I stripped down to my boxer briefs and old man's undershirt. Smoking was always more relaxing when I felt unencumbered. So, there I sat, flaked out on an old plaid couch in a room covered with '70's paneling, inhaling and inhaling until my lungs burned. It was the one room I'd left undone after the move. All the others were showpieces of sorts. The living room, dining area, even the kitchen might at some point have to entertain. The bedroom, certainly. It had its own theatre quality. But this den was my sanctuary. It didn't have to look like some horrible Martha Stewart magazine page. I kept it dark, feeling like I could lose myself in it when I needed to.
I stared at the brown shag rug until I was mellow enough to shower without caring if I stung my eyes with shampoo. Then I agonized over which drawers to wear. If Hannah was going to reward my charm, I'd have to at least show her a nice package.
No underwear seemed about the most appropriate.
Next came the nostril hair. I hadn't noticed how unruly it had gotten. It simply had to be trimmed. If she should happen to look up from any activity she chose to perform upon me, I couldn't have her distracted by wiry, black hairs curling out and tangling in my mustache.
Abstinence begone; the pipes were calling again for old Danny boy.
We had decided to meet at The Micro Brew Pub. I suggested it, because it had a certain ambiance. The music always played at just the right level and the stockiness of the wooden floor and heavy tables made you feel as if the 21st century had never come. I loved it there.
So that's where I sat. My relaxing high danced quite well with the red ale I sipped as I watched the door, trying not to look as if I was watching the door.
Then the belligerent ale started an argument with the more passive and happy-go-lucky high. My fingers began the dance of death on the table, and my Doc boots started their own jig---an endearing and traditionally noisy Irish clomp. A waitress spied my agitation and mistook it for a need of more ale.
"Can I get you a refill?" She threw her hip to one side and fluffed her ginger coloured hair.
"No. I think I'm okay."
Ginger looked askance at the bar where the bartender busied himself filling out a crossword puzzle. "He goes on break in about ten minutes. I could sneak you a half pint."
I smiled my best millionaire smile. "Maybe just half a pint."
She grinned and so did my groin. In fact, it stretched itself into the firmest, most genuine smile of the day. Strange, how three days past I hadn't even thought of sex, hadn't cared if I ever enjoyed the carnal pleasures again, and now I couldn't keep nasty little thoughts out of my head to save my soul.
So, with sinful and irrevocably lucid images beginning their own intimate dance in my head, I smiled back.
"Red okay?" she asked.
"That's what I'm drinking."
She stood there looking as ripe as Eve's apple, waiting for some way to offer me forbidden fruit.
"See anything else you like?" she asked, running a stray finger to her apron in a way that ended with her middle finger pointing toward her sex.
I knew she knew who I was. Four years earlier when I'd made my incredible fortune buying newly dead lobsters for an incredible bargain and investing in gourmet lobster weiners, my name went round the local media and social media faster than stink leaves a cab driver's asshole.
She wanted me.
Or rather: she wanted me to want her because she really wanted money. Or at the very least a few expensive gifts.
I considered passing on the offer, but realized I'd been celibate so long. I couldn't afford to shoot off too fast if I did manage to get into Hannah's luscious pants. I needed to take the edge off.
"Do you serve out back at all?" I asked. I wasn't sure she'd get the double entendre, but it was worth a shot.
She knew she had me. She licked the corner of her mouth almost absently. "Front, back, and sideways," she said.
I pushed myself from my seat and aimed myself for the bathroom. She leaned in and whispered something so filthy in my ear that I was grateful no one was seated around my table.
"I'll be waiting," I told her, my prick already stiffening.
"I'll get the out of order sign," she said and set a path for the restrooms. I imagined all things she would be doing to me in that bathroom if she planned to close it down for a spell. For a second, I couldn't breathe and when I heard a voice from next to me, I clutched my heart.
"Am I late?"
Sweet God. Hannah. I glanced at my watch because I couldn't hold her gaze. She'd see the frank lust in it, I was sure.
