Taling Dirty

... Or: If You Are Gonna Fuck Me, You Have To Talk Dirty To Me

He ran the fingers of his right hand into the left leg of her white walking shorts, out the right leg, grasped the whole of the bottom of the white walking shorts in the palm of his hand.

"We need to take off these shorts," he said.

"My! ... Are we brazen, or what?"

She was already undoing the one button, running down the zipper, lifting her hips. She ran a hand under her tee shirt; she parted her legs, granted him access.

"You like my pussy," she asked.

**_**

LJ's house faced the beach. She had a husband over in Charleston, always in court defending white collar litigants; or hobnobbing with congressmen or senators, or maybe the governor. She, a full-grown woman, in her mid-40's, looked good on his arm.

Dead-hot summers she spent in Cashiers: the North Carolina mountains. Spring and autumn were 'beach days'. She walked at dawn and dusk; volunteered with the Isle of Palms Sea Turtle watchers club. Marking and protecting the turtle nest.

The music came from her back door neighbor's place, it facing the marsh; the Intercoastal in the distance; boats of all sorts moving past, all day long. A couple from 'off-up-north', Minnesota or maybe Wisconsin -- where folk 'talked funny' -- had purchased it. Bankers up in Charlotte, they showed up only on the occasional weekend.

Now, a young man had appeared. A son, maybe. Come down from Chicago; played guitar. Was gonna be the next Les Paul, or the next Eric Clapton. He walked, sometimes, the public beach access path past her house; watched the shore birds, collected sea shells. Some days he ran on the beach, maybe up to Dewees Inlet and back.

He played back-up guitar, she learned, in a band at some beer joint over in Mt. Pleasant. Came home late at night, slept late; 2:00 AM or so. Twelve hours later, mid-afternoon, he would be out on the second floor deck endlessly working on jazz riffs: Wes Montgomery and Django Reinhardt stuff.

She studied him. An athlete, she decided. Maybe a swimmer, or a tennis player. A couple of years older than her son; a cadet over at The Citadel. He does have a nice ass, she noted. Long legs, long fingers... and a nice ass.

She found and bought, at the local bakery, two dozen macadamia nut macaroons. She took them out of the box, threw it away. She put the macaroons into a sweet-grass basket; covered them with a white and red checkered tea towel. He didn't walk past her house that day; just played jazz on his guitar; went off at sun down to entertain drinkers and dancers over in Mt. Pleasant.

The next day, the second day, he did make the short trek to the beach. Put his 'things' down near the end of the access path; ran off up the beach. She intercepted him, ambushed him on his return.

"Hey," she said. "I'm LJ Sawyer. I live here; we're neighbors."

She handed him the basket of goodies. "Welcome to my beach."

"Anders," he said, "Anders Christensen."

"You could come and sit on my second floor deck Anders Christensen, see the ocean while you work on that jazz stuff," she said. "Even go up on the widow's watch; get a really good look."

He lifted the checkered tea towel, checked out the cookies. "... and what might I get a really good look at?"

"Why, all that sand and water. Some birds; any number of different kinds of birds.... Kids building sand castles," she added. "Their mamas working on a sun tan..."

Anders Christensen ran his eyes up and down the length of her; from her open toed sandals up to the wide brimmed straw hat.

"I might just look at you," he said. "Might not watch the kids, their mamas."

He came over later, knocked on the door. A bottle of white, a bottle of red, a couple of cokes. "I don't know which you prefer," he said. An acoustic guitar rested at his feet, leaned against the door frame.

"I think I'll have a pale ale," she said; gave him a quizzical look.

"Pale ale it is," he said. "We'll save these for another time."

He handed her the two bottles of wine. LJ stood sideways in the door, gestured for him to 'come through'.

"Beer's in the fridge.... There's an opener already out there." She pointed toward the 'ocean' end of the house. "Bring me one."

They probed each other's past; their respective stations in life:

"No. Not tennis or swimming," he told her. "Crew. A four man boat; Purdue University."

She informed him straight away:

"I have a husband, you know... he's too busy; almost never comes over.... Unless he has a client, wants to 'show off'."

There were pauses, silences from time to time. Neither of then felt pressed to 'fill up the time' with conversation.

Then:

"... what is that brown and white bird?" Anders asked. "I know sandpipers, I don't know that one."

"A plover," she answered. "We almost lost them; now they're making a come-back."

Or:

"This 'joint' where you play; what is the music?"

"Western swing mostly," Anders answered. "Some 'straight' country. Lot's of swing dancers here-abouts."

