Come Quietly 1

I'm at the movies, by myself, as usual.

It's not that I can't find anyone to go with me; it's that most of the time, I don't ask. I like being here alone. I like the dark, and the quiet, and the smell of buttered popcorn und dust, and the soft seats. I like that you have to set your phone to silent; in fact, I luxuriate in turning mine off entirely and knowing that for the next two hours, the world outside is going to have a hell of a hard time bothering me.

Much like the other handful of theaters in my town, I've been here so often that the pigtailed cashier hands me a buchet of popcorn without me even asking. We don't yet know each other's names, but I like to believe that she gives me an extra sweet smile. I smile back at her.

The theater is dark and stuffy. Miraculously, the last row is empty, as though the half dozen people in the room knew that this is my space. I sink back into the faux velvet in triumph.

Ten minutes into the movie, the hero and heroine still haven't met each other, but I can already guess where this is going: She's going to save his old-fashioned bookshop from bankruptcy with her quirky charm while he's going to be all whiny and lecture her about literature and generally be a pain in the ass for the first part of the movie, up until the plot twist when her evil ex-boyfriend or ex-dealer or ex-whatever shows up. Then he can save the day by way of his existent, though obscured, masculinity, thereby demonstrating his affection - which will surprise him more than her and infinitely more than the audience - and subsequently, after a minor falling-out played up to look like a major falling-out, wooing the heroine.

My expectations of this movie weren't high to start with; it's the last non-horror movie currently airing here that I haven't seen yet. I didn't even bother reaing the description, knowing that I was going to go see it anyway. As such, it is remarkable that the plot commences to play out exactly like I predicted. I feel mildly bored, but it's a familiar, relaxing sort of boredom.

The movie switches from a dark, gloomy scene shot in the bookshop's stuffy basement to the heroine's bright, colorful apartment, which is full of felt flowers and American Indian motifs. At the same time, I am blinded by a flash of light not coming from the screen.

I blink it away, but only a short time later, it returns, and then again, and again. It seems to be coming from the row in front of me. I shift my weight in the seat and the light vanishes.

For a while, I sit in peace, but the movie is not picking up speed and has yet to do anything I have not yet foreseen, so my mind has time to wonder - where is that light coming from? I've never seen something like that in a movie theater.

Curious, I shift my weight back and forth until I catch the light again. Its pulsing has become more frequent, I think - but that makes no sense. Is this some kind of alarm?

I lean forward and peek through the gap at the bottom edge of the two seats in front of me, only to find that I can't see the light from here. Searching, I tip my head this way and that, move it left and right as far as the gap will allow - and there it is again.

Perplexed, I stare, trying to make sense of what I'm seeing. It's not just the light; something seems to be moving in the seat next to the one in front of me ...

I continue to stare.

A vague suspicion forms in my head and twists my stomach. I keep staring, staring much longer than technically necessary to test my theory, because I can't believe I'm really seeing what I'm seeing. But there can be no doubt, now that I've grasped it: The guy in the next row is jerking off. I can't actually see it, but I can't come up with another explanation for the rhythmic way his arm is moving, making what must be his watch flash in the light it reflects off the screen.

I feel a faint sense of indignation; at the same time, I can't help but admire the guy's guts. I would never dare to do anything like that in a theater - who knows if the staff is watching from the control room? Then again ... it's not the staff who are watching him right now. And the longer I watch, the more I can feel myself becoming aroused.

All things considered, this is considerably more intriguing than the movie, so I stay where I am, bent over to peek between the seats. I strain to hear something - the ruffling of fabric on fabric, his breath, the sloshing of his hand against his penis - but if he's making any sounds, they don't carry above the movie's soundtrack.

After a minute or two, his movements seem to become slower again. The pace is now relaxed, languid, luxurious. I hold my breath as I watch, hypnotized. There's heat building in my belly. My imagination is running wild, picturing him sitting there. I wonder what he looks like.

I also wonder why he's doing this. Did he choose this movie on purpose - does he like the female lead, perhaps? Did he simply grow bored and spontaneously thought of a better way to pass the time? Or did he never read the descriptions like me, not caring which movie he was seeing, because he only needed a scenery for his perversion? Does he do this regularly or is it his first time?

My curiosity increases along with my arousal, and both wear away at my inhibitions. I know I'm going to replay this scene in my mind many times, and for that purpose I want more - I want to see him properly. I want to know if he's sitting up or lying down, which arm he's using, what his other hand is doing.

