Speakeasy

I climb the station stairs on the west side of 9th avenue, leaving the dank subway scent, turn the corner and head to the river, stopping briefly to take a full breath from a breeze coming off the Hudson. 

Spring in the city has two sides. There’s full sun in Union Square, tulips on Park Avenue, and budding trees in Fort Tryon. Celebrations of change. And, keeping it real, trash emerges from winter burials then crumbles into cordoned dirt, spoiling the fun. All our hope for warmer days — the glint of optimism for brighter times — rewarded and buried by the hour or even minute.

But this evening, everything is a bouquet. Unseasonably warm even for late April, I stride towards the river. Fitted black blazer with white stitching, white cotton shirt, black selvedge denim, leather chukkas. I still feel the pump and tightness of a late afternoon workout in my glutes, up my back, across my shoulders, into my arms, full and alive. I showered after the gym, slickening everything with olive oil soap as the salt and grime ran off me in sheets. I paused in spots to enjoy how good slippery skin feels, pulling, growing, squeezing, then letting go. 

Days have elongated since the time change. Spring light, slowly morphing from gray-blue to golden hour in the process, gains us a minute more per day. Warmth off the sidewalk rises to my face, hurried by the river breeze. Black locusts overhead — gnarled bark, frilly leaves, small white blossoms — at the verge of exploding. When they do, the highest flowers pop first. We’ll smell them before we see them.

On these barely lit sidestreets nothing appears the same once the sun goes down. In darkness, slumped trash becomes a sleeping body, a shrub shapeshifts to an animal. From street level windows, their curtains drawn against the eyes of the city, yellow light spills beyond blinds. Inside, the day is slowing as Friday night settles into a weekend rhythm. On a kitchen counter sits the last sips of an amaro with sparkling water and simple syrup, cubes all but disappeared, chilling a wedge of squished orange and peel. 

As I move further west, I enter the land of roll-down doors and hardware stores. A clearing house for kabob carts, rats skittering in the shadows, nobody out save for the occasional car cutting to the West Side Highway.  

Once I’m on the right block I slow. The door will be “Unmarked. Left side of the street. Look for the light.” I spot a warm bit of amber, glowing like a window into a volcano. The large door is heavy and metal-framed, tacked through the iron banding, dark, secret. 

Life out of sight has a history here. Docks and longshoreman, gangs and shanties, the holds of boats, floorboards soaked and swollen, warehouses of contraband, midnight murders. Only blocks away, so close you can see it from rooftops, the river moves at a clip that takes whatever you put in it and whisks it away, past Coney Island, out to sea. Hide something small, hide something large? Slip it in the river.  

Below the light there is a pewter knocker. A hammered knob, pitted with age, heavy enough to summon someone from the far corners of whatever is behind the door. I lift and let it fall, “Twice.” Tap. Tap. After a few seconds a small slider moves above the knocker. A large set of eyes come into view, barely lit, inspecting me. In the glow of amber light I turn my head to the left and pause, then to the right, then stare straight ahead. Locks move with a thunk and the door slowly opens.

I step inside and it closes behind me with the weight of a bank vault. The eyes I had seen are attached to a woman with jet black hair and blocky bangs, straight-cut like Bettie Page. A collared inky black dress, fitted at the waist, pleated cotton cut in an A-line. Calf-length, pure vintage mid-century, a neckline that highlights collarbones and smooth skin. She smiles with a nod that’s friendly, just warm enough, slightly formal. “Good evening. She’s at the bar.” I look at her, waiting for an instruction. She returns my glance for a second, unflinching, aware of just how long her beauty can hold a gaze. And then she breaks it. “This way.” I follow her down the hall, trailing a mane of black curls that cascade over the collar, swishing with each step. A shape like a road that wraps a mountain — curving, curving, curving. 

The vestibule where I entered was even darker than the entryway outside. Following Bettie, sconces light the hallway with the same amber tone. Everything is low light, dark wood, velvet, and crystal. I hear live music: a saxophone, husky, unhurried, breathy like Stan Getz, pressing against the drag of a brush on snare. A bass tucks a slide and thump between and around like a vine, filling the cracks. 

Images of others have been fleeting, like scenes behind a scrim: half-lit, quiet, almost pantomimed. Everything is subdued. Movements are controlled, voices low, light, soft, and warm. We are held, hidden, anonymous. I’ve seen figures but couldn’t pick a single face from a lineup. I may have imagined a couple in a dark corner of the library as we passed. She might have been reclined on a chaise, skirt up, legs open, both hands holding a head that worked between her knees. I may have seen her hips moving in a rhythm.   

Bettie Page stops at the far side of a door that’s draped with burgundy curtains, split in the middle, and tied back. Directly across from the door, running perpendicular along the far wall is a white marble bar with brass fixtures and dark wood trim. Old bottles and vintage glassware line the shelves. At the bar, pedestal seats with cushions sit on brass fittings with a foot rail beneath. A row of small tables with upholstered chairs fills the floor space. Closer, on my left as I enter, is an elevated seating area with a large clawfoot mahogany settee. Bettie catches the eye of the bartender then gestures me into the space.  

