opened the slender silver ashtray on the back of the carseat and saw a fossilized piece of gum in there like some Doublemint scented mouse brain. “Wonder who chewed that and what year it was chewed,” I thought. The chewer was most likely dead. The car was a 1977 Lincoln Continental Town Coupe with suicide doors. The airport loomed in the horizon, late afternoon bleeding its color across the sky dotted with planes taking off and landing, adventures in the clouds for all the ticket holders. Whatever. People on business with honey roasted peanut allergies more likely. The charm of airports had waned years ago due to too many delays, overbooked flights, and infants screaming like they were being eviscerated.
I couldn’t even muster the enthusiasm of a change of scenery. Contentment is an elusive entity. I’m never content where I am and when I do go out of town I’m preoccupied by the machinations of getting back home to fully enjoy the new experiences. The brochure promised a life-changing memory but I doubted I’d be able to unplug from the hardened routine for any length of time to let it register.
I left the vintage cab, tipped generously, filed through the screening queue, and eventually boarded. My overnight bag I kept by my feet. Once in the air, two bourbons helped me doze off until the treble speak of the onboard system announced our landing. The colors of the islands were magnificent greens and teals, dotted with multicolored flowers and striped through with pristine beaches. Resorts speckled here and there and I wondered in which one I was reserved.
Out of the plane, I removed my sport coat, the temperature being at least 30 degrees hotter than where I flew from, the air smelling of sunshine and promise. In spite of myself I relaxed and smiled, slipped on some dark sunglasses. The cab ride to the resort snaked up a twisty road, from switchback to switchback climbing ever higher until the road crested and presented the large wooden lodge in all its teakwood peaked glory. Palms bowed at the entrance and eager bellhops came every few feet to smile and offer help. I waved them off and checked in, walked the orange blossom scented carpeted halls and slid the key card into my room.
Throwing my bag on the bed, I walked over to the patio window and took in the view. The edge of the island looked far off. Private aerie indeed. The phone rang, a pleasant tropical ringtone like pineapples beaten on steel drums. “Welcome Mr. Caplan, good afternoon. We have all the arrangements made for your evening and we think you will enjoy what we have planned. The questionnaire you filled out gave us some ideas and we narrowed down the three best options. Know each companion has been specially made and never used by anyone, so we want you to fully enjoy.”
“Ok,” I replied.
“What time would you like the festivities to commence?”
I thought. I wanted to shower first, of course. “An hour? Hour and a half?”
“Excellent. That time frame has been entered and noted. We are excited to present your first option. You can decide to opt out if it is not to your liking, but we are confident in our algorithm and believe the first one will be the only one.”
“How many times has someone opted out and chosen one of the other three?”
The attendant laughed. “Never. Enjoy your stay.”
I hung up, showered, raided the mini fridge in my towel. After my second Maker’s Mark, a knock sounded on the door. I opened it and a crate was wheeled in by a bellhop. I tipped him and he left promptly after handing me a card. The card reade: “Key code 4196, for both container and character boot.”
The crate had a keypad and I typed the code. A hermetic seal hissed open and a dark human shaped figure slid out covered in bubble wrap and plastic. Feeling like a kid on Christmas morning, I hastily tore off the packaging and there she stood: a life-size Mrs. Butterworth, looking like a dark bottle filled with syrup but with obvious articulation, squinty eyes and smile, hands clasped at her waist. She looked hotter than her original design. Less grandmother, more sexy aunt or sultry cougar. Larger hips, plunging neckline, and a shiny booty. I felt stirrings and excitement. What in my questionnaire could have possibly triggered this? Age group of desirable mate? What flavor always brings comfort? I had definitely listed maple a couple times. While I had never had this fantasy, this was definitely in my wheelhouse, but a kink I would have never thought of for myself. The algorithm was impressive.
I flipped the kneecap open and typed in the 4196 code. A whirring, a hint of ozone, and suddenly the statue before me began moving fluidly and stepped across the room. The crate folded itself up and slid on its edge via two wheels into the closet, even shut the door behind itself. Mrs. Butterworth strode across the room and her voice sounded incredibly sexy, raspy yet buttery, like Kathleen Turner just keg-standed a pound of honey.
“This room is great,” she cooed. “Looove the view. Remind me your name again?”
Her face smiled and her eyes radiated desire. I thought i saw liquid flowing inside her, unless it was an optical trick to project the bottle effect.
I must have taken too long to answer because she purred, “Cat got your tongue?”
“Simon,” I said.
“Mmmmm, Simon. Speaking of tongues, Simon, why don’t you come here so I can taste yours?”
She/it stood with a leg out and I saw her/its long skirt was slit nearly to her belt, which offered a long narrow window of leg curve and a hint of underpants. Why would a pleasure droid need underpants?
I strode over and held her and she was warm to the touch. Soft like real skin, too. She smelled great. Like being sleepy and wanting breakfast and grinning. That’s what she smelled like. Like memories. I kissed her warm soft lips, feeling a carbonation in my stomach and a nervous system branched explosion comprised of yes and more.
She moved her tongue into my mouth and I caressed it with my own tongue, sucked it, rotated my head left and right, keeping her tongue prisoner. She tasted amazing. Like real maple sugar. She pressed her body against me and I could feel her hard nipples jabbing me just under mine. Her hot breath steamed my glasses and I threw them across the room. My attention was completely on this moment. I kissed her cheeks, sucked her earlobes. Though she wasn’t damp, she tasted of maple sugar. I licked her neck, she moaned, sucked in her breath so that under her ribs ebbed. I kissed down her belly as she unbuttoned the golden brown gown, let it fall to the floor.
I kissed down her legs, purposefully avoiding her nipples and vulva so her excitement would build and thus her energy. She had on some golden brown high heels and with the toe of one, she pressed my head back, dug the heel under my chin. She looked down at me with eyebrows up. “You want me?” she asked.
