by Reiss, CD
“I know.” I leaned my head on his back. “You’re a big ho.”
“Only for you these days.”
I hoped my sigh wasn’t audible through the microphone. I knew I was choosing to believe him, and that choice was conscious, and thus, fallible. I knew he could walk out on me at any minute, for any reason. If he really was over his wife, he could look for a more permanent mate with whom he had more in common, like money, and social standing, and similar friends and interests.
But I chose, maybe unwisely, to believe he wanted me for more than a short time because it made me happy to think it.
I was screwed.
He turned off the freeway at Carson, and after a few more quick pivots, he slowed in front of a grassy, floodlit field where a blimp was parked.
“We made it,” he said, pulling up to the chain-link fence around the field’s perimeter. A man in a white shirt and vinyl jacket approached us with a clipboard. Jonathan took off his helmet. His hair was a complete wreck, a school of wild-armed starfish backlit by floodlights. He fingerbrushed it and faced the man with the clipboard.
“Mister Drazen?”
“Yeah.”
“You just made it. Park the bike in the lot to the left. Have fun.”
“How are they doing?” asked Jonathan. I took off my helmet. I could only imagine what my hair looked like. A bunch of broken strings in the same backlighting, no doubt. And the little braid I’d left coming from my part probably looked like a dreadlock.
“Down two in the second. Having trouble getting men on base,” the man with the clipboard said.
Jonathan shook his head and started the bike again. We cruised to the center of the lot and parked by a sheet metal trailer held up by a cinderblock foundation. He put the kickstand down and leaned the bike over until it was stable.
“What was that?” I asked, dismounting first. “The game? They’re losing already?”
He got off and set the bike straight. “Apparently.”
“Are we going on the blimp?”
“If you’re good.”
“And we’re going to Dodger Stadium? Maybe? I don’t want to assume, but the second blimp always comes about the fifth inning.” I was trying to keep my shit together, but I’d lived my whole life in the Stadium’s backyard and had never found a way to even get into a playoff game. When I knew the right people, the team had been in the basement. During good years, I’d been hanging with people who didn’t “do” sports because organized team activities were uncreative, uncivilized, and boorish.
“Yes,” Jonathan said. “We’re going to see the game from the sky if you move that tight little ass. They won’t wait.”
I jumped on him. I couldn’t help it. I’m only made of flesh and blood, and that blood is Dodger blue. I kissed his face and wrapped my legs around him. He caught me, hitched me up by the backs of the knees, and started for the blimp. The white noise was deafening, and before he let me down, I said in his ear, “Thank you.”
He took my hand, smiling as if he was pleased to see me so happy, and we ran across the grass to the huge machine. It was bigger than I’d imagined. Massive. Overwhelming. A tire company’s name was written across it in letters two or three times my height. I couldn’t hear any of the men who greeted us, but I put on my customer service smile. In this case, it couldn’t have been more genuine.
We were hustled into a gondola with six seats facing front. The two at the windshield were pilot and copilot. Jonathan and I were guided in behind that, and behind us were two men who appeared to be businessmen. We were surrounded by windows, but Jonathan made sure I got the seat closest to a view. I jumped in. I wanted to talk to him, but it was simply too loud. The copilot gave us headphones with mikes on them.
I heard Jonathan say, “Can you hear me?”
“Yes,” I replied. “Can you hear me?”
“Loud and clear.”
“Baby,” I said, smiling until I felt my face might snap in two, “I’m a sure thing tonight.”
Everyone in the cabin cracked up. Of course they could all hear me. Jonathan put his arm around me and pulled me to him, kissing my forehead while he laughed. I buried my head in his chest.
“Don’t worry, miss,” said the pilot, his voice loud and clear. “We get that a lot.” After a pause, he continued. “I’m Larry. This here is my copilot, Rango. We’ll be heading for East Los Angeles in a few seconds, set to arrive at Dodger Stadium in about forty minutes. Hold on, takeoff can be a little jarring for first timers. Buckle in.”
The noise got even louder. I found my buckles and strap. Jonathan helped me click in, then he took my hand. Seconds later, I felt as if I was being launched from a rocket. Larry turned a wooden steering wheel set between his seat and Rango’s.
“I’ll have the game on,” Rango chimed in. “We’re in the bottom of the fourth against the New York Yankees. Cashen is pitching for the Yanks as we speak.”
I closed my eyes and heard Jonathan’s voice. “Open your eyes. These flights are hard to get, even for me.”
