I moved my mouth down his cock, taking his head deep into the back of my throat. He moaned deeply, from his diaphragm, and the animal sounds he made created a deeper, hotter lust in me. I reached up and massaged his balls. He'd shaven or had it done when he'd manscaped, and with my soapy hands I slipped his balls around like they were toys, driving him even more crazy with passion. I loved the power I held.
He had me by the ears now, holding on, like he was on a roller coaster and didn't want to stop. With my other hand, I reached around and grabbed his ass, which, by the way, was still hairy, which was good, because I might have been a little freaked if he'd waxed his butt cheeks. He had a tight, muscular ass, and I decided to slap it as hard as I could. Hey, you see the guys do this all the time, turnabout is fair play, right?
His wet ass took the slap with a sting. I'm sure because he yelped. Not in pain, but in pleasure.
"More," he said.
I slapped his ass again and focused my tongue on the head of his dick. I think I lost myself to sucking and spanking because I took my other hand, soaped it up, and slid a finger into his ass. Now generally, this is not something you can spring on a partner without warning, but, hell, he'd touched me like this two nights ago--so I figured--as with the slap, it was like the saying, 'what's good for the goose is good for the gander.'
And you know, why not?
He didn't object, in fact, he moaned even more like a jungle animal. I was nuts with lust, sucking the head of his cock, slapping his ass, fingering his forbidden spot.
He moved his hands to the back of my head and pushed. He wanted to be deep inside me again, and I took as much of his beefy cock as I could.
"I'm going to explode, Jess. I'm coming. Fuck. You don't mind?"
Always the gentleman, I guess. I suppose we should have discussed this earlier, but the fact is I love giving head and don't mind the occasional load shot into my mouth--I mean as long as it's not a habit or expectation. I do prefer to have a man come with me face-to-face. Those missionaries weren't all bad...
I nodded my head as I continued to suck, I wasn't about to stop and speak to him.
I drove my finger a little deeper and made a ring around his nuts with my other hand. I tugged gently.
I could feel his cum as it pumped in waves into my throat. Holy fucking Christ, I practically climaxed myself it was so hot.
"Jesus Christ," he said.
I turned, spit, and looked up at him. "You like?"
"Would you marry me?" he deadpanned.
I laughed.
"Hold on," he said.
He left the shower, and I rinsed. Thank God for endless hot water. When he returned, he held out a multi-colored glass dildo. Artistic, and functional, by the looks of it.
"A gift, something to remember me with--you know--when you're back in Cali."
"Thank you," I said. I took the phallic glass and washed it in soapy hot water. "I assume you want a show?"
"To remember you by," he said smiling and nodding his head.
I gave him a performance.
Spreading my legs, and rubbing my tits, I sat on the bathroom counter so that I could see myself in the mirror, but also in such a way that I could see him watching me.
Seeing him watch me was super hot. If you've never got off using a glass dildo, sitting on a bathroom countertop, while a hot stud watches you, you haven't lived.
Moving the curved toy into my pussy, I marveled at how something so hard and unforgiving could feel so soft and slick. I played with my nipples while moving the phallic rod faster and harder. I moaned as I began my climax and lost sight of the fact that Kirk was watching me.
In my own world, I came vigorously, hard, and with convulsing satisfaction.
I trusted this man and liked him. I'd never let myself go like that before--sure--I've rubbed my clit during sex, and even gotten off by myself with a lame ass boyfriend (who would habitually fall asleep after he'd taken care of his needs), but this was different.
I was experiencing a new freedom.
Being able to pleasure myself, to moan, to cry out, and to pant like a crazed animal, while a man stood there watching me was liberating.
Seeing me feel the little death that comes with an orgasm while I watched him watch was like experiencing a new kind of drug, maybe I would marry him someday?
Wouldn't that be a fucking riot?
To make a plan, to date fifty-two different men, and then end up with the first one I liked?
Funny. Ironic. Oh, fucking clichéd as hell...poor Kirk...maybe he didn’t stand a chance...
