by Mary Potter
“You don’t talk like a mail carrier,” he says.
“I like that you know the lingo and don’t have to correct yourself from saying mailman. I know its traditional and all, but there’s a lot more than just carrying mail.”
“You have a lot of free time on your hands. I get that part.”
“Well, sometimes. I mean, Christmastime is a total fucking bitch—sorry,” I say. “It’s like a combat zone. We don’t get a lot of extra help because we’re still responsible for our routes six days a week during peak season instead of our typical five days.” I immediately wave off the topic.
“What is it you do when you’re not hurrying to deliver everyone else’s mail?” Corey asks.
I lace my fingers together over the table, elbows on either side of my dinner plate. “What do you think I do?” I ask.
“Well, it’s San Francisco. You’re either a musician or an artist.”
“That hurts,” I say. It stings because there is a market saturation in San Francisco. We’re fighting for gallery space and always looking for agents willing to take on new clients. “It’s cliché, I know. But it’s like a catch-22. We’re overpopulated in the area. But we have to stay in an area that’s heavily trafficked. It goes by collectors and galleries, and of course, the one treasure that’s coveted by every artist across the entire planet.”
“What’s that?”
“The agent.”
“Are they that important?”
“Corey, you know how much bullshit is out there? How much garbage that sells in galleries?”
“I think I can make an informed guess that there is a lot of stuff out there that belongs on department store shelves instead of in fine art galleries.”
“Well, you can thank the artist’s agent for all that colorful noise out there. I mean, if I had an agent, that would be the difference between mail carrier by day, struggling artist by night. I’m not starving, fortunately, because I have a good-paying job. And if I’m inspired, I can get my route down and be home before two in the afternoon. I get paid for the full day because I did a full day’s work.”
“But you don’t have an agent, and that means you’re entitled to make a little noise about the junk out there because they beat you to the galleries.”
It was a gut-punch said cheekily, and I like the way Corey sells it as fun instead of insulting.
“What is your medium?” he asks.
“Well, let’s see how the rest of the date goes, and maybe I’ll let you in,” I say.
I see something shimmering in Corey’s eyes. I think it was in my words. He’s thinking of a double entendre, I’m thinking about his cock. It’s a win-win.
Chapter 4
COREY
T here is something to be said about a woman who isn’t afraid to be upfront with everything about her. I mean, I think holding in farts for at least the first three to six months is about right in any healthy relationship. But I think Ashley is the kind of girl who, if she finished her meal, leaned to the side, and let one rip on the wooden chair, I’d find that immensely appealing. I mean, I don’t want to be gross. But Ashley isn’t shy. I truly love that about her.
I notice when she orders, its a meal without a lot of garlic or onions. I’m right on board with that plan. I mean, there’s nothing more off-putting than filling up on ginger, garlic, and spicy mixes only to worry about bad breath later. It tells me Ashley is still interested in me. She’s thinking about after dinner. She’s thinking about my mouth on her mouth.
We have a portion of fairly bland food, and leave the café to walk in the warm night breeze along the sidewalk bordering the Presidio. We walk a few blocks talking and enjoying each others company. Ashley walks with purpose, and I think she has a destination in mind. I feel her knuckles brush the back of my hand occasionally as we match our pace. I like the feel of her velvety soft hand.
Ashley steers us to Lyon Street toward the yacht harbor. We’re at the pristine facade of the Palace of Fine Arts. The buildings have Greco-Roman architectural attraction. There’s a performance tonight, which means the area has a lot of couples in tuxedos and evening wear.
We reach the marina district, but its nothing like the docks. No one’s allowed to fish this place, and most of the million-dollar yachts that take up the mooring docks aren’t the kind of vessels people use to catch crabs or halibut.
“You brought me here to show me what you’re missing,” I say. It’s a test of Ashley’s sensitivity when it comes to talking about various things. I want to see how she reacts to a little wryness.
“No, I brought you here because I love the moonlight on the water and the billion-dollar yachts. And I’m debating if I ate the right foods tonight that if I decide to kiss you, I’ll taste okay.”
“Interestingly, I thought the same thing. I’ve been watching your mouth all night and wondered what your lips feel like,” I say.
I feel Ashley’s fingers reach to my hand. Her fingers are long, durable, and soft. She uses her hands all the time. Her nails are womanly—which is to say that likely when she finds a little downtime, she’s not looking at porn like I do; she’s trimming and filing her nails. Her fingers tease the palm of my hand, and I see her face, soft alabaster in the ambient light. Ashley knows how to keep herself pretty without trying too hard.
“We could go find a convenient store and share some gum,” she says.
“If that is what you want for our next leg of this perfect date, I am at your service.”
“You think this is a perfect date?” she asks. There is a hint of skepticism in her voice.
“I think wherever you are, if I can be next to you, then, yeah. It’s is a perfect date.” Even in the lamplight, I see Ashley’s face color with self-consciousness.
“Let’s go find a little store. I want to kiss that mouth.”
