“A long time.” I opened my desk drawer pretending to look for anything.
“Fess up. How long?”
I tried to deflect. “You first. How long has it been since you had sex?”
“This is such an enriching meaningful work discussion that’s vital to completing Nick Shaw’s final report. Isn’t it? Oh, let me answer.” Vivie loved to pry, but she rarely gave up salacious information about herself. “No, it isn’t. But since you insist I go first, you should know that I had sex last Saturday.”
“Shocking, Vivie! Can’t believe you gave it up! And with whom did you share your coitus connection?”
“No, no. You’re next.” Vivie insisted. Although she didn’t tell much ever in the three years I’d known her, she did keep my personal business confidential.
“It’s been a minute.”
“What’s a minute?” Vivie cut across a field to the pending business at hand. “Hey, you’re gonna complete the schedule and footnote seven, right?”
“A year and yes.”
“A year?” Vivie closed her laptop and covered her mouth with her fingertips.
I know the bitch is laughing at me.
“Yea. Now tell me who got your cookie last Saturday.”
Vivie, a brilliant accounting manager with a promising future, was such a skank. She had an underground reputation amongst colleagues of being an easy get. She would never tell it, but those that got always did. Couldn’t believe I was getting the foul tidbits from the cow’s mouth.
“James... His name is James.”
“Oh? Where did you two meet?”
“We met at a club.”
Woo, she is a hoe.
“Met him at the club, huh? That was a one-night stand, or are you two serious?”
“Neither. Vivie has needs, my friend. Sad but glad to say, James is my little fuck toy. We met about two months ago, and we get it in two or three times a week. James isn’t hubby material, but he gives it to me real good. I get the benefits without the hell and hassles, you know.”
“You’re a naughty girl, Vivie.”
“You should get yourself a fuck toy, girl. That will keep you from missing out... on years of smashing. C’mon, let’s go for drinks now and see who we can find for you.”
“No, not me, Vivie. I don’t have it in me to give it up to just anybody from the club or off the damn street now.”
“Aw, c’mon. It’ll be fun.”
“Nuh uh. Plus, it’s Friday, and it’s too cold outside. I’m going home, light a fire, make some dinner, and enjoy a good book. My purse can wait,” I lied. But Vivie didn’t need to know about my masturbatory activities.
“Well, I tried. I’m meeting up with James later tonight. You enjoy your weekend, okay?”
“You too, Vivie.”
***
My ears perked up at the scraping, the dragging of a stool across my hardwood floors toward my kitchen isle. The piercing pitch was sure to leave a gutter in the maple finish that no amount of scrubbing or waxing would cover. Took me six months to strip and re-finish that loft floor. My head dropped, chin meeting chest as the vile screeching came to an abrupt stop. That was a relief short-lived, because the incessant shuffling of hard bottom shoes against bare floors began. There was a thump of a body landing on a stool and then calm.
Stillness matched his silence as he made himself at-home. A loden green and black tweed coat draped over a mystery: his body, his flesh buried. Just beneath the coat, layers of street, last year’s worries, and yesterday’s breakfast were discernible. Not sure how many pairs of pants, underwear, and socks he sported, but he was looking, well, padded – hefty and thick. Thick folds of cold-worn, filth-laden skin made his brown eyes look navy blue. The blue-brown glare cut my soul at its core; probably the sole soul affected amongst hundreds.
Hundreds maybe even thousands of people walked over this man laying on the sidewalk everyday, including me. I’d failed to take the time - to make the time to recognize that the lump I walked over was a human being who deserved decency, cordiality, and respect. I’d failed.
Head down, I watched my crimson painted toenails, bright gold toe ring, and shimmery anklet decorate my sandals. Head down, I watched my toe cleavage pressing from my pumps provide a peek-a-boo that looked like the divide between two breasts heaving from some fancy brassiere or ass crack hanging out of some low-riding jeans. Head down, I watched my ugly, but sensible snow boots make an edgy design in the freshly covered sidewalk. Head down, I sent and viewed hundreds of texts and raised my head up, for a brief moment only, to navigate the walkover.
I cared more about the nuances and reflections of my well-dressed, sophisticated gait than I cared about a lump, a human settled on concrete. Seasons came; seasons went, and I walked over him everyday speechless, uncaring, and cold.
