Four writers for the price of one blog
An Erotic Novel by Will Crimson
Boone was everything I wasn’t.
He was tall and talked with a slow drawl. Women loved him. He had a smile for anybody and talked like he’d known you all his life. He was competitive as hell and a sore loser and maybe that’s why he liked me. He liked to say he was handsomer, taller, smarter and from the south but that I was the writer – and that was just the way it was. Ya’ll can’t help being born in the North, he’d say with grin, kind of like being born a fag if you know what I mean. The other thing to know about Boone is that by the second week of August, he had already slept with a dozen women.
—That’s the thing about women, he’d say. I can’t explain it. All they need to know is there’s a guy. Word gets round. It’s like, if women know there’s a guy all the other women are sleeping with, they want to sleep with him too. I swear to God. You go on any campus. You ask any woman. You ask them: You remember that one guy? And you watch. They don’t always talk. It’s like their little secret, but you can tell. I swear to God, it’s like they’re pack animals. It’s an alpha male thing and it’s not even that. I’ve seen women line up for guys you’d never expect. They don’t even have to like you. I don’t know what it is. Maybe it’s an ego thing? They think – well, if so-and-so and so-and-so slept with him, then I got to. He’s like their trophy or maybe they don’t want to be out of the running. Maybe it’s both. I keep thinking I’m gonna’ ask. Why do you do it? What do you care about Wilt Chamberlain and he about you? But I don’t. Why ruin it? They just fucked me. I just smile and give ‘em a pat on the ass like they were the best lay I ever had and they prance out happy as can be. Now I’m not saying all women are like that. Some are going to sleep with one guy their whole lives and never look back, but if you ask me, that’s 1 out of 10. Maybe they figure, I’m not gonna’ chase them. She’s gonna’ get in, get what she wants, and get out. No attachments.
Boone decided August of 2014 was his turn.
We were having lunch and he nodded at a poet. She was teaching at the program, had been published in the New Yorker, and was on the cover of the The American Poetry Review. She had long black hair, with gray streaks, and liked to wear long skirts and necklaces.
—You see her, Boone said to me. You’re a poet. You know what kind of poetry she writes. I don’t read poetry all that much. I’m a short story guy, but I’ve read her poetry. You read it and you think to yourself, she’s a lesbian. Her poems are all full of resentment, like some guy rolled her over and she’s gonna’ spend the rest of her life telling the world what assholes men are, but if that’s what you think you wouldn’t have a clue.
—You didn’t, I said, and by that I meant he was lying.
—Oh hell yes! He looked at me like I was a fool. Let me tell you – she fucks like a bunny. I didn’t have to do a thing. Hell, all I had to do was just lie there and be a stiff dick, and let me tell you, Will, I am a testament to will power. She was riding it like I was the last dick in Chattanooga. Hell, she didn’t even take the skirt off. She got on top, draped her skirt over both of us like she didn’t want anybody to see – like maybe she didn’t want to see – and went to town. When she was done – and I mean when she was done – she just sat there for minute, taking long deep breathes like she was doing yoga or meditation, like she was working something out. Then she smiled the sweetest smile. You wouldn’t believe she could smile like that, then up and left. That’s a beautiful woman, Will. She would make some man blissfully happy, but you’d never guess it the way she writes.
—Just like that?
—Just like that.
—What about you?
—What about – oh hell, Will. I’ll get my turn, doesn’t matter which gal. I just like to send’em out with a smile on their face. Sometimes all they want is a pat on the ass and a little lick. Sometimes they want a cock in their mouth. Once it’s over, they glow. They don’t need me to touch them. I guess, for them, making a guy come is like praise. They get off on it. They must say to themselves, I’m sexy and beautiful. I’ll tell you what, there’s not a thing in the world wrong letting a woman feel that way. I have yet to meet a woman who wasn’t sexy and beautiful. You just got to let them show you what makes them feel that way.
Later in the afternoon, in broad daylight, at the edge of the soccer field where the level grass dropped away, Boone was philosophical. At the other end of the field was a two story white clapboarded hall with a balcony. Students were coming and going, some of them midway through the field from one dorm to another. If anybody at the far end could see us, they could only see our heads. Boone lay on his back, looking at the clouds. He traced their shapes with a finger and one eye closed. Chloe was between us. She was beautiful and 20. She had shoulder length red hair dyed black and freckles. She was sharp-eyed, skinny and smoked. She was wearing a light billowing cotton sun dress with a warm up jacket sporting studded diamonds on the sleeves. She was squatting, looking back to the other end of the field, smoking, eyes narrow.
—You know, Boone said to Chloe, have you ever read any of Will’s writing?
—You published? she asked me.
—He writes dirty stories, not just poetry.
—Oh yeah? Her interest perk up. I didn’t know they had a course on that.
—And short stories. Hell, I’d trade all my talents for a little of his. Will’s got more talent than some of the professor’s here.
—Chloe looked at me with a amused look. She took a swipe at her cigarette. So, do you jerk off when you write dirty stories?
Part of Boone’s secret was to never be shy about anything. I decided then and there that that’s what women liked about him. He could say anything with just as much ease as discussing the weather. He didn’t make them uneasy.
—Yeah. You like dirty stories?
—Do you jerk off when you read?
—She grinned. So did I. She looked at me askance and took another swipe at her cigarette. Yeah. Isn’t that the reason you read them?
—Do you write them?
—She knew what I was asking. She looked back up the field and shook her head. I can’t think when I’m jerking off. I don’t want to think.
Boone lit up.
—If the story isn’t turnin’ you on when you write it –
—I’m not a guy, she said to Boone, interrupting. I don’t need to jerk off when I’m turned on.
Boone smiled a big smile.
—Ah, honey, I know you can think and come at the same time. Don’t you lie to me. Hell, all I can do when I jerk off is jerk off. I just get stupider the closer I get. But hell, women, you evolved to multi-task.
—So – how many women have you asked about this?
Boone smiled again.
—Asked? He laughed. Hell, let’s test this. You just squat like that, Honey, and you tell me a dirty story. You see those gals walking across the field. You tell me a dirty story about them and I’m going to jerk you off.
Boone had big hands and thick fingers. Just like that, he moved his hand under her and pulled her white panties to one side. She jerked slightly as he did it but didn’t stop him. I could see the inverted and silhouetted V of her opening, spread by her squat and the jut of her clit.
Chloe looked at him with a cocked smile, like she’d been dared, then jammed the burning end of the cigarette into the grass. Boone was just as relaxed as always. He gave her an expectant smile, just like he did this every day – just as normal as a conversation.
I was in Boone’s world now.
I never would have had the nerve. Would she have slapped me? I remember Boone telling me he’d had women make to slap him. He’d just say: Go ahead, I deserve it. It wouldn’t be night before they were fucking him. That was the effect Boone had on women. But me? Just for a day Boone was taking me along with him for a ride. I knew it. I reached up and I unbuttoned the top of her sun dress.
—That’s it, said Boone. Will is gonna’ take care of your nipples while I look after your clitty.
