The heat that became of she and I was the offspring of the marriage of a pub crawl and a bachelorette intersecting at a Chalton Street tavern on an unseasonably cold night in early April. I'd quaffed a second consecutive Guinness stout, my seventh or eighth of the evening all-told as this was the final crawl-stop, and finally I was feeling it, I mean that mirth run amok that marks an official drunk. Leering, I slammed down my stein a little too hard on the bar, earning giggles from surrounding pubcrawlers and a look of reproach from the bluff, bearded bartender, and a sidelong glance from a pretty girl in a leopard-print dress who was waiting for her drink order. She shivered, and with good cause, as her dress was quite scant and the periphery of the bar bore a gelid draft from outside. The barkeep was too cheap, apparently, to throw on the heat. Sorry, I was suddenly saying, that I had to put you through that. She glared down at me, impossibly, even though I was taller than her, and it struck me as right and good that I should be apologizing to her, but not for anything other than the fact that she was not just pretty but ravishing, and that I shouldn't have even been talking to her. That's a paradox. She was of a different class, for certain, in beauty and comportment and wealth and every other sense imaginable, and perhaps even a different species or genera, and as I was thinking this my mouth was running some other program, and I heard myself say Let me make it up to you. Let me pay for that drink. As soon as I'd uttered this, I wanted to collapse facedown on the bar, but instead of plummeting forward, I was knocked back by her response. First: a smile, and then, a sure. When I regained my footing, feet shoulder-width apart, straddling the barstool anew, I foraged in my pocket and produced ten pounds sterling, throwing it down on the bar. Keep the change. The bearded barkeep took it as if he'd been owed it, hardened gaze unwavering. Thanks, he and she said at the same time. He slid her a drink that might have been a Cosmo and moved away down his side of the bar, but she didn't leave. In her Laboutins (I'm sure that's what they were) she made a sidestep toward me, closing a cool pocket of air between us, clatter of her heels audible over the cludding bar music and the hollering, tucking her arms close-in on her torso and catching the plastic straw between her lips, going momentarily wide-eyed as she sipped. There was an exchange of names, a mumbling of something like “Ilona” from her side. We stepped away from the bar on account of the scowling people clustering up there. She made it halfway through her drink when the song changed into something recognizable and she took my arm at the elbow. She led me through the clustered drunks and when we reached the inner periphery of the dancefloor and the helical tangle of limbs, she made room, got in close on my torso, arms over her head. She had lovely arms, very slender and cool, and immaculate armpits, too, which I say not in a fetishistic way, for I'd never considered this an erogenous zone before or since. The dancefloor had a miasma of perspiration hovering about it and a smell of sickly, hop-infused B.O., but Ilona conveyed the smell of rainwater, fresh and dewy and lush. Perhaps it was her antiperspirant. On her armpits, I did not fixate, but moved my hands to her lovely pale shoulders, their graceful pistoning, and the easy, duck-billed smile that pressed further and further out on her lips while her eyelids fluttered. She'd move out as human traffic traffic allowed and then move in closer. Fleetingly, she straddled my thigh. I counted it as an accident, until she did it again. From between her legs she projected heat, and each time she straddled my jeaned thigh, it was like being momentarily stamped with a clothing iron. Looking away, trying to stave a stiffy, I shot glances at my thigh, expecting my ill-fitting, well-worn jeans to no longer be rumpled. She touched my face, her fingertips chilled from her drink, modulating the beat of the music into my flesh. Or it could have been her heartbeat. My face thrummed; she was pure thrum. She thrummed through my skin, drawing my eyes to hers. The song changed. She said something that, up against the music, was almost totally lost, and sounded like Look at my body but couldn't have been. I made my gaze retreat, pretending to look at her body, but instead focusing on her dress, trying to fight the full-on hardon. That shade of orange wasn't tigerish or leopard-like, really, but rather neon, artifice, a jungle color intensified beyond the feline and beyond the wilds. I imagined each of the spots as islands, and I was swimming in oceans of melted Orangesicle, praying to wash up on their shores. The Orangesicle ocean was boiling, and I sought its warmth. I reached out to pull her close. The song changed. "Poker Face." Me: I fucking hate this song. She: I fucking hate all these songs. Me: Fuck. She: Do you want to? Me: Excuse me? And then the lights came up and the song faded and the young sinewy drunks let out a collective whoosh and the DJ was announcing last call. Then let's get a cab, Ilona said.
