I’ll never understand beer, how it’s made, the sourness, the richness, what the amber color means, or why the specificity of the pour is so important. And I’m okay with that. If I listened to what he’s saying instead of intensely fixating on how his shirt fits snuggly across his forceful shoulders, I might be able to appreciate the hops education he’s giving me. But navigating the complex culture of brewing will have to wait for another day when his thick right hand isn’t brushing against the outside of my left thigh that just so happens to be uncovered from my flouncy, black summer dress.
God, he’s handsome. Maybe even more handsome than an hour ago when I spotted him as I pushed open the door to this East Village dive. I am a glossy, curvy nymph with red lips and big hips looking to people watch, maybe strike up a conversation, disappear from being on for one singular night—and he, he is a towering man with cuffed denim and a leather wristband, laughing with his friends at the bar while sipping a whatever beer and intermittently rubbing his tapered beard with that same thick right hand that is now, an hour later, inching closer to my upper thigh tattoo.
The shine on my body is faded by now and the lipstick marked on my glass as we go through each other’s histories: he’s a California boy here for the weekend with some friends, nervous about taking another cab because of a bad experience: “I don’t want to be rude, but is that how everyone drives here?” I’m a softy New Yorker who had a difficult day, in need of a seat at the bar. I tell myself that the dress, the glossiness, the lipstick is just for me (and it’s true to some extent) but it’s also a subconscious invitation for anyone to buy me a drink: “I had to send my mother a bit of money today . . . it will eventually be fine but has been kind of a draining process.” He apologizes. “You’re sweet. But I want to ignore all that tonight.”
Another red wine appears on the black, scuffed counter while he grabs himself one more amber something; his friends appear behind him, patting his solid back as they make their way to another bar. “You can absolutely go with your friends. I know you’re only here for a little while longer.” I coyly gester to them but can’t look away from just how burly his legs are in his dark denim. I can feel the wetness starting to form as I squirm to adjust myself on the rickety bar stool. He doesn’t move, just smiles as he places his left hand on my right hip, our limbs fully intertwined.
The red wine has taken hold of my movements and I place my hand further up the rough denim of his inner thigh. “You’re not shy, I take it!”
“Not in the slightest.” I lean forward to kiss his lips but make a tiny detour for his left ear and whisper: “Do you want to remember tonight forever?”
His entire body straightens and I can feel a smile forming across his face, pressing into the side of my face. He is so warm—I’m unaware if this is a byproduct of beer, the summer, our mutual attraction, or a combination of all three. All I know is that I didn’t wear shorts under my dress today, and that decision will make this next one significantly easier.
I grab his hand and stand up in front of my bar stool, resting my belly and waist comfortably between his legs. I take his left hand and place it under my dress. I lean closer to his lips. “I want you to feel how wet you make me.” His fingers push aside my thinly laced panties as he places his thumb on my clit and begins to circle.
The thickness of his thumb encapsulates my clit; the overall sensation makes me press into him more and more. I take a sip from my wine as he works, letting him pleasure me as I pleasure myself tonight — and let my head lean back to fully take in the moment. I’m going to let this California man in on my escapist desires. I lean into his lips: “Follow me.” I slowly remove his hand from under my dress and direct him to stand up.
We move past the people around us, too drunk and consumed by their own stories to notice we are making our way to the same single stall bathroom at the back of the bar. “What if someone knocks?” he whispers. “We’ll pretend we don’t hear it!” I push his body down to his knees and make him wait for me to make the next move. I don’t care how uncomfortable and sticky the bathroom floor is up against that denim. He is for me to use and he knows it.
I turn around to face the Sharpie-clad bathroom door while he readjusts his positioning to face my ass. I lift up my dress and hold it center against my sternum. Without missing a beat, he presses his face against my ass and slowly starts to roll my lace panties down to meet my lower thighs. He mixes in tiny bites and kisses across my flesh until finally spreading me wide and diving his face between each cheek. I gasp as his tongue flicks across my ass, my back bending at a significant angle for his face to gain more access. I prop my body up against the bathroom door with my left hand as my right reaches for my pulsating clit; emulating the circles he did earlier in time with the rhythm of his tongue.
I could cum like this with his face buried deep in my ass and arms wrapped around my thighs, but I want him inside of me. I look down to see the outline of his stiff cock pressing into the raw, selvedge denim encasing his legs and I reach back, grab the hair on his head, and pull him up to meet my face. “Fuck me now.”
He releases his cock and presses it up against the wetness between my legs, sliding his thickness past my ass and straight, deep, into my pussy. I let go of my dress so I can keep myself steady against the bathroom door, but his tight grip on either side of my wide, bent hips keeps the lower half of my body upright as he pumps into me, making my ass ripple with every thrust.
Someone knocks on the door. Neither of us care. The connective pleasure feels electric, so much so that the errant stickers and graffiti on the walls begin to fade leaving only us in focus. My right hand has been circling my clit to the beat of each push, I’m keeping myself on the brink of cumming until just the right moment. I can tell he is too from his “Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck” behind me.
Quickly, he exits me and gets back on this knees to finish me off. His face in my ass, his right hand feverishly jerking off, and my hand keeping pace on my clit. The simultaneous stimulation is too much to keep the overwhelming, climactic wave at bay and I begin to stutter and pulse with the most eruptive orgasm. The aftershock crashes over and over as I push my ass into his face to ride it out. Still bent over, I look down to see him on his knees massaging his thick cock until three bursts of cum shoot out of the tip. His face flattens out across my plump ass in exhaustion. I turn slightly to look at him. “Gosh, you’re handsome.”
Photo from All Curves Magazine featuring Mayara Russi and Marcelo Quintão.