It's Always the Quiet Ones

The lights go down for the night, the adrenalin of performance still burning in my stomach as I drown out the vacant cheers of another faceless audience. It somehow just isn't the same anymore. I feel myself losing my bravado, feel the rehearsed passion draining, and I crank the façade into gear again with a vicious swing of my ample hips as I strut off to the seedy place they call a dressing room.

'What the fuck did you expect, dollface?' I think to myself, that self-loathing little excuse for a conscience flitting about my shoulders on her discouraging wings. 'This isn't nothing but a damn titty bar, so stop trying to tell yourself you're an artist. Burlesque is just what strippers say to feel less pathetic.' There isn't an ounce of my being that doubts that truth, but I push it back to the corners of my mind in favor of the more convenient comfort of cigarettes and gin.

By the time I realize I need a drink, I notice one already waiting for me at the makeup counter, a brilliant oasis in the desert of lipstick tubes and stockings. Smiling to myself, I grab the drink and sit in the chair, long and shapely legs swung over the side, teetering pendulums of flesh and fishnet and patent leather.

I light my cigarette and the long-awaited nicotine blurs the doubt and regret for a beautiful but brief moment before I throw back the drink and relish the delicious, perfect numb like the reassuring whisper of a lover. Through the haze of smoke and second thoughts, I catch a glimpse of myself in the elegant, Victorian looking glass—their failing attempt at vintage class—and the revolting surrender in my doppelganger's eyes makes the two of us cringe in unison.

I search the mirror desperately for something more in those large, dark eyes, silently begging my reflection to restore some of the decency once held in the onyx orbs. After a moment, I break the staring contest with a flutter of lids shadowed a shimmering violet like a fairy's tell-tale signs of sleep deprivation or a mermaid's contusion. I stop for a moment to bring myself back to reality, focusing on the sensation of long, ebony lashes against my alabaster cheek bones and the flickering light behind my eyes. With a sigh, another veil of blue-grey smoke escapes my full, cherry-painted lips and obscures the porcelain face of my looking glass twin.

Three tentative knocks grace the dressing room door, and an equally uncertain voice timidly inquires, "Zoe? Are you decent?" as though I hadn't just disrobed for an entire audience only moments ago. The voice's cautious, antique chivalry makes me feel more like some coquettish, Renaissance beauty than a cheap cabaret act, and I smile.

I wonder for a brief instant what he means by 'decent', and look down at my exposed breasts before tugging gently at one of the silver rings interrupting the soft, dusty, rose color of each areola, enjoying the slight sting that runs up the ivory curve of my breast like an electrical current.

"You can come in, Nate," I assure him, and the door swings open. His eyes widen in surprise, and he drops the armful of my discarded clothing to the floor, freeing his arms to shield his eyes.

"I-I'm s-s-sorry," he says, swift and nervous.

"Nate," I purr, the fabricated seduction in my voice as thick as old honey, "It's okay." His eyes meet mine, shy grey and unyielding ebony. Nate's pupils grow with some emotion or feeling I can't quite identify, oil drop obsidian spreading across eyes the perfect color of statue stone without the slightest hint of the material's hardness. Nate has always had the charming ability to be innocent and vicious in one conflicting instant. It showed now, his nervousness and raw desire taking stage in his storm cloud eyes like twin contortionists in a Vaudeville show, a precarious knot of clashing philosophies. I hold his gaze for a perfect moment before he blinks rapidly like a man waking from a dream, and rushes to pick up the dropped garments.

"Still, I'm sorry," he says, the pseudo-calm in his voice just as much an act as the passion served up on the stage earlier. "It's just that you said—"

"It's fine," I assure him, crimson lips spreading in a genuine smile, and he nods, setting the clothing on a vacant table. He looks at the empty glass still clutched in my delicate snowflake fingers, nails polished the dangerous color of vinyl tapping gently at the side.

"I figured you'd need that," he says, and his voice has a bitter tone I'd never heard before.

"Yeah," I said, feeling guilty for no direct reason. "Thanks, sugar." I part my lips slightly, but the words die on my tongue, and the stillborn thought is forgotten.

"I'm getting a new job," he says, as he rifles through the assortment of clothes, finding my corset, "at a theatre." He stops to look me over, his gaze vaguely scrutinizing.

"We'll miss you, sweetheart," I say, and for once, it isn't a lie. I rise from the chair slowly like a predator or a harlot being lead to the guillotine, and we begin the tired routine. He brushes my raven hair to the front, careful with his touch as though the strands are spun from black, volcanic glass and are more precious than their reality.

With the movement, my violet-dyed bangs fall into my eyes, and he reaches to tuck them behind my gauged ears. It reminds me of something a mother would do, something out of place in this house of ill repute. I look at myself for what feels like an eternity, looking much younger than twenty-two in that moment, eyes wide with anticipation for things I can't place.

