The Altar of Her Love

The three other idiots that had been fighting were momentarily stunned and so taken aback by what I had done that they all took a step backward out of fear that I might inflict the same punishment on them. And then I just started screaming at the top of my lungs, telling those fucking imbeciles to get the hell out of the place and to never come back.

That was more than a hollow threat, since even if I might not have been able to identify the idiots through facial recognition -- considering their masks and all -- uncovering their names was as simple as consulting the Blugolds team roster on the giant calendar poster hanging behind the bar. Every guy with a jersey number in the 70s was officially banned for life. I guess that threat didn't really matter in the moment, but for some reason, my fight instinct had inspired a kind of collective flight instinct in them, and all three obeyed me and started retreating for the front door.

Thankfully, someone -- I don't know who it was -- had called the police, and just as the cowards had finally pushed their way through the packed crowd of stunned onlookers and were just in the process of skulking out the front door, four cops met them there. Pat, who was our bouncer that night, pointed out the troublemakers to the cops, and in a minute or two, the three of them were handcuffed with their arms behind their backs, sitting in shame on the cold, concrete sidewalk outside.

Meanwhile, the band had stop playing momentarily, and the rest of the patrons that were there in that front part of the bar had backed up to form a circle around me and the pile of bloody, bloated bodies at my feet, and all of a sudden, some kind of collective respect for civility and decency must have overcome them, and they erupted in a spontaneous round of applause, apparently for me, I guess, amazed that I had restored order so quickly and with such decisiveness. I was too stunned to even realize they were clapping for me. Later that night, Erin explained it all.

One of the cops quickly found his way to the center of the circle with me, and I spared no time in introducing myself to him as the manager. I explained what I saw and knew about the circumstances of the brawl, and Erin and a few of the other bartenders chipped in with most of the details, and by the time the three football players had regained groggy, but full consciousness, they, too, were handcuffed with their arms behind them, and their masks in their laps, seated on the urine-soaked floor appearing even stupider than they usually looked.

The cops arrested all six of those guys, and you might be interested to know that the Blugolds football team lost all of their remaining games that year, because their entire offensive line was suspended for the rest of the season! Then, as the cops led those assholes out of the bar in a hilarious "perp walk" that inspired another round of applause from the less pugilistic patrons, The Phat Larry's started in on the opening bars of their final song of the night, the oh-so appropriate "I Fought the Law."

The place cleared out really quickly after the music ended, and even though the entire bar was an absolute disaster, I'd never seen my people restore it to pristine condition more quickly. We all worked our asses off, and it was Erin who saw to most of it. I was able to pay The Larry's, count out the tills, and prepare my deposit for the following Monday a few minutes earlier than normal. Despite all the broken glasses, John made a fucking fortune that night!

I let everybody go home about 2:30. Considering my heart was still beating through my chest a good hour and half after all that craziness, I knew there was no way I could go to sleep. I figured I was going to have to get really fucking drunk that night if I expected to get any rest at all. But then Erin asked if she could come up to my apartment with me.

The look in her eyes told me that something in our relationship had changed dramatically, and I suppose it had. I, of course, said yes to her modest request. I really needed to talk to somebody anyway to calm myself down -- I was so amped up -- but I wondered about Erin.

She had that "deer in the headlights" look, and it didn't appear to me she was up for much talking. She just looked frightened. We walked up the back stairwell together just like we had nine months earlier, only this time we had to meander around 60 or 70 spent kegs arranged in stacks of three, like a couple dozen totem poles.

When we got to my apartment, I put on a Martha Reeves and the Vandellas album. Then, I found a bottle of something -- I have no memory whatsoever of what exactly it was, and let's face it, it didn't matter. The only thing that did matter was that it contained a goodly amount of alcohol. I got out my bong, and some weed, and we sat down on my couch and tried to relax a little.

Apparently I was wrong about Erin. As soon as she had three or four bong hits and a drink inside her, all of her emotions just spilled from her, like so much beer from a drunken football player's pitcher. It seemed that in about 10 seconds that night The Boss had been shoo-shooed away, and I had been transformed into her hero.

"Tom, I don't know how I can ever thank you! You saved me! I could really have been hurt, you know."

