US Highways
Baseball and Bikinis
21 February 2014
I FOUND A NICE PLACE to camp on Mississippi’s Gulf Coast. Unbelievably beautiful. I looked out at the white sand and blue water. The beach was empty. It was February and Mississippi’s spring break bonanza wouldn’t start for a few weeks.
I’d received a flood of love after the final chapter of The Prodigal posted in September. That was cool. I got good response from The Props Master 1: Ritual Reality. Redtail was getting a good response and would end this week. I’d released the eBook and paperback in January. A lot of people were grabbing it so they didn’t have to wait for each installment on SOL. Clever, but there was something about teasing readers to buy the book before it finished posting that I wasn’t enthused about. My readers on SOL had been good to me.
They’d saved my life.
A Few Years Ago: Words Are Opium
I got home from my 2011 book tour determined to save my marriage. It wasn’t just for Maddie’s sake. She was an adult now and while I would always give her whatever help I could, she was doing well at making her own way. But Treasure was the love of my life. The second book I’d published, Steven George & The Dragon, was a collection of fairy tales that led a hapless dragon slayer from adventure to adventure as he sought his dragon. Not a kids’ book, I kept reminding people who bought it. Think Grimms’ Fairy Tales, not Disney’s. I’d dedicated it to my wife, without whom there would be no happy endings.
Writing gets under my skin. Deep under it. I’d just finished writing For Money or Mayhem and was depressed over the way I’d once again treated perfectly fine people who were near happiness. Mystery solved, life wrecked. I needed some TLC. That’s when Treasure told me she just wasn’t interested and we needed to figure out what our next steps would be.
Fuck!
Dad, words are our opium.
I went digging through my files and found a locked and password protected story that I’d written fifteen years earlier. I’d abandoned the story because ‘I don’t write that kind of stuff!’ Miraculously, I remembered the password.
It wasn’t bad. Not finished, by a long shot, but it had the makings for the one thing that I desperately wanted. I wanted to have a happy ending. I did some rewriting, cleanup, and editing. Five days after my wife’s announcement, I posted the first chapter of The Art and Science of Love. I’d been reading stories on SOL for a couple of years, but had never considered posting a story there. It seemed like a good thing at the time. I kept writing more chapters of ASL and when the second chapter posted, email started coming in. My first fan mail was from the ubiquitous ‘Anonymous’ who wrote, “An excellent start. I find the characters believable and the plot interesting. I hope to read much more like this from you in future. Thank you for making your efforts available.” I framed it and put it on a wall like the first dollar bill earned by a new restaurant.
But the notes kept coming. Several authors that I’d read responded to the story. InvidFan. Crumbly Writer. GentleButFirm. They were all encouraging. By the eleventh chapter, the email was all over the map, but mostly positive. If you can call this positive: “Fah-h-h-h-h-k! The sex in this chapter is so-o-o-o hot! I would give my right nut to be the man meat in that sandwich just once. Thanks for sharing.” One even wrote to thank me for correcting his technique for a particular sex act! Aroslav: sex therapist.
After the story finished posting, I got a raft of messages. In general, it seemed that people appreciated my style, my understanding of art, and believable sex scenes. Imagine that. I seriously considered letting Treasure see what she was missing out on. “Wow. A piece of erudite, brain-seducing erotica. What a treat. Thanks so much. I trust more of your finely-crafted and believable erotica will grace this site before too long.”
I was determined that it would. No one had ever responded to my mysteries and thrillers so enthusiastically. I started in on a sequel to The Art and Science of Love based on the book I’d originally planned to write twenty years ago. But it was going to take a long time to get the story written—or rewritten so it would make sense. I figured I should write a piece just to keep my name in the market. The ill-fated Art School was the result. I realized as soon as I posted and reread it that I’d made a huge mistake. The very reason I’d started writing erotica in the first place was to have a happy ending. I’d betrayed the promise in Art School. Even though I quickly changed the ending so it wasn’t as miserable as my ‘reality-based’ mysteries, the damage was done and scores were poor.
In the meantime, I was bogged down in details of my intended story and decided once again that I needed to get my name out there with another story. Since people seemed to really like stories set in the art world, I thought maybe I could jot off a quick story about an art student who found love on the other side of the easel when a classmate asks him to pose for her. It would be a simple couple of chapters. I posted the first chapter of Model Student: Mural before I’d even begun writing the second.
“I’m looking forward to the next chapter. I hope there are many more. Thank you!” Well, there would be a second chapter, because having a slightly older supermodel athlete as the third part of a threesome would be hot. But the notes kept coming asking for ‘the next chapter.’ I was writing as fast as I could and posting as soon as the chapter was finished. They were long (7,000-word) chapters and I was getting one a week out. It wasn’t until the fifth one posted (now the end of Mural) and Tony had just painted the mural that I realized I was in this for the long haul. And I’d just introduced the enigmatic Kate. Funny how I’d started thinking about her just then. It wasn’t even going to be enough to end the story at the end of Tony’s freshman year in college. I was going to have to take this all the way through to graduation.
“My God. I have just read 5 and 6. Now I understand your blog and the forum when you talk about the feedback you’ve been getting. Your work is amazing! You have a gift. You really don’t need hints on where the story should go next, because these characters inside you will tell you exactly what you need to do, and which step to take next. That they are so alive on paper (well, on the screen), means they are living and breathing inside you, and there is no skin between them and the words you write. Oh, my god. Thank you for daring to do this, to open your heart like this. I don’t know whether these people exist in real life or not, but they for sure exist inside you, and now they live for us. Incredible, and thank you.”
The black depression that had descended on me at the end of November when Treasure told me we were through was gradually lifting. It took a while. It took figuring out how to divide the property, when to put the house on the market, where we would each live. But throughout that year, I wrote chapter after chapter and posted them. Black Irish read and reviewed the story and volunteered to help me with some editing. He could only help temporarily because Jay Cantrell was his first priority and a new tome was coming out from the master. But close on his heels, Old Rotorhead volunteered to help with the editing and proofreading. My work was benefiting from the added eyes before it was posted.
And email kept coming in, thanking me—thanking me!—for writing this story. A publisher expressed interest in taking on the book, but wanted me to stop posting it on SOL. I delayed Book 5: Odalisque two months while I negotiated with the publisher and eventually withdrew the manuscript from consideration. I’d committed to the readers to put this story out on SOL for free. I’d publish the books as eBooks so people could buy them, but SOL readers had saved my life.
I was going to be okay.
Back to Alabama
Even though I was alone and traveling the country in a truck and sixteen-foot trailer, I was trying to figure out how I could thank my readers. The answer was obvious.
Write a story for them.
I had the trailer parked somewhere near Foley, Alabama and ‘Lambert’s Café, The Only Home of the Throwed Rolls.’ I needed to take a few days to edit and design a book for one of my clients and having the famous restaurant so close was a big bonus. I was also near a white sand beach on the edge of the Gulf. I drove out onto the beach, which was packed solid enough to support the truck. In fact, several trucks parked or cruised along the shore. Popular place. I went wading.
I like to be by the water. I’m not so wild about being in the water. My ideal homestead would be camped next to a small river where I could hear the water and sit next to it. But I’d determined that I would dip my feet in the waters of all four US coasts. I’d waded in the Pacific at Malibu. Now the Gulf. Eventually, I would get to the Atlantic and the Great Lakes. Today was South Coast Day.
After I’d fulfilled my objective, I sat in the truck watching the sun go down and listening to ‘The 70s on 7’ on my satellite radio. Smokie (originally Smokey) came on. I’ve looked this group up and I think they only ever had one song hit the charts. It was ‘Living Next Door to Alice.’ Sweet song about a guy who grows up next door to the love of his life, but never tells her. The song ends with the words, ‘Now I’ll just have to get used to not living next door to Alice.’ My ears tend to pick and choose what they hear and how they hear it. What I heard was ‘Living Next Door to Heaven.’
