by Whitley Cox
Elissa’s mouth stretched up into a wry and knowing smile. She probably thought we were feigning exhaustion and instead going to spend the night humping like convicts on a conjugal. “All right, then. Well, enjoy your evening. There’s a party upstairs on the pool deck again tonight; the theme is Birfday Smurfday. Everybody is supposed to paint themselves blue.”
I lifted one eyebrow while shaking my head; I was so over all the partying. I’d partied in high school, I’d partied in college, and we’d done two nights of partying here. I was done. “Why blue?”
She started to dab on lip gloss in front of the mirror. “Why not?”
Elissa, Matt and their growing group of fellow backpacker friends left a little while later, all of them already slightly drunk from the beer they’d snuck into our room and had started drinking while playing some card game Einar from Norway had taught everyone.
But I wasn’t in the mood for fun. I was in a foul mood, a self-pitying mood, and I skulked in the corner and watched them all, unable to extract myself from my funk and join in their joy.
“You okay?” Derrick asked. He had a beer in his hand and crouched down next to me. I was laying on his bunk reading my stupid book, though not a word of the last chapter had been absorbed. I hadn’t a clue what I’d just read, what grief step was I on. Bargaining? Denial? No, I’d done both of those things. Purging? Was that a step?
I gave him a sidelong glance. “What do you think?”
“I believe you’re pissed off at yourself because you disobeyed Chase’s orders and then took your hat off when you weren’t supposed to. Now you’re punishing yourself by not having fun. You believe you deserve to be in a time out because you put all those people in the movie theater in jeopardy.”
I propped myself up on my elbow and stared at him. Get the hell out of my head. He just grinned that panty-dropping cocky grin. “I’m right, aren’t I?”
I threw on a scowl for good measure. “Maybe.”
“Move over,” he said as he nudged me to the side, laying next to me on his back. “You want some?” He offered me the big beer bottle. I shrugged and took it from him. It wasn’t great, but it wasn’t sewage either. Drinkable, but certainly no Phillip’s Blue Buck or Lighthouse I.P.A.
“Feel better?” he asked, after I took a couple of sips and handed him back a much lighter bottle.
“A little,” I grumbled.
“I’m right, though, aren’t I? You’re beating yourself up.”
I exhaled and put the bookmark back in my book. “You and I should probably go our separate ways. I’m bad luck. You’re either going to get killed, wind up in the hospital or lose a limb at the very least if you stick with me. I’m a jinx.”
He leaned over and pecked me on the nose. “Are you done yet?”
“Done with what?”
“Your pity party?”
“I'm serious. You’re probably going to wind up in the emergency room with a gunshot wound or a knife in your gut if you keep traveling with me. They’re after me, not you.”
He rolled me over onto my back, and then proceeded to cover me with his body, not giving two hoots that there were half a dozen people in the room, all playing some card game on the other bunk beds. “I’m not going to abandon you. I’m not going anywhere, got it?”
“Why aren’t you frustrated with me for nearly getting us killed?”
He pecked my nose. “Who says I’m not a little pissed?”
My eyes flashed open.
“But not at you.” He grinned. “I’m just as much to blame. Even though it was your idea to go out, I agreed to it. How they found us? I have no idea. But I’m just as responsible.”
I shook my head. “No, you’re not. You’re innocent in all of this; it’s me they’re after.”
“Yeah, but I promised you I’d protect you. I should have known better. We should have just laid low here at the hostel until we headed to Cusco.”
“But you’re not mad?”
He shook his head. “I’m not mad. And I’m not going anywhere. You’re stuck with me, got it?”
I swallowed the hard lump in my throat. “Got it.”
“Good.”
“Hey, you two, what did I say about having sex in here when we’re still around?”
It was closing in on eleven, and even though I was dog-tired and craving sleep, I was having a hard time letting it claim me, due to the pumping bass up on the pool deck and the never-ending parade of worries marching through my brain. Derrick and I had taken advantage of the empty dorm room once again, exploring one another’s bodies with unhurried ease and the growing familiarity of seasoned lovers. But we’d finished, showered and turned out the light, not interested at all in the whoops and hollers and inviting music from the ruckus going on upstairs.
