“Would you mind sitting next to me?”
Normally? Yes. I don’t care for couples that sit on the same side of the booth, truth be told. It irritates me. Something pathetic about it.
We’re in a little underground joint called the Black Cat, a steakhouse and jazz bar that opened up a few months back I’d been meaning to visit. An old acquaintance, Juliette from New Orleans, works here now and told me to check it out during one of her shift nights, and I told her I’d visit any jazz bar recommended by a Creole girl. I arrived before the band started, and sweet little Juliette gave me a big hug and the corner booth — best seat in the house, she said — and then she bought me a beer.
The club was dark inside, brick-lined, and already buzzing with hype. Blue and red stage lights crisscrossed the floor. I picked the seat facing the wall, my back to the dining hall. I like surprises, I suppose; and I don’t like seeming eager, craning my neck for every woman who walks in. I also don’t like getting set up on dates as a rule, though I thought about it and realized it’s been six weeks since Jolayne left and what the hell else was I doing. The photos of this girl looked good, really good; and if it doesn’t work out, I thought, I could shoot a shot at Juliette.
Tap on the shoulder takes me out of my head. Juliette again, I think, but it’s not. It’s Cassidy. I scoot back to stand up and to take her in: legs with definition, dress wrapped tightly around some fine curves. Bare shoulders, thin arms, long cleavage line. And a face . . . well, what can I say. The photos didn’t do it justice, so how would my words? Besides, I’m speechless.
I smile. She does too, and so damn well, tilting her head, her chestnut finger coils bouncing pleasantly. I go for the hug, not the handshake, and it feels good in there.
So I don’t really argue when she asks me to sit at her side.
“I don’t usually do this,” she starts off. “But my baby cousin speaks highly of you.”
“I don’t either,” I say, fighting to look her in the eye. “And Drew’s good people.”
“Good genes,” she says. “That’s what it’s all about.” I laugh because I don’t know what else to do.
“So,” I start, “What’s a woman like you do around town?”
She exhales and smiles again like she’s humoring me. Leaning in, she touches my thigh.
“Listen . . . I appreciate you coming out tonight. For real.” Eyes all wide and cute as hell. “But I’m not going to beat around the bush. I get asked out on a lot of dates. You get that, right?”
“Sure,” I reply.
“I ain’t trying to be conceited. That’s just how it is. I know why. You know why.”
I nod, not sure where this is going.
“Guys see in me something they want. I get that,” she says, then frowns. “But me? What I want I can’t easily see.”
“Yeah . . . yeah, I get you,” I’m nodding, now with feeling. But she just laughs, just smiles even more condescendingly.
“Oh . . . no,” she laughs. “I’m not looking for a heart of gold.”
“I mean, I don’t consider myself superficial. But I do have certain . . . standards.”
“Right,” I say.
“Well,” she remarks with a grin, “Mine are . . . socially challenging,” She leans in closer. “I need a certain size,” accentuating ‘size’ with a flick of her eyebrows.
I pretend not to know what she means. She can’t mean that. “You mean, like height?”
She giggles, touching my arm. “Uh, more like length.”
“I’m known on the street as a size queen.”
I lean back, disbelief on my face. “Just like that, huh.”
She shrugs sheepishly. “I know how I come across. I don’t wanna waste nobody’s time, is all, you feel me?”
“What’s that mean to you?”
She shrugs again. “I need to see it.”
“You need to see it.”
Giggles again. “Yeah,” she says, tapping her nails on her teeth. “Need to see it.”
I’m nodding and laughing. “Or what?”
“Or I’m out,” she answers carelessly.
I rock back and forth for a second. “Now I know why you need to get set up by your cousin.”
She laughs easily, real nice-like — man, she seems like fun — and she scrunches her face up. “I’m the worst, right?” She stops laughing, though, and raises her eyebrows, looking down at my crotch. There’s a very awkward pause.
“So what are we talking about here?” I ask.
“I’d like to take it out and look at it.”
I cough-laugh, and clap a couple of times. She wrinkles her nose like a bunny. “It’s okay if you want to end this now. It’s a big ask for a first date.”
I’m feeling like this is serious, and it’s making me uncomfortable.
“You coulda asked for a picture last night.”
She squints, pursing her soft lips. “Pictures can lie,” muses Cassidy, nodding philosophically. “Believe that I’ve tried it before.”
I’m feeling low-key angry now. “You’re serious?”
“You actually mean the words that you’re saying to me with your mouth-hole?”
