by Steven Goldman
(02/25/04)
tengo lo que tu quieres...
There's an empty office across from my desk: room 2616, Sandeep Ghosal. It's become a refuge for the strays on my floor: guests needing to use the phone, secretaries wanting to call their boyfriends in privacy, a dumping ground for boxes of materials...and a very comfy chair in the midst of it all.
And last week, you caught me. Red-handed, red-faced, gasping.
You've been going to the Empire State Building for lunch twice a week for three months now, two months and twenty-six days after your daddy announced he was "having an affair" -- I swear, the man bleeds legal-speak -- with that blonde from corporate finance, the one who always wears those Easter-egg-blue suits, short skirts, lipstick that's more about after hours than during.
The building's old, so the windows are still clear. He's too smart to keep on fucking in his office, but the view's too nice to pass up for a girl working in the cube farm. You haven't caught him yet, but that doesn't stop you from coming. You ride up, eat your sandwich, press your thighs together in anticipation and scope out his office. Simple enough.
In the summertime, the wait can be murder. One-hour lunches kept turning into two, until you starting making friends with the elevator boys...amazing what a light swipe across the balls does for the wait time. All the tourists think you're a Rockefeller the way you're swept around the line.
Granted, Kyle, the sleek one with the curly hair and the thick Sheepshead Bay accent, made you come twice in a single ride. You finished your sandwich -- honey turkey and brie with perfect honey mustard and greens -- smoothed your skirt, eased through the gift shop surfers and flicked him a smile, the smallest, sunshine licking through the corridor. He turned to his buddy, flashed him a five-sign, followed you in and smacked the close-door button behind him, leaving nothing but him, you, and eighty-six floors straight down.
He slid into the elevator while your back was turned, your hands gripping the rail for a hot, sweaty-palmed second. Kyle was the sly one -- no quick bump'n'grinds, no straight shot for your tits, not this boy -- and made for the base of your neck, licking you from stem to stern, a bite on the ear, a breathy "how much can we get away with?" You spun around, grabbed a handful of his hair, slid a knee between his legs, and pulled him into a three-floor kiss: fierce, fast, teeth almost not letting go of his lower lip. His fingers found the curve of your ass and nuzzled in...
...and the doors opened on folks wearing "Fuck You, You Fuckin' Fuck" T-shirts and waving "We're #1" fingers from 5th Ave tourist traps. He left his hand just where it was and eased you out of the local, sidling into the express. Gina, the girl on 80th, just rolled her eyes: five-minute breaks were just long enough for this kind of thing.
The doors shut behind you, and his fingers sank between the curves of your ass...eyes out of focus, you grabbed his other hand, used it to shove aside your panties, and pressed it against your heat, demanding. He smiled, used his leverage to press you against the wall, flicked his fingers against your clit in a quick little swipe, then sank them inside you, rocking the bipoles, teasing you hard and fast until you closed your eyes, blood bum-rushing your face, not sure if your knees were giving out or if it was just the gravity. Somewhere around 30, he took a silk-covered nipple between his teeth, thumb on your clit, your arms around his neck, afraid to let go.
And the doors opened onto 1, no one the wiser, except for the masses wondering why one of the attendants was there to greet them in the elevator and who was that pretty young thing with those naturally rosy cheeks.
I saw the reflection of your binoculars as I rested behind the heavy locked door. I smiled in your direction -- no idea who was watching me, no intention of stopping -- heat collecting on my forehead, my eyes dark.
You speed-dialed. I caught it, a breathy growl spelling out h-e-l-l-o. You asked what I thought I was doing; I said my break's not over yet. The spyglasses on the shelf -- Sharper Image, $329.99, 20x magnificentication -- captured you right back, down to wind-burnished, rosy cheeks and nipples pointing which way the wind blew.
You clucked your tongue, bit your lip and arched your back, saying you had to go. No equal footing? I wondered. Then you told me why, slowly.
And when your $2.00 in quarters ran out, you missed me leaving a sticky trail on a random attorney's air conditioner, my Camper propped up on the window, catching your blush in the Hudson hawk.
There's always tomorrow.
