“Really?” The thought that someone might get off on her was new. She had spent her life being the ‘tall girl,’ everyone’s friend, but hadn’t thought that, along with her own needs, others might find her a turn on. This boy, this Cliff, drove her wild, with his beard, which he had purposely cut to look unkempt because no messy beard smelled of shampoo the way his did, and he had trimmed it carefully around his lips. His Indian vest was familiar, maybe a shop in Coney Island and not India. And nothing had been worn, without being washed, for more than a day. Although these weren’t the qualities that drove Gillian crazy, they did keep her from being turned off. “Now if you want to play peek-a-boo, you’ll have to take off your vest and t-shirt. I hate to take your hand away from its task.”
Cliff softly pulled his hand away and took off his vest and then ran his t-shirt over his head, exposing a lean torso with wide shoulders upon which everything seemed to be attached. A fine line of hair ran from the nape of his neck, down his chest, to his belly button (an outie), to join the pubic hair above his cock.
“Do you trim that?”
“A little. I don’t grow much body hair.
Even his toes on his massive feet were well tended. And God, those big feet. Gillian had never actually thought about men’s feet in a sexual way, but the bones and veins in his made him seem that much more like a wild animal or a predator. They had a life of their own as he clutched and released his toes to get his balance and manoeuvre himself onto his back with his pistol still at a most ostentatious attention. “Does it ever get any down time?” She asked.
“Being in your presence has made it very difficult to––”
“––relax?”
“––oh it’s relaxed alright. Man is it relaxed, especially after having you give it that magical massage. It’s relaxed and ready, I guess you could say.”
“Then, is it ever not ready?”
“It takes the occasional breather. So, you gonna let that long red hair fall all over me, tickle my chest, my neck. You know.”
Once again, Gillian was dumbfounded by someone finding her not just pretty but a turn-on as well. She hadn’t learned the power of her femininity.
“If it gives you some kind of sensual pleasure.” She untied her hair from the back, shook it and rubbed her scalp, and then moved her leg over him. “Wow, I do not want to break it off.”
“You can just ease down on it.”
Gillian gently guided Cliff’s cock between her legs, closing her eyes as she felt the tip touch her. Soon she was rubbing it all around her opening as if she herself was the tease. “Oh God.”
“Oh God is right. This is the best kind of torture I have ever endured. Oh. Oh. Oh.”
She kept tickling the tip against her clitoris and then finally she brought it close and felt the head press, push and then slide in.
Cliff writhed. “Oh Shit.”
“Relax. Be gentle. I’m not new at it but I am a novice. Oh that feels good. Oh Cliff shove it in me.”
His hips responded and his lean torso rocked as each muscle joined in for the gyrations. Gillian leaned forward and swung her hair across him. He spoke. “Ooooh that tickles. Oh jeez don’t stop.”
“Likewise.”
“You’re torturing me.”
“Oh, you’re f…f…”
“Fucking? I know.”
“No. You’re mmmm, you’re fulfilling me. Whoa. Oh boy. Oh. Oh Cliff!”
Cliff responded to Gillian and vice versa, until the two were moving in unison, the low sun coating their bodies in the little hotel room.
With each motion her body tingled and she became covered in Goose pimples again and again. She hadn’t felt this kind of ecstasy ever; sex with boys had been mechanical, routine, rushed, and solely for the purpose of pleasuring the boy. Now she was rocking in a kind of a trance that was transporting her beyond the realms of pleasure to a place that joined her to everything, the sky, the ocean, the hot breeze, all combining to energize and empower her with the most sensuous of experiences. Everything seemed to radiate from deep within her womb, her bum touched Cliff’s thighs, her stomach felt so vulnerable and free, her breasts sparkled with energy of billions of stars. She raised her head to leave cliff exposed and no longer draped in hair, and as she threw her head back in ecstasy their voices combined to express an orgasm that was as close to unison as one could be. Gillian arched her back. Cliff clenched his jaws his fists, his toes, his stomach, and then he exploded inside Gillian.