“Yes,” I croaked. She dug the heel in more, almost to pain level. “Then lick the bottom of my shoe and you can have anything you want.” Her mouth turned up in a grin on one side. I dragged my tongue against the underside of the shoe. (She was just in plastic and had only walked a few steps around 6 star hotel carpeting. It was not nasty.) Tasted like maple sugar. She pulled me up from the floor, onto the bed. She eyed me for a second, then started unbuttoning everything down the front. (Her processor must have computed buttons vs zips and reconfigured the seduction technique.) I was not really into S&M, but this was I guess diet S&M, maybe due to the questionnaire where I told about a time I was accidentally choked during sex (The woman was on top and leaned her elbows on the sides of my windpipe. It made for an intense orgasm, but not something I could ever plan on doing again.)
Anyhow, Mrs. Butterworth and I were nude and on the bed. (I can only assume Mr. Butterworth wasn’t watching from the corner or CCTV.) I finally gave her nipples release. Then I swirled my tongue on her clit while she hummed her moans over the tongue depressor of my cock. Everywhere, she tasted like maple sugar. I slid inside her with her below me. I went inside and hit her walls. She moaned and grinned. In and out I stroked with each stroke producing a moan from below.
I flipped her over and tongued her ass, buried my face there and licked away. Maple goddamned sugar. I mounted her from behind, stroked fast then slow. “Pull my hair,” she grunted as I felt her vulva clamp with excitement. I wrapped some strands around my fist and tugged. Her head went back and her mouth broadened in pleasure. She pressed herself back against me, to the hilt and deeper. Her toes curled and her mouth sounded like a first time rev on a motocross bike. I slid my thumb in her ass, increased my speed going in her. Light and pleasure braided into one, my body seemed to move on its own tempo, extremities tingled and convulsed. My hands shook as I gripped her sides, her moans such sweet music, the vibration, the tempo, until…………..cascading sparks from the best fireworks on the 4th of July. A release, a return to the senses, an exhale of happiness before all the shitty floods back into the world like a thunderclap. To orgasm is to produce lightning.
A sheen of sweat had beaded down her back. I didn’t lick it but I know what it probably tasted like. I had selected the post-coital cuddle option which was fine, except if you moved too abruptly she would offer to get you a glass of water.
The next morning I checked out still grinning, ran my credit card. I decided to upgrade to take home. The thought of destroying her was too much, but like they said, you are the only one to use it, so if you don’t buy it after, they will incinerate it. After I signed, I asked the guy what my other two options would have been if I hadn’t kept the maple queen. “We can’t tell you that. But on next visit, we can show you.”
Ah, so that’s how they keep you coming back. Since Mrs. Butterworth was coming home with me, I wouldn’t be back.
Eulogy for godfather David
Anybody who knows me has at one time or another heard me talk about the pig roast. It was so important that it had a THE at the beginning. It’s not like you were going to a pig roast, it is THE pig roast. Happened every year Labor Day weekend or at least it did.
When godfather David sold the farm and moved into town that pretty much halted the party. Sure, there would be gatherings on Labor Day weekend with other people who lived close by, but there was not a magic camaraderie of this nearly village size amount of people all camping at Dohn’s Farm for the weekend.
The pig roast was more important to me than Christmas. It was hands-down my favorite holiday for my entire life. I was born in 1975 and I had the luck of being the youngest person ever to attend the pig roast. (others may claim that someone else took the title by being a fraction of something younger, but we know they’re just jealous.)
So, the pig roast being an annual celebration, this special group of people, sometimes got bigger and sometimes got smaller, but there was always a core group of people you can count on to see every single time. And the linchpin in the whole operation, the roving life of the party, the master storyteller, both King and Jester, the one and only legendary David Dohn.
He had a gravitas about him similar in some regards to Christopher Walken, but godfather David had by far a better voice. His voice to me always reminded me of something wooden. Not emotionless, but with a depth like some old table with scratches and writing in it. Or like a wooden ship with a thousand adventures etched in its hull. If you trace each line in the wood, in his face, it’s a story, and you could never see them all, hear them all. His eyes always looked like serious machinations were going on behind them. Most of the machinations were hilarious jokes and anecdotes.
When he told a story, or a joke, his sincerity and mournful pauses were amazing; especially given the fact that you knew there was probably a dirty joke punchline at the end of it. One pig roast we tried to do a talent show, and godfather David’s entry was a memorized reading of the story of Abiyoyo. His face danced in the fire as his spirited recitation dazzled. Abiyoyo is dear to my heart because of this. One of my favorite pig roast memories. (I was too young to witness the time an aerosol canister in the fire burned his eyebrows off.)
He had a beard, and he twisted the ends of his mustache; not in a hipster way but in an effortless kind of cool steeped in a well-read tradition, forged in a type of calm wildness all his own flavor.
His hats were many, but if I were to conjure a picture of him in my mind, it’s a straw cowboy hat; him grinning and laughing while holding a good cigar between his teeth. He would stroll around the pig roast from tent to beer garden to euchre table, seemingly always humming the melody of Mrs Robinson and going “deet Dee-Dee Dee.”
When things fascinated him, he shared it with you and usually finished it with a chuckle, a sunshine grin and “Idn’t that neat?” He introduced me to Tom Waits’ song “What’s he building in there.” He recited the words with such dusty serious reverence that when I finally heard the real version, it paled in comparison.
Godfather gave me guidance a couple times. One time I was playing guitar around the fire, and when I had finished a song, he said plainly, “I sure wish you could play that better.” You can bet I practiced more after that. Another time I was getting obsessed with the Marx bros and bought a top hat and was wearing it around the pig roast. He took it off my head and introduced the concept of a rakish angle so that his godson wouldn’t look like a dork. I perch my hats at a rakish angle to this day.
I became a godfather myself and when I asked his sage advice on how to be a godfather, it was short. There may have been some bourbon happening.
So, “Godfather, how do I become a good godfather? What’s the….what do I do?”
With his eyes half lidded and the head wobble of someone who has all the answers, he said, “Well, do you know the Lord’s Prayer?”
