Content notes: hand sex, semi-public sex
It is possible that Jules was the most annoying woman on earth. She stood off to the side of the concert-venue-turned-event-space drinking what had to be an obnoxious beer straight from the bottle. Kindred Coffee Company’s holiday party was in full swing, and I felt like I was going to pass out from the heat of the crowd. I gently patted my twist out to see if it was still full and luscious or if it had started to shrink from sweat. Multi-colored lights twinkled from above, and there was a stack of presents for everyone — probably week-old coffee.
I looked up just as Jules was about to take another sip of her sludge. She was wearing all black with a leather jacket. She lifted her beer toward me in a mocking salute.
Of course she’d be here. In a leather jacket of all things. Christ.
I made a show of rolling my eyes at her before smoothing down my dress, careful to adjust the split so that no one got a show — or a free one, at least. What I needed was a drink. ASAP. Especially if I was going to have to talk to her.
I grabbed a place in line at the bar, which had to be made out of recycled wood from a barn or whatever young business owners liked these days. The top was laminated with pennies, and it looked like someone had made a valiant effort in one corner to dig out a few. I waved at the bartender, who was busy handing out beers to the cafe staffers waving their beer tokens like they were betting at a race. I risked a glance at Jules, who was tossing her head back and laughing, oblivious.
Our arguments over the last few weeks had recently come to a head. As Kindred Coffee’s full-time administrator/ sometimes graphic designer/ overall jack-of-all-trades, I wanted to believe in this company to which I dedicated so much time. I had my methods and routines in place so I could focus on bigger things, like getting more diverse art on our marketing materials. But then came Jules, the coffee roaster.
She showed up with deliveries from a small, local roastery and turned everything upside down. She pointed out the lack of diversity in our ads — quite loudly, I might add — and insisted upon having me do the coffee tastings with her and overall caused chaos from the moment she stepped in and smiled that dumbass smile and waved at me with those big ass hands.
I stumbled a bit as someone bumped into me, nearly knocking me out of my heeled boots.
“Hah, sorry ‘bout that!” the kid said. It had to have either been a new hire or a plus-one because I hadn’t seen him before. He was clearly imbibing as much as he could on the free spread, and I couldn’t blame him. I looked back up to see if Jules had seen it because of course I wanted her to be looking at me at all times.
Fuck. Had she disappeared before I could apologize?
Jules had been adamant that Kindred was faking “woke,” and I didn’t want to believe her. Couldn’t believe her. That was until I heard them say a thinly veiled, racist comment to one of our coffee farmers on a work trip. I cringed remembering how I blew up at Jules when she kept pressing the issue, only to be proven wrong later. This was going to suck.
Finally, the bartender was free from pouring beer after beer. I watched as each cup slowly had more foam in it. This man was DONE.
“Can I get um, a…”
“She’s going to get a gin and soda with a lime, but a cucumber would be great if you have it.”
The scent of woodsmoke and lilies and burned coffee was behind me. I turned around and Jules was there with a huge grin and — oh, sweet christ — her black button-up was unbuttoned enough to show a sternum tattoo and the hint of tits. I forced my eyes up. I forced myself to stop thinking if it would be salty if I licked there, or kind of soapy.
Art by Jenifer Prince
“You know my drink?” I asked stupidly, trying to think of anything to say except, “Wanna show each other our nipples?”
She smiled and reached around me to grab my drink. Her plain silver rings clinked against the glass, and our fingers brushed.
“You talked about it enough,” Jules said.
“You must pay a lot of attention to me,” I found myself saying. I hadn’t even had a sip of a drink yet and I was already trying to risk it all.
“Yeah, when you’re not yelling that is.” She winked at me (winked!), and took a sip from her beer. I watched her lips purse and wondered what it would be like to have her lips purse on certain parts of me.
Jules was a wildfire, a real bat out of hell. When she wasn’t laughing she was yelling. She’d flip a long, pink braid over her shoulder and waggle her shaved eyebrows at me when I was upset. She made it seem like life was a huge joke and she was in on it. And I wanted so badly to have just a taste of what that was like. A taste of her.
“Could I actually talk to you about that?” I sipped my drink, wishing that it were stronger or that someone else could apologize for me.
“Of course,” she said. She glanced around the venue. “But not here.”
Without another word, she started walking towards a staircase that clearly had a “no entry” sign on it. I followed her as quickly as I could up to the balcony area that had a few low couches and scattered crates. She plopped down on one of them, spreading her legs and leaning over on her forearms.
“Ok. Shoot.”
I didn’t want to think — I just wanted to words to come out. To make it right somehow. I had been needlessly shitty and no one deserves that.
