Breathless

They say that threes a crowd but sometimes it's a good balance of tension and release when the personalities form a triangle. I liked her, yes I have to admit I actually liked one of Drew's girlfriends. Usually he hooks up with over intellectualized fresh out of sociology school women who need to change the world, but not this time. No, this time I like the girl enough to fold up my legs and spread out in the back seat of Drew's Pontiac, make the sacrifice in the name of faux 21st century chivalry.

For the record, I have since been corrected by you know who Drew. The car was a 1977 Pontiac Esprit, and NOT a Transam. The back seat was in excellent condition because it was owned by Drew, and before that Drew's father drove it and we know his father only had sex twice in his whole life, so it never had any use. Still with the roof open, meaning glass plates were in the trunk with the beer, ventilation was sufficient enough to keep me comfortable. Besides, Carla seemed be the best map reader to live in Burbank. Maybe I should write Guinness.

When the summer's day comes to an end in California you can usually catch the vista through the pollution enough to sigh and think wistfully oh how nice as the sun sinks into the ocean. There is less haze in Baja and once you get out of Mexicali and off highway 1, a lot less cars. Frantic fantastic California drops away, the wild sandy west envelops you, and the air adopts electricity. As we pulled over a ridge and descended towards the beach, the sun started it's slow degrade into night all to the sound of Sasha's Encore Une Fois.

The sun had completely gone by the time we got to the party, and we didn't need Carla's map reading skills to find it. We heard the noise a mile or two away, even over the crashing surf, and the bonfire was a good six feet high. I realized that this was where all the cars in Baja Norte had been while we were driving. There must have been thirty or so California plates parked just where the road ends, and a dozen 4x4s on the beach around the bonfire, and someone's Suburban was cranking out some serious bass. I noticed my brother's beat up Honda parked as we pulled up to the mass of cars.

Drew, me, and Carla grabbed a case of beer each and went looking for the coolers. They were not hard to find, and the beer was not in short supply - our three cases made almost no difference to the masses of alcohol on supply.

I pulled duty emptying the cases as one of Drew's friends whom I never remember his name dragged him and Carla off to talk to some people. Drew is a bigger deal than me, don't ask, just understand that sometimes lame people are insanely lucky, and he's got the gift of sometimes because producers and directors just love that guy.

I was unloading the last case and I noticed a pair of legs standing next to me as I was hunched over. Her toes were painted hot pink, and she was tanned or dark or whatever. She had princess feet, feet that seemed to never have been calloused, never restricted by hard shoes, and perfect ankles leading the shapeliest calves I have yet seen.

Before I got to her knees I hear her voice. It was ever soft, gentle, and low, an excellent thing in a woman. It had the subtle trace of the earth in it, rolling from her throat, washing around inside my ears, giving me nice goose bumps.

"I love your shorts", her accent was south of the border.

In a split second, not to miss a thing, my gaze crept up her body calculating as best it could while under the erotic assault of the sexiest voice I had ever heard. Her legs were shapely, thin and elegant, she was a thin trim girl wearing a white see through sundress with a light blue bikini underneath. Her face was more Penelope Cruz with a hint of Eva Longoria, and her dark hair seemed to be perpetually in distress flowing in the breeze.

"Oh, these old...", I was cut off as I saw her eyes for the first time. Liquid pools of almond, showing hints of authority, of a woman with inner fire, of innocence, vulnerability, sophistication, and yearning. She left me breathless.

Estella

I noticed that she really didn't weigh that much.

I traced the line up the middle of her stomach muscles with my eyes. Her waist was tight and drawn in and her chest was just a bit bigger. I had both nipples of her small c-cups between my middle two fingers, both hands cupped them perfectly. They were natural, they were fantastic, her nipples were stiff and felt great between my fingers. Her breathing pushed her breasts out as she moved.

Every third breathe she looked down at my face. Her lips were flush and swollen. With every exhale she made soft little moans. Her hair was tossed around behind her in the breeze, and she rocked back and forward with her super tight ass sitting on my pelvis grinding.