“Well there you go.”
A clap on the back, a puff of cigar smoke, and off he went to the firepit.
There’s a passage in “Barn Burning” by William Faulkner where he’s describing someone’s silhouette as being cut from tin. That person was so real, so alive, so present that their own shadow had mass. That’s how I feel about Godfather David. He was a rare specimen. His shadow could cut.
For a few years in a row, I helped cut the grass out at Dohn’s farm. It was a ride on-mower, and I didn’t have very much experience with it. The first year I accidentally ran over his chestnut tree. Just chewed it to a nub. The following year, the tree had bounced back….and I mowed it to a nub again by accident. He was angry and disappointed, and told me so. The following year I don’t think I touched it, either because I was super careful or maybe it’s because I didn’t mow that year at all. Seven or eight years later godfather pulls me aside and shows me the chestnut tree, and lo and behold it is solidly strong and robust and thriving. It resembles less a tree, and more a tall bushy column. It came back stronger after two incredibly hard events.
All of us here probably feel mowed down to a nub emotionally. But I can see, have seen already, the strength of us, and we will come back stronger. He would want us to be that chestnut tree. He wouldn’t want us moping or sad. He’d want us laughing. And telling jokes.
Playing euchre and drinking bourbon.
Sharing memories and stories.
There are too many fake account profiles on this site and the gatekeepers who should be preventing this are clearly asleep at the wheel. The bots and fake accounts are jamming up what could be a wonderful community of supportive creative types sharing ideas. Fucking fed up.
Cute little Pogo
I drove over to Amy’s place with a lab bag and some tools. When she answered the door she had her pet companion Pogo under one arm. It had short fur which looked light blue in daylight, purple in shadows. It’s face had a mixture of cute and confusingly sad, like a pug. I didn’t like looking in its big eyes, so I aimed my gaze elsewhere.
Amy placed it on the floor while she put the kettle on, made small talk about my lab job. The pet companion looked from her to me, licked its lips and tilted its head, twitched an ear in puzzlement. I think it had doubled in size since the first time I met it.
Amy droned on about the myriad of cute things Pogo did. One of them that had her in hysterics was that Pogo sneezed. That was the whole story. I know some people change when they become pet owners, but for Amy this was too soon, too much. I wanted to get a sample of this thing’s fur, run some tests. I wasn’t sure if it was a dog or cat or mini capybara or what.
“So you think you can track down Pogo’s litter?” Amy asked. “I’d love to reunite him with his siblings.” I held the bag open while she took the tongs and plucked a large wad of fur from its back. I felt its eyes on me and I avoided its gaze. The first time I met Pogo and I looked in its deep round eyes, I began to feel a lovely calming euphoria, but a suspicious one like I had been drugged.
“Don’t you want to pet him?” Amy held him right in my face. I sneaked a quick glance in its eyes as if to test myself and that warm drugged glow pricked up, so I shut my eyes and faked a sneeze.
Amy set it down, grabbed the tissue box, held it out to me. “Oh, I hope you’re not allergic!” I had some words to say but they all dropped when I saw Amy’s hand around the box. Her ring finger and pinkie were missing, shoddily bandaged.
“Amy, what happened?”
She sat and rubbed her finger stumps. “Oh, you know. Just kind of an…accident. I was petting Pogo and making dinner and I guess I must have had sauce on them or something because he….nibbled them….and he was so cute…..he kept nibbling…..it didn’t even hurt….I guess he was just really hungry.”
A cold darkness settled in my guts as I drove to the lab. This creature, whatever it was, and wherever it came from, it was dangerous and up to no good.
The lab results were quick. The fur had an oil composition similar to cannabinoids mixed with painkillers. Petting it made you happy, agreeable, and free of pain. Addictive combo. I surmised its eyes must have some hypnotic quality. Might also be pheromones involved. Pogo was a threat.
I raced back to Amy’s. Whatever I had to do, it had to be quick. I kicked open the door and dropped the crowbar I was carrying. Pogo had grown again. It hulked over the kitchen table. It was swallowing Amy up to the neck and her face turned to me, a wide smile. “It’s ok. I guess he’s just really hungry.”
you tell your husband it’s a conference in Utah, good old non-threatening Utah. I tell my wife there’s a 77 Lincoln continental town coupe I’m interested in buying and I have to see it for myself.
Now, you and i are walking in the desert. we're trying to find a good place for a picnic. there's a blanket and a bottle of red wine in my backpack. we find a valley where rock cliffs are on one side, burgeoning sunset on the other. it's hot, pleasant breeze. i spread the blanket on a flattish stretch of sandstone near some juniper. we sit, take in the sights, smile at each other, laugh at the fact we haven't spoken to each other in a bit. the sights have left us speechless.
i open the wine, spill a little over my hand. we both laugh. i lick a little off, then offer it to you. you take my hand and wrap your lips around the edge of my palm, breathe hot breath onto my skin. i lean in and our foreheads touch, smiling. "the wine?" you ask. "oh yes!" i get back to the task, pour in the less-than-elegant plastic cups. we clink them (or clunk them) and i swallow my mouthful, you don't, you puff your cheeks out and have a strange look on your face. you beckon and lean in. immediately you kiss me, part your lips and let the wine flow into my mouth. i kiss you back harder, open my mouth wide and accept your wine and your tongue as we fall backward onto the blanket.
the weather is perfect. we kiss and my hands slide beneath your shirt. you arch your back as my hand glides over your stomach and up to your chest. with my other hand i undo your bra from the back. with a bodywave shrug, it slides free and i touch your tender warm breasts, your nipples firming up. you let out a moan and kiss me harder. i break the kiss and lick your neck, plant several kisses on the way to your ear. at the same time, your hands have moved down to my belt and zipper. you rub the growing mass under the cloth, teasing me before you unbutton, unzip, and slide your hand down to discover my firm, smooth cock. a bead of wetness on the tip has gotten on your thumb and your palm, which you use to pump me into a frenzy.
