“Too bad the air mattress isn’t inflated. Your bed is so small,” she said.
“It just means we’ll have to snuggle.”
“I plan on doing a lot more than snuggling,” she said as she turned off the shower. We took toweled each other dry, then I took her by the hand and led her out of the bathroom. We each picked up a candle on our way out.
When we got to the bedroom, we placed the candles on the nightstand and embraced on the bed. I took each nipple in my mouth in turn, and every now and then would lightly nip her with my teeth, causing her to jump as the pleasure took on a slightly painful edge.
I moved up so I could kiss her. As her mouth opened to receive my tongue, I slowly licked her lips all around, starting with the lower lip and traversing to her upper lip. She kept her mouth open, my tongue teasing and tickling her lips, until I finally felt her tongue join mine. I could hear her breathing getting deeper and faster I continued to kiss her, my tongue dancing with hers.
While I was doing this, I became fully firm, wanting attention. I placed myself at her entrance and with one slow forward thrust, I entered her. Michelle squirmed against me, moaning “Oh, God, you feel so damn good!”
Long before I wanted to, I could feel myself getting close and with a few more thrusts, I began to orgasm. The feel of my climax intensified her own orgasm, and with her eyes closed she nearly stopped breathing as her body was racked with spasms. We collapsed into a sweaty heap on the bed, breathing hard, spent. I felt my muscles trembling, especially my legs. They were quite unused to that particular exertion.
“I’m sorry I didn’t last longer,” I apologized.
“Mmm, you were wonderful! How long did you say it’s been?”
“Ten years or so. I’m kind of rusty.”
“You know what they say,” she said as she reached down and gently squeezed me, “practice makes perfect!”
With a smile on my face, I pulled her to me and held her close. We fell asleep, spooning on my small bed.
When I awoke, Michelle was gone. I pulled on my jeans and a t-shirt, and went into the living room. She was on her knees, going through my CDs. A cup of hot coffee was beside her. She had put her sweatshirt back on, but wore nothing else. Her ass looked mighty fine.
“You realize having all these CDs ages you, right? No one buys CDs any more. They just download them from iTunes.”
I walked over and kneeled next to her, pulling her close to me. “Oh they do, do they?” I inquired. She paused.
“Well, they used to. Maybe it’s a good thing you do have these CDs. But I’ll tell you what, do you mind if I pick out some music? I have a bunch of CDs next door, but I didn’t bring any with me.”
Well now, this will be interesting, I thought, let’s see what kind of music she picks out. “Sure!” I said. You can tell a lot about someone by the type of music they choose.
Michelle continued looking through my collection for a few minutes, then picked one out. The first few notes sounded familiar, and it only took a moment for me to recognize the song: it was Billie Holiday, singing Good Morning Heartache. “This song used to be my theme song,” she said. “I fell in love with it the morning after my boyfriend walked out on me. I got up in the morning, turned on the vocal music channel on the cable music service, and this was the first song I heard. I’ve loved it ever since.”
“What was his name?” I asked.
“His name was Wayne. For a while I thought it was the loveliest name in the English language. Now I can’t stand it. I’m so glad your name isn’t Wayne.”
“Why did you two break up? I hope you don’t mind my asking.”
“Nah, it’s ancient history. It stopped hurting a long time ago. Now it’s just the ghost of a hurt. We were living together when he got a job offer in Chicago. When I told him how fun it would be to live in Chicago, he told me he intended on moving there alone. I don’t know why. We got along well, had a decent sex life, and talked about a future together.”
I had the strange feeling she wasn’t telling me everything. I also felt something unfamiliar. I didn’t like hearing about him. Especially about their sex life. It kind of made me mad. Or resentful. Or something. I guess it was jealousy. I did my best to ignore it.
Now that the walls were dry and the fumes gone, we re-arranged the furniture and took care of the usual chores. We skipped breakfast and I made lunch which in this case consisted of cream of chicken soup, canned green beans, instant mashed potatoes, and some canned pineapple. It was a lot, but making love had left me hungry, and besides, today felt like a celebration.
