Temporary
“Listen,” I said, “I’m going to take these heels off.”
The dishwasher looked up. He was short and broad, dark as French roast coffee, muscles hard as an iron gate.
“I don’t give a shit, man.”
He laid a hair’s emphasis on the last word, maybe to let me know he wasn’t fooled by my red satin dress and oak brown hair that swept past my shoulders. Yet I distinctly remembered him looking when I’d waltzed from the dressing room to the club’s little stage, a few hours ago. His head turned so hard his vertebrae crackled.
And he was still staring. I slipped off one pump then the other, dropping five inches to the kitchen’s cool floor. The man was taller than me now and I felt the vertigo thrall of fear and excitement. I loved to be looked at but I couldn’t read his steady, nailhead eyes. I’d guessed wrong before. Terribly wrong.
I set the black patent shoes on top of the stainless steel counter, spiked heels lined up, weapons if I needed them. It was three a.m. and we were the only ones left in the place. The dishwasher snorted and turned back to his work. I braced myself for my own – scraping and sorting.
It was hard to imagine that a few hours ago people had been whistling for me, hooting and stomping on the floor, and now I was scraping their half-chewed food into the garbage. My stomach rolled. Show business, I thought with a grimace.
“How come you’re doing dishes if you’re a star?”
The words jarred me. The man’s lip lifted on the edge of a sneer.
“Well, it was a charity event. Everybody pitches in. The others waited on tables and took tickets.”
“But you got this.”
Laughter lurked under the words. My hand went to my hip. “Yes, I did. And guess what, Einstein. Tonight I’m going home and I’ll never have to see this shit-hole again. I bet that you do – every single day.”
His nostrils flared. “It’s just temporary.”
“So was income tax!”
For an instant we glared at each other. Then he seized an arm-breaking tray of dishes and hoisted it over to the sink, biceps straining his kitchen whites. I turned with an abrupt flounce, breasts swaying.
I’d been performing with four others during the last six months, doing drag shows for charity benefits and the occasional gay bar gala. We usually worked for tips, but on bad gigs – like this one – we had to ‘assist the staff,’ too.
“We’re making our names,” Carl our MC said, over and over.
“I already have a name,” I’d snapped at him. “And if somebody doesn’t write it on a check real soon, I’m dumping this trailer-park talent show.”
“Trailer park!” Carl snarled. “I’ve done Vegas!”
“So I heard – on your knees.”
I thought he’d smack me, but his eyes suddenly narrowed. “It’s not a bitch contest, darling. There is no prize.”
That’s when I started getting the crap jobs, yet he didn’t dare cut me loose. I was a singer, a torch. The others only lip-synched, but I really sang, steel-note cries of longing that pierced the smoky haze. Up on the stage, blazing like a satin flame, I could hold the entire room in my palm – the men’s desire, the women’s envy. And in that instant my feet didn’t hurt, and the four hours of shaving and waxing didn’t matter. The bit of flesh strapped down tight between my legs no longer existed. I was Ashley Laine, a woman flying, not falling.
I won in other ways, too. When Carl walked out into the crowd, to fluff up interest and stroke a man or two, everyone laughed. That’s because he looked like what he was – a hefty TV squeezed into his aunt’s cast-offs. He was six-foot-two in flats and wore a thrift-shop Doris Day wig. Pure plastic.
I was different. I strolled into the audience like a long-legged sylph, and the air sizzled. Tonight I’d put my foot on a big man’s chair, between his legs, the patent leather toe just millimeters from his bulge. He was a burly trucker type, the kind who swore he’d never come to a place like this. In the dazzling glare of the spotlight, I let the red satin slide to the top of my thigh. I could hear his excited, quickening breath, feel his eyes scour my body – nipples, naked leg, my succulent painted lips. He was enthralled. I drank Carl’s envy from across the room.
There is a prize, darling, I thought.
A clatter of pots made me turn. The dishwasher was still at the sink, jaw set, big shoulders moving with the precision of anger. Frayed male pride. I was sorry for what I’d said.
“What’s your name?” I called over the noise.
He didn’t look up. “What the hell do you care?”
“Oh, don’t tease me. I know I’ve been naughty.”
The last word caught him by surprise and he glanced over, grinning in spite of himself. After a moment he pulled out of the water and started toward me, wiping his hands on a towel.
Closer was better. His whole upper body swayed when he walked, a sailor’s big-armed swagger that made me catch my breath. There were amethyst highlights in his sienna skin, his lips and big palms were startlingly pink. The part of me flattened by the spandex panties began to thicken.