i glide my hands down and undo your shorts. you stretch up on your toes while i push down your cloth and panties. as it bunches at your ankles, you gingerly step out of them, rotate your body around and lower your nethers down onto my mouth. i lick and taste you, grabbing your thighs, dragging my tongue up and back, breathing hot breath and glistening your warm, tender divide. you let out a gasp and lower yourself your mouth onto me, humming out the remainder of your breath, which causes me to hum my pleasure into you. i taste you, i lick you, i want you.
you rise up from me and we kiss again, tongues swirling in a heated and heavy delirium. you claw at my shorts to get enough access as you lower yourself onto me. your vulva is pulsing and wet, my cock flows into you as if there's nothing we need do but join and connect. we lay like that for a moment, then we begin to move in rhythm, up and down, our bodies becoming a the most beautiful factory machinery of flesh. our pulses quicken, our breath comes in desperate moans as we increase our speed. i look into your eyes and you into mine. we see an expression like pain, but it's ecstasy, a gathering of sensation so wonderful it doesn't have words yet. your eyes widen, then clamp shut as you climax, once, then another smaller one like an encore, as you still bounce up and down, but in slower increments. i feel the walls of your vagina flex and release as you pant and moan. a shiver goes through you as you collapse onto me and we embrace. a cool, clammy but pleasant feeling as our sweaty bodies press together in post-coital bliss.
we lay like that for what seems an hour. when we open our eyes, it's much darker and there's a tremendous sunset splashed across the vista. we barely touched the wine. we gather up and walk back to the car, smiling and in silent knowledge, the place, that valley, a witness to our tryst, and no one else, least of all our partners.
Bots destroy everything
I think of ideas and paint with words and get joy from securing my butterfly concept with carefully chosen word pins.
I post what I’ve written to share with others in hopes the fire I felt will help ignite their creativity and thus keep a chain of good solid art going.
I am notified people are responding positively and are now following me, presumably to read more of my stories and ideas.
I look over the followers, and they are bots.
They have not written anything and many of them have the same “sexy girl” stock photo.
They corrupt a creative wellspring to advertise, to possibly scam, to get attention, to spread disinformation.
I am curious how many more bots I will accumulate through this post in which I blast and damn them.
In the bathroom mirror he saw the reflection of the pale boy with dead eyes holding the knife. As he turned around, the boy was gone but the knife was still there in mid-air.
Teka and Juanita, two friends from kindergarten, spent the day in a garage. They were building something.
The neighbors could hear pounding and drilling and ratcheting all afternoon. At last, the garage door opened. They had built...a device!
The device was an empty metal box with stuff on all sides. It had buttons. It had dials. It had switches. It had toggles and levers. It had a crank that could turn in both directions. It had knobs.
Teka’s father asked, “What does it do?” They answered, “We don’t know yet.”
Teka and Juanita walked to the park to try it out. Teka put on safety goggles and Juanita took notes on a clipboard. Teka pushed the buttons. Nothing happened. Juanita wrote that down on the clipboard.
Teka turned the dials. Nothing happened. Juanita wrote that down as well.
Teka flipped the toggles and levers. Nothing again.
Teka turned the crank. Nothing. Juanita said, “Try turning it the other way.” Still nothing. Juanita wrote down these results with a big fat zero.
Teka turned the knobs. Nothing happened. Juanita sighed and chewed on the end of her pen. They walked home with the device.
The next day, Juanita had an idea. “What if we do two things at once?”
They rushed back to the park with the device. Teka put on the safety goggles, Juanita took notes. Teka pushed the buttons and turned the crank. A gust of wind blew a man’s hat off. Juanita cheered and wrote down “Buttons plus crank makes wind.”
Teka twisted the dials and flipped the switches. Rain started to fall. Juanita wrote down “Dials plus switches makes rain.”
Teka turned the knobs and flipped the toggles and levers. There was a bright zap of lightning followed by a huge clap of thunder. Juanita wrote down, “Knobs plus toggles and levers makes thunder and lightning.”
Teka said, “That’s all we should do for today, the device will rust out in this rain.” Juanita agreed. “Yeah, my notes are getting wet.” They ran home wondering how to stop the weather they had made. Once at Teka’s home, they set the device on the couch and drank some juice boxes in the kitchen. “What do we do?” asked Juanita. “What if it never stops?” As they ate some string cheese, the storm got farther and farther away. Teka said, “I think it’s over. Let’s go back to the park and experiment some more.”
They went into the living room and Teka’s baby brother Malcolm had the device and was pushing buttons, flipping switches, turning dials, turning the crank both ways, and getting drool all over the top of it. “No!” they both shouted and took it away from him. They were scared of what might happen. That night, on the news a newslady talked about how there was an earthquake in California. Teka and Juanita looked at each other.
The next day, Teka and Juanita decided to bury the device in the backyard. It was too powerful for humans or baby brothers to use.
How to properly hot tub
Vacation. We settle into it nicely. The clapboard cabin sits at the steep embankment and has a semi-circle deck overlooking the rail that leads up to it. Next to us is another cabin with matching deck, and between our two established boundaries, a shared hot tub. We finish up dinner and I go over to check that the hot tub is at the proper setting. It usually idles at 89 degrees, so it's important to jack it up to 105 several minutes before getting in.
Sunset is bleeding out across the horizon. It's been a full day of hiking and the jets of the tub sound inviting. While I lift the cover and check the temperature, our neighbor couple stroll over, very pedestrian beer bottles in their hand. These two, they're ok, but somewhat mainstream. He's clean-shaven, her tan is a little fake, they probably like some horrible music, but harmless.
"How's the temperature?" he asks.
"Needs to climb up a bit."
"Sweet. You guys getting in soon?"
I rub my chin. "When it gets a little darker."
I let that statement linger without explanation. We don't use swimsuits is why. Anyone who gets in a hot tub with a swimsuit is too WASPy for their own good.
"Pretty sunset," she says.
I nod, put the cover back down. "You guys eat yet? We have a lot left over."