Her nipples were soft and hard at the same time. Just touching them made me hard enough to come. I didn’t look at Boone. I felt her breasts, all women’s breasts still being new to me, and lightly moved the pad of my thumb over the tip of her left nipple, easier to touch from her right side. I didn’t let on. I made myself relax. She was beautiful and when I wasn’t thumbing her nipple, I dipped into her cleavage with my finger tips. Chloe closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and strained to focus on the field.
—Okay, she said, those two girls. Then she started her erotic story.
Boone’s big finger started making slow circles between her squatting thighs.
—They’ve just had lunch. The girl with the short hair is a dyke. She’s got a thing for the other one with the pony tail. She thinks the one – Chloe stopped and closed her eyes. She moved her hands to our legs, above our knees as though to support herself. Oh – she said, and then, fuck!
—That’s it, Baby? Boone asked. No. Come on. Don’t stop, keep tellin’ the story.
Chloe looked at him with another half-cocked smile and licked her lips.
—The dyke is nervous. She doesn’t know if the girl is straight or gay. Most girls are straight, but you can tell, even when they’re straight, if they can be seduced.
Boone’s two fingers continued their slow circle. Her clit moved above and below them. It poked like a little purple penis and was glistening. Boone didn’t once look at what his fingers were doing. He looked right up at her face face like he was hanging on every word. I felt her press her nipples into my hands. I did what Boone did. I listened to her. I gave her all my attention.
—So she takes the girl with the pony tail up to her room and closes the door. The dyke is in the art program so she’s got paintings hanging on the walls. They’re paintings of nudes – just women. She – The muscles in Chloe’s abdomen give a quick spasm and she leans more heavily on our legs. Oh shit. She exhales and begins to move her pelvis, as much as she can, back and forth on Boone’s fingers.
—Don’t stop! Boone says, full of concern. You ain’t even started. This is a good story.
Chloe begins again, but now her breath shudders. Her words are more halting. She pauses to close her eyes, bite her lip, rub her pussy against Boone’s fingers and press her tits into my hand. Somehow seeing a beautiful and sexual woman under the goth and tough exterior is a surprise and I don’t know why. Boone, I know it, knew it all along. He has that way with women.
—So – she knows it must be obvious, Chloe goes on. She looks a like a dyke. The girl’s in her room and the door’s closed. She’s looking —she’s looking at the paintings with way too much interest. The dyke goes behind her – fuck! – steps behind her and she’s got a strap-on in her hand. She reaches around and just hold – oh fuck, I’m close!
—Don’t stop! says Boone. See? You’re doing great, hon.
—She steps – she reaches round and presses the strap-on against the girl’s stomach – the – the girl with the pony tail, and she can – fuck! I can’t think!
Chloe moves her hands up and onto our cocks. She feels them, hard under our crotch and I can feel her fingers wanting to curl around the girth of them —to hold them. I don’t move. If I’m learning one thing from Boone, it’s that sometimes you just let a woman do whatever she wants and keep it about her.
—Go ahead, hon, we’re right here with you. See? You can come and you can write at the same time.
—She just presses that strap-on, the head of it, up and between the girl’s breasts. They’re small and she likes them like that. The girl with the pony-tail is shaking – is – fuck – shaking when she feels the head of the strap on push under her chin and the dyke says, wet it, so it’ll slide in – I’m – fuck – I’m coming –
—God almighty, says Boone, this is the best fucking erotic story I’ve ever heard. Don’t you ever write without jerking off. Go, go, go!
—She – she – so the girl with the pony tail – She licks the end of the strap-on. Spit on it, says the dyke. And after – after – oh fuck! After she spits on it she bends the girl over – over the bed –
—Don’t rush it.
—She – over the bed, and says, I like to fuck the pretty girls from behind and – and she’s so nervous – turned on she can’t say the words with – without – oh – here I come!”
—What does she do?
—She pulls down the jeans of the pony girl.
—Oh fuck, Chloe inhales sharply. Don’t make me fucking laugh! Duck – I mean – oh Fuck! Dyke – oh I’m fucking coming!
Chloe closes her eyes, her lips part, and inhales with little sharp squeals. All she can think about is her come. She abruptly opens her knees and her pussy looks for Boone’s fingers, for just the right touch, and he doesn’t disappoint. He lets her ride his fingers as her hair falls down over her lips and she abruptly shudders with each spasm. Orgasm dribbles through Boone’s fingers. She grips me through my jeans like she was on a roller coaster – like she was going to fly away if she didn’t hold on. Up to that point in my life, to see a girl come like that, squatting and knees open, able to do nothing but ride it and laughing at the same time, was the sexiest and most beautiful thing I had ever seen – as rare as a blue moon. I knew I’d never get tired of seeing that. Never. She almost made me come with her.
—Well – what? Boone asks.
—Oh fuck, Chloe giggles hilariously and hiccups with orgasm. Duck fucks pony girl.
—Oh, you gotta’ write that down, says Boone. The sexiest story I’ve ever heard. You promise you’re going to write that down.
—I promise, Chloe giggles.
Boone moves his fingers and I do too.
—Lie down, honey, between us and let’s look at the clouds. She did and for some magical reason she picked me. She put her head on my shoulder and her legs criss-cross across the bottom of Boone’s legs.
Later, when I could hear Boone’s laughter at the end of the hallway. Chloe followed me into my room and pushed me backward onto my bed. She yanked open the fly of my jeans without pulling them down, straddled me, closed her eyes and lowered herself. When she opened them again we were fucking. She looked down at me with that half-cocked smile and I knew this is all she wanted from me I wasn’t going to ruin it even if I was falling for her —and I was. I came three times as she fucked me. The first time I didn’t get soft. She rode me to her own orgasm and then another one of mine. I went soft after the second orgasm and she told me she wanted to hear one of my dirty stories. I told her someday I would write about her. She said to make her beautiful and that I’m not supposed to mention she wears glasses.
When I got hard the third time she didn’t have to put me inside. I was never out of her. She said she loved feeling a man get hard inside her, said it was the sexiest feeling on the planet and it was the closest a woman could get to feeling what it was like to have a cock. Feeling it grow, stretch and the fullness inside her, she asked if that’s what it felt like for a man. I told her that was the sexiest question I had ever been asked.
I don’t know if there was anything left to come out of me after the third orgasm.
We were a sticky mess. I just kept falling for her. I was imagining our life together. I was imagining fucking her from behind. Instead, I squeezed her nipples and asked her if she wanted to go out. She rubbed her pussy back on forth on the exhausted flaccid mess that used to be my cock, but even that felt good.
—Yeah, she said.
We went out. She dressed like you wouldn’t have known she just spent the last three hours fucking. We had some drinks and she was already thinking about tomorrow. We didn’t kiss. She went her way and I went mine. This was Boone’s world and I wondered how it was that every girl didn’t break his heart; and then I wondered how many hearts Boone had broken. After that, there were lots of girls I wanted to fuck, and who wanted to fuck me, but didn’t. I still fantasize about them. I looked for the girl who wanted to fall for me, and, you know, I’m still married to her.