She giggles, nods again. “It just doesn’t make sense to start any other way for me,” she tells me plaintively. “You cute, and I know you paid, and honestly, you seem cool as hell — I bet a lotta ladies are jealous of me right now — but I need to be . . . guaranteed a good time. I can’t really . . .” she pauses, waving her fingers in mild disgust, “deal with anything less than.” She looks at me blankly. “The truth is, I’m not looking for much more in a man right now.”
The strangest sensation comes over me. She softens her tone: “I promise it’ll be just a peek.”
Am I considering this? I’m as batshit as she is.
“So . . . you want me to take it out for you?”
“No,” she corrects, “I want to take it out for me.”
“My, uh . . .”
Smiling bigger with teeth. “Your cock, yes.”
I’m cold all of a sudden. Then hot. “Where were you planning on doing this? The bathroom?”
She casually looks around. “I think here’ll be fine.”
I look around too. The booth’s in the back corner, away from the kitchen and stage. Most people are hanging out at the bar, their view of us blocked. There are a few tables of folks dining in front of us, but they don’t seem to be looking our way. I think she may be right.
She turns serious, businesslike. “Are we good?” I swallow. She’s the most beautiful date I’ve had in years, maybe ever? How can I say no? How can I say yes?
I try to smile. “You’re out your damn mind, you know that?” Cassidy stares at me expectantly.
She mock-applauds with the tips of her fingers, making the shape of a little tepee. “I gotta say, I love the confidence.” She unrolls my napkin from the silverware and ceremoniously places it on my lap, her hand back on my thigh. She seems to be considering something. “You know, you haven’t asked what happens if I’m. . . disappointed.”
“That’s true,” I answer defiantly. “I figure you walk out.”
She smiles cautiously. “Huh. And you good with that?”
“I like my chances.”
“Uh-huh,” she replies. “So how would you . . . self-assess?”
“You really want me to spoil the surprise?”
Now she’s rocking back and forth. superciliously twisting up her mouth. I can’t tell if she’s skeptical or impressed. “Well, okay, sir,” she says, “Let’s find out.”
“Hey there, y’all!” I hear from behind, making me flinch. Juliette. I try to act normal but can’t. No words come. She turns to my date. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“I’ll have a Johnny Walker Blue, neat.”
“A-mazing . . . You good with your beer?”
I clear my throat. “Get us two whiskies.”
“That. I. Will,” She smiles like a friend, lingering a second too long before leaving.
I feel the hand move up. My heart races. Looking around the room I catch the eye of a woman at the table across the way: her styled hair reddish in the sparse light, low-cut blouse, an ostentatious diamond necklace drooping heavily downward. She strikes me as an ex-model, maybe a trophy wife. I think I see her notice me; smirking, she turns back to her date. I fixate upon her — her tight black dress, her lovely breasts, her pale white complexion — and I ask myself what she’s doing in a place like this when I feel my pant button pop open, the zipper unzip. Redhead checks me out again. We maintain eye contact until I hear Cassidy say: “Hey . . . Look at me.”
Her eyes are sparkling, her teeth unnaturally white. Her light-brown skin is poreless, even at this proximity. I can smell how fresh she is. Her fingers find the opening to the front of my shorts and slip in. She’s scanning my face, and her eyes brighten as mine react to the cold of her touch. Her tongue wets her lips.
I feel it fall out. I feel the air on my foreskin. I feel the coarse weave of the thick napkin.
“This feels . . . good,” she says slowly, as if on the verge of an idea. She lets go of my penis and puts her arm around me. With the other hand, she lifts up a corner of the napkin between her finger and thumb.
“Oh my,” she exclaims. Her face looks like Christmas morning. “Oh my!”
“What’s the verdict,” I choke out dryly. I need some water.
Cassidy looks ecstatic, joyful. “Why didn’t you just say so?” she gushes. We both look down together. And there it is.
She places her hand on top of it, extends her five fingers. “It’s . . . as big as my hand . . . and it’s not even hard.” She’s oozing these words into my ear, pressing her breast into me.
“Sounds like I pass,” I chuckle with relief. “Okay, show’s over.”
She looks up at me: lost and fearful, or something like it. “Oh no,” she pouts, “But I didn’t know you was gonna be this . . . Who woulda known you was gonna be like this!” She hugs my arm, looks me square in the eye. “It’s perfect, you know that?”
How is she doing this to me?
She pecks my cheek, drops the napkin back down; the outline of my cock is so conspicuous I think I see the veins. “Just leave it like this, yeah? It’ll be our dinner secret.”
I put my arm around her naked shoulders. “You are extra,” I say. She dreamily blinks her eyes at me.
Her hand slides back under the napkin. “This is so hot.”
“Two Johnny Blue neats,” I hear.