"No, we're good," he says. "Actually boiling some water right now."
They wave, go back to their side, their identical piece of the earth for the weekend, disappear around the cabin.
I go into ours and find you there on the bed, laid out, with one boot off. I look at you, you at me. We both laugh.
"Beat," you say.
"Hmmm. Guess you won't want to partake, then."
You sit up. "I didn't say that."
I get the kit out of my bag, turn on the fan unit by the window, set the fan to blow out rather than suck in. I unzip the kit, take out the little baggie of crumbly green goodies. I take a bud in hand, delicately remove the stem, a few seeds. While I do this, you rest your head on my thigh like a cat. I half expect you to bat the contents out of my hand like a cat. I take the glass bowl in my other hand, sprinkle the bits of bud into it, fill it to the top, press gently with my thumb to pack it lightly. I pass it over to you with my left hand, the lighter with my right. You hang over the bed on your stomach, and cross your legs into the air as you spark the green. You hold the carb with your left thumb until you get a nice hit, then release, taking the roasty, sweet smoke into your chest. To you, the first hit of the green is a little like roast pork: a delicious, earthy and altogether unique flavor. You hold it in as long as you can, blow out slow, though with the last few seconds you begin to cough. It's a pleasant cough, a ticklish affair. Your eyes water, you gulp, try to produce a feeling of "getting on top of your hiccup." You roll over on the bed, twin tears streaming down your face. I hit the other half of the green, hold it in, exhale slow and long into your face as a mist. You smile, suck at the swirling vapor above you. Both of us, our eyes become half-slits. The relaxation has begun.
When we do this, it's a feeling of getting back to the zone. All life spent outside the zone has been an interruption of the zone. Half-eyed, grinning, all senses on "yes" and "more." We're in the wilderness, miles from nowhere, no reason to be paranoid. It's our weekend. This is what people come here for. We stretch out on the bed, letting the feeling saturate us. Everything untwists and tingles. A lightness has enveloped the room.
I stroke your hair, palm your cheek.
"Do you think the hot tub is ready?" you ask.
"Ready enough," I say.
You close your eyes, face the ceiling and give a sexy groan as you twist off the bed and get to your feet. With a slippery eel maneuver I could never duplicate, you slide off your shorts, shirt, underwear, everything, cock a brow at me and wrap yourself in a towel. "It's time," you say. "Bring the wine."
I follow suit not nearly as elegantly, wrap a towel, and grab the bottle of shiraz and two plastic cups. (No glass in the "bathing area.")
The sunset has all but surrendered to the night. A few slashes of deep orange mar the blackness, emerging stars dot their way on purple velvet. We slope down the small set of wooden steps to the hot tub, bend the lid back. 103. Not ideal, but close enough. You shoot a glance towards our neighbors who are not out. The cabin light is on. With a feline grace, you slip the towel off, step into the water. With your senses alit, it feels like a delicious lava. You almost feel like you're melting into it yourself, dissolving in the slowing watery substance. Yes, slowing. To be in it is to turn time to molasses, the pleasure is so great. In this water, everything below the neck is a clitoral nerve ending bundle. You moan long and slow, sinking in and floating your legs to break the surface. Your wet skin in the night breeze is like Olympian gods blowing steam off of you. You giggle. I slip in too and groan in delight.
"mmmfrek," you mumble.
"What was that?"
"Perrrrrfect," you say and smile wide.
"Yes," I say. "This is awesome."
I attend to the buttons. One makes a blue light shine from the bottom. Another produces jets, another a torrent of bubbles.
"Oh!" you coo, and slide over in front of a jet, position yourself so it's center of your spine. You picture a fibrous tree trunk untangling itself from the force of the jet. The weed is kicking in, mixing with the tiredness. You are impervious to stress. All is right with the world. I begin scoring the wine bottle, pulling the cork. As I wrench it free, our neighbors come down wearing swimsuits and walking cautiously like something will suddenly trip them out of the dark.
As they wind their way down towards us, I squeeze your thigh with one hand, a wet, beautiful smooth angle of flesh. With the other I pour the wine into our dinky cups.
"Think they know we're high?" you ask.
"Who cares?" I reply.
They reach the edge of the tub.
"'d say the water's fine, but that's cliched," I say.
"It's not?" she says, swipes a toe at the surface of the water. Maybe she misunderstood or hadn't heard me clearly over the bubble whir. Or maybe she's just dense. What a ridiculous one-piece she's wearing. So bottled-up. So safe. So not like you.
He's got these big surfer trunks with white Hawaiian flowers. He looks like he shaves his chest.
"It's fine!" I say a little louder, even as they're getting in. They look uncomfortable. They're in one of the most beautiful places on earth and they look uncomfortable. What's wrong with people?
They sit there and we both start giggling as we sip our wine. The awkwardness of it all is as hilarious as it is peculiar. How do you relate to people? What do you talk about? Weather? Sports? We don't really care about those things, it's just something to say. We're in the zone. We're on a different plane. Those topics wouldn't fly. So we sit and grin and stifle giggles. My hand is still on your thigh, masked by the torrential blur of moving water.
"Where did you guys hike today?" he asks.
"Down in the valley," I say, avoiding specifics on purpose. Obtuse for comedic effect. But he doesn't get it. And that makes you laugh. She joins you in laughing, whether she thought it was funny or whether your laughter is infectious. I move my hand up your thigh.
"Yeah. You guys want some wine?"
"Oh, no thanks. Red gives me headaches. Shelly?" he says.
Shelly shrugs. "I don't have a cup or anything."
You offer, "You can drink straight from the bottle, we don't mind." As you say this, I feel your hand search in the water, first my right thigh, then my left, until you seize on my cock, and you grasp firmly, though your face stays neutral and you don't look my way to give it away. We're both becoming excited by this game. Keeping up appearances above water, meanwhile, playtime is occurring below the surface.
You pass the shiraz to Shelly, who politely takes a birdsip. "Mm. It's good."
