by Pynk
Within forty-five minutes, Darla, alone, stepped inside of the Red Bar at the Catalina Hotel & Beach Club on Collins Avenue, a contemporary two-level lounge just a few miles away from her condo. She’d seen the advertisements for the live weekend performances when she’d walk by on the way to and from work.
Tonight, the soulful swaying jazz music was loud, and the room was cozy dark, with only bright gold shining neon lights here and there, other than the bright lights on stage.
Darla was still wearing her fitted, polka-dot baby-doll. But she’d slipped on her perfect fit CJ jeans by Cookie Johnson, and a black bolero jacket, with steel gray slingbacks. Silver hoops. Silver beaded bag.
She headed straight for a seat at one end of the triangular bar, sat down and straightened her back, stuck her butt out against the back of the barstool, and adjusted the sheer fabric of her negligee along her waist, making herself comfortable, then placing her purse on her lap, looking down and then to her left to see an older bald gentleman with a gray moustache nodding at her. She nodded back.
To her right, a younger man with dreadlocks and dimples eyed her down and smiled. She smiled and reached into her purse nervously as if she may have heard her cell ring, grabbing it, eyeing the display, which indicated nothing was missed, not a text, not a call, nothing. She scrolled through the All Calls menu and carefully perused the entries as though she was really checking for some unknown information that needed her attention. But she was simply looking busy enough to not look the men in the eyes a second time.
It made her feel as though her intentions were obvious.
She felt on display.
And being there was bad enough.
The butter-blonde, female bartender approached. “Good evening, lovely. May I suggest one of our designer cocktails? An espresso margarita maybe?”
Darla stuck her phone back in her purse and tapped her turquoise fingernails along the walnut bar top. Her mascara-glazed eyes glanced toward the ceiling in thought and then met the woman’s gaze. “Well, I’ll have a red berry CÎROC with Sprite, please.”
“You got it,” she said, winking while placing a napkin before her.
Darla rotated her body one-half turn to see the live quartet that played, led by a tall, dark, Afro-wearing saxophone player with a rust and orange jacket and brown pants, as he blew into his horn, playing Smokey Robinson’s “Cruisin’.” His medium-brown eyes met Darla’s and she grinned, and then looked down again. She was sure her face said she was new at going out to a bar alone. And her jittery heart cosigned.
She looked to the bartender, who set her slender drink on the napkin, placing two black straws inside. “Here you go. Anything else? An appetizer maybe? Our lemon-pepper wings are pretty popular. Not as pretty or popular as you, I see.”
Darla’s face flushed. “Oh really? Thanks. No. Not for now.”
“Okay.” The bartender put her receipt near her drink and stepped away.
Darla wondered why it seemed she was getting so much attention being alone, as opposed to with her friends, even from the ladies. She always said when she was with Magnolia or Rebe, she was usually the last to be flirted with. They said it was just her imagination. Perhaps it was.
She used the straws to stir her drink clockwise and then in reverse, then sexily sipped while finding herself bobbing her head to the jazzy beats. She turned to look around the small room, noticing a few couples sprinkled here and there at the bar tables, but for the most part, she was only one of a few unescorted women in the place. As she took another sip, a man walked by and licked her from head to toe with his eyes. Just as she thought he’d completely passed her by, she heard a deep voice in her ear. “Pretty lady. When this set is done, would you mind coming over to the table with me and my friend for a drink?”
She looked to her left and saw the same man standing just behind her, his arm next to her back. He took a small step before her. He was average height, very slender, and had straight hair and dark features, as though he were Indian. His breath smelled like he’d just had an orange Tic Tac. His eyes were big and sexy, and his lashes were long and thick. She liked what she saw, even though he was shorter and thinner than what she usually preferred. She gulped and then replied. “Well, I suppose so.”
“I’m David. My friend’s name is Bill.” He pointed to an area near the wall.
“Okay. Hi, David. I’m Darla.” She playfully brushed aside her wispy bangs.
