Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Wanderlust part 44 "I like it in my hair"
Ugh. Sorry I'm late, kids. I woke this morning at four a.m. sick as a dog. Cold sweats, legs made out of wet spaghetti noodles, the whole nine yards. It's been a loooooong time since the man had to help me from one room to another because I was too weak to walk, but that was the lovely scene this morning before the sun even came up.
I'm awake, the kidlets have fended for themselves, and though I still feel like blech, I do feel better than earlier. Thank god. So I am running very slow, but I am running.
Here we go. Part 44...
by Sommer Marsden
“What exactly are we looking at?”
“The world’s biggest ball of paint.”
Actually we were looking at a shed. The shed was closed. You needed to get an appointment and we hadn’t so we were looking at the structure that held the world’s biggest ball of paint.
He handed me a picture printed from the internet. I read how it started as a baseball and how all the paint had been applied in layers over time and…
“What the fuck is this for?” I was laughing. Hard. Tears rolled out of my eyes and I felt another swarm of hysterical giggled coming out of me.
Johnny was trying to keep a straight face. And failing. It was reassuring to see him lose control a little—in a good way.
“I just think it’s fitting to us, is all.”
“How?” I yelped. I tossed my head back and laughed at the maroon liner of his old, ugly car. I laughed until I thought my burger might come up. After we left the motel we drove through a burger joint. Three bites of greasy sandwich hadn’t held me and after morning sex like that I had been ravenous.
“Because look!” He pointed to the ball of paint and then the baseball it had started out as. “No matter how much paint he puts on it, no matter how many layers are added, under it all it’s still…”
He pressed his lips together, those wolfish blue eyes shining with mirth.
“Yes?”I prompted and then slapped my hand over my mouth when another burble of laughter tried to escape.
“It’s still a goddamn baseball, Really!” he finished, trying to sound gruff.
“Thank you for the lesson, Mr…” I snorted, hung my head.
I shook my head—more tears, more laughter, I couldn’t speak.
He grabbed my head in one big hand and gently turned me so I faced him. “Mister what?” he asked softly, grinning.
I tried to shake my head but couldn’t move.
“Mister what?” he asked again.
“Mph-eg-hee.” I mumbled and then snorted some more. I was damn near sick with laughter.
I stared him right in the face and wheezed, “Miyagi.” And then I was gone. Laughing again, tears rolling down the still wet tracks where the others had already been.
He looked into my eyes, face dead fucking serious. I had a moment of doubt, where I thought he was truly hurt. I thought I had truly angered him.
Then Johnny sighed and said, “Wax on. Wax off.”
And we were both done for. Nothing but laughter filled the inside of the car until he put it in gear, flipped the radio on.
You’re the only girl I know, that really loves me so in the midnight hour. In the midnight hour…
I took a breath, letting Wilson Pickett wash over me. Johnny said in my ear, his breath hot, his presence huge, “Say good-bye, Indiana.”
“Good-bye, Indiana!” I yelled.
Good-bye, Fallon, and hurt and worry. Good-bye not good enoughs, and pouting over being set free by my father. Good-bye Aurelia who existed in Indiana…Hello,…
“What’s next?” I asked.
“Illinois,” he said.
Hello, Really who’s waiting in Illinois…
“I haven’t a clue. Let’s find out.”
I slept through most of Illinois, damn it. I did not dream of cliff diving or dead mothers with dead boys. I didn’t dream. At all. I woke to that particular siren song that tires on blacktop have. It drilled up into my head, rattling my bones. My head had drifted as I slept and I imagined myself tipping to one side as we flew down the highway. The human equivalent of a dilapidated structure collapsing under its own weight.
My head was resting on Johnny’s side, half on his belly, half along his ribs. I could feel his heartbeat in my head keeping counter-time with the song of the tires. He had one big hand cradling my hip and the other piloting the Chevy.
The radio was turned down way low but I could still hear the latest airwave offering. I’ve been looking so long at these pictures of you. That I almost believe that they’re real…
How old was I that The Cure conjured the same kind of reminiscence that The Platters did for my grandparents? I smiled.
