youth sporting sequins, red lipstick and Chanel No. 5.
Looking at the clothes crammed into the left side of my closet, I sigh with pleasure. There are emerald-green wiggle dresses, red satin cocktail shifts, blue velvet swing coats and luxurious fur stoles. Elaborate hats made of beaver and trimmed with ostrich feathers sit inside pink striped hatboxes. Dainty kitten heels and patent leather spectator pumps sit side by side on the floor. This is who I am inside. These are the colors and the fabrics that spin through my dreams. I’m built just like nana, and in her day she was the bomb.
I open my underwear drawer and pull out the lingerie I wore for Wanda’s photo shoot. On a whim, I decide to put it on. Nero watches with a dubious expression as I shuck off my frumpy pj’s and don the sleek black Bettie Page gear. It’s funny how 1950s’ style underwear, high-waisted and granny-ish, can be so much sexier than a thong or bikini in the right context. This pair is made of amazing black figure-slimming fabric, satiny to the touch but steely in its ability to firm up flab. The second I pull them on I feel tingly, alive. Slowly, I do up the corset, sucking in my breath as I cinch it tight. Lastly, I pull on a pair of sheer black thigh-high stockings, hook them to the garters and slip into Nana’s patent leather spectator pumps.
I survey myself in the mirror, pushing my dark hair forward, finger-combing my bangs. My reflection stares back with mischievous eyes. I admire the exaggerated hourglass lines of my figure, the fullness of my breasts hoisted up by the gravity-defying corset.
“Va-va-voom,” I whisper.
In the mirror, I catch a glimpse of someone behind me and spin around, startled. There’s a man standing on the balcony across the street. He’s draped in shadows. I can just make out his silhouette and the burning orange tip of his cigarette.
He’s smoking, the lucky bastard.
I go to close my curtains, but hesitate. As I stand there before the window, my breath fogging the glass, something happens. I know he can see me, know he’s taking in my bad-ass curves, my stockings, my creamy cleavage. For a moment I’m reminded of the red-light district in Amsterdam, where the whores display themselves in the windows, tempting potential customers with provocative poses and smoldering looks. I’m surprised at how much the thought of being that whore turns me on.
Before I can stop myself, I reach a hand up and run my fingers through my hair. The luxurious feel of silky strands between my fingers sends a shiver of pleasure through me. I glance back at the shadowy figure on the balcony. He’s leaning forward, elbows resting on the railing, watching my every move.
Shocked at my own audacity, I lift one foot and prop my spiked heel on the windowsill. Slowly, my fingers trembling, I reach down and unhook the garter. My heart races as I roll my silk stocking down, revealing the milky white of my bare thigh.
Is it my imagination, or did the silhouette just adjust himself?
Okay, this is insane. What am I doing? I can feel my panties growing wet, though, heat gathering low in my belly, and I know I’m not going to stop. An exhilarating rush of power courses through me. I’m tantalizing a stranger, a man whose face I can’t even see, whose name I’ll never know. My body, the same one that feels so wrong and ungainly as I march through my workday trying hard to be invisible, suddenly feels deliciously visible. I’m a force to be reckoned with. The man on the balcony wants to touch me. He’s imagining what he’d do to me if only we weren’t separated by all this concrete and glass.
It’s been too long since someone touched me. Ravished me. Suddenly my whole body aches. When was the last time someone seared me with a kiss, cupped my breasts with desperate need, fucked me so hard I couldn’t breathe?
Way too long.
I lean against the glass. The cold melts through the fabric of my panties and feels delicious against my hot clit. I long to reach down and finger myself, but I hold back. Not yet. I want to make this last.
Another movement on the balcony catches my eye. A woman swings open the French doors and steps out onto the terrace, a couple of highball glasses in her hands. I can see her in some detail as she steps into the spill of gold light; she’s wearing a blue dress and sparkly jewelry, a going-out ensemble. Maybe they just got back from a nightclub. Maybe they’ve been dancing, hips pressed together, sweat glazing their limbs. They look young, yuppie-ish, respectable.
I recoil, hiding behind my curtains, blushing furiously. The craziness of what I’m doing strikes me with fresh intensity. I’m Ruby Sugars—I don’t strip for strangers, expose myself in the dead of night! Still I linger, too turned on to sleep, too curious to walk away.
The man tosses his cigarette, takes both glasses from the woman and sets them down. I expect him to lead her inside, but instead he moves behind her and pins her hips against the wrought iron railing. He looks like he’s whispering something in her ear. They’ve stepped out of the shadows, and I can see them clearly—so clearly that I know the exact moment when her gaze turns to my window. Her dark red hair gleams in the light shining from their windows as he runs his fingers through it. Then his hands reach around and cup her breasts. I watch in mute fascination as she arches her back against him, eyes closing in pleasure. I can see his hands encircling her small waist, pulling her to him. His lips wander over the pale curve of her neck, planting a trail of kisses. One hand nudges the bodice of her dress to the side, frees her breast, exposing her body to the cool night air. I can imagine the fog-kissed breeze caressing her bare skin, the shivery pleasure of it. The contrast between his hot mouth on the sensitive skin behind her ear and the cold night air whispering over her flesh.
All the while, she stares right at my window.
Carefully, my breathing ragged, I pull the curtain open again. They’re both staring at me as I slowly undo the top of my corset, letting my full breasts spill out. My nipples pull into tight, hard peaks. I tilt forward until they’re touching the glass; the cold ripples through me, an electric thrill.
The redhead shakes back her hair and arches her back, leaning over, pressing her ass against him. He lifts up her dress and in a moment he’s inside her, making no attempt to hide his thrusting hips as he grips her even tighter. She opens her mouth. I can just make out her moan of pleasure. Without thinking, my hand snakes down into my panties. I’m so wet. My fingers slide easily in and out of my pussy. When I finally touch my clit it’s so swollen and ready, just a few strokes makes me come. I call out, surprised at the sound I make; it starts as a low animal growl and quickly turns into a keening yelp of surprise.
The woman on the balcony throws back her head with a grimace of pleasure. The man yanks at her hair and thrusts deep into her one last time.
Behind me, Nero meows, pulling me from my trance. The man takes his date by the hand and leads her back inside. They close the French doors behind them. Just like that, it’s over. I let out a breathy sigh, my emotions pinging between pleasure and mortification.
I yank the curtains closed and turn to face my cat, who is once again ensconced in the middle of my bed, gnawing on my silk throw pillow. He gives me a superior, all-knowing look that actually makes me blush. My legs feel a little shaky; I slip off my pumps before stumbling across the room toward bed.
“Shut up,” I warn Nero as I peel off the vampy lingerie and pull my pj’s back on. “And don’t look at me like that. There’s nothing wrong with getting to know your neighbors.”
Chapter Four
Fantasy Man
Sunday morning I walk the seven blocks from my North Beach apartment to my favorite
