Someone slides into the booth across from me.
'Hey,' he says.
'Hey.'
I look up.
He's got hairy forearms, not like an ape's, but nice; the type you could run your fingers through. The sleeves of his blue work shirt are rolled up to mid- biceps, and those are fairly large. So he must work with his arms, his hands; I like that. His shirt is open a little, and I can see the chest hair, dark with one or two strands of silver. Not a kid. That's okay too. They're usually too anxious; they tend to pop before I get filled. Then I've gotta have two or three of them to make it worth my while.
His face is slightly scarred, maybe from acne when he was a teenager. It's a pleasant face, though it won't win any awards. His hairline is receding slightly. I put him in his mid to late thirties.
He smiles. His teeth are white, fairly even. At least it's not all fake enamel, I realize.
I put my leg out under the table and massage his calf with my bare foot.
I see him jerk slightly. He wasn't prepared for that. It amuses me that they never are, no matter how strong they come on to me.
'Want another beer?'
'Sure.' I have barely touched the one in front of me, have barely nibbled the sandwich on the paper plate. It's not what I want to eat.
He waves to the bartender, who nods and within a few minutes comes by with our new drinks. He takes away my half-filled glass and uneaten sandwich.
'What's your name?' I ask after a moment.
'Barry. You?'
'Eleanor.'
'Nice name.'
A prim name, I think, for someone who definitely isn't. 'Thanks.'
Now, I didn't claim that I was some kind of brilliant conversationalist. Oscar Wilde I'm not, I know that. On the other hand, that's not the reason I came to the bar, remember.
I find out within minutes that Barry works on a road crew and is hoping to get promoted to the office. He is close to having a bachelor's degree and wants to go someplace other than the outside with unbearable heat in the summer and unbearable cold in the winter. I always like ambition in my bed partner.
I tell him I work in Accounts Payable at a grocery wholesale warehouse.
'Not precisely exciting, but it pays some of the bills,' I remark.
He laughs, just as if I'd said something witty. Barry's not here for my conversation, either.
We polish off another beer. Talk about the weather, which is hotter than usual and more than a little humid. The long hot summers of the Northeast. Sweltering. Simmering. Moist.
I'm very humid as I sit across from him. My other shoe is off now and both feet are rubbing his legs. I breathe faster. His hand has crept up under cover of the table, and he's brushed his fingertips against the inside of my lower thigh. I almost wet myself.
'Kind of warm in here,' he says.
I nod, hardly trusting myself to speak.
'Want to go someplace?'
Never thought he'd ask. 'Sure.' I smile and lean forward, and he looks down my front at the shadow between my breasts.
I get up, pay for the drinks — I always make it a point of doing that, even though it's generally the guy who makes the first move — and he follows me out side.
We find a somewhat seedy-looking motel on the outskirts of town. I've been there before. The desk clerk, a pale, nervous-looking boy of nineteen or twenty, knows me; we've done it a few times as well; he hasn't been quite the same since. I rent a room — my usual, a small corner facing the back — and Barry and I go in. I kick the door closed. As many times as I've been here, I still don't think I could say what color the walls are.
Barry's arms snake around me almost instantly. I am pressed solidly against him and I can feel his hardness. I want his hardness. I want to eat him alive. Figuratively speaking, of course.
While I kiss him, forcing my tongue into his mouth, I start to unbutton his shirt, unzip his pants. He tumbles out of his jeans, and boy, is he ever ready. I pull my clothes off quickly; lots of practice — maximum effect with minimum effort; I don't wear underwear any longer. His lips are burning, delicious, sucking at mine, and he fondles and pinches my full breasts. The nipples are erect.
When I cup him in my hand, he throbs. I squeeze, and he moans.
We fall back on the queen-sized bed, and fuck like frenzied ferrets.
It's very good with Barry. Very, very good. Not the best, perhaps, but closer than the last few times. I savor every last mouthful of him.
When I leave the motel room, Barry is asleep.
He'll sleep for a long time now.
A long time.
And I bet he'll want that transfer to the office even sooner than before.
I wave to the clerk, give him a thumbs-up signal. He appears a little paler than before, and I know his palms are sweating. As I drive, I whistle; and I return to the thrilling world of lost cases of Vienna sausages, shipping and handling, and freight charges.
Even as I'm sitting down behind my desk and sorting through the papers in the wire basket, I can feel that hunger consuming me all over. And I know I've got to do it again. Soon.
I wasn't always like this.
Like everyone else, I started out a virgin. Only, from an early age I realized something was wrong.. that I was a little different from my girlfriends. Certainly they were interested in boys just about the same time I was, but I realized my fascination was a bit more serious than theirs.
They just wanted to date and hold hands; I wanted to fuck.
I managed to hang on until I was fourteen; then I just had to do it.
I had to have it.
It was either that or explode. Better to relieve the pressure first, I thought. I didn't know what would happen if I didn't, and I suspected it wouldn't be good for me. No sir.
Now, we run into a problem with the language here. A guy would boast that he had his first pussy. I can't say that; I mean I'm not a guy, and that's not what I got. I guess, then, I had my first cock.
I liked cock a lot.
I did it with another kid — my next-door neighbor's son; he was fifteen — on a Monday, then the next day, and the day after that. I devoured him. It was incredibly fun — after all, it was uncharted territory for us. The ultimate adventure, I thought. Finally on the fourth day he burst into tears and begged me to leave him alone or he'd tell his parents.
I was surprised. I thought he enjoyed the sex just as much as I did. He'd made just as much noise as I had, thrashed around like he was having a good time. I guessed I was wrong. I guessed he'd just chewed off more than he could swallow.
After that, he took the long way around to school so that he wouldn't have to pass our house, and whenever he was outside and I came out of the house, he'd go back inside. I laughed. What a wimp. But I shrugged. Didn't bother me. There were more cocks out there.
I waited, biding my time.
The next occasion, only two weeks later, was with the guy delivering my parents' dry cleaning. He came in with these suits and dresses all in their plastic wraps. My parents weren't home, so I said I would take them. I took him by the hand — he was about ten years older than me, with a ragged haircut and green eyes — closed the door, and pushed him down onto the pink and beige plaid couch. My mother never suspected. This time made me think of that old well-thumbed paperback I found in my mother's lingerie drawer.
