Erotica for each Astrological Sign
Virgo, by Laura Roberts
There is a man with a gorgeous smile, sandy hair, and feet that look great in cowboy boots. He is tall enough to make me feel small, but not dwarfed. He is standing in the kitchen, orating on the pros and cons of digital photography. I am watching his mouth move, listening to the words booming out of him, and thinking about how I'd like to shut him up. "Enough," I think, "with a kiss, I silence thee."
I sip my glass of red wine and wonder whether my lips are stained purple, whether that might turn him on.
Finally, he sits down next to me, close enough that our thighs are touching. The excuse is that this bench is poorly balanced, but the reality is obvious to us both. Especially when he casually rests one hand on my leg, even as he continues to gesticulate with the other.
His star sign is Virgo, which perplexes me; I have never understood the sense of labeling one-twelfth of the population virgins for life, as if this somehow seals their fate. Does this make them better or worse than the rest of us? It seems so absurd, a lie, a ridiculous opening for a stupid joke. I avoid the issue he has brought up somehow -- without the obvious "Hey, baby, what's your sign?" -- but the word and its meaning still echoes in my head, taunting me with thoughts of virginity.
As we talk, I start to wonder if this guy is a secret holdout, a member of the clandestinely prudish group of 20-something virgins I’ve been meeting more and more often. The would-be men who are really just boys in jackets and ties; prep-schoolers grown taller. Male virgins, what abominations! I look over this fine specimen, pondering. Is he chaste? Inexperienced? A lousy lay? Oh, God, I hope not. What a waste of a body that would be! His arms look so strong, so sure. Everything about him seems powerful, in control. He turns to look at me and smiles. His teeth are like a commercial for whitening strips; his eyes have that mischievous twinkle I love.
I make up my mind to fuck this Virgo 'til there's no doubt in my mind regarding his virginity. He can be Like A Virgin, a whorish Madonna with a funky yelp, but there will be no honest-to-goodness virgins under this star-pocked sky with me tonight.
I put my hand on his knee as we talk and drink. He squeezes mine in return, then touches my arm gently after making another gesture to those still sitting across the table. The others share a look and depart quietly, knowingly. Virgo and I finish the bottle of wine and my hand inches up his leg. His arm rests on my shoulder, migrates down my back to rest on my waist. I want him, crave him like caffeine, so I get up and beckon him towards a darkened bedroom. He follows me obediently, and when I close the door behind us, there is pitch-blackness and a pair of lips taking my breath away.
We press our bodies together, glue them there with saliva and sweat. I taste the salt of his skin along with the wine, as he slips his tongue into my mouth. We wriggle them across each other like eels, electric with longing. Our clothes gradually disappear into the darkness, ripped or slipped or flung carelessly, and our caresses become wild, unspecific. Naked, slick, we slide across each other like seals, giggling and missing each other and doubling back. I can feel his cock pressed against my thigh, and when I grab hold of it, I am impressed with its length and girth, but merely whisper "Mmm" into his mouth as I stroke it.
We continue to tongue each other madly, up and down, not quite sure where either of us is headed, wrestling for control. Finally, we manage to connect ourselves with a bed, where I swallow his cock hungrily and he laps eagerly at my pussy as we 69 our way to happiness. His tongue is soft but strong, flexing and flicking all the right spots, speeding up when I hit his own sweet spots with my tongue against his cock-head.
Just when I feel like I can't take any more, I feel the curled edge of a condom pressed into my hand. I slide it on quick like a bunny, climb aboard, and we fuck like kamikaze rabbits on speed.
Faint music from the party provides a tempo for our frantic rhythm. I'm on top, rocking to the strains of some unplaceable punk tune, sliding up and down his pole like a frenzied disco superstar. He grips my waist as I gyrate, and I can hear his breathing turn to groans of pleasure. I start to grind my clit into his pelvis, and he tongues the underside of my nipples, driving me wild. Just as the song is about to end, I feel that telltale tingling in my loins, my orgasm ready to spring. I crush down harder on his cock and yelp out my satisfaction, my certainty, that this is no virginal Virgo, but a master craftsman on a mission. It's an ecstatic howl, a senseless scream, but it does the trick. He comes along for the ride.
The record changes, and we drop to the bed, spent.
Originally published August 2009