She picked up the pace, moved one hand over her stomach and put a finger to her clitoris. My eyes followed the motion of her hand and saw the base of my penis, which looked amazingly wide with her petit vagina completely engulfing it.

With every back and forward motion I lost concentration and was overcome by the intense elation of her body wrapped around my dick. She was milking it using a combination of superbly tuned vaginal muscles, the rocking back and forward, and her burning gaze.

Deep inside her, I could feel what felt like her whole body grip the head of my penis, washing over the top, nuzzling up under the head, grazing ever so slightly the lip of the helmet. She started an up and down motion combined with the with back and forward action and I strained to contain myself. As her grip slid over my shaft, she became much wetter. Her inner muscles were sealed tight over the head of my dick polishing it as she pumped me up and down and backwards and forwards.

She timed her movements perfectly, calibrating with her arousal, and started to match my breathing with hers. The sensation was amazing, and she looked at me with her soft brown eyes, smiled briefly, and nodded at me.

Her moaning then got a little louder, and her grinding intensified. She switched to less up and down and more forward and backwards. I could feel her butt on my balls, and her grip oscillated more regularly and more often.

"Cum now baby", she looks down at me with an ecstatic grin.

I knew I was holding out and also she knew I was holding out. It felt great, she was great. I enjoyed every part of meeting her and spending time with her. I also knew I didn't want to cum this way just yet so I prepared to defy her command.

Just then her vaginal grip tightened like a vice, her weight was fully on my hips and kept me firmly held inside her. She leaned back and snaked a hand between my legs and squeezed my balls in the most fantastic way. I'm still not sure what she did, but as she spasmed on top of me, as her eyelids part way closed, her nostrils flared, her grunting started, her super tight vagina spasmed around my dick, and her hand pumped my balls in the most exquisite manner.

I thrust up involuntarily and my grip on her breasts tightened as I ejaculated what felt like a gallon of semen into her. I must have orgasmed for a good fifteen seconds, hers lasted much longer.

It took a good five minutes of her slumped over me for after shocks to subside and with my flaccid dick still partly inside her I just started to be concerned if she was on the pill or not.

BullGod

Every now and then I get a music moment where I'm in my own film with a score that just sets the mood perfectly. Five years ago I did not have an ipod, so most of it was in my head and not quite so visceral, however I'm recalling a one hundred degree day.

Blue sky, no clouds, that one week a year when the smog seems to have migrated to Catalina for the day, and no responsibilities in the foreseeable future. Then as you're getting the wind in your face and the heat on your skin, quite probably the coolest "asshole" musician there ever has been is screaming at me about being the BullGod and it all fits into place.

Now we can cheat and blow out our ears with white ear buds that are actually pretty shitty quality, but they're a great fetish item so what the hell. We put our whole history on shuffle as we randomize through life. It just so happened that on that summer day, way back at the turn of the century I had discovered Kid Rock and snatched the CD from my messy living room on the way out the door, it was defining my frame of mind.

We're detouring through the Hollywood hills behind a million cars on roads that are too small I wonder what the hell a Bawitawba is. At least the wind is blowing through my hair, confused or not, the world was great at that moment.

With much exaggeration I'm going to write that the best thing to come out of automotive technology in the 70s, (or was it the 60s?) aside from the inclusion of the seat belt, was the targa roof. I don't profess to have any mediterranean skin, meaning I burn, but being driven to Mexico in Drews deceptively cool Transam listening to Kid Rock was mind altering, or maybe it was just the half dozen Corona's Drew made me drink while cooking him breakfast that made me invincible.

Ok, he didn't really make me drink that much, and granted it was already past noon which meant I should have burned to a crisp in the heat - the one casualty was that General Motors factory provided automotive airconditioners are not supposed to have more than a twenty year half-life - We had to keep the top down or melt into the vinyl like sweaty masturbating teenagers in a closed room on a cloth sofa together.

