Chapter Text
You’re watching crows. On gray days you always look for crows in the park. In one hand you got a hot dog, in the other a pineapple ice cup for after. You’re making an ugly day pretty in your tum tum. You’re already pretty on the outside, especially when you’re squinting in a haze.
Preteens skateboard in the scoops of cement a ways to your right. Some younger kids with their parents are flying kites. Joggers scatter the pigeons on the ground. The pigeons know to get out of the way. You knew you could brighten the day with your red and white flower minidress. It’s too hot for anything on top of it, so you complete the outfit with your yellow, high top converse. You’re swinging your foot when you hear it. Yodeling and then a crash. Sounds like a whole food stand falls over. Then you see it.
Well, see him. This giraffe person in loose clothing yipping and running with a tennis racket. He crashes into a tin garbage can, knocking it down and writhing in its contents.
“It’s this POWER,” he screams behind him, his voice cracking as he continues. “I’m RIDDLED with it!”
He stands, dusts himself off, looks around and lands on you. He rushes to your bench, somehow while on neon knee-padded knees, and pleads with you to help him before he disappears around the tree whose shade you’d been enjoying.
“Tell ‘em I went that way,” he peeks out and points across the street. “Please, they’ll kill me,” he squeaks like a mouse, almost inaudible.
You shush him and turn back to your little view of Central Park, wherethrough a bunch of middle schoolers carrying backpacks and silly string chase something they’ll never catch, because you steer ‘em across the parkway towards West 72nd Street. As you watch them disappear, you wonder why a grown man would be intimidated by silly string, but then you see a straggler (and little could you know, but after minutes of trying) finally plucking a tennis ball from a hole in their wicked-looking bike helmet.
“You hit a kid?” You ask the tree as the man steps back out and towards you.
“I hit a perfect serve,” the man smirks, his voice a grainy brulee. “I can’t help that it ricocheted how it did.” He’s freakishly tall, about 6’6 you’d guess, but then you notice he’s wearing rollerblades.
“Do you always skate when you play tennis?” you scoff.
“Well, Bob Sacamano and I made a kind of obstacle course––” his voice trails off because he’s seeing you for the first time in full, as you’re standing and flicking fine hair out of your serial killer eyes. Meaning you’ve murdered enough men to be on the cover of Time. And now you focus on this giraffe person.
We’ve mentioned he’s tall, blades or not, static-fried hair or not. His eyes are so brown you could dip your pancake in them and still not find a bottom. Your fingers will come out smelling like sugar though, which should go nicely with the smooth, tobacco robustness of his gloriously tan skin. Though he’s a little quirky, he could model for Calvin Klein. He’s like a racehorse whose mother was a mudder. He makes your mind so blown––
“Put that dog down and let me thank you with a proper meal,” he smiles like a lothario, which is to say cringey, and yanks the lapels of his jacket so forcefully he almost falls over. You release a bark of a laugh but tell him you have to meet someone. You don’t, you’re just not in the habit of getting picked up by very strange men.
“Aw, well,” his bravado deflates a little but the brulee of his tone and general aura persists. “I’d still like to thank you somehow. Can I walk you to your meeting?”
Again, your eyes drop to his blades.
“Oh,” he chuckles. “I mean, can I roll you?”
Turns out, the giraffe is pleasant to talk to. Name’s Cosmo and he’s a total eccentric. Created a perfume and a coffee table book, has a lifetime supply of Café Latté, and dated Uma Thurman. You’re unfazed by the last point, except for how it might inform you that Cosmo gets around. You’re a strong woman who doesn’t suffer players or narcissists––but you get the sense that Cosmo is just… Cosmo. Wholly unique, well-intentioned, and polite to a point of chivalry, but free and unfettered like a naked innocent boy roaming the countryside.
After a cuppla blocks you smile and nod to a coffee shop you’ve never heard of called Monks. You’ll pretend this is where you’re meeting your ‘friend’.
“You’re kidding, I come here all the time!” he lights up and swings his blades (he took ‘em off a block ago after he rolled over someone’s foot). He’s very cute when he’s excited; his teeth look kinda fanged, in a good way.
