Achilles Heel
Achilles Heel is a dark corner bar a few blocks from my apartment. You can barely see in the windows. Inside the lighting is flattering, merely votives flickering from each table. They serve interesting cocktails that run strong, and small plates that feel decadent. A $36 plate of serrano ham? I think I will. It’s the perfect place for me to entertain men who are not my partner. Some insist on affairs in a different zip code, but I’m a little lazy, and I’d rather keep things convenient and accessible. Who has time for a commute to an affair?
The thought occurred to me late last night as I walked home from a rare night out, buttery white wine warming my insides, the air finally warm, starting to get wet. Summer in the city is so wet, it’s impossible not to swim in sex. Thunderstorms, humidity thick on your skin, sweat glistening, panties glistening. Every light in a window is an invitation, the lamps moody and cozy, I imagine lilting conversation, a cigarette lazily placed in an ashtray to burn out on its own. I imagine the lives that exist within each brownstone, lamps like lanterns, beacons. I walked by a bar with its windows thrown open to the night, low lit, and saw a couple with heads bent toward each other in interest. Interest that felt new, electrifying. And I wanted it. But that bar was too wide open. That’s a “fuck you” bar, anyone could see us. It should be Achilles Heel, I thought. Appropriately named for my weakness.
I’ve been partnered happily for five years, after what seemed like an eternal hell of dating, but I’d begun to miss the foreign apartments and new neighborhoods of one night stands. I’d begun to search for the woman who’d slip into bed with a near stranger, and slip out transformed. I wanted to hear new stories, even find flaws in undiscovered people’s logic.
I used to cheat all the time—I cheated on many of my exes, I confess. I didn’t have the vocabulary or bravery then to name what I really wanted. I do now, but my partner doesn’t want to know about it. I’m allowed in a silent way: he acknowledges my thirst but won’t sit at the table with me while I drink. And so I’m devising a scheme to stay within the bounds he’s set. No sex. No kissing on the mouth. Just…flirtation. Touch on the body that’s not…penetrative.
I arrive home and let the AC hit my sweaty skin. I itch at the building bump on my thigh, a mosquito bite, and think of how sometimes my horniness feels like an itch that doesn’t yield. That is scratched, slapped, rubbed raw, and persists. Sometimes my cunt swells and throbs like it’s been bitten by something, and there’s only one remedy.
~~~
I’ve arranged to go to a play party. I believe this would be an ideal place for a relationship that creates no strings, no demands. One that can exist in dark bars and follow an oddly specific set of rules.
Getting ready, I’m nervous. The way I always am before a social event. A vague nausea that shadows me like my dog. Following me everywhere. From room to room. Waiting as I come out of the shower. But this time is different. This time there’s hope. It’s the hope that’s making me sick. Because within hope lies change, discovery, finding out I really can’t live without it, even though I’ve tried.
I shave my legs in the way I only do if I think they will be touched. I become intimately acquainted with my ankles. The planes of my knees have never been so inconvenient. I slide my hand over each row the razor has touched, feeling as if in the dark for evidence of treachery. I imagine someone else’s hands running over my slippery legs, up my thighs, to cup my cunt. No penetration. Just my clit engorging, dripping, screaming!
I have nothing to lose and I have everything to lose. I go to the party in a skirt with a slit that hits my hip. A top that is sheer enough to show my nipples. Red lips because I won’t ruin them kissing.
The party is boring. I talk to a few people that are vaguely interesting but not sexy to me. The closest I get to what I want is talking to the art handler who’s setting up the space. He tells me about his work and his family and when he departs to continue the job, he puts his hand on my upper arm and with a squeeze, lets it linger a few seconds too long before it slides down to my elbow and away. I think of my silky legs and silkier pussy and I get a little wet for him. But it’s not it.
When I leave the party a few people are coming in from a rain storm and I prance into my Uber barely touched by the mist it’s settled to, feeling lucky, and like I’ve wasted an evening. The driver tells me it’s ladies night at a club in Astoria and I laugh, as if I’m going to an after party on a Thursday night. It’s midnight, I tell him. I’m old. “How old are you?” he asks. When I tell him, he is surprised. He confesses he’s only 25 and drives me the rest of the way home in silence.
Realizing I need to take my dating life into my own hands and not chance it at socials built for the hungry and horny but ultimately not vetted by me, I redownload Feeld. I scroll past nerdy but earnest young men, probably who I’d have gone for in my younger days, instead seeking a type that isn’t quite dateable. Someone who is definitely not husband material. I’m searching for a tall, lanky Frenchman with an under furnished loft and a billion other lovers, or a mean looking finance bro who I can be even meaner to, when I come upon a pretty normal looking, scruffy guy who boldly fesses 5’10 on his profile. I message. We chat. We arrange to meet at Achilles Heel.
I arrive at the bar like it holds my destiny. He’s waiting for me inside. The moment I sit down next to him I know it’s not going to happen. He’s perfectly fine, but there’s no energy between us. His smile is sweet but does nothing to pique my interest. Our small talk fades and I leave after the first drink.
I feel like goldilocks. The play party was too hard, the too nice man from Feeld was too soft. Nothing feels designed for this, when Mr. Just Right slides into my DMs. He says he wants to take photos of me. I’m flattered but vaguely annoyed, as usually men who say this are angling for something more, vaguely disguising their desire as an errand.
