“Alright, babe. Call me tomorrow.”
“Yeah, she’s right, man. I better drag my old, tired ass home before the Ben-Gay wears off and my joints freeze,” Joe said with a smile. “See you in the a.m.”
With that both he and the redhead’s friend were gone. I was left in an awkward silence as the redhead fiddled with her cigarette pack. Just as I was about ready to settle my tab and make the video store before it closed, the redhead exhaled breathily, then sighed, “I guess that leaves just you and me.”
“I guess so,” I replied with all the panache of Wally Cleaver.
The redhead turned her head slightly to check out the band as they launched into a blistering version of “I Feel Good.” I don’t know if it was the music or my frustration breaking like a levee in a fortnight’s rain, but I impulsively asked the redhead if she would like to dance.
“Sure, honey, but first I have to go to the ladies’ room. I’ll be right back. Be a sweetie and refresh my bourbon.” She downed the rest of her drink and started off for the restrooms.
I watched her walk across the room. She was about five-two and her weight had settled a bit like a pear. When she was talking to Joe earlier, I had noticed her mouth above all else. Her face had a cutesy, little girl with freckles look, but her lips pouted and puckered in a way that suggested lewd and lascivious longing. I was driven to distraction just by watching her smoke a cigarette. But, now I was casing her body. Like I said, she resembled a pear, but her short skirt framed her big ass wonderfully. And her short-cropped red hair belied a stern determination masking a playful nature.
I ordered her next drink. I was thankful for my draw check. That was another perk of car sales. Since we were only paid on commission once a month, the dealership gave us weekly draw checks of several hundred dollars. Usually, the guys would cash them at lunch on Friday, and they would be gone by Sunday morning. I decided to see where this ride would take me, so I also ordered a couple of shooters.
When she returned, she saw the drinks on the bar. She turned to me and asked if they were for her. I told her that I was in the mood for a couple of buttery nipples, but she was welcome to one if she wanted to add to her collection. She glanced down at her chest and said, “Well, I guess you can never have too many.”
We both laughed. After we toasted our new friendship, she asked about that dance.
The band was in the middle of a kicking Earth, Wind & Fire song. We hit the floor. One of the greatest things my grandmother ever did for me was to teach me to dance. Not only could I handle funky dance numbers without revealing myself as terminally white, but I could pull off tangos, waltzes and flamencos. We started to tear it up a little bit. We danced the next several songs and had really begun to break a sweat. We had been spinning and turning in a type of swing groove. In the middle of one of our swings, the band abruptly stopped. The lights went down as they transitioned into a soulful version of Prince’s “Purple Rain.” Moira and I came together and started a slow grind. The feel of her breasts against my belly gave me an instant hard-on. I began to rub my hands up and down her sides. Slowly I kneaded her skin from her shoulders to her waist over and over again. Her breathing became more rhythmic, and she seemed to melt into my body.
As the song continued, I began to caress her shoulders and neck. She let her head roll backward and sighed. I continued caressing her neck and moved up to her cheeks until I was cradling her head in my hands. We looked at each other. It was one of those moments when a kiss seemed the next natural step. But, instead, I began to curl my hand into her hair and gently pull backward. She surrendered with another sigh. I returned to caressing her upper body until I pushed upward and pulled her arms above her head. She gave a look of uncertainty as I meshed my right hand into the fingers of her hands and held them above her head. With my other hand I pressed her lower back into my body and felt her begin to grind with more intensity. We continued this way throughout the song. I could tell that she was a bit uncomfortable being so publicly suggestive, but her eyes smoldered with an alluring combination of lust and alcohol.
After the song ended, we returned to the bar. She lit a cigarette. Those lips again drove me deep into my dreams. She finished her drink and ordered another. As she sipped on the next bourbon, she told me that the dance had left her dreamy, and she wanted to catch a buzz. When I didn’t take her hint, she asked if I wanted to go smoke some weed. I told her that I would love to, but I hadn’t had any pot in years. “Well, come on, sweetie, take me home and we’ll get high, high, high.”
We finished our drinks and settled with the barkeep. She complimented me on my car as we climbed into the coupe. With the push of a button I lowered the windows and the top. Moira sat drinking in the evening air before suddenly turning to face me. This moment would not pass. I leaned into her with my fingertips grazing her bare arms. Our lips met like melting wax with our tongues lightly exploring one another. The kissing continued until we were like teenagers at the drive-in. As I continued to snake my tongue in and out of her mouth, my fingers moved down her arm and began to circle toward her breast. Her breathing resumed the rhythmic pattern I first noticed on the dance floor. Only now there was a low, guttural moan escaping every once in a while. Finally, I remembered that we were in an open car in a crowded parking lot.
“How about some of that smoke now?” I asked, pulling back from our embrace.
“Sure, sweetie,” was all she said as she slumped back into the seat with a far off look in her eyes.
We arrived at her house in minutes. She had a little four-room bungalow that was decorated in yard sale chic punctuated by an eclectic assortment of objects from foreign lands. After asking her about some items, she told me that she owned a small travel agency which allowed her the luxury of taking many trips she could not otherwise afford. She made a great show of rolling a joint, including a fantastic simulation of head while wrapping the doobie. We began smoking. When I gave her the joint back, she took a deep puff, exhaling slowly. Then she turned the doobie around with the lit end in her mouth. She leaned over as if to kiss me and began blowing the smoke into my mouth. The feeling was electric.
In the afterglow of the weed, our drunkenness mellowed. We began to discuss far ranging subjects of politics, entertainment and travel. My answers to her fairly pointed questions, especially about politics, were apparently the right ones. She began to move closer on the sofa. She began complaining that the stresses of her work made making friends very hard. She felt that she was the only one who really cared if her clients were well-served, so she rode her employees hard. Being a taskmaster at work left her feeling that she had to be in control in all her relationships. She didn’t feel that she could just relax with anyone without controlling the situation.