Yes

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Babes

Words failed him.He maintained his cool while he stood in the cramped efficiency of his supervisor’s office, and in his supervisor’s supervisor’s office as well. He even kept it together while cleaning out his desk, as his coworkers stopped in one by one to say good-bye. His cubicle neighbor Neil came over and gave him a three-slaps-on-the-back man-hug and promised they’d catch a baseball game soon. Hot Jackie from accounting came by and gave him a long tight hug, behaving a little more flirtatiously than usual, though he didn’t know if the reason was pity or desire. A few invitations were extended to go out and get drunk, let’s catch a ballgame, let’s stay in touch, hang in there, yada yada yada, and suddenly he was blinking in the harsh early afternoon sun with a cardboard box full of office supplies in his arms. Just like fired people do on TV shows. Nothing to do, nowhere to go but back to his apartment.He was tempted to go to a bar, have a few I-just-lost-my-job shots of bourbon, a couple beer backs, try to get laid, but bars are such sad places in early afternoon. Sun streaming through the windows, painting the air in shadows and beams of bright light. Old men drinking beer and watching soap operas. Middle-aged functioning-alcoholic businessmen sneaking out for a quick belt before going back to the office.He couldn’t go back home. He’d just lie on the couch and watch TV, probably end up getting bored and jerking off to relieve the tension and ennui, and how fucking sad is that? To be alone, jerking off on a couch in the middle of the afternoon after just having lost your job?Fuck that.He decided to go see a movie. It didn’t matter which one. He wanted a place where it was dark and anonymous and familiar. Where he could hide for an hour and a half, forget himself in the comfort of a fiction before walking out into the leaning shadows of dusk at the end of a long stupid day and try to figure out what he was going to do next with his life.He hadn’t even known the name of the movie. Hector’s Search for Happiness, something like that. The title of the movie didn’t much matter. He was alone, it was mid-afternoon, he had just lost his job.She stood in front of him in the line for the concession stand. The line was long, and moved slowly. As he waited and grew bored he took in more and more of her. She seemed cute, from behind. That curve of ass hidden behind a temptingly short skirt. The lively flare of her hips, the tight bend of her waist. The most alluring detail was her large mass of brown hair, curly and wild, disheveled and inexplicably charismatic, as if the wildness of her hair mirrored something equally wild within her, something unknown and unnamed.She wore glasses. He ankara travesti loved girls in glasses.He kept trying to catch a glimpse of her face. Occasionally she would turn her head to look at some random noise, some peripheral movement, and he strained at her profile to get a sense of her eyes. All he saw was the glare of light in the lenses of her glasses, hiding them. He caught a glimpse of her lips, a hint of her cheek, the tender slope of her neck.She looked cute. She might be cute. He took a chance.“No popcorn?” he asked.She turned to look at him. “I’m sorry? I didn’t hear you.”The word cute was wholly inadequate. Almond eyes shone back at his own, deep seawater green eyes unmuted by her large black glasses. Their exact color did not remain constant but continually shifted, as if each passing thought brought some subtle new tint to it. Her lips were full, red, slightly open; he suddenly wanted to kiss her.“You don’t buy popcorn?”“No. Not today.” He heard her accent then. That trill in the “d.” What was it? Latino? Spanish? Mexican? He didn’t know much about languages.“Why do you ask me?” She regarded him coolly.He figured he had to get the next few words just right. Take a chance. He said, “You know. If you’re on a date. You buy a bag and share it with the person you are with.”“Popcorn is romantic?” This time it was the lilt of the “r” as she said “romantic.” Something deep within him stirred.He said, “No. Sharing a box of popcorn is romantic. It’s the sharing that does it. Don’t you think? Like, you know, passing the box back and forth. Or setting it between your chairs. Accidently touching hands as you reach down into the box.”She said, “Yes,” in that same lovely inflection. He felt a thrill. She was listening. He had a shot.“Plus it tells you a lot about a person. How they eat it. Are they the kind of person who eats it delicately, a kernel or two at a time, savoring the taste? Or the kind of person who takes big handfuls of it, just chowing down, you know, wanting everything right now.”“And which kind are you?” she asked, her eyes changing color again as she shifted her gaze.“I like both kinds,” he said, and her face lit up. “Sometimes I taste everything slowly, enjoying all the little details. But sometimes I want it all right now, I’m just so hungry for it.” He wondered if he was being ham-handed in his innuendo.“Yes,” she trilled.God, he loved her accent. Like a voice from a dream. The “y” sounding more like an “h,” a sexy sigh coming from farther back in her throat like wind rustling in trees, the slightly elongated “e” in the center of the word that she seemed to caress with her tongue as she said it, the “s” a gentle serpentine wonder, a hiss that she held ankara travestileri onto just a millisecond longer than she needed to. He realized what it was about an accent that was so sexy. It took familiar words and gave them new meanings.