BLUE MOVIE, part one

Faith could look in the mirror and see her shortcomings.

Legs that were just a little too short, even in heels, a belly that was round instead of flat, breasts that, despite not being particularly large, had sagged even in high school.

She didn’t see herself as ugly. Just not quite there. Unremarkable.

She was well aware of the standards for women. And of the women who met those standards, with their perfect faces and perfect bodies. They were on every magazine cover, every movie or television show, they populated the beaches, attended the universities, starred in the workplaces. They were the influential, the standard bearers.

They were the definition of what a proper woman was supposed to be, and they did it effortlessly. It wasn’t even a factor of youth. There were enough such women at every age, that Faith could gage their perfection through their evolving life cycle.

She believed that there had been an earlier time when something less would been good enough, when the parameters of what a woman was supposed to be had been much broader, when it was all right to be ordinary.

The world had refined itself, wealth, leisure, health care and dentistry had allowed this new breed of perfected men and women to emerge, leaving all the rest of us behind. And with their perfection, they’d reserved all the good stuff for themselves, the good life, happiness and satisfaction and excellence.

Faith saw herself as drab. Not awful, by any means, not ugly. Not a loser. She could look at herself naked in a mirror, and all the parts were there, there was nothing unacceptable. But standards had moved past her. Ordinary wasn’t good enough now.

She felt like a leftover person.

Leftover people got leftover lives. That was how she felt.

It certainly felt like that when it came to sex. Perfect people had such perfect sex, and so much of it. It made her feel inadequate, her experiences of blow jobs, masturbation, the sweaty fumbling of copulation, all so rushed and awkward and perfunctory. Even her orgasms weren’t as good as the perfect peoples’ seemed to be.

It made her restless. She had this sense of weird unease, as if she could or should be doing better. As if whatever she had, wasn’t quite enough. Great sex, beautiful sex, wild sex called to her. She wanted the sex that perfect people had, wanted to touch it, taste it, see it.

Which brought her to the porno theater.

She knew of it well before she visited. The city had a ‘sin’ district of sorts. Careful zoning had squashed adult bookstores and novelty shops, peep shows, massage parlors, strip clubs and sundry unsavory venues all into a relatively small district, adjacent to the nightclubs, not too far from the tourist and hotel areas.

You talked about it with your friends in high school, sharing stories or remarks, a kind of anti-garden of Eden, full of forbidden knowledge and earthly pleasures. They’d remark on it salaciously or dismissively, depending on who they shared it with and how they meant to wield it. But whatever they said about it, or however they said it, beneath, there was the fascination of the virginal for the carnal.

The first time she’d visited the area was with her friends, giggling at the sleaziness of it, wandering into an adult novelty, barely daring to look at rows of dildos straight on.

The second time, she’d gone alone, furtively buying a small, cheap and very inadequate vibrator.

Over time, she’d return and buy better ones, as she got to know her own body better, and found what it liked and responded to.

The district both intrigued and repelled her, the promise of sex and satisfaction, the naked, unapologetic raunchiness of it all was alluring. No guilt here, only desire. No second guessing or insecurity, simply doing it, simply being.

But against that, there was a repellent quality, a kind of grittiness and vulgarity that clashed with her fantasies.

It was all very male oriented of course, it was about selling sex to men. But the flip side of it belonged to women, it was women’s bodies on display, women’s lingerie, women’s sexuality that was depicted as proud and voracious, women having sex. The men were inconsequential, supplicants, not stars. The women, or at least the image of women and their sexuality, was dominant.

The porno theater was right in the middle of it. An old style neighborhood movie theater that had been fallen behind the times, and in an effort to keep up had divided itself into three screens, and then eventually converted to adult entertainment. Or perhaps the other way around. She wasn’t sure. Her parents might have gone here when it had been a real movie theater, and it still had the architecture of past respectability.

Its existence was no secret, she knew of it, had driven or walked past its marquee many times before she decided to buy a ticket. She had been thinking about it a long time, imagining darkened spaces and people, perfect people, up on the screen having explicit sex, long before she actually bought a ticket.

***

The interior lobby was red. Deep red carpeting, now worn in the center, from so many feet, and never replaced. The walls were red and plush. Fittings were brass. The biggest surprise was a huge marquee watercolor poster for ‘The Crusades, starring Charlton Heston’ a leftover from better days. The other, regular sized movie poster slots were occupied by the expected porno movies just slightly ragged, all photographic and glossy.

