Simone
If tonight has taught me anything, it’s that being drunk moves in stages. Right now I’m in the early hangover stage, where I’m still drunk and yet my head is pounding as if I’ve woken up tomorrow morning. It’s too late for water now. It won’t do anything. It’s too late for coffee or any other sobering-up method. I’ll be drunk for the rest of the night and that’s that. Jess and I walk into the club—I can walk now, instead of stumble—and get a drink at the bar. The club is called Fusion, one of those pulsing, pumping places, and then I see a stage up front and I realize we’re in a strip joint, or a club that doubles as a strip joint.
“What do you want?” Jess calls over the music.
“Vodka and coke,” I call back without thinking. I want to go home, to lie down, to close my eyes and wait for the headache to go away. But Cecilia’s words have gotten to me more than they should have. Maybe it’s the alcohol. “You’ll ruin my wedding, but if you really want to go . . .” Manipulative bitch.
I take the vodka and Coke and sip it slowly, making my way to a chair in the corner and sitting down. Maybe I can just sit here for the rest of the night and nobody will notice. Jess smiles at me, and then goes onto the dance floor with Cecilia and the rest of them, all of them screaming and giggling when the new Taylor Swift song comes on. Cecilia grabs a hairbrush out of someone’s bag and starts miming on the dance floor, the other women forming a circle around her and cheering as she drags Shotgun up with her. I smile as I watch. Then I think of how Mom and Dad would react if they could see her now and my smile dies.
“You look lonely there, little lady,” a man wearing a shirt three sizes too small says. He’s short, stocky, with a bulging belly and bulging arms. His hair looks wet from the hair product he’s put into it, and his face is covered in a fine gloss of sweat, his smile twisted. His eyes are light brown, the light hitting them in a way that makes me nervous. He looks too eager. “What’s wrong—you don’t like to speak?”
“I’m just having a drink,” I say, struggling to get each word out in its proper order. I almost say, “Drink having just.” I think about jumping over to the dance floor where I can lose myself in the protection of the crowd, but he’s blocking my path.
“My name is Jakub,” he says. “I am an enforcer for the Seven Sinners, and a groomsman . . . I think that is what I am called in the wedding, anyway. Ah, I see you smiling at my accent.” He’s lying. I wasn’t smiling at anything. “My parents were Polish. Women say it is a very seductive accent.” In fact, he doesn’t have much of an accent at all. He holds a bottle of vodka by the neck. I wonder how much is left but the light is too tricky to see. “A lady like you, sitting here all alone, surely you want some company, eh?”
“I . . . I’m just here for moral support.”
“Ah, you’re the sister.”
“I’m the sister,” I confirm.
“Don’t tell Shotgun, but I think you’re the more beautiful of the two. You look purer.”
The way he says purer makes me uncomfortable. It’s like he’s talking about the quality of a steak. “Uh, okay. Thanks.” I stand up, meaning to get past him. He doesn’t budge. “Excuse me.”
“Excuse you, excuse you what?” He laughs, and then takes a swig of vodka. “You’ve done nothing wrong. Or did you fart?” He laughs again.
“I want to get to the dance floor. Please.”
“But we’re talking—”
“Jakub.” Rocco steps from the darkness into the light which emanates from a red lamp on the table. His face looks like it’s painted with blood. “I want you to get away from her without making any excuses or saying anything at all.” His voice trembles. He’s the only one in here wearing his leather jacket. Jacket, jeans, boots. He looks rough and dangerous. It’s a look I welcome right now, if it gets this man away from me.
Jakub opens his mouth, but then closes it right away, remembering Rocco’s words. He nods shortly and leaves, making for the pack of girls watching Cecilia sing into her hairbrush.
Rocco is taller than Jakub by a head and a half, but Jakub doesn’t look like the sort of guy to meekly walk away like that. And Rocco doesn’t even act like it’s a big deal. He doesn’t look scared that he might have just gotten into a fight, or worried, or anything. He just steps forward casually, brushing the exchange off like it didn’t happen.
“Are you all right?” he asks.
“Fine,” I say, hoping my voice is steady, like I haven’t been thinking about this man for two straight days. “That was . . . you didn’t have to do that.”
