Blair Erotica - Skinny Girl

It was nearly midnight when Keith finally gave up on the poem he was trying to write. He reached a serious level of saturation and more work was not making it any better. Different but not any better. Fatigue could flatten his writing into the same Hallmark drivel he hated; anything he did now would only have to be rewritten later.

He lit a cigarette and pushed the papers and books he had been using to the back of his desk. He realized that his room didn’t like him. The bed, the desk, the dresser, his ancient wooden hat rack, the rickety table that held the electric hot plate, the small refrigerator, none of these provided any warmth. They were unyielding objects that formed inflexible surfaces that could support him or bruise him, nothing more. What else should they be?

These thoughts convinced him that he needed some sort of distraction, something that he could throw himself into in excess while the weary synapses of his underbrain tried and retried every permutation of language and thought, reduced them to a few conscious artistic choices. He needed something consuming to focus on, but he thrashed about for a solution, realizing that his question was like a child's game — was it a person, place or thing? Sometimes activities or new places could provide the level of interest, of complete absorption, but that seemed wrong now. He leaned toward thinking it was a person.

In his entire universe he could think of only a handful of people who could command his attention, and he was glad that Tasha, the girl he had been sleeping with lately, was gone because she was not among them. He ran through their names wondering if there was one capable of understanding his current sensibility for exactly what it was. Maybe.

He thought of The Skinny Girl. That was what people called her. She didn’t give her name. She was indeed a skinny girl. A tall skinny girl with a sensuous mouth that she covered with purple lipstick. It was odd. It was sexy. He had fantasized about her lips. They were delicious. He thought of her because she spoke her mind and seemed to live outside the conventions that bound most people. She was provocative. At least he was provoked. That was a good start. Of course, if he simply turned up at her door, she might just send him packing and then what?

Well, life was for making mistakes, after all; for plumbing the depths of your individual foolishness. If you couldn't make an ass of yourself, fuck things up once in a while then what good was it? How did you know you were alive?

He pulled on a tee shirt, leaving the shirt to hang out over his jeans. He pulled his boots out from under the bed, finding they contained a semi clean pair of socks. Dressed, he grabbed his book and a pack of cigarettes and went out.

Although he was aware that it was late he had no real idea of the time. But night was a good time for walking and he realized that she didn't live very far away. He began walking.

In a few minutes he arrived at her apartment building. It had the formidable look of cheap apartment buildings everywhere. For some reason that pleased him, and he whispered:

The tall, skinny girl, her body sexy but spare, lived in a dark building, that sat squat and square.

The building housed six apartments — three downstairs and three upstairs. It had no main front door, no buzzer to control access, and the front gate had no lock so he went through and then up the dark, concrete stairs that smelled of dampness and urine, to the end apartment. There were few lights in apartments; the sound of a television came from one apartment and a water sprinkler hissed in an unseen yard somewhere, but otherwise the building could have been empty. At the top of the stairs he emerged into the dim glow of a low-wattage landing light.

There was no name on the door. No number. Nothing at all. He worried for a moment that it might be the wrong place, that he might have gotten the address wrong. Well he would know soon enough. He dried the sweaty palms of his hands on his pants then knocked softly. She answered immediately, her unmistakably husky voice saying: “Just a minute,” and he relaxed. Her voice rasped even more than he remembered, floated softly through the door, barely reaching him. So he waited, listening intently to the rustle of cloth, the squeak of springs and the unlatching of the door. In a moment he saw her staring at him through those large and bottomless pools of blue. “Keith,” she said, her voice and eyes expressing less surprised than he had thought they would.

He tried to give her a smile and wondered if he succeeded. She faced him from behind the partly open door in a blouse and jeans, looking at him curiously. For a long time he stared into her eyes, wondering what he should do next, how to proceed. He had forgotten how tall she was — taller than he. The piercing eyes staring from that impressive height held him in place. The unlit room behind her was filled with a smoky darkness, suggesting the exotic interior of some Arab's desert tent. They stood in their places, unspeaking, for what seemed like hours and he absorbed and memorized the details of the moment, noting that she held the door with her left hand while her right clutched an unbuttoned silk blouse across her small breasts.

Finally a surge of energy that welled up from deep inside those curious, challenging, blue eyes rushed into him. Strength replaced control and curiosity. He took hold of the edge of the door and began moving it inward, toward her, following it in. She stepped back, keeping the door between them at first, until she had to move aside or be pressed behind it. She chose to let go and stood back from the doorway; he stepped inside and clicked the door shut behind him. Then he looked at her again, his eyes adjusting easily to the darkness. She stood still, her blouse askew. He could see that she had nothing on underneath it; her nipples showed clearly through the thin yellow silk. He felt the rush of blood that comes with sexual excitement. He smiled at her again, not knowing what would happen next. She wore a mild question on her face, but a soft question, not a challenge. Her eyes stayed focused on his face.

He moved closer to her, noticing that the snap of her jeans was undone, the zipper down, as if he had quickly slipped into them, expecting the blouse to cover them. Only their snug fit on her hips kept them up; with her blouse drawn up, pale strands of pubic hair caught the traces of light. She followed the movement of his eyes, but made no move to cover herself or speak.

He took his eyes from her long enough to survey the room quickly. He saw: A single bed, unmade, by an open window; a small table with a typewriter and stacks of paper on it, a chair in front of the typewriter; a kitchenette in the corner — hot plate, small refrigerator. Not so different from home.

He turned his eyes back to her, his gaze moving from the angularity of her face, its intriguing awkwardness accented by the lips darkened with purple lipstick that was now partially bitten off, to the hand clutching her blouse, simply holding it together, to her bare navel and open jeans, then down to her feet. His blood was pounding now; he felt it rage across his temples, making him slightly dizzy. His erection pushed hard against his jeans.

They still stood close together by the front door, for neither of them had moved a step since he had come in and closed the door. She smelled to him of cigarettes and coffee and a pleasant perfume. Then he moved even closer to her, grasping her arms at the elbows, drawing her against him. When he felt the open zipper of her jeans brush excitingly against his crotch, he reached a hand behind her head, bending her head down and kissed her, pulling her even closer against his chest until her hand felt trapped between his chest and her breasts.