There was a concession stand just behind the ticket booth, and a worn stairway with brass fittings on its railing and a sign indicating washrooms upstairs. Even the thought of the sort of bathrooms that would be in a porno theater made her shudder.

For a second, Faith stood there, taking it in, not sure what she’d expected. It was an odd combination of ordinariness and decay with only a thin gloss of sexual bravado. She wasn’t sure what the posters signified - films come and gone, films to come, or simply posters that theater owners liked.

She jumped a little as a man in a bomber jacket walked past her, marching up the stairs. He didn’t make eye contact or even look at her, but simply moved around her as if she was a ghost, not even acknowledging her presence.

There was a short hallway leading to three screening rooms. The first was obviously gay, ‘Sailor Boys in Morocco,’ the second was straight but raunchy, ‘Raincoat Sluts.’ The third seemed gentler, ‘Eve for a Day’ that seemed safest.

The film was already running when she stepped into the darkened theater. That wasn’t a surprise, the theater advertised all day movies from 2 pm to 2 am. Up on the screen two women, perfect women of course, were engaged in some sort of conversation.

The room was smaller than she expected, perhaps two dozen rows of seats, mounted steeply. One wall was ornamented with velvet paneling and gold wainscoting, crowning along the edges of the ceiling, the other walls were bare, signs of a clumsy retrofit from when the space was divided up. Along one corner of the ceiling, was a white smear, revealing peeled paint and plaster. There was a lingering air of seediness, that she found she had sort of expected, and a faint musty scent new to her that she hadn’t.

There were a dozen people watching the movie, all men, all seated far apart. No one turned to look at her as she made her way to an empty row, chosen because there was no one sitting there, or anywhere close.

Up on the screen, the two women were kissing. On screen, they were gigantic, the camera close up on their faces, their profiles were immense, each twelve feet, lips that could devour an automobile, tongues like freight trains. Moans that weren’t quite in synch added to disorientation.

Even as the camera pulled back to encompass their torsos and bared breasts, and further to show their full bodies writhing against each other, they were still distractingly gigantic.

The sheer size of the figures up on screen made it oddly anti-erotic. She had to look away, letting her eyes pour over the men in the rows ahead, watching the movie. Staring at the backs of their heads, their shoulders, as they sat there and stared at the screen, she felt vaguely voyeuristic. Watching them watching the movie, unaware of their gaze, she felt oddly powerful. They lacked faces, identities of their own, they were like mannequins.

What were they experiencing? She wondered. Sometimes men left, sometimes they sat together. Mostly, they didn’t move, transfixed. They seemed hypnotized by the flickering images, whereas she felt a sort of removal, something that made her feel vaguely empowered. The magic had no hold on her.

Someone came and sat in her row.

Faith glanced at him warily, careful not to turn her head too much, instead just giving a side eye. The man didn’t acknowledge or look at her, he simply sat down, three seats away, leaving ample space between them. Had he even noticed her? Or realized that she was a woman? After all it was dark in here.

Of course he must have noticed, Faith chided herself. It was a movie theater. He wasn’t blind. What would a blind man be doing at a porno theater? Listening to people moan?

He wasn’t bad looking. Or especially good looking. He was average, a little taller, slightly bony. He reminded her vaguely of Christian Slater.

She thought about moving a few seats further away, but that would be obvious. Or leaving, but then she’d have to cross over him, she imagined edging past him, her knees brushing against his, the awkwardness of it all.

Faith decided to sit right where she was, ignoring him. Everyone was here to watch the movie, which at this point involved two people having yet another conversation, this time, another girl, and a Latin American man. She didn’t know who they were, or if they’d been in the movie before she came in. They were both attractive of course, perfect people, the girl blonde and dressed in a tank top and skirt, the man in shorts and a loose wife beater t-shirt.

The scene was a living room with a fireplace, all very old fashioned. They sat on the couch, talking about another woman, knees almost touching. As the woman leaned forward to whisper something, her hand rested on the man’s thigh, sliding upward. They both looked down. The woman pulled away, removing her hand as the man leaned forward. He placed his hand on her knee.

She stood up and walked a few steps to the fireplace. The man followed speaking earnestly. She turned, the camera catching the smile on her lips. The man stepped up behind her, reaching around to pull her back towards him. Her hips rotated just a little as she pressed her bottom into his crotch, even while she whispered that it was wrong. The camera zoomed in on his olive-tanned hand slid across the bare pale flesh of her stomach, and then abruptly the hand dived down, fingers sliding beneath the hem of her skirt.

