by Rizer, Bibi
“Sorry,” I say.
“What are you apologizing for?” She bends her knees on either side of me until those tights, and the tops of those crazy-making boots are inches from my face. I have an insane urge to undo the boot zippers with my teeth.
“I…nothing…just…” I wriggle under her. I can tell my boner is digging right into her pussy. It feels great but also wrong. Like I haven’t asked permission or something.
She leans down gradually, giving me a slow motion view of her cleavage in that lacy bra. When our faces are only inches apart, she snakes her hand between us and wraps her fingers around my cock, crushing the fabric of my work pants against me. “Were you apologizing for this?”
“Ahhh, God…okay…no. Yes. No.”
Wow, this girl moves fast. Not that I’m complaining. It’s kind of refreshing. I mean, life is short, right? Who has time for games and complex negotiations? Apparently not Gloria. She lowers my zipper, slipping her hand inside, gripping me through my Batman boxers. “You don’t need to apologize unless I tell you to. Understand?”
Fuck. That turns me on. She tugs the front of my boxers down, and that soft warm hand is on me. Her touch becomes gentle–stroking rather than squeezing. She trails her fingers up to the tip of my cock then back down over my balls.
“Well?” she says.
“Wha…?” My ability to complete a whole word has left me.
“I’m not doing this to improve my manual dexterity. Like for like, boy.”
Jesus Christ. She just called me ‘boy.’ That’s so fucking hot. I roll over so we’re lying side by side and slide my hand up her skirt, over those infuriating tights, until I find some bare skin on her belly. Her skin is like a rose petal–soft and smooth and alive and warm at the same time. It’s a challenge, navigating the tights and the panties, but eventually I’m rewarded with a tickle of fine curls on my fingers. I silently give thanks that she’s not one of those girls who waxes back to the Barbie doll bald state. It’s so much easier to find the pleasure zones with a little bush to guide the way. Otherwise you find yourself sliding down a thigh and end up on the knee before you know where you are.
“Mmmm,” she says, as I slip my finger into her slippery valley. I take that as an endorsement and slide further down until my index finger just glides inside her pussy. I stop there and look at her, because I’ve just remembered I’m supposed to be working as a lineman for the electrical company tonight, New Year’s Eve, and instead I’m knuckle deep inside a beautiful girl.
In the moonlight, with the headlights of the cars on the bridge flashing over us, her eyes light up and flicker back at me. As I move my finger in and out and my thumb higher up, finding the little button of her clit, she smiles, such a warm engaging, approving smile I feel like a little kid in school who has just figured out how to do long division.
“You like that?” I say.
“Shhh… No talking.”
Her hand is still moving on my cock, just stroking when I want her to squeeze, but then the stroking is enough, more than enough, and I want to tell her to stop because….because…
“I think I’m going to come,” I say.
“Uh, uh, not until I say.”
Oh, sweet Jesus. My brain lights up like a junction overload. And I bite my lip; I think of baseball statistics and circuit diagrams and my mom and her house slippers. Anything to hold myself together as I swirl my thumb over Gloria’s clit and dip my finger in her twitching pussy.
Twitching. That’s probably a good sign.
“Ah…God, keep doing that,” she says.
Best of all, we’re kissing. Full-body kissing with every inch of her, from the tips of those fucking boots to her head of sweet-smelling hair pressed against me.
She whimpers like a new-born kitten, and it’s the sweetest sound I’ve ever heard. Her body curls into me, one of those crazy boots hooking around my knee, mashing our hips together as she comes, and the whimper turns into a full-fledged meow.
That’s all it takes for me–her noises, her juices on my fingers, the heat of her skin. My cock throbs almost painfully, and I stifle what I’m sure would be a very unmanly squeal by sucking her tongue into my mouth. Her hand moves, cupping the head as I spurt come over her fingers.
We lay there, panting, our breathing slowly returning to normal.
“What now, boss?” I ask.
She nods approvingly, pressing her nose against mine. “Now I need a tissue.”
