by Violet Blue
“How’s your Earthquake?”
“Fucking glorious,” breathed Molly, and crawled under the table.
They were drinking Pink Earthquakes. As Molly would later tell all of her friends, this is not, necessarily, a good thing.
The Earthquake is a real drink. Its invention credited to Toulouse-Lautrec, the drink was the yummiest drink a girl could ask for. It was made with equal parts absinthe and cognac, about a gallon of each. It tasted like licorice, sex, death and sin.
She’d had the Earthquake before, in this very bar, Blueboy’s, which had then—1995—been deep into its grand opening as “1906,” or “Nineteen-O-Six” if you were saying it, rather than texting it to a fuckbuddy you wanted to meet up with.
Ninteen-O-Six had been a sort of gay bar then, if you can call anything in San Francisco a gay bar anymore. On alternate nights it was packed with hairy, howling septuagenarian Madonna queers, drag queens and Temescal-minded diesel dykes whose biological clocks were ringing so loud they practically had turkey basters in hand. Plus, of course, the twinks—who showed up every night of the week, and fucked whoever would fuck them, hungry for surrender and speed.
Nineteen-O-Six hadn’t lasted. There had been seven names since then, and something like twelve re-re-openings: Trixie’s, The Mint Cup, Fivey’s, Tip’s, The Sunbeam...and the Earthquake, introduced when it was called Nineteen-O-Six, had remained a fixture through all of those name changes.
Barely legal herself in the early days of the Earthquake—or, technically, not legal, but who carded in 1995?—Molly had guzzled down one-dollar Earthquakes with a terrifying zeal through happy hour and into the night, because the screaming queen bartender “Nana Puppy” (so named, in case you were wondering, because he was old enough to be a grandmother and when he wasn’t tending bar he was a “lifestyle puppy”) really, really liked her.
Nana P was also a history nerd, terrifying in his knowledge of just who had fucked who in 1890s San Fran. He had taught Molly all about the Earthquake, the drink, and the Earthquake, both always with a capital E, because as far as Nana P was concerned there was only one of each.
Of the former, the facts that had stuck in her head since Nana’s departure several years ago for a Radical Puppy compound in the Appalachians were that for a brief period from 1920 to 1930, some vagabond on Powell Street made Earthquakes out of whiskey and gin and Pernod, instead of absinthe and cognac.
Nana disparaged that “son of a bitch,” believing that “Toulouse-Lautrec had a little bit of something going on.” (“I like short men!” he’d purr as he poured and poured and poured, mewling “Cognac! Cognac! Cognac!”)
This was in the heady days of the midnineties, where wormwood and bisexuality were both openly decried and secretly prized, for largely similar reasons. Bisexuality, however, was only outlawed in the fading echoes of the women’s community. Neither bisexuality nor absinthe could be counted on, but availing yourself of either product in San Francisco, circa 1995, was like buying bathtub gin in Chicago, circa 1930.
She’d been twenty when she sucked down her first Earthquake, ready to drink and fuck and—well, here she was, crawling under a table at Nineteen-O-Six to suck a hot European stranger while his girlfriend slid her thighs on either side of her.
When, after smoking her out in the alley, they’d asked if she played “with the couples,” she’d smiled and giggled and okay, she had to admit, even in a coquette aged thirty-six-and-change, a tee-hee-hee-sometimes becomes a “Hell, yes” if the tee-hee-hee goes on for long enough. And it was really good pot, and Molly was single, and—Jeff and Ilaria were hot.
Who cared if they were leaving for Italy at 6:00 a.m.? Who cared if they didn’t even have a hotel room to go fool around in? Who cared if she had no idea if they were really Italian, or serial killers, or both.
They were fucking hot.
The special of the night was Pink Earthquakes—the same drink as the Earthquake introduced by Nana Puppy, but with added Grapèro, a pink grapefruit liqueur. It made no fucking sense, because the word Grapèro looked and sounded like grape. But it was indeed pink, and mixed with cognac and absinthe it indeed shook the world.
And how they’d ended up with three of them on the table (their second round) was almost—almost!—as shaky. After he’d smoked her out in the alley and his girlfriend had propositioned her for a threesome, Chiaffredo—or Jeff, as he told me to call him—had said, “What you drink, we drink!”