“Look, there’s Ruthie at the counter, and Larry, and Olive––”
Shit, now you either go in and pretend to be stood up or admit you had given Cosmo a line. You reckon he’d be a sport about either contingency, so you decide to come clean.
“Uh, look Cosmo,” your long bangs play in your eyes which you don’t mind, because you don’t necessarily need to watch him as you admit you lied. “I’m not really meeting anyone here.”
“I know,” he smiles sneakily. “I could tell when you got lost on Broadway.”
“It’s not my usual route,” you fix your spaghetti strap. “I hate tourists.”
“Aw, they’re alright.” He deflates a little. “It’s too nice a city not to share.”
You whisk your bangs away and appraise him. You believe he’s a nice guy, your conversation told you as much. The romance of old movies, the refreshment that is the East River, and the nourishment of close and varied friendships; you two covered a lot of ground between the heart of the Upper West Side. Somewhere while holding a tennis racket and rollerblades he managed to start a cigar, even offered you a drag when you said you’d never tried one. Now he looks like a lothario again, leaning against the wall outside the café, leaning INTO you, hoping.
“I’ll let you go, I guess,” he says, though his eyes don’t blink; they communicate something very different.
You don’t know what comes over you. You reach up and pull his face to yours, and you kiss him, hard. Open mouthed but tongue-prude. Somehow you couldn’t live with yourself if you didn’t taste him before saying goodbye forever. And he’s kissing you back with tender eagerness, his arms gently falling around your back, his tongue challenging itself not to invade you, when you pull away shyly, ending the kiss. His lips are strong satin. You sense an intoxicating virility about his jaw. What he said in the park rings differently for you now…
“It’s this POWER! I’m RIDDLED with it!”
You wonder what Uma thought of this power. What any woman who’s met it thought, thinks. You watch his bulbous Adam’s apple drop and then raise as he swallows. You don’t even know if he has a girlfriend, or (God forbid), a wife. Or a husband for that matter. In fact you know jack all about ‘Cosmo’, including his last name––and your head swims with the haze this enigma put you under after the kiss YOU decided to give him.
“Take it easy, Cosmo,” you say, grappling for grounding but slick as silk (and twice as sheer). To accompany your departing words you pat his clean-shaven but shadowed cheek before you turn away and down the sidewalk, back towards the park. Soon you’ll hit Amsterdam and the subway stop that takes you home, but you won’t glance back; that would diminish the ‘cool’ way you left him. You told him the name of the news station you edit video for. If he wants to find you, he can.
You leave the ball in his court. If he doesn’t take it, at least you got something you can use.
Oh god, the way he held you back, the sense he was holding himself back from ravaging you in broad daylight on a street corner...
“There he is!” You hear a kid scream and run towards Monk’s. Cosmo must’ve been idling, perhaps watching you go while finishing his stogie, but now he’s got the better part of a middle school detention period on his ass.
You hear a yelp, and you smile.
…
He calls the next week. You’re at lunch so he leaves a message with Hailey, who works reception.
“[Y/N], some guy called for you,” Hailey squirms behind her tall desk as you key your way back into the main waiting area. At first you can’t imagine who she’s talking about. You didn’t miss an appointment that you know of, and your friends know you don’t take calls at work. You could, your work’s not that uptight, but you don’t. Whoever rang must not be in your inner circle, which makes you all the curiouser when you ask,
“What did he want?”
“He said he ‘owed you one’, and that you should meet him at Monk’s tonight.”
“Monk’s?” you shake your head, thickly.
“Where’s that?” Hailey sparkles. Boy she’s a happy sort. It’s a personality you don’t exactly get.
“I have no clue,” you start, but then you remember. “Ohhhhh,” you feel yourself getting hot. “It’s this dive near Broadway I went to as a joke.”
“What kind of joke?” Hailey raises her eyebrow, then leans into her desk. “Who is he and what does he owe you?”
Now you’re blushing and it’s noticeable, so you try to exit quickly.
