"Maybe that's why you get married to someone anyway. You just want a witness to tell the rest of the world you were there. You were here with me, Aimee. I knew you."
Tentatively, he caressed her pussy lips and felt them opening for him. His fingers were wet.
"This is Mobile, isn't it?"
He raised his head and looked up at her. What the hell was this Mobile all about? She was smiling down at him, and her eyes were full and fiery.
And he knew then what he was seeing. The revelation of it struck him so fiercely he had to get up and sit on the edge of the bathtub to absorb it.
Fog or not, she had remembered clearly something he had forgotten until that moment: Mobile, Alabama, on the train to Savannah. Savannah was where they would have their honeymoon, and the train was where they were on their wedding night. Although he was eager for her, she wouldn't let him fuck her until they reached Mobile. It was what she wanted. It wasn't the first time they'd had sex. That had been on their second date, sloppily and impetuously on the sofa in her sister's apartment, trying not to wake the family. That was when he knew she was the woman he would marry, this virtuous, intelligent, sturdy Republican with her ravenous appetites.
On their wedding night, they'd rattled through the dark countryside in their sleeping car, groping and driving each other wild, but she was forcing him to wait. And then the tobacco barns changed into buildings, and he wouldn't wait any longer.
She peeled off the rest of his clothes and then her own. She turned on the lights, and threw the curtains open wide. He'd taken her as she directed him to, hard up against the brightly lit window glass for all the world to see, his stiff cock all up in her tight, naked, and urgent and insane, and the train vibrated and rattled their bodies as they moved against each other.
Outside, rail lights flashed red and bells clanged as they whizzed through the barred crossings, packed with lines of cars; cars with white folks and black folks, good God-fearing families and children and grandmothers and babies and dogs watching her naked female Whore of Babylon ass as he pounded it good and hard up against the glass, putting on a big show for the good folks of Mobile, courtesy of the rolling iron of the Southern Pacific.
He came in her as they leisurely sailed through a crossing in the downtown, and she had the presence of mind to take out his wet cock and press it against the glass, waving hello with it to the people standing on the sidewalk gaping.
That was goddamn Mobile for you.
"Is this Mobile?"
"Yes, baby,” he croaked. “You know, I think it is."
She smiled wickedly. “Good."
"Are you ready for Mobile?"
"I'm ready!"
"Let's go then. Let's stand by the window. That's what you want, isn't it? That's what Mobile is, right?"
"Mobile!"
"Anything you want, Aimee. Let's go to Mobile together.” He herded her into the bedroom with his arm around her waist, and his cock tightening his pants. He marveled at how she seemed filled with purpose such as he hadn't seen in her in a long time. When he released her, it was Aimee who threw the curtains open.
She frowned. “Where're we going?"
"Wait,” he said, searching quickly for the answer, desperate not to lose this moment without a fight. Then he realized the back yard was dark. He stood her against the wall. “Wait. I'll be back."
Faster than Clark Kent, he unbuttoned the first two buttons of his shirt and had it off in one pull. One more pull, and he'd jumped out of his pants and underwear together in one motion. And he was naked, his eager cock hard and ready. She was staring at his cock with interest.
He ran around the room turning on every light and lamp he could find. “Just stay there!” he called, holding up his hands. He ran to the kitchen, his penis waving in the air, harder than he had felt it in years.
He turned on the kitchen lights and turned up the radio. Little Richard was screaming:
Good Golly, Miss Molly! Sure like to ball! When you're rockin’ and you're rollin’ can't hear your mama call!
The back yard lights! The switch was outside.
Oh hell, he thought. That's the whole idea isn't it? Let the neighbors yell. Let them call the cops, that's all. Or let them tell Bobby and Frannie to haul me off to the nursing home, too. Tonight is the night I get to fuck my woman. By God, I'm going to fuck her.
He threw open the back door and ran out into the night, his boner waving in front of him like a herald. He threw open the back porch lights and then the yard lights, reveling in the chill night air.
Mobile, by God. Ladies and gentlemen, present your tickets to the conductor, we are in goddamn Mobile, and the entertainment is about to begin!
