transmitter reading of the night.
I set the satellite for the morning news feed. I knew Gwen, our local host, would do it anyway, but it was what I always did as a courtesy to her.
I checked my email for the last time, and found two new messages. One from Julie, a serious, earnest music major, saying she could do Friday night, but wanted to be home by midnight. Good enough. I could come in for a couple of hours.
The other was from the leprechaun, as Hugh had called him—he looked ordinary enough to me, no dumb hat or buckled shoes. I had a vague impression of a shortish, slender man with wild coppery hair, steel-rimmed eyeglasses and a strange patch of beard on his chin. I remembered the amusement in his voice and the lilt of his brogue.
I’m still interested in the apartment if it’s available. Please let me know when I may view it.
What a gentleman. No mention of Christmas or underwear or your future landlady having her ass screwed off on the sofa.
Lights off, bike gear on, alarm turned on and I was out into the cold night, a splendor of stars above me.
Could Mr. D. see those stars from his cabin or was it buried deep in trees? I was sure he lived in a cabin, high up in the mountains, although most of us in town had hardwood floors and woodstoves.
I pushed off, cycling hard up the hill, forcing myself. I wasn’t afraid of cycling in the dark—at any time of night in this environmentally conscious town there were cyclists on the road. As I rode, I thought about renting the apartment, the mice in the basement … domestic trivialities.
Anything to stop me thinking about what Mr. D. had proposed.
After I’d emailed Patrick, telling him to come—an unfortunate word choice I changed to stop by—anytime after three the next day, I couldn’t sleep. I wandered around the house, now too empty without Hugh. I couldn’t put it off any longer. Had I made the right decision regarding Mr. D.? It had to be, since there was no going back.
To my surprise, the man who had proved so elusive for many months now wanted to meet me. One orgasm—mine, if he had told me the truth, and I wasn’t quite sure he had done so—and he had a complete change of mind?
And I was embarrassed and angry. I had touched myself and talked dirty and moaned, broken my phone-sex cherry, I guess. I had shared this most intimate of pursuits with someone who hadn’t reciprocated. I had performed without knowing it. Now I was not in a mood to be cajoled.
“But of course we should meet.”
“No,” I’d said.
“I’ve never been more intimate with a woman. Not even when I was married—”
“You don’t know me. I’m a fantasy for you. You’re a fantasy for me. It should stay that way.”
“Don’t push me away, Jo. I understand that you’re feeling wounded by what Hugh did, but—”
“How do you know I didn’t make Hugh up?” I was angry now. “And this isn’t about Hugh. It’s about you and me. Think about it, Mr. D. I don’t even know your name. You haven’t exactly been open with me, have you?”
“My name? You want to know my name? It’s—”
“Stop!” I was panting as though I’d ridden a bicycle uphill. “Don’t tell me.”
“Jo, what do you really want?” His voice was gentle, sad.
I don’t know. You. Maybe.
And then I thought of the men I’d loved, the men who claimed to love me back, the mistakes and infidelities, the withdrawal into indifference. I remembered pushing Hugh away in bed because I felt smothered; I remembered too how I’d reached out for him, when I was overcome with loneliness and regret, and his impatient grunt as he shook off my