I had the title for my new story.
Now I just needed a location and a cast of characters.
A Long Time Ago: Our Gang
I was three years younger than Jessica. She was the second oldest of the kids on our section of Mosquito Road. Mitch was the oldest. His sister, Betts, was a year younger than Jessica. Jessica’s brother Drew was next. Despite the character I turned him into, he wasn’t a bad guy and I was happy to count him among my friends. All the rest of us on that stretch of road were in the same grade except Geoff’s brother, John, who was a year younger. That meant my best friends, Carl, Geoff, Liz, Cassie, and I were in the same class. Our section of Mosquito Road was about half a mile long. We represented every family that lived along it. The next person in our school lived nearly half a mile farther on in either direction. So, of course, the ten of us did stuff together. Mitch and Jessica were both considerably more advanced, but Betts and Drew were just young enough that they considered it okay to hang out with the rest of us.
One of our favorite pastimes was to play softball in Geoff’s pasture or mine. Mine had the ‘advantage’ of not having horses or ponies in it like Geoff’s and Carl’s. If they weren’t busy doing older kid stuff—Mitch had to help his Grandpa with the farming and Jessica… well, who knows?—then we could field two full teams of five for softball. If everybody couldn’t play, we had a rotation game. It was hard to keep score, but we all got to play all positions. We had to keep skipping up so the rotation didn’t stay exactly the same. Nobody wanted me to pitch to them because I pitched on the church team. Nobody wanted Carl to play first base because he was so tall, he could stretch halfway to second. If he ever made contact with the ball, you could about guarantee we’d have to chase it into the next field. Fortunately, he didn’t hit it very often.
Anyway, there was this lake a few miles away. We’d all been to it on occasion, but for whatever reason, the parents got together one summer when we all thought we’d die of the heat and told all of us to get our bathing suits on because we were going swimming. It took half the parents to drive us all to the lake and the other half brought food a little later.
Any of this sound familiar? Yeah. This was pretty much the cast that started shaping up for Living Next Door to Heaven.
At fifteen, Jessica was the most well-developed of our group and I’d observed her from afar as she sprouted a nice pair of breasts. I thought she was beautiful. Of course, it was Betts who was the first girl who had let me look and touch between her legs in the infamous horse barn hayloft. She was just as fascinated when she played with the bell on top of my ding-dong, as she called it, and I got my first ever erection. Neither of us knew what to do with it, but we had fun. Her brother, my best friend Carl, told on us and that put a quick end to the explorations.
Suffice it to say, Jessica had the tightest swimsuit that day. She might have been trying to fit into last year’s suit. I’ve never understood what drew us together, but Jessica wanted to play with me. Really play. We swam together and when we were out deep enough, she kept brushing against me. I mean brushing really interesting parts against me. We played ‘toss’ where I’d put my hands on her waist and throw her up into the air. Then she’d swim up to me and while we were getting ready for the next toss, she’d make sure that my hands got a chance to explore her burgeoning breasts before they slid down to her waist. I was totally lost in the moment. She did a good amount of groping as well until Betts put a stop to it.
“You guys!” she hissed at us. “You’re going to get caught doing that stuff. Quit it!” I think that she was a little jealous that I was getting to feel Jessica up so thoroughly and wasn’t touching Betts. Well, Betts hadn’t really developed quite the handholds that Jessica had.
As things go, though, that was the extent of my relationship with Jessica. We never got a chance to do anything else. Well, she was a sophomore in high school and could date real guys.
After my freshman year, my family moved to a new school district. I got my first ever yearbook and the big thing was to have as many kids as possible sign it before I moved.
I’d never been to a class reunion by the time I packed my trailer and hit the road. This was a reunion year and I had my daughter bring me my yearbooks from the store room when she came down to visit me in Florida. I was leafing through that first one and looking at all the pictures. Cassie had written a very nice little note wishing me luck and signed it ‘Love, Cassie.’ I had to think back fondly on those times we met in the woods that joined our two properties.
But when I turned to the last page of the yearbook, I saw a note that just brought back a flood of memories. The longest note anyone had written. Jessica had graduated and was headed for Purdue. She admonished me to think of her sometimes as she was slaving away. “And always remember the crazy times we had, like that time at the lake,” she concluded. There was a little heart drawn next to her name. Three years after the event, she was remembering us playing in the lake and exploring the mysteries of our young bodies. And she was asking me to always remember it, too. Well, I did. That became the basis for the story I was about to write.
Back to Florida
The grouper sandwiches that Dual Writer talks about in his Florida Friends series are not the only reason to go to Florida. They are a sufficient reason, though. Nor are the ‘Tampa Twins’ at the Harley store, though I’m glad to say I got to see them.
No, there are only two real reasons to be in Florida in March. Spring Training and Spring Break. Baseball and Bikinis.
I’d managed to stake out a prime slot for my trailer in Fort Myers Beach for the month. It was high season and I paid as much for that month as I had for all the camping sites I’d stayed at so far in the eight months of this trip. And what did I get for it? When I say a ‘slot’ that’s exactly what I mean. My trailer was parked on a cement slab twelve feet wide. With the slide-out extended, the trailer is a little over eleven feet wide. On either side of the slab is a strip of grass, four feet wide, separating my slab from my neighbor’s. I couldn’t fully extend my awning without hitting the next trailer.
And the awning was necessary if I wanted any shade. There were four trees in the RV park and they bordered the mostly unused play area.
When I was young, I had a tendency toward religious fervor. I’d fortunately outgrown it by the time I finished my degrees. It is humorous to me in retrospect that all the classmates who scorned me in grade school because of my firmly held religious beliefs and ‘goodie-two-shoes’ attitude have now become hyper-religious bigots who are willing to condemn anyone for anything that is different than what they happen to believe. I know that’s harsh. Most of them are still good people. Some of those who weren’t are now. We all tend to remember our childhood as miserable and blame everyone else for it. In my blissful state as a born-again pagan, I’ve become both socially and morally liberal. Kind of wish I could get my hands on some of those girls the way they were when we were growing up.
Some of those people live in Florida. At least part of the year. They have condos, trailers, winter homes, or for all I know, tents on the beach. Winter can be hard in northern Indiana, so why not retire to warm and sunny Florida?
I’ll tell you why not.
I cannot understand why old people want to flock to a state where it seems the State Bird is a vulture! These huge black birds are everywhere. Including on the unused playground equipment in the center of the RV park. There are no children living in the RV park and when one comes to visit a grandparent, he avoids the playground. The vultures perch on the jungle gym watching the benches around the edge. Old folks go out for their daily walks—usually with some yappy little dog—and take a break to sit on the benches around the playground where the four trees provide a little shade. The vultures eye them the entire time they sit there, as if to say, ‘Are you dead yet?’ If a vulture hops down from the bars to the ground, you’ve sat still too long. There are warning signs at the entrance to the park that admonish caution because the vultures will eat the rubber on your car. Door seals, tires, bumper guards. Camping World does a brisk business in covers for tires to protect them from the sun while you are parked. We know it is really to protect them from vultures.
Maddie visited me in Florida, anxious to get her own bikini time in on the beach. I sat and watched the scenery while she went wading and swimming in the salt water. Then we’d sit in the evening and go over the plots for our newest book projects. She loved the concept of Redtail and was happy that it had done so well on SOL. We have an agreement that she doesn’t read her father’s porn, though I found out later that she cheated and read Redtail. She said she liked it.
