Sex Love Repeat

by Alessandra Torre

  His hands pushed my thin tee up, over the curves of my bikini top, his firm fingers sliding the triangles of my bikini over, my breasts spilling free, his hands cupping them and squeezing, his breath catching in my mouth. He pulled away, looking down, staring at my breasts in his hands, his head leaning down, his hands lifting me into the heat of his mouth. His mouth was incredible, soft yet firm, pliable against my delicate skin, his fingers’ brush against my nipples soft and sweet. I could feel him, hard against my thigh, and I reached back, digging into my pocket for what I always keep there – just in case. Just in case I meet a man who I can’t resist.

  He started at the touch of my fingers, dipping under the nylon of his shorts, his mouth coming off of my breasts and looking at me, surprised. “Here?” This close, I could see tints of green in his blue eyes, the color of ocean water, glittering brilliantly against the brown sand of his skin.

  “Yes, here. I need you.” I met his eyes confidently as I said the words, my hands already sealing the deal, pulling him out *oh my god HARD* and sliding protection over him with one smooth motion. His eyes darkened, intensity stealing over them, and he turned us, trading places, pushing my back against the hard wet span of wood, his hands lowering, gripping the back of my legs and sliding up, pushing my skirt higher, his hands gripping the meat of my ass and lifting.

  Then I was in the air, his pelvis underneath me, supporting me against the post, and his fingers were skimming the line of my bikini bottoms, traveling up the curve of my hip until he reached the tie, yanking quickly, his hand moving back down once the material of my suit is gone. His mouth left mine, a gasp in his tone as his fingers pushed inside, one digit and then two. “Jesus. Are you sure?”

  A stupid question as I hung before him, my breasts exposed, legs wrapped around his waist, my need dripping a path for his cock. “Give it to me,” I breathed. “Hard.”

  He didn’t ask again, didn’t do anything but prop me hard against the post, used his fingers to position himself at my entrance, and then he fucked. Quick fast strokes, his breath hard against my neck, his hands digging into the flesh of my ass, pulling and gripping the skin as he made his mark on my body. His fucks were wild, out of control, and I moaned against his neck, loving the fervor of his movements.

  When I came, I cried out, his mouth quickly moving to mine, muffling the sound, as my body shook around his, my legs squeezing as intensity shook my body. It was too much, too great, the heat of my orgasm and clench of my sex, and I felt him as he came, the twitch and raw emotion that flowed through him, his breath gasping as he grunted, slowing his fucks and giving me a few last, final, pushes.

  “Oh my god,” he whispered against my neck, his cock softening inside of me. “Oh my god. I think I’m in love with you.”

  He wasn’t in love. Not yet. He was just surprised, that a girl with perfect teeth, and a bred-in-the-Valley smile, would fuck a stranger under the pier in Santa Monica. And I thought, as I dropped to my knees in the water and peeled off the condom, taking him into my mouth and sucking cum off his cock, that I would never see him again. That it would be that one, fuckable moment, and nothing else. But here we are, two years later and incredibly in love.

  That’s right. In LOVE. Yes, I am still the hoochie who just got my brains fucked out on the weight bench. The one who has dated Stewart Brand, one of the most eligible bachelors in downtown Hollywood for the last two years. I know what you’re thinking. That dropped jaw and disgusted look on your face? I’ve seen it before. But wait. Please. Don’t judge me quite yet.

  VENICE BEACH, CA

  I am barefoot on the couch when Paul gets home, the door slamming open and shaking the framed ribbon that was his first ever surfing prize. I slide the headphones off my head, rising to my feet. “Hey lover,” I say, wrapping my arms around his neck.

  “Hey beautiful. How was life in the other half?”

  “Bearable,” I pull him tightly to me for a kiss. “I need you.”

  He welcomes me back with a kitchen fuck, my ass bare on the counter, legs wrapped tight around his waist. His mouth plays with my neck as he fucks, his pace smooth and unhurried, as if we have all of the time in the world. And, in a way, we do. Nothing to do today, no appointments or places to be. He whispers dirty things as his hands slide around and beneath me, gripping my ass and pulling me into his strokes. I come once, my legs tightening around him, my walls constricting and squeezing, his speed increasing enough to take me over the edge and gently back down. Then we move, his arms carrying me to the bed, his cock still hard and firm inside of me, and he lays me down. There, on our worn sheets, he rolls me onto my side, and takes me to orgasm another two times, finishing with a groan.

