How I Kissed Alyssa Reece

It’s hard to resist Alyssa Reece. Well, it’s impossible – but I was hardly going to tell my boyfriend that. I didn’t know she was a porn star when I met her. Or rather bumped into her. I was in a hurry; she hadn’t seen the bag hanging from my shoulder and as we squeezed past each other, she ended-up wearing the coffee she’d just bought rather than drinking it.

“Oh my God,” we screeched simultaneously. The perfect matching of our words made us both smile even as Alyssa did her best to detach her scalding clothing from her body. Without thinking, I grabbed a bunch of napkins and dabbed at the previously-white top. Alyssa let me do it – even when the top had cooled and it clung like a second skin over her breasts and torso. Thinking back, there was something defiant about the way she stood with her body on display – but you never really suspect that someone might be a porn star. It’s not something you think. What I was thinking was, “Mmmm, nice top.”

I picked-up my bags, had a quick rummage then held an identical white tank top against my chest, as though trying it for size against a mirror. “I’ve just bought this, I think we’re about the same size.” Alyssa clocked the identical top and we shared another of those smiles.

“Thanks – but I think I got this.”

“I insist,” I said, swapping Alyssa’s empty coffee cup for my new top. “Just give yours a quick rinse under the tap. It’ll be fine after a wash.” There was undeniable logic.

“I thought you were in a hurry?”

“I was,” I said, with a shrug. “But my train’s on platform 14 and I don’t run. Not in these.” Alyssa looked down.

“Manolo Blahniks. Nice.” Alyssa touched her booted toe against mine. They weren’t a match but they weren’t far off. This time the shared smile grew into a grin. “I’m Alyssa, by the way.”

“Abigail. Well, Abi.” We shuffled bags and clothes awkwardly so we could shake, making us both giggle at the ridiculous formality. There was something that made us pause, hand-in-hand; it was as though we were re-connecting rather than meeting for the first time. “So, how do you take your coffee?” I murmured.

“Unsweetened; almond milk.” There was a hesitation as we carried on looking at each other. I wanted to ask questions about Alyssa: about her accent; about what she was doing in Manchester and a hundred other things but I had a peculiar feeling as though I somehow already knew the answers.

“Erm… I’ll just go and…” we said simultaneously. The only difference was that Alyssa’s thumb was pointing towards the toilets whereas mine was pointing towards the counter. We grinned in a way that should have felt stupid but didn’t and then went our separate ways.

“Do you want vanilla, chocolate or plain almond milk?” I cringed as I drew my focus back to the lad taking my order. Stop daydreaming, Abi!!

“I’m sorry?” There’s something bewildering about ordering drinks from these places. I’m an adult. I should be perfectly capable of ordering a coffee but I’ve always found it like being in some kind of medieval torture chamber when they start asking questions.

“The almond milk?” he clarified, with a patronising undertone. The undertone clicked something in my head. I started collecting details. His name badge said, ‘Julian’; skinny, about the same height as me. Was it possible for someone with that much acne to shave? “Do you want vanilla, chocolate or plain?” Julian paused after each of the flavours on offer. I smiled sweetly as he belittled me. I was going to kill Julian; he was going to die a particularly painful and brutal death. Perhaps he had an unknown but extreme allergy to vanilla? I was willing to test my theory.

“Plain,” I decided. “Thanks, Julian,” I said, as he huffed his way through preparing the drinks. Perhaps the floor behind the counter was very slippery? And all those sharp edges…

That’s the beauty of being a writer – I can kill anyone I want and no-one will ever know. Even Julian was unlikely to notice when I killed him by brutally inserting a vanilla pod up his…

“Hi,” Alyssa said, having slid in unnoticed beside me. “What’s so funny?” I write about people having sex, so there has been a lot of inserting things in various orifices… but I’d never inserted a vanilla pod anywhere. Note to self: insert vanilla pod. Perhaps Alyssa would do it for me? Alyssa and Julian? I shuddered involuntarily. No way would I do that to her… Alyssa was nice.

