Sexy Briefs: Knickers in a Twist

Thought So by Cecilia Tan

I have news for you, boys: there are horny women out there. There are women walking the streets, in bookstore aisles, riding trains, who are practically crying inside because they want it so bad. Either that, or I’m the only one. But I would put money on the fact that I am not the only one. Especially given what Jason has told me. It’s because of Jason that I don’t have to prowl those aisles, those trains, anymore.

I first noticed him in Walpenny’s, in the cookbook section. I was thumbing through a spiral bound volume on Thai cookery when I caught him looking at me. Or maybe it was he who caught me. By that point, I was frustrated. It was a summer evening, cool and breezy, and though I wore a brief, swishy dress, and had arranged my hair suggestively, I had not had good luck. The only mild interest I’d gotten was from people I had no interest in. And while I was starting to think I’d hump an aardvark if I had to, I knew better.

I was biting my lip and trying to decide if I should give up and go home, the book open in my hands but my eyes unfocused, when Jason stepped out from behind a tall bookcase. My eyes flickered up and then back down to the book. He was tall, a little underfed, blue eyes, light brown hair… and was he looking at me?

He was. I gave him a longer look, and a smile. He returned the smile in a knowing way. Thank goodness. The hook was baited. I put the book down on the table, and let my head fall back, some of my curls brushing my bare shoulders. I saw him gulp-hook swallowed.

He came toward me and said “Hi.”

“Hi,” I said, lowering my eyes with a shyness that wasn’t entirely unreal. I was accustomed to being the cute one, the desirable one-but Jason would have turned my head even if I hadn’t been having one of my horniest nights. Suddenly I wasn’t sure what to say to him.

He saved me by speaking first. “I’ve been following you for a while.”

“How long is a while?” He blushed, but kept talking.

“Since Alton Station.” He reached his hand toward mine, and brushed his fingertips against my arm. I had to stifle an audible intake of breath. “Would you like to go somewhere?” he asked.

I nodded. “My place, if that would be all right with you.”

There was that smile again. “Lead the way.”

He orbited me with a crooked arm as I turned toward the door, but he did not touch me.

He waited until we were sitting on a bench at the station to do that. I was almost shivering by then, fantasizing his arm around me, waiting for it to happen-and then he slid close, his blue-jeaned leg touching mine, and his arm slid across my shoulders. His breath was warm in my hair, against my ear, in the air conditioned coolness of the station. If I had an engine, it would have revved.

I didn’t want to wait until we got home. It would be twenty minutes on the train, and then a five minute walk, and I was so hot and ready that I was afraid I would slip off the peak and lose my edge. The frustration and need of the long evening made my jaw stiffen; the ache in my belly only intensified by the proximity of our bodies.

His lips nibbled at my ear and tears almost sprang to my eyes.

He smoothed my dress down over my legs. I wished I could just lie down on the concrete bench, put up my legs and let him root around to his heart’s content (and mine). Another pass with his hand.

I hadn’t felt so hungry-frustrated since junior high, when I used to sit backstage during drama club rehearsal, on Daniel Pera’s lap. We were too young for sex, and knew it I guess, because we never took our clothes off. But he used to trace every line or design on the cloth of my shirt, with just his fingertip, roaming feather-light over my chest and up and down my neck. Sometimes he would trace the seams of my jeans. We’d sit like that for hours, while rehearsals were going on, in the dark of the wings, until we were needed. Sometimes I went onstage flushed and dizzy, unsure of where my feet were, unsure even of who I was, which character I was to play, what words I was supposed to say. I went home every night dying to masturbate the minute I got to my room. Jason’s fingertip began to trace the flowery vines on my dress. I shuddered a breath in and out. I wanted to murmur sweet nothings in his ear, to give him a taste of the painful anticipation I was riding-, but I could not speak. His finger slid along the center seam of the dress and came to rest at the crook of my hip. Then he turned my chin toward him, and as I was about to say something, smothered my unspoken words with a kiss.

His fingers were drumming now, like a piano arpeggio, closer and closer to where my clit throbbed under layers of cloth. Yes, I wore panties, even when out on the prowl. The gentle tapping made the longing even worse. I didn’t dare open my eyes, afraid people were staring at us. He kept his rhythm even, his touch light, as if there were no urgency in him at all. It was all inside me, making my shoulders tighten under his arm, my breath shallow, my jaw clench.

And then came the train. He held my hand and pulled me into the car.. There were only four or five other people within earshot and none of them paid us any attention. Jason pulled me down into a seat-onto his lap.

That finger was busy again, this time deep under my dress, pushing aside my cotton panties, then nosing back and forth in my wetness. More liquid was forthcoming, and I licked my mouth as if to match it.

When his finger slid into me, I started to cry. You ninny, I was thinking, you’re going to ruin it, he’s going to freak and run away on you. But I couldn’t help it. His slow, gentle touch was going somewhere deep inside of me, somewhere I needed to be touched so much, that the relief triggered tears. I clung to his neck and sobbed softly, my face hidden by drifts of my own hair, as his finger went in and out, soon joined by a second one. He could barely move his hand, jammed between my legs like that, but it was enough, just rocking. Then his thumb perked up and rubbed against my over lubricated clit, and my crying intensified.

“It’s okay,” he said into my ear. “I know.”