—So, read me something.
—No, I said.
—Nah, c’mon. Read me something. What do you think? I’m gonna’ be all randy? Boone asked without taking his eyes from the road. He shifted into fourth. So just tell me what you called the story.
—Is it a dirty story?
—It’s about you.
—Oh hell, then it’s dirty.
—I smiled wryly. It has sex in it.
—You know, you write these stories and you don’t get my permission. I’m gonna’ have to ruin you if I don’t like what I read. You know I can do that, right? It’s called blasphemy.
—Not it’s not. It’s defamation.
—No, it’s blasphemy, Boone insisted matter-of-factly. You know why? Because, to you, I am a God. Without me, your stories have nothing. I am the main character right?
—You’re one of them.
—No, you maybe you misunderstood me. Let me ask the question again: I am the main character?
—Yeah, okay, you’re the main character.
—You’re a lech.
—If this turns into a best-seller I think you better let me play your part.
—I’ve got the deep voice. You’re a baritone. Women don’t respect that. I’m taller than you and I’m smarter. I’m quick-witted. You’re not quick-witted, Will. You’re good on paper. You could tear the world a new asshole on paper, but you know that’s not real life, right Will?
—Yeah, so, you get to fuck all the groupies.
—That’s right. I fuck all the groupies. I’m tall. I’m from the south. I’m good looking and slick as a buttered pig. All you have to do is write. It’s a win-win situation. They get to look at me and think it’s you; and they’re gonna’ know you’re a brilliant writer too.
—How’s that a win-win? Everybody is going to think you’re the author.
—Like I said: a win for the audience and a win for me.
I laughed and stomped the floor of the car.
—Yeah, you’re good.
—I know I am. Boone hardly cracked a grin. I still wasn’t sure why he struck up a friendship with me, but I’d learned to read him by opposites; and maybe that was more than most. If he said X, I figured he meant Y. He brushed his hand over his shaved, balding head. Any other man would have looked like just another bald man. Boone looked military. He glanced in the rear view mirror, then ahead again. The road was white with August heat and we were crossing from Vermont into the Adirondacks. The mountains had taken on that dark green of roots that have sucked the last water out of the dry ground. Lake Champlain, not too much bigger than a wide river this far south, was capped with the evening’s heat.
—Let’s find a diner, I said.
—Oh hell yes.
It wasn’t another twenty miles before Boone saw a diner he liked. The Adirondacks rose like a dark lush wall to the West, their long humid shadows already smudging the shimmering landscape. The Diner’s metal sides gleamed. The inside looked like a broad train car with old wooden booths on one side and a counter with stools on the other. The counter was a cream colored laminate with colorful specks. Ribbed chrome rounded the edges. A pale blue neon light ringed clock hung above a milkshake maker. Boone didn’t notice any of it. His blue eyes fixed on the waitress walking toward us as if he were anticipating an old friend.
The girl was blond with and wearing a tight skirt and a black top. I reflexively noticed her breasts and the way her top tightly highlighted them. Her hair was long, drawn back into a pony tail and her face was narrow. She smiled, almost awkwardly or maybe more like a flower. Boone had that effect on women. She passed out two glasses of water and silverware wrapped in paper.
—I’ll tell you what, Boone said to the girl, as if they were picking up an old conversation, I’m from South Carolina and this is hot. Me and Will have been driving since Maine and maybe you can tell by my drawl that I’m not from the north. Will is, but I’m not. You folks must have something to drink just for a day like this.
The girl lifted her head with a smile and leaned her hip, sideways, into the jutting edge of the table. Boone stopped whatever she was going to say.
—No, stop there. You’re from the south aren’t you.
The girl smiled broadly.
—That’s right, said Boone, you don’t have to answer, hon. What’s your name?
—Well, Kyla, Boone hummed, I look forward to whatever you come up with.
—I got just the thing, she answered, pursing her lips with a mischievous smile. She turned and Boone wasn’t the only one to watch her ass.
—How did you know? I asked.
—No, but you can tell she’s a ‘big hair’ girl even though she’s got it back in that ponytail. She’s just tryin’ to fit in.
—No, but if she’d been wearing jeans. The girls up here don’t run through a pair of jeans the way girls in the south do. They get a little more sunlight down there and that fades the denim. A girl in the south will wear ’em until you can fuck ’em standing up, if you know what I mean, without takin’ them off.
—What was it?
—You see how she leaned her hip against the table?
—Girls up north. They don’t do that. Maybe girls up north have their own way of flirting, but a southern girl will tell you everything you need to know with her hips. You watch her.
She returned with two drinks that looked like cherry juice with ice.
—Sumac, she said. Made it myself. Was saving it, but I can spare two glasses.
—Sumac? Boone asked with delight. Well, you know, if you made it it’s gonna’ be good.
She put the first glass in front of me, then turned with the tray and leaned against the table’s edge to put down Boone’s glass. That hip had nothing to do with me and everything to do with Boone. As for the drink, it was like lemonade but with a berry after taste.
—You make hamburgers right? Bring me a hamburger. said Boone. Put whatever you want on it. Surprise me.
—Same here, I said, unimaginatively.
—On its way, said the girl melodiously, pushing a pencil behind her ear.
She turned gracefully in that impossibly feminine way. I was already drunk with her figure. My cock hardened and I straightened my leg, adjusting it upward with a hand in my pocket as I turned back to Boone. I shook my head.
—God damn, but that’s a girl to have sex with.
Boone had pulled a small block of wood out of his pocket – something he’d been carving. He shook his head as he turned it around.
—You wouldn’t? I asked.
—Nah, I wouldn’t say that. He glanced to either side and leaned forward. That’s a girl to fuck.
—What’s the difference?
—What’s the —Will! Boone looked at me like I was an idiot. I say to you: ‘I had sex with a girl’; or I say to a girl: Let’s have sex with each other. Nah. Think about it. What does that tell you about the sex? Nothing.
He shook his head with grievous disappointment.
—Completely impersonal. Now if I say: I fucked that girl, then you know exactly what kind of sex we had. If I say to a girl: ‘Let’s fuck’, or, he lowers his voice, ‘I’m gonna’ fuck you, hon’, that is not impersonal. I’ll tell you why – because when you fuck, you make a statement. When you see a beautiful girl, like that gal serving us, we want to fuck her. And when you fuck a girl, she knows it. She’s thinking to herself – I made that guy want to bone me like his life depended on it. She feels beautiful. You might be sayin’ to yourself: I own her. Nah, because you know what she’s sayin’ to herself? She’s sayin’: I own him. See? I’m tellin’ you. The world’s got it all backwards.