I opened them and looked at him in the darkened cabin. He touched my cheek and smiled, and I felt protected and secure. Even if it was an illusion, knowing he was there made me feel less like I was shooting out a cannon and more like I was on a fun trip I wouldn’t have dreamed up for myself.
The city spread beneath us in a blanket of lights made of a plaid of streets, freeways, and floodlit parks. I couldn’t tear my eyes away. We were low enough to see cars and people but high enough to turn them into dots of velocity and intention. Everyone was headed somewhere, and we were above, passing in the wind.
The game wasn’t going well for my team. I listened without discussion as another inning went by with three men stranded on base, a pitcher who threw balls that were fouled off until I knew he must be exhausted, and a beaner that may have left star hitter Jose Inuego with a concussion.
I felt Jonathan leaning over me to see the window. He rested his chin on my shoulder, then his lips landed on my neck. Leaning there, we looked out the window together. The gondola chilled as the minutes went by, and though we had jackets, I put my hand on his and found his fingers icy. I moved one of his hands between my knees to warm it and folded the other in mine. We stayed like that, looking out the window, his chest to my back, his chin on my neck, and his hands warmed by my body, until I saw Elysian Park. I probably could have picked my house out from there.
“Look!” I sounded like a kid. “I can see it!”
It seemed to take as long to get over the stadium from the moment I saw it as it took for us to get to Los Angeles from Carson. Another blimp passed us, heading away from the game. Larry and Rango waved at the pilots. I was filled with contentment and a feeling of rightness, of being a part of something bigger than myself. I’d only felt that during orchestra practice in college, and only when everything was going right. The percussionist was spot on, the conductor spoke in a manual language as easy to understand as the written word, and we all followed as if lifted by the same tide.
As the feeling slipped away, I wanted nothing more than to recapture it. I pulled my headphones off and faced Jonathan. His eyes were visible from the lights on the pilot’s dashboard. He pulled his microphone out of the way. I kissed him, and I didn’t care who saw. I molded my lips to his and fed him my tongue. He took his hand from between my knees and put it to my cheek, warmed from my body, gentle to the touch. I extended that feeling of rightness for another minute until the gondola seemed to blaze with light.
I opened my eyes. We were right over the stadium. I took one last look at Jonathan and mouthed the words, Sure thing.
He mouthed back, I know, and I smiled.
I’d never seen a game like that before, and I found it disconcerting initially. I was used to television, where I could see every twitch and nod of the pitcher, and live games from the bleachers, where I could tell the direction of the ball from the sound it made coming off the bat. From the blimp, the players looked like white flowers on
a perfect lawn.
I put my headphones back on and leaned into the window. The announcer was going on about pitch counts and men on base, and I heard the guys in the gondola doing much the same. The Yanks were up. Men on first and third. One out. Harvey Rodriguez was on deck.
Larry cut the engine, and the noise reduced. “We’re gonna hover until a commercial, then fire it up again.”
Jonathan put his lips to my ear. “Rodriguez is a lefty. They’re going for a double play. Watch the infield.” The shortstop and third baseman took two steps toward first. “They step toward right field because a lefty pulls that way, and forward to get the ball on the jump so they can pop it to second on the force play. And they’re playing it a little forward because there’s a guy on third who can go for the steal on a wild pitch or a sac fly.”
“But what if the fly is shallow? They’ll miss it, and it’ll be a mess. The outfield just came in a little, too. I mean, Rodriguez barely has to work to sac a guy in.”
“You take your chances. They’re down by two, so if a guy strolls home on a sac fly, it’s a bummer, but there’s not much difference in the middle of the game between being down two and down three. There’s more to gain with the double play.”
Rodriguez walked. Bases were loaded. Some moments in a ball game were more important than others. They weren’t the grand slams or the fat, bobbling errors at shortstop. They were the bases-loaded, one-man-out moments where either someone scored or someone was stopped dead. They were unpredictable, uncontrollable, and oftentimes silent as death. Like the one extra foul ball that would have been a third strike. Or the pitcher catching the line drive that would have sent a man or two home. Or a walk to load the bases.
“I can’t watch.” I covered my eyes. I couldn’t see anything from up there anyway. I just saw dots move around and heard the broadcast. But Jonathan reached from behind me and took my wrists, pulling them down.
“Come on. Play with me. Don’t bail.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, joking on his use of the word play. The infield moved way in, practically to where the dirt met the grass, and Jonathan’s arms tightened. His hands, now warm, draped over my crossed forearms. “I know they’re playing in to catch the guy at home plate if they have to,” I said.
