You can call me Jack.
I've been an artist in Los Angeles for over a decade, trying to build a career in movies on both sides of the camera. To pay the bills over the years I've had to maintain a steady diet of side gigs; restaurants, retail, rideshare, delivery...you name it, I've worked it. This lifestyle hasn't afforded me much disposable income, but it has afforded me something else: an almost all-access pass to this big, weird city, as well as the many women who call it home.
Every day I'm somewhere new, walking through a door I haven't walked through before, or I'm meeting someone I've never met, who's just walked through mine. Over the years, this has added up. I've been lucky to meet thousands of women, and, even luckier, I've been able to sleep with a lot of them.
I've always known I'm not one for long-term commitment. This helps me commit in the short term. I know what I want and I go for it. And I'm always upfront about what I'm looking for. All these encounters happen with clear eyes and clear minds, so no hearts get broken.
Only headboards and bedsprings.
This is the first story. It's not the first chronologically. It's just the first I'm telling.
This is the story of Selena.
Selena was a 5'3" Latina in her early twenties, with an hourglass figure, thick curly hair, and a face like a Disney princess. She worked at a grocery store I'd visit now and then, and each time I stopped in we would make eye contact. Extended eye contact. The kind two people share when they'd really like to fuck each other.
One time I was perusing the frozen foods and in my periphery I caught her walking down the aisle in my direction. I looked up at her. She was looking right at me. A bashful smile crossed her face. She looked down and kept walking past me. I turned to check her out over my other shoulder. Her jeans tightly hugged her hips and lifted up her ass. It was an amazing ass, large and firm. I imagined her on all fours in front of me, me slowly pulling those jeans off, the hem sliding over the skin, her ass spilling out...
The night our story starts, I was checking out at the register she was working. She and a bagboy were talking about a woman at a different checkout, a blonde, apparently a looker, wondering out loud if "blondes have more fun." As a blonde, I was interested in the conversation, but I pretended not to listen. The bagboy walked away.
"Is it true?" Selena said.
I looked at her. Her expression was almost sleepy but her eyes drilled through me. Her lips were parted softly, revealing big gums and tiny teeth. I imagined those lips around my cock, her showing me those teeth but not using them.
"What?" I said, feigning innocence.
"That blondes have more fun?"
My cock immediately stiffened.
I looked around. No one was behind me in line. I leaned in.
"You wanna find out?"
Without breaking that intense, sleepy stare, she bit her lower lip, and nodded.
That night, at closing time, I was waiting outside in my car. Selena emerged from the front door, hugged a coworker, and headed my way. She was still wearing her tight jeans and her store polo. She got in the passenger side.
"Hey," she said.
"Hey," I said.
We shared a long look, revealing more mutual interest than we had so far, maybe not an eye-fuck but eye-foreplay. Then we both smiled. She took her hair out of its bun, and it fell in curly waves around her face.
"Where to?" she asked.
We went to a nearby dive bar, in Marina del Rey a few blocks from the water. It was a weekday night and it was quiet, a few old-timers on stools, the clack of pool cues. We stood at the bar and ordered drinks, me a Jameson rocks, her a gin and tonic. There was lots of space to stand but Selena was still pushed up against me, her hip against the back of my thigh. Drinks in hand, we moved to a booth in the back, in the dark where we could hardly be seen.
We talked about living in LA, our dreams for the future, what it was like to work in customer service. She was a firecracker, genuinely excited by life, undaunted by the misfortune it could hand out. The whole time we talked we inched closer together in the dark, until her right leg was brushing my left leg, her hand resting lightly near the top of my thigh. While she told a story about a particularly snotty customer I took my left hand and placed it just inside her right knee, then started drawing slow circles against it with the back of my fingers. She stopped talking and cocked her head at me, her eyes searching mine.
"Keep talking," I said.
She tried, but I slowly moved my hand higher up the inside of her thigh, my fingers continuing to stroke the denim of her jeans. She pursed her lips and exhaled very slowly, then slowly dropped her head to my shoulder, her mouth opening like she wanted to bite into it.
"I can't keep talking," she breathed.
My hand was now at the crease between the top of her thigh and her pussy. I leaned over and put my lips on the edge of her ear.
