Once Upon A Futon

My name is Peter Johnson. And no, my middle name is not Dick. It's Allen. I'd been divorced for nine years, never had any kids. After the heartbreak of a failed marriage, I didn't care much about women and their needs, other than sexually. They were fun to fuck, but could not be trusted outside the bedroom. Once you said 'I do', they said 'don't you dare' every chance they got. Wives change into life-sucking leaches. I wasn't always so callous. In fact, I used to be a romantic fool. My ex-wife was to blame for all my hostility. She made me a bitter man.

One of my dating rules had always been: Don't screw where you work or where you live. Which meant I wouldn't date co-workers or women who lived in my apartment building, because when you break up, there's too much drama.

Love 'em and leave 'em. Words to live by.

I moved into a new apartment complex six weeks ago, because I broke that rule and was banging the girl across the hall. Karen was gorgeous, and ten years younger. I couldn't resist. Who knew she'd make up with her jealous ex-boyfriend?

Things have changed for me, recently. After five months of torturous celibacy, I found a note in my mailbox. The envelope didn't have a stamp or address. I figured it was an invitation to someone's birthday or anniversary party in my building, and almost threw it away unopened. But my name was written so artistically on the front, I had to look.

"Dear Mr. Johnson,

I find you very attractive. You appear to be single and alone. I am alone. We're about the same age. I'm interested in a sexual liaison without strings and complications. Men are not attracted to me. I have scars, and they are a turn off. But I have physical desires. I am tired of masturbating. Maybe you are too. If you're interested in pursuing an uncommitted, physical relationship for a short time, meet me tonight in the basement of building 4, at 11:30. The front door security code is 1, 5, 6, 2.

Warm regards, Jasmine"

At first, I laughed. The whole idea sounded like a practical joke or a good way to get mugged. But the more I thought about it, the more I was convinced it might be worth the short walk over, just to check it out. I couldn't think of anyone who hated me. I couldn't think of any reason someone would pick me out to blackmail or rob, because I have nothing worth the effort.

On the other hand, why would a woman I didn't know want to have sex with me? It was a rare pleasure when a woman I actually knew wanted to have sex with me. So, curiosity won out, and hopefully wouldn't kill this cat. At 11:35 I was punching in the door code, while cursing my lack of morals, and convincing myself I wasn't breaking my rule because I didn't live in building 4.

Every basement in the complex has a common laundry area and individual storage rooms for each apartment. When I arrived, the laundry room was empty. A high level of apprehension had me on edge. I'm not a daredevil by any stretch of the imagination. Actually, I'm quite cautious. Just showing up was the most dangerous thing I'd ever done. I certainly wasn't prepared for the lights to go out, and when they did, my voice cracked like an adolescent momma's boy, when I shouted, "Hey! Who turned out the lights?" Original, I'm not either.

Before my eyes had time to adjust to the dim glow cast through the grimy window, a woman whispered, "I'm here."

The adrenalin rush made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. "Jasmine?"

"Yes," she said, and then blinded me with a flashlight beam.

I blocked the light with my hand, and said, "That's rude."

The light moved down to the floor, but Jasmine remained in the shadows. With a fake and gritty voice, she whispered. "I'm late. Sorry."

I squinted in her direction, and said, "That's okay. I was late, too. Actually, I wasn't going to come, but... What can I say? Your note intrigued me." Her disguised voice sounded vaguely familiar. "Do I know you?"

All was quiet for a few seconds. "No."

"Come out where I can see you."

"No." She threw a folded piece of paper that landed on my foot.

I picked it up. My heart pounded, but I tried to play it cool. "Air mail?"

No response. So I read by the reflected light, "I won't speak anymore. My identity must remain a secret. Follow me now."

The light began to move down the hall and I followed. All I could see was a silhouette. Jasmine appeared to be wearing a veil and a black robe of thin material that flowed as she walked. At the end of the hall, she turned right and disappeared inside the last storage compartment. I stopped at the door and peered into the black abyss, until the flashlight beam indicated a futon along the back wall.

My fear was overpowered by my eager libido. I walked right in and sat right down.

Another note was thrown, "I will lock the door, to ensure our privacy."

The lump in my throat was hard to swallow, after I said, "Okay."

