by J. J. Murray
Hope was still hungry, however, for more than food.
She was hungry for nuits humide passionnées, passionate steamy nights.
Being immersed in art d’enfant at Kinderstuff relieved some but not all of Hope’s yearnings. Hope helped the children make their masks, some scary, some fanciful, and several unintelligible animals from the land of make-believe. Aniya made two complementary masks, what Dylan called “smiling Medusas,” every snaky lock of hair on each mask a different vibrant color. Dylan finished his evil scientist by adding a huge nose, pale-green face, and short, spiked hair, and then he created his “surprise”: a fat, cheeky, winking Santa with a long flowing beard.
The Santa mask scared Hope more than the mad scientist mask did.
Because being without Dylan at night during the week made her feel exceptionally grincheux and crabby, Hope created her version of Dr. Seuss’s Grinch who stole Christmas, adding long black hair to the Grinch’s light-green, dill-pickle-like face.
This fact was not lost on Dylan once Hope nicknamed it “The Dill Pickle Who Stole Christmas.”
She then fashioned her stick figure girl complete with dreadlocks, dark glasses, and a wide frown. She named this one “Noelle.”
The resemblance to Hope in her current state of longing for Dylan was unmistakable.
This fact was also not lost on Dylan, who did his best to kiss these frowns away as often as he could.
Hope’s longings eventually led to creativity of a different sort, and she started creating Valentine’s Day and “Stick Figures” cards to give her Dylan-starved hands something constructive to do.
She found she could do many romantic things with her stick figures. She drew Dread Head Girl (“Noelle”) kissing Long-Haired Boy (“Dylan”) on the cover and wrote “Smooches” on the inside. She joined their hands on the cover and put “We stick together,” “I will stick with you through thick and thin,” and “Stick to me, kid” inside. Having them hug presented special challenges since their lines blended so perfectly together. “I love you so much I don’t know where I leave off and you begin,” “Let’s be two-dimensional together,” and “I feel you in my bones” finished these particularly linear cards.
Her thoughts often waxed ironic. On one intricately busy cover, she drew disconnected pieces of “Noelle” and “Dylan,” their heads facing opposite directions, a word bubble from “Dylan” asking, “Do you want to go out?” Inside, she wrote, “Pick-up stick figures.” She sketched “Noelle” sinking into a puddle of mud, “Stick figure in the mud” inside. She drew the top half of “Dylan” on the left side of the cover and his bottom half on the right, writing “Stick figure shift” inside. To illustrate “The wrong end of the stick,” she sketched a large, fanged cobra slithering out of the stick, “Dylan” screaming, his hair leaping in all directions. On her most “punny” card, “Noelle” held two rocks on the cover. Inside, she wrote: “Stick figure and stones will break your bones.”
Naturally, Hope’s designs grew more risqué the longer she pined for Dylan’s physique, his touch, warmth, hands, lips, and the rest of his sexy body. She drew “Noelle” and “Dylan” in various positions of the Kama Sutra, “Stick it to me, baby,” “I like your stick,” “Get on the stick, “This is a stick-up,” and “Walk softly but carry a big stick” completing her lusty thoughts.
Within hours of posting these cards to the Odd Ducks website, customers were already ordering them.
In hearty droves.
“I guess every day can be Valentine’s Day, too,” Dylan commented.
Hope did not agree. Valentine’s Days only come on weekends for me, she thought.
On the Friday before Halloween, Hope received three pieces of great news. Her weight had climbed to 109, a gain of seven pounds in ten days, and her ribs didn’t look as sharp. She even had to loosen her belt a notch. She also finally had online access to the Odd Ducks account. She gazed longingly at her share of their earnings so far, a handsome sum of $5,600, and she promptly transferred it to her beach house savings account. Most importantly, Dylan would indeed spend the weekend, and she vowed to lock him inside her apartment and keep him there for all eternity whether he liked it or not.
That night, Dylan brought his backpack, and he had packed it much more fully than before.
Hope hoped he had brought his props.
Hope’s man was finally in her claustrophobic apartment, he was hers for the taking, and as soon as he set down his backpack, she pounced on him while Whack purred at their feet. She pinned him to the wall next to the windows, grinding her hips into him.
“I have this fantasy,” she whispered hoarsely, “involving me grinding on a long-haired man up against my wall right next to all these windows.”
