Second Date (still secret)

Mexican food. Good Mexican food, served by actual Mexicans in a strip mall outside Southern City. Secret Scientist comes last, someone’s showoff car had to be pulled from the ditch (to the delight of all his friends). I’ve saved the seat by me, Power Girl and our colleague Picky-Picky across the table, warm chips, medium salsa, guacamole so good I scrape the bowl with my finger and for once, I’m not the only one.

Secret Scientist sits in the inside seat, there are rabid fans on the patio, he’d rather not be accosted, some days being a musician sucks. We’re girls, we’re used to freezing out people we don’t want to talk to.

Amazing food, his hand on my thigh, my hand on his under the table. I catch the waiter by the bar, pay cash for the meal, it’s Picky-Picky’s birthday, Secret Scientist has bought a couple of times already, Power Girl can leave the tip. Deep-fried cheesecake split four ways, just a few bites is enough.

“Secret Scientist’s going to drive me home, I’ll see you there.” Bless Power Girl, she understands, often more than I expect or deserve.

He cleans out the front seat of the pickup, the drive for home is not long enough. The chat is wide-ranging but also constrained. I look. “What?”

“Ummmm…I don’t mean to offend you, but I have to ask…is this because you’re curious?”

Bi-curious? Curious about his cock? Huh? Oh….that’s right. All at once, Circus Guy is on my pussy, his eyes closed, Big City Lover swivels inside me, my father opens the door to Andre, looks him up and down, “Couldn’t you find anyone from our side of town?”

I say, “I’ve had black lovers before.” He’s relieved and ashamed, I let him off the hook – “We don’t know each other that well. It’s a fair question.” Because that’s the deal when you’re a slut – it’s not fair to be offended by the need to know, to confirm details that would come out over time. Ready to fuck, ready to forgive.

At the place I’m staying, we sit in the drive, the night is warm and slightly humid, still grey with dusk at 9pm. The truck might have been a stick, or maybe there was a big console, I don’t remember, I only remember that reaching across to touch had to be a choice, no accidental brushing was plausible. It’s been a long time since I’ve sat in the passenger seat and stretched out goodbye.

We talk about when we’ll see each other again, tours of duty intersecting, how far we’ll go when the time comes that we can be alone, strange city, a bed. We talk about race. We talk about things we like, I tell him I’m in love with my husband, I tell him I’m a whore.

Here’s what I like. I like that a man who specializes in a field that requires him to be very aware of all the dangers of sex with strangers would like to fuck me anyway. I like that a man who has a girlfriend (she’s hot, and she can probably kick my ass) thinks he would be jealous of my quarry when he sees me hunting.

The truck gets humid. I crack a window. The CD plays like a soundtrack to the moment of making him touch me. Or rather, touch me more.

I double dog dare you, I say, and there is his hand sliding up my thigh, I’m damp with sweat and anticipation, his fingers slide inside me and I make a noise under his mouth. I suck his fingers, sliding my tongue around the base of his nails, taking his fingers into my mouth, into my throat. He kisses me again, his tongue probing my mouth and with a rush I realize he’s tasting for my taste. It is sublime to be this wanted.

I look at him and laugh. “What satisfaction canst thou have tonight?” the quote itself a tiny betrayal of the man to whom I quote that play, and then I slide out of the truck, still laughing.

He waits, sweetly, comfortingly, until the door is opened to me, as if a bad high school date is wiped from history, replaced by something sweet and clean and still weeks from the sell-by date.