I flinch worse this time. “Thanks!” I say too loudly. Juliette grimaces, as if to suppress a smile. I feel a chill down my spine.
“Y’all ready to order?”
“I’ll have the filet mignon,” Cassidy says, looking at me, “Medium rare.”
“You want the potatoes?” Juliette asks flatly.
“No,” she responds, squeezing my cock gently as she does. “Just the protein.” My heart is battering against my ribs.
“You, Mack?” Her glare unnerves me.
She closes her book and grins at Cassidy: “Looks like you in charge tonight.” She winks at her, dragging her eyes across me as she passes.
Fingers lightly grip and release, almost tapping at my shaft. She hands me my drink, takes her own. “To health,” she nods, sipping slowly. I drink all of mine. I’m growing steadily, pushing against her hand. She reacts with a broad, wonderful smile and her eyes go cartoonishly big, making her all the more adorable.
“My god,” she slurs, a warm rush of pride and whisky flushing my cheeks. “I can’t.” She’s pressing my erection down, preventing it from escaping or noticeably tenting the napkin. I think I grunt a little with discomfort. She shushes me and dexterously slides my cock counterclockwise up my thigh, pointing me at twelve noon. I look down to see the brown of my head poking out.
“This is quite the first date,” I hear myself say. She laughs goofily but composes herself quickly. Her face nears my face, close enough to kiss. I see hard desire. She’s intimidating me.
I am rock-solid, fully erect.
“How big is what’s in my hand?” she asks with an upward nod.
“A little more than ten,” I tell her.
She sighs, beaming. “And around?”
“It’s like my forearm,” she says, then closes one eye, looks up with the other. “And it’s thicker at the base.”
“Yeah, it is.”
“Just a monster,” she inhales with her mouth; I can feel the air recede. “A fuckin’ monster.”
I feel a bit queasy at that. “So we good?”
She laughs into me, rests her head on my chest. “Oh, baby,” she sighs, stroking me under the table with two fingers, “You definitely made it to round two.” I smile weakly, a little confused. She lifts off of me slightly, looking up at me with the light in her eyes. I’m melting inside. The most beautiful face I’ve ever seen. “Don’t hate me,” she says to me, with pencil-thin brows innocently arched. “But I need to do this,” and I feel the napkin fall away.
My eyes bulge. My ears instantly burn with shame. She laughs at me sweetly, then drops her eyes. Her expression changes as she takes in her new view of my open pants: a poignant longing, a pained expression of respect and lust. She looks back at me with gratitude. My heart is breaking inside.
Out of instinct, I cover it as best I can with my free hand. “Oh honey, no,” she coos as she pushes it aside. “Don’t do that.”
I laugh stupidly. “I could get arrested.”
“You wouldn’t,” she responds. “It’s so dark in here.”
I search around me, like an animal trapped. I catch the eye of the redhead again, and I look down — to her breasts, to her long, smooth legs coming out of a high black hemline under the table, as she uncrosses them and crosses them again. Can she, I wonder, see under our table?
“You’re breathing so hard,” she says softly into my neck. “You should relax.” I feel her hand on me again. “Check it,” she says, fascinated. “Check out how small it makes my hand look.”
The breath through my nostrils is stilted, arrhythmic. My chest is tightening. I feel like I’m having a seizure. I can tell that the air vent is blowing in our direction. Her hand gets warmer by the second, as it slips down further into my pants. It reaches for my testicles and finds them.
She shakes her head like a puppy, her frizzy hair bouncing with the motion. “Big all over.” She pulls them out into the air, and reflexively I blurt out: “Don’t.” She pays me no mind. “Never woulda guessed it. Like, you’re tall, but not that tall? This is primetime NBA cock.” she says, kissing her fingers, then caressing me with them.
I can’t speak. I don’t know what I can say; I’m frozen, scared, flattered, pliant, pleasured. I start to tell her enough is enough. I can’t take more of this.
“Deux filets mignons.”
Involuntarily jerking my head over my shoulder, I see Juliette standing there, two plates in hand. The blood drains from my face, my lips go cold. Cassidy’s three fingers are wrapped around my balls, index finger, and thumb around my shaft. I pull her into me as if she could shield me. The napkin lays on the floor.
“For the lady, medium rare,” says Juliette, stretching a long arm over me to place it, brushing her leg against mine. “Oh wow,” says Cassidy, whose focus shifts entirely upon her dinner, like a cat spotting a laser pointer. She pushes off of me and straightens herself up in front of her meal, the same simple expression of pure contentment she had when she first saw my dick. She must be nuts, I think. I must be nuts. She’s so damn pretty.