Faith’s heart raced. The image of the hand sliding down beneath the skirt, the obvious pleasure and anticipation of the woman on the screen, made her heart flutter. She could feel herself suddenly a little wet. There was nothing explicit, she could not see the hand or what it was touching, it was simply the suggestion, the reaction. In her mind she could almost feel the fingers sliding smoothly over the woman’s mound, towards her clit, her lips, her wetness. Faith licked her lips, fascinated.

On screen the woman gasped, throwing her head back, and he kissed the side of her neck. His free hand reached up, pushing up her tank top exposing both her breasts, his hand clutched one breast. She moaned as his hand dove further beneath the band of her skirt. She reached up, one hand on his as it clutched her breast, as if pushing it down on her body, her other hand clutching her free breast.

In the theater the man got up and sat down in the seat next to her.

Startled, Faith turned her head to look at him directly, but he just gazed ahead to the figures on the movie screen. She wasn’t sure what to do. Tell him to go find another seat? He was just gazing calmly at the screen, not even acknowledging her. She didn’t want to speak to him. That felt like it would be an invitation. An initiation. Move herself? But she was here first. Would that be weakness? Was there an etiquette?

Elsewhere, some men sat close, and it occurred to her that there was a kind of eroticism to sharing this act of cinematic voyeurism, a subtle excitement to knowing someone, even a stranger, was nearby seeing and enjoying the same thing you were.

Up on the screen, the couple were kissing, she’d turned around in his grasp to embrace him. Her breasts, pert and perfect still fully exposed, both his hands on them now. Instead, she was kneading his crotch, fingers lifting and splaying then pressing down to wrap around his cock, still in his shorts, but now given shape by her fingers and the way its length pressed against the fabric.

As she shifted slightly in her seat, her breath just barely quicker, the man spread his legs, and their knees touched. Mildly jolted with surprise, Faith moved her knee back, and then, motivated by some defiant, excited impulse relaxed and let them touch. She glanced at the man, not a direct look, but a slight turn of the head and side eye, and froze.

Up on the screen the couple had moved back to the couch. His shirt was off and she lay supine as he pulled her skirt and panties off, her tank top was already gone.

The stranger was nakedly stroking his cock. It wasn’t out and the light was dim in the shadow cast by the seats ahead, but there was no doubt as to what his hands were doing down below his waist. The same thing that the woman on the screen had done, the hand sliding, clutching outside, the cock hard and pressing against the fabric.

Faith was shocked and intrigued at the man’s boldness, literally masturbating out here in a public theater. Had he sat closer just so that she could see? Did he want her to see? It was disorienting, Faith knew she should be repulsed, but honestly she could not classify the warring emotions and reactions. The stranger’s knee rubbed against hers unconsciously as he touched himself. She pulled her gaze away, staring at the figures on screen.

The blond woman wore only tennis shoes and white socks, she was lightly tanned, just enough for bikini lines to show. The bronzed man finished pulling her skirt off, it dangled from one lifted foot before vanishing away. Had the girl even been wearing panties? Some abstract part of her mind wondered. The girl stretched out on the couch like a cat, full of luxurious, boneless languor, her legs parted, one foot up on the couch, knee bent, the other foot drifting to the floor. The man knelt between her legs.

Next to Faith, there was the sound of a zipper, almost imperceptibly faint, but somehow large in her awareness. She knew what the man beside her was doing.

There was a close up as the woman on the big screen ran her fingers through her lover’s curly hair, their eyes meeting, and then she guided his face between her legs. Faith watched, her mouth dry and heart beating, as his lips parted wide and his tongue slid out to lick. The camera shifted scene to the woman’s reaction, her satisfied moan, her buttocks lifting almost convulsively.

Despite herself, Faith glanced again at the stranger beside her. He was staring at the screen, utterly fascinated, entranced. Only his knee pressing against hers signified any awareness of her presence. His hand was inside his fly, pants unfastened for easier access, visibly stroking.

Up on screen, the woman moaned with pleasure, both hands on the man’s head as he bobbed between her legs. Two shows for the price of one, Faith thought. She glanced again, focusing on the stranger’s crotch, hand vanished, but the motion suggestive. Faith wanted to see more. As on the screen, she wanted the tease revealed, even as the man’s motions grew more expansive, the gap in the pants growing.

