Why, Of Course You Can!!

I dropped my head to hers, found her wet lips, which emitted the warm, pleasant aroma of a lush cabernet, and while my chest brushed back and forth over her wet nipples, I moved my length in and out of her hot, dripping abyss. As I built my cadence, Sharon bent her knees and pulled them toward her breasts until they were wrapped around my hips, affording me a better angle to probe her depths.

I knew that we could both cum this way, and that in only a few more minutes, we would both be reaching thrilling climaxes, but I wanted to relinquish control to Sharon. This was her house too now, and if we were co-masters of our sexual domain, she might feel more like a cohabitant of this domicile as well -- rather than a guest in it.

So, I gently straightened her legs, and without withdrawing my hardness, I rolled to the side, pulling Sharon on top of me, "I want you on top, baby. Ride me, please?" This was her favorite position, and I knew that it excited her to switch places.

"Oh yeah, I love riding your cock!"

She bent her knees again, wrapping them around my hips as before, but on top of me now. This was the easiest way for her to cum; she liked leaning forward and then arching her back while she rotated her hips, twisting her ass toward me, so that she was grinding herself on me with every downward thrust. She was pushing her clit onto my pubic bone, and I could feel her release more juices each time her sensitive trigger rubbed against me.

Now Sharon put her outstretched hands on my chest so she could get better leverage when she jerked her hips downward over my swollen cock. I began to fondle her breasts as she rode me. She was building her own rhythm now, and the more frantic that pace became, the more imminent her climax.

"Oh I'm close," she moaned. When I moved my hands to her hips to pull them down harder onto me, she closed her eyes, and spasm after spasm shook through her body like an earthquake rolling over the terrain. Then, she threw her head back, and clinched my hips with her legs and held herself there until her shaking stopped.

It took her a minute to realize that I was still there, inside her and that I wasn't finished. When she came back to the world again, she returned to her rhythmic rocking. I hadn't lost a thing when she had climaxed on top of me, quite the opposite. So now I arched my back, and she began slamming herself onto my raised spear. I was penetrating her incredibly deeply now, and soon I went back to her breasts, squeezing them and pinching her nipples.

Again, her pace increased, and I was slipping over the edge. "Oh, I'm there, honey. Can I cum inside you?" I asked.

"Oh, yes, yes. I want you there," she growled, as I shot eight or nine warm jets deep inside her. "Oh I can feel you; I can feel you cumming," she moaned and then she collapsed on top of me while I continued to push into her, lifting her ass off the bed before my climax waned. With my thickness still inside her, we kissed passionately.

"I love you," I said sincerely. "I missed you so much."

"I love you too, baby."

We lay together like that for a few minutes until my cock softened and slipped out of her, bringing a lot of my warm cum with it. She got up from the bed, went to the bathroom, and brought one of the new hand towels that I had just bought so as to clean us both up. Then, we fell asleep in each others arms.

Several weeks passed, and on the day after I met Jeff, Sharon found a job, writing for the Berrimann County Observer. She seemed happy. Now she had something to tell her parents, an explanation for why she had moved 600 miles to a different state. It was her first professional position, and she thought her boss was a really good guy. Now, maybe things would work out. She would have her own friends and her own life. I certainly had good reasons to hopeful. Now, I was less nervous about that dinner at Jeff's.

*****

On Saturday afternoon, I called Jeff and got directions to his place. He and Jacky lived in a farmhouse, about five miles outside of Fair Oaks. Sharon and I enjoyed the drive to their place; it was beautiful country. We had no trouble finding it, and pulled into a gravel drive, protected by four huge, walnut trees. The house was surrounded by two out buildings -- a barn and another smaller structure whose purpose was unclear to me. The outside walls of their house were covered in natural cedar siding that they had allowed to weather to a faded pewter gray, giving the place a rustic feel.

The interior of the Hackbarths' home was small, simple, but cozy -- the digs of domesticated, former hippies. In addition to the house and outbuildings, we soon learned that they owned ten acres of some really beautiful land that stretched from the county road that passed in front of their house to two miles west, deep in a lush woods.