“Listen,” I said as I tossed back the rest of my drink with a shaky hand. “I was wrong. About everything. The owners, all of it. And I’m sorry I was dismissive of your point of view. ” I could practically feel my hair sweating out. “And I want you to know that I plan to do something about it. I’m not sure when, or what exactly, but mostly, yeah, I’m sorry, and you had a point.”
It was silent for a beat. I must have really pissed her off. She wasn’t saying anything — she was just staring.
“I think I forgive you.” She stood up, setting down her beer at her feet.
“You think?”
“Yeah, I think I can,” Jules repeated, stepping closer. The slight creak of the floors under our feet was the only sound in the world. She stepped closer and glanced down at the deep V-neck of my dress.
“You spilled something, by the way.”
We had done this dance before. The sitting too close, the glances at each other during meetings, the playful shoves, all of it. She’d even requested to follow my Instagram, commenting ridiculous emojis on my photos. She was standing so close, and it was so warm and so silent.
“Do you want me to kiss you, Ronnie?” she asked, and I felt time stop. I nodded.
“Thank fucking god,” she said before grabbing me by the back of my neck and covering my lips with hers.
Her kiss wasn’t some soft and questioning thing — it was hot and insistent. I opened my mouth so I could roll my tongue against hers, tasting beer and gin and citrus.
Jules moaned appreciatively, letting her tongue swirl against mine, gripping my waist with a firm hand, stroking me gently through my dress. I thought, this must be like what it feels to be on fire.
Jules pulled back just enough to graze my jawline with her teeth, moving torturously slow toward her earlobe. “You’re so sweet,” Jules whispered hotly before hungrily flicking her tongue inside.
I thought my legs would buckle. That or I was going to start dripping on the floor. The fabric of this dress didn’t really allow for panties. I reached up and did what I had been wanting to do since I first saw her — I thrust my hands into her hair and pulled. She hissed and nipped my lip. Somehow, her thigh had found itself between my legs. I was trying my best to not dry hump her where we stood. Jules seemed to notice my predicament. Leaning in closer still, she whispered, “I want to see how wet you are for me, babe.”
Forget “dry” humping at this point. I knew I was slick and ready and had been since the moment I followed her up the stairs.
“Come here,” she said. She led me toward the back of the balcony area, where a few empty boxes were scattered and the lights from down below didn’t quite reach this corner. She gently backed me toward the wall.
“This ok?” she asked, forehead pressed to mine.
“Mmmm,” was all I could get out. I nodded. Then I grabbed her hand and placed it high on my inner thigh; an invitation.
“Fucking hell, Ron,” she said, her voice shaky. She ran calloused fingers up until she found out just how fucking wet I was for her. She dropped her head onto my shoulder.
“I think you’re going to kill me,” she laughed. She smiled at me then and held my gaze as she started caressing my pussy, gliding through the wetness. My pussy lips were swollen and sensitive. I needed more. Way more.
“I think you can do better than that,” I said. Jules took the hint and dove two fingers in me, slowly thrusting. “You,” she said, eyes pouring into mine, “Are something else.”
I was trying to not make more sound than was necessary, but that’s hard when your crush has you against the wall, finger-fucking you into oblivion while kissing your neck.
I was about to cum. On Jules’ hand. In a hipster-ass music venue during a work holiday party.
“Still feeling good?” she asked. I knew what I needed to get me over the edge, to send me flying out of my god damned mind.
“Rub me a little softer, with the heel of your palm, please,” I said, panting. She did exactly that. One, two, three pules of gentle pressure, and I passed away on the spot. Deceased. Stars behind my eyelids. The whole shebang.
I wrapped my arms around her neck and buried my face in it, inhaling deeply.
“Did I ever tell you you smell really nice?” I said into her hair, coming back down to earth.
“Did I ever tell you you taste good?” she responded, and I watched her put those same fingers in her mouth. She gave them a slow lick too, for good measure.
This woman was out to kill me. I knew it.
“I’m gonna go clean up,” I said, laughing and making my way toward the stairs.
“Need help?” she asked, not missing a beat. I looked for something, anything to throw at her. Jules laughed and walks ahead of me. “I’m kidding!” She smiled at me before bouncing down the stairs.
It was going to take some time to figure out the next steps. Maybe I would convince the owners of Kindred to give me a bigger seat at the table or quit or “accidentally” going to write a post about their comments. Those big decisions could wait.
In this particular moment, I was in desperate need of paper towels. And a repeat performance from Jules. Preferably in my bed. It was too damn hot in this place.
This is a gorgeous story