“Thanks for the message, Hailey. I better get back to it––“ but you walk into someone leaving the production office as you're about to key your way inside there. Clumsily you keep talking to Hailey (“If I don’t see you later, have a good nap! I mean ‘night!’”), but soon you’re on your way to your private editor’s suite where the trick will be cooling down. Hailey’s shift is over before yours and you clunkily eliminated the possibility of her paying you a visit, so you won’t have to see her again until tomorrow; but you wonder what you’ll be trying not to tell her then…
You’re not particularly close to anyone at work so you’re a little embarrassed to be getting any attention. You’re not shy as much as private, and you’ve gone to some lengths not to bring your private life to work; so while you secretly wanted Cosmo to search you out, you weren’t prepared for how that would look.
Hailey said to meet at 8 o’clock sharp. You get off at 6:30, which gives you just enough time to run home and change. SHOULD you want to do that. And why the secrecy if that’s the case? You’re allowed to have evening plans, a social life, a date now and then. Just because you’ve been focused on your career doesn’t preclude some excitement beyond it. You dated plenty of lovely guys, just none you were ‘gaga’ over. Already you wonder if Cosmo is ‘gaga’-worthy, and the butterflies you feel now might be answering.
6:30 seems to take forever but comes too quickly. It was a smooth afternoon wherein you didn’t have to clarify anything with the producers in the bustling ‘newsroom’ cubicles outside your office. The assistant news director didn’t yell at anyone, nor did you have to do any special effects or anything too difficult last-minute. In fact the last four hours were a haze, and now you’re on the subway, rattling and jostling and taking a mental inventory of your closet.
Before you walk through your door and shoo away your cats, Ramses and Nefertiri, you KNOW you’re going to wear your black, slitted, high-waist skirt with hot pink heels, and a tight, white, jersey tank top that snaps in the front, all under an equally fitted, three-quarter sleeve blazer. Ditch the blazer and you’re a Bond girl, but you want the option of looking classically polished. Hepburn-esque. Roman Monkeyday.
You wonder what monkey-BOY will wear.
You put on lipstick and mascara in the subway. You’ve become a pro at this. Children watch and are in awe of you. A nice lady across the car from you grins; she knows you’re headed for a date. You look beautiful without looking too wanton or pristine. The heels make the outfit club-ready. Your loose, flowing hair makes you soft and carefree. Smudging the side of your mouth with your pinky nail, you’re officially ready for anything the Cosmonaut might throw at you.
He’s been waiting outside the café for you and, though you couldn’t know it, he blushes as he watches you casually catwalk down 72nd. He waves with a charming eagerness then rubs his hands together. He’s gussied in a black button-up (albeit short-sleeved) and black slacks. When you’re close enough you go French on him and air-kiss either cheek, your hands holding his reaching forearms. His fingertips hold you back with all the hunger of a school of baby piranha.
“How was work?” he asks as he pulls open the door for you. It chimes with one of those little bells and you’re suddenly aware of anyone who might be watching. This is HIS turf, after all––and he’s definitely ‘the man’, for a few waitresses greet him by name, as does a man in a white apron who seems to be the purveyor of the establishment. Meanwhile Cosmo’s looking around like he expects to see someone else as he whisks you to a back booth by the window. After you sit, a blond waitress brings you a menu. Just you; Cosmo doesn’t need one.
You’re starving, and Cosmo tells you everything on the menu is good, but that you should really try the chicken salad on a toasted croissant. It sounds delightful so you let him order that for you, while he gets the matzah ball soup.
“I’ve been craving it all day,” he explains, moving his utensils around before setting up yours for you. You laugh at his apparent nervousness, or maybe that’s just his baseline personality.
“How long have you been coming here?” you say before sipping the water the waitress brought when she took your orders.
“Oh, I dunno. About twelve years?” he answers, rubbing his jaw. His eyes haven’t landed on you for very long yet and you’re starting to wonder if he’s worried about being seen. You can’t know he’s worried that his friends might drop in when he wants to be alone with you, and that he’s second guessing bringing you here should his time with you be stolen by even the halfest of inches.
Fortunately for him the food comes out quickly, right as you’re talking about the Yankees. You watch all the games with your Grandpa, so you surprise Cosmo by keeping up with all the players and their stats. He settles down and starts to hold your gaze in that same, unblinking way he did the other day. He’s also grinning a lot, because you get really heated when comparing relief pitchers, which you do for no other reason than you appreciate your own theories on the matter. See, so-and-so’s the better hitter, but the other guy has a deeper repertoire. It’s silly but you entertain him. Beauty and batting averages.