"I like it," he says, and I'm not sure what he means until I feel his cool fingers drag along the fresh ink scar slowly, reading the tattoo like braille enclosed in the skin of my shoulder. I don't answer for a moment, and I see him frown in the mirror. "You always get beautiful tattoos," he elaborates, trying to solicit acknowledgement, and punctuates his sentence by running his broad hands across my back and down my arms, as though I may have forgotten where the tapestries of art and pain were located.

"Thank you," I say, finally, and he wraps my corset around my waste, his fingers working their swift and practiced dance, a frenzy of buttons and snaps across my abdomen. I briefly wonder why he's snapping it from behind until I remember the look he gave for that tiny instant our eyes had locked.

"Is it too loose in the back?" Nate asks and I move a bit to test its fit.

"A little, but it's okay. Your shift's over," I tell him, and I don't mean it. A weird knot forms in my stomach that screams that it isn't okay, that he needs to stay here forever because he's the only thing keeping me sane in this seedy, little brothel.

"No, it's okay, Zoe. Really," Nate says, sliding his hands across the swell of my hips, and I shiver during his entire, painstakingly slow journey to the laces in the back. I curse myself for losing control, remembering who I am. I'm the one who undoes people with the simple swish of my hand. I'm the one who provokes, who invades dreams with the indifferent dazzle of a vampire's kiss. Not Nathaniel Barry, with his thick, plastic glasses, messy, blond hair, haplessly handsome face, and graceless stride.

He finishes swiftly and silently, the leather and lace tightness a distracting discomfort. My nipples stiffen in the cold room, and I curse myself for having picked tonight to wear the corset that doesn't cover my breasts, the one meant only to restrict and entice. As he slides his hands down my back and away from his lacings, his calloused fingers brush my backside and I gasp at their completely incidental touch in spite of myself.

I turn slowly towards him, and he rubs his neck awkwardly, a sleepy little kid gesture that makes me smile. "You know, you make it look good somehow," he almost whispers, and I cock an eyebrow. "The whole 'goth' thing, I mean," and when he reaches toward me the effort to stay put is agonizing. He gently touches my pierced eyebrow, moving slowly down and I close my eyes as his finger finds the bridge of my nose. Down further, and he brushes my nose ring, and the Monroe piercing in my upper lip like a cyborg's beauty mark. I seize the silver ring in my lower lip before his touch finds it an open my eyes.

"You don't deserve to be in this place," he says, his voice still a sensual whisper like the cool crush of autumn leaves. He holds my face, his thumb stroking my cheek, and with the softest brush of lips, I let out a small moan. His eyes find mine and catch me in their steel marble beauty. Another kiss, this one braver than before, and the masquerade slips away as I give in to his touch.

He bites my lip gently, begging for access, and I whimper desperately. He lets the supple flesh slide from his teeth and then crushes our lips together hard, tongues battling for dominance and probing desperately at one another. His mouth tastes of cigarettes and something sweet, the ghost flavor of some candy or soda haunting his tongue. He breaks the kiss first, the stubborn need for breath interrupting the simple ecstasy of his lips pressed to mine.

"Zoe..." he breathes—just one word—and it

sounds like the most brilliant of symphonies. I tremble at his hot breath and he nips gently at the silver ring in my ear before whispering, "Are you sure about this?"

I nod, the only thing my racing mind can manage at the moment, and he smiles as he kisses his way to my neck. I bite my kiss-swollen lips in anticipation, eyes half-lidded and absolutely no room inside my mind for anything but the soft lips pressed to my throat and the fingers ghosting along my collar bone. Without warning, he bites down hard, and I call his name as my eyes snap open.

Nate continues biting down, nipping and licking. as waves of pleasure and pain make their way from my neck to the dampness between my legs. He roughly kneads my breast in his strong hands and I bite my own lip harder, drawing blood to stifle a moan. His kisses move down, growing more hungry and urgent until his hand is replaced by his mouth. I growl low and primal in my throat as he pulls my breast away from my body by the glistening steel ring. His mouth releases me and in one dizzying instant I find myself on the countertop, his hands on my hips. The tender love in his eyes is glazed over by passion and raw, immediate need. Whatever started this isn't there anymore and I catch my hands shaking.

With practiced touch, he unsnaps the garters holding up my stockings and hooks his thumbs through the skimpy band of elastic on my thong, easing them over my thighs. His touch is the only thing of significance now, and even the slow, somewhat ticklish sensation of him sliding my panties down my legs sends a jolt of pleasure to my rapidly moistening sex.

Suddenly, his thin t-shirt seemed like a brick wall between us, and I strip it from his body in a violent and rapid motion the moment he surfaces, running my hands up the velvet-smooth skin of his back.

My breath is uncontrollable now, and I've never wanted anything so badly in my life. "Please, Nate," I gasp.

"Please what?" he asks in mock surprise, his hand inching painfully slow up my inner thigh.

"God damnit, Nate," I sigh impatiently, desperate for his hand to go that one extra inch that may as well be a mile. "I want you so fucking bad right now. Please..."

"As you wish, my dear," and his voice pours from his lips like liquid silk.

He parts my lips slowly and eases two fingers into my wet and waiting cavern. I borderline scream, and bite the lean, muscular curve of his shoulder and as I dig my nails into his back. In that moment, I felt utterly complete, his fingers inside of me better than any boy's cock or girl's gaudy strap-on simply because they were his fingers.