We were snuggled up under the blanket, neither of us actually asleep, just dozing, when the door burst open and light sliced through the darkness like a broadsword.
“Come on, Papa Smurf and Smurfette, let’s go party!” And without being given time to protest, or even put on more than the skimpy PJ’s we had on, we were whisked away by a group of unidentifiable blue people all laughing and chanting and smelling strongly of beer and body paint.
They ushered us up the stairs, following the bass just like the Pied Piper’s rats, until we emerged on the pool deck, the floor thumping, the lights flashing and a sea of blue people undulating and rocking to the sick beat.
Both Derrick and I were tossed down onto two lounge chairs, while someone, I’m thinking possibly the Finnish girl with the atrocious pants, brought over a small bucket and a paint brush and began painting my limbs, chest, and face.
Another girl painted Derrick while he laughed and smiled and accepted the beer and the shot someone offered him. “Come on, Piper, smile! We only live once. Let’s make the most of it. Let’s live, let’s have fun.”
Where was this sudden zest for the nightlife coming from? Earlier that morning he’d been complaining about the millennials and practically yelling at the kids to get off his lawn. What had changed?
“Come on!” Elissa said with a giggle as she handed me a pisco sour. “It’s like Derrick said, you only live once. What more do you have to lose? Everything’s been taken from you anyway!”
Well, she had me there! So, after the Finnish girl, whose name was Irma, finished painting my entire body blue, I stood up in my shorty-short PJ’s and a skimpy black tank top. Derrick stood up too. He was bluer than me, and the way the paint defined each ab and his pecs made my jaw drop and my sex soften.
He came up and rested his hands on my hips. “Hello, Smurfette.”
I giggled. “Hello, Papa Smurf.”
His blue brows pinched. “Why am I Papa Smurf?”
“Because you’re the oldest fucker here!” Matt said with a laugh, coming up and handing Derrick another beer. I felt something wet on my back, and when I turned around, I realized that Irma was painting my shoulder blades. Her accomplice was behind Derrick and painting him as well.
“Well then…” Derrick said, chuckling and taking a big sip of his beer before he continued. “…In that case, come to Papa.” He pulled me close, not caring at all that our body paint was still wet, dipped me low and captured my mouth with his. He tasted like beer and toothpaste and, within seconds, I felt my muscles relax, and I wilted into his arms, returning the kiss, in turn, our tongues dancing to the beat of the techno pop.
“Get a room!” Elissa hollered, which was followed by a slew of yelps and whistles from her posse.
Derrick’s lips left mine, and I forced myself not to whimper, but I couldn’t help the pout. “We had one until you asshats decided to kidnap us. Now, as Papa Smurf, I say we have a karaoke competition. Who’s with me?”
The entire crowd at the bar cheered, and soon the rave music died down, only to be replaced with more sing-along familiar tunes, like “Summer of ’69” and “Brown-Eyed Girl.”
Much as we had the past two nights, we found ourselves drunk off
our faces and having a terrific time getting there. Derrick was the life of the party, a blue-bodied Adonis who everyone wanted to be around. He was like honey, and the entire hostel were his bees, trying to get close enough, trying to get a taste. But not once did he ever forget about me, just when I thought he was going to take off into the sea of people to go and dance or do more shots, a hand would shoot out toward me, and he’d pull me into the mix. We were never far from each other; in fact, I’m not sure we ever stopped touching.
But eventually the yawns crept up on us, and if I squinted hard enough, I saw the sky changing and dawn threatening. So, even though our roommates were all still having a good old time, singing off-key and incoherently to some Lady Gaga song, we bid our farewells and made our way back downstairs to our room.
“That was fun,” Derrick said, stumbling on the last step. I grabbed his arm to help stabilize him, but he took that as an invitation and instead spun me around and drove me up against the wall, crashing his lips down onto mine, his hands making their way up and beneath my tank top.
