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He shook the outstretched hand and noted how warm it was. The petite woman stretched her lips in a friendly grimace. A deep dimple appeared on her left cheek.
For a moment, he escaped with a glance. It had been a long time since any girl had given such a warm smile to him. There were quite a few women working with him in the French Aurors Forces, and with one of them, Vic, a warm, fair-haired woman with an exciting half-smile that revealed slightly crooked teeth, he would have liked to exchange more than remarks about work. But the desire ended there.
"What type of music do you like?" she asked.
"Rock"
"I don’t listen to rock."
"And what do you listen to?"
"Techno, you know, club music: loud, lively and fast. So that you can dance."
"As far as I know, everything can be said about techno music, but not that you can dance to it."
"Because you’re weird." She looked at him critically. "And you don’t have the faintest idea about music."
"Shall we sit down for a while?" I gasped. "She showed a bench with her head."
When they sat down, she took a deep breath and, as if with difficulty, admitted,
An awkward silence fell, she broke it with a question:
"Would you like that?"
He raised an eyebrow, not following the girl’s train of thought.
"Oh, there, a dog." She showed with a nod. "He’s just licking his balls, or maybe his dick. You can’t see from here."
Nearby, a gray-bearded shag crouched down and licked his testicles in a semi-reclined position - not without a certain amount of enthusiasm. Suddenly, as if understanding that he was being referred to, he raised his head. His head was of delicious proportions, and the shades of black and gold intermingled in his fur gave a dazzling effect; his brown eyes in the prevailing twilight seemed alert but gentle. He was perfect. And he was fully himself.
Patrick thought about it. The dog’s natural behavior made him realize how many things he had been faking lately. He could no longer remember when he could afford to be himself.
There were always demands placed on him. First, he was a freak, then a golden boy of Gryffindor, and finally, he was to be the exemplary savior of England, the perfect Auror, and a boyfriend. He was never himself.
Fleur, impatient and still waiting for an answer, poked him with her elbow. They met each other’s eyes like boxers at a weigh-in. Each had something to hide. A secret. A surprise.
The ring, the gong, the first bout.
"I didn’t understand." He crouched behind a double guard.
Her words made him tense; he wasn’t used to such open talk.
"Well, as if you could, would you lick yourself?" She waited for a clear move, an attack.
"Are you joking?"
"No, why? If I could, I would lick myself, every day, several times. Although probably after a few days, I would get bored. But it’s pleasant to serve myself an orgasm with my tongue, don’t you think?"
"Because I know? I never thought about it."
"You’re just nitpicking. Everyone has thought about it, just not everyone admits it. When it’s drought time, a person comes up with many things. Think about it and answer."
The attack was successful.
"I have nothing to think about. I’d rather not have my cock sucked." He leaned against the ropes for safety. An uneven fight.
"And why is that? What’s wrong with your polla?"
"With what?
"It’s Spanish for “cock.” One guy, as he fucked me, kept asking if I liked his polla. How’s that? Why don’t you like your little one?"
“I like it,” he replied embarrassedly, “but that’s still no reason for me to do well with my mouth.”
She remained silent. He glanced at her obliquely. The exposed eye shone fleetingly, reflecting the streetlight. Cold and motionless, like the blind of an animal caught in the headlights.
"Because you are selfish people." The accusation sounded in her voice. “When women give you a blowjob,” she explained avidly, “when they get up from their knees, you won’t place a kiss on lips coated with your, well, secretions. Because like what? Because it’s disgusting to taste yourself? What’s wrong with that, I ask? And when you bush between a woman’s thighs, which you often have to be persuaded to do, you then immediately push yourself with a pouty chin and lips to kiss. Or maybe we don’t like each other either?”
The conversation picked up speed. He was lost in the girl’s reasoning. He had to think it over. Ex-partners and his girlfriend, probably also already ex, never openly criticized his actions in bed. A woman doesn’t have to experience an orgasm with every intercourse, he explained to himself, when his lover failed to achieve fulfillment. Masculine pride did not allow to think that he was the one who did not rise to the occasion.He earned a squat again and had to say something.
“One at a time,” he suggested. "I don’t understand where this conversation is going."
"Why wouldn’t you want to give yourself a blowjob?"
“Because it is unnatural,” he replied after a moment’s thought. - We were not built that way, so it doesn’t fit in our heads.
"But if there was such a possibility, would you have resistance?"
"Certainly. I would have to change my attitude and way of thinking."
"And you would have no problem swallowing your own cum?"
“We’re talking about just giving a blowjob, not making a chick swallow.” he couldn’t stand it and raised his voice.
The idea seemed so absurd that it immediately aroused disgust and anger in him.
"Yes, your eternal puritanism. But when a chick pushes her fingers inside herself, it’s nice to watch when she licks the slime off them a moment later.
Out of politeness, he did not deny it.
"Why are we even talking about this?"
"What do you need a woman for? Let me answer for you - you need to get sexual."
"And you, as women, do not have such needs?" he sneered.
"Of course we have, but we are not so hypocritical and two-faced."
"And why do we need masturbation? After all, it’s also self-gratification."
"Are you kidding me? You want to compare shooting yourself a finger to a good lick? Wanking a horse to a blowjob? Are you telling me that there is no difference between these activities?" She pouted her lips contemptuously.