—No. There’s nothing bullshit about it. There’s nothing a girl likes more than knowing a guy, the right guy —not just any guy but the right guy and maybe you’ve got ten minutes to be the right guy —can’t help himself. He’s gotta’ fuck her. It’s like tellin’ her she’s the most beautiful gal on the planet. Your cock? It’s not about you. It’s about her. She closes her eyes, lies back, and soaks up all that praise in her pussy. A hard cock? Praise. That’s what a hard cock is to a girl. You know why girls get so upset when you can’t get it up? It’s not, like: ‘I wanna’ get laid and now spanky can’t get it up. No. That ain’t it at all. You follow me? She’s not pissed because she’s not gonna’ get laid, she’s pissed because it’s an insult. She’s sayin’ to herself, he lowers his voice again, ‘You don’t get a boner and I am completely naked? You want me to put my clothes back on? You want me to walk back out that door? Will that help?’ I’ll tell you what, Will, don’t you ever spank your monkey before you fuck a girl. I made that mistake once. You think to yourself: ‘Oh hell, there ain’t nothing that could stop me,’ until somethin’ stops you; and then you’ll find out how pissed a woman can get.
I leaned back and grinned at him. Christ but I liked hearing him talk. I would have ‘Bullshit’ him again but he was already on to me.
—Wanna’ find a place to stay? I asked.
—Ask her out.
—There’s nothing in it for you, said Boone. She’s not interested in you.
—I just ask one thing, Will –
—Yeah, I know.
—Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful. That’s all I ask.
—You think she’s the type?
—Oh, yeah, I know, he drawled. She’s lookin’ for a good time.
—I couldn’t do it.
—There’s got to be a connection.
—What makes you think she’s interested in a connection?
—I’m just sayin’.
—So, he glanced at me. His look dripped sarcasm. You’re going to turn down sex, not that there will be sex, but if there were, if she were randy, you’re going to say, ‘No, I’m sorry. I don’t have a connection.’ Nah. You’re going to whip out your dick and you’re going to fuck her.
—Nah, you’re going to fuck her. See, we’re made that way. We can’t help it. If a girl shows us her tits and ass, we gotta’ fuck her. At the end of the day, the girl has total control. I don’t tell you this to be argumentative.
—You’re full of shit.
—I’m not. And you know what, you’re gonna’ to fuck that girl tonight.
—Didn’t you just say she wasn’t interested in me?
—I’m right. That’s all you need to know.
—You’re saying you can’t fuck a girl without falling in love. I know what you’re sayin’.
Kyla returned with two hamburgers, fresh lettuce, fresh cheese, fresh everything.
—Two cheeseburgers, she announced.
—Ah, hon, you read my mind.
—Anything else you gentlemen would like?
—I’ll tell you what I want, Boone said in his smoothest bass-baritone, I want to know where we can stay, cheap. Not cheap, it’s gotta’ be nice, but cheap; and we want more of your Sumac juice, hon. You think you could tell me where we could find it or is that something special?
Kyla gave us her quirky smile, the kind where a girl purses her lips and wrinkles her nose. She was on to both of us. They don’t sell Sumac, but she could write down a recipe. She leaned over the edge of our table, over the hamburgers and homemade sumac as if she was looking out the window and pointed West, giving us directions to a state park. I followed her finger back to her slender wrist with it’s braided hemp bracelet, the sleeve of her short-sleeve top and her bra-less tits and I already had all the directions I needed. By the time she was done, gracefully moving on to an older couple three or four booths down, Boone had pursed his lips and raised his eyebrows.
—Praise? I asked. How about hallelujahs.
—Amen, said Boone shifting into a more comfortable position before taking a bite of hamburger.
We left her a hundred percent on the tip and Boone left a note with his big, scrawling handwriting. He hoped they had sumac at the state park.
Both of us had many left over from the summer’s writing program, enough to carry us across the country if we were careful. Gas wasn’t cheap. The truck was mine, a mid-seventies blue Chevy pick-up that I’d bought, looked after, and paid for myself doing odd jobs, carpentry, garage work and, on a good day, selling writing. I drove this time. I was willing to sleep in the back of the pick-up, but Boone was feeling expansive on our first night’s drive to Washington State. He paid for a lean to by the lake. It looked south. The darkening slopes of the Adirondacks were on the right and the rest was open sky.
The first thing I did was take a leak. An uncircumcised cock is like a multi-function garden hose. Uncircumcised boys learn early that taking a leak is like gambling. The piss can go straight out, it can veer left or right, or it can land right on your own foot depending on a quirk of foreskin. Pull the skin back and it’s still a guessing game. Easier to piss outside than aiming for a toilet or even a urinal. I found a nook behind the trunks of some pine. I was horny and taking a piss felt good. Squeezing the last drops out of my cock, always a little that doesn’t make it out, turned into masturbation. Just enough to leave me hard, but not enough to bring on the spurting gush of white that would have been a relief.
I adjusted my cock uncomfortably upward. The head wanted to push under my belt.
Boone was putting together a fishing pole. I liked to fish too, but I was starting a new hobby. Boone found a smooth boulder under a Hemlock and cast out. The leanto was surrounded by pine and fir. The matted needles closest to the leanto had been worn into a soft yellow and brown. The wooden planks of the leanto’s floor, it’s south-facing opening, made a comfortable edge to sit on. I began to work out odd ideas, ideas for articles, poems, short stories, and settled on a short story. They’re easier to write than a poem, stand a better chance of being published, and aren’t competing with a hundred other articles on Chevy trucks.
I saw Boone get up after a while and walk off. About half an hour later I heard a ‘Hey!’ It was Kyla and she’d brought a friend, another girl.
I almost didn’t recognize her but I answered like she was an old friend. A month spent with Boone wasn’t wasted. She was carrying sandals, wearing a hippie skirt that ended at her calves and a tank top. Her hair was loose. I’ve always liked the waifs. The other girl’s hair was black and drawn back. Her face and hips were wider. She was wearing jeans and a tight purple t-shirt. She carried a milk carton filled with red juice.
—So, Kyla asked, how long are you staying?
—We’re driving to Washington State.
—No shit! Where to?
—Oh my God, I just got accepted there! Is this your first year?
We weren’t strangers anymore. Five minutes later Boone showed up. He had bought a new map and pickles. You’d expect someone like Boone to walk back with a pocketful of weed, but I’d only seen him smoke a joint if it were offered to him, and lit. We poured out the Sumac. Kyla was beautiful but I was already picking through her flaws. I stopped myself. As the evening darkened, we spread out our sleeping bags to make a comfortable floor, leaned our bags and backpacks against the walls and turned the leanto into a spacious couch. The girls sat opposite us. Kyla wanted to study economics. Samantha wasn’t going to Evergreen but needed a ride to pick up a car from her older brother around the finger lakes. She had brought whiskey with her and added some to the Sumac. Reminded me of a bad whiskey sour.
Kyla asked what I was studying. I said I was writing a novel. She asked what it was about. I said I didn’t know, but she, Samantha and Boone were going to be in it. Like an autobiography? she replied. Sort of, I answered. Then I said I was going to include the parts that other people leave out.
—Like what? she asked.
—Like pissing, I said.
—Oh, that’ll be a best-seller, Kyla’s friend blurted sarcastically.
—Right, I said, you can read a whole novel, as long as War and Peace, and the main characters never piss in a battlefield.
