Skin Jazz

The email notification chimes on my phone, distracting me from dinner. It's only a platter from the twenty-four hour Mexican joint down the road, so I wipe my fingers on the napkin in front of me, ready to read. Between bites of carnitas and corn tortilla, I tap on the email app to find another note from Maryland.

Tombstone—

I reread your email from yesterday. The one where you mentioned Duke Ellington, Count Basie, Ella Fitzgerald, and other jazz legends. Do you like the other jazz vocalists too?

The three sentence email now came across as normal behavior. At first I found it weird that a quick elevator ride with an outside vendor last week somehow turned into a string of email conversations about music. Now, seven days later, Maryland and I keep tossing little notes at each other like school kids.

Maryland—

I'm always listening to Billie Holiday, Etta James, Dinah Washington, and more. But really, I like the soulful stuff best. It's got to bring the mood—like Ellington's Blues in Orbit, or The Swingers get the Blues Too. Blues in Orbit is Ellington's unsung masterpiece.

I don't taste the carnitas anymore. I only wonder why Maryland is emailing me a week later. She's not even a vendor for my department. She asked for my card and I gave it to her. Every day since, we revisit our conversation about Guns N Roses and Chinese Democracy or talk about some other band in an email.

Two minutes after pressing send, I receive another email from her.

Tombstone—

Are you feeling lonely tonight? Those tunes . . .

I grunt, my attention now on high alert. Does she think I'm hitting on her? Those tunes might speak to loneliness. Or making out. Or both. For me, I know which from the tingling in my pants.

Maryland—

I think I'm in good company with my carnitas platter, a beer, and Ella's Cry Me a River.

In my head I'm typing the words with sarcasm, totally ignoring the possibility of Maryland mistaking my tone. Or maybe she doesn't care. I don't. Her question finally came out as something real, something where people could connect, and not some superficial conversation between two strangers.

I send the email off without thinking much about it. Once it's gone, I stuff my mouth, sip at my beer—do anything to get my mind off her asking if I'm lonely. When women asked me that question in the past, I always associated it with making out. Sex. Booty calls. Surely she isn't thinking about a booty call, right?

Notifications ring in my ears. I try not to grab it right away, not to come across as excited by responding too early, but curiosity gets me and I check it immediately.

Tombstone—

I think it's okay to say it out loud. I'm lonely tonight. Want to come over? Here's the address. This message will self-destruct in ten . . . nine . . .

Copying the address onto a sticky note takes less than a minute. Showering takes five. Dressing two. In ten I'm in the car driving to her house. I send an email on my way out the door to let her know it'll take me twenty minutes to get there.

I guess I'm lonelier than I thought.

Streets pass, and my knee bounces, and I focus on the passing streetlights, trying to think of anything other than what might happen when I get to Maryland's place. Sure my hormones are raging. Sure I shouldn't rush off hoping for some action when I barely know the woman.

I ignore all the things I should or shouldn't do. I tell myself I'm going over there to keep myself from eating alone or heading out to the gym way too late in hopes of grabbing a Stairmaster, or even to keep myself from flipping channels with nothing to watch.

There's a place on the street in front of her house, so I take it. A deep breath later, and I'm out of the car, heading to the door. She opens up before I get to the porch.

"I saw you pull up," she says, and hugs me, pulls me in tight, like people do with close friends, not those they've only met in an elevator one time. To my surprise, I squeeze her back. "Come into the kitchen, I've got a few things to put away."

She releases me, and because she's quite a bit shorter than me, I get a glimpse of her cleavage exploding from her v-neck white shirt. A shade of black hints at the bra underneath. The other day her business attire hid any indication of how much cleavage she had. Now, with her turning away from me, I'm hoping for another taste, another sighting or her skin, but she points at the stool at the bar.

"Sit," she says. "Why'd you say yes to coming by?"

I half lean on the stool. She bends over to take a casserole dish out, and I check out her ass—curvaceous, tight, and now I'm thinking about smacking those cheeks. Wondering if they jiggle. Or if she likes to scream when some guy spanks her.

"I guess I didn't realize it, but I was lonelier than I thought tonight. And seeing that we can talk music, I'd thought I'd take a chance."

"Good answer," she says. Now she's facing me, her eyes daring me to look away. The brown skin of her cleavage tries to drag me in, but I don't take the bait. "I thought," she continues, "here's this white guy talking about Ella and Ellington and all the greats; this could be interesting. What would you have done if I hadn't invited you over?"

"Honestly," I reply, "I'd probably be going to the gym, or flipping channels on tv. But really I wanted a massage."