"That's what I was afraid of, but the strange thing was I don't think those idiots even knew you were there. You're so little, and they were so big that I don't think they even saw you. If they had, maybe they would have stopped. But next time, Erin, I hope you have the good sense not to try breaking up a fight between football players!" I smiled at her, and she knew I was teasing her even if she also knew I was 100% serious.

"What in God's name are you talking about?" she said, throwing it right back in my face. "You could have gotten yourself killed. What the hell came over you anyway?"

"I don't know", I said, shaking my head in confusion. "I really don't know. I just know I've never done anything like that before, and between you and me, I hope I don't ever do it again."

She didn't say anything for a little while. Then, she turned and faced me straight up and looked me in the eyes. "Tom, I've got to ask you a question."

"Go ahead", I said as I took another bong hit.

"Did you jump into the middle of that fight because of me?"

I smiled at her as I blew a steady stream of smoke upward. "I don't know, Erin. I think it passed through my mind, but I really don't know. It all happened so fast! I just got this incredible adrenaline rush, and all of sudden, it was like an out-of-body experience! I swear I was watching myself for a few seconds, and I couldn't believe what I was seeing!"

"But you came for me first. You got me out of there, Tom. It was like your first instinct was to protect me."

"Well, I sure as hell didn't want you to get hurt. That would have been on me, I know that. I'm the one who hired you, and I couldn't have lived with myself if something would have happened to you. But, I don't know, Erin. I just know that in the midst of all that craziness, at that very moment, you mattered to me more than anybody else in the place. Still, I didn't really have time to think about anything. I just reacted, that's all."

"Well, it was incredibly brave -- that's all I know -- and really selfless. I couldn't believe it -- the whole bar started clapping for you! They all saw what you did, and I heard them; we all heard them, Tom, they're all calling you a hero -- the customers, all of the bartenders, even the cops! Those guys were huge, and you took them all down in about two seconds! You probably don't care, but I know one thing for certain, if he lived a thousand years, Ryan would never have done that, and he's a lot bigger than you are, and he's known me his whole life."

"Let's not talk about Ryan, okay?" I smiled at her.

She smiled back, and put down her drink and crawled into my lap.

"You deserve a reward, Mr. Hitchens!"

"I've already told you; don't call me, Mr. Hitchens! I may be a little older than you are, but I'm not old enough to be somebody's father!" I gave her another wry grin.

She smiled and kissed me. Just a quick peck, and then she stared into my eyes and got really serious. "I don't know why it took me so long to appreciate you for who you are, Tom, but I'm sorry it did. I know I've been driving you crazy, and you've been so patient! You're such a good guy! I should have known that the first afternoon I met you. You're better than all of the rest of them put together."

"I don't know, Erin. I doubt that. I don't know who the rest of them are, but I doubt that! I do know that I've been crazy about you since the moment I first laid on eyes on you. And then you kissed me, and I've never really been the same again. Jesus, you're a good kisser!" She smiled and planted another one on me, this time with real passion for a good two or three minutes, and it was like that second kiss, only this time, she didn't leave afterwards.

When we finally broke the kiss, I decided to bring up her costume. "You look incredibly hot tonight in that outfit, though I'm a little surprised. I thought you didn't like new wave."

"I do like Blondie, especially Debbie Harry. I've always thought she was really pretty, and I like her sense of style."

"She's not as pretty as you, Erin!"

"Aw, aren't you sweet!" She gave me another quick peck.

"I've got to ask though, where did you get all this stuff? Maybe I'm wrong, but I never pictured you wearing those boots, or even that belt or the dress! Are all these things yours?"

She giggled. "No, I borrowed all of it! A couple of things from each of my roommates! I'm glad you like it, though I think you'll like what's underneath even more, Tom. That's all mine -- I just bought it!" I just stared at her in amazement. My heart was beating incredibly fast in anticipation, but for some reason, I was strangely embarrassed at that moment, and though she waited, I didn't say anything.

Then, she stared in my eyes, and "Take me back to your bedroom, Tom. I think I'm finally ready."