Jasmine shined the light on the door, closed a hasp and put a bolt through the staple. At least it was something we could easily remove in an emergency. I said, "Thanks for not using a Master lock."

The flashlight click off and the world went black, again. I could not tell the difference between my eyes open and my eyes closed. She was moving. I could feel a breeze, but did not detect any perfume, and then an overhead light clicked on. Standing before me was a person covered from head to toe by a traditional Muslim burka. A fine mesh screen covered the eye slit. Quickly I scanned the tiny room for a scimitar, and thankfully found none. I did notice a towel along the bottom of the door.

She followed my gaze, then picked up a white board leaning against the wall and wrote with a marker, "No light can be seen from outside."

I smiled without really feeling happy. "Good thinking." Sweat trickled down my neck.

She wiped the slate clean with her sleeve, and wrote, "You should not talk. Write, so no one can hear us," then pointed at a white board on the floor next to me.

I nodded agreement and studied the room a little more. Besides the futon, there was a straight back chair and a folding tray. On the tray was a box of tissues. The only light came from a bare, 40-watt bulb, hanging from the concrete ceiling. The room was about ten by fifteen feet -- not much of a love nest.

Jasmine hadn't moved. We just stared at each other for a while, although I couldn't really tell if she was looking at me or not.

I picked up the white board, and wrote, "Are you a Muslim?"

She shook her head 'no'.

The thought occurred to me that the scars must be horrible. I felt sorry for her, but the idea of touching someone so disfigured kind of grossed me out.

Then I had another scary thought, and wrote on the white board, "How do I know you're really a woman?"

Jasmine moved closer and pointed at my hand. So, I gave it to her. Her fingers were small and hot around my wrist, as she guided my hand between the fabric folds. I felt the smooth flesh of a shaved thigh. Lightly, I traced to the juncture of her legs and felt the unmistakable cleft of a woman. My palm covered her mons and it was hairless. As I explored further, she sighed and I took that as a sign of encouragement.

Suddenly, another thought crossed my mind. I withdrew my hand and wrote frantically on the board, "How do I know you're not a kid?"

Jasmine sat down in the chair against the opposite wall, thought for a little while, and then wrote, "You don't. Ask me some questions."

"How old are you?"

"34."

"What year did you graduate high school?"

"1989."

"What year born?"

"1971."

She wrote quickly, without a second thought. The answers were so close to my own; they made her just a year younger. I felt pretty confident she was telling the truth. If she had hesitated at all, I would've walked out immediately. Instead, I was left with an increased curiosity, and wrote, "Why me?"

"Are you dating anyone?"

"No. Are you?"

"No. Are you heterosexual?"

"Yes!"

"Do you have any STD's?"

"NO! Do you?"

She wrote, "NO!" and added, "Don't all men want this kind of uncommitted sex? Doesn't this excite you?"

I had to admit that it did, but I pretended to think for a while, before I wrote, "Yes, but why me?"

It took a moment to collect her thoughts. Then she wrote, "I think you're handsome, your unattached and I want to feel someone's affection. It's been a long time."

How sad and desperate. The conversation did little to reduce my performance anxiety. What if I failed? A rejection might destroy her. I'm no therapist, and I didn't want to make matters worse. I wasn't so sure I could go through with it anymore. I wrote, "I'm not sure this is a good idea."

"I know. I feel the same way. May I sit next to you?"

I nodded.

When Jasmine sat down, the futon shifted slightly. Our shoulders touched. Her head was about three inches lower than mine. We sat for a while. I noticed she wore sandals. Her feet and hands were the only skin I could see, and they looked nice and normal. The toenails and fingernails were painted red.

A few minutes later, she lifted my arm, placed it around her shoulders and rested her head on mine. We sat a few more minutes, lost in our mutual apprehension. I just couldn't get into the moment. Maybe it was the lack of visual stimulation that men need. Maybe it was the deformity under the burka.

Where were the scars? I decided to try something. Maybe if I could feel her scars through the fabric, they wouldn't creep me out so much. I brought down my arm and squeezed her against me. She sighed and snuggled in. Emboldened, I kissed the side of her head to show some affection.

Her hand traveled to the inside of my thigh and began to scratch in small circles.