Hell, I'd only seen and rejected two other guys. As tempting as it was to change my plans, and see how things could go with Kirk, I had to admit we'd only just met in person a few days ago. Online, sure, we'd talked and exchanged emails for a while, and I knew he was a good guy. But I needed to follow through with my goal. If I changed course, I'd regret the decision for the rest of my life.
If I ended up choosing Kirk, in the end, we'd always have this memory, and it was fucking insanely delicious.
CHAPTER NINE
Wait, young man. You cannot escape destiny by running away!
~Professor Bulwer, Nosferatu (1922)
Destiny is malleable.
~ Jessica
KIRK SPENT THE NIGHT WITH ME. Last night was wonderful. After our shower fun, we'd ordered a take out pizza (we only fought a little bit about the toppings, he let me win, more points scored).
We watched a vampire flick. No, I didn't make him watch Twilight, trust me, I've seen it a dozen times. Instead, we picked an oldie, well, an oldie from my perspective: The Hunger, from 1983. I got a bit melancholy seeing a young and vibrant David Bowie. I wish people lived forever, or at least longer, but that's not in the cards. Like in poker, eventually you go bust.
The movie has a hot lesbian scene, Susan Sarandon and Catherine Deneuve. Beautiful music, and extremely erotic filmography. Go ahead; it's on Youtube. I'll wait.
Hot, yes?
It lit my fire.
We had to pause the movie.
I told Kirk about my little Stella fantasy, and he made me feel safe talking about it. My attraction to him was growing. He was kind and sensitive, yet still a man's man. Strong and confident. He wasn't afraid to tease me and confront me, but he was also a compassionate listener.
He heard me when I talked.
"Monday, Monday," he sang.
"Can't trust that day," I said.
"Every other day of the weeeeeeek..."
"God. You have to be at work soon?"
"A couple hours. Breakfast?"
WE ATE TOGETHER in the hotel's cafe, not wanting to drive anywhere. We both were feeling down, knowing I was heading back to LA in a short few hours, and he had to go back to his job and his normal life, not knowing if he'd see me again.
"I do want to keep in contact," I said. Comforting voice. I meant it, too. I was smitten with him, but I just couldn't commit to anything permanent or exclusive.
"I know. It's just not the same. But I respect what you're doing. I mean that. I wish you the best."
"Thanks."
"I'm hoping you'll have another tournament close by?"
"I'm sure. I'll let you know. I want to see you again, too. Really. I've had a great time this weekend."
After breakfast, I walked with him to the lobby.
"I guess this is bye for now," he said.
"Kiss me," I whispered.
He did. It was a soft, slow, sensual kiss. It said everything I needed to hear. I want you. I'll be a good man to you if you'll let me. I'm the one.
I watched him leave.
As I stood there, tears flowed. I'm not sure why. Knowing I have to travel makes me melancholy, especially after a poker loss. Often, after busting out of a tournament, I'll stick around with the other losers and make my money back in a ring game. Cash games are often the money makers for pros. Tournaments are fun, but quite a few of the day-to-day grinding-it-out cash players swear that cash gam
es are what pay their bills.
Not me. I'm more of a tourney chick. Sure, I love cash games too, but my gig is traveling to the tourneys, following the tour.
I have a lot of guy friends on the circuit. Yes, I know I called them degenerates. They are. Ha ha. But friends is all; I was serious about not dating poker players. Never. That's a deal breaker.
I wiped the tears off my face.
"Mom."
I didn't know why I spoke her name, but I was thinking a lot about her lately. She was a great woman, I could talk to her about anything, and so could a lot of my friends. And I don't just mean about things like your period, or your first kiss, or your first time having sex, I mean anything. I had girlfriends in high school that called her mom and treated her as if she was a queen. I always missed her most when I was sad, depressed, or lonely because those were the times I'd alway use her to comfort me.
I wonder if she felt used?
I didn't do much to comfort her.
