by Julia Dumont
Seamus moved closer: “So, just to be clear. International film star Jack Stone is an ugly couch, right?”
“Right.”
“Covered with faux fur.”
“Yes.”
“And all manner of disease-spreading vermin.”
“Exactly.”
“On a garbage barge lost at sea.”
“Precisely,” she said.
He thought for a second. “A shitty couch lost at sea that we want to read my screenplay.”
“Bingo,” she said. “Do you think you can live with that?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “I’m pretty sure I can live with that.”
He smiled as he reached down and slowly undid her blouse. She smiled too as she even more slowly unbuttoned his shirt. Then in silence, they took turns taking off pieces of each other’s clothing in ultra-slow motion——pants/skirt, underwear/underwear, stockings/socks——the delicate frictions of different fabrics tickling, bothering, activating their flesh, until they were naked, a little chilly, thoroughly goose-bumped, yearning for contact, all senses on high alert…aching with desire.
He moved in close and hugged her, both shivering slightly, the sound and spray of the Pacific just outside the porthole in their cabin. He touched the exact spot around back where he knew the bluebird was, because even without seeing it he felt its happiness in his fingertips.
“In the interest of full disclosure, though,” said Seamus, “as much as I am turned on by you, make that aching for you, and am quite possibly in love with you, I also intend to use you in each and every way I can to further my career here in Hollywoodland.”
“Back at you on all that,” said Paloma. “Except I’m going to use and abuse you.”
“Well, yeah,” he said, “that goes without saying.”
“Okay,” said Paloma, kissing Seamus and taking Mr. McFun in both her hands, “would you mind if we stop talking and let the games begin?”
“Like I said, McFun has a one-track mind.” He lifted her up high, first kissing her stomach, then caressing her breasts with his face.
“That’s what I…thought,” she said with a slight quaver and sigh in her voice as she wrapped her legs around him and slid slowly downward…teasing, squeezing, and easing him in.
Chapter 35
One bottle down, another halfway there. Ava and Timothy had talked about everything, from art to music to life and love.
They were sitting together on the couch. Timothy kissed her tentatively, but sweetly. And Ava was in the mood for sweet. She was a little sleepy from the champagne. It was the good tiredness, though, the kind that just makes you relaxed and remarkably receptive to sensuality, like your nervous system is disarmed and available. He kissed her again, this time with more confidence, but still soft and tenderly…tasting, not hell-bent on consumption.
He moved to her neck and continued his gentle assault. In the two years since Jonathon died, several suitors had gone so far as to kiss Ava’s lips, but none had made it to the neck. As tame as it seems, for her, after this long period of sensual deprivation, it was deeply erotic, almost the ultimate erogenous zone. Going further was almost unthinkable.
“Timothy,” she said. “I know this is going to sound funny, but would you mind taking a bath with me?” She felt that, more than anything, she was looking for comfort, for some kind of sense of calm with a strong, kind, good man. She realized that she missed that so much. Out of the world of possibilities of human endeavor, she literally could not think of a single thing she’d like better than to fill up the tub and get in it with Timothy.
And that was what they did. They made the water too hot and easing into it over a period of minutes was bonding in and of itself. The tub was just the right size. Not too small to maneuver in and not so large that you float aimlessly from the edges toward the center, without anything to lean against. That was the worst.
He sat behind, straddling her, his arms around her, his erection pressed against her lower back. It felt so good there, just being there…sexual, sensual, and, again, comforting.
Skin so pink. Faces flushed. She was just about to say, “Timothy, would you mind washing me?” But before she opened her mouth, he was already washing her. First, her neck and shoulders. She realized that this kind of a massage was about a thousand times more effective than lying on a table being touched by a stranger. This was heaven. Soon she was wishing he’d move his hands around to her breasts, and suddenly they were there. He moved slowly, his hands slippery with soap. Her body was on fire…inside, outside, throughout. It was impossible to know where the hot water left off and body heat took over. It was the most supremely enjoyable sensation she’d had in a long, long time. She closed her eyes and just experienced it, living it, adoring it, feeling like it was all one could ever want.