Back inside, he passed through the kitchen. There was an insidious moment of doubt. What would he find in the bedroom? That she had forgotten the glory of Mobile and wandered off? Gone to sleep in the closet or fallen down and hurt herself? Or maybe just didn't know who the old guy was and why he was trying so hard to stick his dick in her.
But she was there and waiting for him near the window, in her wide legged Wonder Woman pose. His wonderful Aimee, with her secret porno star soul all aglow like a child on Christmas morning, the back yard lights lighting up the contours of her wonderful naked body, all lights and camera and waiting for the big money shot.
"Mobile, Aimee! It's Mobile!"
She opened her arms wide for him.
He threw himself against her, and her arms captured him, and her tongue was in his mouth. She squatted and wiggled her hips under him, and like magic, his cock had slipped into her slick and easy depths. She held him tightly and without awkwardness. She threw her arms over her head, her signal for him to kiss her breasts. He mauled her big, motherly breasts in his hands and took both of her nipples and placed them in his lips together, sucking hard on them.
For the first time in ages, she was there for him, completely present for him. Her legs were wide, and she was there for him. She was working her hips in rhythm with his, and she was there for him as he struggled to keep sucking her nipples. Together, their breathing became ragged and filled with animal sounds, and she was there for him. The gasping turned to cries, and she continued to be there for him, even as he felt her legs go rigid and her pussy pressing down. She shivered in bliss, and she was there falling against him as her knees went weak. She was there, and she was still there for him as he surrendered to her lost amnesiac Hindu fertility goddess power of heaven and let it wash over him. As he felt his seed exploding in her, Wonder Woman Aimee, she was there for him, and this was her lover's gift to him alone for his loyalty, for his nights of faithful celibacy, and the nights cleaning up after her little accidents.
She held her husband's cock inside her and wouldn't let go, as if to thank him for being there with her through her nights of terror and hallucination—and occasional deadly violence—when he had to hold her down hard and whisper to her, and weep with her, and console her, and lie to her and tell her everything was going to be just fine—sure it would—when they knew it was all bullshit lies. God had abandoned them on this fucking runaway train, and the world was cruel, and all they had was each other, and everybody could go to hell including Him. He could go fuck Himself, too! God damn Him. Phony sonofabitch bastard, I'll kill Your ass, but no, Aimee, I won't leave you, not never. No, sir. No.
For all of that and more, she held him tightly to her, hugging her powerful thighs around him so that he would never leave her ever even when she had finally left herself.
Were the neighbors watching? Would this come up in the next homeowner's association meeting? What can they do to us anyway? At our age, lust is more of an achievement than a vice.
They relaxed against each other, and he slipped out of her, and he felt her arms fall away. He looked into her face, and it broke his heart all over again. She was neither offended nor frightened. Only lost again.
He hugged her and rubbed against her, but she was the lost docile love doll again. He stepped away from
her, and she had that worried look, discovering herself nude and wet, while he drew the curtains closed.
"There,” he said to her, gesturing toward the bed. “Why don't you just sit a second while I fix all this up? I'll get—aw shit, Aimee. Aw, shit. I'll get your diaper, hon."
She stood still, uncomprehending, and he kissed her on the cheek. He led her to the bed and pressed on her shoulders until she sat. There was a small trail of his spunk coming from her pussy, and he took some Kleenex from the bed stand and offered it to her. She looked at it. He tugged a few more tissues from the box and pulled at her hips to bring her closer to the edge of the bed. She looked down and watched as he wiped away his sauce from her pussy.
After a moment, it was clean. He couldn't resist and kissed her belly, and then got down on his knees and softly pressed his face against her damp delta of wiry hair.
"Where is your wife?"
"Right here, Aimee,” he murmured into her cleft. “She's right here, and I love her fine. That's you, Aimee."
"Oh,” she said, with what sounded like surprise. “Woo hoo!"
He looked up at her with tears in his eyes. “Woo hoo."
"Yes.” She smiled, and for a moment, her eyes were bright with recognition.