“You do, do you?” Dylan said. He grabbed her sexy derriere, lifted her off the floor, and spun her around, stepping over to one of the large windows. “The world sees your sexy derriere now.”
Hope wrapped her legs around his back. “Hey, this is my fantasy, not yours. We’re not in your alley.” She glanced outside. Do I care if anyone sees us? No.
“Then let’s go to a place where I can explore your alley,” Dylan whispered.
Hope liked this idea very much.
Dylan first carried her to his backpack and pulled a DVD and two packages of extra-butter microwave popcorn from the top compartment. “A snack and a movie,” he said.
“You’re supposed to be my snack,” Hope whispered.
He carried her into the kitchen, setting her on the counter next to the sink. “I’m more than a snack, aren’t I?”
Hope nodded. “You’re a ten-course meal.” She nibbled on his right ear and then his left. “Your ears are just the appetizer.”
Dylan toyed with Hope’s pants zipper while Hope ran her hands through his hair as the popcorn exploded in the microwave. Then Hope held the steaming popcorn bags and Dylan held Hope, who was also steaming, as they raced to and fell onto her bed, where they generally ignored the world and Hope’s loud neighbors for a few moments, letting their hands roam wild and free.
Dylan broke contact first, though Hope fought valiantly to stop him, and put An American Werewolf in London in her DVD player. “Whenever David—oh, he’s the werewolf, by the way—”
“Oh, ruin it for me,” Hope said dreamily.
“Whenever David turns into the werewolf,” he said, “we will each remove one item of clothing.”
“How often does he sprout hair and claws?” Hope asked.
“Three times.”
Hope counted her clothes and then removed her socks and bra. “I am only wearing three items of clothing now.” She yanked off Dylan’s socks and shirt.
“That only gives me two pieces of clothing,” he said.
“Your apartment, your rules,” she said. “My apartment, my rules, and anyway, when am I going to see your apartment?”
“Soon,” Dylan said. “Oh, you’ll love the first scene. ‘Stay on the road. Stay off the moors.’ ”
After twenty minutes of eating buttery popcorn and laughing at creepy humor, Hope asked, “He does change into a werewolf eventually, doesn’t he?”
“Yes. This is just the setup.”
“Skip ahead.”
Dylan skipped ahead.
David transformed into a werewolf.
Two pairs of jeans littered the floor.
Hope skipped ahead again.
Dylan’s boxers joined his pants and Hope’s shirt somewhere in the kitchen.
When David made love to an English nurse in the movie, Hope removed her glasses, and she and Dylan forgot the rules of their game, instead clawing at each other under the covers.
Had there been a moon, they might have howled.
Hope came up for air just as the movie ended. “What can we not watch next?”
Dylan put in The Thing, a grisly, modern remake of the original sci-fi classic.
“Any rules with this movie?” Hope asked.
“No.”
&nbs
p; “Good,” Hope said. “I want to thoroughly enjoy your thing.”
While Hope kept Dylan’s attention and kept him at attention, she thought back to her Bark Dogs dinner and decided to devour Dylan with relish.
Soon Dylan was back for seconds. He ripped back the covers and sat against the headboard, sweat streaming down his chest. Hope straddled him, toying with him, teasing him, watching him rise again to the occasion.
“I want to try,” she whispered.
“Please do,” he groaned.
She positioned his abundance beneath her.
Ow. That’s not going to fit.
She tried again and felt him barely enter her.
Ow! Ow! Shoot! Get juteux down there! How can I still be so dry? He has pushed all the right buttons for the past hour!
“Dylan, I don’t think . . .” She sighed. “I’ve been tingling down there a lot more this time, but I’m . . . I guess I’m not ready. I’m so sorry.” I feel so stupid, and now come the tears.
Dylan shook his head, smiling. “Backpack, right side, zipper pocket.”
“What is it?” Hope asked.
“Help,” he said.
She slipped out of bed, unzipped the pocket, and took out a bottle of K-Y Jelly, holding it close to her eyes. He thinks of everything. I should have thought of using this gelée. I’ve just never needed it before. She read the label as she returned to the bed. “Recommended by gynecologists.” She shuddered. By my gynecologist? Ew. She’s at least seventy.
“Hope?” Dylan asked.
