Downstairs, in a bar that’s a half secret, there is a party that is supposed to be kept quiet. It was my first time at that particular soiree, and I was told when the door closed, things get interesting.
The painter is a chemical necessity in these situations. She is a catalyst in a way I am used to being. One of the million ways we are the same. The same hungers, the same taste, the same perceptions.
The redhead is on someone’s lap. She has been someone I’d been coveting for a while. Not seriously, not even particularly, but one of those shiny, beautiful people, your eyes linger when you see them across the room. All cream skin and fire hair and a wide expressive mouth.
For all the ways we are alike, the painter has many advantages I do not. She’s a woman. She knows all of the privileges of that, especially in this setting. And she knows everyone. I thought I knew everyone, but she is entrenched, and this is her crowd. I get a nod from this crowd, she gets a kiss on the lips. And now she is kissing the redhead.
The music is loud, I am next to a pretty blonde, my hands around her waist, my lips on her neck, but my eyes are across the room as the painter is on her knees in front of the redhead who is still on someone’s lap.
The well-dressed crowd is throbbing around us. Suits and ties and garters and fishnets and finery are everywhere. Clothes are coming off quickly, though. Lean muscles and naked breasts catch my sight, and the whiskey is making everything vivid and dull at the same time.
The blonde in my arms is squirming. She’s watching the show too. She is nervous energy under my fingers as I toy with the edge of her panties.
The painter is pulling down the redhead’s flimsy bra, her bare breasts small and pretty. Nipples almost the same cream color as the rest of her skin. Then the painter’s curly blackhead is between the thighs of the redhead. I can see her hungry hands pulling black panties to the side.
My girl, doing the exact thing I would do to that prize of a redhead. I can close my eyes and almost slip away, into her, imagining what she tastes like.
The thought dissolves as I kiss the blonde, hands consumed with all that skin in front of me.
When I see the painter, dizzy and swaying towards me later, I am smiling, and she is smiling, and she kisses me. She knows, of course, of my crush. We spill secrets faster than we spill our drinks. She knows, and she kisses me again, and I’m torn between wanting to kiss this beautiful woman and wanting a little taste of the redhead.
“I want to taste her,” I groaned into the painter’s ear. She laughs and almost slaps me, but then her fingers are in my mouth. Salty and wet. It’s bad, but it’s just a little bad. I suck on those two fingers, and I can taste her. Then her fingers are almost down my throat because I should remember what’s mine and what isn’t. Then we are kissing, and her eyes are on my eyes, and as always, we are communicating a million things.
I’m drunk and happy, and the world around me is dark electric bacchanalia. The music gets louder. People are hitting each other and kissing and rubbing and pulling. A girl stretches her hands up to the ceiling as a man ties her tight with red rope.
It is exactly where I want to be with the person I want to be with. It’s perfect.