"Think of it as a prayer,” he whispered. Slowly he rose to his feet again, and his knees hurt, but he felt happy and relaxed and infinitely lonely.
"Diaper time, Aimee,” he said, more to himself. “Lay down, please. Lay down on our fine fucking bed, Aimee. Let me look at you laying down for a minute. I just want to see how you look that way."
Aimee sprawled across the bed luxuriously, lifting a knee, letting her legs fall open for him to see, her fine and generous breasts spread out over her chest. He stood over her, enjoying the view, loving her. She saw his eyes on her, raised her arms over her head, and smiled at him, nude, seductive, obscenely pliant and innocent.
In the kitchen on the idiot radio, sang Bob Dylan:
...with her fog, her amphetamine and her pearls ... She takes just like a woman. Yes, she does, and she makes love, just like a woman ... Yes, she does...
"Time to rest, Aimee.” he said. “Maybe we'll pass through Mobile again in the morning."
"Sure.” She smiled wickedly and raised her arms higher, half closing her eyes for him.
He went into the kitchen to turn off all the lights and the radio—and to bring her a fresh diaper.
* * * *
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Customer Service
© Eon de Beaumont
Here comes another one. The dreaded soccer mom approaches my counter with a too-big smile and a weird, hungry look in her eye. I smile back because I have to.
"Hello,” I say again, because I have to be polite. That's my job. I'm a liquor store clerk.
"Hey, sweetheart. How are you today?” she asks while moistening her lips with her tongue.
Horrible! I'm trapped here day in and day out kowtowing to skanks like you! Instead, I just say, “Fine."
She keeps talking. I nod and smile as I ring up her expensive wine so she can impress her friends at the party tonight and her cheap vodka so she can get really good and toasted after they leave—or maybe before. I am constantly compromising myself here, but it isn't as bad as it could be. They let me wear my hair long. Sometimes having long auburn hair that's naturally curly isn't as much of a blessing as you would think. It seems to invite conversation about how long I've been growing it and if, indeed, it is natural.
Once in a while, I can even get away with a subtle amount of eyeliner, like tonight. The woman is flirting so vigorously it makes me ill. She puts her hand on mine as she pays. She's staring up at me with an expectant look, as though I should offer her my number or tell her what time I get finished with work. I don't do either. I give her the change from her sale and tell her to have a nice evening.
"If I bring my car up, will you be a dear and load this for me?” she says, way too sweetly.
"I'd be happy to, ma'am,” I say but don't mean. It's actually the last thing I want to do. Inevitably, when I bend over to put the case in her trunk she'll accidentally touch my ass. I wait on the next person while she pulls her vehicle up. I hand the guy his change just as the shiny, silver Hummer pulls up to the curb. Christ. These people make me sick. I carry the case out and, sure enough, her hand just happens to graze my bum as I put the wine in the back of her gas guzzling monstrosity.
"You have a good weekend,” I say as I curse her under my breath. I can feel her eyes boring into me as I walk away. That brings today's count up to three yuppie flirtings, two invitations to sorority parties, and one old dude checking out my package while he signed his credit card slip. My life is a living hell.
I motion to my manager that I am going to walk to the back. I need a break from this drudgery. In the break room, I get myself some coffee and lament the long night ahead. From behind me comes a familiar whine, and I wish I hadn't come into the back room after all.
"Hey, Ian, can I get you to grab something off the top shelf?” It's Janet. I turn slowly to face her scrawny frame. She dresses like she stole her entire wardrobe from an eleven-year-old boy two sizes smaller than she is, talks a mile a minute about stuff I could never care about even if I could understand her, and stands way too close to me while she's doing it. I am only a shade taller than her at six-one, but somehow she always needs me to grab something off the top shelf.
"Sure,” I say with no enthusiasm at all, “What do you need?"
"The Waiters’ Corkscrews. So the other night at the bar—"
And she's off. Janet's already three days into her story by the time I reach the corkscrews and standing so close that I bump her in the head with the box as I bring it off the shelf. She melodramatically falls to the floor and her glasses skitter away. I set the box aside and watch Janet grope blindly. Her straight, boring, mouse-brown hair is in her face, and I have to stifle a chuckle at her sudden resemblance to Cousin Itt. She's nowhere near her glasses, so I lean over to pick them up when I feel an odd squeezing sensation on my crotch.