Maybe that's not a kid’s job, but thinking about it caused my eyes to water.
Double Fuck.
I'd call my dad, but it's not the same. He's a thoughtful man, and kind. And a good listener, too. My sister is a bitch about him sometimes because her values don't line up with his, but honestly, as long as he's not raping children, I don't give a shit about who he fucks, or who he drinks with, or where he lives. I want him to have a great life. I hope he lives for a long time. Dealing with one dead parent is enough.
I packed my bags and prepared to get out of the hotel.
Glass dildo, check.
No underwear under there? Check.
I double checked the drawers.
I looked under the bed a second time.
Do you do this? Or am I OCD?
I SAT IN MY ASSIGNED on the plane.
No priests, traveling missionaries, Jehovah's Witnesses, or multi-level marketers sat next to me, as far as I could tell.
I was about to turn my cell off when I noticed a couple of messages.
His text: Safe Flight. I loved being with you.
My sister's text: We need to talk about the baptism.
I sent a smiley face back to Kirk and ignored the bitch.
Really, do I need this in my life?
Probably, no. For sure, Evelyn misses mom, too. But fuck, I didn't kill her. Cancer did. So fuck. I can't be my sister's mother. But maybe I could show her some compassion?
I just wish she wasn't so extreme.
When the plane was in the air, I felt a sense of relief and read until my eyes gave out. Then I dreamt.
“ARE YOU GOING TO BET?”
"What?"
"Are you going to bet?"
A red faced demon was dealing cards. It was drooling through sharp yellow fangs and it had bright yellow eyes. I’m not sure how I knew it was a demon, but that’s what I knew.
"I don't have any money,” I said in protest. I started searching for my purse.
"Then why are you at the table?" it asked in a demanding voice.
"I don't know."
"Don't you want to save your mother?" It laughed in a mocking manner and then spit onto the table.
"Mom?"
"You have to play to save her,” it stated like a lawyer. Maybe it was a member of the bar?
"What?"
"Your mother. We have her."
"What?"
I DO NOT KNOW IF LAX is the worst designed airport in the world, or not, but it isn't hell.
I'm pretty sure of that.
I must have eaten something that didn't agree with me.
Nerves.
Stress.
I never finished the dream. I suppose it meant something...
Guilt, maybe?
Fatigue?
Fighting with my sister...
In any case, when I finally reached home, back in California, I was feeling pretty good about my journey.
Only forty-nine more men to try on.
Hell, it's like shopping for shoes.
CHAPTER TEN
One who chases after two hares won't catch even one.
~ Japanese proverb
Cats, children, and perceptive mothers are good judges when it comes to men. Two of the three are good judges of both fish and cookies, but not the same two.
~ Jessica
I WAS MAKING A LITTLE JOKE when I said Rancho Palos Verdes translated into the Ranch of the Green Cock, but to tell you the truth, I don't exactly know what it means.
Okay, I checked. Palos translates as sticks, but it can also mean trees, which sounds a lot nicer. The Ranch of the Green Trees. Yeah, whatever.
Sometimes I regret buying here, but after my huge cash in Vegas, I fell in love with the little Spanish style cottage I call home. I don't know the neighbors. In California, especially places like this, and Orange County, which is south of here, you can live for forty years in the same house and never say more than 'hey' or 'nice weather' to your neighbors.
It doesn't matter much to me. Maybe I'm a hypocrite? But online access has made the world smaller, and I like to find people I get along with as opposed to befriending people because they live or work near or with me. Most of my friends around here live in places like West Hollywood, but there was no way I was going to put myself in the middle of a hot, dirty, sticky, traffic-filled city when I could have a place by the sea. In the summer the temperature difference can be as high as 20 degrees.
And when I say 'cottage' don't imagine a little cottage in the woods, nope, I've got six thousand square feet. There's a three car garage, an entertainment room, and swimming pool with a hot tub. It's too big, really, but the location is great. It's less than a ten-minute stroll to the sand.
