The Party-Part Three, Kiss

The woman’s lips are soft and scared. She doesn’t know what to do with her hands, and they swing at her sides. Her husband watches, smiling coyly. I tousle her hair, hold her cheek, press the backs of my fingers into her neck. She relaxes and, at the coaxing of her husband, circles me in her arms. Her clothed body feels strange against my skin. I can feel the sequins and baubles of her dress at my ribs and across my breasts. Her kiss becomes more affectionate, parting with a chaste lip-slap before her arms are dropped. “Thank you,” she says, and I’m genuinely flattered. I squeeze her hand before winking and walking on.

I’m wearing heels, expensive little things that are strappy enough to be sexy but not gaudy enough to cheapen. I’m here to bring this party to a white cloud, not coat it in Sodom and Gomorrah paint. They are high, but reasonable. I’m to be seen like a solid businesswoman who has gone to work remembering to wear shoes but nothing else. They’ve even pinned my hair back, put me in a minimum of subtle makeup, taken away the rings and necklace that I arrived in, giving ample time to let their marks disappear. I feel like I should be slamming a fist on a conference table of disobedient men, but I’m passing out affection instead, “keeping the mood light and flowing,” they said. They tested me with a kiss, every one of them, and agreed that I would be fine for the position.

A man watching a couple make love in the center of the room is turned and kissed by me. He’s confused, but after a few embarrassed laughs, lets himself fall into it, his hips at a safe distance from my own.

I look at another man in another turn of the room. He watches me, not predatorily, but with interest. His bow tie isn’t black like everyone else’s, but white, one of the social gaffes of new money. White tie, I was informed by an old boyfriend who would later inherit a large chain of casual restaurants, is only for very special events. When the invitation says black tie, it is black tie only. I glance back at the man to see if he looks uncomfortable. He does not. He just doesn’t give a shit about the color of his tie.

I walk on and see my male counterpart, a man with longish black hair and green eyes who smiles sweetly when he is looked at. He’s just finished a long pull at the lips of a much longer-haired gentleman who didn’t want to stop. He pulled away with a roll of his forehead and a gentle, loving grasp on his chin. He smiles wide at me and I smile back. It’s obvious. His lips are in a constant disappointment, turned down at the sides and pulled up in smug on the top. They part slightly as he turns to me, throws my arm up to his shoulder and bends into me. We’re both grinning, the porn version of the boy and girl kissing at the well figurine. His lips make me pudding inside, steal a little bit of the fibrous nature of my muscles and pour it, sweetened and buttery, between my legs. It’s what I needed.

“Mmmmrrr,” he grunts, and with a wipe at his smile, moves on to a woman who looks like she has a litter of Dalmatians in her purse, ready for dispatch. She pulls him in tight.

I wedge myself between a gay couple with matching haircuts and coax the smaller one with a nibble on the side of his mouth. I feel his nose exhale hard on my upper lip and I turn in. He is a one-man fight to prove to women everywhere that gay men kiss better. He wins. His boyfriend turns me at the hip, bends over and picks me up. I cross heels as he turns my neck with his chin and pitters a few patted sweeps at my jawline. I open my eyes for a moment and see the man in the white tie leaning on the wall. He continues to watch me, now with a drink in his hand. I watch back, though my eyes must close at a couple of bites. He puts me down and sends me away by the back of the arm before embracing his boyfriend. Good karma passed on.

At a third pass, the white tie man pushes off of the wall and takes my arm. He is handsome, I notice, aging gracefully like Paul Newman or Cary Grant. He does not kiss me, but stands with my arm in his. He is about to say something, but changes his mind and swings my arm absently. I’m not allowed to speak unless spoken to. He pull me closer and rubs his cheek with mine. I hear his breath in my ear. He puts his hand in my hair until it pulls and gently pulls hairpin after hairpin out of it. He drops them to the floor. My hair comes down and he buries his face in it. His right hand makes a circle on the small of my back, dropping a little with each loop. I attempt a lock on his lips, but he evades it. His hand circles to my front and touches my abdomen just below my navel. “I wanted to touch you here,” he says, so low I wouldn’t be able to hear him two more inches away. His hand is warm, dry and smooth. He can feel me breathing.

I try again at a kiss, but he doesn’t want it. He backs up so I can see his eyes, brown and clear, bent in a u-shape against each other. His fingers drop below. I’m about to pull away, this not being part of the deal and the clients know it, but I find that I want him to and let him. He finds my clit in no time, circles it and gently pulls. I’m immediately addicted to it. My hands find his sides and clench at his jacket. “You… shouldn’t,” I finally agree with myself to say.

“Really?” he says and presses a little bit harder. My right heel slides out.

He holds me tighter and begins to bite at my ear. My hips fill with a purple joy that descends from that white cloud and I tremble, my hands downright yanking at his jacket.

“This is for you,” he says, and meets my lips at last as I come, all a blurred flutter and losing gravity. He licks the top of my open lips and lets me recover. I fall into his arms. After a few moments, he asks if I’m okay. When I respond that I am, he holds me away from him and walks off. I go in the other direction, recharged.