Her lips curl into a coy smile. It's a sexy look for her. I'm lucky the island-bar is between us, otherwise she could look down and see the bulge in my pants.

"Maybe you can still get that massage. But come with me first."

She grabs my hand, and leads me to the next room. The lights are off except for the blue light of a stereo in the corner. Ellington's Blue in Orbit fills the room. Between the music and her smile, I know she wants the ambience, that she wants to set the mood. I pull her close, my hands at her waist, and we dance for a minute. My head is at her neck, hot breath slipping across her skin.

"Am I the kind of woman you'd approach in public?" she whispers.

My mind races for an answer. Would I approach her in public? Ask her out?

"Honestly it depends." I say, banking on the truth to save me. "Grocery store, maybe. Work never. Gym, only if approaching you doesn't come off creepy."

She laughs, deep, throaty, sexy.

"Good answer. Gotta stay professional at work. Which is why I only asked you for your card."

She kisses me then, her lips tenderly grazing mine. It's so slow, tender, and passionate, I shiver. My hands find the small of her back, knead gently. My cock sprouts a bit in my pants. Every part of me tingles.

When we part I ask, "Why invite me over? Why this?"

"I didn't expect it, but then you started talking about the jazz greats, and here we are. Talking about those guys tells me you can be sensual."

This time I kiss her and our tongues meet. She's already moaning softly. It turns me on, but it's her hands clawing at my shirt, pulling it over my head, that really excites me. Her skin is cold, but the contrast compared to my hot skin makes it more exciting.

"I went to massage therapy school once upon a time. Let's do this. See if we can play some skin jazz."

Deft finger undo my belt buckle and jeans. They fall to the floor. She slips a finger in the elastic waistband of my hybrid boxer-briefs, the tip playing with my pubic hair. After a minute, she pulls those off too. Warm breath on my neck sends me reeling, and a slight moan escapes my lips. Then she grabs my semi-hard cock, and strokes it once, twice.

I shudder.

"This is a nice size already," she says. "Let's take this to the bedroom."

She leads me by my cock up the stairs and into a bedroom. There's enough moonlight shining through the window to see everything clearly. A solitary bed fills the room. No dressers, wardrobes, tables—nothing else except the bed. She stops at the edge and pushes me onto the mattress.

"Lie down on your stomach."

I do as I'm commanded and get comfortable on her bed. There's some shuffling and some movement somewhere behind me and I can tell she's undressing. I see her jeans and shirt land somewhere to my right. I resist the urge to look at her naked body. The sounds of a plastic bottle snapping open reach me, and I'm a little shocked when she pours the oil on my back. When she starts kneading my muscles, I instantly relax. The firm pressure on my shoulders, neck, and lower back soon has me dozing. It tingles when she massages my ass cheeks and legs. Tingles in ways that have me wanting her to turn me over and stroke my cock. Even so, she only works those parts for so long and I'm almost asleep when she motions for me to turn onto my back.

She presses on my pectorals and runs a hand through my chest hair.

"I love a man with chest hair," she says and slips her fingers through it again.

"Your hands feel fantastic," I reply. "I think you're an expert at the skin jazz." Instead of falling asleep again, my cock stretches out, not quite hard, but definitely increasing in size. Every time she rubs her oily hand across my stomach, it jumps and falls flat again.

"I better," she says. "I spent enough to learn how to do it."

Her hands move slowly down my stomach, twist through my pubic hair, and then land on my thighs. In those few seconds, I'm holding my breath, trying not to moan before she's even really done anything. She squeezes, just enough to send some tingles to my crotch. My cock jumps, then falls back to its semi-hard position again.

"It looks like our little friend is having fun."

She grabs my cock from where she's kneeling, bends over, and takes the tip in her mouth.

"Oh, yes." The words come unbidden, sparked by her wet mouth and tender lips.

I watch her nod, her lips now locked on the mushroom head of my dick. It's so sexy, and feels so good I close my eyes. Her mouth is slowly traveling down my shaft, her tongue swirling on the underside. I grab the back of her head and run my fingers through her hair. She comes up and says, "There's the pre-cum I love so much."

She hops back on my dick and I push her head farther down. This time she laps at it energetically, and she moans while she's sucking and licking. My cock tingles and is now fully hard in her mouth. She stops and spits on the head, rubs it once or twice and goes down on me again.

"That's fucking fantastic," I say. "You've got great lips."

She nods, her eyes never leaving mine. That turns me on even more, and makes me want to give the woman a bit of pleasure for herself. I pull her off me, and say, "Lay down on your back."