Gillian went still, her thighs tightened, her back straightened, her arms reached down at her side, her fingers spread grasping the air. Then her body went limp and she collapsed onto Cliff. “Oh, oh, oh,” she whispered. “Please don’t move. Don’t ever move.”
“I can’t.”
“Oh that was wonderful. You were wonderful.”
“You were. You are. You are wonderful and sexy and beautiful, and, and––”
“––and?”
“And way too good for Nathan’s Finest.”
“I’ll be moving. It doesn’t matter.”
“Awww? Moving!?” Cliff pretended to whine.
“I’m going to Jolly Old England.” Gillian mimicked a posh Brit accent.
“You do that well.”
“I have to. I just don’t feel like I fit the Long Island persona, you know?”
“Now you really sound Brooklyn.”
“I want to go to King’s Road and trade my duds for something funky and way out. I want to sit in a pub and watch rugby or whatever the hell they play. I want some British pomp and ceremony and something different.”
“Really?”
“Yes.” I’m leaving in September. School starts late. Public Relations at London University.
“Funny.”
“What?”
“Oh nothing.”
They lay on each other for a long moment as the sun set and the light shifted. Eventually Gillian eased her way off of Cliff and the bed.
“Can you pass me my pants?”
“Never, you must never, put these pants on again. You must show the world what I have witnessed––the strong hard and perfect cock of Cliff.” She took his pants and passed them to him. “I hate doing this,” she said. “Ooops.” Cliff’s wallet dropped to the floor scattering his various id cards, driver’s license, social security, which Gillian scrambled, half naked, to retrieve. “You do have a lot of credit cards for a flower child. And here, look at this, the infamous driver’s license photo. I’ll show you mine if you show me yours. God you’re even cuter without a beard. When was this taken? When you were three? You’re even wearing a suit.” Then she read out his name aloud. “Clifton Arnold Vanderveldt––the third? What the hell! Really? So you’re slumming it. I knew there was something about you. You hauled your humpy Hampton ass down to Coney Island to see what’s up with the riff-raff. I don’t believe it!”
“It’s like you said. Some things fit, some don’t. This fits.”
“Funny, I want to go all Brit, and you want to go hip. Neither of us content with the persona we were born into.”
“It will come back to haunt us someday. I’m sure.”
Chapter Four - Flying High in the Cockpit
As the 747 made its way through the night sky, Gillian dined on Organic Scotch salmon, and a salad of fresh spring greens. Gone were the days of indulging in heavily sauced and rich first class fare. Some people didn’t know when to stop gorging simply because it was included in the overly expensive price of the ticket. The first few times in first class, she had been guilty of eating non stop shrimp cocktails, second helpings of prime rib, trifle, and a variety of accompanying liquors. Now she ate minimally, but well––Iranian caviar definitely, and whatever premium champagne there was. Champagne had little affect on her, rather than to help maintain a day-dreamy state, so she managed to keep the flight attendant refilling her glass at regular intervals. It tasted that much better in a crystal flute, as did the food on the bone china. The days of disposables were long gone.
/> The fact that she dined alone wasn’t new. Edgar had disappeared somewhere to conference or work and it was just as well. She thought again about her one time with Spokes, and what it was that had driven her to it. What was it that kept her from making the leap, cutting ties, or just admitting that she was living a lie? This, she knew now on the twentieth year of their being together, that insanity was perpetually hoping for the outcome to be different no matter how many times you banged your head on a brick wall. But it wasn’t just that, it was the creeping thought that Edgar was having an affair. She had spent years simply believing that he was no longer capable of sex, that it was something that just didn’t interest him. She didn’t press the issue since her work left her no time for it. And the rare times they had had sex, she could swear she could hear his mind at work, filing affidavits, pleading his case to the jury. His touch was as intimate as someone screwing in a light bulb. But now she got a sense, call it her intuition, that he was perhaps having an affair.
