Coming Together: Special Hurricane Relief Edition (33 page)

I'd
seen her all around campus. We weren't in any classes together, and
we didn't run in the same circles, but still I'd glimpse her at
different times - in the cafeteria, at several of the clubs I
attended (we both seemed to share a penchant for drink specials) -
although she was always with friends, as was I, and I never found the
opportunity to approach her.

I
was staring at her, with her thin, black, leather jacket held tight.
Her hands were white with cold - she probably wished she'd worn
gloves - and her fingers were long and thin, like those of a pianist
or flutist. I found myself wondering if she played, but I thought
that might seem a silly question to ask.

'Gee,
I couldn't help noticing your long, thin fingers, given that you
aren't wearing gloves on this very cold day, and I was wondering if
you might play an instrument?'

No.
That wouldn't work.

She
looked right into my eyes again, and I thought for moment she might
say something, but then just smiled again. I was feeling awkward now,
and yet again I smiled back before looking away.

Have
you ever been in a moment that built itself up so much, the
expectations so high, that everyone and everything freezes? Like
rigor mortis. That anything said or done would only be a letdown, so
no one says or does anything and the moment passes and all that's
left is empty sense of unfulfilled opportunity?

Suddenly,
I realized the bus had stopped. Had we arrived already? We couldn't
have! I glanced at my watch. 15 minutes had passed. I had had 15
minutes but hadn't done anything. I didn't even know her name. She
rose and smiled at me again, and repetitively, I smiled back and
followed her off the bus. We walked together - but not 'together' -
up the main entrance of the school. She turned and looked at me
again. She was waiting for me to say something, but I had beaten
myself up and down from the bus to the university and, aside from
regret, I had nothing to offer. We parted ways. As I left her, I made
myself a promise, that if I ever ran into her again there'd be no
excuses. I'd walk right up to her and ask her out. If I ever ran into
her again.

Of
course, fate being what it is, even though it seemed I had seen her
almost daily prior to the bus, I didn't run into her again the rest
of the school year. By conincidence, I received an invitation to
attend a party with a friend who was desperately trying to meet a
girl from his art class. He wasn't really an artist, but he had
needed to finish up some general credits before graduating and this
seemed to be an easy win for him (it actually wasn't), and in the
process he fell head over heels for one of the girls in his class.
Turns out she just happened to be friends with the girl from the bus.
As soon as I saw her, not ten minutes after I'd gotten to the party,
I ran over to meet her.

"Hi,
I'm Peter. We rode a bus together once, back in winter? Would you
like to go out with me?"

She
said
yes
!

MICHELLE

Bang!
Bang! Bang! "Stop jerking off, Kevin, and get the fuck outta
there!" I heard one of my roommates yelling over the Cure's
'Fascination Street' as she practically broke down the bathroom door.

Living
in a house with four other people was not easy, particularly when you
had one bathroom. Somehow, we had all managed over the year, but I'm
not sure if any of us wanted to continue the arrangement for the next
semester.

"So,
where are you going with Peter?" Lisa plopped down on my bed,
grabbed my copy of Marguerite Duras' 'The Man in the Corridor' off my
side table, and started flipping through it.

"He
just said out," I laughed, holding up a black tapered blouse in
one hand, and a white, Marilyn-Monroe-type halter in the other.

"Black,"
she said glancing up and then looked back at the book.

"I
really need more color in my wardrobe," I sighed as I turned to
put the halter in the closet.

"Oh
my God. Nice," Lisa giggled and dramatically read a sentence
from the book. "'When it reaches her sex, it gets stronger again
and crashes into her heat, mixes with her juice, foams and then dries
up.' If this is any indication, then you'd better wear the halter."

"You
think?" I was only half-listening, but nervously changed my
mind, and hung the black blouse up.

"If
this is what you study in English, I'd better start taking some
courses," she bolted up and sat on the edge of the bed.

"We
read 'The Lover' but I wanted to read more of Duras," I smiled,
removed my bra, put on the halter, and looked in the mirror.

The
halter was classy, low cut and backless; perhaps a bit too much for a
first date. "I need to dress it down," I muttered, grabbed
a pair of worn Levi's and slipped them over my silky black panties.
They were low cut, just enough to expose my navel underneath the
halter. I grabbed a black belt and looped it around my waist.

"Sexy,"
Lisa said, placing the book back on the side table. "I wanna be
your date. In fact," she stood behind me, her body snug against
my ass, her hands on my hips as she thrust forward, "you're very
fuckable."

We
both started laughing as I pushed her away with my ass.

"Really.
Is it too much?"

"No,
it's great, Shell." She picked up some of my perfumes from the
dresser. "Just don't wear Eternity. Everyone is swimming in it.
It's too strong," she cringed and put the bottle down, as I
painted my lips with a light gloss.

"Well,"
I stood in front of Lisa and took a deep breath, "I'm ready."

Peter
arrived on time, and we caught a taxi to a place downtown. I was a
bit confused at first. It looked like a fifties diner, which is cool
if you are drunk and needing something to eat at two in the morning,
but not on a first date.

"I
think you'll like this place," he said as we approached the
glass door.

"I'm
sure," I forced a polite smile looking at the grey brick, and
the big, bright white sign reading 'Oyster Boy,' which reminded me of
a Chef Boyardee label. Suddenly, my mother's words rang through my
head: 'if a guy can't take you to a half-decent place on a first
date, then you can bet it will be MacDonald's from then on'.