Time flies like a good mango goes down: plump with juice and invigorating fibers.
“What now?” he asks after the waitress puts the bill on the table and he snatches it away. Before you can reasonably answer, Cosmo stands and offers you his hand to do the same. You’re both walking to ‘Ruthie’ at the pay counter when you hear yourself say,
“Do you live near here?”
Ah hell, you didn’t mean to ask that like that. “Well, yeah,” he shrugs, suddenly jittery again. “I live around the block. Where do you live?”
You tell him you’re a cuppla stops towards Columbia.
“That’s right near the Reggae Lounge!” he perks up as you exit Monk’s. “Have you been there? Man, it’s POPPIN’!”
You have been to Reggae and you concur, so the two of you decide to go there in Cosmo’s car. It creaks and smells a little bit like blood, but there’s a dastardly elegance to it, like a 1920’s gangster gave it to his girlfriend who gave it to her landlord for rent. It has a yellow disco ball hanging from the rearview and the back seat is cheetah print. You get the sense there were once red curtains along the windows…
But the ride is pleasant because Cosmo’s big on making you feel comfortable. The music coming from the cassette player sounds like an African safari at night, when all the critters are trying to mate, and he has to scream over it, and you find you have trouble stifling laughter. He’s a cartoon, this Cosmo whose last name you still don’t know.
“Kramer,” he answers when you ask for it, and part of you goes flush. A Jewish man is forbidden fruit in the xenophobic circles you escaped from; and maybe he reads as much from your wide-eyed expression.
“What?” he smirks, pulling into a lot near the club. “You didn’t guess?”
“Guess what?” you fluster, your hands fiddling in your lap. You’ve since removed your blazer; it lies in the backseat on a heap of spots. You can’t dance in a blazer. “It’s not like you’re a crayon,” you answer, enigmatically.
The bouncer knows Cosmo so you get in without a cover charge. It’s Friday night so the place is packed, and hot, and sweaty. Oh goodness, you swoon a little. You’ll need to hydrate heavily to survive this.
“Want a beer, or a cocktail?” Kramer asks as you two take in the smoky air and the startling lack of armspace.
“Sure,” you answer, turning around yourself, unsure where to let your eyes land in the busy environment. Finally you look back at your date and say, “Vodka and cranberry?”
“You got it,” he says and makes a popping sound with his mouth while snapping his hands together. You pull your hairband off your wrist and slick your hair back into a mid-level bun, minus some wisps of your long bangs––and you fan yourself with increasingly sweaty palms. It’s an act done in vain, but you smile when you see Kramer return with both your drink and a tall glass of ice water.
You like thinking of him as just ‘Kramer’. Cosmo suits him but Kramer has more chromosome.
“Let’s find a table first,” he suggests. “There’s one near the A/C…”
He gives you the cocktail but carries your water for you, as he takes your hand and pulls you to follow him. Your fingers are so dainty in his animal clutch, you might marvel at feeling like Thumbelina if you weren’t self conscious about your own sweating. But Kramer doesn’t seem to mind as he squeezes your palm a couple of times and (still walking) turns back at you just to flash his brilliant teeth. You find you smile easier than you ever have in your life when you’re with him.
“Hey Paulie!” Kramer greets a guy with crazy skunk hair near the stairs going up to a VIP level. Underneath these stars is where a series of tall tables stand against a brick wall with framed posters of Reggae artists (Janet Kay, Third World, The Techniques) and string lights overhead which cast a marvelous spell over the smoky area. Yes, it’s the 90’s, so there’s smoking in clubs. In fact, the winghead Kramer’s talking to has a stogie goin’.
“Your girl workin’ tonight?” Kramer sets your water on the nearest table as he directs the question to the snazzy suit, and you suddenly chill with the realization that Kramer’s talkin’ to a wise guy. You see his gun holster as he swings an arm up to shake Kramer’s hand (Kramer’s other hand still holds yours).
“Yeah, she’s up in the lounge. There’s some record execs here apparently, so she can’t be catering to me” Paulie frowns then leans around Kramer to take you in, preening stubby little teeth at you.