"But you play Wes Montgomery, some Django -- jazz."

He laughed, "... man's got to make a living; play what the customers want.... Some day I'm off to Chicago, maybe even New York. Play in a real jazz club."

And later:

He took a deep swallow of the pale ale. "This is good shit," he said; studying the bottle.

"Park Circle," she told him. "Owner's an acquaintance.... Keeps me supplied."

Finally, the sun fully behind them, going down:

"I gotta go." He picked up the guitar.

"But you didn't play," she said; admonished him. "Didn't even pick up that instrument."

"Next time. There will be a next time." It could have been a question -- or a declaration.

**_**

The next time:

He didn't come over the next day, just waved at her when he left to go and play back-up guitar in a country and western club. He did, however, knock on her door the following day; a six-pack of already cold Park Circle IPA in hand.

They made it to the second floor deck that overlooked the beach, the ocean. But just barely. They paid scant attention to the sandpipers, the plovers; did not notice the kids building sand castles, or their mamas working on their suntans.

He stood behind her, trapped her between his body and the waist high railing. He stroked the frosty cold bottle across her bare midriff; the crop-top almost showing the swell of her breast below the flair of the pale linen fabric. She pushed her buttocks back against his growing hardness. He reached for the two buttons that held her top together.

"No," she said; stopped him. "You have to talk dirty to me first. Then you can play with me, fuck me.... You do know how to talk dirty?"

Anders stopped the motion of the frosted bottle across the front of her body.

"Damn, Miss LJ -- Jesus would send my grandma down from heaven, have her beat me with a yard broom if I were to talk dirty to a lady!"

She laughed, took his hand in hers; re-started the motion of the bottle across the upper edges of her erogenous zone.

"Jesus ain't got nothing to do with this," she said, slipping into an uncharacteristic 'country' accent. "And, I might be a lady over in the city; out here on the beach I'm just a 'full grown woman'. Maybe even a little bit of a bitch.... You want to undo those buttons, you got to talk dirty to me."

"Ah... god damn-shit-mother fucker," he said; like a line out of a play.

"You have to do better than that," she said.

She took his other hand, raised it to her mouth; sucked his thumb, then each finger.

"You have to call me names... Tell me what you are gonna do to me."

"Fuck you, Miss LJ.... I'm gonna fuck you."

"Stop fuckin' calling me 'MISS' LJ!" She smacked him -- a hard smack, but not a wickedly hard smack. "You can't 'do things' to me and call me 'MISS'!... I'm a fuckin' full-grown woman, not your grandma's friend."

"You a wench?" Anders ventured. "A hussy?"

"Oh; I'm worse than that," she told him. "Might be a 'tart', even a 'floozy'." She pushed back against his phallus; moved against him.

"You a bitch, a whore, a slut," he said; getting bolder.

"A bitch, a slut maybe. Not a whore," she told him. "... I'm free, but I ain't easy." She pushed his hand down lower, moved the bottle so that it rolled across her mons.

"And: just exactly what are you planning to do to me?" she asked. "You fuckin' me."

"Gonna call you Miz Jez," he said; pushed the bottle ( it getting warmer by now! ) between her legs; forcing her thighs farther apart. "Jezebel. -- You got a mirror, Miz Jez? Gonna hold it so you can watch when I play with that fine snatch between your legs. Run this bottle up and down, watch that pussy open up; just asking for it."

"Might be something else I wanna see you holding, rubbing up and down my kitty."

"Rub my knob on you -- get it wet, roll it around on that peach pit."

She suddenly said, "... play with my tits."

She unbuttoned the two buttons, opened her twin girls up to his hands; his long supple fingers. She leaned her head back onto his shoulder, pushed her hair against his jaw line.

"You ever come out here naked, Miz Jez?... Come out here, watch the boys on the beach. Play with yourself? Your fingers up in that muff -- maybe use a coke bottle."

"Don't be 'common', Anders.... Only school girls and 'trailer trash' use coke bottles. A woman 'of means' would have a granite dildo, or maybe crystal."

"Oh --" he said. He had never had occasion to consider a hand carved stone dildo; or one made of crystal. "... and you have one?"

LJ laughed, "I have a collection, my dear. Onyx, stainless steel, an ebony one.... I'll show you sometime."

"Wanna watch you use 'em, Miz Jez; see what you do; that thing up inside that pussy. Watch you slidin' it in and out."

"Another day," she told him. "Today it's just those fingers -- fingers and that rod you packin'. -- Be wantin' the real thing today."