I believe we started kissing in the cab. The cabbie had the AC on for some reason. I went to her for warmth, I reckon, and it was as good a move as any. Our hands writhed together atop her purse and then our fingers interlocked. The cab ride was quick and cost too much. We tossed cash between the front seats. I'd sobered up, or at least my whirling libido had supplanted my drunk, as if my blood had been purified as it had been redirected. Thank god my pants were ill-fitting. I tried to straighten them, to hide my hardon. Don't worry, she said, I don't care. Her tongue was down my throat as we staggered down the lane to her brownstone, clanging down the stairs to her basement suite. The lights came on and the place seemed like a saloon, done up in a western motif that had to be ironic. She threw her bag away and it skittered off somewhere. The walls were all lacquered wood, so too was the countertop. So too was the bathroom. I took an eight-minute piss. When I stumbled back into the kitchen, I found Ilona leaning against the bar. She'd left on her Laboutins and did a volte-face on a heel. She braced the heels of her hands against the counter's edge and pressed her jaguar-skirted butt out. Okay, so we're doing this here, or—She answered by skimming her panties down to her knees. I pulled closer involuntarily. The beam of heat from between her legs felt hotter. It was nothing less than a tractor beam, a sweltering cone that pulled forth my cock. I wanted it hotter yet, and I took off my pants and my shorts and my button-front shirt. She looked ahead, pressed her ass out, skirt riding up to show the shadowy tranche between her legs. My erection found its way into the darkness, hands free. With the tip, it traced by itself the sultry slit as if pressing little kisses, unsealing her. Her cunt and my cock met as if through mutual friends. She nodded as I entered her, wrought iron hardon delving into the kiln furnace. Hers was not a dry heat. She moved back and down and up again, enwrapping me in her scorching quarters, coating my shaft in slippery, blistering spume. I gripped her leopard-print hips, keeping the downward path of the ovenlike cunt true and unwavering. She bucked forth and up off my cock, gasping. Not wanting to be denied a second, I gripped her skirt, clenched my fist, and guided my cock up into the narrow cone of intensive heat and fed it into the shadow enfolded between her thighs. There was a jaguar lurking in the dark, waiting to accept me in its hungry mouth. I gave a thrust and then another, measuring the heat of that range of her middle passage. I buried myself deeply, my cock disappearing to the base of the leopard print. I pulled up mounds in that skirt, which kept slipping off the supple flesh beneath. I couldn't keep a grip on the mounds of her buttocks. My hands slipped off the fabric. She was not especially tight, but the heat was so pervasive it swallowed my shaft and balls. My cock was sent funneled into prickly, whiskered heat. I gave short thrusts, determined to stay socketed in that blazing vadge cloaked in shadow, covered in leopard print. In a slow drain, her pussy's ardent lips drooled a fluid fever down my cock. The hellcat salivated. Her accumulated seepings lubricated me, and I cored her shadowy sex with rapidity, redoubling my thrusts. I was firmly swaddled in the puma's den. She opened and closed her beautiful mouth. I reached forward, tracing her lips with my fingertips. She gave way to growls as each stroke further stirred her overcooked hot-pocket. She bit my fingers. I pulled her hair, wanting to leash her, wanting to be tethered to her, I pulled and went as deep as I could. She shuddered and a torrent washed over my cock. She caught her breath once, twice, thrice, then screeched, fully extending her torso to the other side of the bar. I caught a glimpse of my cock buried in fat, squashed labia that sparked with golden brown stubble. Those lips were framed in lovely glutes. But then she reared back and the dress slipped down and my cock slipped out, deep, wet red and headed by a purple lozenge. I had sobered and saw everything in remarkable clarity, but I was unsteady on my feet, moored only by my cock inset. I had to stick it back in. I set my feet more than shoulder length apart and burst upward into her cunt-oven anew. She circled her blistering hind, powered by that cylindrical core. I could touch her only with my member, and I kept prodding at that span of shadow, moving my cock in and out of the tenebrous torridity of those Stygian tropics. I accelerated, shoving deeper in that stretch of hot shadow, that sector of swelter. I was lacquered in sweat, shimmering like the walls. My balls galloped against the backs of her salubrious thighs. I hit the upper realms of her cunt where the heat crested. I'd gone all the way into this scorching interval where all metaphor collapsed. I realized hers was not a pussy or a cunt or a cooter. It was a heater. I...I need to come, I gasped. Come! Me: I need to come inside you. I'd never been more certain. That way, she'd be forever burnt on my cock, I could coat her with my heat and brand myself with her and solder myself to her, melding into her upper-cunt by way of our hot emissions. Do it! I abandoned my self-staving, slammed my cock into her at full lunge, my pelvis cushioned by her lovely, leopard-print butt, and like a flamethrower I shot an arrow of liquid fire into her core, into the puma's den. I collapsed forward and gnawed on her bare shoulder. I squeezed her tiny tits, but she pulled my hands away. I tried to kiss her, but she turned to receive my lips on the side of her mouth. Pulling down her skirt, she slipped out from in front of me, or tried to, but I was still coming, still socketed inside her. I was pulled into the squelching vortex of her come-filled cunt, toward a spiralling, concentric point, like unto the burners on her kitchen stove, so hot it was neon orange, and I was certain I would wake up in this Orangesicle range and be there forever, for she was pure heat, and now I was disintegrating and becoming pure heat, too, becoming one with her wet velvet element, molecule by molecule, unsober, dizzy, drunk again, fathoming full deliverance, riding the leopard's sultry breath forevermore.