And that was the provenance of the three Pink Earthquakes that sat half consumed on the table, working their magic on Molly—which is how she ended up under the table, her face in Jeff’s crotch and Ilaria coiled around behind her, thighs on either side, holding Molly’s long wispy hair out of the way so she could lean down and watch.
Molly fumbled a bit with Jeff’s belt, which was a skinny, smooth, Italian job, slippery with not much to grab on to. You would have thought she’d given Ilaria the greatest gift in the world; the wiry little brunette slid half under the table so she could moan rapturously at Molly, “Let me help,” then got her boyfriend’s belt and button open like she had done it a million times—maybe two million—in sleazy gay bars while tarty little thirty-six-year-olds drooled over what was beyond.
Molly handled the zipper, though—that was her singular pleasure. It came down easy, unlike the belt, and the smooth silky drape of his pants felt good on her face as she kissed his cock through the stretched, smooth fabric. Are those panties? Molly wondered as she slid her tongue along the length of Jeff’s dick. But no, they weren’t panties—just some kind of spacey, ultrastylish, Italian banana hammock that made Jeff, for some inexplicable reason, seem that much more Italian to her, and that much more erotic. She eased the springy fabric down and found it eminently practical—it tucked beneath his balls with frightening ease, and stayed there as Molly took a breath and pressed her mouth to the smooth, soft-hard surface of Jeff’s cock. Having gotten lots of practice at giving head in recent years with Carl—the ex who was thankfully no longer spoken of—Molly was surprised to discover she’d missed it. Of course, she hadn’t missed sucking a stranger’s cock under a table in Blueboy’s—because that, she’d never done before. The combination of familiar cock in her mouth—technically unfamiliar, sure, but seductively comforting—and the filthy knowledge that she was doing something she shouldn’t made her so fucking horny her head started to spin. Recognizing this heady sensation, she pushed through it and made love to Jeff’s cock with dangerous gusto. She drooled just enough to make things easy as she curled her fingers around his weighty girth; then she slid her mouth down, feeling lipstick-sticky-bitter mingling with sticky-Grapèro-sweet. She was already wet, already as thoroughly pulsing with sexual energy as she had ever been in her life, as she took her sticky lips down to the halfway point of Jeff’s cock and began to make love to it with her tongue, bobbing and slurping and drawing great deep breaths of cologne-free sweat with undertones of weed and sex and soap. To her, that was hot—very hot.
With pleasure she mused that Jeff knew enough to not wear cologne on his balls—unlike the other Italian guy she’d slept with, in a European hostel fifteen—sixteen?—years ago. He also knew to shower before he came to a bar with his unbelievably hot girlfriend to pick up slutty American girls—just long enough ago to give his dick that intoxicating taste of cock, but give the rest of him the irresistible faint scent of fresh-scrubbed guy.
And he had been a perfect gentleman so far.
He’d even let his girlfriend be the one to proposition Molly, and not until after they’d smoked her out. He hadn’t even leered at her, really, not like a sleazebag, at least, until after he got the go-ahead from his girlfriend. See? Perfect gentleman.
When Molly was in certain moods—like this one—sometimes that was all it took to make her seriously want a guy.
So she was already wet to the knees when she slid her mouth down on his cock and felt it nudging the roof of her mouth. She wanted him majorly—wanted to fuck him, even. Ma
ybe she’d go back to their hotel room and spend the night—fuck, that would be dirty. More dirty or less dirty? Just dirty. Dirty enough. Dirty enough for a thirty-six-year-old. Dirty enough for a fag, not to put too fine a point on it. Dirty enough for a total drooling slut.
She was already wet to the knees, enough to feel her fucked-open cunt, still aching from Ilaria’s fingers, dripping out around her cockeyed panty-crotch. Molly felt the icky scrape of the edge of her underwear against the sensitive bit between her lip and her thigh, and it felt sticky, wet and drippy. Ilaria, clearly expert in the fingering of women, left something to be desired in putting their panties back in place when she was done.
But then, as it turned out, she wasn’t done.
