by Madiera Darling
(04/30/08)

She's thirty-two and single, again. He's eighteen and thinks no one understands him. They bump into one another in the Sephora on Seventh. He's got bleach blonde hair that falls fashionably into his eyes. She's wearing the dark suit she wore to work.

They're both lonely, dissatisfied, and looking for blush, the one blush that they both secretly hope will fix their broken love lives. That mythic blush of course, is Orgasm by Nars.

She looks at him for a moment and he looks at her. Her blue eyes meet his brown and in that moment they both have to look away because they both see too much of themselves reflected.

He's gay; she's straight. They're a match made in hell, but loneliness outweighs everything. It's hell being thirty-two, female, and alone, waking up in the morning alone with your overpriced highlights and Chanel pumps; head throbbing with a hangover. It's hell being eighteen, gay, and trying to get laid, waking up in the morning alone with your overpriced highlights and designer jeans; ass throbbing because last night's guy was in too much of a hurry.

She pushes him up against the end of the Too Faced display. The employees are too busy to give a shit about the two desperate souls defiling their pristine retail environment.

Their kiss tastes of isolation and fear of being left alone, but his hands fist in her hair, and it feels good anyway. Hands betray their owner's urgency with hurried caresses. Their city dweller's cool is forgotten in favor of animalistic need.

This woman entering middle age and this boy entering adulthood grinding against one another like she did fifteen years ago with her boyfriend in her parent's basement, like he did with that guy in his math class last week.

His tongue slides over the corner of her mouth, and she groans. The fit between their bodies is awkward and wrong, but they don't care. His body's too skinny in her arms, and her curves leave him baffled. Somehow that uncomfortable hurried kiss has gotten him hard. She can feel the press of his erection through the fabric of her skirt. What does their utter incompatibility matter? It's just for this moment, just so that they don't have to be alone in Sephora looking for a blush to save the world.

He doesn't remind her of her ex-boyfriend, any of her ex-boyfriends, and that can only be a good thing. He's skinny, and pretty, and wearing more makeup than she is, and somehow despite it not being anything she's ever imagined wanting, it feels goddamn good.

She doesn't remind him of any of the half-faceless string of guys that have made their way in and out of his bedroom since he started having sex, and that can only be a good thing. She smells of Chanel No. 5, her skin is soft, and she's at least two inches shorter than he is, and despite her being the opposite of any fantasy he's had, it feels amazing.

Somehow, he's managed to get her jacket off; he's not got the faintest idea how. There's a moment where he pauses to worry what he'll do about her bra. She ends it though, grinding her suit-skirted hips against his so he can barely keep himself from going weak in the knees, let alone worry over extraneous lingerie.

She slides a hand over his ass, as the other one tries to manage his belt alone. She doesn't care if anyone's staring, but no one is, they're all too busy looking for that magic blush, or eyeliner, or moisturizer that'll fix everything. He helps her with the belt, shoving her skirt up.

Her panties end up in a display of Ferrakai hair product, where later they will be found by a puzzled employee.

"Condom in my purse," she husks.

He shakes his head, digging one out of his pocket.

"Got one in mine too, honey," he says. She laughs quick and harsh.

He's gay, she's straight, and it doesn't fucking matter, because this might be the only way not to be alone.

Then his tight jeans are unzipped, and somehow the jaded people around them, incapable of being shocked, don't seem to notice as she pushes down his jeans and rolls the condom down his erection. They pause, unsure for a moment.

"Want you," he hisses, as her fingers run over him.

She smiles, laying the seven hundred dollar jacket on the floor, and leaning back, legs spread. A customer looks testy having to reroute because of the mismatched couple about to fuck on the floor. "Why couldn't they have done it near the Clarins display?" is the question on the twenty-something woman's face.

But he doesn't notice the annoyed consumer, just notices the woman on the floor legs spread. She looks so vulnerable, her twat a raw gash the color of MAC's Lovelorn lipstick; how appropriate, how horribly, depressingly appropriate. Her body, without its spray on summer glow, looks pale under the lights, pale and inviting, like her open wound sexual organs match the open wound where his sense of self should be.

He's fucked guys before, and he knows the technical mechanics of fucking a woman, but the sight of her makes him somehow nervous, like he's losing some sort of virginity he didn't think he had. His hand shakes just a tiny bit as he touches her, but that might just be arousal. She feels like his overpriced gel sunscreen when he's left it in his beach bag in the hot sun. He finds what he assumes is her clit, because she bucks, and moans under his touch when he touches it.

She hasn't felt a hipbone grind almost painfully her own, the way his does before. She never thought that fucking a skinny, effeminate, prettier than her, younger than her boy would be this good, but it feels amazing, because it means she's not alone, because he feels good.

She cries out; carefully maintained French manicured nails dig into his exquisitely scrawny back. He likes it, the pain of her nails digging into his flesh, the breathy moans she makes, like the breathy moans he makes. They're so wrong together, but for this one moment they are utterly right.

He moans like a woman, as his hips move desperately against her, wanting to be deeper inside her, wanting the connection of where their bodies meet, wanting to be incredibly close to someone just for a moment. That's all they both want, just to be close, just for one moment to be really, really near to another human being, a human being who will never make them feel the need for a cream to fix who they are, what they are.

They hiss terms of endearments they're not sure if they mean at one another, and she arches under him, wanting to feel him through her whole body, to have a sense memory of what it's like so that whenever either of them wakes up with the feeling that no one in the world gives a shit about them, they'll remember each other and know at least one person does. It's like the thrill of new hair product times ten thousand, it's like the thrill of Jimmy Choos times five thousand.

He's so fucked up, she's so fucked up, they're both so fucking fucked up, and it feels so much better for it. They can't be said to love one another, but they need one another desperately.

"Fuck me," she says, and he obliges, and it's good, so good her nails claw at his skinny back, digging into shoulder blades and visible ribs. He drives his hips foreword, ramming into her again and again, a collision looping back on itself time after time. Their not-quite-romance is a train wreck, and no one cares enough to look their way.

It's coming close, spiraling out of control. Her breath comes in rhythmic pants. He curses a lot. She doesn't know his name, or she'd be screaming it right now, as she finally climaxes, comes harder than she ever has for any of her string of men in well-cut suits with gym buff bodies, comes like she's a porn star in one of the movies she never liked watching. It doesn't take him long after that, grunting, and twisting his hips, muttering something like "oh god," as he spills himself into her, semen and secrets, desire and desperation.

He collapses on her, and for a moment she awkwardly wraps her arms around this barely legal gay boy, and he leans his head on her Cosmo woman's shoulder. They pant together for a bit, clutching each other, as if trying to hold on to the feeling of connection in their disconnect.

But, it can't last, and they get up, and pick up their clothes, and head to check out to buy the blush that will fix everything.

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