Despite his roughness, he looks good. Really, really good. I can’t ignore that. His dark eyes watch me, his lips turned upward in a small smile, like he knows a secret and I’m the only person in the world he wants to share it with. “Maybe not,” he says, “but what was option two, let Jakub hit on you or the rest of the night? He’s a good man, sober. He isn’t sober tonight.”
Across the room, Jakub stumbles into the wall and everybody cheers as he flops to the ground. He tries to get back up but just falls on his face again.
“No,” I agree, “he isn’t.” I shoot my hand out. “I’m Simone, by the way, and your name is?”
I immediately regret it. I mean it as a joke, but he looks uncertain for a moment, the smile faltering. He looks closely at me. “How drunk are you?”
“I was joking,” I say. “I know you’re Rocco. It was . . . ha, ha?” I raise my eyebrows at him. “Can I get a small laugh, just to make me feel better?”
The smile returns. “Ha, ha, ha,” he says.
“But to answer your question, I’m quite drunk. I have to think carefully about every word I’m saying right now. It’s extremely tiring.”
“Even drunk you sound like a newscaster or a voice actor or something,” he says.
“I don’t know what you mean by that. Are you saying I sound posh?”
“Ish, posh-ish.”
“You shouldn’t call me posh. It makes me very self-conscious.”
“Then maybe you ought to stop being posh.”
“If it wasn’t for your devilish smile, I might take offense at that.”
He leans forward, bringing his face close to mine. My body is suddenly alive with possibilities. Drunk, in the dark, with a hulking man in a leather jacket, a dangerous man, a man I’ve already seen topless . . . anything could happen. “What happens if I offend you? Do you get angry?”
“Don’t look so cocky about it. You wouldn’t want to see me angry.”
“Don’t you want to dance?” He nods over at Cecilia and the club girls, headbanging to some old rock tune.
“No,” I say. “If I start headbanging I think this contraption would fall apart.” I turn so he can see my hair, braided and tied into a bun.
“It’s impressive,” Rocco says. He turns his head, showing his jet-black hair, which he hasn’t touched. It’s wild and unkempt. “What do you think about mine? This took four goddamn hours.”
I giggle. I can’t help but giggle. And with the alcohol in me, I don’t feel guilty about giggling. I think about the way Ms. Hennessy looked at Jess and decide I don’t want to be like that with Rocco, not tonight, not with vodka moving around my body, making everything fuzzy and warm. The headache seems less important, too, as I stand with Rocco. Everything seems less important, other than the two of us. I woke with my hand wedged between my thighs, I remember, my fingers toying with my clit.
“I have a crazy idea,” I say.
“I like crazy ideas.”
“What if we went into one of those booths and just did shots together and ignored the rest of the party?” I’m flustered, talking at lightspeed. I know if I slow down my sober mind will get involved, start nitpicking the plan, poking holes in it until I’m Ms. Hennessy, sneering at the whole party. “What do you think?”
“I think I have no clue why we’re still standing here.”
He takes my hand—his hand is big, warm, making me feel small and safe—and leads me to the nearest booth, which is as far away from the dance floor as it’s possible to get without leaving the club. The booth is a large VIP section, the walls reaching up to the ceiling, with a lockable door. I slide onto the leather seat, around the table, and wait as Rocco disappears to get some drinks. He returns with a silver tray of about ten shots, each pair a different color.
“Are you trying to kill me?”
He places the tray down. “Shall I lock the door?”
“What a gentleman.” I pick up a shot, studying it. It’s blood-red.
“Gentleman,” he repeats, shaking his head. “Never been called that before. I’m locking the door.”
“Lock the door!” I exclaim, not sure why I’m shouting. The idea of being in a locked booth makes my pussy go tight for a moment, tight with all the dirty ideas filling my mind. My clit feels bigger, my panties scraping against it. Every sensation is heightened.
He sits down and picks up the blood-red shot’s twin.
“What is this?” I ask.
“I’d be lying if I said I had any damn clue,” he says.
“Maybe it really is blood.” The booth is lit by a yellow lamp attached to the ceiling. I turn the bloody liquid in the light.
“You look like a vampire right now, Simone. Like you’re inspecting some new blood or something. Just reckon you should know.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
I turn my face to him. He’s watching me, watching everything I do. I’ve never had a man stare at me like this, as if I’m the only woman in existence. After a lifetime of living in Cecilia’s shadow, of boys referring to me as the Boring Sister, of even Mom and Dad taking it as a given that I’ll do what I’m told and never kick up a fuss, having a man like Rocco look at me means something. Even if alcohol is contributing to it, it means something. I silently promise myself to remember this feeling when I’m sober.
