I was totally hard right now and today was the first time I had taken a nap out by the pool. Tan lines bugged me, so I was completely naked. I slowly stretched out my arms and legs and focused my eyes on the world around me.
Maybe I'll lie here for a while longer. My mom won't be home for another three hours. Summer school was exhausting--being in the same class for five hours!
Ugh! I don't want to do this again next year. I want my last year of high school to be fun.
Three more weeks and I'll be done. As I thought about what I wanted to do with the rest of my afternoon, I looked around the yard and over the fence at the other houses in the neighborhood. They all looked the same with their, narrow lots, earth-tone stucco, and dark tile roofs.
All the trees were short and I could see some of the second story windows in the neighboring houses. I wondered if anyone had seen me. Was I still hard?
Not as much. Maybe I better rethinnk this napping naked out by the pool business. That's when I spotted him.
He was watching me from an upstairs window in the house next door. I froze, my arms still extended out beyond my head, but relaxed. As I lay there on my back, I felt a tingle in my loins.
He knew that I knew that he was watching me. Shit. Maybe I'll just get up and quietly go inside.
But for some reason, I stayed there on the chaise lounge and even stretched out my arms and legs a little further. I even managed a slight smile and he smiled back and gave me a thumbs up. Okay, this isn't so bad.
In fact, I was getting hard again. There was something very exciting for me about lying here naked with my arms and legs stretched out in all directions feeling the weight of his gaze all over my smooth slender frame. Who was he?
We were both wondering what I was going to do next. Continue reading
He turned the engine off; leaving the keys in the ignition, and let them just tap the top of his knee in their swaying.
He gripped the tip of a cigarette, and remembered that wasn’t healthy.
He placed the cigarette in his mouth anyway, his dry and sticky lips gluing the paper in an unbreakable hello.
He closed his eyes and inhaled.
Near and dark, the air swelling in his mouth, tainted from a drug, but not of the drug.
Deep breathing a nicotine ghost, he continued the smoking pantomime until he grew light-headed.
The cell phone began the Flight of the Bumble Bee, with its antenna lighting up in strobe-light neon blue—the ringing was visual in breaking up the dusky and heavy-lidded interior of the truck.
He let it ring.
In pulling the dampened cigarette out of his mouth, a little skin from the inside of his lips went too, and a small dot of slobber crowned at one corner of his mouth.
He sucked it in, swiping at it with the tip of his tongue.
The phone stopped ringing.
Adjustments occurred, and a shift of his ass forward to a more comfortable position, earned a peeling squeak from his warm jeans on the truck’s softened leather.
Warm and a little damp, from sitting so long on the cowhide, the jeans sighed in relaxing—and became one more unnoticeable thing.
The Flight of the Bumble Bee started up again with it’s accompanying blue light show, and he grabbed the chirping bird, stroked it’s head, and tossed it to the floorboard—a quiet, little piece of plastic.
If he had hair to run his hand through, he might have seemed more dignified, bowed over the wheel, his hand to his head—paused at the solution to 59 down and 12 across… It was a thought knocking on the womb, saying—“Hello, I’m here now.
Everything should be clear…” kind of pose.
However since his head was as shiny as a Deep South elementary school wooden paddle--because thwacking rubs the edge of off things—his head was shaved.
A sweaty hand gripping a baldhead is not as good in conversation as the hand running through thick hair—then paused at an important point mid-strand—only to continue its journey in a flourish and a shake.
Much like missed teeth the nape of a neck, or the bony nub on the back of his skull, the cold air outside was infecting the truck window besides him.
He leaned into the square pane, and in knuckles touching glass—he was suddenly touching autumn, and he could taste the golden red leaves in the air.
He was jumping and running with steam and smoke coming out of his nose—a small boy’s smile in that kind of cold chilled your teeth—and made the closing of lips all the more meaningful to the smile.
He was wondering how long it would take, since he had turned the cell phone off.
He didn’t look at the green-segmented clock in the truck’s dash; his body would tell him when it was time.
There’s a certain memory of the muscle that never goes away, when you are near your perfect fear.
Perfect fear simply means the absolute right fear, at the absolute Continue reading