His teeth grazed my neck while his fingers found a hard and achy nipple. He pinched, and I squeaked, followed by a sigh, my body going limp against him.
“You’re a machine.” My heart rate picked up inside my chest as his hands roamed my body, one still playing with my breasts as the other one made its way down into my shorts.
“You love it.”
I nodded fervently. “I do. I really, really do.”
Ray had been an incredible lover, generous and patient and appreciative and always willing to try new things. But he wasn’t dominating the way Derrick was. He’d never pinned me up against the wall and made me feel like the sexiest woman alive, like if he wasn’t inside me in the next thirty seconds, the entire world was going to end.
Ray had been gentle and worshipping, but he’d never excited me the way Derrick did. Even the first time we’d made love had been romantic and sensual. There was never any clawing or growling, never any raw, wild-for-one-another passion. We’d play now and then because he knew I liked it, and I think he did, too, but it was always me initiating it. It was always me saying, “Hey, how about you tie me up tonight and use the riding crop?” And he would, and we’d have fun, but the drive, the inherent basic animal need to fuck was never in his eyes the way it was in Derrick’s.
Derrick had the sex drive of a fourteen-year-old who’d just touched his first boob, whereas Ray could go once, maybe twice a day if I were lucky. So even though I missed my husband every day, I couldn’t deny the way my body, and often my heart, felt when I was with Derrick. I felt as if I’d finally met my match, someone whose needs mirrored my own, whose urges and cravings were my urges and cravings, someone who was always up for it and would never turn me down.
“Will you let me try something?” His breath warm on my neck.
“Yes.” Not even caring what it was. I just wanted him to touch me, to get me to the point where I no longer cared about anything but his body making my body hum.
“Do you even want to know what it is?” His voice like a zephyr in my ear.
“No…I trust you.”
He groaned. “Oh, baby.” He scooped me up and carried me down the hallway to our room.
We didn’t even bother to shower first before falling into bed. The sheets were covered in blue paint within seconds, and our faces and bodies were smeared as well, as we humped and rocked against one another. Peeling away clothes and attacking one another with our mouths. And then he slowly sunk onto his belly and poised his face at the juncture of my legs. I looked down at him, swallowing in anticipation, but also missing the weight of him. I loved it when he covered me. I felt safe. A curious finger slipped inside, and I clenched my muscles around it, shamelessly lifting and bucking my hips, begging him for more.
His laugh was rough and husky as he continued to explore. “You’re so wet.”
“Mhmm.” I pushed up again, searching for friction.
“You’re wet for me.”
“Mhmm.” I was frantic, desperate for more, but he wasn’t giving it to me. He was teasing me, torturing me, and damned if I didn’t love it. My body was already on the cusp, and I’m not sure it’d even been sixty seconds.
“I want to make you scream, Piper.” The man and his dirty talk. Just his words alone sent a stab of need straight to my clit.
I bit my lip; he was just gently swirling his finger around my entrance. “Yes…please.”
“Let me know when you feel it,” he murmured, biting my inner thigh.
“Feel wha —oh!”
He grinned. “That.”
“What…what are you doing?”
“You’ve never had anyone press on your G-spot before?” he asked, before flicking his tongue out like a serpent and letting it hit the tip of my clit. My leg spasmed, and he snickered low and deep against the top of my mound.
“I-I guess not. I mean guys have tried…b-but I’ve never felt…whoa…I’ve never felt anything like this before. Does that mean they weren’t able to find it?”
“Maybe. Does it feel good?”
I nodded. It felt bloody incredible. A pressure unlike I’d ever felt before. There was no rubbing, no circles, he was merely pushing against my anterior wall as hard as he could, and my body was slowly getting ready to implode.
“It’s like a come button. I…I feel the orgasm brewing inside me; I feel it building. But…but it’s not like any orgasm I’ve had before. I feel like I need to pee. Stop. I don’t want to pee.”