He focused on speaking to the side of her face. “Nice to meet you. I know the music is loud, but I’d love to talk to you when they break, so please feel free to come over. I’ll buy you your next drink. We’re at that table near the window.”
She aimed her sight to where his eyes pointed and said, “I see,” and then focused on his dark brown skin as he leaned his head closer to hear her. “I will. Thanks. That’s nice of you to offer.”
“My pleasure.”
Ten seconds after he walked away, the sax player stepped to Darla, still playing his sax, and stood to her left, serenading her with a rendition of “God Bless the Child.” He played his instrument with an alluring glance, tilting his horn and grooving his head to the flow. Darla looked around to see who was noticing her being the center of attention and blinked fast, feeling flushed, readjusting herself on the padded barstool.
He continued to blow his specially designed musical breaths into his sexy brass sax, and she continued to bat her eyes while he proceeded past her and winked, heading toward another woman who sat with a gentleman.
As the song ended, the sax man announced their fifteen-minute break at the same time Darla looked at her bar tab and took a bill from her purse. Then the sax man said, “Don’t worry. I’ve got that,” just as she stood up to go back near the window to sit with her admirer and his friend. The sax player nodded to the bartender, who nodded back, and then he took Darla by her hand and began to walk toward the VIP area near the stage. Darla followed, trying her best to not look over at the table where she knew the two gentlemen waited.
The sax man spoke with a deep, slow voice. “Baby, let me just say, you are by far the most beautiful woman to walk into this place since I’ve been playing here. I saw you and it was like my mind and eyes froze. You are my kind of woman. I mean the kind of woman I’ve imagined for years. Truly. If I’d drawn you myself, the image would look just like you. I’m Grainger. Grainger Brown.”
In her head, his name sounded familiar. She thought back and only said, “I’m Darla.” He was known in Miami as a rising musician on the brink of stardom.
His fans nodded to him, one tapped him on the shoulder, and he nodded back and waved along the way with one hand, holding Darla’s hand with the other. “Hi Darla. You are a darling, now, I will say that. I hope you don’t think I’m being too forward, or that you think I say this often. I promise you, I’ve never said this before. But, I just had to meet you. I couldn’t let you walk out of here tonight and miss my chance to see if maybe this is just what I’ve been looking for in my life. You are a bombshell. Lady, I’m telling you. I hear the song ‘Brick House’ when you walk.” He looked her up and down. “You are something else.”
Darla’s ears spun. She blushed. “Well, I thank you for your compliments, but I’m sure there’ve been a lot of pretty women in here, Grainger.”
He brought her over to a private section that had been reserved for him. There was a sofa and a table, and on the table was an empty ice bucket and a plate of fruit. “I guarantee you, not like you. And you are wearing those jeans.” He motioned for her to sit and then he sat beside her.
“Well, thanks.”
He asked, “Do you want to take off your jacket?”
“Oh no,” Darla replied. She shook her head to say no for extra measure. Darla told herself her sexy lingerie would make too much of a first impression, and probably the wrong one. And that wouldn’t be right.
He leaned his elbows to his knees, looking toward her to give her his full attention. “So, what do you do? What’s your l
ine of work?”
“I was a dental technician, but I quit my job back in March. I own a store. A boutique in Midtown.”
“I see. A businesswoman. Nice. I like that. We’re off to a good start already. You are single, right?” He looked hopeful, checking out her left hand.
“I’m a widow.”
His eyes expanded and he rubbed his trimmed goatee with his thumb and index finger. “I’m a widower. My wife died in a plane crash ten years ago.”
Darla patted her hand along his upper arm for one second. “Oh my God. I’m so sorry.”
He moved closer. “Thanks. I’m sorry for your loss, too. It takes time to move on. It’s not about replacing. You just want to be the best you can inside so you don’t bring your hurt, or baggage, into someone else’s life, you know?”
Darla put her purse on the wooden table. “I agree. Have you been successful at that?”
“I think so. I always say time will tell.”
