Chocolate Kisses by Tara Alton Originally, I moved to Ann Arbor, Michigan because of Joe. He was part owner of a jazz club called The High Note. I wasn’t normally a big fan of jazz, but for him I showed an interest. He taught me things like call and response. It was when a lead singer voiced a phrase and the rest of the band echoed it. What I liked to do was take the things I learned after a performance and apply them to the bedroom, just to show him I had been listening. We'd been living together for three months when I found out he was having an affair with a waitress from the club. She was a thin, almost boyish girl with a cropped blonde hairdo and model-like features, and she was such a contrast to me that it gave me a complex for months. People always assumed I was Italian because of my dark mass of shoulder-length curls and my hint-of-olive tinted skin, but I was actually Irish by descent, and a very curvy girl, at that. Joe had always said he loved the curve of my tummy, but after seeing her, it made me wonder. When I first moved in with him, I loved how he'd made me feel sexy and confident. I did things with him in the bedroom that I had never done with anyone else. I told him things I had never told anyone else. I had thought he was not only my lover, but also my best friend. Of course, after I discovered the affair, I had to move out and get a job. I found a position at an upscale bakery, selling chocolate bobka, rugelach and molasses cookies to happy, loving couples who liked to stop in weekend mornings before they went to the Farmer’s Market. I hated it when they fed each other samples from the counter, their finger tips linger on each other’s mouths as their eyes went all glazed with a decadent sweetness. Even my new roommate seemed determined to rub it in my face that I didn’t have a boyfriend. Every time I came home, she was constantly going at it with her boyfriend in her bedroom. She had found a new lube, and they sounded like monkeys having sex, even with her door tightly closed. The only place I got any peace and quiet was in the cavernous used bookstore on Liberty. I loved to buy a half pound of the dark chocolate orange peel from Kilwins, and I would sneak pieces of it while I was reading travel narratives in the rear of the bookstore. On my way out of the store, the clerk always gave me this weird, penetrating look as if he was trying to read my mind or something. He wasn’t bad looking-- in a scruffy, perpetual student sort of way. I guessed he was maybe in his early thirties with a slight build. His eyes were the most amazing hazel, but his choice in T-shirts was abysmal. You would have thought he would be the type to read science fiction or thick literary tomes, but he was always reading those 1950’s pulp novels with the lurid covers. I was just getting used to my new job, when I was transferred to a satellite location on the opposite side of town. Apparently, the bakery liked me so much they thought I could handle it. Now I was stuck on a small counter by the garden implements in a home and garden store, and I hated it because the store was located right across the street from The High Note. Everyday, I tried to create a barrier out of bread loafs in an effort not to see Joe. Mostly, it worked until a pregnant woman came in with a craving and bought several loafs. I was going to try to restack it with bagels and brownies when I spotted him coming outside with her-- model girl. My heart leapt to my throat. I hadn’t seen him since the day I moved out, and I had never seen them actually together. Why did they have to look so good together? Especially him. He had on a wool overcoat that looked so amazing on him that I could even imagine what his skin would smell like next to it. They
started walking down the sidewalk. She was slim and wistful; her hand curled
up perfectly inside his, a perfect, passive pet. They looked happy. What
had I done wrong? That was supposed to be me next to him.
With an open book, I shoved a piece of dark chocolate orange peel into my mouth, but it was so hard to read with the pounding in my head. I was so upset. I couldn’t stand the way she had gazed up at him, and the way he had returned her look. I knew that look. They were heading off for a sexy tryst in our bed, and I was left with nothing. I hadn’t even kissed a guy since we'd broken up. A man cleared his throat behind me. “You can’t be eating that in here,” he said. “You’re getting chocolate all over the pages.” Quickly swallowing, I turned to see the clerk. Not only was his T-shirt was too small, showing that he did indeed have a better build than I had imagined, but it was a horrible pea green color with a logo so faded that I couldn’t even read it. His nametag read “Max.” “I’m not,” I said. Taking a book off the shelf, he fanned through the pages. Hadn’t I been reading that one last week? Pausing halfway through, he showed me a brown smudge on a page. I peered at it. “That’s milk chocolate,” I said. “I only eat dark.” He flipped it shut. “You’re still eating in here, and there are signs saying no food allowed.” “Haven’t I seen you eating raisin toast behind the counter?” I countered. “That’s not the point. I work here. You don’t.” “You’re still breaking the rules,” I said. He
raised an eyebrow as he noticed the Kilwin’s bag sticking out of my pocket.
I shoved it in deeper.