But he didn’t stop; he just kept pressing. Wedging in a second finger and pressing even harder, all the while that sneaky tongue would randomly dart out and just graze my clit. Nothing for too long, just enough to wake up every nerve ending in my body and put it on high alert.
“Do you want me to stop, Piper? Or do you want to have the most intense orgasm of your fucking life?”
Well, when he put it that way. “I don’t want to pee, though. I feel like I’m going to pee.”
“You won’t pee. That’s how you’re supposed to feel. That means I’m hitting the right spot. I promise, you won’t pee, and even if you do, I don’t care.”
My head thrashed against the pillow. The orgasm was right around the corner, I could feel it, hell I could practically see it, it was going to be huge.
“Piper?”
“Yes!” Knowing that he wanted me to beg him, and desperately wanting to give him what he wanted. “Make me come, Derrick, please make me come!”
He growled against my clit. “Fuck, I love it when you beg.” He pressed even harder inside me, let his tongue dart out and brush my clit, one, twice, three times, and then, I lost my mind.
An endless of parade of divine sensations swirled around inside me as the orgasm took hold, unfurling until my entire body felt like one giant maelstrom of pleasure, from the tips to my toes to the ends of my hair. I arched my back and pressed up into his face and fingers, while my legs cramped and my toes curled. I gripped the sheets until my knuckles ached, but the orgasm just kept on going. I heard the blood pumping in my ears, while my ragged breath and strident cries threatened to wake the neighbors. But none of that mattered, what mattered was Derrick, and how incredible, how alive he made me feel.
It was several moments before I was me again, before I was Piper and not just a shell of my former self, while my soul floated up overhead, watching my body writhe in pure unadulterated ecstasy.
His head popped up like a pleased-as-punch prairie dog, and he scooted up to join me at the top of the bed. “Good?”
I swallowed. “I believe a wise man once said to me… and I’m paraphrasing here, no, a blowjob is good. That wasn’t a blowjob, that was a complete and total mindfuck with a blowjob thrown in. That was insane. Holy fuck, man, where the hell’d you learn to do that?”
He started to laugh. “Well, that wasn’t a blowjob, first of all. That was a finger—”
But I cut him off. “Oh God, please don’t call it a finger-blast or
a finger-bang. We’re not in high school, and I freaking hate those terms. They’re so…”
“Dirty?”
I nodded. “Yeah, dirty.”
He smiled wolfishly. “Oh, but baby, I thought you liked dirty.”
I made a face. “Some dirt I like. But I hate the terms finger-blast and finger-bang.”
“Then stop saying them.” He chuckled. “How about we just call it straight up fingering?”
I made another face similar to the one before. “Hand-job?”
He frowned in thought. “But it wasn’t really a hand-job. A hand-job for you would be fisting. Do you want me to try fisting?”
“Hell no!” I pushed him playfully in the chest.
“But you want me to continue to call it a hand-job?”
I nodded. “Yeah, that sounds classier than finger-bang.”
“Classier?” He leaped up onto his knees, a cute little what the fuck? expression on his Face. “You think the term hand-job is classier than finger-bang?”
“Stop saying finger-bang!”
“Finger-bang! Finger-bang! Finger-bang!”
“Oh, my God!” I couldn’t hide my smile; the man was absolutely adorable. “How old are you?”
“Thirty-one, going on fourteen. How old are you?”
I rolled my eyes. “Just the other day you were thirty-one going on seventy-five, by the way. You were talking about millennials and their disgusting Randy Marsh Ball Pants. What changed?”
His face sobered, and he paused for a moment. He finally shrugged and plastered on a big, perhaps a tad too big to be genuine, smile. “Call it a brush with mortality. You, me, we had a gun pointed at us recently… twice! Makes you stop and think about life a little differently, no? That none of us is here forever, and we never know when our last day on earth is going to be, or how or when we’re going to go. Might as well embrace the fun and adventures when they present themselves.”
“Is that why you were all of a sudden the Smurfiest Smurf at the party? Dancing and singing, doing tequila shots and crazy back-flips into the pool? Because you think tomorrow we might get shot by some deranged gunman?”
