April May

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Literary Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
This is an old bit of 90s wordcraft I had stuffed in a drawer. Written at a time when you could smoke in bars. Polished at a time when you couldn't.

Submitted: May 07, 2019

A A A | A A A

Submitted: May 07, 2019





“I should tell you, before we go any further,” May pauses to light a Belmont.  She tosses the lighter on the table. It tumbles towards me. She blows out a stream of smoke and, in the same breath, finishes her thought. “I have an unusual job.”


“So you said,” I inform her.  “You’re a stand-up comic.”


“That’s not my job, though.”




Through half-closed eyes, she ponders whether or not to pursue this subject with me.


“I’m a dancer,” she says.  


“A dancer?”


“An exotic dancer.”  May sucks another puff from her cigarette.




May has girl-next-door freckles and wiry, no-need-to-brush-it, red hair.  She is also handrail thin. The forearm with the hand that holds the cigarette is more bone than flesh.


“Like a stripper?” I ask.


“Yeee-esss.”  May could have rolled her green eyes at me but chose instead to spell it out like I was still in public school.  “Just.  Like. A stripper.  I’m pretty good at it too.” She gulps a mouthful of her Ricker’s Red.  The two women sitting at the next table glance in our direction.


“Oh, yeah?”  I ask. I had to dig deep for a follow-up question.  May puffs away, content to while away the afternoon.


“So...what’s your stage name?”


“April.  Original, eh?”


“Can I come see you dance?  Sometime?”


“Mmmm...not just yet.  I freak out dancing in front of people I know.  It makes me feel stupid. Stupid AND naked.” May laughs a nervous “don’t-ask-me-to-explain-myself” kind of way.  She has a mouthful of small white teeth.


“Okay.”  I pull a cig from the pack she left open in front of me.  “Well, can I come see you do stand-up, then?”


“Oh, no!  Definitely not my stand-up.  I’m not funny when there’s someone I know in the audience.  I bomb and then it’s weird. I’m still pretty new at this.”


I pick up the lighter and light my cigarette.  As I drag deeply on the smoke, I stumble through my mind for something else to ask her.  May leans forward and studies my face and my eyes, chin in hand, elbow on the table. She swishes the beer around in her glass then lifts the drink to her mouth.  The half-dozen bracelets on her right wrist clink together.


“What are some of your jokes?” I ask.


May’s cheeks bulge.  She tucks her chin to her collarbone and swallows.  “I haven’t written anything new in a while.” Her eyes water.  A small burp growls up her throat. “I have some old jokes. Like ‘I’ve always wanted to be a cheerleader but I couldn’t make the team.  So I did the next best thing. I became the high-school slut. That way, I got to wear a skirt and do the splits too. And half the football team.’ ”


I am stunned into silence.  The women at the next table are suddenly silent too.  I sense their heads turning our way again.


“That’s funny,” I tell her, as if saying it makes up for the fact that I didn’t actually laugh.

“It’s old.  I don’t tell it the way I used to.”  May finishes her beer in two swallows.  Mine is still half-full and getting warm.  I look around the patio for the waitress.




May and I face each other next to a white pillar in front of her apartment building.  The night air is humid.


“Can I kiss you?” she asks me.


“Sure,” I answer, expecting to be on my way after a polite peck.  I badly need to urinate. May puts her arms around my neck and pulls my face into hers.  I put my hands on her waist as I kiss back. She leans on me. I have to step back to keep my balance.  We both stumble. Her thighs sandwich around my left leg. I slide my hands down her hips and reach around to squeeze her rump.  She hums into my mouth, her lips buzzing against mine.


A man on a mountain bike rides up to the bike stand behind June.  He dismounts and bends over to lock up his bike. May is oblivious to the noise behind her.  She tilts her head to approach my mouth from a new angle. The cyclist stands up to remove his helmet.  He glances our way. I shut my eyes but can’t shake the feeling that we are being watched. Most of my concentration is on the cinched muscles around my bladder.  I shift my weight to ease my discomfort. May’s left thigh nuzzles against my groin. I open my eyes as the cyclist walks by. He hoists his knapsack over his right shoulder and shakes his head as he approaches the lobby doors.


I take my hands away from May’s body, breaking the spell.  She lifts her head away from mine, leaving her arms around my neck.  Her eyes are glassy. She tries to meet my gaze but misses the mark. We take huge gulps of air as if we jogged here from the pub.


“Wow.  You’re a good kisser,” she tells me and breaks into a drunken laugh.


“So are you,” I respond.  


“Well, let’s not wreck a good thing by talking about it,” she purrs.  In the sweep of golden light from the mercury vapour security light, her dancer sexiness is revealed to me.


