The Mercy of Strange Men: Erotic Stories (3 page)

When I glance
up again they are kissing, the behind-schedule redhead running her
hands passionately through the blonde's short hair. The blonde
seems to want to devour her, kissing with forceful, unbridled lust,
her tongue occasionally leaving the redhead's mouth to explore up
her face, and on her neck with licks and sucks and – yes – a bite.
I see the redhead move involuntarily as the blonde sinks her teeth
in, her head wrenching back, away, and her body jerking into the
blonde, a hopeful offering. The blonde withdraws, sitting back and
licking her lips. I am convinced, even from this distance, that I
see blood on the redhead's slender neck. Obviously that's what you
get for being late for a meeting with Blondie.

Red strokes the
blonde's face with her fingertips, then with the back of her hand.
They sit staring into each other's eyes for some time, lost in the
way that lovers are capable of losing themselves. I remember with a
pang the way I used to do that with my girlfriend, the gentleness
of such intimate, sensual contact.

I watch as the
redhead unbuttons the blonde's blouse, exposing small breasts and
creamy white skin that glows in the sun. She runs her fingers down
the exposed flesh; the blonde's nipples become hard, straining
towards their tormentor. The redhead leans over to take a nipple in
her mouth, taking in most of the small, pert breast along with it.
The blonde gasps in pleasure – I can see the movement of her pretty
mouth from here. Blondie lies back on the edge of the fountain,
stretching her arms above her head as she luxuriates in the
redhead's attentions. Red, in response, moves to dominate her,
leaning over her (my clit throbs as her full, heavy cleavage
becomes visible – those breasts!), and moving her crotch in a
thrusting motion, playing at fucking her through her clothes. The
blonde loves it, writhing joyously between the soft, curvaceous
body of her companion and the hard, cold concrete of the ledge. The
redhead pauses to unzip the blonde's pants and thrusts her hand
inside. The blonde looks like she doesn't know whether to continue
writhing or lie still, so she alternates between the two.

I find myself
responding to their lovemaking, grinding my pelvis against the
grass, the seam of my jeans wedging itself into the crevice of my
vulva. I wriggle around to increase pressure on my clitoris,
careful to not make too much noise with the expression of my
mounting arousal.

Blondie's moans
become distinctly more audible, and I look around nervously, more
worried than they about discovery. If they're discovered, my
entertainment's gone for the day. If they're discovered, then the
pervy little sleaze in the bushes is likely to be discovered too.
But I'm sure anyone, venturing to discover the source of the
strange noises, would have my reaction. How could they not?

Red removes her
hand from the blonde's pants and shoves her fingers roughly into
the Blondie's mouth to shut her up. The blonde sucks them eagerly,
and I lick my own lips, wondering how her juices would taste.

The redhead
straddles the fountain ledge, which means that one leg gets soaked
up to the knee, but she doesn’t seem too concerned. If I were in
her situation, I wouldn't care either. Her free hand tugs Blondie's
pants further down and embraces her clit once again, and I feel the
echo in my own cunt. Oh god, I shouldn't be doing this. Those girls
are in Utopia; they seem totally unaware of where they are
physically. Surely I'm taking advantage of them by lying here
enjoying the show rather than creating some kind of distraction
that will snap them back to the real world without causing them too
much embarrassment? Does this make me a bad person? I know if a man
were to do what I'm doing now, I'd be the first to bay for his
blood. So am I a hypocrite as well as a pervert?

The guilt goes
straight to my cunt.

A loud,
grunting moan snaps my attention back to the girls. The blonde is
coming, her limbs flailing, her arm splashing in the fountain as
she struggles for control against the sensations that tear through
her body. Red is murmuring to her – I can see her lips move, and I
imagine she's telling the blonde how she's a naughty little slut
for coming so hard and she's going to be punished later. The
thought makes my solo frottage
pay off, and I
come hard against the seam of my jeans, biting my forearm to stop
myself from crying out and alerting the girls to my shameful
voyeurism.
I collapse into the earth and for a long moment
feel totally organic, as much a part of the park as the grass and
trees. Then I realise the girls might be doing something else worth
watching, grin for a nanosecond at my unabashed lasciviousness, and
look up.