Tonight she savoured a rich crême brulée and then an uncharacteristic espresso. She wanted to be at least a little alert for her trip to the cockpit, and she wanted to wear her heals, not swan around in stocking feet or slippers as some did.
After her last sip of espresso she dabbed the corners of her mouth and then got up and paid a visit to the washroom, where she gave her tousled red hair a quick fluff, dabbed a few drops of freesia scented Jo Malone in the nape of her neck and, just for good measure, behind her knee.
When she returned to her seat she noticed the fresh-faced Scot waiting for her, almost at attention. “Can I escort you to the cockpit?”
“Why, of course.” Gillian thought this would be hilarious since she had to pass through the first class lounge to get to the cockpit and would undoubtedly see Edgar. Would he care? Would he recognize her? Would he realize that his wife had been granted entrance to the most secure part of the plane?
At the top of the stairs, Gillian looked around. “I thought there was a lounge up here.”
“No ma’am, just seats.”
“We’ll then, where’s the lounge?” Gillian was actually relieved that she wouldn’t be crossing paths with Edgar after all.
“There’s no lounge ma’am. The new configuration made it irrelevant.”
“Irrelevant? Hardly. Lounges are for lounging.” Where the hell was Edgar if there was no lounge?
“Gone the way of the dodo, if you don’t mind my saying.”
Would that be Edgar or the lounges, thought Gillian.
“After you ma’am.” The flight attendant stood aside and indicated the way forward through the seats arranged like small life support cocoons where the occupants relaxed complacently in this new science fiction world of seats that provided your every desire, as long as you didn’t want to go to the lounge and stretch your legs, flirt, or have a chat.
At the cockpit the steward pressed in a code, knocked twice and the door opened. “Gentlemen,” he said. “Can I bring you anything?”
“That will be all Scotty,” trilled the pilot sitting in the right hand side, whom Gillian assumed was the co-pilot.
The door closed.
“Have a seat, have a seat. We’re just coming to a checkpoint then you can have our full attention. By the way, thank you for coming up on such short notice. We don’t expect people to fall over their feet to see us, but we noticed you from the––“
“––the first class lounge? I saw you too. Going through your checklist.”
“Making sure we’re well stocked with M&Ms to fight the mid Atlantic fatigue––just kidding of course.”
Gillian sat in the silence of the cabin on an empty pulldown seat, eyes roving the hundreds of small lights, dials, gauges and digital readouts. It reminded her of a life support in a hospital more than a flight console. The life support for this one mammoth traveling village high above the Atlantic. Life support, or something like it. It reminded her of a spell in the hospital during her final year in high school and a ski trip to the Adirondacks. She’d broken her leg, not badly––a clean break in one spot––but badly enough to be drugged up and in a hip cast for a few days in Albany before her mother picked her up.
One of the interns had taken a liking to her and paid her a few too many visits. She didn’t mind at all. She’d just broken up with a long time post adolescent boyfriend who she hoped to convince was gay, to put to rest all reasons as to why he could barely kiss her without gagging. She finally made the break––perhaps the broken leg was the metaphor for the break-up. Regardless, the intern, a Jew from Brooklyn himself, had the looks and manners that Gillian discovered she liked, in men. He was hairy. He sported dark whiskers, had to keep his hands shaved to a place just above the wrist because the hair was so thick, and had expressive thick dark eyebrows, that could be mistaken for caterpillars.
Joel, the intern, had managed to get her a private room, to keep her away from the impersonal wards, the noises, the busyness, the bright lights from roommates waking at odd hours. He kept her in a state of calm quiet, where not much more than the lighted dials and the small TV screen lit the room. It was an oddly magical time for Gillian, in what could have been an otherwise large inconvenience, Joel made sure she was fed good food, had frequent visits, so that she could have some distraction from the itching cast, the soreness and stiffness.
