Judith
by Corey Mesler
The light was bouncing off the stage at Tipitino’s. The music was Cajun funk. I was alone, traveling, in town for a business convention, if you call the peddling of books business. I was vaguely interested in where I was, its history, its duende.
I might have tapped my foot but I doubt it. I didn’t tap my foot very readily in public back then.
She approached from the crowd, emerging from it like a hologram. She was cute, almost pretty. Big nose which was offset by plump lips that looked moist even in the dim. Something was purple, her eyeshadow, maybe her eyes themselves, maybe just the light coming off the stage. She was cocky.
“I picked you,” she said.
I looked bemused. I could do that, back then.
“I don’t feel picked,” I said.
“Give me time,” she said, and she smiled with that glorious, large mouth, surrounded by those lips.
I laughed.
“Judith,” she said.
“You betrayed Jethuth,” I said.
It was her turn to laugh.
“I’m Jim,” I said.
“Jim,” Judith said, that mouth still spread wide like a bear-trap. “Judith and Jim,” she said.
I didn’t know if she thought that was the Truffaut title or if she was easily amused by alliteration.
“How did you pick me?” I asked.
“I surveyed. I’ve been surveying for some time now. No one else came close. Well, that’s not entirely true. There was a guy, a rock guitarist from L.A. He came pretty close. He had a great butt. Except he looked too hungry.”
I thought about this. “I could never compete with a guitarist from L. A.,” I said.
“And he had a great butt,” Judith said.
“What happened to it?” I countered.
It was done. The deal was closed. The requisite amount of humor had passed between us. It was on. It was about to be whatever it was to be.
For the convention, for the close of it, to entertain the conventioneers, they had signed James Brown. It was free. I shake my head now at the memory of it. Would I have paid good money to see James Brown? Oh, I would have. Instead I got to sit at a table with a white tablecloth and be fed convention chicken (or it might have been fish) and stare into the purple eyes of Judith, all for no cash. For some reason, rather than going home together from Tipitino’s, we had agreed to meet at the James Brown finale. Perhaps, and I am speculating here from poor memory, she wanted only a one night stand. A two night stand meant a commitment she was unwilling to make. Perhaps I felt the same way back then.
When James Brown came out Judith and I looked at each other as if we had just been vouchsafed passage into the empyrean realms. This was James Brown, our eyes said. I may have tapped my foot. It was under the table so who would know?
At one point I leaned over and whispered in Judith’s pearlescent ear, “If he does ‘Papa’s Got a Brand New Bag’ I am going to come.” She laughed. She smelled like honeysuckle. I think we held hands. I mean, why not?
James Brown did his work, his hard work. I was digging him and Judith simultaneously. Did I know that forever more whenever I heard a James Brown song I would think about Judith with the purple eyes? I think I did.
The band started into “Papa’s Got a Brand New Bag.” Judith squeezed my hand. That is, she squeezed my hand if we were holding hands and I think we were. At the conclusion of the song she leaned over, and in her honeysuckle voice said, “Did you come?”
“I did,” I said.
She made a mock motion of slamming her hand into the table. Her mime meant, And I wanted your come later. I smiled a large smile. Judith’s eyes. Judith’s mouth. I was one gone cat.
The concert eventually ended. It was a ten minute walk back to my hotel. Halfway there Judith grabbed my lapels and pushed me against the concrete wall of a different hotel. She placed her mouth against mine. She moved her tongue around some. I did it, too. When we disengaged, I said, “Well, I guess I know what we’re about to do.”
“I hope you do, sailor,” Judith said.
Her aplomb was a little intimidating. As was her physical strength. But back then, for whatever reason, I was not sidetracked easily. Back then my gyroscope was much more reliable. I only lost my balance later in life.
Once inside the room there were few preliminaries. Which was good. It was late and my flight back to Memphis was early.
When we were both skinned back to our skivvies something became apparent, something that was only previously implied. Judith was muscle-bound. Not in a revolting way, but in a finely honed, how-beautiful-the-female-body-is kind of way.
“Whoa,” I said.
She laughed. “I’m a bodybuilder. Is that ok?”
I didn’t use words to answer.
We were naked. It was lovely. My erection was about half-mast while we rolled around on each other like seals. Her breasts were small and firm. Her thighs were the last word in thighs. And between them she had this little island of dark pubic hair. It was there I went to sip.
