One Night Stand
The door flung open. The two lovers staggered through still locked in their embrace, lips suctioned together. The woman shut the door with a free arm. She did not bother to turn on the lights. They would not be needed now. Her lover pulled at her waist. He trod backwards until his back was to the wall. She slipped off his jacket and tugged at the buttons of his shirt. He tore away his tie. Now naked to the waist, he thought he should start on her clothes. He peeled away her blouse and dove for the gentle slope of her shoulder, almost biting it. His fingers fumbled for the clasp of her brassiere. The clasp being at the front was quickly undone and he moved from her shoulder to her breast. She gasped as though a jolt of white hot heat had surged through her body. He fell to his knees and started to remove her skirt. He kissed her navel and slid his lips over her abdomen, to her breastbone and then to her neck. She tugged at his belt, letting his trousers and undershorts fall to the floor. He lifted her up and ambled his way to her bed. They fell with an unbelievable gravity, still locked in an embrace. She flipped over him, kissing the inches toward his navel and groin. He moaned, deep and hollow, like an echo in an abandoned wood. Her hands gripped his strong wrists. He offered her no resistance, only biting and kissing as each spasm of desire would warrant.
What was his name? It did not matter. After this night, she would never see him again. He was a doctor (a man her friends advised her to marry). He said something about being from Croatia, or somewhere like that. She hoped for a man who had a mastery of a tongue. His voice had the most velvety, deep, euphonic quality she found sexy. And sexy! If she were to look up sexy in the dictionary, she would see his beautiful face. Dark hair, hazel eyes that caught the colour of everything around him, tall, olive skin, the most gorgeous ass on the face of the earth. She would have something to tell her friends when she went back to work on Monday.
He wanted to call out her name but could not remember it. He was normally good with names. He was just afraid he would call out his wife's name (he wished he could always do that). Perhaps her name wasn't important. He didn't think he would see her again. He just needed a quick fix, an anonymous fuck. She was a secretary for an investment firm. She was not a regular at the bar, only a Friday or two in the month. That was unimportant. What was important was that she was beautiful (not the way his wife had been). Her hair was a beautiful chestnut colour(he completely ignored her blond friend), like her eyes. She was slender, built in all the right places. He decided after his doses of vodka that her blouse was stifling and she shouldn't have worn that skirt. Did she ask him or he ask her: do you want to come back to my place? Maybe they both did at the same time, laughing at their tipsiness. It didn't matter. He would never see her again.
Their bodies were entwined, each part connected to another. Her lips, his chest. His hand, her leg. Only the sounds of love making were made. Nothing else.
Any good lover would know his name, the brand of vodka he drank, the brand of cigarettes he smoked, what his favourite foods were, or that his favourite colour was dark blue. A good lover would know where he liked to be kissed and to avoid the scars he received in the dark, bad days of the occupation. Any good lover would suck on his toes, lick maple syrup out of the recesses of his navel, eat fruit salad off of his chest, let him rest his head on her bosom. Any good lover would know how hard he worked of day. Any good lover would know he wanted to begin again- a wife, children, a home, security.
Any good lover would know she craved the security of a sensible man who listened to her and cared about what she thought. He would never press her after a hard day's work. He would never forget her birthday and always knew her favourite movie was The English Patient (he would be a romantic, too). He would hold her during cold nights. He would hold her during any night. He would know where she was ticklish and what curves needed the most caressing. He would know where to plant his lips and when. He would know what a tongue is used for.
None of this mattered. When it was all over, he rose, dressed and, touching her sleeping head only once, left her apartment. He would never see her again.
The door flung open. The two lovers staggered through still locked in their embrace, lips suctioned together. The woman shut the door with a free arm. She did not bother to turn on the lights. They would not be needed now. Her lover pulled at her waist. He trod backwards until his back was to the wall. She slipped off his jacket and tugged at the buttons of his shirt. He tore away his tie. Now naked to the waist, he thought he should start on her clothes. He peeled away her blouse and dove for the gentle slope of her shoulder, almost biting it. His fingers fumbled for the clasp of her brassiere. The clasp being at the front was quickly undone and he moved from her shoulder to her breast. She gasped as though a jolt of white hot heat had surged through her body. He fell to his knees and started to remove her skirt. He kissed her navel and slid his lips over her abdomen, to her breastbone and then to her neck. She tugged at his belt, letting his trousers and undershorts fall to the floor. He lifted her up and ambled his way to her bed. They fell with an unbelievable gravity, still locked in an embrace. She flipped over him, kissing the inches toward his navel and groin. He moaned, deep and hollow, like an echo in an abandoned wood. Her hands gripped his strong wrists. He offered her no resistance, only biting and kissing as each spasm of desire would warrant.
What was his name? It did not matter. After this night, she would never see him again. He was a doctor (a man her friends advised her to marry). He said something about being from Croatia, or somewhere like that. She hoped for a man who had a mastery of a tongue. His voice had the most velvety, deep, euphonic quality she found sexy. And sexy! If she were to look up sexy in the dictionary, she would see his beautiful face. Dark hair, hazel eyes that caught the colour of everything around him, tall, olive skin, the most gorgeous ass on the face of the earth. She would have something to tell her friends when she went back to work on Monday.
He wanted to call out her name but could not remember it. He was normally good with names. He was just afraid he would call out his wife's name (he wished he could always do that). Perhaps her name wasn't important. He didn't think he would see her again. He just needed a quick fix, an anonymous fuck. She was a secretary for an investment firm. She was not a regular at the bar, only a Friday or two in the month. That was unimportant. What was important was that she was beautiful (not the way his wife had been). Her hair was a beautiful chestnut colour(he completely ignored her blond friend), like her eyes. She was slender, built in all the right places. He decided after his doses of vodka that her blouse was stifling and she shouldn't have worn that skirt. Did she ask him or he ask her: do you want to come back to my place? Maybe they both did at the same time, laughing at their tipsiness. It didn't matter. He would never see her again.
Their bodies were entwined, each part connected to another. Her lips, his chest. His hand, her leg. Only the sounds of love making were made. Nothing else.
Any good lover would know his name, the brand of vodka he drank, the brand of cigarettes he smoked, what his favourite foods were, or that his favourite colour was dark blue. A good lover would know where he liked to be kissed and to avoid the scars he received in the dark, bad days of the occupation. Any good lover would suck on his toes, lick maple syrup out of the recesses of his navel, eat fruit salad off of his chest, let him rest his head on her bosom. Any good lover would know how hard he worked of day. Any good lover would know he wanted to begin again- a wife, children, a home, security.
Any good lover would know she craved the security of a sensible man who listened to her and cared about what she thought. He would never press her after a hard day's work. He would never forget her birthday and always knew her favourite movie was The English Patient (he would be a romantic, too). He would hold her during cold nights. He would hold her during any night. He would know where she was ticklish and what curves needed the most caressing. He would know where to plant his lips and when. He would know what a tongue is used for.
None of this mattered. When it was all over, he rose, dressed and, touching her sleeping head only once, left her apartment. He would never see her again.