In all seriousness, crossing the border is a minimal affair if you don't mind waiting in an eight mile line. We decided to have no alcohol or any other question provoking substances on us for the crossing.

Before the border we had to drop by a house in Burbank to pick up a woman Drew had been courting, haha, courting. Burbank is always a bad detour, but like any fool who takes a packed lunch to a steak dinner, Drew seems to be consistant with poor choice.

Beer O'clock

It's the people that make the difference in the world, in the moment, for the times you remember, and the way you feel about where you are at the time. Half a decade ago during one of Cali's hottest summers I was between jobs. I remember the time specifically because it felt like the rubber on my flipflops melted on the sidewalk when I walked to the store. It was the time when there were actually a lot of 7-11s around, strange how you only find them in Bangkok now.

I keep mentioning him because he's always been around. In kind of like the way you wake up with bad breath in the morning, Drew is always sitting on my shoulder telling me what I should be doing and often he's wrong. This one particular weekend I hear his trademark Rockford Files car brakes screeching in my driveway. This was his other car, the gold 75 transam with unlimited tire ablation factor and a million miles on the odometer is up to my front door and out pops Drew. He's topless in Cammo shorts and sunglasses and wearing a sombraro.

He gives me his shit eating grin, holds up a Corona and yells, "va sur, mi amigo!!!", or something like that.

I'd just woken up and extracted myself from the barcalounge I keep on my roof for those nights when the Santa Ana blows in making outside living just perfect. It was uncomfortable because I had not discovered Smith and Hawken just yet and my back was stiff. I was thinking of going to a chiropractor, but the fact that they're all charlatans always reminds me to not go.

I'm squinting at him, at his ridiculous car, and his pathetic excuse for abs. Seeing the beer I'm mildly amused at the idea of breakfast protein and another "drew-adventure".

"you're too fuckin happy for 8am dude", I scratch my ass and walk back inside leaving the door open. "and it's not gonna rain for weeks meaning I'm gonna have your tire shit all up my driveway".

Drew yells at me walking away from him, "beer soothes all evils my ugly friend."

Back inside, in the kicthen, I'm reaching for the coffee and it's cold because I never set the timer right. Bad idea. Drew is right behind me and I know he's looking for the bottle opener because he's rummaging through the draws. He finds one, and I hear the noise of beer opening. I'm instantly transported to my childhood sitting with my father on the deck listening to him recite Dangerfield jokes while I help GI Joe aim his rifle at some adversary.

"Are we going or are we going? How come you're not ready", Drew is really animated in the morning, and yet a boring sap in the evening, which explains why he never gets laid.

"Going where, fatboy?"

Drew swallows half the contents of the bottle in one gulp and burps, "Debbie's party, remember, Mexico, this weekend, the assholes from Paramount?"

The whole world slips into place, my focus is gained, I notice the hairs on my toes, I remember my cable bill is due in four days, and yes, I promised Debbie that I'd go to her beach party and I'm all of a sudden feeling anxious to get going. Of course, that's all in my head. I'm lucky my body hasn't caught up with me or we'd have some problems with land speed records and the sound barrier, so I obnoxiously brush past drew, grab the other Corona in his hand and the bottle opener.

"Gimme five minutes to shower so I don't smell like you, and can you check how much ammo I have for the Gloch?"

Beer in the shower after a hard night partying is good, so long as you don't drop the bottle.

Goodbye Caitlin

You search the memory of the flower as it was, and it still amazes. It rose to the sky and contrasted wonderfully with it's background. It beckoned to come sit with it, be part of it's beauty, taste the aroma of attraction - the attraction to whatever but it was attraction nonetheless.

The flower rose it's petals to the sun when the rays washed themselves over it, and it returned it's own enhanced warming glow. The warmth was to be shared; shared with other flowers that may sit with it in the bed, shared with those that would enjoy it's presence.

I had one such creature in my place. It would sit in the sun streaming through the window. It's voice would be it's color and it would cast soft hues around the rooms of my house.

