It's All Good

Still shaking, now, after, even though in a few days it'll be difficult to recall your voice or face, for now it's still vivid. But I'll find ways. Even if I never email you, or see your band again, this story remains in honor of what we did early in spring.

It's been a long haul, the last months, the better part of a year, ending by half in a bleak winter of disquiet. When the ice on the river broke, so did the river of ice through my heart. It was time to purge, to prove something. Let's face it: I was in heat; I just hadn't realized it yet.

All that day, all night, restless. That's atypical of me. I had to get out, to go out for once, and rounded up a friend who was up for some adventure. Or not. You just never know. Uncomfortable, being so antsy. Sitting there, bored; at least I had company, my best friend, who'd originally nearly had to drag me along into this particular bar. "Our" place is just dead tonight. Hardly anyone's dancing. So we sit, and we watch. We play the "which one?" game. Jen and I start out liking the same band guy, but then she notices he's got tits, and I see he's too old for me, so we try again. I've not really had a good look at you, behind several cymbals and toms, with headphones on during any songs with programming. On the first break you walk around, looking around, and finally settle on sitting with your singer and his pick-up.

We rule you out. My friend cocked her head and pointed at you with her shoulder, to which I'd rolled my eyes. No--too young, too skinny, too shallow. She keeps flicking her eyes at you and I keep snorting. 'Come on, I'm twice his size!' Second break though, God knows how or why, you approach our table. Up close, your face shows a few lines around the eyes, like mine, and your squint has more beneath it than just empty-headed superficiality. You're talkative, made brave by alcohol, just as annoyed by this country music shit as we are, though you've got to play it.

So it comes to the point, as you sidle up, throw us a few experimental words, body-language your way into our little inner circle, where we just know. The correct type of eye contact, the tilt of head, the quirk of eyebrow...However it is that people signal each other, you're doing it & I, surprised, return it in kind.

After that, I won't leave, knowing you'll wander back and you do, right on cue, and invite yourself to sit. A slow burn chars the ashes of my time alone and awakens my female needs, which begin to claw to the surface of conscious mind. I finger your flowing silk shirt, let you touch my knee. That we don't know much more than each other's first names, city of residence, and preferences in music is irrelevant. Its better that way, actually. As the lights come up and last call approaches, you dare me to do a shot, buy it, and bring it over, so we drink. Cheers. To our upcoming consummation. There, I said it. I'm gonna get laid. L'Chaim. Arrangements are made with your band-mates. We all exchange sideways glances knowingly--two of us, my best friend and I, and four of you, West Coast-ers lost up the ass of the Mid-West. Everybody knows what's up; we've all been around.

We cruise from one end of town to the other and back again, experimentally talking about life. Forty minutes later, we arrive at my house. I make the standard remarks about being trailer trash, jokingly. For a while I show off my digs, and you flip through my art portfolio, lingering long enough to impress me. We admire my computer, my latest toy. Showing me your brother's work on your deltoid, an intricate Celtic knot, we compare tattoos and the philosophy of body art. Fairly safe topics for total strangers, these, with a few slightly off-colored remarks thrown in here and there.

All the preliminaries are attended to. Past history is discussed, as is typical. Your ex-girlfriend dumped you--why? "Well, the sex was great; I'm hung like a horse and can go all night, but the age difference..." Is that conceit, or a warning, I wonder. What or who have you been doing since? For a time, you question me on who, when, how long, have you been tested...and I answer in as general of terms as I can. The wheels are spinning while you process what I say, while you wonder if I'm lying or not. You said it yourself, the agonizing waits over tests can make you crazy. Do you really want to do it again? And do I?

So comes the look, the challenge, the dare; the time for you to pick at the buttons on my black satin shirt and expose me. Your mouth is warm, with strong mobile lips that tell me to loosen up, that you're OK with this. Just one thing you request, "Leave the light on, please, eh?" Before anything more happens, we are in my bedroom, sizing each other up.

It seems removed, strange, but totally cool, how we're basically strangers but can do this. You make the first move, kissing me first, while I watch your face dance into my space. Hands, then mouths start to slide across skin. Rather than fumble with clothes, we both just stop and strip where we stand. Trying to get comfortable, we're both standing there grinning like kids caught with their hands in the cookie jar. My shaved pussy catches your eye. I smirk smugly. Across the distance between us, you reach out to stroke it. Your scent drifts up my nostrils as I play my tactile-starved hands into your fine dirty-blond hair. I form an idea. You agree.