“In a minute,” Hope said. “Eases the discomfort of dryness.” I hope it eases my suffering, too.
“You’re losing me over here,” Dylan said.
She glanced over at Dylan, and even without her glasses, she could see that wasn’t true. “It doesn’t look that way.” “Apply desired amount to your intimate areas.” How much? I have a lot of desire. She popped the cap. “I can’t believe you walked into a store and bought this.”
“Yeah, that was a first.”
So this is about to be a first for both of us. “How much do you think I should use?”
“I don’t know,” Dylan said. “It’s my first time.”
“Mine, too,” Hope said. “So be gentle.”
It’s not exactly the natural way, but I’m willing to try anything to satisfy this man fully. Now do I put it only on me, only on him, or on both of us? Quite a few intimate areas in this bed need dousing.
“It’s getting cold,” Dylan said.
But you’re still at attention. That makes no sense. When I get cold down there, I usually shut down. She squeezed some gelée into her hand. On me and him. I’m trying to fit something big into something small and arid, and I’ll need all the help I can get.
“Here,” she said. “Put out your hand.”
Dylan reached out his hand.
Big hand, big gland. She gave him an abundant amount. “Go ahead, soak that thing.”
After liberally lubing themselves, Hope climbed up Dylan’s legs. Let’s do this. She grimaced. Let’s do this carefully. She eased down on him millimeter by millimeter, her mouth opening centimeter by centimeter as she did.
“Don’t move,” she breathed. Oh . . . my . . . goodness. Eight years is a long freaking time to be closed for business! I was never this small down there before, was I?
Dylan reached out his hands and squeezed her hips.
“Don’t push,” Hope whispered tersely. “Don’t do . . . anything. Let me . . . just . . . rest a minute.” She smiled. He’s in me. This is good. He can’t move at all, and if he does I’ll break his nose, but he’s inside me. I am going to pay for this tomorrow.
“I’m going to . . .” What am I going to do? What can I do? If I go up, I might lose him. If I sit here, I’ll dry up. If I go any lower, I’ll bleed internally.
“Do you have any suggestions?” Hope asked. “I’m afraid to move.”
He sat up.
Ow! “I told you not to move.”
“I want to kiss you,” he said. “That’s what I was going to suggest. It won’t take much more than a kiss. You feel so . . . good.”
Tight. He means I feel tight, which normally would be a good thing, but I want to grind on him! “Okay, but as little movement as possible. I’m stretched to the limit here.” She leaned forward, leading with her lips and pressing hard on his shoulders with her palms. Ow. Kiss me quick!
Dylan covered her mouth with his and instantaneously began to spasm, sucking the life out of her lips and trying to remove her tongue.
“I’m sorry,” he wheezed, his body bucking under her. “I tried to stop.”
Hope shook her head. “But I wanted you to go.” But I have to get off now before I start crying. She eased up and off, her jaw dropping to her chest. “Damn,” she said.
“I have never heard you curse before,” Dylan said.
Ow! “Either I have the smallest vagina on the planet,” she said, hugging him, “or you are a freak of nature.” She looked at the TV, where a blurry alien’s legs sprouted out of a fuzzy man’s head and skittered away. That . . . that was freaky.
He rubbed her back. “Are you okay?”
“I’ve been walking slowly all week,” she said. “I may be able to walk on Monday.”
“You say the nicest things,” he said, “and I’m really sorry I didn’t last longer than I did. I’m out of practice.”
“It’s actually good you didn’t,” Hope said. “I was in some pain.”
“Oh, Hope, I’m sorry.”
Hope shook her head. “It’s okay. I’m out of practice, too. I hope to get lots of practice with you.”
“You will,” Dylan said, “but I don’t want it to hurt.”
You think I do? “As long as we don’t run out of the help.” She pointed at the bottle of K-Y Jelly. “Can you buy that stuff in bulk?” She lay on her side and bent her knees, Dylan spooning behind her. “But no more tonight. I need to recuperate.”
He kissed her shoulder and put his hand on her stomach. “So do I. You took a lot out of me.”
Hope felt his nose nuzzling her earlobe. “I’m glad I was finally able to . . . jook you.”
“Jook?”
“You know, make love to you,” Hope whispered. “It’s a Jamaican word.” Taught to me by the woman who wanted to have a threesome with you and her girlfriend.