Chapter Five – Gloria
He cleans my hand like it’s a precious artifact, first dabbing away, then carefully wiping everything with one of my Handi Wipes. Reaching up, he flicks on the interior light and checks me thoroughly, looking for any further mess, before finally wiping himself up. The whole time I watch what he’s doing, his strong worker’s hands delicately ministering to me, his attention to re-arranging my tights and skirt, then his own boxers and zipper. He even tucks in his shirt. I don’t look up at him because I don’t want him to see the expression on my face.
No one has ever done that for me before–made me come with just fingers. Of course I’ve been fingered before but never to orgasm, and for some reason it feels important, special, leaving all the orgasms I had before (most of them by myself, to be honest) in the dust. I just need to take a few seconds to process it.
A fireworks show begins on the river. Charlie’s face lights up like a little kid’s as he drags me out of the car to get a better view. But when we get to the river’s edge there’s a high graffiti covered brick wall there that I’m not keen on climbing over in my favorite tights. So instead we stand there and kiss like love struck teenagers with the pink and purple glow of the fireworks flashing over us.
“I have never been sadder to not have a condom,” he says, taking my hand.
“That wasn’t enough for you?”
“I don’t think I could ever have enough of you.”
“Goodness.” I feel myself blushing. “That’s promising. You know, they sell condoms at the twenty-four-hour Walgreen’s on 15th.”
Suddenly he’s whooping, as he pulls me back to the truck and dives theatrically into the front seat. I run around clamber into the passenger seat.
“Buckle up.” He clicks his own buckle into place.
His phone rings as we pull back onto the bridge towards Ballard. He puts it on speaker.
“Good job on that Ballard place,” a bossish voice says. “The cops found giant grow in the basement. Looks like they were selling harder stuff too. And they were stealing power, sneaky fuckers.”
“Did they arrest that tattooed guy?”
“Nah, they said there was no one there. He probably legged it.”
“What’s happening with Saint Patrick’s?” Charlie asks.
“Low priority. Someone drove their Humvee into a power pole on Pike Street. Took a whole row of them down like dominoes. So the cherry pickers are going to be occupied for a while.”
“Shit! Was anyone hurt?”
I tune out of his conversation and smile to myself. It’s nice that he’s sensitive about other people, especially after having such an intense sexual experience only minutes ago. The more I get to know about this guy, the more I think he’s a keeper. And that makes me a bit nervous. Because it’s New Year’s Eve after all, and this could all end up being a complex ruse to get me off my guard while a massive asteroid hurtles towards earth.
I distract myself from this catastrophic line of thought by staring at his perfect little nose, which somehow manages to be turned-up cute and strong and elegant at the same time. It wiggles when he talks.
“What kind of condoms do you like?” Charlie asks me as he parks at Walgreen’s.
“You’re the one who has to wear them.”
“I know but do you have any preferences? Like ribbed or flavored?”
Cheeky little devil.
“Flavored?” I feign offense. “That’s a bit presumptuous isn’t it?”
“I can hope, can’t I?”
He gives me a little kiss before jumping out and heading into the store, leaving me the keys so I can have the radio on. I wait in the truck because there’s nothing more obnoxious than a horny couple shopping for condoms together. I mean, we would probably giggle and make rude jokes, and it would be super embarrassing for the sixteen-year-old clerks who have to spend their New Year’s Eve selling birth control and munchie-busters to drug-addled hipsters. Better to spare them the pain. It’s the altruistic thing to do.
I twist, grab my purse from the back seat and dig out my lip gloss, dabbing it on my chafed lips. Then I roll the window down and try to fix my almost-sex-tousled hair in the side view mirror. The driver’s side door opens and slams just as I manage return my part to normal.
“That was quick,” I say. The truck engine revs violently, and we peel out of the parking spot so quickly I bang my head against the door frame. “Whoa, easy there, tiger. I need to buckle.” As I turn with the buckle in my hand, I see the street lights flashing over his tattooed face and neck.