ASHLEY
C orey is impossibly faultless. But that’s a biased observation. And it is coming from an artist where flaws are part of the overall makeup of great art. He’s brash without being cocky. He’s complimentary that teeters more on the naughty side than being too sweet. I hate guys trying to be something they are not—not even close to matching Corey’s relaxed graciousness. He’s a man who probably wouldn’t be afraid to admit a lot of things without hesitating.
It was his idea to get ice cream instead of gum. I mean, we got the gum, but the scoop of creamy ice cream and a stroll on the boardwalk was a lot better than rushing to get a kiss. He’s not in a hurry, and I appreciate that about him. Who cares how long the night is, and the shops are starting to close.
We’re together when the evening dresses and tuxedos depart the streets, and the layers of unwashed clothes, with plastic bags in shoes takeover. We hold hands, we talk, and for the longest time throughout the night, I feel like Corey and I are together as a couple instead of a date. It’s a strange and pleasant sensation. It’s the kind of thing that excites and frightens me at the same time.
There is a lot about Corey I still don’t know. It’s more than the look of his chest without a shirt on. Or the ability to scrutinize the tattoo. Its more than thinking about the shape and thickness of his cock—which I’ve done more than once throughout the night. I have such a graphic imagination that my hands cup his cock and balls without him ever knowing what I’m doing while I listen to him talk about his professional career.
When I’m ready to bring Corey close for the kiss, I want it on my terms. He’s relaxed and pretends indifference. But I know since I talked about kissing him, he spends a lot of time getting close enough to me to smell my hair and watch my lips more. I want to tease him. I want it to linger. I wish that shape I see in his lap to expand and harden. I am not afraid of my sexuality, and I am well-versed in body language as well as oral stimulation. I know how to squeeze the most out of good verbal foreplay.
“Quick, tell me something personal about you. Don’t think about it. Just say it,” I say.
It’s a game I like to do with friends. It’s a
way of really getting to know someone. It tells a lot about someone’s mood.
“I once jumped off a bridge to save a dog in the river,” Corey says.
It takes me a half-second to recover because he said it quickly, with minimum thought. It had a lot to do with his mind being in other places than his eye. His eyes, I noticed, took in the fact that my nipples pressed through the cotton material of scoop neck dress. They left impressions, even through the thin strapless bra I wore. I pay attention. That’s what artists do. They watch things. They notice subtle things that make even strange things beautiful or refined.
I saw the flecks of amber in Corey’s eyes. I watched the way his eyebrows slide up and down with concentration or interest. I counted the freckles across his cheeks. I see the white crow’s feet at the corner of his eyes from squinting because he doesn’t wear sunglasses all the time in the sunlight.
Corey has a kissable mouth. It’s the kind of mouth that I love. It’s animated with a puffy bottom lip. So many men have flat, featureless, thin lips. Corey has the kind of mouth that makes me wonder what it’s like to press both sets of my lips against—top and bottom.
“Your turn,” he says.
He might notice I’m watching him closely. My erect nipples aren’t from the cooling breeze pushing through the eucalyptus trees. My nipples respond to Corey the way I feel the pleasurable tingling inside my matching panties.
“I once had a guy stop me in the park one morning while walking. He stepped out of the bushes and jerked off and came all under a minute. And then he ran off.”
Corey blinks at the admission. I see him shake his head and give a little smile. He shakes his finger at me. “I think I know that guy. We’re working to catch him.”
I wave off his police training. “I’m fine. I’m an adult. I can’t say for others, but he didn’t try anything more than the eroticism of exposure and ejaculation.”
“You’re very comfortable talking about this subject, Ashley,” he says.
“It’s nature—well, sex is natural. Guys like that; I don’t know if he does anything more than a quick jerk and a show, but I’m sure I saw his smartphone in hand when he did it. Maybe he was on the clock, working for some porn site.”
Corey’s eyebrow rises higher on his forehead. I see him taking in another glimpse of the outline of my erect nipples in the summer dress.
“You are a naughty girl, aren’t you?”
“You have no idea, Officer Corey.”
“Well, I’ve had a few ideas.”
“I think you need to share them with me. Right now.”
Chapter 5
COREY
P rivacy in San Francisco isn’t something easy to find. Any of the right spots throughout the city already have residents squatting in place. Fortunately, for Ashley and me, we don’t have to worry about the location. When it comes to what to do with the rest of our evening, we have the car. I love the anticipation. I know I wanked it thinking about her in the shower before the date. I had no idea our interaction would have so much chemistry. It’s amazing what happens when you take a chance on something that you never thought possible. I believe Tyler knew my attraction to Ashley was more profound than even I knew. It took someone who knows me well to know she was the right match for me.
What’s nice about leaving my car behind is it gives us more time together. I mean, I can catch a ride back from Ashley’s apartment at any time. But if she and I like each other, it gives us reason to leave the apartment together any time Sunday. We can go to breakfast or brunch, depending on what the rest of the night brings.
“So, my place or yours,” Ashley says.
We’re in her car. I know leaving my vehicle overnight in that area isn’t a problem. It’s my personal vehicle, and any of the cops patrolling the area can check the plates. It’s not in a tow away zone. So, I have all night.