“Damn, I wish I had some of my wine,” she said, thinking wistfully of the case she had left in her garage. “I’m hoping we can get it at some point.”
Afterward we had a quiet night, this time playing backgammon, a game she brought with her. It’s obvious she’s been playing a long time—she won nearly every game. Of course, the fact that she never did put any panties or pants on, and kept deliberately flashing me when it was my turn had nothing to do with how well I did or didn’t play.
After an hour or so of this—and we both had several of my beers—she nuzzled up to me and suggested we head for bed.
“Now you’re talking,” I said. “But you have to promise you won’t try to take advantage of me.”
“Kevin, not only am I already taking advantage of you, but soon you’ll be caught in my web like a helpless bug.”
“Ah. The Black Widow. She mates, then she kills.”
“I never said anything about mating. I only said you’d be caught in my web. But now that you mention it . . .” she said, reaching with her hand and stroking me.
“Seems to me you’re caught in my web,” I said with a smile.
“I must admit, your web is way nicer than mine,” she replied. “But if we’re going to do any sleeping tonight, is there any way we can use the blow-up mattress instead of your bed?”
What a great idea. Why hadn’t I thought of it? We moved the mattress into the bedroom and swapped my full for her queen.
Michelle offered to make the bed while I took a shower, and by the time I finished, the bed was made, something I hadn’t done in quite a while. It looked very homey and inviting, but I hoped to have the sheets in disarray in short order.
I hadn’t bothered to put any clothes on when I came out of the bathroom, and Michelle eyed my naked body with a look akin to hunger.
She then once again treated me to a quick strip show, slowly taking off her sweatshirt. Standing before me in the light of the LED lantern, she peeled it off, revealing her breasts and hardening nipples. Then she was standing in front of me, nude and blushing, allowing me to get an eyeful.
“There’s no way you can know this,” she said, “but it’s actually very intimidating for me to stand in front of you, naked in the light.”
I was taken aback. “What?! You’re beautiful!”
“I don’t really like my body. I’m not exactly the model type,” she said, patting her rounded belly. “I know I have big boobs, and lots of guys really like a big rack, but I also have a big tummy and a big ass. I don’t see how you can even like it.”
“You’re standing in front of a guy who’s probably 30 pounds overweight, is mostly bald, and is out of shape. You’re standing there naked, complaining about your body, while I get harder and harder by the minute,” I said, reaching down and giving myself a quick squeeze. “If I wasn’t attracted to your body, do you think I’d be getting hard?” I asked. “Many years ago, when I was younger and even more stupid than I am now, I might not have liked your body. But now, I see on TV all of these flat-bellied actresses and models with silicone boobs. They’ve had liposuction or lap bands or whatever else they do to make women skinny, have had their lips injected to make them fuller, have had Botox injections and labiaplasty, and you know what I think? I think they look like the perfect sex toy.”
I paused. “But do you know what else I think? I think they don’t look like women any more. They lo
ok fake and plastic and artificial. I don’t like artificial women. I like a woman who looks real, complete with well-rounded curves and luscious breasts. Not too long before the Collapse, I quit watching broadcast TV entirely. The commercials started annoying me far beyond the ability of the programs to entertain me. I saw the commercials doing their best to manipulate my perception of beauty. All those flat-belly models and those guys with six pack abs. Real people don’t look like that. I’d go hang out at the Jolly Pumpkin brewpub, and I’d see two things: I’d see how real people look—all different shapes and sizes, wearing glasses and having imperfect teeth . . . and I started to resent having some artificial definition of beauty shoved down my throat. The only people who look that good are the ones who have lots of money to spend on reconstructive surgery and lots of free time to spend at the gym with a personal trainer. It’s not normal, it’s not natural, and I don’t see them as being beautiful. They’re like silk flowers—they look nice, but they’re not real and they’re not really alive. What’s the point of artificial beauty?”
As I said this, I climbed on top of the mattress and patted the spot next to me.
“So you don’t mind my being on the large side?”