“Nothing,” I said. “I was just thinking about something.” It was probably best that I didn’t admit to a perfect stranger that I was smiling while plotting about us killing Julian. I looked down at Alyssa’s chest. “It’s a good fit.” I thought it best not to mention Alyssa’s nipples.

“Thanks.” Alyssa did a little half turn to show off the top. It looked much better on her than it had on me and certainly better than the sad, soggy white material dangling from her fingers. “I did my best,” Alyssa said apologetically, stretching the material for me to see. An impatient ‘tut’ made me turn back to Julian. He was so getting dead. Brutally dead. I had a sudden thought.

“I got you the plain almond milk, I hope that’s OK?”

“Perfect. Thanks, Abi.”

“There you go, Abi,” Julian said, mocking Alyssa’s accent while handing over my change.

“What’s his problem?” Alyssa asked, as I steered her away from Julian’s acne.

“He’s an arsehole.” I said the last word loud enough to make the heads in the queue turn.

“Arse-hole.” Alyssa tried the word out with a much exaggerated British pronunciation. “Asshole,” she snapped in her native accent. The second way was much quicker. North American but not American – it was softer.

“Is that a Canadian accent?” Alyssa’s head tilted to the side and she looked at me intently over our table.

“You know, Abi, you’re the first person over here to pick out that. Everyone assumes I’m American.”

“I’ve been over to Canada; West coast, starting in Vancouver.”

“My home,” Alyssa replied, with a nod.

“Really? We stayed at the Listel on Robson Street. There was a pancake place a couple of blocks down…”

“Café Crepe,” Alyssa murmured, as she took a sip of coffee.

“Mmmm,” I sighed a little dreamily. It had seemed rude not to stop off for a pancake whenever we’d been going back to the hotel. I’d tried more than my fair share of toppings and had loved each and every one of them. My stomach growled its approval at the culinary memory and I flushed with embarrassment. Alyssa was laughing at me, her eyes sparkling with amusement behind the cup she was gripping with both hands. “We did a lot of walking,” I protested. “I needed the energy.” My legs hummed with expectation as I thought back to Stanley Park and the Grouse Grind. “I loved Vancouver.”

We settled into an easy conversation about the places we’d travelled; our favourite sights – Prague, Vienna and Italy. “I really must go to the loo, or I’m going to pee in my pants,” Alyssa complained after another bought of laughter. I couldn’t help the thoughts that clouded my mind as Alyssa skipped off around the tables and disappeared into the Ladies. In my mind, she didn’t make it. I pictured a dark, wet patch blossoming down the inner thighs of Alyssa’s jeans. Again something familiar… a memory tugging from somewhere…

“I really am turning into a pee pervert,” I thought. My eyes scanned the room. Apparently, five to ten percent of the general population are into any given fetish… which meant one or two of the people in this coffee bar got pleasure from some form of pee play. Given the small number of people in the coffee bar, I was probably the only one – but hopefully not.

I smiled as I looked across at a platform full of people waiting for the doors to open on their train. There were probably dozens of us pee perverts right here… if only we knew. My bladder throbbed eagerly as I thought about doing something very naughty right where I was sitting. Perhaps Julian would have to clear up after me? Now that would be worth seeing.

“You’ve got that naughty smile again, Abigail,” Alyssa chided, sliding back into her chair. I shrugged.

“I’m a naughty kind o’ gal.” I hoped that my imitation of a Canadian accent had been better than Julian’s. Alyssa laughed in a head-thrown-back release of joy which had heads turning towards us. Something seemed oddly familiar when she did that; there was something in my memory banks which wouldn’t quite rise to the surface. I could feel it in there somewhere but I couldn’t quite place it.

I pouted, mock-sulkily. I didn’t think my accent had been that bad.

