Pucker Up

by Virna DePaul

  Damn my dick.

  I had her. I almost got her to slip up and accidentally reveal that she was the anonymous face behind that blog. Everything was going exactly as planned. I hit all her weak points. Man, the look on her face when I said the blogger must be uneducated! In her mind, she was cursing me. I could practically hear her screaming thoughts. Harvard Law, asshole. I went to Harvard Law.

  Then, I brought in that jobless jab. The Cheetos bit was a nice improvised touch. Yeah, I saw her pride squirming in that tight black skirt that hugged her every curve. She’d wanted so badly to correct me. She’d been seconds away from blurting out:

  “You're in my office, you idiot. And you know I don't eat Cheetos anymore after you got me high on graduation night and I ate a whole bag before promptly throwing up that whole bag.”

  It was the virgin part that got to her. She was going to say something like, “Where was your dick last night, Lee? How can I be a virgin?”

  But that dick of mine screwed it all up. All that hard work, all that set up … and with three little words, I threw it all away without a second glance. What were those words?

  And lock it.

  And lock it.

  After she said that, I didn't stand a chance, and she knew it. I was hers then. Jenna pushing me down, reaching up to take off her thong, then straddling me. How was I supposed to stop that?

  In my apartment, I turn on my computer and close my eyes while waiting for it to boot up. God, the way she tried to stop herself from moaning. It only made me want her to moan louder. I wanted all her coworkers to hear her scream. Hell, I wanted all of New York City to hear her scream.

  I should have known this would be more difficult than I thought. Jenna's crafty. Well, and my dick is stupid. But, it's all good. I had amazing sex, checked off number four on my list of sexual fantasies, and now it's time for phase two.

  I log into my computer and pull up Jenna's no longer anonymous food blog. I browse around a bit for the contact info. Hmm, what’s this? I’ve accessed a chat room for what Jenna describes as:

  Angry Restaurant Owners Who Want To Be Proved Wrong. Again.

  Should be interesting. With a few beers at the ready, I settle into my chair and crack my knuckles. Here we go. I wait for a second, pondering my opening move, and then start to type my first words to this ‘anonymous’ food blogger.

  I'm glad my nice, round butt made up for my boring, uninspired lasagna.

  I wait for a response. There aren't any little dots blinking that tell me she's replying, but I know a reply is forthcoming. There’s no way Jenna will be able to resist.

  Less than two minutes later, I see the dots.

  Got her! I drink to my brilliance as I wait for her to type.

  My mouth was suffering. No need for my eyes to as well.

  And so, the games begin.

  I drum my fingers against one another like I'm a cheesy movie villain luring Bond into my wicked trap. I even add a little audible “Muahaha” to set the mood.

  I care deeply about the pleasure of my patron’s mouths. I could show you?

  I can already tell those blinking little dots are going to drive me crazy. I sip my beer to try and chill out. Finally, she responds.

  Sure, if you don’t mind a scratchy beard.

  Well played, Jenna. I forgot for a second I’m not supposed to know that the anonymous blogger is a woman. Maybe I need to make some sort of flow chart or Excel spreadsheet in order to keep track of all of this.

  Now, I know that Jenna is the blogger. And Jenna doesn’t know that I know. But Jenna doesn’t know that I know that she doesn’t know … Wait, what? I drink a little more beer, because nothing readies the mind for difficult puzzles like beer. I put my hands back on the keyboard.

  It’s more the sharp tongue I’m afraid of.

  I can almost picture her. She’s probably wearing those old, baggy sweatpants she always wears. In my head though, I see her wearing nothing but that black thong she tossed on her office floor this morning. And she’s in her bed on her stomach, typing at her laptop. Her feet are up in the air, toes curling like they curled for me in her tub. Her ass arches up as she thinks about me. She’s even growing wet as she imagines me –

  Your tough as hell steak can file it down I’m sure.

  Well, there goes that mental image. Yep, the real Jenna is in sweatpants ready to lampoon me. I need to stay focused, on my game. This is war.

