The Soul Singer

As torrid as our love affair began, I wish I could say it all started on a stormy night. But that would be a lie. And lying is one thing I promised not to do in the telling of our tale. He was a soul singer at a dark seedy nightclub called Green Eyes on Darling Street. Olive skin with the blackest eyes that night can give; his voice was like rose petals strewn down the hall leading to the bed and placed all over the bed sheets. And I loved him at first sight.

Nonsense, some would say, but I disagree. I think it was the half filled bottle of original Old Spice sitting on the piano that made my heart skip, because when I think of Old Spice, I think of a swimming hole with a rope on the tree at the edge of the hole. The image is warm and fuzzy, as comforting as the scent of Old Spice on a lapel.

I was over at Scotty’s Pub. It was a slow Monday night and no one was there but me and Scotty. He was bored and I was thirsty. So I entertained him by ordering shots of Tequila. I was trying to drink the vision of a perfectly blonde pubis out of my mind. Montano, the hot Italian that I had been living with for three months was prone to carnal adventures that excluded me. This one was played out in our bed with a young leggy blonde, whom happened to be my secretary. He face was buried in her trimmed crotch. She was squirming and groaning, working harder at climaxing than I had ever seen her do at the office. I would sack her but he beat me to it. I threw every pot and pan I had in the house at him, until he and the blonde skulked out, half-dressed. The pleasure of burning all his belongings in the incinerator did little to ease the memory.

Scotty decided to close early that night. Where was I to go? Scotty’s had the best Tequila money could buy. He called me a cab and made me promise to go home. But as the cab drove down Darling Street, I caught the sight of sultry neon lights flashing in an arrow shape that pointed to a painted sign which read, “Soul Night.” I have soul. So I stopped the driver and tipped him heavily so that he would return in an hour.

The oppressive air was laden with smoke and stale perfume. I fought my way to the bar and ordered another shot of Tequila. The last six had worn off. Muttered conversations and laughter that sounded like pacca bells or pecca bells or pica bells…hell, the laughter sounded like bells and I’ll leave it at that—filled the small bar. But when fingers danced over ivory, the oppressive air parted and a light beamed from a little stage in the center of the joint.

He sang, as if he knew every note that hid in my heart. I forgot the Tequila and everything around me, as he performed just for me. Oh brother, I’m waxing poetry, but it’s the essence of the moment that I’m trying to capture. I should have been standing there wrapped in a feather boa and swinging a long looped gold chain from my finger in time with his melody. Just like in one of those old black and white movies—romance and intrigue in the making. On the wall behind the bar was a flyer taped crookedly, announcing that Wednesday was Soul Night with Jarred Silver.

But in truth, the crowd did part as he made his way to the bar, after his first set. To my embarrassment, he stood next to me and ordered water. I had no makeup on and my hair was a mess. My jeans were torn at the knees and I was conscientious of my bra-less state. The tank top I wore advertised it. When he smiled and gave me a nod, I shyly smiled and moved my arm too quickly, causing the Tequila to spill and drench him and me.

Maybe it’s true about being baptized by fire, because the stinging of the liquor seemed to burn away the pain and humiliation of Montano’s philandering. It also awoken a stirring in my soul that I find hard to explain right now. When Jarred Silver grabbed some napkins that were on the bar and began to dry me off first instead of himself, I realized that I wasn’t immune to another man’s touch like I dreamt I was.

I apologized profusely, but he wouldn’t hear it. His next move paralyzed me. He took off his black jacket and wrapped it around me. Then he asked the bartender to find me a seat, somewhere close to the stage. I was carted off and secured at a table where when he looked out into the audience, I was the face he saw.

He sang to me. I saw glimpses of Heaven not meant for the living. I felt songs that only sirens knew centuries before and in each clef and note, I lived there—in his voice. The comforting scent of Old Spice teased my nose, telling me not to ignore the way I felt. Life was too short and I needed this…this…feeling of being alive or I would die inside forever.

Once the last set was over, I didn’t move. Instead I watched the masse of women flood the stage, to get autographs and slip him notes on lipstick stained napkins with their phone numbers on them. He was courteous but not encouraging to them. Ever so often, he would smile at me. Whatever doubts were lurking dissipated. After a short while, he excused himself and came to where I was sitting. He said one word, “Come.” I never hesitated; I took his warm hand—his gentle smooth warm hand and let him lead me out of there.

The street was deserted. I suddenly remembered my cab, but more than an hour had past and I knew he probably didn’t wait five minutes. We didn’t speak as he led me a few blocks down and then a few more over towards the marina. A lone sailboat was docked beside a huge yacht, which had lights blazing and heavy metal music blaring. He guided me onboard the sailboat. I never questioned him, not even as we went below deck into the cabin which was surprising sound proof.

