Not for the first time Mary imagined that she would be a damn fine porn director. Even in her most legless moments she was able to drift above any sexual encounter in an out-of-body lark’s-eye view of the action. The giving, the taking, the immersion, the reception, the rising ecstasy squalled on a tango of nerves, the surprise, the decision, the surrender. An early lover had once asked her: -why are chicks so hung up on the pre-cum choreography? The answer, poorly expressed as it might have been at the time, was that Casanova was dead, and men seemed to have lost the gift of seduction, the setting of the scene, the very necessary conversation, ringed and looped with meaningful sighs and silence, which brought to bear the delight of aesthetics upon the nastiest, most brutish, and also the sweetest of acts.
Even half-trashed, Mary knew and followed the rules. Falling backwards in an 80-proof swoon, allowing herself to be stripped and caressed, positioned and fucked, crucified, spread-eagled, turned over and re-entered, allowing her legs and arms and head to be manipulated, turned this way and that as the specifics of desire demanded.
But Mary wasn’t drunk now and so the ritual questions poised. Can I offer you something to drink? Would you like to listen to some music? Should I light some candles, some incense?
Shiva didn’t believe in any rules she hadn’t made herself and proved it by tugging tee-shirt over head, unhooking black push-up bra from behind, joogling the straps down the length of her arms to freefall, unbuttoning jeans and wriggling them down (no panties!) to her shins for the hoppity-hop kick-off which left her wild and shimmering and naked.
Mary unbuttoned the top button of her shirt and untucked it from her jeans, while Shiva laughed, did a little frug, clapped her hands.
-Is that a yes? she asked.
-Sure feels like it, Mary said.
Their mouths roamed from Girl Scout to full French, breasts cupped and nipples licked, knuckles grazing each other’s moisture, skin responding to skin, like a guitar solo playing follow the leader with itself. Mary was aware of the old familiar signs. Faint taste of blood in her mouth, the mild, shy tremor of shock when Shiva inserted first one, then two, then three fingers and touched her deep, taking over. Shiva was playful, badgery, going for a rhythm that she could ride without excessive wrist-ache, a rhythm that would end with a feedback moan and a proper cymbal crash. And Mary, as though she was letting her grip loosen on the buoy, let herself be taken, let Shiva finger every fret and scoop, tucking her head in low and nuzzling Shiva’s lovely damp armpit, the soft, heavy sweep of Shiva’s breast pulsing the backbeat on Mary’s cheek.
Mary arched, starting to trem-, shiv-, shud-, and Shiva grinned and whispered oh yeah, pushing the rhythm with her riding hand, Mary’s thigh muscles pure Golden Gate cable, the blossom at her center opening and closing like a peacock fan, while Shiva galloped onto and over the tally-ho! hill, squeezing Mary closer as she trembled, shivered, shuddered, mouth open as she spittled the air with truncated joyful obscenities.
Shiva allowed her friend to relax into the semi-coma of satisfaction, kissing her face, her shoulders, her breasts, breath warm on throat and cheek, inhaling the little after-gasps. Supporting Mary’s head with her arm Shiva slid her fingers free and slipped them into Mary’s mouth, lathering tongue and lips and chin with the musky viscous mess.
And then a pause for refreshment (fat joint, vodka, red wine, a lonely Dr. Pepper) before Mary maneuvered Shiva into the ratty armchair and knelt between her spread legs for the fair play of turnaround. But first Mary tugged back her hair into a tight ponytail, mare’s black bush for her friend to hold onto as needed. Shiva stared across the little room at herself, ghostly white in the smeary mirror, Mary’s spinal column in delicate guidance to the violin swell of her ass, ten little toes peeking out from under. She listened to her own breathing, shallow now, regular, like the slow rise and fall of a keel, settling in the sug and wisp and blur and lisp of what Mary was doing. She caught Mary’s ponytail in her hand, fingers round the rubberbanded base, swung the black mane lazily from side to side, like a potentate with a flywhisk, soon to rain quick soft blows on Mary’s shoulders.