But there was something about the bitter cold that day, something about the ashen sidewalk and cutting winds that made me look at him. On the way home from work, something made me speak to him, a familiar stranger: the recognizable landmark, a lump of a human being whom I did not know. Something made me offer him food, warmth, and a bath, not necessarily in that order.
Surprisingly, it seemed as if he’d forgiven my past transgressions. Maybe he’d never noticed my walkovers, because he quietly followed me home.
“I have decaf going. Thinking a nice tomato bisque and a golden grilled cheese would be good right now. What do you think? Or would you prefer hot cocoa?”
Navy blue-browns stared at me with lips sealed shut. Didn’t receive a head nod or wave off from him for my troubles. I was the recipient of a morbid silence.
“I believe I have some turkey, tomato, bacon, and avocado that I could add to your sandwich,” I added, as I twisted my waist length hair in a tidy knot on top of my head. I opened the refrigerator searching to confirm my proposal. “Are you a purist, or would you like something a little extra?”
Without even looking up from my fiddling in the fridge, I knew that he wasn’t going to respond. Out the frosty window, daylight savings time had already dictated the darkness to set in. And my hasty offer was entirely too far-gone to rescind. He was in my loft, in my space. I had to commit and see this crazed altruistic attempt through.
Really, what (in the name of everything that is right and decent) was I doing inviting in some homeless stranger? The aroma of doom, besides his funk, wafted in the air. I pondered calling my mother or Vivie fearing that I was about to die.
Then it started. As if he were reading my mind, he began striking matches repeatedly. I heard a rip, a strike, an igniting, and then a breath. Hot breath extinguished the orange flickers; wisps of slate smoke followed. He struck a match, another, and then another, throwing the remnants wherever. That was the pattern.
A damn pyromaniac, is that who I’d invited into my house? Is this what I get for extending kindness? Really, did I deserve to have my home torched now?
Rightfully so, righteous indignation settled, because I was not about to allow this stranger to burn me out of my own home. I eyed the fire extinguisher and calculated how much time it would take me to pull the pin, squeeze the trigger, and sweep the hose across the impending flames. Fast forward to the mess this would make: the foam, the smoke, and the homeless man covered in double yuck. I could smell the hot garbage truck juice stink as I fought back a gag.
I took a sniff. Magically, a new aromatic helped my fight. The strong odor of sulfur dioxide seemed to push down the current funk and my freshly imagined diffuser from Bed, Bath, and Beyond: Hot Garbage by Aromatherapy. Then it dawned on me. This man was aware of his raging odor, and he was lighting matches to cover it. He thought the sulfur would alleviate his stench.
Empathetic, I picked up every one of his discarded matches, rinsed them, and threw them away. I snatched the matchbook out of his hand, walked over to the fireplace, and lit three wicks in the center of a large white tea and linen candle to help him out some. I sat the weighty chunk of wax on the counter between us and looked him square in the eye: light brown to blue-brown.
“We’ve put a bandage over this thing; we provided a temporal takeover. The root must abdicate the throne. You need a bath, a shower, and then another bath, you know,” I explained with the intention of receiving verbal confirmation; however, a tap, a nod, or a thumb up would have been sufficient.
Although the question was clearly not rhetorical, the derelict, whose name I would later find out was Adam, remained mute.
Without breaking my gaze, I folded my arms across my boobs, tilted my head to the side, pursed my lips, and shifted my weight to one leg. We had a stare off. He lost.
Adam lost his way, his will to remain expressionless. The cross-stitch in the top of his pilled olive knit cap became visible and then invisible, as his blue-brown eyes scanned my Coke bottle figure. Mesmerized by the roundness of my breasts and protruding nipples, Adam’s eyes rested there long enough to cause his dimples to come out of hiding. His ungroomed mustache and beard veiled his smile. His eerie quietude and reticence masked his intentions.
Silence still? Okay, maybe he doesn’t speak English.
Resolved, I bolted down the hall for the linen closet. From the three rows of perfectly folded and immaculately placed bath items, I gathered two washcloths, a towel, a new toothbrush, toothpaste, and a fresh bar of soap. I returned to the kitchen, opened a drawer, snatched a trash bag, and laid it on top of my gift for Adam. A quick jerk of my head beckoned him to follow. He stood and followed me into the guest bathroom.