"God damn you got good tits," he had turned her around. Still holding the smooth glass bottle between her spread leg with one hand; with the other he pinched a nipple between thumb and fore finger.

"You should have seen 'em when I was twenty," she said, thrust her upper body forward. "You wanted me when I was twenty."

"I want you now," he told her, his voice heavy with lust. Caught a nipple between his teeth, ran his tongue back and forth across it.

She pulled his face tighter against her mummeries; made bad-ass woman sounds deep in her throat.

"I was something to see when I was twenty... the real 'queen bee'."

"You something to see now, Jez."

Anders dropped the Park Circle bottle, was vaguely aware that it rolled underneath the deck railing, fell to the ground below. He ran the fingers of his right hand into the left leg of her white walking shorts, out the right leg, grasped the whole of the bottom of the white walking shorts in the palm of his hand.

"We need to take off those shorts," he said. "I wanna see that bare ass; look at you between your legs."

"My," she said, "we're getting better at this talking dirty thing.... Maybe there's hope. Turn you into a regular guttersnipe; have you talking pure filth.... My; are we brazen or what?"

She ran a hand under her shirt; she parted her legs, granted him access.

He undid the one button on LJ's shorts, slide the zipper down; reached inside. She wore, he discovered, no panties. She shimmed her hips, causing the shorts to slide down her legs; puddle up at her feet.

"You like my pussy," she asked. "Feel me, Anders; do things to me."

She moved one foot up to the second of the three deck rails; opening her crotch to his hands.

He lay his hand flat across her already open and wet pussy. "I got a handful of hot, wet woman, Miz Jez. A handful 'a wicked woman cunt.... Gonna lick it now, see what it taste like, what you taste like."

He lifted her, sat her on the deck rail. Kneeling between her knees Anders, with thumb and forefinger, parted the pedals of her opening; running his tongue over his parted lips he visually took in the pinkness of her.

"You jus' a pussy," he said; "a snatch, a hungry-ass cunt."

She caught him -- his head, his face, his mouth, his lips, his tongue -- between her knees. Grasping a handful of hair she brought him forward to her pussy, her snatch, her hungry-ass cunt. She moved against him, covering him with her already wetness; covered his mouth, his nose, his chin with her precious secretions.

"Lick my muff!... Tongue test me!" She dug her heels into his back, left marks on his shoulders with her fingernails.

She screamed curse words into the afternoon air: "Nom de dieu, merde, baiser-baiser... leche-moi! Lick me!"

A mama down on the sand, working on her suntan, looked up to see if the screaming woman might be in destress; smiled, turned over onto her front -- ran a hand down inside her bikini bottoms. Watched the screaming woman on the balcony rail; watched the man whose face was trapped between her legs.

"You have to lose those jeans, Anders.... Let's see what you been hiding."

She used both hands: unbuttoned, unzipped. She pushed the denim down to his knees; freeing his manhood.

"Oh, my!... Perfect."

LJ wrapped fingers around the shaft. "... A hefty one! I like 'em hefty. Look! I can barely reach around him! And he curves up; look how he curves up!... He's gonna suit me fine; gonna hit my 'spot'!"

"... and, a mouth full. Gonna fill my mouth just fine!"

"Gag on my dick," Anders told her; pulled her head down to his crotch.

**_**

Cocks, pricks, dicks, peters, tools: she was well versed. At twenty-two, her just graduated from Sarah Lawrence. Then she had had her first 'real teacher'; a Greek sailor.

"You're hanging out with sailors? Common sailors?!" her friends had hooted.

"This 'sailor' has racing yachts," she said, smiled. Left them guessing.

He was older; did business with her father. Something to do with importing olive oil.

"Be nice to him," her daddy had said; them entertaining a group of 'shipping' folk. "We're trying to close a deal with his family."

He hadn't intended his daughter to be THAT nice!

"I'm taking the boat out tomorrow," he had said; them standing apart from the gathered group. "You must come."

She didn't know why she went. Maybe it was the swarthy eastern Mediterranean skin; maybe it was the thick and curly black hair -- maybe it was the Greek-god chiseled face. But, it turned out that it was his cock; and what he did with it. What he did to her. Anticipation of his cock was why she went.

"Shem Creek, six AM," he had said. There had been no room left for discussing meeting at 'Shem Creek, six AM'. She could be there or not be there, but the Greek god of a guy had left not possibility of discussion.

She was there; well before the appointed hour. The sky to the east just beginning to turn red and gold.

"You came," he said. "... bet myself ten bucks you'd be here."