“I prefer you being on the large side. Actually, I prefer you being on my left side,” I said as she crawled onto the foot of the bed and inched her way forward “. . . or my top side,” I said as she crawled toward me.
Michelle moved forward, bending over and kissing my mouth. Our tongues played with each other.
“I’m not asking this to be insulting, but I’m curious: are you taking any ‘male enhancement’ pills or anything?” She moved to my side as she spoke.
“No, why do you ask?”
“Because we’ve already made love twice in the past twenty-four hours and here you are, ready to go again. I thought older guys had performance issues.”
“My hand has been my date many, many times over the past ten years. But now I have a real, live, gorgeous and sexy woman who wants to make love with me. I don’t need any pills.” I was still squeezing and massaging her breast, rolling her nipple between my fingers and thumb. Her areola were a perfect shade of pink with a touch of brown, the color wonderfully feminine. I bent down to take a nipple in my mouth. For nearly ten minutes I used my mouth and tongue on her breasts, driving her crazy. Eventually my hand travelled down between her legs. I couldn’t believe how aroused she was. I could tell by her breathing and sighing how much she had enjoyed the attention to her nipples, but I wasn’t expecting her to be quite this aroused. As I continued using my teeth and tongue on her nipple, I lightly began to stroke her with my fingers. Within thirty seconds she was once again caught in the midst of a massive orgasm. Once she calmed down, I was ready for some serious sex. We positioned ourselves so I was behind her and I took my time to enter her. She responded enthusiastically, moaning louder. Of course, the advantage to having had sex twice already was my stamina—which was confirmed when she came not once, not twice, but three times before me. Finally I couldn’t hold back any more. The tension in my loins became unbearable and I had to let go. Every orgasm feels great, of course, but my third orgasm brought not just pleasure but a deeper sense of pride in coming multiple times in a fairly short period. It’s a stroke to my ego and makes me feel like maybe I’m not so old.
“Oh my God, Kevin,” she panted, “that was sooo good! You lasted forever!”
You done good, I mentally congratulated my package.
I was spent. All of me, not just my sex. My body, my mind, and my passion—all spent. Intimacy can be revitalizing, but also exhausting. As I lay down beside her, I felt myself slipping into a stupor.
As if reading my thoughts, Michelle murmured, “Damn, I’m going to sleep good tonight!” We crawled under the comforter and sheet. I put my left arm around her shoulders and brought her head to my chest. Within minutes we fell asleep.
I don’t think we’ll be sleeping separately anymore.
—Later—
I’m sitting in the living room now, writing down yesterday’s events while Michelle sleeps. About an hour ago, I awoke from a puzzling dream. I rarely dream about Tammy any more, but tonight I dreamt we were walking along the shore of Lake Michigan, looking for Petoskey stones. We were holding hands and chatting as our bare feet were occasionally splashed by the calming surf. The sun was about to set; the day was fading into dusk; already the dusky eastern sky was fading into night with a few stars beginning to shine.
Tammy was dressed in a summery white dress. Some kind of gauzy material. It was lightweight and the sleeves fluttered in the Lake Michigan breeze. The colors of the sunset reflected off the material, and the folds and shadows picked up the blue of the darkening sky. With one hand she held the hem above her ankles, keeping the dress dry.
As the sun finally dipped below the horizon, we came upon a blanket near a beach fire. I recognized the blanket as being ours, and we sat down. Onto the foot of the blanket I spread my collection of beach treasures—a couple of decent Petoskeys, some Charlevoix stones, a piece of beach glass. From somewhere Tammy came up with a bottle of Merlot, which she handed to me along with a corkscrew. I pulled the cork from the bottle and filled our wine glasses. Gazing west out over the azure, darkening lake, which still reflected the waning glow of the day, we sipped our wine in silence.
I could vividly see the color of her hazel brown eyes as she turned toward me and toward the light of the fire. I could see the dancing highlights in her hair, reflecting the color of the flames. I noticed a mole on her left shoulder I had forgotten about. Her skin glowed in the firelight. She was healthy and alive. And beautiful.
