Seven Black Cats
How do you get his attention?
He is someone so out of my reach, but he is so breathtakingly hot in a lick-his-stubble kind of way. I see him every morning on the commuter train into the city. I’m not sure why he is on the train every morning when he appears to be an upper-class executive, judging by his expensive suits and trench coats. Maybe he is one of those people who only takes his Porsche to the countryside on the weekends because he doesn’t want to take his baby to the city during the week.
He sat across from me once, and I was writing something naughty and eating black cat licorice at the same time, as I usually do when I write. I prayed he could read upside down. I was composing something truly filthy, another story for one of those raunchy magazines you see in the sex shops in London. It keeps me in mad money while I’m housesitting for the summer for my aunt.
The story was about biting. I like things that bite me back — strong black coffee, black strap molasses cookies, and licorice that is so sweet, dark and salty it made your eyes water. The black cats were the best. I became hooked on them when I visited my sister in Michigan and there was a vintage candy store near her house. Now she ships them to me in one-pound bags, like drugs.
I have to have a black cat in my mouth when I write porn. I would even like to eat them when I’m having sex, but there hasn’t been anyone I have been attracted to until now. That was why I wanted him to glance at my writing, because I knew a secret about him. Mr. Uptight Business Man reads this stuff. I was checking him out, taking in details like no wedding ring, laptop or Ipod, when I noticed an anthology of erotic stories tucked inside his newspaper. Maybe I wasn’t writing high-class enough stuff yet to be published in a real live book, but I was working on it.
I popped another black cat in my mouth as I stared over at him today and I daydreamed about him reading something of mine. Words made for wet dreams about sticking fingers in orifices. Just thinking about it made the fuck bunnies in my brain start to hump. Turning over the licorice in my mouth, I squeezed it gently in between my teeth, feeling the slight give, imagining it was his finger.
I just had to get his attention, but how could I? He never even glanced my way.
I decided to leave him a calling card. I got on the train before he did in the morning anyway, so the next day; I left a black cat licorice on the window ledge where he stared out the window for most of his trip. I figured he would see it, wonder who left it, look around and see me eating them, making the connection. Then I could give him a little wave and we would be off and running.
The only thing is that he stared through my little black cat as if it wasn’t even there. Maybe he thought it was a smudge, but a smudge wasn’t shaped like a cat.
The next morning, I tried two black cats.
I got the same response. I sat there staring at him as he gazed out the window, a definite bulge in his newspaper under his arm that could only be another book. Perhaps he was as blind as a bat?
A few days later, I was up to five black cats. At the rate, I was sacrificing my black cats for his attention; I would have none left for myself. The train was so crowded by the time he departed, I didn’t have the nerve to retrieve them and someone was taking them after I left. Probably a cleaning person who thought a bored little child was making his or her job that much harder.
I slipped my hand inside my candy bag inside my tote bag, feeling the little pussies tumble around my fingers. I would only sacrifice seven more.
The morning I was going to do seven, I was so convinced he would notice me, my nether regions were positively throbbing. All this pent-up sexual energy was making me dizzy. I lined up the seven little black cats on the window ledge, an elderly woman giving me an odd look as I took my seat across the aisle, but I decided to ignore her and opened my journal.
He got on the train and took his seat. My breath caught short. I’d never believed in black cats and magic before, but I knew seven had to be the magic number.
His gaze narrowed at the window. He frowned. He reached forward and he knocked six of the cats off the ledge onto the floor. The last one he took in his fingers for a moment and he studied it. This was it. He was going to look around the carriage any moment.
I started writing furiously in my notebook and popping black cats in my mouth. Out of the corner of eye, I saw him smell it and for a second I thought he might pop it in his mouth and that would be such bliss to know he was eating the same thing I was at this instant, but he let it fall to the floor and stared back out the window.
You bastard. My seven black cats were on the floor. They gave up their precious little lives for you. What a waste. In my mouth, the several cats I had popped inside were spinning in a bizarre dance of too much flavor at one time even for me, but there was no way I could spit them out now.
I kept furiously writing, writing to him about all the things I wanted to do to him and what I wanted him to do to me. My words jumped forward. I was nearly blind with tears. Twist my wrist and make me beg. Shove my narrow hips anywhere you want to go. Give me a look that will sear the panties right off me. See you squirm. Pan for gold and find the big nugget.
The train lurched. I looked up. He was getting off. I got up and sat in his seat, feeling the warmth of him in the cushion and I reached down, retrieving the seven black cats from the floor. The cleaning person shouldn’t have to pick them up anymore. No idiotic kid was throwing away her candy. There was just me.
By the time I got to class, I was still so horny I had to go masturbate in the women’s bathroom. The moment I closed the stall door, I hiked my skirt and leaned against the stall wall for support while I slid my hand under my panties, my index finger hit the right spot like a heat-seeking missile. I closed my eyes, thinking about pushing him inside my flat, shoving him on the floor and climbing astride him. I could smell his skin and the scent of the city on his trench coat, the firm edge of an erotic book in his pocket digging into my knee. I would fuck him with all this clothes on, just his pants unzipped, riding up and down his straining cock, until his eyes rolled back into his head with an unbelievable orgasm.
With both my hands in my panties now, the stall wall cool on my flaming hot face, I came, my legs nearly buckling beneath me.
Later in class, feeling physically and emotionally drained, I thought after all that sugary disappointment on the train, I would be all done with the black cats, but during the lecture, it came back. That itch. I dug into my tote bag, freed one from the plastic bag and snuck it in my mouth.
Then I started to write this story.
I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before. I don’t know why I thought it would take seven black cats to get him to notice me when it was right in front of me all along. My words would get him to notice me. My words would get him to say hello and maybe ask me out to coffee. My words might get him to come back to my aunt’s flat so I could fuck the living shit out of him.
I’m going to leave this story on his seat tomorrow morning, and just so he knows this is the real deal, I’m going to sacrifice one more black cat. I’m going to put it inside the envelope as well.