  We lay entwined in each others arms, the open window providing a strong breeze of salt and sand, washing over our damp skin. He pulls me closer, pressing a soft kiss on my neck. “I love you Madd.”

  “I love you too.” And I do. I love this man, who has not one stressed out bone in his body. He concerns himself with two things. Surfing, and keeping me happy. I love his outlook on life, a Bob Marley style philosophy. We fuck, we surf, and we love. There isn’t too much else to our life. To this half of my life.

  “Waves are supposed to be strong this afternoon. Wanna ride some today?”

  “I think I’ll hit the bookstore. Log in a few hours. You go out this morning?”

  “Yeah. Got up about five. Maverick’s Invitational is in three weeks so I’ll hit it hard ‘til then.”

  Paul doesn’t need to practice. He is god on a stick. His arms and legs work in perfect synchronization, his body gliding and bending at the perfect moment to stay balanced. Watching him surf makes my heart pound and my body clench. It is pure sex, the push and pull of muscles in a graceful movement that displays his athleticism. He’s consistently ranked in the top twenty surfers in the world, a ranking that means little when it comes to his finances. Every competition is a negative investment, unless he wins. If he wins, sponsors are happy and prize money covers a few months of rent. If he loses, he is out his travel expenses and we eat Ramen noodles until the next big event.

  I close my eyes, twisting until my head is on his stomach, his hand automatically reaching for and running through my hair, pulling bits of blond and curling them around his finger. I close my eyes, the movement soothing and familiar. Outside, some music starts up, the strands of reggae floating through the air and over our space. To Ziggy Marley’s voice and against Paul’s sun-kissed abs, I close my eyes and fall asleep.

  HOLLYWOOD, CA

  I hate society’s notion that there is something wrong with sex. Something wrong with a woman who loves sex. I’ve loved sex for as long as I can remember. I lost my virginity at fourteen, when Gus Blankenship showed me his penis behind the gym, and I got so hot and bothered that I let him put it in me. Right there, with hard gravel digging into my back, his excited acne-covered face above. It was the best forty-two seconds of my life thus far.

  That was back in the day. When fourteen-year olds were still pure, and not the makeup covered, push-up bra tramps that they are today. Sixth grade sleepovers are now orgies where the girls fight over who’s gonna get to suck the barely-handsome dad off first.

  It’s all wrong, the evolution of our innocent youth into cock-gobbling sluts. Which seems hypocritical coming from me, but its not. I fuck because I love it, because I want to, it brings me pleasure. They fuck because they think that they have to – for the guy, for the queen-bee girl, for the proverbial ‘fuck you’ to society that they think it creates.

  They have it so backwards, so twistedly screwed. Sex should be about mutual enjoyment, connection, the borrowing from another’s fire at a moment when you want it most.

  I pity them, with their glossy red lips and pierced belly buttons. Because, when it all comes to pass? When they ‘grow up’ and getting fucked during halftime is no longer cool but suddenly slutty? They will feel dirty. Used. Ruined. Because they did it for the wrong reasons.

  My ph
one rings, shrill and demanding. I sigh, the ringtone one reserved for only one individual.

  “Would you like me to get that?” The soft voice of the masseuse matches the dim room, soothing sounds, and eucalyptus scent.

  “Do you mind bringing it to me? I’ll put it on silent.” I push up, taking the cell and silencing the call, flipping the button on the side to mute any future interruptions. “Sorry about that.” I lay back down, holding out the phone, the woman taking it from me with a gracious smile.

  My Mother. I will need to call her back, as soon as Kindi finishes melting every muscle off of my body. Paul needs this, to let this woman work her magic on his sore back and tight legs. But that will never happen. Kindi is a Stewart perk, her oiled hands rubbing me down in the second floor of Stewart’s skyscraper. That’d be combining my worlds, and as stupid as I am to have the two worlds, even I realize the danger in mixing their components.

