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A Contrast in Appetites

Out in front of the band, art in motion, she dances, her rhythmic whirling mesmerizing me. The light plays off her serpentine curves, and I realize I’m no longer watching the Halloween show I paid $40 to see, but her, Felicity, once my son’s girlfriend, dumped for being too slutty.

I’ve been in fap rotation for months since my marriage with Jen hit the rocks. I begged her not to leave, swearing we could work out our troubles, but she moved in with a stockbroker a month ago. Since then, it’s been virtual dates with sympathetic social media friends, trying my luck (it is bad) with online dating apps, and that old standard: paying strippers for lap dances and pleading for more.

Seeing Felicity, though, my skin tingles and my mouth goes dry. 'Too slutty' sounds like a cure for everything ailing me.

From my vantage point, I perceive she is getting monumentally wasted. She dabs, hits g-pens, gobbles edibles, imbibes liquids, takes pills, smokes joints, and even has a beer. Conservatively, she has consumed more drugs in the last two hours than I have in the last two years. It’s impressive, tragic, and a little sad, but it serves my purposes well because, at the end of the show, I head to the pit to find her searching the dance floor littered with plastic bottles and miscellaneous trash. A used condom lies on the floor between us.

“Hi, Felicity,” I say.

Her laser gaze penetrates me.

“I’m Destiny,” she says. “Felicity is my older sister. How do you know her?”

“My son, Ali…” 

Just his name wilts my endeavor. What am I doing? She’s twenty-five years younger than I am. I decide to redeem myself.

“I was wondering if you needed me to call you a cab.”

“No. I’m here with friends.” I must look skeptical, for she adds, “Don’t worry. I do this a lot.”

“Fine. I wanted to make sure you were safe. My son wouldn’t forgive me if I saw you so wasted and didn’t make the offer, especially if something tragic occurred.”

“Odd, the Ali I know is different. He has a hard time seeing past his needs, and he really wanted me. He used to hit on me even when Felicity was around. That’s one reason they broke up.”

I am ashamed. The apple apparently didn’t fall far from the tree. She reads my heart and says, “Was there anything else?”

Mute, I swallow, hoping in vain for a thimbleful of inspiration from my empty well. I lick my lips, and her bright eyes hold me in their sway. Then she voices my thoughts.

“You want to fuck?”

I nod, feeling a mix of mortification and relief.

“That’s gross. Tell you what, though, if you have two hundred dollars cash, I’ll polish your knob.”

That seems a lot, but I know we aren’t negotiating.

“I can visit an ATM.”

“There’s one at the bar. I’ll tell my friends you’re driving me back. Then I’ll text my mom and tell her something has come up.” She gives a mischievous wink, her first overt demonstration of sexuality outside my fantasy. “Hopefully, something will.”

The ATM has a ten dollar service charge, which normally would disqualify it, but I have never been so happy to see those crisp bills sliding out. We make small talk as we cross town, both deciding we want to avoid a long uncomfortable drive after she pleasures me. We stop in an empty park about five blocks from her house.

It is quiet with the motor off. She’s no conversationalist and neither am I.

“I want to look first to make sure you haven’t got anything disgusting going on down there,” she says. “Let me inspect your goods.”

At once, I strip. She pulls latex gloves from her purse and slides them on with all the sensuality of a proctologist. Then her phone’s flashlight is shining. Her nimble fingers, cool through the gloves, explore my genitalia with expertise and purpose.

“It’ll do,” she says. “Show me my money.”

‘It’ll do’ isn’t exactly the pinnacle of eroticism, but blood rushes to my groin anyhow. My penis rises from its slumber, an encouraging sign. It twitches a few times which worries me. I want to last, not just for my fulfillment. No, I want to impress her.

I hand her twelve twenties and a ten-dollar bill, a $50 tip, which by itself is probably enough for a blowjob from half the women at the club where we met. She pockets it without counting, so now she doesn't know I have paid more.

“Can I see your tits?”

“Why? So you can perv on them?”

Her cool palm clutches my testicles, firm, but gentle.

“Oh, yeah, that’s what I want.”

My brain empties of blood, while she plays my rod like a piano. I stiffen with feverish desire when her lips settle upon my glans.

“You want this, right? You know there’s no going back?”

I understand or at least think I do, and when, ecstatic, I flail one arm and my hand finds her thigh unnaturally cold, I both know and cannot know. As I say, it isn't natural, but I am a man with nothing to lose.

Her mouth descends upon me like a frozen cavern, her breath ice, and my blood surges forth like air towards a vacuum. I barely feel that tease of her pointed teeth before they penetrate my flesh. Then we are in communion, two minds as one, and I know. Oh, how I know, and knowing, I surrender, both to her ecstasy and her hunger, more rapacious than even mine.

I peek once before surrendering to my unconscious. She is swallowing me whole, and her eyes roll in their sockets as she drinks deep from my core. My orgasm is ongoing, both distant and yet very immediate. I yearn for release, but I also never want the moment to end. It never does.

My last thought before my mind flees is that I've never seen so much blood.

Tonight and every night, I’m seeing her again.


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