—But like you really need to know? Samantha shot back. I mean, we’re watching a movie and it’s not like we need to know when a character shits?
—Movies aren’t true to life.
—Since when are novels true to life? she countered.
—Okay, but what’s a novel for? Think of the Greek myths. I mean, they’re about ideas. Her voice rose melodramatically. Ideas. The big themes, the kind people live and die for. Think about the epic. I mean, who has an epiphany when they’re taking a shit?
Boone nodded as though trying to remember.
—So real life can’t be about big ideas? I said.
—You can write about real life without describing how you wipe your – She hesitated.
—Ass, said the rest of us.
—I don’t know, said Kyla, rescuing us from our cul-de-sac. Maybe it could be kind of cool.
Boone saw his opening.
—What I want to know is why ya’ll can’t get good sex in novels unless it’s erotic. I mean, authors – they all gotta’ beat around the bush. You wanna’ talk about taking a leak? You know how many times a week a guy masturbates? Now that’s real life.
—I’m gonna’ write a book about my period, said Samantha. That’s real life.
—I’d read it, said Boone.
—Nah, really. Write it and I’ll read it.
—So can I read your book on masturbating?
—Nah, I need my hands to masturbate. I can’t write and jerk at the same time. It’s physically impossible for a man. I’m limited.
—Oh? So women don’t need their hands? said Samantha, liquored up and enjoying the new turn.
—I have personally seen a woman masturbate, in class, sitting with four dozen other people in front of God and country. I saw her have an orgasm. And you know what she did? She was squeezing her thighs together, just barely moving. Just like that. I’ll tell you what, if she hadn’t told me ahead of time, I never would have guessed. She could have had that orgasm and every last person in that classroom would have had – no – idea.
—Nah, For real. Women are made like that.
But her bullshit was like a dare and Boone knew it. He didn’t flinch.
—Nah. You don’t believe me? Try it out. You just keep talkin’ like we’ve been talking. I’ll sit right here. I won’t move. All I’m gonna’ do is put my foot, my big toe, right on the crotch of your jeans. I’m just gonna’ press with my big toe right where your clitty is. Will and Kyla won’t even know. It’ll be our secret. It’ll be just like you were squeezing your thighs together. Nobody needs to know.
Samantha’s tongue pressed upward against her two front teeth and her smile was like a dare. She took a swipe from her sumac whiskey-sour and momentarily leaned her head back, never taking her eyes from Boone’s gaze. She gave Boone another look and without a word, she opened her legs. Boone’s foot, in a black sock, moved between her thighs. He pressed his big toe forward, knowingly and Samantha imperceptibly adjusted.
—Now you were saying? Boone asked.
The conversation moved on, and didn’t. We all played the game. We pretended until Kyla lifted my foot by the ankle and I was trying not to show the sexual excitement the coils in your stomach. A girl’s bare foot was pressing at my cock through my blue jeans. She was already making me forget every lesson I ever learned and every vow I ever made or could make. Her big toe pressed again and again.
—Fair is fair, she said.
There were other noises in the campground as the dark had settled in, but the thrum of my own heartbeat was the loudest.
—So are you gonna’ put us in your story? Kyla asked.
I looked at her the way a kid looks when he’s been dared to climb into the stall with the bull. But Christ, what did I know? If I hemmed she’d think I was a creep. Better to remove all doubt.
—I already wrote something about you at the diner.
—What did you write?
—I wrote that you had a narrow face, that your top showed off your breasts, and that your smile was awkward.
—So is that how you describe women?
—What do you mean?
Her toe never stopped pressing my cock, hard as hell now, and the tightness of my jeans didn’t help.
—I mean tits. What does it matter what size a woman’s tits are? Did you describe my hips and my ass? Is the first thing you describe about a woman the size of her tits and ass? Do you describe a guy’s ass and the size of his bulge when the character’s a guy?
—Or my ass? Kyla’s friend added, her speech syrupy with arousal and whiskey.
—We talked about sex and fucking you. I wrote that I wanted to fuck you.
—Because of my tits?
—Yeah, because of your tits.
—You or both of you, together?
She was enjoying this and fuck, she was going to make me come.
—Sugar, said Boone, why don’t you take your top off and show us your tits, cause I haven’t decided yet.
Kyla, just a waitress in diner a couple of hours ago, took off her tank top. And what had we been to her? The first thing I thought was how different every woman’s tits are. Her aureole were half the size of her breasts and her nipples were short and stiff. Seeing them was like seeing raw sex. I still wasn’t used to a girl showing me her breasts, and hoped I never would be. Drunk with lust, I decided Kyla was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. A bead necklace, wooden beads with a milky white stone at the bottom, hung between her breasts.
—Aren’t you going to –
Samantha’s question, whatever it was, was cut short. Her eyes widened and she gripped the sleeping bags under her.
—Aren’t you –
She couldn’t finish the question. The small of her back arched. She opened her legs and lifted her knees. She was coming, the hottest thing a girl will ever do. I know I already wrote it once, but I never get tired of it and never will – seeing a girl come. Boone kept pressing his big toe into the spreading seam of her jeans. Samantha’s head was thrown back and her knees widened every time her orgasm squeezed. I marveled at how an orgasm can make a girl’s legs instinctively open.
Watching her set me off. I didn’t feel the burn at the tip of my cock until it was too late. The first spurt shot my fluids up my belly, under my shirt. After that, there was nothing to do but thrust my cock into Kyla’s toe. The orgasm was intense. I soaked myself. Kyla watched my hips twitch and ground her foot into my crotch.
Samantha was already unzipping Boone. His hands were already guiding her lips to his cock.
I was still hard when my orgasm ended. I moved forward onto my hands and knees on took Kyla’s breasts in my mouth. Her hand found my slippery cock and moved over it, feeling it and pumping it. I wanted it in her mouth. I wanted to see my come on her lips but she had other ideas. She giggled and rolled out from under me.
I followed her out of the leanto, down the dark, pine matted embankment and to a large boulder half in the black water. She stopped there, looked back at me in the near total darkness, dropped her hippie skirt to her ankles, shimmed out of her panties and dove into the dark water. That quirky smile, bare spine and narrow hips, I knew, were going to be burned into my memory for the rest of my life. I was falling again. She was sleek, smooth and painfully beautiful. I threw off my shirt and jeans. I dove in. Orange campfires, here and there, some just a crack of flickering light between the black trunks of pine, crackled along the shoreline. I heard other voices. I caught up with her her when we were up to our necks in water, we kissed.
I lifted her up and brought her nipples to my lips. I sucked each one into my mouth and fingers tightened in my hair. Along with her nipples, I sucked in the hard round beads of her necklace. It floated. The water was dark and warm. When I lowered her my cock brushed her thighs and belly. I wanted her to feel it. I wasn’t done with her. I wanted to pull her back to the shallow, to lower her mouth. I wanted her to taste my come. I wanted feel her legs around my waist. I wanted to fuck her in the water but her hand was already pumping me. I found her clit under the tips of my fingers. When she came, I spurted under the water and against her belly. She bit my shoulder and I pressed my two fingers inside her. Relief washed over us. We swam back to shore and all our motions seemed less graceful. The tug of the earth felt heavier. The dirt and pine needles stuck to the bottoms of our feet.