He blinked. I saw the stern look waiver. There was something else in his eyes. Was it sympathy? I peered closer. No his irises looked dilated. Was it desire? Longing? Was that why he had been looking at me like that all this time? Because he wanted to get in my pants? Why should Joe have all the fun? Why should I be the one to suffer? “Do you want to fuck me?” I asked. “What?” he asked. “Do you want to have sex with me right now?” Max’s mouth opened slightly in shock, so I took it as an opportunity to kiss him. I had been bold in bed before, but I had never kissed a stranger. His lips were cool and unyielding. I faltered. Oh, my gosh. Was I sexually harassing a bookstore clerk because of my pent up frustrations? I broke the kiss. He looked at me, and I realized his hands were on my waist. Slowly, he arched his head to check both ends of the aisles, and he pulled me closer, rubbing his nose against mine before he kissed me, his tongue searching out the little bits of orange peel stuck between my teeth. He was an all-consuming kisser. Joe only moved his mouth, but with Max, every fiber of his being was put into his kiss. I’d never thought he could be so sexy upon touch. All those pulp novels must have been in his blood. Suddenly, we started yanking on each other’s zippers. It was frantic, awkward and adrenaline-fueled. I felt him trying to pull down my jeans and panties as I struggled with his belt buckle, my elbow catching him in the arm. Our heads knocked together so hard that for a second I thought I saw stars, but he kissed me again, his front teeth grazing the inside of my lip. Fucking in the rear aisle of a used bookstore was a lot harder than I had imagined. At first, we tried it standing up, but the books were stabbing me in the back, so we ended up on the threadbare carpeting on the floor, where it smelled like a thousand shoes. I felt like I was suffocating with him on top of me and with all those books beside us, so I maneuvered my way on top, a picture of Marilyn Monroe on a biography staring at us as I rocked my hips on him and he fondled my breasts under my bakery T-shirt. I touched his chest, my fingers lingering on his T-shirt. The fabric was the softest thing I’d ever felt. No wonder he liked to wear it. “You asked me if I wanted to fuck you, but I think you are the one fucking me,” he said. I looked down at him. “You know for someone who comes across as quiet, you’re really aggressive aren’t you?” he asked. “I’m not,” I insisted. “Yes you are. There is one thing I’ve learned from personal experience. You always have to watch out for the quiet ones.” Then it clicked. I lowered my head to Max’s chest and turned my face away. That was why Joe had been attracted to me, because he thought I was a quiet, passive girl, and then I didn’t turn out to be that way in bed. Joe wanted a truly passive girl, in all areas of his life. He didn’t want the shy librarian-type who turned out to be sexually aggressive behind closed doors. “I’ve been really angry at myself for having such a violent crush on you,” Max said in my ear. “And I know for a fact that wasn’t milk chocolate in that book.” I lifted my head and looked at him. I saw it in his eyes. He had licked the page, and he would probably like to lick me all over if I let him. What was better? Having a controlling boyfriend like Joe who wanted a doormat for a sexual partner or chocolate-licking-book-page boy? Opening my mouth, I kissed him, trying to find the traces of chocolate on his tongue. I felt his tongue pressing back against mine, as if he was doing to the same to me, and I realized he was actually tasting the chocolate in my mouth. My senses reeled. I imagined all the books I had flipped through, my fingertips leaving smudges, and him searching out the pages after I left, then licking them. A chill bloomed across my back. I squeezed down harder on him. His hands kept gripping my curves. He really seemed to get into them. His thumb grazed the round of my stomach, his fingers leaving hot marks on my skin as he thrust into me. I could tell by the look in his eyes he was going to come. Suddenly, I didn’t care that the biography section was watching us, or that Joe was probably screwing his waitress right this minute. My orgasm was making my insides feel like they were being pulled down to my toes. Tingles ran down my arms. I arched my back, my body going rigid as crazy waves of pleasure shuddered through me. Max was climaxing, too. A cry escaped me. I clamped a hand over my mouth. Suddenly, everything was going wobbly and weird. My body was coming completely undone. I threw my arms out to steady myself, knocking a book off the shelf. It fell, spine open, on the scattered chocolate orange peel that had fallen out of my pocket when we had ripped off our clothes. That was definitely going to leave a great big smudge. Copyright ©
2004 Tara Alton. All Rights Reserved. Do not copy or post.
Tara Alton’s secret desires are to live in London, eat Cadbury Flakes in times of crises, buy tons of books on Charing Cross Road, and own a nice flat with a green grocer and newsstand around the corner. In real life, she lives in the Midwest, collects tattoos, worships Bettie Page and writes erotica, because that is what is in her head, and it needs to come out. Email Tara Alton. Visit Tara Alton online. 
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