Solaria
- 3 years ago
- 18
- 0
Sola free porn video
It’s 1:00 AM Labor Day, one of the loneliest nights of the year. Alone, sober, I see drunk people. They move in twos, threes and ones up and down the bar-lined boulevard. Some bounce. Some drag. Hunger wafts through the streets. Cadillac Escalades, sprayed in their finest pearl-white, strut down Erie Street at fifteen m.p.h. though they appear to be doing twenty. The dark-skinned drivers whistle at tight dresses on tight asses. Their blaring horns seem to say, ‘Hey baby, how you doin’?’ Stiletto heels clickety-click-click down the sidewalk.
I overhear conquest details: ‘Hey! D’you wanna fuck? For reals. No mames. (Come on.) Text you when’m done wit m’boys. Later.’ Women’s MAC-linered bocas (mouths) suck on mints. Men without a sure titty for the night comfort themselves manually. That is, right hand clutches beer bottle or right hand rests against crotch. Women and men alike absent-mindedly check their cell phones every few minutes for…that one and only text message that can save their soul.
Although I walk home alone from the club, I fill the solitude by reflecting on the night’s details and eyeballing every passing uniform in squad car. Officer Wolf Eyes, too old. Please keep going. Mmm. Cute but not paying attention. Damn-just missed a paddy wagon, a police vehicle I fetish harder on for its unknown element of what really goes on in the windowless back area.
But back to the club. I know it well. I close my eyes. I’m there. I smell Curve men’s cologne and cigarettes. Some guy took his shirt out of the dryer too soon. Mold-scent circulates. Add bad breath and you’ve got salsero death. In the closeness of Latin dancing, everything’s gotta smell good. For that I pop Dentyne two at a time every half hour. Get close boys. I’m ready for ya.
DJ Steven spins that booming base on his kick ass sound
system, skipping once in a while. I hear salsa. Merengue. Bachata. Now and then he plays cha cha, or as the Latinos say, ‘cha cha cha.’ I hear English and Spanish equally spoken and by now they sound the same. It all comes filtered through my ear plug. I only need one. I’m already deaf in the other ear, the sign of a true club junkie.
The night is typical in that invitations to dance pour my way initially but slow to a trickle when the younger, prettier women file in late and so cool. Lingering on the bar stool, I harden into a fixture. Watching the dancers, it’s clear their spins, markings, dips, and shines are stymied for lack of space, also known as, ‘dancing on a brick.’ My eyes lock on no one in particular but, rather, a single blur of faces, bodies and limbs melded together like a room-filling, rhythmic sea animal.
Next to me sits ‘Bo’, a sweet-worded, big-all-over black regular. He gives me a receptive side-long glance. We regulars are shocked to find out that tonight he hits the big 7-5. When Steven plays the salsa birthday anthem, everyone clears the floor and the older ladies line up to dance with Bo one by one. It’s an old guy’s version of pulling a train.
He barely looks twice my thirty-five years with his amazingly tight skin. I’m jealous he looks this good for his age, knowing if I make it to seventy-five, my pale face won’t weather the UV rays quite as well as his dark cheeks. Even with that edge, he dresses as a hip, younger man sporting a thick chain, Dolce & Gabbana shades and a pin-striped railroad hat. He’s in all his glory, surrounded by the hungry ladies.
Again a wave of envy washes over me. If one of us gets lucky it will probably be him, a graying, seventy-five year old and not me, a blond thirty-five year old in her sexual prime. But this is no time for deep thoughts. The fresh meat is arriving and I need to inspect it. ‘Happy birthday, Bo, ‘ I tell him. And off I go, making the unnecessary trip to the ladies room.
