Alexis by Robin Rose :: Sliptongue Magazine

Alexis

by Robin Rose

Pull the hair back from your face and tuck it into a wig net. Choose the wine-red wig; torrents of burgundy ringlets fall to your shoulder blades. Become Alexis.

Wear a short skirt, but not too short. Faded denim, above the knee, hugging the butt—no underwear. Alexis is wise, free in ways most women don’t dream of. August in New York City: petal-pink tank top, nipples flat and wide from heat, breasts’ curved undersides damp with sweat. Long, shapely legs, delicate ankles, small feet in pink pumps with three-inch heels that arch the lower spine, pitch the pelvis forward. The angle of the shoe exaggerates the curve of the calf, makes the foot look arched, delicate. The mirror shows a tapered waist, dainty shoulders tilted back, c-cup breasts thrust out, long, wild, wine-red tresses cascading.

Toss your head; watch the curls shimmer and bounce. Feel Alexis settle around your shoulders like the silver capes runners wear after a marathon. Leave the voice of worry behind; walk out the door.

Listen to high heels on the sidewalk, tap-tap, tap-tap on 72nd Street and Broadway. Odor of garbage, trash can overload—don’t look down at the pavement: gum wrappers, cigarette butts, crushed soda cans, smear of dog shit half-scooped, day-glow yellow condom (used).

First stop, Chase Bank: long lines, refrigerator cold. Sudden freeze stiffens nipples, raises awareness of hidden heat below the skirt. Contract those lower lips beneath their denim veil. Contract, release, contract, release, walking through the crowded bank with a secret. Who are those people on the Priority Services line anyway? Contract, release, contract, release while the ATM belches out twenties. Never talk to a teller anymore. Punch “yes” for a receipt—not that it’s proof of anything.

Tap-tap, tap-tap, back on the sidewalk heels play the rhythm of a pop song stuck in your head. Baby, baby, I need you, need you. As if you were 13 instead of 20. Under the skirt, tiny movements continue. Squeeze and hold . . . hold, hold. Hips swinging, sashay down the street. Ignore the self that fears, the face before the wig, the puny worrying voice.

Alexis never feels raw or ridiculous, but revels in taking risks. Smoldering eyes sweep the sidewalk; look for attractive men. Amazing how few are on the loose. Loads in magazines, on TV. In real life, women try harder. It’s no secret—makeup, manicure, workout—like having a second job.

At the health food store a man who’s leaving holds the door open. His dark hair is tousled, and he needs a shave, but his lips are full and pink. Smile, and Alexis shimmers around you. Beneath the denim skirt, summer air kisses the crotch. Squeeze and hold . . . hold, tightening the inner walls, feeling the inner itch. Invite the health food man with a toss of the head, a sparkle in the eye, but he looks away, scared.

Never mind. For now, keep the secret. He’s not the one. Behind the counter, the Pakistani cashier doesn’t recognize you, but hands over Ginseng with a better smile than usual. His dark eyes run over your face, down your neck to where the bra bares cleavage, pushes breasts up.

Smile, tilt your head; lick your lips.

His dark eyes shy away, focus on the cash register. Again, not the one.

Down the block, in Ricky’s, there’s a salesman: tall, thin, dyed white hair, the lobe and rim of one ear pierced with silver loops. Silver ring on one thumb. Yesterday, he gave advice about hair products, knowledgeable as a woman, but not gay. No, not gay.

Yesterday, there was a vibe, but you weren’t Alexis then. One cigarette, a quick Marlboro before entering Ricky’s, the West Village originated trendy drugstore/novelty shop. As Alexis, smoke without guilt. Grind out the butt with a shell-pink pump. Feel the freedom beneath the skirt; saunter into Ricky’s.

At the door, there’s a fan. Its whirling blades send sudden up-rushes of air to surprise the calves, flutter the thighs, and mold the skirt to your body. Faded denim forms an upside-down v; the apex is sex.

“Check your bag?” asks the muscular, chocolate-skinned man at the door. Big and broad shouldered like a bouncer, smooth-shaven head and breath that smells like honey.

“Yes.” Linger beside him while the fan’s breeze tickles the calves, as the skirt forms a narrow triangle between moist, parted thighs. Look deeply into the man’s cocoa-colored eyes; hand over the bag of Ginseng. Realize, with regret, that he probably can’t leave the door. Accept the numbered ticket he offers, as the fan blades whirr, as the breeze plays under your skirt.

Flash a smile; wriggle fingers to say good-bye. Flicking the wine-red curls, hips swaying, head for the hair-care aisle. Tap-tap, tap, tap, the song’s back—Baby, baby, I need you! Handle products from the shelves; read directions and ingredients. Glance over a shoulder, where’s Rick? Decide to call the white-haired salesman Rick, if he’s on today. If he notices you. Alexis.

“Need some help?”

Startled, even though you’ve been waiting for him. “Thanks.” Look right into his bright blue eyes; hold the look a little too long . . . longer. Break into a slow smile, dropping your eyes to his full lips.

Rick smiles back, another slow one. Despite the pirate-like ear piercings, the tufty white hair, he’s cute. Real cute. Clear blue eyes, well-formed lips, even white teeth. The mouth always gets you. Stare at the mouth. It’s the color of brick—no red, like the earth in Sedona, red, like rocks in the Arizona desert. Letting your eyes caress his mouth, hand Rick a shampoo bottle.

Long fingers graze yours as he takes it; above the shampoo, Rick’s blue eyes draw your gaze up. Your eyes say yes. Baby, baby, I need you! His eyes ask a question.

“I need some help,” you clarify, “in the back.”

Behind the cosmetics and creams, behind the candles and lotions, behind the bath oils and sheer panty hose, behind the naughty novelties and dirty birthday cards, lies a doorway with beaded chains hanging down—Ricky’s triple X.