“You jooked me well,” Dylan said. “You’re very good at jooking. I could jook with you all night long. That was the best jooking—”
“Dylan,” Hope whispered. “Shh. I get the picture.”
“Just wanted you to know,” he whispered.
Hope closed her eyes. “You’re pretty good at jooking, yourself. I may even ask you to jook me again . . . in a few months.”
“Really?”
She pulled his hands tight around her stomach. “I’m kidding. I will be jooking you as often as I’m able to, and since I plan on being able to tomorrow night, you had better get your rest.”
Dylan turned off the TV with the remote control. “You, too. Good night, Hope. Rêves doux.”
Hope smiled. “Good night, Dill Pickle.” Sweet dreams to you, too.
I hope I’m in them.
The next morning, Dylan once again sneaked out without waking Hope, returning with breakfast from Café Shane. The two of them polished off four whole-wheat Belgian waffles topped with mango sauce, two fried eggs, a pile of home fries, and four slices of bacon.
“You were hungry,” Dylan said, removing his clothes.
“Ooh, breakfast and a show,” Hope said.
Dylan stood before her in only his boxers. “May I take a shower?”
“Only if I can join you,” Hope said.
“I really have to hustle,” he said. “I have twice the orders to process this week as I had last week, thanks to you, and if you join me, I may not get done. We at Odd Ducks pride ourselves on our ability to ship your order—”
“Okay, okay,” Hope interrupted. “But I’m watching
.”
Dylan used extreme efficiency, lathering and rinsing furiously, giving Hope only enough time to see his sexy derriere, his hairy legs, his smooth chest, and his ripped stomach for the first two minutes. When he began washing his hair, her glasses fogged up and she tired of wiping them. In only four minutes’ time, Dylan was out of the tub and the washroom, changing into a set of clean jeans, a blue-and-green tie-dyed T-shirt, socks, and brown leather hiking boots.
“I feel cheated,” Hope said. “I want my money back.”
He kissed her quickly. “What are you going to do while I’m gone?”
Hope pulled on his hoodie, flashing him shamelessly.
“Hope, I’ll need that.” Dylan stuck out his hands.
“Take it off of me then.”
Dylan sighed. “It’s warm enough today for a Windbreaker.” He pulled a black Windbreaker from the backpack.
That didn’t work. I was going to pin him to the bed for a few seconds at least.
“So what will you be doing?” he asked.
She fell back onto the bed. “I’ll be fantasizing about what I didn’t get to see because you washed yourself too fast.”
He leaned down and kissed her forehead. “I’ll bring back lunch. Do nothing until I get back.”
“I don’t want to do nothing,” Hope whined. “I’ve been doing nothing long enough. Why can’t I go with you?”
“I’ll be back before you know it.” He kissed her lips three times. “Bye.”
After Dylan left, Hope did enough nothing surfing the TV to fall asleep, and when she did, she began to dream . . .
Where am I? A theater. The floor is sticky. That is so cliché. You’d think clichés wouldn’t lurk in dreams. Hey, I’m on the big black tongue of a stage. Where’s that sexy red spotlight going? It’s stopping on Kiki, who sits on her stool. Let’s go talk to Kiki, but she wears no clothes. She certainly looks cold. Shoot, even her toes are cute. I am wearing a tie-dyed shirt and boots. My sexy derriere is cold. “Come here,” Kiki says. I go, and when I look down, I see my bare feet. Where’d my boots go? Kiki gives me a juicy kiss on the lips and turns into a djembe. That fits. She definitely has a nice, round djembe. The red spotlight travels to Angie, who lies naked on a red velvet couch. “Come here,” Angie says. I go, and when I look down, I see stick figure legs holding me up. Now my drawings are invading my dreams. Angie hugs me tenderly for five minutes, smiles, and turns into a xylophone, probably because Angie has too many teeth in her head. The red spotlight leads me to a circular bed. Dylan is there! Yes! Now I’m only wearing my smock. Dylan wears a Santa Claus mask and nothing else. I know the man behind the mask is Dylan because I see his long, black hair, sexy derriere, and an elf sock puppet on his abundance. “Come here,” Dylan says. I take a step toward him, but before I can get on the bed, the elf puppet says, “Answer your buzzer, Hope,” and Dylan turns into a DocuTech printer spewing pictures of Justin’s threesome into the air . . .
