Sexy San Francisco Erotica
"Tarts in Paradise," a Vanilla one-night-stand story by Olivia London
Lady Miss Bee, by Mofo (prints available at ObsessionArt.com)
People don’t change, Barry thought, as he slapped some cologne on his chest and gelled the bounty of his thick, black hair. He recalled how his Uncle Bill died in a trailer, friendless and alone, having alienated every woman who tried to “save” him from a gambling addiction. Barry’s Aunt Ida, too, had been a “professional” gambler, meaning she never worked a day in her life, always keeping just one step ahead of the bookies and landlords. One of the freebooters she ran with actually wore an eye patch. It was too much.
The last time he saw his aunt was at his father’s funeral in Georgia. The first thing she said to him was, “Barry, honey! Give me a number, first number that rolls outta your head. C’mon. I’m feeling lucky.”
She was crazy, that Ida. These relatives of his were always going to go straight and settle down…eventually. First, though, there had to be the one great score.
When Barry moved to San Francisco, he cut all family ties as easily as if he were skiving fat from a choice piece of meat. Got a room at a boarding house, a job at a pub, and, having no idea what to do with his life, he enrolled in law school.
He tried to stay focused, but he was a garrulous sort who craved a woman’s arms entwined round his neck and the susurrus of soft words in the night.
Dating was expensive in the Bay Area. Too expensive. Barry was a handsome guy, but girls would only vouchsafe phone numbers if it meant fancy drinks in the financial district or a worthy cassoulet at some crowded trattoria, preferably in the Upper Fillmore.
So here he was on a Friday night, doing something he’d never done before. He’d always met girls through friends or school, but just once, he wanted something to come easy. Just once, he wanted to get laid without having to present his curriculum vitae. Yes, a one-night-stand was looking very good at the moment.
He found just what he was looking for at Tarts in Paradise, a bar in the Mission where everyone was dressed in black save for the few dolls cultivating the vintage look. These too-thin girls did look like dolls in their buckled, patent leather shoes and billowing ruffled skirts. The posturing females did not seem to Barry, even in his cyclopean need, to be remotely fuckable.
He stayed for an hour and was about to leave when he noticed a bombshell sitting alone at the end of the bar.
How could a woman this stunning be alone? he wondered, as he stealthily approached her cross-legged aura of sex appeal.
She was wearing a pencil skirt with a side split the width of his forearm. Her faux-silk blouse was unbuttoned just enough to proffer a view of black push-up bra, her creamy décolletage rising and falling like ocean spume.
When she smiled at him, he saw her teeth were nomadically arranged and with a fleet, mental gesture, he wrote her story: Her name was Shari. She lived in the Tenderloin where roach-infested apartments featured Murphy beds and plumbing in need of repair since World War II. Her parents couldn’t afford orthodontia, let alone college, so she held fast to her receptionist job and lived for the weekend. Her hair was a difficult shade of blond, the jaunty yellow of turmeric, whether natural or by art he didn’t really care. He would have this girl. He would have her every which way he wanted her.
He took the empty stool next to hers and bought her next drink. When he asked what she was doing in a bar like Tarts, she giggled and said she was horny. Her name was Wendy and she did in fact work as a receptionist, though rather than living in the Tenderloin, she lived a few blocks away from the lounge in a Victorian house where she rented an upstairs flat.
She took him there after a roundelay of drinks, and his cock spiked in anticipation of a reward. However, it seemed an inordinate amount of time that he had to sit there, nodding in sympathy as she talked about the importunate requests of office supply salesmen and phones ringing off the hook. She used that phrase a number of times—“phones ringing off the hook.” She was a receptionist. What did she expect? A silent work environment?
Once past the threshold of her bachelorette pad, they dispensed with the small talk and meshed into each other’s arms. Wendy tasted of red wine and charcuterie meats, and her guest kissed her with a feral abandon. His palms caressed every curve and convex shape of her body, registering how much of her there was to enjoy. She wasn’t fat or even overweight, though he had buddies who would pass her by, preferring a leaner look.
Barry was pleased when this buxom blonde unzipped his fly, then astounded when she kneeled on a sofa cushion to press her mouth to his erection. He generally had to wine and dine a woman for six months before getting some oral satisfaction, and even then the fellatio was generally an anesthetic compared to the lovemaking that followed.
Now here was this ambitious female, going down on him with an energy so propulsive it would make any man quake with desire. Such an uninhibited display of affection left him agog, and he wished he could freeze the moment in order to return to it at random. Wendy interlocked her fingers behind his back while her languet swirled and looped round his shaft as if it were trying to paint stripes on a barber’s pole. Her tongue then lifted and fell in graceful arabesques, pausing only to lick away a dredged pearl of pre-come.
His cock was really thrumming now, ready to take off like a petard. When he felt Wendy’s luscious lips gird the base of his shaft, he thought he would explode. In one fluid motion, he lifted Wendy off his cock and pressed her flat against the sofa.
He quickly reached into the back pocket of his jeans. Once ensheathed, he touched Wendy’s mound, hoping she was ready. He would have felt guilty, taking so much pleasure without at least finger fucking a woman in return, but there was something primal going on here. He had felt it back at Tarts, when she let his hand glide under the taut fabric of her skirt to pet her inner thigh; it was as if her clothing had been rent for just this purpose. Her legs parted incrementally, just enough to welcome the intrusion.
“I want you,” she murmured.
As the tip of his penis prodded the pomade of her vulva, Barry felt his lover’s want, and the depth of her desire was almost more than he could bear. He maneuvered her legs into a V and marveled at how light they were, light as feathers against his chest. She greeted his thrusts with plosive sounds of gratitude and he fucked her like he had been given license to raid a store, with a blind and furtive grasping that left him breathless.
When they finally both crested toward orgasm and he came in shuddering waves, his body descending on hers like a rip tide, she released a sharp peal of joy and her eyes were creased with emotion.
They repaired to her bedroom. In the middle of the night, he touched her and was instantly aroused. She was wet even in slumber. He gently nudged her awake and, without even being asked, she got on her hands and knees so Barry could take her from behind. He stroked her breasts and belly as he entered her, which made his lover purr with delight.
Soon, though, he was pumping her for all he was worth. He observed his hands as if they were made for this very purpose, to commandeer Wendy’s hips so he could drive his cock into the very pith of her mound.
They came again and slept again. In the morning, he woke first.
He could have put on his jeans and walked out the door. This was supposed to be a one-night-stand. Maybe Wendy didn’t care to see his mug in the light of day.
He’d have to take a chance, hoping that she’d at least have breakfast with him.
People don’t change, Barry mused, as he sat on the edge of Wendy’s bed, taking in the mess of her room. He knew that because she was messy and disorganized now, she’d probably never be the next Martha Stewart.
He also knew that when she woke, he’d like to take her to that little place on Jackson that served good coffee and great omelets. After that, he’d take her home, because he had reading to catch up on. But maybe later they could see a movie.
Barry had just never been a one-night-stand kind of guy. And he wasn’t about to change any time soon.
Copyright November 2011, Olivia London.
Published with permission from author on OystersandChocolate.com. Copying or reprinting this work in part or in whole without permission is illegal.