by Neil Plakcy
Rhiannon
By Neil S. Plakcy
Copyright 2011 by Neil S. Plakcy
Cover Copyright 2011 by Dara England and Untreed Reads Publishing
The author is hereby established as the sole holder of the copyright. Either the publisher (Untreed Reads) or author may enforce copyrights to the fullest extent.
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This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to the living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Also by Neil S. Plakcy and Untreed Reads Publishing
At the Diner
The Outhouse Gang
http://www.untreedreads.com
Rhiannon
By Neil S. Plakcy
When I met Rhiannon I was going through a bad time. I had been working as the project manager for an office building in West Miami, but the funding was all coming from some South American country, and when they had one of their frequent revolutions the supply dried up quicker than a splash of sweat on hot pavement, and I was out of a job.
I fell into a regular routine. Instead of dinner, I’d walk to one of a half-dozen bars within a mile of my run-down townhouse, shoot pool, and drink cheap beer until I felt like everybody in the world was my brother. That was usually my signal to drain my beer, make a pit stop at the restroom to empty my bladder, and walk on back home. It was usually one or two in the morning by then, and I’d fall into a deep, dreamless sleep until about six, when my bladder woke me. I’d drag my sorry ass out of bed, pee a half-gallon or so, then go to the gym, where I worked out all morning.
Afternoon: nap time. Wake up in time to go get drunk all over again.
There were a few variations. There was one country and western bar where I always seemed motivated to dance, usually just before my departure warning signs set in. I didn’t fight; I was a happy drunk. But when you’re six-four and weigh 250 or so, like I do, guys try and pick fights with you. I usually just swatted at them like those annoying little mosquitoes that swarm out of the Everglades on muggy days.
That day, the routine was a little different. I had a job interview at four, for a condo complex going up on the north end of Miami Beach. I shrugged myself into my one suit, strangled a tie around my neck, and headed east. The asshole who was supposed to interview me, though, was too busy to talk, so I cooled my heels in the reception area of a double-long construction trailer on the site for over an hour, until he phoned the receptionist and told her to cut me loose.
I wasn’t exactly the happiest camper in camperland. I tore my tie off on my way back to the car and crumpled up my jacket on the seat next to me. The August sun was just setting as I drove west toward Miami. I got just a few blocks before traffic came to a dead stop.
Squinting against the sun, I could see the causeway bridge was up, so I turned on the radio to pass the time until the rich folks had gotten their million-dollar yachts through. After about fifteen minutes of recycled eighties pop, the traffic lady came on and announced that the causeway bridge was broken. Indefinitely.
It wasn’t turning out to be my kind of day. Then I looked left and saw a bar called McNally’s. It went against my general rules to drink so far from home, but I figured the day called for an exception. I nosed my truck in front of an old lizard man dozing in his Lincoln, popped up over the median strip, and dived into the only available spot in the long, narrow parking lot.
The sun outside was so bright, and the interior of the bar so dark, that I felt more than usually disoriented. The jukebox was playing disco, there were beads hanging just inside the door, and the place had a curious smell, half beer and peanuts and half something else, something sharp and musty, like a locker room.
As my eyes adjusted I saw the room wasn’t too busy. A couple of guys were playing pool in the corner, under a fake Tiffany lamp with a beer company logo, there was a clutch of guys at a big table drinking mixed drinks, and three women at the bar. It all seemed very sad, but that didn’t stop me making my way up to the horseshoe bar and asking what kind of beer the barkeep had.
He looked at me like I was from Mars, or South Beach, which is about the same in my book. “Bud, Bud Light, Miller, Miller Light,” he said. “Corona.”
I ordered a Corona, though I told him to skip the yuppie lime. My beer came, I took a good long pull, and I started to feel the cares of the day slipping away. I had enough money to sustain me for a few more months, and I knew some kind of job would come up eventually. I had discovered, after my second wife left me (taking the kids) that I didn’t need anybody else’s help to get my rocks off. Or should I say rediscovered that fact; it was one I was quite familiar with in my teenage years.
