Aries

“They won’t hire anyone with Aries in their chart,” my friend says about a job she just interviewed for. “The first question they asked me was my sun, moon, and rising signs. They said Aries can’t be trusted.”

“What the fuck!” I reply. “I’m Aries rising, Virgo sun, Libra Moon.”

“Well, you can’t work for them.”

“Virgo stabilizes Aries. Someone on Quora called it scorched earth.”

--

It was winter. A year before COVID. 

“Where are you?” he texts.

“8th Avenue,” I answer. 

“I’m across the street.”

He was standing in the rain. We’d never met. Preppy (Burberry?) neutral colored coat, stiff. He holds the umbrella over both of us as we walk to the subway. In the wine shop he picks out a bottle of red. He’s polite.

At his apartment, in front of his bed. I’m on my knees and there is a mirror behind me, so he can watch. I feel discomfort and the hardness of the wooden floor beneath me. He stands over me in boxers while I take his half erect cock in my mouth. The tip grows along the length of my tongue. He brushes the back of my hair with his fingers. I let his cock drop out of my mouth and onto my breasts so he can fuck my tits. He thrusts, tall above me, shoots his cum onto my chest. 

I lay back on a couch in front of the television and tell him to finger me. He leans down over me to tease my nipples with his tongue. He does what I say easily. With his mouth on my nipple and fingers on my clit, my thighs shake and I orgasm. When I leave he hugs me goodbye.

“Text me when you get home so I know you’re safe,” he says. 

Crossing the Williamsburg bridge in the back of the car on the way home, I think I can’t believe I just came in that man’s apartment. I think about relationships, about the past year. I think about disappointment. 

“Sorry, I can’t do casual….”

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