Faith was wet, genuinely wet, she could feel herself throbbing down there, with real excitement. She could feel the hardness of her nipples, a sense of adrenalin and anticipation running through her body. It was the excited anticipation of make out sessions, that awareness of sex, the steps leading to it.

But in a strange way, it was better. She was just watching, nothing was demanded of her. She didn’t have to worry about what she was doing or supposed to do, there was none of the subliminal second guessing, the uncertainties of regular sex. All she had to do was simply experience her arousal as things played out on the screen before them and in the seat beside her.

Her glances became more frequent, until she was literally dividing her attention in two, going back and forth. Up on the screen, the tanned man was standing as the blonde woman knelt before him, pulling his shorts down. She cooed with delight, as his rampant erection sprang free and wrapped her hands around it.

In the seat beside her, the man’s cock was slowly exposed, lifting as he stroked it. In the dim shadowy light, it was pale, almost ghostly, springing from a dark patch of pubic hair. Even now, it was partially obscured by his hand, her glances never supplying quite enough of a look at it. Its mystery was almost more fascinating than the scenes on the screen, perhaps more fascinating for being live and right beside her.

He was so bold to have it out like that, so reckless, such a pervert. His adventurousness excited her. She found herself almost resenting it, in her own arousal, she desperately wanted to touch herself, but obviously she couldn’t. She could only sit there and watch, and tonight get busy with her favorite vibrator.

Up on the screen, the woman licked the head of her partner’s cock, lapping it, one side then the other. Then with fingers wrapping firmly around the shaft, opened her mouth wide and took the head between her lips.

There was a hand on her thigh. Faith felt the fingers against her flesh sliding down, the palm resting there. It should have jolted her, and Faith was vaguely surprised at her lack of reaction. But with the eroticism of the scenes on the screen, the man touching himself, and her own arousal, it seemed almost natural. She was aware of it, not repulsed, but not accepting either. The hand made no further encroachments, as if it was deliberately waiting on her decision as to whether it should creep higher. Waiting for some sign of acceptance, like her knees closing suddenly or easing wider.

She did neither.

Instead, for what seemed like an eternity, but was only a split second, she hung in indecision. She felt like she was at the edge of a cliff, or perhaps better, standing at the edge of a pool, or in front of an open door. She had this sense of potentiality, of possibility, of a great well of sensuous carnality in front of her, waiting to swallow her up. Part of her wanted it, to just ease forward, relax her thighs, see how far the hand would creep. She imagined pulling her skirt up higher. But there was also the uncertainty, the uneasiness and questioning of the unknown, how far it might go, or might want to go and whether she was ready for those unknowns, and if not ready, would she be allowed to back away.

Staring up at the screen, watching as the woman’s red lips slid down the length of the cock. As she teased and tortured it with fingernails and rolls of the tongue, the man was sitting now on the couch, leaning back. The woman knelt between his legs, her expression one of wicked glee.

Faith stared hard, unwilling to even glance to her side, vividly aware of the stranger’s erection, of the motion of his free hand stroking, of the hand on her thigh; vividly aware of her own arousal, but willing to give no sign of any of it. Gently, she placed her hand atop the stranger’s hand on her thigh, making no other acknowledgment, neither approving nor rejecting, but simply waiting to see what happens next.

Faith’s heart was pounding in her chest, it was an act of willpower not to turn her head, not to look. She stared at the screen, but she was no longer watching it, instead fully caught in the moment. The stranger’s hand lifted gently from her thigh, turning to catch her own hand.

She allowed this.

Carefully, the stranger drew her hand over to his seat. Her heart rate doubled, pounding wildly. She swallowed, her stomach full of butterflies going wild. She both knew and didn’t know what he was doing, wanted and didn’t want it.

The stranger guided her hand to his erection, curling her fingers around it. It was hot in her hand, achingly rigid. She felt the slightest touch of slick moisture against one of her fingers. She was no virgin, she’d held and fondled lovers’ erections, sucked cocks, but there had never been this sense of immediacy, it had never been this vivid. She could almost smell his arousal.

It had felt unexpected, she hadn’t expected it to go here, to become this complicated, this overt. She had anticipated encroachment and whether to permit it, but this? This was an invitation to partnership in his crime, in his perversion. Heady and unexpected.