"It's Australian," I offer, and this cracks you up. You laugh for a good minute and I shrug. "She likes Crocodile Dundee. Inside joke." This satisfies them.
I move my hand down your thigh and among the sweet hot watery miasma, I find your lovely divide. You are turned on and relaxed both, and I love feeling the contours of your opening with my fingers, lost among the bubble to the two interlopers across from us. It's a wide tub, we could probably fit five more people before things got uncomfortable, but the other cabins were empty this weekend.
I trace the arch of your vulva, back and forth, like a horseshoe, needing no pressure, as the hot water makes all a delight. I trigger your clit in a tight, lazy circle, letting the rhythm build and feeling your body tense and respond to my touch. All the while we're carrying on a mundane conversation with he and Shelly. Your hand has begun to pump my cock up and down, same rhythm as I'm doing to you.
The steam on the water's bubbly top suddenly abates. The timer of the jets and bubbles has stopped. "Oh! I'll get it!" you say and spin up and around to hit the buttons. As you set them both into motion, and sink back into the water, it's apparent to both of our visitors that they are in the company of two nude people. He is turning red and Shelly is looking at him turn red to make sure he doesn't like what he saw, isn't trying to memorize it for later. Because clearly your breasts broke the surface for those few seconds, you felt the Olympian kiss on them, and they both saw. Shelly hands back the wine, and you take it, climb onto my lap, letting your breasts break the surface again.
"We have to be up early for the gorge hike, so...." they say, and grumble something else as they get their towels. He may have had a budding erection and Shelly may have been staring it down, back to repression. They say their good nights and whatfors, start back up towards their cabin. As you slide onto my lap, we join, I easily slide into you, inside you. Slickness, heat, us. It was bound to happen. It couldn't NOT happen. Even as our interlopers are still within earshot, you begin to bounce up and down on me. You turn, put the wine bottle down and kill the blue light at the same time. Now there's just the cabin light, starlight, the heat, the water, the ecstasy of it all. You move and the water sloshes, you lower yourself onto me and with each lowering our excitement builds, inflates. The water sloshes over the edge, you start to groan a little. I reach my hand around to your cheek and you take my finger into your mouth to stifle the noise. This sensation becomes too much and I convulse once, twice, sink into the water.
"That didn't last long," you say.
"Yeah, but give me a few seconds. I'll be ready for round two as soon as you get in that cabin." It's true. I already feel myself swelling. There's certain times where I last a long time and then once I'm done, I'm done. Other times I can come multiple occasions in one night and always get back to hard within a few seconds. This is one of those nights.
I grab the wine bottle and the towels, and we scamper up to our own cabin after haphazardly replacing the cover. You jump onto the bed, bury your face in the pillow, then raise your lower body and lift your head, peek around your shoulder. You're beautiful. I get on the bed too. I press down on your back, creating a small dip/contour. I pour a tiny amount of wine there and lap it up with my tongue. Our lust and passion are dizzying. Senses are afire and glowing with the steaminess of the tub. I pour another tiny bit of shiraz down your back and it slips past your ass. I drag my tongue from your vulva all the way up to your back where I started pouring. You moan in delight and I see your toes flex in anticipation. "Shall I do that again?"
You moan out, "Oh, you'd better. Don't stop."
I pour. I lap. I pour. I lap. I pour. I lap. Each time you get more excited. Each time it's like fireworks, an explosion of fantastic pleasure. You claw the covers as I lick you. You begin to moan in time with my strokes. You begin to quiver beginning with your knees, working up to your thighs. Your fingertips, pruned from water, are numb and tingling. When the tingling reaches your face, your whole body is a lightning rod for pleasure and you climax with such force you think you're going to throw your back out. For a good three minutes, all you can do is exhale little groans and slowly melt onto the covers. When you get to be flat-out, you fall fast asleep. I pull the covers over you, brush away a strand of hair from your forehead and kiss you there.
by Aaron Willis
It was the night of the performance. For weeks we had rehearsed a small scene as part of a Valentine’s Day showcase. Dessert Theater; an evening of intimate theater followed by dessert with the cast. I didn’t know how “intimate” it would prove to be.
Several sketches examining all things romantic, ours was Electric Roses, described as a “sobering view of love.” I played a convict named Russ and she played Sara, the ex-girlfriend. It’s implied that the reason my character was in lockup was because the relationship had become toxic and I had gotten jealous and physically abusive. The scene had both of us giving our own monologues interspersed with some secondary characters weighing in, but five minutes before we took the stage, she suggested, “At the midpoint when Darrell is describing the flashback, we should move towards each other, kiss, and then break away for dramatic effect. I think it would heighten the impact.” She stared at me as she said it, less a suggestion than declaring how the scene would go. She was in charge of the theater group, and thus knew best. I calculated how many steps it would take to reach her, draw her close. Would a strand of her curly brown hair be in her face? Would I have to brush it away? Would that help or hurt the scene? All these thoughts rushed through my head as a voice called out “30 seconds to curtain!”
The lights went out backstage, the burgundy curtain parted, pulled by two high school volunteers, and the applause began. She strode out, confident and appreciative, bowing a few times, and then holding up her arms for silence. She gave a rundown of the evening in a lilting enunciated fireball of syllables, while the rest of us paced, went over our lines mentally, and flapped our hands vigorously to get out the jitters.
After the first few scenes, I was finding my stride, getting energized by the vibe of the crowd. As the night continued, smiling and observing replaced the pacing backstage. The scene before Electric Roses had almost concluded and I went downstairs to the green room below the stage and changed into the orange prisoner garb. In the mirror I saw the lines from my boxers were showing through the pants in an awkward way. I tried arranging and pulling but the effect was bad. I made a split second decision: the boxers had to go. With a quick glance I dropped the pants, slid off my boxers and stuffed them in my backpack, then pulled the pants back on. I looked in the mirror. Much better, smooth lines. Problem was, now there was sensation. I never go commando, but now nerve endings started to crackle. Or maybe it was the nervous energy. Either way, it was time. The applause subsided, I remembered my blocking, got into my Kentucky accent, and chewed some scenery.