“Yes.” He kissed my neck once, twice, three times, each one softer than the one before. Each lingered longer than the last. I tingled all over, and it took all my self-control to keep from bending my head back and leaning into him. I would have looked exactly like what I was: a woman in heat.
We were interrupted by the crack of a bat through the headphones we’d taken off. The white flowers scuttled across the lawn. The shortstop fielded the ball, got it to second, and then Val Renault, an unimposing fielder known for his hitting, got the ball out of his hand and to first quickly and accurately enough to complete the double play.
Inning over.
An hour and a half later, the game ended with the Dodgers winning by a run and forcing a seventh game. The six passengers on the gondola erupted at the last out. We high-fived and cheered and headed back to Carson.
CHAPTER 8.
MONICA
I was a little wobbly getting off the gondola, but Jonathan put his arm around me and pulled me close as we went back to the bike. We thanked the employees we passed as they got the blimp back into place with ropes and pulleys. If their attitudes were any indication, managing a tire company’s blimp was the most gratifying job in the world.
We approached the bike holding hands. “Thank you,” I said. “That was probably in my top five dates ever.”
“Top five?”
“Top four, maybe.”
He faced me. “What?”
I shrugged. “It was a compliment.”
He pressed his lips between his teeth. Before I could decide if he was suppressing rage or laughter, he ducked and thrust forward, throwing me over his shoulder. I squealed and kicked, bouncing as he ran. He pushed me against the side of the metal shed with a clang, pressing my shoulders to the wall.
“Name your top three. I’ll beat them.”
“With what?” I asked.
“I’ll take you to the fucking moon and have you back in time for bed.”
“Oh, Jonathan. The moon? Really?” I rolled my eyes.
He just smiled, all teeth and joy. “You’re getting such a spanking tonight.”
“Kiss me first,” I said. “Maybe you’ll get in the top three.”
He took my hands and yanked them over my head, then kissed me. Or to be more accurate, he attacked me with his body. He pinned my hands hard and pushed his cock against me, grinding his lips against mine. His tongue filled me without finesse, as if he was fucking my mouth. I pushed myself against him in a rhythm until I groaned. I had to have him. He pushed back against me as if trying to get me, through our clothes, to beg for him.
“Hello,” came a voice. Jonathan let my arms go and looked around. It was one of the guys who had wrestled the blimp to the ground. “We’re closing up here.”
“Thanks,” Jonathan said without a hint of embarrassment or shame. He popped my helmet off the bike and handed it to me. A smile spread across his face like an uncontrollable oil spill. I took the helmet with the same grin.
The ride home passed with few words. I just rested against him with my hand under his shirt, feeling his warmth. I didn’t stroke or caress him at eighty miles an hour, though the temptation was distracting.
He pulled the bike into my driveway. It was midnight, or close to it, and I was sore all over. “You coming in?” I asked, looping his finger in mine. He yanked me to him.
“We playing? Or am I just throwing you down and fucking you?”
Both options held appeal. Something hot and sweaty before an utter collapse into oblivion would be nice, and I’d be fresh and bright in the morning for work. But when he said “playing,” I felt wetness condense between my legs, and a shiver went up my spine. I let my finger drop from his and put my arms to my sides. I wanted to be under his control, under his dominance, under him. I wanted to forget myself in him and to forget the shame of wanting it so badly.
“I’d like to play again,” I said, then added, “Sir.”
“Up to the porch with you then, and wait for me.” When I turned around to go, he slapped my ass hard. I gasped and strode up the steps.
Jonathan dismounted and, instead of coming right up the porch, stood on the sidewalk. He looked up at the house, then crossed the street and did the same. He jogged back and came past my chain-link fence. “You’re wide open to the street.”
“Sir?”
“It means you have to keep your clothes on until we get inside.”
My street, partly because of the hill and partly because of the neighborhood, was dead at night. If two people passed between midnight and eight in the morning, it would be a newsworthy event. I had the feeling it didn’t matter. He stared at me, calculating. I knew that look. He was constructing the game. He faced the street and me, feet planted on my porch, and said, “Step over here, my little goddess.”
I did it, heart pounding with anticipation. My back faced the street.
“Unbutton your jeans.”
I popped them.
“Unzip, please.”
I did, showing my garter belt and the tops of my new, already-christened lingerie. He stroked my stomach, his finger grazing the top of the lace.
“Touch yourself.”
He watched my hand go down my pants. Between the sweet, secret caresses in the blimp, and the bike ride home, I was ready for him. I shuddered when my fingers found my swollen, soaked pussy. I buckled with pleasure, and he held my chin.