“And for the gentleman.”
I look up. Juliette is directly above me, looking me sternly in the eye, with only a hint of a smile on her pretty lips.
“This looks delicious,” my date happily offers, eagerly readying her knife and fork.
“It’s the choicest cut,” Juliette replies, and at this her lip slyly curls, breaking character. Her eye contact breaks also, looking down, then returning. “Y’all enjoy.” And, as she walks away, runs a finger gently down my arm.
I feel sick. Totally exposed. Dying of humiliation. Cassidy is already slicing into her beef, cutting it into cubes before eating any of it. I grab for my beer and quaff down a quarter of it.
“Holy shit,” I say out loud. Cassidy giggles.
My mind returns, and I reach for my fly; but before I can act I hear her through chewing: “Mm, don’t fix yourself.”
I’m exasperated. “I can’t keep on like this. The waitress just saw everything!”
“Oh, she won’t do anything. What woman wouldn’t want to see that?”
“It’s illegal,” I plead. “Plus I know her! Kinda.”
“You’ll tip her well,” she concludes, still chewing. Putting the steak knife down, she pats my thigh, again, and looks at me askance. Her hand creeps back to my cock. “”Look at the hands,’ they say. ‘Look at the feet.’ I really wouldn’ta guessed it.”
She’s eating with the left hand, stroking me with the right, with the most delightful caress. I stare dumbly at her cleavage while she works. Outstanding breasts, I distractedly note. Full, perfectly round. I want one. My mind is numb and full of only the basest of thoughts. She puts down her fork, ogling me obscenely as she savors her meat, lips glistening with grease and saliva.
“Gifted,” she decides with a firm nod, and turns back to her plate. She picks up her fork and resumes eating.
Something in me gives way. Lovestruck or enraged, I roughly grab her bare thigh in my hand. She gasps a little but continues to chew. As I pull her closer, her leg opens up to me some, and I move my hand up, deeper still, and I feel no cloth, just the softest of skin, welcoming my touch. I go in. I go in again.
“Mmmm,” she murmurs. “This is scrumptious. You should really take a bite.” Her cool demeanor confounds me, arouses me. My fingerfucking gets angrier. I’m engorged to the maximum. Her stroking increases speed. Her head is swaying side to side. “It just melts on my . . . tongue.”
The lights dim. A saxophone belts out an opening arpeggio; the bass rumbles under our seats. The crowd begins to cheer. Without saying a word, Cassidy licks her palm like a kitten and reapplies me with her spit.
I glare at the side of her indescribably lovely face as she continues to ignore me, swaying with closed eyes, pretending it’s the food and the vibes. I’m practically punching her vulva with my palm, three fingers deep; she’s just about leaping out of her seat with each inward thrust. But she doesn’t make a sound.
I see Juliette across the room, conversing with the redhead; her date is absorbed by the band. Is it my imagination, or is Juliette glancing over at me? The redhead now looks my way. She looks down. I know she sees. Even from this distance, I can tell, I can see the want in her eyes. She can see my cock — I know she can — and the tiny hand stroking it. Her legs uncross. She is softly blinking at me, moving her lips, saying something I can’t hear.
Cassidy wakes from her reverie, realizing the steak is gone, devoured. She looks harried, concerned. “I need more,” she cries, turning to me. “I need more in my mouth!” Before I can speak she slides down, maintaining eye contact. I feel my cock being swallowed whole, spit dribbling into my pubic hair.
I want one, I remember, and I stick my hand into her top, cupping her right breast, her large nipple pressing against my palm. She is wildly gyrating — her face, her mouth, her tongue swirling about my penis in the most delectable manner.
The redhead tells me with her eyes that she’s on the verge of coming, as her hapless date claps off-beat. Cassidy slathers my balls with saliva, hungrily purring. My knees are weakening. My head lolls. I’m feeling faint. I close my eyes. She soaks my head with her mouth and grinds at me with two hands. She pulls her mouth off and I hear her panting before plunging it back in.
A new hand runs its fingers along my scalp and onto my neck. “Something wrong?” a hot breath whispers into my right ear. “You’ve hardly touched your meat.”
I reach out, feeling a bare leg. The hot mouth hisses: “That big. Piece. Of meat.” I slide my right hand up until it’s stopped by wet silk, but it’s pushed down roughly. I open my eyes and turn my head to catch Juliette, walking toward the kitchen, straightening her skirt. I look down to Cassidy, who doesn’t seem to have noticed a thing. She’s too absorbed by her work.