My lines were well-rehearsed, well memorized. I played off the energy of the audience, as did she.The time came where we were supposed to move toward each other. “Darrell” jabbered on and we locked eyes, stepped closer. With no dialogue for us, it was easier to just be in the physical moment. After all, we hadn’t done blocking for this, but it made the hesitation and joining that much more natural. The speaking stopped and that was the cue for the kiss. I was nervous but wanted to show I was a pro. Our faces met, our lips touched, the scene was working, and then something odd happened. During the kiss, she slid her tongue into my mouth and a micro explosion sparkled to life in my nervous system. Was she testing me? Did she fancy me? Was she just method acting in the scene? No idea. It felt so good, so exciting and it was a secret we shared in plain view of the whole town. A hot pink explosion clouded my brain.
However, my cock had ideas, thought it had been summoned, beeper gone off and now it had to come to work. The feel of the thin fabric combined with getting a surprise tongue started a chain reaction below the equator, but with practically the whole town in attendance, I could not let that happen. Somehow I focused on my lines and feeling my character’s loss and through sheer defiant will power, I cowed my budding erection back into hibernating standby. It is the singlemost impressive feat I have ever managed, because I was incredibly turned on. The fabric of those orange prison pants were barely a whisper, and having no boxers as a barrier, every step and shift i took was like a lover’s gentle stroke.
The weeks rehearsing the scene I had developed a crush on my director and fellow thespian, and as she was the head of the theater group, I felt it would be inappropriate to try and pursue anything. But this kiss, this maddening ambiguity, this alluring and delicious tongue, warm and wet inside my mouth, I had to know. After I changed out of the prison garb and back into restrictive plainclothes, I went topside to mingle and sample the desserts. I made small talk with some people and moved around in different groups, but I was always tracking her, wanted to see if she was looking for me too, but every time I saw her she was engrossed in conversation, or throwing her head back for a hearty peal of laughter. I drew a conclusion, and disappointed, threw my paper plate in the trash. Solemnly, I trudged downstairs to get my things. I started up the stairs, then turned and remembered the plastic bag with the prison outfit. as I grabbed it, her voice sounded behind me. “Great job, tonight.”
“Thanks. You too.” She stood with weight on one foot, one hand clutching a plastic cup of prosecco, the other hand wrapped around her opposite hip. She was smiling in that euphoric relief of a show concluded where nothing had gone awry. She struck such an image of intelligence, confidence, powerful beauty. I held up the plastic bag, “Here’s the jail uniform.”
She held her position, took a long sip from her cup but kept her eyes on me over the rim. Studying something in my eyes and body language perhaps? Was she as shy as I was? Could the all-business persona be a calculated act? “I wanted to give you some notes while they were fresh in my mind,” she said and moved towards me. “I still think you’re speaking too fast. The audience hasn’t rehearsed it a bunch of times. They’re hearing it once and never again, so you have to make every syllable land.” I hung my head. “I know.”
“Your body language didn’t seem to change even though you played three different characters tonight.” She set the cup down on a folding chair. “The blind date creep, how does he stand?” I set my spine in a creeper lurch. “And how does Oberon stand?” I stood as regally as I could while she circled and nodded. “And Russ, how would he stand?” I thought about it, and just sort of hung my arms as if my shoulders were a clothes hanger and the weight of my actions pulled everything else down. “Good!’ she said, and moved behind me. I could still hear people shuffling in the building above, some clearing out, some checking out the dregs of the desserts, some collecting trays and plastic containers. She continued, “I feel though…” and while still behind me, propped up my arms and shoved my spine forward. She kept her hand there at the base of my spine, then with a movement deliberate yet ambiguous, her hand slid off, traced my left buttock, and she stepped back observing. I held still and swallowed, excited and uncertain. Wanting to please her but also wanting to know for sure.
I still held the plastic bag and uniform dangled out. “Walk with me to return that,” she said and turned up the stairs. I followed and gazed at her lovely form from behind. I loved her serpentine motion onstage, now watching her legs and hips and supple ass before me was a delicious torture. I wondered if she was accentuating the motion for my benefit or if that was simply her everyday gait. Whatever the case, it was driving me crazy.
We reached the back of the jail and dropped it through a late night mail chute. Then she turned to me and said, “I’m out of prosecco. You should walk me home.” At this time, all the townspeople had gone home, and the few from Castle Valley who had come by car had driven off. We strolled the streets. A couple times, she balance beamed along the curb like a teenager. She’d even turned around completely, walked backwards on the curb and never broke eye contact. The dark seemed to bring something out of me. Courage, confidence, whatever you want to call it. I started to strut a little, smile more. I fed off her energy and what she was putting out there was flirtatious and addictive. Three blocks east, four blocks south. We reached her bungalow, but before she opened the front door, she stopped, tilted her head skyward. “Ohhhh wow,” she cooed. The night sky was deep desert black, and the stars were bountiful pinholes. This was a night you could see the milky way, a magical dusty streak, both calm and dazzling. She led me around to her back deck and I planted myself in a reclining lawn chair, taken with the celestial view. I heard her patio door slide open and shut. I tried counting stars and lost count at 45. A dog or possibly coyote yelped its echo back towards the river. A meteorite streaked across the sky and I dumbly shouted “Ha!”
The patio door slid open and shut again. Flop. Flop. Flop-flop. Four giant flat pillows formed a square on the deck. She shook a thin tartan blanket and it descended parachute-like over the new soft pad. I noticed she had changed into a green silk robe and had a wine bottle. Stepping lightly, she perched and reclined onto the blanketed pillow dais. Casting a glance over her shoulder and with a wry smile, patted the blanket twice to beckon me over.
I kicked off my shoes and slid next too her onto the pillows and she handed me the open bottle. I tipped it to my lips. Not prosecco. Something white. Too tart for pinot grigio, too dry for riesling. “Sauvignon blanc?” I asked. She lifted her brows. “New Zealand?”