“Me as well,” she said. She met his gaze candidly and unafraid. She smiled. “Accidently touching hands while you are both grabbing for more sounds nice as well.”“It’s romantic.”“Yes,” she said again, her mouth savoring the end of the word, drawing it out. He loved to hear her say yes. He hoped to hear her say it again. Many times.She continued, “That is a nice moment, the touching of the hands. Unfortunately I do not have a date for tonight. I am here by myself.” A brief glance down. She was taking a chance now, as he was.“I’m available,” he said.“Available for what?” she asked. An awkward silence opened between them, a silence that mercifully bloomed into laughter.He stepped up to the counter and ordered popcorn, no butter.“I hate that butter stuff,” he said to her.She grew excited. “I know! It’s not even butter! Look at the dispenser. ‘Golden Flavored.’ They aren’t even allowed to call it butter. Golden flavor. What does that even mean?” As she talked her eyes sought him out, as he sought hers. The melodic hum of the “r” and the “l.” It made him dizzy.“It’s not butter,” he said. “It’s oil. Butter flavored oil. It’s disgusting. And it gets all over your hands. They get all greasy.”“It is gross,” she agreed. “That thing you were talking about? The accidental touching of the hands? It would be so awful if the hand you touched had oil all over it. It would ruin the experience.”Her voice exhilarated him. He wanted her. The thrill of something foreign appearing in a place where all else was predictable. The recklessness of language. The pull of the unknown.He bowed slightly. “Will you allow me to be your date tonight?”She smiled a secret smile and said, “Yes.” It was the third time she had said it, maybe the fourth; he was having a difficult time keeping track. He was obsessed with the word, the way she spoke it. Yes. Yes. Yes. So fucking sexy. He was tempted to ask her name but then realized he’d rather not even know it. No names.They walked into the theater together, took their seats toward the center, where most of the other people were sitting. A few couples were farther out on the fringes of the crowd, on the sides, at the back.The lights dimmed. Before the first preview was over they had touched hands in the popcorn, as he knew they would. She took her fingertip and traced a line up his fingers, across his hand. She made direct eye contact with him, and he returned the gaze. His cock began to tingle.Take a chance, he told himself. travesti ankara You will regret it if you don’t.He put his hand lightly on the bare skin of her knee. He tried to think of something to say but words again failed him. He searched her face for a clue as to what would happen next. She closed her eyes. She smiled.“That’s feels nice,” she whispered, the whisper combining with her accent so sexily it seduced his cock into hardening. She settled slightly back into the padded cushion of her chair.“It is good you did not choose the greasy golden flavor,” she said, eyes still closed. She giggled.It was his turn to say, “Yes.”“The grease would not make it feel so nice.”“It would be gross?” he asked, mirroring her earlier words.“Yes.” She put her hand on top of his. She leaned in close to his ear.“What I never understood,” she purred, “is why guys think they need to make, how do you call it, small talk. Make up polite things to say. Take a girl out for dinner or drinks. When what you want to do is not make small talk, not have dinner. You want to fuck her, you say so. You should say, ‘I want to fuck you.’”The word “fuck,” was transformed by her voice into something large and insistent and unnamable.She said, “If I want sex, I ask for sex.”He moved his hand slightly higher up the bare skin of her knee, stopping at the hem of her short skirt, thrilled at the prospect of crossing another border.“That feels very nice,” she said. The accent, the whisper. He shivered.He felt her hand at his knee, slowly moving up his leg toward his still hardening cock. He took note that there were people within two or three seats of them on either side. A high school aged couple behind them. A family in front of them.He gave her a lopsided smile and said, “Maybe we should move to the back of the theater.”He stood, took her hand to help her out of her seat, led her quietly to the back. The only other people in the row were another couple on the far side of the aisle, regarding them furtively. Some woman in a red dress, some guy in a suit.They settled into their chairs. The previews over, the movie house lights dimmed further, the show began.He again placed his hand on her knee. She slouched back into her chair, reading herself for what might happen next. He leaned into her ear and whispered, “Spread your legs.” She let out a nearly inaudible birdlike cry, closed her eyes, leaned her head back, exposing the glorious white curve of her neck.He whispered, “Slide your skirt up for me.”Again, the barely audible cry. She spread her hands out and with delicious slowness hooked them under the hem of her skirt, pulled the thin material back to reveal several more inches of her skin. It was as white and perfect as her neck.His eyes stayed on the screen as his hand left her knee and moved slowly up her leg. Her leg shivered slightly. He stopped at the edge of her panties and relished the moment, on the dreamy boundary of something wild and new.

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