Fate’s Embrace

Joe slid through the crowd on the street, not in a hurry, just enjoying it, like it was some kind of game, call it Body Avoidance, a challenge of finding the gaps just large enough to pass through untouched while the bodies continued moving in somewhat predictable ways, though the unpredictable could always happen, adding to the challenge and the fun, that quick burst bypassing the unexpected shift. He loved this game ever since moving to New York, at first when he worked at a copy place in Grand Central Station (nearby where he happened to be sliding through at the moment), especially busy streets around there, especially at rush hours and lunch, and further challenged when he carried heavy packages of copies destined for publishing houses, often pocketing the cab money given to him to walk even farther through more busy streets carrying those burdens. And then when he became busboy and then waiter at the restaurant at Max’s Kansas City, a punk club with the music upstairs and the restaurant where he worked downstairs, sliding through crowds of kids his age on weekend nights. It felt like a kind of dance, especially at the club, even with his own special tempo.

This time though, for the first time ever as far as he could recall, he collided with someone who seemed to appear out of nowhere, his height of six and a half feet always helping his vision and his traversing perhaps missing her much smaller frame, at least a foot shorter, probably closer to a foot and a half, but more it seemed like she stepped into the narrow passage he’d found as if on purpose, finding the perfect moment for collision. But of course that would have been impossible, her knowing when to get in his way, when he’d happen to be sliding through at that very moment, unless fate could be considered purposeful.

“Asshole,” the young woman growled from the concrete in which his impact sent her, landing on her ass and a hand that prevented something worse like concussion and scraping it for the trouble. With him stopped standing over her, the crowd flowed around the sudden impediment like cattle somehow avoiding stampeding, though less animal and more human since the flow went both ways.

He looked down at a blonde waif, skinny and frail, her t shirt and jeans too big for her and looking well past new, the t shirt white with a band logo he was unfamiliar with showing every stain, and there were many, the jeans showing a small right kneecap where the cloth had frayed. The navy peacoat, too warm for the balmy, almost summerlike weather unusual this early in the year, splayed open.

“I’m so sorry,” Joe exclaimed, and when his stretched out hand was avoided by her, he insisted, “Let me help you up.” She finally allowed his large hand to take hold of her small slim one aiding her to standing. “I didn’t see you,” he added.

“Obviously,” she smirked, adjusting her stuffed and scuffed red backpack on her shoulders.

“Hungry?” he asked.

“I could eat,” she half smiled.

He guided her across the street and to the end of the block where one of the last of the Horn and Hardarts automats existed and put coins into the slots for her tuna sandwich and chips and for his egg salad. He bought her a Coke and he got coffee. She used the toilet there to clean her scrape amongst other things since she took a while, which worried him, thinking she might have run off, but of course she didn’t, having food waiting for her.

“I’m Joe,” he told her.

“Jenny,” she replied before filling her mouth with a bite of sandwich.

They said nothing for a while since she devoured her food, obviously needing it.

“Anything else?” he asked.

“Maybe a pie? The lemon meringue looked tempting.”

“Okay if we share?” he asked.

“That’s fine.”

“Uhm, are you going to stay?” He looked at her, saw her eyes pooling and she sniffled. “Please?”

Her smile nearly broke his heart when she replied, “Nowhere better to be.”

“Good. After we eat, let’s get that scrape taken care of.”

“Okay.”

They stayed, talking over the small empty plate.

“Where are you from?” he asked.

“The Twin Cities. Minneapolis.”

“No shit! Me too!”

“No shit!”

“No shit. Where?”

“Robbinsdale.”

“Golden Valley.”

“No shit?”

“No shit.”

The two suburbs were neighbors, Robbinsdale more middle class than Golden Valley, which tended to be more upper middle class, a lot of professionals, doctors, lawyers and professors, his dad being of the latter type.

Fate.

“You work around here?” she asked, since Joe had dressed up in a jacket and tie, the tie loose around his neck.

“I used to,” he told her. “I’m actually applying for jobs presently.”

“Presently,” she giggled.

“Sorry. I tend to talk like I have a stick up my butt.”

“No, it’s cute.”

“Glad you think so,” he chuckled.

“How’s the job search going?” she asked.

“Not great unfortunately. My uncle’s an executive at the William Morris Agency, and I hoped that might help, but I guess he’s against nepotism. It’s possible I’ll get a job in their mail room. I applied at other offices, but I’m making a career change, or hoping to, and have got little experience.”