“Tell me yours first,” he said.
“It all depends. If you’re not a cop or my mother, I’m Ashley Laine.”
His smile broadened. “Rory Park.” He thrust out his hand and enveloped mine, a dark nest enfolding a pale little bird.
I squeezed back. “It would seem there’s a Park at the end of the Laine.”
He laughed abruptly, surprised again, a flash of white and wet pink that gave me a flutter. Damn, this was looking good.
“So, if this career is only temporary, what are you on your way to?” I said.
“Oh.” He pulled away. “There’s lots of possibilities. I’ve got lots of prospects.”
He began to wander through the narrow aisles, his back to me. There was something about his knotted shoulders and the way he trailed his fingers along the stainless steel counter that made my chest tighten.
“Are you on parole, Rory?” I asked quietly.
He looked back at me, chin tilted up, not exactly a dare. “You got a dick under that dress?”
My heart leapt into a trot but I held his gaze. “The last time I looked.”
Rory smiled ruefully. “Yeah, me, too. Last time I looked.”
Great, I thought. Another Mr. Right-cum-felon. Yet I felt a strange sense of relief. This was the kind of news I usually got late in a relationship. Way too late. I turned to my dirty trays again and dove into the task with brisk energy. Finish up. Go home. Wang off if you have to.
But Rory didn’t go back to his sink. He settled across the counter from me, leaned forward on his arms in a hard-sculpted, masculine trapezoid. “Hey, you’re really something, you know? If I saw you on the street, I never would have guessed. I’m not queer or nothing, but you’re pretty hot.”
I should have kept my mouth shut, but he’d jabbed at an old, tired wound.
“Guess again – I’m not gay, either.”
“What?” He pulled back, then grinned. “Ah, you’re shittin’ me.”
I straightened, flushing.
“Here’s a telegram for your thick male brain: it isn’t always about sex. It isn’t about what you stick where, and into who. I’m a female who happens to have a male body – for the moment. You understand temporary, don’t you, Rory?” I flipped my long hair with a toss of my head. “I’m not in drag, I’m ... in process.”
His gaze dropped to my breasts, to the bullet-firm nipples pushing against the silky fabric.
“So those are yours?”
He reached out – he was going to squeeze me like cantaloupe. I smacked him away so hard my own hand sparkled with pain. His eyes widened, a dark flash of lust and anger, and my heart leapt. I thought he might grab me across the counter.
Bang! Bang! Someone pounded on the heavy metal kitchen door, the one that led to the alley.
“Richard! Are you in there?” a voice called.
Oh, God. The voice skewered me like an icicle. “Don’t open it,” I said.
Rory glanced at the door, then at me again, bewildered.
“Richard, don’t screw with me, bitch! Carl nailed you. I know you’re in there.”
I reeled with the nausea of betrayal. I’d made some mistakes in the past, and I’d been running from this one for months. And Carl knew it – that asshole!
“What the hell is going on, Ashley?” Rory hissed.
“Don’t ... do anything. I’ll check for another exit.”
I hiked up my skirt and sprinted away, dodging around the club’s tables. I reached the front door and yanked on it. Damn! It could only be opened with a key. By the time I was back in the kitchen, Rory’s hands were on his hips, his broad chest puffed with anger.
My Ex was kicking at the door now, a terrifying rattle. Thank God it only opened from the inside.
“The front’s locked,” I panted.
“Look – does he pack a gun?”
“Not ... always.”
“Shit!” Rory whammed the counter with the flat of his hand and the dishes jumped. Bad news. My Ex renewed his assault on the door.
“I know you’re in there, you lying slut!”
Rory shot me a hard look. This wasn’t his fight, or his problem.
“All right. I’m calling the cops,” I blurted.
I was almost into the hallway when he seized my arm.
“No – please.” His eyes were large, liquid, frightened. “My parole ... is in another state.”
The revelation opened inside me. If the police showed up, Rory was the one going to jail. Yet he wasn’t threatening me, he was asking. It was a strange sensation to have this big man pleading with me.
“But what am I going to do? If I walk out of here, I won’t get home.” I could hear the shrill, desperate note in my voice. “And if we don’t get rid of him, someone else will call the cops.”
Rory hesitated, then held a finger to his lips. Shh. He strode back to the metal door, wound up and hammered it with the side of his fist.
“What the hell are you wailing about, man?” he roared.