Not Charlie.
It’s the drug dealer we just helped bust.
I lurch back and try to yank my seat belt back off, but he slams his hand into my chest and presses me against the seat as we take a corner way too fast. I process the tattoos on his pale hand. Bones. Like he’s a walking skeleton. I’m afraid to look at his face.
“I don’t have much money…but take it. Take the purse, my phone, whatever.”
“Shut up!”
Charlie’s phone is still in the hands-free cradle. I watch it and count in my head. One. Two. Three. Tattoo guy snatches it off the cradle and flings it out the driver’s side window. I guess that window was down. It was pretty steamy inside the truck after… And I guess Charlie rolled his window down and…
The phone sails over a parked car and shatters on the sidewalk.
I never gave him my phone number. We didn’t get that far.
As Bone Hand pulls back onto the busy street, I look longingly down towards the canal, to the dock where…I don’t know his last name. He doesn’t know mine. Who will he even tell that I’m gone? Maybe he’ll think I took his truck, that I’m some slutty grifter who seduces boys and steals their shit.
I try to think. When we stop at this red light, I’ll jump out. Jump out and run. We’re a hundred feet away, fifty, twenty-five.
Click. The light turns green.
Bone Hand takes the pressure off my chest so I can breathe. He reaches into his jacket and, when his hand reappears, it’s holding a small pistol. “Don’t get any ideas.”
“What…”
“Shut up! Do you know how much your boyfriend cost me tonight? My entire crop. My house. All my shit. And now I have to skip town. This truck will do nicely.”
“But you don’t need me.”
“I need you to shut up!”
I close my mouth but find my nose is so plugged up with suppressed tears, I have to open my mouth to breathe. I take a deep gulp of air and try to think. And try not to cry. Self-defense class said never let an attacker take you to another location, and that’s what seems to be happening. It’s critical that I get out of this truck. Think.
“He’s not my boyfriend.”
“I thought I told you to shut up.”
I look down at my tights and take a deep breath. It feels like betrayal saying the words, even though it’s true. Who is Charlie to me anyway? Just some guy. Some guy who is not in this truck with me. Some guy who is somewhere safe. Some guy who left the window down and the keys in the ignition. Who left his phone in the car. I want to turn around to see if he’s running after us like a super hero. But that’s stupid. I’m stupid.
“I don’t even know him. He just paid me for sex.”
Bone Hand looks over at me, a little too much curiosity in his expression. “You’re a hooker.” He told me to shut up. I’m just going to shut up. “You don’t look like a hooker.” Slowly, not making any sudden movements, I cross my arms in front of my chest. “Well, you can’t fuck your way out of this one, baby girl. I prefer the boys.”
For a second I want to scream all the worst kind of homophobic vitriol I wouldn’t normally dream of saying, because I want to hurt him and what other weapons do I have? That makes me feel disgusted with myself on top of everything else.
New Year’s Tricksters, swear to God, this is a work of art.
I look back out the window, trying to figure out where we are. Somewhere near UW, I think. Restaurants and bars are flying by, all packed with people who can and likely will enjoy their New Year’s Eve without fear of being murdered by a gay drug dealer and left under a bed in a skeevy motel. I catch myself wishing one of the New Year’s revelers would run out in front of the truck and get hit. Maybe then Bone Hand would slow down enough for me to jump out.
See how that happened? I was hoping for someone to die instead of me. No wonder the New Year’s gods hate me.
Chapter Six - Charlie
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Something is wrong. Something is very wrong. There is no way Gloria would ditch me and take my truck after what we…shared. What we did. She was volunteering at a suicide crisis hotline, for God’s sake. People like that don’t have sex with strangers and steal their work trucks. What would she want with a Seattle City Light Truck anyway? It’s not like she could sell it.
So something happened that made her drive off. And something happened or is still happening that made her not come back.
Fuck.