And then suddenly it was not enough. Not nearly enough. Suddenly it felt like nothing more than prelude.
She slipped down deeper, the water to her chin, and turned her body over. Then she slid forward and kissed his chest, his stomach, then underwater, bringing her mouth to him, taking him in.
Timothy arched his back in pleasure. He hadn’t expected this and it took his breath away.
“Ava,” he said, kissing her forehead, “I think the bathtub portion of our festivities has outlived its usefulness.”
She agreed. They stood up, both a bit dizzy for obvious reasons. He held her steady for a moment. He stepped out of the tub and as he lifted her up, she wrapped her legs around him. He moved slowly. Both were nearly overcome from the heat, but he eased her down slowly and began to make love to her, making her shudder, still dizzy, still hot, the perspiration mingling with the water, their fingers leaving white prints on their hot pink skin. She gasped as he lifted her and lowered her again and again, defining, then redefining the depths of her passion. Each time she cried out and each time it seemed like she had reached the outer limits of her inner pleasure, but each time the previous record was shattered, destroyed, forgotten…no longer relevant, no longer in the same league as what was occurring now and now and now. He leaned his shoulder against the door jam, pushing her back against the wall, and stood up on his toes, as if he would not be satisfied until he lifted her high into the air, floating like the sculpture in his loft, defying gravity, defying the finite dimensions of this room. She felt the sweet tremors building within and he felt her feeling it. She had loosened her grip on him when the wall had provided some stability and now she reached up and pushed her outstretched palms against the ceiling, pushing against it with her hands, while he strained upward, higher still. She began to lose herself, the muscles in her arms and legs quaking, rippling. She let out a soft moan that quickly transformed into a high-pitched sigh, so wild and unworldly that it scared him a little, but his whole body was electrified. He pivoted toward the bed and paused for a moment, almost shaking.
Teetering…he held her firmly, his hands supporting her lower back as her upper torso floated freely, arms moving slowly, fingers trembling…
Timothy eased her up one more time, his hands lifting her buttocks, a trickle of perspiration across his lips, off his chin, onto her belly, and down into the spot where they were thoroughly conjoined.
Then over Timothy went like a tall tree whose roots could no longer bear its weight. And he landed, the hard penetrating deep into the soft and warm, the arrow finding its smallest, sweetest target, male and female furiously fused, pounding frantically and riding spasmodically, as if their lives depended on it.
Ava cried out with a whole new level of desperation and Timothy realized she was literally crying…sobbing, in fact.
“Ava,” he said, holding her still. “Ava, are you all right?”
“Leda and the Swan,” she wept, tears flowing, body convulsing with a seismic blend of euphoria and grief. All of her senses seemed to be overflowing at once. Timothy wondered if this all had been a mistake. Maybe she wasn’t ready. Maybe he was in over his head.
“What?” he asked �
��Leda and the Swan? Like the Greek myth? Zeus and Leda?”
“Yes, yes,” she whimpered. “The painting…so beautiful…”
Timothy was quite sure he had never witnessed this kind of outpouring of emotion in his life. He already knew that his heart was inexplicably tied to this woman he had only known for hours.
“What is it, Ava?” he whispered in her ear. “How can I help you, what can I do?”
“Oh, god. Oh, god. I miss him, I miss him so…”
“I know, I’m sorry,” he said, kissing her face, salty tears telling the tale of her sadness. “Should I stop? What do you want me to do? I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” Timothy wasn’t completely sure, but he thought his own tears might have mixed with hers.
“No, Timothy! No! Don’t stop! I already miss Jonathon. Please don’t make me miss you too. Make love to me until I stop crying. Kiss away my heartache. Kiss away my tears.”
And then he let everything loose…great waves of joy and sadness, all of it was released. It seemed otherworldly…bigger, better, beyond orgasm. It was like some kind of deep sharing of everything, the good, the bad, the most beautiful parts of their deepest selves.