The shower is hot. I wash off the stink of the bar from us both. Now I look you over closely as you submit to my soap-and-hands ministrations. Such a little shit, wiry and ripped, hawk-nosed and pointy-featured. Like an elf, without the pointed ears. Your eyes are deep hazel, darker and muddier than mine. Freckles cascade down your body in uneven patterns, wrap a band of themselves around your left side, and descend the opposite leg. As I kneel in ankle-deep water I stare up at you, fixing you with my own distinct aqua stare. Your insinuation about being well-hung is not exaggeration. That needs to go into my mouth, but first I flick your foreskin back with the tip of my tongue and lap you all the way up and down as you lengthen and harden. While you close your eyes, drop your head back, and brace yourself into the corner, hands flat to the tiles, I try to swallow your uncut length but find myself out of practice. I take what I can, measuring my old prowess against your physical response. Your shaft points at my chest, then mouth, then between the eyes, and your testicles draw upwards in their sac. The room fills with steam. What goes on in my shower is hotter yet; I could stay forever on my knees, kneading your smooth round ass with your rigid sex pushing against my throat. Giving head is a joy, a treat. Watching you tense and pant makes me feel alive again. This, with you, is what I need.

When the water cools, we get out, stopping for towels, and in a business-like way approach my bed. You kiss good, deep, your patchouli-smelling skin pressed up against me, your tongue in my mouth, no stubble scratching my face. The unsettled buzzing below my waist has intensified, till it feels like something vibrating has embedded itself into my lower torso. It pulls in on itself like a fist. Impatient, wanting to get the full measure of you I go to all fours. You wonder aloud how I could possibly be wet enough yet and put your fingers into my pussy. Yes--they come away dripping. You like that; there's excitement in your voice: "Hell, yes!" In a second, I feel the head of your cock, probing, slowly, so slowly, more, more, I've got as much of you in me as I can take and there's still more. You start to stroke; I move with you. You've very controlled, spreading my walls; you take pleasure in giving pleasure. One of your hands cups my ass, one pushes down lightly on my sacrum. You're strong, you're wild, you pump me like a stallion, harder and further till I'm screaming with the stabs and fall forward.

This is strange, but a turn-on, too. Even as a virgin I'd never had this problem of being physically hurt. Starting again, we fuck till I'm howling in pain and frustration. Face to face with my legs around your neck it's the same. Sensitive to me, you're putting breaks on our movements, but I want you to come and I want to come. Dog style again, I take as much of it and of you as I can, gritting my teeth, praying I can hold out. Squirming on my knees, I try to find a position that would facilitate things. You hit something deep inside (my G-spot?) about ten times and I'm backing down on you, coming, exploding, imploding, finally, nearly sobbing in relief. More wetness comes out of me, and you slide faster. I know you're close but something inside is tearing and I have to pull away, shuddering.

You straddle my chest, jacking yourself as I lay on my back. I raise my head and lick your cock, watching your exquisite little hands work your flesh. Our eyes meet. I ask, "Do you want to shoot it in my face?" You seem to like that idea, as expected. It doesn't take long. Closing my eyes momentarily, mouth wide open, tongue out, I gratefully accept your offering into my pores. It splattered everywhere, my face, neck, chest, smearing its glistening musk. We chuckle over the shotgun-blast effect.

The closest thing to clean up in is my bathroom sink. I have bled and it makes you nervous. Because you're without shame or any particular modesty, I stand nude in your presence and am unconcerned about it. There's just something about you, here in the afterglow. Everything you say and do is endearing; there's some kind of shimmering halo all around your naked fair-skinned body.

Back in my living room, you smoke, we BS and watch each other's reactions, wary but mainly positive. Its a small sphere of space and time that we're wrapped in, into this, ourselves, right now. "It's all good," you say repeatedly, like punctuation. This newest slang out of Hollywood is practically unheard of here, and the lilting quality you roll it off your tongue with tickles me. There you sit on my couch, in the golden lamplight, nonchalantly slouched back, your flat belly with its pierced navel sinuously sliding into the top of your faded 501's. The top button and your thick leather belt you have left undone. Your watch chain loops down against your leg. I find it phallic. Sexy. Why did I bring you here, knowing it was just a one time thing? Because that's all I can handle and you are perfect for it. It's empowering, to know I can still pull this off, even if it's the last time ever, and walk away from it undamaged. Granted, tomorrow I'll still hurt, but that's only my body.

Something said earlier upon discovering my artistic bent comes back to mind: "What would make you want nude pictures to be taken of yourself?"

"Well, I'm thirty-two now; I'm not getting any younger. I want to capture myself like now, me, before I start going to seed." You stand up, facing me, dead on. "Like this, I don't really look like much, eh? I've always been kinda skinny. But see, if I turn sideways, just a little?"

You point. "You can see just a bit of pec, the lines in my arms?" Yes. "I used to have a great six-pack, guess it's more like a four pack now. I just need to go work out for a couple months first." The lamp is throwing shadows off your body as you turn slightly this way and that, watching the play of light. My artist's eye already caught that, all of it.