I didn’t particularly need friends, though I had some nodding acquaintances at the gym. All in all, I was pretty self-sustaining.
Then I noticed a woman staring at me. Really staring, not even trying to hide it. She was striking—about six feet tall, luscious waves of auburn hair cascading around her shoulders. Nice tits, round and perky, a slim waist, and a sweet little ass. I confess, I’ve always been an ass man. Like to reach down grab hold of those globes while we’re kissing, snuggle up real cozy.
The way she was staring I thought I must know her, even though I was miles from home and she didn’t look familiar at all. She leaned across toward me, motioning me in. Her hair fell around her face, and tickled my ear as she whispered, “I’d be careful of those Coronas if I were you. I hear Frank has them smuggled in up the butts of wetbacks.”
She leaned back and winked at me. I burst out laughing. “So what do you recommend in this fine establishment?”
She arched her eyebrows, and I looked down at the lowball glass in her hand. She had strong hands, with beautifully manicured nails. “I’m a big fan of the Wild Turkey,” she said. “On the rocks, with a splash. And I have to see the bottle it comes out of.”
“Good practice,” I said. I drained the last of the Corona, and pointed to her near-empty glass. “May I?”
She smiled. I felt an unaccustomed stirring in my crotch, a feeling I thought I’d forgotten except in the solitude of my dingy bedroom. I ordered us a pair of Wild Turkeys.
She told me her name. “You mean like the Fleetwood Mac song?”
“Guilty.”
“Let me guess. That’s not the one your parents gave you.”
“You’re a pretty smart guy to have all those muscles,” she said. She had a deep, throaty voice that resonated somewhere deep inside me.
We smiled, and flirted, and discovered that we were evenly matched when it came to obscure baseball trivia. “What can I say, I loved all those handsome boys on the cards,” she said. “You look at them enough, eventually you memorize the statistics.”
That wasn’t the way I remembered learning baseball stats, but I guess things were different for girls. When the pool table cleared, we played a couple of rounds, and she was nearly as good as I was.
It was turning out to be a very atypical evening for me. Usually I’m a chain drinker, still tasting the last swallow of the previous bottle when I’m swigging the first of the next. But I was so caught up in talking to Rhiannon, in watching her, that I was almost stone cold sober by midnight. And very nearly in love.
Both my wives were cut from the same mold. Petite, pretty, heavy on the makeup. Girly girls
, didn’t know a thing about baseball or pool or construction. Neither of them was very exciting in bed, though maybe that was my fault. Both marriages ended with a sense of disappointment more than anger.
Rhiannon was different. She knew about sports like a man, she played pool, drank bourbon, and told dirty jokes. I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to hang out with her, toss a football back and forth, or take her off to bed. Probably all of the above.
“Well, a girl’s got to get her beauty sleep,” she said, picking up her purse. “It’s been a great evening, Junior.”
I was astonished. “That’s it? You’re not going to write your phone number on a paper napkin for me? Promise me your undying love and another chance to whomp you at pool?”
“You hardly whomped me,” she said. She opened her purse and pulled out a pen. “You got a napkin?”
I walked her outside. “Can I give you a ride anywhere?” I asked.
“I have a car, thank you,” she said.
We stood there awkwardly. I felt like a gawky teenager on his first date. Did I kiss her? Hug her? Shake hands?”
She solved the problem, putting her arm around my neck and pulling my mouth toward hers. “I’m usually not the kind of girl who kisses on the first date,” she said, in that same husky voice I found incredibly sexy. “But in your case I can make an exception.”
“It’s the exceptions that make the rules,” I said, and I kissed her.
She tasted of bourbon and lipstick and something deeper, something that incited so much lust in me I could hardly control myself. I wrapped my big arms around her butt and tried to pull her into me, but she resisted and I let go.
