“You have really eclectic taste in music.” She grins. “I like it.”
It’s not the response I was expecting. I don’t want her to like it; I want her to get it.
“I play what reflects my mood, so if you come home and I’m playing Nine Inch Nails, you should probably stay out of my way.” I mean it, but she laughs, thinking I’m joking, and all I want to do is groan in frustration. Can she really not see the effect she has on me?
“So if you’re playing Pharrell’s, Happy, I’m all good. But if I can hear the tortured sounds of Ian Curtis singing Atmosphere, I know to go get the whiskey and Xanax.”
“Something like that.”
She looks at me for a beat too long and I wonder if she’s finally noticing my mood, but if she does she dismisses it with little contemplation and a small wave as she disappears out the door.
I’m coiled like a spring, angry and confused and so frustrated that I don’t know what to do with myself. The thought of her meeting up with some asshole has my mind reeling. I shut off the music and storm into the bathroom, turning on the shower and deciding that I need to let the burning hot water soothe the tension in my shoulders. The room steams as I tear out of my clothes and step into the spray in a foul mood.
The scalding water bounces off my skin but I don’t feel the heat. My blood is already boiling. I lean forward resting my forehead against the smooth, cool, wet tiles. My eyes close as water cascades over my face and drips from my nose. I remember the bounce of Tweet’s breasts as she walked through her apartment, and the curve of her ass in the tiny black thong that left nothing to the imagination. I want to blame the steam for making it hard to breathe, but I know it’s not the case. Tweet’s responsible and I can feel myself swelling as I continue to imagine what she would have looked like from the front in that tiny thong. The ache in my groin strengthens. Fire licks at the base of my shaft and my balls draw up at the thought of walking into her room, laying her across the bed and removing her panties with my teeth while my tongue tastes every delicious inch of her. I reach down to palm my dick; my thoughts are making it impossible not to do anything other than sate the need for a release.
I go back to Saturday night, her first real performance. She’d been part of the chorus girl lineup, wearing little more than feathers and sequins strategically placed but showing enough flesh to drive the customers and me senseless with the intrigue of what lay underneath. I thought I’d about die watching her, but when she graced the stage a second time that evening dressed as a marionette doll, I almost lost it. Annie had told me Tweet and Rae were working on a new routine Tweet had come up with and Rae had agreed to, which in itself is a miracle. She’s not known for her openness to suggestions. Robyn must have weaved one heck of a spell over her.
They took the stage along with Lauren and three of the other girls who acted as the puppeteers. It was slapstick and sexy and so damn hot. The puppeteers pretended to pull the strings and make the dolls dance sensually, in a range of what seemed to be ballet movements interlaced with classic burlesque. It should have looked completely out of place, and not utter perfection—it was mesmerizing. The dolls stayed in a fairly modest state of dress throughout the entire performance until the very last moment when the puppeteers dropped the strings, and the dolls corsets dropped too, leaving them in awkward and unnatural positions, much like a real puppet would land. They were wearing only tutus and nipple pasties. The whole performance was nothing short of magical. When I’d looked around the room, everyone’s eyes were trained on the stage—even the staff had stopped to watch. They had the whole room in a frenzy of sexual tension and awe.
I’m beyond hard as I close my hand around myself and begin to pump harder, remembering her languid graceful moments. I can feel every ridge and swollen vein as I stroke. My head falls back, the heat blossoming from the base of my spine, through my pelvis and traveling the length of my cock. I drop my head forward and look down at my hand jerking myself in intense, deep thrusts. I picture her long delicate fingers closed tightly around me, wanting it so badly to be her here doing this right now I don’t know if I want to come or punch a hole through the shower wall. My muscles tighten as my pace quickens, and I’m furiously plunging my fist back and forth at a punishing rate. I keep the image of Robyn’s ass and full firm tits in my mind as I let go, and jerk myself with wild abandonment at the thought of her. My whole body spasms as I watch cum spurt fiercely from my tip, coating me in my release and washing away as quickly as it appeared, the water concealing the evidence of my weakness for Tweet. I continue a slow stroke, milking every last drop of tension and wanting this feeling of replete and all-consuming satisfaction to stay while I sink into the wall and my orgasm slowly ebbs.
Robyn Spears will be the death of me, I’m sure of it.
IN EIGHTH GRADE I got my first real involuntary hard-on at a school swim meet of all places. Megan Colletti, the only girl in my class to have developed breasts, jumped into the pool, with all the boys’ eyes following her chest, which was packed into a tiny piece of bright blue spandex. She broke the surface with her two-piece shifted and exposing everything. While everybody was laughing and pointing, I was doing a piss poor job of trying not to drown as I tread water and splashed about, frantically trying to distort the view of my erection in my speedos. It wasn’t my finest hour, and one that I was almost certain I would never let happen again. But so help me, God, Robyn just walked through the iron gates and down to my table and fuck if I can’t stand up to greet her because of the instant swell in my slacks.
She takes the seat next to me and leans in to kiss my cheek in a greeting at the same time I attempt to take her hand. There’s an awkward few seconds as we engage in a strange dance of trying to greet each other. It ends with me attempting to kiss her cheek and instead crashing into her lips as she moves her head slightly before my lips meet their intended target. We pull apart like we’ve both just been doused in freezing cold water—then burst into fits of muffled laughter at our own embarrassing ineptness.
“Hi,” I finally say, wishing I’d led with that in the first place.
“Hey.”
“Let me get you a drink, I feel like it might take the edge off the embarrassment, although I’m two drinks in and it’s done nothing for mine.”
Her laughter rings in my ears, sweet and light and I wave the waitress over, not daring to stand and go to the bar myself.
“You look beautiful, by the way. How have you been?”
The smallest hint of a blush appears on her neck as she leans closer, telling me that she’s been well, although busy. We make small talk over dirty martinis, and I should be listening to what she’s saying, but I’m too preoccupied with watching her too-full lips to pay enough attention to what they’re actually saying. Somewhere in the back of my mind I register that we’ve been here a while, and she needs to leave for work. I want to tell her to call in sick, spend the rest of the evening with me. Not because I want to do anything more sinister than what we’re doing right now; her company alone is a refreshing break from my usual routine. I’d be more than happy to spend the rest of the evening right here, talking easily about subjects of no real substance: musical tastes, the first concert we saw, the score of the last Giants’ game and how she loves sports, but her sister always thought she pretended to like them in a devious ploy to impress boys. I enjoy that fact that there’s no mention of our work. I spend my whole life at the office these days, eating, sleeping and drinking the Michaels’ merger case, and if she were to ask me about it now I think it would dull her sparkle, and lessen her appeal.