by William Borden
(1/24/01)
Alyssa wants to do it in public. I tell her we'll get arrested. She says I don't really love her.
The phone booth is a tight fit. So is Alyssa.
When I close the door, the light comes on. I leave the door open a crack.
Even still, it's really hot and stuffy.
I sit on the little seat, and Alyssa straddles me, but the phone cuts into her breast, so she turns around -- she has to open the door to give herself more room -- and hikes her skirt up, and I unzip and pull myself out, and I pull her panties down, and her butt is cool on my palm, and she sits on my lap, but with all the fuss I've gone limp, so she sits on my lap anyway and pulls on me, but it's all just too confusing and when a guy comes with a quarter in his fingers and stares through the glass door we give up. She stands and smiles at him while I stand behind her and stow myself away and zip up.
Alyssa says to meet her in the park at noon, so I do, even though there are hundreds of people sitting around eating their lunches out of paper bags and hundreds strolling around and some dropping crumbs to the goldfish in the pond, and Alyssa walks up wearing a raincoat, even though it's sunny and no chance of showers, and she backs me up against a tree -- people stroll past on the path a few feet away -- and pulls her raincoat open but only so I can see, she makes a kind of tent, with her raincoat stretching from her to me, so I can look down and see that she's completely naked under her raincoat, so by the time I'm unzipped I'm sturdy as the tree I'm backed up against.
But I have to lower myself a few inches and brace myself against the tree, because I'm a little taller than Alyssa, and she straddles my thighs and grabs the tree trunk -- still holding the edges of the raincoat, of course -- and I feel her settle onto me with a terrific ease of slipperiness, and my arms are inside her raincoat holding onto her naked body.
We don't have to move much, what with her slipperiness and the little movements I make to keep my balance, my back hard against the tree trunk and my legs bent at a not very secure angle, and she has to move a little to keep her balance, and we're both breathing fast and I'm forgetting the park and the people eating lunch and the people strolling past looking at us but trying to look like they're not looking at us -- when the soles of my shoes begin to slip on the grass, and my knees are giving way, and I'm slipping down the trunk of the tree -- "Not yet! Not yet!" Alyssa whispers, frantic, nearly there, but gravity is a force we can't fool with, and the laws of physics, as Isaac Newton told us, are all about leverage and friction -- or the lack thereof -- so then I'm on my back on the grass and Alyssa is kneeling over me, covering me with her raincoat as I try to zip up, while the mounted policeman looks down at us and his horse's hooves stomp dangerously close to my head, and the mounted policeman gives me a look that says he'd better not see me again in that park for a long time.
It's a trendy restaurant and the white linen tablecloths hang low. I don't think low enough, but Alyssa's gotten us a table in a corner where there's not too much traffic, and while her chicken cordon bleu gets cold she slides out of sight, the table rocks a little, and I feel her fingers on my zipper and then her fingers on me and then her lips circling me, and her lips are rising and falling and I'm having no trouble rising to the occasion when the waiter appears out of nowhere to worry if Madame is feeling all right, is she in the ladies' room? and I say she feels fine to me, and he inquires if the entree is all right and I assure him it is as the table rocks a little, the ice clinking in the water glasses and the silverware rattling.
He gets a funny look on his face and I think for a minute he's going to raise the tablecloth and look under it, but he walks away, slowly, looking back once -- just as Alyssa gives an extra little pulse to her suction and I grab the edges of the table and close my eyes, and I feel as if all the troubles in the world have been sucked down from the top of my head and shot out, squeezed away, transformed into bliss, while a charge of electricity surges through my body in waves, from my ears to my toes and back again, several times.
When I open my eyes, Alyssa is seated at her place, primly dabbing her napkin to her lips.
The waiter, a middle-aged man with a perfectly trimmed mustache, clearly a career waiter with a disdain for all but a select few regular customers, takes a long time to come back and ask us if we'd like dessert, which we would.
I'm ready to dig into my Baked Alaska, but Alyssa stretches her arm across the table, stopping the descent of my spoon
"It's your turn, she says sweetly. "Or mine, depending on how you look at it."
I look down at my Baked Alaska, melting around the edges
Her hands slide out of sight, beneath the table cloth. I hear her skirt rustle as she tugs it higher.
It's not as dark under the table as I would have expected. I see other peoples' feet under other tables. I see a waiter's feet walking. I see Alyssa's legs widen before me.
She eases herself forward on her chair. Her garters stretch across her thighs, from her black garter belt to her stockings. Her thighs are moist against my cheeks. I inhale a sweet aroma, sweeter than any on the menu. I squeeze my face between her thighs.
My head knocks the table. I hear a glass fall, silverware jump, plates clatter.
My tongue licks the soft folds of her moist labia. I flick my tongue across the hardening button of her clitoris. I forget where I am. I forget my Baked Alaska.
Alyssa tastes like Baked Alaska. Her clitoris is a nut I nibble.
There's a pounding on the table. Is it Alyssa in the paroxysms of climax? Or the maitre d' in the throes of attack?
Alyssa stifles a scream. Is she coming? Or being attacked?
I don't care anymore. I don't care if I go to jail, if I'm on the front page of the paper. I feel her nut between my lips. I nibble it. I suck on it.
Someone pounds the table, as if they were knocking to get in, as if there were a fire. Utensils, dishes, dance wildly.
Alyssa screams.
After a moment, her legs ease outward, suddenly relaxed. Her hands appear, her fingers fluttering over her bunched-up skirt. I back away, my knees scuffing the carpet, wondering how I'm going to recover my seat inconspicuously.
My hand falls on the waiter's shoe.
Below the table, a spoon appears in Alyssa's hand. I grab it. I back out. I get to my feet.
The waiter is holding my chair for me.
I hand him the spoon.
I look down at my Baked Alaska, a pool of liquid swirled into a melted desire. The waiter follows my gaze, a certain concern in his expression.
"Another dessert, sir?" the waiter asks, suddenly attentive. I look at Alyssa. A small smile, like the Mona Lisa's, forms on her full lips. A strand of hair falls loosely across her forehead.
"One's all I need," I say quietly. "Thanks."