When it was finally over, it wasn’t over. They both lay twitching, quaking, and wondering what had happened, what had hit them. The afterglow was a memorable incident in and of itself…more like aftermath. They were the survivors of a catastrophic event that may well have changed them forever.
“God damn,” said Ava, thinking about wiping away the stinging sweat that had trickled into one eye, but unable to lift her hand. She couldn’t move.
Timothy tried to speak, but his dry lips had fused together, resisting, and then finally parting just enough for three hushed questions:
“Why me? Why you? Why now?”
This was deeply existential…a serious question from a serious man about a serious experience. But it struck Ava as funny. Sometimes the meaning and grandeur is beyond comprehension. And yet she knew at least one answer.
“Cynthia,” she said with a smile, which turned into a laugh, “It’s obviously Cynthia.”
“Hey,” he said. “‘Kiss away my heartache, kiss away my tears.’ Was that a reference to the Roxy Music song with the line ‘Dance away your heartache, dance away your tears?’ Just wondering.”
Ava stopped laughing. “My, my, I guess it was.”
They both started laughing again.
Chapter 36
Max had been telling Lolita about the big deal he’d worked out in Dublin. “If this goes through,” he said, “I’ll never work again.”
“Do you work now?” she asked. She was totally serious.
“What do you mean?” he asked, slightly hurt, but only for one nanosecond. Max was ridiculously resilient. “Okay, well, no, I don’t work very much and I don’t work very hard, but, come on, technically, I do work. Sometimes. Way too much in my opinion. Anyway, when this deal is signed, I’ll take you around the world. You can bring the dogs. I’m talking about life-altering money. Fuck-you money. Fuck-the-world money. Seriously.”
“Sounds nice,” she said. She didn’t care about being obscenely rich. She did appreciate how nice Max was being lately, though, and she was touched that he would invite the dogs along. He understood that she could never leave them.
But she was also starving.
“Max, I’m famished. Would you mind running over to the dining room and snagging me some of that lobster salad? I need to get my strength back if you want to screw the living daylights out of me again. Living daylights in, or living daylights out: your call.” She pulled the peach, almost flesh-colored satin sheet over her nakedness, up around her neck, smiling coyly and leaning back onto pillows. The contour of her breasts and nipples underneath was more overtly sexual than actual nudity.
“Your daylights are going to be scattered from here to Catalina,” he said. He would risk a thousand deaths for another round with Lolita tonight. He too had been reminded of The Cat’s Meow and earlier, while doing what he did best, he’d started whispering to her clitoris, calling it Rosebud in honor of Davies and Hearst and one of his all-time heroes, Welles.
“Don’t move, Rosebud,” he said sweetly, bending down and kissing the gossamer sheet in the vicinity of Lolita’s rosebud, pausing for a moment to breathe through the sheer fabric, warming the flesh below. “I’ll be right back.”
“You’d better be,” said Lolita in a soft falsetto. Then, in her normal voice, “That was Rosebud talking.”
Max pulled on his pants, went through the door, and gently closed it behind him. He took a few steps into the near darkness and came face to face with Jack Stone.
“Aha, so there you are,” said Jack, his rage rising again. He moved threateningly toward Max, his arms crossed, his breathing heavy.
“Listen, man,” said Max. “Why don’t we just call this whole thing off, you know? Potato-potahto. What’s the point of being angry anyway? I mean what good does it do anyone?”
Jack didn’t say anything. He just moved closer, chin down, fists up, taking a boxer’s stance. He had a good four inches of height on Max and who knew how many inches in reach.
“Because, you know,” said Max, holding his hands up in sort of a what-the-hell non-threatening gesture, “when you come right down to it, it’s really not a fair fight.”
Still nothing from Jack except the slightest pre-fight slow-circular motion of the fists that denotes static energy about to be transformed into all out whoop-ass, face-pounding energy.
“Because,” said Max, “it really wouldn’t be very gentlemanly of me to pick on a mentally challenged person.” Max could never resist a joke. Especially a dangerous one.
Jack shook his head and then swung hard, but Max simply stepped backward, narrowly avoiding the gigantic fist.