Relief
washed over me when we walked inside. Light jazz played, the lighting
was almost sepia in tone, classy, romantic. We walked to the back, my
heels clicking on the wood floor, and I sat on the booth side of the
table.

"They
specialize in oysters and martinis, but there's a lot to choose from
on the menu." Peter seemed hesitant, touched his hand on the
back of the stool, but changed his mind and sat on the booth side,
his leg practically brushing mine.

"I've
only had Oysters Rockefeller, but I'm willing to adventure," I
told him, trying not to appear nervous, but my heart was pounding
across my nipples, and pulsing between my thighs.

The
waiter, dressed all in black, set down the white, laminated menus,
"Can I get you something to drink?"

I
wasn't sure if I needed a pitcher of water to cool me down, or a
drink to calm me. I did know that if I was going to have a drink, it
had better not be one of those fruity martinis that slip down like
pop.

"Is
it vodka that slides the oysters down your throat?" I searched
Peter's eyes, knowing that what I had just said may have been a bit
on the side of slut. Too much Duras.

"Better
to taste them," he smiled. "How about a couple of Dirty
Martinis?"

"Lots
of olives," I smiled and winked.

PETER

Lots
of olives? God, this was a girl after my own heart. And again, she
hits me with her smile, complemented with a wink. Our date was only
just beginning and already she had me swooning.

"Lots
of olives it is. Have you ever had them stuffed with bleu cheese? It
gives them a nice bite." I needed to relax, to slow down, as it
seemed most every comment made could be construed as a sexual
innuendo.

"I
haven't. But I do like bleu cheese. And this seems to be turning into
a night for adventure."

There
she goes again. My mind raced with possibilities. Down, boy.

I
ordered two Dirty Martinis for us, with the promised extra olives
bursting with bleu cheese, along with a sample platter of select
oysters. The drinks arrived quickly, and I watched Michelle as she
sipped her martini and gingerly tried one of the olives.

"You
like?" I hoped.

"Mmm.
Tasty. Any other surprises up your sleeve?"

"Maybe.
You'll have to see how the oysters go down first."

I
downed my drink much sooner than I should have, which was a nervous
habit of mine. Not a problem if we were just drinking water, but I'd
have to watch myself with these martinis. They were both strong and
smooth. I ordered another round as the oysters arrived. There were
four different varieties in the sampler, with several accompaniments,
including the traditional Tabasco, a horseradish mix, and the house
specialty—a champagne and salt based sorbet. Michelle watched
me as I picked up a half-shell and added a little bit of the sorbet
to it. I stabbed it with my oyster fork, scooping it up and out of
the shell. It dangled in midair off the fork.

"It's
best not to try to bite right into it, it could explode..." I
explained. Michelle's eyes grew big. "I'm just kidding, but they
are pretty slippery, so it's better to try to keep it all in your
mouth." I demonstrated by opening my mouth wide and taking the
entire oyster in. This one was from the Bay, and the natural
sweetness of this variety mingled with the saltiness of the sorbet.
My eyes closed as I savored the flavors, gently swirling the oyster
around in my mouth until the sorbet was melted, and I swallowed.
Delicious. When I reopened my eyes, I found Michelle watching me
intently, and she was smiling again.

"You
really like your oysters, don't you?" she teased. "You look
like you're in heaven."

I
blushed, which rarely happened but the alcohol must have been taking
effect.

"Uh
huh. You try one. And this time I get to study your reaction."
Two could play at that game.

She
picked out an oyster, one of the largest ones, and added a bit of the
sorbet just as I had. She tried scooping it out with her fork, but it
kept sliding off. I couldn't help but laugh.

"Stop
it! It's not as easy as you make it look!" She was laughing at
herself as well.

"Here,
let me help." I leaned over and held the oyster shell in one
hand, and her hand with the fork in my other. I guided her fork up
and under the oyster, and slowly scooped it. She opened her mouth
wide as I guided it in. Her lips closed around the fork and I slowly
pulled it out clean. Her reaction was priceless. She had closed her
eyes like I had, but she was rolling the oyster around in her mouth
and looked as if she didn't know if she should be eating it or not.
Then she smiled, and swallowed. A small bit of the juice drizzled
from the corner of her mouth.

"Mm.
That was fab," she said. "Are you going to help me with
another?"

"Absolutely,"
I dabbed the corner of her mouth with my napkin as she licked her
lips. I felt myself hardening. I quickly downed my martini again. "Do
you like spicy?" I asked, reaching for the Tabasco. She nodded.
I shook a bit of the hot sauce on a new oyster, and scooped it out
for her. She opened her mouth, eyes wide, waiting for it. I think I
actually stopped breathing for a moment. I gently slid it off the
fork into her mouth. She closed her eyes again, then quickly opened
them.

"Mm!"
By the way she was fanning her hands I guessed she wasn't expecting
how hot the Tabasco was. "Mm, mm!" She swallowed quickly,
then grabbed her martini and downed it. At least I wouldn't be the
only one a little tipsy.

"Whoa,
that was hot! I wasn't expecting it." Her face was almost red.

"Yes.
I like to alternate them for the contrast."

She
took a bit of the sorbet and put it on her tongue.

"Ooo.
That's better. Ok, now it's my turn." She picked up the Tabasco
and shook it onto an oyster. She shook a lot on the oyster. I quickly
motioned to the waiter for two more martinis.

"Are
you sure you can handle one on your own?" I smiled mischievously
at her.