It’s very, very late. I guess somewhere around 5 o’clock in the morning. The traffic begins to sound like waves on charred coal. Great show of zeal in everything. The neon lamp was shining directly into my eyes and I can’t bend my head backwards without closing them, like in those bad movies when cumming boys act like slaves when stigmatized with a red-hot iron, in slave movies.
I don’t like keeping my eyes close when my dick is being sucked. I like to stare at the ceiling and wonder whether I left the washing machine plugged in, whether my mom really wanted to say the things she said, whether Trump will really become president, whether oral sex really looks better than it feels or the present chick doesn’t have a clue on what she’s doing. This kind of stuff.
But now I can’t keep my eyes open. Some ambulances pass on a nearby street, the babe next to my dick begins to moan, I can’t figure out why, and the ambulance in which we find ourselves gets a key in the door just like we get a fist in our stomachs. Fucking shit!
It’s Tuesday evening and I sleep. The door of my room opens and I get a “hist, hist” and a pair of jeans lands on my head. “Wake up, sweetie, you said we’ll go”. “We’ll go, we’ll go”, I manage to mumble and I take a sip of coffee, with my eyes closed. My best friend is already dressed and walks through the apartment with some toilet paper in her hand. Presumably she crushed yet another bug or, hum, presumably the bug.
I have 60 bucks with me and I wonder whether yesterday I was wearing the same boxers. Raluca speaks on and on about somebody unknown. I have to catch up fast with the story, otherwise I’ll start asking questions, and asking questions is not ok. Some bikers pass by us. I’m not very sure if one of them was holding his cock in his hand. “How uncool”, I say, and Raluca cries out “Isn’t it soooooo?”. Works every time.
I have the entrance bracelet on my wrist and I pee for the third time. I fasten my gaze on the boxers surrounding my cock and I can’t remember whether I wore them yesterday or not. Or not. Or not. I’m on my third gin and tonic and all I want is some coffee and some sex. Or at least witness some sex. Or at least have a girl coming to me and say: “Hey, what are you doing? Would you like to put your cock against my shoulder blades?”. Or something like that, but if these babes exists I don’t live in the same dimension with them. Radio porn movies.
I get out of the bathroom. Bah. Something very important must have happened somewhere, very close to here, because suddenly nothing was chaotic anymore and nothing was wacky, nor show of zeal. In front of me, one after another a million words, bursts of laughter, exclamations, all coming from the mouth of this girl with the worst French accent in the worst English on this side of the planet, and everything was all right and the gin was not making me vomit bit by bit in my mouth and the music didn’t seem so bad anymore and not even the boxers didn’t matter that much. Claire.
I go straight to her and, in the most colloquial French, ask her whether she had a light. Something glimmers in her eyes. Good Lord. She was looking at me from one hundred freckles, her tongue was an Austrian salad, her face was an expensive watch, her red hair was downright wacky, she was not in the least bit beautiful in her gray baggy jumper, but the skin of her slim, smacking of anorexia, legs had that fluorescent and somehow magic glow which everything has when you have a crush on somebody in another language after the third gin and tonic.
“You speak French”, she noticed. “What gave me away?”, I ask with the nonchalance displayed by TV chefs while chopping spring onions at six rotations per second. The girl laughs. Ok, I got this. If I won’t shoot a divvy remark in the next three exchanges and then I will disappear for exactly as long as it takes for her to wonder whether I’m off for good, who am I, whether or not I told her my name, what do I do for a living and whether I’m Rh positive or negative (?!), and then I’ll come back with two drinks, I could leave as a different man from the one who came here. Weighing the possibility of wearing the same pair of boxers tomorrow.
“Sorry”, I tell her, “maybe it’s not the right thing. I show up here and throw your mother’s language in your face, like nothing had happened, while, bien sûr, I’m wrong. You left France for a reason, I don’t want to bring back bad memories”. She laughs again. “No, I’m not wanted for murder or anything like that. I’m on holiday”. Break. Teeth. “At least until the investigation is over”. We both laugh. She holds out a lighter. I grab it. Our fingers touch. Something in my boxers turns away and get back in a common dream. “We’re lucky”, I tell her.