You continue, "I want nudies, of it hanging down to here," gesturing halfway between your groin and knee. "It's just me, one of the gifts I've been given. Or at times, maybe its more of a curse since so many women can't take it all." Now, that sounds familiar. At this time of night the idea of self-loving porn sounds perfectly reasonable, nor am I not insulted at your comment. And as it is, I'm obsessed enough with my own talents and bemused about it enough admit it, that your wish to show yourself off isn't strange to me at all.

You like my cat, Myst, who is making a point of ignoring me, even though she keeps sneezing on you. She crept up to us in bed earlier, the nosy little bitch. The two of you are perfectly content to just sit there, her draped over your lap as we talk. It's your opinion that she likes your smell, specifically that of your cock. Your own cat back home does, apparently.

"Pheromones," I retort, giving you the eyebrow.

"Yeah, pussies, they like me..." giving it right back.

I have to get in the last word: "...little furry animals!" And we laugh.

In a while you ask about round two. I measure my rising desire and amount of time I've gone without against the likelihood of not walking right for a week. In the end I decide any physical discomfort can fall into the "'S all good" category. Let's go. Undoing your fly, telling me how you want to be sucked, you grab my hand and demonstrate on one finger. A smoky-eyed look passes between us. I do it, or try, wary of using teeth. After a couple minutes you kiss me, comment, "I love the taste of my cock on your mouth," and let me go back down. Then you want to kiss me again and I show you yourself, let you pull the taste and smell off my tongue. Your kinky "inhaling the sex" kind of manner turns me on. Down, down I go.

Several times you've remarked on your staying power. This time it's proven. You obviously know yourself very well. I want it to last a long time this time, yet I don't. Adrenaline and endorphins, earlier kicked into high gear, are bottoming out. You are doing the same, you say, referring to your size not all fitting. That terminology is one I've never heard used before, but it's pretty apt. While you get behind me and fuck me with rough skill to push the limit on violent without actually going there, I let my slow ascent build. By the time my orgasm bursts, my body has gone tensed and stiff. I get off head down with legs splayed, and then stay, almost hanging there, waiting. You ask me if you should come...Yes please. Any time. Fifteen seconds later you spew it with one final ream; I'm amazed at your ability to make your sexual parts obey your mind. It's a rare proficiency. My legs are shaking so hard you tell me to lie down before I fall down. We collapse to separate sides of the bed, measuring each other up, breathing heavily. Your slick skin shines in the muted light coming through the bathroom doors.

Again we clean up in front of each other and the mirror, then I wrap up in a sarong you like. Slowly we drift back to my couch for more music and talking. You'd like some songs downloaded but my programs take forever; we discuss getting together in a day or two to work on it. I know it won't happen, but it's okay, 'It's all good.' So you sit, smoking, telling me bit by bit of your life in B.C., your son and girlfriend (yes, now you admit it, and you feel guilty. It's something you're going to have to deal with on your own; this I know from experience), music, your experiences in the underworld. We're the same age; you've got 3 months on me, both of us old enough to be sick of bullshit and posturing from people, and have pleased each other with these likenesses.

Seems like the you pick up stands of my hair like a magnet to metal. Up until recently, "...I had hair down to my ass. Man, women loved it!" My attraction to guys with long hair never did abate, but if I'd seen you that way, it would have been too intimidating, I'm thinking to myself. Maybe it's just the attitude that goes with it that you've retained. "Don't miss this, though, shedding. And I used to get hassled so much from cowboys, I still can't stand them. In general. You know what I mean, eh?" Don't worry about it, I don't think much of them myself, in general. That we met in a cowboy bar is pretty funny.

Its the end of the night, by now, 5:00am, seven hours or so since I noticed and dismissed you; six since I first talked to you, four since I brought you in my front door. The birds, robins and meadowlarks are what I distinguished, are greeting the dawn, which is a good hour off yet. They're making a racket. You remark on them too; it pleases me how you notice small things like this. Our conversation has not flagged; this is what is best, what I like most of it all. We remain interesting to each other throughout. It feels right to connect with someone who, despite whatever, is not so different from me. There are no illusions; this is it, this is all, and that's OK, "It's all good." It makes me smile, though I ache and will for a week. As a compliment I clue you in about walking funny, which of course is "all good" too. I accomplished what I set out to do--get a temporary fix. So nice it was you.

***

A week later I told a friend about this. Un-self-consciously I referred to it as 'really good raunchy fucking.' I wonder how you're doing.

***

Another week after that, my subconscious reared it's head and gave me a pleasant jolt. A movie I'd rented before presented itself as I cased the video store, the one with some down-on-their-luck guys who decide to raise money by becoming strippers. Damned if the lead actor didn't look and act so much like you, I got warm gooeys in my stomach, and giggled my way through it 3 times before returning it via drop-box. Everything: short, thin, hairless, blond, the earring, the haircut, the mannerisms, and damned if you didn't have the same inclinations. Ha ha, life. J'amuse!