I saw her sitting in the coffee shop, lost in a book while holding a big, oversized coffee mug in her tiny little hands.
It's funny how I find myself drinking coffee when it's ninety degrees out and so humid you can hardly breathe. But somehow, that cup of java keeps me going, the rich, acid-bitter taste grounding me, blocking out all the crap of a lousy day in what has got to be one of the worst weeks of all time.
I'd seen her here a few times before, always on her own, reading a book. I'm usually just having some down-time myself but a few weeks ago I realized it was like she was becoming familiar to me, like she was a part of the shop or something. If she wasn't there, it just didn't seem like the place was the same -- we were the two long-term regulars there who never talked to each other. She'd be reading a book, I'd be reading the paper or looking through some work or just lost in thought. On our own.
I looked more closely at her fingers. I hadn't realized just how tiny and delicate they were but the mug was absolutely huge in her hands. She's petite but not one of those waif-like, model types you could snap in two with a good hug. Her slender, narrow waist flared out to the kind of hips and ass that grace the classic Latina body, and although her shoulders were slightly rounded, as she read, I noticed her breasts had a nice slope to them... as if on cue, she stretched and I really saw them for the first time, full and enticing.
I suddenly realized I was doing a full-out ogle. Not the kind of thing I usually do but there's something about her that was intriguing to me. Maybe it was the way she was perched on her stool like a little bird, delicate and precise. Or maybe it was that I'd had a long bitch of a week and I needed something to distract me. Her focus on the book was so intense I gave myself permission to enjoy the view -- her dark hair, cut short, her skin pale but with that healthy glow that always makes me think of cream.
I started to wonder what she would smell like up-close, what it would feel like to wrap my arms around her waist and crush her body against mine, to feel the swell of her breasts flattening against my chest, what it would be like to cup my hands against her hips and pull her to me, her breath hot and moist on my neck.
"You're staring."
I was totally nailed. She hadn't looked up from her book but she knew I was staring at her while thinking about doing terrific, naughty things to her body. My cock, which had been stirring while my mind wandered, jumped as if it was caught red-handed too and now I had to face the music. Well, what the hell... it HAD been a bitch of a week.
"Yeah, I am. Couldn't help it, really."
"And why is that?"
"Well, the way I figure it, we already know each other. I mean, you're in here just about every time I am, right?"
"Well, probably. I'm here a lot..."
And so, after months of sharing the same space for a few hours at a time, we talked. The fact that I spend ten hours a day with a telephone essentially attached to my ear while making deals and negotiating contracts with corporate types who don't have the morals and common sense God gave a wombat actually seemed to interest her.
It turned out she was an artist -- which shouldn't have surprised me, since her clothes were usually offbeat yet stylish and she always had this intense focus while reading.
She explained to me she worked in multiple forms and combined the spiritual, the mundane and the sexual into her work. Although I do appreciate art and every once in a while have even been known to go to museums, I confessed I didn't know much about it but I'd had a few religious experiences in combining the sexual and the mundane.
She laughed, raised an eyebrow in a way that made me wonder whether it was an appraisal or a challenge and asked me if that was the best pick-up line I had.
"No," I said, "It's just that I'm an incorrigible flirt and it's been a long week. But what you're working on sounds pretty cool. Is your stuff in any of the galleries in town?"
She told me no, which was a real shame -- I'd hoped to see what her interpretation of combining the sexual and the mundane looked like.
However, she informed me that she happened to live right around the corner. "Would you like to see some of my work there?"
I stepped through the door of her third-floor walk-up and was stunned.
Her place was a complete frenzy of work and life, a tiny, cramped studio with all kinds of pieces and works in progress all over the place. Materials, clothes, canvases, fabric, paints, shoes, tiles, brushes -- a complete artistic clutter. The only neat space in the chaos was the bed, which I noticed was tidily made and totally free of mess. I turned back to the art, and was struck by the power of it. There were beautiful figures and brilliant colors. I got very quiet as I looked at the pieces, taking in the powerful images which they evoked with this kind of heightened sensuality, as if each work was, in its turn, seducing me.
For twenty minutes or so we didn't say a word as she showed me sculptures and paintings and puppets and jewelry and figures and mosaics. She just stood silently and watched me take it all in.
I suddenly realized I could feel my pulse quickening and my cock which hadn't really given up on those wandering thoughts in the coffee shop, was now obviously hard, lengthening down my thigh. She didn't seem to notice this, though -- her eyes were on my face, watching me experience her work.
Suddenly, she was in my arms and I'm not sure how it happened, but her lips were on mine. Her tongue snaked into my mouth, flickering against the tip of mine, teasing, inviting as my arms encircled her waist. I could feel my heart beat faster as she pressed her body to mine and I knew she could feel my hardness against her thigh. Her hands raked through my hair as I hungrily kissed her back and began to hear these little whimpers.
She was as completely into this as I was.