Molly felt Ilaria’s hands going into her dress. Molly was deep in the dark, now, the strobe lights from the dance floor nothing more than flashes through her eyelids. But she could feel everything that was going on all around her. Ilaria’s thighs came close around Molly’s hips and did something midway between pinning her in place and caressing her. Molly felt at once controlled and taken care of. Hot, she thought. Fucking hot.
The spindly Italian girl leaned down tight under the table and put one hand up Molly’s dress, plucking her soaked-through panties out of the way and easily sliding into her—three fingers, knuckles deep, pads of the fingers on her G-spot. Without even knowing she was doing it, Molly rocked back and forth, feeling icky-sticky Blueboy floor on her knees and not even caring. She worked her hips and fucked herself doggy-style onto Ilaria’s fingers, seeing stars when the Italian woman’s thumb found her clit and gently, then more firmly, caressed it.
Molly kept sucking Jeff’s cock, having moderate trouble concentrating until she just let her habits with Carl take over. Then, at least toward the end, she hadn’t really liked it that much—it had been an obligation, made more bothersome by the fact that she had formerly liked it so much. But now she loved it. She’d forgotten how much fun it could be to give head.
Ilaria took a break from fingering Molly to pull her panties down her thighs. Molly tried to put her legs together, but Ilaria wasn’t having it; she splayed her cunt-wet fingers and pushed them back open. Molly felt the stretch of her panties at her knees. It reminded her what she was doing. It reminded her that her panties were down; it reminded her she could not easily take them off. She was under a table at Blueboy’s, her panties around her knees. It felt like a fucking dog collar: basically, in a good way. In a really good way.
Having pulled Molly’s panties down, Ilaria’s hand went back between her thighs—but not to finger. She started spanking her. Not Molly’s ass—that would have been hot, but not quite crazy-hot. Not quite insane with fucking hotness. No—Ilaria spanked Molly’s cunt, smooth and hard, none of this warm-up shit and none of this asking if she liked it. She just spanked, and when Molly trembled and pumped her hips madly, Ilaria spanked harder and faster, the smacking sounds unmistakable under the pulse of dance music—but for once in her life, Molly didn’t give a damn if people heard.
Molly was close, fast—so close she barely knew it was happening; all she knew was that something had started to go very wrong, or right, or different, inside her. What was this fast swirling churn of her stomach? What was this twitch in her hips, this weakness in her thighs?
A fucking orgasm.
Ilaria seemed to gauge the moment exactly. She pulled back from the spanking and started fingering Molly again, two fingers in and up against her G-spot, thumb on her clit. It was so hot Molly didn’t think she could stop herself. It was going to happen. She sucked and rocked and fucked herself onto Ilaria’s hand and moaned around Jeff’s dick and sank into the sensations, knowing she was utterly out of control, now.
She wondered: How is it that I’m thirty-six years old and just now doing this?
Then Ilaria’s thumb found some special angle on her clit, and her fingers found her G-spot again and Molly didn’t think much of anything.
Instead, she fucked herself back and forth, because she realized with eager guilt that she was going to climax.
Ilaria knew it, too; whether Jeff got the memo Molly would never know or care. She never stopped sucking him, exactly, but he must have known; she went from smooth, hot, dripping-wet rhythmic strokes of mouth-on-dick to lips on balls and a shuddering, all-over breakdown, her breath coming choppy and dangerous against his gloriously delicious crotch.
She came explosively, pussy clenching and trembling around Ilaria’s fingers.
Molly wasn’t even done climaxing before she started sucking cock again. She realized with eager surrender that she wanted to swallow his come—a bad idea, maybe, not entirely safe, and of course she’d never do it—unless, of course, he just sort of squirted without warning, and in that case, well…she’d have to. And she’d like it. Otherwise, she’d pull away at the very last minute, and he’d need a trip to the bathroom. She wouldn’t swallow, but she wanted to, and after too long with Carl giving half-asleep blow jobs, Molly realized just how fucking awesome it was to want something dirty like this. Sucking cock under a table in a gay bar was one thing. Eating come was quite another, super-filthy and hot as hell.