I have a live-in. Don't judge me.
Her name is Midori Hashimoto.
I wanted a puppy. And a cat. So I had to hire someone.
Don't judge me because I'm beautiful.
Seriously, Midori has been a widow for over 20 years. It's beautiful to hear her tell of her love for her husband and how she could never love another. So the arrangement works out perfectly for the both of us.
With my traveling, I needed someone to watch over the house and the pets. A mutual friend recommended Midori and we hit it off the minute we talked in person. She's seventy years old, but looks fifty. She's an excellent cook, a fastidious clean freak, and loves to garden.
I think she should consider finding love again, but it's none of my business, I suppose. It's just that she's so beautiful, kind, and brilliant. I hope I look that good when I'm fifty, much less seventy...to be that sharp and quick witted? Must be something in sushi.
The puppy isn't so much a puppy anymore, more like a furry baby dinosaur. Midori has her well trained. She's a Newfoundland. I love her to death. She loves me, too, but I'm sure she favors Midori who walks her and babies her--every single day.
Haiku is a rescue cat, so all I know is that he's part tabby and part cougar.
I planned it perfectly because I rescued him the day after I bought Olive from a breeder. I know, I could have adopted a puppy, too. But, I met Olive (all black and furry) and fell in love. And I've always wanted a Newfoundland. They're gentle, kind, friendly with kids, and they love to swim.
So Haiku was barely weaned and I put both of them together at the same dish.
They fell in love.
Which is good, because I've fixed them both, and this is as good as it gets.
“JESSICA, LOVE. Did you travel well?"
"Yes. Thank you. How are the babies?"
"They miss you, love. But, all is well. The weather has been nice. We've walked a lot."
Olive had heard my voice and ran to jump on me. Midori took my bags.
I hugged and hugged my giant, furry baby.
I didn't want to start tearing up again, but hugging my puppy made the world okay.
Haiku would find me in his own sweet time. Maybe in an hour. Maybe tomorrow.
Cats.
"Are you staying in tonight?" Midori a
sked.
"Yes. Dinner together?"
"Of course, dear."
MIDORI MADE CHICKEN KATSU, which is a comfort food to me, sort of like southern fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy is to Southerns. She always serves rice, of course, which I love, but have to be careful about, my girlish figure and all. Ha ha. I've always wanted to say that. Girlish figure. Sounds like a twelve year old twiggy who hasn't bled yet, has mosquito bites under her training bra, has been told that sex is for grown-ups, and it's dirty to touch yourself. What we do to children...
"Would you like to talk, love?" Midori is kind of an unpaid therapist, too. Don't worry. I pay her well. Regular paychecks, taxes, social security, the whole legal nine yards. And since I don't have a rich, movie-star, politician husband living here trying to bed her, I think she has a pretty nice life.
If she asked for a raise, I wouldn't even ask how much before I said yes. If she ever quit, I'd be heartbroken. In a genuine sense, this was her home, I was her family, and she mine.
"Yes," I answered. "I need to talk..."
"Tell me."
"I lost at poker..."
I told her of my weekend, my new love interest, my embarrassing confrontation with Mickey Hahn.
"Never trust a Korean," she said.
It's hard to judge her opinions, which might be considered racist by some, because Midori and her husband were put into internment camps, right here in America. Their parents were locked up without due process, like criminals, the two of them only babies at the time.
They too young to realize how their lives would be affected forever.
Midori didn't retain bitterness against her country--her home--where she was born, even though her own government betrayed her before she was out of diapers. For seventy years she'd been a loyal American, but don't get her started on the Chinese or the Koreans unless you're ready for an earful.
I loved her more than ever when she first listened to me tell her about my plan--my crazy idea to find a perfect man--and didn’t judge me or scold me. She only said, “You try too hard, my love. The universe is serendipitous. You seek, but don't find. You don't seek, you find."
Fifty-Two Pickup: Aces (Jessica Rogers Book 1) Page 6