"Nope," I said, doing my best not to gawk around to seek the waitresses eye. "You're right on time."
I chewed my lip as I sat down. So close. Seconds more and I'd have been in the bathroom with the waitress, leaving Hannah waiting. What was wrong with me? A school kid glutting on barley toys when there was a buffet of cheesecake and creme brule waiting. I scanned her quickly, noting she had exchanged her loan application outfit for an outlandish African type shirt.
"What can I get you?"
The waitress again. She was glaring down at me. Hannah smiled at the ripe and tempting waitress.
"I'd sure like a cup of Roiboos tea. Do you serve it?"
Ginger nodded, her fringe of straight hair catching an eyelash.
"Sure," she said, turning an ugly eye on me.
My mouth twitched. "Beer," I said. When I stole a glance over her shoulder I noticed the sign had been placed on the men's room door. I felt my chest tighten--relief or anxiety I couldn't be sure.
Ginger-the-suddenly-sullen, tottered away and left me to my date.
Hannah leaned comfortably into the booth. She pulled up one leg, then the other so she sat yoga style on the bench. Then she propped her chin in elbow-supported hands and took me in with all the scrutiny of a wise old monk.
Nervousness ran screaming into terror.
"Nervous, Daniel?"
"Nope," I said. My clodhoppers started their jig beneath the table again. "Why do you ask?"
A dove-wing brow arched. "No reason. Just the last date I went on, the guy ended up in the john."
"The john?"
"Throwing up."
I picked at my ear. Poor sap, that he couldn't even keep control of his guts. At least I was doing better than that. "Testament to your beauty, that's all," I said. "So."
"So?" She smiled.
"So, your paper work shouldn't take too long. Couple of days."
"I hope so. I really need the money."
Odd. Why would anyone need money that could afford to travel across the country and stay indefinitely.
"You need it?"
"I probably shouldn't have said that, huh." Instead of looking nervous, she started to chuckle, showing the gap between her front teeth .
"It never leaves the table." I was about to reach for that velvet skin of her wrist when Ginger plopped a half-pint of red ale in the way.
"Five bucks," she said, then set Hannah's delicate cup of tea in front of her. I thought she had filled the cup just a bit too full.
I flipped out a twenty and stuffed it into Ginger's palm. She avoided my eye, but her smack of gum sounded like a gunshot.
After she left, I turned back to Hannah. "Lots of people need money. I'm certainly not going to question whatever good fortune sent you my way."
She rolled her beautiful eyes. "What kind of baloney are you trying to sell me?"
My left foot stomped on my right. "Baloney?"
She nodded. "Yeah, what's up with the sweet talk?"
"Caught me." I stuck my hands up in air, good naturedly, but I knew things weren't going right. She had me off balance. Maybe I'd been out of commission too long. Maybe I felt like I'd just escaped the hangman.
"I need to slip out for a minute," I said.
She stared into her cup. "Got to throw?" She asked as she peeked up. She lifted the china nonchalantly but ever so purposefully to her lips. I fought the terrible urge to bolt.
I quickly rifled through
the index cards in my cluttered brain, trying to lift out the one that listed instructions on: what to do on a first date with a must-have-her-in-the-sack woman. Obviously, I'd thrown that one out; in its place I'd left one labeled incredibly-banal-questions-under-guise-of-small-talk. Before I knew it, I was asking the list topper.
"So tell me what you do for a living."
"I sell subscriptions over the Internet. People watch me paint nude."
"You paint nudes?"
She shook her head. "No. I'm naked while I paint, and people pay to watch."
It was too much. My Docs pulled me from the booth and ran me to the men's room where I promptly lost my ale and mellow high to the goddess of porcelain.
After my nervous stomach relieved itself, I sat on the toilet cover contemplating my next move. I had the many choices available to any man who'd disgraced himself: namely, hide in the men's room hoping she'd forget she had come to the bar for a date, hide in the men's room letting her think I'd died, hide in the men's room pretending to be an official inspector of porcelain quality, or of course, I could just hide in the men's room. Any reason would be adequate.
