AmericasDarlings by Gail Bridges

knitting bag under the couch, leaned back in Dmitri’s arms and took it all in. I was content to watch everyone else, mostly because I didn’t understand one word they were saying.
    I let my mind wander.
    The room was dim but I could see that the Russians had shoved the room’s furniture against the walls to leave an open area in the center. Couches, several well-cushioned chairs and a square table had been moved, which made the room look somehow bigger. They’d brought in an ice-filled tub to chill their drinks and had dinner delivered. I wrinkled my nose at the empty food containers and beer cans and used napkins and torn candy wrappers littering the floor—the Russians might know how to party but they certainly weren’t very neat. At the far end of the room, under the now-dark window, was a sturdy-looking coffee table. Two men—straining thighs and lovely shoulders and sweaty chests and all—were practicing on top of it.
    Nobody paid them the slightest bit of attention.
    The room seethed with people. I studied them. Men and women took up every square inch of seating space, some sitting on one another’s laps or lying draped on top of each other. Others sat on the floor cross-legged.
    Sexual gymnasts, every person there.
    Men. Women. People I recognized. People I didn’t. A groomer. An assistant coach or two. A choreographer.
    I narrowed my eyes.
    It was a very attractive bunch of people.
    Like I said, we have a body type.
    We’re tall. We’re graceful. We’re narrow-hipped and narrow-waisted. We women tend to have small, tight breasts with dark nipples and the men tend toward long, slender cocks and big ball sacs. All of us have full, lush butts. We complement each other beautifully, we sexual gymnasts—we’re like opposite sides of the same coin. It’s one of the reasons we look so luscious when we perform. To a person, we’re proud of the way we look. And—I’ll be the first to admit this—we have more than a touch of exhibitionism. Voyeurism too.
    We’d have to, wouldn’t we?
    Time passed. People came and went. Dmitri held me close, kissed me, felt me up, improved my mood. Someone passed me a bottle of flavored water. Dmitri acquired a beer. I ate stale nachos and a chicken something-or-other—a burrito perhaps. I leaned back on Dmitri’s lap, enjoying his cool hands on my breasts, enjoying his accented voice whispering into my ear, enjoying the strong, hard feel of him.
    It was nearing midnight.
    I should leave soon. I should try and get some sleep. I had a big day tomorrow.
    “Leah!” said Dmitri after a while. “Pay attention. We play a game now!”
    I sat up. A game? What game?
    A man—I was pretty sure he was a Russian contortionist—yelled and gesticulated and shooed everyone out of the central area. Two more women wiggled their way onto the crowded couch where Dmitri and I lounged, playfully shoving Dmitri over a few inches then kissing him, and me, in apology. A man cleared the central area, kicking stray containers and plastic silverware and beer cans to the side while someone else shoved chairs with laughing occupants in them even further back.
    The contortionist—Yuri Something-or-other, I didn’t catch his last name—stood at the end of the cleared space where we could all see him. He let loose a long string of Russian. People nodded, smiled, laughed then nodded again.
    I tugged Dmitri’s arm. “What’s he saying?”
    “We play a game!”
    “I know that . How do we play?”
    “Just watch. Is easy.”
    Yuri said something to a round of cheering and suddenly everyone in the room was tearing off their clothes. Okay. I could do that. I disrobed and Dmitri did too. We crammed our pants and shirts and underwear under the couch next to my bag. Then I snuggled back, naked, to sit in Dmitri’s arms. I felt his cock against my back. He ran a cool finger over the American flag emblem on my arm, pinched it playfully then slid his hand around my side to rest causally between my