Unfortunately, he stepped on someone’s toe.
It belonged to Seamus, who had come out on deck with Paloma for some brisk post-coital air.
“Excuse me, there, sir,” he said politely. “Didn’t see you there.” But then Max turned around. “Wait,” Seamus continued, his voice revving up an octave, “I know you.”
“I don’t think so,” said Max, now moving away from two, count ‘em, two angry revelers.
It was hard to tell which of them was more irate.
“This is the feckin’ arshole who spilled his feckin’ jiz all over the backseat of my feckin’ cab!” Seamus said
“What?” asked Jack and Paloma and a few other partiers who happened to be nearby.
“Who the hell are you?” asked Max, peering into Seamus’s face for a glimmer of recognition.
“Back in Dublin. You were getting your knob gobbled by a young Irish girl, kicking the back of my seat like a feckin’ mule, slamming my feckin’ head against the feckin’ horn! All the while gabbin’ on the feckin’ phone to your feckin’ girlfriend back in America!”
Lolita, just emerging from the cabin, raised an eyebrow and looked at Seamus, then Max. “Holy feck,” she said. “I think that might have been me.” She wasn’t exactly surprised…just a little disappointed. But what was she thinking? This was Max.
Jack was trembling with anger and disgust. “IT WAS PROBABLY HIS SISTER!”
Everybody stopped, wondering what the hell he was talking about.
“God, Jack, I’m beginning to wonder,” said Lolita, pointing to her head and his crotch, “are you mentally as well as, you know, physically impaired?”
“Shut up, Lila! It was just my leg!” he growled, causing everyone to wonder about him even more.
Jack lunged at Max, who turned to run, but Jack grabbed him in a bear hug from behind and lifted him off the ground.
“Hey! Come on! What the hell!” said Max, trying to wriggle free.
“Jesus, Jack, you asshole!” screamed Lolita.
“Lila, I said shut up!” snarled Jack, squeezing Max tighter and staggering across the deck. He hoisted him up, and balanced him on the side rail, clutching his collar, holding him in pla
ce…threatening to tip him over the side.
Seamus stopped in his tracks. Where was this going? “Jack, I think maybe it’s time to calm down,” he said.
“Yes, Jack,” said Paloma. “Must you always be a dumb ass?”
“Face it, Jack,” said Lolita. “Even a self-obsessed movie star has to consider the consequences of his actions once in a while.”
Summer and Tatted Max tried to come to Max’s aid, but Jack jabbed his index finger at them, keeping them back, barking, “Stay right there,” and leaning Max slightly more seaward, the rushing wind and roaring ocean making everything seem even more prone to calamity.
But then suddenly, there on the deck, not twenty feet away, appeared three angry dogs. Where they came from was anybody’s guess. They were glaring with alarming intensity at Jack, breathing and snorting like three prize bulls facing down an amateur matador. They hated him almost as much as they loved Lolita. And Max. They growled and drooled threateningly, making it clear that they did not approve of what Jack was about to do. The growling grew louder and louder. It almost seemed like they had some kind of weird three-part harmony going, like shape-note, sacred heart singing, vibrating in and slightly out of pitch, warbling into the night.
“Jesus, Mary, and Kujo,” blurted Seamus. “It’s those evil dogs again.”
“They’re not evil,” laughed Lolita. “They’re my babies.”
But Jack was utterly petrified. He let go of Max and backed slowly away from the rail, holding up his hands like a cowboy with a gun in his back. When he reached a safer distance, he sprinted down the deck, hiding behind the mast.
Just then, a phone rang. Still perched upon the rail, Max, steadying himself with one hand, retrieved his phone from his pocket with the other. It was a Dublin number. “Hold on, everybody, hold on,” he said. “I believe my Irish ship has just come in.” He looked around at the yacht and the sea. “Ship. Kind of ironic. Hello?”
It was instantly obvious from the look on his face that it was not the call he was expecting. But this was Max. Even in the face of death, his charm was unstoppable.