Stories

Finding Erotica Book One

Chapter 3 Part 2:

“The last fucking time for what?” Her voice startles him out of his funk.

“It’s you. Right on time.”

“It is indeed me in all my glory. Sorry I’m late.”

He looks away hoping to mask the emotions that are boiling inside.

The late and lovely Ms. E places her hand on his. “I am truly sorry my dear man. This is not how I wanted our evening to start. Please forgive me.”

He doesn’t want to grant forgiveness. He wants to vent anger. The wine wants anger. The gut wrenching hour of anxious waiting wants to yell “fuck you” and walk away. He wants to scream “it’s ruined, it’s over, I don’t want to let you make me feel like this ever again” but he doesn’t.

“I love you old man. I really do and I truly am sorry. Let’s get this right. I’m going inside, sit at our favorite spot and act like I’m the first one to arrive. If you would like to join me, I’d be thrilled. If not, I’ll understand.” She kisses his forehead and walks toward their designated spot. It remains empty.

“He just left,” the waitress announces from behind the bar. “Here,” she hands over what’s left of the roses, “I believe these are for you.” Tears unexpectedly gather at the corners of her eyes. She turns and runs for the door and surveys the area for any sign of him. The chair in the sun is empty. His cigar sits in an ash tray on the ground. “Oh no, don’t go, please wherever you are, don’t go.”

Ms. E runs down the path to the main parking lot. No sign of him. Her eyes scour the horizon to no avail. She slouches back to the chair—not a trace.

“I thought you were meeting me inside.”  It’s MK!

“Oh my god, you’re still here? My dear man, I thought I’d lost you.”

“Just had to use the men’s room.” 

She can only laugh, “Of course.” They wrap up in each other’s arms. “Please don’t ever walk away without me, ever. Promise me that. Never again.”

“I’m right here,” he says, “I’m not going anywhere without you.”

 An extended embrace seals their promise. The rest of the world falls away. With tiny steps they move to the shade of a nearby tree. She leans back against the trunk and wraps her legs around his hips.  Twenty five years of unrequited love explode in crazed kisses.  Tree limbs seal their embrace, leaves quake with their passion. 

“Fuck me now, right here,” she manages to eke out her words between urgent breaths. She reaches under her dress and pulls her thong to the side. “Let me feel you inside me MK!”

With one hand he continues to hold her close, with the other he unzips his pants and unleashes his hungry desire. She grabs it and plunges him into her yearning pussy.  A loud moan follows. “You have no idea how many nights I dreamed of your dick inside me.  Every other part of you has been with me since I left, everything but your body.” She leans back into the crotch of the tree lifting her hips to meet his penetrations pulling him as far into her as she can. “Oh my fucking god.”  The tree shudders with every thrust as if its limbs are caught in a blustery dance with an unexpected wind.

“Get a room.” A voice from behind breaks their extended reverie and reminds them of their whereabouts.

“Good idea,” he whispers in reply. “I reserved us one in the hotel.”

MK lifts her from the tree.  She locks her feet around his waist. They waltz in coital embrace to the hotel leaving ecstatic moans in their wake. First down the hill, then up the stairs to the room, they make love with every step, pausing for mad kisses and deeper coupling every 10 paces. He struggles to get the key out of his pocket managing only to drop it on the floor. “Hell with it.” He leans her against the corridor wall and they continue to devour each other. Paintings shake.  A door opens two rooms away. They fall to the floor. He’s able to grab the key, get it into the lock and shove open their door. They fuck their way into the room and kick the door closed behind them.  Clothes fly everywhere. They taste, bite, suck, kiss, lick, squeeze, pinch, caress, penetrate every pore, every orifice, every curve of each other’s naked bodies moving from the floor to the bed, the bed to the wall, the wall to the tub, the tub back to the bed where they coo and catch their breath. Their lovemaking goes on all night, sometimes quiet, gentle kisses, other times roaring, ecstatic exclamations of joy until they finally fall asleep wrapped up in each other’s skin.  He awakens before daybreak to find his valiant dick hanging on to the rim of her rectum. He nuzzles her kitchen, smiles at the sound of her contented purrs and prays for the night to never end.

