Hindsight shapes how I think about my last night in Paris.
Ruby and I degenerated into a mutual body hunt. The shared ravioli was lost in the pit of our stomachs. No gentle searching or teasing foreplay as we groped skin, hunting satisfaction. Two bodies responded as they must when aroused. An impetus combined in one direction: ego orgasm reduced coupling to mutual masturbation.
My eye caught a light flicked on across the apartment block light well. Ruby's bedroom curtain material hung old, worn, and thin. Two shadows joined in a room across the well. Then, that room descended into darkness.
The centre of my concentration was Ruby as she positioned her body on all fours, offering me both Sodom and Gomorrah tonight. Directed by my ego, I launched into a hot-blooded pairing, ready to tangle in pleasurable and panting ways. Ruby wriggled her butt cheeks, showing no limits. My eyes were greedy and fancying as I kissed each of her peachy cheeks. Then, I penetrated her.
As I pushed deeper, the brunette's fingers spread into the doona cover to support our sway. My hands gathered around her hips to sustain our friction. Mutual intensity and vigour rewarded us. Ruby moaned and eased a half-turn. Her face sanctioned the extraordinary as our eyes met.
Her pupils dilated in passionate ecstasy. I recalled a nocturnal emission as a youth. My present sensation matched the prior moment, yet Ruby's face elaborated, forever altering the memory. A strange mix of bedmates joined in my head—a teenage wet dream devoid of facial features and Paris detailing every facet of Ruby's face. Though the actual sex centred on Ruby's rapturous visage felt more detached.
The brunette's head skewed away, high; her body held the doggy position. I upped her pleasure ante by alternating complete withdrawal and deep penetration.
Ruby turned; her eyes begged, craving the ribald. Her ruby pendant swayed. The shine of the gem delayed another thrust.
"Take it," she purred, instructing.
One of her fingers slipped into and out of her rectum.
"Go where you want to, male, go."
I hesitated.
Two of her self-wetted fingers rimmed herself.
Suddenly, her head snapped back.
Ruby stated, sharp and insistent, "I want your rod, now!"
There was no misunderstanding of what she desired.
She got it — extended thrusts, not where she hoped. But, I strove upstanding to deliver her the unexpected, poised, hovering over her buttocks. Then, she arched her rear higher based on my positioning. Ruby embraced my entire length in a flowing rhythm. Her body secreted expanded excitement as her fingers lingered near her rear. My new positioning stirred desire, and Ruby craved more.
So, she guided my fingers to her perineum, my middle finger to her butthole inch by stealthy inch. I rimmed her, and the moans became frequent and keener.
Ruby turned and disseminated a devastating smile. Here, I believed I possessed more than her body. I had accessed a piece of her soul. An invitation into her life fabric, courtesy of her backside, to forge the moment and live tomorrow together. Yet, I refrained from filling her derrière.
The brunette maintained her sexual beat as she reached between her legs, two fingers spread, while I rode her. Beyond sustaining longer to optimise her pleasure, I released into one of her openings of need.
Ruby was unfinished. So, I witnessed an expert 'get herself off.'
Male agog, fascinated at seeing her complete her orgasm. Her face and chest emanated a pinkish glow as her climax escalated in happy ahhs and an ugh. Until the pixie spun on her haunches, drumming two fingers on her classy thighs.
Ruby divulged, "Gee, you came close to cumming with me. I thought you would hold it. Hey, don't look down. You did swell."
In doubt, I mulled: she self-stimulated to orgasm.
Sucking for air revealed I had discharged my utmost effort.
How long is the average guy supposed to hold his wad?
You did swell; was this praise?
Not meaning: I've had better!
Maybe she meant: Swell, as in—You will improve.
Ruby and I participated in eye-popping screwing. However, I speculated I faced a locked heart—the key to her heart was my overriding wish.
We separated as she rolled off her bed.
I lay flat and speculated on the future consequence of not responding to her desire for anal sex. Ruby invited me to her back door. I declined. The brunette craved her starfish punched. I confronted the pixie's complex sexual fusion. Ruby as a whole, well, her body desires divulged. Her inner life yearnings, like mine, lay unrevealed.
Then she stood nude by her dresser, her buttocks facing me. Her face reflected in her mirror; applying makeup.
It hit me; she is readying for work!