“Here you go. You can put your clothes in this trash bag. I have some double XL men’s sweats here that should fit you just fine.”
***
In the beginning, I thought it would last forever.
He pushed the double XL sweat pants to his ankles and tugged on the waistband of his shorts. He took his time unfolding the hardness pressed up against his torso. Flickering moments of candlelight revealed his slightly rounded belly, obviously the result of one too many beers and twenty or so too many Buffalo wings. Nevertheless, the plumpness did not deter his movements, his intentions. In one quick movement, he spit into his hand and began stroking. His eyes, the glare never broke contact with my soul, not for one second.
I did not want to; I really didn’t. But I did anyway.
The décor in the entire loft was monochromatic, all white: alabaster sofas, ivory area rugs, powder bathroom sinks and tubs, and two snow covered bedrooms. White on white layers shielded me from him. A flat sheet, pearl knit blanket, and a snow goose down comforter concealed my nakedness.
Naked and covered, I peeked over the comforter to watch him rub his full length; each stroke ended in a guttural grunt. I shuffled about loosening the tucked sheets from between the mattress and box spring, finally grasping my left breast, my left nipple. I eased the dark date into my mouth. I suckled and practiced nursing the loneliness that would soon follow what we were about to do. The first drops of honey rolled down my cavern, and my vulva ached so that I wondered if I’d started my cycle.
Reluctant, I had to investigate. My cocoa mons was swollen twice its normal size. A single landing strip of hairs lay flat and damp. Midway down my crease felt sticky and ready. I shuddered as I swiped and dipped into my opening with my fingertip. I took a close look at my drippings; they were clear. Instinctively, my finger went into my mouth to relish the sugariness.
And he was standing there, pants around his ankles, staring at my naughtiness. He let go of his strength just long enough to free one leg from its obstacle, and then he made his way toward me, underneath the fluffy cloud. Without a word spoken, he snatched the comforter, blanket, and sheet off me and threw it onto the floor. With one hand, he went back to pulling himself, and with the other, he pried my finger from my mouth and placed my hand on my yoni; he had other plans for my mouth.
When I pressed the palm of my hand into my swelling, my sighing and panting answered his copious grunts. But, the freedom to express my responses was soon restricted and muffled. He began forcing two of his thick pasty white fingers into my mouth. As best I could, I tongued and coated them to ease the thrust-down. His calluses sanded my face as he slid deeper into my throat. My gagging and struggling caused his motions to catch fire, and I knew he was close. Furiously, I pushed and pulled my wrist bone over my mons to share the climax. Bone on bone, I dug into my vulva, rocking my hips determined to match his pace and strokes.
Choking, sequences of rolling, squeezing, and throbbing erupted within my woman parts. Back arched, I stomped into my mattress – squealing and moaning in sync with my glory waves. My uncontrollable movements forced him to remove his fingers from my gullet. He jerked a blur, spasmed, and baptized my belly with ropes of warm leche. Perfumed white tea and linen offered an escape from the pungent aroma of mutual masturbation. The familiar prompted the next move.
Shaking from the intensity of my rubdown, I turned over onto elbows and knees (feet dangling off the edge of the bed); I offered up my bum. But my belly seemed to be his object of interest.
He gathered and scraped his jism from my underside and spread it over my behind. Moist jerks preceded his low rumbling moans as he licked every drop of himself from my freshly glazed ass. His finger grazed my anal opening. I looked at him and commenced to beg.
“Please. Please, give it to me. Please, give it to me in my vee,” I pleaded while my cat throbbed with empty anticipation.
“Have I ever?”
“No. That’s why I’m asking, begging. Please, let me feel you inside my kitten.”
“And you would beg me? You would beg to be fucked in your cat, woman?”
“Yes, I’m begging you now. I’m on my knees begging you.”
“What did I tell you?”
“You told me that you don’t like begging.”
“Precisely. So, I’m sorry, but I won’t be able to fulfill your request at this time, Carmelita,” he stated with no remorse, gave me the finger, and then slid it into his mouth.
I strained my neck to look at him in his eyes, “You won’t ever fulfill my request, will you?”
He removed his thick middle finger from his mouth with a suck, smacked my rear, and then pressed his finger into my ass, “No.