The first time Joel fucked her it seemed like a silent agreement that it would happen. Gillian’s heart seemed to race every time he came near her. Something about the dark eyes under the bushy eyebrows, something about what the hair must have looked like on the rest of his body; when you know the wrists are covered, you can’t help but wonder what everything else looks like––almost as if those hairy ones seem to stimulate the sexual imaginations of even the most pure. Hair. At the sleeve end. At the base of the neck. At the v-neck shirt. Masses of it all being tamed by the owner. Where does it lead? what does it cover? Gillian was about to find out.
Joel had taken her temperature, her pulse, holding her wrist with his soft intern hands, tickling the underside of her wrist and then her palm. “That’s nice,” she said.
“It is, isn’t it. You have great hands. Soft.”
“Yours absolutely turn me on if you don’t mind my saying so.” Gillian traced her fingers along his.
“Turn you on?”
“Sure. There’s a kind of masculine energy. You know. I can’t help it. I’m sure you have yet to get an accurate reading of my pulse, since it must skyrocket every time you come in the room.”
“It skyrockets? Why?”
“You tell me.”
“Do you mind if I listen to your heart with my stethoscope, in that case, since I’m not getting an accurate reading from your wrist?”
“Can I open my shirt?”
“No, I will. This is a very sensitive stethoscope; it has to be next to the skin.”
“I see. Then I better let you undo my shirt.”
Joel undid one of her buttons and then slid his warm hand inside Gillian’s shirt and let his fingers softly touch her breast.
“Is my heart under there?”
“I’ll check.”
“You’re hands are warm. How is the stethoscope?”
“I’ll try to heat it up.” All the while Joel cupped more of Gillian’s breast in his hand, until Gillian closed her eyes to soak in the pleasure. All was silent while Joel slowly and gently, let his fingers explore her smooth soft breast. He whispered, “How’s that?”
“Mmmm. I think my heartbeat is slowing. But now yours seems to be racing.”
“Do you mind if I put the do not disturb sign on the door. It is my break.”
“Go ahead.”
Joel locked the door, dimmed the lights and drew a curtain around the bed. “Can I kiss you? I’ve been dying to kiss you since you were admitted. In fact I’ve had to jerk off during several of my breaks to restrain myself.”
“You better kiss me. I think that’s where we should start, you know, just to get to kn
ow each other. I need to know how you kiss. I need––”
But Joel had interrupted with his full lips on Gillian’s and immediately the two were exploring each other’s mouths with their tongues. Joel kept his hand on Gillian’s breast, pushing lightly now, the nipple beneath the palm of his hand. Gillian felt all of the stress of the past few days––the shock of the accident, the fact that she was among strangers, her mother’s own need to be comforted from her worry––all of it seemed to vanish and tears came to the corners of Gillian’s eyes. Joel gently pulled his mouth away. “Are you okay?”
“More than okay. I can’t tell you how much I needed this. This damn cast has really got me down. God! That feels way better than the painkillers they’ve been giving me.”
Gillian realized how she had relied on that memory of Joel many times over the years, especially when she was alone and left to her own devices. She looked around the cockpit and wondered what these two had up their sleeves to entertain her. “I’m Gillian, by the way.”
“Oh we figured that out from the passenger manifest,” said the co-pilot. “I’m Anthony and this is Captain Henri Bressard.”
“A Frenchman?”
“Yes, they let me in,” said Henri, with the hint of an accent.
“Nice to meet the two of you. Thanks for asking me up. I seem to have lost my husband.”
“Husband? Well he can’t go far.”
“Don’t worry, he won’t be looking for me.”
“I’m sorry, we thought you were traveling alone. We saw you in the lounge.”
“––I suppose I am. I suppose I have been for a long time. Just not willing to admit it.”
“So you’ll forgive us?”
“Nothing to forgive. I sort of made a pact with myself, quite recently, in fact.”
“A pact?”
“Well I sort of saw my life flashing before my eyes in the lounge you know. I mean it has been a while since––”
“But you are in your prime,” Henri said.
“Yes. Most likely what you are thinking. I can no longer be a good girl.”
“You’re a woman.”
Sexual Solstice Page 5
