In
late August there was a protest in the downtown against corporate encroachment
onto Native American land. I went to check it out, thinking perhaps it would
yield something to write about. When I got there, I found that there were as
many white activist types there as there were Native American people. The ones
holding the megaphones all seemed to be white, telling everyone where they
should go and what they should say. The Native American people weren't saying
much. Eventually, a few white women called everyone together in the middle of
the street to form a prayer circle for the mother goddess. A lot of the Native American people were looking on blankly from outside the circle. If there was a
mother goddess, I figured perhaps she'd be a bit puzzled, too.
Needing
a smoke, I ducked off the street and under an awning. There was a young woman
standing there with a cigarette. She'd been moving with the protest, too. She
looked as taken aback as I felt. Tall and rangy as she was, I took her at first
to be perhaps seventeen or eighteen, a frosh student whose growth spurt had
favored her legs. I paid her little mind as I waited to cross streets, though I
fancied her style. She had torn, straight-leg jeans, the bottoms shredded atop
dizzyingly high peep-toe heels of eggshell white. Her hair was a pale auburn,
the same color the leaves would take on in a matter of weeks. Wavy strands, almost feathered, played gently overtop her aviator shades.
“A lot of WASPs out this afternoon, huh?” I observed.
“Yeah,”
she said. “A few of those white women are getting pretty in your face. You
need a light?”
“I
have one,” I said, “but if you're offering.”
She
sparked a Zippo and held it out toward me. I circled my cigarette in the flame.
After I was lit, she pocketed her lighter and drew back, exhaling a plume of
grey smoke. Looking up the street, she removed her aviators, fingers of both
hands pinched on the corners of either frame. Her eyes were light blue—cyanotic
even. She watched with a certain cynicism as the protest inched up the street.
I had misjudged her age. Surely, she was too well-dressed to be a first-year. I
chided myself for the misapprehension, and then her voice displaced my
thoughts.
“Yeah,”
she said. “It kind of makes you wonder if the whole protest does anything. I
mean, the corporate suits probably aren't going to change, but you at least
want to sow some solidarity in the people and maybe some politicians. This
neo-Orientalist shit right here,” she gestured with her cigarette towards the
street, where the mother goddess WASPs were moving the procession out of view, “isn't going to do shit.
I'm seriously considering bailing.”
“I
was thinking of going home,” I said, jerking a thumb back in the vague
direction of my apartment.
“You
want to ditch?”
“Sure.”
“Then
let's ditch,” she said, tossing aside her smoke.
We
went to my place and got in the elevator. When we got into my apartment, I attempted to offer her a
drink. She cancelled the query with her kiss. Her tongue lolled searchingly
inside my mouth, taking her time as her fingers strained through my hair. Drawing back, she
pushed me downward. I reached for the buckle of her belt but she had already
hooked two thumbs into the waistband of her jeans and started to work them
downward.
She
stood akimbo before me, mons pressed out beneath pink panties. I placed my lips
against that smooth, cotton-swaddled convexity, darkening the cloth with the wetness,
first from my purposely sloppy kiss, and then from her. She smelled of apricots.
With a rhythmic canting of her hips, she shimmied the panties down her thighs,
and then the sanctum sanctorum was in view, high and prim with just a tiny wisp
of pubic hair atop. The pubes intersected with a thorny tattoo. I ran my lips
all the way down the tattooed flesh, and then opened my mouth on her labia, kissing
deep. I moved to her clit, envisioning it as a tiny, inert tongue I was making out with. She brayed
with pleasure, and twisted her hands in my hair.
Rolling
my eyes upward, I watched her head circle on her neck, her arms slowly easing
off her button-front shirt. It fell to the floor, and she stood there in only a
light blue bra that brought out her eyes. I accelerated the lapping of my tongue, and then drew in my
breath with her clit secured between my lips, sucking her pussy, instantiating
her climax. She shuddered and held my hoovering face into her cunt.
I
vaulted up, arms twining round her in an embrace, hands joining behind her back
at the clasp of that bra. I fought and fought and then loosed her breasts. Her breasts were pliant in my hand as
I kneaded them. I brought my face to them, sucked each nipple, pressed them
together playfully. She snorted laughter. She drew away, turned her back to me.