“I can tell you a few things about this city, you can help me practice the language”. “Where did you learn to speak it like that?”, she asks. “I have lived in France for a short while”. Break. Teeth. “Here I was wanted for murder or something like that”. I put the lighter down and I vanish. I look at my watch. Three minutes. Six, maybe.
Two hours later I sit fully cocked on a foot walk and I leave bruisers on Claire’s breasts. Claire. Hmm. She moans and giggles like a school girl, not that I know of, and every now and again she sniffs. I bite her neck and she gasps a little. Then I pull her closer between my legs and I can almost smell her cunt.
I feel her fingers on my jeans, first slowly, as if searching for the light switch in a new house, then hastily and with a show of zeal, as though browsing a shitty Braille magazine to page forty, the one with the gossip. I put my hand on the belt and she is taking her breasts out. Then I unbutton one button and I leave my hand to slip by her shorties only to meet other fingers there. We both open our eyes.
“This is stupid”, she says. “We can’t do this here”. “Of course not”, I say and grasp between my teeth a nipple, round and hard like a nutshell. “Not here”, she says as she sticks her fingers in my mouth. A familiar taste dissolves on my tongue. “Not here, or I’ll be prosecuted for murder”. She lets her fingers to read once more the headlines on my cock and she leaves.
We are in an ambulance parking place. She looks around, pulls out some keys and tries two of them in the door of an ambulance, the number plate of which she read carefully. “What are you doing?”, I ask her. “I have these keys from a guy with whom I had a fling last year.”
“ He was working here and we used to bang in this ambulance ”
It’s his business. When he slapped me for the first time I took his keys, his money and I went home”. We are inside now.
She puts aside some stainless steel recipients and, with trained moves, she pulls down the bed. The stretcher. Whatever that thing is. “It’s still abandoned”, she says, as I upchuck some gin and tonic into my mouth. She opens my belt. “And…”, she unbuttons one button. “Isn’t he going to come in, your ex paramedic, thug and cocksucker… ”. I can feel the outside air on the head of my cock. “Hells no, he was a janitor. Probably they kicked him out, he never had a job for more than two months”. I feel the air of her nostrils on the head of my cock. “Don’t worry”, she says to me, and I feel lots of French words meeting their end next to my cock, hard as a brand new, hardcover yellow pages book, anniversary edition.
I’m drunk and it’s hard for me to tell when and how much air she needs, so I limit myself to count the suds gathered on her mouth. One, two, three, four, time for a break. Another one, two, three, four, break.
I lean my head backwards and the neon lamp burns my eyes. I raise my head to look at her. She plays a rather recurrent scene. Looks me in the eyes and sticks all her tongue out, waggishly rubs her teeth on my cock. I appreciate the effort, but I would recommend her to not give up the day job.
So, I grab tightly the hair at the back of her hair and bend her mouth down to my balls. I feel the air trying stubbornly to get out from the neck I invaded. Then I lift her up for air and bend her briefly again, then again, more and more rhythmically, I guide her head upwards and downwards, and every time I push my cock deeper in her face. Another two, three, four, break. Her fingers harden in my hips. She starts coughing. This turns me on so badly that I feel my balls getting harder, gathering together and, while I feel my cock throbbing more and more arrhythmically into her red cheeks, I try to find a peremptory ethical justification for cumming in a girl’s mouth during the first date without offering anything instead.
As her back began jolting, needing air, my right hand clenches the hair at the back of her head and I start to fuck this unknown mouth with the nonchalance displayed by TV chefs while chopping spring onions at six rotations per second. Nor me, nor the gin and tonic manage to find an ethical solution to unannounced artifices, so I stop, even if my dick is the size of Canada. Someday I will have to give up this whole ethical thing.
She coughs two, three times. I look at her. Half of her fingers are in her pussy. She wipes her mouth, spits on the floor and takes again my cock, smiling. She probably thinks I’m tired. I will let her suck my cock with a show and zero nervous terminations touched. Yay. But wait a sec. A key goes into the door. While her eyes open wide and throw appalled lasers in my eyes directly from the wrong head of the cock, in my mind unfolds an one and only question:
“How the fuck you say ‛fucking shit’ in French?”
To be continued and stuff like that.