"Are you sure, Erin? I don't want to mess up anything between the two of us. You still work for me, and I need your help, and I... I...." There was no point in continuing. We both knew it was total bullshit. If I would have had to, I would have quit my job to spend the night with her.

She stood up, and reached out her hand to help me up. "Shut up, Tom, and come with me!"

With our bodies locked in a passionate embrace, we slowly kissed our way into my bedroom. There the streetlights that lined Gibson Street glowed romantically outside the south window. When we reached the side of my bed, I started to undress her.

As I mentioned earlier, she was sporting her own Halloween costume that night -- Debbie Harry from Blondie, so she was wearing this funky, short, tight, silky dress that bared one shoulder. Accessorizing the dress was a wide, studded, leather belt and these black, leather, thigh-high, stiletto-heeled boots. She'd also styled her hair in Debbie's characteristic fanned out look, and dyed it with blonde highlights. And she was wearing this jade fleur de lis necklace that matched her dress, and two or three bangles on her left wrist.

It seemed odd to me that that was the costume she'd picked out, since she'd told me she didn't really like that kind of music, but at that moment, I certainly didn't mind. Erin was always gorgeous, but in that outfit and with her hair in that style, I think she was prettier than Debbie Harry -- quite a bit prettier, and I always thought Debbie Harry was really fucking hot!

From that point forward, I guess I kind of took control, which is not what I wanted or intended to do. I wanted to be careful. For the past 10 months, I'd put this girl up on a pedestal, so I wanted to be really cautious about how our first sexual encounter went down. I wanted to show her I wasn't a selfish guy; I wanted to let her set the pace. I wanted her to tell me what it was she wanted me to do.

I know this sounds totally absurd, but I saw it as almost a religious quest, a pilgrimage of sorts to a holy place. I saw myself as a devoted adherent, a believer in something that was mystical and spiritual and beyond comprehension. What this girl was offering me was the Holy Grail -- passionate love that was infinite and immeasurable -- my cup runneth over with her blessings.

But then, I did this stupid thing that I sometimes do. I romanticized the whole scene in this ridiculous, implausible plotline -- Erin was a kind of damsel in distress, who I had rescued from danger. And because of that, this stupid male ego thing took over. Because she was dressed up like someone different that night, someone I didn't know, the whole thing felt surreal and magical, and I got lost in the fantasy. Maybe it was that I still hadn't come down from that adrenaline rush earlier in the night. Whatever it was, I just couldn't help myself -- my passion got the best of me, and my fucking latent machismo just took over -- so much for being selfless.

I lifted the bottom of her dress up, and cupped my hands around each of her ass cheeks, while we explored every centimeter of each other mouths. Apparently, Debbie Harry didn't stop with the hair, dress, and accessories. Underneath, she was wearing these leopard skin print panties, and I kept running my hands over their satin smoothness. It was an amazing feeling, because she had such a tiny, tight ass.

I realized it was faster to push that body-hugging dress up her impossibly slim torso and over her breasts, shoulders, and head to get it off, than to fuck with the zipper and all that bullshit. I left the belt where it was, hanging loosely around her waist. Once I'd lifted the dress off and tossed it to the floor, she stood before me in her matching leopard print bra and panties set, with the belt, boots, and jewelry making the whole ensemble even sexier.

I lifted her up -- she hardly weighed anything -- and I lay her down on my bed, and then crawled on top of her. Lying prone in the middle of my queen-sized mattress, we kept kissing for I don't know how long. I know it sounds crazy -- considering I had taken Erin's suggestion to go to bed as an open invitation to intercourse -- but it was really hard to stop kissing her! She was just such a good kisser!

But kissing was only the tip of the sensual iceberg. From that moment on, I swear Erin didn't stop moving, at least not until her first climax of the night was in the history book. I've never known another woman who expressed her passion with such an incredible amount of physical movement. Some part of Erin -- arms, hips, legs, hands, feet, neck, or head -- was constantly in motion, and she kept touching some place on her body or mine -- craning, twisting, and grinding in these unbelievably, sexy contortions.

First, her hand caressed my shoulders, chest, and cheek, before erotically stroking my hair in this combing motion. Next, she slid one hand behind her back and deftly unhooked her bra for me, considerately sliding it below her champagne coupe breasts.