“You’re right, there is,” he capitulated reluctantly.
He had lost the clash.
She accepted her success with natural calm, without the standard formula in such a situation: “and I didn’t say” or “see, I’m right”.
She reached into the four-pack, scooped out one can. The distinctive sound of gas being released rang out.
A muggles siren wailed in the distance.
"A siren is the sound of the rushing cavalry of the twenty-first century. This sound always accompanies small private wars."
"I don’t understand..."
She waved her hand.
"Will you light it?" She held out a pack of pipes towards him.
"Thanks, I don’t smoke" he refused.
The girl took a long sip. He heard her swallow the cold drink. Following his companion’s example, he was just reaching for his beer when a loud, protracted burp came from Fleur’s mouth.
“Sorry,” she giggled. "You mustn’t hold back"
.
“You are better than many guys,” he commented.
"E there, you know little. Women are usually ashamed of such things. Did you know I can fart a cunt?"
He stopped breathing for a moment, but gathered his thoughts. He wants an open and uninhibited conversation, please.- This is no revelation. During intercourse, it’s a common occurrence and nothing to be ashamed of. Especially as...
“And who says I’m ashamed? And who says about farting, the pussy ones, during fucking? I know how to form like this, on cue,” she crowed.
She shook her head and pushed her hair away from her face.
"Impossible."
"It is possible, it is possible. Only it’s a taboo subject. You guys burp and fart, not ashamed of it at all. Women approach it differently."
"I tell you, it's impossible. I have never heard of vagina farting, as you call it, on cue."
“You provoke me,” she smiled slightly, turning the battered half of her face toward him.
She looked beautiful and ghastly at the same time. The scar after a dark curse glinted in the twilight. He didn’t want to look at the scar, but it caught his attention. She twisted her head and pulled her hood up; she almost looked like a mourner.
“You’re pretty,” he commented disingenuously.
"Pretty means nothing!" she was offended. "Pretty is the best definition of mediocrity. It is said out of politeness and pity. It is said so because it is socially acceptable. A person should live more colorful and profound, not just pretty."
He gulped down another portion of beer greedily. He didn’t really know what he could say now. The petite girl had knocked him off his feet. So open and direct. Very convincing in her naturalness.
"I didn’t want it to sound..." he searched for the word.
“... Mercifully? I’m used to it,” she threw in tartly." Ask.
"About what?"
"Where did I get it from?" She paused and glared at her interlocutor.
"That would be rude.
“But you are curious,” she stated.
"Yes." He saw no reason to lie.
"No one ever asks, and they should. You know, I had a friend in Beauxbatons, her mother died suddenly. Everyone felt sorry for her, but no one asked how she felt about it, because they had a problem with it themselves. Is my scar a problem for you?"
“Not really,” he shrugged his shoulders.She didn't even know that he himself had spent much of his life with the scar on his face, which he was now hiding under an illusion.
“Drink up! Or let’s go to the club,” she cut off the conversation.
“After all, they won’t let us in with these cans,” he opined.
"Don’t worry about that. We’ll stuff them in our pockets." She stood up abruptly, nudged the open can, the golden liquid spilled directly under his shoes.
They set off. They had about fifteen minutes to Slaughterhouse. The girl again ran up now and then to keep pace with him.
"What is your name, actually?" She wheezed out, struggling to catch air.
"Harry"
“Do you work here? Where did you come from? You don’t look like a drunk, anyway, I think you’re too young for that,” she trailed off, completely missing the rhythm of her breathing.
He did not answer. He did not want to talk about himself more than necessary.
"And you? What are you doing here?" He tried to deflect the question.
"What do you mean, what am I doing? What everyone else is doing. I hope to find a job, make millions"
"Haven’t you thought about returning to your home? Maybe it would be easier for there to get a job here?"
She bit her lower lip, turned dark, and said quietly,
"I would find a job maybe, but nothing more."
"More?"
"I have nothing to go back to. Nothing and no one is waiting for me. And you? Do you have a family?"
"No." The half true went over smoothly.
"Then you are like me. And I understand that. If I had a family, if I had someone to go back to, I would go back. I probably wouldn’t have left at all."
"How old are you, actually?"
"As many as it takes, you don’t have to worry. At eighteen, I got drunk to the point of unconsciousness."
" Need for what and what I don’t have to worry about?" The suggestion was obvious, but he was curious about the answer.
She adjusted her hood, slid it tighter over her face, so that he couldn’t observe her facial expressions, couldn’t see the gentle smile that covered only half of her face; I guess she was in the habit of smiling half-heartedly, or maybe the scar didn’t allow her muscles to work properly.
"You look more intelligent than you are, or there’s too much shame in you. I guess that’s a good term and so English."
"Do you divide people based on nationality?" neatly changed the subject. "How long have you been here?"- she bounced the ball.
"Three years."
"And don’t you see the difference?
The answer pressed itself to his lips. He wanted to say how foreign he felt in the city that had become his place of residence, his home. But why should he confide in a woman he had just met? She aroused conflicting emotions in him.
“You don’t want to, don’t answer. Your silence is enough for me,” she scolded, and rose from her seat.
She took his hand. He almost kissed her, but he lacked courage. Men are sometimes yucky.