It’s more ladylike to walk like I have a destination. I pass one couple doing a combo of a hands-free cross-body lead, single turn, matador, reverse triple, and finally two half dips before a lightning-quick reverse 360. The guy hits me on the butt. I instantly seek his eyes but he appears so lost in the music I assume it was accidental. Tappi, a sweaty, older white woman sits at the bar smiling at me, as does an otherwise faceless guy. We all bust out laughing. Tappi snorts in a rough, road-trucker manner, ‘You gotta take it anyway you can!’ in the same vein as Janis Joplin desperately belting out, ‘…get it while you can.’ We share a knowing laugh between women.
I keep walking and –ooh…there’s Kareem, the petite white boy who wears sleeveless shirts to show off his arms. His eyes are sexy blue. We are thirsty and visually drink each other in.
‘Where have you been?’ he asks.
I don’t get personal with salseros but tell him the truth. ‘I bought a new computer and can hardly leave my house!’
‘Oh, like that joke,’ he says. ‘Why does a dog lick his balls?’
Ew! I can’t believe he said that but pretend I’m not grossed out. ‘Umm…I dunno, I reply.
‘Because they can!’ he half exclaims and pokes his tongue into the inside of his cheek, making the blowjob gesture. Anywhere else it would look lewd but in the club it’s fine.
‘That’s nasty,’ I say, lightly shoving his bare shoulder. I picture dogs licking themselves and imagine what they would be thinking. I remember an ex-lover who would moan as I would roll my tongue around his balls before moving onto his cock.
I smirk and he raises an eyebrow, obviously wondering why. The raw energy around us breaks down my inhibitions.
I blurt out, ‘Men and dogs have something in common!’ Oops. Didn’t mean to say that.
He leans in, wide-eyed, like he wants more. He’s closer than usual but no more than when we dance. The tension feels good but I look down, look up and think how to back out of this conversation. I shouldn’t be discussing testicles with salseros, even in the sexually-charged vibe of the club. He must see my demeanor change and returns to the original subject.
‘ I go online a lot, too. Time flies in those chat rooms,’ he says, eyes panning the dance floor. Though I hide it, I’m annoyed he thinks I do chat rooms. Do I seem like the chat room type?
‘No,’ I say, climbing out on a limb. ‘I’m on this military dating site and meet all these deployed soldiers.’ Hey, I tell myself, if he’s talking about dogs licking their balls, how bad can it be to admit I joined a singles website?
‘Oh, no shit,’ he says flatly, registering no surprise.
Well, I guess I seem like the dating-site type, too!
‘So,’ he continues, ‘it’s like internet dating–in Iraq!’ We crack up and he leads me to the floor for a bachata song by Extreme.
Mira, como estoy sufriendo
me quemo por dentro
por sentir tu amor
Mami, no me hagas eso
sabes que te quiero
con todo el corazon
Look how I’m suffering
I’m burning inside
to feel your love
baby, don’t do that to me
you know I want you
with all my heart
His body goes into the mode and those small but sculpted arms move me side to side. The rest of him inhales the rhythm and takes me on the ride. It will only last five minutes but for those three hundred seconds I am his-completely. When he urges his hard abs against mine, I press back. By now he can easily feel each curve of my full breasts against his chest. I submissively follow the lead of his leg between my thighs so we turn perfectly as one. We are primates.
At a dramatic break in the song, he throws me into a dip. I drop low, reel in, bounce off his chest and bam! He again lowers me deep to his left and, still down, rotates me sharply to the right as my long hair sweeps the floor. Vertebrae by vertebrae, he rolls me up and we lock eyes.
In the language of Latin dancing he has conquered and fucked me right there for everyone to see. When the song ends we politely part, partner up with new people and do it again. And again. And again. For hours. The floor i
s one big bed. We are whores, all of us dancers, regulars, feasting on a public orgy. Old Bo isn’t the only one who pulls a train tonight.
All the while, I don’t think about why I was born, will I ever bear a child or whether I have carpel-tunnels syndrome. I live in the moment with these partners, the music, the motion of the Latin rhythm. And for just a flash I feel powerful and beautiful. Going home alone may not be so bad after all.
Elle
- 10.01.2021
- 13
- 0