She spotted the potential business in the park immediately. With the same enthusiasm that she plots a novel, she plotted a business strategy: Pimp My Golf Cart. Everyone in the park, it seemed, had a golf cart. Aside from the required twice-a-day walk around the park with the dog, no one walked anyplace. Walmart was half a mile away. They had a special parking area for golf carts. Maddie had the idea of doing custom paint jobs on carts. She even went so far as to suggest kits to put a Rolls Royce grill and ornament on the front of them like they used to do with customization kits for Volkswagen Beetles. (“Back in the old days,” she said. Grr!) She could do custom canopies to keep the sun off delicate skin. She even suggested a tattoo parlor where customers could get decorated to match the paint job on the cart. She pulled up so many designs for 1950s and 60s muscle cars on her computer to manipulate onto pictures of golf carts that she exceeded my data allowance for the month.
Then she flew back to Seattle.
If you are around Fort Myers, watch for a new business coming soon. The last I heard, she planned to promote it with a television show like ‘Chop Shop’ or something. Get the cart, the tattoo, and the video. Creative kid. She’ll get to that after she finishes her next novel.
When we weren’t plotting stories and business pipe dreams, we went to the beach—where she took great delight in pointing out the best bikini butts—or to the baseball game. I’d lived in Minnesota years ago, and since the Seattle Mariners were in the Cactus League for spring training, I contented myself with going to Twins games, starting with the opener against the University of Minnesota Gophers. The Gophers gave the Twins a good run for the money and a close game. Mostly the players were the same age. Some of the pros were younger than the college kids. There wasn’t a name on the roster for either team that I recognized. Early training games are a testing ground for those who have been invited to spring training, but will probably end up on Double-A or Triple-A teams. You don’t really see the top players much until the last week of training.
You might have noticed that there isn’t much here about me getting laid. Well, since Angie left to go back to school, I really hadn’t felt like pursuing any opportunities. I was pouring all my energy into writing Living Next Door to Heaven and was churning out 4-5,000 words a day when I was camped. My characters were carrying on non-stop conversations in my head when I was traveling.
Pixel the Cat had joined my editorial team and he and Old Rotorhead were sending the chapters back to me almost as quickly as I wrote them. I was determined that I would not start posting until I had completed a full sub-arc of the story. It would be one long—very long—serial, but within it, there would be ten parts (later reduced to nine) that each had a distinct end-point. I’d start posting the first one while I wrote the second one, but I planned to be way ahead of the game before the chapters ever hit SOL. I absolutely hated stories that I followed only to have them fade away to nothing and eventually turn yellow with a note that said, ‘unfinished and inactive.’ That was not going to happen to one of my stories if I could help it.
It’s hard to develop a relationship when you are only camped for two or three days. People come and go. I’ve never been all that good at pickup lines or identifying the fast movers. But I would be in Florida for two months. I had my eye peeled for opportunity. I never expected where it would come from.
I’d been accumulating more and more Facebook followers as I wrote about my travels. More relatives. Some old friends from my years in high school. Some relatives went to school with me in the early years and knew people on their friends lists with whom I’d grown up.
“Ari, are you coming to Indiana for the reunion this summer?” my third cousin twice removed asked in a post.
“Reunion? What reunion?” I responded.
It turned out that I would be just in time this summer to go to a class reunion for St. Joe Valley High, the school I’d left after my freshman year. The school where all the people I’d been making up stories about in LNDtH had gone. Well, shit. Why not? I wrote to the reunion organizer and asked if it was okay to attend, even though I didn’t graduate with the class. I’d gone through ten years of school with many of them. I was registered.
“Ari? Is that really you?” read the email note. “Are you really coming home for the party?” There was no signature. All I had was the return email address. Cassie Clinton Jones. My one-time next-door neighbor and playmate in the woods between our houses. I still considered Cassie to be my first girlfriend, back before I understood what a girlfriend was.
A Long Time Ago: A Walk in the Woods
Entertainment out in the country was whatever we could make of it. Like following Cassie’s father as he plowed the fields and breaking up dirt clods with our bare feet. Sometimes we’d find a worm stuck between our toes and giggle about how gross it was. It would take hours to scrub the dirt off our feet at night. At least it seemed like it. Neither of our mothers would allow us in the house until we’d been through the hose outside.
We were in kindergarten together and I was even invited to play at her house on occasion in the winter. Cassie was cool. Her mother allowed her to jump on the bed. We had our own circus with a trampoline!
The first day of first grade was a catastrophe. The teacher seated us in alphabetical order. Cassie was heartbroken and cried because she couldn’t sit beside Ari. We got through it and sat next to each other at lunch. School does that to kids. In the summer, we continued to meet and go play in the woods. Sometimes we were joined by other kids from our part of Mosquito Road. Mitch and Betts often rode their horses out there. Sometimes we’d even see Geoff or John on their pony. Mostly, though, we just built tree forts, climbed for crab apples, and played hide and seek among the maple trees.
There was one instance between second and third grade where we met a couple older kids out in the woods. They scrambled around when they saw us and I thought they must have stopped to pee because he was pulling his pants closed. She was sweet and bubbly. I thought I recognized her as one of Shay’s friends.
“Look at the little boyfriend and girlfriend,” she said. “Are you having fun on your date in the woods?” Date? Boyfriend? Girlfriend? Neither Cassie nor I had any concept of what she was talking about. We were just headed for the corral we were building so Betts could get off her horse and play when she came through the woods.
It wasn’t long after that, Cassie became a beautiful girl and I was just another stinky boy. But eight years later, she was the only one who signed my yearbook with the word ‘love.’
Back to Florida
It turned out that Cassie and her husband lived in Orlando. We agreed to meet at the Strawberry Festival and it was great fun to get reacquainted. Her husband, Andy, was a nice guy, but quiet. He went to watch some Seminole dancers while Cassie and I walked around the fairgrounds catching up on everything that had happened since we last saw each other.
Her eyes got big when I gave her copies of my books. I’d had Redtail released as a paperback, but even though it sold well as an eBook, no one bought the paperback. I just used it as a promotional.
“It’s got a different name than the others,” she said, pointing out the author name. “Ari, what’s going on? What kind of book is this? This couple on the cover is topless.” She quickly tucked the book between two of the others, but she didn’t offer to give it back.
“I’ve been writing a lot of erotica, Cassie. It’s fun. People like it. It makes people feel good. I enjoy writing it. Please don’t think ill of me. You might even enjoy it. Read it aloud with your husband,” I suggested.
“There’s more than this one?”
Well, it was a little like true confessions. Only I wasn’t reading them, I was confessing. We stopped for a strawberry shortcake and coffee and I told her all about how I got started writing erotica and what I’d written. I had ten stories out by then. And then I told her about Living Next Door to Heaven. I was in the final formatting of the first few chapters and expected to start posting by mid-April.
“And I’m in it?” she demanded.
“Well, it’s not like it’s really you. No one would recognize you from the descriptions. I mean, I didn’t even know you after freshman year. It’s all pretty much made up. I just based a few characteristics that I remember from when we were little kids and let fantasies take over from there,” I said. I’d never considered what would happen if one of my childhood friends got hold of the story and read it. I might have to change some names and places.
“Fantasies?” she said looking me in the eye. “Do we have sex?”
“Um… Not yet. And it’s not us. For Pete’s sake, Cassie. It’s a story. There are scenes you might recognize. Places. But you won’t recognize the character that started out as my best friend in kindergarten. I mean, really, the Cassie in the story is a late bloomer and hyper religious. You were a freshman cheerleader!”
“Four years,” she sighed. She looked at me sternly. “If we have sex, it had better be damned good!” I think she meant in the story.
We rejoined her husband and then parted ways. I was going to go on to meet up with Writer Number Seven. I was enjoying meeting and connecting with other SOL writers and readers as I traveled. Cassie and I promised to meet at the reunion this summer in Indiana.