“Hello sweetheart,” he offers his fingers. “What’s your name?”
“[Y/N],” you shake his fingers, answering him. “How do you know Kramer?” you can’t stop yourself from asking.
“Hey now,” Kramer takes your cocktail and sets it by the water. Then he whisks his arm around your waist and says to Paulie, “D’ya mind if we set our stuff here with you?”
“No problem kid,” Paulie keeps looking at you, like a shark at a svelte seal. His own drink of top shelf whiskey was on the table before you got here, and now he’s running a fingertip along the rim of his lowball. “You two go have fun, huh?”
You nod at Paulie as Kramer pulls you away and towards the crowded dance floor. If you had any misgivings about a wise guy wanting to spike your drink, you forget them as soon as Kramer presses you flush against him and touches his lips to your ear to say,
“Don’t worry about him,” he breathes hot on your delicate lobe which thumps with the bassline of a slow groove––his lips basically kissing your ear while his hand slides its way down your back to the top of your ass. You wonder what his tongue looks like right now, in this very moment, in his very mouth, as he says, “....Just show me what you got.”
And then he starts to rumba.
Your sisters got the rhythm you didn’t, but you try to follow Kramer’s wild example. It’s clear you’re clueless but he’s gonna make you work anyway, because that’s the fun. He’s twisting his hips and throwing his arms up and soon you’re forgetting to be embarrassed because you’re too busy laughing and channeling chill vibes with an addictive beat. Your hair frees itself and Kramer pulls it from your neck now and then, until the music slows considerably and the two of you are left sweating and breathing heavily and staring at each other.
It is here that Kramer, again, pulls your hair from your shoulders with thirsty fingertips, this time leaning in to blow cool on your bare skin, his body closing the gap between you, his hands teasing more desperate touch as he owns you like this.
“Need a break?” he asks, his voice low and cotton soft.
“Sure,” you answer, weakly, and he does the whole Last of the Mohicans hand-grab again before surfing the very mellow tide back to your table, which Paulie still haunts.
“Heh heh,” Paulie (laughs?)(sounds more like a dragon choking on an egg). “You two’z get a little parched?”
“Oh you know it,” Kramer salutes the dragon then puts his arm around the shoulder he just blew on.
“Drink up, baby,” he says for only you to hear, his eyebrows raising and wiggling. “I’m not done with you, yet.”
“Have a drag on me, kid,” Paulie vies for Kramer’s attention by offering him a cigar, which Kramer declines because,
“Naw thanks, man, but I need my lungs for dancin’!” Then Kramer turns back to you to kiss your forehead and hold your eyes as good as skewer them, enjoying watching the roast. Your eyes are wide too because when Kramer was turned away, you chugged your vodka, which will explain why you do what you do in a little bit.
Yes, you already kissed him. How else could you debauch yourself, you might ask?
Well, let’s see. First Kramer makes sure you drink your water (perhaps out of politeness he pretends not to notice your cocktail glass is empty but for ice). He’s hovering over you like he’s shielding you from Paulie somewhat, like you’re exactly the kind of meal a mobster would wring someone's neck to have. And you are: with your hair damp and your skin glistening and all your parts firm and voluptuous: YOU are a dish, Trish. And you don’t need the affirmations of all the other men and women who slap fives with Kramer or holler at him from across the packed room to know you’re being looked at.
The live band switches gears and start a cover of Zeppelin, and you’re a nerd because this excites you––which in turn excites Kramer. He lights up watching you bounce with recognition of the music, and now you pull him to the dance floor. Now, you show HIM a thing or do about gyrating and air guitar. You bang invisible drums in perfect time with the band, and Kramer is beaming, impressed with your ability to rock and yet move your body in a way that’s totally sensual, unhurried, and devouring. During the bridge, you realize you’re holding Kramer’s face to your own and responding in kind to his incredibly focused hips, which buck like they’re drinking you. Guzzling you. There are so many people around you doing the same thing, essentially fucking while standing, that you’re free in a way you’ve never known before; and still Kramer’s being a perfect gentleman, until he isn’t.
The drums bang and the bass descends and everything stops.