Once I got my first look at them, I knew I would be spending a good long time there. They were stunning -- really -- the perfect size and shape, with rosy pink, pointy nipples, surrounded by modest-sized areolas that sat atop these perfectly proportioned mounds of creamy flesh. They conjured up all of these images in my mind of Marie Antoinette, Josephine Napoleon, and Lee Miller -- all of the women who'd actually had champagne or other types of glasses fashioned into the shape of their breasts. I don't know why, but that's what Erin's breasts reminded me of.

Once I kissed a meandering trail from her cushiony lips, to her ears, neck, and shoulders and finally to her sensitive nipples, they were standing proudly at attention so my own lips could pay homage to them. And when I did, Erin's entire body became a paragon of physical eroticism.

One or the other of her hands would slither and snake over my head and neck, then slide across her chest, up her neck, over her face and into her hair, and with all of those slinky movements, this orchestra of sounds began emanating from deep within her -- short, sharp gasps of breath punctuated with gentle, feminine moans, and deep, guttural, reverberating groans.

Erin did not speak much at all when we made love. An occasional "fuck" or "oh god" might escape her, but she tended to express her lust non-verbally, rather than with words, though when I slid her satin panties aside, and slipped a single finger tentatively into her wet, waiting pink, she unleashed a long, loud "yeeesssssssssss" into the early November night.

For the next 10 minutes or so, I knelt over her, my mouth, lips, and tongue kissing wet trails delicately back and forth from one breast to the other, while my fingers danced over and around her yearning clitoris and in and out of her slippery pussy.

She was already really excited when I kissed my way down her stomach and hips, past that wide, studded belt to her upper thighs and the tops of those unbelievably sexy boots. I slipped her panties down her smooth, leather thigh-highs and off, and then crawled between her slim legs to taste her.

And when I got there, I was sort of surprised and really excited to find that she sported a small, but rather detailed tattoo between her thick, brown pubic bush and her bikini line, so that it would be known only to those lucky enough to see this side of paradise. I didn't think of Erin as the type of girl that would wear a tattoo -- not all that many women at the time were that type of girl. She always struck me as a little too demure and modest for that kind of display.

Anyway, it was unusual, one of those Celtic crosses with these intricate knots woven through it. I wondered about that -- having a Christian symbol etched into her skin so close to her sex -- but I also knew a little something about those crosses -- they were supposedly symbolic representations of life and celebrations of Irish pride -- so maybe that explained part of her reason for having gotten it. I vowed I would ask her about it, but she was so turned on at the moment that it would have ruined a good thing if I had brought it up.

As soon as my tongue made contact with her sex, I knew it wasn't going to take her long. And that's when she really started writhing around. Both her hands found my head. She started running her fingers through my hair again, and then she changed that up by looping one hand around the back of my skull and pulling my face aggressively against her, so that it was mashed up against her wet pussy. Then, she moved one hand to her own head, and kept turning and twisting it in ecstasy, through her hair, across her neck and face until her fingers finally found her mouth, where she bit her digits, it seemed, to suppress a scream.

I was really going at her pussy with enthusiasm, alternating between long, sloppy licks up and down its length with the flat of my tongue, and more delicate flicks from its tip, lashing across and around her clitoral hood in Figure 8 patterns. That's when the star of the show began peeking out from behind the curtain.

And when it did, Erin started this crazy, little, breathing thing -- sucking quick breaths in in a staccato rhythm that I was soon to learn portended all her orgasms. And that's when I locked my lips around her clit, sucking it between them, and lashing the pointed tip of my fleshy spear across her engorged nub until her leather-clad, slender thighs started quaking uncontrollably, and she began to slip over the precipice.

I wanted to experience that climax with her, to really feel its magic, and so, as I felt the pressure inside her building, I slipped my index and middle fingers into her, not deeply, but just far enough so that I could feel her pussy muscles convulsing. I don't know why, but that has always turned me on -- the powerful tactile nature of a woman's orgasm. I moved rhythmically in and out of her only a half inch or so while, for the next 20 seconds, her muscles alternately clamped then released their hold on my pair of invading digits.