It was St. Patrick’s Day and I was going to a ballgame in the evening. The Twins were playing the Tigers. It promised to be a good game—a preview of the season opener in Minneapolis. First, I planned to go out and look at the talent on the beach. A new crop had arrived over the weekend. They were always so bright and fresh at the beginning of the week. They started to look more sunburned and worn by the time they left on Saturday. There’s a website where you can look up what colleges are going to what beaches during what weeks. Fort Myers Beach seemed to be the most popular place for the beach-goers this year. I was just going to watch. Really.
But first, I needed a green shirt. I had nothing green in my closet at all. I stopped at Walmart.
Walmart is one of the great contradictions in America today. I have friends who refer to it in Florida as going ‘to the unhappiest place on earth.’ I hate the fact that they drove so many small businesses out of business. The same way Barnes and Noble did. The same way Starbucks did. The same way Amazon did. I suppose that back at the turn of the twentieth century, people were complaining that Sears and Roebuck was driving the mom and pop mercantiles out of business. I hated that it happened, but it was reality.
I dislike just about everything about WallyWorld. Their politics stink. The way they treat people stinks. Their conservative social stances and the way they treat gays stink. Sadly, many of their customers stink.
But even bad people/organizations sometimes do good things.
I have stayed the night with my trailer parked in a Walmart parking lot during a rainstorm. I’ve bought emergency supplies at Walmart when it was the only thing open. I’ve gone to Walmart just to use the restroom. Walmart is one of the great constants of America. If you need something—food, clothing, camping gear, auto repair, a fuse for the trailer, the DVD of Die Hard—there’s a Walmart within twenty miles. In this case, it was half a mile from my trailer and on the way to the beach. I bought a green Hawaiian shirt for five bucks. It was bright. In ten minutes, I was changed and on my way to the beach. I guess my principles are a matter of convenience.
Nearly everything I wrote about in Brian’s broadcast from the beach during spring break was something I saw there. Even the booth of ‘Virgins till Marriage’ with three of the most beautiful bikini-clad coeds I’d ever seen smiling and talking to each other. And yes, they had a little sign that said ‘You break it, you bought it.’ Brian was a far more reserved and upstanding young man than I am. I seriously considered making a purchase.
Instead, I took my beach chair and staked out a little space with my cooler and my book where I could watch the action. The fact that I was located just beyond a virtual campground of coeds was entirely coincidental. I don’t spend a lot of time in the sun, so I’d chosen the only shady spot I could find. The dozen or so beauties were stretched out on their stomachs, their bikini tops all untied so that they could get unobstructed sun. I was just waiting for the moment when they all rolled over.
What I got was a rude awakening when one of the girls landed in my lap. I’d fallen asleep and missed the rollover, apparently. The girls were all up and playing with a Frisbee. A gust of wind off the Gulf had picked the disk up and directed it toward me. In her attempt to make the catch, the girl in my lap had tripped over my chair and fallen. I provided a nice soft landing. The padding she brought with her was softer than I was.
“Sorry,” she said, wiggling around and trying to get up.
“Believe me; not a problem,” I answered. “Most excitement I’ve had all day.” She squirmed a little more and I was beginning to pay attention. One of her breasts was pressed directly onto my hand.
“At your age, it’s probably the most excitement you’ve had in years,” she giggled. Oh, fuck you. “Sorry. That was rude. You should turn your hand over if you really want excitement. I probably shouldn’t have had two margaritas for lunch.” I didn’t care. She invited, I responded. My hand rolled over under her and firmly squeezed the breast pressed into it. The fabric had slipped a little, which was all that was necessary to ensure a hard little nipple was pressed into my hand. “I’m definitely gonna hafta get laid tonight. Thanks for the thrill.” She pushed herself up and waved the Frisbee as I looked at the exposed nipple. She casually tugged her top over it and turned to rejoin the game. It moved off toward the water and I rearranged my package so it didn’t look like a pennant was flying from a flagpole.
This day was a success already. But since the sun had moved enough that my shady spot was no longer shady, I decided to pack things back to my truck and find some food.
A lot of fast food places dotted the boardwalk, but I chose to walk a little farther downtown where the restaurants served real food. I’d just crossed the street when I encountered half a dozen girls headed my way. Bikinis and flip-flops. All of them were finishing ice cream cones. They must carry their money in their cleavage. The redhead that intercepted me was hiding her cleavage beneath a crop top that almost left the bottom of her boobs bare.
“I love that shirt!” she screamed. She wasted no time grabbing hold of it to test the fabric.
“Becky! You’re assaulting a stranger again.”
“But look at it. It’s so silky. This is what I want. I’d wear this shirt every day. Where did you get it?” she asked me. “I’ve been looking everywhere.”
“Oh!” I thought fast. “I tell you what. Why don’t I trade you?” I started unbuttoning my shirt. She looked up into my eyes. Or as close as she could through both of our sunglasses. She pulled her glasses up and showed me the deepest green eyes I’d ever seen. I returned the favor and showed her my baby blues.
“Becky,” one of her friends hissed. She scowled at the friend. The other five girls huffed and headed off without her. Becky pulled me into a narrow passage between two gift shops and grabbed the hem of her T-shirt.
“I’m almost as anxious to see you in this as you are to see me out of it,” she whispered. I finished unbuttoning the shirt as she pulled hers off. I took my shirt off slowly and slipped it around her as she put her arms back for the sleeves. This had the pleasant side-effect of pushing her breasts into my chest. She shifted back and forth a bit, rubbing them against me. She leaned back a bit so I could finish pulling the shirt around her, slowly covering the sight of those beautiful breasts. “Better kiss ’em goodbye,” she whispered.
I glanced back and saw no one staring at us, so I dipped my head to gently kiss each nipple before I pulled the shirt closed and began buttoning it. The backs of my hands rested against her soft bosom as my fingers worked the buttons.
“Here,” she said. “You have to put this on.” She handed me her crop top. This would be good. I managed to get it over my head. That was it. I’d just have to wear it around my neck. She ran her fingers up and down my bare chest.
“Nice,” she breathed. “It’s so different to see a man’s chest instead of a boy’s.” It was nice to see her chest, too, with its hard nipples tenting out the thin fabric of my shirt.
“Would you like to see a baseball game tonight?” I blurted out. I’m not sure where that came from, but my hands were still on the buttons of the shirt as if trying to figure out which way they were going. She pushed forward and the nubs of her breasts were pushed into my hands.
“Who’s playing?” she asked breathlessly.
“The Twins,” I said as I squeezed again slightly. “Against the Tigers.”
“Sounds like fun,” she said. “You’re not like an axe murderer, are you?”
“I’m nothing like an axe murderer at all.”
“I can’t really go like this. I’m staying at the Seashell on the left about three blocks that way. What time will you pick me up?” I released her breast and she sighed as I flicked my cell phone to see what time it was.
“It’s two-ten. I’ll pick you up at four. Is two hours enough time for you to get ready?”
“Yeah. I’ve had enough sun on the beach for today. I’m a redhead. Any more and I’ll burn to a crisp. What do you drive?”
“Black Ford pickup. Washington plates.”
“Washington? What are you doing clear down here?”
“I’m on spring break.” We both laughed. “Don’t change too much,” I said, running my hand lightly over the silky fabric of the shirt. I didn’t go directly for the nipples, staying just to the outside of her breasts.
“Right. I’ll bring some sunblock. In case our seats are in the sun. But I’ve got to get back to my friends. They already think I’m crazy. I guess I am a little. I’ll see you at four.” She stood on tiptoes to give me a light little kiss on the lips with her hands still on my chest. “Mmm. Better kiss these goodbye,” she said. My nipples were at about lip height for her and she added a little tongue to each kiss. “Thanks for the shirt. I’m Becky, by the way.”
“I’m Aroslav.”
“See you at four.” She took off in the direction her friends had gone, leaving me staring after her. Just before she crossed the street she turned around and waved.
That was an experience.
