Astrologically Inspired Erotica
"Aries," a Dirty Martini story by Laura Roberts
Coming up or Going Down by Mick Payton (available at ObsessionArt.com)
The word fuck means nothing to me, these days. It neither shocks nor thrills. It is simply a word—and an overused word, at that—a word that represents something I used to do, haven't done in months. I am, simply put, starved for sex. And that is how I meet him, here in this sleazy little bar at the corner of Rene-Levesque and Bishop.
“Hey, baby, what’s your sign?” he asks. He gives me that awful “I’m checking you out” double-barreled finger-shot, too. A cliché wrapped in a sweater vest. Visiting my sinful city, up from Boston, maybe?
I look him up and down before I deign to answer. “Aries. Ram me, you big buck.”
“Whoa, there. Let’s get to know each other first, little lady!” He motions for the bartender.
“I think we’d both regret that later,” I say. “Why don’t you just follow me into the alley for a quickie, sport?”
The bartender approaches just in time to catch my comment. He laughs at buddy's shocked expression and slaps him on the back. “Go get her, tiger!”
“Rrrowr,” I say, clawing buddy's shirt and grabbing his hand. I pull him through the crowd and out the back door. He looks like he might die of a heart attack. But when I kiss him as hard as the door slams behind us, his eyes roll back in his head and he melts the way women do. I undo his belt, unzip his fly, stick my hands down his pants and slide my fingers over his hardening cock.
“Good boy,” I whisper. “Now, fuck me already.”
He has regained whatever wits he might have jostling around in that drunken, beefcake head, and he pins me to the wall with two muscular arms and a cocky grin.
“Bet you’ve never ridden anybody this big, have you?” He actually shakes it at me like a goddamn sausage. But that’s okay, because I just want to get laid. He could be JoJo the Dog-Faced Boy and I'd still fuck him, so long as he had a prick to slip inside me.
“Never in a million years, sweet thang. How do you want me?”
“Right there’s good,” he says, priming his pump.
“You wouldn’t like it better if I did this?” I lean over the railing that leads down to the basement, legs spread, skirt hiked up.
“Oh yeah, baby.” He pulls my ass back to meet his cock. Eventually, he works out a sort of rhythm, rocking me back and forth as his penis dips in and out. My cunt drips as he fucks me, as I finger myself, as we pleasure each other hard and fast. I am racing him to the finish line, knowing these sport fucks don't last long. I climax just as he starts to spurt and gush, screaming “YES!” with unexpected passion.
He withdraws, tucks himself back in, folds my skirt down over my ass. I give him another hard kiss and disappear into the darkness of the alley. I watch as he wobbles back into the bar, then I move on in search of my next drunken buck.
Originally published March 2010