“From what?” she asked.

“I used to be a waiter at Max’s Kansas City.”

“No shit!”

“No shit.”

“Why not stay there?”

“I needed a change,” he murmured, unconsciously stroking his arm.

Jenny sensing Joe’s discomfort regarding the subject wisely ended that line of inquiry. “What’s the William Morris Agency?” she asked instead.

“It’s one of the largest talent agencies in America,” he told her.

“Cool.”

“Yeah. It’s had its perks. Getting turned on to Bowie early because my uncle wrote the contract that signed him. Meeting cool stars at a party at his house upstate. Going to openings like the movie Hair and Apocalypse Now, the last a brand new print and sitting close.”

“Is that cool?” she asked.

“Pretty cool,” he chuckled.

When they left the automat, he told her, “Let’s get you some anti-bacteria for your scrape and Band-Aids. I know a drugstore nearby.”

“You don’t have anything at home?” she asked, surprising him.

“Uhm…you sure?”

“I’m sure,” she smiled, and he could see those pretty blue eyes pool again.

“I can get something on the way,” he decided.

“Great!”

Since the drugstore was close by, he went there anyway, and while getting the first aid stuff, she waited for him near the counter. “Need any of these?” she blushed, pointing to the rack of condoms.

His cock stiffened in his pants while he grabbed a sixpack of lubricated Trojans. She stayed his hand and grabbed a twelve pack instead. “Holy shit,” he thought.

Both were blushing while he made the purchase.

They walked over to Grand Central and took the subway south to Fourteenth Street close to where he lived. They entered a door between a couple non-descript store fronts and climbed the stairs three floors, Joe unlocking a door on the left at the top. Fortunately none of his roommates were around in the shared area, probably sleeping since they tended to keep vampire hours, and Joe guided Jenny down a hallway, taking a sharp right and, pushing aside a beaded curtain, gestured her through. He had by far the largest bedroom in the three bedroom apartment, a couple large windows unfortunately facing the wall of another building. Unfortunate not for the view, but for the easy access from the roof to the room, the probable path taken when someone broke in and stole his record collection and his typewriter not long before. Or they could have just walked in, because he knew the probable culprit, since he’d seen the junkie just off St. Marks selling his records, a regular at Max’s.

“Sorry for the mess,” he apologized, and Joe was a definite slob.

“No problem,” she responded. “Beggars can’t be choosers.”

“Jenny?”

“Mind if I take a shower?” she sniffled.

“Not at all. Just a second.” He knelt in front of a small cabinet and grabbed a towel for her. “The red door on the right,” he told her.

For some reason they’d painted the bathroom a deep red, including the door, the rest of the apartment with white walls.

He cleaned up his place while she showered, neatening the books and papers on the coffee table, the table on which he used to type before losing his typewriter, and tossing clothes into a gunny sack he used to tote down to go to the nearest laundromat a block or so away.

She returned carrying her clothes and her bag, wearing the towel with it tucked between her cleavage, more of it than he expected, and when she unceremoniously dropped the towel, she sported perky b cup breasts, all the more substantial looking on her petite frame. She was skinny but fortunately not completely starved, no bones jutting out, her belly youthfully firm with just a hint of convexity, and her full bush, being blonde, seemed less substantial than if it were dark. Her waist curved subtly, neither what some would call child bearing hips, but not boyish either. This was definitely a woman.

“Like what you see?” she smiled, turning, and showing him a perfect firm round ass. He also noticed muscled thighs and her arms even had some definition.

“Wow,” he said. “You’re definitely in shape.”

“Dreams of being a prima ballerina,” she sniffled.

He sat on the bed and patted his lap. “Come here.”

“You have way too many clothes on,” she sniffled and giggled.

“Come here, Jenny,” he said more forcefully.

She sat on his lap sideways. He reluctantly kept his hands off her.

“Tell me,” he said.

“You don’t want to fuck me?”

“Of course I do. Tell me.”

She sobbed. Only then did he embrace her across her middle, her face ending up against his chest. He could feel the tears wet his shirt. “Tell me,” he repeated.

“I…had to,” she choked out.

“Had to?”

“Your shirt,” she murmured, pulling her head away.

“It’s okay,” he insisted, gently pulling her head back.