I checked to make sure I still had my wallet.
I mostly expected that she wouldn’t show. It’s one thing to be outrageous on the beach. It’s quite another to actually get in the truck. Didn’t your mother teach you not to get in a car with strangers?
I called the ballpark box office and ordered two tickets anyway. I could always scalp one at the gate at a discount. After I gave them my credit card, I headed back to the trailer to put some ballpark clothes on myself, lunch forgotten. I pulled Becky’s little shirt off my neck. If she hadn’t cut the ribbing around the neck off, I’d have torn it. As it was, though, I hung it neatly near my bed and… Yeah. I sniffed at it. Not that it did any good. There was a faint smell of suntan oil.
I shook my head at my own culpability and headed toward the rendezvous.
I wasn’t expecting four girls to come bouncing out of the hotel when I pulled up.
“So, your name is Aroslav. Is that some kind of Muslim terrorist name?” the blonde who came up to me first asked. She had bigger boobs than Becky’s substantial set and got right into my personal space with them so she could glare into my eyes.
“Bren! You promised to be nice!” Becky said. She pushed her friend aside and gave me a quick, and somewhat possessive, kiss on the cheek. “Ari, these are my friends. Brenda the Rude, Lisa the Flat, and Susan Anytime.”
“Becky, that is so unkind,” Lisa said. “Do you think I’m flat, Aroslav?” She pushed her chest out for me to examine. Smaller than her friends, but definitely not flat.
“I told them I was going to a ballgame and they all decided they want to come,” she hissed. “Do you mind?”
“I only bought two tickets,” I protested. What am I doing?
“Do you have the number?” Susan asked. She had her cell phone out. “We don’t want to horn in on your date or make you pay for everything. We just don’t want Becky the Reckless off with a stranger where none of us can get to her in an emergency.”
I punched the redial button on my phone and handed it to her.
“When you get your ticket, punch your number in so I know how to get hold of you in an emergency.” Inside of three minutes, Susan had connected and confirmed there were tickets available. She waved us all into the truck while she dug in her purse for a credit card. Becky slid into the front seat, but before I could close the door, Brenda shoved in beside her, moving Becky to the center. I was glad I’d taken a minute to clean out all the old coffee cups before I headed out.
I pulled away from the hotel and onto the highway. It isn’t far from Fort Myers Beach to the Twins ballpark, but traffic over the bridge can be a bear and it usually takes as much as twenty minutes just to park. It was an early game tonight because the Tigers would have two hours on the bus after the game to get back to their home turf in Lakeland.
“Where are you ladies from?” I asked.
“University of Minnesota! Go Gophers!” they all shouted at once.
“Thank heavens! I was afraid I’d picked up a bunch of cheeseheads and would have to turn in my alumni card,” I laughed.
“No way! You got your bachelor’s from the U?” Becky asked. She had managed to wiggle up quite tightly against me and had her hand on my thigh.
“PhD,” I corrected her. The girls all had a little exclamation to make about that. What a time that had been.
A Long Time Ago: Belly Dancer
The theater department didn’t make a big deal about MAs and BAs. They expected you to pick up your degree at commencement, though most skipped the event and had it mailed to them. If you got a master’s, you were on a PhD track. MFAs and PhDs were terminal degrees and had a special celebration at Rarig. I wrote about that in Not This Time.
Paula had gone to commencement and picked up her degree. I declined to attend. She got back, packed her bags in the new AMC Gremlin her daddy bought her, and gave me a quick peck on the cheek.
“Keep in touch,” she said. Then she towed the U-Haul with all our meagre possessions—furniture, kitchenware, bedding, and records—to California. I attended our divorce decree a month later and the attorney forwarded her the papers so she could get her name changed back. She’d never wanted my name in the first place.
I sat in the empty apartment and started writing my first novel.
I gradually accumulated a few things over the next two years. Among them, lovers.
Like Isabel. Don’t get her confused with Anabel. We never married. In fact, we barely got it all together. It was when I was invited to design Kismet for a local community theater. The reason Paula and I had chosen to go to Minneapolis for our graduate studies was that it was the second largest and fastest growing theater center in the country. We’d had an opportunity to go to New York, but as one of our theater directors had said, “That’s like trying to get a last-minute ticket on the Titanic.”
The problem with designing in Minneapolis was that you had to tech direct the show as well. In other words, you designed it, you built it. We performed in the Hennepin Center for Performing Arts, which was really nothing but a big empty warehouse. I converted it into an Arabian fantasy. But building that show had me working around the clock for over a week. I was a wreck by the time we finally opened.
Being a wreck didn’t mean that I didn’t notice the belly dancers. There is an entire scene that is devoted to a bunch of women trying to impress the Prince into making them his wives. There was half a dozen I would have added to my harem. The one that seemed most willing to be added was Isabel.
Isabel had a wardrobe malfunction, and I was the only tech person available to assist. I had been behind on getting the set up and ready. Paint was mostly dry when we opened. The Wazir’s wife was still being stitched into her costume at the beginning of the second act. Poor Isabel had broken a snap on her rather delicate bra top.
I kept everything in my toolbox. Even a sewing kit. I only had black thread, but no one was going to notice that. The only problem was that I needed to sew a snap on and it was almost impossible to do with the bra top still on Isabel. She turned her back to me and whipped it off. I sewed. Once I was working, Isabel turned back to talk to me. She had one arm artfully concealing her nipples, but her breasts sort of bulged out on either side of it. Her very delicate and shapely navel was decorated with a cluster of rhinestones. Mmm. Dippin’ Dots. Below that, her gauzy harem pants clearly exposed the bikini bottom under them.
“You’re so nice to do this, Ari,” Isabel said. “I know it’s not part of your job, but everyone is so busy.”
“Well, we can’t have the most beautiful dancer in the cast risking undue exposure,” I laughed.
“That kind of talk will get you in trouble,” she responded.
“With whom?” I asked. “Have I offended you?”
“No. But your wife?”
“Past tense,” I said.
“Oh. You’re single?”
“Very.” I grinned at her and handed her the top. She took it. With the hand that had been covering her breasts. Two very, very nice breasts with rapidly hardening dark nipples. Almost as rapidly hardening as my cock. She slipped her arms through the straps and carefully arranged her boobs so they were nearly overflowing the top.
“Will you fasten me?” she asked. I’d sewn the snap on. I’d better be able to fasten it. But I had to let my fingers slide in against her silky skin. I numbly got the damned snap fastened. “Thank you. I might need you to get me out of it after the show,” she giggled.
She kind of looked toward the light booth from which I watched the show when she danced. The stupid Prince took a pass on her to move to the next dancer. I was not making that mistake.
The post-opening cast headed for a downtown bar after the show ended. There are a lot of them along Hennepin Avenue. As long as you know which ones are gay bars and drag bars, you can have a great time in downtown Minneapolis. I’d even enjoyed the drag show at Augie’s once. But this night, it was a quieter bar with very danceable music being provided by local band that no one had heard of.
Isabel took my hand and dragged me to the dance floor. That was no great task. I’d been in theater long enough to learn to dance. It didn’t matter to Isabel. I moved around. She danced around me, against me. The harem pants that she now wore were opaque and the top was a halter. As she encouraged me to ‘dance’ with her, I felt nothing beneath either article of clothing.
I think I mentioned that bar in one of the Model Student books where Lissa and Tony danced at the racquetball nationals. It made a big impression on me.
Isabel and I didn’t make love that night. We kissed deeply before we parted. She brought me her costume each night in the light booth so I could fasten her bra for her. She kissed me before she went on stage.