My stomach had stopped churning. My head had come back to earth's plane. All that remained to remind me that I had just run out on Hannah was the sour taste in my mouth. I figured I could get rid of that by swallowing chlorine from the tap. I resolved to taste the sour. Mostly because I didn't want to leave the inner sanctum of a graffiti-decorated and vomit smelling stall.
"Daniel?"
I hauled my boots up out of sight.
"Are you okay?"
The voice again.
"There's no use pretending, Daniel, I saw you run in here."
"I'm all right."
"Well, come out."
It was a dandy situation. Here I was disgraced, perched like some great dodo bird with boots atop a cheaply made toilet seat cover, and there right outside waited the object of my fantasy, probably hoping some different guy would exit the stall. What was she doing in here, anyway?
"What are you doing in here?"
I heard her running the tap.
"What do you think? I'm checking on you."
"Well, I'm okay. You can leave."
"Not till you come out of that filthy stall."
"It's hardly filthy. Unless you mean the language."
She chuckled. "Don't be embarrassed, Daniel. It happens all the time."
"Really?"
"Well just the once."
At least she hadn't driven me to suicide. That one, I could take care of myself.
"How long did you date that guy?"
"Which guy?"
I let down my feet. "The one who got sick in the john."
"I don't know; I haven't finished the date yet."
She toyed with me. My now depleted sense of power swirled down the vortex of stupidity. I wondered if it went counter clockwise like the toilet water. I decided to say nothing. She'd get the hint eventually.
I stared at my fingertips.
She groaned. "It was a joke, Daniel. A joke. I thought you had a pretty good sense of humour." She paused. "Obviously not." She waited again, then sighed.
"I have a great sense of humour," I grumbled.
"I'm not leaving. Not until you come out," she said.
She was sitting on the sink when I exited. She had one knee bent across the bowl and the other braced so her foot supported her. She held a wet paper towel to her forehead. When I moved closer, she dabbed my cheeks with it.
Her eyes went to my mouth. "This is twice I've made you puke."
"That wasn't you," I said. "That first time. I just wasn't feeling well."
"Hmmm," she said, toying with the hair behind my ear. "You have to take it slow. Half a dozen pills at a time."
I tried to back away but her fingers went behind my neck and cupped my nape. I couldn't look at her.
"You knew." I hated the sound of self-pity in my voice.
"I know the signs."
I sighed. "I'm pathetic."
"Listen," she said. "I get it. I'm just glad you decided to wait till you'd fucked me first."
I gaped at her. The sound of that filthy word coming from her mouth sent a fire down my belly that lodged itself straight in my cock.
I moved even closer. It gave me an opportunity to put my hands on her hips.
"You should rinse," she said.
"Gotcha." I couldn't wash my mouth out fast enough. My cock was already scolding me for taking thirty seconds. I stepped away from the tap.
She threw the paper in the trash. "Better?"
I wiped my lips with the back of my hand and nodded.
She grinned at me and placed the flat of her palm solidly on my erection. I imagined forcing myself between those thick lips until my juices squirted back out the gap in her teeth. I thought I was still in the stall, fantasizing when she pulled at my zipper and yanked my pants to my ankles.
"I have a thing for pathetic, I guess," she said, sinking to her knees.
I wanted to say lucky me, but the way she gripped by balls with her fingers, pulling the sac away from the shaft as she sank her mouth over it took all the wind from my lungs. I nearly lost my knees, even. The hot suction of her mouth moved to my balls and be damned if she found a way to ram her face between my legs and fill her mouth with sac and ass at the same time. I had to grip the sink to keep from staggering beneath the pleasure.
"Fuck," I think I said except the blur of lust had robbed me of all but the ability to pump myself into her, extracting my cock for the briefest of seconds before I plundered back in, praying that if someone wandered in, they'd realize that this moment--this deliriously fucking hot moment--was as exquisite as it ever got and would either leave discreetly or applaud the fucking hell out of my stamina if they stayed to watch. Either way, I couldn't give a shit.