Faith couldn’t help it, she turned her head to look, to stare. The man was watching her, waiting on her reaction. No, she thought, too much. She withdrew her hand, pointedly turning her head to stare at the screen, shutting him out so that he got the message.

She took a breath and tried to slow her pounding heart. The man sat there, neither advancing nor retreating. She wouldn’t look, but she couldn’t forget the warmth and rigidity of his erection, the ghostly paleness of his cock.

Up on screen, the couple were fucking on the couch, their position awkward, the man holding himself above her, very clearly positioned for the sake of the camera shot. Their fucking alternated with close shots of his penis, shining with her lubrication thrusting again and again into her vagina.

After a few moments, carefully, she let her arm creep lightly across the seat, her fingertips trailing across the fabric of his trousers. Was it still out? Had he put it away? She didn’t want to look, instead she pretended that her hand was disembodied, that it operated under its own will as it searched.

There was a brush against hot flesh somehow stiffening, and then gentle touches guiding her into place, her fingers moved up a length of flesh coming to the shape of a head and curling around it, feeling once again its hotness and rigidity, the head already smeared with a drop of pre-cum.

Mine, she thought, mine now, and squeezed.

If she thought of it, she’d have decided it was insane. She wouldn’t have done this. She’d just walk out, do the sensible thing, and never admit to anyone that she’d voluntarily touched a complete stranger’s cock in a porno theater.

But Faith was very deliberately not thinking, focusing on the moment, on her arousal, on the couple on screen, the darkness of the theater. It was as if the theater had become its own world, separated from reality, from the fears and mundanities of regular existence, where the rules were different, where a logic of sensuality governed and things were ... permissible.

Faith eased forward in her seat, her panties already soaked. Allowed her thighs to widen ever so slightly. The stranger’s hand found its way to her thigh, she felt the palm against the flesh. She smiled inside, and squeezed the cock in her hand gently to signify her approval.

She opened her thighs just a little further, waiting. A moment later, the hand on her thigh, warm and firm, as if recognizing her consent, crept up a little further. But not far, not quickly, as if carefully gaging her willingness. And truly, she wasn’t sure how far she would let it go. To let him touch her panties seemed inconceivable.

And deliriously exciting.

In her mind’s eye, the scene of the movie, the hand disappearing beneath the waistband of the woman’s skirt, her ecstasy, the primordial awareness of where those fingers were, what they’d been doing. She wanted to be touched like that.

The image in her mind’s eye merged with the action on the screen, the courtship had transitioned to full copulation, their bodies writhing together. The man on screen sitting back on the couch, almost sprawled and reclining. The woman riding him, holding his wrists and pressing his hands into her breasts. Their bodies glistening with sweat. The soundtrack was a dizzy succession of moans, the dubbing not even bothering to synchronize.

She eased a little forward, spreading a little wider, feeling the hand creeping up. She stared at the screen, with half-lidded blinking eyes, the action breaking down into a sequence of stunning images. She held the stranger’s cock in her hand, her grip just loose enough that she could slide it up and down. His hand on hers, guiding, she let him set a pace for his own pleasure, letting her fingers ripple as they crossed the threshold of the corona and closed over the head and prepuce, smearing the beads of precum.

She had the sense of crossing her own threshold, of descending into the pool of sensuality, not a leap, but a loosening, a sensation of relaxation and abandonment. The fingers brushed her panties, and she eased forward just a little more, carefully not looking at the stranger, but feeling his fingertip move up and down, tracing the outline of her lips and the wet place between, circling her clitoris through the satin. They probed the edges of her panties, tugging at the fabric, and she allowed the smallest gasp, her hand momentarily tightening gently around the cock.

Suddenly, there was a hand on Faith’s other thigh.

Faith felt jolted, her heart skipping a beat. Her knees clamped together. She felt like she’d jumped out of her skin. She jerked her head, and there was another man sitting on the other side of her, not as tall, but more conventionally handsome, wearing a two day growth of beard and casual clothes. She hadn’t been aware of him at all, hadn’t noticed his approach, hadn’t realized he’d sat down at the other side of her, that he must have been watching her. Not until he’d touched her. It was as if he’d materialized out of thin air.

For a second, the sensual world she’d allowed herself to be immersed in turned to ice and shattered. She didn’t know what to do. Scream, shout, run away. Call it off. Slap the second man, ‘How dare you touch me while I’m about to be fingered!’