All that work for three nights and one matinee and I had to strike the set. I had a crew of volunteers who were impatient to get it over. This was no college production with forced student labor. The actors, dancers, musicians, and staff were gone to the cast party as soon as they had their costumes off. We hammered, hauled, and packed the set into a rental truck. The costumer had the costumes in her car to launder in the morning and wished me luck. I hoisted myself into the cab of the truck to drive to the storage facility where the theater kept its sets and found Isabel waiting in the cab.
“Fancy meeting you here,” I said.
“Sorry I wasn’t helping more,” she said. “I helped on costumes but came out to wait for you when they left.”
“I’m delighted to have your company.” It wasn’t legal, but she rode curled up on the seat hugging my arm. She stayed in the cab until we’d unloaded and stored the scenery. Then I drove the truck to the rental company and traded it for my car. It was two o’clock in the morning and Isabel had been asleep on the seat.
I didn’t even ask her where she lived. I just went to my little apartment. She had a bag with her and I slung it over my shoulder before picking her up and carrying her into my apartment. She woke when I set her on her feet in my bedroom.
“Untie me?” she asked as she turned her back and lifted her hair. The halter tied behind her neck and behind her back. I released both. She kissed me. It could have been passionate if either of us had been less exhausted. We supported each other to the bathroom and she brushed her teeth while I showered. No way was I putting my filthy body into the bed with this beauty. When I came out, I found her in my bed. I spooned behind her naked body and she pulled my fingers to her lips before letting them rest on her breast. “In the morning,” she whispered.
We were asleep in thirty seconds.
And in the morning—well, very late in the morning—Isabel danced for me. She didn’t bother dressing, but came out of the bathroom with nothing on but finger cymbals and a veil over her face. I sat in the bed watching her undulating belly, shaking breasts, and shapely legs. She crawled up my body and hesitated long enough for me to lift her veil away from her face and kiss her. Then she settled immediately down on my cock and let it sink into her. She was exquisite. She kept up the belly dance moves as she was impaled on my cock. I stroked her breasts and vibrating stomach. I dipped a hand between us and positioned my fingers where her movements would stimulate her clit. She was lost in the world of her dance and I was lost in her.
When we came, she only paused momentarily and then began the rhythms again. And again.
I based Kate’s dance scenes in Triptych on Isabel dancing for me.
That Sunday was worth having stayed at the U to complete my PhD.
Back to Becky
When I was parked at Hammond Stadium, Susan handed my phone back to me.
“All our numbers are in your phone and we all have your number,” she said. “Not going to interfere with you guys, but don’t leave without us. We’ll all sit in back on the way home. Brenda.”
“If I hadn’t pushed into the front, she’d have never sat in the middle,” Brenda said. “I was just trying to help.”
“Let’s go,” Lisa said. “You guys have fun.” Becky’s three friends piled out of the truck. I was reaching for the door, but Becky held me back.
“I need sunblock. Did you know that late afternoon and evening sun can be the most damaging? Especially to fair-skinned girls like me. I need you to help me apply the sunblock.” Oh, hell yeah.
She gave me the bottle, slid over a little and lifted one shapely leg into my lap. I worked the sunblock into every not-so-square inch, front and back, right up to…
Damn it! When did those little gym shorts become something that girls wore out in public? Especially, with nothing under them. Becky took a little of the lotion from my hands and started working it into her face. That was probably her most vulnerable part. To the sun. I just continued to work the lotion in all the way up to her crease. She sighed and switched legs. I repeated the action and she shifted her hips slightly when I reached her slit to rub up and down a bit.
“Becky, I have to ask you a couple questions,” I said as I worked the lotion into the little crease between her puffy lips and that little hollow where her thigh ends. God, I love that spot.
“Go ahead, Ari,” she sighed. I think she meant go ahead and ask the questions, but before I did, I lightly stroked up her bare pussy lips.
“Are you at least eighteen years old?” I asked. Oh, please be eighteen!
“I’m twenty-one. I’m a senior journalism major.”
“Good.” I breathed a sigh of relief. “Have you been drinking or doing any other drugs that could impair your judgment?”
“Not yet. I’m hoping you’ll buy me a beer and some popcorn.”
I moved to her arms and ran my fingers up under the sleeves of the best five-dollar shirt I’d ever owned. She reached up and unbuttoned it.
“This shirt probably doesn’t have an SPF rating, so you’d better put lotion on all of me,” she whispered, dropping the shirt to the seat. I glanced out the windows of the truck, expecting to see her girlfriends descending on us. There was no one near where we were parked, the traffic having moved to the rows farther out.
“Really?” I whispered.
“There’s something you need to know about me, Ari,” she said. Well, I’d already seen up her shorts, so she wasn’t a male. I waited. “I don’t tease. As soon as I decided to trade shirts with you this afternoon, my mind was made up to have sex with you tonight. The girls all tease me about being reckless because I make snap decisions about all kinds of things, but usually my decisions are right. I’d like to see the ballgame, but I want you to know that everything you see… everything you can touch… is going to be in your bed tonight. Am I clear?”
Somehow, we got into the stadium by the bottom of the first inning. Once inside, we were just a couple having a great time at America’s second favorite pastime. And we were anticipating having a great time at the first, as well. The Twins beat the Tigers, who were already favored to win the pennant this year.
Becky sent a text message to her friends and they met us at the gate. They were all a little tipsy and giggly, but promised they weren’t in danger of throwing up in the truck. They wanted to know if I’d take them to a club but I said I wasn’t going to go out.
“We can drop you off,” Becky said. “But you’re on your own then.”
“Are you really gonna?” Brenda asked. Becky scowled at her.
“You are so fucking lucky,” Lisa moaned. “All I’ve had are drunk boys trying to paw me.”
“Reap what you sow,” Becky said. We’d had a beer, but it was apparent that we were the sober ones in the truck.
“Just take us to the hotel,” Susan said. “If these two absolutely must get their twats stretched, I’ll do it with Bob.”
“Oh, Susan. We love you,” Brenda said. She and Lisa sandwiched Susan between them for the rest of the ride to the hotel. Becky and I continued to my trailer.
“Where do you live when you aren’t traveling in your trailer?” Becky asked after she’d done a quick survey of the tiny room. She tossed her overnight bag on the table and rummaged in it for her toothbrush. “Do you have toothpaste? I forgot mine.”
“Sure. It’s on the bathroom sink. I don’t know where I’ll live when I’m done traveling. I’ve only been in this for nine months.”
“So, this is it? This is your home?”
“WYSIWYG.”
“Huh?”
“What you see is what you get. It’s an old publishing term.”
“What about a shower? Yours has… um… dirty underwear, two boxes of wine, and six gallons of bottled water.”
“I got a good slot here at the park. The showers are just fifty feet up the road,” I said. Reality was sinking in to Becky’s cute little red head. I still had my keys in my hand. I figured she’d want to leave shortly.
“I didn’t pick a rich, bestselling author, did I?” she sighed.
“Afraid not, honey. You got the one who lives in an attic smoking cigarettes and drinking scotch as he bleeds on the page. You want me to take you back to your hotel now?” I asked.
She came out of the tiny bathroom. How had I ever managed to convince Angie that living like this was fun? Angie was submissive. Becky liked to drive and take advantage. I figured she was just a little bit of a gold digger. I’d paid for our ballgame tickets, beers, and food so far. She had to see that she’d gotten everything from me that she could.
“Don’t you want me to stay?” she asked.
“Of course I do.”
“Then maybe you could help me out of this shirt. A guy gave it to me today just so it would keep sliding over my sensitive nipples keeping them hard all day. What kind of guy would do that? Huh?” I started unbuttoning the aloha shirt, pulling her closer to me, and letting the backs of my hands glide across her breasts as I worked the buttons.
“Probably the kind of guy who wants them nice and hard when he sucks and chews on them,” I whispered. She put her arms around my neck and pressed her lips against mine as I filled my hands with her bared breasts.