He handed her a canvas bag: several bottles of water, a thermos of black coffee, two crab meat 'po-boys'. Helped her step down onto the boat deck.

He studied the navigation chart. "We'll make a run up to McClellanville on the Waterway; come back out on the open ocean."

Boat traffic was sparse on the Intercoastal. Fishermen were already out to their favorite spots; pleasure craft people were still having breakfast -- they would be another hour or so getting out onto the water.

"Are you a 'birder'?" he asked; Wild Dunes, the fancy vacation homes, off to the right. "The birds are different here.... Not like the Aegean."

"No, but I'm gonna be." LJ had decided, just at that moment, that she would become a 'birder'. Get to know all the Low Country birds; become an authority.

"What do you have that we don't have?" she asked.

"Grebes, Skua's... the gulls are different; smaller."

Across the marsh from Awendaw, the warm of the day getting started, the Greek sailor said. "If we were in the water off Mykonos or Miolos you would take off the top; turn your 'girls' to the sun.... Women there do that, you know, take off their tops."

Taken by surprise, but not offended, she just said, "... Oh!"

"You could do it here.... Take off your top." He held her eyes with his, did not let her look away.

She unbuttoned, removed the light long sleeved linen shirt; reached behind her neck, untied the upper halter strap. She watched, they both watched, it fall away; revealing her bosom, her nipples. Looking back at him, LJ found and pulled the tied knot at her back; came away with the top crumpled in her hand.

The Greek sailor grinned, "You have a really nice set of tits," he said.

She stood, took a step toward him.

"No," he said. "Just sit; I want to just look at you. Watch you for a while."

She sat, looked over the marsh toward Bulls Bay; felt his eyes on her. She fought the urge to cross her arms over her chest.

The 25 ft. Coast Guard Response Boat came up behind them, moving at maybe twice their speed. LJ moved to cover herself, turn her back to the approaching vessel.

"No," he said. "Wave to them when they come by. 'Boat rule' when you come to Pyrgos: never change who you are when other people, other boats, come by."

He moved the craft out of the channel center, give the USCG boat room to pass. LJ shaded her eyes against the rising sun with one hand, waved to the crew with the other. The helmsman gave her a thumbs up, shouted to his two partners. They blew a 'blast' on their speakers; stood and waved back. Sped off toward McClellanville.

She turned to the Greek sailor; grinned. "That was fun," she said. "I never knew. That's fun.... Like they were visually 'tweaking' me; those boys touching my nipples."

She sat up straighter; pushed her chest, her tits out toward him.

"I'm feeling left out here," LJ said. "My boobs are getting a sun tan and you've still got all your clothes on."

"We can fix that," he said.

He untied, slid his broad shorts down past his knees; unbuttoned his shirt. The semi-hard penis hung between the tails of the now open shirt. It was the perfect cock; she intuitively knew. The skin was the color of ground nutmeg; darker than the rest of him. Even in it's current state, LJ saw, there was a noticeable upward curve just at the end of the shaft.

'Not the longest I've seen,' she thought; 'but the girth of it!... I wonder if my hand and fingers can reach around it?! Will it 'fit' inside me?'

She stared; almost an open-mouth stare. Ran her tongue across her upper lip.

The Greek sailor laughed. "Surely you've seen pricks before," he said.

"It's a cock," she said. "Junior high boys have pricks; this is truly a cock." She reached to touch it, touch him.

"Later," he said. "You can have it, play with it, later.... I will teach you how."

She already knew how; at least she thought she knew how.

At Harbor River they did the hard right hand turn, toward open water. Somewhere between the mouth of the river and blue water the sailor cut the engines, put out the sea-anchor. "... get naked," he told her. "I want to see you naked."

Then: "Talk dirty to me," he told her. "Surely you can talk dirty."

She looked at him; studied his eyes, his mouth. Saw no evil there; only mischievousness and lust.

"Oh, my grandfather was a prolific curser; unabashed," LJ told him. "He laughed, patted me on the head when I said 'shit' or 'fuck'."

Then: "Baise-moi," she watched him, mouthed the words; "... make me cum like a whore. Fuck me."

"Je vais te basier... tu es ma chienne, ma salope," he said. "Be my morning bitch."

He lifted her, sat her on the captain's chair. Spread her legs, stood between her knees.

"I'm your bitch, your chienne," she said, watching his eyes. "Your slut, la putain."

"Never be a whore," the told her. "Be wicked, be a bitch, be a slut... Never be a putain.

... Take me in your hand. Nikos is his name. I want to see your hand around Nikos."