I see the bottle of oil at the side of the bed. It's a tall bottle, with a red label on it. I skip over reading it and go right to pouring some between her breasts. The scent of strawberry wafts from the bottle. The oil slips between her massive breasts and dribbles to her side. I run my hand, with some oil, across her stomach, down to her thighs, and to her calves. I start there and slowly inch my way up, working the oil into her skin. She twitches when I get back to her thighs, the movement a sure sign she's loving what I'm doing.

"Is this stuff edible?" I ask.

She nods her head.

My hands are working the top of her thighs now, slowly moving towards her snatch. A definite temptation. For now I only want to tease her, so I settle for that. With a quick flick of my tongue, I lick the inside of her leg, close to her now dripping pussy, but not on it. I see the juice leaking from her. She squirms.

I lick the inside of her other leg.

She squirms again. Then, with a hand on each thigh, I lick as close to her pussy as I dare without ever touching it.

"Please, just go down on me!" she says.

My thumbs are rubbing her thighs, and my tongue is tasting the strawberry flavor of the oil. I ignore her cries, kissing my way up her legs, to her hips and then up her stomach towards her breasts. She's breathing hard now, and when I get to the curvature of her boob, almost under-boob, she latches onto my head with her arms and starts quivering.

I can't move, so I clamp my lips onto her ribcage start sucking, working hard to give her a hickey. My fingers lightly flitter across her skin.

"Dammit, Tombstone!" she says between breaths, "Nobody has given me an orgasm with touching my genitalia in a long time."

"To be fair, I got really close to your female bits." My words are true, I got really close, but I understand the sentiment. The right touch is fantastic. "I'm glad you liked it. And I can do it again."

Her eyes go wide, and she nods quickly. "Can you? Are you sure you're okay going that long without penetration?"

For her answer, I kiss the side of her neck, letting my hot breath kiss her skin. She's already moaning by the time my mouth nibbles at her ear. This time my hands are rubbing her shoulders, then my fingers trail down her arms, between her breasts until my thumb begins to knead her gently where her pelvis meets her hip. Another moan sends me trailing kisses down her neck until I'm almost to her cleavage.

"That's so fucking good," she says. "You should teach a class."

My cock jumps at her words, and my mouth skips her breasts and goes to the same spot at her hip opposite my thumb. Again her arms clamp around my head, pinning it against her body, and she quivers and screams. "Oh, Yes! Yes! YES!"

I give her a moment to breathe. Her eyes are closed and I'm pretty proud of my work. Giving a woman an orgasm turns me on and this is the second one of the evening. My cock is rigid and at attention. She sees it when she opens her eyes.

She licks her lips.

"Wait here" she says. She gets up and starts heading to the door, but I can't stand it anymore.

I follow her towards the door, and before she gets to the entry way she hears me and turns around. I push her against the wall and kiss her, my hands now groping passionately—her breasts, her ass. Our tongues press hard—we're almost fighting one another with desire. She reaches down, clamps a hand around my cock, and tries to guide me inside her.

"No," I say, breaking away.

I pull her around so her back is to me. I push her against wall, her breasts splaying outward, her wrists trapped. I have them pinned to her side. She sticks her ass out just enough, and I grind against her, my hard cock pressed against her ass cheeks, before slipping my cock inside her dripping pussy. I grunt the minute it slides in, her hot wetness sending me into ecstasy.

We're both moaning now. I grunt. She's pushing against the wall for more leverage, and I've got her hips in my hands. The wall thumps with each of my thrusts. With each thrust I go faster, and her screams get higher pitched. I'm breathing hard, just trying to hold on, to keep from shooting my load all over the place, enjoying her sounds, loving how she's making me feel. Our oily skin makes it difficult to get leverage, but we manage.

"I'm about to have another orgasm. Thrust harder," she shouts. "Give it to me good!"

Her words are too much, I know my orgasm is coming too, so I thrust harder. I grab her arms for leverage and pound again and again.

"I know you want to go, so do it!" she commands. "You know how a good skin jazz tune ends!"

It's all I need. I try to hold back, but it's like waves of water in a hurricane. It crashes through me and I'm spurting with each motion. She's screaming and quivering, and I'm grunting, my legs shaking, threatening to send me to the ground, sweat dripping from my forehead. The orgasm is so intense and my head swimming in so much ecstasy I'm only slightly aware of her third orgasm of the night.

We fall back on the bed in a culmination of heat, oily bodies, and sweat. She cuddles up next to me and we lie there, catching our breath. Her eyes are closed. She looks so peaceful I don't want to interrupt. So I close my eyes.

Listening for every sound in the room, I hear the music floating in from downstairs. Maryland's stereo is still on. Ella's singing Cry Me a River.

And I realize neither one of us are lonely tonight.