My heart is beating furiously in my chest; before I can decide differently, I stand up in one fluid motion and look over the seats. I stare for one pounding heartbeat, then sit back down again.

My body is alive and pulsing, half exhilaration, half desire. The image is burned into my mind - a skinny man, leaning across three seats, with his head resting against the edge of the seat to his left and his right leg thrown over the one to his right. It was too dark to see his face, but his hair is dark and his skin fair - and both of his pale hands were clearly moving in his lap.

I still can't believe this is happening. Of course I know people like him exist - people who get off on the risk of getting caught - but I've never met one and known it until now. In fact, my ex wouldn't even kiss me in public. This one, though ... unbidden, my imagination turns to how he might react if I slid into the seat next to him. If I reached out and touched him. If I bent down to take his cock in my mouth.

Dazed, I look up at the screen. The heroine is talking, but her words fly right past me. All I can think is that there is probably still an hour of movie left, and there's a guy with his cock out in the row in front of me, and I want him.

I fantasize about it so vividly that when I shake myself out of the fantasy, for a moment I don't know if I've done it or not; just like waking up from a dream, reality and fantasy seem to blur together.

Some distant part of my mind knows that if I want to act, I have to do it soon, before he finishes. Vaguely, I'm aware that there are people here, that I am scared of what they might do if they caught me.

But chiefly, I need to see him again. He's jerking off right in front of me and it's impossible not to look.

So, still dazed, I rise to my feet again, to steal another look at him ... and in my clumsiness bump against the seat in front of me.

My heart leaps into my throat. I don't even know if I'm gasping audibly or not. It doesn't matter, because in the flickering light I can see the white in his eyes and he's looking right. at. me.

For a moment, we are both completely still. But his hands, his hands are still two faint blots of light covering his crotch ... and I feel the heat rising as a moan in my throat.

I do the only sensible thing: I reach out for his hair, bend over the back of his seat, draw his face up and kiss him. Deeply, to stifle the sound I might otherwise make.

Yes.

The kiss is like a moan, only better; the energy piled up inside me pours out; it feels good, it feels right;

finally

; he opens his mouth and kisses me back.

Oh ...

At the back of my mind I know that I have never kissed a stranger before, that what I just did was incredibly brave and incredibly stupid, that we're in public and I want to ride him till he screams -

I just keep kissing him.

After what is probably a few seconds but feels like forever, I feel his touch on my arm. But that is not right.

I break the kiss and stare at him, still unbelieving. Not daring to say a word, I pick his hand off my arm and guide it back to his lap. Something warm and wet touches the back of my hand and once again I can feel my pulse throbbing in my chest and in my throat.

The screen gives another bright flash of light, which leads to two things: First, I catch a glimpse of his whole face; a sharp nose, bushy eyebrows, thin lips. Second, I realize that I am standing up in a movie theater for everyone to see.

I pull my hand back and without a conscious decision, as if I were on autopilot, my legs carry me around his row of seats and I sit down next to him, his leg hurriedly moving out of the way. I wonder if this happens every time he plays with himself in public or if else it's a fantasy finally coming true. I wonder if he's as confused as I am.

Through it all, I take his still motionless hands in my own and guide them back to their proper places. Then I squeeze them lightly, encouraging them.

Slowly - ever so slowly - he picks up his movements again. His wide white eyes are still staring at me, like he's still not sure if this is okay. He's doing the same as before, stroking his cock and fondling his balls - but he's doing it for me now. He's wanking for me. Because I told him to.

I lean over.

We crash into each other, mouths first, my hands second. They're holding on to him like he's prey, like he is my prize, grabbing fistfuls of his hair and his shirt, holding him upright in the unstable position we're in with him still leaning slightly backward. My instinct is to push him down onto the seats and mount him, but his hands are in the way, so I end up crouching over him with one knee wedged into the corner of the seat and the other foot on the ground. Never interrupting the kiss, I untangle myself to kneel on the floor next to him - quiet, quiet, they mustn't hear us, they mustn't stop us now.

My mind is getting ahead of me, painting ways for this scene to progress, and I don't know where to go because I want it all. I want to watch him get himself off, but I need to touch his cock, and I want it in my mouth, too. And I cannot seem to stop kissing him, either. He kisses with his lips and tongue and teeth, and god, it has been too long since I've been kissed like that. And like strong liquor in my throat burns the awareness that all the while, his hands are playing with his junk, and if anyone chances to find us now being banned from the cinema will be the least of our problems. It makes me giddy.

And then, because have I mentioned I'm an idiot? I cover his mouth with my right hand, shuffle down the row of seats, gently push away his fingers, and take the tip of his penis into my mouth. Just like that.