“A bad thing? Nothin’ about you is a bad thing.”
“You don’t know me.”
“I know enough. I know I’ve had you in my head for two days and if I didn’t run into you tonight I’d have had you in there for two more.”
“Are you flirting with me, Rocco?”
He knocks his glass against mine. “I’m drinking with you. Come on. Don’t be chicken.”
“Chicken? Cheep-cheep-cheep. You seen that movie?”
“That Tommy Piseu thing? I’ve seen clips, I think.”
“Wiseau, The Room. I love it. It’s so wonderfully terrible. But Cecilia and Mom and Dad think it’s stupid to like a movie that bad. It’s the only thing they agree on.”
“Well, then, you better stop listening to everybody else and do what you want for a change.”
“That, Rocco, is probably the smartest thing anybody has ever said to me.”
We drink our blood-red shots, which turn out to be rum, and then make our way through green, yellow, white, and black. By the end of it both of us are laughing, but I can’t remember what about. We’re just laughing for the sake of it, and then Rocco leans across and brings his face close to mine. His breath smells like a multicolored combination of shots, but it’s a good smell, the smell of a man, Rocco, a real man, not like those stuffy, boring men I usually date. Dimly, I remember that usually I think those are perfectly fine men. But not tonight. Tonight Rocco is the only man I can fathom being with.
“You’re too hot,” he says. “Don’t hold it against me.”
“I won’t,” I say. “I want you. I—just kiss me.”
He presses his lips against mine and for a second my world splits apart. His lips are rough, almost completely dry, and feel so good my body gives itself to him straight away. I can’t help it. My nipples go hard and my clit throbs and my pussy gets so wet I can feel it in my panties. It’s not just a kiss. It’s making real what I’ve fantasized about for two days. I’m not just kissing Rocco the man. I’m kissing the shirtless picture Cecilia showed me in the mall. I lean my body against his, my breasts squashing flat against the leather of his jacket, my nipples brushing against the material. Both of us are panting through the kiss, breathing onto each other.
He puts his hand on my leg, high up on my thigh. I know that if I’m going to stop this, now is the moment. After this, I won’t be able to. I tell myself that I’ll regret this when I’m sober, but I’m not even sure if that’s true. And if it is, who cares? I won’t regret it now. That’s the point. Sometimes now has to trump tomorrow, otherwise what’s the point?
He slides his hand further up my leg, his pinkie brushing against my clit as he grips my thigh hard. I break off the kiss, breathing heavily. I’ve never had a man grab my leg like this. Just by the way he touches me I know he’s not nervous, not like other men, who’ll weakly rub my leg, watching me carefully for my response. Rocco’s grabbing just for the sheer pleasure of grabbing. It feels so good, my pussy starts to ache. I need him to touch me, really touch me.
I place my hand on his crotch, rubbing up and down, feeling his hardness beneath his jeans. He’s rock-hard, a hard pack of an erection squashed into the denim. I fiddle with the zip and pull it down around his lower thighs, and then wedge his underwear beneath his balls. His cock springs up, huge, so big I lean back for a second. What is it—ten inches, more? I swallow, nervous for a moment, but then he clamps down his hand on my pussy, his middle and ring finger pressing down so hard on my clit I don’t have the capacity to be nervous. I don’t have the capacity to be anything other than horny.
I grab his cock, a vein pressing against my palm, and rub it up and down as he aggressively massages my pussy, pushing down on my clit like a button, being rough because he can’t stop himself. I know without having to look at him. He’s as far gone as I am. He pulls down my tights to my knees, and then yanks down my underwear so quickly it tears and stretches. Then he slides his middle finger inside of my soaking wet pussy, all the way to the knuckle, and I have to bite down to stop myself from screaming. A detached part of me thinks: the rough biker whose picture I saw has his finger inside of me; this is real, this is really happening.
He moves his fingers in circles around my sweet spot, probing deep, deep inside of me, as I jerk his cock up and down, listening to his growling moans.
“You feel so fucking good,” he whispers, his breath caressing my ear as he leans into my neck. “You feel fuckin’ perfect.”
