A night in Brooklyn

It was late January in Brooklyn. I had agreed to go and meet with this girl at her apartment after I got out of work. Work for me went late and the trains out to her place were complicated. At one point she sent me a text saying if I didn’t want to come I should just tell her. She didn’t stay up too late.

But I got there eventually and she welcomed me in and within minutes we were lying on her couch, making out. She stopped kissing at one point and asked me if I had protection. I said yes, although I wasn’t sure. We went back to our make-out session and I fumbled with the straps of her bra (those double strapped kinds are tough, ladies).

Let’s flash forward about twenty minutes. Silence. My ears are blocked out and hear nothing. Is this because I’m asleep? No, it’s because her naked legs are clasped over my head, shoving whatever part of her pussy has not been in my mouth in the past five minutes, in to the range of my tongue. Except for the bottom part, which my two fingers are working on.

They get slicker and slicker with wetness as they dip progressively further in to her pussy. I lick harder, faster. Her feet bounce off my back as if she’s trying to get some exercise while getting eaten out. May as well multitask I suppose. I open my eyes to trimmed but tangly pubes tickling my nose, flicking in and out my vision.

Her legs unclamp. I hear: aaaaahhhh uuuuuhhhh ooooohhhh fuck. Aaaaahhhhoooo uuuhhhhh shit. Mmmmmmm aaaaahhhh ooooohhhh baby. Uuuuhhhhh uhhhhh God. This is her vocabulary for our entire session, and she’s the one doing all the talking. I’m doing the listening. Just like a good man, right? The creases of her thighs tighten and untighten as she squirms her legs around.

Her hand grabs the nape of my neck as if determined to keep me down there forever. Then her legs spasmodically close over my head again. And release. And close. And release. The effect is some orgasmic techno song: aaaahhhh uuuuhhhhhh—wham. Beat. MMMmmmmmm aaaaahhhh wham. Beat. FUCK. OH GOD. Wham. Beat. BABY. Wham. You get the picture.

You also get it that I’m thinking now, with my fingers drenched and her vagina starting to contract around my tongue that I could finish the job. Or since I’m tired of doing this, and want to tease her a little, I could stop. I do stop. I get up and announce that I’m putting on a condom. Her expressive bliss stops and she sort of hums pleasantly and lies there. But of course, I can’t find a condom in my pocket. Because I didn’t bring one. So here’s what I do.

I run out of her apartment, take the elevator down. Her wetness coats the edges of my mouth and I’m waiting for it to dry the whole way. I run across the garden, across the street and in to the first convenience store I see. I don’t have any cash on me. Fuck. It’s one of those ATMs that charges a four dollar fee or whatever. I take out some cash, buy a pack of Trojans, feel superior to the guy at the counter because I’m getting laid that night and he isn’t. I race back in to her apartment.

And I fuck her. Next thing I recall is her head bobbing back and forth on the pillow, closer and closer to its edge each time, her arms around my back, one hand clutching my hair. She tilts her head over the pillow and moans: AAAAHHHHHH OOOOHHHH FUCK. DADDY. MMMMM AAAHHH. And tightens her grip on me I level myself above her a little and tell her to take her shirt off.

She does and cups her breasts, falling out of her black bra which I finally did unhook. I come heavily and careen my face down on the pillow.

Perhaps these are my best memories as I sit waiting for the train late, late at night after leaving. Legs clasped around my head. Her breasts cupped in her hands, her bra hanging loose on both sides. The wetness undulating on my fingers and tongue. The sweet, blissful silence.