Neither man moved. The first stranger’s erection was still in her hand, under her power. They were both watching her, waiting for her decision, to see what she would do.

On screen, a new couple was fucking, a café-au-lait woman with long black hair, and a muscular blonde man, going at it doggy style. The woman gasping and tossing her head. For a second, just a second, the woman on screen looked directly at the camera, seemed to make eye contact with her, a flickering impression that was gone almost as soon as it was made, the toss of her hair giving the subliminal impression of a nod.

The cock pulsed in her hand.

Faith glared directly at the second man, challenging. He couldn’t quite meet her eye. She made herself settle back in her seat, easing her butt forward and parting her legs. She took the first stranger’s hand and placed it firmly high on her thigh, about halfway up. With a glance at the second, she took his hand and placed it just inside her knee.

Then she very deliberately turned her face to the screen and ignored them both, refusing to so much as look at either, watching the café-au-lait woman take on two men, while looking again and again directly at the camera.

Faith wasn’t at all sure she’d recapture the warm feeling of immersion. She’d invited their groping out of a weird feeling of defiance, and was half inclined to reject it in a few minutes, to call the experience ruined and walk away. They wouldn’t try to stop her, they’d backed off with a hard look from her.

To her mild surprise, the feeling of immersion crept back, the sense of being enfolded in sensuality, in touch. She found herself relaxing, the sudden tension draining away. Neither man on either side of her rushed. The first man made his careful way up her thighs, and she found herself spreading her legs wider to accommodate.

The second was more circumspect, more cautious, aware of being on thinner ice. He stayed at her knee before carefully making his way inward.

Faith felt the first stranger’s fingers near the junction of her thigh. She was wet again. She lifted her hips slightly to pull her skirt up a little, to make access easier. She felt so wanton, so unapologetically, gloriously wicked, sitting in a porno theater being groped by two complete strangers.

As she felt the first stranger’s hand brush against her panties, the fingertip once again gently tracing the outline of her lips, sliding between them and stroking upwards to circle her clit and then repeat the pattern. She reached down without looking and pulled her panties to the side, and gasped as she felt the touch of his fingertips against her bared clitoris. She was awarded by a pulse of rigidity to the cock in her hand, a blush of precum beading at the head, smearing across her palm.

Faith had never been touched in such an intimate way. Touching herself was different, of course. And her lovers had never regarded touch as more than hasty foreplay, a mechanical prelude to the good stuff.

But the stranger was gifted, his fingers probed and teased, alternating heavy and light, but never too much, never the same way or the same place. He was so intent he forgot to guide her hand on his cock, letting her cradle it loosely in her hand, like a talisman. He taunted her clit, tapping, fluttering, sometimes surprising her with a gently inserted finger, curling upwards to stroke her g-spot, bringing her to the outer edges of orgasm.

The second stranger arrived, and then she felt two hands between her legs, two palms, two sets of fingers, as different as night and day, crawling over each other, sometimes working in tandem, but more often unpredictably diverse, sometimes two fingers curling inside her as other fingers circled her clitoris, sometimes pushing and probing at her clit. She was drenched, she could feel her vagina contract.

Her legs spread wantonly wide, her skirt up around her hips, all caution, all reluctance gone. She floated on a sea of sensation, filled by sensations of touch, sights and sounds of passion, filling her mind, her own soft sighs and moans joining in.

Faith twisted in her seat, sometimes reaching down to grind one hand up against her clitoris, or to push another away. From her peripheral vision, she knew both men were turned in their seats towards her, watching her intently, the movie forgotten. She was vaguely, very vaguely aware that other men in the theater were watching, heads and shoulders turned around in seats, some standing to get a better view, perhaps a few approaching as close as they dared.

They seemed miles away, she was almost indifferent. There was no desire to have them nearer, to intrude on the psychic boundaries of her dreamlike lust. She didn’t want to be touched by anyone else. She didn’t want to know anything about them.

And yet, Faith was aware that she was the center of attention, the porno movie was forgotten, the perfect people onscreen were ignored, her arousal, her sexuality, her adventure overshadowed them. She was the sex goddess, she captivated, and the theater was the temple, the watchers her worshipers.

She pulled her blouse up exposing her bra, and then her breasts, without really having a reason, but simply for the sensuality of the motion, of the act, for the almost subliminal sense of being a star, the center of attention and wanting them to look.

