“With you being her friend, what’s she like?”
“Pretentious. Spoiled. You’re not her type. Neither am I,” he said.
“Who is her type?”
“Tomboys. No make up. Slender bodies. Baseball shirts. Short hair. Nothing like you.”
“Hey, I’m not a miss priss,” I said.
“But every inch of you is a girl. From behind there is no mistaking what you are.”
I glanced at my ass. It didn’t look so great to me. And what was he doing looking at it?
“If she’s so spoiled, why are you friends?” I asked.
“Habit. Entertainment. Nothing better to do.”
“That’s awful.”
He shrugged.
“I was her neighbour back when she had braces,” he said. “Before the nose job. And the dye job. And way before the ‘I’m a journalist’ stuff. Sometimes, I think she likes me because I liked her when she was just Melanie. Other times, I don’t think she likes me because I remind her of her past.”
“Really.”
“The only reason she got the Metro Weekly gig is because her aunt is the publisher. Don’t tell anyone. She doesn’t even write them per se.”
“What do you mean?”
“She gathers some and adds some opinions. I whip them into shape. Add some humour. Things about my daily life.”
“Those are your personal tidbits?” I asked, panicking.
It was his sense of humour I liked. Not hers.
There was a pause.
“She even told me what she likes to do to other girls, but it’s far too explicit to say out here,” he said.
How I wanted the details. “Where can we go?” I pressed.
“The store room.”
The attendant wasn’t watching. I followed him into the storeroom. I felt like I was in high school, stealing off for a cigarette. Inside, there was a metal desk, boxes of mini soap powders and an ancient gumball dispenser. He locked the door behind us.
“What does she like to do?” I asked.
“I know she likes to sit on their laps like lap dancers and squirm around.”
My breath caught short. Images of her lap dancing me filled my head.
“One time at a party,” he continued, “she had her top off with some chick and they got caught by the hostess.”
“No way,” I said.
“That gave me a boner for weeks thinking about it,” he confessed.
“What else?”
He paused, thinking. “She likes to eat out girls in weird places. Backs of cars, dressing rooms, restaurants.”
I sighed. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea hearing all this. Now I was horny and, judging by the way he tugged at the front of his jeans, so was he. He stood by me.
“You smell like her,” he said.
“It’s her dryer sheet.”
“Could you strap on a dozen of them and pretend you’re her?” he asked.
I hesitated. I couldn’t believe what had popped into my head. “I could pretend to be her in this sweater.”
He looked at me slowly, his eyes dilated, and it was very obvious what was happening in his pants. I swallowed. I had that butterfly feeling I used to get in third grade when I played horses in the playground with my friends. Only this wasn’t grammar school.
“What would you do first?” I asked.
“Kiss her and fondle her sweater,” he said.
“OK,” I said.
He kissed me. It left me a little breathless. “Wait a sec,” I said.
I slipped my bra off from beneath the sweater. He resumed the kiss, but he was putting way too much emphasis on my mouth. I backed up and sat on the old metal desk. He stood between my open legs. He pinched my nipple too hard. I smacked his hand away and pinched him back.
“Ouch,” he said. “I think I liked that.”
“You’re sick.”
He cupped my breasts. “We have a problem. Yours are a lot bigger than hers,” he said.
“Pretend they are small.”
“I can’t,” he said, kneading them. “Yours are magnificent. I can’t deny what I’m feeling.”
“You’re getting off track,” I said.
“Have you ever been titty fucked?”
I shook my head.
“A girl can’t do that,” he said, smugly.
Undoing my pants, he kissed my belly. “This isn’t in the vicinity of the sweater,” I said.
“But it’s something I would do.”
“You would eat her snatch?”
He nodded. I helped him get my jeans off. “I saw her bare butt,” I said.
“Where?”
“In the bathroom,” I said. “I was standing outside the door when she went.”
“You peeping Tom.”
“It was an accident.” My jeans were on the floor. We both looked at my underwear. “What type of panties does she wear?” I finally asked.
“How would I know?”
“If you are into her as much as I am, and you are that close to her laundry, you would know.”
He continued to concentrate on my panties. “Now that I think about it they are very similar to yours,” he said.
He kissed me down there. It felt good. Suddenly, I panicked. By the look in his eyes, I knew what was coming next. A good round of pussy eating, but I was afraid he wouldn’t compare to Kit. Her tongue was like a contortionist at a big top circus.
His manoeuvres were so different they took my breath away. It was French kissing my pussy, really kissing it, like he would my mouth. It wasn’t something to attack. It was something to savour. It was like slow, sweet dreamy jazz. My whole body felt it. Every muscle relaxed and moved with the flow. It felt so good I wanted to laugh out loud, but I bit it back.
He stopped. I was left panting and throbbing.
“I have to fuck you,” he said. “You. Not pretend her. I have to be inside you.”
“You would screw her in a laundry room?”
“Not her. You. She is mean and insipid. And I don’t think she would taste half as sweet as you.”
Me, I thought. He wanted me. I nodded, peeled off the sweater and tossed it aside. He slid inside me. I wrapped my arms and legs around him. He took it slow with shallow strokes, just the tip inside. I revelled in the sensation and the scent of his skin on his shoulder. For a second, my thoughts returned to Melanie. He’s fucking her. No. He’s fucking me.
He was fucking my crush right out of my head. I felt that worked-up feeling coming over me, where I wanted to say things, scream and groan. It was a fight to keep back all those dark, carried away things. Brimming over the edge. On the tip of my tongue. Spilling out of my head.
“Fuck me like a…” I said and choked down the last word.
“Like what?” he breathed.
I shook my head.
“Say it,” he demanded.
“A duck. Fuck me like a duck,” I cried. I giggled, groaned and arched my back.
“Oh, yeah,” he said. “I’m going to fuck you like a duck. Quack for me.”
“What?”
“Quack for me now.”
Sick fuck that I was, I quacked. Over and over, I quacked as we both came, until my voice was hoarse.
My legs were completely jelly when we pulled apart.
“You’re awesome,” he said.
“Yeah?”
He nodded and handed me his T-shirt, worn in just right. I had no idea where the sweater was nor did I care.
“I think the Melanie fan club has had its first and last meeting,” he said.
“And so much for my write-up with my jewellery,” I added, lightly. Not that I really cared anymore.
“I’ll fix that,” he said and paused, looking at me. “You look really good in my T-shirt.”
Trying it on by Jennifer Footman
Smith and Logan, The Theatrical Outfitters of the Professional, are located in the older industrial part of Edinburgh. Their new building, once the hallowed space of the Niddrie Presbyterian Church, now has a bright red and black sign saying that it’s a theatrical costumier and that they have been in business since 1870.