One Night Stand

It was raining when I arrived at her place, and it would be raining when I left. I hadn't meant for it to be such a long, over-adulated visit.

It was a downstairs apartment, the bottom floor of a rather small six story complex, and the entrance was along the side of the building. It smelt of my favorite fragrance, the scent of wet dust. I waited in the small stone alcove, away from the rain, and she greeted me at the door in a sheer nightgown over a pair of boy shorts that accentuated her curved hips. She apparently thought that I was more than a friend with certain fringe benefits. I thought I was just a demi-god.

My blasted throat hurts, and the whiskey/honey/ginger/lime concoction is not helping. That is just a darn good feeling when one wants to die.

Meanwhile, I’ve skipped over that husky, sexy voice thing entirely to end up in the land of croaking utterances. No repetitive cough yet, but I should have one nicely developed by midday tomorrow. If all goes as planned, I should hit 3pm with the the enviable puffiness and dark circles around the eyes, and the wheezing cough of an 82-year-old lifetime smoker.

Adore me, girls.

I truly intended to work tonight. Perhaps I’ll get to it if sleep eludes. Perhaps ill just snort some of my one kilo score and drift away.

I do have to check up on my acidic product of Lets Sing Duets. LSD.

I do miss that one-night lay. Her living room was decorated with tasteful items collected from her travels; it wasn't a large apartment, but it was crafted with warm character. She was a journalist, and her writing never really did attract me, but her vanity did. Misery loves company, vanity loves a good fuck. She offered me a glass of wine from the opened bottle on the stone kitchen aisle; I nodded, and she poured us both drinks, bringing them to the couch. Her tastelessness shined threw her, when she mixed a bubbling carbonated soda with a gorgeous wine. I had gifted a 1967 to her days ago. She was using it to sleep. Tsk Tsk Tsk.

It was late, and I knew she was tired, but there was curiosity in her eyes and I could scent the lingering affects of our phone conversation forty minutes earlier. I had done much too much for my own good, there was not much fight left in her.

I was here because she could quote Oscar Wilde. And because she drew herself in the shape of a woman who knew the value of release.

One of the curiosities of being who I am is that, no matter how long I work, or the fact that I do have a regular job (during the daytime), it seems that no matter how hard I try (and I do) I can’t, just can’t get my mind to work the way I’d like ….until this time of day.

It’s 2a.m. Just about when I am ready to go to bed because I can’t justify another sleepless night, just when I’m ready to pop some mind-fuck drops of good ol' mind tripping to kill the MIND NUMBING pain, I find inspiration hitting me.

Fucking brain, would you work right for a change?

Inspiration will have to wait. Oblivion awaits in the form of little tiny ovals. Or ovalish hemispheres of liquid. Just need it too cool down a bit.

Its better, its getting better.

An hour into the conversation, she stood and walked to the bedroom door. She assumed I would follow her; she had made it clear that were I to come over, she wanted me to spend the night.

I followed.

She was standing by the side of the bed when I came up behind her, slipping the robe from her shoulders. My fingers drew her short dark hair to the side and my lips found their way to the curve of her throat. She leaned into the kiss, her head tilting backwards, and I drank in the warmth of her skin, brushing my lips across the nape of her neck.

Gently, I turned her around and pressed her down onto the bed, my fingers catching the sides of her white boy shorts, tugging them over her hips and legs, and then she was under me, soft and pliant. I learned her through kisses, slow lingering kisses along her collar bone, selfish hungry ones along the slopes of her breasts.

We slept in moments that night; again, and again, I woke her with a light touch along her hip, or the inside of her thigh, and I would spend the next hour savoring the length of her, a languid insatiability explored through the subtleties of unceasingly desire until we would fall asleep, only to wake again soon after.

I think about her now, perhaps I should have written down the number instead of pretending to save it in my cell phone.