I shift my hips up and down, moving them in circles, riding his finger. “You’re so big,” I moan. “Oh, you’re so big.”
I’m shocked at myself. I never usually talk during moments like this. I suppose I’m never passionate enough.
“Are you gonna come on my finger?” he whispers, moving his finger quicker, my sweet spot getting hotter and hotter with each movement.
It’s as if his words trigger something inside of me. My pussy boils and I feel an orgasm approaching, like a distant wave getting closer to shore. I nod vigorously, moaning as he strokes inside of me quicker and quicker. I close my eyes and watch the wave, feel it approaching in my body. My toes curl and my pussy goes tight, the insides of my eyelids turning red. I wrap my arms around his neck and dig my fingernails into his skin as the wave breaks on the shore. The orgasm pulses through me, starting at my pussy and traveling up and down my body, to the tips of my toes and fingers, the ecstasy making my nipples hot, my mouth full of tingling sensations. I twist my hips, forcing them down on his finger, riding the pleasure, consumed by it. I would scream if I wasn’t biting down on his leather jacket.
When the orgasm passes, both of us need each other. We don’t say it. We don’t have to. But it’s clear in the way we fall apart, tearing at our clothes, trying as quickly and efficiently as possible to get naked. Rocco pulls his leather over his head and tosses it to the floor. For a man who wears it even when his friends are wearing suits or shirts, throwing it away like that is a big deal. It’s like he wants me even more than he wants the sigil: a kneeling man surrounded by seven hellhounds, all barking at him with fire coming out of their mouths. I tear off my tights and hike my dress up. Rocco pulls down his jeans, kicking them over his boots.
He leaps at me, grabbing my ass cheeks as he turns me around so that I’m not facing him. “You’ve got the most perfect goddamn ass I’ve ever seen,” he says, voice trembling with lust. “You’re a fuckin’ angel.”
I want his cock in me so badly. I can’t remember a time when I wanted a man like this. I ache for him, even though I just had an orgasm. I bend over, baring my pussy, feeling more confident than I ever have in a situation like this. There’s no nervousness between me and him. I’m too horny for that. I just bend over, arching my back, waiting for his ten-inch cock to push into me.
He grabs my ass cheeks and slides in slowly, his massive cock spreading my lips. There’s a hint of pain at first, but the further he pushes, the more my pussy opens for him until there’s no pain at all. His cock is a rod of heat, every inch of it sending fire through my pussy. My sweet spot is engulfed. My entire pussy is engulfed.
“You feel so fuckin’ amazing.”
“Fuck me,” I whisper. “Fuck me—hard.”
Rocco doesn’t need to be asked again. He slides out of me fast, and then smashes into me faster. Soon I’m bucking as he pounds into me so hard I can’t feel any individual movement. All I can feel is the brutal speed of his thrusts, his balls slapping against my clit. He rams into me, deep, over and over, and I push back in time with his thrusts. I dig my fingernails into the fabric of the chair, pushing with all my force. He slides in at the perfect angle, right into my sensitive spot; each time the tip strokes it, another orgasm gets closer and closer to exploding.
We fuck like savage animals for ten minutes, both of us utterly taken by the pleasure. Anything could be happening outside the walls of the booth. The music pumps, but that’s all I hear. Otherwise, only the booth exists, only Rocco’s grunts and his hands rubbing and slapping my ass cheeks, only his wet cock sliding deep inside of me. I lean forward, biting down on the cushion. “I’m going to—” My voice is muffled. I close my eyes. I writhe on his cock. I push down so that my ass cheeks press flat against his abs.
And then it hits me, more intense than the last, an orgasm which claims my whole body, every inch of my skin alive to the pleasure of it, every inch of my pussy vibrating like I’m sitting on top of a washing machine. I twist my hips, moving them in circles, taking as much pleasure from this euphoric moment as I can. Rocco growls something in my ear, something about coming, and that makes me writhe with even more passion. I want us to come together. I want to feel his come dripping down my thigh with the aftermath of my orgasm still working its way through my body. He lets out one final gasp and then bites my ear, his breath moving over my face as he comes inside of me, his cock wilting even as he continues to drive hard into me.
Soon, we both fall aside, panting. Rocco sits on the chair, lifting his arm and gesturing for me to fall into him. I don’t have a problem with that. I’m smiling like a loon. Orgasm still kissing my body, I lay my head into the crook of his arm.