I’ve had a few different kinds of breasts in my hands. Young ones and old ones. A reader once asked me to please put the bra sizes in for my characters in Living Next Door to Heaven so he’d know how big they were. Apparently, my descriptions of how they fit in my hands or mouth or how they compared with other women weren’t enough for him. Well, I had yet to see Becky in a bra, so I had no idea what Walmart would say about her size. Large breasts tend to sag a bit, but there was a difference between whether the flesh that hung from a woman’s chest felt full or not. If they were firm and hard, chances are they were augmented. Becky’s didn’t have that feeling. Everything here was natural, but they felt full. She hadn’t worn a bra all day, but still they thrust out proudly. The areolae didn’t cave inward from the pressure of gravity, but rounded out in a pleasant puff that you usually find on much smaller breasts. Her nipples were the classic pencil erasers and not big, fat, or long. And under my thumbs, I could tell they were very sensitive. Our kiss deepened.
“Undress, Ari,” she whispered. “I told you, I don’t tease.”
Even here in an old people’s RV park in Florida, I’d kept up with my normal practice of not wearing clothes in the trailer, so I had a hook on the bathroom door where my clothes were quickly hung. Becky was still wearing her little gym shorts and I skimmed them down over her round butt. She stepped out of them and stood with her feet more than shoulder width apart. She held my cock in her hand as I probed the dripping passage between her thighs.
“When were you last tested?” she asked. Damn! I should have been asking that.
“January, after my last lover left,” I said. “And you?”
“You don’t need to tell me about her. I was tested last week so I’d know I was clean when I got here. I’ve been looking, but I didn’t find anyone until you,” she said. We kissed again and I plunged two fingers deep inside her as she moaned. “I feel like we’ve been having foreplay all day. Let’s go to bed, lover.”
She gave my cock a squeeze and turned to face the bed. It’s not like she had far to go. It’s a total of eight feet from the bathroom door to the edge of the bed. But one of the things that she hadn’t counted on was how high the bed was. There’s storage under it, so even I have to focus on getting up into it. Becky wasn’t as short as Angie, but when she walked right up to the edge of the bed, the top of the mattress was just above her mound.
“It’s so high. Like a fairytale princess’s bed,” she giggled. I walked up behind her and reached around to hold her breasts as I nuzzled her neck and shoulders. “I don’t know if I can climb all the way up there without a boost,” she whispered. She bent over the bed, pulling me forward with my cock in her crack. Becky raised her left knee up to the bed and I slid down through her wetness. “Yeah,” she whispered. “Find a way to boost me up back there.”
The invitation was clear enough. I shifted my hips back a little and pushed forward, right into her welcoming snatch. She settled back against me and met each thrust as she bent forward over the bed. I still had her breasts in my hands, pinned against the mattress. I rolled her nipples between my fingers and she started bouncing back against me.
“Don’t hold back,” she said. “I want to feel it. I’m going to come. Come in me.”
I didn’t need more encouragement than that. Her sweet, round bottom cushioned my pelvis as I rammed forward and began to spray her insides.
“Oh god, yeah!” she cried out.
I could feel the vibration between her legs and realized she had a hand down there strumming her clit as she cried out. I collapsed forward, kissing her back and shoulders as we panted for our breath. She levered herself up with the knee on the mattress and I slipped out of her as she got all the way up onto the bed. I lightly bit her ass cheeks and watched our combined come run from her open pussy.
“I hope there’s a lot more where that came from,” she said as she rolled onto the bed and held out her arms for me.
When I stumbled out of bed to make coffee in the morning, I figured my time with Becky was probably up. If the condition of my cock was any indication, she had to be seriously broken down there. She was the third lover on my journey, and prior to that, it had been a long, long time. Margaret and I made love once. By the time Angie and I made that step, we had only three days left together. I was unprepared for the athleticism and energy Becky showed in bed.
Once the ice had been broken, so to speak, Becky was voracious. If I tried to break off a kiss to catch my breath or add some variety to the action, she would clamp a hand on the back of my neck and keep me locked against her tongue. As soon as I’d begun to soften, her fingers and lips would be on my nipples, tugging them until I responded.
I felt a hand on my hip as I poured hot water over the coffee grounds and turned to greet her. I hadn’t heard her get out of bed, and when I turned, I didn’t see her. Instead, I felt my cock being inhaled into her mouth. She was on her knees next to me. I groaned. I hardened in her mouth and she began bouncing her face against my pubes, swallowing me as she fucked me into her face.
“God, Becky!” I moaned. My balls were aching to be released, though I knew there couldn’t possibly be anything in them. “I was just going to ask if you wanted coffee. You don’t have to be doing that!” She popped off my cock and grinned up at me.
“You’ve got a sex goddess less than half your age with your cock down her throat and you want to talk about coffee?” she asked. “I’ll have a cup to wash down what you’re about to give me.”
I think she’s a succubus. I was helpless to do anything but give her what she demanded. I felt everything contract and pulse, but I honestly wasn’t sure if anything came out.
“Yum. I’ll have more of that later, thank you,” she said. I sagged against the counter. “You said coffee, didn’t you?”
I poured her a cup and she sipped while I finally got my first cup poured and the taste in my mouth. There is absolutely nothing in the world that compares to the first cup of coffee in the morning. Or pot of coffee. Yeah. The first pot of coffee in the morning. And the second one. That’s pretty damned good, too.
Why am I musing over the flavor of coffee when I have a sex goddess less than half my age impatiently waiting to get me back into bed and hard again?
I didn’t get any writing done that day. I was sure my readers would understand.
We didn’t spend all our time fucking. She still wanted to spend time at the beach each day. She collected her little suitcase from her hotel room and moved into the trailer with me. My phone buzzed about thirty times in the next fifteen minutes as her friends peppered me with questions. I agreed to bring Becky to one of the clubs that night.
The loud music and a couple margaritas were good for me. All four girls wanted to dance with me. Becky graciously shared. I had to use the restroom and a couple guys were coming out as I went in. One offered me a fist bump.
“Dude! Whatever you’ve got, man… Wow!”
“We won’t horn in, but do you mind if we ask your ladies to dance with us?” the other said.
“They’re the ones in control,” I laughed. “Just be respectful, got it?” The guys nodded and made a beeline for my table as I went in to relieve myself.
When I got back to the table, Lisa was leaving it with another guy to hit the dance floor. Becky squealed and jumped into my arms. Susan and Brenda were already out with the guys I’d met coming out of the john.
“You got them guys!” Becky said. “You’re so good! Now I have you all to myself.”
“I didn’t really do anything,” I said.
“Those guys actually bowed before they asked us to dance,” Becky said. “They said you told them it was okay to ask us to dance but that we were in control and they promised to be respectful. I think Susan left a wet spot on her chair. I know I’m dripping. Come on, Ari. Dance with me.”
I danced. When I was finally too exhausted to go on, Becky polled her friends and they all told us they were fine and we could leave. I opened the passenger door for Becky and helped her up to the seat. She turned in place and spread her legs, showing me she had worn no panties under her little skirt.
“Eat me, Ari,” she commanded. Faced with that succulent pussy, what could I do. She came twice as I stood beside the open door and plunged my face into her twat. Then she let me close the door and go drive.
It was even later when I woke up the next morning, still having written nothing the entire week. I considered writing about this experience and shrugged it off. I was known for writing stuff that could be believed if you were willing to stretch your imagination a little. No one’s imagination stretched this far.
After Becky had her first cup of coffee, she was running faster than I did after a pot of it. She got me to finger her while she sucked me up again. I really didn’t think she’d succeed, but holy shit, she was hot. Then reality crashed in. After she’d come on my fingers.
“I’m just a little sore down there,” she said. I smiled. A reprieve.
“That’s okay. We can give it a rest for a while,” I said magnanimously.