But when I go to his profile I’m mesmerized. Not just beautiful women, but all iterations of beautiful people fill the small squares. He favors close-ups, zooming in on body parts, but they don’t feel detached from the person. He has a way of pulling their essence out, capturing something that feels almost like an invasion. Too personal. I want to be seen like this.
I ask him to meet me for drinks before we plan a shoot. When I suggest Achilles Heel he says he loves the spot. Since it’s somewhat undiscovered, one block from the water in an industrial area, the fact that he knows it signals to me and my pussy (which right now is where my brain is operating from) that this is it. He’s the one.
~~~
We are fondling each other at a corner table, feeling gorgeously invisible to inquiring eyes. His hands have begun to explore my thighs, my back, my neck, and tug at the hair that’s at the base of my skull. I’ve been rubbing his hard cock through his pants for what feels like an eternity. The logical next step is to go home with him. It’s what I would do if I could, but I want to keep my promises so that I can continue to explore my extramarital desires. The bar staff is beginning to clink things away. I glance at my phone, it’s nearly 2am. “It’s nearly 2am,” I tell him. “I’d still like to photograph you,” he says. I look at him deeply, and make the decision. “Let’s go.”
I don’t totally know how I’m going to make this all work, but the drinks and excitement of newness ease my worrying mind and I succumb to the night ahead. The Uber ride to his place is a blur of hands and whispers and soft moans of wanting and knowing you can’t have. We climb the stairs to his door and I’m delighted when it opens to reveal a cozy space, all persian rugs and low furniture.
We undress each other in a frenzy, as if on fire, before I have a moment to think. When we’re both down to our underwear, he grabs the sides of my panties, begins to lower them—
“No, you can’t,” I breathe, forlorn. I don’t trust myself once they come off. It would be so easy to cross the line.
He stares at my eyes, my lips, down my body to my pussy, panting for it. “There are so many ways I want to fuck you,” he says. I’m dizzy with desire imagining all of him in me. I’m desperate to get fucked, and yet, knowing I can’t makes me more inventive.
We continue to grab, lick, and suck each other everywhere but the mouth, our bodies frantic. “Wait,” I push him away. “Show me where you want to be.”
He studies me, not quite understanding.
“With your camera,” I tell him.
At once he’s up, rustling through some bags. He brings over his digital, the strap hanging, and lowers himself between my legs. He places his hand on my chest to smoothly push me into the bed, then climbs up to my face.
“Open your mouth,” he orders.
I part my lips. He waits and I realize I am to open wider, to make space for him, to let him see my insides. He takes his two fingers and slides them in over my tongue. I hesitate for a moment, wondering if this would count as penetration. I decide it’s a technicality. I think he likes that it skirts the edge of my rules, too. He begins fucking my mouth, first just tracing my lips, then more forcefully as I suck his fingers like a cock. He uses his fingers to open me, and brings his camera forward. He clicks the shutter. Studies the image as it appears on the digital screen. Turns it to me with his other hand still fucking my mouth. “Ughrhh,” I say, trying to get a moan out. I want to cry—it hurts how badly I want to let him fuck me.
He lets his hand slip from my mouth, drawing down my neck and chest, using the wetness on his fingers to play with my nipple. But he’s on his way somewhere else. I feel his breath on my underwear, making the wetness feel cool. Following my earlier request, he does not attempt to take them off, but in a fluid motion, he uses his fingers to move them to the side so my dripping pussy is revealed. He groans when he sees it. I feel handcuffed. I buck my hips toward him, and he once again angles his camera, right at her. He puts his fingers that were in my mouth into his own, making them nice and wet. After a few clicks, he begins to scroll through the photos with an amused look.
“Let me see,” I beg. He laughs at me.
“You’ll see,” he says.
I’m so horny I feel both superhuman and like I could die. I feel my energy pulsing like an incredible strength but it’s also causing me so much distress, death feels somehow preferable to not getting fucked.
“Shhhh,” he says as I whimper.
I breathe a deep breath in. At this, he takes one last twirl in his mouth with his fingers, then brings them down to my pussy lips to spread me open. The first touch is excruciating. My whole being lifts in hope, and then is stunned into submission by him simply holding me open, as he brings the camera to position. The shutter clicks and I groan. He takes his fingers back to his mouth, and then brings out his cock. He starts to stroke himself while I watch, my face rippled in desire as his foreskin moves over his shaft and head. He takes a picture of himself, erect, with my pussy weeping beneath him. I begin to fuck myself, middle finger pumping in and out, my other hand grabbing my tit. He’s enjoying this too much now, as he brings himself closer and closer. There were never any rules about fluids…
“Cum on me,” I beg, and he angles himself to erupt over my belly. I feel the hot liquid hit me like a baptism. I feel brand new, alive. As he squeezes out the last drops, he brings the camera to his eye again, and clicks.
I cover my face in agony. The torture has been exquisite. I know I can’t stay too long or things will get confusing. If I can contain this weakness of mine to witching hours and stolen moments with people I’ll never see again, maybe I’ll survive. I dress quickly and say I have to go—I run out.
The next night in bed a photo arrives in my DMs. It’s the one with his fingers spreading me, my pussy hot pink and ready to kill for cock. A thrill runs through me. I take one more look at it, then delete, block, and turn back to my partner.