“I auditioned over the years to get into ballet school here, but no takers,” she managed to say. “I wanted to be a ballerina but I guess I’m not good enough.”

“Best to know I guess,” Joe tried.

“It’s not that. Oh, okay that kind of sucked, but mostly I wanted to get away.”

“From?”

“Everything!”

“Including?”

“My mother’s cruel disappointment. She’d been a ballerina until she had me. My boyfriend turning out to be gay. Another boy practically raping me instead making sure I was ready. My father…”

“Did he…?”

“No, but he was working up to it. Probably looked at me like I was my mom when I was her age or younger I guess. He’d be affectionate, too affectionate as it turned out. He touched me where he shouldn’t, not directly but close, you know. I guess I didn’t believe it, but it turned out he was actually being shy, and eventually brought my hand to his crotch which got me off him immediately. The last straw…I woke up with him in my bed. I screamed and punched like in his diaphragm which took his wind. Maybe I should have punched lower, but I wanted to be nowhere near that, and when I raced out the room, my mother plods over and my dad says some bullshit about me seducing him, and since it was all about jealousy, him being more affectionate to me, and disappointment, she fucking believed him.

“I’m of course freaking out, everything…and then this…but I managed to take some breaths, calming down, and told my mom if she wanted rid of me I needed money. They only had a couple hundred around but my mom takes me to her bank, gets me another five hundred, drives me to the bus station, buys me a ticket to New York, my demand, with her credit card. She actually offered one to me, but I told her she’d probably close it and have me arrested or something, and the bitch shrugged. And I’m like, ‘You’re a fucking cunt.’ And she’s saying I’m a useless slut.”

“Sorry,” Joe apologized.

“I’m the sorry one,” Jenny actually chuckled.

“But…it doesn’t sound like sex…”

Jenny shifted around so that she faced him, straddling his lap. “I got hit on by fucking pimps, Joe, as soon as I got off the fucking bus at Penn station. I’m not as naïve as I look.”

“But you don’t know me.”

“Like you’re a psycho? You don’t seem the type and in a way I don’t fucking care. A rapist probably wouldn’t have brought me home. The hotel I stayed at this creepy guy kept staring at me in the lobby and ended up following me to my fucking floor, so I like got out quick out of there, practically running. And I didn’t even dare shower there since the shower room was fucking shared and fucking groady. I was actually headed to Grand Central when we collided, thinking I’d try taking a train down to twenty-third, staying at the Chelsea or something, just to do something cool while I was here and still alive. So Joe, I guess you’re the best choice I’ve had so far.” She kissed him, pulling off the jacket he still wore and unbuttoning his shirt.

He broke the kiss when he tossed aside the tie, then lifted her and set her on her back on the bed. He finished the unbuttoning and tossed aside his shirt.

“Nice,” she smiled, stroking his chest. Joe didn’t work out, but being young, just twenty-one, and working hard at his job as a waiter, kept him slim and slimly muscled.

He kept his pants on when he made love to her lying beside her on his side. Kisses continued for a while, both enjoying it especially when tongues were involved, her breath tasting of toothpaste and his presumably not offensive, while his hand began exploring the rest of her. The hand took the weight of her breasts, teasingly moving on before a direct attack on her small nipples to linger on her taut belly and moving teasing across her pudendum, through her soft patch of blond hair, before feeling the smoothness of her thighs and the firmness of muscles, and then under her, lifting her slightly by her firm ass, followed by sliding along her back, across her shoulder and returning to her breasts, fingers moving in on her nipples, caressing and tugging gently at each one, making her gasp into his mouth.

Only then did he end the kiss, bringing his mouth to the exploration, finding thrills for her at her ear and neck before moving to her breasts and nipples. Once each one had been appreciated for a while, the second sending his hand down slowly, eventually fingers discovering the dampness of her labia, rimming the edges, his mouth followed the same trail as his hand, and when it reached where she wanted it, he shifted his body between her widened legs and his tongue lapped across her clit, the first touch of it, and she lifted her middle and moaned.

Both fingers and mouth remained there, working her gradually to her first climax via a man, especially intense when he stroked her g spot, his other hand tugging at her nipples, measuring the squeeze and building on it since she seemed to handle ever more pressure there.

“Joe,” she murmured once she recovered, and smiled when he got up and got naked for her. “Oh my,” she commented at his length, on the thicker side, and definitely longer than the two she’d seen by at least a couple inches.