When we arrived, Jeff introduced us to Jacky, and I introduced Sharon. Jacky quickly offered us each a beer, and we made small talk for a few minutes.

Jacky was a beauty -- a tall, lanky, German girl with dark auburn hair and big, brown eyes. I liked her. She was also a teacher -- high school biology -- but she was only doing substitute work at the time. When she wasn't teaching, she spent her time growing organic fruits and vegetables; canning; beekeeping; knitting blankets, sweaters, and caps; and now she had started making cloth, using her own loom. Jeff and Jacky were really into self-sufficient living.

Jacky was really hospitable to us both, but especially to Sharon, and that seemed to make Sharon happy. Without some new friends, I didn't think that was possible. So meeting two cool people was a good start.

We still had a half an hour before the game started, so while Jacky was showing Sharon her loom that she had set up in the dining room, Jeff asked me to step outside with him. He said he wanted to show me something. We wandered out to the barn that they had converted into a garage. When we got inside, Jeff pulled a small, cloth bag out of his pocket and looked at me with a mischievous grin. "You smoke dope?" he asked nonchalantly.

I laughed. "As a matter of fact, I do," I said. Then, I thought of Bogart and that line from the end of Casablanca, "Hey Louie," I said to Jeff, as he was sparking up a joint, "I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship." We both laughed.

We sampled a spliff of Jeff's stash, and while we stood exhaling pungent clouds of smoke into the rafters of the old barn, I asked Jeff why we had to come outside to partake. "Does Jacky not approve?"

"No, she's fine with it. I just didn't want to say something awkward if the answer wasn't what it I thought it was. Besides, I wasn't sure about Sharon. I didn't want to get you in trouble with her."

"If you didn't want to get me in trouble with Sharon, you should have invited her out here, too," I joked.

"Oh, we'll take care of the ladies after we eat. Sharon will be okay with that, won't she?"

"Yeah, I'm sure she will," I answered. "So -- what gave me away? How did you know?" I asked, genuinely interested in what made Jeff select me to join him in such dissolute behavior.

"Your pants have pleats," he answered laughing. "You're the only guy in Berrimann County that wears pleated trousers!"

"Almost all pants made these days have pleats in them." I said, defending my wardrobe. "Anybody who has bought a pair of dress pants in the last five years knows that. Besides I'm just trying to fool people into thinking that I'm professional."

"But that's the point. Everyone in Berrimann County wears either Wrangler jeans or overalls, and if they do own a pair of trousers, no one has bought them in the last 10 years, much less the last five."

"Are you calling me a hipster, Jeff?"

"Yeah, I guess I am," he laughed. "Well, are you one?"

"By my standards, no, but I guess in the eyes of the locals, I might as well be Ralph freaking Lauren."

"Yeah, you're a hipster alright! No one around here knows who the fuck Ralph freaking Lauren is!" We both laughed. "I guess that's why all the girls want to fuck you, because you dress like you read GQ!"

"I don't fucking read GQ!" I said, pointing to my clothes. I was wearing a pair of straight leg Levis, a Sun Records T-shirt, underneath an oversized, unbuttoned flannel shirt. I was also wearing my signature shoes -- a pair of dirty, white Converse Chuck Taylor All Stars. "Does this look like GQ?" I asked, "And stop saying that all the girls want to fuck me."

"No, you're right, certainly not the Chucks. That's all punk rocker chic. But that's the reason the girls think you're a hipster, and girls want to fuck hipsters." I shrugged my shoulders. What could I say? Guilty as charged, I guess. We finished the joint and went in to join the ladies.

Looking back on that evening, it had only taken me a half an hour to figure out the first of Jeff's motives for approaching me earlier that week -- that was, adding another smoking buddy to his coterie of fellow potheads. The second reason would be revealed before the night was over.

We chowed down on burgers and brats and drank a few more beers. Then, we passed several joints between us, as we watched the closely contested opening game of the World Series, a contest in which the Detroit Tigers ultimately prevailed over the San Diego Padres 3-2. In the 5th inning, the Tigers regained the lead by that same slim 3-2 margin after falling behind in the first inning. When they did, I told Jeff that the World Series was over -- that the Tigers had it won.