It is absurdly easy. How did I ever get into this position?

Because he put us there. He put himself out here for taking, and I'm taking him.

I shiver.

Feeling positively drunk, I start gently sucking on his erection and flicking my tongue over the top. My own sex pulses as if in reply. The taste tells me he's been using some kind of lube, and since I don't know if it's edible, I simply don't swallow; all my drool just runs down his cock. I take my hand off his mouth to form a ring around the base with my fingers and mirror the movements of my head, making use of the extra lubrication.

I can only make tiny movements so as not to be too loud, but from the way his thigh strains and twitches under my left hand, it seems to be enough. Blind as I am, this is my only signal from him, so I leave my hand where it is, gently squeezing the inside of his thigh until he attempts to take his lower hand away and I push it back down to cup his balls. He obeys without hesitation this time. The other hand reaches out and touches my shoulder.

It has been months since the last time I had my head between someone's legs, but it comes back to me in an instant. I have loved sucking cock since the first time I got my mouth on one, and I have missed everything about it. I lick and suck, stroke and swallow. Time becomes a whirl.

My clit is on fire, begging for a hot mouth as well, so I slip my free hand under my skirt and into my wet panties. It's the most natural thing - and there I am, openly fingering myself in public. That thought gets me going even more. I think of how easy it is; of all the times I've been horny in public before, hiding it; of how easy it would have been then, too, to just give myself what I needed. How thin the veil is that covers the animals in us, and how feeble the forces - once you've begun to question them - that keep us all from nailing each other whenever and wherever we want.

When his fingers dig into me for the first time, I know it's time to let up. I give him one last suck, then sit back on my heels to watch my prize.

He is lying flat across four seats, his legs dangling off the last. His sweatpants are dragged down around his thighs and his shirt has ridden up to his navel to reveal a stretch of pale skin and a bush of dark hair. His arm is reaching past to cover his balls, leaving his pale erection clearly visible in the dark. And all around him, the dark, dusty theater; to his left, the control room juts out from the back wall.

He looks glorious, and even while I kneel there I know that I am going to come countless times, remembering this moment.

Somewhere in the theater, somebody sneezes, but he doesn't seem to hear or care. He only lifts his head to look at me. He

sees

me, skirt pulled up and hand shoved into my panties and all, and the hand on my shoulder makes a weak attempt at pulling me towards his face.

I humor him, bringing my mouth close to his ear, and whisper, "What's your name?"

"Alex," He whispers back, so quickly that I'm sure he's telling the truth. "And -"

"Shhh." I put one finger across his lips. "Do it, Alex. I want to watch you come." With that, I sit back up, out of whispers' reach.

Wide-eyed but obedient, he takes his swollen penis back in hand and starts stroking it again while I rock my hips against my own fingers. His eyes stay fixed on mine, even when his body begins to shake and his lips part in a silent cry. His abs tense; for a moment he curls away from the seats, as if there were an electric current shooting through him. Then he relaxes and sinks back into the plush fabric, still pinning me with his gaze.

The intensity, the enormity of what has just happened does not permit a smile. Neither does it permit lingering or returning my attention to the mediocre movie.

I pull my hand out of my panties - even though my clit is still throbbing - straighten out my clothing, give him one last lingering look that commits his image forever to my memory, and walk out of the theater. Through the double doors, out into the light, into the lobby where it smells like butter and cheese and nothing at all has changed.

"Bad movie?" The cashier asks with a sympathetic look. I look for judgment in her eyes and find none, incredulously; how can it possibly be that she doesn't know? The way I feel, I should have

Sex, sex, sex

written all over me in flashing neon font.

I shrug. I smile. I say something irrelevant.

Sex, sex, sex.

I make for the door.

Something touches my shoulder. The shoulder that Alex dug his nails into not five minutes ago. I turn around and there he is: Black hair, sharp nose, and a crooked smile. His hair is messed up and his neck is flushed, and he's wearing a leather jacket over his shirt, zipped up all the way even though it's a warm summer day outside.

Sex, sex, sex,

cry the flashy neon signs all around him, and maybe it's them, but to me he looks hot. Daring. Intriguing.

"Hi," He says. A little breathless, as if the couple of steps of running after me had been hard on him. "I'm Alex." He holds out his hand for half a second, then, awkwardly, draws it back again and stuffs it in his pocket. His smile becomes even more crooked. "Will you please go out with me?"

Behind him, the pigtailed girl grins and winks at me. And I think:

If you only knew.