A life of infamy isn't all it's cracked up to be.
Most nights she sits on her fire escape sending her hopes, her dreams, her ambitions skyward with puffs of cigarette smoke, her face illuminated by the blue glow of a computer screen. This night is no different.
Are you on AIM?, he writes.
She scrambles to get the application running on the borrowed P.C.
An unknown name appears.
"Who is this?"
"Who are you?" blinks back on the screen. A "Who's on first?" for the digital age. It's somebody else she met online. An AFF friend, somebody she knows. But she is looking for new flirtations, new conversations, so she dismisses him with the promise of a phone call.
"Hi there" she types as the stranger's name pops up on the screen.
What to say to this unknown? They've only exchanged a few emails, poems, chit-chat.
They are nothing but pictures, words, zeros and ones, movies and books--- a 'general interests' section.
This is safe. This is distance. She allows herself be swept up in the flirtatious banter.
He has a friend her town he has thought about visiting.
"Friend or 'friend'?" she types, surprised that she cares.
"Just a friend. You're much more my type"
"oh? how would you know"
"foreign, arty, great lips, painted eyeliner...shall I go on?"
"please do...I'm a leo."
"sexy, the most beautiful brown eyes I have seen in a picture in ages...you have a great vocab, which counts for sooo much in my book."
It is this last that really does it. It is a harmless game of pretty words and she lets herself be flattered, drawn in.
He has fantasized about her, imagined himself a part of her stories, pictured the red thong she wore for another man.
"ah, but you see, therein lies the danger of getting to know me through my blogs..."
This is safe. This is distance. Two strangers, each one creating an ideal out of the ether, out of words and projected desire.
A teasing invitation.
She stares at the screen for a few seconds and throws back her head with a mischievous laugh. This is new, unexplored territory. A million thoughts race through her head. She sits at her window, curtain thrown wide, and suddenly feels shy.
He begins at her hips, his palms tracing her thighs as he slips the red thong down...
"fibber. you've done this before!"
"that does not mean i'm not nervous! its always been with somebody i know"
Breathing a little faster she wonders at her own daring.
"we could up the ante a bit. Phone?"
Heart racing, she picks on the first ring.
His Southern drawl makes her smile in the dim light of her room.
"So where were you?" she purrs.
He is kissing her belly, palms sliding over her thighs.... His voice guides her hands, and she traces every place his words have touched.
This is safe. This is distance...and she opens herself to him, this disembodied voice traveling over her skin.
She does not notice when they cease to be strangers on opposite ends of a phone, but she knows she is no longer alone.
She straddles him, lowers herself onto him, hips marking small circles.
She rides and recalls a story she read once. "De Noche Soy Tu Caballo". A story of lovers, of a lover's dream. A story of the macumba, of witchcraft and magic. A story of spirits and Orisha overtaking their worshipers, mounting them, riding them.
And she rides...
Her thighs strain and she feels the heat of his breath, the warmth of his body, the touch of his hands.
And she rides...
She reaches out to embrace him with her mind and spirit and body—to bewitch him, posses him.
She can feel him moving inside of her, her muscles taught, their breath heavy as she draws him in, all of him.
She lays on her bed, trying to catch her breath and hears him doing the same on the other of the line.
"Wow...I might need to spoon for a moment after that..." he gasps and laughs.
"Sorry, hun...I don't cuddle..." comes the laughing reply.
Author's note: This was a bit of an exercise. I was challenged to write in the third person, present tense. Challenge met...and what a pain in the ass it was! It took me a week to actually finish it. Worth it though...