Chapter 3 part one: Second Chances

He lies on his back and sucks in deep gulps of air. Pronounced exhales whistle past pursed lips.  “What the fuck am I doing?” His dog rises from a deep slumber at the foot of the bed and glances his way awaiting an answer. “I don’t quite know old buddy,” is the best he can offer.  It’s enough for the dog who is quickly back to chasing wild creatures in his dreams.

Daylight can’t come soon enough. He’s on edge—too much caffeine, too much wanting her. He sticks to his regular routine.  Hot green tea followed by three hours of writing, breakfast and then he takes his patient dog for a long walk.

He worries about what to wear and then smiles.  When worries reduce to mundane questions about what to wear the world is good. His eyes lift from the ground and behold the sky. He considers the geese circling overhead and feels the east wind bite his cheeks.  The day calls for roses, the darkest red he can find, something befitting the woman who monopolizes every moment of his thoughts, the lovely Ms. Erotica.

Three p.m. approaches. Lines from a Raymond Carver poem run through his mind as he closes in on their meeting place: “Fear of being late and fear of arriving before anyone else.”  He’s early. Not good, he doesn’t want to sit alone at a table with a dozen roses waiting for her to show. She won’t be on time.  Hell, she might not even show.

3:10. Perfect. A parking spot opens close to the front of the establishment. He gathers his coat, the flowers, his courage and opens the door. The room is dark. His eyes take a minute to adjust. Their spot behind the pot bellied stove is unoccupied. “Fuck!” He fights an overwhelming urge to leave but thinks better of it and claims a seat. A waitress comes over and he orders a bottle of red wine, two glasses.

“You must be My’Kuyah,” she says.

“Must I be?” a feeble attempt at humor that gets no response.

“I have a message for you; your party will be late. She said she’s caught in traffic.”

“Thanks.” He forces a smile and awaits the wine. A half of bottle later, still no show. The roses, too close to the wood stove, wilt, much like his spirit.  45 minutes late and counting. He decides to give her until 4:00 and pours himself another glass of wine.

Bewitching time. The bottle of wine is spent along with his patience. He gets up to pay his bill and leave. “These are for you.” He hands the roses to the waitress and heads for the door. The late afternoon sun is blinding. He’s light headed from the wine and squints towards the parking lot. The last thing he wants to do is drive home. A chair enveloped in a pool of sunshine and invites him to sit. It’s the best offer he’s had all afternoon. He obliges, lights a cigar and closes his eyes to the sun feeling its warmth mix with the wine and cigar across his cheeks.

A cavalcade of crashed romantic endeavors rushes through his mind.  A familiar despair settles over him along with a second line from Carver, “Fear of waking up to find you gone.”

“This is the last fucking time,” he mutters to himself.

 

Chapter 2: First Good bye

They agreed to meet at three behind the pot bellied stove. Nerves jangled his judgment throughout the day. Simple decisions grew complicated: what should he wear; would his good bye gift be too much; when should he tell her his good news?

He arrived early, a bit too early, early to the point where doubt seized every opportunity to unravel his excitement. Ms. E arrived late, radiant, but late. “Sorry MK, traffic…” She kissed him on the cheek and then sat down across from him. They ordered drinks and chatted, warmed by each other’s presence, warmed by the fire of the stove. This was their spot—hidden, away, quiet, a place where they could just be two ordinary people enjoying each other’s company, a place where they could simply be alone.

Animated conversation ensued. Laughter punctuated engaging stories. She wore a form-fitting simple black dress that accentuated every graceful movement of her gloriously fit body. A silver necklace pressed against her breasts and grazed over her nipples each time she swayed with laughter or lifted an arm to emphasize a point. “This is glorious,” he remembered saying to himself, “absolutely glorious.”