And while I was busy there a change occurred. Judith went from being in-charge and rambunctious and faux-tough to blushing full-body, to being breathless, to being mine. And when she came she pulled my head up and looked deep into my eyes. I assumed what just happened was good, that I had exceeded expectations, that I had surprised her, sexually, physically. And when I entered her and later came myself it was aftermath. The highlight was her orgasm and her sudden acquiescence. I do not mean this in any take-charge masculine way. It was simply that her orgasm was the apex of the act which we had met there to perform.
I didn’t sleep much that night. I don’t know. Do you? Do you sleep alright next to your one-night stand? I cannot. Judith, bless her, slept immediately and deeply. I lay beside her studying that peculiar gray light that seems to exist only in hotel rooms in the middle of the night with the lights out.
I may have dozed. I may not have slept for five minutes. I can’t remember.
I do remember that in the rosy dawn I got into the shower and she met me there and we rubbed around on each other some more. Then we went back to bed and Judith sat astride me. Except the old reliable wasn’t overly reliable. Perhaps I was nervous about my impending flight. Perhaps I was fully satisfied with the night before. At any rate, after grinding herself against me for a while, after I felt the full majesty of her buttocks, she lay her head against my chest. I kissed her hair.
I kissed her again when she got into her taxi. We had exchanged business cards. This was pre-email. I knew I would never see her again and it made me a little sad. I had a few romantic possibilities back in Memphis and, perhaps, I tried to think about them to assuage the longing one feels for the space between humans, the fragile, temporal, expanding space, that takes people out of our lives forever. That space opened in my mind’s eye like radiance from the cloud-surrounded morn; it spread dark and oily like calumny.
But, it wasn’t forever. Over time I received affectionate letters and cards from Judith. She apparently held our encounter in high esteem, for whatever reason. And I wrote her back with fervency and wit, two arrows I usually hold in my quiver.
And then the correspondence petered out and real life took over. Real life, which is like kudzu, covering up everything discarded and ugly, everything sweet but fleeting, the roadside waste of the human animal. I miss that fire, I guess. I miss Judith and all the other possible Judiths. I have replaced that spark with a deeper warmth, of course. I have learned to act like an adult, mostly, and to think of the past with wistful balance. I don’t remember Judith’s last name. But I remember the color purple, and I remember James Brown, and I remember the blurry light in that hotel room, and I remember meeting Judith because she used this magic key: “I picked you.” It is enough.
by Corey Mesler
The light was bouncing off the stage at Tipitino’s. The music was Cajun funk. I was alone, traveling, in town for a business convention, if you call the peddling of books business. I was vaguely interested in where I was, its history, its duende.
I might have tapped my foot but I doubt it. I didn’t tap my foot very readily in public back then.
She approached from the crowd, emerging from it like a hologram. She was cute, almost pretty. Big nose which was offset by plump lips that looked moist even in the dim. Something was purple, her eyeshadow, maybe her eyes themselves, maybe just the light coming off the stage. She was cocky.
“I picked you,” she said.
I looked bemused. I could do that, back then.
“I don’t feel picked,” I said.
“Give me time,” she said, and she smiled with that glorious, large mouth, surrounded by those lips.
I laughed.
“Judith,” she said.
“You betrayed Jethuth,” I said.
It was her turn to laugh.
“I’m Jim,” I said.
“Jim,” Judith said, that mouth still spread wide like a bear-trap. “Judith and Jim,” she said.
I didn’t know if she thought that was the Truffaut title or if she was easily amused by alliteration.
“How did you pick me?” I asked.
“I surveyed. I’ve been surveying for some time now. No one else came close. Well, that’s not entirely true. There was a guy, a rock guitarist from L.A. He came pretty close. He had a great butt. Except he looked too hungry.”
I thought about this. “I could never compete with a guitarist from L. A.,” I said.
“And he had a great butt,” Judith said.
“What happened to it?” I countered.
It was done. The deal was closed. The requisite amount of humor had passed between us. It was on. It was about to be whatever it was to be.
For the convention, for the close of it, to entertain the conventioneers, they had signed James Brown. It was free. I shake my head now at the memory of it. Would I have paid good money to see James Brown? Oh, I would have. Instead I got to sit at a table with a white tablecloth and be fed convention chicken (or it might have been fish) and stare into the purple eyes of Judith, all for no cash. For some reason, rather than going home together from Tipitino’s, we had agreed to meet at the James Brown finale. Perhaps, and I am speculating here from poor memory, she wanted only a one night stand. A two night stand meant a commitment she was unwilling to make. Perhaps I felt the same way back then.