Seated in the corner, face lit by a Tiffany-style amber-toned lamp, you’re seated, half-reclined. 

We are not alone but the room isn’t even half full. A party of four on my right as we entered, gathered around a heavy walnut table. In a dark corner a couple on a Victorian chaise, partially shielded by heavy curtains like some opium den. Two couples at the bar, one at either end. As I move towards you I gently take a closer look. I remember the mirage from the library. 

At the four top I notice something. The couples are seated, alternating between the men and the women. They are closer than I would have expected, huddled together, sharing a secret maybe. I look, careful not to stare, and catch a glimpse of an arm that disappears down the back of a dress. And another that plunges into pants under the table. A man’s face is buried in a neckline while the recipient turns to kiss a third.

I glance back to the corner as my eyes adjust and see a form lying along the length of the chaise. I see a knee up against the back, and in front, a second figure, a woman, facing the room. Her feet are on the floor and she’s squatting back, maybe onto the lying form, maybe not. Hands on her thighs, a black dress lifted just far enough up. Is she rocking? I look away before she catches my glance as I climb past the bannister and newell post to your level. I steady myself as my heart races. 

I look to you and angle my head in order to say, What’s happening here? You smile. You know exactly what’s happening. The bartender passes me with our drinks. I catch her eye and offer my wide eyes and raised eyebrows as commentary. She’s seen this look before. I turn and slowly glance behind me. Have I made all of this up? No. The couples that were at opposite ends of the bar have now merged. One of the women is sandwiched between the two men, with one in front kissing her. Behind her, the other presses in, his front to her back, face buried in her neck. As they kiss, arms everywhere, the second woman presses in, reaching around, one hand squeezing an erection through pants.  

The bartender sets our glasses on a side table as you stand. Black pencil skirt with a sleeveless pink top, a sparkle of rhinestone jewels here and there. Your hair is up but flowing at the sides and back. You’ve walked out of a pin-up calendar. Everything — hips to full lips, dazzling eyes, and chunky vintage heels — is perfect. We kiss, skipping the hello-I-missed-you peck — it’s full, pressed, indelicate. We pause to clink and sip our drinks before the foam recedes. Gin, lime juice, hibiscus syrup. Pink, white, foaming, garnished with a dried slice of toasted lime. Mine is half gone before I set it down. You sit on the settee and lay back, smiling, a swipe of your tongue catches the foam on your lip. Everything feels like an invitation. 

Pools of light across the room illuminate scenes as in a theater. On the chaise, the couple are within the warm glow. Her top is off — breasts radiant, nipples casting shadows. I see the outline as she rocks on top of him, hips sliding forward and backward at a pace that matches the room. Languid and smooth. 

At the seated party I passed on the way in, one is now chest-down on the table with another standing behind, thrusting, wobbling her ass as smooth skin reflects the candlelight. At the bar, the couples are together but also half in shadow, a tangle of appendages and shapes. A woman sits on a stool facing the bar, naked ass hanging over the back, arching herself into a push from behind as she’s entered. Next to her, facing forward, a man kisses her. Below, at his waist, a head licks up and down on him in slow motion as she’s fingered by yet another hand. 

Between each pool, the room rises and falls in light and darkness, divided by walls of black. We’re here, an unlit world between us. 

A soft light catches a glint on your blouse. We finish our drinks and I want the last sip of gin in your mouth. Bettie escorts a couple to a table at the base of the stairs. Reclining, one leg up, one on the floor, your knees open and it’s clear that we’re here not merely as audience, but also players. Any resistance I had to the idea — to the exposure, any shyness about letting go — it all recedes. 

I linger, hovering my body above you, slipping my tongue through the slick fullness of your mouth, wet with spit. I reach under your dress, cupping you, and immediately run out of space in my pants. You smile as I take off my jacket and slide down, kneeling between your knees, pressing my face against the firmness of your pubic bone before sliding lower to feel your lips, padded and full, through your clothes. 

My nose mashes where you open and I inhale—I pull all of it through the material of your dress and panties. I’m looking for sweetness, a scent of musk, a bit of spice, a drop of anything that confirms that I’m here, so close to something so fucking good. My hand slides up and holds your breast, circling your nipple through the satin layers, feeling it firm. I exhale into you, giving back the heat of my blood-warmed lungs.  

I drift in and out of awareness as we float in the warmth of our glowing bubble. You reach down, take the bottom of your skirt and slide it upwards, above your panties and garter — a matching Fleur du Mal set. I slide a finger under the band of your panties at the crease of your thigh and lift it aside as you scoot your ass to the edge of the settee, opening your knees wide, offering the entirety of your pussy and lips to the glow around us. Fearless.