“Good idea. You can fuck my butt.” She bent over the bed, grabbed my bottle of lube from the headboard, and squirted it into her own asshole. “Oh! That’s cold!” She reached back and grabbed my cock with a slippery hand and guided me to her anus.
“Oh, god!” I moaned as I sank into her. “This might take a while.”
“Yeah! Do me,” she said. “Do me for a long time.”
The afternoon held more socialization. That meant meeting up with her girlfriends and their three new boyfriends at the beach, having dinner and drinks, dancing, fucking. Fortunately, I got a chance to sleep in the shade on the beach for a while as the others played. It happened that I was near the same group of nearly bare-ass girls I’d seen on Monday morning. I woke up to the feeling of a body descending on mine. I blinked my eyes open and found I was looking at the same brunette who had landed on me Monday. She squirmed around on me and jammed my hand into her bikini top. Yeah. That was a nice breast with its little hard point pressing into my palm.
“If I’d known what a stud you were on Monday, I’d have stayed in your lap,” she said.
“I’m not, really.”
“Like hell. The story is all over the beach. Even the guys talk about you like you’re a legend. Do you have time to do me?”
“I… um…” There was a smack and a squeal. The brunette bounced up off me and began tucking her tits back into her top.
“Mine!” Becky snarled.
“Can’t blame a girl for trying,” the brunette said. “Doesn’t your pussy get tired?”
“When it does, he does my ass. Now look what you’ve done,” Becky said, pointing at my slight bulge. “I’m going to have to go fuck him again. Come on, Ari.” Becky grabbed my hand and basically dragged me to the truck.
“I don’t think I can go again, Becky,” I said Friday night. Let’s see. If you added up the weekend with Angie and the night with her mother, Margaret, and about the last seven years with Treasure, I’d had more sex this week than the total. I was sure I could last another seven years now.
“Uh-uh,” she said. She bounced into the bathroom. “I have to leave for Minnesota tomorrow. I don’t want to miss tonight.” She came out of the bathroom rattling a bottle of pills. I groaned. Viagra. I’d asked my doctor for a prescription before I left on my road trip because, quite frankly, I wasn’t sure the equipment worked any longer. She’d told me not to worry because it was far more likely to atrophy than to wear out. She gave me the prescription for four pills. A hundred fucking bucks. Literally. At that price, each pill should come with a pussy attached.
One of them was in my mouth and down my throat before I could protest.
Hell. Why would I protest. Becky was a sex doll. She not only was available for anything at any time, she was aggressively after it. I wondered exactly how many different sex acts we could have before the effects of the pill wore off. I was going to find out. My heart started to race as the pill took effect. I decided to catch up with it.
I picked up Becky and threw her on the bed, narrowly missing the stowage bin above the bed with her head. I pulled her feet around until her butt was on the edge of the bed, pushed her legs back until she was knees to nipples and dove in. I lapped her from bunghole to clit and back again until she was screaming. Then I stood and drove my cock into her sopping tunnel. I started pounding her.
A Long Time Ago: Eat Me
There was never a moment’s doubt in my mind that Treasure was the love of my life. I was whipped from the first time she kissed me until long after we’d said goodbye. I still loved her as more than the mother of my daughter. But I remembered the very first time with her.
We’d been dating for a while. I’d started my publishing business and become acquainted with a lot of writers and editors in the area. When we first went out, we both tried to think of it as being a business date. Somewhere along the line, she’d changed clothes and we walked around Lake Calhoun in the moonlight.
We were still cautious. We did a lot of making out and petting, but we hadn’t done the deed. We were heavily into it on my living room sofa one evening. It was getting late and she’d already said she needed to go home, but we were horizontal and neither of us was making any move to get up. She was wearing a red corduroy dress that night and my hand was well up under it. It took me all evening to work up the courage, but I scooted down and started kissing up the inside of her leg, edging closer and closer to her matching red panties. When I was near, I started down near her knee on the other leg and worked my way up again as she moaned. I hesitated just below her panty line. This was a big step for us.
“Don’t think I don’t want you to eat me,” she whispered. Was that a double negative? When she raised her hips to give me clearance to pull her panties down, I no longer had any doubts. I’d worry about the stains on the sofa tomorrow.
“I loved licking your vagina,” I whispered as I cuddled with her and she came down from three very fast and very hard orgasms.
“Pussy,” she sighed. Was she calling me that?
“I never use slang for it,” I said.
“When we are making love, I have a pussy and you have a cock and we fuck. They’re all sexy words. They turn me on. Say it. What do I have?”
“A… uh… pussy,” I stammered.
“What’s this pushing out your pants?” she asked, grasping my erection.
“My penis… um… cock.”
“And what are we going to do with your cock and my pussy?” she whispered against my lips.
“Fuck?”
“Yeah. Right now.”
Back to Becky
Years later, when I started writing erotica, I was still having trouble using the words. But right now, I was fucking Becky’s tight little cunt. She continued to scream so loudly that I thought the neighbors in the next trailer might come to pound on my door.
“Oh, god, Ari! You’re killing me. Where did this come from? I’ve come six times and you haven’t even come once yet. Let me suck you.” Yeah, that’s where I was headed next, only I squirted some lube between her breasts and started sliding my cock through the tunnel when I pushed them together. Becky took over pushing her tits together as I pumped between them and she captured the head of my cock in her mouth each time it came in reach. I’d hold at the peak and let her swish her magic tongue around the head for a few seconds, then retreat and push my way between her tits again. She’d almost calmed down when I started twisting and pinching her nipples.
I’d noticed during the week that she treated her own nipples much more aggressively than I did. I’d noted it when she was trying to tear mine off my chest. I like nipple play, but I wasn’t sure I’d ever feel anything in my right nipple again after she was finished with it. When she touched it now, it was more irritating than sexy. But if she liked it, I was going to give it to her. I pulled them out away from her chest and pinched hard. She screamed again and I shoved my cock all the way back into her throat. She choked a bit as I withdrew.
“Yeah. Yeah. Give it to me. You’re going to give it to me, aren’t you, Ari?”
“Just like you want it, Beck. You turned my cock into iron with that damned pill. Now I’m going to shove it as deep in your ass as I can get it.”
“Yes! Do it!”
I was slippery from having fucked her and sliding through the lube on her chest. Becky was producing so much lubricant that it had fully coated her ass. I put the head of my cock against her sphincter and shoved in. All the way. I swear, Becky’s eyes crossed. And once I was all the way in, I treated her ass like a fucktoy. She panted. She screamed. She came.
And somewhere along the line, the Viagra gave out and I shot a load deep inside her. As I was coming, I pressed my thumb against her clit and bit a nipple.
Becky’s scream was choked off and I looked up to see she’d passed out.
Hallelujah!
I winced as my cock softened at last and I pulled it out of her ass. I rearranged us on the bed, lay down beside her, and passed out, too.
I took all four girls to the airport Saturday morning. The group was subdued. I was guessing Becky and I might have gotten more sleep last night than any of the others, but we’d been so exhausted, physically and sexually, that we both still felt tired when we got up. For the first time since we’d met, my morning hadn’t started with a blow job.
I took them to the departures curb and the other three girls got out and retrieved their roll-aboards from the back. Becky turned to me.
“Fucking best spring break ever,” she whispered. “I don’t know if my pussy or my ass is sorest. Or my throat from all the screaming. You’re a fucking animal, Ari.”
“Let’s say it was self-defense and call it even,” I laughed. She leaned into me and kissed me, her tongue automatically probing my mouth and her hand still clamped around the back of my head to prevent me from escaping.
“Don’t forget you have my number in your phone,” she said at last. “For when you come through Minnesota.” She jumped out of the truck and grabbed her bag from the back. She limped after the other girls and turned to wave goodbye just before she went through the doors into the terminal.
I stopped to buy a bag of ice on the way back to my trailer.
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