When James Brown came out Judith and I looked at each other as if we had just been vouchsafed passage into the empyrean realms. This was James Brown, our eyes said. I may have tapped my foot. It was under the table so who would know?
At one point I leaned over and whispered in Judith’s pearlescent ear, “If he does ‘Papa’s Got a Brand New Bag’ I am going to come.” She laughed. She smelled like honeysuckle. I think we held hands. I mean, why not?
James Brown did his work, his hard work. I was digging him and Judith simultaneously. Did I know that forever more whenever I heard a James Brown song I would think about Judith with the purple eyes? I think I did.
The band started into “Papa’s Got a Brand New Bag.” Judith squeezed my hand. That is, she squeezed my hand if we were holding hands and I think we were. At the conclusion of the song she leaned over, and in her honeysuckle voice said, “Did you come?”
“I did,” I said.
She made a mock motion of slamming her hand into the table. Her mime meant, And I wanted your come later. I smiled a large smile. Judith’s eyes. Judith’s mouth. I was one gone cat.
The concert eventually ended. It was a ten minute walk back to my hotel. Halfway there Judith grabbed my lapels and pushed me against the concrete wall of a different hotel. She placed her mouth against mine. She moved her tongue around some. I did it, too. When we disengaged, I said, “Well, I guess I know what we’re about to do.”
“I hope you do, sailor,” Judith said.
Her aplomb was a little intimidating. As was her physical strength. But back then, for whatever reason, I was not sidetracked easily. Back then my gyroscope was much more reliable. I only lost my balance later in life.
Once inside the room there were few preliminaries. Which was good. It was late and my flight back to Memphis was early.
When we were both skinned back to our skivvies something became apparent, something that was only previously implied. Judith was muscle-bound. Not in a revolting way, but in a finely honed, how-beautiful-the-female-body-is kind of way.
“Whoa,” I said.
She laughed. “I’m a bodybuilder. Is that ok?”
I didn’t use words to answer.
We were naked. It was lovely. My erection was about half-mast while we rolled around on each other like seals. Her breasts were small and firm. Her thighs were the last word in thighs. And between them she had this little island of dark pubic hair. It was there I went to sip.
And while I was busy there a change occurred. Judith went from being in-charge and rambunctious and faux-tough to blushing full-body, to being breathless, to being mine. And when she came she pulled my head up and looked deep into my eyes. I assumed what just happened was good, that I had exceeded expectations, that I had surprised her, sexually, physically. And when I entered her and later came myself it was aftermath. The highlight was her orgasm and her sudden acquiescence. I do not mean this in any take-charge masculine way. It was simply that her orgasm was the apex of the act which we had met there to perform.
I didn’t sleep much that night. I don’t know. Do you? Do you sleep alright next to your one-night stand? I cannot. Judith, bless her, slept immediately and deeply. I lay beside her studying that peculiar gray light that seems to exist only in hotel rooms in the middle of the night with the lights out.
I may have dozed. I may not have slept for five minutes. I can’t remember.
I do remember that in the rosy dawn I got into the shower and she met me there and we rubbed around on each other some more. Then we went back to bed and Judith sat astride me. Except the old reliable wasn’t overly reliable. Perhaps I was nervous about my impending flight. Perhaps I was fully satisfied with the night before. At any rate, after grinding herself against me for a while, after I felt the full majesty of her buttocks, she lay her head against my chest. I kissed her hair.
I kissed her again when she got into her taxi. We had exchanged business cards. This was pre-email. I knew I would never see her again and it made me a little sad. I had a few romantic possibilities back in Memphis and, perhaps, I tried to think about them to assuage the longing one feels for the space between humans, the fragile, temporal, expanding space, that takes people out of our lives forever. That space opened in my mind’s eye like radiance from the cloud-surrounded morn; it spread dark and oily like calumny.
But, it wasn’t forever. Over time I received affectionate letters and cards from Judith. She apparently held our encounter in high esteem, for whatever reason. And I wrote her back with fervency and wit, two arrows I usually hold in my quiver.
And then the correspondence petered out and real life took over. Real life, which is like kudzu, covering up everything discarded and ugly, everything sweet but fleeting, the roadside waste of the human animal. I miss that fire, I guess. I miss Judith and all the other possible Judiths. I have replaced that spark with a deeper warmth, of course. I have learned to act like an adult, mostly, and to think of the past with wistful balance. I don’t remember Judith’s last name. But I remember the color purple, and I remember James Brown, and I remember the blurry light in that hotel room, and I remember meeting Judith because she used this magic key: “I picked you.” It is enough.