Without verbal communication I would just have to make advances and let Jasmine's reaction guide me. A kiss would help. A kiss would tell me how passionate she felt. Turning toward her, I cupped the cloth-covered face in my hands and kissed the fabric where her lips would be. They moved against mine and her fingers came up to play in my hair. The hand on my leg traced up to tease my groin, and I discovered she could turn me on after all.

Beneath the robe, the skin under my hands felt smooth. I ran my hand down her arm and onto her thigh. My lips kissed down and I nibbled her neck through the cloth. It was strangely erotic to touch her indirectly, and reminded me of a high school date. Her breaths came faster. My embrace was having the desired effect.

When I slid my hand up her side and fondled a breast there was an audible intake of air and her hand squeezed my cock. The breast felt normal too. It was more than a handful in size and moved freely beneath the robe. Jasmine was not wearing anything underneath. I had just begun to get intimate with the hard little nipple, when she pushed my hand away.

Disappointed, I sat back against the wall to regroup. But there was no time to calm down, because immediately she knelt over my legs and began to unfasten my pants. After they were undone, Jasmine grabbed the waistband and pulled. I lifted my hips and was soon naked from waist to knee. Standing tall and proud, my erection pulsed with a life of it's own.

Seeming impatient, Jasmine gripped the shaft and stroked. The other hand fondled my balls. The strangeness of it all kept me from coming right away. But undaunted, the mysterious woman-in-black continued to jerk me off, with only an occasional stoppage to vary her grip. It was apparent that mine was not the first penis she'd operated.

I wanted to talk, hear her voice. I wanted to see her face and her reactions. I pictured a woman as beautiful as her name, tropical and exotic. She'd have dark flowing hair and full lips that would smile with salacious pleasure. Her bare breasts, nipples taut with desire, would jiggle to the motion of her arm. The nondescript robed figure did little to visually excite me, so I concentrated on the oscillating feminine hand. When my time grew close, I closed my eyes and imagined we were lovers on a beach.

I gave no warning. The first powerful spurt must've surprised her. She stopped briefly, but then resumed with faster strokes to finish my successive spurts of ecstasy. I watched the red tipped fingers slow, when I began to soften. There was a kindness to her after-play, soothing and considerate. My semen coated her hand and she finally released me to retrieve the tissue box. With gentle attention, Jasmine cleaned us up and then sat beside me quietly with her hand on my limp cock.

After a short recovery period, I put my lips next to her ear, and whispered, "Thank you."

She nodded slightly. The hand in my lap patted and withdrew.

I put my clothes in order, and mouthed, "Your turn." She did not resist, as I pushed her backwards onto the futon.

She hadn't wasted any time with get-acquainted foreplay, so I didn't either. Pinning her beneath me, I covered her breasts with my palms. They felt extraordinary and the nipples made enticing bumps under the silky material. Stretching the fabric tight, to make the tips more pronounced, I pinched and rolled them between with my fingers.

Jasmine's hands came up to rub my arms, proof she was enjoying my efforts. In the process, the sleeves fell away, exposing them all the way to the bicep. Her skin was unblemished and the fine hairs on her forearms were blond. I'd have to revamp my fantasy woman's hair color.

My lips replaced my fingers and I did my best to suck the tender morsels, leaving wet stains to mark the spots. Somewhere, I knew there was an opening in the robe. I probed the surface in search of an entrance. In the process, no unsightly bumps were discovered on the skin underneath. Near her hip I found a pocket hole and slipped in. My fingers were greeted by warm flesh. Shifting onto my side for support, I smiled at the screen as if I were gazing into my lover's eyes, while my fingers teased around her labia.

Jasmine bent her knees and spread her legs.

With my middle finger on the brink, I bent down for a kiss and eased inside. Slowly, I pulled out and pushed in, allowing her body time to adjust. It wasn't long before she was slick enough for two fingers. My experience told me her body was ready. I put my arm under and around her back, so I could play with a breast as I thrust. Her body revealed its pleasure. The wet lips below made sounds of lust that her mouth wouldn't. When I applied my thumb to her clitoris, she arched her back and squeezed my arms.

Jasmine felt beautiful. I fought the desire to rip off her robe. When her time came, she squeaked a name, Mark, and bucked wildly against me. The thrashing robe echoed like bed linen in the tiny room. The release seemed to last minutes, followed by after shocks that resurfaced just when I though she was done. I lingered between her legs, enjoying my triumph in the adventure of cloaked sex, reveling in the dampness of her body. When her hand tugged on my wrist I guessed that was the signal the fun was over. I withdrew my shiny fingers and savored them with a sniff and a suck.