I’m on you immediately — no teasing, no thigh kissing, no slow circles or tender lines with my tongue around the plump lips where you split. No. I go straight where you’re wet, my whole mouth in contact, stem to stern, tongue low, diving inside, pressing against you, sucking inner lips and flesh into my mouth before circling underneath to your ass. I wet a finger and it slides so easily into your pussy that it feels pulled.

I unbuckle and pull button-fly pants open in one motion, pushing them down past my knees. I’m so hard that I exit like a jack-in-the-box, swollen, head shining with pressure. I pull off my shirt as you rotate your hips, aim here. Rushing, I place a handful of spit on my tip then circle your pussy with it as you sit up to watch me enter. In one straight push I’m inside you. Zero to sixty, base to tip. 

We shift to slow to prolong our floating moment. Your focus pauses with a look over my shoulder. As I turn and sit next to you, I see that the couple from the bottom of the steps have moved to our level. They are in shadow but have been watching. She has her foot on a rung of the railing, facing us. He’s behind her, one step down. Her skirt is up, no panties, visible bush, his middle finger disappearing into her. She stares then turns to kiss him as his second hand opens her blouse, exposing her breast. 

Seated with my feet on the ground, you slip your panties off and turn your back to me then reach with your right hand and guide me up, into you. You turn your head over your shoulder and kiss me, and begin with long strokes, squatting, hands on your knees. I watch my cock glide into glistening, stretching pink. You arch as I slide, pushing me against your pubic bone. 

At the top of the steps she cants forward, their pace increases as he fucks her, one hand holding the railing. Your pace matches theirs, your hand rubbing, shifting into intensity. 

You’re fucking me in front of them. You catch the woman’s eye. The bartender pauses. Bettie is in a shadow by the door, unobtrusive but enjoying the sight. The chaise couple glances without staring. From the bar, a woman getting her pussy eaten can feel how close you are. You brace with the feeling that every bit of you from fingers to toes, from your brow down to your ass, is tensing for an orgasm that will rock through you, shaking the floor like the A train, blocks away. 

As you come you buck, falling back onto me, legs outside my legs, and continue rubbing until it’s too tender to touch. Laying back onto me you reach and hold my head. I nuzzle, still half-fucking as the convulsions slow. 

I roll you off, onto the settee, and move your legs like a marionette. Your right knee is on the floor, your left leg is up and to the side, resting on the seat cushion. You’re chest down, face towards the room. Pussy and ass open, spread, all of you, catching gold lamplight. I kneel behind, wet my tip, and fuck you from behind. With my left hand I grab your hair and pull, with my right, I slap your ass with the loudest noise I’ve heard all evening. You make a sound that tells me that you’re going to cum again. I feel your right hand moving apace. The second you tell me you’re cumming I break, contracting forward, onto you, kissing your cheek as I feel hot waves filling you, pumping, pumping, pumping, pumping, pumping, as I bury the sounds of everything in my lungs into the hair that wraps your neck.  

Still hard, slick with the cocktail of me and you, I slowly pull out and collapse back on the couch, wondering what just happened. You sink like you were shot with a tranquilizer. Your ass is out for the room to see, wet pussy still angled, inviting. The couple at the top of the stairs are back at their table. The bar action has returned to their drinks, the four top is seated, and the chaise couple are spooning, asleep. A bossanova rhythm brings Jobim down the hall from what must be another room. 

Bettie appears at the base of the steps, heading our way with a tray. My first instinct is to cover up — I’m still engorged, fully exposed, one leg draped over you — we’re a pile of flesh and sex. 

As her head crests the top of the steps she arrives at eye level but doesn’t break stride or look away. On the tray, a single large porcelain ramekin, four inches across, is set on a plate with a white doily. Cresting the top of the ramekin, the crisply golden, symmetrical shape of a soufflé rises from the mold. The batter color on the toasty sides says something — caramel, jaggery — the golden top has a dusting of confectioners’ sugar. Next to the soufflé is a silver gooseneck of mocha crème anglaise and a piece of antique serviceware. Somehow Bettie knew the exact moment to order the ephemeral soufflé. 

As she approaches us her eyes go where they want. My pants, still resting at the top of my boots, legs bare, cock slowly going to sleep on my belly. You, dress bunched at your waist, glowing ass and pussy in the air, still draped with one knee on the floor and the other on the couch, spread open. I ache as a pulse returns to my crotch, imagining how Bettie might touch herself while watching me fuck you.  

She sets the soufflé on a side table within arms reach and inserts the spoon into the crust. From the gooseneck she pours warm crème anglaise into the slit, filling it in a steady stream of thinned custard. The opening slickens as liquid pools briefly before settling into the puffed crack. She sets two spoons on a starched cotton napkin. 

“Take your time,” she says, as she gives you a bold once over and swivels away.