maraschino cherries

“Do you like cherries?” I asked her.

“Ooooh I love cherries!” she gushed giddily. Her smile was insouciant and though my eyes narrowed in skepticism I let my mouth relax into my most charming smile.

“Is that so?” I challenged lightly, keeping my voice a low, purring rumble. I watched the desire flash in her eyes, like headlights catching in a cat’s eye’s at night.

“I love them.” She insisted, trying her best to purr right back and arching her spine a little to show her perky tits to better advantage—as if I hadn’t already taken note of her assets. “I like to tie knots with the stems…” she confided, and held my gaze meaningfully.

Inwardly I sighed, tired of the hackneyed innuendo, the flirty euphemism which implied she had a talented tongue and would be willing to suck me off. Outwardly I arched a brow, signaling intrigue, and I rumbled deep in my throat to hint at an arousal I did not feel. And, of course, I let my smile broaden roguishly.

“Talented little minx, are we?” I muttered, eyes smoldering and leaning forward.

“I can do it in under thirty seconds flat.” She whispered, and then giggled—suddenly bubbly and blushing. Averting her eyes and timid.

Exactly as I thought. This pretty pink thing, playing at womanhood, flirting and suggesting and implying, had no idea what she was doing. I let my smile melt into something a little less charming and a little more dangerous. “I’d rather you took your time with it.”

Her high-gloss lips formed a sweetly shocked ‘O’ and her eyes widened so far she had the appearance of one of those ridiculous Cupie Dolls. She’s said she was 21 and I’d known it was a lie. I’d guessed around 18 but she may have been younger still.
Jesus, what goes through those pretty little heads? Don’t they know what trouble they can get themselves into? Shouldn’t they be wary of the dangers lurking around corners, ready to devour and defile their one perfect asset? Haven’t their mothers warned them about men like me? Isn’t that what little red riding and other morality tales guised as nursery stories designed to teach these little girls?

I almost didn’t have the stomach for it—now that I knew just how young she likely was. It was too easy. I almost didn’t have the heart, but while her mouth and eyes were still wide with surprise I expertly took her fragile jaw in my large, rough fingers and brought her lips to mine.

Her lipgloss tasted like chemicals masked by artificial sweetness and her tongue was flavored 'pink' and tequila. I kissed her in a subtle but forceful way that was undeniably ownership, unquestionably conquest, and when I withdrew from her she wore a lost expression, mixed confusion and longing.

It was all I could do not to roll my eyes. I lifted my glass and took a long, slow sip while she struggled to catch her breath and think of something clever to say. In the past, after a move like that, I’ve received responses ranging from the timeless “Oh my goodness” to the ever en vogue “I want to fuck you so hard right now.”

From the desperately innocent to the bitch in heat. Never once has one of these maraschino cherry munching, stem tying, lipgloss sporting, fake ID toting little sweet things ever uttered anything surprising. Sometimes they’ve been a shade too tipsy to think of anything at all to say, instead sinking into a quiet shyness or fits of giggles.

Barely conscious of it I took a deep breath and sighed it out. She was taking a very long while to collect herself and an uncharacteristic tickle of impatience skittered across my shoulder blades. I shrugged in a carelessly debonair manner and resigned myself to what was shaping up to be a quietly submissive partner for the evening-- the kind who goes with you in a sort of trance.

When I finally looked over she was touching her lips—gingerly almost—marveling? Her eyes were far away and she was clearly lost in thought.

Something twisted in my gut. Dammit. Had she ever been kissed at all? I wondered again what a girl like that was doing in a place like this. I was used to being their best, had made a calculated art out of blowing their young minds and making their adolescent boyfriends back home in their small towns or their homogeneous campuses seem nothing more than clumsily rutting farm animals.

I blinked and swirled the ice in my glass, my brow only slightly furrowed. It couldn’t be called an attack of conscience really, not precisely.

I’d had scores of virgins. For a time in my 20’s hunting virgins was my sport of choice, and I was exceptionally skilled. But there’s something, well, tiresome about virgins. The novelty is admittedly intoxicating and adding proverbial notches to the bedpost is exhilarating but beyond that? Even the eagerest of virgins finds herself at best too sore to go as many rounds as a man of my appetite would prefer, and at worst too weepy and emotional.

And there’s the responsibility.

In my 20’s the responsibility of being a pretty little thing’s first didn’t phase me, didn’t give me pause. I was good, made it good for her, and my stained sheets were my trophy. I even made money off my skill. I’d take the longest of long-shots—One night in graduate school I made close to $10,000.00 by bedding three separate virgins in just under twenty-four hours. A great many of my compatriots stopped placing bets after that achievement.

“You look pale darling.” I finally spoke kindly “Shall I get you another drink?” I had her attention now. Her eyes were already glassy—she certainly didn’t need another drink—but it’s the sort of offer a gentleman makes to a lady. You can almost hear Cary Grant delivering the line, ever suave, a little cavalier and a dash tender.

But this little girl wouldn’t know who Cary Grant was. Despite the fact the she and those of her breed didn’t know Cary Grant, they know the type, because debonair rake is universal, timeless. They know the type and they gravitate right toward it, all these girls with Daddy issues and self esteem woes. These privileged young things with too much money, too much license, too much romantic imagination.

She smiled a timid little smile and nodded her acquiescence and I knew I’d be fucking her within the hour.

With a lazy almost half-hearted gesture I caught the bartender’s eye. “I’ll have the bill please- for myself and the lady.”

The man didn’t blink, didn’t have to. He’d seen me in here week after week, knew the chase was just about wrapping up and soon enough I’d be walking out with this wisp of a thing less than half my age. If there was anyone else in the place that had a keener eye for underage flesh than I had it was probably this fellow. I saved him a lot of trouble by buying young ladies’ drinks for them and he obligingly kept things copacetic for me.