“Me too,” Alyssa said, when she’d recovered enough to speak. She was wearing the most enormous grin. The conversation paused for the first time since we’d met and it looked like Alyssa was going to tell me something important but it slipped away as Julian started to nosily clear our table. It had been nearly an hour. An hour?

“Shit. I’m going to miss my train.”

“Again?” Alyssa rolled her eyes. “You’re really not good with trains, are you?” She was teasing me.

“Can you mind my stuff while I go pee?”

“Of course,” Alyssa replied, using her feet to gather my bags around her. I gave her a pained smile. My bladder was fit to burst. What I had only imagined happening to Alyssa could very well be about to happen to me. I scuttled off to the Ladies, juggling my muscles desperately to keep from having ‘an accident’. The relief when I made it to the loo and started peeing was like a mini orgasm. These pee games were dangerous. One of these days I wasn’t going to make it.

“Better?” Alyssa asked.

“Much. But I do have to go.”

“Again? What were you doing in there, naughty girl?” Alyssa nodded towards the Ladies and gave me a filthy wink. My stomach clenched a little as Alyssa picked at a hidden truth. I might have had a little play if I’d had more time.

“For my train, smartarse.”

“Smart-arse,” Alyssa mocked, in her best British accent. I tried to give her a cross look but knew it wasn’t particularly cross. I was smiling too much.

“You’re going to get such a spanking, if you’re not careful.”

Alyssa turned and offered me her backside. “I’d like that.” I burst out laughing.

“Maybe next time,” I said, hustling her towards the door.

“Promise?” I rolled my eyes and shook my head, pretending to be exasperated.

“Who’s being naughty now?” We were at the top of the steps heading down to platform 14. “I thought you were going to London?”

“I am,” Alyssa said, humping her bag over her shoulder. “I think there are quite a few trains.” She didn’t say it but I knew she had missed whatever train she had intended to take because of me.

“This is the Liverpool platform.”

“I know. I was just coming down to see you off.”

“Shouldn’t that be the other way round? Aren’t I supposed to wave you off?” Alyssa was the tourist, after all, not me. I felt an emotional tug as my train was announced. I wanted to…

“You can wave me off next time.”

“Next time?” Alyssa waggled her perfect eyebrows at me as she pressed a folded piece of paper into my hand.

“Next time,” she said, firmly. I started re-arranging my bags so I could give Alyssa a hug.

“You’re not going to give me that British handshake thing again, are you?”

“No, I was…” Alyssa wrapped herself around me. She was all soft warmth and gentle enthusiasm.

“This is how we do it in Canada, Abigail,” she whispered. No-one I’d met in Canada had ever hugged me like that. Alyssa partially released me, paused for a second as she hooked her hair behind her ear before very deliberately kissing me on the lips.

Perhaps that was a Canadian thing too?

I didn’t stop it; I didn’t encourage it. I just let her kiss me. When we did break apart, Alyssa touched her fingertip to her lower lip. I watched both the finger and the lip behind it with a mixture of shock and awe. I was aware that people were looking at us. “It’s a Canadian thing,” Alyssa said loudly. My eyes met Alyssa’s. Were they sparkling with amusement? Had she been toying with the British reserve? “Maybe,” she added, just loud enough for me to hear. My train was standing behind me with its doors open. Alyssa flicked her eyes towards the doors and nodded. “Go on,” she said.

I had a heavy weight in my chest as I followed her instruction and hurried to a window seat as the whistle blew. We smiled; we waved and as the train pulled away, my shopping fell everywhere.

I was halfway home by the time I unfolded the paper. It read, “You’d better email me, you naughty gal!” and there was an email address. Underneath that was written ‘Alyssa Reece’.

“Holy fuck!” My eyes nearly popped out of my head – as half the carriage turned to look at me. Reece? The bubble of memory finally popped open and gave me a vivid kaleidoscope of moments. I recognised that name. It featured rather heavily on the front and back covers of the DVDs I kept in a special box under the bed. Alyssa Reece, porn star.

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