I have to shake down three Walgreen’s clerks with my work ID and lie about “an emergency power company issue” before one of them lends me their phone. I think, “I’ll just call her. There will be some hilarious explanation. Like I was about to get a ticket so she pulled out of the parking lot, then she took a wrong turn and ended up on the bridge (we’ve all done it). And now she can’t get back without going halfway through town because of road closures and New Year’s parties, and when she gets back, I’ll call work and tell them the truck won’t start and we’ll check into a hotel and I’ll fuck her until we both break down in tears.”
But I don’t have her phone number. We never got that far.
Do I call work and tell them I was planning on having sex with a girl I just met but we didn’t have condoms, so we stopped at Walgreen’s and while I was deciding between ribbed for her pleasure and those ones that make your dick tingle, somehow both the girl and my truck disappeared?
Or do I call the police? 911 is probably swamped tonight. And what do I tell them?
While I’m thinking about it, I have the brilliant idea to just call my own phone, which I left in the truck. Of course!
Except that it doesn’t even ring. Maybe she switched it off. Or…?
There’s nothing else to do. I call Dispatch.
“Dispatch,” a voice says. It’s Levi, who often works holidays because he’s an orthodox Jew and pays no mind to the Gentile calendar. He’s a cool guy, but, you know, pretty conservative. I don’t relish the idea of explaining how I lost a truck trying to get pussy. Maybe I’ll just skip over that part.
“Hey, Levi, it’s Charlie. Bad news. My truck got stolen.”
There’s a pregnant pause. “You’re making me want to say ‘oy vey,’” Levi finally says.
“I’m sorry.”
“You know I hate saying ‘oy vey.’ It’s so stereotypical”
“I get that Levi, I really do. But we have a bigger problem. There was a girl in the truck. Now I’m a bit worried.”
“Why was there a girl in the truck?”
The shelf display of massaging footbaths I’m staring at offers no suggestions as to how to avoid the inevitable.
“Fine. Look. I picked up a girl. All it is on New Year’s is cruising around waiting to go and flick someone’s fuse switch or pull a dead squirrel off a wire. So I was bored and I met this girl and I asked her to ride with me and one thing led to another, because, like, it’s New Year’s. And I was getting condoms, because, you know sa
fety first and she was in the truck waiting and now she and the truck are gone.”
There’s another pause. “Oy vey,” Levi says. “Did this tramp steal your truck?”
“No! No, I don’t think so. I don’t know. And she’s not a tramp. Can you just track the LoJack?”
“Do you think she was car-jacked?”
Until that moment, I hadn’t really thought of it. But now that the idea is in my mind, it becomes so large I think I hear my skull creak from the pressure.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
“Just track it down, Levi! I’m sitting here in Walgreen’s on some kid’s phone, and I don’t even have my phone because I left that in the truck too!”
Vaguely I can hear clicking noises on the other end. Levi is logging into the LoJack site. And judging me. I can feel his judgment leaking through the phone like that fog that turns people into zombies.
“She’s on the I5. Heading north. Running the border maybe?”
“The border?! Holy crap, where is she?”
“Just past UW.”
I almost scream in frustration. “Levi! She’s three hours from the border. She hasn’t even left Seattle. You scared the shit out of me!”
“Someone who picks up strange women for sex shouldn’t be so easily scared.”
I hang up on him.
The Walgreen’s kid takes his phone back with a worshipful look on his face, like I’m the biggest player he’s ever set eyes on.
“Do you have pre-paid phones?” I say through my teeth.
Ten interminable minutes later, I leave Walgreen’s with a phone that feels and performs like a brick crossed with an old ham radio. But at least I have a connection to the world. Of sorts.
I dial Dispatch again. Levi answers.
“It’s me,” I say. “Are you still tracking the truck?”
“Yes. And I called it in to the police.” He gives me a report number about thirty digits long, which I memorize because desperation makes brain cells work twice as hard, I guess. I hang up on Levi again and phone 911. When the operator finally answers, it takes me three tries to get the report number right, but eventually I’m connected with someone who seems to know what’s going on.