The hands climbing each other at her pussy became almost distracting, their lack of coordination stealing her away from the edges of orgasm, as often as they pushed towards it. She was becoming annoyed.

Faith reached down and took the second man’s hand away, bringing it to her breast, pressing it to her nipple. Obediently it clutched, fingers squeezing, her nipple roughly stroked. She felt bold.

This was better, Faith twisted in her seat, giving her vulva fully to the first man, stroking his cock loosely, feeling the second man’s hand on her breasts, moving from one to the other, cupping, exploring.

His face came close, as if to kiss her, and she turned her face away. Instead, his mouth descended to her nipple sucking it, as he squeezed her other breast rhythmically. She moaned loudly and pressed his face against her breast, feeling his teeth scraping against her nipple. She stroked his hair. Her hips bucked coming closer to a peak.

Over his head, onscreen the Hispanic man had returned, a smaller, muscular brunette woman wrapped around him. The woman’s fingernails drew lines down his bare back, and she watched his buttocks flex as he thrust into her, her thighs bouncing with every lunge.

The second man was already half on top of her, with his mouth on her breast. She felt him lurch, his mouth leaving her breast, a wet smear of his saliva chilling. He was half standing, holding himself up against the seat, fiddling with his pants.

As she watched, her gaze flicking from the screen half obscured by the man, to the blocky shadows and pale hips of the second man's body, his erection rampant, not porno sized, but decent, curving sharply upwards, she thought, ‘why not?’

It was exciting, not terrifying. She was so aroused, so immersed, so drenched in the erotic heat of the moment that his clumsy desire was welcome. She stroked the cock in her hand almost unconsciously, pulled up her legs, and reached down to pull her panties even further aside, to welcome him.

He was awkward as he climbed over her between her legs. The second stranger’s first effort to enter her was defeated, not by her choice but her posture in the theater seat. She slid down in the seat, scooching forward until her ass was almost at the edge of the seat, and bracing herself her feet against the row of seats in front of her.

The second stranger lowered himself down over her, almost kneeling, holding his body over by the arm rests on the seats. He thrust against her, his cock leaving a wet trail as it slid over her mound.

Faith reached down, grabbing his cock, guiding it forward. Surreally, the phrase ‘two in the hand one in the bush’ flickered through her mind. But then she felt him between her lips and with a thrust he entered, and she moaned.

The first stranger’s hand withdrew. She let go of his cock to guide his fingers back to her clit. As she did so, the other man’s cock fell out, and she had to hold it and bring it to her lips until she felt it slide in again. The position was so awkward, he could not enter her fully. She could feel only half his length.

Over his shoulder, up on the screen, a woman wrapped her arms around her man as the camera shifted from their bodies coupling to the erection sliding into her wet vagina.

She stared at it, focusing, immersing, even as the man above her struggled to thrust into her, parting her wet lips and thrusting wildly, while the other stroked her clitoris with frantic urgency, the timing of the two just barely out of synch and deliciously so.

Faith’s orgasm was finally arriving, she moaned, her voice rising to a cry and then another. She struggled, arching her back to lift her hips to take him deeper. It was building fast.

The man on top of her groaned suddenly, his wild thrusting becoming frantic. Only her hand preventing him from falling completely out of her, before ramming half less than a third of his length in.

Faith could feel his cock swelling in her, could feel his ejaculation in her, something that amazed her, she’d had sex with men, had men come in her, but had never felt actually felt them in this way, had never felt their ejaculation. Had never come so close to simultaneous orgasm with a partner.

Then her orgasm bloomed fully, her cries became shrieks, for a moment there wasn’t enough air, she couldn’t breathe, her mind was filled with blinding white light. She writhed and bucked. The man on her was deflating his cock fell out, and he sank to his knees, his weight partially on her, but she hardly noticed. It became too much, frantically she pushed the first stranger’s hand away from her clit.

Faith drew in gasping breaths, until she could breathe, pushing the man off her. He lurched to the side, twisting and falling into his own seat. Her right hand was slick with slime, and she realized that the first must have ejaculated while the other was mounting her. She was lightheaded, vaguely glad that he’d found release. They’d all come together, practically, Faith was oddly proud of that.

The position was uncomfortable, down in the seat, legs up against the next row, she was contorted like a pretzel. Moaning, half in lingering pleasure and half in discomfort, Faith pulled herself back up, twisting into her seat. She felt her vagina, still dilated slowly closing, semen leaking from it and smearing the inside of her thigh.