I’m running out of time to enjoy this. My redhead is almost weeping, biting her fist. My cock swells impossibly more at the thought. Come over, I mouth to her, but she’s now covering her eyes with her hand, shaking fitfully — no doubt a contact orgasm powered by cock envy and bittersweet regret.
The saxophone subsides, and the twin horns enter. Cassidy climbs up me, right breast exposed, and breathily sucks on my chin before twisting and squirming onto my legs, gracelessly hoisting her dress and inching her ass slowly into my lap. She steadies herself and lowers onto me. It parts easily, and I feel no resistance halfway in, just a pleasant slickening of the sides of my shaft; riding down further, she freezes where the base begins to widen, like an obelisk, where most girls usually have to stop; her head whips around to me, mouth and eyes open in shock, incredulous, almost angry; using my forearms she pulls herself all the way down, her eyes rolling back as she does, and a groan of ecstasy pouring forth from her as the horns hit their apex.
A pussy has never fit me so well as this. I know now why she’s a size queen. I now think I am too.
She pounds down onto me to the rhythm of the bass, which starts to play faster and faster, taking me wholly in each time. I am sure the band is watching us fuck. I am sure everyone in the whole bar sees. But I close my eyes and I no longer care, pulling her down harder with each bounce, her ass slick with lady cum and sweat, until I’m hitting the back of her insides, breaking her in even more. She’s making a low constant growl through her teeth, digging nails into me, drawing blood. We are a disgusting mess of sin.
I shut my eyes harder and open my mouth as the jets spurt out of me and into her, the music crescendoing as I do. I must be heard over it, but I bite down on her back to muzzle the moans of my groundbreaking climax. She doesn’t stop, rubbing me too raw, until I bear down on her with my left arm, until I hear her squeak, yelping out at a pitch that flies higher than the C notes of the tune. All six instruments simultaneously hit and stop on the one-beat, and everyone erupts into raucous applause.
After an interval of sweet, mutual panting, Cassidy rolls off of me, ass and right breast hanging out, legs splayed over my knee. Trembling, gasping for breath, she looks drunk, her curls matted to her forehead, and I put my wet cock back in my pants while she gains her orientation.
I look around. The drums kick off the next track, and the bar is again hopping with energy. No one is watching us, if they ever were. I look for the redhead, but she and her date are gone.
Decent once more, Cassidy sits up properly and crosses her legs toward me. Her face shines without makeup. The bliss in her eyes intoxicates. I feel a stir in my aching groin.
She strokes my cheek. “Well done,” she laughs with exhaustion. “You made it to round three.”
“Good to know.”
Using her phone as a mirror, she fluffs out her finger coils, then applies some lipstick while I watch, passively letting the music wash me clean. “This was . . . unexpected. But I gotta be somewhere,” she says as she collects her purse and fixes her earrings.
“You gotta be somewhere,” I say, with no emotion.
“Uh-huh,” she grins.
“At eleven o’clock on a Saturday.”
“I’ll be in touch, okay?”
“Well, I guess it’s bye then.”
She stops fixing herself and meets my eye, placing her hand on my chest. Her beauty overwhelms me. I don’t move or speak.
“You’re special, Mack,” she says solemnly. “We’ll meet again.”
The band plays one of my favorites — a slow, soulful sax solo with a fat, reedy vibrato — though I don’t recall the name. They’re riffing real good between the standard hooks. I sit in the booth, alone, tapping my foot, for what feels like a long time, until I see Juliette coming my way. I lift my eyes to her.
“To-go box?” She points to my untouched filet. I move to speak, but the look on her face just slays me. We both break into mad laughter. When it ebbs, she shakes her head at me in disbelief and puts on the table another beer and another whisky.
“Thought you could use that,” she says.
“You were right.”
She crosses her arms and sighs. “Pathetic, man.” We laugh again, more gently this time, and I shake my head. “What was you thinking.”
“I wasn’t,” I say into space.
“You know she’s crazy, right? I mean, legit crazy.”
“I think I picked that up,” I say, then wrinkle my brow. “You know Cassidy?”
“Yeah, I know Cassidy,” she spits out. “Comes in here all the time.”
“Huh,” I grunt.
“She once broke a bottle over a man’s head.”
“Huh. Did you know that redhead too?”
“What redhead?” Juliette looks annoyed at me. “Bruh, I’m telling you, she crazy, you hear me?”
“Ain’t we all?” I smile darkly.
She blushes. “Oh, Mack,” she says softly. “I . . . I just . . .” she trails off, looking away.
“Hey,” I stop her, and I reach out my hand to take hers in it. She turns back. Her eyes are shimmering. “Can I get your number?”
“Oh, Mack. You’ve had it, man. You’ve had it.”