May cups her hands around the back of my head.  The bracelets on her right wrist press against my left ear.  She pulls me into her mouth for a second go-around. Our teeth collide and grind against each other until we settle back into a comfortable rhythm.  Her limbs constrict around my body. My side cramps up.


“May, I have to pee real bad.”


“So do I.  Wanna come in?”




May unwraps herself from me and I have to take a step to keep from falling over.  I am drunker than I thought. She leads me through the lobby doors.





“One of us has to put the brakes on,” June tells me as I slide her blue turtleneck over her head.  I am already bare-chested. She wears what I think is a type of bra over her tiny breasts. She is so small chested that the garment is more a formality than a means of support.  As we make out on her futon, I push the material up and out of the way. The shoulder straps bunch up under her chin. June leans forward and untangles herself.


“That’s as far as we go.  Okay?”


“Sure,” I tell her as I kiss my way down her neck.


“You see those bumps around my nipples?”


I get down to nipple-level and study.  She has tiny, light nipples inside the pimply, brown circles of the areolas.  I think of the peanut that used to sit in the middle of the factory swirl when you opened a fresh jar of peanut butter.  


“Yeah?” I answer.


“They’re Braille for ‘lick me’.”


I snicker at her cleverness as I indulge her wishes.  As she warms to my touch, I slide my right hand down between her legs and rub her through her khaki green cotton shorts.  


June’s orgasm builds and builds until she screams out her release.  She is so loud, I wonder if the superintendent next door can hear. Or anyone walking by in the lobby.  What must this sound like? To me, June sounds as if she is in great pain. Or danger. It is a thrill to see and hear her react the way she does but I fear someone might interpret it the wrong way and call the police.  I want her to stop as much as I want her to continue.


She falls sideways on the futon and uses the butts of her palms to massage her eyelids.


“Oh, you sneak!” she sighs.


June stands up and leaves the room to pee.


I lean forward and reach for her pack of cigarettes.  Movement at the window catches my eye. I see two teenage boys standing beside the recycling bins outside her ground-floor apartment.  They peer in through the gaps in June’s broken Venetian blinds. I flick the lighter. Their eyes are drawn to the bright flame. I see the whites of their wide, excited eyes.  They see me and back away into the darkness. I lean back against the futon and put my feet up on the coffee table.


I hear the toilet flush.  The door opens and June steps out of the washroom wearing only her white cotton panties.  Her body is thirteen-year-old-boy thin and bony. Her skin is pale white. The bracelets are gone from her right wrist.  She walks on the balls of her feet, swaying her derriere. It is the trademark of a stripper. I am not sure if she does this for my benefit or if it is now part of her nature.  She crosses the closet-sized bachelor apartment back to the futon. .


“You can stay if you want to,” she tells me, no longer as drunk, “But I have to get up early for court.”




“I’ve been charged with obscenity.”


“Oh.”  No further explanation seems to be coming and I am left wondering if I even want one.


She bends over the coffee table to fish a cig out of her pack.  Her breasts seem larger when she leans over. She stands and lights her cigarette, tossing the lighter to the coffee table when she is through with it.  The lighter bounces off a magazine and drops to the floor. She stands before me with her left hand on her left hip. She blows a cone of smoke out the right side of her mouth.


“What if I say ‘I must be going’?” I laugh nervously, afraid that my teasing ways might kill off whatever momentum we have developed.


“Then you can at least help me pull out the futon.” she says, indifferent to my feelings.


Obediently, I help her move the coffee table out of the way.  I pull the cushions from the futon and she unfolds it to form the bed.  She carefully scoops up the ashtray that holds our burning cigarettes and turns out the overhead light.


As she moves around in the darkness, I hear her slip out of her panties and under the covers.

I am in the process of unbuckling my belt when she turns on the end table lamp.  I hesitate as I look out the window again. I can’t see any movement but I suspect those boys haven’t gone far.


She sits up.  Her legs are cross under the covers.  The ashtray lies on top of the covers.  She holds a box of condoms in her right hand.  A bottle of lubricant and a terry cloth hand towel have appeared on the side table.  She spots me looking out the window.


“The kids?  Don’t worry about them, “ she says she tips a strip of plastic packs into her left hand.  “I’m moving out at the end of the month. They’re going to miss me.” She tears a condom pack from the strip and shoves the rest back into the box.  She tosses the box over the side of the bed. It joins the cigarette lighter on the floor.


“What exactly do you have in mind?”  I ask. “April?” I add for effect.


“Don’t worry pornstar.  I’ll go easy this time. Now come to bed.”

© Copyright 2019 Horto. All rights reserved.

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