They're gone.
Panicked and bereft, I struggle to my knees to scan the small area
of the park visible through the foliage. I think I see a flash of
movement off in front of me and to the left, but I'm not sure. I
shake my head, feel more than a little foolish, and glance down at
my abandoned book. Somehow, I don't feel like reading too much at
the moment. I grab the book, stand up, and start walking home,
purposefully ignoring the curious looks the grass stains on my
jeans attract.

Like a lot of transplanted people, from
anywhere you’d care to name, I am passionate about the fact that
Fitzroy is my home. It’s my chosen home, rather than somewhere I
ended up living as an accident of birth, much as my chosen family
are more part of my life than my blood family.

I’m not the
first person to feel this way about my adopted home. Fitzroy is
where we gravitate because, despite complaints about
gentrification, and Balwyn silver-hairs making their weekly Sunday
pilgrimage to Babka, it is still where we find each other. It is
where we come to make ourselves and see ourselves reflected in the
eyes of others.

I love that the
streets have a tangible hum of music and art. I love that if
there’s room for a tiny stage, or even just a space on the floor,
then bam, you’ve got a live music venue. And of all my favourite
little holes in the wall and ever-changing destinations, the Old
Bar remains constant. I respect it because it does what it sets out
to do: to provide a steady dose of rock to supplement one’s musical
diet. It doesn’t pretend to be anything but a filthy rock pub, and
I love it for that. Plus, it’s tiny and dark and sweaty, which is
perfect for me. Rock ’n’ roll might be my hymnal, but I am not a
mega church girl.

I am
particularly partial to rock boys who own the world, and if I am to
be perfectly honest with myself, that is why I am here tonight at
the Old Bar, ready to watch and listen and hunger. I am not averse
to going to gigs by myself; in fact I prefer it in some ways. I
love to let myself fall fully into the flow and thrust of the
music, losing myself in a world of rhythm and stage lights.

When the second
support act comes on, closest in the set-list hierarchy to the
headliners, that I know I’m going to have a good evening.

The singer is
longhaired, rangy and shirtless by their third song. His lanky
limbs would make him seem awkward in any other context, as would
the way he flails them about like he is not quite used to them, but
here they make him look like the spiritual progeny of those who
have gone before: a flesh homage to Nick Cave and Iggy Pop. He
paces and convulses on the stage, all ribs and cock, howling into
the microphone, artifice that might miss its mark were it not for
his frenetic energy, a one-act psychosexual catharsis.

The other
member who catches my eye is the bass player, who straps his
instrument low on his body, his crotch thrusts to meet it. I
appreciate a musician who wants to fuck their instrument. It makes
me want to let them play me. The sole band member without a
microphone in front of him, his voicelessness makes him look aloof,
beyond the touch of mere mortals, like a chiselled classic statue
behind a barrier at a museum. Here at the Old Bar, there’s no
barrier except for my fellow audience members, and we surge and
fall back in thrall to the music, threatening to spill onto the low
stage ourselves.

After their set
they head off stage – the singer stalks, whether by default or
still in character I can’t quite tell – and are besieged by fans. A
mix of beautiful young things surrounds them at the bar and hail
them with drinks and everyone is talking over everyone else all at
the same time. The queue is four people deep but I angle myself so
that I’m at the outer edge of the throng of adoring fans so I can
eavesdrop.

It is the usual
‘you guys were so awesome!’ circle.

I wait for
attention: of the barman, of the rock boys drenched in sweaty
post-performance euphoria. Their fans slip away, head out to the
beer garden for a smoke, or back to their other friends. The queue
at the bar grows shorter, the natural press and release of it ebbs
me closer to the band. The drummer breaks away, follows a pretty
girl outside, and is closely followed by the guitarist. I feel a
predatory surge.

They turn,
scanning the bar, and I recognise the look of those who are open to
the world and the delights it has in store for them. I smile at
them as they notice me.