Somehow I managed to stay hard enough to impress her without blowing every bit of backed up come down her throat. She moaned for me as she took me in and smacked over each descent. I felt like a porn star when I looked down at her and saw her swallowing down each inch.
"Fucking amazing," I said, meaning it. "Fucking brilliant."
I wanted all of her, every orifice, every inch and I wanted it all at once. I wanted three cocks for Pete's sake. The thought of spreading every hole open was too much for me. I finally exploded. My knees buckled as I sent a stream of semen down her throat and nearly collapsed altogether when she swallowed it down so convulsively my prick twitched with renewed interest.
God, she was hot.
"I'd have to agree with one thing, " I said to her. "You truly are an artist."
Her smile showed her gap to great advantage. "Wait till you see my real work." She scooped her finger across her chin.
I wasn't sure if it was a double entendre but I chose to take it as a promise. I took the opportunity to wash and towel my hands, then I took her by her hand and pulled her close. Damn it, but I was about to show her how considerate I could be. Not the kind of guy to just take a killer blow job like that for granted. I kissed her slow and thorough.
"Fuck that made me hungry," I said. "Let's get something to eat. Then I'll take you home and screw the living stuffing out of you."
She laughed and ran water in the sink.
"Tell me more about your painting. You say you do it nude?"
We pushed through the door together, pretending to be oblivious to the looks we received from Ginger and the bartender.
Hannah regained her seat and picked up the menu.
"Order the fries," I said. "It's really the best thing on their menu." I let go a long, relaxed sigh and put my chin in my hands as I propped myself on the table to really take her in. Having just given the best head I've ever received, she still looked just this side of naïve except that her face and cheeks were flushed. I started to imagine how many other parts of her body might be stained the delicious hue engorged by blood and straining for release.
"You really want to know about my
painting?"
At that point, I couldn't say it truthfully, but I nodded at her anyway.
"Well, I'm a very good artist."
She probably was a very poor artist to have to reinforce it aloud. I decided to play along. "I bet."
The menu slapped against the table. She had her brow quirked in a most annoyed fashion.
"Meaning?"
"Meaning exactly that," I said.
She gave me a dubious look.
"I'm a horrible artist," she said.
Now we were getting somewhere. Not that I cared one way or the other; all that was going through my brain was how quickly we could eat the fries and get the hell out of there. I had all kinds of pornographic clips running through my mind, offering me all sorts of interesting possibilities for the rest of the evening.
Strange though, that her brow remained exactly in the same position. I couldn't figure out what the problem was. Either she was very good, or very bad.
She sat straighter in the booth. Her position looked just the tiniest bit confrontational.
"Doesn't it make any difference to you?"
"Why should it?"
"Everyone wants to be good at what they do. "
I snorted. "Not everyone cares."
"Seriously?"
"Exactly. In fact, I'll go the extra mile. I'll say that most people hate what they do."
"Maybe they aren't doing what they should."
I couldn't help the frown wrinkling my brow but to keep from revealing everything I though in my tone, I waved over the waitress and ordered two steaks and fries.
Hannah turned to me when Ginger toddled off to fill our orders. "What do you do?"
"Didn't you have an appointment with a certain bank manager earlier today?"
She shook her head. Kinky curls settled nicely on her shoulders.
"What would you be if you could be anything?"
The last time anyone had ever mentioned that type of thing to me had been my father, exactly five minutes before he beat the living crap out of me when my smart mouth had said ballerina.
I didn't need to think for a second. "I'd be a million dollar bill."
As soon as I said it, I wished I could slough the comment off the skin of conversation the way Gina did her heels. But don't get me started on how I knew my loans officer sloughed her heels; it was a picky issue. I had to hurry if I was going to provide some sort of salvation for the discussion. Strange, I'd never thought of myself as a Messiah.
Miss You Mad: a psychological romance novel Page 3