Oh Rosie,
Oh girl
(Oh Rosie
Oh girl)
Kramer opens your mouth with his and slides his tongue down your throat. The sweat on his cheeks and nose blends with your own and smells like peppermint creme. Your legs tremble while he runs his hand up the slit in your skirt and with the same hand, holds your ass, just over your soaking underwear, squeezing the firm but ample flesh so he can grind his erection into you as he tastes, tastes, (tastes). Brazen, his other hand lifts to cup your breast and somehow pull you tighter into the kiss, which is more like a long, slow insemination.
Well they call me the Hunter…
You're missing a splendid light show behind the band, but you’re also not missing a thing. You can’t outrun this, but you wouldn’t want to. Could he have known you’d submit to him like this? Let him slip and splash his paws and mouth all over you in front of a crowd of strangers? You, throbbing now, and him, feeling UNDER your panties now, en route to discover said throb for himself––
...’Cause I’ve got you in the sights of my gun
––”I want you,” you pull back to say into his mouth.
“I want you, too,” he says after licking his lips, his eyes never leaving yours.
“Come back to my place?” You’re shaking now, you’ve sweat so much. You’re more than a tad dehydrated.
But he doesn’t answer you except to grab your jaw, hard enough to hurt, and kiss you again, deeper this time because he knows you want it. But he won’t let you escape it either. All you know is you’re a little dizzy, and he’s a little perfect as he’s sucking the breath from the very bottom of your lungs. Lower even, from your sex.
You stay in the club until long after the band leaves. It’s New York, so clubs don’t necessarily close for the night; but when the crowd thins to just you and a cuppla low-level wise guys (Paulie must’ve peace’d out), then you know it’s time to call it.
Kramer walks you to your apartment, but he stops short of imposing that he should come up. Your apartment is cute but average at the same time. Your facade faces a bodega where you buy your fruit, and Kramer asks if you think the proprietor has a return policy for avocados.
You tell him you have no idea. You never do things like this, kiss strangers and dirty dance. Give out personal details to men you’ve just met. Drink to get drunk because you’re unsure you can handle someone’s animal magnetism. This is all new territory for you, because the truth is you’re unsure of yourself, and because of that you don’t really trust men, and with this guy you’d almost rather get the heartache out of the way.
You sigh. Pat his cheek. His beard’s already growing back.
“Do you want to come up?” you have to hold your breath to ask this, because you’re sensing by his body language that he’s apprehensive.
He clenches his jaw for a bit, breathes heavily through his large nostrils. His eyes are two steaks that sizzle.
“Go ahead,” he nods to the door you’re holding. You can’t read his tone anymore; it’s just flat. Almost punitive.
In the elevator you inhale each other. It’s easy to do; he tastes like blackberry jam and feels like you imagine that latest movie star you’re in love with to feel: solid, masculine arms (albeit wiry), long, lean thighs and a chest that was once concave, but with age, bricked out. He could play for the Knicks. He could be a prize fighter. When his hands are on you, you buzz. Not just on your skin, or in your veins; your aura glows a little brighter. It flies up your nose and makes you want to sneeze from your groin. It dunks you in Joe DiMaggio’s coffee until you’re gasping for breath DIRECTLY into his throat.
Making out with him in your elevator converges then reduces you two to a unicellular organism––one who’s masculine hands don’t quite invade your skirt the way you’d like, but longingly stroke your hair, coddle you like a babydoll, cherishing you. He’s drawing you in his mind’s eye, appreciating you with all the quiet bewilderment of a blind person feeling water for the first time. You wonder how worthy you are of this kind of attention when the elevator DINGS and it’s time for you to get out.
You lead the way, not pulling him but confident he’ll follow, because you’re swaying your hips and the straps of your top are down and you’re sex on stilts. It would take an acrobat to ride you right, but dancing reveals a lot. In truth, Kramer may have ground against you with studied abandon, but he was also quick to go shy about having done so. He was careful not to draw attention to any lascivious body part when you weren’t dancing, and apart from the elevator, he hasn’t touched you in any particularly lusty way––and that’s because you initiated the elevator contact.