I feel the welcome intruders curl inside of me, and an involuntary shudder rips itself from my vocal chords, a pleading and anxious sound so unlike my own voice that I wonder if I'll ever be the same after his touch. He smiles a wicked, possessive smile and increases his pace. He moves in and out with dexterity and vigor, curling and uncurling, and all the while his eyes burning into mine. His thumb nail digs into my clit and the pleasure is so intense it borders on agony. His name throws itself from my lips again, and my body spasms slightly. Nate responds with a sinister and carnal laugh and an abrupt end to the sweet torture of his certain hands.

While vaguely sentient, I take the opportunity to pull him into me by his belt loops, and the venomous crush of him through the denim to soaking flesh is enough to start me trembling again. My deft fingers work to undo his pants in a helpless and restless rush of movement, and when he's finally free my eyes widen. The sight of his hard cock is Halloween candy sweet, delicious fear and wild expectancy.

I wrap my fingers around the thick shaft, vanilla pale on blood-surged pink, and slowly make the nine-inch journey to the dripping head. A sudden surge of compassion surfaces in his eyes, and his hand finds mine. "Wait," he breathes, and I stop, hoping he hasn't changed his mind.

"I'm on the pill, if that's what you're—"

"No, no... It's not that," he says, and for a moment after there's only the wet drumbeat of my heart pounding in my ears. He runs his fingers through my hair, and looks deep into my eyes, the sudden tenderness of the moment almost heartbreaking after the harsh torrent of passion. "This is going to hurt," he says with a soft chuckle absent of any humor.

I kiss him gently, my way of promising that it's okay, and the head of his gorgeous cock rubs against my wet entrance. He shudders and pulls my hair as he deepens the kiss and thrusts in. He hadn't been lying, and the rush of pain catches me off guard. I almost want to scream, but my throat only allows for a strangled squeak. He's still for a moment, allowing me to adjust to his size, and I nod as a signal for him continue.

He pulls out slowly, his hands gripping my hips in an effort to maintain control, before thrusting back in. The sound from my mouth is ridiculous and absolutely mad with masochistic delight. Each movement is executed with more and more ease, my liquid arousal coating and slicking his manhood.

Soon, there's no pain at all, only impossible waves of pleasure. Warmth spreads over my body, alive with the feel of him. "Oh, fuck. . . Zoe," he grunts over and over, some protective mantra guarding this flawless moment, and my name loses its meaning; everything loses its meaning but the jackhammer pound of him into me.

I grip his shoulders tightly and cry out, wanting it to be over and hoping it never ends in one contradictory thought. The unbearable ecstasy rips through me, each ebb and flow of this agonizingly beautiful sexual tide virgin-fresh with impossible desire.

He's close now, his rhythm becoming erratic and vocals becoming less controlled, the masculine grunts and choking gasps giving way to a brilliant chorus of tenor moans. He digs his nails into my hips as he comes, tiny crescents of pain blossoming in the garden of pleasure as his seed spills into me. The combined sensation of blood down my hips and his hot cum is scalding, and with a few more thrusts, I join him. I clamp desperately and wildly around him, and when I feel the pressure release, I scream, loud and graceless.

Nate kisses my cheek softly, and I can't help but smile at the awkward way he clears and adjusts his now crooked and steam-fogged glasses. He gently lifts me to my feet, and mutters and apology, handing me a towel. I shake my head, the smile on my face unwavering as I clean myself up.

"Zoe?" he asks.

"Yes?"

"Would you want to. . . maybe. . . you know, go to dinner or something?" He pulls his rumpled clothes back on and uselessly attempts to smooth this hair.

"I'd like that," I reply.

"I'll wait for you in the parking lot," he tells me with a soft kiss, leaving me to get dressed. I marvel at his respect, a gentlemen even after having screwed me into the counter.

I look into the mirror, and see something that hadn't been there before, a careless sort of beauty in my messy hair and faded lipstick. I slip on a bra and new panties as another dancer walks in and laughs.

"I didn't think he had it in him," she says, and I feign confusion.

"Whatever do you mean?" I pull a black dress over my head, trying to focus on adjusting my garters so I don't have to meet the dancer's eyes.

"Oh, come on, Zoe," she says, poking me in the ribs. "But, seriously? Nate? He's about as sexy as an abused puppy." I ignore the statement and reapply lipstick in the reflective glass. "I guess we all expected it," she continues. "I mean, the boy's had a hard-on for you for the past three years. He's completely in love with you. From the look of you, you don't mind so much."

I look at myself in the mirror, and something new sparks in my eyes, something warm and alive, the missing puzzle piece. I look at her and her smile fades, eyes widening.

"Oh, sweet merciful Jesus, you're in love," she says, and I shrug, ice queen diva mask slipping back into place.

"Shut the hell up, Veronica," I say, and before I'm out the door, I hear her mutter something in an incredulous voice.

"It's always the quiet ones, isn't it?"