'Hey, great
gig.' It's not an original opening line, but it's not a terrible
one either. The singer smiles, head tilting down and away from me.
So his stage persona is an act; I make a mental note. The bass
player offers me a lazy, full-frontal grin.

'Thanks.' They
both offer, the singer quietly, the formerly voiceless bass player
more directly. He's not the unknowable stone carving he appeared to
be.

‘Why haven’t I
seen you guys play here before?’

‘We used to gig
around here a lot,’ he says, ‘but our drummer moved back to
Brisbane so now we’re more sporadic. We gig when he can get down
here. Or when we can get up there.’ The singer nods.

'That's a
shame,' I say. 'You guys are awesome. People should get to hear
you.'

'That's very
kind,' the singer says. He is only a little taller than me –
although I am quite tall myself – and I only have to tilt my head
back slightly to look into his eyes. What I see in there makes me
smirk inwardly. For all his rock posturing, he is doe-eyed in the
way that only a submissive man can be. He wants to please, and he
wants it so much he can nearly taste it. I feel a little throb of
appreciation in my clit. I love making tall boys bow down to me. In
fact, it’s pretty much my favourite thing in the world.

'I'm Sophie,' I
say.

'Do you come
here often, Sophie?' says the bass player.

'What sort of a
line is that?' I ask, teasing, and he smiles.

'A shit one.
And a genuine enquiry.'

'Yeah, I do.
Can’t live without live music. It's why I live here.'

'You live at
the bar?' The singer guffaws at his friend's wit.

I shrug. 'I
try. Sometimes they make me leave.'

'That's a
shame. I'm Cooper.'

'I'm Nathan,'
offers the singer.

'Nice to meet
you both.' Because I have nothing else to lose, because I can smell
sex and its potential coming off them in waves, I say, 'you guys
got anything else on tonight?'

Cooper raises
an eyebrow, a half-smile accompanying it. Nathan looks
startled.

'Nothing
concrete. Is there a party on somewhere?'

'This is
Fitzroy. There's always a party on somewhere.'

'True. But
where is this one?'

Cooper is also
just a little taller than me, and the two of them are like a picket
fence circling me, all points and angles in contrast to my
softness, shadows and secrets. I will have fun with these two.

'My place. You
want to come around for a drink after the gig?'

Nathan does
that tilt down of his chin again, and I stop myself from stepping
over and licking his face there and then. Cooper nods.

'Maybe '

I make a show
of scribbling down my address. ‘I’m just around the corner from
here. You can cut down Fitzroy St.’

Nathan takes
the piece of paper from me and scrutinises it, nodding as he
mentally places the location of my address.

Cooper looks
over his shoulder. ‘There’s no phone number on here.’

‘Fewer means of
communication mean fewer excuses, I always find.’ I smile at him;
his eyebrows raise and the corner of his mouth quirks up ever so
slightly. He is just realising that I am something to be reckoned
with.

The barman
finally makes his way to me, a stroke of good timing because it
means I've got an exit and the upper hand.

'Maybe I'll see
you later.'

They nod, and
Cooper is already a little distant, and I feel a momentary chill of
uncertainty.

The headliners
come on stage, and I turn to watch them, still aware of Nathan and
Cooper in my peripheral vision. They murmur to each other, look
over at me and murmur some more. They get interrupted by friends
and fans every few minutes, but are never distracted for long.

Forty minutes
into the headliners’ set, I can’t stand it any more. Nathan and
Cooper are still over at the bar, the rest of their band is in
front of the stage.

I take the long
way around, circle back through the crowd, then duck under the
archway and double back through the side of the divided room that
the bar is in, where it’s less crowded and where Nathan and Cooper
still prop up the bar. I catch their eyes as I make my way through
the throng and say ‘see you later’, my words engulfed by the music
and the crowd.

Cutting my way
down Fitzroy St, I can barely think about what I've done. I start
to shake, trying to smooth down my hair with fingers that won’t
stop trembling. I get back to my flat, a tiny square corner of a
slipshod block, and lean against the front door as I close it after
me.