Like those moments of confusion, stumbling from the curtains in the wings, unsure where to stand or where to go, I found myself being carried from the train. He had me in his arms and whispered in my ear and nibbled my neck, and the next thing I knew we were at my door and he was asking for my keys. He set me down on my feet and I opened the apartment door and we climbed the dark stairs.

At the time I didn’t think it odd that he knew where to go. I was too grateful to be there, mere steps from the bedroom, where we soon were, me kneeling on the bed, him standing while I unbuttoned his white cotton shirt, unbuttoned his jeans, and revealed him. His silky red erection came free and I sighed. I cupped his balls with my hand and let my lips fall around him. Ahh. Mmm.

He sensed I didn’t want to waste much time, but let me swallow him deep a few times before he pushed forward onto the bed, flattening me in the process. The rest of our clothes were shed at that point, while I pulled a condom out of the side table drawer. I kicked off my socks while he put it on.. I wrapped my legs around his back and pulled him into me.

With every thrust I felt like sparks flew down to my toes and from the tips of my fingers. I thought again of junior high, a trip to the beach-baking in the sun for an hour and then running headlong down the sand and plunging into the cool water. An intensely pleasurable shock. A shockingly intense pleasure. And Jason gave it to me again and again.

I thrust my hips up to meet him, trying to match rhythm to get an almost violent crash of bodies. It’s hard to admit, but I wanted him to fuck me so hard that it would hurt. It was one of the reasons I liked picking up strangers-they were unlikely to worry much about whether I was in pain or not. Anonymous encounters tended to fuck with abandon. Of course, sometimes that meant that I would end up abandoned, if he’d come before me or if he couldn’t keep it up. But somehow Jason was hanging in there, giving it to me and giving it to me.

When I’m that wet and when I’ve wanted it for so long, I can fuck for a long time. I started to worry that he wouldn’t last, but I didn’t want to say anything. Just when my worrying began to distract me from the pleasure, he whispered, “It’s okay. I can do it.” And he began to dunk harder, and I lost myself.

The orgasm was coming-but if I followed my usual pattern, I would need a tad more clit stimulation. I tried to slide my hand along my stomach, but bumped into his hand, beating me to it. He had turned his long arm partway over and slid his thumb down over the very slippery, sensitive bump. The ripples in my midsection started that instant. My legs shook and my heels drummed on his back as I quaked with the power of coming. I wondered if this would make him go off, too, but when I settled back into the bed, he was still lodged deep in me, fucking me slowly and contentedly

Wash, rinse, repeat. After a while, he sped up, my muscles started to contract, he would rub my clit, and… insert sound effects like Fourth of July fireworks here. And again. And maybe again… I can’t do math when I’m like that. I kept thinking, oh, this time he’ll go off, too. But he didn’t. And then I started to feel like I’d had enough and I feared that he hadn’t, and I was going to end up having to go through the ordeal of letting him fuck me when I didn’t want to anymore. It would not be fair, after all, to get what I wanted and leave him unsatisfied.

Suddenly he pulled out, and lay back next to me, and smiled.

“You didn’t come,” I said.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“Yes.” I put my hand on his chest and felt his heart beating hard. “I’m sure of it.”

“You’re right.”

“Do you want me to go down on you?” I could not move, at that point, as I lay there, thoroughly screwed, but I figured I’d be able to sit up in a few minutes.

“No, that’s okay,” he said, sounding sleepy, or maybe I was projecting my feelings onto him. “You just rest.”

We lay there in the semi-dark of the street light and after a short nap, my brain began to perk up. That’s when I realized that I had never told him where I lived, nor how to get there. He had been following me all evening, by his own admission. I didn’t think I would feel so comfortable snuggling up to a psycho. Did I have a stalker?

“No,” he said, stroking my hair. “I can read your mind.”

“What do you mean, you can read my mind?” I guess I thought it was some mushy romantic thing he was trying to say. But I was wrong. He meant it in the most literal sense.

“In the bookstore, you picked up that cookbook because you thought the cover image looked phallic.”

“Spring rolls and bananas.”

“Then you watched that clerk, the one with the nose ring, walk by, and decided you really didn’t like the way he smelled.” His voice was soothing in the dark. “That’s the smell of patchouli, by the way.”

“And what was I thinking about when we were in the train station?”

“The Man Who Came To Dinner.”

“Holy shit.” That was the play we’d done in drama club. That convinced me that he really could read my mind.. “So you were following me around all night, and knew how horny I was the whole time.”

“Yes.”

I propped myself up on an elbow and slapped him on the shoulder. “That’s for making me wait so long.” Then I kissed him, long and deep, until we were both breathless.

He started to get up and I thought, aha, now he’ll want to come. But he made a quick trip to the bathroom, and when he returned, began to get dressed.

I asked him if he wanted to come and he smiled that sweet smile at me. “Yes, very much. But I’m going to wait.”

I wasn’t sure what to think about that. “Why?”

“You wanted me to experience the exquisite pain you had gone through. I figured I’d try it.” He leaned over me and kissed me on the lips, then on the forehead.

It struck me then that I couldn’t just let him walk away, like any other anonymous encounter. “Will you come back tomorrow?”

“If you want me to.”

“You have to.” I told him I wouldn’t feel complete until he came, too.

And he said: “I know.”