“Now, now, save some secrets for the second date,” she said, and then she walked away and got into a blue Toyota. I was reeling back against my truck as she beeped quickly and drove out of the parking lot.
That was a Wednesday. I called her Thursday afternoon and left a message, inviting her out to dinner on Saturday night. I left her my cell phone number and my pager. “Here’s my home phone, too,” I said to her machine. “Don’t want you to think I’m hiding anything.”
She didn’t call back Thursday night. She didn’t call all day Friday. I was alternating between frantic and depressed. Finally, Saturday morning, as I was getting ready to go to the gym, she called. “Listen, I appreciate the invitation,” she said. “I had a great time with you on Wednesday night. But you don’t want to get involved with me. I’ve got problems.”
“Let me be the judge of that.”
“Junior…”
“I want to see you. I want to take you out to dinner. At least let me do that.”
Eventually, I wore her down. I have negotiated dozens of contracts over the years, and I’ve picked up a few tricks. Never back down. Look for your opponent’s weaknesses and exploit them. Be persuasive. Finally she agreed to meet me on South Beach for dinner, but she wouldn’t let me pick her up.
“You like to control things, don’t you,” I said. “I like that in a woman.”
She laughed. All through my workout I kept trying to think of things other than her, so I wouldn’t embarrass myself or attract unwanted attention. It was tough.
I met her on Lincoln Road. She wore a green silk dress that clung to her curves and made her auburn hair glitter. She was the prettiest woman out there, including all those who weren’t actually born women. We had drinks, then dinner, then walked along Lincoln Road. We ducked into a club and danced. It was three o’clock when we left, and once we were outside I grabbed hold of her and kissed her the way I’d been wanting to for days.
A pair of gay boys passed us, giggled and called out, “Hey breeders, go back to Kendall!”
“I live in Kendall, you know,” I said. “It’s not the Biltmore but it’s home. Want to see it?”
Rhiannon pulled back from me. As she backed away, my hands ran over her breasts. I could tell immediately they were padded, and she saw that I knew.
“I have to go home,” she said, stepping away.
“You have fake boobs,” I said. “I don’t give a shit.”
“You don’t know anything,” she said. “You’re sweet, but you’re awfully naïve, Junior.”
That stung. Man, I’ve been working on construction sites since I was sixteen. Nobody calls me naïve. I know what’s what.
“I’m not naïve, I’m in love,” I called to her.
She stopped and turned around. “Junior.”
“I know, I don’t know you well enough to love you. But I want to. Can I call you again?”
She shrugged. “You can always call.”
And call I did. I called her every day, trying different times of day until I reached her. I hoped she didn’t have caller ID or any way of knowing how obsessive my calling became. Finally she agreed to have dinner with me again, the following Saturday.
I got my hair cut. I bought a new shirt and a new pair of pants. I shined my shoes. I put on cologne. If I’d had any friends they wouldn’t have recognized me. She let me pick her up this time, from an apartment building mid-Beach. I pulled up in my truck in front of her building, and my grin must have stretched all the way from the bay to the ocean.
I had a lot of things swirling around in my mind that week about Rhiannon. There was something about her that just didn’t gel. I was crazy about her, I was lusting for her, I genuinely enjoyed spending time with her, laughing, competing, trading stats and playing pool. But there was something that I wasn’t seeing, or something I wasn’t willing to see. It bothered me.
Was there something in her past? A nasty breakup, a bad marriage? A kid? Hell, I had two kids, and though I loved them they weren’t an integral part of my life. Their new stepdad had adopted them, and I saw them holidays and the occasional summer day. I began to realize that I didn’t care what Rhiannon had in her past. I loved her.
It wasn’t until we were halfway through dinner that I realized what it was. She’d turned her head to look for the waiter, and her Adam’s apple bobbed up.