But now you’re putting your keys into their keyhole and opening up your apartment to him, and his hands are in his pockets and he’s hunched over you, like a vampire. You enter in the dark and keep it dark. You have enough light coming through the window you don’t really need anything else, but for ambiance you move to the kitchen and flick on the backsplash lights below the cabinets, which emit a quiet luminescence to your crammed but well-curated apartment space. It’s just a studio with a sliding wall and a couch that turns into a bed, but you’ve been saving up for a bigger place. You wish you had one now, as Kramer seems to take up most of the breathable air in here.
Incidentally your cats will hide until they hear him leave.
“Well,” he looks around, accidentally knocking his elbow against the sliding wall between bed and living space as he does so. “How long have you been here?”
You’re embarrassed to say it’s been a cuppla years, so you shrug and admit to half that. Then you catch yourself apologizing for the want of room.
“Why?” Kramer counters. “It’s perfect. Like a little birdhouse. You know, this is what every apartment is like in Japan.” He’s getting animated now. “Compact spaces, is where it’s at,” and he clicks his tongue. “Keeps you from amassing… clutter.” His hands flap around, scattering ‘clutter’.
You blush and look away. Start to ask if he wants a drink but he touches your bicep and pulls you into him. Then he kisses you. No tongue at first; he’s still courting you even though you both know where this is headed. Cosmo Kramer’s soft, pouty lips sweetly rub your quivering ones as he shyly opens his mouth against yours.
“You sure you want to do this?” he speaks into your mouth, his deep voice pouring over you like hot caramel. His fingers are caressing your upper arms and back as he says this, before he pulls away just enough to gently kiss your forehead. “We could go slow, you know. I’m in no hurry.”
Your hands are on his chest and you let your fingers roam up to the V of his shirt to feel his warm skin. You want to savor him, too, you think as you draw him to your couch before a big window. It’s a rare night in New York when you can see the moon, and boy does Cosmo look good in its light.
Holding his hand, you sit, and he follows suit, watching you all the while like a dalmatian puppy, but in the bath of the moon there’s still a vamp-ness about this gangly, virile man; like he’s resisting his curse to be patient with you. You can read it in his micro-twitches. You can read it in how he holds his breath in his stomach. Watching this curious discomfort on him, you become overwhelmed with the impulse to ravage him, but you settle to kiss his neck just beneath his jaw. You let your tongue come out to play and bring the kisses down and over his Adam’s apple. He moans when you do this, and adjusts in his seat.
“[Y/N],” he says, breathless as he cradles your face with his hands and kisses you again. This time he jaws you avidly and his rabid but tender-to-the-touch tongue invades you in the best way, stirring your appetite, your loins tingling, your underarms challenging their antiperspirant. The ‘gentleman’ caves to the animal and Kramer pushes you back against the couch, pinning you as he crosses his legs over yours, inhaling your neck, decolletage, and shoulders while grinding your hips. Then you realize he’s humming.
Take me out to the ballgame becomes I’m on the Mexican radio as he gulps the last of your vodka cranberry from the back of your teeth, and yet his kiss isn’t clinical at all, but a wild ride of yearning and fever. You didn’t even realize it was happening until one of your teeth got pregnant with twins.
Funnily he won’t touch your breasts again except by accident, and he certainly won’t reach under your skirt. Now is a ‘high school’ attempt at intimacy and satisfaction, meaning he’ll jaw you until his tonsils bleed but he’ll otherwise be a nice, chaste, ‘band geek’. There’s so much potential in his body, and as far as you’re concerned his loose, expert fingers are that of a concert pianist sans a Pez dispenser on his knee.
He massages while he explores you, which adds to the pop rocks-like fire he summons in you. You want him to fill you until there’s hardly any room to breathe; you want him to sink you with an epicness you felt not too long ago, in front of an audience no less. An epicness that rose to your abs when it ran ground against you.
For now, though, you two play on the surface of each other, not touching anywhere racy for too long, just moaning into each other and cooing and gasping. Baby gasps, because he’s still being polite, and you’re too overwhelmed to breathe too un-shallow. Why won’t he at least try to get me there? you wonder, but not for long, because he’s hypnotizing you with his swirls. He’s getting you drunk again off his musk and his hairy forearms and chest, with his gold necklace and his slow, shy yips. You start to pull him more fully on top of you but he pulls back and holds your hands together.