"Hey!” I scream, jumping out of Janet's grip.
"Ohmygosh! I'm so sorry, Ian. I can't see a thing without my glasses!” Yeah right. I hand Janet back her glasses and she's still apologizing. Her beet red face and shitty smirk undermine her attempt at sincerity.
"It was an accident,” I say dismissively as I hand her the corkscrews she needed so badly. She's still talking as I walk away from her. I'm furious and disgusted, but there's nothing I can do. No one saw anything and who would believe nerdy, naïve Janet would ever try something like that?
I realize that I'm grinding my teeth, and I need to calm down. I head for the men's room in the vain hope that I can get a minute or two to compose myself. I wash my hands even though I didn't use the bathroom. I close my eyes and just feel the water spilling over my hands. If only I could wash the dirt of my life away so easily. I turn off the water and dry my hands. I don't want to stay in here too long or my hilarious fellow employees will be sure to remind me that “shaking it more than twice is playing with it."
As I walk out of the restroom, I notice my manager approaching me, so I brace myself for some reference to bodily functions. But he just cocks his thumb toward the front of the store and says, “We need somebody to ring."
That means I'll be standing at the counter waiting on customers the rest of the night while he and Janet smoke cigarettes out behind the store and bullshit. I grab my coffee and trudge to the register.
The local college has resumed classes, and there is an endless parade of underage and barely legal students trying to buy alcohol. I card one after another and have to deny half. After the last girl, an eighty-year old woman complains that I didn't card her, and I want to tell her what a shriveled, decrepit antique she is and that she hasn't seen twenty one for the better part of a century.
"Uh-oh. Don't tell my manager I let you slip by. I'll b
e out of a job,” I say instead, smiling like I mean it and making her blush ever so slightly. I hope she isn't having a heart attack.
I get to help a few people pick out wine, which is what I truly love. We speak for awhile about the type of wine they enjoy, and I make suggestions. The last couple I assist are fond of the deep, inky reds of the real winemakers of Australia. These are the big, bold dry reds that I especially like, and I point them toward Seduction, a blend of Cabernet, Merlot, and Shiraz.
"It's almost black in the glass,” I tell them as they examine a bottle. The bell above the entrance rings, and what I see there knocks every coherent thought from my mind. It's a guy. He's beautiful. He's Asian and tall, thin but not sickly and he moves with a casual abandon into the store. He has the adorable spiky hair of an anime character with frosted tips. My heart speeds up. He's wearing a little salmon colored T-shirt that just covers his obviously muscular stomach above a pair of tight, slightly tatty jeans that ride low enough to accentuate perfectly formed hipbones. His black eyes meet mine for a split second, and I feel something stir that shouldn't be stirring at work. I suddenly realize that the woman in front of me has asked the same question twice, and I force myself to look away from this beautiful creature to answer her.
Minutes pass, and the Asian boy continues to shop. I help other customers and make sales, but always my eyes are drawn back to him. He stands so comfortably with his vintage leather jacket draped over one thin, olive-skinned forearm. I am pulled back to my job by a pair of college students obviously not old enough to buy that bottle of Mad Dog. As I take the bottles off the counter and send them out of the store, I feel the Asian guy looking at me. As soon as I look up, he looks away. More customers come and go, and the boy is still browsing, glancing over at me and glancing away.
He finally picks up a bottle of Seduction and looks as if he's reading the label. I try to imagine his lips stained purple from that sublime elixir. He has been here over an hour, and I finally realize if he wants to buy that wine, I'm going to have to wait on him. I am going to have to ask this amazing being for his ID. I'll be able to find out where he's from, where he lives, maybe even what he's doing later. It suddenly occurs to me I'll also have to talk to him. My throat dries out instantly. I swallow and hear a click. So I take a sip of coffee while I observe him over the top of the mug.
Coming Together With Pride Page 3