“I’ll be gentle,” he promised, opening a condom and rolling it on and moving between her thighs. He brought her hand to his cock to guide him, and she brought it where she wanted it and he slowly pushed in.

“Oh fuck!” she moaned.

“Too much?” he asked reluctantly.

“Don’t you fucking stop!” she declared.

He pushed into one of the tightest sheathes he’d ever felt and realized he wouldn’t last and told her.

“Just fuck me,” she insisted, her legs wrapping his thighs as emphasis.

Going slow probably helped delay the inevitable, seeming to open her up with each deeper stroke. In the end, he nudged at her cervix, thankfully with his cock completely inside her. He’d known girls her size, even taller, where he had to be careful about the impact there, usually no more than an inch to spare, but enough to cause pain. Not this time. Touching it made her growl, but in a good way.

He decided to exploit that, grinding into her, pubic bone against pubic bone which affected her clit too, and just pulling out a couple inches before thrusting in. She seemed fine with that, even enjoying it, so he kept it up while his hands drew in to work fingers and thumbs on her nipples.

She began meeting his thrusts with lifts, and her hands grabbed his ass cheeks, and she began pulling on his flesh there, wanting longer strokes it seemed, but he waited until she grabbed hard, closing on being painful, her nails thankfully short, he’d learn later she tended to nibble on them when nervous, and he’d actually seen a little of that in the automat, and she pressed against him one more time before announcing her climax with, “Oh my fucking God!” rather loudly at a high growl. And when she loosened her grip, only then did he abandon himself to fully fucking her, long, ever faster strokes for only seconds before he pressed deep, pushing against her cervix, and cumming.

“Joe,” she murmured, her hands pushing his chest.

“Sorry,” he responded, hugging her to him and turning them over. He’d reached the last of his ejaculations, every one intense, and reached down to hold the condom to his penis while shifting her higher with his legs.

“Mmm,” she responded when it slid out. She shivered a little too as if feeling a last echo of her orgasm.

“It’ll be better next time,” he promised.

She chuckled weakly.

“What?” he asked.

She shifted forward. Since both of their bodies had fairly equal proportions of legs to torsos, she had to scoot up a bit, her legs straddling his abdomen, her damp pussy pressing into it, for her to look eye to eye with him. Her hands pressed his shoulders to put her face above his.

“That was several magnitudes better than the last and only fuck I’ve had,” she explained.

“I thought it was making love,” he argued.

“Don’t be pedantic, Joe,” she smirked, surprising him.

“Pedantic?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Of course, but…”

“I’m smarter than I look.”

“I don’t believe in the dumb blonde myth.”

“I’ve met several, and not all blondes.”

“School?”

“And fellow dancers, although most were dedicated enough to be smart too I suppose. Learning to put the time in to do the best you can both in dancing and studying.”

“Makes sense. So school…?”

“I would have graduated this spring if I hadn’t had to run away.”

“GED?” he asked.

“Probably. I don’t imagine going to school for one quarter. You?”

“School?”

“Yeah.”

“I went to Bard in upstate New York for a couple years, but quit because it was ridiculous having parents spend that much money for me to study to be a poet.”

“You’re a poet?”

“Not much recently. I thought New York would be inspiring, but mostly it’s been distracting. I’m also interested in filmmaking, like the experimental kind, so no more lucrative. I still have a Bolex sixteen millimeter camera which fortunately the thieves never found.”

“Thieves?”

“The problem with living amongst junkies. Let me show you something.”

He lifted his left arm and she caressed a line of marks near his inner elbow area.

“Are those…?”

“Tracks. Only one is fairly fresh. It’s why I quit Max’s: too much temptation. Living here too, but right now I can’t afford to move. A friend of mine OD’d and died, and another almost did and I ended up keeping him alive. It was the last straw, and I realized that’d be me, or it’d just be a spiral of inertia, all about the next fix and nothing else, so I quit. Luckily I wasn’t too strung out and basically hung with my folks for a week when my dad had his sabbatical in DC this past winter. I drank a bit there, but my parents seemed none the wiser. Anyway, when I came back to work planning to keep my tips instead of spending them all, I did okay until I didn’t one day, succumbing to temptation, and quit after that.”

“When was that?”

“A week ago. I’ve been job hunting ever since.”