Jasmine lay there like a pile of laundry. I felt proud to have drained her so thoroughly. We shared a nice hug. But it was short lived. She unceremoniously stood up, turned off the light, unbolted the door and left.

A few minutes later, I exited the basement, walked across the lawn, and entered my building. The wall clock said 12:45. Slam-bam, it was over.

I slept soundly and was late for work the next day. Not much got accomplished. My mind wandered. I couldn't wait to go home and check my mail. I don't know what I expected -- a thank-you note, another invitation. But I was greatly disappointed with just bills.

Two weeks passed with no word. My mood soured. I became sullen. Friends noticed and voiced concern. I explained that every year around Valentines Day I got mildly depressed, which wasn't a total lie.

The storage room changed drastically over a few days time. Kids discovered it, moved in, and redecorated. They cut open the futon and littered the floor with chunks of foam rubber. Black spray paint streaked the walls. Strangely, I found solace in the fact that Jasmine wouldn't be bringing other men there.

At night, I parked outside the building and watched people go in and out. None of the women I saw fit what my hands remembered. Some were blond, but their height or weight didn't match. Even if she changed her hair color, it became clear Jasmine didn't live in building 4, so I moved around the complex to watch other buildings. A concerned citizen thought a man in a parked car looked suspicious and I had to explain to the police what I was doing. That was the end of my stakeouts.

After hours of deliberation, I discounted the notion that Jasmine was horribly disfigured. My final conclusion: If she had scars they were emotional, not physical. Also, I couldn't shake my first impression that I knew her voice. No matter what, I wanted a chance to meet the real Jasmine.

By Saturday of the third week, I'd given up hope and was resigned to never knowing the truth. It was grocery day, and I was in the cereal aisle reading labels, when I noticed a blond woman abruptly turn back, and scoot around the corner. From the glimpse, she fit my mental abstract of Jasmine and her hasty departure only added to my suspicion.

Quickly, I threw the Shredded Wheat into the basket and followed in rattling pursuit. My cart had the wobbly wheel. You know the one. It's the empty cart, abandoned like a stolen car, until someone like me, who forgot to get a good one at the front of the store, comes along and takes it out of convenience. Then it ends up back at the front of the store and the cycle starts over.

The cart made so much noise I was forced to slow down. People were staring and I didn't want to appear over zealous. It took all my patience to calmly walk four aisles, before I found the blond in 'soups'.

Standing in profile, I recognized her from the distant past, but could not put a name with the face. She ignored my approach, until I stopped and said, "Hi, Emily."

Her obvious concern was quickly masked, but all my instincts told me she was Jasmine.

"I'm sorry, you have me confused with someone else." She frowned, and nervously picked up a can of chicken noodle.

It was definitely Jasmine's voice. "I apologize for not remembering your name, but I'm sure we've met before. It's been a long time."

How long? I searched my memory of all the women since the divorce, and suddenly there she was. "Amy? It's Amy, right?"

This time, when she looked at me, the shock was undeniable. "Yes, I'm Amy. And you are?"

Good come back. Plausible deniability.

I stuck out my hand. "Peter, Peter Johnson. What's it been, like nine years?" Her hand with red fingernails took mine and I squeezed it warmly.

"I'm not sure. For the life of me, I don't remember ever meeting you."

Everything came back to me then. We'd met in a bar and talked for hours, both of us got pretty drunk. Finally, near closing time, she confessed that I reminded her of her fiancée. The guy had died in a car accident a month before their wedding date. I had been unsympathetic and only wanted to get into her pants. I vaguely remember excusing myself to go to the bathroom and then leaving. At least I didn't take advantage of her loss. I felt good about that. After my ugly divorce, I only had a couple of scruples left. "We met at Jacob's Pub, years ago. You were going through a tough time and I was rude to you. I left without saying good-bye."

Amy pulled her hand away, anxiety etched on her face.

Dropping four cans of tomato soup into her cart, she said, "Oh yeah. I vaguely remember a guy that left. Are you the guy who went to the men's room and never came back?"

"I'm afraid so. I apologize."

"Apology accepted." She pushed her cart briskly down the aisle.