  Next time you come to the restaurant, I’ll just have the kitchen throw the steak on a plate raw, because you’re an animal. Vicious. Absolutely vicious.

  Jenna responds more quickly now.

  Next time?

  I don’t respond and let her come to me.

  What makes you think I’m coming back a next time after the pain and emotional trauma your restaurant put me through?

  I’m gaining ground, so I still remain silent on my end. Those little dots pop up again and I drink in celebration of my small victory.

  Well?

  Jenna’s got to be in her bedroom, stalking back and forth in front of her laptop screen with a glass of wine in her hand desperately close to sloshing over the side. I’ve seen her spill it like that a thousand times when she’s frustrated. I laugh.

  Judging by your praise of my body, in explicit detail, I have no doubt that you’ll be back.

  I can practically see steam coming through my computer from her flared nostrils.

  In fact, I type wickedly, I wouldn’t be surprised if you’ve already been back.

  Oh, there is definitely wine on her floor right now. The little dots pop up for a few seconds, then disappear. I pump my fist in the air despite the fact that I’m alone. The three dots show up again and I wait and again they disappear. Best. Day. Ever.

  Mostly because Jenna rode me like a professional cowgirl, but still…

  I put my hands back on the keyboard. If you like, I could show you my secret menu.

  Is that what you show your model friends? They seem to change frequently, which makes me think your secret menu is either small or unimpressive.

  I'm about to type back when she adds, Or both.

  Jenna has definitely seen my 'secret menu'. And I know that she knows it is neither small nor unimpressive. But I restrain myself, since I'm not supposed to know that she knows. I am not smart enough for these tricky, tricky games. Maybe my accountant will help me out with that spreadsheet? I certainly pay him enough.

  I chug the rest of my beer and crack my knuckles once more. Game face. Game face. Focus.

  My secret menu is so indulgent, so decadent, that only a few can go back for seconds.

  It's an all right response. I'm still in the game.

  Those three little dots pop up. While they're pulsing, I run to the fridge for another beer. I almost wipe out racing around the corner and I end up smacking my hip on the kitchen island. As I leap back into my chair, I nearly fall out of it. Jenna has responded.

  So, you're telling me you're sweet?

  Damn it. That's good. I strum my fingers across the keyboard.

  Sweet for titties.

  The moment I press Enter, I regret it. My head falls onto the desk and I groan. She’s snorting in victory, in pleasure. I am an idiot. I picked a word battle with Jenna. Harvard Law grad, Jenna. Brilliant lawyer, Jenna.

  When I finally coax myself to look back up at the screen, my jaw drops.

  I have titties.

  Little Jenna!

  Oh, really now?

  But they're on my secret menu.

  What a delicious, delicious secret menu that is.

  My phone beeps, and I flip it over to see a new email from one of the investors who’d bailed on me. He wants to reconnect. Says that based on his conversations with my agent, Owen Kiss, he’s reconsidering, and that the other investors are, as well.

  I should be thrilled. I should stop everything to address this. But all I want to do right now is flirt with Jenna.

  I put my phone on silent and scoot back
up to the computer.

  Will I ever get to review your secret menu? I type.

  Is she remembering how I licked her secret menu, squeezed her secret menu, dragged my teeth across her secret menu? Is she touching herself?

  I shift in my chair because now I'm thinking about it. I don't have to look down to know I'm already tenting in my pants.

  I worry it's not your taste, Jenna responds.

  I have a very refined palette.

  I have my doubts …

  Tell me what you serve.

  Do you want to taste?

  Yes.

  Do you like it spicy?

  Yes.

  I don't know if I should tell you what's on my secret menu. Can I trust you?

  Please. Yes.

  Shit. I'm begging. I lost my cool for two seconds and she has me begging.

  Ok, I'm going to tell you.

  I can't stop myself from palming myself through my pants.

  I shouldn't tell you, but I'm going to.

  I need more friction against my dick. I want Jenna's hand on it. Now.

  Let's see if you can handle it.

  Her fingers running along my length, twisting over the head, rubbing her finger along the slit …

  My secret menu is...