I will not lie. There were days when I would neglect to water it. While it lived the world seemed more balanced. The world felt more ready to accept, and it less scary and somehow more complete.

This feeling as I'm thinking right now is not accurate. The flower has no way to betray. It must sit there and be as it is, honest and aspiring, just as the scorpion is deadly and cunning. My feelings are mottled in a way to make me the villain. Nonetheless, the flower that was in my house was beautiful and fulfilling.

Late on a Monday evening, when her dog was outside, I heard the door open. She stepped into the foyer and did not remove her coat. She had no luggage, and her Mercedes was still running. It was idling in the driveway like an attentive beast waiting for command. I could hear it through the open door growling at nothing in particular. I think the drivers door was still open.

She wore cowboy boots, but in a way that made them not seem tacky. Sure, she could carry any image. That was what she did. Unlike most models, she would drag the fantasy off the photograph and sit in my kitchen, in just panties and a t-shirt and make me feel like the room was beautiful, me with it.

She wasn't staying.

We stood six feet apart, I had been here before with others. The room was turning gray, and the paint was peeling. It had starting with the inside of my heart. There were few words said but it was enough. She turned, and her fake but perfect boots tapped across the marble tile. I felt the onset of that choking feeling.

As the door closed behind her there was no color in the room, and in my heart the petals turned to dust. All that remained of us was a pile of ash. Hope was lost briefly.

Inside I felt the revolution begin, there was still life in me somewhere. It was in that place that I keep for myself only. Then I felt my reserve engine start. The lights in my soul flickered on, and I battled the grayness until I was able to recolor my world. I was alone in the depths with just a light on my head to guide me.

Goodbye Caitlin.

Grandpa knew

My Grandfather was in the merchant marine. His father was in the navy. His father's father was also in the navy, as was a succession of tall lean men all the way back to the command of Farragut. We're of English descent, so I'm sure there was Royal Navy blood in there somewhere.

If you were to look at the wall behind the dining table in my Mother's house, instead of the usual ducks fake flying across the drywall, you'll spot a number of grayed but fascinating pictures of men with blank stares who strangely look like me and the old girl. The pictures date back beyond the time when I bought my first comic book or, before I was thought of as a possiblity, way back from different generations. In these pictures they're all wearing astute uniforms and sport facial hair that you know was never that clean or trimmed.

The pictures came from my Grandfather's house and I can remember him pointing and telling me what each of them was well known for. I heard the story of how his father worked six thousand days on the sea after he was washed out of the navy for drunken conduct. I heard that one dozens of times accompanied by stories of sea dragons and endless mists and Captain Nemo. I dreamed about the stories of exotic girls in far away places and the amazing and unreal times that never were tiresome to me.

My Grandfather died of throat cancer. His fingers were yellowed with time and nicotine. After his throat had succumbed to the mutation and the poisons had killed him, he left me his pipe. I still have it but I have never used it as he had. Seeing the pipe today reminds me of things he would tell me about those days long ago. Of course his introductions started in times well before his days, in more weatherbeaten years, and in somewhat sepia toned eras. He had an ability to wax about how men used to be wild and women were always under submission. It seemed that society in that sexist's revision was imbalanced. Sometimes I was outraged that the women weren't more vocal in his editions, but, according to the coughing old fool there was a common fantasy of reversal. So visceral were the fantasies that he stole from storytellers who spoke of strange deviations of common socially accepted male-female interactions through supernatural events, that for most of my childhood I'd look for such wonders whenever I found myself seaborne.

One of these stories involved a ship lost at sea. I never asked why his great grandfather was able to tell the tale since nobody in the story survived each telling. The crew were out of water and out of food, then he'd take a sip from his hipflask that my Grandmother had a blind eye for, and then he'd finish and at length describe how they were also out of booze. They sailed around the Atlantic for days dejected and without hope. It was then that they heard the most wonderous wailing singing voices. Gaining the direction from their weary ears, they navigated towards to voices and ultimately met their doom in the embrace of the Sirens. I could never do the story justice. The way he told each fantastic syory gave me the fear of attraction to anything and the suggesting that anything so alluring would surely have it's drawbacks and impending doom.