Sitting on the primly made bed, I watched him light candles. The cabin was sudden ablaze in golden light. I hoped it softened my non-glamorous image. Since it was warm inside the tight cabin, I took off his coat and offered it to him with thanks. Shyness rode me and awe mastered me. Why had he brought me here, this maestro of soul?

His lips on my shoulder startled me. They trailed up my neck until they found my chin. He nibbled it. Then pulled his hands into my hair, forcing me to look up at him. Those eyes! Sienna highlights glimmered in them, probably from the candlelight but I still found them intense, no matter how the atmosphere set them. I was the token moth drawn to a flame that would burn me, engulf me and cause me to wish I had died a slow death in a spider’s web.

The force of his kiss was a hurricane rushing over my senses, whipping down resistance and making me meld to his form. I felt my clothes falling away, under his nimble fingers. How he played my body that night! His mouth wrote music on my body. His tongue made small circles on my fevered flesh, nibbling here, licking there and occasionally sliding back and forth. He covered every inch, except the inches I wanted inside me, the ones he possessed. His expertise willed me to climax over and over, tongue dipping in and out of the river between my thighs, the valleys that he wrote his name on and the mountains with pert peaks, all his.

After the first round of orgasms, he cooled me off with an ice cube. Every goose bump on my flesh went on alert. A rivulet ran down the crease behind my knee. His tongue raced to catch it. We spoke in soft whispers, poetic and sweet, like intimate lovers do. Yet, I sensed a primal demon waiting to be unleashed at any moment. I waited for his next move, yet he seemed hesitant. A flashback of Montano devouring my secretary filled my head. I wasn’t hurt by it. I gave no pause to explore the reasons why. Instead I let the demon that was mere inches under my skin take over my actions, fueled by the nastiness of the memory—the nastiness of its heated pleasure.

I urged him to lie back, and begged him to trust me. I took the silk scarf I had been wearing as a belt and lightly blindfolded him with it. For a moment, I was humbled by his trust in me—his trust that I wouldn’t harm him. I started kissing his lips first, moving down his neck and over the hollow at his throat. Urgently, I disrobed him completely for it seemed obscene that I was the only one naked. Every inch of his body, I kissed except his cock. Though I did let my arm graze it a few times. I waited until his hips began to move upwards, as if begging for attention.

I quietly sipped a small sliver of ice into my mouth. Fellatio on Ice! His body jerked under my talented tongue, which played an erotic tune with his organ. When his mast was at full salute, I mounted it with little preliminaries. We were joined as only opposite sexes can join. I rode his cock hard and wildly, but if you asked him his version would be that he fucked my cunt relentlessly. I like to believe it was a little of both. But I stopped short of letting him cum.

Instead I dismounted and began to clean off his cock, which was covered with my juices. Ever so often, I kissed him to show him how good I tasted on my own lips.

As I think back now, I realize it was the total lack of inhibitions that lead me to move over his balls, pausing for a short while and then on to the little area behind them. I stayed there a while, writing my phone number on the smooth patch of skin until he began to say the numbers over and over. Even as we laughed, I noticed that not once had his cock lost its rigidity. In fact, it looked to be craved from stone.

To test the waters, I let my tongue slip as if by accident, over his asshole. His reaction was a sharp inhalation and then a subtle push back against my tongue. A covert green light! I lightly flickered over his asshole, letting air fall on the dampness my tongue left. His reaction was electric. He opened his legs wider, so I could gain better access. My tongue rimmed around the puckered folds. I wiggled my tongue into it, and he squirmed under the probing. After a while, I stopped because I wanted to make him come. An urge to see it spray out of his cock took possession of me. So I wet a forefinger and slipped it into his ass up to the second bend. I rubbed back and forth on the upper wall of his ass, as I lowered my mouth to his cock head.

Precum gushed over the bulbous tip and I drank it up. The taste of me still clinging to his cock made a special cocktail. My tongue found his spot immediately. It was right behind the little threat of skin at the back of his cock. I flicked my tongue over it, as my finger in his ass began to move in and out. I timed my finger with the rhythm of my mouth sliding up and down his cock. As it thickened under my tongue, I pushed my finger deeper inside of his ass. When the first spasm started, I moved my mouth off his cock, but didn’t stop my finger-fuck. The first viscous stream of cum flew straight up and hit me on my chin with a small splatter on my lips. My tongue instinctively darted out to taste him. Oh my, what a blend of honey and musk. I pushed my lips over the head of his cock to catch the rest, to drink him down like he had me earlier. When the last drop was drained, I moved into his arms. We kissed for a while, each loving the combined tasted of us on our lips. We fell asleep in each others arms, as the swaying of the boat rocked us into dreams.

It doesn’t escape me that I built up the tale with romantic poetic images and ended it with very explicit dirty porn. But isn’t that the heart of all torrid affairs—poetry and porn? Whatever doubts most people have of this mixture, Jarred Silver and I have found that it’s still burning as fresh as it did some twenty years ago. I think that’s all that really matters in the end.