“That would be too tempting,” he says over you, sweat pooling on his upper lip, his damp shirt hanging over like a desperate sail. Oh he’s a pirate alright, with his twinkling eyes and their razor lock on you, with his M.O. of vouchsafing your treasure. “Why don’t you walk me to the door and kiss me goodnight. We’ll finish this another time.”
You swallow. It sounds good to you because you’re in over your head and you don’t fancy broken field running. Kramer pulls you up and to your feet (which have since shed their shoes). Kramer’s being very careful not to step on your naked toes as he leads you back to where you came in.
“I like you, [Y/N],” Kramer says as he pets your hair. “I want to get to know you first.”
You nod. You’re glad he is who he is.
“So you’ll talk to your sis about me,” he smiles, putting his hands back in his pockets. Earlier you had mentioned you’re meeting your sister for breakfast in the morning.
“You might come up,” you smirk. “Usually we talk about the weather.”
You shouldn’t try to joke, but he likes it.
“Well maybe you’ll tell me about rain patterns over dinner?” he asks, and you can tell he’s subtly planning all the places he’ll fuck you in your apartment as he rocks on his feet.
Or maybe that’s just what you hope he’s doing before he offers, “Ever been to Mendy’s?”
…
“[Y.N], you shouldn’t have brought him home!” Your sister scoffs over her eggs benedict. It’s a beautiful, sunny day at your little brunch place, Eleanor’s, and you’re both outside where there’s a little garden to your left and an attractive antique gate with vines and flower bouquets to your right. You look like a Parisian postcard except you’re in Jersey because your sister wanted to try a new brunch spot here. The subway ride consisted of you telling her about how you first met Kramer then about dancing with him. Now, you’re having to explain choices made in lust.
“We had two dates!” you defend yourself. “It’s not like––”
“Like you kissed him the day you met?”
Ah, you shared too much. But anyway. Waffles are good. Came with little edible flowers on the side and powdered sugar dusting their golden brown cakey-ness. The coffee’s on point, too. You’re roasting vanilla in the Sumatra and loving every gulp. You’re not gonna let your sister drag you down, even if she IS the bossiest person you know.
“[Y/N], just promise you won’t do anything with him until you’ve met his friends or a coworker, or his neighbors… just anyone who can attest to his being a little more dimensional?” She talks like a lawyer because she is one, and you’re glad you didn’t tell her about Paulie.
Your sis has to head back to the city but you decide to check out the Newark Museum of Art when a voice hollers at your from outside the bus stop:
“Hey, Kramer’s girl!”
You turn to see none other than Paulie winghead, this time wearing a blue tracksuit.
“What are you doing in my neck of the woods,” he asks while kissing either cheek.
“We just went to Eleanor’s,” you smirk while pulling your hair behind your ear.
“You and who?” Paulie points. “Is the kid here?”
“Nah, my sister.” You hoist your purse up a little higher, hold on to the strap. “She already left though.”
“And what are you gonna do?” he motions to the bus stop. “Take in the sights?”
“I thought I’d check out your art museum,” you have to raise your voice over a passing semi.
“If ya see the Mona Lisa, tell her to call me, huh? Heh heh,” Paulie takes your hand and pats it while he turns to the gumba who’s been with him all along. Some Brillo pad-wearing oaf.
“Did ya hear what I said,” he asks his lavender-track-suited friend. “I said, ‘if ya see the Mona Lisa, tell her to call me’.”
You roll your eyes. You just want your hand back. His feel like sandpaper with pockmarks.
“Alright, sweetheart,” he turns back to you and releases your hand to point to the air. “When you’re back in the city, tell the kid I got a favor to ask of him.”
Uh oh.
“A favor?” You start to breathe a little shallow. Suddenly the sun is really hot on your bare chest, like it thinks you’re Mercury.
“Just a small thing. Nuttin’’ ta worry your pretty little head about,” he pinches your cheek and prepares to leave you. “Take care, precious. Don’t forget what I said. That Kramer of yours sure is hard to pin down, sometimes.”
But you feel hard to pin down as well, given how the portside wind whips at your hair and flowing dress. You’ll find it hard to concentrate on any art, your mind instead roaming all the possible favors a mobster might ask of the guy you’d otherwise seriously consider for a boyfriend.