Jeff looked at me like I was crazy. We were both Tigers' fans, so he wanted to agree with me, but it was 3-2 in the bottom of the fifth inning of the first game of the World Series. How could it be over? He wasn't even willing to concede Game One much less the entire Series. I told him that the Padres couldn't touch Jack Morris the rest of the way and that the remainder of the games would proceed similarly, with the Tigers' pitching dominating the Padres.

On the following Sunday, the Tigers took the Series four games to one. The Padres had scored more than two runs only twice in the five games, with Jack Morris winning twice, both complete games, giving up only two runs in the final 17 innings he pitched in the Series. Jeff later admitted to me that I had seen something that he had missed. In the process, I knew I had gained some jock bona fides with that prediction.

Two hours after the game ended, as we were standing around in the kitchen discussing books and other shit we liked to read, Jeff asked me to be his assistant coach. I was a recovering athlete, which in my book is kind of like a recovering alcoholic.

I knew sports were essentially meaningless and could even be harmful to the soul, not to mention the intellect. As far as I was concerned, they had ruined a good many relationships that I had had with women. I didn't want that to happen again. Sharon, for one, didn't give a shit about sports.

But for me, they were a guilty pleasure that I couldn't stop myself from enjoying. I pretended to be thinking long and hard about whether or not to say yes to Jeff, but I already knew the answer. A month later when the season started, we were sitting side by side on the bench together. For the next three years, we were all but inseparable.

When Sharon and I drove home a few minutes later, I asked her what she thought of both Jacky and Jeff. She liked them both, and thought it was great that we had found a couple that we had a lot in common with. When Sharon smiled at me, it made me happy and horny. She was a really nice-looking girl, and I knew I was lucky to have her. When we got home, we jumped into bed together and made love. She was particularly responsive that night, and I was on fire. We didn't fall asleep for at least three hours.

By the end of October, the first quarter had ended, and I had pretty well settled in to my new job. I liked the vast majority of the kids and the teachers at Fair Oaks, and they seemed to like me as well. But my relationship with Sharon was changing, and not for the better.

Pretty soon it was almost wintertime and snowflakes were beginning to fall. One of the things that I had failed to consider when I rented the bungalow was lake effect snow. It only fell within about a half mile of Lake Michigan, but once Thanksgiving rolled around, it snowed at the house almost every night. I would wake up and go out to my car to drive in to school at 6:00 in the morning and find it dusted with dry powder. I tried to sweep the driveway before I left, but more and more often, I was in too much of a hurry and didn't get it done.

It was only an inch or two at time, but it was kind of a pain in the ass, and because I wasn't around much at all, Sharon was left more and more to deal with the snow and other issues at our house. Basketball and all of my other activities were taking up a lot of my time, and so now things like sweeping the daily snowfall off the driveway or calling for another delivery of fuel oil were falling to her. I was beginning to think that Sharon was unhappy living there. She never exactly said that, but somehow I could tell.

The semester was flying by, and though I got along well with most everyone, I started wondering if some of the kids liked me a little too much. After the first few months, they started referring to my classes as "Miller Time," a clear and inappropriate reference to the beer commercials.

After a little while, "Mr. Miller" morphed into "Mr. Time," and then, once they were even more familiar with me, the guys on my basketball team changed it again from "Mr. Time" to the simpler, more abbreviated, and irreverent "Time."

Pretty soon, all of the kids called me that. At first, I didn't think it was a problem. It was just a nickname after all. But then an unpleasant incident made me reconsider -- maybe I had allowed them to become too familiar with me, and that familiarity might lead me down a road I didn't want to be on.

One morning in mid-November, I brought my Novels class to the library to do some research for a term paper I had assigned on The Great Gatsby. I had shown them where to look for resources, and the librarian Mrs. Reeves was helping as well, so after I got them started finding things, I sat down at one of the big tables near the reference texts where I had a view of all of them, and I started to correct some quizzes that I had collected that morning from one of my other classes.

After a few minutes, I looked up from my work momentarily to see Sandi Mortensen coming my way. She had some papers in her hands. Reaching my table, she said cavalierly, "Hey Time, this paper is supposed to cover some aspect of symbolism, right?"