“I see.” Darla rubbed the back of her tapered neck and checked out his white teeth, wondering if he’d had work done, they looked so perfect. She was turned on. She swallowed hard. Her inquiring mind wanted to know. “So, no relationship since then?”
He watched her mouth and then spoke. “I had a brief one about a year ago for a few months. Someone I met while I was on the road in DC. She couldn’t handle the long distance part of it. Plus with my busy tour schedule, I mean I’m always on the road and she didn’t come along with me. She didn’t like to fly, of all things. Can’t say that I blame her. She wanted someone local. I live here in Miami.”
“I’m local, too. So you have no trouble flying?”
“Flying was part of my recovery. I had to get on a plane just to get past all that. I can’t limit myself. But, like I said, I understand the fear. I just couldn’t make it mine.” He shifted his thoughts. “Listen, I know you had one before, but can I get you a drink?” He looked at his watch. “I’ve got one more real quick set and then I’m done for the night.”
“Okay, sure. Thanks.”
“Would you mind waiting here for me? My way of keeping you away from the wolves,” he joked.
She grinned. “That’d be nice.”
“I’ll make sure you’re well taken care of. Anything you want, I’ve got it. If you’re hungry or whatever, just say the word. And I can understand if you’re not hungry this late, but I promise you, they have the best chocolate chip pancakes. They’re known for them, day or night.”
“Oh, no thanks. But, I’m sure they’re good.”
He stood. “They are. My favorite. So what can I have them bring you? What were you drinking before?”
“Vodka.”
“Okay.”
She spoke up. “No. I guess I’ll try something different. I’ll try the espresso margarita, if you wouldn’t mind.”
“Great choice. I’ll have one with you.” He got ready to step away, and turned back to her. “So, Darla, what’s your favorite song?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Her face showed shy.
“Just think of one. Anything that comes to mind. I’ll play it just for you.”
She looked up at him as though impressed. “You can play anything?”
“I can. Rap. Old School. Whatever. All on the sax.”
“Okay. How about ‘A House Is Not a Home.’ ”
He flashed a big smile. “I’m gonna like you. Keep an ear out. I’ll make sure your drink is sent over and then I’ll be back in about thirty. Okay?”
“Okay.” Darla sat back along the sofa cushions, crossing her legs, getting comfortable. So comfortable that she leaned forward and pulled off her jacket, placing it next to her on the sofa. She began rubbing her arms as though she was cold.
Her mind spoke loud. I’m sitting here with “the sky’s the limit” thoughts in my head, about to share a drink with this man I just met, wondering if it would really be so bad to take a chance and just do something crazy like ask him over. But no. I can’t. Not me. That would be a move for someone else to make, not Darla. One thing I know is, that’s just not me.
Later, Darla heard the melody of the Luther song that had been her mantra, “I am not meant to live alone, turn this house into a home,” that he, Grainger the sax man, sang close to her skin. But it wasn’t the skin of her earlobe, it was the skin of her right thigh, as Darla looked down and watched Grainger sing his lyrics close to her vagina, teasing her lower lips with his song, while his gifted sax-playing hands grabbed her wide hips.
He looked like he was in the womb of heaven.
She was bare.
Her polka-dot baby-doll was intermingled among his clothes, across the white settee at the foot of the bed.
The room smelled like the scented lemongrass candle.
It wasn’t her place.
It wasn’t his place.
It was a neutral zone, perfect for sexploration.
Or even saxploration for that matter.
Two floors up from the club, in the Catalina Hotel.
In a hotel with a strange man like Rebe had done the first morning of the year.
Darla did her best to yield, and the espresso margaritas were just the right amount of liquid courage needed as she squirmed like a snake, feeling his warm breath against the crevice that resided where her pubic area and leg adjoined.
The candle flickered in the pure darkness of the swanky red and white hotel room. She lay on her back with her legs wide open, giving permission for her new lover to please her with his mouth. Her nipples were hard and big and long, like a stack of pennies.