True enough, in reality, some women are sirens. Some women have the lure of amazing experiences and talent. They just beckon to be the ruination of a man. I always felt attraction to the doom embodied by the fantastic sirens, and would puff out my chest and flex my muscles and tell old Grandfool that I'd find a way to listen to the Sirens and not face a horrible death.

Resistance!!!

I'd boast that I could do it where others had failed, and he'd laugh and lean in and agree with me. Then he'd always pat my head and shoot me that smile I see in the mirror every day, except he'd have that glint in his eye, the glint of understanding and welcome fun.

Since then perhaps I am lost at sea and my magical invulnerability has survived me through countless Sirens, you be the judge.

Amanda's "it" factor

It's a fine fine line between woman that wars are fought over and just plain pretty girls. So much goes into the finer appreciation of a curve here, a proportion there, shapes and patterns in human anatomy are so similar all the way across the board, but yet, so so very different.

I have known heavier women that even have "it". "It" being that undefinable quality. "It" being ultimately sexier and more exciting than trimmer younger bimbo models. The way even shall we say, the heavier girl with "it" has those expanded buttocks that curve around to the thigh like some 18th century painter's impression, or that perfect patch of skin between a cute anus and shapely vaginal lips. This is as far as I can go to describe it, I'm just not that good with words.

Amanda was on the correct side of that fine fine line. Soft golden brown skin, naturally tanned in a way that women from the midwest just never seem to do. Hips and bust hourglassing her silhouette just perfectly. Subtle but not too rigid abdominal muscle line snaking down her front bisected by a vertically shaped navel pointing to a pubic mound pronounced, somehow puckering a soft set of folds that were completely shaven smooth. Her hips were flanked by pelvic bones obstinately screaming "I'm in great shape and you wish you were", but of course, I saw that navel and waistline in the parking lot days before.

Sometimes sociologists go way over my head. I mean, I understand social dynamics to a point. There's obviously a root reason why we do anything at any time, appreciate anything at any time, want anything at any time. I have been told it's to the affect of something based on some pavlovian lesson learned through ritual head banging. Take for example Amanda, she's a stunning woman, she's obviously well looked after and even though I dump on her car, it's not cheap by any stretch of the imagination, and neither is she.

What was her deal, under the fluff and whimsy?

I could get into her head and try and work out what her motives are, oh yes, I think in motives. Motives are how I transform myself and stop being me, which is another sore spot. Get into her head and she's probably not terrified of being that sorry little person I constantly run from, no matter what her past, I'm not sure it would catch up with her because it's probably not all that bad.

I enjoyed her conversation immensely after I'd hammered through the resistance, or at least convinced myself that I was eventually going to fuck her. I'm in competition with my own ego in some sense, hiding the tenseness behind some Brandoesque improv, constantly balancing and giving her complete day and night repulsion attraction interaction until she's boiled right over and clearly unable to respond to her inhibitions. I'm a good night out, fuck me or not. You'll have a good time and eventually just come to terms with the fact that you know I am a dog, but you'll also know that I have a good heart, and make up for what parts of your intelligent banter I don't understand with humor and the image of that guy in high school that never paid you any attention because you weren't cool enough.

The consumation of a balanced reciprocal courting evening of good food, fast driving, you know, the getting to know you, could not have gone down better if it were planned. All the clitoris rubbing and neck biting , the finger insertion in and around her little white satin panties, her tying up my balls with said panties and deepthroating me, all the way down to the way that glorious pubic mound moved with every inward thrust, was not forced. I didn't take advantage of Amanda, and she didn't take advantage of me.

I made no promises and she didn't expect anything. That's the way it should be. Fucking is easy, relationships are hard. You can tell if a woman has "it" immediately, telling if she's the one for you is nearly impossible, even years into knowing each other. Right now, I like searching for "it".