“Go on,” she smiled.
I shrugged. “Marlborough region?”
“I honestly don’t know,” she laughed. “I didn’t know you were such a wine buff.”
“Actually, that’s the extent of it. I used to be a server. I know I liked that one.”
She rotated on her side, held her head up with one arm. “What else do you like?”
Though it was dark, a little light from her house bled onto the deck. The robe had come loose near the neck and I could see a swell and curve of breast. My heart leapt into my throat and began to thump. I could hear the pulse in my ears. The thought of her wearing only that robe was palpable and tremendously exciting. Her shapely leg swung out and she tapped me in the thigh with her toe. “Are you going to pass that bottle back?”
“Oh, right” I croaked and took another swig, handed it back. As she grabbed it, her fingers traced mine and for a second she stroked my thumb. My cock shifted, like a hose uncoiling or an elephant trunk waving. This time I didn’t try to subdue its progress, its inflation. The darkness, the stars, the warm breeze, all were intoxicating. And I still wasn’t certain if I had a green light.
She pulled another swallow of wine, then set the bottle to the side, laid down to face the heavens. “Do you know you constellations?” I laid back. “Only Orion. Which I don’t see right now.”
“Mmmph. Wrong time of year. It’s southern hemisphere now.”
We laid there, stargazing in silence for what seemed like ten minutes. My breathing had become quite fast and heavy. I tried to listen for hers to get a clue, but couldn’t hear past my own body and that yelping dog. Then she elbowed me gently and in a near whisper, “You didn’t answer my question.”
“Orion,” I said.
“No. My question before.”
She giggled and sighed. “What. Else. Do you like?”
I swallowed hard. Inevitability flooded me. The tantalizing possibility. But I also didn’t want to show my hand too fast. This could be an innocuous question. Asked by someone in a flimsy piece of cloth keeping them from being totally nude. On pillows outside. Gahhhhh.
I heard the click of liplicking from her side of the pillows and a sharp intake of breath.
I exhaled, “…..mint chocolate chip.”
She exploded in laughter and a clonk sounded. “Oh no!”
I propped up on my elbow. She had the wine bottle aloft, dripping. “Only lost a little bit.”
“Might have to take this robe to get dry cleaned.”
I volunteered, “I’ll suck it out.”
For a second, silence. I thought I’d blown it. Then she erupted into giggles again. “It’s wine, not….snake venom!”
Then began a back and forth of improv about snakes from the Marlborough region of New Zealand having wine venom. We both tried kiwi accents but we both decided they were just Australian and we cracked up until we were both on our sides panting, laughter subsiding, eyes locked. She looked down at my lips, licked her own, met my eyes again. I moved my head closer, daring her to make the first move. Parting my lips, I slowly tucked my bottom lip in and dragged my teeth as it emerged wet and ready. Her ripe, kissable mouth looked like a bee stung cherry and I longed to taste that tongue again. The tips of our noses touched and that set things into motion. With a soft groan, she crashed into my lips, sucking my bottom lip into her mouth, running her tongue over it and into my awaiting tongue. More of a mouth dance than kissing, she held my head in her hands, sucked my tongue and rotated her head first one way, than the other. The sensation of that locking and turning thrilled me.
Then she broke the kiss, turned me flat on my back and straddled me. With a fluidly sexy shoulder motion, the robe blossomed open and cascaded onto the deck. I was right. She was nude underneath. The darkness made all other feelings amplified. I traced her neck with my fingers, glided down to her beautiful cupcake breasts, traced circles around her nipples. She arched her back and let out a low moan. I lifted up, kissed and licked her neck, planted pecks down to the center of her breasts, gave each nipple a lick and swirling suck, dotted kisses down to her navel. She shuddered and exhaled and gasped all at once, then her mouth found mine again. As she sucked on my tongue, her free hand was undoing my belt buckle, unbuttoning, unzipping, and rooting for a lunging and grateful obelisk. Her hand squeezed me in excitement. Then both her hands were tugging at my waistbands. I wriggled under her to help out as I got rid of a useless T shirt. The night air felt amazing on my skin, as did her hands and mouth. At last, no cloth barriers were between us. She pushed my shudders down with one hand and grabbed my cock with the other. With delicious ease she rubbed the tip back and forth against fuzzy wet flower petal folds, then took me completely in. I was enveloped in pleasure. I felt a pulsing clenching from within as she rose and descended. Her hands had my shudders pinned to the deck. All I could do was enjoy as she took control and created the motion. Her body had that serpentine essence again. She was going up and down but it felt and looked like an S curve ballet. The noises emanating from her were like an “unghh unghh unghh” as her rhythm increased.
I felt close to finishing but didn’t let myself. I wanted to experience her climax, see the ecstasy written on her face. Her rhythm was no longer accelerating but was steady. She let one of my arms free and I reached up and grabbed left breast, squeezed it in time to her strokes. Her eyes were closed, her mouth open. She was nearing the finish line. Her breaths were short puffs and moans. Her body now did a motion with more pubic bone rubbing, more clitoral stimulation. A back and forth rather than up and down. She took my hand and led it to around back of her. I felt into that lovely moving wetness, and when my fingers were lubed enough, I began gently rubbing circles and taps around her ass. Her body started tremoring and I tried to make my fingers vibrate the same way when suddenly she clenched and buckled and let out a long and satisfied “Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.”
I still hadn’t cum when she collapsed onto me, exhaling wildly, her chest clammy with sweat. I hugged her close as she wilted from orgasm to contentment. I felt her kegel muscles tensing on my shaft and they became fainter and fainter. I was happy for her, I didn’t need to cum. This was far far better. I held her as her breathing became slower and steadier. Another meteorite streaked by. I kissed the top of her head and soon she was asleep. I was thirsty and tried to reach the wine bottle but couldn’t stretch far enough. Oh well. My eyes drank the milky way and then I joined her in slumber.