  I'm panting.

  Chocolate devil cake.

  Jenna sends an emoji of a red devil. Then another. And another. Finally, she sends a smiley face crying from laughter.

  I move my hand off my pants and lean back in the chair with my beer. I drink slowly, shaking my head. Damn it, Jenna won this round. She's definitely won this round. I had the upper hand, and yet again my dick betrayed me.

  Jenna’s in her apartment dying from laughter. Maybe she spilled wine all over herself, she’s laughing so hard. Maybe she spilled it on her breasts, and her nipples are straining against the thin, wet material.

  I'd lick the sweet wine from her shirt. She’d beg me to take it off, to put my tongue on her heaving skin. I’d lap at her through the shirt until she couldn’t stand it any longer. She'd raise her arms for me to pull it off, but I wouldn't do that. I'd rip it instead, tearing it straight down the middle to reveal her hard nipples.

  Shit. Fuck. Damn.

  I can see a wet mark through my pants from my precum, and I've been stupid, stupid, stupid again.

  My computer beeps at me.

  Ok over there?

  Jenna knows she’s gotten to me. I try to clear my mind of all the images of naked, desirable Jenna, to get back into the game, but I just can't. She is going to love this. But time for me to admit defeat and retreat to my bed. Or my shower.

  Oh, Jenna in my shower. Her pressed up against the glass. Her breath as I plow into her fogging up that glass. The steam condensing on her ass.

  Yes, I've lost. I lost, and I'm all right admitting it because I want to touch myself and I want to dive into these fantasies about her. About us.

  I put my hands on the keyboard for the last time tonight.

  I have to go.

  I sign out and shed my clothes on the way to my bathroom. Jenna must be laughing right now. But I only hear her panting...

  Moaning ...

  Calling out my name.

  Chapter 11

  Jenna

  * * *

  I've never wanted a red light more than I do right now.

  As I approach a green light, I let up on the gas and cross my fingers for the yellow light to flash above, so I can slam on the brakes under the guise of 'safe driving'. Yet turn after turn, even fucking left-hand turns, I hit nothing but green lights.

  Lee's restaurant is only a few miles away and I'm already squirming in my seat, pulling at my seatbelt that scratches my bared shoulders in this strapless dress. After my online encounter with him—I have to admit, it was still so fun thinking about how we’d flirted and I’d left him hanging—I’d called Lee as my true self and told him I’d come up with some ideas for how he could deal with the blogger situation. I’d asked him if he wanted to meet me at my office the next morning to discuss it (fine, I’d also fantasized that we had a repeat of what we’d last done in my office together) but he’d said no, he wanted me to come by the restaurant. Dress for dinner, he’d said. I’ll make you something special, he’d said.

  And I’d been so excited by the prospect of us eating together, something we’d done hundreds of times over the years, but for some reason felt more momentous now. Something that felt like a date. In fact, it had felt so much like a date that I’d indeed dressed for dinner, thus my current predicament and desire for a red light.

  I still hadn’t gotten one. I curse the traffic gods.

  I need a red light so I can wipe off most of my eye makeup.

  Back at my place, I’d leaned close to the mirror next to a growing pile of dirty Q-tips trying to perfect a smoky eye or a cat eye or whatever other looks I could. I’d balanced my phone against the faucet, trying and failing to follow along with the incredible beauty bloggers on YouTube.

  “And just blend the shadow under the eye to create a soft effect.”

  My effect was domestic violence victim. Cue Q-tip.

  “Try steadying your hand by putting your elbow on a hard surface to apply the liner.”

  But my elbow slipped off the counter, and the black liquid eyeliner streaked all the way across my forehead. That mistake took four Q-tips, both ends, to clean up.

  “Line up the false lashes with your real lashes so no one can tell you're wearing the fake ones at all.”

  I thought I'd applied them properly, until the ends popped up and it was abundantly clear I was wearing fake ones. No amount of Q-tips with eyelash glue kept them down in place, so I ripped them off. Then I spent the next ten minutes trying to clean off the glue without cleaning off all the makeup I'd spent the last hour painfully and unsuccessfully applying. Jesus.