Awkwardly, she pulled her top down, and then reached up under it to pull her bra somewhat back into place. The straps were all over, it wasn’t fitting right. She smoothed down her skirt. On either side of her, the men were pulling on their pants, tucking their spent penises away.

The first one, the Slater looking one, was dabbing away at a semen smear on his pants with a paper napkin. Seeing that brought home to Faith the semen oozing between her legs, and the consequences.

Whatever spell had slipped over Faith was broken now. The theater was seedy again, with peeling ceiling leaks and old seats, and the musty smell she now identified as stale semen. Onscreen, characters were fucking, but they’d lost their allure, too big, too gross. Everyone in the theater was watching her, many standing for a better view.

“I think we’re done,” she said out loud, startled by the sound of her voice.

What had she done? She had this sudden sense of disorientation, as if it hadn’t been her at all. It had been someone else. As if it hadn’t happened at all, but was simply the movie she’d watched. But that idea vanished as quickly as it came, the sensations, touch and being touched, the sights and smells, the intensity was far too vivid. It was real, it had happened. It was shameful.

“We’re done,” Faith repeated. “It’s done. I’m done.”

Faith stood up, her knees still wobbly, hands grabbing the backs of the next row for support. She took stock, lightheaded but not dizzy, a mess for sure, her bra felt twisted, none of her clothes felt like they fit right. Probably sex hair.

The first man stood up. She wasn’t sure why, did he want something, was he intent on coming with her? She didn’t want him too. She didn’t want anything to do with any of them. Then she realized he was standing to let her pass, and felt an odd gratitude.

Someone clapped, and then another, and another. Faith swiveled her head, looking from one to the other. The few seated men stood up, clapping.

“You have a standing ovation,” the first man said.

The smell of semen was in the air. Standing was right, she thought suddenly, How many had jerked off watching her? Had spurted semen like milky fountains? Faith blushed deeply, it was embarrassing, but weirdly proud. She gave a half bow, and then staggered down the row, making her way out.

Faith stumbled down the row and out of the theater, blinking even in the low light of the hallway. As she walked, she kept tugging her clothes back into place, so as not to look like someone who had just had sex with two complete strangers on impossible furniture. She caught a glimpse of herself mirrored in the glass of a porno poster.

Yes. Sex hair.

Faith was kicking herself all the way home, she couldn’t believe things had drifted so far out of hand so quickly. She couldn’t believe she’d done something so stupid and reckless. The ways it could have gone wrong were... infinite. There were recriminations and promises.

The first thing home, was a long shower, and intensive scrubbing. She could still smell the place on her, the odor of men’s sweat and semen gone stale. She douched, flushed, thought about pregnancy and venereal disease, took another shower.

She would absolutely never, ever, ever, ever do anything that insane again, or allow anything like that.

But later that night, after she’d gone to bed, Faith found she couldn’t sleep. She laid in bed, thinking about the experience, reliving bits and pieces. Images, like the actor’s hand sliding under the waistband of the actresses skirt, the deliberate way she’d placed the stranger’s hand on her thigh, the way his cock had felt in her hand. The memory of touches and acts, of sensation and arousal, slowly chased each other through her mind, and she felt aroused again, the intensity of the experience leaking back.

Faith marveled at the way it had all drifted out of control, the wild wantonness, the sleaze of it all.

But it hadn’t been out of control at all. She’d been in control, choosing, allowing. Out of control, in the sense that her desires and impulses had guided her. But they’d done nothing she had not allowed. It was an odd thought.

Abruptly faith got out of bed and shed her underwear, turning on a lamp and walking barefoot to her full length mirror.

There were no marks of her adventure in the porno theater, not that there should be, but oddly disappointing. She looked at her near naked body in the mirror turning from one side to another. It was all right, she decided. Not extraordinary, but she saw no shortcomings.

Sexy, even. Powerful in its sexiness. It hadn’t been a bad experience. It was kind of wild. Bold and fearless, reckless sure, and not something she could ever tell anyone about. But not something to be guilty about.

It had been an adventure.

On the way back to bed, she grabbed her favorite vibrator from the drawer. Faith crawled under the covers with it, thinking about her adventure, reliving in bits and pieces. The vibrator flicked into buzzing life.

Faith didn’t sleep much that night.

She didn’t mind.