"Yes," I said, with as much gravity as I could muster. It was winter now, so Sandi's short skirts and thin, transparent blouses and had given way to tight jeans and even tighter sweaters. The sweater she was wearing that morning was stretched so taut that it left nothing to the imagination. God, she was hot! As much as I tried not paying attention to her, she was impossible to ignore.

She was slender and not very tall, maybe 5' 2" or 5'3," but her slight frame was augmented with nice, moderately-sized breasts, statuesque legs, and an ample, round ass. She had a cute, thin nose, and soft, pink lips that were always enhanced with a lot of lipstick. She usually wore tons of makeup, especially around her eyes, which were bright and hazel-colored. She also wore a lot of nail polish and dangly jewelry to accent her outfits. But her signature was her hair. It was long, and light-red in color. It looked like it would turn blonde if she spent any time at all in the sun. But she didn't.

Unlike most of the other girls at FOHS, who spent hours working on their tans during bikini season, Sandi always had creamy, white skin and very pale freckles on her nose and upper cheeks. She usually covered them with blush.

I suspected that those freckles became a lot more conspicuous when she spent time in the sun, so I figured that was why she avoided it so religiously. She reminded me of someone I couldn't place, a famous actress or singer, though younger and with smaller breasts. There was no denying it, she was incredibly attractive.

"You can pick which ever aspect of symbolism you want to discuss," I began explaining. "It could be symbolic objects like the cars, the houses, and the billboard; or colors, like green, white, gray, red and blue; or you could talk about the symbolism of locations -- East Egg, West Egg, the East, Midwest, and Valley of Ashes. You can really choose to analyze any of things that we've discussed in the novel that are symbolic." I was trying to be very erudite and scholarly, not because I wanted to be some kind of stuffed shirt, but so Sandi wouldn't be encouraged to talk to me in any kind of promiscuous or sexy way.

Strangely, she responded to what I had said with a really serious thought. "I was thinking about narrowing down my discussion as much as possible. I wondered if I could talk just about time motif. You mentioned a lot about time symbols in class, like the clock that Gatsby almost drops when he's first reunited with Daisy. Do you think that would work?" I wasn't looking at her at the moment. Instead, I was fumbling through my copy of The Great Gatsby trying to find a particular passage that I wanted to read to her. But just as she asked the question, I could feel her hand on the middle of my back.

I froze for a second, deathly afraid of where she was going. We were right in front of everyone no less, including Mrs. Reeves. But in an instant, her hand was gone, and I looked up at her face which wore the most serious look I think I had ever seen there. I was really surprised. It wasn't that Sandi was not intelligent; she was probably the brightest kid in all of my classes, but for once she sounded genuinely interested in her studies, and she had a very good idea for her paper.

"Yes," I said, smiling excitedly. "Sandi, that's a great idea for a research paper, and the more narrow the focus, the better. Just try to find all of the references in the novel to the passage of time. Discuss those and talk about how the novel addresses all of the different time settings -- Gatsby, Daisy, and Nick's past; the present action; and then Nick's narration from years after the action ends."

"And then be sure to finish with why the passage of time is significant in this story. Be sure to use quotations. For instance, remember what Nick says to Gatsby after Daisy attends the first party at Gatsby's house," I started reading from the book, "'You can't repeat the past.' And Gatsby's response to that, 'Can't repeat the past! Why, of course you can!' That line is key to this particular motif in the story. Be sure to use it."

"Okay," she smiled sexily. "That's what I'll do," and she bounced off, like a little bimbo, back to her table of girlfriends, who I now realized were looking my way. I was trying to process what had just happened. For a little while, Sandi had been talking and acting really seriously, and more importantly, she hadn't said anything sexual to me. Maybe progress was being made. Then, again, when she walked away, she had returned chameleon-like back to her strumpet persona. Maybe she was playing me.

The bell signaling the end of class rang, and the students got up, gathered their things together and moved to their next class. I had a free period after that so I stayed where I was and finished correcting the quizzes I'd been working on. When I got up to return to my classroom, Mrs. Reeves stopped me.