Her polarity astounded me as she applied dark eye shadow steeped in concentration. I balanced her exquisite, cultivated soul. The young woman was a gifted marvel in multiple languages and creating yummy foods. Yet, an earthy Salome who unveiled a southward, eye-drawing tattoo. Plus, a coquette's dainty balloon knot, expecting pleasure!
I love you!
Tell her!
She read my face across her bedroom.
"You look lovesick," reprimanded Ruby, glaring at me, leaning on the dresser.
"Careful, don't get beyond the fun."
Ruby finished checking her lashes as her eyes finished examining me.
She accepted naked as a natural state.
Her butt was mine to feast on, but I sought her face. So, I leaned forward, hoping to connect to her face; it stayed in the mirror.
"I'll try."
I offered, fidgeting with the sheet.
Then, crunching the linen, "I don't know."
I wished for eye contact as I straightened on the bed. The mutual gaze wasn't there.
"I want your body," I tried to keep it physical.
No lie: her bottom was V-shaped, compact and pert, suiting her hips.
Ruby and I had sailed deep into one another's flesh. I pictured hitching a ride on the scattered ink of her pappus and mooring together.
Many moons later, I grasped: memory tattoos our yearnings under our skin, where they ripple.
At her dresser, she gripped her hairbrush.
"No. You're getting too close."
Alone on the bed, the distance between us, whilst not far, expanded.
Go to her dresser.
I passed on the opportunity of rising and pressing my body into hers and plunging into her deeper feelings. Instead, I extended my legs on the bed and deliberated on a response.
Exposed loins on her sheet, I lied, "I promise not to."
I entered; say what you think she wants to hear territory to hold Ruby.
She continued brushing her hair, and her stroke rate quickened. Then she stood straight and dropped her hairbrush as her fingers ventured between her legs.
She swung and paced to her bedside table and snatched a few tissues. Unselfconsciously, she mopped our combined seepage, facing me, not deliberately, completing a necessary action fast.
She spread herself and wiped her feminine treasures. Her clit popped. Ruby spotted my bulging eyes in response to her soft pats.
"Geez, boy, it's a fricking clit. Okay, I can see the male attraction: You don't possess one. God, it's functional."
I resisted saying anything; I thought, super functional.
Her tone developed an edge. I realised she intended to word her response carefully to my ' I promise not to.'
Her clit, courtesy of my staring, provided a sidetrack.
"You know, I know, concentrated nerve endings; joy, joy. It's held a few minutes, a sensational release – awesome, nothing more. Awesome then gone, seeking awesome anew; it doesn't hold forever."
She framed these words to tell me to keep it body to body.
Ruby patted, removing the visible evidence of mating. The pixie dabbed her puffy feminine folds.
Then she stated, "Christ, it's not the doorbell to open my ego or the button pushed to reveal my soul. There's no soul here; a body, a mind."
Ruby administered a dab and pat feathery and dexterous. Her genitals gleamed in their preening.
"A swollen clit, boy. There are plenty of them: millions are available on this planet. If I drowned, don't be sad. Hell, there is an entire sea of them floating the globe."
The clutch of wet tissues she threw at her room wastebasket and missed. Her knees bent to stoop. Instead, she threw her arms wide.
A world of clits. Another clit. No, I craved Ruby's heart.
At her dresser, she stood.
Full-frontal naked, she spun and waved her hairbrush at me.
"What to do with you?"
She ceased the hairbrush wave, and her face softened.
"You puppy," delivered mellow.
"Don't be a Yo-Yo; take and let go."
She plopped on the chair and brushed her hair again; her focus returned to the mirror. After she finished, she spun the brush on her dresser.
"Why does everyone insist on looking back? There's nothing there. Only here."
Without looking at me, she asserted, "I can't convince you or anyone not to love me."
She used the word, but not as a declaration to me.
Yet, I wondered how I could insinuate the word love in my favour.
Ruby rose and faced me without a stitch.
With raised hands, a rare Ruby preach, "Don't believe in palm- to- palm or tarot readings. I will let you know that I'm not dying my hair or having a bunch of kids with you."
She shrugged and focused on her mascara. Ruby, full-on, surprised me. The pixie dipped into our youthful past, referencing a wet Melbourne day in Coral's bedroom.
