"She Who Must Not Be Named"
The sparkling lights shifted towards the tall blonde in a silver dress that accentuate her luscious curves. He seductively winked and raised his glass. He soon worshipped every inch of her buxom body, firmly holding onto her waist with both hands, grazing her neck with his tongue, twirling his fingers around her ponytail and pulling hard until a gasp escaped from her cherry red lips. He flicked her earring while pressing his face against hers, taking one hand down to unhook her garter. He lay her down and gripped both legs open, looking into her eyes as he teased her moistening clit. She begged him to take her so he grabbed her ass in his palms and balanced her back with his fingers, pushing her up towards his pulsating cock. She pulled her panties to the side while he slowly slid inside. He whispered “naughty little slut” as he thrust deeper into the tight forest, his legs shaking with hers.
The next evening, he met her at an Italian spot near Washington Square Park. The bill made him sweat but the gnocchi was phenomenal. She took him back to an Airbnb, explaining she was in between places at the moment. He felt good drinking red wine on the bed with her dog between them, resting its head on his thigh.
But she moved around with the same frequency she changed her lingerie. When they talked on the phone, her “living room” sounded like a subway station or on the streets with drunk, rowdy crowds. She surrounded herself with the haut monde of Manhattan, the elite inviting her into their social circles and private homes. He made dinner reservations at Cipriani’s in Tribeca, which was cut short by everyone stopping to chat at their table.
Who was New York City’s sweetheart? The anonymous woman posing in every picture with the bourgeoisie?
He was waiting for the subway after a night out when he heard heels clacking on the platform. When he turned his head in anticipation, his stomach dropped as he realized she followed him. It was pouring rain as he ran back from the station, her tagging along in stilettos faster than a marathon runner. At the main gate, he asked her to leave when her angelic face turned into Pazuzu’s.
He was shocked to find out later she was homeless and going after the money he did not have. She went to nightly parties to find a roof to sleep under or to become the next Pretty Woman.
A few weeks later, he ran into her at a bar in the West Village. She was on a date with an older gentleman who had a night pass from his geriatric ward. Her sweet smile turned into a smirk when their once loving eyes met.
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