“Well, we can go to my place, only I think Tyler’s home. That means he might be naked on the couch. Or he sleeps naked in his bedroom. He likes to leave the window open and the door ajar because he likes the breeze. That means sometimes things show.”
“Well, as tempting as that sounds. Maybe another time,” Ashley says. “I think there’s a little more privacy at my place, but not a lot of room.”
“Well, how much room do we need?”
Ashley lets out a hearty laugh. Her head goes back against the seat. She shakes out her coconut scented locks. She is a playful and mischievous young curvy woman who’s not afraid to vocalize what’s on her mind. She is a rare and special woman. I think I am falling in love.
“Buckle up, baby,” she says and revs the engine playfully. I notice Ashley drives responsibly all the way back to her place.
ASHLEY
I t’s like a good game of erotic patience. I know Corey’s watching me more than the road. I can see him with my peripheral. He’s looking ahead to the shuffling traffic as we leapfrog through the stoplights with the rest of Saturday night crowds. Most of the city begins to wake up after nine in the evening. I know Corey and I had a fantastic few hours together before we decide to see what each other look like naked.
I’m not afraid to admit it. I want to see him naked. I want to see what that defined, and flat abdomen looks like without a shirt on. A few times, when the breeze was just right, and he stood facing the wind, I noticed. I saw the way the silky black shirt showed the highlights of his pectorals and the flatness of his front. I love the way his shirt doesn’t bunch up where his stomach meets his belt buckle. I know there are sexy guys out there who have a little front muffin. I know it’s not easy staying trim in a busy society.
Corey has a flat front and a firm ass. He’s older and still very fit. He’s got a body shape that makes other men envious. I know his roommate, the big cock-swinging macho Tyler, might have something to look at with his pants off. And yes, I thought about that too. But Corey is a well-rounded gentleman who knows how to separate work from fun. He’s not a cop all the time. I know the type. I’ve gone out on dates with coworkers. They don’t know how to shut off from their jobs. Even when they’re away from it all, they can’t stop talking about it. They are the kind of guys you settle for, but not the type of guys you pursue. I don’t mind seeking the right guy. As long as he’s single, he’s focused, has a career, and doesn’t have an addiction, we’re all good, and it is game on!
Chapter 6
COREY
S he is a vision of beauty in a light floral print dress. She’s driving with ease, not trying too hard to make it look like she’s taking a road exam with a cop as a copilot. Ashley is relaxed and patient. It’s a lot more than I can say. I’m watching her in the green hue of the interior lighting when I’m pretending to watch out the windshield. It has to do with the fact that her profile is electric.
Streetlights passing over the car show slides of her, focus highlights on her front and down to her thighs. It’s her thighs that are making me wild inside. I feel a burning pleasure in the pit of my stomach that I haven’t felt since I was a teenager. I remember that feeling of knowing—knowing that something unusual is happening between two people—knowing that you are one of those people. I feel a tremor in my limbs like I’m a kid again, and Ashley is the girl I’m about to share the first time getting naked with, and it is a unique and magical time.
Her mahogany hair falls in layers over her shoulders. She pulled it forward, parting it evenly in front of each shoulder when she got behind the wheel. It keeps her hair from pulling as she drives, gives freedom of movement when turning her head. I notice she turns her head modestly when we chat about trivial things. She’s paying more attention to the road and the thick traffic conditions. She’s focusing on the way, and I’m focused on her thighs.
Sometimes women do things that men find incredibly alluring. Sometimes women are aware of their modest charms. Women find specific ways to make themselves noticeable to the public, to other men and women. Sometimes it’s conscious, like wearing leggings when they’re out shopping.
Or cute, tight shorts in the park; that’s a conscious choice in wardrobe that says, ‘look at my ass because it is a perfect ass with succulent cheeks’. Tight tops that accent the size and shape of beautiful breasts, large or small, and all those in-between; women know men are watching.
Then sometimes, women don’t realize men are watching and still wear things that are appealing and attractive. Sometimes they wear revealing clothing and forget they just gave the guy sitting two tables over at the café a great shot at the color of panties they wear. It might embarrass the women if they knew they gave the man a glimpse. But I am here to say that I remember all those accidental characteristics. I remember a few women who choose not to wear panties in public and short skirts. I don’t know if that’s a conscious or unconscious choice. But it’s just a glimpse, and it’s spectacular.
Ashley has creamy thighs. I see this as a man who appreciates beautiful thighs on a woman. Since she got behind the wheel, leaned back, and drives with confidence, the length of her dress rides up between her legs. The delicate fabric of the dress drapes between her open legs. She operates with one, sometimes two hands. But she uses a single foot between accelerator and brake. Her left knee presses against the driver’s side door. It gives me a great view of her open legs and a perfect view of her creamy thighs.
ASHLEY
C orey is watching my legs. I didn’t adjust the hem of my skirt when I got into the car. We both know we’re going back to my apartment for something more than chit-chat. I’m a woman who’s not afraid to admit I love sex. I watch porn. I masturbate. These are things that give me satisfaction. I’m an artist. It’s all about pleasure. Visual, oral, auditory, and tactile pleasures are ways of happiness and expression.