Boone was on his side. Samantha was leaning back against his belly. She took a swig of the whiskey laced Sumac, then offered it to Boone. They watched us return, wet and loose jointed. Their looks were expectant, as though we’d tell them we had actually fucked.
—What? I asked.
—Nah, I don’t have any questions, said Boone. Ya’ll went for a swim.
About twenty minutes later, just before the girls left, they asked about a ride to Ithaca. Boone was as ingratiating as ever. He offered to let them drive. Once they’d gone, he lay back gazing inscrutably at the roof of the leanto.
—Did they just trade sex for a ride? I asked.
—Did you have sex?
—Then, no; and, Will, do you really think I’d be that cheap?
—No, I wouldn’t be. You know why? Because it’s not my car.
—Fuck you, Boone.
—I’m just sayin’.
—Did she swallow?
Boone had no trouble falling asleep. I was wondering whether there could be a relationship or if the sex had just been sex. I fell asleep imagining the next day’s story. Kyla and I would laugh at the same jokes. She’d lean against me. She’d want to go to the same places. As easy as that, I was in love. One minute all I can think of is sex and fucking and the next, the wonder and strangeness of the soul watching me behind a woman’s eyes. I was hooked by the soul and the allure of her body. I was hooked.
A man’s cock is hardly ever harder than when he wakes up. There are dozens of clichés to describe it, but if you’re a girl reading this, this is what it feels like – like you want to fuck. When you’re just a kid, all you want to do is pee. That makes it go down; but when you get older it feels good just to hold, squeeze, and stroke your cock. I like the size and the soft skin sliding over the warm trunk. You imagine a girl sucking it, riding it or sticking it to her from behind. A hard cock is almost always sexual – makes you feel sexual and turned on even if you weren’t just a minute before. A hard cock feels good and can make you come in the middle of the night. The guys that don’t masturbate, come in their sheets.
This morning all I can think about is Kyla. I went to sleep dreaming about a relationship, something besides sex and fucking, but now I’m back to just wanting to fuck her. Hard. All I can think about are tits and cunt. Lust is like that. I was going to write that it’s like a monster, but now that I write, I think it’s not like a monster. Waking up to sex and girls isn’t like an ambush. It’s not that we think about toys one day and girls the next. Sex is like a liquor – a hard liquor.
It’s in everything, you just don’t know it when you’re a kid. It’s not even like you get to decide whether and when you want to drink. It’s nature. Nature pours it into you little by little. Sex is in everything. It’s a liquor in trees, in the grass, road, shoes, hairbrushes, fields, in windows in houses where girls live, beds, bathrooms, blown up dust, cornstalks and the woods. It soaks into you when you stop being a kid, and that can be sooner or later.
It changes people the way alcohol changes people. People say alcohol makes a man honest, but it’s the kind of honest that makes liars better and bullies meaner. I’ve seen quiet guys turn angry, ready to fight on a dime. I’ve seen guys who’d never lift a finger to hurt their girl when sober, do things that made them weep like babies the next day.
Liquor is like that. Nature keeps pouring it into you until you’re drunk with it. You don’t know what it’s going to do to boys. Some boys are ashamed of it. They spend the rest of their lives trying to get sober – they’re the preachers, the monks, bishops and popes. They’re the sober ones until they’re caught with their cocks in a girl’s mouth or up the choir boy’s ass.
Other boys are the beautiful ones. They throw longer, run faster and punch harder. They get what they want, when and how they want it. Before liquor makes them honest, they don’t like girls, after the liquor, women are trophies. They figure they’re entitled to what they want because they’re the strong ones. They’re the guys you hear about, the ones who fuck the girl whether she wants it or not. That’s why the girls were there, right? What woman hangs out alone with a guy, then complains when he fucks her? I know guys have no brains, but the liquor knocks the brains out of girls too.
There’s a little bit of the drunk boy and the sober boy in all of us. It’s why men blame the woman for the liquor. ‘Women ask for it,’ they say, ‘Why else show off their tits and ass?’ And the girls? Some of them want it just the way those boys say they do. Liquor makes a girl honest too. They’re the cheerleaders and the sorority girls. They know they’ve got a piece of ass and they like what it gets them. Nature pours the liquor into them too.
But the problem, when you’re drunk, is you can’t tell the no’s apart – the ones that mean it and the ones that don’t. Not all no’s are the same. Anything else is a lie.
The liquor can make a whole nation honest and liquor makes religion honest as hell. Men don’t like what the liquor does to them. They think that if it weren’t for women, they’d be better. That’s where Eve comes from. She gives guys somebody to blame.
Me? The liquor makes me think about girls all day long. I want to spread their legs and plow them. When I’m sober, they’re fragile, strong, mysterious and beautiful at the same time. When I’m drunk on the liquor, I know what to do with them. I want to yank their heads back by the hair. I want them on their knees. I want their heads on the ground. I want their asses lifted behind them. I want to hear them pant and grunt. I want to shove my cock in their pussies so hard they’ll taste my come. I know a woman is man’s best friend and soul-mate but the other half, the half that nature pours the liquor into from the day a man is born, knows a woman is created with tits and a cunt for a reason.
A boy doesn’t know what to do with all of that.
We don’t know until sooner or later we find out that a girl is like a mirror image. We want her to suck our cock. She wants to suck our cock. We want her to ride our cock. She wants to ride our cock. We want to bend her over. She wants us to bend her over. We want to tell her what to do. She wants us to tell her. We want to fuck doggy style. She wants us to fuck her doggy style. We want to fuck her until she screams. She wants us to fuck her until she screams. Maybe we imagine knocking her up, and maybe she imagines it too. We fit like pieces of a puzzle, god or nature-made, and that revelation is like a minute of enlightenment , that minute when we find out we’re not crazy, that we’re another human being’s perfect fit and that they want us to do all those crazy things to them, that they wouldn’t want it any other way. It’s not meant to be any other way. Our special craziness is somebody else’s perfect fit. Christ, it would be a lonely world without women. Woman: without her, man is nothing. That’s the way I punctuate it.
That’s perfection. That’s love. That makes the liquor into wine. That’s what we spend a lifetime looking for, finding and working to keep. I wish for the world we all someday could freely drink from that wine.
Boone was already up and gone.
My hand and cock were slippery and sticky with come, a first spurt. I didn’t want to spurt in my sleeping bag. I stopped masturbating. I got up, I wiped my hands and cock on a bandanna. I rolled up my sleeping bag. The swollen ache that’s a hard cock in tight jeans, finally began to go down. The first thing I did, after that, was to piss back of a pine tree. My piss smelled like come, yesterday’s and this morning’s. The second thing I did was to go swimming.
Boone showed up with a sandwich wrapped in white paper. He watched me climb out of the water in my boxer shorts, an hour past sunrise, mottled blue with the chill of the water.
—God almighty, he drawled.