It all fell into place for me then. Her personality, her manners, her interest in sports. I expected to be repulsed—I’d kissed her. Or him. I’d lusted for that nice little ass, longed to be held by those strong hands with their beautiful nails. But I wasn’t repulsed at all. I had never wanted a man before, and now I didn’t care if Rhiannon was a man under all that hair and makeup. I’d fallen in love with Rhiannon, whoever she—or he—was.
I knew I had to take her to bed. That night. I had to solve the mystery. I had to know what was under her dress. I had to see what it was like to caress her naked body. I had to see how far I could go.
I held myself back. We finished dinner, we laughed, we talked, we lingered over dessert. Finally, Rhiannon said, “Now what?”
I said, “Now I take you back to your apartment and make love to you.”
“Junior. You’re always in such a hurry.”
I took her hand on top of the table. “Rhiannon. I know. And I want you.”
Her eyebrows arched. “You only think you know.”
“Then I want to find out.”
I could see the thoughts running past her eyes. Finally she sighed. “All right. Let’s go.”
I don’t remember anything else until we were in her apartment. There was a lot of blue and green, soft textures and dim lighting. Her bed was covered with a patchwork quilt. “Just don’t break my heart,” she whispered, as I laid her down on the quilt.
I didn’t know what to expect as I unbuttoned her blouse, but my dick was ready for anything. She wore a padded bra, which I pulled off. Her tits were small but firm, with tiny brown aureoles and nipples. I laid my head down on her chest and she stroked my shoulders.
I licked and kissed her nipples until they were stiff and I felt her squirming beneath me. She wore a navy linen skirt which had hiked up around her hips as we writhed around on the bed. I undid the clasp and slipped it away.
I reached down toward her and she grabbed my hand. Her grasp was strong, and t
hat excited me even further. “It’s still there,” she whispered. There were tears in her eyes.
I leaned down and kissed her hard, swimming my tongue against hers. She relaxed her grip and I slid my hand down and found the penis. It was hard, and I stroked it. I kept kissing Rhiannon as I did, and she stopped crying and began to kiss me back.
I’ve never been the kind of guy who did things by half. When I commit to something I give it all I’ve got. Finally I took my mouth off Rhiannon’s and began licking and kissing my way down, between her breasts. I peeled back the panties and licked my lips, then dove down onto the penis.
What can I say? It wasn’t like I’d always wanted to suck dick, but I did, and Rhiannon enjoyed it. And then she took care of me, and I enjoyed that. We snuggled up next to each other and I fell asleep, though I doubt she did. When I woke in the morning she was already dressed and made up.
“What are you making me for breakfast?” I asked, sleepily, looking up at her.
“I don’t cook,” she said.
“Reservations are fine,” I said, yawning. “You feel like brunch?”
“I think you should leave.”
I sat up in bed. “Excuse me?”
“I can’t do this, Junior. I don’t want to be somebody’s wife.”
“Then why the…” I motioned around the room, at everything I could see in the light of day. Hairpieces and wigs, makeup kits, gowns and dresses and skirts.
“I want to be a woman. I’m going to be a woman. I can’t be with someone who wants me as a man.”
“Sweetheart, if you had a cunt I’d eat it out and then fuck you. You had a penis so I sucked it. I don’t care what kind of plumbing you’ve got. I’m in love with you. You want to get things changed, doesn’t bother me. Makes it easier for me, actually.”
“So you’re not…gay?”
I laughed. “Jesus, you suck one dick and suddenly you’re gay,” I said. “I fell in love with a woman in a bar. Not a man. Actually not a woman, really, but a person. You. Now we either go out for breakfast or you come back to bed.”
We went out for breakfast. I went back to that construction site on the beach and got the job, and started staying over at Rhiannon’s a lot. Rhiannon is saving up for her operation, and now that I’m employed again I’m helping. I don’t go to the bars any more, at least not without her, and of course there’s only certain bars where we can go and be real comfortable, like on South Beach, or that bar mid-Beach where I first met her. She takes her injections, and when I look real hard I can see her changing, her skin getting softer, her breasts filling out.
