Kevin Harding - Twice As Nice Nymph

I wait for his grunt. I hear it. I feel his cum ooze into me. I don't have an orgasm. I was closer to cuming twenty minutes before while I was just sitting there waiting for him.

He pulls his prick out of me, gets up, takes a swallow of my drink. "That was good," he says. I'm not sure whether he means me or the drink. He yawns. "Well I guess I'll be off to bed." He looks at his watch. "Eleven twenty-eight;' he says." Not bad. I can still get in my seven hours."

I sit alone in the living room trying to get down the rest of my drink. I am suddenly sick to my stomach, feel that I'm going to vomit. I'm not sure whether this is a reaction to Graham or to the drinks. I get up and stumble off to bed. I flop down on the mattress. I am sweaty and hot all over. The room spins…

In the morning I wake to the sound of Graham moving about the house. I hear him in the bathroom. Then in the kitchen. Then going hurriedly out the door. I hear the sound of his car backing out of the driveway, zipping down the street.

I wash and dress quickly. I take time to pack only a few things. I write a note. It is brief.

Graham,

I'm leaving. I won't be back. You may have trouble understanding the reasons but that's one of them.

Carrie.

I take a cab to the railroad station and store my suitcase in a locker, then take another cab to an intersection a block from Eric's apartment at the edge of the French Quarter. I walk the rest of the way, slowing my steps as I draw near.

I come to Eric's apartment, take the elevator up and knock on his door.

No answer.

I knock again and wait.

After a few minutes I give it up and leave. I remember the name of a bar he mentioned, The Monk's Cellar. I hail a cab and have the driver take me there. The bar is in the French Quarter, just off Bourbon Street. I go down the half-flight of stairs and enter hesitantly. It is very dark inside and it takes me awhile to adjust to the light. The bar isn't crowded. A few of the customers turn to stare at me. Their eyes look sleepy, distant. A few of the men are wearing business suits but most have on worn out colorless pants and dark shirts. There are only a few women. Almost everyone has straight longish hair. It is quiet in the bar except for the muffled sound of rock music coming from behind a velvet curtain at the back. I feel strange, out of place. I look for Eric among the sprinkling of business suits but don't see him.

I go to a booth in a corner of the room and sit down. The table is covered with a rather soiled checkerboard cloth. The dark squares are blue. In the center of the table a candle burns low in an old wine bottle. There are a lot of paintings on the walls but I can't make them out very well in the dimness.

I am hungry but order a whiskey instead of food when the waiter comes.

"With water?"

"Yes…"

I sip the whiskey and look about, hoping to see Eric. The drink goes to my head quickly. I finish it and order another. I ask the waiter if he knows a man named Eric Nilsen.

He nods. He frowns a little. He is balding, thin.

"Has he been here today?"

"No."

"He does come in frequently though, doesn't he?"

"I haven't seen him. He hasn't been in. I'll bring your drink."

He leaves before I can ask another question. He stops at a table near the bar where a man with thick black hair and bushy sideburns and mustache sits alone. The waiter whispers something and the dark-haired man looks my way. I glance down quickly at the table. When I raise my eyes again, he is still staring at me. I am about to get up and leave when I see him coming across the room toward me.

He stands over me. His shirt has no collar, his sleeves are badly frayed. His thick neck bulges out. He smells like paint. "You were asking for Eric?" he says.

"… you know him?"

"Yes." He pulls out a chair. "May I…?"

I nod. As he sits down I notice in the light of the candle that his deep set eyes are a very soft brown. Like a deer's. Liquid almost.

He lights a thin cigar with the candle. He is an exceptionally big man with heavy shoulders. His chest bulges out against his shirt. He has large hands with dark paint crusted beneath his fingernails. "Eric is out of town… out of the state," he says. "He'll probably be gone several weeks."

"I just saw him yesterday."

"He left last night."

"… you look disappointed."

"I was hoping to see him. Maybe you can tell me where he is?"

"No."

"You don't know…?"

"I know. I just can't say."

"Oh… I see." I reach for my purse as if to leave.

"No need to go, have a drink with me. I am alone too." He asks me very casually. His soft eyes intrigue me. Somehow they don't seem to go with the bigness of him.

"I've already had two," I say. "I'm not used to drinking this early in the day."

"Have coffee then. And a roll. They have French donuts here."

"That sounds good." I laugh a little. "Actually I'm starving… I haven't had a thing yet to eat today."

He smiles and signals the waiter. In a few minutes we have a pot of coffee and two plates of donuts sitting in front of us. I eat hungrily. "My name is Armand," the man says. "I paint. But you won't see my paintings in any galleries."

"Aren't they good?"

"I think so."

"Don't you try to sell them?"

"Every afternoon at Jackson Square. To the tourists. But they don't bring much there. They are worth more, I think." He hunches forward and his hair creeps down over the back of his shirt. His brown eyes look almost sad in the light. His cheekbones are heavy but I like them. I notice that he eats a donut in just two bites but he isn't sloppy about it. I like sitting here with him.

We talk. The expression on his face doesn't change when I tell him I've just left my husband and had planned to stay with Eric. He smokes his cigar. He stares at me. There is a warmth about him that seems to flow across the table and take hold of me. We finish the donuts.

"Shall we go to my place?" he asks. "I'll make more coffee and we can sleep then. You look tired. I have some good wine that we can drink later."

"All right," I say smiling. I am not at all surprised at his asking me like that. It seems the natural thing to just get up and go with him. I put out my cigarette and we leave.

When we get outside, Armand takes my arm. The street is quiet. He walks with a slight limp and it takes me awhile to get used to it. We cross the street. He flips a dime to. a shoe shine boy. Another boy comes out from between two buildings and they fight for it. Armand laughs and tosses out another dime. They each get one. He walks along the street as if he owns it. As if he owns the whole city. It sort of overwhelms me, just walking next to him.

He whistles some. He lights another of the thin cigars. I like the smell of them. He seems to be walking slowly but I have trouble keeping up with him.

We come to an old building on a corner. He points up at a window and says that's where he lives. We climb three flights of stairs and go into his room. It is almost as dark inside as it was in the bar. I am out of breath from climbing and sink into an. overstuffed chair. Armand raises the window shades to let in some light. The room is sparsely furnished. The air seems very dry. It is a very large room with a stove and refrigerator and sink along one wall. There is a rug but it is threadbare. I see no real bed at all. Just a large mattress on the floor in a corner. But a blanket is pulled up neatly over it. The chair I'm sitting in is uncomfortable because of a spring bulging up.

Armand laughs as I squirm about in the chair. "Come sit with me at the table," he says. "I'll heat some coffee."

We sit there, drinking coffee and looking down at the street. The traffic is light. The cars look very small. I think I hear the shoe shine boys arguing but it is just someone calling a dog. The day has clouded up and after a few minutes it starts to rain. The rain splatters the windows and washes the street. I enjoy it being here with Armand, watching and listening to the rain. I like the size of him, the quiet way he has about him, the thickness of his hands and fingers.