—Did you get me anything?
—Did I… Will, what do I look like?
—That’s right. So why would you ask me?
—Where are my glasses?
—Where I was gonna’ sit.
Boone took another bite of his sandwich.
—You better not ever let a gal see you like that, he said with a mouthful.
—Nah, I don’t have to explain it, do I?
I scooped my glasses from the deck of the leanto – round bottle-cap glasses. I used my shirt to dry my hair. If nothing else, the damp would keep me cool. After that, we threw our gear into the back of the truck. I drove this time. The first stop was for another sandwich. The next stop was Kyla’s. She lived about five miles up a dirt road. The small, white clapboarded cape of her parent’s house was attached to a barn. The barn’s siding was gray and splintered. The snout of an old pick-up from the forties, all brown, rust and busted headlights, stuck out from the barn’s sagging opening. Across from the house was a field of tedded hay. Evergreens already flickered in the shimmering heat. I steered just off the side of the dirt driveway and onto the parched grass. The wheels popped.
We climbed out of the truck and I saw Kyla in the doorway. I almost wished Boone wasn’t with me, but then again, if not for Boone I wouldn’t have met her. She leaned a little backpack in the door, propping it open. I saw a motion in the house behind her and guessed it was Samantha. Boone was soaking up the sunlight, hands in pocket, looking around him as he walked to the cape.
—Ya’ll want us to throw the bags in the back?
I got that light as air feeling as soon as I saw her. I’ll never be able to describe the feeling. It’s a mess of fear, anticipation, want, excitement. It’s not just somebody beautiful, but you tell yourself she’s the kind of beautiful that fits a lock you’ve carried from the day you were born. You think she’s the only girl on the planet; and when she breaks your heart you think that little lock is never going to get used again. There’s been a mistake like the world has never known. You say to yourself that she was the one; she was the girl who was supposed to fall in love forever and forever.
But when you’re falling you never remember the last perfect girl.
Boone glanced at me the way you do when you see a pretty girl. The son of a bitch. Was I that obvious? We stepped through an old front door into a kitchen with two stoves. One was gas and the other an old wood-burning cook stove. Samantha was cleaning a plate at the kitchen sink. An old maple wood table was in the middle of the kitchen. Everything was a mix of old and new. Kyla’s parents weren’t around but they might as well have been. Walking into a girl’s home is seeing the world through her eyes. The house smelled like her.
Kyla was already on her way out the back door.
I followed her, hands in my jean pockets. She was wearing another loose skirt and I couldn’t take my eyes from her narrow hips. I was already hard. I was remembering how I had almost been inside this girl. I tried to think about something else. I couldn’t. I watched her squat at the sill cock and fill a bucket with water. I took it from her and she led me, barefooted, up a short slope to a chicken coop on the edge of the yard. A field’s taller grasses began behind it. Their bushy dryness crackled.
—So, did you write about last night? she asked.
She took the bucket from me and poured it into the galvanized waterer.
—So, like, can I read it?
She stood up, swinging the handle of the bucket into both hands.
—You can read it in a week.
—Oh, she laughed. A week? So where are you gonna’ be in a week?
—So, if I I come with you to California I can read your story?
—What a deal.
—Because you like me so much.
I moved toward her. Christ, I wanted to kiss her. I wanted to do something; but she half ducked and slipped out of the chicken coop with a satisfied glance. I glanced at her ass, then stopped. A hard cock starts to hurt when it’s zippered. A guy has to stand a cock straight up, and that’s when having a long cock doesn’t pay off. The head gets jammed under a belt buckle, zipper and button. I suppose girls like those pictures of a man, in blue jeans, his cock swollen half way to his knee, but that’s bending things the wrong way and hurts like hell. Any woman who’s looked at a naked man knows his cock likes to be upright and, best of all, inside a woman.
Kyla dropped the bucket outside the back door. She didn’t show me her bedroom. I didn’t get to close the door, to push her against it, to pull her panties aside and fuck her, there, quick and in her clothes. She locked the back door. I went through to the front door. Boone and Samantha followed. Kyla locked the house. In another ten minutes we were back on the state road. Kyla and Samantha were squeezed between us. Kyla’s leg, through her skirt, felt warm and firm against my own.
This was the way we traveled half way through upstate New York, and I was driving. We moved from one subject to the next. Sometimes we ran out of words. The heat of the highway and the shimmering trees blew through the cab like a static charge. The girls’ hair lifted and I did my damnedest to keep my eyes on the road. They’re like a drug. You just want to stare, sometimes, and puzzle what exactly makes a woman so beautiful – the little differences in their lips, eyes, eyebrows, and cheeks. Just the feeling of a girl is different, slighter, softer and firmer. I’d start thinking about it, feeling Kyla pressed next to me, and then I’d be hard again.
Boone stretched his arm behind both girls, casual and southern, and after a quiet spell he’d make a comment about this or that car. You see that grey car? – he’d say. I bet you don’t think about what the color of a car tells you about the driver.
Then he’d notice something hanging from the rear-view mirror, a sticker or whether they used their blinkers. He’d tell us that this woman was unemployed or that man lived in a double wide with a garage door that didn’t work. Then he saw a sticker he didn’t like.
—Ya’ know, I went to one of their concerts. I wouldn’t go again.
—Why? I asked.
—I’m glad you asked. I’ll tell you why: because of guys with skirts. That’s why. Life is too short. There are things I don’t mind. I don’t mind guys kissing each other. Granted, I don’t want to see it, but if two guys want to kiss on Main Street? Let ’em. I’ll just turn the other way. Maybe there’ll be a nice lookin’ gal walkin’ down the other side.
—I like it, said Kyla.
—Well, I ain’t a girl. But like I was saying, I don’t consider myself anti-homosexual. I don’t think I’m a bigot. But guys in skirts, that’s where I draw the line.
—You have a problem with transsexuals?
—Nah, I don’t have a problem with transexuals.
Boone said it with the slow drawl of exasperation.
—Nah, look. See, that’s the problem. Ya’ll think that if a white guy, and I am a white southern guy, doesn’t like a guy in a skirt, he’s got this or that phobia. That’s the problem with you northerners. No. Think about this. Why did women wear skirts and guys wear pants or breeches? I’ll tell you why. Because, if you’re a girl and gotta’ pee, you don’t want have to pull your pants to your knees and squat like a constipated frog cause you’re tryin’ not to pee on your pants. If you’re wearin’ a skirt—and nobody wore underwear in those days—all you had to do was spread your legs, lift the hem of your skirt, and pee. That’s it. Hell, you could piss right there in front of your neighbor; but what do you think he’d have seen, and what do you think he’d have thought, and what do you think he’d have done if you’d bent over and pulled your her pants down?
Samantha turned and leaned against the door to face him.
—Like he’s entitled to fuck me if I pull my pants down?
—Nah, that’s not what I’m saying. I’m sayin’‒ Let’s say you gotta’ piss, right now. There’s no bathroom, there’s no tree to hide behind, it’s just you, nowhere to hide, and a guy you sort of know and don’t. Which is it gonna’ be. Would you rather be wearing a skirt? Or would rather pull your pants to your knees?