His mind went to the first time he saw her naked in the pictures she sent online. He got aroused remembering the golden globe of her right breast, erect brown nipple standing at attention in the middle of an eminently delicious areola; her womanhood hanging between golden thighs as she squatted in her bathroom for a selfie. Oh how he wanted to dive between those parted legs and taste her delight; oh how he wanted to do the same at that very moment!

They sauntered down the hill to a restaurant where reservations at a secluded table awaited. A familiar hostess seated them and brought a bottle of wine he had ordered in advance, an Oregon pinot noir, the one that made the state’s wine industry famous. They each tasted the small sip offered by the waiter for their approval. Her broad smile said it all: scrumptious, so good you want to drink it with a spoon. He poured them both a glass and they toasted. “To us.” They clinked glasses and savored deep drinks of the nectar they held in their hands.
“I have to tell you something,” he said after setting his wine glass back on the table.

“I need to tell you something first,” she said.

“OK, you go first. What is it?”

“You know I went down to LA to interview for a position with a film company, well, I got the job!”

“That’s wonderful. Great news, way to go! I never had a doubt. Another toast!”

They raised their glasses and drank heartily.

“And that’s not all,” her look indicated something big was to follow.

“I’m on the edge of my seat; you found a place to live?”

She inched closer to the table. “I met a man.”

The world as he knew it, as he wanted it to be, fell away. The table began to spin. There was not enough room in his body for both her words and for air. He felt sick.

“You OK?” she asked.

“A bit too much wine in that last toast,” he scrambled to regain his composure like a boxer trying to make it to the bell after suffering a first round knockout blow. Feigning a cough he grabbed a glass of water sitting untouched next to his wine and gulped half of it down. “I’ll be OK.” He didn’t want to know the answer to the question he was about to pose. “Who is this lucky man?” Each word deadened his soul. He felt himself drift away.

His reaction didn’t dampen her palpable excitement. She described a Hollywood Don Juan: sleek, blinged out, a man on the make poised to chew up the most beautiful woman My’Kuyah knew.  The rest of the evening was a blur. He never gave her his gift; never shared his good news. Reality ambushed his dreams and left town in her backseat. He tossed them all away when he kissed her good bye.

For years he chastised himself. He should have known better. He never should have fallen in love with a younger woman, never should have indulged in fanciful dreams about her, never should have created a future based around his puppy dog feelings.  And now she’s back along with every feeling he’d fought to keep suppressed for the last quarter century.

A persistent nightmare returns along with her. No matter how he tries he can’t make it go away. They’re together: happy, laughing, about to make love. Something happens, different things in different versions of the dream. Tonight’s has him getting up to blow out a candle. When he turns back to kiss her, she’s gone.

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Chapter 1: A Song of Beatific Erotica

Thank you W.S. Merwin

He lies between her thighs; his face inches from her most sacred place and takes in every detail. He sees her beauty in the nuanced delicacy of her brown sugar lips and his quest for Erotica begins with that single simple detail. The detail hangs like a musical note in the air, a solitary note so resonant that it makes his heart ache, a note so rich he never wants it to end. When it does he pines to hear it again. To his delight, the single note is accompanied by another and the new note enhances and extends the initial sound. Such is her beauty.  A single detail, glistening moisture gathered on delicate lips, echoes between golden thighs and leads to orchestral splendor. Each time is like the first time his eyes beheld her, naked, lying before him offering herself entirely at that moment and she let him breathe her touch her taste her; each time offering more details, more notes. The notes blend into a melody; the melody into a song; the song into a symphony. The symphony is a concert celebrating her beauty and it vibrates through him, touches the untouched recesses of his soul and leaves him with a simple single utterance: oh my God how I love this heartbreakingly beautiful symphony of a woman, my Beautiful Ms. Erotica.

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