I could smell smoke from our fire and, looking around, I could see perhaps a half-dozen more fires and could hear laughter of people nearby. I heard the murmur of adults talking as they watched fading colors of the sunset and welcomed the close of a splendid day. Slightly behind me and to the left, someone was artfully playing the guitar, singing Waltzing Mathilda. In the distance I could hear Blue, the resident German Shepherd, barking at seagulls. I felt the heat from the fire on my right side.
All around me, friends and families were gathered around beach fires. I heard an occasional squeal of laughter from the children. The high-school guys and girls were doing their obligatory flirting and showing off.
My observations contained details far beyond those of a typical dream; the sense of reality was profound. Even in the midst of it, I knew this was a vision.
We stayed there for hours, talking, sipping the wine (which never seemed to run out), watching a father and his little boy making S’mores. Soon we lay back, stargazing, exclaiming every time we saw a shooting star or a satellite.
A full moon had gradually moved to the west, and its light illuminated the landscape in varying shades of gray, blue, and black. Looking south, I saw the faint western face of the dunes, the forest around them nearly black. The coast of the Big Lake swept toward me, the shoulders of the dunes receding. Beach grass swayed in the light breeze. To the right of me, the dunes once again lifted their faces to the west. The lights of Frankfort glowed with the promise of activity while the beam of the Frankfort Lighthouse swept ever clockwise.
One by one, the other campfires were extinguished as families went back to their cabins; the college kids headed to town for excitement and alcohol, and couples strolled back to their rooms for privacy. Soon ours was the only fire left and we had the beach to ourselves.
The moon was approaching the horizon now. The angel walk reflected various linear textures, silver against black, constantly changing as the moon dipped closer to the horizon. There was a feeling of worship in the air, of holiness. It was a sacred moment, begging my full attention.
Tammy turned to me, eyes gleaming, leaned into me and brushed her lips to mine. Into my ear she whispered, “I have to go now. But don’t be unhappy. No one ever really goes away, you know. They just aren’t where we remember them.”
She turned back toward the lake,
still smiling, still holding my hand. The surf was quiet as it sometimes is in late summer nights, the small waves chuckling as they hiss themselves into the swash. Savoring the moment, I leaned my head back and willed myself to absorb it all. With eyes closed, I heard Tammy say, “Give her the stars.”
When I opened my eyes, I was awake in bed, Michelle sleeping quietly next to me. I felt a profound sense of loss, but also felt a lingering peace and joy from the dream. I quietly left the bed and came into the living room. The glow-in-the-dark paint made the walls faintly visible. I turned on a lantern and sat down. I sat still for a long time, trying to hold on to the dream even as I felt it slipping away. I opened my journal and chronicled the events of the day.
Michelle must have sensed I was gone, because she’s now standing behind me, looking over my shoulder, reading as I write.
She’s holding her hand out to me, beckoning me back to bed.
Thank you, Tammy, for your blessing. It took me a while to figure out what you meant, but now I think I understand.
Tomorrow I will give her the stars.
Outside/Inside
“He cried out, saying Father Abraham, have mercy on me, and send Lazarus, that he may dip the tip of his finger in water and cool my tongue; for I am tormented in this flame.” Luke 16:24
Outside
The creatures murmur and moan
against the night
inside
we tumble and moan
against the sighing darkness
In the heart of hell
you offer to moisten my tongue
with cool drops of water.
I cannot resist.
I will not even try.
December 6th
In spite of all the events yesterday I woke up early and crept out of bed while Michelle still slept. In the kitchen I made a pot of coffee, then went to the laptop and booted up. I opened my astronomy program and changed the settings to Arcadia Michigan, June 21st, 2 a.m. The constellations were easily visible—the Big Dipper, the Little Dipper, Cassiopeia. I found a piece of paper, sketched the approximate measurements of the living room, then roughly penciled in the locations of the constellations. Knowing the room is on the north end of the basement, I made sure to align the drawing the same way.
Love in the Age of Zombies (Book 1): My Zombie Honeymoon Page 15