Molly had long ago gotten out of the habit of doing that. Her youthful obsession with Matt and Steve and then Roger had made it hot as hell to take “them” into her body. But since then—ten years, now—she’d gotten in the habit of being a finish-with-a-hand-job girl, occasionally a facial, because men always seemed to love that so much (which always made her think huh?) but far more often a tit shot because, have you ever tried to get come out of your hair? It requires a cold shower. Tits were far more easily lathered and rinsed, or just wiped off if you were late for work.
But here she was, single again and thirty-six and wanting to swallow a stranger’s come under the table at Blueboy’s—still tasting Pink Earthquakes as she swirled her tongue and worked her mouth eagerly all over his dick. Here she was, turned on enough to swallow, and she craved it. But she knew she couldn’t have it, for safety’s sake, and that was almost as delicious as knowing she could.
Then she thought:
Holy shit, I want to fuck this guy.
Not at home, not in some dumb hotel room—right here, under the table, in the bar.
Of course, she knew that, like swallowing his come, such a desire was ridiculous. It was crazy. She couldn’t do that. It was ridiculous to even want such a thing.
Wasn’t it?
Blueboy’s, like 1906 and all the other bars before it, was a magic place. Things happened there.
Giving head was something she could get away with. With the crowd packed like this, no one could see a damn thing. The bouncer would never bounce them, and despite its size it could be a tight, savvy crowd here at Blueboy’s. It was a gay crowd. She’d seen it a thousand times before, sometimes in this very booth. Every guy who hung out here seemed to know it. If you noticed someone giving head under a table, you backed in and dragged your friends in there to give him room to work without getting nabbed by the bouncer—who, to be sure, didn’t care, but knew the health department would.
But letting him fuck her would be going too far, wouldn’t it? These Italian people didn’t have to come back here next week. She’d been coming here for fifteen, sixteen years. She had to come back here. She couldn’t just…fuck here, under a table.
Or could she?
As she drove Molly to greater heights of hunger, Ilaria’s other hand reached up and—probably because she could not get purchase if she reached above Molly’s shoulder, Ilaria tucked her hand through the loose sleeve of Molly’s dress—slid up smoothly under her lacy, laundry-soft, too-old, too-well-worn bra.
Her hand felt warm on Molly’s tits; the air conditioner had started to blow, and she was right in the vent. Her goose bumps made her crave the warmth not only of Ilaria’s hands on her, but of Jeff’s crotch all over her face. He caressed her hair and gently stroked her face. It was weird not to be able to see him, but he was leaning forward.
Ilaria’s fingers worked her nipples. She pinched and stroked, gently digging her nails in, tentatively at first—and then more firmly.
Molly moaned around Jeff’s cock, opened wide and slid down till her lips were around his cock’s base. She hadn’t done that in forever—deep-throating, something she used to totally like. Or had she just liked it because Carl liked it? Academic, purely, she decided. She liked it now. She liked it because not only did she have a hot Italian stranger’s cock down her throat; she had his girlfriend pinching her nipples while she finger-fucked her deep and thumbed her clit. Goddamn, she was fucking hot.
She wanted to fuck.
She really, really, really wanted to fuck. If she’d been anywhere other than here, she would have done it, without question. She almost wanted to do it here. Well…maybe not just almost.
Molly realized that was, of course, ridiculous. She didn’t have a condom. She wasn’t on the pill. Not to imply, for an instant, if she was on the pill, she would have fucked an Italian stranger in a bar without a condom. That would be bad. She wouldn’t do it. She was about 98 percent sure. No—99 percent. 95. Maybe 90. That 2 or 1 or 5 or 10 percent made her feel so drunk and crazed and horny and very scared for a second, until she felt the creaking of the table above her and felt a stab of panic that banished her sense of I’m about to do something bad.
Jeff and Ilaria were kissing.
Fuck, that was romantic. Molly’s heart swelled nigh to bursting. She wasn’t having sex with some weird Italian swingers; she was exploring her sexuality with a couple that totally loved each other. She was making love to love itself, right?
On her knees. On a sticky bar floor. Half drunk on sickly sweet Pink Earthquakes and—okay, she was a fucktoy. A sleazy little kneeling fucktoy. Was that bad?
She slid her mouth off Jeff’s cock, panting and drooling, realizing her makeup was ruined and her eyes had been running. She must look a total mess, she decided. Hot.