  I take a deep breath and exhale, intentionally relaxing my shoulders, her fingers digging and pushing, breaking up a bundle of nerves, the pain excruciatingly pleasurable. I push all thoughts of Paul out of my head and focus on her hands.

  HOLLYWOOD, CA

  I grew up a charmed child of La Jolla. Nannies wiped my dirty ass, Christmas was spent in Aspen, and school uniforms shared closet space with miniature lines of Dior and Versace. I lived a privileged line between surfer chick and spoiled brat, sandy cheeks and wet bikinis chafing the leather seats of my ice blue BMW convertible. I smoked weed with friends in million dollar mansions with ocean views while our parents cruised the Black Sea. I fucked preppy boys who wore Lacoste and Rolexes and played lacrosse. I was in a bubble of ridiculousness, and grew up thinking that life never said no, credit cards were never declined, and happiness was a given.

  Then my father, a hedge fund manager with a minor addiction to cocaine, drove off the manicured edge of a Malibu cliff, to the polished astonishment of a restaurant full of Orange County’s upper society. The fact that his mistress, a surgically enhanced blonde three years older than me, was in the front seat, was hid from no one, and embraced by many of my mom’s arch enemies. They both died, drowned or killed by the cliffs. I didn’t ask for particulars and none were offered up.

  Perfection, in that moment, became flawed and fragile. I never took anything for granted again.

  Our money lasted another ten months, ‘til the fat mortgage, civil lawsuits and attorneys took it all. I spent my senior year in the public high school, my BMW repossessed, my school uniforms left in the closet of a home that the bank quickly seized. I was unceremoniously dumped into normality, courtesy of a mother fighting her own depression. If I had still had a cell phone at that moment in time, I can assure you that my lifelong ‘friends’ would not have answered my call.

  Looking back, I see the turning point that occurred at that moment in time. I miss my father, despite his shortcomings and mistakes. I loved him, I have pieces of him throughout my personality. But the person that I was becoming? The type of individual that easy wealth and never-told-no parenting breeds? I was a bitch. A self-assured, my-way-or-the-highway, bitch. I didn’t appreciate what I had and demanded more at every turn. I am grateful that I got kicked in the ass. That I had a taste of reality before I traveled too far and that persona became permanent.

  That happened to my mother. She was raised in those twenty-thousand square foot mansions, she was given everything she ever wanted, right up until the moment that it all disappeared. She drowned herself in top-shelf martinis we couldn’t afford, refusing to cook, clean, or pay bills – her breeding too great for such blue-collar work. I became the adult, she became the child, and we sank further and further in life until I moved out and she found a man. Now she is the wife and full-time dependent of Maurice Fulton, an old man who she can’t possibly love, one who keeps her groomed and outfitted in his big house and keeps her glass filled. I speak to her occasionally, when I get the sadistic urge to see what an society-bred alcoholic sounds like.

  Family is one thing I have in common with my men. We are all loners, floating through life unattached, except to each other. We don’t talk about our pasts, our lack of familial ties. There is no point in dwelling on the darkness. Not when our new life is full of such life.

  Five months before Paul, I met Stewart, on the street in downtown Hollywood. It was November and snowing. Not thick heavy snow that allows snowmen and powder fights, but a light flurry that swirled through the air and fell softly on open tongues, melting upon contact. It doesn’t snow in our part of the world—not normally, the barely-there flurries an event worth celebrating.

  I was downtown, having met my stepfather’s attorney to sign some paperwork. Halfway through our meeting, I noticed the snow, my feet bringing me to the window, hands and nose pressed to the glass like a child. I was anxious to move outside, to feel the soft flurries and to lift my face to the sky. When the meeting concluded, I ran, down six flights of stairwell steps, and burst into the frigid air.

  I was spinning, like a small child, when I stumbled out of place and into the hard polish of his suit. His steps were moving, pausing only to right my steps before moving on. But my ankle turned in the stumble and I let out a small cry of pain that had his eyes meeting mine, concern thick in the blue glint of his irises. He stopped, gripping my arms, his stare intent on my face. “Are you all right?”