“O-kay,” he stretches the word out.

Incline your head toward the back room. Smile. Lick your lips slowly. Begin to walk, rocking the hips from side to side, stepping from one high-heeled pump to the other. Give Rick the bare backs of legs; give him a tight-skirted ass, no panty line. Don’t look back.

Move through the doorway of beaded chains; enter the hushed realm of penis-shaped, flesh-colored dildos; strawberry, banana, peach-flavored lubricants; crotchless panties; cock rings; vibrating butt plugs. Against the back wall hang shrink-wrapped outfits: French maid, Playboy bunny, slave.

The rustle of beads, doorway chains pushed aside, enter: Rick. In the small, cluttered back room, your elbow knocks a battery-powered ladybug (black and red, bug-shaped, strap-on clit stimulator) off a shelf, clattering onto the floor. Slowly, bend down to retrieve it, letting the short skirt hike up. Way up. Glance back at Rick, still behind; wink as he gets a quick glimpse of Brazilian bikini wax, dark blond strip, bare pubis left and right of the strip—so vulnerable, young, exposed.

Rick’s hand clasps your arm; slide the ladybug onto a shelf. He guides you to the back wall, padded with costumes. He smiles, lips the color of red earth. Lean back into the shrink-wrapped packets, thrusting the hips forward, letting the denim skirt ride up. Overhead hang masks: ebony-feathered masks, ivory-lace masks, paper masks in gem colors.

Rick stands over you—taller than you, much taller—jeans bulging at the crotch. He places a hand on either side of the dark-red curls, palms flat against the costume wall. You are pinioned in the rear of Ricky’s triple X. Back to the wall. Now Alexis takes control. Reaching down under the skirt, three fingers find the slit, open the outer lips, trace the moist inner lips, finally graze the clit. Bring the hand up and smell your fingertips, watching Rick grin.

Watch him take your hand, lift your fingers to his mouth, taste them one by one. Lean back against the costume wall as his hand goes where yours has been: under the skirt, over the slit. He strokes till the outer lips are swollen, till the clit strains out between them—tense, expectant, wet. Rick laughs, throws back his head.

Baby, baby, I need you. The refrain returns, but who needs whom and who needs to be needed? Gaze at Rick’s red mouth, his denim bulge. Decide it doesn’t matter—there’s need enough for two.

Now reach out; shaking hands unsnap, unzip, there! Long, thin, and surprisingly white, the head is a pale mushroom looking for a moist, pink place. You, Alexis, are that place. Quick, check the pocket of your denim skirt, fingers crackling the Trojan’s plastic wrapper. Pull out the yellow, plastic square and tear it open with your teeth. Now, slide the lubricated sheath over the gleaming mushroom, unroll it down the long white shaft. Lift your jean skirt and guide him home.

Glued together against the wall in Ricky’s. Broad daylight in triple X—Rick and Alexis of the long, wild, wine-red curls. Stand on one leg, like a crazy ballerina, and raise the other to wrap around his hips. Plunging, he lifts you. Each thrust pushes a pink pump inches off the floor. Float, impaled, then come down for a landing, until he thrusts again. In between, lean back against the shrink-wrapped costume wall as he fingers your clit, finds the magic place. Your mouth opens, then closes on his neck. Thrust, lift, pause, finger. Exquisite torture of the clit. Pulsing inner walls wrap around him; Rick dives deeper in. Thrust, lift, pause, finger. Spine slaps the costume wall. Clit strains toward his touch. Stroking, stabbing, cock caresses reach the sweet spot deep within. Hear your own voice, hoarse and husky: a growl, a bark, a purr.

Rick’s mouth clamps yours; his hand rubs your clit. Cock plunging, tongue thrusting—he’s everywhere! Quivering, on the edge, a slick finger slides past the slit, to another hidden hole; teases the dark, tight spot until it loosens, till it lets Rick in. Now his finger slips up the anus—a jab, a poke—the shock shakes inner walls; makes the crazy gushing start. Rick goes frantic—lunging, pounding, stabbing, driving. Hold nothing back. You’re still gushing as his cock plummets-bursts-shoots. Alexis of the fabulous floods—anonymous and free!

Panting now, Rick collapses and it’s over. From somewhere he gets tissues. Dab, wipe, pull the skirt down. Beads jangle in the triple X doorway, footsteps pausing at the threshold. A trill of laughter crosses over; then the sounds retreat. Beyond the beads, voices rise and fall; items clatter into baskets. Someone says, “Aisle three.” Rick runs a hand through his spiky white hair, beckons, shoots a look at you. Together, walk to the front of the store.

Near the checked items, Rick touches your shoulder while the chocolate-skinned bouncer retrieves the Ginseng bag. As Alexis, kiss Rick good-bye. In full view of everyone, the makeup lady, the cashier, other shoppers. Kiss the salesman full on his lips the color of Arizona desert sand. Push a tongue into his mouth, press your body into his cock that pierced you moments before. Embrace and release. Smile, toss the curls. Exit the store, blowing one last kiss over a shoulder.

Now the pink pumps tap-tap down 72nd Street while Rick’s sticky souvenir trickles down your thighs. Before those pumps chafe your feet, before the three-inch heels grow cumbersome, before your scalp itches beneath the wig net, feel the sex smile on your lips. For a few more minutes, while the burgundy curls still abound and summer air caresses your crotch, while the pop song plays in your head—Baby, baby, I need you, need you—even the worried voice, temporarily soothed, admits you need Alexis.

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Robin Rose writes erotica, memoir, and mainstream fiction. Her work appears regularly in literary magazines, and she has a pair of erotic novellas in the works. Robin lives in the New York area.

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