There was a second’s stunned silence. My Ex wasn’t expecting that deep basso.
“I’m looking for a bitch named Richard. Someone told me he’s in there.”
“That nut in the dress? I sent him home an hour ago. The most useless piece of shit I ever had in my kitchen.”
The pain was swift, a boot in the stomach. But Rory held up his hand to me – hold on.
“Well, just let me in to check," my Ex said.
“I open this door and my balls are breakfast. Staff only.”
“You’ve gotta come out sometime.” The threat was dark, rumbling, a storm I already knew.
“Yeah, I do,” Rory called. “But I hope you brought a chair, man. I’m night crew. I don’t walk for another five hours.”
Silence. I twisted on the hook, fingernails digging into my palms.
“Fuck.” The word was a low thud of defeat, the last stone pitched backward by a man leaving. For long seconds Rory and I were transfixed, straining for more sounds, but there was nothing. At last I exhaled, a rush of relief that punctured me like a balloon. I backed against a wall and slid down, bones melting. I put my hand over my face, eyelashes trembling against my palm. Don’t cry, don’t cry.
Just another day at the office, I thought bitterly. Betrayed, threatened, terrified. And for what? So I could stand on a stage for three minutes and feel ... real? All I wanted was someone who understood the woman I was going to be, and yet desired me now, too. Instead I found lovers who loathed themselves for wanting me. I felt like a wineglass, a toast you drank, then smashed in the fireplace.
“What was the name of that song you sang tonight?” Rory’s voice was soft.
I looked up, blinking tears. He was back at the sink, washing quietly.
“Skylark. It’s an old jazz tune.”
He nodded without looking at me. “It was beautiful. Sad but beautiful. It pulled me right out of the kitchen. They wouldn’t let me out front to watch, but I stood in the hallway, listening.”
The surge of gratitude almost closed my throat. In that instant his few words meant more than the waves of applause that had rolled out to me under the spotlight. It kindled an idea that pulled me to my feet.
“Rory, why don’t you take a break. Go sit down at a table, relax for a bit.”
He turned. I was leaning against the wall, head tilted back, my bare neck arching out toward him. At last a slow, smoky smile lit up his handsome face.
“All right.”
I gave myself three minutes in the dressing room to brush my hair and freshen my make-up. On impulse, I peeled off my stockings, and the rich, smooth fabric of my dress caressed my bare thighs as I moved. Anticipation ran over me like waves of champagne. I stepped into my high heels again, and the sudden lift straightened me, thrust my silicone breasts forward. The dark-eyed siren in red who gazed back from the mirror was a flame. A torch. Some people might call this a fantasy but it was my deepest truth.
Rory hadn’t turned on the lights. The spillover glow from the hall swept out over the empty tables in a soft, dreamy wash. He’d lit the candle on his table and sat upright in the chair, dark hands on his white, uniformed thighs. Anxious. Peeking from behind the partition, I took a breath to slow my pounding heart, then stepped out of the shadows and began to sing.
"Well, the men come in these places, and the men are all the same..."
The long night had rasped my voice to husky velvet, and I softened Tina Turner’s ‘Private Dancer’ to a lullaby. Each stride a slow undulation, my long, pale legs emerging through the slits of the skirt, then retreating. A tease. I let my elegant, gleaming nails skim the surface of the polished tables.
Rory’s gaze was rapt, devouring. I meandered toward him, exhilarated by the desire I could feel radiating from his body. When he reached between his thighs and squeezed the bulge, longing leapt beneath my dress.
"I’m your private dancer, a dancer for money..."
I’d reached him at last, and slid my ass onto his tabletop. The flickering candle lit up the sheen of sweat on his throat, his eyes had the glaze of a dream. I settled a foot against his thigh, the spiked heel indenting the muscle, and crossed one leg over the other, close enough that his warm, quick breath whispered over my naked knees. He closed his hand around my ankle, then leaned forward and opened his mouth on my bare calf in a soft, wet bite. Desire twisted the song in my throat to a moan.
He stood to embrace me and I spread my knees wide to receive him, still perched on the table like an ornament. He opened my mouth with a demanding kiss, entered me with his tongue. I sucked on it eagerly, wanting to take him inside me any way I could. When his thick fingers began to creep under my panties, I edged away, afraid to ripple the surface of his fantasy. He pulled from my lips and panted lightly against my ear.
“I want to see you – your hard-on and tits. I want to see it all.”