In
two steps, remarkably graceful given the fact her calves were shackled in her
pulled-down jeans, she moved to the couch. She laid down there on her stomach,
kicking up her dangerously high heels. Looking back at me, her smile, her
accusing gaze, and her firm, naked ass-halfs ever-so-slightly arched all
beckoned me atop her.
I
plugged myself into her gently as I eased down. I steadied my knees on either
side of her buttocks, palmed their suppleness, and I moved very deliberately,
deeper and then shallow again. She cooed. Soon I had established some pace, my
cock nearly numbed from the pleasure that refuge in her hot vulva offered. She
pressed her buttocks up and into each thrust, and soon began to squeeze her
superbly toned glutes, making the fit that much snugger. I had to withdraw to
prolong. Her pussy had coated my cock with a liquid glint. I thumbed my sopping glans with
reverence.
I
practically ran for her.
In
the space of those two paces in which I cut off the breadth of my apartment,
she managed to swing around and, as I rushed into her, lifted her long left leg
such that it spooled through my right arm. Almost as smoothly, I threaded my
member back into her saturated vulva and started to screw her anew. I amped up my
pace, sending her terrific tits bounding in a stochastic frenzy. It was like
watching a lava lamp, each breast losing and reclaiming its shape perpetually
at a manic pace. And yet, no matter how hard I fucked, her icy gaze would not
leave me. Never did she close her eyes. Even when she came for the second time,
her eyelids stayed stretched out, wide-open, eyeballs rolling back in her head but never closing beyond a
blink.
As
if mired in a jejune staring contest, I decided that she would have to win. I closed my eyes and slammed a definitive thrust into her. Her tailbone thumped against the
edge of desk, and the desk hammered against the wall. Again she brayed as I
shot come into the sultry depths of her vulva, my left arm hiking up her other
leg now to send home the seed. After I'd spent, I kept thrusting, even
once I felt my manhood wilting inside of her.
“That,”
I huffed, “was a lot better than just hanging out there and wallowing in our
white guilt. Might was well sublimate that into something more productive.”
“Speak
for yourself.”
Sweat
traced the lineaments of my puzzlement. “Huh? You weren't feeling it?”
“I
felt it,” she said. “Twice. That's not what I mean.”
“Well,
what do you mean?”
“I
mean I'm Cherokee,” she said. “You know, it's not always easy to tell.”
“Oh,”
I said. “Cool! ”
"Yeah,"
she sighed, shrugging my sagging body off of her. "I'm thinking I better
get back to this protest." She started picked her jeans up off the floor.
"See who's yelling what now."
"You're
sure you don't want to stay for a drink? Some coffee?"
As I asked, she was hurrying back into her clothes as if up against a looming deadline.
As I asked, she was hurrying back into her clothes as if up against a looming deadline.
“I
didn't mean to offend you.”
“Don't
worry,” she said, slipping her shirt back over her bra. "Nothing I
haven't heard before. This wasn't offensive at all. Quite the contrary, really.
But I think I want to get some more smokes and get caught up with the protest.”
I
opened the door and she drifted through. She flashed a thin smile back at me as
she started down the hall toward the elevator. I wanted to ask for her name, for her number, but didn't know how it would look. I took a chance and started to ask, but,
walking backwards now in her heels, she cut me off.
“You
know, to see if we can't get this white majority to slow its roll.”
The
elevator door opened. She stepped in.
“Don't
worry!” I called down the empty hall. “You can! One day you will!”
Her
red fingernails gripped the elevator door, and that fresh mess off auburn hair popped out
again. She had put her aviator shades back on.
“No,”
she said, smiling, shaking her head. “I just meant today, within the group of
protesters itself.”
I stopped, fought for something, anything, to say.
"I didn't even get your name."
Her head disappeared back into the elevator.
"Pocahontas," she said, and then snorted laughter.
I stopped, fought for something, anything, to say.
"I didn't even get your name."
Her head disappeared back into the elevator.
"Pocahontas," she said, and then snorted laughter.
The
elevator dinged closed. And then she was gone.