  I’d also shaved places I hadn't shaved in ages. Then I spent ten minutes fishing through my bathroom for the perfume sample the department store lady shoved into my hand on my way to the book store. I dabbed some in places I haven't dabbed in ages, too.

  I know I look desperate. Actually, I look like a sad attempt at copying the models Lee dallies with. Pathetic dark eye makeup, pathetic slinky, strapless dress, pathetic stilettos.

  Another damn green light.

  And why? Why am I doing all of this? To make my heartbreak even more devastating when I finally crash? It’s like I’m climbing a ladder. Each attempt at false lashes for Lee is a rung. Every strapless bra I fight with for Lee is a rung. Each tree I killed from my Q-tip consumption for Lee is a rung. I'm climbing higher and higher, and the fall will be more and more painful.

  I pull into a street parking space alongside Lee's restaurant. I duck my head and peer through the expansive glass windows to see if he’s there. When my search comes up empty, I sigh with relief. He must be in the kitchen or in the back of the bar. Either is fine with me.

  I flip down the car mirror and smudge off as much glitter while still keeping a watch out for Lee. Trying too hard is bad. Being caught trying too hard to not try too hard is even worse. I tug my red strapless dress up as far as I can and then wiggle it down a bit more. I groan and pull it up. No, back down.

  I’ve been wracking my brain for a way to win his investors back. There has to be something I can do. Despite how stupid I’d been to try and dress up, Lee and I are going to have a mature, adult conversation about business that involves no nudity, sexual innuendos, or suggestive smiles. How hard can that be?

  I’m going to walk in there like I’m walking in to meet a client. I don’t jump on my clients’ bones. I am an adult. I am mature.

  I am in control.

  If I control myself, control my feelings, control my desire, I can't be hurt. But if I give up that control, if I put my feelings into his hands, if I put my desire in his grasp, he can hurt me.

  Control is safe. Control is good.

  I turn off the car, and right before I'm about to open the doo
r, I stop. Biting my lip, I drum my fingers against the steering wheel and decide. After fishing for a hair tie in my glove compartment, I pull up my hair—which I’d blown out, ironed and curled—into my go-to bun. I push down the little fly-aways and nod at myself in the rear-view mirror.

  That's the real Jenna. The Jenna that’s in control.

  I blow out a breath, step out of the car and straighten my shoulders. I'm not going to be weak anymore. Lee and I had some very pleasant physical interactions, but that can’t continue.

  I type in the code for the locked door to the restaurant, which is currently closed. The restaurant floor is dim as I walk past tables set with glasses and napkins, ready for tomorrow.

  “Lee?” I call out.

  “Bar, Jenna.”

  I turn the corner. The back bar is in a dark, secluded part of the restaurant, with intimate tall booths on either side. Strings of little lights hang from the ceiling. Lee is facing away from me as I walk toward him.

  “I'm trying out a new infusion,” he explains.

  “Oh, I'm not drinking tonight.”

  Drinking is what got me in this wretched mess in the first place.

  Lee turns around with two shot glasses and his eyes widen. “Wow. Jenna. That dress is amazing.”

  My insides quiver with pleasure, at his words and at the look on his face, but I clear my throat. “Those are shots.”

  “They’re just tastings.” He winks and slides one shot glass across the bar toward me.

  “Just the one,” I say, relenting. “No more.”

  “Whatever you say, Jenna.”

  He raises his own glass and his eyes pierce mine as we take the shots. It's whiskey infused with mint and berries. My mouth tingles, and I don't know if it's from the whiskey or Lee undressing me with his eyes. He reaches for the bottle to refill my glass, and I scoot it away from him. No more.

  “So, Lee, I’ve been thinking about your predicament with your investors because of the, um, blog.”

  “When are you not thinking, Jenna?”

  I shake my head and plow ahead. “I have a few viable strategies we should discuss tonight.”

  He walks around the bar, slowly dragging his fingers across the dark mahogany wood. “I don't want to discuss them.”