  I winced, pushing against his chest and put some weight on my ankle, moving away from him and gripping the metal rod of a street sign. “I’m fine.” I glanced up, watching the erratic swirl of flakes, my mouth curving back into a smile. “It’s snowing.”

  He dismissed the miracle of snow with one shrug of his suit. “Is your car close by?”

  “It’s just a few blocks up.” I leaned against the pole, putting weight on my good foot. I held out my hand and watched as dots of white sprinkled its surface. I glanced over at him, my eyes distracted from the snow as I took in the gorgeous exterior that was this stranger. Custom suit stretched across a strong, tall build. Black hair, swept back and dotted with snow. Blue eyes staring at me with a mixture of impatience and concern. I smiled. “I’m good, really.”

  He sighed, glancing around, then stepped closer, holding out his arm. “May I... please. Let me carry you inside. I can have a driver take you home.”

  I laughed. “And not be able to get back to my car? That is thoughtful, but driving won’t be a problem, its my other foot.”

  He stepped closer, his open hand brushing my side, and I started at the contact, the brush of touch electric. “Then I’ll carry you to your car. Please.” His eyes softened, the urgency in them gone, and I relaxed.

  “If you insist.” I smiled, giggling when he scooped me up, cradling me to his chest, his intense eyes staring bemusedly down at me.

  “This is funny?” he questioned, a flow of minty fresh air floating down on me.

  “Quite romantic, actually.” His hands supported me easily, my weight not slipping and sliding through his arms. I leaned in, resting my head against the wool of his suit, the bump of our movement slightly rocky. “Take a right here. It might be a hair more than a few blocks.” I discreetly inhaled, a delicious blend of vanilla and forest hitting my nose, and I burrow my face farther into his chest.

  “What’s your name?” The words vibrate through his chest and I lifted my head, stared at the strong muscles of his neck, and had the insane urge to lift my mouth to them, to trail playfully kisses up, till I reached the fine shadow of his jaw, over that strong feature and to those lips. I swallow.

  “Madison. Decater.”

  He stopped walking, the abrupt change causing instability, my arms gripping his shoulders for balance, then snaking around his neck. He looked down into my face, smiling, the bright flash of white teeth against the stubble of his five-o-clock shadow breathtaking. “Stewart Brand. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  “Same here.”

  He then asked me where I lived, and what I did. We laughed over his lack of book knowle
dge and over his admission of no social life. We flirted, his hands tightened, and we walked two blocks past my car before I realized it and made him turn around.

  We parted awkwardly, neither one of us wanting to step away, then his cell rang and he glanced at his watch, muttering a curse. He passed me a business card while stepping away, answering the phone and bringing it to his ear. “Call me.” He mouthed. “Please.” Then with a wink, he left, talking quickly, his steps turning into a jog as he headed back up the street. I hobbled into the car and watched his back disappear, waiting to see if he would glance back. But he didn’t, and I stuffed his card into my purse and left, my tender ankle almost causing my Suzuki to sideswipe an adjacent Mercedes.

  I sat on the card for a week, occasionally pulling it out and running my fingers over the surface. Women shouldn’t call men. We should be pursued, should play the offhand, casual game until the men tackle us to the ground with flowers and affection. But his hurried exit, the urgency on his face when the phone rang, didn’t give us the customary time to find pen and paper, to exchange numbers. I bent the card slightly in my hand, considered tossing it the trash and ending this dilemma once and for all.

  But I didn’t. Day Nine I called the number, an efficient female taking down my information in a manner that guaranteed no call back. Day Ten she called back, five times friendlier and set a lunch appointment for Stewart and I three weeks later. I repeated the date uncertainty, expecting for her to be mistaken, and her tone hardened slightly as she informed me that he was a very busy individual, and she had shifted an entire day to accommodate that time frame. I took the date. Twenty-eight months later, I don’t need her to shift schedules. I get my stolen time in the wee hours of the night, or during a business dinner, or if an appointment cancels and I am in the area to grab a quick bite or a fuck on his desk.