Grainger ceased his singing and began to kiss her middle split and then inserted his long tongue with precision, wiggling it inside of her like it was now a snake charmer. It moved from side to side with a soulful rhythm like a wave, and she shook. Her left leg began to involuntarily quiver. She couldn’t stop it from acting out on its own, couldn’t stop it from telling on her wild sensation. She felt uneasy that her own extremity was doing its own dance, but she gave a surrendering sigh, resting her head back on the feather-down pillow, looking up toward the tray ceiling.
She felt dizzy and focused her mind on Grainger’s serious mouth work. It was like he was blowing the mouthpiece of his saxophone, playing her pussy as though seeking a melodic reaction to his mouth magic. She moaned and he flicked her sugar lips harder, even licking the chocolate mole on her labia, and she felt like she could really, actually, maybe, let go inside of his mouth if he could just do—something. Something more perhaps. Something that would top off the feeling of him licking the turned-on meat of her insides over and over while he looked up at her anticipating her cum. She fought it, and then told herself not to, and felt her breaths quicken from the nervous anticipation, and from the fact that what he was doing was not working.
I’ll fake it, she told herself. “That’s so good. I like that. Yes. That feels nice.”
“Uh-huh,” he moaned from between her legs like he was the man. He readjusted himself and again licked her inside like a lollipop, up and down. But something was still missing.
She squirmed downward to get his tongue to meet her clit and when it did, she jumped and felt her vagina clench. The heat inside of her turned up a notch and she wanted more. Darla thought back to what Magnolia had told her about speaking up and telling a man what pleases her, and that she should simply ask for it. And so, she said, “Can you suck it please? My clit I mean. Can you suck it?” The tone of her request was extra polite.
And without another word from her, or a word from him, he centered his mouth over her clitoris and brought his tongue to the underside of it, and quickly flicked while he sucked it in and out of his mouth, moving his head up and down, with a force. Her ass muscles tightened, and she squeezed the sheets and scooted back, saying as though in a panic, “Wait.” She seemed out of breath. Her blood raced. She wondered if she should be a little more careful in what she asked for.
“Uh-uh,” he said, denying her request to wait and coming back to get it j
ust right. Again he centered himself and sucked. Fast. Flicking. Fury. Her clit was getting a suck-fuck.
The voice in Darla’s head told her not to enjoy. That it would be betrayal. That she would be a bad girl if she went ahead. That this was a sin. A sin to be in bed with another man when after all, her husband died in bed with her. And it was her fault.
As the voices reminded her of what they’d taught for five long years, instantly Darla felt like she was going to lose it and scream for dear life if he kept it up, so she scooted again.
Again, he found her and sucked, flicked and held tight to her ass, placing his hand under her plump cheeks to keep her in place. “Take this,” he said into her opening.
The voices still spoke and she felt again like she wanted to scream and realized maybe the screaming would be the only way to silence the unwelcomed guilt that had her so stuck in abstinence. She knew about unsaintly Aaron, who suddenly became so saintly once he passed away, like most. Her mind dismissed him and said it was her turn to be unsaintly, and she tightened her jaw. And even though another voice that sounded maternal grew even louder, reminding her that she didn’t even know this man who had her vagina in his mouth, Darla said aloud without even being able to catch herself, “That’s all part of the turn-on. Oh hell.”
Grainger said nothing in reply to her nonsensical sentence as she groaned loudly, and began bucking, grinding back at his face like she was the one screwing his mouth, and in an instant, Darla pressed a feeling forward, forcing all of the negativity from her very being in a liquid rush like she was going to pee on herself, and then, her slit throbbed like it was being squeezed by a ghost. She rode through the dizzying feeling and pressed her orgasm from her opening. Her blood rushed and her muscles tightened and her voice went off in a curdling scream like she was being hurt and pleased at the same time. She rode it. “Oh. Oh. No. Yes. Oh. No. Yes. Oh, Grainger. Help me please. Yes. Yes. Yes.” And Darla busted a slow, freshman nut that curled her hair, toes, fingers, and crossed her eyes, bringing her to tears as Grainger simply took it all, waiting until her clit ceased its powerful throbbing and she ceased her high-pitched yelling.