“You awake?” His voice a low rush and rumble of words.
“Now how could you tell?”
“Your body went from super slack to only vaguely slack. You’re very aware, Aurelia. Always on those toes, Snowflake.”
The use of my name and his personal nickname for me back to back felt both right and odd.
“I’m awake. Where the fuck are we?”
“Barreling toward Iowa.”
“Is that a corn place?”
“Think maybe so. Not sure. We’ll hit the rest stop and see what’s going on in good old Iowa when we come upon it.”
Flashes of our morning rolled fast and liquid through my mind. I remembered the sound of his breathing when I’d sucked his blood of my finger. How he’s gathered me to him, intent and unstoppable. His hands on me, his lips on my skin, his mouth on my sex. The way he felt sliding home—so fast and sure and yet so perfectly—and then rocking me to that second orgasm. Those eyes on my face and the smell of shave gel and sex in the air. All of it came flooding back to me to the point where I could taste his kisses.
I let my head slide down his belly, let my ear find a home in his lap. I moved my head just so—oh, I knew what I was doing—and felt his cock spring up hard and eager under my head. That fast. Like breathing.
What a rush that was. To get him hard do fast. It was such a rush that I felt my own wetness pool in my panties. I felt my body flicker and remember just what Johnny Rose could do for it. Could do to it. My fingers worked at his zipper and he laughed—a short startled bark.
“What are you doing, Really?” His hand tangled with mine briefly but it really wasn’t so hard to bat it away. Which meant he wanted it.
I got the zipper down with a tug and with him giving me just an inch of adjustment. He barely moved a hair, but enough that I could peel the metal teeth free of one another and get him in hand. His cock—long, hard, warm. I smelled him. The clean cotton, soap, man scent of him. I inhaled him deeply and then touched the tip of my tongue to the wet tip of his cock. Pressing hard to that slit, already pregnant with a gem of pre-cum.
“You’re going to make me crash the car,” he said.
“This car is a tank. It can take it,” I teased.
I sucked him in deeper. Moving my head so I could take the full length of him. My fingers moving restlessly over his jeans. I slipped my hand between his legs to cup his balls. I wished they were bare. I wished he were bare. I wished we were naked, barreling down this dark highway with me riding on his lap. Him fucking me. I could steer and he could thrust up under me and…
I gasped, feeling my pussy flicker with the runaway dirty thoughts in my head. When I gasped, he groaned and I pushed my mouth down over him again, attacking the soft-skinned shaft with my tongue. Licking that thick vein that ran from the base of his dick up the back. I did it again, loving the feel of lifeblood under my lips.
“Jesus,” he said.
“Just drive,” I said and moved so I had a better angle.
I sucked him deep, grabbing greedy gulps of air through my nose. I sucked and then licked until his hips moved with a tamed kind of frenzy because he was propelling tons of steel down a fast moving road.
I squeezed his balls, sucked, pulled free of him and swirled my tongue around the flared head. I looked up at him and in the passing lights he saw my gaze—met it—and then I slowly sucked him into the humid depths of my mouth again.
“Come for me,” I said. “Please come for me.”
He clenched his jaw and shook his head and said, “Fuck, Really, you don’t have to ask.”
“I want to ask. Come for me,” I said again. And then I confessed. “In my mouth but on my face too and in…”
He looked at me, waiting. One raised eyebrow his only question.
“In my hair,” I whispered. “I like it in my hair.”
And that was the truth. One I had damn well never said aloud. My free hand crept between my legs, under my leggings, working myself—wet and slippery and slick with my admission.
It only took another few wet ministrations to get his breath short and raging. It only took one more deep, long suck to get a groan to burst free of him and when he said “Fuck” again, the warm salty eruption coated my tongue, splashed my cheek and dotted my sleep tousled hair like little jewels.
I came with him, a great gasping orgasm that shook me down to my fine finger bones. And then I sat up, wiped my cheek but proudly wore the evidence of his want of me in bed head crazy hair.
It didn’t matter. We were the only two people there to see.