—Since when do I have to make a choice like that?
—Nah, see; you don’t want to answer the question.
—It’s a stupid choice.
—You can’t pee unless you pull down your pants, cause you don’t have a wee wee. And you don’t want to answer the question because we both know the answer. That’s okay. I know why. You don’t have to explain. All you have to say is: Boone, you have a point.
—You don’t have a problem with girls wearing pants? Kyla asked.
—Nah. It doesn’t matter. It’s the 21rst century.
—But you have a problem with guys wearing skirts?
—Yeah, here’s why. First of all, it’s just stupid. How does a guy take a leak when he’s wearing a skirt? He’s got to lift up his skirt. He’s got to fish out his junk through his shorts, and then he’s got to hold up his skirt the whole time he takes a leak. You know what that makes a man look like? It makes him look like an idiot. Ya’ know why? Because it’s not functional. It’s not functional for a man to wear a skirt. Pants? I unzip, and that’s all the help I need. I don’t have to hold on to anything when I’m takin’ a leak. That’s just a formality. I could skeet shoot and piss at the same time. That guy wearin’ a skirt is gonna’ piss all over himself. Guys that wear skirts are posing. That’s all it is. So that’s the first reason, and not because it’s the best reason. The best reason guys don’t wear skirts is because there are just some things we oughta’ leave to women. There are just some things that are beautiful and feminine and ought to stay that way.
—Says you, answered Samantha scathingly.
—Yeah, says me. For example: You have to go to the bathroom. What do you look for on the door of a public bathroom? If it doesn’t say ‘men’ and ‘women’, it has a little drawing. You know the kind I’m talking about, right? One of them is a figure and you can assume, if if looks like its wearing pants, it’s the boy’s room. The other figure looks like she’s wearing a dress. Now, immediately, any child knows which bathroom is the girl’s room. Little things like that. I don’t want to live in a unisex world. Women are beautiful and you gotta’ leave to women something that’s there’s. I don’t want to turn the whole world into some kind of cross-dressing utopia. That is not my idea of a Utopia.
That mollified Samantha. She ran her fingers through her dark hair and leaned back into Boone’s side. Boone had a way of saying things that I could never get away with ‒ the way comedians have a gift for telling jokes. Three hours later we stopped for gas. Boone’s arm was over Samantha’s shoulder and his large hand cupped her breast like he owned it. He casually thumbed her nipple through her T-Shirt as he stared out the window, as if he paid no attention at all. The girl’s hand gripped his thigh and her lips were parted. Her nipples jutted hard beneath the shirt’s tight fabric. Every now and then her eyes would roll and she would her hips would almost imperceptibly grind into the seat. I’ll go out on a limb and say that an aroused woman is the most beautiful experience a man can enjoy. My cock ached and I desperately wanted to ask Kyla to suck it. I didn’t have the nerve.
At the gas pump, Boone wandered off with Samantha toward some picnic benches behind the turnpike plaza. Boone informed me later that he’d gotten blow jobs before but never a blow job. He lingered on the words blow job as if the obviousness of what he was saying needed no explanation. His only regret was that she wasn’t wearing a skirt.
—So, how long have you two known each other? Kyla asked.
She leaned against the truck as a hot breeze lifted her skirt, a picture every guy wants to see.
—About eight weeks.
—You guys act like best friends.
—I let him think he’s smarter.
The fuel nozzle clicked off. Kyla swung back into the cab. Round behind the rest area, Samantha was sitting on the edge of a picnic table, legs open. Boone was between them and leaning with hands to either side, talking as if he were telling another joke. She pushed him and hopped off the table when she saw us.
After another two hours we headed north off the New York thruway and toward the finger lakes. 20 minutes after that we were wheeling into the driveway of a two story prefab, the kind that’s like a neat and tiny box plopped down squat in the middle of a yard. A dust-beaten blue Accord was parked in the yard off the side of a detached garage. There were Grateful Dead and Phish stickers on the front bumper. Samantha hopped out of the truck and turned, one hand on the open door and the other on the frame.
—Brother’s away. Wanna’ play?
Boone looked at me with a you-can’t-make-this-up lift of his eyebrows and stooped out of the truck.
—All sorts of games, he answered, his lanky arm over her shoulder.
I didn’t hear the rest. Kyla was looking up at me with that cute smile.
—I’m don’t usually do this.
—Samantha just kind of does whatever she wants, you know? If she sees something she wants, she just goes for it.
—Like hitching a ride with the two of us?
—Yeah, like that.
—You wanna’ come out west.
—With you guys?
—Yeah, why not?
—And do what?
—Be on a trail crew, maybe in Yellowstone, or Yosemite.
She gave me that quirky smile again.
—No! They pay. A stipend. Every week. And what are you going to spend it on? What do you make waitressing?
She didn’t answer. She looked ahead, out the windshield, bemused, as if considering. Christ, but she was beautiful.
—Spread your legs.
That got her attention.
—You always just say whatever’s on your mind?
—Always, I lied.
But I was learning, or trying to.
—You always just go for it, don’t you, she said.
She spread her legs, bracing her arms palms down on the truck’s bench seat. I lifted her skirt to her knee, let it ride my wrist as my finger tips rode up her thigh. She was shaking. Already.
—Wider, I said.
Being told to open her legs wider must have been as intoxicating for her as it was for me to say it. She spread wider and met my gaze as if I was already stroking her clit.
—What if I don’t want to?
—Don’t want to what? Come? Right here? In broad daylight, where I can watch it, watch what it does to you.
She bit her lip and closed her eyes, then exhaled when I pressed at the wet fabric of her panties, finding her clit, like a tiny cock just beneath. She grunted, her voice low, as I began to slip back and forth over the tiny knot.
—What if I don’t want to come?
—I’ll make you. Christ, you’re fucking beautiful. I need to. Look at me.
She did, defiantly or expectantly, I couldn’t tell.
—Fuck if Boone isn’t right about skirts, I said, hard as hell.
She snorted, guffawed, laughing out loud, then hiccupe, eyes rolling with shock. She came. Her spine bent. Her slim convulsed and she pressed her pussy into the truck seat. She uttered breathless fucks and groaned, her knees closing, then collapsed back into the seat.
I’m writing this down before I forget it. It’s only a couple hours later. Every time I think about Lyla and the truck, I get hard. I need to masturbate, but I like the fever too. I want to drive my cock straight up into her, somewhere, somehow.
It’s almost scary what I want to do to her and the intensity.
Call it self-discovery, the part that nobody talks about in all the sex education courses, a book like the Joy of Sex, or Our Bodies Ourselves. Reading Our Bodies was like trying to read about a foreign land in a foreign language. They talk about sex, but what they don’t talk about is what sex does to our imaginations.
I want her on her hands and knees. I want to refer to her ass as her ass. I want her to be my property. I want her to be my object. I want to use her. If I ever write a guide to sex, I’m not going to write about positions. I’m going write about sexual states of mind.