I prickled with apprehension. I’d never done this for anyone, not in a dress. “Close your eyes first.”
Rory took a step back, grinning faintly, and did as he was told. The hard jut in his white pants made my mouth swim. I slipped off my underwear and my erection surged to full height, a slender rapier bobbing under the weight of the swollen bell cap. I gathered my skirt back and let it cascade down both sides in a satin waterfall. When I gently stroked myself, the tingling rush was amplified. Dizzying. The feminine fabric against my skin and the big-boned male in front of me were a potent cocktail.
“All right,” I said.
Rory opened his eyes. For a second he just stared, eyes darting from my face to my breasts to the erection I still tugged between my legs.
“Oh, girl,” he breathed. “You’re so fine.”
Oh, girl. The words ran through me in an electric current. I squeezed myself, my cockhead surging in a sweet throb on top of my delicate fist. Rory unzipped, clumsy with want, fumbled with his shirt and sent a button sailing. It rolled in a spiral on the ugly burgundy carpet. Then he gathered me up and swept me down to that carpet, too.
He was vast, dark, undulating, a powerful wave of a man. I was the red sunset dancing on his surface. On the club floor between the tables, I lapped at his chest and sucked hard on his nipples, feeling his low, hungry sounds vibrate against my lips. He touched me with a rough, working man’s awe, as if he were afraid he might break something.
“It’s my real hair,” I said. “You can pull on it.”
Emboldened, he wrapped the silky length around his fist, tight enough to make my scalp burn. But it wasn’t pain – as soon as he stepped into a wide-legged stance in front of my mouth.
His cock was the color of an angry plum, a swaggering brute that twitched toward me, taut and urgent. I licked the underside of the fleshy ridge, teased the satin surface with my teeth. Rory growled in his throat and urged me forward, his fist at the base of my skull. When I opened my mouth to take his full length, he thrust forward and stretched me wide. It was like being entered – deep, thrilling, necessary.
I gripped both his thighs for better balance and he pushed one of my hands away.
“No, work your dick. Ride it, baby. I want to see you come.”
I didn’t need a second invitation. I flipped up my skirt again and we fell into an extraordinary rhythm, pumping like a machine with two pistons. He bucked into my mouth and I rode my own familiar grip, stoked by sensation and the thick, guttural sounds of his pleasure. My own rushed up quickly, churned in my balls in exquisite curls. I gripped my cock around the base, stalling.
Rory was driving faster, harder. Every time he hit the back of my throat, the impact hurtled down through me and throbbed between my legs. He was fucking my whole body through my mouth. Just as I wondered how long I could hold off , he yanked my head back. His cock pulled out with a soft slurp, my mouth hung open in a surprised O.
“Come!” Rory blurted.
The jets struck my bare chest like hot cream, pulse after pulse that snaked down into my cleavage. The triumph released me – my own bliss caught me in that instant, a low thunder that pulled a cry from my center. I clung to his thigh and rode one galloping wave after another, spasms twisting me, wrenching me with joy as I shot far out between his legs.
The floor was hard and it didn’t matter; we floated on a languid stream. I lay in the crook of his big arm and watched the faint flickering of the candle against the ceiling high above. A corner of my mind nagged at me: Rory’s record, his broken parole. But I refused to worry about it tonight. Happiness was the most temporary thing of all.
“I guess I owe you a dress.” Rory touched the stains below my neckline, which where were already starting to stiffen.
“The night’s not over,” I said. “It could be two.”
He laughed, a single happy note that gave me courage. I rolled onto my side and nestled my cheek against his chest.
“What made you want me?” I asked softly. “Seeing that you’re not queer.”
Rory took a breath. “Oh. Because you’re beautiful and you looked so alone. We’re all ... kind of alone, if you think about it.” He hesitated shyly. “Nobody ever sang for me before.”
I heard the words yet felt something else beneath them, as delicious and intimate as a squeeze. Oh, girl.
I fluttered my fingernails down his chest in a teasing, butterfly trail. “And she just might sing for you again.”
Copyright © 2004 by Tulsa Brown. All rights reserved.
Tulsa Brown is a Canadian novelist who ran off to join the erotica circus in 2003. She’s a columnist for the Erotica Readers and Writers Association, and in 2004 she’ll have stories in 8 anthologies, including Best Women’s Erotica 2004, Best S/M Erotica 2 and Bearotica 2. One of these days she’s going to have to tell her mom that she hasn’t been writing the family history.