The pixie's teenage interests spread broadly, including reading and playing cards. She read the cards for Josh, Coral, and me on a rainy day. We urged her to read about her future. Strange to think about what happened or otherwise since. The cards showed I might marry a blonde and have several kids. The reading provided no time frame. In Paris, it seemed glib. Ruby's cards on a suburban mat hinted at a lover for herself.
Me!
In her presence, here in her room, she floored me. She mentioned 'love'; I mulled, then savoured it. The context I let slide.
Still, I gave her word a safe response.
"Are you saying I'm a chance?"
Stammered like a shy schoolboy.
Ruby's lips stayed sealed as she stalled. I hoped only a pause because her lash work demanded concentration.
On her bed, I straightened, pushing into the mussed pillows. Then, I lifted and covered myself under her doona, biding the anxious wait. Also, I crossed my fingers — out of sight.
Please say yes.
"No."
A clipped and assured Ruby.
Her mascara looked fantastic! She knew it, and I knew it. The pixie fluttered her sea blues in the mirror — at herself.
I uncrossed my fingers.
Ruby half-turned.
"I will keep in touch, okay? Write to you. I've got my degree to finish here and a friend's wedding to attend in Perth. After, who knows? But what should a girl do?"
She picked up a lipstick canister. Opened, it glistened bright red. The Ruby I knew never wore lipstick.
I gripped the sheet under the doona, worried; she wore it at the request of Monsieur Paris!
She flung it at the rear of her makeup table.
"Well," she occupied the farthest point away, in her room, at her wardrobe, "I might be a different girl at home."
Ruby warned me; I chose not to listen.
I turned her words in my favour: what's a boy to do?
My heart urged, extract a promise.
Even the vaguest!
She pushed through her disorganised pile of knickers and lingerie on a shelf in her wardrobe.
I built my hopes hinged on the word touch.
"You will keep in touch. You promise?"
My voice wavered, self-aware of occupying the bed alone.
At her wardrobe, she pulled forward a pair of skin-tone knickers. She threw them down, and her hands grabbed at rich red underwear.
Ruby popped on a pair of crimson undies and a matching bra. She busied herself with avoiding a rash response, knowing the weight I placed on the word promise. I interpreted her pause as her determination to deliver a strong-minded reply.
Waiting, I inspected her room. The bedroom, I grasped, presented Spartan. Her lively colour hid in her wardrobe. The rest of her possessions were a given functional: a cheap alarm clock, a box of generic brand tissues and an open pack of contraceptive pills. On the surface, the dresser hinted at an array of cosmetics, in reality, the basics for her eyes, apart from her hairbrush.
The evidence, Ruby could pack in an instant and move on.
Perhaps leaving behind the big higgledy-piggledy pile of textbooks in a corner. They gave the appearance of a discarded heap, yet she studied.
A single item bridged Ruby to her past: a scented candle on her dresser. Teenage Ruby and Coral swapped them.
My pixie adjusted her bra strap facing toward me.
"Yes."
Her tone suggested a weighting.
I savoured her reply.
My tongue on my lips magnified her yes into an unbreakable promise.
Though wriggling on the bed, yes, floated like an end, not a beginning.
Her mascaraed lashes appeared stiff, stowing her eyes inwards.
She occupied my complete attention; I believed I secured a Ruby guarantee. My heart beat faster, and I bolstered and braced half upright.
Ruby appended no extra words in a brusque closet rummage. She spread and scrunched clothes. Finding an amber top, she stopped.
It had to come; I tensed, urging myself to avoid a giveaway flinch.
Ruby qualified her 'yes' in measured firmness.
"Mmm, I don't want you adding love to the sex, okay?"
Her eyes met mine, then darted to select her chosen attire.
"Okay," I attempted, neutral-voiced yet flinching, my face tensing.
Who was I trying to convince?
I spoke loud enough.
No, Ruby response.
I believed in her.
Keep in touch, yes, touch.
Then she pulled on dark jeans and her regular navy blue sweater. Next, she laced her quality boots and blew me a fleeting kiss outside her bedroom door.
Ruby made a super quiet exit.
Memory holds the faintest click of the apartment door, perhaps I imagined hearing it. Her footfall outside on the landing was absent. Maybe I missed that, though I strained to listen to the clack of her boots.